#portraits of the manor; visage

[zapreportsblog]

You know the “opposites attract” relationships?

How about do one with Brahms?

Brahms - clingy, protective, stiff

Reader - calm, trusting, soft

Brahms X calm! Reader

Thank youuuuu :)

❝clingy❞

✭ pairing : brahms heelshire x reader

✭ fandom : slashers

✭ summary : brahms is one hell of a touch starved man and when (y/n) came into his life he expected her to be just like all the others, but she isn’t. In fact she embraces him with welcome arms so does that mean all those people who left him are because it’s his fault?

✭ slashers masterlist

The wind whispered through the ancient trees that surrounded Heelshire Manor, casting eerie shadows on its aged façade. (Y/N) had applied for a simple job months ago, never imagining how peculiar her new role would become. The advertisement had called for a caretaker, someone to oversee the estate's unique collection of antiques and curiosities. Little did she know, her main charge would be a doll of all things.

The first time she laid eyes on the doll, she was taken aback. It was an exquisitely crafted replica of a man, dressed in aristocratic attire from a bygone era. The porcelain face bore an uncanny resemblance to the owner of the manor, Brahms Heelshire, whose family had owned the estate for generations. The locals whispered tales of the Hellshire curse, and their peculiar fascination only fueled the sense of mystery that hung over the manor.

As (Y/N) settled into her role, her days were filled with dusting ancient furniture, polishing silverware, and, most importantly, attending to the doll. The instructions were simple: ensure the doll's clothing remained impeccable, the porcelain visage remained pristine, and its position on the mantel stayed undisturbed. The task was mundane, yet it carried an air of reverence, as if the doll held some deeper significance that transcended its appearance.

Days turned into weeks, and (Y/N) gradually grew accustomed to her routine. The mansion's interior was an amalgamation of faded opulence and eerie silence. The walls seemed to whisper secrets, and the portraits of long-departed Heelshire ancestors stared down with solemn gazes. Every creak and rustle echoed through the hallways, keeping her senses on high alert.

One evening, as she carefully adjusted the doll's coat collar, she felt an inexplicable shiver run down her spine. A feeling of being watched settled over her, but she brushed it off as her imagination running wild. That night, though, as she lay in bed, she could have sworn she heard faint whispers carried on the breeze.

The following days brought a series of odd occurrences: a book left open to a specific page she hadn't touched, a teacup shifted slightly on its saucer. She couldn't shake the feeling that someone was playing tricks on her, but each time she looked around, the empty rooms offered no answers.

It was on the night of a thunderstorm that everything changed. Lightning illuminated the mansion's darkened interior, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. (Y/N) found herself drawn to the doll, her fingers tracing its delicate features in the dim light.

And then, as the thunder roared and rain beat against the windows, she heard a whisper so faint it might have been her own imagination. "(Y/N)…" The voice seemed to emanate from within the doll itself.

Startled, she stumbled back, her heart racing. But then, as if responding to an unseen presence, the doll's eyes blinked. A shock of realization coursed through her: the doll was no mere doll; it was a conduit to something more.

"(Y/N)…" The voice was clearer this time, resonating through the room. She watched in awe as the doll's porcelain skin began to soften, its limbs shifting, as if a dormant life was awakening.

And then, from the doll's heart, a figure emerged. A man, dressed in period clothing, stood before her, his eyes fixed upon her with a mix of curiosity and caution. It was Brahms Heelshire himself, or a spectral semblance of him.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as they stared at each other in silence. (Y/N) was taken aback by the unexpected turn of events, her heart pounding in her chest. But amidst the shock and fear, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

The man, or whatever he was, spoke softly, his voice tinged with both melancholy and yearning. "You did not flee, as others before you have. Why?"

With a steady breath, (Y/N) met his gaze. "I believe that even the most peculiar of situations deserve a chance to be understood. And, in all honesty, I've grown fond of the company, even if it's a doll or a spectral form."

A ghostly smile touched his lips, and for the first time, she saw a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. "You’re courageous , (Y/N)."

And so, an unusual connection was forged within the walls of Heelshire Manor — a connection that transcended the boundaries between the living and the spectral. As (Y/N) continued her role as caretaker, the enigmatic Brahms Heelshire ventured forth from his hidden existence within the doll, revealing himself to her in a way no one else had dared to witness.

Over the course of the next few months and then two years, an unexpected bond blossomed between (Y/N) and Brahms. As the seasons changed, so did their relationship, evolving into something far beyond what (Y/N) could have ever anticipated. She had become accustomed to Brahms' spectral presence, his masked face a constant companion. Despite his initial mysterious aura, she found comfort in his company and the intriguing conversations they shared.

Brahms, for his part, reveled in the connection he had forged with (Y/N). No longer confined to the doll's form, he wandered the mansion's halls and rooms, always keeping a respectful distance from her. Yet, he was undeniably clingy, often hovering nearby, his presence an unspoken reassurance. His touch starvation, accumulated over years of isolation, drove him to seek her proximity. Whether it was watching her read in the library or tending to the mansion's gardens, he was there, his masked face silently observing.

Their bond deepened, and with time, their relationship took an unexpected turn. The unspoken attraction that had simmered between them evolved into a romantic connection. Their feelings grew steadily, and one evening, as the sun set over the mansion's sprawling gardens, Brahms removed his mask, revealing his disfigured face to (Y/N). She met his gaze without flinching, accepting him just as he was.

They became a couple, their connection forged in the quiet moments they shared, the lingering glances, and the touch of their hands. (Y/N) found herself drawn to his vulnerability and complexity, and he was captivated by her acceptance and compassion.

However, even as their relationship thrived, an undercurrent of unease began to surface. Brahms, though no longer confined to the doll, remained deeply afraid of losing (Y/N). His history of people fleeing from his presence had left scars that ran deep. His clinginess intensified, a silent plea for her to stay by his side.

As the months turned into years, Brahms' fear only grew. He watched as (Y/N) went about her daily routines, her calm demeanor seemingly unfazed by his constant presence. Yet, he couldn't shake the thought that his clinginess might drive her away. The fear of rejection gnawed at him, an invisible specter that haunted his every interaction with her.

One evening, as they sat by the fireplace, the crackling flames casting shadows on the walls, Brahms hesitated before speaking. "I fear that my need for your presence might become unbearable," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

(Y/N) turned to him, her eyes soft and understanding. "Brahms, you're not driving me away. I'm here because I choose to be. Your presence doesn't suffocate me; it's become a comfort."

He looked at her with a mix of hope and trepidation, struggling to believe her words. "But I'm constantly clinging to you, fearing that you might vanish like the others."

Gently, she reached out and took his hand. "Brahms, you're not alone anymore. I'm not going anywhere. We'll face your fears together."

A fragile smile graced his lips as he intertwined his fingers with hers, the weight of his vulnerability lessening, if only by a fraction. With her steady presence by his side, he dared to hope that he could overcome his past and embrace the happiness that had entered his life.

Their journey was far from easy, but with time, patience, and unwavering support, (Y/N) and Brahms forged a love that transcended the boundaries of the living and the spectral. And through it all, they learned that sometimes, the most profound connections are born from the places where fear and acceptance collide.

[slavonicrhapsody]

a while ago I made a post that was like what if the Rykard portrait room in Volcano Manor was Tanith’s room where she sits in a chair and stares at Rykard’s face. well I was WRONG

There is a corpse in this room in front of the fireplace holding a sword, on which you pick up the Royal Knight’s Resolve ash of war. Its hand is stretching up to the painting above the mantel, which I think it might also be a portrait of Rykard — he wears the blue Official’s robe, except with a mask (worn by lords; see the Ruler’s Mask from the Ruler’s Set) and a crown… it’s like a more important looking version of the Official’s attire, which was worn by magisterial officials carrying out “surveillance, executions, and gruesome rituals…” it’s a fitting ensemble for the lead officer of the Inquisition.

Anyway, this dead guy was clearly once a knight, and he was probably one of Rykard’s knights… so that means that this is HIS room. HE must’ve set up the Rykard portrait viewing chair. He’s reaching out to what might be another portrait of Rykard. So with that being said, THIS is my theory: After Rykard’s snakeification, this knight was so shaken that, instead of working to kill Rykard like his other knights, he locked himself in this room to mourn his liege’s once noble visage until he died of starvation. basically he died inside his Rykard shrine. dude was down BAD

[enigmaxcx]

Gothic Chronicles: Midnight's Veiled Secrets

This is a collection of poems that explore themes of loss, love, and the supernatural. Each piece offers a unique perspective on the complex emotions that accompany these experiences. As you read through this anthology, you may find yourself connecting with the universal truths that resonate within these lines.

1st poem: **Crimson Manuscripts**

In ancient halls where silence reigns,

Dust-laden tomes breathe secrets, unrestrained.

I walk the edge of lore, long since forgotten,

My heart inscribed with desires begotten.

With quill in hand, my constant guide,

Into the well of night, I confide.

A scribe of echoes from the void,

Crafting words, in melancholy alloyed.

"Unveil your stories, O manuscripts of red,

Your vellum skin to my soul is wed.

A nomad I, charting celestial designs,

In the margins of sonnets, my spirit aligns."

Shadows dance in the candle's fickle glow,

Over leather-bound legacies of long ago.

My pen bleeds ink, as if it were life,

Carving my essence amidst existential strife.

Epochs lost, their essence I distill,

In a whirlwind of memories that time can't kill.

An alchemist of words, in the arcane I delve,

Turning longing into verses, transiently shelved.

"Speak, O crimson tomes, your veins wide spread,

Upon your pages, my yearnings are said.

A wanderer am I, through constellations I roam,

In the forgotten verses, I find my home."

Gargoyles stand guard, stoic and grim,

At the gates of forever, their visages dim.

Their stone-cast gaze, the moon's sorrow reflects,

As I seek comfort in ancient dialects.

The piano's lament, the violin's cry,

And the cello's deep thrum under centuries lie.

On the brink of the void, I dance alone,

My steps resounding in a timeless tone.

"Reveal your depths, O manuscripts of hue,

My longing etched on your surface true.

A traveler of the stars, in your words I'm dressed,

In the forgotten poetry, my journey's expressed."

As the last note into silence wanes,

Within these lines, my spirit remains.

A ghostly minstrel serenading the night,

On eternity's parchment, my soul takes flight.

2nd poem: **Eternal Shadows**

In this manor, I wander, through silence and gloom,

Footsteps echo softly in each abandoned room.

Moonlight bathes me gently, as I softly tread,

Among the living's memories, I whisper with the dead.

In the moon's soft glow, my secrets unfold,

A phantom in the night, a story left untold.

Eternal shadows, where I roam free,

In this house of spirits, it's just the ghosts and me.

Through halls of mystery, where silent echoes play,

We're the souls of forever, in the night we stay.

Dust dances in the beam, time seems to freeze,

In this place of stillness, where moments cease.

Portraits watch silently, as I pass them by,

In the manor's heart, where old secrets lie.

Shadows cling to my steps, as I tiptoe through time,

In this spectral dance, where memories chime.

In this realm of silence, where I drift unseen,

Amongst the echoes, a solitary queen.

In the mansion of whispers, where secrets sway,

We're the timeless wanderers, in the shadows we play.

Feel the past's chill, as it draws near?

In the wind's whisper, it's our voices you hear.

Shadows stretch eternal, in this spectral ballet,

With the phantoms, my companions, in the night we sway.

Through corridors of enigma, where muted stories say,

We're the everlasting echoes, in the twilight's gray.

In the moon’s waning light, I catch a fleeting glimpse—a face unfamiliar, yet tethered to my soul.

The manor murmurs secrets, and I am but an echo, lost in its labyrinth of forgotten moments.

3rd poem: **The Raven's Whisper**

Beneath the silver veil of moonlight's kiss,

Where shadows merge and secrets intertwine,

I wander through the garden of forgotten dreams,

Seeking solace in the petals of night-blooming flowers.

The moon, a silent witness to my yearning,

Whispers ancient verses to the restless wind.

Its luminescent fingers trace delicate patterns,

Weaving tales of love and loss across the sky.

In this nocturnal sanctuary, memories bloom,

Each petal a fragment of a fractured heart.

I pluck them one by one, like fragile confessions,

And scatter them upon the dew-kissed grass.

The nightingale, perched upon a moonbeam,

Sings a requiem for love's ephemeral dance.

Its melody weaves through the jasmine vines,

Echoing the ache of longing in every note.

I trace the constellations with trembling fingers,

Mapping out our celestial rendezvous.

Did you once stand here, beneath this same moon,

Whispering promises that time has now erased?

The night wears on, and I become a ghost,

Drunk on moonlight and the fragrance of roses.

Perhaps, in this enchanted hour, you'll return,

And we'll dance once more in moonlit reverie.

4th poem: **Whispers from the Veil**

Beneath the moon's soft veil, we gather,

In the dim-lit chamber, secrets tethered.

A séance of souls, both lost and found,

Where spectral echoes dance, unbound.

The crystal ball, a portal spun,

Holds reflections of lives undone.

Its facets catch the flicker of stars,

As we seek communion beyond the bars.

The medium's breath, a whispered plea,

Invites the unseen to speak with glee.

Their voices rise from shadowed past,

A chorus of memories that forever last.

"Tell us," we implore, "of love's sweet pain,

Of promises broken, of longing's refrain."

And the room trembles with their reply,

A symphony of whispers, reaching sky-high.

The air thickens, charged with their essence,

As they recount tales of love's evanescence.

Their fingers brush ours, a spectral touch,

And we glimpse eternity in moments such.

The séance chamber hums with cosmic threads,

Binding us to realms where time unweds.

In this dance of spirits, we find solace anew,

As moonlight weaves stories, both old and true.

5th poem: **Portrait Of Despair**

Whispers haunt the hallowed space,

A gallery where time's embrace

Has left a mark on every face,

Each portrait tells of sorrow's trace.

A viscountess, her gaze so stern,

Her lover's touch she did spurn.

Now in her eyes, the cold fires burn,

For his return, she'll always yearn.

A captain, lost to ocean's wrath,

His ship did stray from charted path.

In stormy seas, he met his fate,

His portrait speaks of storms innate.

A child, with eyes so wide and clear,

His innocence was held so dear.

Yet fate was cruel, the night unkind,

His story leaves tears behind.

A maiden fair, with golden hair,

Once danced with grace, a pair so rare.

But love was lost, the dance did end,

Her silent song, it does transcend.

A poet's quill, now still and broke,

His verses lost, like vanished smoke.

The inkwell dry, the parchment torn,

For his muse, forever mourn.

A duelist with rapier drawn,

Stands proud and fierce, yet all forlorn.

His honor kept, his life forsworn,

In morning's light, he lies forlorn.

A widow's veil, her somber shroud,

Her whispered grief, it speaks aloud.

Her heart entombed, her love enshrined,

In painted form, her woes confined.

A jester's laugh, forever mute,

His mirthful mask, a grim dispute.

Behind the paint, the tears dilute,

His joy's facade, now destitute.

Each frame, a window to the past,

Holds echoes of a spell once cast.

The gallery, a somber host,

To each despairing, silent ghost.

So tread with care through memory's lane,

Where painted eyes live on in pain.

For every tale the portraits share,

Reflects a soul once trapped in despair.

The gallery grows, the walls extend,

New portraits join, old stories blend.

In this domain where spirits send

Their silent pleas, their hearts to mend.

Here, time stands still, the world outside

Fades to a whisper, hushed and wide.

Each canvas breathes, each shade confide,

The depths of pain they cannot hide.

So linger long, and gaze upon

The faces here, not truly gone.

Their silent mouths may yet respond,

In this gallery, they live beyond.

6th poem: **Cryptic Alchemy**

Shadowed chambers, whispers weave,

A blend of dark synth and mysterious chants,

Forbidden knowledge etched in cryptic runes,

Where secrets stir and ancient echoes dance.

No sun's embrace, no moon's soft kiss,

Only shadows' veiled embrace and moonless nights,

The alchemist, a weaver of enigma, chants,

Arcane melodies that pierce the void's veil.

Ebon potions simmer in onyx cauldrons,

Their essence distilled from forgotten realms,

Each drop a tincture of forgotten memories,

A concoction of lost dreams and starlight's breath.

The astral symphony crescendos, spiraling,

As darkness and light entwine, seeking balance,

The alchemist, eyes ablaze with ancient fire,

Unravels the cosmic threads, seeking truth.

Glyphs etched on obsidian tablets sing,

Their meaning veiled, yet yearning to be known,

For Cryptic Alchemy weaves the fabric of existence,

Where shadows birth illumination, and silence speaks.

So listen, mortal seeker, to the whispers of the void,

For within their echoes lie the keys, the ciphered codes,

Unlock the gates, step beyond the mundane,

And become the alchemist, weaver of mysteries.

7th poem: **Whispers from the Attic**

Creaking floorboards, distant voices,

A symphony of past choices,

Echoes of steps that once did pace,

Through corridors of time and space.

Above, where dust motes dance in light,

The attic holds its court at night,

A realm of silence, still and deep,

Where secrets their sacred vigil keep.

What tales are etched within these walls?

Of grandeur's rise and empire's falls,

The gentle touch of a lover's hand,

A sailor's journey to distant lands.

Here, the whispers are not of dread,

But of life's tapestry, finely thread,

A dressmaker's needle, a writer's pen,

Moments captured, again and again.

The attic, with its musty scent,

Is a treasure trove of times spent,

A chest of memories, locked away,

Awaiting the light of day.

Photographs in sepia tones,

Love letters in heartfelt overtones,

A child's toy, long forgotten,

In this space, nothing is rotten.

Each creak a word, each shadow a story,

A chronicle of both joy and worry,

The attic speaks to those who hear,

Its whispers clear, its message dear.

So venture forth, if you dare,

To uncover the mysteries waiting there,

For in the whispers from the attic's heart,

Lies a world set apart.

8th poem: **Gargoyle's Serenade**

I was supposed to be sent away,

To lands where stone figures don't sway,

But here I stand, a guardian grim,

Upon the cathedral's highest rim.

Carved from the earth's own rugged bone,

I watch the city, silent and alone,

A sentinel in the sky's expanse,

Overseeing the human dance.

My gaze is fixed, my purpose clear,

To ward off evil, to calm the fear,

With guitar in hand, I play my part,

A serenade from the stone heart.

The melody weaves through spire and stone,

A song of ages, through winds blown,

It tells of battles, of love, of strife,

Of the endless ebb and flow of life.

The chords resonate, deep and profound,

In every corner, the notes resound,

A testament to the watch I keep,

While the city below lies in sleep.

By day, I'm still, a figure austere,

By night, my music, the heavens hear,

A symphony for the stars above,

Played with a touch of eternal love.

The moon bathes me in silver light,

As I play on through the quiet night,

A gargoyle's serenade, pure and true,

For the cathedral and for you.

So let the guitar's voice rise and swell,

Let it break the night's silent spell,

For in this song, you'll find ensnared,

The spirit of the guardians paired.

And when the dawn paints the sky anew,

And the city stirs, life to pursue,

Remember the music that filled the air,

From the gargoyle's perch, high up there.

9th poem: ** Midnight Masquerade **

Under the moon's silver gaze, the night unfurls its cape,

A ballroom emerges in the forest's embrace.

"Midnight Masquerade," whispers the wind's soft escape,

Where shadows and starlight waltz in silent grace.

Masked figures glide, their steps a silent plea,

To the rhythm of hearts, to the pulse of the night.

Each turn, a story, a hidden fantasy,

Faces veiled in mystery, souls alight.

The moonlit sky, a witness to their dance,

Casts a glow on masks of velvet and lace.

In the masquerade's enchanting trance,

Time dissolves in the dancers' harmonious space.

A clock strikes twelve, the spell gently breaks,

But the dance lives on in dreams it awakes.

For in the night's tender, fleeting sweep,

The masquerade's magic is ours to keep.

10th poem: ** Fading Candlelight **

Quiet whispers linger in the room's embrace,

Where the last candle's flame begins its trace.

"Fading Candlelight," it hums with grace,

A tale of twilight, in the evening's chase.

Its flame dances with a tender, wistful air,

A ballet of shadows in the dimming lair.

Each flicker, a memory, each spark, a sigh,

A symphony of moments, as time ticks by.

The wax drips slowly, a river of tears,

For the passing days, the fleeting years.

The light wanes gently, a golden hue,

A silent sentinel in the dusk's purview.

Around the flame, the darkness creeps,

A cloak of obsidian, where daylight sleeps.

Yet in its warm embrace, the candle stands,

A beacon of hope in the night's vast lands.

The room breathes softly, a lullaby's tune,

As the candle's aura fills the cocoon.

Stories unfold in its radiant bloom,

A dance of life in the encroaching gloom.

The flame leans low, a lover's caress,

Against the night, a silent confess.

Its brilliance wavers, a faltering heart,

A sign that soon, it must depart.

But oh, the tales it could tell,

Of love and loss, of heaven and hell.

In its light, life found a stage,

A book of hours on an ephemeral page.

Now the candle's breath grows thin,

A final flicker from within.

The shadows lengthen, reaching out,

Embracing all in a silent shout.

And as the last ember takes its bow,

The room is shrouded in the now.

"Fading Candlelight," a whisper's trace,

Leaves behind a darkened space.

Yet in the black, a new day stirs,

For life persists, it still endures.

The candle's gone, but in its wake,

A new dawn blooms, for us to take.

So let the night claim its due,

For with the morn, we start anew.

In the heart of darkness, find the light,

And hold it close, through the longest night.

[malfaith]

Malfoy Manor

The (In)Complete Headcanon Post

History

Malfoy Manor has a long history. The Manor has never been inhabited by someone who was not part of the Malfoy family: ownership transfers to the heir with the family name. The Manor has been held by women but never transferred through the female line (though this is not impossible.)

While the family historically aligned itself with the with the Catholic Church and then briefly the Church of England, religion was mostly abandoned after the Statute of Secrecy went into effect and only remains in turns of phrase and vague familiarity. There is a defunct chapel in the Manor, now only used for the occasional wedding and storing art.

The Malfoys supported one side or the other in multiple wars, remaining separate from the fighting and choosing instead to engage in magical assassination and political manipulation. The Manor has seen relatively little bloodshed: the most common was family members scheming against one another for power, influence, and inheritance, leading to the still-practiced tradition of having few children.

Any skeletons found on the grounds are "purely coincidental."

Ghosts

Bassianus Malfoy - died c. 1192. Poisoned by his younger brother Latinius and haunted him for the rest of his life. Tries to teach swordplay. Mostly cheerful these days.

Demetria Malfoy - died c. 1387. Married into the family and died young. Eternally resentful. Haunts the crypts with her screaming.

Constantinus Malfoy - died c. 1641. Mobbed and murdered by Muggles. The fiendfyre he cast burned over a hundred people to death before finally being stopped. Haunts the library. Scary to look at but not much else. Banned from harassing Muggles in the surrounding towns.

Lavinia Malfoy - died c. 1763. Child in period dress. Completely silent, mostly haunts the guest bedrooms. Comes out to listen when music is playing.

Florean Fortescue - died 1997. Haunted the Manor briefly before returning to haunt his ice cream parlor in Diagon Alley. Profusely apologized to by Draco.

Blood Blob - died 1997. A dead snatcher, ripped apart by Greyback. This ghost mostly oozes around horrifying anyone it comes across. Nobody knows its name. It likes to scare children. Mostly haunts the grounds.

Muggle-born student - died 1998. Fifteen-year-old Muggle-born Gryffindor Savannah Dean. Tortured and executed after being held in the cellar. Magically confined to the cellar after causing trouble, intermittently harasses people coming to get wine. Lucius does not know her name (or care).

Art

The Manor is filled with portraits as well as art. The portraits are painted visages of Malfoys, the art is expensive moving scenery. The Malfoys still somewhat archaically sponsor artists.

Viator Malfoy in the foyer (Lucius's great-grandfather, famous for giant slaying), Armand Malfoy (who established the Manor) stares down the table in the formal dining room (removed during the Death Eater occupation), and Viviana Malfoy glowers down the upstairs hall. There are no portraits in the bedrooms, only art. Muggle art is not publicly displayed, but exists in a few rooms as private collections before the Statute of Secrecy. Many long-lost piece of art have disappeared into the Malfoy collection.

Lucius I Malfoy was relegated to a closet for about fifty years for trying to marry Muggles. Lucius II, paranoid this might happen to him after his fall from grace, used permanent sticking charms on many of his portraits.

Secrets

There are more hidden things and secret passageways than just the compartment Ollivander was kept in. While that was the preferred place to keep dark artifacts, there are places in the library Lucius hides them, as well as in the master bedroom where Narcissa keeps her poisons. There are passages to the grounds and the crypt from multiple bedrooms, secret closets and hiding spaces that have become lost to time, and a passage from a guest bedroom to Lucius's old room (used when Narcissa would sleep over.)

House Elves

The Malfoys had elves since the beginning of the Manor. Traditionally they're cremated. After Dobby, Lucius acquires another younger house-elf named Dinky, who he continues to torment.

Wards

The Manor has the same anti-Apparition charm as Hogwarts. You cannot Apparate directly into the Manor, you have to Apparate outside of the gate and then come inside. It's a magical place where Muggle technology short-circuits. The wards go back to the very beginning of the Manor and have been reinforced and changed by residents through the years. Curses have to be very powerful to affect the Manor at all and generally the place is well-fortified from explicit or implicit magical attack. It's also warded against any Muggles entering or finding it: it's unplottable and any Muggle approaching will start to get sicker the closer they get to it.

The interior of the Manor seems to fit the exterior - both are very large - but in truth a large amount of spacial magic has been applied over the years. It expands certain rooms (like the library), helps to create closets and secret passageways, and aids in making extra cupboard space. The Manor doesn't have the intense magic of Hogwarts, but it is very much an old wizards' dwelling.

Library

The library was established with the Manor. It was originally much smaller, and has been the room most subject to magical expansion. Its ceiling goes up thirty feet. Malfoys over the years used it to store everything from tomes of dark magic to pulpy bodice-rippers. The organization system is branching and strange, not implemented from the beginning, meaning there are still things in there difficult to find. A spiral staircase in the middle of the room goes up to the next level. Getting the books off the shelves is done mostly by magic. The library also hosts a collection of ancient books and artifacts Lucius (and before him Abraxas) cultivates.

[sassyteatimeinquiries]

The Would be Tragedy at the Midnight Manor of Dorian Payne

Chapter One: Welcome to the Midnight Manor

Maybe it was because he was expecting something more— Gruesome. An expectation making this settle into his bones all wrong. The Mitternacht der Wald was most certainly should not, could not, be not this. Not this strange forest with its twisted and twisting dark foliage. Never lingering, never touching the graveled road. Yet it sang. The Wald sang as if it did. As if its dark roots tangled their way up the sides of the carriage. Singing a song. A song he could almost remember. A midnight lullaby. Transforming— No, Revealing the forest for what it was, a wonderland of midnight secrets. Shimmering and whispering just beyond carriage doors. Beckoning him. Pulling at the very fibers of his being to return. Pulling at his fingertips, making them graze the handle of the door. Pushing the cool brass handle down. Door shuddering beneath the weight exerted yet refusing to budge. Just a little more weight and he can go back. Just a little more and they can’t stop him. Not this time.

No. 

No, that couldn’t be right. This was his first time here. His first and only visit to the Mitternacht der Wald. To this bizarre place, and it's strange manor,  whose visage just began to break from the Wald’s treeline.

“How odd.”

Not the first. Maybe the third? No, the fifth. No? No matter how many times those words have floated through his mind. This place only became stranger and stranger the further he was pulled in. Nothing had met, or seemed to have any desire to meet expectations. Nothing matched its name quite the right way, and appeared to relish in it. The Mitternacht der Wald, and most of all the actual Midnight Manor. It wasn’t blazing pink but it certainly wasn’t a gothic castle horror either. What it was, was a conglomeration of oddity. A hodgepodge of stained glass, open archways, a variety of roof types, winding ivy and flowering vines, and more windows than he has ever seen. All seamlessly blending. All melding in a way that made it absolutely Beautiful. 

Or in the very least fascinating. Created lines for the eye to follow, a spiderweb of the architecture shifting seamlessly from one odd feature to the next. A trail slowly leading to the main entrance with the unhurried shifting of the carriage.

Empty. Yet again.

Agitating. Like an oil slick laggedly coating the skin, sticking to the flesh. But it shouldn’t surprise him. He was an unwanted guest. With the strings and so-called favors that must have been cashed in and pulled to get him here. To get him before the Nameless Lady. He was aware of what it took to get even a brief moment of her attention. Yet here he was with a personal invitation from the Nameless Lady, herself, signed and sealed. Oh, and all too aware that was most certainly forced. An invitation to paint the portraits of not only the enigma herself but of her new heir. The infamous, if not almost as infamous as her, Dorian Payne. 

His liquid gold. His muse. His obsession. His golden beauty. Who had an almost tragic tale. A similar tale to the golden muse's own deceased birth mother. A sculpted angel that ran to the place even royalty fear to try to impose their will upon. A tale that mattered little to nothing to him. All that mattered was getting in. To find what was his. Hidden within the rumored and labyrinthine halls of the Midnight Manor. All of it just past the very annoyed face of the driver. Carriage door thrown wide open. Revealing his baggage all piled, leaning haphazardly against the pillars of the entrance archway.

All it took was a moment. A moment of pulling breath in too quick. With heart clutched by someone else’s hand. And the rush of acid to the throat. Burning along the back of the esophagus. Like bubbles rising and popping in a champagne glass. Then eyes shifted, breath and heart were released. There they were, the most important things. The only things of any true value to him. All in three neat stacks were his art supplies.

“Our Lady would not be pleased if something of that value were ruined due to the sheer displeasure of having you, Mr. Andrews.”

He stopped. Hand clutched to the doorframe, eyes snapped back to the driver. They spoke. He was certain the small lad was mute. With the way they met him and his previous carriage at the very edge of the Mitternacht der Wald. Curt and odd. They made him carry his own luggage the last few meters past the edge of the Wald. Refused both to help or allow the other driver past the limits with only a shake of the head. Answering every several questions with a nod or a shake. It only made sense. 

Sense lost to whatever happened in those few seconds. It made the driver’s head tilt, eyes caught the light and for a brief second they looked— Metallic. Like blackened silver lost as eyes narrowed and lips pulled back, bared, a predator’s smile. 

Then, gone. Both smile and driver simply vanished within the moment of a spider’s breath. Leaving him to ponder if any of this was actually real. Stumbling out of the carriage, door swinging close behind him, just, as it began pulling away if by some invisible force. Knees barely putting one foot in front of the other to pull, or push him towards the entrance. Carriage disappeared as each step brought him closer to the entry and towards his bags. Towards uncertainty. And towards unwelcoming hosts. 

—_____—

He stood within the entrance just past the doors for what felt like an hour, or more likely a gathering of several stifling stiff minutes. Each one spent staring at his own feet. With each minute certain that as long as he didn’t look up the building would not warp around him. It would not be what it was. It would not be the Midnight Manor. The stain-glass windows would fade back to where they belonged. Their colorful sunlight would not be splattering his muddy shoes. And the windows would match the outside. No. All the inside would match the outside. It would not twist and it would not be different than what reality allowed. The solution was simple. He only needed to stare at his shoes. A little longer. Just a little longer.

“Mister Andrews.” 

With two simple words he had failed. The lie had lost all viability the moment his head moved. The moment he looked up past the stairs to the balcony. To the second floor landing. To the figure with hip leaned against the railing of twisted gold vines sprouting leaves and heavy dusk dusted blooms. Looking up at golden eyes, a feature and feat as impossible as all the rest. The figure themselves looked like liquid midnight, a moonless night lost behind clouds and new moon wanings. Hidden behind a mask covering only the upper right quarter of their face. A mask with little horns pressed into the hairline. Hands clasped before them. Chin tilted up with eyes angled down. Watching him, moments ticking by as if they were waiting.

Eyes feeding fear. Unsure, no uncertainty building his anxiety. With each second another piece placed for decorum lost. Stomach to the throat. The smell of acid rising in the nose. Stomach climbed further into his throat as he leaned forward into a swallow bow.

“Thanking you my Lady for this honor—,”

He made eye contact with his shoes again, the figure cut off his even shallower words. A puddle not even a worm would drown in. The figure’s words are monotone yet somehow he knew that the stranger was annoyed.

“Leave the false platitudes for when you meet our Lady.”

They were already gone from the railing when his back had straightened and his eyes had raised back up. Leaving him alone. Again. Leaving him to the rearing anxiety. To feet drawing him forward with each pounding heartbeat. Every other beat a stabbing breath stealer. With each pang, another breath lost. Walls closed in like colored sun stained spots as feet hit the stairs tumbling forward with frantic thoughts. If only. If only he hadn’t insisted, if only—

“Come,” They were back. Standing on the stairs an arms length away. Hand clutched the railing. Gold clawed nails dung in. He must be making Mae angry, again. It wasn’t that hard to do. She never had much patiences. Like the time he— he—. He, what? And Mae? Who was Mae? Mae— “Mister Andrews, our Lady does not have all day.”

“Yes, I am sorry—"

 "False platitudes," she, no, they were looking back. Headed titled, mismatched eyes locked on his face.

Then, gone. Standing once more on the balcony near where the stairs met the second floor. Now leaned forward over the railing, head angled to the lower floor. Looking towards something, and all he can think is “One push”. Just one push and no more Mae. Simple, easy, qui— no. Whoever this was. They weren't Mae.

"Sae, get Edvaars' to move the bags,"

Sh—They. They were talking to someone below them. Someone new. Someone, somehow in a room he was certain only had entry from the floor above. From the floor he was only one last flight of stairs from. From the floor the midnight figure stood leaned over that same railing. Leading eye to the someone new down below. A string he grasped hungerly to. If one was like a moonless night this one was moonlight swirled with vibrant stars and a near willowed match in height and stance. Except for their mask. Theirs was the same design but on the left side with similar little horns pressing into the hairline. And like the other, this Sae locked golden eyes with him and tilted their head. Watching and waiting.

“Mister Andrews.”

“Yes,” Conceivable it could be that he responded too quick or that the whiplash was finally settling in. With the way his stomach rolled or was it the way the stairs moved. Clutched at the railing as he swayed. Crushing a fragile bloom under vice-like grip. Or, maybe Sae swayed him. The swaying of Sae. Sae swayed to the swaying of Sae’s solemn song. The undignified sound escaped through his nose. Cheeks burned, flushing all the way to his fingertips. Mortification yanked his head to the side, eyes down. 

Gone. 

Just gone. Not a sign of them. The second midnight figure, Sae. They were just gone. A fact that remained unchanged no matter how far he leaned over the railing. This circumstance did not change even as he took long legged steps up to the balcony. It did not change as he looked over yet another railing. And it did not change when he looked to the first and back again. They, unlike him, did not look back. Instead continued with clicking steps, getting further and further away. 

—_____—

*Click— Click— Click—*

Each step another bend turned. Another flight of stairs taken. Another window passed. The further he was pulled, and the further he was lost. Maybe, he should have— No, it was too late now. Especially since he was here now. Within these walls. Steps behind the moonless night as it shifted its weight from heel to heel. Taking a graceful, slow pace never once joustling the golden ornaments woven into the thick ropelike strands. 

The same nimble pace shifting silk, fluttering it around thin willowed limbs. Hypnotizing as they moved him through archways leading to slithering halls and magpied rooms alike. Never knowing what the next turn or step would take him. A room with floral paper walls matching the potted plants dappled throughout and a fainting couch where someone has left a single book. A hall with partial paneling, who’s large windows and their deep sills had become home for several potted plants and a dozen or so books. Another room with different walls lined with bookcases with books spilling forth, a torrent tidal wave threatening to consume every corner of space. Books on window sills, seats cushions, and any empty space but not the floor. Another hall as distinctive as the last, leading to yet another hall. 

A journey unending. A fruitless endeavor. If only, he hadn’t—.

They stopped. All those minutes lost to a journey of stairs, and labyrinthine halls and adjoining rooms. A journey that led him to a door. The first. It was an overtly ornate door, two making one. Adorned with reliefs of trees winding and coiling over each other, trees from the Mitternacht der Wald, hiding eyes of furred beastlings behind treeline. Like troubling thoughts of an unquiet mind, always barely visible.

His strange guide placed one foot forward and pressed palms to either side. Opening the doors with undue flourish. 

“Lord Payne. As requested, Larkis Andrews.”

One simple sentence, and bliss returned. Waiting inside was Dorian Payne. Past long limbs and expecting golden eyes. Golden. Golden like endless fields of wheat swaying. Swaying like strands of hair caught in a breeze. Golden silk swooping past shoulders, escaping blue fabric tie. Brushing fingers across vellum, pausing then looking up. Gracing him— them with a golden smile.

He looked as godly as the last time he had seen him. No—. He looked better. No more hidden bags under the eyes. No more gauntly skin clingy to bone. Not that it had been so apparent before. All of it hiding under expensive clothes as he was paraded around at parties, a prized pig. Or, show horse. Something prized to be traded for greed. It’s just that now, looking at him. Really looking at him. Now, the contrast was so clear. Dorian’s eyes, there was life there. Everything else just followed. Making him so much more beautiful. His Dorian. His beautiful happy healthy Dorian. What was he supposed to do now—.

 A throat clears. The sound grabbing his attention, gaze refocuses, taking in the full room. In that short time he hadn’t noticed a key problem. The midnight figure had moved. Now lazily leaned with hip against Dorian’s chair. Both of them, observing him.

He bows, a reflux he is unable to stop. Angled towards his “helpful” guide. He tries two words. A struggle at a polite dismissal in a place he had no power.

“Thank you—.”

He doesn’t know their name. He. Doesn't. Know. Their. Name. 

A sound like silk bells drifts down to his ears. Body pulled from its bow to look. To look at Dorian Payne laughing. Touching. Moving. Holding the nameless figure softly by the elbow. Smiling at them. Not him.

“This is Mae.”

 Mae. A Mae. No, it had to be that Mae. A Mae he shouldn't, doesn't know. But he didn't know any other Mae. This place was wrong. He shouldn't be smiling at her, they, whoever. They don't deserve it. He should be smiling at him. He was his Dorian. Not her's.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

He was still holding her elbow. He was still smiling at her, and she was letting him. Letting Dorian stand, maneuvering with him. Book slipped between hands. Hers now clutching it against her chest. Pulling away as she watched his face. Not Dorian’s, his. Observing, whatever twist and turns it was taking. 

“The people here are all so beautiful,” Dorian is looking at him, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes not like it did with Mae. He was unwanted here, all round, even by what was his. And it was her fault. Mae’s. All her fault. 

No.

No, it wasn’t. Not with the way she pulled herself away. Stoic face never changed, except for the slight twitch in her fingers, tapping at the book’s hardcover. A nervousness, no. A discomfort. A discomfort that led her away to the tall imposing window behind Dorian. His hand still lingering on her elbow. Head turning to her away from him. A private exchange and whatever was said or not said, the tapping stopped and Dorian let go.

Dorian’s face had turned solemn. The smile, now all gone. Mischief long faded from his eyes. How dare she. How dare she sadden what is his. How dare she take away his joy. And crush it under foot no matter how ridiculously dainty and graceful they were. Dorian was his. If anyone was to crush him, it would be him. 

But Dorian hurt Mae first.

He blinks. This voice, one he had not heard before. A soft voice he was certain was not his own internal dialogue. And certainly not a thought he would normally have concerning his precious Dorian Payne. He would need to ponder this later. After. After he had spoken to the Nameless Lady.

He watched, the room still stiff, as Dorian returned to his seat. Mae shifted back around him, headed towards the door. She had left the book leaning on the window sill. Eyes returning to Dorian, watching him watch Mae. Then smiling, gaze flittered back to him as he waved towards the second chair, “Please sit. We can wai—.”

The door had shuddered open. The face of Sae briefly revealed as it lowered into a low bow. Long locks shifting to the chime similar golden ornaments together, falling past the shoulder.

“I apologize, Lord Payne. Our Lady will not be able to make it.”

Trinkets jingled once more as Sae raised, back straightening. Mae appeared at their shoulder. She leaned forward to whisper something next to their ear. Her lips moved in a pattern he could not recognize. Whatever language it was. It was not one of the several that he knew. Whoever they were, this Mae and Sae, they were not of the Epsclaen Empire. A fact that he should not forget.

“Mae, can you and your sister escort our guest to their quarter,” Dorian’s words are tired. This did not seem like it was the plan. A clear message as eyes flickered between themselves. For a moment it was if they all forgot he was there. A minute, or a second. Another bow, hair ornaments ringing out a soft medley once more. 

With no words, and only the golden song playing as Mae stood and looked to him. With expression stoic she pushed past with clicking heels. Doors opened once more by pressed palm. Only then did she look back, past to him. 

He followed her eye to Sae.

“We’ll lead the way, Mister Andrews,” Sae smiled at him, tilted her head. Gestured with her hand. If he hadn’t been looking at her, he would have sworn it was Mae that spoke. Their voices were identical. Except Mae’s expression never changed and Sae’s did. The smile provided it. 

“Please, Mister Andrews.”

It was Mae this time. Yet either, or, it did not matter as to whose words pushed him forward to the hall. Forward to stand there, awkwardly in a patch of sunlight shaded pink. Leaving only Mae and Sae to follow him, a pair of shifting midnight figures adorn in gold and unknown silk. Placing three people together in a small hall. Three people that did not want to be in the same space as the others. Or, at least in the same place as one of them. Staring each other down, as a force outside of any one of them, closed the door behind them.

If you haven't read the introduction. Here is the link.

Or, here is the second chapter.

[anxietytwist]

Percy Adler

24 | 4'8" | Nonbinary (They/Them) | Queer | ♥︎G

Personality:

Farm Stats:

Notes:

▪︎ Was adopted by the Adlers when they were 9 (beforehand they'd been making their way through the foster-care system) ▪︎ When they realized they were trans their parent helped them pick out a new name (when they 1st asked them to help choose a name there was A LOT of crying) ▪︎ They're afraid of heights & being in moving vehicles (being on a plane is literally their worst nightmare) ▪︎ Marigolds are their favourite flower ▪︎ They have a mullet ▪︎ Augustus is now a pet goose (his visage is immortalized on the manor sign) ▪︎ Percy is VERY dense when it comes to flirting (both giving & receiving)

Picrew used:

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

♡ MC & Agustus ♡

[tsukisnapey]

Be My Lady: Chapter 9

Lucius Malfoy stood alone in the dimly lit gallery of Malfoy Manor, the heavy silence broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. The room was lined with portraits of Malfoy matriarchs, stern and noble visages watching over the centuries-old lineage. At the center of the wall, surrounded by gilded frames and rich tapestries, hung the portrait of Narcissa Malfoy.

Her likeness was as striking as ever, captured in the prime of her life. Her platinum-blond hair was elegantly coiffed, and her piercing blue eyes filled with the grace and dignity that had defined her. Narcissa had always been the strength behind the Malfoy family, the unwavering pillar supporting Lucius through the darkest times. But now, all he had left was this enchanted portrait, a mere echo of the woman he had loved so dearly. This was the official post-mortem portrait, enchanted to hold a part of her personality and knowledge. But unlike the picture in the hall of ancestors, the portrait in their Master's bedroom is made by Narcissa herself.

This one in front of him felt hollow.

[xasha777]

In a quaint, cobblestoned corner of Victorian London, there existed an enigmatic portrait that hung in the forsaken gallery of an old, derelict manor. The portrait depicted a woman of arresting beauty, with skin pale as the moonlit snow and lips as red as the blood of a fresh kill. She wore a top hat that cast a shadow over her piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to follow one around the room with a gaze that was both enticing and unnerving.

They called her "Madame Nocturne," a name whispered with a mix of fear and awe. The locals spoke of the portrait with hushed tones, for it was rumored that Madame Nocturne was not just a figment of the artist’s imagination, but a specter captured on canvas. The artist, they said, had met her one fateful night at a crossroads, where the living world and the ethereal plain collided in an unholy union.

The artist, bewitched by her beauty, had made a deal to paint her essence, to give her a form that would last beyond the ebb of time. In return, she promised him eternal life. But deals with entities from shadows rarely end well for mortal souls. Upon completing the portrait, the artist was found lifeless, his body aged centuries over a single night, a look of horror forever etched upon his withered face.

The legend of Madame Nocturne grew as whispers of her portrait's dark influence spread. It was said that those who gazed upon her image were ensnared by an unshakable obsession. Night after night, they'd return to the manor, unable to resist her call, until they were driven mad, vanishing without a trace.

One such victim was a young man named Edward, a skeptic who scoffed at the supernatural tales of the townsfolk. Driven by curiosity and the brashness of youth, he ventured into the manor under the cloak of night. The moon was a mere sliver in the sky, and the wind whispered like the voices of the damned as he stepped into the gallery where Madame Nocturne resided.

The moment Edward's eyes met hers, an icy chill coiled around his spine. Her eyes, dark as the abyss, seemed to pierce through his very soul. A smile curled upon her red lips, a smile that was not there before, or so it seemed to Edward.

Days passed, and Edward could not expel her image from his mind. He found himself wandering back to the manor, night after night, drawn to the portrait as if by an invisible thread. He spoke to it, pleaded with it, and finally, screamed at it in a frenzy. His friends found him there, muttering and clawing at the walls, his mind shattered by her unseen force.

The townspeople decided that something had to be done. They gathered one stormy night, their torches casting erratic shadows as they made their way to the cursed manor. They would destroy the portrait and end Madame Nocturne's reign of terror.

But as they reached the gallery, they found not the portrait, but Edward, his eyes now sharing the same abyssal darkness as Madame Nocturne's. The portrait lay on the floor, slashed and torn, yet Edward's appearance was now the mirror image of the haunting visage that once was.

With a voice that was not his own, Edward warned them, "You cannot destroy that which is eternal. I am now her vessel, her will incarnate. She lives through me."

One by one, the townsfolk fled, their screams drowned by the howling wind. Edward, or the entity that he had become, vanished into the night, leaving behind only the tattered remnants of the portrait.

And so, the legend of Madame Nocturne persists. It is said that on nights when the veil between worlds is thin, one can see a figure in a top hat, with eyes dark and all-consuming, prowling the shadows of London. And the manor remains, its gallery empty, save for the echoes of madness and a darkness that will never fade.

[swcrdstellaris]

It is said that they took the form of human to commune with the knights...

What can one say? Those knights got lucky.

By 交界地冷酷帅哥

[primrose-path-of-dalliance]

One of the preview images available for the upcoming book Tal’Dorei Campaign Setting Reborn, which will be releasing on January 18th.

It’s of Keyleth’s section in the book, pages 262–263. They’ve cheekily covered her portrait artwork with the Keyleth dice bag from the CR shops, but the rest of the pages are plainly visible. So for the Keyleth fans and anyone else who might have been wanting to read these pages before the release, I’ve transcribed both the text and her (visible) stat block.

For an (probably) easier, better formatted read, here is a link to a Google Doc with the referenced image and following text.

Keyleth’s character description:

(page 262)

KEYLETH, VOICE OF THE TEMPEST

Many painters across Tal'Dorei have depicted the stoic, melancholy visage of Keyleth, Voice of the Tempest, as she stands at the edge of a lofty cliff of Zephrah, gazing into the rosy sunset beside a pink-blossomed tree. In this image, people see a leader who has lost much—and sacrificed even more—for her people, for her world, and for the family she found on her journeys.

Hidden Heart. Though Keyleth often looks back on the life she left behind, she does not dwell on the past. She remembers the joy and pain in equal measure, keeping her eyes on the horizon to seek the next sunrise, not the sunset. In public, she is a consummate leader, speaking tactfully, with calculated words and poise. Yet when she's with her friends from the old days, particularly Pike, Percival, and Vex'ahlia, her practiced public face falls away, revealing the same eager, enthusiastic, idealistic Keyleth that she's always been—just with a few more sorrows weighing upon her heart. She keeps a humble home in Whitestone near Grey Hunt Manor, close to a hidden forest trail she can walk down in peace, conjuring snowdrops as she goes.

After the Epilogue. Keyleth buried herself in her duties as Voice of the Tempest after the loss of Vax'ildan and the Whispered One's defeat. She did everything she could to ally the Air Ashari with the rest of Tal'Dorei, and to create a world better prepared to unite against threats like the Whispered One and the Chroma Conclave. Her heroic reputation, her political will, and her mighty elemental magic gained her many allies, but the entrenched elite of Tal'Dorei still see her as a potential threat to their stability. She rarely adventures anymore, preferring to hire others to tackle problems she sees arising across Tal'Dorei. But if the world is ever in need of an archdruid, she will answer the call.

Keyleth’s stat block:

(page 263)

KEYLETH, VOICE OF THE TEMPEST Medium humanoid (half-elf)

Armor Class 17 (+2 leather armor, +2 ring of protection) Hit Points 150 (20d8 + 60) Speed 30 ft

STR 14 (+2) * DEX 15 (+2) * CON 16 (+3) * INT 15 (+2) * WIS 22 (+6) * CHA 15 (+2)

Saving Throws Str +4, Dex +4, Con +5, Int +10, Wis +14, Cha +4 Skills Athletics +8, Insight +12, Intimidation +8, Nature +12, Perception +12, Persuasion +8, Stealth +8, Survival +12 Senses darkvision 60 ft, passive Perception 22 Languages Auran, Common, Druidic, Elvish Challenge 18 (20,000 XP) * Proficiency Bonus +6

Fey Ancestry. Keyleth has advantage on saving throws against being charmed, and magic can't put her to sleep.

Focused. Keyleth has advantage on Constitution saving throws made to maintain concentration on spells.

Special Equipment. Keyleth wears a circlet of wisdom (which increases her Wisdom score by 2), +2 leather armor, and a ring of protection with a +2 bonus. She wields the Spire of Conflux (see page 209).

Spellcasting. Keyleth is a 20th-level spellcaster. Her spellcasting ability is Wisdom (spell save DC 22, +14 to hit with spell attacks). She has the following druid spells prepared.

Cantrips (at will): druidcraft, guidance, mending 1st level (4 slots): cure wounds, faerie fire, fog cloud, healing word, thunderwave 2nd level (3 slots): alter self (at will), flaming sphere, gust of wind, pass without trace 3rd level (3 slots): call lightning, wind wall 4th level (3 slots): blight, control water, grasping vine, polymorph, stone shape 5th level (3 slots): conjure elemental, greater restoration, scrying, wall of stone 6th level (2 slots): heroes' feast, move earth, transport via plants 7th level (2 slots): fire storm, plane shift 8th level (1 slot): control weather 9th level (1 slot): foresight, shapechange

ACTIONS

Shapechange. Keyleth casts shapechange to transform into a planetar, an adult bronze dragon, or another creature of CR 20 or lower that is not a construct or undead.

Meteor (Earth Elemental Form Only). When Keyleth falls at least 25 feet, she lands with meteoric force. Each creature within 20 feet of her must succeed on a DC 19 Dexterity saving throw or take 3d6 bludgeoning damage for every 15 feet Keyleth fell. Keyleth still takes falling damage while in earth elemental form.

Chain Lightning. Keyleth casts chain lightning (spell save DC 22) from the Spire of Conflux at a creature she can see within 150 feet of her.

BONUS ACTIONS

Wild Shape. Keyleth magically polymorphs into a beast or elemental of CR 6 or lower. Her game statistics are replaced by the statistics of the new form, but she retains her alignment, personality, and Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma scores. She also retains all of her skill and saving proficiencies, in addition to gaining those of the new form. She assumes the new form's hit points and Hit Dice and returns to the number of hit points she had when she reverts to her normal form. Any equipment she is wearing or carrying is absorbed or borne by her new form (her choice). She reverts to her humanoid form as a bonus action, or when she falls unconscious. Her attacks in Wild Shape form are magical, and she can cast spells while transformed.

Healing Word (4th Level). Keyleth casts healing word, restoring 16 (4d4 + 6) hit points to herself or another creature she can see within 60 feet of her.

And again, here is a link to the Google Doc with all the information above.

[hyns-writings]

— Memories of Those Times —

—————

“We passed by each other at first, but were brought together even so.”

A/N: Hello IDV and Edgar Valden fanbase, I’m here with a short thingy for our favorite painter. It’s nothing much, but I’m terrified of writing more…,, I hope I wrote Edgar well enough!

—————

when we first saw each other, my hand was holding a pencil, stroking at the blank page of my sketchbook in the dark of night, illuminated by the light of the moon from the window. light footsteps caught my attention, and the focus i had on my work was diverted for a moment to the unfamiliar individual. a newcomer, to you.

you were nothing to take note of, not too different from the other residents of the manor. those were my first thoughts of you, shrugging you off as talking to you wouldn’t be any business of mine.

i still stole glances at you as your visage faded into the dark of the night. for a moment before you faded, thinking a little more that perhaps, maybe, it would be fun to try drawing you. in the moment, however, it was merely a passing thought as i resumed sketching. this encounter would simply be another forgotten memory.

however, i failed to notice that fate has tied a red thread to my finger.

we bumped into each many more times after, and we finally came to talk. the first few were ones that ended within minutes, however the others turned to be more and more meaningful as time passed for us.

you understood my artistic vision. it was pleasant to be around you. the times where we talked in the garden, sitting next to each other. i looked forward to our talks together, i looked forward to your display of your art.

the brush stroke left a trail of your color on my canvas, and my hand started to move as it always did. the multitude of colors started to form a painting, my brows furrowing in concentration.

i did not like painting portraits, but your image was what came to mind for this piece. the expression you had whenever we talked, wanting to capture it, i continued on.

…

as i set down my paint brush, my eyes looked upon the piece i have made. the textures of the paint showing the scenery of the garden and at its center, its focus, you.

as the rays of the afternoon sun shone down on it, i hope to meet you again soon and give this to you.

[terminallydepraved]

Beyond the Pale (JayTim Vampire au)

Yo! My contribution to the @batsandbeasts Batman zine is now up on ao3 for your reading pleasure.

Read on ao3 here.

The sharp silhouette of Drake Manor against the pale, full moon cut a suitably somber visage against the autumn sky. A pervasive wind was blowing through the trees surrounding the overgrown ground, whispering like a poorly kept secret. Jason Todd lifted the collar of his coat out of habit, shielding the vulnerable flesh of his neck from its bite. He stared at the once-grand home while he let the wind claw and tug at his clothing as if in hope of beckoning him through the battered doors.

 In that regard, the wind seemed to be the most welcoming thing about the place. The windows had long been boarded up, the brick facade a patchwork of lichen and ivy so dried and desiccated that it looked black in the light of the moon. A once-impressive turret rose up to spear the bloated clouds overhead, appearing desperate in its struggle to stand straight while it slanted dangerously askew. Brittle, dead grass crunched beneath his heavy boots. No flowers grew in the planters by the wrapping porch. Only weeds that whispered alongside the breeze.

 If anything had lived here, it would have been decades ago. To an observant eye, that supposition would be the end of it. Drake Manor had been abandoned for years, the place left to rot and molder alongside the family that had owned it up until tragedy took them from splendor to the sepulchre nestled just behind the building’s sprawling expanse.

 “The whole family passed one by one,” echoed the memory of that old woman’s voice in the lilting chill on the wind. “It was… sudden. First the mother. Next, the father.”

 “And the son?” Jason had asked as he sharpened the stake by the hearth, staring at the small woman from across the tavern floor. She had kept her distance from him, like a rabbit smelling blood in the air. Everyone had. They might not have known they had a dead man walking among them, but something within them warned them of the danger of lingering too close to a Hunter seeking fresh prey.

 Wizened hands wound themselves with rosary beads. Jason’s eyes tracked them like pearls, reciting the words of her prayer silently out of a habit that hadn’t managed to die even after he had. Her eyes turned towards the rough wooden beams above their head. “We do not speak of it,” she said, talking to God more than the one that used to preach his word. “It is not the boy it once was.”

 No one would say what the boy was now, but that was fine. Jason had spent the bulk of his life—      both    lives—exterminating things better left unsaid. His hands roved over the holsters on his hips and the belt that held his stakes. Vials of holy water—freshly consecrated earlier that evening—studded the inside of his leather jacket. His shotgun was a reassuring weight between his shoulder blades. The small blade tucked inside his right boot pressed against his calve, more soothing than rumors could ever be.

 That woman had warned him to be careful; Jason had to think that the creature skulking away inside those dilapidated walls could use that warning more.

 The grass crunched beneath his boots as he moved towards the front door. In the dead of night the sound seemed deafening. Still, Jason didn’t try to muffle his approach. It already knew he was coming— in fact, it likely already knew he was here. A vampire couldn’t hope to steal six villagers from their beds and remain unnoticed in its lair. Humans were fragile, weak, and easily made victims to the shadows beyond the firelight— but that was where Hunters came in, evening out the playing field.

 Jason, for one, had long outgrown his fear of the dark.

 Pulling his shotgun over his head, Jason held it at the ready as he made his way up creaking, splintering steps, eyes narrowed for any sign of movement. He took care to keep his finger off the trigger; any other time he would prime himself to fire first and ask questions later, but the bodies of the stolen villagers hadn’t been found yet. Slim as it was, they could still be alive. He’d been trained too well to write off the possibility entirely, so his finger stayed flattened against the stock as he kicked down the front door with a resounding      bang!  

 The sound reverberated through the entry hall like a crack of thunder. Motes of dust rose in the air, stirring the spider webs hanging from the eaves and edges of practically every available surface. Jason resisted the urge to close his eyes as powdery flecks settled in his hair. It was quiet in the dead space, stagnant air heavy with the silence. Every step Jason took cut tracks into the layer of filth blanketing the wooden floor. If something had been in here, it hadn’t left a trail for him to follow. The dust was undisturbed as far as the eye could see.

 First course of business was to locate the missing villagers. They had been gone for at least a week, some of them closer to three. Vampires that took to creating larders tended to store their human pantry staples somewhere secure, contained, and without many options for escape. A place this big... no doubt it had a basement, maybe even a few cellars. He would need to find it before he went hunting for the vampire. Once the captives were out of the picture he’d be able to fight without holding back.

 Of course, that was all easier said than done. This place was enormous. Cavernous even, and Jason had spent a large part of his youth in a manor not that dissimilar from it. Maybe it was the lack of life in the place that made it seem so empty. The portraits on the walls had eyes, but their dead smiles were fixed in place, like spectral guides that escorted him through the halls. He paused outside a dark, rusted kitchen. Memories of his childhood flickered among the shadows.

 A board creaked behind him. Jason swiveled smoothly, body moving independent of thought. He pointed the barrel of his gun in the direction of a set of descending stairs just visible through a nearby doorway. His heart beat a little faster. That door had been closed a moment ago, hadn’t it?

 “Show yourself,” he called out. An old house like this would creak and groan naturally, but the timing was too perfect, too planned. Jason bared his teeth as he looked down the line of his gun. “I know you’re here. Stop hiding and let’s get this over with.”

 Another creak, this time further down the hall. Jason shifted without thinking, but this time he caught sight of movement just as it evaded his peripherals. A cold sweat began to bead on his forehead, the tiny hairs on his body rising in the wake of instinct telling him that he was sharing breathing space with a predator. It was in the area with him; of that there was no doubt. Hiding in the shadows and among the eaves above his head… Jason fought the urge to look up, knowing through experience that keeping his eyes forward gave him the best chance of reacting quickly when it inevitably came for his throat.

 Jason slowly backed into the kitchen, preferring a wider space for the fight that was soon to follow.

 “I’ve never met a hunter before,” a quiet, lilting voice remarked just as the silence began to weigh on Jason like lead. Again, he moved to face the direction of it, his shotgun slicing through the air with whisper. He found himself moving yet again though when that same voice spoke again from a different direction, “Are you truly as strong as the stories say?”

 “Stronger,” Jason grunted, knowing this game after playing it so many times. It would try to get close next, and he readied his finger on the trigger. “Even death didn’t stop me from killing your kind.”

 The words had barely left his mouth before the vampire made its move. Jason reacted with practiced grace, giving himself to his instincts as he twisted at the waist and fired at the pale blur rushing towards him through the kitchen doorway. The gunshot went off like a thunderclap, deafening in such a dead space. A spray of lead burst through a section of the door frame, ruining an enormous family portrait mounted in the hallway behind it.

 “Close,” an icy voice whispered in Jason’s ear. A pale hand wrapped around the smoking barrel. “But no cigar.”

 Jason recoiled, warning bells ringing like a cacophony of the damned inside his head as the gun was snatched free from his hands. He let it go without a fight—the creature could overpower him easily, so there was no point in wrestling for it—and darted back, hand reaching for a vial of holy water and lobbing it in the direction of the figure now standing in the middle of the manor’s kitchen.

 Jason’s eyes closed as the glass shattered; when he opened them again, the figure was gone, its voice still echoing around his head.

 The eaves. It’d gone for the eaves again, or maybe to the tops of the large shelves and cabinets scattered around the room’s upper edges. Jason scanned the ground for his gun, spotting it towards the door he had come through.

 “I know who you are, hunter,” the vampire crooned, smooth and melodic, the only warning Jason had before a pale hand descended from the dark to grab him from behind. Those lips met his ear once more as it hissed, “I know      every    trick in your arsenal.”

 White hot anger tore through Jason, overpowering the fear throbbing in his veins. “Oh yeah?” he spat, tearing free two more vials and crushing them in his bare hands. The glass tore through his palms, but that hardly mattered. Blood and holy water both sailed over his shoulders as he cast his hands back. The vampire let out a pained shriek, and the pressure on Jason’s back abated.

 The creature didn’t retreat far this time, giving him a chance to look, if only briefly, at his quarry. Even crumpled on the ground he could tell that the vampire was young and far more intelligent than the majority of the blood-starved prey he’d hunted in the past. Jason couldn’t look at him dead on for fear of being caught by that gaze, but what he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye was enough to tell him that the refined beauty spoken about in most vampire stories wasn’t a lie this time around, even with holy water burning black spots into his perfect, blood-flecked skin.

 That must be the boy. The woman from the tavern hadn’t spoken his name, but Jason had done his research, had seen that face staring back at him from the portrait sporting buckshot behind him. Timothy Jackson Drake, last of his line. He had been on the cusp of adulthood when he went missing, and it was clear now that he’d stayed there for decades after.

 Jason dove for his gun. Dust rose in the scramble, the vampire darting forward to cut him off. Inertia carried Jason forward as he committed to the move, his shoulder bearing the brunt of the impact as he slammed into the vampire and sent them both tumbling through the doorway and back into the hall. Sweat stung Jason’s eyes but he didn’t dare close them, not this close, not as he fought with every ounce of strength he had to pin the slighter body to the floor.

 “What did you do with them?!” Jason grunted, forcing his forearm against the vampire’s throat until there was no way for Drake to bite back. “Where the fuck did you put the villagers, Drake?!”

 Cold fingers wrapped around his arm, holding tight but not as tight as Jason knew he could. “You can call me Tim,” whispered the vampire through a smile. His eye teeth curved over his bottom lip, ruining whatever charm the expression might’ve held once upon a time. “Can I call you Jason?”

 Jason couldn’t smother his reaction, his shock. It widened his eyes, slackened his grip. Drake— Tim—      the vampire ��  took the chance it was, pushing hard and rolling them over, pinning Jason to the floor like a butterfly to tack board.

 He had to look at Tim now, and God, the stories had never been so true. Pale skin, startling blue eyes, and lips like roses, blood red and temptation incarnate. Those shy lips curled back into a revealing smile, but even that barely shattered the illusion. Jason shut his eyes as quickly as he could, scrambling for one of the stakes at his waist. He shoved upwards with every ounce of strength he had and barely,      barely    managed to roll them over.

 His elbow clipped a door frame, warning him too late that he should have aimed better. Jason lost hold of the vampire as they both tumbled ass-over-tea-kettle down a flight of rickety steps. The stake in his hand was lost along the way. Jason felt a few more splinter by the time he reached the floor.

 It wasn’t a graceful landing, and he knew without looking which of them would recover from it first. Jason hit the ground hard, his breathing rushing out of him upon impact. He forced himself to keep moving, rolling onto his knees as his hand reached for the knife he kept in his boot. The air was heavy and dank, his surroundings as black as pitch once the sound of a door slamming shut cut off the sliver of light just above his head. The dirt beneath his feet told him well enough that he had fallen into the manor’s lowest level, but without moonlight or a torch his options on finding his way back upstairs were worse than limited.

 “I waited for you, you know,” came that voice again. “Did you think it was strange how loudly that village called for you? I knew you would come, Jason. I know everything about you.”

 “You don’t know shit,” Jason snapped, swiping his knife into the empty air. The vampire was pitching his voice somehow, projecting the sound so it echoed all around him. Without light there was no way to tell where he actually was. A burst of paranoia had Jason twist on his heel, slicing wildly at the space behind his back. He met nothing but nothingness, and it pissed him off even more.

 “Jason Peter Todd,” recited Timothy Jackson Drake, last of his line. “Street rat turned hunter. Made apprentice to the best and fell victim to the worst.”

 Jesus Christ. “What the fuck do you want?” Jason snarled. He couldn’t smell any rot or blood, and this had to be the basement. Where were the villagers?

 “You said it yourself; death makes things stronger.” Something cold brushed Jason’s neck. Jason tried to lift his knife but a slender hand wrapped around his wrist, squeezing like a vice until he was forced to drop it. “I waited for you,” Tim whispered, soft hair and cold breath ghosting across Jason’s cheek. “I used to watch you, before. I watched you, and then you disappeared.”

 Right. Jason had died, slaughtered by that monster just to come back as one thanks to elements far beyond even his ken. The struggle had left his body, telling the logical part of his brain that Tim must be staring into his eyes right now, mesmerizing him through the darkness. He never should had let the vampire get close to him. He never should have come here alone.

 “The… villagers…” Jason forced himself to ask, even as his knees gave out beneath him. “What did… Where…?”

 When Tim laughed, it sounded like bells. “Back in their beds. I only needed a story to get you here. But that’s okay, isn’t it? You’re here, and you’re tired, aren’t you?” Jason felt an unnatural exhaustion begin to seep into his limbs in time with the lilting words. His eyelashes fluttered; he couldn’t seem to make his arms move. “Don’t you want to sleep now, Jason? You can sleep. I’ll watch after you.”

 That voice was just a whisper. Icy fingers ran through Jason’s hair. Lips as cold as death brushed his cheek tenderly as his body settled on the floor.

 “And don’t worry,” Tim breathed, those lips ghosting over his throat. “Even death didn’t stop me from wanting you.”

[the-witch-and-her-husbands]

Day Fifteen: Nightmare

Jilomena’s hands twisted over themselves again and again with worry and fear.

The dark halls of the manor seemed to be drawing in, looming over her shoulders as she walked down endless corridor after endless corridor. Just when it felt like they were touching her sides and she couldn’t breathe, they would part again, just enough that she thought she might be imagining things. Until they began to pull closer once more. The patterns in the dark rug seemed to twist and slide, slithering sinuously like snakes underfoot. It made her dizzy to look down, so she tried to keep her focus on what lie ahead.

‘Severus?’ Her voice seemed to echo back on itself, the repeating tones sounding full of sly mockery. Severus? Severus who? Severus, Severus, who’s got the Severus? Not us.

A lightning bolt struck outside the window, temporarily throwing everything into stark black and white relief. It looked in that flash of illumination like there was a body hanging from the dead tree outside, and her heart leapt into her throat. Then it cleared, and she could just about make out in the shadows that there was nothing there.

Nothing there, nothing there.

She closed her eyes tight, counting to five before opening them again in the hopes that things would improve.

Things did not improve. Now the hallway was lined with sheet-covered figures, one lying flat here, one propped up in the corner there. And one sitting leaning against the wall as if it were waiting for something.

She wanted to scream, wanted to cry. But Severus was missing, and she was the only one who could find him. Once she found him, everything would be okay again.

‘Foolish girl.’ The painting to her right sneered as she approached the nearest sheet, a trembling hand reaching out to uncover the face. The visage in the portrait temporarily turned into a flaming Jack-o-Lantern, before reverting to its former self. Which wasn’t actually much of an improvement. ‘Death is an eternal sleep…death is an eternal sleep….’

Her greatest fear. Even though every fibre of her being was screaming at her not to, not to pull back the sheet and reveal the unmoving and unbreathing form of her beloved, she had to. HAD to. In case there was anything she could do to save him, save them, from a lifetime of living without one another.

Her hands grasped the sheet, cold and strangely slimy under her fingers, and tugged.

‘Hallo!’ A tiny purple fairy popped up from the spot where a corpse had appeared to be lying.  

Jilomena staggered back in shock. She was used to fairies, but ones that normally had sharp teeth and were fond of biting, only slightly more evolved than their close cousin, the Doxy. She couldn’t recall one ever willingly addressing a witch or wizard before, not when they usually preferred to let their teeth do the greeting into tender flesh. She blinked, confused.

‘Sorry to break up the party.’ The Fairy flew over to where Jilomena had landed on the floor, brushing off bits of sparkling purple fairy dust that had come loose from when she was underneath the sheet. ‘But it seemed like you’d had enough.’

‘What…who…’ Jil couldn’t quite manage to form a sentence as she followed the fluttering circle of light.

‘Ah. You don’t know me, not in this time and place, ne. Not yet, though we’re besties in other times and places. Sisters from another mister. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Flip.’ She did a sort of bow in mid-air.

Jil stared at her blankly.

‘I’m a Nightmare Hunter. I get rid of Nightmares, so they don’t give you bad dreams. And it looks like I walked into a doozy.’ Flip gave a tinkling laugh, like the sound of bells.

‘Oh.’ That was about all Jil could manage. Then, ‘Thank you. Flip.’

‘Only doing my job, ne.’ Flip gave a tiny mock salute. ‘Everything should be okay now. Look.’ She indicated the nearby window. The sun was just beginning to rise. And Jil could see Severus, setting up a morning picnic breakfast outside by the dead tree. He blew her a kiss.

‘Thank you.’ Jil’s voice was steadier this time. ‘Sincerely.’

‘I’ll be back again, sometime, no doubt. Maybe I’ll pop up and say hallo when you're awake.’ Flip fluttered close to give Jil a kiss on the cheek.

‘Wait! What did you mean, other times and places?’ But Flip was gone, and the hallways were dissolving fast. Jil only caught the merest glimpse of herself with a man that looked like an older version of Severus, and one that looked like Severus, but with wings, herself with countless versions of Severus, before everything collapsed into itself.

‘Dearest Heart? Are you okay?’ Her husband’s voice in her ear, thick with sleep. He pulled her close to his chest.

‘I had a nightmare. But I’m okay, now.’ She rested her head on his chest, hearing his strong and reassuring heartbeat under his ear.

As she drifted off again, she thought she heard the sound of tinkling laughter.

[indiavolowetrust]

THE LOCKED=ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO: Choose Your Own Adventure

Guidelines

The story will be updated in approx 1000 word segments on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with two to three choices at the bottom in [this format.]

Depending on the feedback – comments, DMs, reblogs, etc. – I will write the next portion of the story based on the choice. You will have until 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time of the following days to make your choice: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Available here on AO3.

If the MC dies, the player (you) will be allowed to rewind back to the previous choice. Perhaps there are even secret choices.

Previous part here. Or start from the beginning.

Portrait of a Young Man: Part Five

[Answer in kind. You are a guest here, after all. Despite your circumstances, you must follow social obligations.]

You hate him. You hate him. Good God, you hate this rapacious, scheming devil. You detest this devil with every fiber of your being, every bone in your body, everything you could ever pour your soul into. You hate this conniving beast of a devil with every last ounce of hatred you could ever muster in your body. Just the sight of him sets you on edge. Here you are, having paid dearly for what must have been a boost in his career. Your partially scarred visage, burned body, and want of a leg can attest to that much. What would have become of your academic ambitions and your father’s empire lies in burnt shambles around you. While you have no solid proof of his role in your father’s death, surely the great wealth and business that he has accrued is more than enough for you. Had it not been for your father’s generous donations -- and events, business dinners, strategic alliances -- you highly doubt that the demon before you would be enjoying the fortune that he possesses now.

And yet here he is, untouched by time or any semblance of guilt. If you were a halfwit, you would have sworn that this devil before you simply stepped out from the fabric of your memories.

Despite the intensity of your hatred for Mr. Diavolo -- and your nagging, incessant urge to scream profanity at him and hurl accusations -- you are a guest. Guests do not act in such a manner.

You grit your teeth. Hopefully it passes for a smile.

Mr. Diavolo begins to descend the stairway, his hand on the banister. “It’s been years, hasn’t it?” he remarks, looking you up and down with interest. “You’ve grown up to be quite a fine young lady, I see. How fares your mother?”

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

“She’s doing well,” you lie. “Much better than she was.”

“Wonderful! That’s good to hear.”

He reaches the bottom of the stairwell much quicker than you had hoped, nearing you with long, easy strides. You nearly fall over when he claps you on the back. Thankfully, you manage to retain your balance. Then there is that great, wide businessman’s grin again on his features, as if you two are truly old friends, and you feel the rage beginning to writhe in your core once more.

You want to burn that face of his to ashes.

The dark-haired man steps forward somewhere in your peripheral vision. You turn slightly to regard him. His gaze flickers towards you once, maybe twice on account of your missing limb, but once more he ignores you. 

“While I appreciate this reunion, I believe the hour is quite late.” He nods respectfully to Mr. Diavolo, as if to signal his leave. “And we’ve quite the number of guests who haven’t arrived yet. Surely such reunions and introductions can be set aside for tomorrow.”

Asmo huffs. “Just because you retire so early doesn’t mean that it applies to the rest of us. You’re no better than an old man!”

“My apologies, I wasn’t aware that simply needing sleep insinuated that --”

Mr. Diavolo claps his hands together once, interrupting the dark-haired one in the middle of what would certainly incite an argument. “Perhaps Lucifer is right,” he concedes. “Even the professor has yet to arrive, and I believe he was set to reach the estate by tonight. We’ll have it all sorted it out by tomorrow.”

And so it is Asmo that insists on leading you to your room, your suitcase in tow. The both of you pass even more vast swathes and stretches of corridors, each one appearing to be more expensively decorated and lavish than the last. When you finally reach what you assume to be your room, your remaining leg throbs from the strain. Asmo sets your suitcase to the side as he knocks on the door -- and then he swings it open with a flourish, revealing the four poster bed and gilded mirror within as he does so.

“Ta-da! One room for one young lady.” Asmo passes the threshold to place the suitcase beside your bed, and you follow him in. “I do hope it is to your liking.”

Again there is that dramatic flourish. and --

You realize that you’ve yet to thank the man for helping you up the stairs, much less for bringing your things to your room. Or for making conversation with you, given the dark-haired man’s -- Lucifer, you recall -- complete refusal to speak to you. You can only imagine why.

A sheepish expression graces your features. “I don’t think you need to mention that,” you say, tring to force down the embarrassment. It proves to be ineffective. “I believe I forgot to say thank you, by the way. For helping me up the stairs and whatnot.”

Asmo simply waves off your attempt at social grace. “There’s no need to thank me. What sort of gentleman would I be if I were to refuse extending aid to a lovely young lady such as yourself?”

Your embarrassment only intensifies. Perhaps it has been much too long since you have dabbled in society.

“Besides, we are friends here, are we not? I take it that you’ve no clue as to whom the others would be.” He leans casually against the frame of the door, overlooking a trinket on the rather massive wardrobe. A sidelong glance. “I know only a few of the others, but I’ve got the slightest inkling that your invitation was a bit, ah, unexpected. That you’ve no idea why you were brought here. Am I  correct?”

He’s rather perceptive, you note.

“You are..”

There is a slight pause as Asmo turns the trinket this way and that, his attention preoccupied with what appears to be a carved bat. Or a winged animal of some sort. His visage is turned away from you for only a moment, breaking his hold on your gaze -- but he regards you once more soon enough.

“Then we’re allies!” he declares. “Or, ah, how would you say it -- we’re in the same boat. I was told that this was an opportunity to meet another of my trade here, but I highly doubt that such an opportunity would include that arrogant peacock of a politician. Or you, Miss Georgine. You don’t seem to be much of an actress, I’m afraid.”

His rather cheery demeanor belies only the slightest hint of the unspoken question. Of his sharp curiosity. You respond in kind.

* * *

You wander the halls of the manor after a quiet, private breakfast. Sleep had evaded you in the long hours of the night, despite your needful attempts, and so it was after a restless battle that you had finally given up on such a notion. If sleep did not consider itself your companion at the moment, you would not chase after it. A butler -- a rather reserved man by the name of Barbatos -- had allowed you to fix your own breakfast at your behest, leaving you alone in the cavernous kitchen. Dawn had broken sometime later, a soft, gray sort of sunlight streaming through the curtains, and you had made sure to draw the curtains before you left the room. A silent thank you to the butler.

You cannot help but be somewhat surprised at the emptiness of the corridors. Surely there should be someone else awake at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

Then again, you are thankful for the respite. The coming days will likely be filled with nothing but blunders in social grace, awkward conversation, and generally unpleasant experiences. While you had looked forward to the taste of your old life, the reality of the situation is a bit more than jarring.

It is not long before a great door looms before you, drawing your attention. Unlike the other doors or corridors that you have passed -- which could very well lead to only more doors and corridors -- this one seems to be of some significance. Two snarling bronze lions are positioned at its center, rings hanging from their teeth. The door itself is much more sizable than the others as well, rivaling even that of the great entrance hall, and you feel almost stifled by the sheer size of it. Its suffocating presence only further serves to indicate the importance of what must lie beyond this door.

That, and the fact that there is an engraved sign that reads LIBRARY beside the door. You decide to step inside.

,Much like the rest of the manor, the library bears an extravagant touch to nearly every aspect of the room. Not an inch of space lies fallow. Bookshelves tower far above you, crammed nearly to bursting with novels, manuals, and encyclopedias of all kinds. An imported rug of rich crimson sits at the center of the room, and upon the crimson rug sits a single desk composed of dark mahogany and brass. Muted sunlight streams from windows that reach the ceiling, and heavy, embroidered curtains line nearly every fingerbreadth of the glass. Aside from the rather impressive skylight above -- which somehow does little in the way of visibility -- there appears to be no other source of light in the room.

There is a sound somewhere out of sight. It is indiscernible, given its brevity -- but you are quite sure that you have not misheard. You squint and peer into the darkness in an attempt to identify its source, but the shadows are far too thick for you to do so. If you desire to find the source, you will have to step further into the library.

Do you venture into the darkness?

[Of course! It could very well be another guest. The curtains here need to be drawn open, besides.]

[Oh, yes, let’s go frolicking in the shadows of that accursed devil’s library. Surely that’s not dangerous at all … No, you’d rather keep your head on your shoulders.]

[Perhaps you should try calling out into the darkness first. If it is truly a guest, they will answer.]

[hollywoodhangar]

5 things!

Tagged by: @silvcrreaper! thank you, dear! :’D this is a really cute meme! I’ll probably use it again in the future bc of that tbh. I’d like to do a lotta characters. Tagging: @mettatoniic / @corviudex, @wcrldlyadventures​, @tcthinecwnself, @scwewywcbbit, @wabbitseezun, @couragelinked​, @contractualsarcasm​, @heedingcalls, @bloominghands, @fairestfall, @blackstardiopside​ / @hellhogged​, & you!

doing this for red’s hardcore over-a-year fixation seriously this woman owns my ass at this point hhggh this thing got way too long!!

CLAUDIA P.

5 THINGS YOU’LL FIND ON HER PERSON.

Her mother's broken pearl necklace. It's very near and dear to her, she's held onto it like a security blanket as well as a trinket for luck & protection ever since Lord Phantomhive whisked her away to the estate. She keeps them safely tucked away in one of her hidden skirt pockets! Those of supernatural origin that are able to detect magical objects can sense there is a Divine blessing on it; it’ll never be lost to Claudia, and those who mean her ill-intent will have their hands burn when they grab at it - almost like they stuck their hand in flames. It’s a precious thing that Máire [ her mother ] has long since used in her prayers specifically to Brigid ever since she was twelve, so it’s instilled with her blessing! 

Her axe. Even when she’s retired, the Countess keeps her silver axe on her person just the same; tucked away in its renewed sheathe that’s hidden under a flap on the back of her dress [ fun headcanon: while undertaker takes his sotoba up from the top of his collar, she pulls her axe down from below ]. Divine magic also touches this weapon; a blessing from the Morrígan in which the blade is kept heinously sharp so long as she gets some sip her blood tribute, absorbing the splatter and gore through the axe’s silver surface and leaving it pristine. Should too long go by without it having a taste of blood it will begin to dull rapidly for the amount of years its gone untouched, but fortunately the Phantomhives never seem to run short of assassins, hitmen and abductors. Her Divine continues to be pleased.

An emerald poison ring. Silver, classy and adorned with the head of a wolf opening its maw to hold a shiny emerald. No one'd expect such a beautiful big gem hides such a heinous poison beneath! It looks pretty neat when she pops it open and the poison pours out of the wolf’s mouth.

[ Enchanted ] Skeleton key. A simple-looking golden key with hidden runes that activate when inserted into magical locks its made for, but it functions like a normal key as well. This key will open absolutely any door in the Phantomhive manor [ unless Sebastian’s room has the same thing going on! ] as well as the invisible locks she has guarding her forest altar. This is also the only thing that will open all doors leading into her bedroom [ the hallway and the balcony ] as those locks are spellbound to react to only the key itself. Vincent’s always tried to pick his way in but could never quite achieve it! I like to think he inherited his mother’s mischievously nosy curiosity. 

Her black choker with a deep green brooch embedded in its middle. It hides the scar paved along her throat from the attempted assassination. Don’t want anyone seeing that, especially not family. v_v

5 THINGS YOU’LL FIND IN HER ROOM.

Her bed, of course! Mahogany framed. It’s enormous, as to be expected for a Countess. It’s extremely soft, easy to sink into and piled with many lace-ended pillows. Heavy, wool-knitted beige blankets lay over the very top, plush to the touch and covering the white and green sheets beneath it. Deep green curtains with leaf embroidery are tied to the bed posts with dark brown rope, and close all around the bed when Claudia turns in for the night -- except for the curtains at the foot. Those stay partially open to absorb the heat from the fireplace. As for the back of the bed, she built it herself! It has an enormous, full-length mirror installed into its wooden frame and a long, smooth surface below for convenience. It has two lamps at both ends that are within reach. 

Lovely mannequins. Rested next to the balcony are two simple manniquens. One is the bearer of her Brigid cloak, the hood pulled up and draped over to obsfuscate the face. Its arms are stretched forwards, hands splayed up with the ceremonial cloth and ropes used for Claudia’s handfasting ceremony; the pearls that were wrapped around all that hanging from its neck. Opposite of that is the other manniquen. Covered with a deep, dark duster, a peasant blouse, tight black pants and thigh-high boots give off a familiar visage of the Countess during her Watchdog days. Around its waist hangs a very intricate rich brown leather belt with lots of slots in it, weaponized chatelaines and satchels with golden clasps - and a golden wolf head as the buckle in front center.

Secret compartments. Many secret locked compartments in the walls she installed herself [ ^ that can only be opened by aforementioned skeleton key, or a very determined and powerful supernatural force ], hidden behind landscape portraits and animal print wall tapestries. She keeps various things in them: Tonics & Poisons. These are very rare breeds of both, being highly efficient in what they’re made for specifically. There’s vials of strange-looking gnarled roots and various colored liquids stored in here as well, along with herbs (??) hanging from the top. Inheritance. The late Lord Phantomhive left Claudia a fortune, most of which she sent to charity, but kept her own sum for emergencies sake. But that is not all he left her; there’s a small pile of letters, some opened, some remaining closed with different seals. There’s also an envelope in here for Claudia specifically, opened and re-sealed. What’s inside is information concerning safe passage to a number of locations and a list of names. Near the very end, the Lord gave Claudia a way out if she ever felt the need to flee from the Phantomhive title; she’s the only blood left. He would not hold it against her to forfeit the Watchdog title, he’d be dead - he has no reason to care for anything at that point. It’s a very bittersweet gift Claudia’s gone back and forth more than once and plans to hand down to the Undertaker “if I go before he does”. She trusts him to hold onto it and give to any Phantomhive who starts feeling pushed to the brink. Altars. A small altar for each of her Goddesses exists in the walls, in twin compartments side-by-side, their doors marked with the carvings of an anvil and a raven. Brigid’s altar is warm, decorated with handmade trinkets and rolled up drawings. The Morrígan’s is dark, positively dark and dimly lit with this very small icy blue lantern that hangs from the top, and the rest of it is decorated with fans fastened from raven feathers and odd white-crimson candles -- that contain her own blood.  Memonto Mori. Death has been embraced around Claudia for so much of her life, so she’s dedicated her own reminder of that in a “.. yet I survived” way.  Mementos from the Famine in the form of mothbitten fabric from the nightgown she wore that entire time and a lock of hair that had fallen out, from the first attempt on her life by a kidnapper in the form of the rusting gun he had and the bottled flesh & muscle she tore from his throat that earned her the title “Wolf of Winchester” among the Aristocrats of Evil, from the nigh successful assassination in the form of the bloodied gown fabric and pressed white roses that wear dried crimson on their petals. There is nothing for the Phantomhive Fire. This rebuilt manor is a jarring memento mori of its own now. 

Cherry wood bookcases. It is stacked with books of worldwide mythology, folklore, natural remedies, strange leatherbacks, and lots of journals Claudia’s written personally over the years. There’s pictures of loved ones wrapped in oval-shaped, polished wooden frames, a lot of old wooden toys she made for her progeny that they’ve grown out of, a black onyx hand with all fingers lined with rings she made herself and holding an ornate athame. Currently, “Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus” sits with a long brown & white feather serving as a bookmarker. 

Urns. Three very precious porcelain urns that are specifically customized to fit the lives they belonged to: Vincent, Rachel, and Claudia’s seven hounds. While she drew the designs for Vincent and her hounds, she let Rachel’s parents decide how they wanted their daughter’s urn handled. She passed the drawings to the Undertaker and he made them to perfection. They rest on the previously mentioned bookshelf, side-by-side in a very gorgeous center display, with fresh white roses, rosemary, gladiolus & lilies from the garden surrounding them and small lanterns constantly providing a low, gentle golden light. There’s candles that have been melted to their hilts and others that are brand new.

5 THINGS THAT MAKE HER HAPPY.

DOGS. 

Mythology. Mythology and folklore have always been incredibly fascinating to her! They can easily eat hours away as she delves herself into learning more and more about them and re-reading the ones she already knows.

Family. I've said it once, I've said it twice, Claudia's a woman who adores to be surrounded by family. Her attempts to convince the Midfords to join with the Phantomhive household have gone shot down by both her grandson and her daughter. One day she’ll prevail. One day. She won’t but she can dream of having a full house again, let her dream.

The countryside. Honestly, the fact they live here instead of in the city was something of an immense comfort to Claudia because it’s a little reminscent of Donegal. She regularly takes Gelert for a walk and finds a nice green pasture to just sit in for a while and enjoy the wind. It brings such a huge wash of calm and relief and what she turns to when feeling absolutely stressed, anxious or angry. Her natural dopamine hit!

Sweets. The Countess has a bad sweet tooth like her grandson and loves to eat sweet things, including things of her own baking and creating! Wave any delectable sugary sweet before her face and you have her attention - not her compliance, but her attention. [ 1v1 phantomhive discourse is continuously stealing the other’s treats. she doesn’t even recall who started it but it is an on-going War. ] 

5 THINGS SHE'S CURRENTLY INTO.

Infinite woodworking! She has several projects going on at the moment, one being a boat and another being a marionette bitter rabbit she’s eventually going to get around to painting. Both gifts!

Foraging. Sure she can easily send the servants to buy this stuff from the market, but she likes to retrieve them herself. There’s a lot of berries and edible/medicinal plants in season right now and she’s pretty happy about that. :) Mulberries galore.

Reading. Very good exercise for her brain as she’s getting a little more forgetful in her old age, so keeping it busy with things like this strengthens her mentally. At the moment she’s not only reading Frankenstein, but she’s also reading about Japan mythology! That, and about strange monsters & creatures encountered at sea, actual accounts taken down by the author of the book who interviewed many-a sailor. 

Hunting. Not only does it give her a grand excuse to get out of the manor, but she needs to keep her archery sharp and Gelert in shape. 

Summer Games. Speaking of which, she has a title to defend! Sporting events are beginning to ramp up and the Phantomhive name continues to hold first place in the Archery branch, much to the chagrin of many who try their aim & speed against the Countess And Lose. Also, the events are always a bunch of fun to take part in - she’s dragging along anyone available.

5 THINGS THINGS ON HER TO-DO LIST.

Finish the on-going "Misfortune's Way" Funtom board game with Ciel. [ Ciel: 9. Claudia: 9. Neck-to-neck. Who Will Win? ]

Continue work on the boat she's created for the Midfords. She needs to finish carving their family crest into the right side of it and hollow out the rest of the bow. So much work to be done! But four months of blood, sweat and tears are going to pay off. :)

Fix that TERRIBLY painful floorboard her foot keeps hitting. It's been on this list for about a week now. She keeps forgetting or gets sidetracked! She’s getting a bruise. :( [ have tanaka do it? no no, she lets that poor man rest now. have sebastian do it? not a chance. "Are ya daft!? I ain't about to have that damned vulture creepin' about my own private quarters." ]

Pack up Tanaka, cook some food [ avoid bard. he always offers, she always declines after he set a strawberry cobbler she requested on fire right before her own eyes, and then proceeded to catch a portion of the kitchen on fire. she was so stunned she didn’t even notice Sebastian come in and bat out the flames LMAO. ], make some tea and head out with Gelert to her favorite spot to chill in the countryside and soak up the rays of Summer. She’s been so much colder than normal lately and needs to a b s o r b s u n. It’s Summer! She shouldn’t be freezing this much! [ although it is funny to put her hand on the back of people’s necks when they complain about the heat and watch them flip ]

Commune with the Goddesses at her forest altar. Bring the landscape painting she’s done for Brigid, bring the bloodied clothes of a fallen enemy for The Morrígan.