#gwidien

[prvtocol]

@gwidien : What does your muse do in their routine to take care of themselves (physically, mentally, emotionally or otherwise)? | Untitled Headcanon Questions ( accepting ) ᠂ ⚘ ˚

Or how does this workaholic stay sane? To start, Brianne knows she functions well if she sticks to a routine; she is routine-oriented. The type to wake up and go to sleep at the same time. Travel and timezone changes usually disrupt this but regardless of her location, she tries to maintain similarities in her daily work schedules.

One daily ritual is enjoying a hot cup of tea during set intervals during the day. It gives her a brief moment to slow down and reflect. She also journals in the evenings. Not your diary-type journal entry, but work-oriented thoughts with reflections on that day’s activities and a review of the next day’s priorities (akin to a to-do list).

Physical or health-wise, she eats healthy (we won’t talk about her subsisting on protein bars when traveling in suspect corners of the globe or in the field depending on verse). She tries to consume food that is organic, unprocessed (minus those bars), balanced, and portioned; it won’t weigh her down or give her brain fog. She also takes supplements to round out her diet (and hopefully make up for those meals she skips when her schedule gets overwhelming).

Things that mentally relax her and what the weekends are given over to are tending her garden and house plants, cooking favorite dishes, swimming in her pool, and phoning members of her close family. Though at times, work hardly gives her a moment, and not stopping is the best way for her to keep her emotions in line. Don't think about your troubles, just keep busy.

Brianne is also aware of when she needs help and will seek therapy and take medication if needed. This is primarily anxiety which heightens due to various factors depending on verse events.

[tugsheartstrings]

feel and fear for jack

FEEL. -How does your character react to a persons touch? A random stranger’s? A loved one’s? A friend’s?

Random stranger's touch: It depends on the type of touch. He's usually pretty guarded, but not afraid; he doesn't flinch or startle, but he probably doesn't want someone he doesn't know to go any further than giving him a handshake or a friendly pat on the shoulder. I'd say he's neutral. A loved one's/friend's touch: He eats it up. He's had very little love in his life and is very touch-starved, so hugs and kisses are obviously a big thing for him, but he also loves just... casual touch. A guiding hand on the arm, pressing your forehead against his, sleeping next to each other, etc. It makes him feel wanted, like he's deserving of a kind touch too. Staves off the bad thoughts that he's undesirable or strange because of his gender identity/anatomy. This extends to friends too, though obviously he's not going to, like, kiss a friend full on the mouth, haha.

FEAR. -What are your muses biggest fears?

Pre death/traumatic brain injury, Jack was most afraid of being perceived--and then judged--for his transness by people he cares about. He didn't necessarily want to fit in, per se, but he definitely hated the idea of being judged and found wanting or strange by the people he respects. Post death/injury, this shifts, and his newest DEEP DARK FEAR is losing himself forever. He only has fragments of who he used to be, and he's so, so scared he's never going to find that person or feel whole again.

[gaskills]

@gwidien sent ‘♢’ for an aesthetic of our muses.

[gwidien]

@worsethanwolves (continued from here):

"It seems we've started off on the wrong foot." He'd said each word ploddingly. He un-leans off the table. 

The night hadn't gone as he'd planned. In a parlor, as he made his rounds rubbing elbows with people worth rubbing elbows with and getting the dirt on people worth robbing, a gentleman, livid and half-drowned in absinthe, jabbed a finger at him. Apparently, he'd recognized him from Valentine. He'd accused him of thieving.

It evolved to a near-bluster after that. Trelawny attempted to finesse his way out of it; a quick dash of lies here. A whole year’s supply worth. The man threw out a fist, too drunk, and Trelawny backed away against the bartop. Then, like the hand of God: Arthur. 

His hat's gone askew. Bless his soul, Trelawny doesn't know it.

Arthur fixes it for him, and he seems lighter.

"Thank you," Trelawny says, the 'you' leaving him pluck-y and dog-whistle high, or in the way that comes when helping yourself to a last piece of something, don't mind if I do. He pairs it with a bow, and then he straightens. "Clothes make the man and some such."

If he notices Arthur's face has gone red, then perhaps it's all lighting. Or from being windswept. Or a life spent under the sun, irrefutably. And if he at all smells pine trees, smoke, and sweat, or notices Arthur sticking out here like a white dress in a funeral, he mentions none of it. Instead, he turns on his heels.

"The knight in shining armor, are we?" he drawls, light and too casual. He doesn't look over. "And away they rode into the sunset." It's time to go, he means, and given their man on the floor, unconscious and all eyes on them, maybe he's right.

[gaskills]

love your mary-beth! she's the perfect amount of sweet and romantic but she's also a thief and an outlaw and i think it's easy for some people to forget that more mischievous side to her. mary-beth speaks to me in my ear when i read your replies and i can imagine her playing out the scenes, too! michelin gordon ramsey 5/5 on yelp i would 100% pay a monthly subscription here

please excuse me while i go cry! <33

[gaskills]

mary beth & trelawny, horseshoe overlook. / @gwidien

[gaskills]

@gwidien sent ‘a kiss pretending to be in a relationship together.’

there they were, back at it again — this time in valentine. the town that felt only a stones throw from their camp wasn’t much to shout about, certainly not in the same league as saint denis or even strawberry. . . but it was slim pickings when you’d emptied all of the pockets that were worth emptying in all other towns. josiah and mary beth made quite the pair when it came to deception and robbery, both of them luckily enough to be graced with a look and air about them that didn’t suggest even the slightest bit of trickery, but of course that was far from the truth. she was used to being the distraction on these kinds of cons, playing up to the southern belle stereotype that she had been branded with. . . but when she and trelawny stepped out together, they were on entirely equal footing.

that particular evening in valentine was drawing to a close, the conclusion of their con just around the corner. it had been mary beth’s idea to wait for that particular stage coach to pass through the town — the coach that held a braithwaite with more money than sense. the actual plan on how they would carry out such a treacherous task? trelawny hadn’t divulged into that just yet. . . only that the two of them acting as a married couple would be at the crux of the successful deception.

it was difficult for mary beth not to romanticise such an endeavour, almost impossible to not trick herself into believing that this was the truth as their hands laced together effortlessly. just as they had predicted the stagecoach pulled into the neighbouring guest house, the preverbal curtain for their performance finally lifting. as the pair stood underneath the awning of the guest house in a close embrace, the exchange that she had been working herself up about for what felt like weeks was materialising right in front of her. with her lips up against his in an instant when she received the queue of his hand resting against her back, mary beth dizzied slightly as they moved together in unison. this was the start of act one, and she couldn’t let her romantic sensibilities get in the way of such a score. . . but she couldn’t help but think that it was already too late.

[gaskills]

@gwidien said "i'm not saying, 'do it anyway,' but you're going to."

saint denis was always alive no matter what the hour, perpetually filled with all manner of folk going about their business — crimes and high society functions alike. it wasn’t a place that mary beth frequented often no matter how much she would’ve liked to. before dutch and arthur had found her all those years ago, she’d spent her fair share of time in saint denis, helping herself to the contents of all the rich fools pockets — but it had been a long time since then, and mary beth was starting to feel like a different person entirely. hardened, whimsical, caged. that was who she was now. trelawny’s voice pulls her away from her thoughts, eyes guided away from the tall building of the theatre that stood before them.

“of course i’m going to do it, josiah! it’s easy.” her words sounded so sure of themselves, her hands clasping together enthusiastically as she bridged the gap between the two of them. above where they stood was a poster advertising benjamin lazarus, the epitome of magic. it was no secret to the locals of saint denis that he was a fraud, not only in his theatrical act but within his personal life too. a fraud with lots of money, money to burn. . . money he wouldn’t miss if mary beth were to do something about it.

“now i just need you to distract him, i don’t know. . . maybe rough him up a little.” her shoulders shrug slightly, a tight smile curling at both ends of her lips. she takes his arm and leads the two of them around the back of the theatre to the stage door, the cogs turning in her mind as she did. “the epitome of magic! i’ve never heard something so ridiculous in all my life. that’s you!”

[prvtocol]

regency or shopkeeper (café? florist? bookstore?) au

send me an au and i’ll give you 5+ headcanons about it ✿

Regency AU

Brianne is a “thronback” (unmarried over the age of 26) / very “off the shelf” / so “unnatural” / basically it sucks to be a woman, especially unmarried, during this time period.

As such her inheritance is under the control of her closest living male relative, her father (Baron Henry Landry). In the absence of her French mother (who scandalously departs to France for "health reasons"), she is her father's caretaker.

After her father dies, Brianne will probably end up as a governess living some sad existence tending to another’s household and children.

Her father is a banker. His London-based bank manages and finances subsidies which the British government transfers to its allies in the Napoleonic Wars. The bank will continue to provide innovative and complex financing for government projects for the rest of the century.

She is educated in decorum, reads and speaks French fluently, and plays the violin and does needlework okayish.

epitome of Lizzy in Pride and Prejudice saying “I am determined that only the deepest love will induce me into matrimony. So, I shall end an old maid, and teach your ten children to embroider cushions and play their instruments very ill”... though actually her matches just fell through for reasons I have not defined yet.

At least she has a little garden to cultivate some joy until then.

...Did I mention it sucks to be an unmarried woman during this time?

[gaskills]

@gwidien said ❜ well? how do i look? ❜

there had been talk of infiltrating some high society ball all around the camp, hushed conversations about a mansion in saint denis which could hold all of the resources they needed to get out. of course mary beth was one of the last to find out, but it still gave her plenty enough time to romanticise the whole evening in her mind. how beautiful the women would look with their husband on their arms, how grand the staircase would be when she made her grand entrance into the party — but of course she wasn’t invited. none of the women were. she’d wracked her brain as to why dutch hadn’t thought of such an easy distraction. mary beth had proved herself as useful time and time again, but never seemed to have any real leverage when it came to the big scores. miss grimshaw would be sure to give her a backhand if she knew that she was thinking such things, and maybe mary beth did need to understand her place.

she was in a world of her own as she fixed trelawny’s bow tie, anxiously biting down on the corner of her lip while she was lost in thought. it wasn’t until she heard his words that she forced herself to take a step back from her thoughts, an instantaneous smile spreading across her features when she looked up to him. “you look like you’re ready for a dinner with royalty, mr trelawny. you’ll fit right in.” her hands dust off his shoulders for a brief moment, eyes scanning over his collar to make sure she’d done a decent enough job. “will you tell me all about it when you get back? what the women wore, what the champagne was like?” her hands clasp together over her chest, hugging them close to her.

[gwidien]

@worsethanwolves (continued from here)

No one was supposed to know about his family. They aren’t supposed to know about this, either. His other life and the gang. Crime and Arthur. It's the only way they get to lay their heads down without fear of someone breaking in, or the ringing pop of gunshots in the night. Or Dutch, suspicious and hungry, sniffing out for disloyalty like a dog for food. The law.

A black bird caws out from somewhere deep in the trees, loud and near.

Arthur reads Trelawny like an open book. He says he saw nothing.

"I... Thank you, Arthur." The words leave him like a confession, lowly at the end, genuine. Smoke drifts between them, and he finds Morgan's face. "They're the apple of my eye, Arthur. The very apple. But you know how it is" —his voice seesaws like it does, tapering. His hand drops— "looking after one's own."

It's as though he's explaining why he kept his family a secret. Arthur looks after the people in this camp, each and every one of them. He would understand. The camp is rotting away from the inside out, now, Hosea dead, Sean gone, Kieran and, at last, Lenny, too, suspicion and bitterness seeping in where warmth used to be.

He sees Dutch's tent to the side, the flaps pulled down and a phantom inside. His coffee starts to go cold in its tin.

"The cloud that follows you all," he wonders, then, casting a dismal glance around. Everyone scoops at stew and keeps to themselves, their eyes shifting. The light about him dims. "Oh, how the mighty fall..."

[gwidien]

@wiiaca asked: 10: sender wields a weapon ( gun / knife ) against the receiver. 𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 (accepting)

"What the devil-?" A flash of silver. 

The woman glowers, the campfire lighting her aflame. A scar mars her face. She has sharp eyes—knife-like. Like a hunting coyote's—and the blade shines and glints, gleaming and shimmering. A bounty hunter.

Just moments ago, he'd begun preparing for bed. The door opened. Picture frames smacked the floor. A chair toppled over. Wide awake and shoes scuffling, Trelawny, utterly off-guard, found himself at the mercy of a stranger in the walls of his own caravan, hopelessly unarmed and hopelessly alone. Later, too much happened. Now he's here.

The sun has set and the wood in her campfire snaps. 

Trelawny lifts his chin, trying to lean away. 

"It would- seem we've gotten off on the wrong foot." He placates. The knife is too close; it could bite his throat. "I am an intellectual," he continues, throaty and winded from pain, "from the sunny side of Oregon. I was told there was an- opening at your university, and I've come to follow the pot of gold, as it were."

Maybe she won't believe him. He knows, likely, why she's here. How will this story end? Handed to the law? At the end of a noose? His hair's fallen over his forehead, messy and undone, and Trelawny plays the poor innocent man down on his luck well. He has to.

"The wife tells me I should 'get on the road'" —he's colorful even now, somewhat crackly— "philosophize to something other than the night's dinner."

[gwidien]

@gaskills asked: ❛   hunger .   give  my  muse  something  to  eat  /  drink . 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄  sentence starters (accepting)

The end of the year winds down, and he hadn't intended to meet her here.

Mary-Beth, several years older since he last saw her at Beaver Hollow, now an up-and-coming author, Leslie Dupont. She must have been invited here. Her newfound name may have gotten her foot through the door. Or perhaps she snuck her way in. Either way, in the heart of the city and inside a glinting, bustling venue, everyone dressed to the nines, they've reunited. 

She finds her way back to him with flutes of champagne, pale gold and sparkling. Trelawny thanks her, taking it by the stem. "This will hit the spot," he says, a punch to it. For a moment, he takes her in. "Let - me - look at you."

He hadn't had the time to before. Not really. There'd been too much in the way of it. The music and the how are yous. The surprise of seeing each other again. Light eyes and a red dress, the same but different.

"Aren't you the belle of the ball." He said it with gusto. Because she is. Because he flatters. He saunters on. "Making a name for yourself. From modest abodes," he recounts, lifting his hand, "...to silver spoons." He gestures back down to her. Then, he brightens. "You wear it well."

Beneath strung-up rosy ribbons and shimmering chandeliers, the lights throw themselves into Mary-Beth's eyes. They dance in them like little lighthouses. Like merry-go-rounds. And when she smiles, the clusters of her freckles bunch together, and Trelawny is aware of the fondness he has for this moment. One reserved for unexpected reunions. From the long years apart.

Partygoers buzz, jam-packed together, ready for the countdown.

He raises his glass to hers, as puckish as ever. "To happier trails, Miss Gaskill."

[gwidien]

MAGICIANS FOR SPORT.  indie josiah trelawny of red dead redemption 2. blog . carrd . rules . trelawny . verses

[gwidien]

@erysibe asked: company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 sentence starters (accepting)

He’s still rough around the edges. He’s done his hair. His clothes, changed and new. The rest of him is still sore, and an angry, vicious red has settled over his cheek and his forehead, the front of his throat ruddy-raw. Come tomorrow, they’ll be black and purple, indistinguishable from the night. It’s not what bothers him.

“Time to smell the roses,” Trelawny says, faking the vigor, because the natural questions to ask him are ‘are you okay?’ and ‘what are you doing?’ He looks down ever so slightly. “...No,” he admits, finally. “I’m not.”

Mary’s taken her place around him. The rest have gone about their day, most not knowing that he has a home in Saint Denis. Or that he has a wife and two boys. Or that, not long enough and a half ago, he’d ambled into camp like a kicked dog with the intolerable weight of knowing that bounty hunters were looking for his family. That a wolf-eyed woman, her face shredded, sent men for them. 

"I worry about you all. Everyone here," he lingers, trailing weakly off, "and home... And I wouldn't know what to do if anything happened to you. That's the rub. I want it all and I-" He drops his hand, the look about him deflated. "It seems I'm in a bit of hot water."

He's too vague, but maybe she already knows. Maybe she'd heard from someone else. Trelawny's face stings, and he does not shine today.

[gwidien]

@gaskills asked: ❛ patch . help  my  muse  patch  up  a  wound  . 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 sentence starters (accepting)

It's a once-in-a-blue-moon thing. A rare astronomical event. Trelawny, always so put together, never a wrinkle in sight, had ambled into camp in total disarray, his hair run through a hurricane… his sleeve torn… bloodied head to toe. Rarer than a total eclipse. The Big Bang.

She volunteered to put him back together. She would, of course. Mary-Beth with her relentless kindness— She doesn't mind getting her hands dirty, her fingers slicked warm in his blood, and as he sits slightly out of sorts, his head bleeding, he does not think of things he shouldn't or of how he's married. Mary-Beth smells of vanilla. 

“They found me- with the gentlemen,” he strains, righting himself up, “down in Valentine.” His head's started to lull. He feels a tugging at his scalp and flinches. “It appears they’ve rattled- quite a few cages in Blackwater.”

The hunters spotted him in Valentine with Dutch and Arthur, Charles, Bill, Javier. They knew he was connected to the gang, then, and wanted the bounty. Trelawny takes a full breath. Every inch of his ribs protest. Sore and aching, in his beat-up stupor and hazy-headed exhaustion, he sees smears of colors in his periphery. Mary-Beth looks like stained glass. That's not normal.

“I'm under quite the spell of yours," he wonders, breathier but colorful. She bandages him up gently, and he settles down, seeing stars. "...Ever the magic touch, you are.”