#kestrel reads

[tygerland]

Kes (1969)

[spookykestrel]

sorry i havent been on tumblr for a few hours . im replacing you guys with the wikipedia page for geckos

[gideonthefirst]

2023 Books

favorites bolded, least favorites have an [x], rereads have an *

January

The Flash: The Death of Iris West by Cary Bates, Frank Chiaramonte, Jack Abel, Vince Colletta, Frank McLaughlin

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones [x]

When the Angels Left the Old Country by Sacha Lamb

Princess Floralinda and the Forty-Flight Tower by Tamsyn Muir

February

Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer [x]

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson

The Love Song of Ivy K. Harlowe by Hannah Moskowitz

March

Go Ahead in the Rain: Notes on a Tribe Called Quest by Hanif Abdurraqib

April

The Assassin's Apprentice by Robin Hobb

May

They're Going to Love You by Meg Howrey

June

July

Where Are Your Boys Tonight?: The Oral History of Emo's Mainstream Explosion 1999-2008 by Chris Payne

The Screaming Staircase by Jonathan Stroud*

Skulduggery Pleasant by Derek Landy, books 1-7*. specifically book 7 gets a [x] for being so bad it killed the reread

Nimona by N.D. Stevenson*

You Feel It Just Below the Ribs by Jeffrey Cranor and Janina Matthewson

August

Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett*

September

Poison for Breakfast by Lemony Snicket

A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance by Hanif Abdurraqib

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

A Punkhouse in the Deep South: The Oral History of 309 by Scott Satterwhite and Aaron Cometbus

October

Trick to Catch the Old One by Thomas Middleton

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Stephen Florida by Gabe Habash

Wage Labor and Capital by Karl Marx

November

Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism by Vladimir Lenin

Trust by Hernán Diaz

Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov

December

The Holocaust Industry: Reflections on the Exploitation of Jewish Suffering by Norman G. Finkelstein

A Master of Djinn by P Djèlí Clark [x]

Prosper's Demon by K.J. Parker

Blackouts by Justin Torres

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

The Book of Eels: Our Enduring Fascination with the Most Mysterious Creature in the Natural World by Patrik Svensson [x]

Hangsaman by Shirley Jackson

[startoothed]

Basically it is very hard to find tooth puns

SFHKKGDD thank u kestrel i hope u had a lovely valentines day <333

[chiropteracupola]

ladyhawke (foth or sharpe)??? 👀👀👀

EXCITING DOUBLE BIRD EVENT! and here we get the fun time of describing the Difference between the sharpe and foth ladyhawke stories, and also why the sharpe one has been so much easier to write.

so the film Ladyhawke, in which both these stories are based, is about a curse placed on a pair of semi-star-crossed lovers, involving day-night animal transformations that don't overlap with the other half of the duo. but a lot of Ladyhawke's humor and charm proves to come from the fact that it's told from an outside perspective — a silly fellow with a penchant for theft, prison breaks, and general mischief. and thus, it's a much smoother journey to allow the Chosen Men to scamper about low-fantasy vaguely-medievalpunk au-Spain...

“We ain’t deserters,” said Cooper, offended, and set his jaw. “We was on a mission.” “It wasn’t really a mission, you know that perfectly well,” interrupted Harris, shoving his way forward. “But it was important we found the Major! …more important than that fool’s job we were s’posed to be working on, anyway,” admitted Cooper, refusing to show any fault on his part. Sharpe stared at him in mixed confusion and dismay, and Harris determined that he’d speak his piece more fully this time. “Well, you see, it was that you up and vanished, and so we figured that we ought to go and find you.” “And it’d be helpful, wouldn’t it, if we did!” put in Perkins. “We didn’t mean to be gone long,” said Hagman, the only one out of the four of them to display even a smidgen of guilt. “And we wouldn’t have been, if he hadn’t—“ “—if you hadn’t broken into the—“ “—well, you’re the one who—“ “—you and your damned rum—“ “…and that’s how we went and got ourselves arrested,” finished Harris, as if Sharpe had been able to determine the slightest through-line of truth in the cacophony of conflicting stories. “But we got out again, as you see.” The four Chosen Men, the last remnants of Richard Sharpe’s final command, looked at their officer proudly, quite as if they expected to be congratulated for their unexcused jaunt off from the army and their trip in through one side of a prison and out the other.

...than to take that whole journey through the soggy and sorrowful perspectives of Keith 'frequently is a cat against his will' Windham and Ewen 'really would not like to be an eagle anymore' Cameron...

The next day dawns misty and damp, a clinging curtain of fog folding itself around the two travelers. The sick, dizzy feeling that comes with transformation takes far longer to leave than is typical, and so he remains prone beneath the overhang of rock as his cramped muscles slowly ease. He had cared little for where he fell as the morning’s shift took him off his feet, sprawling to lie on his side with one hand fallen in the now-cold ashes of the previous night’s fire. Despite the scrap of shelter provided by the outcropping of stone, the thick wetness of the air has already seeped into Keith’s hair and clothes, and as a tendril of wind brushes across his back, he finds himself shivering enough to set his already-strained body to aching. “If this is summer, Ardroy…” he mutters, knowing that his words will be neither finished nor heard. The mere suggestion he has put forth inspires a wholly new fear in him — where shall each of them be come winter, and will the curse still bind them together when the seasons have made their turn? Keith laughs cheerlessly, stretches out a hand to feel the rain against his palm. Damn this country, damn this war, damn whatever fate had been cruel-handed enough to serve him so poorly…. Catching his words close again, he stops himself before he can finish. One thing at least, he cannot curse, and that is Ewen Cameron.

...so yeah! you see the tonal shift between these two.

[dunmertwink]

Songbird

Word Count: 4,446 (17-20min read)

Baldur's Gate 3

Summary: (Part I of II) --ACT I SPOILERS-- Basically how I imagined Mizora's arrival at camp after sparing Karlach to have gone. After she leaves, it becomes a re-write of the conversation you can have with Wyll. I wanted to characterize my Tav more as well as show his and Wyll's close relationship (and history).

I don't think I've ever posted my writing here - so y'all are in for a real treat (sarcasm). I'm not the best writer so, if you make it thru this, you are a saint. And thank you!

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, physical, and sexual abuse

The camp was thrust into utter chaos at Mizora's sudden arrival; Gale may have lost his knickers for how high he jumped. There was much shouting and bumping into one another as weapons were drawn (weapons a la pots and pans), and the dog, for the moment, had gone barking mad.

The devil's business was simple: she'd come to collect. Her cheeky, nonchalant grin soured when she looked upon her charge and his living, breathing target, whose head was still attached. Interesting.

"Tsk. Naughty, naughty," Mizora hummed.

Wyll's bronze complexion paled, and his stomach launched into his chest. His uneasy gaze drifted between Mizora and Karlach, the tiefling woman he was contracted to kill. He pursued her into Avernus, the first layer of the Hells, then onto the Mind Flayer vessel that planted this lovely little parasite into his one good eye. This, of course, was under the pretense that she was a devil; Archdevil Zariel's attack dog, not the mortal she turned out to be.

Amidst all the chaos, the entire camp watched in horror as Wyll appeared to exit his body at Mizora's command. He was anguished, grunting and gasping for air. Searing flames and a thick, blackest black abyss engulfed him, and the camp lost sight of him for a moment. The group's clamoring to pull Wyll from this abyss was futile. He returned a moment later, but he was… different.

"There," Mizora said, pleased with herself.

Wyll's head ached as heavy horns sprouted from his forehead. His body changed—angles sharper, and his once deep brown eye glowed a demonic red. There was a soreness about his whole body, and the last remnants of sweltering heat could be felt in his extremities.

The devil was saying something to him, but he couldn't make out her words. His head was buzzing with a mighty headache, new from the weight of his infernal horns. A loud ringing blocked out any hope of a thought. He could make out the shapes of Kestrel, the tiefling bard, Karlach, Shadowheart, the Sharran cleric, and Gale, the awkward, bumbling wizard, all fussing over him, but their words, too, were muffled by this awful din.

Mizora took in the scene. Satisfied, she opened up a portal to her domain. She would not leave, though, without uttering the final remark.

"I do hope you enjoy your new body, Wyll. There is magic that even I can't change," with a chuckle and a snap of her fingers, her demonic wings curled around her, and the blackest black abyss of her portal enveloped her, "Hmph, Ta-ta."

There and gone in an instant, Mizora's departure allowed the camp to finally settle into the quiet rhythm of before.

All had retired to their tents a bit more relaxed; the danger had passed, at least for the moment. Even the dog, Scratch, settled down and, as usual, selected his sleeping arrangements for the night. He chose Lae'zel, the stern, fearsome Githyanki warrior, and followed her to her tent, much to her chagrin.

"Well. That was… something," Gale scratched his head and sighed, visibly dispelling the anxiety of the moment, "Best to get some rest, if such a thing can be achieved. I do hope Wyll is all right. That can't be easy.

"But, I also wish he had mentioned being a warlock—pacted to a devil. Might have been a pertinent detail…"

The group still, of course, had these grotesque little brain worms to contend with: a "gift" from a fanatical, power-obsessed god with ambitions to usurp the known realms.

"If I find this creature's slobber on my greaves, I will skin it," she grumbled.

Everyone knew she loved the dog but stubbornly refused to admit it. This world was new to her after all, and she may have taken a liking to it, much to her dismay.

Unnerved, Kestrel remained by the campfire, his gaze drifted between the flames' graceful ballet and the dirt once blackened by the devil's portal. The ebbing heat warmed his skin, engulfing him like a cozy blanket.

He leaned back, his gaze following the swirling smoke rising into the dark expanse, illuminated by the silver moon. The night sky was awash with stars—thousands of tiny, sparkling, white jewels embroidered into the black velvet firmament. He could hear the soft lapping of the river Chionthar's waves against the rocky shore and its bubbling current surrounding the camp.

Fireflies bumbled about, little candles floating through the air, blissfully unaware of the world around them. Peepers and crickets composed a peaceful symphony in time with the crashing waves of the river.

Wyll—where was he? Kestrel didn't see him return to his tent like the others. Understandable after what had just happened.

He imagined it was agony; having every piece of one's soul violently ripped through each layer of the Hells. And coming back… transformed. He also knew from experience how much horns hurt. At least he'd had the benefit of time. Wyll's just… popped out, fully formed. In an instant. Kestrel found himself idly rubbing the base of his horns, remembering their dull pain as they slowly broke through his skin, growing up. And—gods—the headaches.

Aside from that gruesome transformation - how was he feeling? Lost, maybe. The once proud "Blade of Frontiers," hero of the people, now a devil. A prolific monster-hunter, now a monster himself. Hmph, Astarion was probably giddy from the irony of that. Maybe Wyll saw it, too, and had a chuckle to himself. But still, Kestrel knew it had to, on some level, sting.

There, Kestrel convinced everyone that his wild coughing fit was simply from the choking smoke of the inn's fire—not a panic attack sending saliva down the wrong pipe.

His gaze drifted upwards toward the soft, ghostly glow of the moon. A painful memory pricked the back of his skull—the same memory that had plagued him in Waukeen's Rest earlier that day.

The elven woman they'd rescued from the inferno, Counsellor Florrick of Baldur's Gate, had dusted off her purple gown. The gesture wasn't much use - she was covered head to toe in ash. Nevertheless, she stood tall and informed her saviors that Goblins and Drow had attacked the inn—set fire to everything… and taken the duke, Grand Duke Uldar Ravenguard, Wyll's father.

Kestrel suddenly realized why Wyll seemed so familiar. His heart seized then. With lungs burning, panic overtook him as he began to vividly picture a baby-faced knight in shining armor, storming through golden gates, his wooden practice sword in a sheath meant for an iron one.

No matter how hard he tried to shake it then—in front of this stately official from Baldur's Gate and her contingent of Flaming Fists, the memory persisted. He doubled over, coughing wildly between desperate gasps for air.

He chuckled about it; what a fool he must have looked like. After that display, he had doubts that the counselor had put much faith in him. But even now, as he sat idly by the fire's warmth, in the night's stillness, his breath hitched.

~

"Ah, young master Ravenguard, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

That voice. It tore at the recesses of Kestrel's mind like a gnoll from its host. Ripping. Visceral. Gnawing.

A fourteen-year-old boy stood tall in the grand foyer of the manor, stoic and determined, his warm brown face still plump from baby fat.

The symbol of the Flaming Fists was emblazoned on his leather jerkin. His small, iron pauldrons glistened in the fire-light of the manor hall. He clutched at the hilt of a sword concealed by its sheath. The sword was wooden—but maybe the boy hoped no one would call his bluff.

"I wish to speak to the Lady Zamura," his voice cracked, still in the throes of puberty.

"Would you? Well, far be it from me to refuse the son of the Grand Duke," the voice slithered and snaked its way through Kestrel's memory.

At the top of the angled stairs stood a shaking, tiefling girl of seventeen years. She wore a royal-blue brocade gown with intricate gold embroidery dotted with pearls. A large sapphire of the deepest blue was the centerpiece of a golden circlet upon her forehead. Her curly, raven-black hair was neatly tied by golden cuffs into two long braids over either shoulder, reaching her waist. There was a faint, purple handprint across her blue-gray cheek.

The man turned from young Wyll Ravenguard and beckoned the girl to his side. Like a herded sheep, she obeyed. He towered over the girl—a hulking mass of fine silk and furs. His thick, pale pink hand adorned with a sharp onyx ring clutched her shoulder like a monster's claw around its prey. She did not make eye contact with either of the two humans.

"My sweet, the son of the Duke is here to see you," the man's grip on her shoulder tightened.

Her gaze slowly rose to meet the boy's. A shaky, feigned smile began to cross her meek countenance.

"Hello," she uttered, her voice barely audible.

The boy bowed curtly to the girl and spoke in a dignified manner, "Hello, Lady Zamura." He cleared his throat and continued,

Every fiber of the girl's being urged her to run to the boy, jump into his arms, and escape from this gilded, marble-encrusted hell. Every ounce of her body wanted nothing more than to scream, "Help me!"

"A few townsfolk came to my father on your behalf—earlier this evening, you were seen in the lower city.

"They said that you must have run away… trying to escape this place.

"That my father's Flaming Fists were contracted to bring you back here.

"I need to know that you are here of your own volition."

The man's grip on her shoulder tightened immensely. Fear smothered her heart and silenced her inner screams.

"Well, my love, tell him how happy you are here," there was so much venom in his tone that Kestrel was sure Wyll heard it then.

But this fourteen-year-old boy with a wooden sword could do nothing to save this girl. He knew it; his defeated posture said as much. The vile, festering pustule of a man holding her hostage knew it. Even she knew it.

A lump grew in her throat, threatening to break her demure facade. She swallowed it as best she could, feeling the man's grip constrict evermore. It hurt.

"I'm very happy here. I'm to be married soon."

~

Those words felt like a cold blade in Kestrel's heart, even ten years later. The one thing that horrid nightmare revealed to him now—is that Wyll was good. He was always good; with him, he carried a heart of gold. He didn't deserve to feel like a monster—he could never be one.

He chose to spare Karlach's life at great cost to his own, a woman he never met and was under contract to kill. Likewise, all those years ago, he decided to march into that manor and confront a great beast for a girl he'd likely only heard stories of.

Kestrel's guilt panged in his chest. After Wyll's transformation, he accosted him, hollering about how he hypocritically waxed poetic about steering clear of the devil Raphael, yet there he was, pacted to Mizora. The brave, baby-faced fourteen-year-old Wyll rushed back into Kestrel's memory. He had to find Wyll, if anything, to apologize.

Wyll sat in the rocky sand; his knees pulled up to his chest. He sullenly watched the small waves lap at the shore beneath his bare feet. The water was icy-cold against his skin—a relief from the searing, skin-melting heat he'd felt during his harrowing experience not moments ago.

His mind wandered to dark places. What's the use in doing the right thing, if it means being punished? Who was he kidding, he would never change his ways. Couldn't. Somehow, though, he knew those ways would be his end.

"There you are," a chocolatey voice pulled Wyll back from his sea of bleak thoughts.

The bard definitely put on airs. Hells, he even gave Astarion a run for his money. Beneath all the layers of bullshit, though, his heart was kind. Wyll hadn't known him long, but that much was plain to see—no matter how hard the bastard tried to hide it.

He looked out for this rag-tag group of misfits. Helped the grieving bard Alfira finish her song. His camaraderie with the tiefling children was impressive. Saved one of them from harpies and another from a venomous snake.

He even gave of himself to keep the vampire fed. Sure, there may have been a less noble motive behind this one (surely, those two didn't believe that the camp was unaware of their late-night trysts in the woods). Nonetheless, Kestrel Everdusk was a good friend to have.

They'd gotten into a spat when Mizora arrived—Wyll could remember that much over the ringing. It was faint now, and he could finally think. Wyll couldn't blame the bard; he'd put everyone in danger by keeping such a secret as Mizora. He wondered what the others thought of his devilish appearance now—wondered what Kestrel thought of him.

"Wyll, I'm sorry I was short with you earlier. I—"

"No. You were right."

"Hm?"

"Wyll, ugh. Look, we all have our secrets. I can understand why the Blade of Frontiers would want to keep the true font of his power under lock and key."

"I should have told you about it—it was reckless of me not to. There's too much on the line."

He sighed, "Mizora is a fickle creature, even as devils go. I put you all in danger."

There was a brief pause between them—both mesmerized by the soft waves cast by the river's current.

"Pah. The Blade of Frontiers. Look at him now. Hideous. A horned devil—a gods-damned monster," Wyll stared down into his rippling reflection below.

His demonic red eye glowed faintly on the water's surface, his prominent horns protruding from his forehead, then curling up and back over his neatly-rowed locs.

Kestrel smiled cheekily, "Am I a monster?"

Wyll recoiled, stammering, "Shit, n—no! I uh…"

That made Wyll smile. Maybe even like a fool. There was a quiet warmth around them now despite the cold water.

A gentle giggle escaped Kestrel's plump lips, "Easy, Tiger, I'm teasing. I'd say you're quite the handsome devil.

"People will see what they want to.

"You can save all the cats from trees and help all the old ladies cross the street that you want, and they'll still see a devil.

"You are the only one who truly knows your heart. You know that you are no monster. I know. We all do. Those that love you will see you.

"You're still the Blade of Frontiers. And whatever else you want to be."

Wyll looked down at their reflections. Kestrel's red-tipped horns gracefully curved back from his forehead in an elegant twisting pattern. His eyes glowed white as the moon with a bright, red ring around his sharp, feline-esque pupils. He was downright pretty if Wyll was honest. He felt his cheeks grow hot, flushing red. He thanked the gods for the darkness. Now, Kestrel seemed so very familiar—yet he couldn't place why.

"Was your pact what drove a wedge between you and your father?" Kestrel asked, recalling the conversation at Waukeen's Rest regarding Wyll and his father's estrangement.

"Ah, it certainly didn't help, but a rift had been growing there for a while."

"Oh?"

Wyll chuckled, his gaze falling from the water into his lap, "Aye, I'd say the first time I saw him differently was when I was fourteen."

Kestrel's expression sank. A pang of fear struck him, and he tried to fight the rising tide of panic. Fourteen? I knew you then, if you remember.

Wyll continued, "You see, there was this girl—"

Gods.

"A bard, like you. Tiefling, too. I never heard her play, but I'm told she was a legend. One of those—ah, what's the word—prodigies. They called her The Siren of the Wide."

Shit.

"Some noble took a liking to her and snatched her off the streets one day. Folks from the lower city came to petition my father for her rescue."

Kestrel tried to steady his breathing, but the memory trickled back as Wyll spoke.

"My father refused—that noble's family, the Vels, was in too many pockets. Highly influential in the upper city. Political suicide if he crossed them.

"So, I took it upon myself."

He laughed, "I brought my wooden practice sword. Hid it in an iron sheath. Can you imagine?"

Kestrel let out a nervous chuckle. Wyll continued with his tale.

Kestrel froze—a flash of an intricate illusion he set in his favorite hiding spot played in his mind. A disturbing scene of himself hanging with a blank, deathly stare and his head cocked to one side. The illusion was deep - it even had a touch component that would rely on the finder's memory of how his body felt. It took quite a bit of concentration. A shudder ran through his body, and nausea churned in his stomach.

"The bastard had a troll's grip on her shoulder. Made her say that she was fine. I knew she wasn't.

"A ten-day or so later, all of Baldur's Gate found out that she'd died. Suicide. The night before that sham of a wedding.

"I was so angry with my father—we could have saved her—"

Wyll must have noticed, "Ah, are you alright?"

"Oh, the water's cold, is all," Kestrel deflected again as he had at Waukeen's Rest. No. Nore more. Wyll deserves the truth.

He shifted nervously, pulling his feet from the water and his knees up to his chest.

"There's something I should tell you," he spoke slowly, each word becoming shakier than the last, "I… struggle to talk about it but—"

"You don't have to—"

"No, I need to. But, erm, I can't—"

Wyll didn't think he'd ever see the bard fumble over his words. But here he was, struggling to string together a sentence. Unsure. He watched as the tiefling squinted his eyes shut and exhaled deeply, grounding himself.

"I'm not good at talking about this, so, erm, if you don't mind, I'd—" the tiefling fidgeted, "I'd like to tell you a story."

To Wyll, that last bit sounded more like a question than a statement. He laughed, jokingly scandalized: a bard who's lost his eloquence? Absurd.

"I'd love a story," he smiled cooly.

Kestrel let out another shaky breath before he spoke. His shoulders sank as he collected his legs in an embrace, resting his chin over his knees. He turned to face Wyll, letting an arm dangle to draw shapes in the sand beside him.

"Bear with me here—it may be a bit… juvenile. I'm, erm, not in my right mind."

"Of course."

He cleared his throat and began slowly:

There once was a bird who sat in her mother's nest, Feathers plain and dull like rags on her breast. She longed for plumes of beautiful color— "Those you shall never have," said her tawny mother.

A sorrowful song she sang, and a crowd did gather. "But, little bird, you're so lovely; what's the matter? Your bosom is full, and your song is true, Nay, there isn't a man who does not covet you."

T'was not love that the bird lamented in her art; But a plumage to mirror that within her heart. Handsome, billowing feathers of all hues, Maybe the deep reds of roses, or perhaps ocean blues.

The crowd did not understand but loved her song, did they, For the crowd grew like wildflowers on that day. So big was the gathering around the little bird That her father flew in, astonished at what he'd heard.

"We are not songbirds!" He snarled, all fire and rage, "For songbirds are scandalous, impure, and depraved! You would be proper, and I'll see it true!" Off her father did fly, all feathers of brightest blue.

Wyll heard Kestrel's voice waver, and his words came slower. It was clear to Wyll that he was stringing this story together on the fly, impressive for not being in his right mind.

The tiefling paused for a moment before steeling himself to continue. Though shaky, he found his momentum and a certainty ran through his words:

Lament did the sorrowful little bird once more. Larger a crowd, she beckoned than ever before. "A siren song," said they, all cheers and fanfare— But wretched was her heart, so full of despair.

Her father returned, on a man's shoulder he perched. "No longer will I see our hard-won esteem besmirched. A lady you will be—proper and demure. This man will see to that—of this, I am sure."

The man smiled with the teeth of a lion Dressed in fine silks, gold jewelry, and diamonds. From under his velvet cape, he did lift A shining, gilded cage—"A Gift!"

The man clipped the little bird's tawny brown wings. He placed her head in a bridle so she could not sing. He tried to break her bones and her spirit, too. Nay, there wasn't a thing the wildflower crowd could do.

With broken bones but an iron-clad spirit, she cried "No more will I be forced to live in this lie!" From the gilded cage, she set herself free. But her wings were broken, and she could not flee.

Again and again, she escaped her cage, But the lion-man grabbed the little bird in a rage. "Retreat from me, you will not, foolish bird. For I am your master, and you will heed my word."

Kestrel paused, memories of the man's grotesque rage resurfacing. "You are to be my wife—and you will do as I say!" the man shouted and spat, hot with a fiery rage over Kestrel's refusal to pleasure him. Those vile words echoed in his mind. The man struck him that night. So deep was the gash across his lip from the man's onyx ring that it left an indented scar.

The man had Kestrel's arm in a vice grip, one that left a nasty bruise behind. He took what he wanted that night, anyway. The tiefling tried to push back the memory of the pain and fear resurfacing.

Shutting his eyes tight, his breath quickened - the panic ever rising in his chest. He felt a warm hand gently brush his shoulder and flinched —it was only Wyll, who drew back his hand apologetically.

"Gah. I'm sorry—" Kestrel gasped. He dug his hand deeper into the sand, feeling each rocky granule rake against his skin.

"Breathe. Take your time. I quite like your story," Wyll beamed a comforting smile.

Kestrel nodded and took a moment to regain himself. He wanted to tell this story more than anything. He exhaled deeply and continued,

Her spirit now broken, the little bird despaired No more pain could she suffer; no more evil could she bear. The flame of the hearth by her cage serenely burned. For the sun-yellow fire to engulf her, she yearned.

Snapped were her bones, and clipped were her wings, An end to her strife, true peace this blaze could bring. Out from her cage, one last time, steadfast did she leap. "No more can the lion-man hurt me," with joy she did weep.

The blaze overtook her, her tawny wings brightest red Sun-yellow was her belly; fiery crimson was her head. The fire consumed her and thus was the little bird's end. But joyously, her last moments in color she did spend.

No more did she suffer, no more did she cry. So serene in silent death did she lie. She wished only to live a life in vivid color, To live as her true self and not as a caged other.

From the little bird's ashes, the fire yet burned, From these flames, a vivid new life was earned. A songbird of steel-blue, copper, and white, Strong of spirit and unbroken wings took flight.

Over fields of wildflowers, the songbird did fly, He flew over deep seas and hills that kissed the sky. His song was beautiful—his call, proud and sincere. His powerful song was sung loud for all to hear.

He sang of a little tawny bird who suffered much; Her father's betrayal and the lion-man's clutch. "I sing for the little bird, for a songbird was she. I sing for the little bird, for the little bird is me."

The only sounds that remained as Kestrel finished his tale were the soft, lapping waves of the Chionthar and the peepers among the cattails. He felt that a weight had been lifted off of him. That somehow, his tormentor's grip on his mind loosened ever so slightly. His idle gaze returned to Wyll, who seemed far away. Oh no.

Wyll's mind wandered. The river's gentle waters still lapped at his feet, which now felt bitterly cold. He stared blankly into the rippling tide. Kestrel is the Siren of the Wide—the damsel he wished so badly he could have saved ten years ago! The damsel that he, and all of Baldur's Gate, had thought dead. The reason, at least in part, for the sowing of his and his father's difficulties.

But how could this be? There was a body—a massive, city-wide funeral. The Vel family was disgraced; they lost everything and were run out of the city as pariahs—the Siren's murderers. Good riddance. But... how? It's impossible!

"You're… her," Wyll breathed in astonishment, "But—how? They found your body—there was a funeral—all of Baldur's Gate mourned!"

Kestrel shifted where he sat, taken aback, "Really?"

A funeral? People... mourned him? He figured the Vel family would simply toss the duplicity into the Chionthar. Then... who found him, if not the Fists?

A snapping sound cut through Kestrel's thoughts. He followed the sound to Wyll, snapping his fingers, trying to get his attention.

"Kestrel! How did you do it?"

"An illusion," Kestrel hummed, eyes distant, "I altered the 'Invoke Duplicity' spell."

He spoke plainly; it was clear his mind was elsewhere—lost in the night of his brilliant escape from Baldur's Gate.

END PART I

[ariadnethedragon]

— The Winner’s Curse, Marie Rutkoski

[lost-kestrel]

I’m a simple guy. I see a story where dark things lurk at the bottom of the deepest holes, and how getting out alive requires both learning who you are and never being the same again. I read it. I am forever changed

[kestrels-nook]

I didn’t like tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow bc it made me want to call up my childhood best friend and I’m afraid of being vulnerable

[deer-in-headlights-stare]

Wait it’s taken me this long to realize you’re also aspiring-Dana-cardinal 💀 silly goofy moment

Also what kind of science do you like tell me some facts :))

yeah im @aromantic-dana-cardinal (the blog not the actual character lol though i wish)

i like astronomy!! i also like forensic science but i don't know much about it yet. anyway space facts as requested :D

okay so i'm obsessed with the Witch Head Nebula (the discord already knows this lol) which is a reflection nebula in the Eridanus constellation in the southern hemisphere. it reflects the star Rigel in the nearby constellation Orion (which is the seventh brightest star in the sky and brightest star in Orion btw). its blue color is due to the fine dust in the nebula in a process kinda similar to what makes our own sky blue!

here is a picture:

its just <33333

also fun fact i recently learned: due to the earth axis spinning like a cone in a process called precession (that takes over 25,000 years to complete) Vega will (eventually) replace Polaris as our North star!

um i read this article recently about how scientists found evidence of rna in an asteroid (uracil and nianin specifically) that could point to how life began on Earth it's a fascinating article i'll link it in case you want to read

okay final addition bc this is getting long but! though it hasn't been found yet, there is evidence of a ninth planet beyond neptune! so far it's just based on mathematical observations that could possibly explain the path of some objects in the kuiper belt!

OKAY last fun fact neptune was also found through mathematical observation before we could see it as well :)

i remember you like bugs, do you have any fun facts about the?? (or any other thing you like)

[spookykestrel]

I wouldn’t be where I am today without warm beverage

[ravenloftbythelamplight]

what're some fun facts and/or dreadful curses about your party? i wish to hear as many juicy details as u got about these poor unfortunate souls O:

Ohohoho we've only had three sessions but I very much so have thoughts to say regarding the party of four that my players have handed to me. Possibly, too many thoughts, but nevertheless! I'm gonna go through in order of the introductory vignettes from session one for the sake of convenience, talk about my thoughts on each so far, and give some fun facts (and dreadful curses) along the way.  I originally spent a day typing this out in a document on my phone and oh lord this is way longer than I thought it was, apologies in advance for the wall of text-

Kestrel: Out of all the members of the group, I as the DM know the least about Kestrel. This is due to factors mostly out of game, but in game I too would say this is the result of our desert-wandering tabaxi cleric being the most (I say this lovingly and this is the best word I could think to use) "average" among the party. By that I mean he could've very easily been put in with the PCs of a non-Ravenloft campaign and would fit right in, likely even more so than the actual group he's gotten himself saddled with. I, personally, think this is a stroke of genius for a number of reasons. They're the everyman archetype as someone who neither lives in and has thereby adapted to the nature of Ravenloft nor someone not tied to the setting but is still horror-based; a regular, unwitting person with no expectations for the terror that awaits. Kestrel's average-ness, in fact, makes them stand out amongst the other party members. He both sharply contrasts with and balances out fellow setting outsider Lemeia; a contrast that makes their dynamic and fast friendship such a blast to watch. I'm also excited to see how his dynamics with the other two evolve in the next session. So far Kestrel has stood as a neutral anchor-point amidst Brynmor's fear-driven worry, Nocturna's jovial indifference, and Lemeia's eerie fascination: understandably afraid in the face of their current predicament, but for the most part remaining level-headed and curious. I would not boil them down and describe them as "holder of the sole brain cell" because that just wouldn't be true, but he has been a grounded and often inquisitive facet of the group; not quite the voice of reason just yet. They haven't had any particularly big moments to themselves asides from discovering the dismembered mannequin in the kitchen, but I hope to ensure that such won't be the case for long. Fun fact time! Kestrel has an interest in plants! His character sheet has the herbalism kit and a journal of notes on plants and herbs listed in his inventory, and his player inquired on if The House had any potted plants to study during session one. Planning on having them get some in-world translated books on domain-native plants and seeing what they're able to do with that. Unsurprisingly for a character decidedly not steeped in dread like a nightmare-themed tea bag, Kestrel lacks a great deal in possible dreadful curses. However, they were the only member of the party to have been, uh, gently pushed in the direction of The House by shadows rushing past at the corners of his vision. This could come back as something of note, but as of now I'm not exactly sure on a good plan for that. His backstory is likely to, maybe literally, haunt him as well.

Nocturna: Nocturna… ooooh boy oh boy where do I even begin? The party's Lepalï (homebrew from somewhere online I was sent by player) warlock hailing from The Carnival as the child of two illusionist performers is a character that I and their player had discussed many 'a time prior to the beginning of the campaign proper. They are… well, they're a lot, which is quite fitting. If it gives any strong indication: with no prompting or prodding from me, the player had Nocturna sprint head-first into the mists completely ignoring the immediate concern of the other Carnival residents and this act was entirely on brand for both player and character. Additional note, as relayed to me by their player, she has also definitely done this more than once before. Yep. A never-ending fountain of whimsy and mischief, Nocturna has taken the situation in stride; seeing the investigation of The House as a fun adventure rather than a omen of ill occurrence. They've ran off from the party to explore, drawn on the walls, tore a hole in another wall, and solved a major puzzle without actually fully solving it; they're just hear to have fun! Incredibly reckless fun! The whimsy, however, belies the single-minded determination that she has found herself gripped by on multiple occasions over the course of the time spent in the house. Putting others at risk, literally knocking Brynmor over and trying to dig through his equipment, in a desperate bid to pry a basement door open. This aspect of her character hasn't been explored in a lot of detail yet, but it's something that might prove interesting later. Speaking of Brynmor! I could and probably will make a whole post of its own just to ramble about the two's dynamic. Seriously. Solo moments of note include stealing the mask of one of the dining room mannequins, and then a session later punching said mannequin to the ground. Also, the entire mini-saga of double nat-1'ing on trying to open the basement door. Fun fact: They're not only a magician, but also able to draw and play multiple musical instruments well. A performer of many trades! I have a hunch that they might be multiclassed into bard at some point later down the line. Potential dreadful curses, at least at the moment, are more so in line with her patron than anything else. This isn't to say The Carnival doesn't have anything in store, but the most obvious of the warlock business will likely come first. At the moment we're at in the campaign, Azalin Rex isn't actually aware of the fact that he's got an unaccounted-for warlock running around with an object he had intended for someone else to have. This is the lord of Darkon we're talking about though, and he'll have some sort of scheme in mind for her in no time. Whether or not Nocturna actually cooperates is yet to be seen, and the king isn't in much of a position to seek aid elsewhere.

Brynmor: Going in I had little to no expectations for what Brynmor was going to be like. To my absolute delight he has very quickly become a wonderful piece of characterization from his player and an absolute treat to behold. Dragonborn ranger born in Barovia to a mother known in the village of Krezk as a defender and protector against that which lurks in the night, Brynmor has made it his goal to follow in his mother's footsteps and face monstrous threats with strength and courage. He is also an absolute dork and very afraid of the possibility of actually stumbling across something that could harm him or those he intends to help; qualities which are very understandable for an ambitious 18 year-old who's never really left home until now. This guy left Krezk and immediately climbed the goddamn Balinok Mountains in the middle of fucking winter and now he'll never live decision down and I love him for it. In stark contrast to Nocturna, Brynmor has taken every step of the party's exploration of The House incredibly seriously: arguably, depending on your own view, too seriously. He's extremely fearful about whatever it is that must have brought them all to the house, and especially paranoid about it being in the house with them. Incredibly cautious and equally as concerned for the well-being of his newly-found compatriots, but still trying to lead the charge. He's no leader, though, especially not where he's at now. He's reached beyond his means, and I'm excited to see where his ambition might lead him; for better or for worst. Our boy here has had a few good solo moments, of note being his realization that the strange set of stairs at the back half of the house lead nowhere and make absolutely no sense physically, and the absolute terror that realization caused him. Also, just, the way his dialogue is phrased a lot of the time is really fun. Final fun fact: One of the times in Brynmor's inventory is a old, worn book of nursery rhymes (via the horror trinkets table in the 5e VRG). The player and I have decided that this was a book that his mother would had read to him often as a child, and that he brought it along on his journey up the mountain as a keepsake. Dreadful curses is the name of the game when it comes to the mists and for Brynmor this is no different. Knowledge of undead creatures and sinister forces has been passed down through his family and onto him: one such piece of knowledge being the true scope of Strahd von Zarovich's status and power as a vampire. What Brynmor doesn't know is that his family has been a mild thorn in the lord of Barovia's side for some time, his grandparents having been the sole surviving members of an adventuring party pulled into Barovia by forces unseen many years before the beginning of the campaign.

Aaand that's it that's the whole post-

[hehicular-hanslaughter-lecter]

Getting really tired of these children constantly assuming the worst of each other

[a-life-in-books]

Barry Hines

"Look, there's Billy Casper there wi' his pet hawk. I could shout at 'em; it's not a pet, Sir, hawks are not pets. Or when folks stop me and say, "Is it tame?" Is it heck tame, it's trained that's all. It's fierce, and it's wild, an' it's not bothered about anybody, not even about me right. And that's why it's great."

A Kestrel for a Knave

[mosscrab]

It’d be soooo funny if I wrote the first part of godhaven to be where kestrel is now living with Corvus but the plot barely has anything to do with Corvus once he gets back to the house and from there until the POV change it’s literally all kestrel’s frustrations with the other elder gods and their dealing with the kingdom wanting to move back towards the forest again AND another round of chaos’ bs all while trying to maintain a steady hold over the temple on the small island off the southern coast, which is also giving you a glimpse of what the revenge parts of the next chapter may hold and also why chaos sucks

[ariadnethedragon]

—The Winner’s Kiss, Marie Rutkoski