#gnarled ugly things live in that dirt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

one-boring-person · 3 years

Text

Requested by: @80s4life

I hope you like this!😊💛

What I Did To You.

Snake Plissken (Escape From New York/LA) x reader

Warnings: violence, injury, swearing, gun use

Masterlist

I have my gun levelled at his head before I've even closed the door properly, my face drawn into a fierce scowl, eyes blazing with anger. Every muscle in my body goes tense, my hand unwavering as I hold the weapon up, my leg throbbing in memory pain. Across from me, the intruder remains stood silently, his eye fixed on mine, his own hand still resting at his hip, ready to draw his pistol at any point.

"Hello to you, too." He greets me in the quiet way he always used to, his lips barely moving.

Frown deepening, I push the door behind me closed without looking at it, keeping my gun aimed at his head as I look him over. Not for the first time, he's covered in a light layer of grime, his brown leather jacket darkened in places by the dirt and lightened in others by the fraying, his boots caked in dust from the wasteland outside. His golden mane of hair is slightly dulled from exposure to the unforgiving sun outside and falls into his eyepatch, flicked out of the way every so often by a jerk of the head. A shadow of a stubble covers his chin, as it always has, disguising a few new scars I've not seen before...as well as one I know very well. Other than that, Snake Plissken has not changed at all.

My eyes narrow, grip on the gun tightening.

"Leave." Is all I say, shifting my weight onto my other foot.

"You used to have such nice manners." Snake's lip curls, the soldier taking a step towards me.

Instantly, I flick my thumb over the flintlock.

"Leave." I repeat, pulling the hammer down as the gun makes a dull clicking sound.

"No." He moves closer, standing so the gun is inches from his chest.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming here." I growl, oh so tempted to pull the trigger, "I don't know why you don't keep your distance."

A cruel smirk creeps onto his lips, eye narrowing as his head tilts to the side.

"Trust me, I didn't want to come here, either." He reassures me, "But I have no choice."

"I'm giving you a choice. Leave, or I'll introduce some lead into your diet." I retort, ignoring the burn in my arm from holding it outstretched. At this point, it's the only thing keeping us separated.

"I'll pass on both." Snake snorts, shooting a dismissive glance at the handgun pointed at his throat - now that he's standing closer, my aim only really comes up to his chest and neck, "Put the gun away."

I nearly laugh at him then, another surge of anger going through me.

"You're in no position to order me around. Not anymore." I practically snarl at him, keeping the gun where it is.

"Suit yourself. I came to ask for your help, the least you could do is be civil." He replies coldly, glaring at me now.

Again, the urge to laugh in his face goes through me.

"You came here to ask for my help?" I repeat, cocking my head in disbelief at the sheer balls of the man, "You really need to leave before I pull this trigger."

"(Y/n), we both know if you wanted me dead, I'd be bleeding out on the floor already." He points out, unimpressed.

"Maybe I'm waiting for an apology first."

This seems to catch him off guard.

"An apology?" He repeats, frowning in confusion, "For what?"

It takes all I have not to lunge at him and throttle the handsome bastard's neck in my hands, my leg flaring up in pain at the reminder.

"You know damn well what for." I growl at him, shifting off of my leg again, rubbing at it unconsciously.

Snake's eyes follow my movement, realisation dawning on him.

"I already apologised for that." He says quietly, clearly remembering back to the time I'm referring to.

It still plagues me, that one last operation we'd had to do together. Three years ago, back when we were still working together on jobs, good at what we did, the perfect partnership...except for Snake's tendency to protect his ego. It had been horrible that night, rain pelting the ground as we moved on the abandoned construction site, mud slicking our boots and trousers, foggy air making it impossible to see anywhere. I had told Snake we shouldn't go that day, that it would be better to wait until another, clearer night, but he insisted on the raid. He'd told me that he'd "been in worse" and that this was nothing, so we took our guns, knives and other equipment, and headed out into the wastelands to deal with the threat.

At first, everything had been fine: we'd managed to get in with no problem, creeping around the perimeter, taking out guards as we went, bodies sodden and filthy now, freezing under our light jackets. It was only as we moved to go further into the site that disaster had struck. Suddenly, gunfire was tearing into the ground inches away from us, driving us back behind an old container box, flashes of light appearing in the milky fog around us, our vision obscured by the sheeting rain, the mud making it hard to retreat. We later found out we'd been ratted out to the terrorists occupying the site, and they'd set up a trap for us, hounding us from the place with rifles spewing bullets at us the entire way. We had been close to escaping.

Then I slipped on a landmine.

All of a sudden, I was flying forwards through the air, agony erupting in my left leg as the flash of light and flames exploded behind me, my body crashing to the floor seconds later. Winded and incapable of moving thanks to the pain lancing through me from my leg, I had screamed out to Snake, hoping for him to return to me, the smell of burning flesh soon flooding my nostrils as my foot caught in the blaze. Howling in agony, I had tried to pull myself out, my fingers scrabbling at the slick mud in desperation, only for the pain to become too overbearing. I had looked for Snake, only to see the back of his head disappearing towards our getaway vehicle, paying no mind to me. It was then that I blacked out, my heart drowning in betrayal and hurt.

For a week or so, I'd been held captive by the terrorists, tortured sometimes, my wounds left to fester, bones shattered and out of place, burns turning ugly over the time. Eventually, another team had been sent in to rescue me, the group getting me out before it got too far. Taken to a hospital, it took me weeks to recover, every muscle and bone in my left leg needing to be reformed almost completely, surgeries being done near-daily to realign them all, the skin basically unsalvageable. I'd had four different skin grafts from various parts of my body, only to leave the limb looking twisted and mangled, basically useless to me until I was encouraged to learn how to use it again. That entailed another half a year of time spent working on getting it to full use again, and even now I can't go nearly as far as I used to. Every so often, the leg throbs, memory pain still hounding me since the day I got the wounds themselves, but I suppose I got off lucky: the surgeons hadn't expected me to make it through.

All of that because of Snake's ego.

His apology? A note sent to me whilst I was unconscious in the hospital.

"You and I have a very idea of what an apology is. Especially for something that kept me bedridden for months." I bite out, heart aching now at the memory, "Especially for someone who left me to die."

Snake purses his lips, swallowing tightly.

"I thought you did die." He says, much quieter now, eye roaming my body guiltily.

"You heard my screams. There's no way you didn't." I reply harshly, reminded again of the raw-throated shrieks for help.

He winces, looking down at his feet now, his fists clenched at his sides.

"I didn't think you'd make it. If I went back, I wouldn't have gotten out." He murmurs, sounding somewhat saddened by what he's saying.

"You wanna know how long it took those fuckers to get to me? Fifteen minutes. Fifteen! There was more than enough time!" I spit at him, face twisted in anger.

Once again, he winces at my words, only now realising the extent of what he did.

"And even when you knew I was alive, when I was in hospital, you couldn't even be asked to come and apologise in person. You sent a damn note." I shake my head, looking at him in disgust, "You're a coward. A spineless coward. Why didn't you at least show your face? Why? Why did you leave me to face the pain on my own?"

"Because I couldn't face it! I couldn't face seeing you there, lying in a hospital bed, all doped up, cut-up and bruised because of me! I couldn't face seeing you nearly crippled because of my stupid fucking pride!" Snake finally snaps, voice strained as his eye returns to my face, pain clouding the blue depth, "I thought I got you killed, (Y/n)! I could barely live with myself because of it!"

"Then why wait until now to find me? Why not come sooner?" I question, voice tense.

"I didn't think I'd be able to face you so angry and upset. I cared - care - so much about you, (Y/n), you have no idea how hard this is for me. I've lived with this guilt for so long." He fumbles for words, unable to voice his feelings as he always has been.

"How hard this is for you? Do you have any- argh!" I cut off in pain. As I was speaking, I'd stepped forwards, my leg sending a shock of agony through me as I'd done so, making me stumble forwards.

Snake moves closer, catching me before I can connect with the floor, his arms secure around me as my hands come to rest on his muscular chest. Blushing at the proximity, I try to ignore the butterflies in my stomach, pushing off of him to sit on a nearby chair, dropping the gun to the floor. Stretching out the affected leg, I sigh in frustration, the anger residing into the same loneliness I've always felt since I got the wounds that have left me like this.

Snake watches me silently, expression pained as he finally speaks.

"Can I...can I see? Please, I want to know what I did to you."

Surprised, I give him a sceptical look, before I hesitantly start to pull my trousers down over my legs. His eye widens at the sight of the limb, lips parting slightly.

Gnarled scar tissue crawls up my leg, discoloured and tight, appearing somewhat ghostly in the light of the room. Snake stares at it in horror, grief swiftly clouding his eye now as he falls to his knees in front of me, hands lifting to hover over it. He flicks his eye up to me, asking for permission, to which I nod, gasping as he removes his gloves and gently places his hands on the sensitive skin, a shiver going up my spine. Ever so carefully, Snake runs his palms over the scars, feeling them over with hesitant fingers, his expression becoming more and more open.

After a while, he looks up, pained eye meeting mine.

"God, (Y/n), I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry..." He grasps my hips, pushing his head into my abdomen as he wraps me into an awkward embrace, murmuring apologies over and over. Shocked, I hesitantly place my hands on his head, threading my fingers through his soft hair. An old tenderness springs into life within me, reminding me of why I used to stay with him, and what his riendship used to mean to me. Over the years, I had tried to forget it, but it's impossible - as he holds me close now, I realise I've missed him more than I'd ever let myself admit.

Snake pulls away after a few more minutes, caressing my hip as he looks up at me, thoughtful now.

"What job was it you needed help with?" I ask him quietly, twisting a strand of his hair between my fingers, "I'll work with you, if you drop the ego act."

He looks surprised and glad, a smallsile pulling at his lips.

"Of course." He promises, looking away again bashfully, "I only kept it up to impress you."

I blink in surprise.

"To impress me?" I repeat dumbly.

"Yeah, I, err, I've always felt the need to. Wanted to impress you so you'd consider going out with me." He admits, blushing furiously.

I blink again, head tilting in curiosity.

"Wait, what?"

"I always wanted to go out with you. Always." He chuckles, swallowing, "I've always loved you."

"You...you love me?!"

"Yeah, I do." Snake nods, biting his lip.

"Wow..." My voice trails off in surprise, unable to compute what he's saying, "I wish you'd told me sooner."

He frowns.

"What do you mean?"

I smile sheepishly at him.

"I've always had a thing for you, too. I just never thought you even liked me full stop."

"Really?!" He looks astonished.

"Yeah, really."

He's quiet for a moment, until a cunning smirk crosses his lips.

"In that case..." Snake leans up and connects our lips, kissing me softly but passionately.

A quiet moan escapes me, my lips moving instinctively against his, kissing him back in relief. His lips are chapped, but I can't find it in me to care as I pull his head closer to me, smiling as he pulls my body into him, his chest pressed firmly against my abdomen. In his arms, I can feel the pain of the last few years starting to slip away, still hooked deeply into me but starting to lessen, my eyes falling closed with the movement of his lips.

He finally pulls away, a content smile on his face, eye taking my expression in.

"So what's this job?" I breathe out, stroking his hair.

He grins lazily.

"Ever thought about going to LA?"

#escape from la #escape from new york #snake plissken #snake plissken x reader #snake plissken imagine #kurt russell #break writes

37 notes · View notes

rotworld · 4 years

Text

11: Neighbors

sometimes the old lady upstairs complains about the noise, but it never bothered you much. you figured he was a little different, like you.

->featuring lawrence.

The note slides under your door sometime after midnight. There’s no hasty retreat of footsteps afterwards, and a shadow looms just outside in the hall. Bold, whoever it is. The note’s crumpled and stained at the edges, a musty piece of legal pad paper scrounged up from the depths of a junk drawer. It smells like mold and earthen things. The ink scrawl is smeared in places and barely legible, but you can just make out the words stacked in three short lines; “Live next door. Heard crying. Can I help?”

You suck in a weepy breath, mortified, and press your hand over your own mouth. You didn’t think anyone heard. “No, I’m fine. Thanks,” you say, weak and warbling. Unconvincing. He must not believe you because he doesn’t leave. You lean your back against the door and sink slowly to the ground, wiping at your face. “Really, I’m fine. You can go. I’ll quiet down.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause. Heavy, suffocating silence so thick you can hear water moving through the pipes in another room. “I,” he says, and then stops, inhales slowly, “I saw branches on the floor. Out here. In front of your door. Some kind of evergreen.” His voice is soft. You glance down at the note again, the sharp embarrassment in your chest giving way to something softer, more tender. “I take care of plants, too.”

“It’s a Virginia pine,” you say. “I got into bonsai a few years ago. To cope.”

Stupid stupid stupid, you scold yourself. Too much, said too much, now he’s going to ask questions. To your surprise, he doesn’t. “I tried bonsai once,” he says. “It died on me too fast. No matter what I did, it just dried out and shriveled away.” The floorboards creak. He’s still not leaving, but his shadow grows, spreading far enough to blot out the hall lights. “I’m Lawrence,” he says. “I saw you move in a while ago. Sorry I never said anything sooner. I’m,” he clears his throat, “not very social.”

“It’s okay. I’m not good with people, either.”

He doesn’t say anything. You lean your head back against the door and think you can hear him breathing, swallowing nervously. “Tell me about your tree,” he says.

You glance up at the kitchen counter. She’s there, rising out of a lacquered dish, slim and serpentine, her healthy trunk twisting around pale, barkless wood. Several thin branches lay scattered across the floor. Vestigial things. You toy with one on the linoleum beside you, pricking your finger against the dry, crisp needles. “It’s a tree,” you say quietly. “There’s not much to say. I hope I don’t kill this one, too.”

He hums in acknowledgement. It feels okay to sit and say nothing for a while, so you do. You close your eyes. Like this, you don’t have to look at the ugly skyline outside the window. You hear the rain, the occasional creak when Lawrence shifts. You smell petrichor. When was the last time you were outside without an umbrella and let yourself soak, let yourself scream in the thunder? The world feels so rigid and sterile. You miss all the things that aren’t.

“There’s a technique,” you say, “where you put death inside the tree. Have you heard of that? I thought I’d try it this time.” Lawrence doesn’t answer but you know he’s listening somehow. It’s an expectant sort of quiet. “You set a piece of deadwood inside, and the tree grows around it. It doesn’t reject it. That rot stays at the center and becomes the heart.”

Beneath your hands, you feel the squishing give of moss and muddy ground. The slickness of waterlogged leaves. You breathe slowly and you can imagine it even clearer; a quiet place in the woods. The hush of falling rain over the canopy. Clattering branches. Gnarled bark and hollows where owls nest. You can feel the dirt under your nails. You can smell the earth and the rain.

And the rot.

You open your eyes. The shadow under the door is gone. You get to your feet and all at once the embarrassment comes flooding back. He left. He didn’t even say anything. Your face burns with unshed tears and you crumple up the note in your fist, tossing it in the trash. You should’ve expected it. The tranquility of the forest scene in your mind’s eye fizzles away and you’re left with heartache, and the stench of something rancid. It’s overpowering. How did you not notice it before? You sleep with a sheet over your face, nauseated by it.

In the morning, you tear out a scrap of notebook paper. Your first instinct is to tell him something’s gone bad in his fridge, but that would be rude, even if the stench has become unbearable. You opt for a more neutral, “Thanks for the conversation last night,” and slip it under his door on your way to check the mail. The woman across the hall stops you, a bewildered look on your face. “No one lives there,” she tells you.

You glance at the door, and then back at her. She looks serious. More than that, she looks frightened. You don’t ask if she’s sure. You don’t ask anything. You go right back inside your apartment and lock the door.

The next note comes late that night.

“Then let’s talk again. But this time face to face,” it says.

The shadow is outside your door again. The smell is back and worse now, even stronger. Something drips on the wood floor of the hallway. Not rain. Thicker. The sound of Lawrence breathing sounds more like the wheezing, rattling gasp of something about to die.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #btd2 #lawrence #no gore in this one just a bit of spookiness

48 notes · View notes

kathrynalicemc · 4 years

Text

Dafne Arcano Short Story

Footfalls echo off the stone and dirt cavern walls as Dafne made her way through the Viking burial mound. As she traveled through the dark passage she ran her hands over the long forgotten cracked stone coffins, disturbing the layer of dust and dirt upon them. Dafne knew the catacombs well, having explored them countless times over the years. She never cared to hang out with the other children. Instead she sought solace with the dead. They were quiet, unlike the living, and she was intrigued by the ancient history they held.

Dafne also wasn’t bothered by the dark. Ever since she could remember she never had as much of a problem as her sisters with seeing in darkness. It was second nature to her. Passing one coffin, she quietly muttered to herself as she read the engraved inscriptions in the stonework.

“Vargr Arcano”

The date on that one was too worn to read which excited Dafne. She wondered at what his life was like.

“Sigrid Arcano. 1850-1902”

“Nikolas Arcano. 1847-1921”

“Khione Arcano. 1877-1889” This coffin was smaller than the rest. About the perfect size for Dafne.

At last she came to her favorite one. The stone coffin itself was cracked apart with pieces missing. From within the gaps between the stone slabs grew gnarled and twisting roots of a tree, growing upwards and then sideways when it touched the ceiling. No leaves grew upon this tree however. The headstone was cracked but Dafne was still able to just make out the words.

“Unni Arcano. 1875-1931”

She loved to sit at the base of the coffin under the dark twisting branches of the tree. It was peaceful and she let her mind wander to the past. What secrets do these bones hold? What were their lives like? Every skeleton here once felt the cold wind on their skin and the warmth of the sun. Eventually she too would end up here, in a coffin not too far from where she currently sat.

Dafne was suddenly shook from her thoughts as she noticed the passageway began to glow with flickering torchlight. It was growing brighter and brighter. Somebody was coming. She quickly got to her feet and took a few steps backwards in the opposite direction.

Coming around the corner and emerging from the darkness appeared a boy and then, a second later, a girl carrying a torch. It was Rond and Sigur. They were particularly nasty children around the same age as Dafne who often took to harassing her about her macabre interests. They must have followed her into the burial mound.

“Come to talk to your dead family again then?” Teased Rond with a laugh. “Why don’t you just sleep in a coffin if you love it here so much. You will end up in here at the end anyway. It would save so much time in your worthless life.”

“I didn’t expect you two to be brave enough to come in here. I’ve heard it’s haunted.”

Sigur’s eyes darted around nervously. “R-really?”

“Oh don’t be a chicken Sigur! She’s such a liar.” Rond complained as he elbowed her in the ribs.

Suddenly something caught his attention and he walked over to the cracked coffin. Through a small crevasse he saw the glint of torch light reflecting off of metal. Reaching his hand in, he fished around for a second before withdrawing it and pulling out a sword.

“Hah! Sigur look at this!” He boasted as he swished the sword around in the air, albeit rather clumsily.

“Will you put that thing down? You are going to kill somebody with that thing!” Sigur whined as she got out of the way.

He ignored her plea and instead replied “Your family is hardcore, Arcano. I wonder what happened to you?”

“Drop it, now. That belongs to my ancestors. You have no right to wield it!” Dafne fired back, now stepping towards the boy in rage.

“Hmm...nah. I think I’ll hold on to this. Why should it lay down here for eternity? Besides, you are too weak to wield it yourself. How does it feel being the disgrace of the family?”

In a flash, Dafne yells and lunges for the sword but Rond is quicker. Instinct kicks in and in a reflex he swings the sword. Dafne sees a flash of light against steel and then feels the sharp pain as it cuts down across her eye and cheek. Hot liquid pours down her face and tears begin to sting her eyes. She collapses on the ground and clutches her face, tears and blood beginning to fall and mix with the dirt beneath her.

“Rond, no! Look what you've done! We will get in so much trouble for this! Let’s go!” Sigur was starting to panic.

Rond just stood there, bloody sword in hand, staring down at Dafne with a mixture of horror and satisfaction on his face.

“See. What did I tell you? You’re nothing but a weakling. Your ancestors are looking down upon you in shame. I certainly would hate to be related to you. Pathetic.”

Dafne slowly pulled her bloodstained hand away from her face and angled her head upwards to meet his gaze, her face now calm but eyes burning with intensity. A cold breeze rushed up the passageway, causing the torch to flicker for a moment. With a loud crash, a coffin across the way flew open, the large stone lid impacting the dirt with a thud.

Sigur immediately ran away screaming, accidentally dropping and extinguishing her torch in the process. Rond held his ground, taking deep shaky breaths and watched in horror as two skeleton hands curled around the lip of the coffin and pulled itself upright before then getting to its feet and stepping out. The darkness was pierced by a faint cyan glow emanating from the bones of the skeleton and also of both of Dafnes eyes and a flicker of magic within her palm. She had gotten to her feet once again, her fiery gaze fixed on Rond.

The skeleton stepped up to the boy who then let out a panicked scream and jabbed with the sword, wedging it between the ribs. Having a sword sticking through its chest didn’t seem to have any effect on the skeleton however. Looking down, it grabbed the boys shoulders and tossed him across the room. Rond hit the wall and then crumpled into the dirt. The skeleton then drew the sword from his ribcage, grabbed the boy by his coat, lifted him up and pinned him against the wall, the blade of the sword an inch from his throat.

Approaching from over the shoulder of the skeleton, Dafne screamed out in anger. “If I EVER see you anywhere NEAR my family, living or dead, I will not show mercy. Have you got that? NOW LEAVE AND NEVER COME BACK!”

With a terrified nod from Rond, the skeleton withdrew the blade and his grasp upon the boy and he ran as fast as he could and disappeared into the darkness, the echo of his footfalls growing faint. With a deep inhale, the anger in Dafne faded and the skeleton crumpled into a pile, the bones and sword clattering to the ground. A sob escaped her mouth and she slid to the ground with her back pressed up against the wall. Curling up under the tree she brought her knees up to her chest, her small body shaking as she cried. She was alone again in the dark, exactly how she likes it, but this time she wished she wasn’t. This time she really did feel lonely.

Enjoy the bonus art that is a companion to this story! The drawing is MONTHS OLD and UGLY. I never got around to posting it but I finally wrote the story about how Dafne got her scar and discovered her powers.

#hpma #magic awakened #hphm #hogwarts mystery #dafne arcano #hpma mc #arcano family #unni arcano #harry potter magic awakened

13 notes · View notes

punkandsnacks · 4 years

Text

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter One; Lifeblood.

Author: @punk-in-docs and @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3

Trigger warnings; This is a slow burn story. NSFW comes later, but there is gory descriptive violence in this later on- I’ll tag the chapters with warnings-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilisations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Hampshire, England. 1816.

Winters here were always of the bitterest kind.

Everything hardened by frost. All of nature slaughtered and gnarled and made ugly by it. Everything deadened and driven away until yellow spring sunshine butters it all up. The ground wintry solid and as unyielding as the bite of stinging chill in the air.

Every loud footstep from under her cracked boots crackled and crushed with ice-crusted mud. Her treads echo off about her in the oppressive silence of the air.

Iris Ashton walked along the lonely pale road. The path ahead scattered with linen-white snow, thick like cloth, settling down in ghostly sprinkles - like fluttering ash.

Snow comes from a sky as thick and as soft as a eiderdown. Graphite grey smeared all over the horizon signaling the worst yet to come. Sky is heavy and blotted with it. Flecks already kiss and cling at her hair and her blue wool coat collar.

She can feel them land and melt on her cold numbed lips. Feels her raspy silver breath run them away.

The trees in the dark wood surrounding her on either side of the ribboning track and the pallid ground; stand majestic and strong. Like a darkly Prussian-blue swathed army standing silent attention. Frost crawls determined up their sturdy trunks. The horizon peeping through the trees is white, like a puff of spilt flour. The craggy black tips of the regimented trees scrape at the thick churning sky.

One hand laden with her heavy wicker basket. Hanging solidly down by her thigh. Handle creaking so under her glove from it’s heavy contents. Her elbow is locked straight and aching fully from the strain of it.

Mother had sent her off on one of her errands; paying calls to give some wrapped linen food parcels to the church. Cold meats and half-loaves of day old bread to give to the poor and needy. And on the way back she’d stopped and called for tea with her doddery great Aunt Lavinia. A more belligerent old dragon never drew breath.

Iris was her favourite of all the Ashton girls. All three of them. Unfortunately the lot of being the eldest and families general paragon of hope, fell onto Iris. Next was her sister Flora who is fifteen, and then there was Posy, at sixteen.

A whole compliment - a bouquet - of Ashton ladies. As the gossip columns always so proudly and wittily declared.

Iris was the level-headed, sensible elder sister at three and twenty. The one who was seen and never heard. The one with unremarkable grey eyes and fair skin. Her teeth were supportable, and her conversation was, well, fine, really.

She didn’t have dazzling honey blonde hair or a sultry head of brunette curls. Her hair was brown. Not chestnut. Not sizzling auburn blaze. Just. Brown. Like mud. Like bark. Like flat Turkish coffee.

The sensible Ashton girl, with eyes as dull as dust, and hair the colour of twigs.

She was pale, with a oval face and a stout figure that was passably pleasing. She had a fine bosom that some men liked to gawp at, and mother insisted she had a touch of child bearing hips. Which would strongly come into her favour when she’s married. As she had once said;

“Your future husband will be much delighted with such a valuable commodity, Iris.” Her Mother remarked once when she was a young girl and she was tugging and yanking her long hair into a plait ready for bed.

Iris can remember how badly she wanted to do something out of spite purely to ruin that chance. But really she couldn’t alter the shape of her skeleton with much ease.

Maybe she wasn’t a diamond of the first water. She’ll never be one of those girls who glide elegantly through a ballroom like a bevy of silk swathed swans. Preening, poised and primly perfect.

To her own mind and credit she was just - plain. Tolerable.

Adequate.

She is sometimes remarked to be too acerbic with her tongue, or her remarks. She’s certainly got a backbone and another quality that stumped men of the ton - a mind of her own making. She doesn’t suffer fools and she likes to venture that she is a blue stocking with a decent and level understanding of this world.

She’s sufficient- she supposed. Simply that and nothing more. She’ll never have poems written about her, or have a man declare he fell wildly in passionate love with her with one glance.

It suits her well enough. The fact that she looked like a dusty dull unrefined ornament next to her polished preening sisters. She’d rather fade into the wallpaper than be a dazzling spectacle of ridiculousness, like that of her two siblings.

Her simpering, inane sisters. Who flirt with any man donning a scarlet coat in the Militia. Flora and Posy, who worry obsessively about ribbons, and seek to pay no mind to anything, of any real consequence.

Iris is never one for fits of jealousy, but she is sometimes envious of their light-hearted puerile, worries. About making up their bonnets or, the next ball, or the most unbecoming stain on their new pelisse.

Aunt Lavinia greatly despised the merest sight and intimation of the younger Ashton ladies too. Iris is usually requested to go to tea with her Great Aunt, alone.

“Silly chit of a girl. The pair of them.” Was her relative’s most favoured and overused phrase.

She’d cackle it as one of her clawed elderly hands - talons - gripped her teacup. And she wouldn’t be happy until she’d griped and moaned and complained about every beast and man put on this earth. For they’ve all been put there with the sole purpose of vexing her greatly -Naturally.

Tea today was no different to any other occasion she pays a visit.

Iris sits with the sniping old matron in her freezing-cold front parlour with a piffling fire barely going. Her Aunt is always bedecked in enough black muslin to cover all of Hampshire.

A black lace matron cap staunchly on her head. Black fichu covering at her shoulders. An inky shawl on her arms and on each of her skeletal fingers sit glimmering gleaming rings which clackclackclack and scrape when she moves and points that every disapproving finger. Big fat stones of amber and ruby and topaz weighting down her frail claws.

Iris always teeters politely on the most uncomfortably hard settee opposite her. Cradling the hot spode bone-china cup of tea that her Aunt shoves in her hands. Sugar staining sickly saccharine on her lips - she never let her guests have unsugared tea.

Quite why she is the favourite Ashton, Iris has no clue. She is always interrogated by the woman as she barks nosy question after nosy question at her.

“Yes, Aunt. No, Aunt. I don’t believe so, Aunt.” As the harridan gripes about beef or sugar or candle taxes, or the local Reverend, or the gaudy new fabric on display in dressmakers window.

A whole ream of grudges being spewed out that wrinkled puckered mouth. Face pale, craggy and screwed up with lines like a sheet of crumpled parchment paper.

Her dark eyes shine forth like raisins sunk deep into scones. Glittering black and always always always dissatisfied with the whole world, and determined to find fault with everyone in it.

Iris brings her the ointment her Aunt asked for. She was suffering a hacking cough that worsened in the winter. Lavinia insists its a damp affliction brought on by unclean air.

Iris bought the woman a bottle of liniment rub, spiced with rosemary oil, camphor and spirit of wine. Her Aunt harrumphed at her offering. Stabs her walking cane into carpet in disfavour. Shoves the bottle away and insists Willow bark tea is what will cure her ailment.

Next she’ll be insisting on leeches and blood letting to balance out the humours-

Iris doesn’t fight her stubbornness - it’s a battlefield over which she will never win or hoist a flag of victory.

She drinks down three more cups of the cloying tea, interrupts the interrogation and insists rather bravely that she must be on her way - for Lord and Lady Hearst are throwing a ball this evening. On their vast estate. And she needs to scurry home to ready for it. That earns her another harrumph in response. Lavinia detested balls.

“Breeding ground for senile men and stupid women. And all that inane leaping about they now call dancing...” She grimaces.

The whole county is in uproar for this ball - little else to recommend or appreciate in this bleak dull midwinter. Whispers flourishing around town seemed inclined to favour that a mysterious Lord from the continent is in attendance tonight...

A Lord. From Bavaria no less. Apparently he owned a vast castle high up in the snowy forest smothered mountains.

Quite why he’s bothered to travel the length of Europe to this savage spit of society in the Hampshire countryside, she cannot fathom. If she was lucky enough to live in a castle, she’d never be seen again.

She recounts that scrap of gossip about the prospective Lord to her Aunt. Who thunks her cane loudly on the floor and scoffs in derision;

“Foreigners are always a grave source of disappointment - and they are so riddled with lice and ill bred manners.” So wisely declares Aunt Lavinia.

She says that about anything to do with anything and anyone not born or formed on good british soil.

She had said the very same thing last week about the pews at Church-

She leaves the little bustling hamlet. Shuts her Great Aunt’s warped cottage door. The wood shuddered, catching on the doorstep. Her arm shot through with needles of pain. Aches slipping up her back, her neck and sparking her shoulders. She hooks the heavy basket onto the crook of her elbow and sighs as she plods homeward.

Away from the small tudor, mouldy mustard walls of Lavinia’s cottage. A pretty little house. Always cold. Formed of thick stone walls and mahogany creaking stairs. Austere bare furniture sparsely filled every room. Wedged into a street with crossed glass windows and a petticoat brown tiled roof.

It was a meagre six miles from here to home. And she appreciates the walk. Or atleast she might be more inclined to favour it, were her coat more substantial.

As it is the blue wool thing is possibly a might too small for her now. It tugs and pinches so across the shoulders. And the hem ends right up her calves. Pebble-grey Kidskin gloves on her fingers, knuckles knotted stiff and her fingertips are tingling with cold.

The hem of her plain cotton voile dress, is dark with damp from the snow. The bluebell cobalt of it leeched darker at her hem. She’s shivering because her stockings aren’t the warmest wool. Her legs are trembling cold and she only wore her lightest chemise. However she is glad she bothered with the scarf.

She hadn’t put on a bonnet today. She can’t stand the fuss of one. Ribbons flapping at her ears. It was uncommon - but she went without.

Simply tied her hair back into a low coiffured bun secured with a snip of wheaten muslin. By now and with lugging this basket across all of the Hampshire countryside, some straggles of hair have come loose. Flopping uselessly to her shoulders.

She ducks her chin into her scarf to escape the exposure of a battering bitter gale, and continues trudging on with wearied, aching determination. She always trudges on. She has too. Is always the one who must endeavour to continue, no matter how bleak she feels.

It gets tiring, carrying great tonne boulders of expectations on her shoulders. She likes to think she bears the task nobly.

As her Mother takes great pains and lengths to always endlessly remind her; she is the vessel in which all hopes for the survival of the Ashton family, are stored.

She will make a good marriage match; to a gentleman of high rank or fortune - preferably both. She will save the estate from destitution. Her sisters from ruin. And her father from debtors prison. She will be the one to keep her family in the moneyed style to which they are accustomed. They will not lose Westwell to the bailiffs.

They have risen far within the ranks of society. And they will not lose their clutch or their pride. Or their respected place among it. Her fathers estate is not a vast one; but it is more than his father before him had. A meagre merchant selling spices and furs out of Putney during the Restoration.

Now the Ashtons are country gentry. With a modest dwelling of an estate, abutting a working farm. Westwell. A manor house of not much splendour and merely thirteen rooms.

Built of gold cotswold stone with huge white windows looking out onto a self-effacing garden of some prettiness. There was a pond where swans flocked in summer. Enclosed wilderness all around. A plank of wood swing hanging off one big oak chestnut that stooped over the front of the house. To the back the garden is walled, full of sculpted beds and privets and the wide green lawn is rather uninspiring in this decimating winter

They had one gardener. Two maids. A cook and a Housekeeper. They live comfortably and hardly ever exceed their income.

Her mother hopes to change that this calendar year. She wants her eldest daughter promised to someone upstanding and rich.

Iris thinks her shrew of a mother would settle with wedding her to any man . So long as he looks pleasing in a cravat, and still has all his own teeth.

She treks on through the snow. Hoping. Dreaming. Dreaming for so many unattainable things.

Wishing her basket was lighter. Wishing her parents had sired a son. So that this evening she wouldn’t have to be bound into a pinching dress, and paraded around the Hearst’s ballroom as if she’s some prized slaughter pig at a county fair.

Wishing that she could instead stay home in her untrimmed, plain nightgown. No laced stays crushing her ribs. With a hot brick at her feet. A dog-eared Swift novel in her hands. Cracked open to the good passages. She’d read by tapered candlelight and be perfectly contented, poised to encounter spinsterhood.

Instead, a painful evening of savage society awaited her.

Poison filled smiles from nasty debutantes or their matronly mama’s. Sniping at her dress or her hair or her pale skin, or her lack of fortune. Crushed mangled toes from dancing with some portly red-faced Lord-whoever-from-wherever. One who stank of port, had bad breath, and tried to pinch her bottom with fat lecherous sausage fingers, when he thought no one was looking their way.

She has no aspirations for marriage or love. She’s not a fool. She doesn’t have her head swimming with fancies from novels. No rapturous desires of tall, sable-haired men, with chiseled marble bodies seducing her astray. No cloaked villain sweeping her away in the dead of night to send her to ruin, to then have her dashing savior ride in on horseback to rescue her.

If she’s one thing at all - it is sensible. She doesn’t like to reflect on the proposition of marrying some stranger simply to arrange the business of money and bearing him heirs. She’s not a broodmare-

She’s a woman. She has a thumping proud heart and a strong-working brain and she hopes there’s more measure to her life, than submitting her body and weak will over to be governed and quieted by a future, faceless husband.

She’s sure many girls of three and twenty have felt this way. She’s sure many generations upon generations of them will continue to do so, until women cease to be sold like chattel - or like cattle at market.

Sold solely to men for the priceless untarnished commodity that lay between their thighs. And based and viewed purely on that frail scrap of fleshed dignity, alone.

She wraps her coat tighter around herself. Distinctly feeling a sense of dread starting to slither sickly cool up her spine from the prospect of the evening ahead.

Mother will wrangle her into her finest restrictively crushing silk gown. Have the maid tug and pull her hair and wrench it into a pleasing style. Jabbing hair pins in her head. Mother will see to it that she splash plenty of Yardley’s water of jasmine blossom, orange and lavender on the pulses at her wrists, and at her neck.

Then, she’ll be practically shoved into the chest of every single eligible gentleman in the room tonight in the hope they deign her to be pleasing. She’ll be pushed and prodded and maneuvered and pummeled-

And she’s exhausted. She only hopes she finds the strength to endure such torture-

She kicks through the frosted ground. Pebbles scatter and skit in her wake. She nudges the sparkling white stones with the toe of her cracked brown boots. Her feet were slowly growing numb. Toes stinging with cold. She should have worn some thicker stockings. Then again, money was not exactly a moderate opulence at home. They had to husband their resources as a family very carefully- which meant Iris couldn’t have some new leather half-boots for romping about the wilds of the countryside.

But she could have as many new hair combs, fans, or gloves and embellished stockings as she wanted. Anything that might help snare a man into visions of matrimony. Not wasted on such a thing as a new wool coat to help keep her warm in winter; or boots that didn’t let the muddy puddles seep in.

For appearances sake, the Ashton’s wealth went solely into ballgowns, perfume and finery for their girls. Some household money of course went into sensibilities like candles, meat, flour and soap. Iris was taught that she should be hugely grateful for everything that was lavished upon her.

Flora so often griped at her that she was so lucky to have such amounts spent on her. She got new gowns of printed cottons and muslin and silks and whatever she wanted. Where her and Posy had to make do with alterations and hand-me-downs to their dresses and bonnets.

Flora was so blinded by jealousy and immaturity that she didn’t quite look - really look at her sister - and realize that Iris didn’t really want any of those things-

She ruminated on all tonight might bring her. She wondered what kind of state her silly sisters would both be in when she gets home. Already donning their paper curls, lacing each other into their stays and chemises already. Arguing over who wore the best pair of silk slippers they had between them.

Mother will be in one of her bitter moods. Trying to determinedly order all her girls ready for tonight.

Moods sour with each other already and they’d be seething and spitting nasty fury at Iris. She had new things especially for this ball tonight. New pair of satin gloves and a printed silk dress. They did not. They never did.

Iris would lend Flora her old reticule - the one Mother had bought for her from Bond street. And she’d give Posy her pearl hair comb to slide into her auburn coiffure. A little balm to both of them to gently encourage some sisterly affection. She didn’t want to be at war with them all night.

She’s halfway down the narrow pale road, kicking snowy stones, when an almighty sound kicks up over the horizon, barreling in her direction. She turns her head back and hears the distant rhythmic rumbling of hooves hitting track and the clack and creak of enormous coach wheels.

Hardly surprising when this is the biggest road leading back to Pembleton, her little village.

She sees through the fog of snow, a huge black shape dominates the road. Moving fast. She lifts her skirts and steps onto the crunching grass so that the raring coach might pass her safely by. At the tremendous speed it’s going she reckons she didn’t have long before it caught up to where she’s walking.

She hears it gaining, closer and closer. Wood and hooves and snorting horses eating up the distance of the road. She dares a glance at the impossibly loud and fast carriage.

It’s a beastly thing. All looming black wood. A black liveried driver in grey wool coat. Two footmen clad the same, on the back stand. Black sturdy luggage safely stowed on the roof. Two hulking beasts of shimmering onyx shire horses are stamping and galloping and heaving the great thing along with no difficulty. Silvery wisps of air pour from their nostrils and the dripping whites of their eyes look nearly devilish past their full cupped blinders. The tack of black leather lost on their gleaming coal coats.

The noise is deafening now. It’s almost passing her. Kicking snow and frosty gritted mud out from under the churn of the hungry wheels.

She’s curious as to who could possibly be residing in such an opulent coach. No one from these parts, she’s certain of it. The richest Lord from here was two villages over on a vast estate. Lord Hexham. Who was one and eighty and had a hunched back. And he was a doddery old recluse. He hardly went raring around town in such an imposing manner.

When it draws level with her she dares a vertiginous glance up at the small arch of the door. A crest is splashed there in gold and scarlet. Like a splash of blood on a gold sword scabbard. Or a healing wound.

It’s no shock that the crest there is unfamiliar to her. It’s entwined with wolves and scarlet banners, and a shield crossed with swords. Some monstrous carnivorous coat of arms perhaps? Maybe this person’s ancestor’s had won victory in some ancient bloody battle dating back to the Normandy landings.

She looks up from the door and to her very great shock, she glimpses a man’s face.

It was a dark carriage, drawn to privacy with scarlet velvet curtains covering at the windows. But the one this side closest to her is peeled back.

Her heart thumps loud in her neck and her chest claws with slight panic and embarrassment having caught this gentleman’s eyes.

Such savage, unyielding eyes.

Bitterly black. Slicing outwards from an alabaster pale face. She barely made out features of a full proud face. A blunt roman nose, full pouting lips, and raven sable hair. Length; rakish.

It makes her inhale a sharp breath. Quickly averting her gaze. Embarrassed. Lowering her eyes.

Gawping openly at the upper echelons was never a good idea. They probably held her in the same standing as that of the mud on the bottom of their very polished boots.

He was probably some uppity Duke or Earl who didn’t wish to be gazing at the common stock. She looks to her feet. Feels the wind whip at the tendrils of her hair. Unfolds them from her scarf and whips them back over her face. Baring her neck. Snow lands on her skin. Flecks of it melt ripping like bee stings onto her hot throat.

Pale, corded, thrumming throat. Bared to the wind and the snow and the cold-

He can hear her pulse and it’s like a sweet sirens call.

She feels the strangest sensation then; no one was looking at her. But it feels like they did. It feels as if eyes are pinning her down. Raking over her skin and assessing her.

When she looks back up, dazed, the rattling loud coach is past her now. Off into the distance, into the snow.

Foggy white and smeared and blurring into the horizon. Roaring away up the track road. Away from her sight. She blinks after it’s wake. Snow tangling into her lashes. She’s shivering now if she wasn’t before, and she can’t fathom why.

She switches the basket into her other arm. Let’s it take the painful strain of the still heavy thing. Items within clunk and thump around. She steps off the crusted grass and back onto the stony pave of the hard road.

She continues on; winding homeward. She thinks about her silk gown, and new pearl earrings. And then of darker things; like devilish horses, and eyes. Eyes darker than inky shadows and deeper rich, like charcoal.

As the coach thunders off into the snow. Rutting and cracking over every bump on the road, Kylo shifted back on the scarlet bench seat. He lifts the curtain on the back window with a suave flick of his fingers, and set his black gaze once more back down the track road.

Looks back upon the lone girl in the blue coat who was walking there.

The scent of her still cloyed up in his throat - Oh, and in all the best ways.

He scented her from a mile down the road. Lavender, clary sage and sharp heat of bursting peppermint on salty skin.

The musk of her made him pant and his chest ragged. His arousal and bloodlust stirred in his chest. The drooling gnashing hell hounds of his appetite waking up and baying to be fed.

He watches her hair sway over her neck. A big gust of frosty wind blew her flavour right into his path.

His eyes rolled back in his head as he savoured her.

It made his mouth water. He’d all but outright moaned. It’s been a few moons since he last fed. His nails dig into the upholstered scarlet bench. Muscles strained. Veins corded tight in his body. Pulled taut.

His butler, Jomar. Speaks up from where he is sat opposite.

Blue silk Dastar covering his silver hair. His goatee beard was arrowhead shaped and always neatly trimmed. It stood out all the more from his bronze skin. His Punjabi cadence Kylo always thought was like cinnamon dashed in milk. He had a comforting warm voice.

“I wonder, shall you like the society hereabouts, your lordship?” He seeks curiously. Melting walnut eyes finding Kylos over his gold half moon spectacles, and looking past the small red leather backed Voltaire, open in his hands.

Lord Ren smirks. His eyes glimmer. Cool and hungry. Silver black like daggers.

“Absolutely.” He wets his lips. “The local cuisine looks delicious.”

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

#Kylo ren #Kylo ren x oc #vampire!kylo #adam driver #vampire au #very wolves and doves #Iris vibes 🕊#Lord Ren vibes 🐺#Draegan vibes 🥀#vampirelovestory #vampire #demon #ao3fic #lovestory #angst #smut #slow burn #regency era

31 notes · View notes

sweetcatmintea · 6 years

Text

Chicken Feathers

There was a post floating around that I lost about writing/talking about scary stories on the weekend so I figured I’d try to write a short, creepy story. It’s neither my strongest genre nor favourite tense, but I hope you enjoy it anyway :) Feedback appreciated!

Update: There’s an audio version of this story here :)

(Photo credit x)

Words: 1146

My chickens are dead. I’m down to one. Bodies gone but the evidence is overwhelming. Feathers litter the grass, an unnatural snow in suffocating heat. They stick here and there, poking out of the wire mesh. My lone chicken scratches at the hay, looking for a tasty morsel. She is indifferent to her shelter’s disgrace. I’ve lost another battle with the unforgiving wilderness that presses against my home. One by one, my birds vanish. Crows, I’d presumed. They were brazen in this area. It wouldn’t be the first time they have stolen from me. Though they jeered overhead, this was not their crime. My chickens were pulled through the wire mesh. The signs were clear. If not crows, it was probably foxes. I sigh, heading back to the house. Nothing more can be done to secure the coop. The feathers would blow away with time.

Buster sits beside me as I exchange my crocs (ugly but useful) with sturdier footwear. He’s a useless guard dog but is always by my side. I lace the boots tight against my ankles. This time of year snakes are as common as thunderstorms. He pushes his nose into my thigh, evidently pleased he could reach now I’m closer to his level. Hopefully I don’t smell particularly nice to him. He vanished a week ago to roll in who knows what. I’ve washed him at least three times since then but I swear it’s lingering. Maybe it’s just the memory of the stench burnt into my sinuses. I’ll wash him again when I’m done.

A fence splits my property in two. A house with a nice lawn, a rainwater tank, and a chicken coop on one side. Untamed bushland crashing in on itself with chaos only nature can sustain on the other. A chain-link fence enforcing the separation. The land had proven too difficult to develop, a deep valley cutting through the terrain. I consider myself lucky to live next to it.

Buster is excited. He pushes past me before I can tell him to stay in the yard. He loves tearing through the thick grass and chasing scents of animals long gone. Everything is sharpened by drought. He doesn’t care. Cicadas screech from surrounding trees, the spacing of which may fool you into believing the terrain is easily traversed. Gnarled roots and felled branches hide under foliage, waiting to trip me at every step. Thorned vines grab at my jeans, an inland rip tide. I follow the sloping path, once a creek, placing each foot with care. Crawling through this razor grass with a broken ankle is the last thing I need.

Cicadas continue to screech. Thick cobwebs bar my descent. Push through or go around? Despite the overgrown nature of this place, there aren’t that many places a fox would hide here. There’s a small clearing at the end of this path that may harbour my criminal. I don’t think I can reach it via detour. Through it is.

Buster snuffles around a decomposing log as I clear the webs with a long stick. What looks like rabbit fur is stuck to the bark. He’s particularly interested in that. It could be a sign I’m on the right track. It could also be left over brunch from an eagle. I’ve seen them fly in here on occasion. I should have made Buster stay on the other side of the fence. A fox could do a lot of damage to a small dog. Although, I’m looking for the den, not the culprit itself. All I want is proof of what I’m fighting with so I know what to do. Cicadas continue to screech.

Sweat beads on my brow. The grass is as tall as my hips down here. Burrs cling to me as I wade through it, almost tripping as Buster crosses in front of me. He is engulfed. Only the rustle of yellow-green stalks beating against one another betrays his location. Following the path is more difficult, but not impossible. I’ve been down here a few times. There are no feathers yet. They may have been lost in the foliage. An awful stench catches me off guard. Hot garbage slurry left to ferment in the summer heat. Naturally it only gets stronger as I press forward.

Clicking instruction to Buster, keep him close to me, I harden my resolve. He brushes against my knee, nosing my thigh for a moment. Cicadas continue to screech. If I don’t find out what’s been harassing my birds, I can’t stop it. I have to protect my animals.

Collar pressed over my nose, I trudge on. One step. Two steps. The end of the grass is in sight. Our destination just beyond. Still no feathers. Buster pants behind me. I need to walk him more. The scent mixes with lantana. Its newfound sharpness nauseating. I breach the grass. Hardened earth greets me, flattened by the whims of time. Pushing leafy branches out of the way, I finally reach the destination. Thick foliage deflects the sun’s harsh glare, cooling the clearing significantly. Shadows dapple the deep brown dirt underfoot. A soft breeze ripples the leaves, permitting me a chance to breath. It carries a rot, but not the all-encompassing stench I had been choking on. A suggestion of ruddy orange lies ahead, shielded by a tangle of plants. Cicadas shriek. A glance behind me brings some relief. Buster is still roaming through the grass. He hasn’t noticed. We should go back. I had my confirmation. We should go back but I’m curious. Buster is distracted. We should go back but I press forward. Creeping closer, my breath a hostage. I’ve never seen a wild fox before. Boots barely leave the ground for fear of announcing myself. The orange remains still. Sleeping soundly after his forbidden meal. Creeping closer, foxes smell a lot worse than I thought. Too close now. Will I be rewarded for my bravery or punished for my hubris? Closer still.

Crack.

A single twig is the loudest thing in the world. The bushes move. A black cloud flees the area. The orange does not. Flies? The silence of the cicadas is deafening. Heart in my throat, I part the branches. The fox... Is dead? Unable to look away, I stare at it. It’s twisted. A limp patchwork pelt over the idea of a body. As though a child’s drawing were forced into reality. It was dead. It had been for some time. There were no feathers here. The breeze stills. The smell comes back with a vengeance. The only thing stopping me heaving is the prickle running down my spine. Buster pants behind me. Hot, rancid breath beats against my ear. I’m not sitting down. Don’t turn around. My shadow is swallowed by another. Don’t turn around. Buster is a terrible guard dog. He never even barked when the chickens disappeared.

#writing #my story #original story #stand alone #creepy #animal death #ask to tag #writblr #short story

15 notes · View notes

themurphyzone · 7 years

Text

Ocelot’s Heart Ch 3

Sorry for late update I had tests and an obsession with One Piece.

Ch 3: The Path

Heinz woke up to an ocelot on his chest. Since he couldn’t move without disturbing her, he just accepted his temporary status as a living pillow. Olivia seemed even tinier when she was asleep, curled up into a golden ball with whiskers and spots.

“How much longer?” he asked Perry.

Perry made a zero with his thumb and index finger.

“Wait, we’re here already?” Heinz said in surprise. The flight had gone by so quickly. “I think this is the first time I haven’t gotten leg cramps from sitting so long on a flight. I’m just gonna scoot out from under you....”

But Olivia wasn’t having it. She growled in her sleep, wrapping her paws around Heinz’s arm to prevent him from escaping.

It took Heinz and Perry ten minutes to ease her off enough so Heinz could stand up.

“Could be worse. I could’ve had a tiger on top of me,” Heinz said. “Or you could’ve winded up a prey item. Speaking of which, we’d better sort that out so the ocelots don’t try to eat you. I mean, platypi and ocelots don’t even have the same habitat naturally so I don’t know if you’d even be appetizing to them.”

Perry crossed his arms.

“Look, I know you can defend yourself just fine, but they could still mistake you for a chew toy.” Then he caught a glimpse of a hideous brown cloak that hung on a hook by the door. “Whoa. That is a really ugly shade of brown. Please tell me I don’t have to wear that. That looks like the sort of thing you’d wear to a funeral around here.”

Perry pointed out the window, and Heinz caught a glimpse of the boundary between the village and the forest.

He sighed, grudgingly accepting his fate. “Fine, but only so people don’t freak out over an ocelot in their midst.”

I’m not a cub anymore, Olivia growled. OWCA agent, remember? I don’t need to be carried.

Perry folded his arms, giving her a stern look.

It’s just a little walk! I can be sneaky! Olivia protested.

“Perry the Platypus is right,” Heinz scratched her ears to calm her down, which seemed to be working. “You need to get in here so the villagers don’t see you around their houses. It’ll only be for a few minutes. You can come out once we’re in the forest.”

Still grumbling, Olivia finally allowed herself to be hidden in the folds of the cloak. She didn’t weigh much more than a child. Heinz wrapped his arms around her belly, adjusting his grip so she would be more comfortable. She could peek out of the cloak, but prying eyes wouldn’t be able to see in.

As they exited the aircraft, Heinz tried not to think back to his biological mother, who owned a similar traveling cloak to the one he currently wore. She always put the hood up when she was disappointed in him. He learned early on that he was doing something wrong if her eyes were hidden within the darkness of the cloak.

In hindsight, it happened a lot.

Once the aircraft was disguised with a cloaking device, they set off for the forest. Heinz vaguely recognized the dirt path that led to the deeper parts of the woods, where all kinds of magical creatures were rumored to live.

“We should make it clear that you’re not gonna be Platypus a la carte,” Heinz mused. “After the Agent T incident, you’d think OWCA would be more careful where they send their animals.”

Who’s Agent T?

“Timmy the Turkey, or something like that,” Heinz said. “He was eaten by his nemesis on Thanksgiving Day. That’s a human holiday where you can be as gluttonous as you want and nobody will judge you for it. Kind of a gruesome way to go out though.”

Perry was equally grossed out.

Olivia stiffened. If my nemesis tries anything like that on me, I’m crushing their bones until they’re nothing but dust.

“Yeah, he was the first on LOVEMUFFIN’s ban list,” Heinz muttered. There was very little the members of LOVEMUFFIN agreed upon, but the ban forbidding Agent T’s nemesis from joining or setting foot in their meeting place was the exception.

Suddenly Olivia poked her head out of the cloak, scenting the air. Heinz pulled her in quickly, looking around to make sure nobody saw her. The only people he could see were three young boys from the village, but they were too engrossed in their game to pay attention to him.

I smell ocelot! Olivia protested. I want to see who it is! Lemme go!

Heinz felt a sharp prick on his hand, and he yelped in pain, pulling his hand out and dropping Olivia. The two small punctures bled slightly, but he was fine. Perry tried to catch Olivia when she dashed past him, but he only succeeded in pulling a few hairs from her tail.

Two of the three boys screamed as Olivia jumped into the middle of their group, snarling and hissing as she pushed a small kit behind her. The kit shook uncontrollably, covering its head with its tiny paws.

The third boy tauntingly waved a long, spindly stick in front of Olivia’s face. She growled at him too, but winced when the stick hit her face. Perry walked up to them and broke the makeshift weapon with a sharp snap, pointing angrily at the houses.

The boy only laughed. “Jeez, what’s with all these dumb animals today?”

“Take it from me,” Heinz said as he gently scooped up the shivering kit. “These two fight crime for a living, and they can make it hurt. You’ll be going to bed with an aching back if you try anything.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” the boy snapped. “My father is the village leader! He’ll be hearing about this!”

He dragged his companions away, his nose high in the air. They cast mutinous glares at Heinz, Perry, and the two ocelots.

Human! The kit he held shrieked.

Wait! This human’s okay! You heard the stories about Uncle Heinz! Olivia purred and rubbed against his leg to show that he wasn’t an enemy. This is him! And Perry the Platypus is his...um, former nemesis, I think. Uncle Heinz and Perry, this is Aunt Berry’s kit. His name’s Rowan.

Perry waved at Rowan, a tiny smile on his bill.

Rowan relaxed, a sigh escaping him. Thanks. Those humans back there scared me.

“Well, you’re safe now,” Heinz shrugged. “Least we got here in time. Bullies in Drusselstein can be really brutal.”

Rowan, what were you doing near the village? Olivia’s ears flicked as she tried to catch every sound, worried they were in danger. You should be close to Aunt Berry!

I just wanted to give Meema something to eat, Rowan protested.

Olivia growled at him. You haven’t been taught how to hunt yet! And you almost got hurt! Please don’t stray from the others, okay?

Rowan nodded meekly. I really missed you. Thorn and Willow aren’t fun to play with. At all.

They’re hunters. They need to find as much as they can, Olivia replied.

Heinz ran his thumb against Rowan’s side to calm him down, realizing he could easily trace the outline of the kit’s ribs without looking. That was strange. The ocelots usually ate well. Sometimes even better than the humans. And if there wasn’t enough prey to fill every belly, the parents would give up their share to the kits.

Despite the claims his human parents made when he returned to the village, Heinz never recalled being malnourished with the ocelots.

He set Rowan down. The kit circled Perry, sniffing him closely and batting at his tail. You’re the weirdest duck I’ve ever seen, Rowan told him. Perry shrugged, a tiny smile gracing his bill.

Olivia giggled. You’re so silly! Perry’s a platypus, not a duck!

Rowan scowled at her. I’m not silly! Look, he’s got webbed feet and a beak! Obviously a duck!

“Hate to burst your bubble, but he really is a platy-” A flat tail slapped against his mouth, preventing him from speaking. Perry held a finger up. Okay, he had a point. Olivia and Rowan’s argument over Perry’s species was pretty amusing.

He had to admit, it made good background noise while they trekked through the dead undergrowth. The trees were just as gnarled and twisted as ever, devoid of leaves or any sign of life. Olivia and Rowan veered off the main path typically used by hunters and merchants, the only people who had a reason to be this deep in the forest.

Then he spotted an old, familiar tree by the large twisted knot near the bottom branches. “Hey, hold on you two!” Heinz called. Olivia and Rowan turned around. “I wanna show you something!” Perry looked at him curiously. “You too, Perry the Platypus. You’ve never been here before, and I never managed to find a way to fit this into a backstory for a scheme.”

Everyone followed him to the old tree. Heinz frowned at the moss that completely covered the base and thick roots. “Well, if the moss wasn’t here I could show you the small cove I used when I got disowned. Your Meema found me here. I scared her good too. She was expecting a mouse, I think.”

Rowan giggled. Meema’s funny when she gets scared. Her fur gets all poofy.

Please don’t try anything, Olivia groaned. No need to make the scolding worse.

It was almost comical, being surrounded by living beings who liked his company and listened to everything he said no matter how trivial. His younger self would’ve found the entire thing surreal, that’s for sure. But now, it was flipped. He had a company that consisted of Vanessa and non-humans that were often more human than real humans. The feeling of searching for something, though he had no idea what he was looking for, was part of the lifetime that seemed so far away.

A small hand pushed into his palm. A reminder of what he had now. Not much, but it was enough. And he didn’t mind it staying that way.

Olivia and Rowan walked on ahead, pausing every few steps to make sure Heinz and Perry were following them.

“I got a little lost in thought back there,” Heinz admitted sheepishly. “Thanks.”

Perry squeezed his fingers just a little tighter.

#ocelot's heart #heinz doofenshmirtz #perry the platypus #ocelot family #phineas and ferb

11 notes · View notes

wolveswithhats · 7 years

Text

For WIP Week

Abandoned idea from a few years ago, a melding of two of my favorite things, Buffy and Portal! Of the idea that the Initiative ships off some of its demons to Aperture. Because....reasons. Spike-centric (or, well, Spike-exclusive ). Very sloppy. Outline-quality, lots of meandering, unfinished, unpolished concepts. Riddled with editing notes. I didn’t even bother with capitalization. Still, there’s some fun stuff in here.

(I don’t care if anyone reblogs, just don’t put it on any of the aggregators, please. This is too rough drafty and embarrassing to be filed away as Content Worth Looking At.)

(captured by initiative again. s4 – s5. initiative shutting down, cementing off. exterminate all demons. riley pulls some strings to have spike shipped off instead of staked. the smallest of favors. i'm still on team riley-isn't-a-total-douchebag. he's aight.)

an hour later, spike and three of his ugliest friends are caged and carted into the back of a semi for a cross country drive across america's finest bypasses. through a hole in the wall watches steel and mortar slowly give off to rolling green-gold fields. teeny tiny farmsteads, clarkston and robin glen and with some disgust, notes the turnoff for a lake angelus, some thirty miles north of detroit.

(his initiative vamp neighbor, 90s grunge clothes, grunge name – trevor – fledge too young to drop game face.)

“christ, i heard about this place. some science lab in a salt mine underground. they say this place does weird experiments.”

met with deadpan, disbelieving stares, and a disgusted tsk from the blond lady-vamp, what's-her-face, something with calendars. april or may or half-past-eleven, day day day, sunday, right, that was it.

“they took my appendix, trevor.” sunday lifts her shirt, revealing a line of stitches, “for their mix-and-match potato head monster. what the hell is a frankenzombie going to do with a shriveled, century old organ? it doesn't even do anything. how is that not weird.”

“no man, I mean really, really weird. cross-dimensional travel, like stargate. bug people. turning your blood into gasoline.”

spike snorts. “I drive a '59 fireflite. gorgeous piece of machinery, but bollocks for mileage. single digits. could due for some petrol on tap.” sad, longing, separation anxiety. his desoto was 2200 miles away baking in the california sun. once he made his way back to the west coast, he'd find those military wankers for a dechipping, kill the whole lot of them, and piss on their corpses for good measure. then he'd book it to south america, away from scalpel-wielding lab jockeys, bouncy-haired slayers and the root of every major humiliation of his unlife over the past three years. bon-fucking-voyage.

ugly demon: “that's why you should switch to a hybrid. my prius gets great fuel economy.” how does a demon that big fit into a mid-size?

(ugly demon = horned, beastly. “your primitive human anatomy lacks the necessary mouthparts to vocalize my true name. what sort of creature only has one tongue? you may call me henrietta.”)

trevor is oblivious. “they were some respected science lab back in the sixties. now? when they're not making you test out their weird experimental products, they make you run through test courses, solve puzzles. and it's all orchestrated by this giant murderous robot. like HAL from space odyssey. once people go in, they're never heard from again. it's true. my cousin knew a guy who was there, he told me all about it.”

“if no one ever gets out, how the hell does your cousin know a guy, you stupid sod.”

trevor's fangs close with an audible click, and he sits sullen for the rest of the commute.

as it turns out, stupid sod and cousin-of-sod actually did know what they were talking about.

housed on the outskirts of a wheatfield, through a gated parking lot, innocuous brick building. on the loading dock, a hispanic man in blue work coveralls wheels a dolly into the back of the mac truck. looks at his living cargo with what spike considers to be an appalling lack of concern, considering the very blatant human trafficking unfolding before him.

“you're not the parts I ordered.” gruff texan drawl. yells to the front, “where are my chamber parts?”

driver swings around front, clutching a clipboard, hands it off. “friday, likely. this is your wednesday shipment.”

“these are people.” texas squints at array of annoyed, tired faces, takes in the gnarled brows, the shackles, and the powder blue scrubs, eyes finally settling on the barbed, hulking form of henrietta. “theoretically. why do I have a shipment of mangled faces, billy idol--”

“hey!”

“--and one-fifth of gwar? are we making a music video?”

the driver shrugs. “i just deliver. sign the thing.”

texas reads off the clipboard: “subject donation from sunnydale university. volunteers?”

“experimental lab rats,” trevor offers.

“prisoners,” spike corrects, growling. “this has got to be in violation of the...what's it? geneva convention. I feel unduly treated. I want an attorney. actual, not one of those 800-number infomercial suits. due my civil rights.”

texas blinks owlishly. “what civil rights? you're not even american.”

“i'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed to shit red, white and blue to not be accosted against my will.”

ignores bitching. “are you even human?” points at henrietta. “i don't think that's human.”

(“what multiverse are you lot from?”

“california.”

“huh. always had my suspicions.”)

he was hoping for an upgrade to trousers, denim, in a dark blue or black. maybe a pale wash if it had a grunge-enough look to it. what they gave him was a pair of coveralls in sunshiny bright incarceration orange, with lines of white piping tracing the seams and a stitching of black lettering across the breast pocket labeling him as HST0017. for fuck's sake.

“i'm not wearing this.”

“as soon as you pass through that emancipation grill, any unapproved paraphernalia is forfeit.”

“meaning what?”

“your current clothes will be emancipated. pffft! you could go naked, wouldn't be the first test streaker, but I gotta warn you, there's the acid pits, the gun turrets, and oh, the lasers. burns like a bitch, and that's not even touching the potential crotch-rotting radiation--”

“just give me the fucking jumpsuit.”

they surgically grafted a band of white metal to the back of his shins, where a long curved spring of steel could be notched, lifting his feet into a painful arch, weight balanced on his toes. he was suddenly that much more impressed with the slayer and her preference for fighting evil in teetering heels, which did wonders for making her teeny weeny hobbit legs look elegant but offered only a promise of scuffed heels and snapping ankles in grave dirt. angelus-grade torture, he decided, hobbling awkward and bird-like from one side of his little glass prison to the other.

he found the entire affair ludicrous, demeaning, and oh, stupid, until he witnessed another test subject slip on a slick of orange goo and nosedive off a platform, pancaking wetly across the tile in a display of hilarious cartoon physics. it was admittedly very, very funny, and funnier still watching jaded custodians squeegee up the red smear that used to be a person, but not something he was looking to experience himself first hand.

“you know, I can see the upside of not doing my best wile e. coyote impression,” he groused, “but you should really have these things in boot form.” shifting uncomfortably as the screws in his knees creaked, puckered and itched.

rick looks at him, surprised. “that's.....that's an idea. we'll take that into consideration.”

(aaaaaaand a jump to the P2 section. slightly better quality, a little less outline-ish. tho very stream-of-consciousness)

waking up with a dry mouth, mouth full of cotton, mouth full of fluffy biker beard, and where had that image come from? like all the moisture had been sucked from the room, stale recycled air like new car smell and musk. where is here? bed, desk, dinged up dresser, ceiling-mounted tv, blacked out and coated in dust. walls decorated with murals of snowy mountains and ski lodges, tacky thrift store oil paintings. the bed he's laying on has a threadbare blue hospital blanket, and a man-shaped crater pressed into the mattress, like a police chalk outline with serious gravity. motel room? UGLY motel room. there's no windows in the room, just slated blinds stretching the length of one wall.

can't move, groggy, wet limp noodle muscles, the dead waking. stares down the length of his body. dressed like a petrol station attendant, orange jumpsuit rolled mid-shin, legs bony and corpse-white. wow, seriously overdue for a date with mr. sunshine.

figure out the who the what and the why after he quenched this sahara on his tongue. room to the left of the bed, loo, good, yes. force himself to move, up and over, muscles clenching in rebellion, stumble over with white white legs buckling like a newborn deer. sink, yes, water churned and choked god why is it taking so long finally sputters out, drinks and drinks tinny tap water until he feels like he's going to burst. sates the fire in his mouth but not the thirst, the hunger, god what is that?

looks up in the dark of the bathroom into the mirror, and sees nothing, just dingy white tile where his face should be. huh. well that's just... different. it's unnatural, he knows, because hello, does still remember how a mirror works, even if he can't remember much of anything else. experiments, lifts the crusty dry slab of soap and watches its reflection bob phantom-like in mid-air. right, so, the mirror isn't broken, just him. but it doesn't feel wrong, like somehow he's just used to staring at empty space in the mirror.

what the hell is he?

sits back on the bed, hands clenching knees.

beyond the doorway, he expects a hallway, maybe, decked out in the same mottled 70s look his room is themed, or a carpark dotted with out of state license plates and neglected marquee signage. but there's no cars, no buildings, no outside. just a massive storehouse, stretching up and out beyond what he can see, dimly lit by flickering yellow halogen. snaking lines of track above his head following the catwalk he's standing on, weaving between towers of grafted metal and grey-green storage units stacked like legos. huge. massive. his own room was in a storage box, labeled next to the door.

test subject packed on 11/17/1999 EXP: indefinite ADT SLM M SHRT

short? was he short? well sure maybe by comparison of the super humongous warehouse he was stored in. not a very helpful selection of information, most of which he had already established. a picture would be helpful. a name. a passport. a blockbuster rewards card. literally any brand of identity.

goes back in, shuffling about, looking for something he's not aware of yet. there's a pad of paper in the desk and a cheap ballpoint pen. picks up the pen, but it feels awkward and childish gripped in his hand. moment of panic that he's illiterate, until he swaps the pen to his left. it feels much more natural.

--mirror challenged. am a ghost? --left-handed. evil ghost? --posh penmanship though --orange is not my color --i could do for a tan

pauses thoughtfully.

--who the fuck am i

sound of screeching metal and cracking drywall, urban destruction at its finest. implied shortness a sudden and unexpected gift as something ghosts over his head, ruffling his hair, clipped english accent as a storage crate cranes above him: “--ten thousand flippin' vegetables--” carves a winding trail of destruction as it tears through crates and cables and catwalks before finally coming to an explosive stop, half buried in the far wall.

his own crate tips, agonizingly slow with groaning whale song of careening metal, before momentum and gravity takes it for its own. crash bang boom, gaudy motel mountain ski lodge avalanches into another stack of crates, creating a domino effect. check-out achieved, in more ways than one. leaves him stranded on a creaking catwalk with no more than an ugly jumpsuit, a pad of paper, and more questions then before. he left the pen on the bed. bugger.

picks a direction and walks. periodically checks crates. like his own, all decked out like vintage motels, oil crusted murals and tacky faux-wood paneling. and on every bed is a person. all coated in a fine layer of dust, gray-skin, perfectly preserved but very, very dead. room after room. men, women, children. old young tall short fat skinny. a varied collection of corpses lined up like sleeping porcelain dolls. flippin' vegetables, indeed.

turns a corner and comes face-to-cornea with a massive metal eyeball. yells in surprise. the eyeball screams, then rears back on the rail suspending it. in its backwards attempt at escape, cracks into a closed door where the rail vanishes, and stirs woozily on its axis.

“what's that then. you alright?” he asks, cringing even as he speaks. it feels more obligate social politeness than actual concern; he honestly could not give one flying fuck about its condition. beyond that, asking a metal eyeball of its well-being seems ridiculous, even in light of this entire weird situation, but it—he—chuckles nervously, looking all at once embarrassed and grateful for the inquiry. an impressive emotive feat, considering he's lacking the other 95% of his face.

“sorry, sorry! you startled me! wasn't expecting a human to come waltzing out of nowhere, considering all of them are dead. corpses usually aren't so ambulatory.” the glowing iris slits to a suspicious blue line. “though in your particular case--”

“you're bristonian,” he says, realization dawning.

“no,” the eyeball chided slowly, with a patronizing squint, “i'm a robot.”

“your accent. you talk like you're from bristol. bristonian.” stubbornly. not getting into an argument with a fucking metal orb. “i heard you speak before, back in that warehouse. you're the one who almost ran me down with a crane. who taught you to drive, mr. magoo?”

“hey now! how about some leeway? bit of a limb deficiency here.” the robot waggles its handlebars in demonstration. “i haven't exactly mastered the art of ten-and-two.” sudden realization: “say, you talk like me! i'd say we came from the same development wing, but that's unlikely, you being organic and all that.”

did he now? that hadn't even occurred to him.

he weighs the language on his tongue, the thoughts in his head, parsing through words, foods, spellings, culture. carparks and car boots, wheatabix, man-u, european craft beers, and a strange smug superiority over chirpy, obnoxious californian twang. and of course, a beautiful array of curse words rolling fluid off his tongue. “bloody hell, sodding, blimey, shagging, knickers, bollocks – oh god, you're right, i'm english too.”

he was a londoner, his accent said as much, though with a sort of languid, unpolished quality that came from excessive travel and extended exile from the mother country. he hadn't been home for a long time. expat? study abroad? he didn't feel like a student, well past adolescence, but he didn't feel like much at all, beyond hopelessly confused.

#lmao this is really bad #so so sloppy #it was fun though #not gonna tag it because god no #and yeah that's a cameo by my headcanon rick #LOVE YOU BRO #tuesday night frights #in defiance of progress #wolves writes #or in this case: wolves outlines #long post

4 notes · View notes

atelier-bagur · 7 years

Text

Silence and Blood

Hey guys! Me and @shiitaketissues (who deserves a BIG Thank You!) wrote a spoopy little story based on the world of Beyond the Western Deep. The story takes place during the years of the great war in the Four Kingdoms, in an alternate universe where monsters and magic exists as well as a human race called the Nadir. It deals with an Ermehn alchemist named Bagúr, a infamous witch who serves as Sratha, the Ermehn War Lord’s right hand man.

In this world, Dunians have the power to conjure magic, with each race catering to certain specific schools. The Nadir for example are the only ones within this world to use “spirit magic”. Bagúr however, is the only non-Nadir who learned how to wield this power....this tale explains how...

Kalik was too nosy for his own good. Even Rasha, his favorite cousin, thought so. “Listen,” she said, hefting her knife. “Stealing supplies from a Canid camp and cutting off Granduncle’s whiskers was one thing, but this is another. Nosy Ermehn end up dead.” But Kalik was the type of Ermehn who felt an itch in the bottom of his feet when he smelled a secret, an itch that crawled up his hide and pricked him every which way until he had weaseled into a truth, and no amount of advice would keep him from it. He had his teeth and his knife. No one needed anything else for secret-seeking.

It was on the cusp of autumn that Sratha’s army slaughtered a tribe of Halvs for helping some Canid. The group—all elders, parents, and children—was dead within in a day. Their bodies lay scattered around their tents and huts. Several of them slumped halfway out of their tents. None of them had been able to run. Kalik almost felt pity for their strange, smooth skin and their nonexistent muzzles. No wonder they wore so many clothes, he thought. They could never face the cold otherwise. He and Rasha hung back from the scattered bodies when their alchemist, Bagúr, approached an old chieftain: the last of the Nanza tribe left.

Bagúr studied the old man’s face. Kalik thought the old man looked ready to spit on him. The splotch of blood on his temple did nothing to hide his furrowed brows of disgust. He clutched his cane with gnarled hands, bent with the knowledge of being the last one left. Charms hung around his wrinkled neck. The circle of weapons pointed at the old man grew sharper in the fading light.

Bagúr smiled. It was a polite smile, almost. He leaned down, hands on his knees, to look the old man in the face. The amber clasp on his cloak and the beads on his necklace rattled against the hollow of his collar. His teeth were as polished as his jewelry.

“If those Canid hadn’t come here,” he said, “we probably would've left you Halvs all alone.”

The old man hunched lower. Kalik spotted a tremor in his veiny hands. Nadirians of any tribe hated being called Halvs. Still, he remained silent. Bagúr, being Bagúr, gave him a teasing look that could draw blood. His tail swished behind him.

“Still with the silent act?” Bagúr said. “It’s a shame it came to this. You know, your lot could have lived a little longer if you hadn’t stuck to old traditions and saved yourselves.” He straightened up, disgust tightening the corners of his mouth. “We’re done here. Kalik, Rasha: take him to the camp. He’s our mandatory guest. The rest of you, clean this mess up. Halvs are bad enough when they’re not cluttering our land.”

With that, the alchemist padded back towards the woods. The Ermehn murmured. As Kalik and Rasha escorted the old man out, the rest of the Ermehn warriors began piling bodies on the edge of the sticky glade. Kalik found himself watching Bagúr’s disappearing back as much as their prisoner. An evening breeze nipped at their faces. The old man shuddered. His bare brown skin was already breaking out in goosebumps. Rasha gave Kalik a look. Can you believe this? He’s already cold.

How strange Halvs were, with their crescent trimmed claws and too-long manes that only clung to their heads. In fascination, Kalik watched the chieftain—now a lone old man—shiver in the autumn twilight. The itch sparked in Kalik’s feet. He knew the rumors behind Bagúr’s powers. He knew the ones about their alchemist somehow using Halv magic, too. Bagúr did not need anything from anyone. What, Kalik thought, could he possibly want from an old man?

It was a stupid plan so Rasha refused to join the stakeout. She did not want to know what their commander was up to. Kalik didn’t begrudge her too much. It was not her fault that only one of them could be the bravest cousin. To spare himself a slap, he didn’t tell her that. Kalik settled down in one of the fortress’ many nooks. There was an armory beside the main hall that he was fond of. If he pressed his slinky back against its corner just right, he could smell spiderwebs and dried mud making the scent of home. He could also peer through a knothole into the small main hall. If anyone was going anywhere, he would see them. Night settled onto the fortress. It pressed its shadows into every crook and crack of the fort. A chill sunk into the stone floor. Kalik curled close to himself to stay warm. Outside, those in their tents were doing the same thing. Darkness swallowed the room around him.

It was in the middle of the night, when the floor was coldest and the dull moon was dullest, and no one but the restless were up, that Kalik heard footsteps. He peered through the knothole. Bagúr walked down the hall. His cloak gave the faintest swish against the floor. As Kalik watched, Bagúr passed the door to the dungeon. Kalik frowned. Where was he going? The main door creaked. Dusty moonlight spilled into the hall. In seconds, the alchemist slipped outside.

Kalik scrambled down the hall. He squeezed through the door without missing a breath. Outside the fort, the waning moon cast its light against the forest. Sheets of white broke against the fort’s rocks and the sides of tents. Bagúr was already entering the forest.

Was it a bad idea, to follow their alchemist commander into the woods? Probably. Kalik followed him anyway. Bad ideas were untested good ones until they drew blood. Kalik, uninjured, decided to continue moving forward. Bagúr was not too hard to track. His cloak outlined his shape in the broken moonlight. The shriveling conifers around them made a snug, sharp forest. Kalik wound around loop after twisty loop as he trailed his quarry into the woods. They lost the stars to clearer skies. Owls screamed in the murk.

Kalik’s belly scraped along some of the tight, low paths they snuck along. The forest floor smelled of glacier water. No ermehn had been here for a long time. Kalik sniffed. Had someone left a slain bird out here? The stench of rot was soft but present. It snuck beneath the glacier water smell like dirt beneath Kalik’s claws. The longer he walked, the stronger the rotten smell grew. It reminded Kalik of the maggoty grouse he had found as a child. Rasha had been with him, then. He wished she was here now.

Kalik stopped when a twig snapped beneath his foot. Bagur had vanished. Kalik swore. How had he lost track of him? One moment the alchemist had been there, the other he was gone. The empty path in front of him threaded deeper into the woods. Kalik restrained his panic. If he didn’t turn around he could only move forward. He did not know where he was going, or what turns to take when he found them. It was too late to go back now. Kalik forged forward. His footfalls sounded incredibly loud to himself. No matter how far he walked, lost and alone, he found no other sounds of life.

Wind hissed in his ear. Kalik found his teeth chattering. He bit his lip, stopping himself. What was wrong with him? It was too early in the season for this. He was no furless Halv. Still, the cold air raked his belly like so many claws. The wind tasted of winter. Kalik found himself hunching to avoid it. His whiskers quivered. The way the wind broke around the trees in hollow gasps made it shrill, almost melancholy. Kalik did not want to hear its whispering.

The forest thinned. Patches of the starless sky shone on them. An undercurrent of red tinged the night. It was not dawn’s blush. The red here was the red of a stomped-on egg that had been close to hatching. Kalik finally straightened up. He started when he saw the path ahead. It swept around the side of a familiar fallen log. This was the same road he and Rasha had stalked down for the camp ambush. The glade of fallen Halvs lay up ahead. Bunches of shimmery light, stars wrapped up in beetle shells, floated inside the glade. They drifted behind trees and the remains of tents, toying with Kalik’s eyes. If Bagúr was here, why? Kalik realized his heart was pounding. The smell of rotten flesh overpowered his nose.

Curiosity won out over fear. Kalik crept towards the glade. He hid behind the same hut where a family of three had died not a day ago. Arborglyphs oozed on the sides of trees. Kalik did not know their shapes. Crunching noises emitted from the center of the glade. If Kalik leaned over, he could spy an edge of the body pile, surrounded by what appears to be little rock effigies. Their shapes carved a border against the ugly sight. Kalik could not see anything else. The crunching noises continued. A hand landed among the stones. Its fingers reached at nothing. Kalik slowly walked around the hut’s side and into the glade.

The heap of dead Nanza tribe members stared at him. Their limbs stuck out from the pile at all angles. Blood soaked the ground around them. Strange rock effigies were scattered around the glade, and in the middle of the them danced Bagúr. Gore dyed his chin. With every swaying step he took, he tore a limb or hunk of meat from a fallen Halv, feasting on their corpses. Marrow and skin peeled beneath his teeth. Flesh tore; bones broke. Flickering blue orbs swayed around him in the reddened night sky. They hummed to his frenzied motions. Bagúr twirled and pranced to a horrible music that only he could hear; after he snatched one hand and devoured it, fingers breaking in his jaws, he was already lunging for another body, his cape twirling. He blended with the red sky before he twisted his waist, breaking into his own reality. No pupils marred his eyes. Death’s stench swallowed everything.

It was a monstrous display, but Kalik could not look away. His stomach heaved. Shock bound him to the place he stood, trembling, as all the while his body screamed run, run, run. He watched his commander cavort through the ritual like a hawk tearing into grouse nestlings. A dawning realization melded with his horror. This grotesque ritual was the price his alchemist—this witch—paid to wield the power of the halvs. No Ermehn, no Dunian, could hold the blessings of spirits in their bodies naturally. But were they to consume Halv flesh, drink their blood, and claim part of their being, then they stole magic from the very corpse that owned it.

Kalik was too transfixed to move. When he saw the madman reach towards a half-gutted chest, his claws sinking into a liver, it was enough. Kalik ripped himself away. His legs shook as he tried not to be sick. Every inch of his fur was on end. Kalik tore around the corner of the hut. With a thump, he slammed into the old man’s chest.

One eye was gone. A raw crater dented the old man’s face instead. His windpipe slumped out of his throat, scored with teeth marks. Deep scratches cleaved his collar. Glazed eyes gazed forward at nothing. A half-eaten hand grabbed at Kalik. Shattered bone scraped his arm. In the woods behind him stood countless more rotten, hollow-eyed corpses, balefully staring at Kalik from behind trees. They were silent and still even as the old man grasped Kalik’s arm.

Kalik swallowed a scream. He lashed out at the old man, kicking at him, tearing his face with his claws. The old man stumbled back. Kalik fled into the woods. The world blurred around him. A branch tore his kilt. The road spiraled into broken fragments that went nowhere. Kalik tripped, rolling down a short hill. In moments he was up again, ignoring the taste of copper on his tongue and the rip in his ear. He fled forward into nowhere. All the while, he heard the garbled sound of everyone in the Nanza village screaming at once, and pictured the flash of stained fangs.

The next morning, the alchemist was early to breakfast. He cheerily greeted everyone at the table before seating himself. Rasha could not find her cousin. She searched and searched until she found him curled in the corner of their armory.

“Kalik, what’s wrong?” she said. Rasha knelt next to him, her bracelets jangling. “What did you see?”

Kalik said nothing. He peered out a knothole in the wall before sinking back into his corner. Despite Rasha’s coaxing he would not go to breakfast. He only ate when she told him their alchemist was gone.

Over time, Kalik recovered. But from then on he was thin and quiet. His gaze was nervous, always focused on something in the corner of his eye, and his whiskers had gone white. He no longer adventured with his cousin. Whatever happened in the woods, Rasha said to their nieces, changed him for the rest of his life. And if they ever woke up one autumn night, and saw Bagúr the witch sneaking out into the woods, they would be wise not to follow him.

#shiitaketissues #Halloween #fan fiction #fan art #Beyond the Western Deep #War of the Fallen Era #AU #Bagur #spoopy #Saraa you're wonderful this turned out so good :D #totally ripped off Fire Emblem Fates with that story title and I dont regret it

33 notes · View notes

wallkickswillwork · 5 years

Text

The Dark

this is my poem about the dark demons come and i give them hell i go a-walking in the park and i can know them by the smell they look like dudes from star wars films they make annoying faces using my ultimate judo chop i put them in their places their dicks are gnarled like cat cock they sleep in piles of mud id ask them to play metroid but they cant understand the HUD they like to eat the garbage i think it tastes okay id ask to sleep with the incubus but it turns out, im not gay (note: this is one of those poems where the speaker isnt the author)

My Phone this is my poem about my phone i browse porn on it constantly and such if i told you some of the things ive seen you would not like me much ive seen the fists of fury i found them on the wired ive seen things that were underripe some of them were expired i watched the ugly i watched the beautiful i watched the ordinary and ate tuna fish this is my poem about my phone ta tum ta tum ta tum this is a poem it is okay im craving spiced rum i take it up the bum (not yet sadly) come on friend, dont be glum

Candlewick (?) hello my name is candlewick im a member of the choir of the tainted ghosts we are host to men who died in violent combat and who perished while sailing ships off the coasts this poem sucks ha ha ha

Dracula hello my name is dracula i smoke weed the end (copyright harmony zone)

Vlad The Impaler hello my name is vlad vlad the impaler i thought my rhymes were decent though you know what? im a failure i died in this rap battle my face was torn to shreds i stole lyrics from beastie boys and let it go to my head now im in the soil craving a burrito now im in the dirt nice, to, meet you

Snoop Dogg here lies snoop i smoked weed all the time i was famous, but got sent straight to hell because of my life of crime

bath bathing bath bath bath warm water and on my phone bathing in this bath

mcdonalds mcdonalds hamburger hungry hungry hungrykins burger mcdonalds

feast feast feast hungry feast where is all the food my son give me all your food

Rip Van Winkle hello my name is rip van winkle i was rode out of town on a rail i won a fuck ton at bowling balls but as a son i was a fail son

Bird Prelude there is a bird that lives here i see it every noon im dwelling in the darkness im playing toys in my room im eaten by the beast im punished by the bear im haunted by the homies and i just dont care The Bird In My Room sometimes people say to me "what do you do in your room?" and i tell them "there is a bird that lives in my room it crouches in the midnight gloom it doesnt make a sound it murmurs round and gazes in my eyes its claws the size of knives its beak like rumpled sock stalking like a hawk making a noise like a grandfather clock a behemoth searching for its dinner gobble you up like satans sinners he gazes into the night he shrieks the cursed beak the bird the being of the owl each night, i bludgeon him with a trowel i make friends with the shadow people hanging in the shale they teach me of the secrets dangling in the veil i eat the syrup of the mind that flowers in the void i thought it would be kinky but it just makes me destroyed i wander through the ancient halls beyond the cursed dome shambling through ancient corridors i roast a fucking bone i bury sins and secretudes within the mouldering loam and then i get bored and go home each night i dwell in pits, i creep the valley crags my friends are major sexy but were all a bunch of fags devils emerge from darkness and threaten me with spikes at times like this i really wish id been friends with cooler dykes they gnash their teeth they drink the blood and bite their upper lip aliens shoot me with laser beams and take me aboard their ship we wander the empty cosmos searching for limitless youth it makes us five years old again, its not exactly cute im hit with waves of emptiness, silently slinking the sand there is a parade down by the beach by an elvish marching band i hang out and watch i take a look at my watch the ocean is full of dolphins... Bird In My Room 2 there is a bird in my room its not a cute bird or a funny bird or a silly bird its... a scary bird the bird of talons night

#poetry #txt #text #general content warning #creative writing

0 notes

njcklenjart · 7 years

Text

a moment of apricity, 4/?

Chapter Title: vicissitude

Summary: Newt returns to school. Although, he’s a few years too late and in the wrong continent.

A/N: Ahhh, this is so late! I've been busy with life and whatnot! Thanks for @allscissorsallpaper for making me rewrite so much of this chapter- girl, I would’ve forgotten a lot of it if you didn’t ask about it!

Also on FF an AO3

First • Previous • Next

Out of all the courtyards Ilvermorny has to offer, there's only one Newt’s remotely interested in.

It's not the biggest, nor is it the grandest. It is a simple thing, a square piece of land located near the edge of the school. At its center, a large Snakewood tree.

Unlike the courtyards at Hogwarts, which are plain and mostly barren excluding a bench or two, Ilvermorny makes even the smallest garden look like a landscaping masterpiece, bursting with color and different species of plants. But, where the rest of the courtyard is impeccable and appealing, the tree is not. It looks to have never been pruned, its branches just as gnarled and thick as its roots, breaking out of the stone path and spreading out to intertwine with the neighboring plants. With its flaking bark and ugly burls at its base, it reminds Newt of a senior outliving the younger generation out of spite.

Despite the oddity of the Snakewood, it's not the sole reason he's interested with this courtyard. Rather, it's the creature that resides in it.

He's learned that the Pukwudgies are less submissive and subservient than house elves, grouchy to a touch past extreme. They take care of the school, somehow popping up right when needed, but rarely stay long enough to chat. Not since his first day at Ilvermorny has he spoken with one and ask about the myths that surround their species, but, within this courtyard, he's found one that keeps to a schedule without fault.

Its hair is peppered, dominatingly white around its ears, and its skin looks to be pulled so tight every angle on its face is exaggerated tenfold. Like the rest Newt’s seen, it also wears breeches, only it has a sash of animal skin doubled over it.

He walks up beside it. “Hello.”

It doesn’t respond, ignoring him in favor of magicking the snow away from the path surrounding the tree, hands orchestrating an imaginary symphony with ever slow flick of the wrist. From there it shuffles away to the hedges, trimming them with a snap of its fingers.

Newt follows, undeterred. “I always see you here tending to the tree or shining the founder statues.”

Still, the Pukwudgie doesn't respond. It leaves him to walk around the tree, peering up at the branches with an analytical stare. Newt follows its line of sight and spots a nest of Woodpeckers. It mutters to itself; another snap and the nest gently floats down and into the Pukwudgie’s bony hands, who then nestles it into the quills of its hair. The baby birds trill at Newt, begging for food he doesn’t have.

As the Pukwudgie goes on with its chores, Newt steps closer to the Snakewood and the simple plaque at its base. A quick read of the words tell of the good and bad of Salazar Slytherin and Newt wonders about the history behind it. No doubt it's merely a small piece of a bigger story.

He knows a bit about Ilvermorny’s history, the basic story of its founder, the rest easily read from the many books the library has to offer about this particular subject. Escaping England, surviving in pre-colonial American wilderness, building a school from the ground up, Isolt Sayre sounded just as astounding as the Hogwarts founders.

“Incredible woman.” He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but there it goes, following the breeze and brushing up against hard bark.

“She was,” comes the gruff voice.

Newt startles. The Pukwudgie stands to his right, hands in its pockets. He could've sworn it was across the yard on his left, bending over a pair of shrubs that shivered and cooed under attention. “You knew her, did you?”

The creature scoffs and, wonders of wonder, continues to speak. “Impossible. I'd be over three centuries old. Don't you wizards know how to count time?”

Newt finds himself laughing. “I suppose we don't. We seem to lose it so often.”

The Pukwudgie grimaces and Newt supposes that is the closest to a smile it can express.

He presses on, taking the moment for what it is- an opportunity. He must tread lightly however, for he doesn’t want to scare off the only potential lead he has for his research. Start small, instructs a voice that sounds unnervingly like his brother’s, be casual. “I don't mean to pry, but I've been wondering… why haven't I heard of any students coming to your kind for advice. It seems to me that you lot have much to offer. You've lived here for countless years- know the school better than anyone else.”

The Pukwudgie takes the small talk in stride. “I think it has something to do with my less-than-welcoming attitude.”

“I find you attitude quite enjoyable- certainly better than what I've encountered.” Newt keeps his tone sprightly, habitually bobbing his head from side to side. The encounter has been dominantly light in spirit, far better than his usual conversations, and he intends to maintain it. “I generally don’t get on the best side of a lot of people, so this is a nice change of pace.”

“Do you think buttering me up with flattery will get you anywhere, Englishman?”

He pauses, mouth already half open with a wry comeback. “How do you know I'm English?”

“Your accent gives it away. None of the younger folk talk like you. You speak proper-like.”

“So you've heard it before. Might I ask from whom?”

“No.” A stilted silence and then, “An old friend.”

“An incredible woman?” he asks, lips quirking.

“Impossible,” it says.

Newt smiles. “Quite right.” Pickett squeaks in his pocket, reminding him of the time. He has an afternoon class in twenty minutes. “Well, I must be off. It's was nice meeting you, Mister…”

“You’ll not get a name from me, Englishman. Call me what you like.”

“Very well,” he says. He pretends to ponder, weighing his next move before continuing with a casual, “You seem like a William. Very strong, that name- quite a story behind it, too, I'd wager. How about it?”

“That is... acceptable,” the Pukwudgie says with another grimace-smile and, if Newt didn't know any better, he would label the sparkle in those dark eyes as amusement. He congratulates himself on doing his research before seeking the creature out, lucky that he had come across a description of a particular Pukwudgie that had been like a father to a lost, orphan girl and bared the name of one.

“Wonderful. Well, William, may I come and visit again? Tomorrow perhaps?”

“If you must.”

Newt feels his smile stretch impossibly wider. “Excellent. I shall bring tea and biscuits.”

Before he even has time to think of the proper way to make an exit, the Pukwudgie is turning on the stone, its quilled back to him. “Do me a favor, Englishman. Catch your Niffler before it ruins the gardens with its holes.”

“My Nif-” he starts, confused, until his brain catches on. He spins and, there in the shrubs, he spots the pilfering pest burrowing in the newly turned dirt.

As if sensing his stare, his Niffler freezes in its digging. Slowly, it turns to look at him and Newt can only raise his eyebrows. There's a pause between them and then-

It bolts.

Newt takes after it without hesitation.

“I'm sorry-” He stops, turns back to the courtyard to apologize, only to realize the Pkukwudgie is no longer there. He remains for a moment, shrugs, and sets off again.

There's no chance of losing his Niffler, not when it leaves a muddy track to follow, the corridors leading from the courtyard to the rest of the school only occupied by a few groups of students. They hastily step aside as he passes and Newt doesn't bother with their chatter, nor does he take the advice of the vocal portraits he passes by.

He inhales sharply when it takes a sharp turn into the Hall.

The number of students within are more than he’d like (study period, most likely), but he doesn’t have the time to have them evacuated from the Hall. Time is of essence if he’s to recapture his Niffler, especially one so evasive.

“Excuse me, pardon- so sorry-”

He dives between two benches and grabs at the Niffler. It dodges his hand and scurries further down the table, weaving between chairs and student’s legs. Newt follows. Girls and boys shout, jumping back and out of their seats- a good decision seeing as it gives Newt more room to move. The space beneath the tables are confining and he's not as small as he used to be, so he's at a disadvantage, but he's nothing if determined.

“Professor!”

“Sorry-” A few benches clatter when they fall and he bangs his shoulder, then his head, as he tries to maneuver in the cramped space.

“Hey! My necklace!”

There's a scream and Newt pops out from underneath the table just in time to see his Niffler crawl out of a girl's hair and fall into her bowl of berries. It pops out a richer blue than before and every student nearby keeps clear as it topples out.

“That’s quite enough,” he says as it slips a rather elegant spoon into its pouch. It's a cheeky fellow, he gives it that.

This continues down the aisle until there's no more table for his Niffler to run along. They've left an absolute mess in their wake, broken dishwares littering the ground alongside books and papers. Newt trips over someone's bag.

Instead of admitting defeat, it evades Newt once again and leaps to the curtains hanging by the door. It's aiming for another impossible escape, Newt’s sure of it; if it manages to get to the balcony, it’ll succeed and he'll lose it in the wilderness. It’s anyone’s guess when he would catch wind of it next- a few days, a fortnight, months?

That is why he climbs after it, he’ll reason later. One good thing from the hall being overly extravagant, the walls are decorated enough to give him stable holds to scale up them easily, then it's only a matter of jumping to the curtains.

“Come here, you little pest!” Students call up to him, some worried while others laugh. “It's fine- bugger, will you stop- everything's completely alright. There's absolutely nothing you need to worry about.”

The words are spoken too soon it seems, a loud riiiipppp sounding out just as he realizes his mistake. He falls with a yell, taking his Niffler and the drapes down with him.

There's a moment where he is shrouded in darkness, limbs flailing as he struggles to fight off the strangling grip of thick fabric. Tassels flick him in the face imperiously and the threads hiss angrily at the damage he's inadvertently done, but he persists, popping out of the mess and breathing sweet freedom once again.

His Niffler takes one look at him and makes a break for itself towards a table on the opposite side of the Hall. The curtains try to pull him down, but Newt escapes and throws himself back into the chase.

Having Dougal within his case for as long as he has has made Newt more than proficient at capturing the notorious escapees that reside his case. “Accio!” A bowl flies into his hand even as he slashes his wand forward and up.

The far end of the table bends upward, curling like the beginnings of roll. The students sitting there are caught by surprise and slip from their seats, as does his Niffler. Perfect.

He slams the bowl down, trapping the little bugger. It begins to slip through the infinitesimal space between the rim and wood as Newt knew it would and he grabs the scruff of its neck before it can escape again.

“How many time do I have to tell you? Paws off what’s not yours.”

The little creature struggles to break free, but he’s having none of it. He empties its pouch, shaking for good measure. Coins rain down, silver and gold clinking into a pile on the floor, spoons, watches, lockets, pens, even some sickles and knuts among the hoard. American currency, muggle and wizard, is still confusing to Newt, but he assumes that what he has at his feet is a quite the amount if he goes by the gasps of the students.

By the end of it, he has a glittering pile that reaches his calves and a mess of a hall. His Niffler flails in his hands, reaching longingly for the treasure.

“No,” he says, uncurling the table and setting the benches back where they belong. The rest of the hall is set back into order with a flick of his wand, ripped curtains and all. “Repario.”

Just as he's debating what spell to use to return the stolen item he hears a pointed cough. The Hall grows quiet and Newt turns.

Ms. Goldstein frowns from the double doors, unhappy.

“Bugger,” he mutters to himself.

Newt shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable.

Ms. Goldstein side-eyes him, arms crossed and oozing judgement. She'd wordlessly led him from the hall, military march and all, through the parts of the school Newt's less acquainted with. A haggle of students had watch the walk of shame in progress, thankfully skipping out of sight with a single look from his personal drill sergeant.

Eventually, he had been led to a decently sized room; along its walls were framed certificates and rules of the school, meticulously positioned to better enunciate the polished trophies and medals on display in the long glass cabinets. At the center, a large, spiral staircase that had rotated at a slow, constant pace, rising up to disappear in the artificial night sky that made up the room’s ceiling. It had branched off as it climbed, smaller staircases reaching out to the walls and sweeping past the dozens of doorways that lined along each of the staggering levels. Newt had craned his neck to view the underside of the rumbling stone as Ms. Goldstein pushed him along, fascinated, wondering how he’d managed to go so long without ever stepping foot in the room before. She didn't slow, giving him no time to fully take in the sight, ushering him along to a door at ground level.

Through there they had emerged to a familiar corridor, at its end a door where they now stood. Engraved on the door of the Headmistress’s office, the body of a rearing Griffin, proud and powerful.

“Blatherskite,” Ms. Goldstein tells the creature. The Griffin eyes them both haughtily, but nonetheless bows its head, splitting along with the door to allow them entrance.

This isn't the first time Newt’s found himself in the Headmistress’s office, but the room seems larger and more foreboding than the few times he's visited. Large and circular, it's as grand as the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. Portraits of past headmasters lines the walls, dozing, beyond them a smaller entryway that leads to what Newt assumes is a personal library. Even the fireplace, with crackling flames and warm glow, isn't as calming as it once was.

Ms. Goldstein pushes him further into the room, getting the attention of the four people within. Newt recognizes Headmistress Peregrine, while the other three are unfamiliar to him, but from their dress he deduces that they must be aurors sent from MACUSA.

Growing up with Theseus has taught Newt the difference between a subordinate and a leader, the presence and stance of a person enough to tell where they belonged and what levels of authority they resided in, and, just as his brother was a leader, so was the auror closest to the Headmistress. The man, dressed in a fitted ensemble and an undercut, stared at Newt with a blank expression that has him suddenly reminded of the “kill on sight” protocol for magical creatures in America. His stomach rolls in apprehension.

Headmistress Peregrine sets down her papers, her expression enough to tell Newt that she’s already aware of what's happened. “Will you leave us, Tina?”

Ms. Goldstein nods and, with a final stare at Newt, leaves the room.

“Anything else, Headmistress?”

The voice comes from a Pukwudgie standing beside the ornate desk at which Headmistress Peregrine sits, the spikes of its hair barely seen over the sleek desk. Newt wonders how he didn't see it the moment he walked in.

“No. That will be all. Thank you, Clementine.”

The Pukwudgie nods and, without bidding the rest of the occupants farewell, walks past Newt without so much a glance (he spots an old-fashioned pipe, like the one his father used to smoke, tangled in its hair). He snaps back to attention when someone clears their throat.

“I take it you know why you're here, Mr. Scamander?”

“Yes.”

Headmistress Peregrine catches his glances at the other occupants, mainly at the man beside her. “Mr. Scamander, this is Mr. Graves. He is the head of our security while the aurors are stationed at Ilvermorny.”

The man inclines his head at her words. “I'm here because I have concerns for the near-situation your creature caused.”

Newt tucks his chin. “I took care of-”

“Are you aware that Ilvermorny has a strict policy concerning magical creatures, Mr. Scamander?” the head auror says suddenly.

He isn't. “Yes, I'm aware.”

“No magical creatures- unless those brought to the attention of the headmaster or headmistress- are permitted in fear of the students’ safety.” Newt can only look at the toes of his boots as the man goes on. “If you knew this, then why did you see fit to permit one onto school grounds, fully knowing that it could bring possible harm to the students?”

“It's a Niffler. I was planning on showing it to my students. It's only found in England, so-”

“That wasn't the question, Mr. Scamander.”

“Well, you see, ah- it escaped-”

“It escaped,” Headmistress repeats, eyebrow raised.

“Yes, it escaped, but I was more than capable of capturing it.”

Mr. Graves looks like he doesn't believe Newt. “That didn't stop it from causing a scene in the hall- which was filled with students.” His Niffler peeks out from his jacket, catching everyone's attention despite. “That's the little fellow, I take it.”

Newt tucks the creature tighter into the safety of his jacket. “It wouldn't harm a student. It's a thief, not a predator.”

“Nonetheless, it still caused mayhem in the school.” Here, the auror looks to the headmistress. “I believe it would be for the student body's best interest if Mr. Scamander remain confined to a room in the teachers’ housing offered by the school when not teaching. I’m willing to have one of my aurors shadow him during his classes so that another incident like this won't occur.”

His Niffler sniffs the buttons of his waistcoat, unconcerned. Newt, on the other hand, tenses, not liking where the conversation is going- what it might mean for the creature in his arms. “There was no danger-”

“His creature should be dealt with in a similar manner-”

Newt feels heat crawl up his neck. “It’s not dangerous!”

The Headmistress holds up a hand for silence. “While I do appreciate the offer, Mr. Graves, this is a school, not a prison. Instead, Mr. Scamander will get off with a warning.”

His relief is palpable. His Niffler was safe. “Thank you, Headmistress.”

“That doesn't mean you won't be reprimanded, Mr. Scamander. Mr. Graves and his team are here to offer protection, not look after faculty. As such, I will be having your class be under supervision- effective immediately.”

Newt bites back the retort that’s on the tip of his tongue. People at the Ministry had let him be for the most part, so the need for supervision was going to be exasperating and unnecessary.

His distaste for the idea must have shown on his face because Headmistress continues. “If you'd rather go with Mr. Graves’s proposal, then, by all means, take it- but I assure you that my offer is the better option. I will not have you and your creature run amok in my school. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Scamander?”

He keeps his gaze firmly on her desk. “Perfectly.”

“Good.” Headmistress Peregrine stares him down, either ignorant or uncaring of the silence that settles over the room. It's almost as if she's demanding acknowledgement like his Hogwarts teachers once did. She waves an elegant hand. “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Scamander.”

Knowing when he's been dismissed, Newt murmurs a farewell and hurriedly escapes. The door shuts solidly behind him, the Griffin melded to the stone nipping at him when he tries to lean against it. The hallway alongside the office is empty, no students or ghosts around. Even Ms. Goldstein is long gone.

Newt releases the breath he was holding. “Now look what you've done.”

His Niffler ignores him. It pats its empty pouch, whining. A few day's worth of adventure and it doesn't have anything to show for it, not even a knut to add to its collection.

Newt doesn't last a second.

He pulls a galleon from his pocket. Like a child presented with a new toy, the Niffler reaches out, begging. “No more sneaking off,” he tells it with a stern look, handing the coin over. “I don't want to be kicked out when I've only just gotten here- all because you can't control yourself.”

The creature inspects the coin, making a pleased snort when the light of the floating lanterns reflects off its surface and into Newt’s face. The man shakes his head with familiar exasperation, wondering why he even tries, and tucks the small thing more closely to his side, setting down the hall.

Newt tells his creatures of the world outside.

Dougal seems to enjoy hearing him talk about strange American customs, while the Occamy are interested in anything to do with his students, though that might just be because he makes smoky figures in the air for them to follow intensely. He tells Frank of the many portraits of his kind, how they differ in style and color (Newt had been surprised and amused to find one in the mensroom). His Mooncalves sway to his drawn out descriptions of the grounds, humming around him as he reclines in the grass.

He talks and talks, and talks some more. He talks until there are no more words, no more frustrations concerning MACUSA and prying strangers. And, eventually, his talk leads him to research.

Like always, Bestarium Magicum offers not a slick of help. It’s descriptions of North American creatures are severely lacking, only offering a name, a basis description, and the standard Ministry rating, whilst some creatures that Newt knows exists are not even mentioned in the book. His curiosities are left unfulfilled and he’s greedy for knowledge of some kind. So, he searches the more general books he managed to find in Ilvermorny’s library, one or two of them referencing a creature fleetingly (except those concerning the Great Sasquatch Revolt of 1892, which is surprisingly informative). It's not much to work with, but he does the best he can.

“I’ll have to come back for the second edition,” he tells Dougal after another near-death experience from the library, the book snapping at him when he had complained about its inaccuracies; his little and index finger are wrapped in bandages, the cuts too small to warrant use of a healing draught. “It’d be a shame to leave these Americans ignorant in more things than etiquette- the creatures deserve better.”

The primate chitters in agreement.

And it would be beneficial to the students, he thinks. He couldn't let an entire continent of children learn from a curriculum that was entirely misinformed, much less his students, some who'd shown real progress and interest in the subject. He’d come back in search of more creatures, material for his book, nothing more.

Still, it's only when he catches himself humming the tune of Ilvermorny’s very own song to his unicorns that he starts to wonder how far this influence will bleed.

He finds that he doesn't mind too much.

#fbawtft #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fantastic beasts #hp #newt scamander #tina goldstein #newtina #njckle #amoa

8 notes · View notes

vt-scribbles · 8 years

Text

Do you know what’s beautiful?

Life can and will be filled with tragedy, sorrow, times when it seems all the world has to offer you is a soggy paper plate dish of two week old leftovers that you aren’t sure are safe to eat anymore. Some days, the sky is dark, and all you can do to try and make out the winding, foggy path ahead of you is squint; hoping that the dark shadow ahead is a tree, and not a beast ready to snatch you up. Sometimes, all you can see for miles ahead of you are arching, thorny branches, their claws reaching out to tear your flesh, your mind, your very soul. You feel parts of yourself catch on these sharp, biting edges we call ‘troubles’ and ‘strife,’ and sometimes, they tear away little pieces of you that you know you can never get back.

Your trust, little pieces of your innocence, your very defenses against struggle and tragedy.

When you’re a child, those scratches and cuts don’t feel like much. We smile and rub a little soap and water in it and run along down the path. We pay less attention to the bumps and bruises and more to the little fireflies we come across; those little moments of magic in our lives that we look back on fondly. But as we scamper down that dirt road, sometimes, we don’t notice our childhood reality catching on the thorns, ripping apart piece by piece. We start seeing the fireflies less. And when we do see them, it’s less exciting each time. Eventually, we see the world for what it is. Dark, scary, unforgiving. It can look less like a walk through a sunny park and more like a dangerous, unsteady trek across the side of a mountain, a sheer drop mere inches from your feet. Sometimes you’re fortunate to have someone walking alongside you, but even then, they have their own thorns; their own worries. And sometimes, they can feel a world away.

Soon enough, instead of wondering what magical beast that distant shadow could be, we start to fear it. Each looming figure, whether beast or tree, feels as though it could be the last shadow you see, sometimes. We start to fear things we used to love; death feels more like an intermittent tap on the shoulder than a nebulous, foreign concept. In realizing the fragility of life, we clutch to it more, knowing that fate could take it from us at any time. We could blink, and those we walk alongside could be gone... or we could be alone, suddenly snatched from our own path.

...

But.

Fate also has ways of surprising you. Just as easily as it can take away... it can give as well. A normal day can turn into something you treasure forever. A single moment can change your entire life for the better, and you’ll never see it coming. Blessings come to you, not always as delicate little fireflies, but sometimes as gnarled, ugly creatures. Though it may bite you when first you meet, it travels alongside you, attracting both troubles and gifts. You never can see when you’ll be fighting some beast on your path, and someone jumps in and helps you fight it off, only to start walking alongside you for years to come. You can never see the road ahead; where it will cross paths with other roads, and you’ll walk along others with cuts and bruises. They have beautiful stories to tell; both of victories and defeats, and those in between.

And because the road ahead is blanketed in a sometimes unforgivingly cold mist... we think there cannot possibly be anything to keep moving forward towards. It is only more thorns, shadows... We know not if the paths we share will suddenly split apart, never to be seen again though we hope they cross in the future. But... that also means we never know the beautiful, mysterious things lie ahead. And there ARE amazing things along everyone’s paths; ranging from tiny moments of unexplained magic, to life-changing moments we will remember our whole lives.

Life is beautiful. It’s hard, and it’s full of struggle, tragedy, fear, anger, and disappointment. But it’s also brimming with smiles, little prickles of magic that you cannot explain, twists and turns of fate that you never would have seen coming, and maybe you even feared as they came along in your path... but that you look back on, seeing how they brought you to some of the best things in your life. There will always be dark times where it feels like your path is leading you directly towards a sheer drop; unforgivingly pushing you towards something that will destroy you. And, there will always be times where you look back, realizing that sheer drop was but a gentle little slope. You tripped, and you did scuff yourself up... but you came out of it either stronger, or knowing something new. You made it this far.

Sometimes you’re surrounded with fireflies. Sometimes thorns. Sometimes both. And yes, it’s okay to give both attention. It’s okay to relish in childlike wonder at the little good things in life. And it’s okay to admit that the cuts and scratches hurt. But all you have to do is keep moving forward, taking your path one step at a time.

Plan for the future, but act for the day.

Fill yourself with the determination to see the next day; to get to the next beautiful thing in your life. I know it’s hard, and I know sometimes it seems there’s no end to the dark skies. But it’s worth moving on. I promise.

I promise.

#vt text #I was struck with this this morning #and I've been thinking about this sort of thing a lot lately #for various reasons #Anxiety #Depression

42 notes · View notes

margdarsanme · 4 years

Text

NCERT Class 12 English Chapter 2 An Elementary School Classroom in a Slum

NCERT Class 12 English :: Chapter 2 An Elementary School Classroom in a Slum

(English Flamingo Poem)

An Elementary School Classroom in a Slum Important Stanzas For Comprehension :

Read the stanzas given below and answer the questions that follow each:1.Far far from gusty waves these children’s faces.Like rootless weeds, the hair torn around their pallor:The tall girl with her weighed-down head. The paper-seeming boy, with rat’s eyes.Questions(a)Where, do you think, are these children sitting?(b)How do the faces and hair of these children look?(c)Why is the head of the tall girl ‘weighed down’?(d)What do you understand by ‘The paper-seeming boy, with rat eyes’ ?Answers:(a)These children are sitting in the school classroom in a slum which is far far away from the winds or waves blowing strongly.(b)The faces of these children look pale. Their uncombed and unkempt hair look like rootless wild plants.(c)The head of the tall girl is ‘weighed down’ by the burdens of the world. She feels depressed, ill and exhausted.(d)It means that the boy is exceptionally thin, weak and hungry.

2.…………The stunted, unlucky heirOf twisted bones, reciting a father’s gnarled disease,His lesson from his desk. At back of the dim class One unnoted, sweet and young. His eyes live in a dream,

Of squirrel’s game, in the tree room, other than this.Questions(a)Who is the ‘unlucky heir’ and what will he inherit ?(b)What is the stunted boy reciting ?(c)Who is sitting at the ‘back of the dim class’ ?(d) ‘His eyes live in a dream’—what dream does he have ?Answers:(a)The lean and thin boy having rat’s eyes and a stunted growth is the ‘unlucky heir’. He will inherit twisted bones from his father.(b)He is reciting a lesson from his desk. He is enumerating systematically how his father developed the knotty disease.(c)A sweet young boy sits at back of this dim class. He sits there unnoticed.(d)The boy seems hopeful. He dreams of a better time—outdoor games, of a squirrel’s game, of a room made inside the stem of a tree. He dreams of many things other than this dim and unpleasant classroom has, such as green fields, open seas.

3.On sour cream walls, donations. Shakespeare’s head,Cloudless at dawn, civilized dome riding all cities.Belled, flowery, Tyrolese valley. Open-handed mapAwarding the world its world.Questions(a) What is the colour of the classroom walls?What does this colour suggest ?(b) What do these classroom walls have ?(c) Which two worlds does the poet hint at?How is the contrast between the two worlds presented?(d) Explain:(i) ‘Open-handed map’(ii) ‘Awarding the world its world’.Answers:(a)The colour of the classroom walls is ‘sour cream’ or off white. This colour suggests the decaying aspect and pathetic condition of the lives of the children in a slum-school.(b) The walls of the classroom have pictures of Shakespeare, buildings with domes, world maps and beautiful valleys.(c)The poet hints at two worlds : the world of poverty, misery and malnutrition of the slums where children are underfed, weak and have stunted growth. The other world is of progress and prosperity peopled by the rich and the powerful. The pictures on the wall suggesting happiness, richness, well being and beauty are in stark contrast to the dim and dull slums.(d) (i) ‘Open handed-map’ suggests the map of the world drawn at will by powerful people/ dictators like Hitler.(ii) ‘Awarding the world its world’ suggests how the conquerors and dictators award and divide the world according to their whims. This world is the world of the rich and important people.

4.…………And yet, for theseChildren, these windows, not this map, their world,Where all their future’s painted with a fog,A narrow street sealed ip with a lead skyFar far from rivers, capes, and stars of words.Questions [All India 2014](a)What are the ‘children’ referred to here? (b) Which is their world?(c) How is their life different from that of other children? id) What is the future of these children?Answers:(a)Those children are referred to here who study in an elementary school classroom.(b) Their world is limited to the window of the classroom. They are confined only within the narrow streets of the slum, i.e., far away from the open sky and rivers. Their view is full of despair and despondency. The life of the children seem to be bleak.(c) “The slum children spend their life only in the narrow streets of the land. They do not get the basic necessities of life. They are deprived of food, clothing and shelter. But the main thing that they differ from other children is freedom. They do not enjoy the freedom of life.(d) The future of these children is uncertain and bleak.

5. Surely, Shakespeare is wicked, the map a bad example,With ships and sun and love tempting them to stealFor lives that slyly turn in their cramped holesFrom fog to endless night?Questions [Delhi 2014](a)Who are ‘them’ referred to in the first line?(b)What tempts them?(c)What does the poet say about ‘their’ lives?(d)Explain: ‘From fog to endless night’.Answers:(а)Here ‘them’ refers to the children studying in a slum school.(b)All beautiful things like ships, sun and love tempt the children of slum school.(c) The poet says that the children spend their lives confined in their cramped holes like rodents. Their bodies look like skeletons because they are the victims of malnutrition. Their steel-frame spectacles with repaired glasses make them appear like the broken pieces of a bottle scattered on stones. Their future seems to be bleak. id) Their future is foggy or uncertain. The only certainty in their lives is the endless night of their death. In other words, their birth, life and death are all enveloped by darkness.

6.………On their slag heap, these childrenWear skins peeped through by bones and spectacles of steel With mended glass, like bottle bits on stones.AII of their time and space are foggy slum.So blot their maps with slums as big as doom.Questions(a)What are the two images used to describe these slums? What do these images convey?(b)What sort of life do such children lead?(c)What blot’ their maps? Whose maps?(d)What does the poet convey through ‘So blot their maps with slums as big as doom’? Answers:(а)The images used to describe the slums are:(i)slag heap(ii)bottle bits on stones(iii)foggy slums(iv)slums as big as doom. (Any two acceptable)These images convey the misery of the children and the poverty of their dirty and unhygienic surroundings.(b)In the dirty and unhygienic surroundings the slum children lead very pathetic and miserable lives full of woes, wants, diseases, poverty and uncertainty.(c) These living hells i.e. these dirty slums blot their maps. These are the maps of the civilized world—the world of the rich and great.(d) The poet conveys his protest against social injustice and class inequalities. He wants the islands of prosperity to be flooded with the dirt and stink of the slums.

7. Unless, governor, inspector, visitor,This map becomes their Window and these windowsThat shut upon their lives like catacombs.Questions(a)Why does the poet invoke ‘governor’, ‘inspector’, ‘visitor’? What function are they expected to perform?(b)How can ‘this map’ become ‘their window*?(c)What have ‘these windows’ done to their lives?(d)What do you understand by ‘catacombs’?Answers:(a)Governor, inspector and visitor are important and powerful persons in the modem times. The poet invokes them to help the miserable slum children. They are expected to perform an important role in removing social injustice and class inequalities. They can abridge the gap between the two worlds—the beautiful world of the great and rich and the ugly world of slums.(b)Two worlds exist. This map’ refers to the beautiful world of prosperity and well being inhabited by the rich and great and shaped and owned by them. Their windows’ refer to the lairs, holes or hovels of the dirty, stinking slums where the poor and unfortunate children of slums live. The slum children will be able to peep through windows only when the difference between the two worlds is abridged.(c)These windows’ of dirty surroundings have cramped their lives, stunted their growth and blocked their physical as well as mental development. They have shut them inside their filthy, dull and drab holes like the underground graves.(d) ‘Catacombs’ means a long underground gallery with excavations in its sides for tombs. The name catacombs, before the seventeenth century was applied to the subterranean cemeteries, near Rome.

8. Break O break open till they break the townAnd show the children to green fields, and make their worldRun azure on gold sands, and let their tonguesRun naked into books the white and green leaves openHistory theirs whose language is the sun.Questions(a)‘Break O break open’. What should they ‘break*?(b)Explain: ‘. till they break the town’.(c)Where will ‘their world’ extend up to then ?(d)What other freedom should they enjoy?Answers:(a)They should break all the barriers and obstacles that bind these children and confinethem to ugly and dirty surroundings.(b)Till they come out of the dirty surroundings and slums of the town and come out to the green field and breathe in the open air.(c)Then their world will be extended to the gold sands and azure waves as well as to the green fields.(d) They should enjoy freedom of acquiring knowledge as well as freedom of expression. Let the pages of wisdom (contained in the books) be open to them and let their tongues run freely without any check or fear.

QUESTIONS FROM TEXTBOOK SOLVED

Q1. Tick the item which best answers the following.(a)The tall girl with her head weighed down means The girl(i)is ill and exhausted(ii)has her head bent with shame(iii)has untidy hair.(b)The paper-seeming boy with rat’s eyes means The boy is(i)sly and secretive(ii)thin, hungry and weak(iii)unpleasant looking.(c)The stunted, unlucky heir of twisted bones means The boy(i)has an inherited disability(ii)was short and bony.(d)His eyes live in a dream. A squirrel’s game, in the tree room other than this means The boy is(i)Full of hope in the future(ii)mentally ill(iii)distracted from th,e lesson.(e)The children’s faces are compared to ‘rootless weeds’This means they(i)are insecure(ii)are ill-fed(iii)are wastersAns: (a)(i) is ill and exhausted(b)(ii) thin, hungry and weak(c)(i) has an inherited disability(d)(i) full of hope in the future(e)(i) are insecure.

Q2. What do you think is the colour of ‘sour cream’ ? Why do you think the poet has used this expression to describe the classroom walls?Ans: The colour of ‘sour cream’ is off white. The poet has used this expression to suggest the decaying aspect. The deterioration in the colour of the classroom walls symbolises the pathetic condition of the lives of the scholars—the children of this slum school.

Q3. The walls of the classroom are decorated with the pictures of ‘Shakespeare’ ‘buildings with domes’, ‘world maps’ and beautiful valleys. How do these contrast with the world of these children? Ans: The pictures that decorate the walls hold a stark contrast with the world of these underfed, poverty-stricken, slum children living in cramped dark holes. Obstacles hamper their physical and mental growth. The pictures on the wall suggest beauty, well-being, progress and prosperity—a world of sunshine and warmth of love. But the world of the slum children is ugly and lack prosperity.

Q4. What does the poet want for the children of the slums? How can their lives be made to change?Ans: The poet wants the people in authority to realise their responsibility towards the children of the slums. All sort of social injustice and class inequalities be ended by eliminating the obstacles that confine the slum children to their ugly and filthy surroundings. Let them study and learn to express themselves freely. Then they will share the fruit of progress and prosperity and their fives will change for the better.