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prettyundeadgirl · 1 year

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For All Eternity

Summary: Severus takes you on a date to a cemetery.

Pairing: Severus Snape x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.0k

Tags: Fluff

A/N: This may or may not have been inspired by Morticia and Gomez Addams

AO3 Link

Walking atop the flat cobblestone walls fenced around the cemetery, you held hands with your stoic lover, who stepped alongside you on the sidewalk.

The crisp air exuded an intense petrichor and the fragrance of resilient and unbidden wildflowers that had sprouted in the crevices of the masonry and grew among the freshly cut wands of grass dappled with dew. At your unforeseen approach, a startled squirrel dropped its acorn and latched onto the tree's fissured bark, scurrying up into the unfurled russet leaves. You observed the sacred grounds comprised of the deceased and the still trees that formed a cathedral-like canopy overhead and, in the past, witnessed a plethora of tears and interments.

Though an unconventional choice for a date and what most would find creepy or macabre, you deemed it hauntingly beautiful and… very Severus.

He glanced over at your figure, and nature faded into an insignificant blur as he traced the contours of your face in deep reverence. He struggled to fathom your arrant devotion to him and often pondered whether it was a trick or a long dream. But your undying love proved his moronic beliefs to be entirely false, and a small half-smile formed as his compelled gaze traveled over your physique and gradually made its way to your legs, watching your careful steps and savoring every detail of your exterior like a captivating painting one viewed in a museum.

If not for reaching the iron gate embellished with ornate patterns and remnants of patina from exposure, his eyes would have remained fixated on you, lost in complete admiration.

Severus, hands placed at either side of your waist, helped you down, and the dead leaves scattered asunder crinkled at your light contact. Smiling, you interlocked your arm with his, letting your fingertips brush against his coal-black sleeve.

You both furthered into the sepulchral realm, where between the rows of stone memories and desires reposed. You viewed the sun-blanched gravestones, some standing tall, adorned with intricate carvings and beautiful angelic sculptures—sullenness chiseled on their expressions forever, and marble cracked by the dejection burdened upon them. Other gravestones leaned precariously, their inscriptions weathered into obscurity by countless detrimental precipitations.

There was a strange sense of peace within the center of the cemetery—a place where the living and the dead coexisted and the delicate veil between worlds grew thin. Each crunch of gravel underfoot echoed and broke the palpable silence, along with the transient caws of ravens resting on jagged branches, some taking off to begin or continue their adventures. As the warm sunlight lifted the thin layer of fog hovering over the ground, the early autumn leaves broke off and fluttered gracefully to the ground, ready to rest and decay like the dead beneath.

You each took turns guessing the lives of each person and their ultimate tragic demise. Of course, his were far more detailed and structured with copious amounts of emotion, as if the stories had been his own experiences. You found yourself unable to resist the allure of his low, vibrating tones falling from his lips as he shared his conjectures. His voice was woven with threads of raw authenticity, seamlessly blending each word with passion, and you were in love with and drawn to it.

After some tales, trodding the endless path as graves whispered of love, loss, and sorrow throughout, you skimmed the engraved names and dates, some years being unfortunately close to one another. Suddenly, a particular headstone caught your eye. One grave. Two names. Lovers. Died on the same day. You imagined yourself and Severus with the same end: to never even let death do you part and lay tenderly beneath the dirt, side by side, rotting away together for all eternity. And even after all of the stages of decomposition, your love remained transcendent, as it did when life still coursed through your veins.

“There isn’t anything I’d want more.” He mused softly, his hand reaching to the small of your back. You smiled and scoffed playfully at his sudden use of legilimency. That was how he initially discovered you took a liking to him, and he found it somewhat amusing when you’d act calm and collected, destined to keep your feelings sealed away in the chambers of your love-filled heart. But the inside of your mind betrayed your guise, and it didn’t take long for you to confess.

Your face soon fell flat, and an unintentional seriousness enveloped your voice. “Do you swear it?” You awaited his answer, to which he replied with a slight raise of his brow.

“That you won’t ever leave my side?”

The question hung for nothing more than a moment between the two of you, and then he began with your name like a prayer beneath his breath.

“If you were to die,” his hands rose, cupping your face as his unwavering eyes stared deep into your glossy-coated ones. His touch, gentle and sure, allayed your foolish worries. “I would not spend another second on this miserable earth. The only reason I still tolerate it is because you make life worth living.”

Although you hadn’t replied, your look said it all, and for a moment, you both shared an intense gaze, exchanging sentiments that could not be expressed with words. The close contact never failed to send a swarm of butterflies inside you, and you reminisced on every moment that caused it.

His eyes soon broke contact to flicker elsewhere, and without hesitation, he connected his lips to yours. The earth felt as if it had paused, granting you a moment beyond the constraints of time. Shared desire drew both of you closer, and the space gradually disappeared. Your hands traveled to the nape of his neck, and he angled his head to deepen the kiss. This action alone ignited a spark within you, setting your heart ablaze at the intensity of his affection.

And when you pulled away, something neither of you truly wanted to do, your breaths mingled, leaving an imprint of your profound endearment on the land. As contradictory as it seemed, the graveyard teemed with life, and you spent the rest of your date conversing with one another, relishing in each other’s company.

The cemetery, once a symbol of endings, became a place of beginnings for the both of you, and it was an enchanted time that you would forever cherish and take with you to your grave.

#severus snape #severus snape x reader #severus snape one shot #snape #pro snape #pro severus snape #snape fandom #snape x reader #professor snape #snape fanfiction #snape headcanon #my writing

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ohallthecrushes · 4 months

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You're a storm in a teacup and I'm starting to like the chaos.

Soooo... There's a couple of twists in today's episode. I'm a sucker for some cliches as you'll see, but oh well.

Without further ado!

Summary: Evelyn is a young-troubled woman who's just escaped a highly guarded psych ward (twice, but this time causing havoc on her way out)

Now she's running through the city, hiding from police. A not-so-accidental encounter with a man named Elias Voit will change her life forever. And she'll change his. His seemingly selfless help is laced with danger, hidden agenda, manipulation, endless tension, and...love? Slow burning inteligent-idiots-in-love trope. But mind you, just because it's a love story, doesn't mean it ends well.

General warnings throughout the story: Manipulation, illegal activities, murder(s), Stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, explicit content, language... The whole pack. It's Criminal minds after all.

In this episode: She's almost finally where he wants her to be. But the rest of the way they have to go on foot. Holding hands.

Exhaustion crashed over Evelyn. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the endless stretch of road had pulled her into a sleep. In the soft light of the morning sun filtering through the trees, she looked almost ethereal, her features delicate and serene in sleep. He had been watching her for a moment, before finally rousing her from her slumber.

When she finally stirred, disoriented, it was to the sight of Elias leaning close, his face inches from hers, squeezing her arm gently.

"Wake up, Snow White," he murmured as he watched her with an intense look.

"Where are we?" she mumbled as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, ignoring his stare.

Instead of answering, he leaned back, his gaze sweeping over the scene before them. They were no longer on the open road. The car was parked at the end of a narrow, dirt path that disappeared into the a deep forest. Sunlight dappled through the trees, casting long shadows. The air smelled like a damp earth and decaying leaves.

Her stomach tightened with unease. A deep forest, miles from civilization, with a dangerous man for company. What had she been thinking, getting into this car?

He seemed to sense her hesitation, her reluctance to venture into the unknown, but he didn't care. He left the car, walked over and reached into the trunk, retrieving a large duffel bag. When she got out as well, he looked at her. "The rest of the way is on foot." he announced, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

"Foot?" Her voice rose an octave. "Why? Where are we even going?"

This was madness. Why, why had she agreed to any of this?

He didn't answer. Instead, he did something unexpectable. He walked over to her and took her hand in his in a firm grip.

Before she could protest, he started walking, pulling her along the forest path. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, leaving no room for argument.

"Don't worry, Snow White," he said, his voice a low murmur close to her ear. "You're in my hands now. And trust me, this is exactly where you need to be."

She gritted her teeth, glaring at him. She saw a tiny smirk playing on his lips. How could he take her hand into his as boldly and casually? The audacity of him!

Having her hand inside his, she couldn't shake the strange feeling of intimacy that washed over her. It was unexpected, surreal, and completely absurd given their situation. They were nothing like a couple going for a romantic hike, and yet here they were, hand in hand, walking through the forest as if they were. She felt heat rushed to her cheeks, and she quickly turned her head away so he didn't notice.

She realized that underneath her anger she started to feel something else – a thrill of the unknown, a morbid curiosity and something stupid like... affection. Elias was strong, dominant, and undeniably charming. The way he carried himself, the sharp intelligence in his eyes, the aura of danger that clung to him like a second skin... she couldn't help but feel a pull towards him, despite everything. Damn it. That was the last thing she needed right now.

He glanced at her and noticed her rosy cheeks. He smirked knowing that he was getting under her skin, stirring up emotions she didn't even know she had.

The path stretched before them, leading deeper into the woods. Clearing her throat, she mustered up the courage to speak. "Could you... uh, let go of my hand?" she asked, her voice slightly shaky.

He raised an eyebrow. "And risk you running away when we're so close to my cabin?" he teased. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Snow White."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to run away," she insisted, though she couldn't quite muster up the conviction in her voice.

"Sure you're not." He said, his grip on her hand tightening ever so slightly, a physical reminder that he was the one in control. "But just to be safe, how about I handcuff you to me instead?"

She scoffed, of course he'd go there. "As if I'd let you do that."

He chuckled in response. "Who said anything about letting you have a choice?"

Her gaze darted sideways. The amusement he seemed to derive from her discomfort was infuriating. She sighed. "Just keep walking."

So they walked... towards the secret cabin that Elias had mentioned. He couldn't help but glanced at Evelyn. He had always prided himself on being in control, on holding all the cards. It was no different with her. But now, a new element had been added to their dynamic - the touch of her hand clasped in his.

It was a simple act, a hand in hand, yet he felt a disorienting flutter in his gut. Excitement, yes, the thrill of being in control, the unpredictable nature of their situation. But there was something about her that intrigued him. From the moment he had seen her sleeping in the car, the delicate rise and fall of her chest, the vulnerability showed on her features, he'd wanted to reach out then and touch her, to trace the line of her cheekbone with his fingers. He had resisted the temptation then, but now that he had manipulated her into holding his hand, he found himself reluctant to let go.

He tightened his grip a bit.

What was it about her that made him feel so... alive? Was it the defiance that challenged him? The desire to have her wriggling underneath his body? Or was it the vulnerability he glimpsed beneath the anger, the sign of loneliness that mirrored a void within him? He couldn't say for sure. All he knew was that being with her, in this moment, brought him a sense of excitement and exhilaration that he hadn't felt in a long time.

The rest of the way they walk in silence. Evelyn feigned interest in the towering trees, all the while memorizing the path. Every turn, every landmark she carved onto her mental map. It could be a potential escape route at the right time.

Around 15 minutes later, the trees parted, revealing a sight that took her breath away. Elias had mentioned a cabin, but this… this was no rustic shack, but a spacious summer home hidden amidst the trees.

She was surprised. This wasn't the squalid hideout she'd envisioned. This was… almost inviting.

"Welcome to my haven, Evelyn." he announced with a hint of pride in his voice. "I hope it meets your expectations."

As they reached the porch, he stopped and let go of her hand, patting his pockets for a key. She stood a step behind him, her gaze drawn to his back pockets. There, outlined against the fabric of his jeans, lay the unmistakable shape of handcuffs. Her eyes drifted to his left hand propped against a wooden railing.

Something twitched in her. Did she really want to stay here in this beautiful and very welcome, yet secluded and isolated house? Alone with a stranger, a dangerous man, no matter how attractive he was?

Not so much.

She bit her lip. She felt a familiar sensation in her stomach of being so close to tricking someone and running away. Sensation like an irresistible thrill that was almost addictive. She had pulled tricks like this before that had given her a rush of adrenaline.

Veeeery slowly, she reached out and snagged the handcuffs. Silence cloaked her movements and he didn't notice. She clamped the metal jaws around the railing and then, in a single, swift motion around his left wrist, securing it with a click.

His head whipped around, surprise giving way to fury as he met her eyes. "Evelyn!" he roared, his brows furrowed.

She didn't waste any time. Two dangers lurked in the back of her mind – the glint of metal that was his gun, and the undeniable fact that he likely possessed a key for those very handcuffs.

She started running.

Adrenaline surged through her veins, propelling her forward in a desperate sprint. Her destination was the car. She didn't have time to think it through, but even without the keys she could try to start the engine by hotwiring it. She'd seen it in movies. It had seemed simple enough on screen. Here's hoping Hollywood hadn't lied.

Behind her, a guttural curse echoed through the trees. Elias. A predator frustrated by a sudden reversal of fortune. The thought should have terrified her, but instead, she felt a spark of exhilaration.

Meanwhile, Elias ripped the handcuffs from the railing, the metal clanging to the wooden floor. He felt irritated, he hadn't planned on this afternoon jog. But Evelyn, that infuriating woman, had a knack for running away. Escape was in her blood, he thought, a constant itch she couldn't resist scratching.

Thankfully, he knew this forest like the back of his hand. Hidden trails and shortcuts, invisible to the untrained eye. He wouldn't need the main path, the one she'd likely follow in her blind run. He'd catch her, of course and the sweet taste of victory would be a nice bonus.

Leaves crunched under his boots as he cut through the undergrowth. She might have a head start, but not for long.

Evelyn pushed through the trees and bushes, her lungs were burning, legs screaming in protest. Every jog she'd ever taken paled in comparison to this sprint. Through a gap in the trees, she spotted the car, but as she burst into the clearing, a figure emerged from the trees, cutting off her escape.

He stood there, catching breath, his hands on his thighs. She stopped needing to catch her breath too. She was angry that she didn't make it on time, but this chase wasn't over yet.

"Clever, Snow White," he rasped, his voice laced with irritation but also excitement. "Almost got away."

This wasn't supposed to be fun, not for either of them. Yet, an unexpected thrill ran though his veins as a response to the chase, the danger, the sheer audacity of it all.

He gestured towards the cabin, his voice demanding. "Inside. Now."

She looked around trying to find an escape path. If she needed to, she'd keep running, but she wouldn't be ordered around like a disobedient pet. She shook her head. "Not happening."

#cm evolution #criminal minds #criminal minds evolution #elias voit #fanfiction #sicarius

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doctor-hopper · 4 months

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It always started the same. The dilapidated shrine walls began to shimmer as if by a warmthless heat-haze, and suddenly Kamukura was standing at the wooded edge of a garden instead: mossy statues at the gate, clay tiles dappled with smoky-hued petals, trees whose branches seemed to start and stop wherever they pleased, alien constellations in a black sky peering through the gaps the branches left. Outside it was midwinter, but the breeze here smelled of springtime and decay. Each time Kamukura came here they tried to focus their Analysis on some particular smell or sound, trace it back to some too-young origin and expose the irrational illusion of it all. But the threads never frayed as expected; they stretched back in perfect contiguous causality. It was as if the garden had always been here.

A limbic prickle, at that. Still interesting. (And something weary whispered, For now.)

Up ahead, in the heart of the garden, was a lone sunflower. Taller than last time. Not yet in bloom. But now the wind was teasing its leaves, and with it came a voice, if you could call it that, airy and lively and seeping in from all around.

“. . .And he did get away with it at first, and I was so proud to hear he’d managed to make anything of my counsel. He was so afraid, you know. Especially of me! But you do know fear is so often an impetus for hope. . .” They approached slowly, seemingly unnoticed on light feet, as the voice moved to the fountain and the fountain babbled on. “And yet right on the way home the car exploded, and he died on the highway. Unbelievable, don’t you think so? I never did get to find out what happened to his poor old mother.”

It was a story they had heard before. Pored over, cross-referenced. The entity liked to tell them stories when they came, stories of mortals from long ago—in a stirring of leaves here, a rush of water there, now the creeping of an ant’s legs. In binaries and balances. It liked to make others view the world as it did, as an interconnected machine, every motion an omen of future chaos to shape, or sway with, or become. It was a desperately apophenic lens, the kind born of loneliness dripping down countless human lifetimes and growing more bleak and pungent with each. Kamukura generally felt they had made contact with something too pathetic to call a deity.

“His soul’s actually planted right here, next to yours,” the being said with a spider creeping up the sunflower’s stalk, in lilting lonely reminiscence. “Ah, when he was alive and in full bloom, you should’ve seen him! A tall canola flower from the fields of Nyuta, it must’ve been, earthy and vibrant, just as golden as you’ll be. . .”

The spider may have approximated a dry laugh. Only the barest hint of the canola could still be seen, a withered stem, the flaky gold-dust of dead petals.

(The way the presence spoke of legend and struggle never enticed Kamukura, but the fact every mortal it met was doomed never bothered them, either.)

Sensing a trailing-off, Kamukura finally chose to step forward into the clearing and say, by way of greeting, “You talk to the flowers.”

And with that, an immensely singular focus turned onto Kamukura—like the water and wind stilled to welcome them, like the absence in the air caressed their skin. A disturbance of Kelvin-Helmholtz swirls drawn in negative space. They recognized each other.

“. . .Ah, hello!” it said in a voice just a little more located, a little more aware. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you right away, how uncouth of me! I often don’t know I’m doing it, to be honest. But you know the thing about flowers, they don’t actually understand a word you say. . .and it was all reruns, don’t worry. You’re not missing any crucial points of data. . .and besides, no matter the story I tell, you know how it’ll end by now, right?”

“Hello,” Kamukura said. “I was not worried.”

The anxious breeze relaxed back as it deposited dandelion seeds in their hair. It made them linger for a moment, in the warm wind and the starlight and the distortion they would eventually chart and understand but still did not.

Then, reopening their eyes, they said, “Go on.”

Stars like eyes blinked and rippled. A blue morpho flapped its wings in momentary confusion.

Perhaps that came off too terse, vague. They lay down on the cool clay tiles, looked heavenward, and clarified: “You can go on, if you would like. You may continue the story.”

The vacuum was slow to respond, but then it sprawled and happily continued on, for when you welcomed it to speak it seldom stopped—the terrible fates of its past charges, the observations of millennia. And Kamukura closed their eyes, felt the stones’ embrace, the petals beneath. As they listened their own human form began to melt a little too, shift into something more comfortable.

“It’s lucky my sunflower sprung up when it did,” the falling petals said at one point as Kamukura was curling up and becoming something fluid and feline and many-limbed. “Sunflowers are hardy and beautiful, but their long roots mean they need a lot of room or they won’t turn out quite right. . .”

It was hardly a voice anymore. “. . .I do hope all this empty, fertile soil I’ve got means it’ll stay alive for a while.”

But then the words soon softened and melted out of perception completely, and instead became a voiceless buzzing in the bones, spiriting away all the mirage-matter around them into bending light. When Kamukura was there, it seemed just as happy to be with them in silence.

#the eldritch komaeda thing #nagito komaeda #izuru kamukura #kamukoma #text #komaeda lore #my fic

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nightly-ruse · 2 years

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Spottedleaf from @bonefall ‘s rewrite being the spooky monster of the forest! With her rather off putting design the idea of kitty pets just catching glimpses of her in the woods would be such a good horror story for them. Like Rusty hears these stories of this cat with bones sticking from its pelt, spots like decaying flesh and eyes so bright the sear into the minds of those who catch its gaze- idk that’s just so cool I love it a lot. Her characterization is actually one I’m so fond of and sorta adopting into my own mind bc it’s so good.

the flower in her jaws and at the bottom left of the canvas are meadowsweet flowers with mean beauty, happiness, protection, and peace. Suits quite well for a spirit who sneaks off constantly to relay information she’s not exactly supposed to for the greater good!

(ID- Spottedleaf is in the middle of the trees and is a dark red almost black cat, bone like markings down her back and ribs, on her front paws, and over her face in a skull. Leaf blot like spots are across her pelt with light red outer rings and red centers, her left ear specifically has a ring in the end covering her heart ear tufts. Her eyes are wide and round showing off her yellow-ish orange eyes with green leaves on the edges of her eyes. In her jaws is two stems of meadowsweet, the same flower as the ones in the bottom left of the screen. She is creeping with her front paw up slightly and staring directly at the screen. Around her are dark trees, the leaves covering the top of the screen and tangled grass across the bottom. Dappled shadows and light cover the canvas specifically highlighting her glowing eyes, bone markings, and her meadowsweet flowers. End ID)

#spottedleaf #night knacks #im so fond of this Spottedleaf I can’t get over her #She’s just so interesting #warrior cats #warrior cats art #their take on her is so good I’m just obsessed with it especially as it relates to her rule following brother

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unglomeral · 5 months

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● Blood Orange

● II - Gambit

A gathering of bees wafted along on a string of wind, as gentle as the kiss of a monarch on a bushel of baby's breath.

They hummed and bumbled, aimlessly darting between flowers that bloomed rainbow hues, muted and bold, but none of which they deemed worthy.

In the distance, caught between the split of a great wood, they caught sight of a pale blue that shone white in the overhead sun.

With satisfaction, they perched, only to crumble and fall down to the earth, far too hefty for the decaying petals of winter blossoms.

"Stupid bees," a plume of frosty breath escaped his lips, "The warm seasons are far off."

Cossick turned his head back into the coach where Esandolyn was seated, her foot tapping at a pace against the floor.

"How are you feeling?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." Her eyes had darkened half circles beneath them, threatening to become whole at any second.

"When's the last time you slept?"

"I'm apalled Lysander, how rude."

He exhaled through his nose and frowned, "You look like you're going to fall forward at any moment."

"I will catch myself."

His head dipped, questioning her statement.

"I might catch myself." She corrected.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lip, and he turned back outside to save her the satisfaction of seeing it.

Parked on a patch of grass a short length away from the main road, they rested beneath an oak tree that dangled its dappled light over every surface.

From where he stood, leaning against the outside of the coach, he could see the entrance of the church, a tall building that was almost blinding when it caught the light, imposing in its potential and radiant in its apparent glee.

The church of Saint Alding was neither a church by definition nor was its namesake derived from a patron Saint. Rather, Alding was the name of the grounds on which it was built, a well manicured area situated at the edge of the town near the castle.

It tapered off in gray sloped roof sections and was as simple in shape as a crate but stretched lengthwise. Various windows lined up in file, and their dramatic tracery defaced the otherwise smooth walls.

In a stone campanile, a head taller than the church itself, a bell rang once, the vibrations sent down to the floor and into Cossick's chest.

"They're late. Though I'm not surprised, it goes to show how seriously they are taking this."

He took a step into the coach and helped her up by the arm, leading her outside and helping her down the step.

"Remember, it's fixed, and you've got no friends in there, so don't appeal to anyone."

She took a shaky breath and tensed her jaw. "How long will it be before the punishment takes effect?"

"A few days, it has to go through the council for approval first, so enough time to kidnap you and create a missing person's scandal."

"I'm starting to think you aren't joking about this." she shuffled a few steps away from him.

"No, no, I am joking. It won't be a scandal. They don't want you anyway." He dusted a leaf out of his hair.

She glared at him, "I'll pluck your eyelashes out."

"That is outrageous."

She leaned beside him, her back against the wooden frame.

"I'm surprised you can still make light of things."

"It hasn't set it in yet." She stared off at the building with dead eyes, "I don't remember what happened, I don't remember doing those things," a leaf drifted from the swaying sea of green above her head, she watched as it fell and twirled and flipped until it hit the grass. "I'm scared."

"You did nothing wrong, it wasn't you."

"Then who was it?"

He fell quiet. "I think that might be the scariest thing about all of this."

Surrounded by rolling hills, picket fences, and right angled flower fields like knitted quilts draped over the land, it was almost impossible to feel anything but tranquil.

Through the susurrus of chirping birds, the coach horse eating away at tufts of grass and the rustling of the leaves, a foreboding feeling irked at the fibers of her muscles and the fine hair on her skin.

"Sir Cossick!" A guard in the distance yelled, beckoning them toward the church.

Her body sank through the floor, the pallor of her face caused by the blood rushing to her beating heart.

Cossick did a half reach into the coach and removed her helmet, tucking it under her arm, "This is as far as I can go." He seemed to flick through a collection of words and facial expressions but settled on a somber "See you soon" and a smile.

"Goodbye, Lysander."

***********************************************

Through two grand carved doors above which an organic lynette was displayed, she entered to an open chamber, her footsteps echoing like sharp knocks in the silence.

Vaulted ceilings supported by arches and beams crossed through each other at intersections, where dangling chandeliers provided an unhelpful candle light.

The room was fairly dark despite it being the middle of the day, along the walls that stretched far into the distance stained glass windows replaced the daylight with low rays, deep and rich.

From behind her, absorbed into the sheen of her armor and the wood on the floor, a large circular window, mosaics of blues and greens forming the image of a knight kneeling, sword pointed to the skies.

The church was empty, not a person seated at the rows of pews lining either side of a marble walkway nor an official at the grand stand, only a single man in a three piece suit sat at the stepped seats reserved for witnesses and court officials.

The guard that followed shut the doors and led her to a platform between the altar and the public gallery.

A fenced off checkerboard square of black and white tiles where she was brought violently to her knees.

"Hey!"

The helmet fell and rolled a distance away, staring at her as her bound wrists were joined to an iron bar that was then fixed to the floor with a steel pin.

"I'll take this off your hands." The guard knelt and retrieved the helmet, inspecting it as he receded back to the entrance, and then past the closed door.

Through a curtain behind a raised stand before her, ornamented with shields, swords, and flags, a well-dressed man emerged and then seated himself, "Good afternoon, Lady Esandolyn."

"G-Good afternoon, sir." She managed to force out an answer.

He straightened a stack of papers on the desk, "Don't look so alarmed, you didn't expect to stand free, did you? My name is Obille, I will be your judge today."

People began pouring into the stand behind him, leaking in through a dark gap, flooding the available chairs and the air with a soft hum.

Amongst the faces of those who seated themselves, she recognized Balic, the owner of the church that existed now as rubble and charred remains.

He was a man whose shirt was a button too tight, and his beard a few strands unkempt, dressed to the finest degree but without a care toward his physical appearance.

He stood out like a crow amongst Ravens, his feathers more oily and his caw scratchier too. Staring at her through cold eyes, dead and dark.

"We are waiting for the last of our witness arrivals." Obille peered at her over thin lenses before bringing his thumb to his tongue and flicking through pages.

The skin under his eyes drooped like an old dog's. Covering his face was a thin white mustache curled at the ends and a thick beared, trimmed into shape. He brought a hand to his balding head to scratch an itch.

The door behind her creaked open, and Esandolyn was judged by the shadows that reached her on the floor. By the pointed shaped of their shadowed heads, she knew the witnesses had arrived.

They filled the seats thirty spaces on either side of her, like blood red pawns lined up on a chess board.

Were there always this many of them? She wondered.

Obille's voice cut through her thought, "In the presence of our father who art in his haven, we must rest our hands on the words of our savior and drink from a chalice the blood of the innocent so that we may never deceive nor prove deceitful, lest we be struck down and repent."

The murmurs slowly died down, and the last of those that still stood took their places amongst the rows of seats and the stand behind the judge.

"May we close our eyes."

She obeyed, and the room turned to a pitch black. Her fingertips were guided to the textured cover of a leather book, and cold steel was brought to her lips. A red liquid flushed into her mouth, bitter and pungent, a dark wine that made her shudder.

"Now, let us begin."

Her eyes opened in time to see the church assistant shuffling backward with chalice in hand, disappearing behind the stand.

Obille paused, shifting back and forth, as along with his demeanor, seemingly uncomfortable in his clothes and seat.

A sweat broke on his forehead, undoubtedly throughout his body too, vented by the tugging of his collar and a large exhale.

His sight drifted to a sheet of paper at his side, which he read quickly before he cleared his throat; "Due to the rising conflicts in Landol, Queen Joan will be unable to attend this trial and take her place as judge. As appointed second in command of matters relating to the churches and courts, I will temporarily take her place."

She felt everyone's eyes on her. They pierced her flesh, and they studied the most minute details of her face, from the pores on her skin to the sweat cascading down the contours of her cheeks.

"Lady Isolde Esandolyn," he placed his hands in front of him, fingers intertwined, "7th Holy Knight of our Queen Joan Desiliers' military forces, a warrior governed under your oath to her majesty and our lord to protect and serve the kingdom and its people with the utmost bravery and valiance in the face of any evil."

"Do you," He continued, "attest to the truth of this statement?"

"Sir?"

"Do you attest to it? It's a simple question, I expect you can even answer it."

"Y-yes, sir, I can attest to the truth of that statement."

He tapped a finger on his chin, eyebrow raised expectedly. "Well...?" He gestured for her to continue.

"Sir, I don't understand."

He sighed, irritated. "What truth do you attest to?"

She furrowed her eyebrows, and she felt Cossick's statements were beginning to feel more real with every word that left Obille's mouth.

"The truth that I pledged myself to our kingdom and dedicated my being to protecting our Queen and her people."

"Very good." He turned slightly to nod at a woman behind him, who held papers and writing tool, she nodded back at him.

"Three nights ago, you were spotted leaving Wilrife Castle after hours, after which you wondered into the woods," he rifled through his papers, his mouth moving as he read, "witnesses claim having seen you enter Saint Balic's church after which they heard "Screams of an angel who had come to death."

She looked to the witnesses, the members of Balic's church, and searched their faces for the ones who might have seen, but they were all the same, their expressions darkened.

"Then...you set the church ablaze. You were captured by the castle guards and taken into custody."

Her mind flashed back to that moment, the only one she could remember. Standing on coarse dirt as yells filled the air, violent hands gripped at her scorched and bloodied body with the church a ball of flames behind her.

Balic rose from his seat and hurriedly huffed to whisper something in Obille's ear, undoubtedly spitting every word. "Yes, yes," Obille nodded, smiling for only a second, "okay."

"Tell me, Isolde, do you have any family?"

She eyed Balic, who had seated himself in a sweat, dabbing at the moisture on the upper lip of his satisfied smile.

"That question hardly seems relevant, sir." She protested.

"You are in no position to defy me. It will not make this easier for you."

"No, sir, I do not have any family." Her teeth were clenched tightly.

"Ah, so you could surely understand the pain... the strife that comes with losing your family, yes?"

"..."

"Isolde, you are meant to use your voice in a trial."

"Yes, sir, " her words were short, "I understand the pain."

"Why then, would you willingly ruin another man's family for your own personal gain?"

"My own personal gain? That has nothing to do with it!"

"Oh, so what you are saying is that you did not, in fact, do it for your personal gain. Rather, you did it for another reason?"

Her body rapidly heated up, the armor she wore containing the heat like a furnace in which she was being cooked.

She had blundered, and her fate was now in the hands of someone who believed checkmate to be when a bishop had cornered a knight.

"Hmm, very interesting... and finally, " she stared at him, not an ounce of an emotion was conveyed by her eyes, and by her face, she was not willing to give more than she already had.

"What was your reason then for committing such an atrocity if not for your own personal gain?"

Silence followed, through which she could hear his breaths and the shuffling of clothes as the witnesses shifted.

"I do not remember what happened." With eyes unable to face the man at the stand above her, she knew by the statement alone that the words on paper would not favor her side.

"How convenient." He seemed to brush this fact away as if he couldn't care less. "With no memory of whether or not you did it, you can confirm that there is a possibility that you might have been responsible for it after all?"

"No, I can not confirm that."

All she wanted to do was to scream at him and force a scene in which she could explain herself, but she recognized the officials seated behind Obille. They were capable, serving beside the Queen.

"Do you seriously believe we can conduct a trial of the church on a statement as frivolous in its meaning as that? What weight does your "no" carry here? If it were that simple to avoid charges, the kingdom would be filled with miscreants and thugs."

"Then what would you call the assholes sitting behind you, lining your pockets and your gut too?"

"I do believe that is all?" He once again looked to the lady behind him who nodded and began packing up her supplies, ignoring her words.

"Despite they outcome of this trial, guilty or innocent, you will be stripped of your credentials and banished from the kingdom." Balic chimed in with a grunt, clearing his throat.

"You are also to pay a lump sum of one thousand gold to Balic and his family for the damage."

"Money? This is about money!?" The chains of her bonds rattled as they pulled taught. "You don't give a shit about your son. You never even mentioned him! This means nothing to you!"

"Hush now, my dear, there's no need for such filth to leave your mouth." His anger seemed genuine, but it paled in comparison to the rage that she felt, bursting at her joints and at the bruises on her wrists.

"Why don't we skip the whole, "How do you plead?" Ordeal, I can throw you behind bars simply for cussing in a holy place and defacing a member of the church. Imagine how guilty you would be for burning one down." He chuckled, and Balic joined in before coughing up an excuse by wiping his mouth and beating his chest.

"I pronounce your punishment to be..." He raised his gavel into the air, and her head lowered in response, higher once more, and her eyes shut tight, there was no point in fighting.

"Execution."

It fell to the block beneath it with a force that shattered her internally, ringing through the hollow room so loudly that she flinched.

Screams erupted all around her, blood curdling and by their sudden ends, futile.

The ear piercing bang that befell the finality of her life echoed around her, each louder than the next, followed by a shrill screeching that dug unto her ears.

She forced her eyes to see and the sights etched into her brain, a warmth flowed beneath her knees, a crimson red reflected in her plated caps.

She whipped her head up and reeled backward, pulling hard on the rod she was attached to.

Her stomach churned and fought to escape. Her lungs and breaths did the same.

Obille's head rested on the stand, fragments of his skull had been misplaced about the stand and the walls, blood poured from a gaping wound where it leaked down the front of the panels, soaking into the wood and staining the Kingdom flags.

Her eyes dragged to a man who hovered over the body, his three piece suit stained with red splotches. He held an oddly shaped wooden stick in Obille's direction, metal plates covered the majority, and smoke rose from its tip.

He looked toward Esandolyn, staring straight through her, but the contact of his eyes still sent a shiver down her spine. Remorseless, and glazed over, flecked with blood but none the wiser to it.

He nodded, indicating to her, and before she could react, before she could think to react, her vision was stolen.

It was dark, her lungs pleaded for a breath, but the more they struggled to take one, the tighter the force around her neck became.

Hands grabbed at her, and she fought them, but they did not budge. They moved her from where she was kneeled and dragged her across the floor with a horrible scraping shriek.

In a final attempt, she lunged forward, swinging her legs beneath her, and for a split second, it worked. Her sight broke free from the material around her head as it slipped off, and the hands lost their grip.

She fell on her side, and she remained fallen, for in the stands of witnesses, not a single body remained.

Corpses draped the steps, and their innards lined the walls. The blood that soaked into their red cloaks made no difference, but it was striking against their pale skin.

Broken skin and flesh torn, horrid faces frozen in time, their fear caught forever.

Lined up in file were men dressed in the same garments of the ones they had murdered, wielding knives and blades.

The sight, the smell, shut down any attempt to fight, only the desire to crawl into herself and forget, remained.

The church of Saint Alding had bore witnessed a massacre it may never forget, and as her body left its doors, she would remember.

#knight #knights #adventure #fantasy #high fantasy #fiction #original writing #original work #original character #holy #knights of the round table #mature #violent #violence #bloody #cw: gore #blood orange #chapter 2

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will-of-the-whispers · 8 months

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Word Count: 695

An Echo of Narcissus

Among a range of mountains, there are many beautiful sights and scenes. Yet in only one of them does he exist, and he is by far the most beautiful sight of all. He lays by the creek, absent-mindedly watching as dragonflies dance in spirals and pirouettes. See the way the sunlight glints off of his deep blue eyes? Is it a reflection? Or is it he who glows like the rising sun? This light dances through the stretching boughs of trees, its dappled touch like Midas on the dew-covered grass. If you listen carefully, you may be able to hear the ancient pines yawning their greetings into the soft, warm breeze. In their branches, birds sing of the new day, of warmth, and of peace. The world begins to come alive as more and more voices join the song until it seems like the sky itself is singing in harmony. Beneath the trees, patches of daffodils bask in splotches of golden light. They exude the smell of the sweet nectar that drips down their petals as they turn their heads to the sky, whispering merry gossip to the bees that land in their golden embrace. Near them, crystal-clear water rushes over rocks in a small stream. It is cold, but not a frigid, shivering cold that stings to touch. Instead, it is refreshing, like the ocean on a summer’s day. Cold, but no less pleasant. It makes a shushing noise, as if to calm any who wander across it on their journey. Hush, it says. There is peace here.

Small fish swim through the stream, and as they swish to and fro, light beams off of their sterling scales in a platinum dance. They flicker through the reeds, sending ripples through the water that distort the reflection of the young man above. He is beautiful in every way, but the image in the water is even more so. The reflection is perfect. Its smile is warm like the first day of summer, and its eyes glisten like the full moon gleaming off the deep blue sea. Compared to his reflection, the man is nothing. He leans down to the water’s surface, his heart aching at the knowledge that this barrier must keep them apart. “I will never leave you,” he whispers. “You are everything to me, and more.” The reflection utters the same words back, and he is lost in love’s tight embrace.

The young man stays in that place by the creek, gazing with beguiled wonder into those endlessly beautiful eyes. As the sun sets beneath the undulating mountain range, he laments that he can no longer see his love, though he can still feel its smooth, cold skin on his fingertips. For moments, when all goes quiet, he fears that the heavenly figure has vanished, but then the sun returns and he is greeted by that same perfect smile. Day turns to night. Night turns to day. All the same, he stays by his lover’s side, enraptured by its gaze. As the first hint of frost begins to curl its way through the grass, it covers the young man’s heart in a chilling blanket of ice. Why, when he looks in the creek, does he see his love staring back at him from gaunt sockets? Why have his once full and shaped lips become parched and split? The birds do not sing anymore, for they are all gone. They could wait no longer for the man. The flowers have long since withered and decayed, falling back into the ground from whence they came. All is still. All is quiet. There is only the rushing water that splits the air, still nagging for its perfect silence.

When snow begins to fall, it covers the body lying half-submerged in the creek with a white sheet.

Then, come spring, the snow melts. The birds return, singing of their journeys, and the flowers bloom once more. Where the young man was, there is now nothing but a lonely daffodil leaning over the stream. In its reflection, there is no more or less beauty. There is only that very same daffodil. Perhaps that was all there ever was.

#narcissus #roman mythology #greek mythology #mythology #myths #greek myths #ovid #writing #beauty #Whisper Writes

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baleriontheblackkitten · 6 months

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A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I

Gorgeous chapter, I'm tempted to just copypaste pretty much everything.

Catelyn had never liked this godswood. She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers. The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.

Oh, Catelyn, starting the series highlighting her Tully-ness, her preference for the godswood in Riverrun, her dislike of the things about the North that are most alien for her southern self. She starts out very un-Northern-like, un-Stark-like, but as winter approaches, literally and metaphorically, as circumstances grow darker around her, she muses about becoming more like a Stark, thinking more like a Stark, seeing the world from a Stark-like perspective.

It must be said, though, that despite her growing into her Stark-ness, she does stay also a Tully through and through. She dies and is reborn in a very Tully way, not only geographically closer to Riverrun than the North, but also symbolically, given to the river and being retrieved from it. But then again, it's Arya's direwolf (Arya herself inside the direwolf, one could say) who retrieves her, allowing her rebirth! Insane books for insane people.

Let's get back to this paragraph. It's all so heartbreaking with the hindsight of knowing what happens later - how she thinks of Riverrun, the beautiful and gentle image she has of it, knowing the fate that's awaiting the riverlands; how alien she finds the darkness of the Winterfell godswood, the gloominess of the castle, the hardness of the trees, and how she'll also turn into something dark and primal and gloomy, a creature of decay and deep silence and brooding shadows, first metaphorically/psychologically and then literally.

I find it strange how people seem to talk about Lady Stoneheart like she's a different person from Catelyn? That makes no sense. There would be no Lady Stoneheart without all the love Catelyn had for her family and all the pain she was forced to endure as she lost all the people she loved one by one until she broke. Her own death wasn't even the thing that changed her the most - it was the grief.

But this is early in the story for that …

Catelyn had been anointed with the seven oils and named in the rainbow of light that filled the sept of Riverrun. She was of the Faith, like her father and grandfather and his father before him. Her gods had names, and their faces were as familiar as the faces of her parents. Worship was a septon with a censer, the smell of incense, a seven-sided crystal alive with light, voices raised in song. The Tullys kept a godswood, as all the great houses did, but it was only a place to walk or read or lie in the sun. Worship was for the sept. For her sake, Ned had built a small sept where she might sing to the seven faces of god, but the blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of the Starks, and his own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they shared with the vanished children of the forest. At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,” Ned called it. The weirwood’s bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle’s granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea. In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch. Up here it was different. Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.

Sorry for the long copypaste, but I love this bit. These first chapters are so good at brushing a painting of the world we're entering.

Gods that have faces but not names send your thoughts directly to Arya's journey, learning to have many faces and letting go of her name. Ironically, the Faceless Men are about having no faces (it's in the name) and worshipping one god. But I am sure that Arya will go through that journey subverting that, and reconnecting with a dimension where there are multiple gods with faces. Most likely in the Isle of Faces, where I'm sure many mysteries will be unveiled for us readers and for the characters.

Also, sight theme my beloved. The nameless gods of the North see. They watch. The faces on the trees were carved by the children of the forest - they gave the weirdwood trees their eyes. Were they the ones who created the possibility of seeing through them? Are the trees the eyes of the children of the forest, just like the risen dead seem to be the eyes of the Others? Is Bloodraven (and Bran) tapping into the "sight network" engineered by the children of the forest?

Did people in the South destroy the weirdwoods out of ignorance and negligence, or very much on purpose? Are the weirdwoods on the Isle of Faces kept for reasons that go beyond the religious or ritual, but are very strategic? "Their silent watch" Catelyn calls it - it suggests that it's very much a deliberate action, and more literally a watch than Catelyn probably intends. Not just a watch as in a ritual of worship, but a literal watch through the eyes of the weirdwoods.

Um. Guys? Guys?? Is it weird if I just realized that the Night's Watch is called the Night's Watch? Wasn't anyone going to tell me that the Night's Watch is called the Night's Watch or was I supposed to just realize on my own??

I promise I'm a well-adjusted individual. Mostly.

[…] The red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. “Ned,” she called softly. He lifted his head to look at her. “Catelyn,” he said.

Oh, they're watching you. It's extremely likely that Bran is watching, right?

I love the detail of their conversation starting with their names, simple and essential. In a godswood where the gods have no names, they say each other's names. I saw what you did there, George.

She could feel the eyes watching her, but she did her best to ignore them.

Yeah, I suppose it's kind of creepy.

“Arya is already in love, and Sansa is charmed and gracious, but Rickon is not quite sure.” “Is he afraid?” Ned asked. “A little,” she admitted. “He is only three.” Ned frowned. “He must learn to face his fears. He will not be three forever. And winter is coming.” “Yes,” Catelyn agreed. The words gave her a chill, as they always did. The Stark words. Every noble house had its words. Family mottoes, touchstones, prayers of sorts, they boasted of honor and glory, promised loyalty and truth, swore faith and courage. All but the Starks. Winter is coming, said the Stark words. Not for the first time, she reflected on what a strange people these northerners were.

This section is so layered and there's also a layer that's downright funny.

But it also makes you think of a time where Rickon won't be three anymore, and when winter has come. Will Rickon be the thing that others ought to be scared of? I mean, by TWOW he'll be five, not exactly that much older, and I expect him to be used by the Northern lords for his claim on Robb's crown as the male Stark sibling next in line with Bran assumed dead, creating a rift between that side and the side that supports Sansa's claim as the next oldest sibling. (A parallel narrative to Aegon, supported by Doran Martell among others vs Dany, supported by Arianne Martell among others - I'll eat my hat if the "queenmaker" arc was not a misdirection/foreshadowing for a different queen. But I'm digressing agaiiin).

Anyway. I'm also sure that whatever has happened to Rickon will have shaped his personality, too, and that will also matter.

Anyway. Ah, the conversation between Ned and Cat about the Night's Watch and the things beyond the Wall … Even Catelyn, not even a northerner, has a sense of the dark things that are beyond the Wall.

“You listen to too many of Old Nan’s stories. The Others are as dead as the children of the forest, gone eight thousand years. Maester Luwin will tell you they never lived at all.”

The women's wisdom and the men's rationalism. A classic trope, just like how the intellectuals' logic and knowledge through studies is wrong while the stories passed from woman to woman are right. Maybe this angle aged slightly badly in a time of raging anti-intellectualism, but it's a fantasy with magic and creatures. That's kind of its job to use the genre tropes.

(And it's possible the tropes will be subverted if it turns out the Maesters know exactly what's up and engineered the lack-of-magic pre-series on purpose, and the rationalistic logic is a constructed façade. And there's magic, in form of alchemy, among them too …)

Plot! Jon Arryn's death, Robert's coming. I am only noticing in my re-read that the mother direwolf was killed by a stag - Catelyn noticed, too.

Catelyn wished she could share his joy. But she had heard the talk in the yards; a direwolf dead in the snow, a broken antler in its throat. Dread coiled within her like a snake, but she forced herself to smile at this man she loved, this man who put no faith in signs.

Chewing glass etc etc. Ned is so excited to see his friend … that will be the death of him.

Exposition about the Lannisters. It will be good to see the children - respectfully fuck you George :)

The chapter transitions are always thought out - this chapter literally ends with these joking words regarding Robert: “Damn the man. Damn his royal hide.” and bam. We switch to the very two people who have most reason to curse Robert for real …

#marghe re reads asoiaf #my asoiaf thoughts #asoiaf meta #agot #agot - catelyn i #asoiaf

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mosseater1973 · 1 year

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The Sound of Growing

The sound of growing begins with whispers

Of filtered shadows

And strained liquid sun

Funneling down,

Falling,

Dappled, against the earth.

The sound of growing is a groan,

The creaking of trees

Over clammy, dampened, sweating soil

Teeming with murmurs

And life.

The sound of growing is a soft hiss,

Then a crackle

Of the dead leaves

Of dead trees,

Of moss

And fungus

And a hundred things not quite alive.

The sound of growing is a whistle,

Shrill,

As the pressure builds

And the light above slices

Through the cloying air

And to where,

below,

A seed hums to life.

The sound of growing is a cry so loud

And a beat so strong,

Thrumming low in the earth

Like a deep, deep drum,

That it throws away the suffocation

Of leaves

And rot

And decay,

Making way

For a blossom.

#poetry #writing #autumn #nature #mushrooms #forest #fungus #hozier #author #growing #growth #cottagecore

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shabbir-92 · 1 year

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Unveiling the Abyss Echo: A Tale of Confronting Darkness

Chapter 1: Unveiling the Enigma

Chapter 2: Echoes of the Past

Chapter 3: The Haunting Begins

Chapter 4: Unearthly Secrets

Chapter 5: The Sinister Revelation

Chapter 6: Descent into Madness

Chapter 7: The Final Confrontation

Chapter 8: Whispers from the Abyss

Introduction:

In the quiet, seemingly peaceful town of Willowbrook, nestled deep within the shadows of an ancient forest, an ominous secret has long lain dormant. This secret, buried beneath layers of history, mysticism, and malevolence, has been awakened by forces beyond human comprehension. It is a secret that transcends time and mortality, one that beckons from the depths of the abyss.

"Unveiling the Enigma: A Horror Thriller Tale" is a harrowing journey into the darkest recesses of human fear and the supernatural. It is a story that will grip your soul and leave you trembling in the chilling embrace of the unknown.

Chapter 1: Unveiling the Enigma

The day started like any other in Willowbrook. The sun lazily climbed the sky, casting dappled shadows through the dense canopy of ancient trees that surrounded the town. Birds chirped, and the town's folk went about their daily routines, unaware that the tides of fate were about to shift in a way they could never have imagined.

Among those unaware was Emily Parker, a young journalist from the city, who had come to Willowbrook in search of a story that would make her career. She had heard whispers of the town's dark history, tales of disappearances, strange occurrences, and a mansion that loomed like a spectral sentinel at the edge of the forest.

It was this mansion, known locally as the Forsaken Manor, that had drawn Emily's attention. Legends told of its cursed inhabitants, of eerie lights seen in its windows at night, and the haunting melodies that drifted from its abandoned halls. Emily was determined to uncover the truth behind these legends and to prove herself as a fearless investigative journalist.

As she stood at the edge of the forest, gazing up at the looming mansion, a shiver ran down her spine. She could feel the weight of centuries of secrets pressing down upon her. With her notepad in hand and a camera slung over her shoulder, Emily took her first cautious step toward the Forsaken Manor, unknowingly stepping into the heart of darkness that would forever change her life.

Little did she know that this journey would lead her to confront the enigma that had plagued Willowbrook for generations, a malevolent force that would test her courage, sanity, and the boundaries of reality itself. The horrors that awaited her within the forsaken walls of the mansion were beyond her wildest nightmares.

Chapter 2: Echoes of the Past

The Forsaken Manor, with its dark history and imposing façade, seemed to welcome Emily with a sense of foreboding. She pushed open the creaking front door, and the air inside was heavy with the scent of decay and abandonment. Cobwebs draped from the ceilings, and the once-grand entrance hall was now a crumbling monument to a bygone era.

As Emily ventured deeper into the mansion, she couldn't escape the feeling of being watched. The shadows seemed to shift and whisper, and the paintings that lined the walls stared back at her with eyes that followed her every move. She couldn't help but wonder if the legends of the mansion's haunted past were more than mere tales.

Her investigation led her to a library filled with dusty tomes, their pages filled with arcane symbols and cryptic writings. Emily's journalistic instincts kicked in as she began to decipher the cryptic texts. They spoke of rituals, of otherworldly entities, and of a darkness that had been unleashed upon Willowbrook centuries ago.

As night descended over the mansion, Emily's determination did not waver. She set up her camera, hoping to capture any paranormal activity that might occur. She had heard whispers of ghostly apparitions, of spectral voices that echoed through the halls at night. It was a risk she was willing to take in the pursuit of the truth.

But as the clock struck midnight, the mansion came alive with eerie sounds and chilling specters. Emily's camera captured the impossible—the flickering apparitions of long-dead residents, their faces twisted in agony. She could feel their presence, their anguish, and a malevolent force that seemed to feed on their torment.

Terrified but driven by her quest for answers, Emily pressed on. She would need to delve deeper into the history of the Forsaken Manor, to uncover the dark secrets that bound it to the town and the enigma that had plagued Willowbrook for generations. Little did she know that the echoes of the past would lead her to a confrontation with forces far beyond her understanding.

Chapter 3: The Haunting Begins

The night at the Forsaken Manor had left Emily shaken, but it had also ignited a burning curiosity within her. She needed to understand the source of the malevolent presence that had taken hold of the mansion. The cryptic texts in the library hinted at a ritual—an ancient ceremony that had summoned a darkness beyond human comprehension.

She reached out to the town's historian, Professor Samuel Hawthorne, hoping to gain insights into the mansion's history. The professor was known for his extensive knowledge of Willowbrook's past, and he was willing to meet with Emily to share his research.

In his cluttered office, Professor Hawthorne told her about a dark chapter in Willowbrook's history, a chapter that had been deliberately erased from public records. It was a story of a secret society that had practiced forbidden rituals, seeking power and immortality. They had chosen the Forsaken Manor as the site of their dark experiments, believing it to be a conduit to the otherworldly.

As Emily listened to the professor's tale, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched once again. The walls of his office seemed to close in on her, and she noticed a sinister symbol etched into the wood—a symbol that matched those in the books she had found in the mansion. It was a symbol of the enigma that had haunted Willowbrook for centuries.

With newfound knowledge and a sense of urgency, Emily returned to the Forsaken Manor, determined to confront the malevolent force that dwelled within its walls. As she stood in the heart of the mansion, surrounded by the echoes of the past, she knew that her journey had only just begun.

Unbeknownst to her, the darkness that had been awakened by her presence was growing stronger, its malevolence reaching out like tendrils from the abyss. Emily was no longer a mere observer but a player in a chilling game of survival, and the stakes were higher than she could have ever imagined.

Chapter 4: Unearthly Secrets

Emily's determination to uncover the truth about the Forsaken Manor intensified with each passing day. The malevolent force that lingered within its walls seemed to grow bolder, its presence no longer confined to the shadows. It whispered in her dreams, taunting her with cryptic messages and visions of unspeakable horrors.

She had become consumed by her quest, spending countless hours researching the dark history of Willowbrook and the secret society that had once called the mansion home. The more she uncovered, the clearer it became that the enigma that had plagued the town was deeply entwined with the supernatural.

One evening, as Emily pored over ancient documents in the dimly lit library, she stumbled upon a diary written by a member of the secret society. It detailed their rituals, their obsession with immortality, and a ritualistic chant that was said to summon unimaginable power. Emily knew that she had stumbled upon a crucial piece of the puzzle.

With trembling hands, she copied the chant onto a scrap of paper, her curiosity overpowering her fear. She needed to understand the nature of the ritual and whether it could be used to banish the malevolent force that now threatened not only the mansion but the entire town of Willowbrook.

Emily's investigation was interrupted by a sudden noise—a faint, haunting melody that seemed to emanate from the depths of the mansion. It was a tune she had heard before, a tune that had echoed through her nightmares. It drew her deeper into the mansion, like a siren's call, and she couldn't resist its pull.

Following the eerie melody, Emily descended into the forsaken catacombs beneath the mansion. The air grew colder, and the walls seemed to close in on her. She felt the presence of the malevolent force growing stronger, as if it were guiding her to a revelation that would change everything.

As she ventured deeper into the catacombs, Emily stumbled upon a chamber bathed in an otherworldly, crimson light. In the center of the room stood an ornate altar, adorned with symbols she recognized from the diary. It was here that the forbidden ritual had been performed, and it was here that Emily realized the enormity of the secrets she was about to unearth.

With the chant in her possession and the altar before her, Emily faced a choice. She could use the ritual to confront the malevolent force, or she could risk awakening something even more sinister. The line between her quest for truth and the abyss of darkness had blurred, and she was about to take a step that would forever alter the course of her destiny.

Chapter 5: The Sinister Revelation

The catacombs beneath the Forsaken Manor seemed to hold their breath as Emily stood before the ornate altar. The crimson light bathed her in an eerie glow, casting long, twisting shadows that danced upon the walls. She clutched the scrap of paper with the forbidden chant, her heart pounding in her chest.

Every instinct told her to turn back, to leave the malevolent force that haunted the mansion undisturbed. But the journalist in her, the relentless pursuit of the truth, drove her to take a step closer to the altar. With trembling hands, she began to recite the chant, the words resonating through the chamber like a sinister hymn.

As Emily's voice filled the catacombs, the very air seemed to shift and twist. The crimson light grew more intense, and the symbols on the altar began to pulse with an unholy energy. She could feel the presence of the malevolent force growing stronger, its presence enveloping her like a suffocating fog.

Then, with a sudden, bone-chilling burst of energy, the chamber erupted in a maelstrom of supernatural phenomena. Shadows coalesced into grotesque figures, and the walls seemed to bleed with malevolence. Emily's world spun into chaos as she realized the enormity of her actions.

The chant had not banished the malevolent force but had unleashed it with terrifying ferocity. The Forsaken Manor trembled as the entity manifested itself before her—a swirling vortex of darkness, its eyes burning with a malevolent intelligence. It spoke to her in a voice that echoed from the depths of the abyss, promising knowledge and power beyond imagination in exchange for her soul.

Emily was faced with a choice once again, a choice that would determine the fate of not only herself but also the entire town of Willowbrook. The sinister revelation that awaited her in the catacombs was a truth more horrifying than she could have ever imagined, and she would have to summon every ounce of her courage and wit to confront the abyss that now threatened to consume her.

As the malevolent force beckoned, Emily had to make a decision that would seal her fate and plunge her deeper into the enigma that had ensnared Willowbrook for centuries.

Chapter 6: Descent into Madness

Emily stood at the precipice of a choice that would shape the destiny of not only herself but also the entire town of Willowbrook. The malevolent entity, unleashed by her ill-fated recitation of the forbidden chant, swirled before her, its form shifting and contorting in the crimson light of the catacombs.

The entity's voice, a cacophony of whispers and screams, echoed in her mind, promising her untold knowledge and power. It tempted her with the allure of unlocking the secrets of the enigma that had plagued Willowbrook for centuries. But Emily knew that such promises came at a devastating cost—the surrender of her soul to the abyss.

With every passing moment, the malevolent force's influence grew stronger, gnawing at the edges of her sanity. She could feel its tendrils reaching into the deepest recesses of her mind, probing her fears and insecurities. It whispered malevolent truths and planted seeds of doubt.

As the weight of her decision bore down upon her, Emily thought of the people of Willowbrook, unaware of the cataclysmic events transpiring beneath the mansion. She thought of her own relentless pursuit of the truth, a pursuit that had led her into the heart of darkness. And she thought of the enigma, the unsolved mystery that had plagued the town for generations.

In a moment of clarity, Emily realized that she couldn't succumb to the entity's temptations. She couldn't let the malevolent force use her as a vessel to spread its darkness throughout Willowbrook. With steely resolve, she uttered words of defiance, breaking the sinister connection that had formed between her and the entity.

The catacombs quaked with fury as the entity howled in rage. Shadows writhed and contorted, and the crimson light flickered. But Emily stood firm, her courage a beacon of resistance in the face of unimaginable horror.

In a blinding flash of light, the malevolent force was banished, vanishing into the abyss from whence it came. The catacombs fell silent, and the air grew still. Emily, trembling and drained, had narrowly escaped the clutches of madness and malevolence.

But her ordeal was far from over. The revelation she had uncovered in the catacombs hinted at an even darker truth—a truth that would lead her to confront the enigma of Willowbrook on a scale she had never imagined. As she emerged from the depths of the Forsaken Manor, she knew that the true descent into madness had only just begun.

With each step she took, Emily's resolve strengthened. She would uncover the secrets that had eluded the town for centuries, expose the malevolent force that had plagued Willowbrook, and face the enigma head-on. The darkness may have been banished from the catacombs, but it still lurked in the shadows, waiting to strike once more.

As Emily returned to her quest, she couldn't help but wonder if she had made the right choice. The malevolent entity may have been banished, but its whispers lingered in her mind, a constant reminder of the horrors she had witnessed. The town of Willowbrook was on the brink of a revelation that would test the limits of reality, and Emily was determined to unveil the enigma, no matter the cost.

Chapter 7: The Final Confrontation

Willowbrook had fallen under an eerie silence since Emily's confrontation with the malevolent entity in the catacombs of the Forsaken Manor. The townsfolk sensed that something had changed, an unsettling shift in the air that left them uneasy. Emily herself couldn't escape the lingering feeling that the enigma of Willowbrook was drawing her closer to a cataclysmic revelation.

Determined to unravel the town's dark secrets and put an end to the enigma once and for all, Emily delved deeper into her research. She unearthed old manuscripts and interviewed the elderly residents who held fragments of the town's forgotten history. Their tales hinted at a connection between the secret society, the malevolent entity, and a series of events that had taken place centuries ago.

Emily's investigation led her to a hidden chamber within the Forsaken Manor, a chamber that had remained concealed from prying eyes for generations. Within its walls, she discovered a mural that depicted a ritual eerily similar to the one she had stumbled upon in the diary. The mural revealed the malevolent entity's true name—Mal'kara, a name steeped in darkness and forbidden knowledge.

Armed with this revelation, Emily knew she had a crucial piece of the puzzle. But she also understood that Mal'kara was not defeated; it had merely been banished. The entity's influence lingered, and its presence had grown more potent as it sought a way back into the world.

Emily's quest had become a race against time. She had to confront Mal'kara before the entity could regain its full strength and plunge Willowbrook into an eternal nightmare. The town's future depended on her ability to decipher the ritual and discover the means to seal the rift that had allowed Mal'kara to cross over.

With newfound determination, Emily sought out the town's historian, Professor Samuel Hawthorne, once again. Together, they pieced together the fragments of information they had gathered, trying to unravel the intricacies of the forbidden ritual.

As their research progressed, they learned of a relic hidden within Willowbrook, an artifact of immense power that had the potential to seal the rift and banish Mal'kara for all eternity. However, the relic was said to be guarded by supernatural forces, protecting it from those who sought to misuse its power.

Emily and Professor Hawthorne had no choice but to embark on a perilous journey, facing the enigma head-on, and confronting the malevolent entity in a final showdown that would test the limits of their courage and resolve.

The fate of Willowbrook hung in the balance, and as they ventured deeper into the heart of darkness, Emily knew that the enigma's secrets were on the verge of being unveiled. The final confrontation with Mal'kara loomed, a battle that would determine the town's ultimate destiny.

Chapter 8: The Abyss's Echo

Emily and Professor Hawthorne's journey to confront Mal'kara, the malevolent entity that had plagued Willowbrook for centuries, was fraught with danger and uncertainty. Armed with the knowledge they had painstakingly gathered, they ventured deeper into the heart of the enigma that had held the town in its sinister grip.

Their quest led them to an ancient, overgrown cemetery on the outskirts of Willowbrook. It was here, beneath the gnarled branches of ancient oak trees, that the relic said to hold the power to seal the rift awaited them. But as they entered the eerie graveyard, the air grew heavy with the palpable sense of dread, and the tombstones seemed to whisper tales of long-forgotten horrors.

The relic, a gemstone of iridescent blue known as the "Abyss's Echo," lay hidden within a crypt at the heart of the cemetery. Legends told of the spectral guardians that protected it, restless souls bound to the artifact by the same dark rituals that had summoned Mal'kara.

Emily and Professor Hawthorne knew that they would have to confront these vengeful spirits to obtain the Abyss's Echo. Armed with incantations and protective wards, they cautiously entered the crypt, their lanterns casting flickering shadows on the ancient stone walls.

The spectral guardians materialized with an otherworldly wail, their ethereal forms twisting and contorting in anguish. They surged toward Emily and the professor, their icy touch sending shivers down their spines. It was a battle of wills, a contest of courage against malevolence.

As Emily and Professor Hawthorne recited the incantations, the air within the crypt crackled with energy. The Abyss's Echo, nestled in a pedestal at the crypt's center, pulsed with a radiant light. The spectral guardians, trapped between the artifact's power and their own torment, began to wail in agony.

In a climactic struggle, the guardians were banished, their tormented souls freed from their eternal bondage. With trembling hands, Emily reached for the Abyss's Echo, the gemstone radiating with an otherworldly brilliance. It was the key to sealing the rift and banishing Mal'kara once and for all.

With the artifact in their possession, Emily and Professor Hawthorne returned to the Forsaken Manor, where they would confront the malevolent entity in a final, cataclysmic showdown. The mansion itself seemed to pulse with an ominous energy, its walls whispering ancient secrets.

In the dimly lit chamber beneath the mansion, they performed the ritual to seal the rift. The Abyss's Echo hummed with power, and the room trembled as the rift began to close. Mal'kara, sensing its imminent defeat, unleashed a torrent of malevolent energy, manifesting in a horrific, otherworldly form.

The battle that followed was a clash of light against darkness, of determination against malevolence. Emily and Professor Hawthorne poured their every ounce of strength and resolve into the ritual. The mansion shook, and the enigma that had plagued Willowbrook for centuries seemed to unravel.

With a blinding flash of light, the rift closed, and Mal'kara's howls of rage echoed into silence. The Forsaken Manor, once a place of malevolence, grew still, its dark influence lifted. The town of Willowbrook was free from the enigma's grip at last.

As Emily and the professor emerged from the chamber, weary but victorious, they knew that the town's secrets had been unveiled, and its future held the promise of peace. The Abyss's Echo, once a source of darkness, had become a beacon of hope, a testament to the indomitable spirit of those who dared to confront the abyss.

But as they looked back at the Forsaken Manor, they couldn't help but wonder if the enigma had truly been vanquished or if it would someday return to cast its shadow once more. Only time would tell, but for now, Willowbrook could finally breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that the relentless pursuit of the truth had brought about a new dawn.

The enigma that had held the town in its grasp for centuries had been unraveled, its secrets exposed to the light of day. The echoes of the abyss had been silenced, leaving behind a town forever changed by the harrowing journey into the heart of darkness.

#books #horror #mystery #thriller #supernatural #escape the night #dark night #short story #story #original story #suspense

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identityarchitect · 1 year

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which one has the most yellow in their design and what would that one think of dandelions

probably dappled light over decaying leaves?

my girl is literally yellow. and she probably doesnt think about them very much

#not described #dappled light over decaying leaves #my rw ocs #equinox local group #answered asks #i swear i had a mutuals tag lying around here somewhere

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gobboguy · 9 months

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Chapter 29: The Monster of Spiritcall Glade

A week after her initiation, Ionia emerged from the Swordmaster's Pinnacle, her body fully recovered, draped in the golden robes of a neophyte, and wielding the Relic Sword of Miranda. By her side walked Master Bernwiu, the venerable leader of their order, clad in flowing white robes and bearing a sturdy wooden staff. The air in the forest of Spiritcall Glade hummed with life, a symphony of rustling leaves, twittering birds, and distant whispers of unseen creatures.

The towering redwoods reached towards the heavens, their ancient boughs creating a leafy canopy that dappled the forest floor with shifting patterns of light and shadow. Ionia, eyes wide with wonder, took in the ethereal beauty of the surroundings, her senses heightened by the Swordmaster training. The Relic Sword of Miranda glowed with a faint, otherworldly radiance, resonating with the mystical aura of the forest.

As they traversed the winding forest path, Ionia struggled to match the relentless pace set by Master Bernwiu. Panting, she marveled at the old master's seemingly boundless vitality. How could a man of over two hundred years possess such agility and vigor? Was this the true power of a Swordmaster, to defy the ravages of time and move with the fluidity of a woodland spirit?

Master Bernwiu, a silhouette of wisdom and energy, surged forward, navigating the terrain with a fluidity that defied his age. Leaping effortlessly from rock to fallen tree, he carved a path through the forest with an innate knowledge only a Swordmaster could possess. Ionia strained to keep up, her admiration for the old master deepening with every nimble stride he took.

As the duo ventured deeper into the heart of the forest, the verdant canopy overhead began to thicken, casting the forest floor into a soft twilight. Shafts of fading sunlight filtered through the dense foliage, creating a tapestry of shifting shadows and dappled light. The air grew cooler, and a hushed silence enveloped the surroundings, punctuated only by the whispering rustle of leaves stirred by an unseen breeze.

Ionia, feeling the encroaching darkness, tightened her grip on the Relic Sword of Miranda, the blade gleaming with a subtle luminescence that provided a feeble counterpoint to the encroaching night. Her senses were heightened, and every rustle and crackle seemed amplified in the eerie silence of the deepening woods.

As the forest swallowed them, Ionia's attention was drawn to a sudden change in the path. Wide-eyed, she beheld massive piles of clear green goo steaming in the gloom. A disconcerting odor wafted through the air, causing her to instinctively recoil. Leaning closer, she discovered the source of the repugnant substance – the partially dissolved remains of a farmer.

"Just what happened here!?" Ionia's voice trembled.

The farmer's form lay half-dissolved within the gelatinous substance, his body contorted in a grotesque dance of decay. The goo enveloped him, causing his clothes to meld with the translucent mass, revealing patches of pallid skin where the corrosive effect had already taken its toll. The features that once defined his humanity were distorted, a nightmarish fusion of organic matter and the otherworldly substance. His limbs, now partially submerged, seemed to dissolve into the goo, creating an unsettling visual of a body slowly succumbing to the relentless degradation imposed by the mysterious creature's deadly grasp. The scene was a haunting tableau, a testament to the horrors lurking within the depths of the ancient forest.

The aged master, his expression grave, approached the scene. His golden eyes surveyed the piles of goo and the macabre remnants within. Bernwiu's frown deepened, and with a somber tone he said: "Ah, Ionia, what you see before you is the foul residue left behind by a malevolent creature. It has been abducting travelers along the glade's border, leaving nothing but this corrosive aftermath in its wake. It is a foul, non-human creature. Truly undeserving of life."

The clearing opened before them, a sinister expanse punctuated by the unnatural sight of gooey piles, each harboring a cluster of strange eggs. Ionia leaned in, her eyes widening in disbelief as she recognized the embryonic forms within. "Eggs! Bernwiu, it has young!" The revelation struck her with shock and horror, realizing the extent of the creature's insidious presence. Suddenly, a gurgling cry echoed from a concealed cave, and the massive green slime creature emerged, a pulsating and steaming mass of malevolence.

The creature jiggled and oozed with an unsettling rhythm, its form a grotesque fusion of pus-like green slime and undulating tentacles. Each appendage ended in sucker-like mouths, brimming with razor-sharp teeth, and the air quivered with an otherworldly menace emanating from the monstrous entity. Ionia and Bernwiu, guided by instinct, managed to evade the creature's crushing advance just in time, narrowly escaping the ferocity of its attack. The creature, enraged and protective, released a cacophony of piping cries from the multitude of mouths that adorned its grotesque form, a haunting symphony of malice echoing through the clearing.

Bernwiu readies his staff to strike, his gaze fixed on the monstrous creature before them. "This aberration is no ordinary foe. It detects its prey through a combination of smell and sound, attuned to the subtle nuances of its surroundings. More remarkably, it possesses an emotional capacity, allowing it to sense the fear and intentions of those it seeks to consume." He paused, his eyes locking onto Ionia's with a knowing intensity. "To navigate this encounter, you must delve deep into the core of your training. Harness your inner fire to control not just your body but your emotions as well. Only then can you evade the creature's malevolent senses and prevent yourself from becoming its next victim."

As the monstrous creature surged forward, a writhing mass of tentacles and jiggling ooze, Ionia and Bernwiu launched into a synchronized ballet of evasive maneuvers. The forest clearing became an arena of frenetic acrobatics as the two Swordmasters twisted and somersaulted through the air, narrowly escaping the creature's flailing pseudopods. Each movement was a carefully calculated dance, a manifestation of the meticulous training they had undergone.

The creature, frustrated by its inability to detect its elusive prey, emitted furious cries that reverberated through the dense forest. It lashed out blindly in all directions, attempting to ensnare Ionia and Bernwiu in its gelatinous grasp. Yet, the Swordmasters moved with a fluid grace that defied the creature's relentless assault. They contorted their bodies, avoiding each strike with preternatural agility.

However, the creature's blind rage began to focus as it sensed proximity to its elusive prey. Ionia, feeling the effects of the relentless evasion, found her emotional control slipping. Fear crept in, causing the creature's attacks to inch closer, its tentacles snapping ominously. Bernwiu, noticing Ionia's struggle, called out above the chaos, "Focus, Ionia! Your emotions are running wild and if you're not careful then you're dead!!!"

Ionia's attempt to suppress her fear crumbled, and a guttural scream tore through the air as the creature's tentacle brushed against her leg. The momentary lapse was all the monster needed; its pseudopods shot forward like lightning, ensnaring Ionia with a sickening squelch. She felt the relentless pull, and before she could react, she was dragged into the creature's grotesque form, a nightmare of steaming green goo.

Submerged within the gelatinous mass, Ionia struggled to breathe. Her surroundings were an otherworldly blend of pulsating flesh and burning sensations on her skin. Panic set in as she realized the inevitability of her dissolution within the creature's stomach. Despair threatened to consume her as the realization dawned that all her trials might culminate in this gruesome demise.

Inside the creature, she felt the corrosive nature of its body, and it began to burn away at her flesh. The eerie silence was broken only by the faint sizzling of her skin, and Ionia's eyes widened with terror. How had her journey led to this nightmarish end? The weight of her despair hung heavy in the pulsating depths of the creature, threatening to extinguish the spark of hope she had fought so hard to maintain.

In the treacherous depths of the creature's gelatinous prison, Ionia found herself ensnared in a desperate struggle for survival. The oppressive confines pressed in on her, threatening to crush both her body and her resolve. As the air in her lungs diminished, the seconds ticked away, each one more ominous than the last. Drawing upon the wisdom acquired through her perilous journey, she began a formidable mental and physical battle against the impending darkness.

The teachings from her encounter with the Harpy's Stranger resurfaced in her mind. She embraced emotional death, extinguishing fear and panic within herself. The once chaotic maelstrom of emotions now replaced by an eerie calmness. In the suffocating grip of the creature, Ionia discovered an unexpected strength—a resolve that defied the inherent human instinct to succumb to fear.

Lyra's lessons played a crucial role in the unfolding drama. Remembering the rigorous training, Ionia defied the natural rhythm of her body, slowing her metabolism to an almost imperceptible crawl. In this suspended state, she clung to consciousness, making every dwindling breath a testament to her indomitable will.

The inner fire, a powerful force cultivated under Frahd's tutelage, surged within her. She harnessed its energy, directing it into her eyes. Vision sharpened, revealing the intricate landscape within the creature's gelatinous mass. Among the chaotic jumble of goo, a pearl-like organ pulsated—a vulnerability hidden amidst the grotesque interior.

Despite the corrosive consistency of the creature's hold, Ionia's training prevailed. With deliberate precision, she positioned her sword. The accumulated energy within her surged forward as the blade, like a coiled serpent, pierced the vulnerable organ. The creature convulsed in an explosion of anguished screams, dissolving into a grotesque liquid. Finally free, Ionia emerged from the nightmarish abyss, her spirit unbroken and her training triumphant in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.

Master Bernwiu extended a weathered hand to Ionia, pulling her from the depths of the creature's remains. His eyes gleamed with approval as he offered words of congratulation. "Welcome, Ionia, to the sacred ranks of the Swordmasters. Your spirit has proven resilient, and your dedication to the path is commendable."

As the two Swordmasters stood amidst the clearing, Bernwiu's gaze shifted to the remaining remnants of the creature's presence—the eggs. His voice carried the weight of conviction as he spoke, emphasizing the unyielding responsibility that came with their role. "In our quest to safeguard humanity, there can be no room for mercy towards those that threaten us. You must remember, Ionia, that we are the dominant force in Sidhedark, and it is our duty to protect our own."

Ionia absorbed Bernwiu's teachings with a nod, internalizing the solemnity of her newfound purpose. Turning towards the ominous piles, she raised her sword high, an instrument of justice against the non-human threat. With each resolute strike, she pierced the eggs, sending a clear message that echoed through the forest—a message of unwavering determination.

In that moment, the air seemed to shift, acknowledging Ionia's transformation. The steaming piles now lay defeated, the remnants of a menace that dared to challenge humanity. With the destruction of the eggs, a symbolic finality settled over the clearing. Ionia, having faced trials that tested her spirit and prowess, had emerged victorious, solidifying her place as a Swordmaster in the sacred order.

#fantasy #goblins #orcs #literature #gobboguy #songsofpower6

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nukyster-blog · 2 years

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Adrift chapter 14) Fierce

.-.-.

They abandoned Stum, left him all alone underneath a pile of rocks surrounded by a field of handpicked daisies. They left their friend all alone, to rot.

At least, that was how Piglet saw it. As betrayal. If it had been up to her they’d still be grieving at the big pile of rocks, watching how flies and other insects were drawn to the feast beneath it.

Ivar had been keen on telling Piglet in detail how the phases of human decay carried out. That had been the final straw, the push Piglet needed to collect herself and leave their friend behind.

It turned out that aside from possessing the power of a mule, Stum had been their linchpin.

From Ivar’s previous perspective, Stum had been an opponent, someone Piglet could easily favor over him.

But now, with the absence of his friend, Ivar learned that Stum had been his human shield. Someone who, quite literally, could stand in between him and Piglet.

Because those damned feelings were still there and hadn’t receded. Not even slightly. And for the first time in his life, Ivar did not feel the urge to hurt another. No, this intense combination of wanting, arousal and therefore utter self-loathing, set his self-flagellation ablaze.

The first night they made camp together Ivar drank, until the alcohol deactivated the rational part of his brain; the part that tormented him so. He drank until the image of Piglet in the dapple light blurred into a black empty hole. Then morning arrived, and the torment of a hangover became his new self-punishment.

From the start, their journey had been a challenge. And in all honesty, Ivar still thought Piglet’s plan was very ambitious, impossible, and quite frankly seemed more and more like a fairytale.

But it was a spark nonetheless, hope. It was something to cling to when reality struck him down.

As it did right now. Ivar’s obvious handicap impeded Piglet’s overeager rush to get out of the woods. Her drive to find shelter in numbers made her impossible to travel with. Every moment of the day, morning, break, afternoon, break, evening, she’d bicker and bitch about how badly she wanted to find a town or city. Society; safety behind walls, either wood or stone. She was no longer a slave, she’d mention throughout the entire day, so a town or city would provide her safety. Because she had possessions, silver, she could trade goods for a nice bed, a fire, a warm bath.

She’d whine about how bad her hands looked, all blistered and callused from pushing the wheelbarrow full of loot. She’d bitch about everything.

It pissed Ivar off tremendously, because he had to crawl his way through bushes, over roots, and rocks. He was the one who had to carry around the deadweight of his own lower body, while having to listen to Piglet’s continuous whining.

Yes, she had it tougher now that her precious pet could no longer do all the carrying. But at least she still had two very functioning legs. He was the one who had to secure his lower legs all throughout the day, fix the knots, figure out a way to make the pain more bearable now that one part of his body dragged over uneven, rocky terrain, while the other half had to compensate. The ache was all over, no muscle was spared; from the spasms in his calves to the tense muscles in his neck from glancing up and down throughout the day. The scarring on his back limited his movements; it hadn’t been bothersome before, but now that he was physically in action the entire day those new aches flared up as well.

The combination of mental and physical suffering caused Ivar to be detached and bitter. And Piglet might have noticed the shift in her companion if her own emotions hadn’t been so consuming. She too suffered, taking the loss of their friend the hardest. Aside from the emotional attachment and love she felt for Stum, half of her safety net was ripped away, while the other was all rags and tatters from the moment they met.

.-.-.

Life had never been kind to her. Not a big surprise if you’re born into a brothel. As her mother had been screaming all things unholy during her hard labor, her name was naturally suitable; Valeríe, fierce.

Fierce, yes, she tragically had to live up to her name. As it turned out, her mother was simply the woman who birthed her. Who’d been very clear about one thing; she’d tried to abort the poor thing more than once during those nine months of getting fat and losing customers.

So, in the absence of security and love, Valerié’s young eyes saw things that should remain hidden from any child. Inside that brothel she endured monstrosities others would not wish upon their worst enemy.

Hope was a foreign word, something so far out of reach she didn’t even bother to search for it. Let alone, dream of it. This was life and it was hard. Eventually, her days grew indistinct and she merely existed for the night; watching the cracks in the ceiling until some nameless man found his release.

And this would have continued to be her life until the brothel owner’s tragedy turned into her liberation.

The place burned down, taking many with it.

Fierce Valerié survived, but not without a scratch. She’d wear the scars of surviving the flames until the day she died; her wrists and parts of her face burned, scorched by ambers , marked for good.

It left her devastated; not at the loss of her beauty, no- her reason was simple and pragmatic: with a face like this she could no longer earn enough to eat. It was true; most men think with their dicks, but they still need to see something worth raising their prick for.

And it certainly did not help keep a roof over her head. To survive, she turned into a nomad. No place to call home, not anywhere in particular to go to.

It did earn her some skill; she picked up quite a few foreign words, enough for formal chitchat to attract customers.

And that exact skill was what caught the eyes, well eye, of a white raven named Utstott.

.-.-.

Friday nights inside the inn Glambloux were always busy. As the city of Troyes organized large festivities, like markets and plays, the visitors needed to fill their bellies, empty their wallets, and afterward catch up on some much needed sleep.

Glambloux had the advantage of being stationed at the market center. The door creaked on its hinges from being opened, closed, and reopened perpetually.

For Valerie, Friday nights meant being on her feet, non-stop. But she favored this over working horizontally. The innkeeper was less on her tail, the bellow of his demands reduced by the loud buzz of laughter, voices, singing, and jugs being smacked together.

She served guests, and from time to time, she'd be hoisted upon the bar by regulars to sing limericks and chansonnier.

La robe jaune, ‘the yellow dress’, that was what they called her here. A fun and dandy gal, always thrilled to refill, laugh at jokes, and at the end of the night, warm their beds. It wasn’t the worst nickname she’d had and was well accustomed to la robe jaune by now. In a strange way, the name gave her strength, a sense of fame and status. At times it also allowed her to feel a semblance of respect, making it easier to decline certain men and, occasionally, insist on a higher fee.

Because her la robe jaune showed cleavage, it displayed the best parts of her blossoming womanhood, prompting all eyes to linger there instead of the burn marks on her face.

Great tits and a firm arse, makes up for the pecker-face, a customer once crudely remarked to his fellows. And that was just one of the many insults she’d earned for surviving a fire.

Valerie served tables, none impressed by the fingers pinching her arse, or the catcalling. Unphased, she sang a song atop of a table filled with howling with young men, and put one on his number: When traveling among the throng, his thoughts have too often gone wrong, alluring effects, of the opposite sex, have the devil stomping his prong.

Raising her pinkie to the young man who’d been trying to force his hand down her cleavage, Valerie earned a round of applause from the table. Jumping down, she quickly fled to the kitchen as the insulted young man had to be restrained by his friends; spit spewing from his mouth screaming every curse word at her he could muster up in his intoxicated state.

Quite satisfied, Valerie busied herself with dishes until the coast was clear and the group called it a night, exiting to their chambers.

As mouths were turning dry, duty called and Valerie ended up serving drinks again. As ale drenched her yellow dress her eyes fixed on her first target of the night.

“I hadn’t realized that blue could be such hot fire, until I saw your eyes mon cheri,” she said flirtatiously, twirling a strand of hair with her finger. Bowing down as deeply as possible, she refilled his glass and gave him a toothy smile. As she’d done about a thousand times before- show off the goods, then get them drunk so they don’t last too long.

However, the young man facing her seemed unimpressed. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The way his Adam's apple bobbed as his gaze was dead-set on her bosom, indicated that yes, he was very much interested. But he simply hadn’t understood her words.

“Ca va?” She asked, observing the overall appearance of her first customer. Raw and dirty were the first terms coming to mind and she wondered why she’d, of all men, picked him.

Their eyes met and locked for a moment and she recalled that yes, his blue eyes happened to be what motivated her to set things into action. Blue as the color of the midwinter sky, intense. And yet, there was a softness in his appearance, a kind of warmth married to a shyness. A virgin, definitely, she’d been doing this god awful service so damned long, men and their body language was a jargon she could read with her eyes closed.

A virgin, which meant just about two blinks with her eyes and she’d receive a fee. Most of the time a handjob did the trick and she didn’t even need to spread her legs.

So, pretty eyes and a quick and easy fuck. Yes, this was most definitely going to be her first customer of the night.

“Ca va?” She repeated again, entertained by the way he managed to tear his eyes off her cleavage and stare at the tips of his fingers drumming nervously atop the wooden table.

“Jeg forstar ikke hva du mener.” I don’t understand you.

Valerie pushed her hand on her hip and puckered her lips: “reisende du kom langveisfra, traveler you come from far” she responded, nearly twisting her tongue to form the words.

Now someone’s jaw nearly hit the tip of the table.

“You speak my language?” “Sadly, just a little, mon cheri,” she answered, holding her thumb and index finger an inch from each other. Leaning forward over his table, she whispered in his ear: “But I can assure you these lips are good with a lot of other things.”

Her lips curled up when she noticed him swallow, once and twice more before she leaned upward.

She stopped his hands from nervously drumming onto the table and pressed them against her bosom. His hands were rough, she could sense that even through the fabric of her dress, but his touch was gentle, light as a feather.

She threw him a bemused glance, tilting her head sideways and pushing herself even more into his grip.

“I can do a lot of things, mon cheri,” she whispered as if she gave away her most hidden secret, “lots.”

Now, in all her years of serving man, she’d never ever before had one flinching his hands away from her tits as if being touched by fire.

“You don’t want me, I’m a cripple,” he hissed through his teeth and he jerked his head into the direction of two crutches next to his stool.

Valerie cursed herself, this was a major set-back from her average clientele, but managed to keep a straight face.

“I don’t care, mon cheri, as long as you reward me with a generous fee,” she honeyed.

He rolled his eyes in response and slammed his wooden cup loudly in between the both of them.

“Pour me another drink and let this cripple be.”

‘Suite yourself’, Valerie thought to herself while refilling his cup. If he thought his handicap could score him a pity fuck he was damned wrong. In her world, there simply was no room for pity.

Trotting back to the counter Valerie kept her eyes open, batted her lashes and pouted her lips, in search of a customer who didn’t need crutches.

.-.-.

A/N: Hands up for ya’ll who thought Ivar was getting laid. Yeah not going to happen. Yet. Yet?! Oh who knows… who knows.

So I murdered off one OC (well, actually this would count as a third, Ludolf being first, The Giant being second… and yeah Ivar killed off a lot of citizens of De Haar.) and added a new one: Valerie. I like her already and I can promise you, she will stir things up. Sorry by the way for the long delay, my private life has been extremely time consuming. Just know that I am dead-set on this story. Xoxox Nukyster

The kickass beta: @sarahh-jane

The tagged ones:

@youbloodymadgenius

@xbellaxcarolinax

@saldelys

@shannygoatgruff

@pieces-by-me

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa

@readsalot73

@lauraan182

@conaionaru

@sarahh-jane

@peachyboneless

@adhdnightmare

@khiraeth

@funmadnessandbadassvikings

@ dekusdante @neondragons7

@bitter-post-millennial

#ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #ivar fanfic #alternate universe #ivar oc #vikings #vikings au #vikings fanfiction #vikings fanfic #vikings fandom #alex hogh andersen

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author-morgan · 4 years

Note

I really love your Eivor stories! If you’re thank requests would you be able to do an arranged marriage story - where Eivor and a Anglo Saxon princess have to marry to unite their clans and at first their not happy about but when they meet they get along, especially on the wedding night 😉 - thank you! x

♥ Here you are! I hope you like it (sorry for the wait).

m!Eivor x fem!Reader

EIVOR AND HIS brother, Sigurd, stand before Ceolmund —a powerful Saxon king crowned with the aid of the Norsemen standing before him. Now King Ceolmund of Lothian wishes to secure a lasting alliance with the Raven Clan, one that would not fade at the hands of time. It is marriage the new king speaks of. A marriage between his only beloved daughter and one of the men who laid a crown and kingdom at his feet.

Ceolmund looks to Sigurd to accept, but he shakes his head and dips his shoulders forward in a display of genuflection. “I cannot accept this gracious offer, lord, for I am bound to another already–” Sigurd’s gaze falls upon Eivor “–but my brother…”

He is cut off by Eivor, pulling harshly on the baldric securing his greatsword. “What are you doing?” Eivor hisses under his breath. He had come to secure an alliance and crown another Saxon king who’d look upon the Danes and Norse in favor —not to marry a stranger with no forewarning and on his brother’s whim.

Sigurd turns, his gaze sharp. A curt reminder that he is Jarl of the Raven Clan, not Eivor. “Calm yourself, brother,” he snaps. There’s a pause, heavy with silence, and Sigurd’s smile turns into that of a serpent’s. “It’s past time you wed anyway. Don’t you think?” Eivor glares at his brother, but Sigurd ignores the harsh look and turns back to King Ceolmund. “My brother,” he starts, motioning to the warrior standing to his right, “the honorable Eivor Wolf-kissed, will accept.”

Ceolmund rises from his throne, stepping onto the short dais —arms outstretched toward Eivor. “I should hear it from thine own lips,” he says, meeting Eivor’s uneasy gaze. What he is asking is no small task, but with Sigurd’s hasty acceptance, he has hope Eivor will follow his Jarl’s wishes. In truth, a piece of him is relieved it is Eivor Wolfsmal and not Sigurd. “Will you forge the bonds of an alliance and lasting friendship between our peoples through marriage to my daughter?”

“You honor me, lord,” Eivor tells Ceolmund with a knot forming in his throat, making it hard to speak. He bows his head. “I accept your offer of an alliance through marriage.”

MARRIAGE, THE WORD sits bitterly on your tongue after your father, King Ceolmund of Lothian, comes to visit your chambers in a decaying Roman fortress. “Mother would be ashamed!” You spit, fraught with the sudden news of your impending marriage to a heathen —a matter in which you had no say. “Using me as a bartering piece. A pawn in your games.” You’d trusted your father.

“He’s a good man,” your father refutes. Throughout three moons, he felt he had come to know the man who would marry his daughter —an honest man who wished to do right by his people and protect them even if it meant shedding blood and sweat for quarrels that were not his own. Ceolmund could not ask for a better man —Christian or pagan— to marry his daughter.

You would rather be sworn to the likes of King Aelfred than one of the godless invaders crawling over England. “He’s a heathen!” You cry. “A barbarian!”

Ceolmund pinches the bridge of his nose, drawing in a long breath. There will be a feast tonight to celebrate his coronation, where he will make the announcement and begin wedding preparations. He will not ask you to feign happiness, only civility. “Please,” Ceolmund says, holding your shaking hands, “all I ask is that you do not insult our new position or friends tonight.” But even that seemed to be a hefty request now.

“Princess,” Eivor greets, his clear blue gaze kind and voice softened by a cup of ale. “If I may have a word?” Across the table, your father nods, imploring you to take leave of the feast to speak with the man you’d be marrying in less than a fortnight. You lay your hand in Eivor’s as you rise and follow him from the keep, into the cool air of a spring night to a bench facing a northern vista with snowcapped hills far off in the distance. A frown purses his lips as he sees despair mingled with fear overtake your expression —like a newly caged bird who lost her song. “I know you are not happy with this arrangement,” he starts, gaining your attention. From his tone, you can tell he is not particularly happy either, “but know I will not harm you, and I will protect you until the Valkyries summon me home.”

You trace the sharp features of his face, lingering on the deep scar across his cheek. In your contemplative silence, Eivor reaches for one of your hands —gently holding it within his own, a soft assurance that his words had been sincere. His fingers are rough from long years of work and fighting, and when he folds them around your hand, it makes you feel small —feeble, even. “You are not what I expected, Eivor,” you note, adverting your gaze.

“What did you expect?” Eivor asks, curious to know if he and his people had been the monsters in the bedtime tales your mother used to tell. It seemed a common thing across England for Norse and Danes to be made out as devils, or worse.

“I would spare you from my initial thoughts,” you note, quietly with the color of shame on your cheeks, “for now they feel foolish.” Indeed, you were told stories of the Northmen as a child —that they were bloodthirsty, godless barbarians who raped and pillaged across the countryside. While every story had a grain of truth, Eivor Wolfsmal only desires what is best for his people —strong alliances, good friends, fertile land, and a place to rest his head. You lay your hand atop his, offering a reserved smile. “Know you have eased my mind and heart this night.”

EIVOR STEALS YOU away in the afternoon from your loom and threads, leading you to the edge of the mark and a field of wildflowers. A quiet place compared to the bustling streets of Edinburgh —the seat of Lothian— amid celebrations and preparations. Eivor speaks of his childhood with Sigurd, laughing at the foolish things he’d done as a boy. Eivor’s laugh is charming —a low rumble from deep in his chest— and his smile contagious.

You tell of the time you and a dear friend used boiled wine for an awful prank on your poor mother. Even on her deathbed, you wondered if she ever forgave you for using the wine as fake blood when you stumbled into her solar, holding the hilt of a broken sword against your stomach.

He spins the stem of a yellow wildflower between his thumb and forefinger as he tells you of his gods. Curiosity had won over you after hearing brief stories from people in the markets about Thor, Loki, and Odin. Eivor leans forward, tucking the flower behind your ear, finishing the tale of Odin’s sacrifice for knowledge after consulting with the embalmed head of Mímir. “He gave his eye?” Eivor nods, and you cringe at the thought of having to pluck your own eye out.

From above, a raven swoops down, landing on Eivor’s shoulder. His name is Sýnin, and he has been Eivor’s companion for many years. You reach to stroke his oil-slick feathers and are rewarded with a low, gurgling croak before he takes flight again in the light of the setting sun.

Eivor reclines, arms folded behind his head —looking up at the sky. You lay back too and compelled by a moment of boldness you rest your head on his chest. The fading blue linen tunic he wears in lieu of his leather armor is soft against your cheek. Eivor stiffens at first, then relaxes though a part of him wonders if you can hear his heart beating faster. After a moment of passing silence, he drapes one of his arms across your middle. Above, the sky begins to shift from the soft orange and pinks of sunset to deep indigo. “What do your gods tell you of the stars?”

EIVOR TAKES THE piece of linen from your hands, shaking his head. “You should not have to tend my wounds, princess,” he notes, wiping away the blood running down his arm from a cut near his shoulder. He returned from a hunt with your father, hiding the bloody wound from a skirmish with bandits. It was not grievous, though it bled heavily. Still, even warriors need to have small injuries tended. Even a soured scratch could send the strongest of men to the grave.

You’ve grown up in an age of continuous small wars between petty kingdoms and Danes alike and have seen the aftermath of missing limbs and burning flesh. Shying away from blood is not in your nature after aiding physicians in infirmaries after battle —especially when it is your future husband who bleeds. “We are to be wed, Eivor,” you remind him, taking the piece of linen back from him, “and so long as your wounds are not beyond my skill, I shall tend them.” He does not protest again.

He watches a flush of warmth creep up your neck and into your cheeks as your eyes dart over his bare chest —he is broad of shoulders and chest with thick and strong arms to match. Clearing your throat, you dapple away the last drops of blood and move to mix a paste of yarrow powder and water in a small mortar. Eivor winces at the initial sting of the paste on the cut, but it stems any new blood from welling as quick as a hot iron.

You sit next to him on the straw bed, reaching for one of his hands. Ceolmund had been right. Eivor is a good man. Yet for all the fondness that has grown in your heart, you remain unsure about marriage and what will happen when you must leave the only home you’ve known. The worries gnaw at your mind and heart. Even if you have started to believe you could love Eivor in time —that there is a chance of contentment in this union. His fingers curl around yours, squeezing gently, as though he can sense your trepidations. “Do you think we can be happy with this arrangement?” You ask, voice trembling and gaze focused on your entwined hands.

Eivor cups your cheek, and you meet his clear blue gaze. At first, he’d been uncertain, upset even with his brother for forcing his hand, but now, after the long days you’ve spent with one another, Eivor has no doubts. “I do,” he replies —echoing the vows he will soon take. “I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says with a fleeting smile. Preparations for the wedding had taken longer than anticipated, giving you and Eivor a full month to become acquainted with one another.

“As have I,” you admit. The days you’ve spent with him have been some of the best in recent memory. His thumb absently strokes your cheek, and you smile, leaning into his touch. “Eivor?” He raises his brow in question, letting his hand fall away from your face. A warmth blossoms in your chest, spurring the same type of boldness you felt that evening in the meadow. “May I kiss you?”

“We are to be wed,” he echoes, smiling —lifting both his hands to cup your cheeks. “You need not ask.” Eivor’s close-cropped golden beard tickles and scratches your cheek when you lean forward, closing what distance remains and placing your lips on his. He leads you, parting your lips with a soft sigh. It takes but a moment for you to fall in rhythm and meld against him. You can feel his lips twitch into a smile when one of your hands slides up his chest, the other resting over the mottled patch of skin on his neck.

THE DOORS SHUT, and you jump, suddenly feeling skittish. The wedding ceremony had come to pass, as had the feast and festivities though now you stand in the center of your bedchambers looking upon your blessed marital bed and knowing what is expected of you. Your husband stands before an open window, barefooted and stripped of the pale embroidered tunic from earlier. He complained during the feast about how scratchy it was. “Eivor?” He turns, stepping toward you —brows furrowed. “It is our wedding night,” you note, voice betraying a veneer of strength.

Eivor grips onto your shoulders, then lets his hands glide up your neck to cup your cheeks, lifting your gaze to his. He does not wish to see fear and doubt in his wife’s eyes. “I promised I would not hurt you–” he kisses your forehead then returns his kindly gaze to you “–I meant that.” You let out a shaky breath, smiling as he runs his thumbs over your cheeks. “My gods can wait,” he tells you, “so can your God and priests.” Eivor moves one of his hands to your waist, resting his forehead on yours. “We are bound by oath, which should be enough.” Before gods and men alike, you took one another as husband and wife in sickness and health.

You catch his wrist, sliding his hand up from your neck —peppering his fingertips with gentle kisses. He watches you, lips parted and heart aching. Eivor did not think he gave his heart away so freely, but the knot in his throat as he catches your fleeting smile tells him he had. Loving you was not a difficult feat.

Closing your eyes, you draw in a slow breath, and the streak of bravado returns. With a final kiss to his palm, you guide his hand to rest on one of your clothed breasts. “Eivor.” You speak his name as though it is a quiet prayer, a soft plead to have you as a husband should have his wife. He pulls on the string at the neck of your shift, loosening it until he can push the thin material off your shoulders. It puddles around your ankles, and though bare, you still hold Eivor’s gaze. He draws in a sharp breath as his eyes dart over the length of your body —it does not escape him that he is the first to see you like this. His eyes darken, though, through the lust, there is a plethora of adoration.

Calloused fingers caress your sides and stomach, tracing random patterns into your flesh, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. He kisses a path along your jaw, a strong hand coming to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place when you shy away from the tickle of his beard. His other hand skims across your waist before settling on your hip, securing you in his hold.

“Princess–” Eivor breathes, worried one more kiss will make it nigh impossible for him to stop, but you quieten him with your lips, chasing away any hesitance lingering between the two of you of what lies in store for the night.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer till he sweeps your feet out from under you —laughing at your surprised squeak as he carries you to bed. Eivor lays you on the soft pelts of fur, his weight hovering above you, braced on his forearms. Cupping his face in your hands, you ignore the prickly bite of his beard as you kiss him again, your knees bracketing his hips, brushing against the patched linen and leather of his britches. “You’re sweeter than Freyja, wife,” he muses, kissing the soft swell of your breast —the lingering scent of roses and raspberries tickling his nose.

Kissing his way down your chest, he drags his teeth across one of your nipples, giving the other a quick tweak. Chills spread across your flesh as you arch into his mouth —hands slipping into his hair. Hands gripping your thighs, Eivor urges you to part your legs wider for him. Doing as instructed, you watch, breathlessly, as he moves across your stomach, leaving open mouth kisses in his wake. Eivor drags his beard against your hip, nipping at the skin there. The warmth in your belly turns to flames.

Twitching in his hold, you clutch the pelts beneath your hands —heart pounding in anticipation. Eivor in no rush, for there are many hours until the crows sing. He kisses your inner thighs, hot breath fanning against you. The first brush of his tongue has you sighing his name, eyes sliding shut as he laps at your slick folds. Holding your legs open, he makes love to you with his mouth alone. Eivor relishes in the small, obscene noises you make while trembling above him —his cock twitches, but he ignores his desires a moment longer. He leaves no part of you left untouched, his mouth finding every nook and crevice, laving and suckling to his heart's content.

You burn, the fire in your belly demanding more, cunt fluttering around his tongue, aching for relief. “Eivor,” you whimper, chest heaving as your tug at his golden hair, fingers clutching at his unbound strands. He grunts, huffing a ragged chuckle when your hips move of their own accord —thighs fighting his iron grip. Eivor nuzzles at you, spreading you open with his thumbs. You cry out at the first touch of his tongue to your clit, but then he wraps his lips around the swollen bundle, tongue flicking out. Your body bends to his will, as though you are but wet clay in the hands of a skilled potter.

Enraptured, you barely notice when he eases one finger into your warmth and then a second —slowly thrusting and stroking. The flames in your belly flood your veins, and with a wordless moan, you give in to the hedonistic haze —it feels as though nothing matters beyond this with the waves and sparks fizzing through your blood.

Eivor wheedles you down from the high, gradually, murmuring words of praise between your thighs —how beautiful you looked in the throes of passion, how sweet you tasted, finer than sweet honey mead. He eases his fingers from you and crawls back up your body, retracing a similar path with kisses and soft nips. When he kisses you, you can taste your essence of his lips and tongue and feel the hard length pressing against your inner thigh through his pants. It makes you ache with need and want.

Fumbling with the ties of his pants and underpants, Eivor hurriedly pushes them down his legs and tossing them to the side, wedging himself back between your thighs. You feel the blunt head of his cock glide between your folds, his hips rocking back-and-forth as he coats himself in your slick. Heart racing, your body cries out at his languid teasing. Eivor lowers his mouth to your shoulder, worrying the skin between his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours.

One of his hands moves slips between the bed and your back, moving further to cradle the back of your head as he guides himself with his free hand into your warmth. You grip onto his shoulder, nails digging into his back as he presses forward, slowly, giving you time to adjust to his girth until he is fully seated —hips flush against yours. With only a thin line dividing pleasure from pain, you understand why the act could be sacrilege in the eyes of God, nothing should make a man or woman feel so divine.

He braces his weight on bent forearms, one of his hands cupping your cheek as he skims your expression for pain or discomfort. He finds none, only a soft smile and hazy, lust-darkened eyes. You guide him down, kissing him —draping one of your legs across the back of his thigh. “Eivor?” A low hum resounds his acknowledgment, though he busies himself leaving a soft line of kisses from the corner of your lips to your temple. “You can move now,” you tell him —pushing your hips up into his.

Eivor kisses you, his tongue parting your lips as he rocks his hips back and presses forward —swallowing a soft gasp and then another as he draws back further. It’s a slow rhythm of long and deep strokes that lets you feel the slow drag of his cock with each thrust. He hovers above you, punctuating some thrusts with a kiss and others with a raspy curse to the gods. You draw your legs up his sides, spreading them wider —welcoming Eivor to claim you as he desires.

Every push and pull of his hips brings him deeper inside you. Eivor pants at your ear, his breathing ragged and strained as his pace falters —thrusts growing quicker and rougher as he seeks his release. Beneath your palms, the muscles in his back and shoulders ripple, contracting with each thrust.

The hand tangled in your hair disappears —rough fingers sliding between your breasts and across your stomach, down to where your body is joined with his. He presses his thumb against your clit, stroking and rubbing circles, and smiles against your neck at his reward —soft cries of his name mingled with breathy moans and the feel of your walls fluttering around his cock.

A low hiss escapes him when your nails scrap over the skin of his back and shoulders, seeking purchase as you tremble and writhe —tilting your head back into a pillow, back arching from the bed. The flames from earlier return, taking hold of you and spreading through your veins in a hot wave. Eivor’s name topples from your lips like a prayer as you cling to him, body shaking and driving him closer to his end.

You squeeze him with your thighs and grip onto his biceps, thrumming with pleasure as he ruts into you, grunting. With another thrust, his body shudders, and his hips still as his cock twitches deep inside your warmth. Eivor’s lips part as he lets out a string of curses and praises —moaning. You cup his face, smoothing the furrow in his brows and tracing the deep scar on his cheek. Shaking, he rolls his hips into yours thrice more and accepts your kiss when you guide him down to your lips again.

Spent, Eivor lays his head on your breast and memorizes the feel of your sweat slicken bodies flush against one another. You drape an arm around his shoulders, stroking back his golden hair. A good arrangement, he thinks to himself, kissing the soft skin next to his lips. “I am proud and happy to call you my wife,” he breathes, turning his clear blue gaze up to you. He hadn’t a true choice in this marriage, but given the chance, he would still choose you a hundred times over.

His words make your heart swell with warmth and bring tears to your eyes. “I feel the same, husband,” you note —fingers combing through his beard. Only a short time has passed, but it seems as if the two of you were always meant to find one another —heresy be damned. It had not taken long, but you are certain you already love him.

Lying there in each other’s arms, time slows to an eternity. You whine when he slides his softening cock out of you —leaving an empty feeling as his warm seed trickles down your thighs. He chuckles as he moves from the bed and gathers up a linen towel. He thinks you a sight to behold lying atop the furs with wild hair and a debauched smile. Eivor cleans the mess between your legs and soothes the few red marks on your hips and thighs with quick kisses before rejoining you beneath the covers.

He lays on his side, and you pillow your head on his outstretched arm, nuzzling close against his chest and threading one of your legs through his. Eivor presses his cheek to the crown of your head and strokes your hair. “Rest, princess,” he breathes, knowing the gods had been good to lead him to a woman like you.

THE LONGSHIP COMES to dock before a bustling borough in the heart of Mercia. Eivor offers his hand, helping you onto the wharf. After spending the majority of a week on the river, it is good to feel solid ground beneath your feet for more than a hasty meal or uneasy rest on the riverbanks. “Princess-” Eivor smiles, motioning toward the people and the wooden storefronts and homes set before the longhouse rising from a hill “–Ravensthorpe.” Love and pride fill his heart, spilling over into a bright smile and voice. You glance the settlement and back to your husband, placing a quick kiss on his scarred cheek before taking the well-trodden path to the longhouse.

A band of excited children races toward the docks with a white-and-grey wolf cub nipping at their heels, shouting with glee at Eivor’s return. It’s been months since Eivor last helped with their lessons or played with them by the waterfall. They take him by storm and force. At the bottom pile, you can make out his deep laughter among the excited cries. You cannot help but smile. Eivor Wolfsmal is loved, not just by you, but his people.

He rises from the ground, smiling as he brushes off the dirt from his tunic, having whispered something to the rowdy group that sent them running for the longhouse. “Felled by children and a wolf pup. Are you sure you’re a drengr?” You ask, laughing as you pluck a small clot of grass from his hair and wipe away the streak of mud on his unmarred cheek.

Eivor’s eyes narrow, lips kinking into a taunting smirk. “Are you mocking me, wife?” He challenges.

You clutch your heart, feigning offense at his accusation. “The mighty Eivor?” He raises a brow at the moniker. Mighty, it is a title he could get used to, just as he had grown used to hearing you call him husband in a sweet, singsong voice. “Never,” you smile.

Word of his return spreads quickly, and before the merchant’s tent, most of the settlement gathers, smiling as they welcome Eivor home and are equally as quick to embrace you as one of their own. All doubts are chased away when Eivor wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your temple, smiling. “Welcome home,” he breathes —it is good to be back in Ravensthorpe, but even better to have you at his side.

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my2phetaliaheadcanons · 3 years

Text

The Legend of Mountain Matt pt 1

I did it! Just barely made it. Happy Halloween.

The big fir trees allowed bits of sunlight to dapple the ground. The small clusters of shade gave some relief from the heat of the summer day. The world was quiet except for the thwacks of an ax striking a tree.

The wielder of the ax was a tall, muscled, blond man. His strikes were precise and had shown his persistence against the old tree. Though he wouldn’t have to wait long for his work to finally pay off.

The harsh crack signified the end of his work and he moved out of the way with practiced ease. The resulting thud had shaken the world under his feet.

The gruff man gave out a sigh and walked toward the branches of the fallen tree with heavy steps. He never reached the branches because a loud, rough voice called to him.

“Matt! Where ya at?”

Matt blew air out of his nose in annoyance. His peaceful silence had been interrupted by his boss. A tall man with a big belly that jiggled every time he talked, had appeared from in between the trees. His face was redder than a stop sign, and Matt could have been blinded from light reflecting off his sweaty, bald head.

Matt was fighting the urge to growl as he watched his boss approach.

“What do you want, Clearance.”

“I’m just wonderin’ why you aren’t with the others. You remember what we talked about, eh?”

Clearance’s smug expression wasn’t helping either man. In fact, it was causing the muscles in Matt’s hands to twitch.

With a slight growl and tensed muscles, Matt responded with a rough yes.

Clearance’s smug look became a mocking smile.

“Good.” Smacking the large trunk. “After all, I would hate to have to fire you because of your anti-social behavior. Now finish up and tomorrow make sure to join the crew downstream.”

With that comment, Clearance walked off. His footsteps created a loud crunch on the fallen dry pine needles that shortly faded into the distance.

Matt pulled out his ax, ready to finish his work, but his anger was not gone. His swings of the ax were now rough and jagged. His thoughts were consumed by the conversation. He liked being a lumberjack, being in nature, and the silence that came with it. What Matt couldn’t take were his coworkers. They were disrespectful to nature, leaving beer bottles and cigarette butts everywhere. Their loudness disturbed the wildlife in ways that felt hateful to the source of their livelihoods.

It pissed him off to no end. That’s why he worked further up the stream and deeper in the woods. Though after getting multiple warnings of safety concerns and the potential for labor fraud, Matt knew that he was running out of chances.

The thoughts helped turn what should have felt like hours into minutes. With the fading red light warming his back, Matt looked at the once full fir, it was now chopped roughly into long segments.

Tomorrow would be hell; he knew that as he got the gear to finish his work. His chains and ax seemingly glowed like the angry embers of a flame.

During the early hours of the next morning, Matt’s rusted red pickup truck rumbled down the dark dry dirt road. In addition to the darkness, the dust clouds acted like a second blanket, dampening his headlights.

With clenched fists Matt drove on, doing his best to mind the potholes that he had driven over a hundred and one times already. His teeth grind as he thought about the coming day.

The hosers he would be stuck with. Not just for their stupid fifteen-minute meeting, but for the whole twelve-hour shift. Matt was not going to last; he could feel it in his bones that someone was going to have to die.

Before his thoughts could go much further, the old wooden lumber yard appeared before him. A heavy sigh left him as he observed the reddish wooden buildings that were surrounded by dry decaying stumps. It's white lettering though big had taken on a faded yellowed hue from the years of neglect.

Parking his truck underneath the big lettering. Matt stepped out of his old truck; it shook at his exit.

Not wanting to delay his torture any long, Matt dragged himself to the large barn doors. He hadn’t even opened the doors and he could hear people talking. With a heavy push, Matt made his way inside, the room is large, spacious, and full of people. Various machinery planted around the room, Matt ignored it all and sat in a cold, gray folding chair at the back of the room.

The noise was getting to him, pounding like a steel drum against his skull. Head in hand he prayed for someone to appear, anyone to silence the dodos for even a minute.

For once, his prayers were answered. Clearance appeared in front of the room, almost like a demonic cherub.

A loud hoarse yell sounded from Clearance, and it revibrated throughout the room. Hushing everyone and temporally relieving Matt from his pain. With some relief, Matt lifted his head to hear the same spiel that he had heard one hundred and three times now. Rules, regulations, and teams, but something new had come up.

“As we all know, we’ve been in a drought for the last few months. And that means we have a high fire warning. So, for those of you that haven’t guessed it. Smokers, watch your butts.”

Matt could feel some of his muscles relaxing at that statement. After all, that meant a higher chance of silence and less desecration. Patting his thighs, Matt stood up and walked to his team. There were six of them in total. Each one looking like the stereotypical lumberjack, except for one.

This man, no boy, had chubby cheeks and a long purple sleeve shirt. Dark bags under his eyes and brown hair that looked like a rat’s nest. This chubby boy smelled of Pall Mall cigarettes. He must have been new, but something about this kid brought the feeling of death back to Matt’s mind.

They headed out quickly and loudly shortly after. Each of them jumped into the truck bed while their lead jumped into the driver's seat. Matt wished he could have had been in the truck cabin, but instead he had to endure the loud, crude behavior of his coworkers. The boy, who Matt had learned was named was Hunter, had been the worst of the lot.

Throughout the ride to their site, he was the loudest one. Standing up on the truck bed, attempting to show off, but falling. This repeated many times and a few of those times almost caused Hunter to fall on Matt. Each time Matt lifted his lip and snarled, which was enough to send the idiot moving back to his pack. Though it wasn’t enough to keep Hunter away for long.

His last fall came when the truck stopped. The force of the stop was suddenly sent Hunter into Matt. Without thinking, Matt punched Hunter in the face. This caused both the men to throw punches. Matt’s fists flew with the anger that he had let build. The repetitive motions of his hits turned Hunter’s weak punches nonexistent and were starting to leave nasty purple bruises.

Many of the lumberjacks looked on in shock. Stunned by the furry and cruel vulgarities coming from Matt’s mouth. It wasn’t until the lead snapped out of his shock and launched himself onto Matt. Yelling and pulling the giant Canadian off the bleeding man below.

Getting off the ground, panting, Matt glanced around. He bowed his head and took a couple of steps back.

“Matt, what the HELL?!”

Matt said nothing and looked to the side. Matt’s lead prodded again and taking in a deep sigh he answered.

The lead sighed and looked at Hunter. A gesture of his hand prompted Hunter to tell his side. Which he did in turn. Though Hunter’s was different. Saying that he had only been trying to entertain his coworkers and that he had only fallen once.

Matt could feel the anger rise like the beginning of a forest fire. He wanted nothing more than to jump back onto Hunter, but he couldn’t. He needed this job.

With two different stories, the lead asked the other team members. Fear of Matt’s fire caused many to agree with the truth. The lead nodded his head at this, and he turned to the two.

“Hunter since it's your first day, count this beating as your warning. Matt, you’ve been here a while. You’re going to limb all day.”

It could have been worse, at least that’s what Matt told himself. He never noticed the dark look from Hunter.

Even though Matt was working on one of the most tedious and annoying jobs, he was left alone. Sure, Hunter made the usual noise even louder, but he could live with it since no one talked to him. If he was honest with himself, his shift went faster than normal for him.

Matt dusted his hands after throwing some dry fir branches on a huge pile. Looking over it in the golden light of the setting sun, Matt frowned at how the drought had taken its toll on the trees. Many of the usually green needles were now brown.

The sight made his mind wander to ways he could potentially help out mother nature until he felt a wet splat on his back.

Turning around like an angered bull, Matt saw Hunter. In one hand he held a red banged up gas can in the other, was a lit cigarette.

Matt’s purple eyes widened, and Hunter smiled.

“Heya Matt. That’s your name isn’t it?”

Matt backed up, though Hunter only moved closer. Matt could smell the gasoline that Hunter had soaked him with. He knew that Hunter was off, but now seeing the lit cigarette. This caused Matt to realize the feeling of death was not for Hunter, but for himself.

“What are you doing Hunter?”

“Well, you see Matt. I just got out of jail and that little tumble between us could have sent me back.”

“What has that got to do with me?”

Hunter chuckled, but then it raised itself a crazed laugh.

“Everything! I ain’t going back and I won’t let my parole officer hear about that! Instead, he’ll hear about a horrid accident.”

Matt realized that could only mean one thing. Hunter was going to start a fire and that he was gonna need a victim. Him.

“Hunter let's talk about this.”

“No, Matt. I’d rather burn this bridge.”

With that comment, Hunter threw the cigarette. It caught on the dry brush and quickly roared. As much as Matt wanted to put it out, he couldn’t. Instead, he tried to run, move away from the loud crackling flames.

His movements were predicted, and Hunter intercepted him. Before Matt had a chance to grapple. He was pushed into the flames.

Matt screamed. His howls were loud and anguished. He tried to pull off his clothes. Anything to get away from the flames. Those same flames were loud like his coworkers. Those flames ate away at him as they did. But just like with them, Matt couldn’t get away.

His skin had been drenched in the fuel. As Matt’s skin melted and burn, he could even smell it in the air. Through his screams Matt could hear Hunter screaming for help. Seemingly desperate to save Matt.

Matt fell to the ground. The flames had started to burn his face and the surrounding smoke had taken the place of the oxygen in his lungs. He could feel the blackness creep in and heard his team running away instead of toward him.

Matt was left with some semblance of silence.

With his last bit of consciousness, Matt screamed. “Hunter!! If you can hear me, hear this. I will return and claim my revenge. I’ll silence anyone just like you silenced me!”

Matt cackled and hacked as the flames boiled his blood. And his world went dark.

“WOAH! So, that’s why no one goes to Jasper Mill?”

The voice came from a small teenage girl no older than fourteen. Her blue eyes were big and full of disbelief. Looking around the group of two other teenagers, it seems like she was the only surprised one.

“Don’t believe it, Sasha. Everyone knows that it’s old lore. The people of Jasper are just too superstitious.”

Sasha turned to look at the tall, blond, stringy, eighteen-year-old boy. She frowned.

“Why not Taylor? When has Gavin ever lied to me.”

Gavin, a chubby, rat nested hair, seventeen-year-old boy, smiled at her comment.

“Yeah, Taylor. We both know my grandpa was there the day of the fire. He claims to have heard the screams.”

Taylor rolled his green eyes. He murmured a whatever.

Gavin, sensing a challenge offered one.

“Why don’t we go up to Jasper Mill then?”

#2p hetalia #fic #2p canada

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