#shrew's nest

[lemonadeslice]

siblings in horror: codependent edition

ginger snaps | a tale of two sisters | shrew's nest | the endless

blood-soaked | haunted | ride-or-die

[emiliosandozsequence]

shrew's nest (2014) dir. juan fernando andrés & esteban roel (taken originally by @vertigosuite)/ music video for 'crush' by ethel cain

[workingonmoviemaps]

Popular Locations Wednesday

Madrid’s Edificio Montano

This building was constructed in the 19th for the Vicente Montano Piano factory, housing a factory floor, several apartments, and a concert hall. It was taken over by the School of Industrial Technicians after the Spanish Civil War, and later the Women's Professional Training Institute and the shop Rústika. It has been largely unoccupied since 2014.

The building can be seen above in Malasaña 32, Line Walker 2: Invisible Spy, Shrew's Nest, In from the Cold, May God Save Us, No culpes al karma de lo que te pasa por gilipollas, and Giants.

It can also be found in Estoy vivo and Soulmates.

[gncrevan]

"I've turned this house into a coffin": Shrew's Nest (2014, dir. Juanfer Andrés and Esteban Roel)

what catholicism does to a motherfucker 🙏

a very slow slow burn that works exceptionally well except for those moments in the third act where it sadly decided to go for shock over what made sense for the script. montse is by no means a one-dimensional character and doesn't deserve to be treated as such by her narrative. and while the excess was fun to watch, it just really cheapened the (heavily foreshadowed in a way that made my skin crawl with every step) reveal that came right before.

i'm not sure if the feelings this film elicited in me were the ones it intended, but it sure as hell did elicit. there's such a profound grief in watching characters struggle to empathize with each other through the haze of their own trauma, and in the absence of any real help instead pass on their pain towards the next. everything that happened here was wrong and preventable and it makes me wanna put my head under the water. god loves you, but not enough to save you.

[chuchue]

Doctor Bell fell down the well and broke his collar bone. Doctors should attend the sick and leave the well alone.

[cows1012]

thinking abt shrew and sleepyhead again!!! + summary of marble nest in my mind. 

[supremebirdbracket]

Two popular classics! But who is the Superb Owl?

The most widely distributed owl in the Americas, the great horned owl ranges throughout North America and much of Central and South America. They can be found in almost any habitat. These owls mostly prey on rodents and lagomorphs, but are opportunistic hunters and will take anything they can catch, including smaller owls. They hunt by watching from a perch. Regarding their ecological niche, they are sometimes described as the nocturnal equivalent of red-tailed hawks. Great horned owls nest earlier in the year than most other raptors. These owls are very long-lived, with a typical lifespan of around 13 years in the wild (with a record of 28) and up to 50 in captivity!

Western barn owls live throughout Europe as well as much of Africa and the Arabian peninsula in a wide variety of habitats, but most especially favoring open woodland and grasslands. These owls mostly eat small mammals such as rodents and shrews, but will also eat birds, amphibians, lizards, and insects. They hunt by flying slowly over ground and pouncing when movement is detected. Western barn owls are usually monogamous, mating for life. After fledging, young remain with their parents for only about a month. Since barn owls have relatively high metabolic rates, they eat proportionally more rodents than other owls and are thereby appreciated by farmers as effective pest control.

[fancifulplaguerat]

Need to rant about the Marble Nest because I just. I cannot get over it. It is everything to me. Every time I hear “Birdies... birdies... Gather ye here...” I want to eat door hinges and run up the walls and put myself in a blender

There’s something utterly tragic to me about the image of Daniil lying in bed delirious and feverish and dying while these children who care about this weird Capital doctor so much are trying to break his fevers like he taught them to, and it fucks me up even more considering when Spichka asks Daniil who looks after him when he’s sick Daniil just. Doesn’t answer him. And the narrator’s line (I love that they got Martin Cooke he absolutely ate and imo elevates the entire game) “a warm, dry hand seemed to have touched your forehead soothingly. It’s going to be all right” OH MY GOD I just. I can only wretch and sob about the fact that Daniil is being taken care of and at least for a moment he feels like it’s all going to be okay, exactly as he’s been saying throughout the beginning. Also when the narrator says “Somewhere, bells are chiming, softly. Bells are chiming around the marble nest. The bells, are chiming, softly.” Not only does Cooke’s delivery make me feral beyond words (particularly that last one where he whispers ‘softly’) but I mean. surely this is referring to Daniil hearing his own goddamn funeral bells which just SCREAMING CRYING BITING SCRATCHING COMMITTING UNSPEAKABLE ACTS. 

Plus when Spichka warns Daniil against giving Shrew nuts because, as we learn, Shrew wants to let Daniil die. I unfortunately can’t find the exact quote but I believe Spichka says smth about how Shrew doesn’t think it’s right for Daniil to suffer as he is (there is blood in my mouth !!!!!). She clearly just wants Daniil to rest and not be in pain anymore; she thinks she can create a Focus so she can still talk to him. I’m also Highly Emotional about Spichka because he’s so adamant about Daniil continuing to live, even if it’s just in his fever dream, this poor kid just wants Daniil to keep going. These kids have known Daniil Bitchelor for all of ten days and they care about him so much !!! 

I’m also hung up on everyone telling Daniil that he doesn’t know how to die properly, especially when Aspity likens him to a child covering his eyes because he doesn’t want to see the truth, which gets me too because it makes me think about how defeated and afraid Daniil probably is when he realizes what’s going on. I think it’s even more tragic in the sense that Daniil is dying having failed to meet Simon and save Thanatica, failed to prove death can be conquered, and couldn’t even protect the Town from the plague, either, and I can’t imagine Daniil would handle any of that well. I feel like he’d think everything—plague and all—was his fault, especially with the context of the Executor/Death saying, “Who was the murderer: a sickness that let no second go to waste—or you, who bothered not to hurry? I think it’s the latter.” 

Also when Daniil does agree to die properly and the Executor tells Daniil “Give me your hand,” and Daniil can say “Here it is”,,,,,, Yes I am being dramatic but actually it makes me insane to imagine Daniil finally taking Death’s hand after fighting it for so many years. Even though I love this horrible little man with all my heart, I disagree with his whole “no more death” thing. I’m not going to like. Expound on my philosophy about death here aafnkgk but suffice it to say I like the idea of Daniil accepting that death is not something that can be defeated; though, I don’t think his idealism is useless or a negative trait, only that it has to be tempered with some realism. 

So here is as good a point as any to scream about endings. 

It's a cycle. A pause. Things will change. And the day starts anew.

That. Tjat second sentence is lodged in my cortex and it is not coming out I ougghh I love stories that repeat so much. And I’ve played the Marble Nest just. Too many times (and I’ll do it again) and I might be imagining it, because I’ve never seen anyone else talk about it, but every time I’ve gotten a different ending the game is a little different when I play it again. I find that extremely immersive if I’m not just gaslighting myself, because it puts the player in the same situation as Daniil, with things changing subtly; you get to accompany Daniil on his Fun Fever Delirium Death Adventure. On the one hand I think it’s a little painful that Daniil is going to just live in this delirium forever, but on the other one, I like how Daniil’s decision to repeat the day encapsulates continuing to fight for life, even if it seems hopeless or in vain.  It feels very “Do not go gentle into that good night / Rage, rage against the dying of the light"

And finally The transition is real, and the timeline continues. So does the entity I call myself.

I don’t want to get into meta too much, but. I kind of like this line knowing people have written/drawn/etc. endings to this nightmare where Artemy saves him with panacea (Magpie Crown’s “Conjunction of Spheres” animatic !!). All these different endings people have given Daniil’s story in general. This is silly but I like to think of it as yeah, The Powers That Be played a cruel game with you, but other people are kinder to you (or make you suffer more, depends on their persuasion). Your story keeps going, depending on who picks up the thread, you’re going to keep going. 

Anyway everyone go watch CodexEntry’s video on the Marble Nest <3 

[katherinakaina]

While I am at it, I'll share another Russian language insight with those who may not know it.

In Codex Entry video 'Pathologic Marble Nest for those who will never play it' the author at some point talks about possible meaning of what a Focus is, specifically in relation to nuts. She notes, that maybe all of it is just a joke about testicles that went too far.

I am here to reassure you that it is 100% not that.

How comes? You see, in Russian nuts don't mean testicles. Never. The other food is used to describe it - eggs. Delicious.

And it's official. Your doctor will tell you: I must examine your eggs, show me your eggs. You can't make fried eggs for breakfast with your hot gf without joking about her eggs, it's always funny.

So a Russian person playing Pathologic in Russian will never even think about nuts as anything other than just food item. But we can't think straight about eggs.

It is a rare occasion, where there's no joke in the original, but translation creates a joke. And it's very funny especially when we talk about Daniil. Look.

This is a conversation with Girl in Russian. Super literal translation:

- What, beautiful?

- Do you have nuts?

> Why do you need nuts?

> No.

But here is how the same conversation plays out in English:

BECAUSE HE DOESN'T! Get it? I love it.

So yeah, when Shrew harasses Daniil about his nuts in Marble Nest she doesn't actually mean anything dirty. But it still enriches the story in my opinion.

[maniculum]

Bestiaryposting Results: Kengliwa

So, as it seems everyone made note of, this week's creature was exceptionally easy to guess. (To the point that a couple people did actually go ahead and name it, which I can't be that annoyed about because I don't think anyone missed this one.) I actually thought about not including it -- I cut a few that were particularly obvious like this one, but this entry was just so beautifully written that I didn't want to not post it. Maybe I should have done a separate post like with the dogs... live and learn, I suppose.

Anyway, previous entries and results can be found here: https://maniculum.tumblr.com/bestiaryposting. And the entry everybody is working from is at the link below:

Art below the cut in rough chronological order, as per usual.

@sweetlyfez (link to post here) decided to go a bit Beatrix Potter, and produced some frankly adorable shrew-like critters. (And her own alt-text, thank you.) They're dressed in these nice black coats and bowler hats so they can look like the "black column across the fields" described in the entry. I love everything about this. Also, if you want to see a version of this without the linework, check the link above.

@silverhart-makes-art (link to post here) decided to work off of the assertion that Kengliwas prefer wheat to barley because "barley is food for beasts". Naturally this means the Kengliwa must not itself be a beast, and Silverhart reflects that by medieval definition that excludes pretty much everything but birds and fish. So here we have a very small mouse-bird (the results of this one are all very cute, I have to say). And of course it's a flightless bird, because the entry describes them as walking. I'm really struck by the general composition of this one; the tiny bird clinging to the top of a wheat stalk is so well depicted. The colors are great too.

@cheapsweets (link to post here) followed the same "not a beast" logic as Silverhart, though they also name "serpent" and "worm" as potential non-beast categories. They also picked "bird", because the Kengliwa brings grain back to its nest, and birds have nests, so there you go. I appreciate that they've continued with that connection by having the interior of the Kengliwa burrow lined in a manner reminiscent of birds' nests. (And also that they provided alt-text, thank you.) Speaking of which, check it out, burrowing birds! With a cross-section of their burrow! Delightful. They further speculate that the symbolism attached to this one must be pretty weird given the mixed feelings the author seems to have, so I went and checked...

... there's actually not a lot of symbolism on this one. The highlights are that the divided grain supply represents the division between the Old and New Testaments, and barley represents heresy which is why it is scorned. (Pretty sure lots of people in the Middle Ages ate barley, but I suppose they preferred wheat.) The symbolism is all "things we learn from the good example of this industrious creature", and the entry quotes Proverbs 6:6 -- I'm not copying it here, because even though I'm pretty sure everyone knows what the animal is, the verse in question does name it, and we have a procedure here.

Anyway, as always, I recommend clicking on the link to CheapSweets's post to see their detailed explanation of their design decisions.

@theforceisstronginthegirl (link to post here) has drawn some ants in their agenda book. I have to admit, I'm not fully sure whether this was meant to be an entry, but you know, there's a picture (with alt-text and everything!) and it's tagged "kengliwa", so in it goes. Honestly I think the highlight here is that they described the creatures in the picture as "scribbles with jobs" which I think is a fun way to describe bugs generally. Very dynamically drawn scribbles too; they're quite expressive.

@pomrania (link to post here) has drawn a strange and adorable critter. It's giving... lizard-squirrel. Squizard. Particularly delighted by the fact that multiple people decided that such an industrious fellow should be wearing tiny clothing. I think the bag with one (1) grain of wheat in it is a nice touch. You just want to root for this little guy, you know? Also it's worth checking out Pomrania's linked post and associated progress post for some interesting steps in the design process for this one.

@coolest-capybara (link to post here) continues to deliver beautifully stylized art. They note that they considered rodents, but figured medieval authors would not be nearly this positive about rodents stealing grain, so instead they're lizards. Very good lizards, too! I love the patterning on them and the expressions on their faces. The one on the left scorning the barley is particularly delightful. Coolest-capybara also wonders what the original animal is classified under, if not "beast" -- to which I must say, oddly enough, this one is in with the beasts. I think. Right after this entry is the start of the "birds" section, and right before it is are some various mammals. So either this is the end of the beast section or it's, like, a palate-cleanser in between.

@strixcattus (link to post here) has also given their Kengliwa clothing, but for a very specific reason: as others have noted, the Kengliwa scorning barley because it's "food for beasts" implies that the Kengliwa are not beasts. Therefore, in Strixcattus's interpretation, they're people. Which is indeed the only non-"beast" category of animal that nobody else has mentioned, as far as I can figure. They're darling. Love the one on the right that appears to be chewing on a straw like your stereotypical farmer, except of course the straw is a single seed with like a bit of stalk attached. And I know I always say it, but you need to go read the linked post for this one. Maybe it's just because worldbuilding is my jam, but I'd happily read a lengthy TTRPG supplement about how Kengliwa society operates. They're like... medieval Borrowers who farm lichen and domesticate ants. I want to know everything about this.

Anyway, here's the Aberdeen Bestiary version:

That's right, they're scribbles with jobs!

Seriously, it turns out Theforceisstronginthegirl drew basically a dead ringer for the medieval version. Compare the two; the biggest differences are the medium and the fact that the Aberdeen Bestiary includes a nest.

But yes, they're ants. We all know they're ants.

Which should, as CheapSweets alluded to, be classed in with the worms! (Remember, that's a flexible term in the medieval era... especially since this is a Latin text, so it's vermis, like Modern English vermin.) There is a section labelled De vermibus, and these guys aren't in it! It could have really used them, too; I think the Ant entry by itself is the same length as the whole "worm" section.

Anyway. Hopefully next week's will be less obvious... okay, I just checked, it's barely less obvious. But I would put money on nobody guessing the one that posts on the 19th (though that's a pretty short entry, unfortunately).

[dozing-marshmallow]

helloo!! the og nibling requester here (hehe i gave myself that nickname :] ) okay, i've kinda got two ideas!! nibling!reader getting comfort from chris (n had an argument with someone, you can pick who) or, gn!reader x chris having a snow day :] you can pick either! thank you for the amazing stories <33

AWW HELLO AGAIN MY LOVE!❤️ Welcome back to my blog, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for long! Thank you so much for your well meaning words, you are such a beaut, but really, you should be thanking yourself for giving the amazing requests! As always, I hope you enjoy!💗(and feel free to request the other idea again if it’s something you want to see in the future!)

CHRIS MCLEAN X NIBLING! READER HEADCANONS (PART 7)

It’s another school break, and you’re back.

Back on your uncle’s couch, watching TV.

You thought you had imagined it, but keeping your attention longer on the window rewarded you with the reality of the consistent fall of the watery fluff.

You come closer and your heart jumps in delight.

It’s snowing!

Squealing, you rush from the living room to find your uncle, to inform him of nature’s miracle, to get him to go outside with you, to to to!

“Chris?” you run up to his bedroom door and knock on it rhythmically, singing,“Do you wanna build a snowman? Come on let’s go and play-“

The door opens. Oh! Guess you didn’t need to go through the entire song, even though you had prepared for it.

The occupant snickers, pointing finger guns down at you, ski goggles on,“Already ahead of ya!”

Because this was the first time camp Wawanakwa was getting snow, you and Chris had to improvise on snow gear.

Well, you had to. Chris already had his set of winter clothes. Fortunately, you had your coat, mittens and worn out Wellington boots laying around somewhere and you got to borrow Chris’ pair of earmuffs and his scarf.

Stepping outside, it was a completely different air. The freezing change of temperature nibbled your skin like a shrew on a worm and the hairs on your arms somehow were tensing up when you just stepped outside. You forgot how cold the planet can be.

“I didn’t know islands could get snow! It’s so much!” you yell, throwing your legs up to merry about.

“You learn something new everyday!”

“Look! The whole trampoline is covered in snow!” you point astonished at the bouncy garden toy of springs, now submerged under the husking snowfall. 

You had to be careful where you walked, come to realise- the entire island as you knew it was masked by this misty paleness that only seemed to thicken as more of its leader piled next to your ankles.

Naturally, you didn’t think about the dangers of gleefully hopping into the smooth slopes so soon, until you see that you’re about to walk into a chunky physique of a tree.

You stop on time, and feel something moving above you. Something alive. You feed your curiosity, finding a large pair of indigo eyes and a pointy nose.

“Look, Chris look!” you call cheerfully for him, neck extended to the sky,“There’s an owl up there!”

There was! You got to hold one once. It was heavy, but kind! This owl was as keen as you about this sudden weather pattern, sitting on top of the high tree branch, nuzzled in its feathery neck, before tending to its nest, seeing another identical head and two peek from inside of the dry tree room,“Aw, it has babies! They’re so cute!” you see your uncle aside you, also observing,“Do you think they’ll be okay in the cold?”

“Sure they will. They’re adapted to survive weathers like these.” his answer was bluntly uninspiring, grazing accurately to his non-peculiar passion for animals despite him being surrounded by them everyday,“Now about that snowman...”

“Oh yes! Let’s goooo...” you rotate to find a vacant opening,“Down there! Where we’ll have plenty of snow!”

Chris had another idea, trailing behind your steps, boots consuming your smaller tracks,"How about we have a competition? Best snowman gets first dibs on the fireplace." he obviously knew what would happen to bet that.

“Aww...” you pout, the tip of your nose starting to tingle,"Why do we need to compete? You know you're gonna win, you have bigger hands!"

"Ohh?” he puts a finger to his chin, smirking,“Already admitting defeat? I'll gladly take the title of victory!"

Something about his unnecessarily fuelled pride abruptly changed your mind,“I won't let the size of your hands stop me from building the best snowman the world's ever seen!"

“Alrighty then!” he holds his arms out, wind must’ve changed the direction to glue that face on his face,“Bring it on, nibling!”

The cold air howls past your face. Your tongue catches a few drops of snow, heading off under competition stress to mark your own construction ground,“How is it on tv they’re able to roll the snowball so smoothly?”

“You’ve been on tv yourself, (Y/N).” your uncle replies in a raised tone, moulding some snow from the ground into a sphere, still standing in the same position,“You should be able to figure it out.”

You somehow found some stones under this blank layer of Earth to place on the snowman’s torso and practically identical lengths of twigs for arms. The only thing missing was its clothes, but with this snowfall, it’d be a death wish to even remove these earmuffs!

You look over to Chris’ side: though his snowman was vast, you can tell from his relaxed pace of motion that he actually couldn’t be bothered to make it look good.

“Pretty awesome snowman!” he congratulates you on yours by the unspoken end.

You’re very proud,“Yep! I did that!” It was so good you would have thought Chris made it!,“Too bad he decomposed early."

Confused, your uncle cocks his head to the side,"What do you mean?"

Unprompted, you tore a piece of the snowman’s shoulder and threw it at Chris, striking his chest,"Boom! Take that!"

He wipes the remaining frozen fragments off him,“Is that what we’re going to do now?” he briefly returns to his sloppy snowman and removed its head from the body of snow, darkly joking,“Remember that’s how your teddy looked like that one time?”

“Because of Heather!” you giggle, now able to fill your newer days with laughter about the tragedy you genially moved on from,“Ahh!”

Your uncle starts to chase you with both hands full of the clump of crystals. You liked running in the snow- every time you placed a foot ahead, it’d let out this really soothing crunch sound.

Whenever you think you’re far enough with time to spare, you’d hurry to grab a good handful of snow from the ground to throw at him, stride never getting slower.

I wish footprints didn’t exist!

Eventually, he makes an extra step for the chance and launches it, not thinking it would stay in the air for so long.

No amount of running could save you from the hurl of the large cannon ball- on impact, you land on your back into a lower plane of snow, where on a warmer day, you would’ve seen how high you fell from the mini hill.

Chris was worried when you don’t instantly recover to your feet, but smiles when he rushed to find you parting and closing your legs, raising and lowering your arms in the digging form of a snow angel, seeing the distribution of uneven crumbles of his snowman’s head.

The snowflakes resumes to sprinkle your face, gently pecking your youthful features with the cooling drops of white. It wasn’t so cold anymore,“Hehehe! Do one with me, uncle Chris!”

So he does, not surprising that his one was much larger, with his height and fur coat.

You jump up from the soggy ground and admire another work of art you both had shaken into the bitter sheet.

The nibling and uncle silhouettes in the snow had you remembering another must do in this foggy weather.

“Chriiiis, can we go back inside now and have hot chocolate?”

He groans in disbelief,“Seriously? Boooooooo.” he reluctantly dragged his legs across the snow, in the direction of his “cottage”. You can see it from the distance, the yellow beams illuminating the squares of glass, probably being the only reason why he knew how to get back,“What a perfect time to get ice cream.”

“Ah...” it felt great to be back inside. His house was soooo cosy. And this hot chocolate was just what you needed. You might need to dump your feet into a tub of hot water,“Uncle, do you think we can play some Christmas songs?”

“Why, because it’s snowing it means it’s the holidays?” right after he snorted, his mouth is covered by the back of his mug. Paradoxically, he was back in his indoor clothes before you, reminding you once again that your uncle really was unpredictable.

“The holidays wanted to come early! Which meaaans I’ll be getting extra time off school!” you clutch giggly to the circumference of your mug, hands burning. More time to stay, more time to play!

“But that means no holidays during December.” he smirks, twirling his steamy cocoa around, sinister to your let down.

“Aww...” you hated how realistic that sounded. School was so mean!,“Never mind...” there wouldn’t be enough time to open presents. You pitifully pinch a marshmallow from your cup and chomp on it.

“Hey, no need to be so down!” Chris’ charismatic voice rasps as he rubs your head,“Christmas is right around the corner.”

“True...” you add another swirl of whipped cream to your cup, covering the homely brown,“Will I get to be here then?”

“For sure! It’ll be the best Christmas yet!” he affirms with strength.

Hm hm (hm). Hm hm hm hm hm hm hm.

[punk-in-docs]

hello, how are you? I hope you're having a good day. I was the anon who sent the ask about joe quinn's characters, happy that you took a liking for prince paul and tom. Erm, I do have a request for prince paul, like we start with enemies to lover trope, reader thinks that prince paul hated her coz prince paul always contradicts her but sweet and polite to other women then after a while another noble took interest on her, planning to court and propose to her for marriage. prince paul gets to know this info and he's livid then he confronted and confessed to the reader about his love, how he wanted them to be together then it turned smutty? I will leave this up to you how you want this story to turn out. thanks for reading my ask yesterday, love lots.

🥀 Pick Your Poison 🥀 Prince Paul x Reader || Part I || 9.2k words

Summary: You have Mother Russia melted deep into the marrow of your bones, and you’re not afraid to grit your teeth and have a scrappy fight. Draw out a little of that pumping hot slavic blood you’re so proud of.

“Charmed.” You smile at him with your perfectly rouged lips. You sneer him like a viper. Like you’re another one of the delicious black widows formed from these courtly, poison-skated walls.

He stalks off and Minister Panin bows to you all. Scurries along after him like a puppy. Catherine isn’t displeased or discouraged by her sons frosty behaviour. She was expecting it.

You watch him stride away. Sip your champagne and drag your eyes over his back. 

He must store such tension in those reedy shoulders. Keeps it stored under that ridiculous wig maybe.

All of Russia is owed to him by birth and he’s kept a hairs breadth from clutching it.

Warnings: Very much smut, a little dub-con-ish, hate sex, piv, fingering, oral, enemies to lovers.

Author Notes: Nonny, I sincerely hope you enjoy this, turned out a lot darker/meaner than I had intended. Maybe even a little satirical. Catherine is a bitch, and paul is a moody lost puppy. Reader is caught between. Enjoy-

Some people are an elixir; others are a venom. Choose wisely my child-

 ~

“Weak chin. I always thought.” Sniffs Catherine next to you. In that haughty dismissive way she does. Eyes stone cold. Wrists held crossed in front of her so serenely, as she scathes at the painting.

You’re stood with her. Unkindly surveying the huge velvety swirled oils of her husbands portrait, that glowers with glory off the buttery yellow walls of the Grand palace.

All stained in gold, pomp, and circumstance. Scrolls and frescoes and chalky painted scenes etched on the pretty walls.

Walls that have housed such debauchery, broken glass, and bloodshed. Court full of vipers. A nest of writing spitting rattlesnakes. Ladies of her Queens court whose tongues wag and lash sharp, like cat-o-nine tails.

“Unattractive fucker isn’t he? Do you remember?” Countess Praskovya digs a sharp elbow into her majesty. She’s the only one who could dare so such a thing.

“He really was.” Cackles Catherine. Smile a mouth full of razors.

She means it literally and you laugh as you sip your lovely little glass of champagne. Maybe it was in poor taste to find it funny.

Crystal cut glass with flowers and pretty patterns on the rim that digs into your rouged lips.

“Is it much of a likeness?” You ask curiously before you sip, and peer over your glass. There’s no two ways about it. The man in the oils was fucking ugly.

“Sadly. Yes.” Catherine smirks. “Can’t say I can remember much about the man I did find pleasing.” She offers.

“Not even his cock?” The Countess goads with a chuckle.

“A shrivelled little pink shrew.” Empress answers. They laugh.

Bite your lip. Taste the champagne sting. You guard your tongue. Something people here, simply don’t do.

The Empresses’ shimmering Italian Greyhound’s are zipping around your skirts chasing each other, yipping, as you stand there alongside her and the Countess.

You’ve found some friendly crux in their embraces. They leave cloying lipstick kisses on your rouged cheeks. Tell you what colour silk dress to wear. What wine to drink. Who to flirt with. How sweet and young you are- like sugared violets. They dote on you.

Catherine brought you here, heavily curried favour to pave your way. She wanted something to stop Paul from his whining. Not someone, something.

A prized little sacrificial lamb with a silk ribbon around your neck, shoved into the wolves pit. That was you.

You’d travelled all the way from Rostov three days ago. She knew your Father. He was a Count.

You weren’t stupid. You saw her impish curl of grin as she asked after things. Particularly that of your Father. How is the stubborn old boar.

You impolitely knew that meant he had won favour by fucking her a while back. When Peter was still alive.

You were from a good noble family. Rich enough. An estate to your name. You played chess. You studied military strategy and languages. You hunt, shoot and ride, like the men do, if not better than. There’s pure Russian stoicism kicking in your blood. You were punchy, savage smart.

You are so exactly like me when I was your age.

She told you that last night over dinner. Tucking a finger under your chin and nudging your head up. Cooing at you maternally like you were her own child. Candlelight travels like smooth satin across your skin. You were a pretty little thing. A pretty insect encased in amber. She bopped her fingertip to the end of your nose.

Buckets and buckets of champagne and a whole table stuffed with cold slimy seafood had sat before you for feasting on. You ate little, and drank lots and danced until your toes were throbbing sore.

Quite enjoyed the way soldiers eyes wandered over you like you were fresh juicy meat. Ready to be devoured. Many glistening pairs of new male eyes, rolling over your drunken steps, in the gold candlelight.

You went to bed alone though. Too drunk to do anything else but sleep. Woke up to be bathed and powdered, laced into another rich dress. You didn’t forget why, and for whom, you were really here.

You rose early to let Catherine show you around, herself. You’ve learnt things about her very quickly. Grasping them close like loose threads.

She simply doesn’t have the time for anyone or anything that isn’t as cutthroat as she is. She’s harder than the clutch of sharp diamonds always choking around her neck. Colder than them too.

She does have these little moments where she peels away icy skin to let you see there is some beating warmth within. Some love. She saves none for people, or men, or her son. It’s all for her country. The one she plucked right out her husbands undeserving hands.

Paul and her get along about as well as a naked flame introduced to a barrel of gunpowder. Powder versus fuse: There’s sparks and a mean amount of friction between them.

In a nutshell, he wants power, and she will give absolutely none of hers away.

She clutched it tight in fistfuls and doesn’t relent. She eats men. So some say. Eats them alive and doesn’t even spit out the bones.

Footsteps slap into the room behind you. Harsh on the shiny tiles like whip cracks. Two pairs of booted feet.

“Mother.” A petulant voice cuts through your girly interjections of his fathers portrait.

You look over your shoulder and there he stands. The future heir to all Russia. Your goal.

“Paul, my darling son.” Catherine turns and sways towards him with a puckish grin. Full of cold plotting and intent. Her peacock blue skirts scraping the floor.

She holds out her hand as a gesture for him to step closer. The man beside him stays put. Minister Panin.

“Come meet my beautiful friend.” She croons.

He steps to her gently. Hands fiddling with a gold ring on his finger. Twiddling it round round round.

His cheeks are all pink rouged, his white wig all coiled and curled. He wore a emerald coat and a red royal sash around his chest. His lips are full, boyish and succulent pink like he’s been biting them all nervous.

She links an arm through his and lopes him across to you. He goes stiff when you smile at him. Frown deepens. Lines on his pretty face age him.

She introduced him to you. You flick your lashes downward and curtsey to him. All politesse. You bow your head.

Oh. She’s very good. You heard the Countess congratulate you in a murmur that was almost to herself. It nearly sounds like she’s flirting with you.

Can I keep her? The Countess jokes. Eyeing you voraciously from the corners of her coppery eyes like she’s a hungry tiger. She’s omnivorous. She’ll have anyone. Swallow them down, crunch them up like her Empress does.

Your dress is very low cut. The sugary colour of tea roses. Red ribbon tied around your neck with a fine jewelled broach. You know it hangs between your breasts.

You also know he’s seeing that. And the way they’re clasped up high in your corset.

You think he’s much more handsome than his father. Cherubim beauty. He has this natural magnetism. All doe deer wet eyes and flicking brown lashes that burn with umber at the long tips.

Those roe deer baby eyes glare so fierce and unsure- especially when aimed at his Mother. Like he doesn’t know quite what to make of her. Unpleasant and mercurial woman that she is.

He does have Catherine’s eyes, you’ll dare say that.

Something about the way she can look like a clever hawk, about to slice up a rabbit to bloody strips in her talons. Top of her food chain. Ruthless and all mirror sharp edges designed to cut.

His eyes are softer, but the same viciousness lurks. That greatness to rule living and twisted in their same shared blood.

It’s the Russian way, you think. That immovable, stout, hardiness. It’s the way you’re all bred. Maybe it’s because of the bitter stodgy landscape that sustains you. Or the vodka.

Probably the vodka.

“She’s here to visit me a while. You should get to know one another. I knew her Father. Count Voronsky. You remember…“ She instructs.

“I’m sure you do.” He aims with meaning. Aims to wound. Tongue like a sabre. That must run in the family too.

He looks at you like you’re a bottle of nightshade stood tall in front of him. You may have been stunning. Wrapped in girly pink silk like a daring naughty present to tempt a man. But he won’t be moved.

Even if your perfume does smell like peaches and you look reminiscent of heaven itself. And he’s heard whispers in court that Voronsky’s are rumoured to be the best lovers of all.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your royal highness.” You keep your tone soft and light. And all flirt. Stick your eyes in his walnut gaze and are contented to leave them there. Bold.

You curl your rouged smile and try your best to look beguiling. It has the opposite effect to the one you intended.

He rips his arm out of his mothers.

“I don’t need a toy. In case you hadn’t noticed I am not a child anymore. I don’t need you to pick whom I surround myself with.”

He scowls. And then he turns. His displeasure spilled over onto you. He looked haughty. Ready to wound.

“I bid you good day, Miss Voronsky. Go back to Rostov. I have no use of you or your kind here.”

He steps in so close and says it to you, spits at you. You can feel the warmth of his breath. The wet fierceness of those doe eyes, why, he looks like your greatest challenge. And you don’t shrink from challenges when accosted.

You should be scared but you’re just not.

He doesn’t scare you. He’s a whelp in a princes costume. His mother, now there is a terrifying woman. Of her you are most certainly scared.

This man is just stuck up the wrong way. And he seems to want to take it out on you. He’s got the world, this empire, grazing at his fingertips and it simply isn’t enough. He’s clinging to the shadow of her skirts. And she casts shade wherever she stands.

His cheeks flush the longer he stands and looks at you. Stepped toe to toe.

You step up. Even closer. Eyes diamond hard. Fuck, you’re daring.

You’ve got one hell of a firecracker spirit. Let him challenge and insult you. Let him see how far he gets-

You have Mother Russia melted deep into the marrow of your bones, and you’re not afraid to grit your teeth and have a scrappy fight. Draw out a little of that pumping hot slavic blood you’re so proud of.

“Charmed.” You smile at him with your perfectly rouged lips. You sneer at him like a viper. Like you’re another one of the delicious black widows formed from these courtly, poison-skated walls.

He stalks off and Minister Panin bows to you all. Scurries along after him like a puppy.

Catherine isn’t displeased or discouraged by her sons frosty behaviour. She was expecting it.

You watch him stride away. Sip your champagne and drag your eyes over his back. He must store such tension in those reedy shoulders. Keeps it stored under that ridiculous wig maybe.

All of Russia is owed to him by birth and he’s kept a hairs breadth from clutching it.

Is it any wonder he’s a spoilt brat.

“That boy doesn’t half have a poker up his ass.” The Countess barks in a laugh.

“Just like his father.” Catherine agrees drily.

They sway away to take a walk in the gardens, and pick at good looking men like starlings.

“Come, petal.” Catherine coos at you

Like a good little lamb, you follow along in tow. Whippets on your heels. You’ll be requiring more champagne.

~

Paul gives you a wide berth. You don’t offer him the same.

Whenever you turn your eyes to him. Or glide past with the Countess talking about gossip, or last nights vivid lover. You’re met with a scowl, or straight shot of ignorance.

His mother seats you right next to him at the Opera. You fan yourself and pray to god it makes your perfume curl across to him. Judging by the way he clenched his fists, knuckles cracking, whenever you so much as moved. You’d say your plan worked.

He kept shifting in his seat. Moving his coat to hide the growing bulge in his lap. You’d smirked like a devil. He left wordlessly.

You wandered close where he was playing chess in the library the other day, with a Lord you hadn’t yet met. Obolensky, you think.

Just to needle the boy, you swayed up and smiled all prettily at the Lord. A lecherous old perv you’d been warned. He’s already groped your ass during a dance. You keep light and snappy on your feet and you’ve learned to lock your doors at night.

Utilising your best coquettish gaze. This Lord now undressed you with his eyes. Left them in your cleavage rather than making eye contact.

“My lords.” You’d purred.

You angled your body just so to lean over the table. Made sure they were both looking. Your breasts practically shoved in their faces. You plucked up the Lords chess piece, and moved it to play check mate against Paul.

“Enjoy your day gentlemen.” You preen. All wily lashes and tease.

He’d looked at you like thunder as you pouted a sickly smile. Grabbed a book. And sashayed away to your rooms. Laughing at him.

“Voracious little Voronsky slut.” The Lord leered as you left.

“Get her on her back. Teach her some manners. Show her the mighty wrath of Russia, Tsarevich.” He gestures to Paul’s crotch by grabbing his own. Cackling away.

“She’ll be panting like a cowed bitch in heat for more. Mark my words.” He sips his red wine all haughty.

That flashed scandalous, indecent images in Paul’s head, to his shame, not for the first time-

His fingers knotted throughout your curled hair. Your elbows folded up on those fine pillows in his bed. You’d be all silky limbs and peachy soft skin. Head thrown back. You wouldn’t need rouge here.

Your screams sailing out that pretty pink mouth taking the shape of his name, as he slams his hips into the soft of your plump round ass. Fucks you open on his cock, like he isn’t a crowned prince.

Like he’s some small-folk peasant. Hands clawing in your skin as he looks down at you with all the power he’ll ever need.

He wouldn’t let you cum until you choked out his name. Eyes rolling back. He’ll fist a hand around your lovely arched throat. Make you cry out ‘Your Majesty’ in your bliss. He wants pleasured tears splashing from you as compensation, when he screws your brains out.

He swallows. That image causes his mind torment enough. Imagining shutting up your insolent mouth.

He’s dug his heels into his bed, and fucked raw the slick mess of his fist, to that deliciously debauched image of you and him entwined. Mingling somewhere between pleasure, passion, and sheer hatred.

Sweat glimmering in the pool of his collarbones, cause he’d not been able to get past the way you sneered at him earlier that very eve.

He can’t help it. You have a nasty habit of curling your fingers in, and plucking at this vital string inside him. Something that’s twanging all relentless and mean.

“I don’t require counsel in these matters.” Paul shunted out harshly to the Lord.

“I detest that girl.” He held out. Eyes flicking to the shape of your back. The nape of your neck. That shade of your hair he knows by heart.

“Beg your pardon, but that’s not what it looks like.” The Lord surmised.

Paul glared.

He’s surrounded by people he hates. His whole life it’s been that way. What’s one more?

What if there’s something about the way your electric stunning eyes spark this roiling fissure of red hot heat inside him. Splashes up his stomach and leaves him aching. Fists clenched. Cock throbbing in his infernal tight breeches. Too much blood caught up in the trap of his ribs.

He hates the way you move. Hates the way your perfume smelt so inviting every time you drew near. He just wanted to grab your hair and shove his face in your neck. Keep you to himself like a caged creature. Bar your windows and keep you contained. All for him.

The way you lick your lips and dance and flirt with other men. You drink too much champagne, always, and your too loud laugh gives him goosebumps. You’re too much. You’re foul. Intoxicating. You’re never enough.

You had tried to approach him last night, after dinner. Thaw the ice. You held your skirts up primly and started in his direction. He wasn’t having any of it.

He scooped up his wine glass and left the room abruptly. Slamming doors after him and you knew better than to try and follow. His doors were heavily guarded.

You were getting nowhere fast and it was evident that he didn’t wish to engage. You didn’t want to think about what it meant for the rest of your indeterminable stay here.

The wrath of his mother was what you dreaded the most if he remained unhappy.

The other day you were coming up the steps in the gardens. Beautiful day out. Powder blue gossamer skies with clouds like spooled white cotton. The air dances with the fine scent of his mothers pet rose bushes. Trimmed groves of trees to wander down for privacy.

It’s impossible not to notice you.

Your silk dress is golden yellow like sunflowers. His eyes followed you like you were the sun.

A big thick strip of white silk ribbon was tied in a ridiculous bow around your neck. He wanted to fist it and hear your breath catch. Watch you break out into a perverted smile as he choked you with your own pretty silky things.

The dainty tie of your shoe had come undone. The laces slithering open.

You turned to the man you were walking arm in arm with. Orlov’s fucking son.

You pointed it out all pithily. Like you were some brainless slip of a girl. Who couldn’t possibly bend over to tie her shoes. Get your dainty lace gloves all dirty.

When you saw him watching you complain to your handsome suitor. Your lips gathered up into a cruel smile. A crowding storm coming in. Put on a show.

Cherry red mouth as sharp as a knife box.

You scrunch your skirts all the way up in one hand. Lifting them to show him the entire sculpted shape of your leg. Your white stockings tied with striking yellow ribbons ending at the knee. You flash him the supple length of your silky round thigh.

His eyes want to scan up and up. More. He knows a blush is scrawling up his already rouged round cheeks.

You’re not watching your suitor bend at the knee in the mud to fix your shoe. You’re keeping your eyes pinned on him. You tilt your head across at him. Daring.

Like what you see? Your excellency?

All he can think about are your fucking legs. And what’s between them.

How much he wants to wrap his hands around your ankles and pin them to his shoulders. He wants to rut you so deep it will feel like he’s fucking your throat.

He will be rough. No doubt about that. He will take out every single warped aggression he carries, on you. In you.

He will leave your ass smacked sore. Spit into your sweet cunt and shove his fingers inside. Spit in your mouth and make you swallow. Make him thank you when he spills his fine royal seed in your womb.

Doesn’t care if his touch rolls into dark bruises or hurts like Hellfire slaps on your skin. He would cruelly mark you as his and not stop til he is satisfied. However long that may take-

He will clench your throat in his hand. Make those dumb lust-drunk eyes of yours that he hates, stay on him through the whole thing.

You are worming your way under his skin. Wearing him thin so you can peer in and laugh at what’s inside. You are a parasitic, peach scented thought that preys on his brain and he can’t set you aside. You are a new brand of torture.

He decided in some hateful way to get his own back.

One night after a card game in the parlour. You’re stood in the corner. Giggling with some oaf of a Count. Hand on his arm and he’s whispering to you about something that makes you blush.

Tilting his square jaw into your neck to whisper scandalous sordid things in your ear. Yanking you closer by slipping his hand along your curvy waist. You preen like an exotic songbird for him. Blushing like roses.

You tip your head back like you’re succumbing to pleasure and that’s the final straw.

Paul takes clever opportunity to nudge a passing footman right in the back. Who in turn trips and spills the entire tray over you both. Glasses of port all down the front of your pretty butterfly blue dress.

Glasses smash to shards. Silver tray clatters. The whole room grinds to silence and flickering candles burst their shapes all up the walls. Orange and then daggering black. Eyes blaze from every corner.

You look across the ballroom, shaking with anger and pushing sopping wine soaked hair out your eyes. It dripped down your face like sticky rivulets of black cherry blood.

The front of your dress is blooming to vivid wine red. Like some macabre wash of sunset or a messy death. Crushed glass littered at your pretty silk heeled feet. Sparkling like blood soaked diamonds.

Cut across the crowds. You see him. Doe eyes. Brattiness. Smug.

It’s the first time you see him smile. It’s sharp white teeth flashing at you. He had eyes all venom dark and piercing.

Just like his mother.

  ~

The hunt was afoot. You crash through the spiky pine trees in your steady footed silk boots. Listening out for the rustle and crack of your fellow man around you. Stalking for the deer. Your rifle in hand.

Russian mud is thick and unrelenting squelching almost black under your toes. You love it. The stench of it. The summer is a warm one but a biting autumn will soon be on its way to snatch up the heat. The frigid bitch of winter after that.

You stalk quietly through the blue trees that climb so high they must scrape the tip of heaven. Pricking into the sky with their tops. Disturbing God.

Where you’ve batted away the tree branches, rain clings to your coat shoulders. Draped on your hat and wetting the ends of your hair. Mud is brushed across your cheek.

You leave the frippery of court behind you in the trees as you walk. Far away beyond sight. You’d veered off the path. Away from the hoard of finely dressed lords and ladies sat astride their mounts long ago.

These woods are wild and barren. You lose yourself in the dark majesty of them.

Footsteps crash after yours. They try and cling to silence but they cannot.

You’re scanning the trees for your prize. You will have it. You’re ignoring the fact you may have a pursuer hot on your heels. You don’t need a man to do this.

You hear a crack. A stomping shift of a hoof. You gasp softly.

You crouch and peer around in the clearing. Spy the brown Hyde of a deer stopping to nuzzle the plants and chew the undergrowth. Ears twitching. Cleverly hidden amongst the dead wood of a fallen tree.

You temper your breathing. You don’t dare even move your feet by one inch.

“You’ve strayed too far, Voronsky.” Comes your least favourite voice. Needles and pins. Whiff of petulance and snobbery.

Paul.

You aim your gun. Back arched. Head high. Finger on the trigger. Ready to pull and take your kill shot.

“What are you doing? Do you even know how to handle a gun, you foolish girl.” He digs. His mouth slithers heat over the top of your ear. It makes you shiver.

“Or are you going to go over there and tear it’s throat out with your long teeth?” He mocks.

“Do be quiet.” You hiss at him. You don’t dare turn your head. Your eyes locked on your prey, pumping pulse ringing in your ears, like the feral scratchy lioness that you are.

Fierce leather gloved hands yank in your sides and slam you around. Tight to your ribs. Twists you to face him. His grip hurts.

He’s put nothing but yards between you and now suddenly he’s all over you. Talk about sugar and vinegar.

Your body skips with flame where his hands are on you and you can’t figure out why.

“Don’t speak to me that way.” He seethes. His teeth grit at you when he finished snapping words.

“Stop telling me what to do.” You crowd closer and stare him square in the eye. Unafraid.

 He’s taller but you crane your neck and let your eyes slip into dripping venom.

“I am the future ruler of Russia. Girl. I can tell anyone in this fucking court what to do and they will jump to do it.” He boasts.

You snatch your gun back.

“I’m not in your court. I’m in your mothers. You’re not the Emperor. Not yet.” You sneer. Fully nasty. You gnash your teeth.

As if he needed reminding. It’s hammered into him on a daily basis.

You hear the deer scampering through the trees far away. Clopping away to freedom unscathed. Your hisses and shouts could rightfully wake the dead after all.

“I don’t want you here!” He fairly yells. Snobbery in his tone.

You get right up in his face to yell back. Storm up to him with a gun clenched in your hands. Damn this little prig.

“You’ve made that perfectly clear, your highness.” You spit.

“Why did you come then. To torment me like she does?” He shouts at you. Pointing an accusing finger at where you’d left his mother, and her party of harpies and perverts, through the trees.

“It wasn’t precisely my choice.” You argue. “It was hers and my fathers greed for money. So perhaps you could stop glowering at me and spitting fury and understand, my lord, that I am indeed just as trapped here as you.”

You prod a finger into his chest. Stab into him with it.

He swallows. Snickering crack of bones where he clenched his teeth again. He did that a lot around you. Like he was trying to bite down on words that had yet to be birthed past his teeth.

“You don’t seem to have difficulties finding your fun.” He mocks. Essentially calling you a whore.

Orlov’s son. Lord Obolensky. Your sniggering Baron Ivanov from the gardens.

“You clearly do.” You point out. It’s a low dig but it was stone hard truth.

You’ve heard the rows he’s had with his mother. The smashed vases. Throwing trays of food scattering off the polished tables in sudden bursts of rage, that she screeched at him, until the doorways rattled, that he was acting just like his cunt of a father.

He pushes the gun out of your hands. It falls in the mud. He has you crowded up against the nearest tree. You don’t know if you let him back you there out of fear- or out of something else entirely.

He’s dropped what he was holding too. Clatter of wood to the floor, guns abandoned with foolish care. Crossed in the dirt. Forgotten. Your bodies crash against the tree.

His hips flush into yours. Chest squashed to your own. His hands are pressed to your sides. Compressing the whalebone and silk of your corset. He’s crushing. It feels good.

“I loathe you. Voronsky.” He snarls every single syllable.

Sparks glittering in his dark eyes. Hatred blended with pure lust. It sparkles like precious gold gems lost to shadow in those doe depths.

“I can’t fucking stand you, either. Highness.” You growl.

You stand here pressed against him, feeling his sword and buttons on his coat dig into you. And that wasn’t the only hard thing jutting into you.

Your noxious little Prince feels big. Well hung. Even through his breeches. That’s a sizeable bulge to be contending with.

You look at him and he’s panting. As are you. Eyes flicked to your mouth. Yours to his. Scanning up his face. That wasn’t rouge sat painted on his cheeks.

“For once in your life. Shut your mouth.” He commands.

You chew on a scathing retort. But it quickly dies when he smothers your lips with his in a kiss. Hot and hungry.

A fiercely firm kiss.

You hate him for how he’s got you pulling him in closer. Hand on his coat shoulder. Fisting it in. Dragging his sultry mouth to yours.

The kiss is animalistic. As you thought he’d be. Full of fiery hate and pent up rage. Slightly tainted with the need for love and sex.

Like you should both be rutting and grunting in the mud. Snarling like beasts. Your cunt slapping wetly with his hard stabbing thrusts.

“My mother knows how to pick a decent whore for me. I’ll give her that.” He insults.

Before he bites the skin under your jaw to make you yelp. You claw the back of his neck. Digging in your nails.

You’ll scratch and bite back. You’re no meek girl.

You roll your hips against his hardening cock. A slow grind. It’s all push and shove and neither of you back down.

“I haven’t lifted my skirts for a single one of those fuckers.” You curse. Heaving for breath. Words stumble sharp as arrows out your mouth.

You lips are spit shiny wet from him. He wants to suck on it. Devour it. Bite it. Eyes blown all dark.

“Why should I believe you.” He snarls against your swallowing kiss.

“Touch me and you’ll find out.” You tease.

He’s spoilt and you’re stubborn. You’re knotted and tangled here like a ball of veins. Russian born serpents with dripping fangs exposed. And mark your words, there will be blood-

He grunts and his hand scoops under your pretty skirts to find your thigh. You moan when he hitched your knee up. You yelp with sudden surprise and it’s good. No space spared.

Cold leather hands sliding up your thigh. Hiking it over his hip. He pressed into you harder. Didn’t care if it hurt.

You moan louder, head thudding for the scratchy tree bark, when his hand leaves your ribs and dives down for the hot secret of your wet cunt.

Spitting a glob of white onto his hand first of all. Then he’s shoving three broad fingers in your pussy. Knuckle deep. Heel of his palm grazing your clit.

Wet soft leather and you’re writhing with it.

You didn’t think he’d be brazen enough for this- You’re harsh and unyielding. Never a creature to roll over and surrender normally. But here? You were awfully glad you were proved wrong.

The way you squelch for him as he fucks you open with his hand, makes his knees knock into yours. Poor baby bird.

You grip the back of his hair - that ugly wig hooked above your fingers - you snatch his mouth back to yours. Let him groan into the warm cup of your mouth. You flick your tongue along his teeth and take his very breath.

He is dying to know how warm and tangy sweet you are. Spread you open at the thighs and lick at the rich juices that spilled. Like peaches, ironically enough.

He wants to take your spilling breasts in his hot mouth too. Lap at them with lashing tongue like a greedy child. Those globes pushed in your corset have been taunting him for days and days.

His vicious and his movements are quick and curling. His mouth slanted to yours as he makes hungry impatient little groans.

You bite his lip, don’t care if he bleeds, and drag him deeper. Tugging him in like a seeking tar pit. Your eyes flick back with the way he curls his fingers against a spot inside that warps and burns-

More more more, Paul.

“They told me about you Voronsky’s. All natural born sluts, so they say.” He pulls his mouth off yours and sucks your neck again.

Right.

Your hand slithers down between your bodies. There’s little room but you get to where you want to be. The poor boy is leaking all over the inside of his very tight breeches.

You palm the wet spot at his tip. Cup him. Drag your hand right up - up and up - the length of him.

“I’m not the only one enjoying this. That must make you a slut also, your highness.” You say slyly.

Your mouth skates up the side of his neck. You purr into his ear like a wild cat and bite at the lobe. He presses his body all the way into you. A desperate keening noise trapped in his throat as he allows himself some friction.

You wrap an arm around him and you both clash into each other.

You’d been doing that since your arrival for heavens sake- but this is some sort of healthy catharsis. Burn the hate to crumbled cinders and let passions curl to take its place.

Damn this biological - all rugged animal - response you had to him. Made you mindless. Melted your head to inconsequence. It was body to body. This pressing need to crave another so deeply.

And by the cursed fucking bowels of some portion of hell, you were so fated to collide with him. Clash like angry stars, and rain and bloom burning pieces, down from space.

You tell him harder and he gives it. Meets every degree of your wants and your cunt is spilling crudely down his fingers. Wetting his wrist. Every piece of you shrieking his name.

You draw blood - an offence punishable by torture. But you just can’t help it. When you cum on his hand, you bite his lip and bring back the taste of coppery pennies.

You’re clutching onto him like a lost thing. Hands bunched in his coat shoulders. His free hand slipped around your back and settled in the slope there. You both slow your wild rutting. He smells the perfume and powdery tones of honeyed soap off your neck. The sweat beaded to your hairline smears on his lips. Passion.

He screws his eyes shut. Just for a second. You were heaven.

He dares take a look at you. Admiring the way this lust craze seems to have tamed you. All hazed hooded eyes and lips raw like red meat from his unpractised mouth. Rouge smeared to your chins from messy teeth clacking kisses.

He’s got a feeling this is the first time you’ve been struck dumb. There won’t be a second.

He untangled himself from you. Shuffling his coat over his swollen hard on. You smile and go to paw at his trouser fastenings but he steps out of your hands reach. He’ll have to deny you.

When you glance up from hungrily eyeing up his cock. There’s this unreadable expression on his face. It’s sadness.

I cannot keep things I like around me. It always ends badly.

He doesn’t say any of this to you. Of course he can’t.

He sinks his dark whiskey eyes to yours for a second. Frightened roe deer with blood on his lip.

Then he’s turning heel and crashing through the crush of green-black undergrowth. Away. Gone to the trees. Swallowed by forest. Leaves you all alone.

Your prey slips your snare yet again.

You gather yourself and pet your mussed hair back into place. You don’t even stop to gather your weapons. You slink back to the party, dazed. Your sticky thighs are trembling still.

Catherine almost seems impressed. She huffs an amused sound at you. “Bend you over a fallen tree did he? That’s my boy.” She winks.

You say nothing.

 ~

His Mother summons him to her breakfast table two days afterwards. Rings the bell and in comes her minion. Like a servant, or a trained lolloping puppy

They’re expecting a Swedish Prince and his delegation in two days time. She wants an alliance for trade. Hungers for it. He can see it in her eyes.

Tells Paul to share nicely and not throw his toys out the pram. Let the other children have and do whatever they want at court. Like he could stop them.

They’ll bring in only the finest painted whores if they want them. Vodka. Only the best, from Samara. Roast boar and lobster. Silly girls who need husbands and their diamonds and dowries. Stuff the space with amusement and hold riotous lavish parties.

She’s half talking to him, half writing her letters. Sat there, unrouged and tough looking even in her simple silk dressing gown. Eyes and cheekbones all angles, and her face bare. No decoration or jewels here in her private chambers.

It’s like seeing a proud golden lion go about without its mane. It appears wrong.

Then she says something that makes his heart crawl up the inside of his mouth.

“I need to keep the Swede sweet. We cannot afford to lose their trade corridors. I may let him have Voronsky.”

What?

He knows he must’ve said it out loud because she stops and peers up at him. She detested repeating herself and being questioned.

“Voronsky.” She says again.

“I do like the girl. She does amuse me, such a fucking tongue on her. Whip smart too. She is of the finest noble stock Russia can boast, but I cannot have anyone dwindling idle in my court.” She says it like the imposition lands on her.

You are a little possession. Brought here to entertain. To be fucked or married.

A china doll to be passed around and made to pose. Have your hair petted and arranged. Something tells him you’d hate that.

“If you don’t want her Paul. Then I will give her away.”

He can’t bring up the words. But they rattle in his mind. He wishes they had the temerity to climb out his mouth.

But I do want her.

~

The Swede arrives the next day. Young, stupidly handsome with a bladed nose and a fine chiseled jaw. Dark obsidian hair and piercing blue eyes. Taller than Paul. Just as ineffectual and skinny. Threaded with the uncertain confidence of an ingenue. A prize child thrust into the role of royalty. Paul recognises it as the same traits he has.

He’s all homegrown Nordic handsome too, which doesn’t help. White white dazzling straight smile. How he brightens to attention when he sees the flock of pretty Russian girls ready to meet him. Pounce on him.

Paul stands back and watched you get introduced. You wore that plum coloured dress that he so adored on you. You wore a dark red choker. Velvet. Looked like a slash of blood like someone had dared slice your throat to ribbons.

The countess painted deep waxy rouge on your lips. Told you to wear the dress low for your beloved. Wear the Parisian perfume.

Smile like a tart. Secure him my dear, he’s virile as a horny dog, and rich as anything.

You don’t smile too much. You fold your hands. Almost look, meek. Only Paul knows how much of a lie that is. Your meekness is the trap.

Step carefully. He thinks. She bites.

You curtsey. You state a crass joke that has the Prince belly laughing out loud.

He flatters you. That was a mistake. You eat men’s flattery of you for breakfast. Still picking it out your teeth, in fact.

You split a veiled grin. It’s just this side of mocking.

“Being pretty only counts for so much, Highness. I’d rather be considered ungovernable. Maybe even detestable. It’s so much more interesting.”

“Catherine is rubbing off on you.” He insists.

The Empress laughs loudly, because she likes it when people think her impossible.

They’re right. Because she is.

He thinks you’re brilliant. Savage Russian girl more brutal than the vodka you love. It may actually run in your veins. That liquid smooth bite. Your smile is gouging.

Swede is finding you’re made up of silver savage sword edges. He could cut himself on them if he isn’t careful.

You’re being pushed from pillar to post. Shoved, pummelled, manoeuvred and you bear it all - somehow - angelically. Though you still occasionally flash your teeth, glare, and spit poison when needed.

Told where to go and what to be. Who shall you be tonight? Let the Countess and Paul’s mother pick out your character for you like they would clothes. The touchy flirt. The vivid dancer who steps and twirls til she drops. The drunk girl with mischievous stars in her eyes.

He thought you were freed of this crushing place, but apparently, it’s just as swallowing for you, as it is for him.

In the end, this palace and this life will consume you all. You’ll die for it. One way or another.

It makes Paul itch when you’re left with the Swede. Thrown together left, right and centre. Cobbled as one like two puzzle pieces.

You shoot and hunt together. You ride out to see the forest and share a picnic like those silly couples in fanciful novels.

It lasts for nine hellish days.

For those treacly slow days that pass he cannot get you alone. He sees your skirts whipping away in the corners of the gilded door cases when he comes near.

He catches the back of your head. The bleached ghost of your perfume in the empty room he’s just walked into. Milky corner of your eyes at Dinner. The turn and twist of your neck as you look away.

You try not to look at him. But it’s like trying to avoid the sky. Or the ground. He’s wherever you tread.

He snuck out of his duties to watch out the window. The pair of you take a simple walk in the gardens past the spitting spray of the fountains. Emerald lawn crushed under your neat steps.

He twiddles the gold ring on his finger as he watches as you seat yourself on a stone bench. Leaves curling to dead brown in the once green canopy above you. Papery and rattling on the wind.

Autumn and it’s chill picks up fast here. You’re wearing fur on your collar and coat cuffs. Ruby red wool garbing you. A stupid hat with a ridiculous plumage of a milky ostrich feather that won’t keep you warm in the sneaky cut of the wind. Like everything else about Russia. It slices like knives.

He can’t watch but he can’t tear his eyes away. The swede takes to one knee on the grass. He can’t. He can’t.

Paul stomps away from the window and locks himself on his room. He shouts to the maid for wine. Vodka. Anything that’s strong. Anything that will numb-

This is it. You’ll be whisked away to Sweden to be a nubile bride. Off to have scores and scores of blue eyed babies. The thought of that cunt between your legs and rutting into you makes him retch. You deserved better.

You’d be taken away from him. Away from vipers and the barking hyena laughs of his acerbic Mother.

He can’t bear it.

He stumbles downstairs for dinner. Drunk and he’s no shame in it. He lives on the edge of the room nursing a glass and chasing his food around the plate. Some boned little bird with its wings ripped off. Eating none of it. His stomach squirmed.

The swede appears and you don’t. He does find that odd.

Weren’t newly engaged couples supposed to put on a show with it. Swan with joy. Prance down and flounce around to be pecked at with congratulations from everyone.

His mother finally seems to spare a second for him. She snips at him. “You’ve got a face like a smacked arse.”

Paul isn’t in the mood to dip his tongue into sour words to retaliate. He tips a bottle back to his lips. More wine flows. Less feelings come.

He sits there slumped, and watched everyone dance and swirl around. Dragging silk and clap of heeled feet on shining parquet. All ineffectual blurs to his drunk eyes. The candles squirm like orange worms in his vision. He hates this cruel world. He really does.

She tired of him and strode off to eviscerate someone else. Dig someone else’s guts out like she usually does.

Then he noticed something. Swede is dancing with someone else. Someone that isn’t you.

He hears gaggles of gossip. Some of it slips at his ears as couples pass him.

She wouldn’t have him. One scoffs.

Fucking proud Voronsky bitch.

Jilted him. This afternoon, apparently. Sent him packing. He’s gonna have to screw the Vassiliev girl instead.

Paul feels his heart glow hot and slippery like coals. You jilted a Prince.

He watches the Countess scurry across to mother. Whispers through that pursed rouge mouth into her ear. When she pulls back, Catherine’s eyes dim to dull obsidian. She curls a snide smile. Tips her head.

“Shame.” She bites out.

Paul doesn’t stay to see the rest. He finds his clumsy feet. Finds the door. And the next, and the next. Coppery hawk eyes watch him stumble his leave.

He has to find you.

He checks everywhere in the cursed palace. Turned it inside out to seek sight of you. It’s pretty hopeless until he decided to venture into the moonlit gardens.

The tree tops skimmed with sickly silver. The grass beaded in dew drops that wink like jewels.

He does manage to find you.

It’s savage cold out here. You feel at home. He can see the silver drift of his breath as he runs. Shoes slipping skating. He’s not wearing enough layers or his courtly white wig but he can’t give a fuck now.

He finds you. Delicately curled in on yourself. Sat on the steps to one of the many gazebos dotted around the gardens. He hears your sobs first of all. The choke and drag of your lungs. The slosh and clink of Möet against glass.

Half full bottle of champagne in your hand. Another empty one littered at your feet. You were swigging from the neck. Tears ribbon their etchings of salt down your cheeks.

You’re wearing a deep blue dress. Navy in the cold blue wash of night. No torches or light reaches out here. Just the ghostly fingers of the moon.

You wear a black ribbon tied around your neck. A silver broach with a rose suspended bloody in the oval black glass. Your lips are red raw and rouge is painted around the bottles neck. You’ve been slurping and crying out here on your own.

You turn back to him like a startled creature when you hear the wet crush of his footsteps on the lawn.

“Are you not cold?” He asks softly. Had he a jacket, he’d take it off right now to drape it over your shoulders.

“Fucking frozen.” You gleefully admit.

Swigging back more golden champagne. Your whole body is swimming fizzing gold with it. You’re very drunk.

He steps closer. Dares to crouch in front of you. You watch him. Only your eyes move. They glitter bitterly with the moon.

“Ask me nice. I might share.” You bite.

He tenderly takes the bottle off you and drinks some of it. It’s cold and your hands are trembling. He edged down next to you. Your skin is ice.

“You’re not coming inside?” He checks. “It’s warmer.” He says.

He almost sounds, soft. He reaches over and curls a knuckle to skim at the round of your shoulder.

“Your mother terrifies me.” Is your answer.

That may be the first thing you actually agree on.

“Me too.” He admits. Sounding small.

“Not going to Sweden, then?” He just wants to check.

“Not.” You confirm.

You sway into him. Nudge your head on his shoulder. Peaches washed over him. Bright and fat sweet. He feels calm and ridiculously happy.

You sit up all sudden and shoot him daggers.

“I’m offended you think I’d marry a fucking pickled herring stinking swede.” You growl lowly. Raising your fangs at him.

“There she is.” He peers across at you. And there’s that rare smile. He cups your face and he’s pulling you close.

“It is cold out here.” You accept. His other hand slips for your skirts.

“Think we should do something about that Voronsky?” He asks crudely. Yet somehow he sounds all puppy eyed innocent with it.

You split your thighs and he pushes up your skirts. Nestles between them. You gasp when he settled between them. Hikes them up and grins at you.

“Only if it pleases, your majesty.” You simper.

Only you could make obedience sound like insolence.

He draws up your skirts so he could see your soft thighs. Your slick pussy is right there for him to take. As he wishes. So he does.

You weren’t expecting him to shove his shoulders under swathing blue silk and wriggle his tongue inside you. But you’re not complaining.

You lay flat on your back and your thighs frame his face as he laps you up. He pushes the silk up so he could watch you intensely as he ate you out. Suckling your clit. Spitting boldly into you and chasing it around with the swirling tip of his tongue. You want to ask how he got so good at this.

Brown eyes searching all over for the way you move and jerk. Curse his name every blazing profanity under the sun. You fist his short curls you groan for him. Hair feathering through your fingers. Hips smacking his face. Even against this, you fight him for power.

Fuck. Paul. Yes. Fuck-fuckfuck

“You and your foul mouth.” He hums. His nose pressed right up against the mound of your cunt as he eats you sloppily. Relentlessly.

“Been wanting to taste you since the other day. You came all over my favourite pair of gloves.” He bitched.

It’s so absurd. That you chuckle.

But not for long cause, oh, this boy prince was determined to wrench this orgasm from you. Whether you wanted to give it or not.

You curl your fingers tight and your hips roll to that boyish face. He seems to delight in tasting deeper. Keeps licking. He’s not doing this for his means to an end. He’s doing this to learn you- to savour the taste.

He’s so rough and getting rougher. Slurping you up cause yes you just are that wet. It sounds obscene.

You cum and you sob. Muscles clenching down in his tongue and fluttering for him. Your yelp shatters off every leaf and trunk in the gardens and bounces back all distorted like broken glass.

Paul’s smile and chin is all wet when he clambers over your thighs to come kiss you. Your taste painted in his lips. You drag him in. Greedy for it.

Your pretty prince. You feast and peck at his lips again and again. Again. Smothering him with your mouth.

“You better give me your cock this time. Tsarevich.” You smirk at him. Bite your lip. Panting for more.

“You’re getting it right now.” He explains. Impatient.

As he sits back on his heels and shuffles his hands over his trouser fastenings. Flapping back and ripping them open. Finding his cock in hand and tossing his head back to moan as he strokes himself.

You curl your leg around his ass and tug him in. One hand slips up your thigh and sneaks under your stockings. The other guides himself down so he can slip into you.

He drives to the hilt. You wrap him up in your legs pressed to his sides cause sweet blessed fuck, he’s bigger than you thought he would be.

“Fuck.” Stabs out his mouth as he punched into you with short hard thrusts that knocks into the very cup of your womb. You grit your teeth through the sting. He was your first after all. He’s splitting you in two.

You tip your head to the cold stone and let him take you. Ecstasy frozen on your expression. Like every rut will stab into your heart and you’ll die out here under the stars, wrapped in him.

He leans in close and loses himself in your molten warmth. The shooting pips of pleasure taking you both from head to toe. Your walls suck him deliciously tight. You scrape your mouth against his and you taste like rose rouge, tangy Möet and salt.

His sharp hips barrel into you. Snapping relentlessly as he fucks you into unforgiving stone. Clasping your knees around him. No space is left. You smirk against his mouth and let him rut you like a beast.

His thumb sneaks for your clit and he watches your face pull down into sheer bliss. Your cunt is crushing him so tight he can’t breathe.

You roll your hips for him all silky, desperate for that gut punch, and he can’t hold back. Pleasure rolling up and mounting in his spine. Ready to tip.

You cum. He does too. His cock spits a blooming warmth inside you.

You lay there, limp. All swallowed in each other with a sultry kiss slanted on lips. Messy clothes all twisted and undone. Shaking limbs and gasps that fade as you lie there. Cooling in basted sweat. High on pleasure.

He cups your face and stares down at the stars in your impossible, wonderful stubborn eyes. Lips raw from his kiss.

“Can we try that in your bed now.” You ask him as you scrape your clawed nails through his hair.

He huffs laughter You really were going to kill him. He’s sure of it.

Countess Bruce scurries inside from the gardens and back to her Empress’ side. An open curl of an arm awaiting her. Tucking her in.

“It worked.” The Countess loops her arm through Catherine’s. Smiles winningly. Steals a chocolate off the table and scoffs it down. Sucks her fingers clean. Sweet dried violets and Belgian chocolate. The best.

Catherine chuckles drily.

“Fucking men. You tell them they can’t have something. It suddenly becomes the first thing they want.” She chuckles cruelly as she slurps her wine.

“On the bright side, atleast now you’ll have a grandson. Or grandaughter.”

Catherine looks amused. “Let us pray for a girl.”

Paul was so easily managed. Now she had him contented, maybe he’ll stop being a pain in her ass.

Her neat little plan had been nicely wrapped up. Shiny satin ribbon bows. She had to wrestle the added hassle of planning a royal winter wedding.

Could be worse. Now she had to think how to dispose of someone else for the Swede. Her mind ticks over with new fresh possibilities. Maybe she could just have the fool killed-

An Empress’ work is never done.

 ~

Mayhaps you’d like a gander at the sequel? 🥀👀

Tagging some Prince Paul/JQ babes, cause you never know, sorry if not your thing: @creme-bruhlee @corodedcofin @emmywrites-blog @youaremyfamiliar @the-suburban-blues

[fallenclan]

TW for: Child death and heavy emotions

The chill of leafbare had set in these past moons. The usual greenery of Fallenclans borders had long since faded into the cycle of change. Moosekit breathed in the warm scent of moss as the colors in the sky outside washed away, leaving a dull horizon. Sorrelstem curled around each of her kits, her soft underbelly cushioning each small kit against her. Owlkit let out a long yawn followed by a complaint. Sorrelstem tilted her head down to Owlkit, Moosekit stretched up as his mother gave each of her kits a small lick on the head. A purr rose in Moosekits throat, which his mother responded with a purr of her own. "Now it's time to sleep you cute little furballs~" Sorrelstem purred. "I'm not gonna." Wasskit said bluntly "You always say that!" Moosekit retorted.

Sorrelstem, despite the growing exhaust in her eyes smirked. "But you always end up snoozing off when I tell you a story." she teased. " Yeah Moosekit!" Wasskit objected "WASSKIT YOUR-"

"Okay okay! Hush hush. I do not tell stories to noisy arguing kits.."

"Sorry Wasskit." "Sorry Moosekit."

Sorrelstem chuckled, "Alright my little warriors, you are going to be made apprentices soon..So how about a fitting story about my life when I was an apprentice?"

"100 moons ago?" Shrewkit asked so earnestly that everyone in the nest burst out laughing.

"Okay Shrewkit. I'm not that old. I'm actually quite young."

The laughter died down as Lightingtail called over, asking for them to quiet down.

"Back then I didn't always take everything so seriously, I goofed off a lot. And if I know you sillys then being serious and focusing may be tough for you."

"remember Owlkit! No rivers!" Wasskit ordered

Owlkit looked away, her face growing hot with embarrassment.

Sorrelstem shook her head at Wasskit and gave Owlkit a few licks on the head.

"Hailcrash, believe it or not, was actually my mentor."

"Hailcrash?? She's so cool!" mewed Moosekit

" She would be a cool leader!" Shrewkit agreed

"And she was an even cooler mentor, im sure whoever your mentors will be just as brave and thoughtful. Just make sure you treat them with respect and follow the rules"

"What are the rules?" Shrewkit asked

"Lets start with going to sleep at a decent time." Sorrelstem chuckled

All the kits curled up huddling for warmth. it had become harder for them to all fit in the nest lately. As cold gusts of wind crept under your fur, causing it to bristle, being huddled together suddenly seemed very appealing.

"Im not.. Sleepin..g" Wasskit trailed off, her voice being lost in the fur of her mother.

Moosekit embraced around Shrewkit, she was always so cozy. He sunk deeper into the fluffy moss, causing his eyelids to grow heavier. His body relaxed, he listened to the rise and fall of Shrewkits breathing, a slow yet fast rhythm that lulled him to sleep.

Moosekit shifted in and out of sleep for a moment, a wave of wind bit at his face. He grounded and shifted in the nest facing away from the nursery's entrance. Still half asleep he reached his paw out to find Shrewkit. He peeled his eyes open when his paw fell, an empty space where Shrewkit should be. He looked out, the nursery was blanketed in darkness, only the dim light of early dawn leaked in through the entrance.

Moosekit blinked as he took in the nest. Owlkit and Wasskit snuggled together. Owlkit twitched in her sleep, deep in some dream. Moosekit pulled himself to his paws, peering at the nest once more. Still drowsy from sleep, he in a hushed voice called out.

"Shrew..?"

When Shrewkit didn't respond, Moosekit tiptoed to the center of the den. There Lightningtail and her kits remained asleep, no sign of Shrewkit. A sense of dread tightened in his chest when he realized she wasn't in the nursery. Moosekit looked to his Mom, nothing like this had never happened before, he didn't know what to do.

He shook his head, he was gonna be a warrior! And warriors dont call to their moms when they get scared, they keep going!

That when he saw a shape outside the Nursery. The object was too far away to see, the light outside to dim. He didn't make a sound slowly creeping out of the nursery, the icy air hitting his face. His paws stung as he took each step of the frozen ground. The dark shape got closer as he moved forward,he opened his mouth to catch a scent. The wind tried its best to dull it, but he breathed in the whiff of something so familiar he almost didn't catch it.

"Shrew? Why're you sleepin' in the snow?"

The silence was so eerie he thought he might have been mistaken for a moment.

"Shrew..?"

Moosekit finally stood right at her side, any silence there was had started to be overtaken by a ring in his ears.

"Shrew.." he said breathlessly, his chest was now light. His flank slowed with his breathing.

Shrewkit looked almost blue, her fur covered in snow. She was in such a tight ball, twice her normal size.

He curled around her. He didn't know why. The usual warmth was instead cold.He could only blankly stare at her fur. The ringing rose into a loud shriek, or maybe it was the wail of a cat. Yet it was all he could hear, he didn't react.

The rise and fall of Shrewkits breathing couldn't lull him out of this horrible dream. And it never would again.

-🐁

AUGHH G???? AUGUHG??? WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME WHY DO YOU HURT ME <started it

GOD this is so painful. moosekit and shrewkit . aughghg im having feelings about this little guys im in agony

[cheapsweets]

The indecorous Holghras

My response to this week's Bestiaryposting challenge from The Maniculum!

The style here is less specifically bestiary influenced than my previous entry (I've had to hide my copies of bestiaries in the house, in case I get spoiled - I'm pretty sure I remember reading something like this in one of them, but I can't remember exactly what it related to...), might try and switch back to more stylised art for next week.

Again, I'm very out of practice, so I appreciate the impetus to learn how to draw again (including composition, which I feel was one of the areas I struggled this week, and how to use a pen with a fude nib!)

Reasoning for the decisions below the cut...!

This was a tricky one, as the description was entirely related to behaviour, with no description of what this critter looked like (except for 'bird').

Most of the weird animals from medieval bestiaries and classical natural histories seem to be from the continent of Africa (and, fair; giraffes, okapis, aardvarks and elephant shrews, oh my!), so my immediate thought was for it to be a ratite; my main reason for changing this was because of the note about the mama bird pretending it had a broken wing (I'm not sure that would work with an ostritch!). I tried to keep the long legs, and figuring that if the mama birds also pretend to have injured legs/feet, it must still be a primarily ground-dwelling bird, so galliformes it is!

Taking the 'unlean' description more literally, I tried to think what sort of bird the writer of a medieval bestiary would describe as unclean. The obvious option there is vultures, so I've gone with a mostly bare head. At this point I couldn't help working in some elements of one of my favourite birds (honestly, look up guineafowl, they are awesome!), so amongst other things we have some wattles on the male Holghras looking on approvingly from next to a tree...

"one male mounts another and in their reckless lust they forget their sex. The Holghras is so deceitful that one will steal another's eggs." - This immediately made me think of the gay penguins from the Central Park Zoo in New York, but since penguins are strictly Southern Hemisphere in the wild, it seemed unlikely this was the inspiration for this critter! In the foreground, we see a crafty Holghras legging it with a stolen egg...!

"The nests built by Holghrases are skilfully fortified. For they cover their hiding-place with thorny bushes so that animals attacking them are kept at bay by the prickly branches. The Holghras uses dust to cover its eggs and returns secretly to the place, which it has marked." - Spot the mound of dirt covering the eggs in the next, surrounded by thorn bushes. I really should have looked up acacia before drawing this, as acacia thorns (and trees) are way different to what I was expecting!

"The females often carry their young" - Mum bird bus! I really should have made this the focus of the drawing, as this is by far the most fun (and cute) part of the description!

"if any man approaches the place where the Holghras is brooding, the mothers come out and deliberately show themselves to them; pretending that their feet or wings are injured, they put on a show of moving slowly, as if they could be caught in no time; by this trick they act as decoys to the approaching men and fool them into moving far away from the nest." - I recognise this behaviour from a lot of birds, notably, plovers; this hasn't done the mother of this clutch a lot of good, as she looks on indignantly as one of her neighbours is running off with one of her eggs!

"The young are not slow, either, to watch out for themselves. When they sense that they have been seen, they lie on their backs holding up small clods of earth in their claws, camouflaging themselves so skilfully, that they lie hidden from detection." - As noted above, I was initially thinking that the Holghras would be a ratite like an ostritch, so my mind went to the baby birds holding up clods of earth with grass in it, in one of their long legs, and pretending to be a small tree. It made me laugh, so I continued to roll with that, though as noted earlier I really should have made this more of a focus so I could have drawn it a lot bigger; I fear a lot of the potential details have been lost, but hopefully it gets across the general concept!

[eggplantmaniac420]

A squadron of bug-eyed police officers with binoculars, three veteran detectives working round the clock, a pack of sniffing bloodhounds straining against their leashes and howling into the night, a swarm of camera drones, a human chain of volunteers combing the area, The Neighborhood Watch, two rival news helicopters competing to broadcast the best live coverage to people all around the globe, twenty searchlights stapled together, crowd of curious onlookers prone to uttering "oohs" and "ahs", a paranoid drug dealer across the street who's freaking out about all the cops, two spy planes working in shifts to ensure constant surveillance, a colony of cockroaches trained to report back to the CIA, a vast coalition of CCTV cameras, a security guard snoring in front of the monitor, an old fogey with a dousing rod and a plumbob, a horde of purposeful paparazzi weighed down with expensive telephoto lenses, somebody hiding in the grassy knoll, a carrot-eating eagle, a panoply of reliable eyewitnesses, a dubiously-effective psychic with downright unreasonable rates for divination, a peeping tom peering eagerly through a gap in the blinds, a heat-seeking missile that has never once missed in its entire career, a spotterless sniper, a sniperless spotter (a conflict of personalities, you see), a grizzled tracker numbed to life after a man-eating shrew tore his wife to shreds, a cocky crewman in the crow's nest, a band of Ostrogoths who have been waiting for 1600 hundred years to ambush a Roman patrol that never came, a sinister pair of disembodied eyes that can float wherever they please and gaze upon whatever they desire, a tourist just taking in the sights, a sparsely-manned border outpost built long ago in case an ancient enemy should one day return, a seasoned referee whose impartiality is legendary, an astronaut looking out the window and squinting - really squinting, The Panopticon, a powder-faced woman leaning over a balcony with a pair of opera glasses, a curious cat, a periscope poking up out of the local pond, a frustrated father who pauses occasionally to scratch his head and exclaim "Where in the hell...", an optometrist gone mad with sight-enhancing power, an omniscient godhead with perfect knowledge of the universe from the largest galactic superstructure down to the smallest quark across the entire expanse of time, and a nervous guy waiting outside the drug dealer's house with a wad of wrinkled ten dollar bills in his pocket

vs.

Someone standing behind the curtain and trying not to giggle

[cows1012]

big fan of marble nest, so here is a hypothetical of sleepy head and shrew but if their designs were unique from the usual npc designs. i think they deserve it, as the resident daniil fanclub members