#or mispaired feet

[fyeahgothicromance]

I'm reading about Caribbean and Latin American folklore creatures/cryptids and a lot of them have janky feet?? Jumbies and other spirits with backwards feet or one hoof and one human foot, or just one foot (La Patasola), or no feet (trauco).

And sure shape-shifting and spells and murder are recurring themes, but the feet... Why?

[ginger-nightmist]

Day 8: Clamor

Teeeeechnically, I guess, spoilers for the first quests of the CT storyline? I haven’t tried to write G’raha before, so I don’t know how canon this will end up being, but it was fun to try out. Mild implied one-sided(?) G’raha/WoL.

The notion that he will be merely an observer collapses all too quickly once they enter the Labryinth proper. Oh, he said he would hang back and take notes for the expedition, but the when the clamour of angry voidsent chittering rises on the cohort of adventurers and their Scion-borrowed one entering the first chamber to the west, to reveal a swarm of elementals and voidsent, he's not going to stand back and do nothing. G'raha Tia is a man, not marble, and he'll be damned if he's going to just watch when he could help, especially with something this exciting.

The sounds are chaotic and raucous; angry wails, grunts and moans and pain, the high keening of an elemental before it is dissolved once more back into constituent aether. The air tastes of dust and stale water, with an increasingly coppery edge, and strangely, the occasional weak waft like fresh-ground cinnamon. Smoke and chilled ozone eddy in the air stirred by whistling arrows and running forms, but he can trace that to their party's black mage, long-fingered hands throwing balls of fire and shards of sharpened ice.

A sudden, strangely muffled and meaty thud, and G'raha finds himself sinking to his knees, a spike of pain radiating out from a spot at the side of his skull. Through sheer force of will, he manages not to drop his bow, lifting his draw hand to try and stop a rapidly increasing trickle of blood from his scalp. A blow to the head.  Faintly, the Seeker groans, feeling increasingly dizzy, pulse pounding against the bone.

Something sounds in counterpoint, the rhythm wrong, too rushed, slightly uneven. A person kneels down behind him and gentle hands reach, cupping around his head, just below the ears, before aether slides into him as if he'd stepped naked beneath the waterfall just past a glacier, so cold it burns, so hot it chills, prickling and soothing and filling his mouth with more of that fresh cinnamon.

Blinking in blurred shock, his eyes lift and meet those of the healer, mispaired green and Allagan Red, to a hue like fully ripened summer cherries, a red so rich you can taste the fruit. Or maybe that's the words that accompany them, as the woman spits, tart and sweet all at once, "If you have the skill to dart around and make games amongst the Ixali and Dullahan, G'raha Tia, you are more than capable of helping fight these creatures. Stay closer so I do not have to come running to your aid next time."

Kohanya Chelewae. The Scion. He'd half let himself forget she was a healer, after watching her tear into the aforenamed beasts with spell and curse and, one one memorable occasion, literally smacking an Ixali straight in the beak with her codex when it got too close. He had been quietly impressed then, even if she had not had the best possible attitude about his attempt to have a little fun.

Now, his eyes linger on her lips as he staggers back to his feet, the pain rapidly becoming memory. His eyes fall upon her lips and something stirs in his blood, a surge of genuine interest. What color is that that she paints them?

Something with flowers. As he jogs to catch up with the others, the miqo'te lad muses to himself, considering possibilities, each name accompanied in his mind by a professor's droning tone.

Lavender (a mark of serenity, grace, devotion and purity… and silence). No.

Heliotrope (eternal love). Hardly.

Iris (royalty and wisdom). Well, she might be wise, but no.

A pause as he wracks his mind, then a memory, caught gazing out the windows of a classroom on an early spring day, just past the frosts, as the heads of soft purple lilac flowers swayed in the wind, carrying their perfume within the buildings and making them all wish to be out and free to roam.

(The beginning of love.)

Chasing after the backs of the adventurers until he catches up, falling in with jibes and good-natured joking, G'raha smiles as much to himself as to anyone else.

Her lips are the color of blooming lilacs.

[crazycookiemaniac]

31, 79 and 99 for the cute asks!!

31: what is your opinion of socks? do you like wearing weird socks? do you sleep with socks? do you confine yourself to white sock hell? really, just talk about socks.

I don’t really care about socks, really KJADSKSJ My feet get cold a lot, but wearing socks never warms them up. At max they keep them warm if I put them after a hot shower or something :”))) Whenever I have to use them I just use basic socks & more often than not I end up using mispaired ones because I keep losing them KJDSJKSADJ

79: what’s one of the cutest things someone has ever done for you?

When people draw me stuff, especially when it’s them caring for me and my well being/health!! It happened like 2 days ago and honestly I felt so loved kajsdhas

99: list some songs that resonate to your soul whenever you hear them. ]

I... don’t think I have any like that atm... akdskasdjsd

[paradoxcoronum]

You turn away from... whatever this is, and run. You run as fast as your mispaired shoe and socked feet can take you. You hear a crunch like bones cracking, as a wail creeps out of the police car. Clicking overtake worms. You run down another hill. You can feel breathing again.

Coronum [Faris] @CoronumFaris Aug 26, 2020