#southern gothic wip

[runningthrough-if]

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P L O T

Welcome to Landry’s Rowe.

Founded in 1733

Population: 3,667

After being let go from your job only a month prior, you’ve headed off on a ‘horror’ road trip across the United States with your best friend. Visiting the most disturbing locations in the country should have incited something within you right? Fear, joy, anxiety, anything.

But the trip is coming to an end and it’s been…well, a bust. Nothing has pushed your overwhelming numbness to the side. God, you’d give anything just to feel a sliver of an emotion.

Until it happens.

Landry’s Rowe wasn’t even a town on your list; it was just a place to stop for a burger.

‘Running Through the Trees’ is a wip, southern gothic interactive fiction with elements of horror, mystery, and romance. It is rated 18+ due to themes that may be disturbing to some readers. ‘Running Through’ explores themes of gore, violence, sexual content, drug use, cults, spiritual psychosis, complex human relationships, etc.

If you're interested in cults, creature features, mysteries, and morally gray characters, this may be for you.

F E A T U R E S

Customize your MC. This includes: name, appearance, gender identity, pronouns, and more!

Make choices that matter. Your choices change the story and the route you end up on.

Use your former in game job to progress the story. You were previously either an archaeologist (at a metaphysical museum), an archivist (for occult books), or a college professor (folk-tales and their lore).

Explore the three completely different routes within the same story. There’s a hunter’s route, protector’s route, and cult route.

Build a romantic relationship with 5 different romance options or form a purely sexual relationship with 1 option. While there are element of romance within this game, you do not need to interact with that element to enjoy the story.

Read a story about main characters who are slightly older. Everyone is between 28-35.

Build relationships with a variety of side characters.

Do some slice of life things, such as: foraging, gardening, tea making, etc.

R O M A N C E

Silas Barclay Jr., He/Him, 28, Hunter // “They’re dangerous and therefore, they must be taken out.”

Silas Jr. is the youngest, and only living, son of head hunter and guild leader, Silas Barclay Sr. His mother, Sylvia Cass, disappeared a month after his birth.

The Barclays are one of the three founding families of Landry’s Rowe.

Silas is truly hesitant to become a hunter, but those around town would never be able to tell. He pushes his own feelings aside for the sake of family legacy.

He’s known for his brash attitude, frequent bar fights, and founders family ‘get out of jail free’ connections.

Only romanceable if you choose to pursue the hunter’s route. Choosing the protector’s route or the cult’s route will lock you out.

Nell Valez, She/Her, 30, Witch // “They’re confused and scared, but they can be helped without bloodshed.”

Nell runs the local coven, under the guise of a reformatory school, alongside Natalie Van de Ber. The Van de Bers are one of three founding families of Landry’s Rowe.

She is fiercely protective of her home, her coven, and her relationships.

She is known for her gentle demeanor, botanical knowledge, and ability to think/act quickly under pressure.

Only romanceable if you choose to pursue the protector’s route. Choosing the hunter’s route or the cult’s route will lock you out.

Ellis/Eve Van de Ber, Gender Selectable, 32, Bartender at Graves

E has been a bartender at Graves since their 21st birthday. That night they strode behind the bar and demanded the owner, Abraham Barclay, show them how to make a whiskey sour.

They’re insecure about their current state of life, but it’s easier to take a shot and make a joke than it is to go to therapy.

They’re known for their sarcastic comments, charming smile, and all those rumors surrounding their shady family dynamics.

Only romanceable if you choose to pursue the hunter’s route. Choosing the protector’s route or the cult’s route will lock you out.

Orson Barclay, He/Him, 29, Owner of Able & Poe

Orson Barclay is the only son of Raven and Savannah Barclay, who passed away during a routine boating tour at the Vonn Swamp six years prior. After their passing, he took over Able & Poe and pushed aside his efforts of becoming the Landry’s Rowe Public Library librarian.

He is the cousin of Silas Barclay Jr.

He’s known for his quiet demeanor, endless thirst for knowledge, and natural fishing skill.

Only romanceable if you choose to pursue the protector’s route. Choosing the hunter’s route or the cult’s route will lock you out.

Vernon/Verena Hart, Gender Selectable, 31, Your Best Friend

V has been your best friend for as long as you can remember (since you two grew up beside each other).

They work as a freelance, and pretty popular, photographer with a niche in unsettling or haunting imagery.

They’re loyal to a fault, a bit impulsive, and always down to have a good time.

They’re romanceable no matter which route you choose.

V is asexual. Please keep that in mind during their route.

Cash/Cassandra Landry, 35, Cult Leader Pastor of Weeping Willows // “They’re powerful which means we should be controlling them.”

C Landry is the youngest child of Wilson and Ruby Landry, who were killed during a community outing ten years prior. They both died of a gunshot wound to the head, but their killer remains unknown.

Their 3 sisters each moved away the moment they turned 18 (prior to their parents' death).

The Landrys are one of the three founding families of Landry’s Rowe.

C runs Willow’s Rest, a church and community center, nestled between Vonn Swamp and Perla’s Bed & Breakfast.

They’re know for their charismatic personality, religious rants, and the polaroid camera they constantly carry.

Only romanceable if you choose to pursue the cult’s route. Choosing the hunter’s route or the protector’s route will lock you out.

Their ‘romance’ is not a true relationship, but rather a strictly physical relationship.

[hirosboard]

Current WIP after watching C3e86 🏴‍☠️!

[rin-varga-illo]

Some close-ups of my latest illustration! I loved doing the fine lines on the antlers, but the hardwood floor of all things was a bit of a challenge. Overall, I loved how this piece turned out!

(I wish the Nightshading process didn't cut some of the quality, but it's better than going without, in my opinion)

[soaring-trash]

Haunted mansion au anyone?

[bjarkanart]

I really have a problem with them. Send help. or don't... I honestly don't know anymore.

[loveguts]

boything – an introduction

GENRE: southern gothic horror POV: third person limited, present tense STATUS: ongoing wip, very early stage LENGTH: roughly planning on a novella but may become longer THEMES: transmasculine main character with an exploration of (repressed) identity being a focal point of the plot / oppressive christianity and the religious horror surrounding it / trauma and grief / social isolation / horror within the family unit / psychological horror and subtle body horror / primal dormant rage / set during the summer WARNINGS: abusive and controlling parent / religious abuse, psychological and emotional abuse, physical abuse / transphobia and transphobic abuse against the main character, primarily under the lens of christianity / detailed explorations of gender dysphoria from the point of view of the person experiencing it, including negative perceptions of body parts / death of a (non-abusive) parent / suicide / gore and blood / body horror / vomit / self harm / potentially more tbd

summary

in the wake of a familial tragedy that leaves him completely alone with his tyrannical father, twenty year old eden abernathy finds himself grappling with grief, his identity, and the desire for independence in his blossoming adulthood. with his sense of self deviating drastically from his father's strict expectations more and more over time, eden begins to wonder when – not if – he'll snap under the constant strain.

notes

I'M SO EXCITED TO BE SHARING THIS, eden's story has undergone so many revisions and rough drafts and rewrites since 2021. it originally began as a victorian gothic setting with vampires, but after never being satisfied with it and constantly trying to make it into something that i actually liked, i've finally found what i want to do with his character after three years of work and completely rehauling everything. it means a lot to me and i'm genuinely so excited to finish this and share it with you all !!

tag / previews and snippets to be posted / absolutely feel free to give me a reply, message, or ask if you'd like to be added to a taglist for future previews and the eventual full release!!

[sshenandoah]

jesus can always reject his father

but he cannot escape his mother’s blood

[amelieofgreengables]

just gonna. leave this here (unfinished color version of this)

[f0restfir3]

a snippet

[secret-third-thing]

WIP Wednesday!

I'm excited to share a snippet of And the Hounds Bayed, a Southern Gothic styled fic centered on a very irredeemable Eris Vanserra.

🐶 Lucien, Elain, Nesta, and Azriel are all featured in this fic!

🐶 There's a lot of dog imagery and other dog things :)

🐶 The fic is scheduled to drop Feb 22!

🐶 Warning: Graphic(ish) descriptions of Violence

The forest was silent again, stilling as the hounds tore through the underbrush. Eris pulled the gun from his shoulder and plodded forward. His fingers danced over the rifle's worn metal to flick the safety free. Three generations of his kin had drawn a bead down this same barrel.  His father had passed it to him when he had been young, bringing him to the heart of the wood to down a buck. A rite of passage: to claim a life to signal the start of his own. Beron had watched his son with a skeptic’s squint, waiting for his eldest to cower before the task at hand. Yet Eris was wrought from the same wretched world as he was and rained down a leaden hail until the forest ran red with the blood of all that had been nearby. In this moment, Eris had found peace, an inner stillness born of the hunt’s grim ritual. 

[lltrtwtch]

once out of the lake i will reach for the hand of my lover.

my hand will be wet and dripping with whispering proverbs.

his hug will be warm and he'll find all my curves, right where he left them.

a current will bloom and our bodies connected, hunting for traces of bread in a forest.

in the car still connected, we'll never look at eachother

captivating greens, the frames of our story.

stopped by a station of trains never coming

he'll hand me the smoke that a proverb will drop,

handed another the fate unchanged

still drips and it's dropping.

wet palm to the sky

a mirror pleading

herself for the meaning.

and then for his sight,

i'll still admire

blurry as he'll become

the cross, his frame glossed.

lost

[hirosboard]

Line art done??? Maybe??

[milkymarble]

land of honey

here is an ode to all those south of the mason-dixon line, on either side of the grand mississippi

i like the taste of wild honeysuckle, smell of maturing magnolias. there's warm spring days, with rolling thunderstorms at night, sidewalks still wet the next morning

there's ladies with big hair, bigger weddings, inviting half the town to watch them say "i love you i do I'll always love you"

neighbors gossip, hushed whispers and giggles, i like small talk with people in line at the grocery store, asking if they like that brand of bug spray

a cacophany of cicadas at night, whippoorwills and chick-a-dee-dee-dees, lullabies of croaking bullfrogs

i like faded churches on the side of single lane roads, you know they used to be just one big dusty room and i guess they always will be

i like red crosses and soup kitchens, storm shelters and booster drives

thanks for the casserole when my aunt died

i like peach cobbler, chess pie, country fried steak, loads of butter and eggs and flour and sugar

tea so sweet your mouth puckers, boiled peanuts sold from the side of the road, only $1.50 and you get free directions to the waterfall

i even like the people who hunt, i do. especially the ones who use all of the animal, who thank the deer for passing quickly and for gifting them a glorious dinner

the people who give antlers to their dogs

i like old women with hair so white its blue, with a smoker's rasp, with metallic lipstick and starched blouses, patent leather shoes and big red pocketbooks

i like driving through marshes and fields, cow pastures and blue ridge mountains, creeks falling to forests growing to gardens

i like square dancing, and slow dancing even more, and the little dark raves tucked in corners of empty downtowns filled with everyone like you

i like bluegrass and blues, jazz on corners in the french quarter, zydeco in acadiana, yes even country, i like singing country songs on the porch

i like slow guitar and crooning melodies of heartbreak and first love, of missing mom and hating dad

i like old faded trucks, the ones low to the ground without big engines, i like train tracks overrun with weeds

i like mardi gras, flashing beads thrown in smoky air, feathered up floats, stereos turned loud

i like the hundreds of peachtree streets and dozens of martin luther king jr. boulevards

there's buford highway, where you can eat food from every corner of the globe and still be right at home

pass by billboards in korean, spanish, english, all in three square miles

i like drag queens in sunday best, the same florals my grandmother likes

i like straw hats and creased-up boots, i like paper fans exchanged from hand to hand

i like hearing "yall stay safe now" i like how everyone is honey and baby and sweetheart, even if you've never met

i love you trailer park beauties

stay true, hillbilly rednecks

[lavender-laney]

choking on sea salt, chapter three

chapter 1, chapter 2 part one, chapter 2 part two, chapter 3

Sadie awakens to the sound of creaking wood and footsteps. ­Her eyes flick open, and she’s met with the very first rays of sunlight streaming through the broken windows and illuminating the dust that endlessly fills the air of this house.

“You awake?” a gruff voice asks, and Sadie startles, the sun’s light suddenly blocked by the stocky man peering down at her, wisps of hair falling over his bloodshot eyes, coveralls hanging off his starved body. Nikolai, she remembers. He’s a rough-looking man, with a crooked jaw framed by thin white hairs that could, in some ways, be considered a beard. His mouth seems to perpetually hang open a bit, revealing gaps in his yellowed teeth.

Sadie throws the blanket to the side, finding the yarn has become even further unwound during the night, and sits up, gingerly moving away from where the man looms over her form. She stands, brushing the floor’s dust from her clothes.

“Yes, yes,” she stutters, wondering how long he’d stood there before she’d woke up. “I’m awake.”

He stares at her for a moment longer before nodding absently. Turning away, the man begins to make his way towards the door, lumbering footsteps leaving imprints in the dusty floorboards. Still shaking off the last dredges of sleep, Sadie follows, and as they step outside she realizes the sun has only just begun to peek its way over the horizon. The moon still overlooks the rolling fields, and Sadie is reminded of summers spent at her grandparents’ farm, of her grandfather shaking her awake at dawn’s first light, of shoving on her grandmother’s old work boots and mucking her way through the barns in shoes a few sizes too large.

The tense silence between Sadie and Nikolai doesn’t have nearly the same peaceful feelings as mornings spent on her grandparents’ farm, however. Whereas Sadie would expect birdsong or the last dawdling crickets from the previous evening, instead the air is filled only by the whistling of the breeze and the scuff of dirt under the pair’s shoes. The sheep pasture is along the dirt road, within the fence that Sadie recalls seeing as Joseph led her into town the night prior.

Nikolai pulls open the gate, and Sadie gets a closer look at the barn that houses the animals and the fence that surrounds the pasture.

The barn is in similar disrepair as the house Sadie spent the night in, though attempts to patch holes in the roof or reinforce broken fences have clearly been made. As they pass through the outermost fence, iron rods have been used to keep the wood standing where it has been weathered. Sadie peers closer and realizes that the fence has not only been aged by the elements but has also splintered outwards at the height of Sadie’s hip in many places. Her steps slow where she follows Nikolai and she leans closer to the wood. Clumps of wool catch in the damaged posts, shadowed by dark stains that Sadie quickly realizes is blood spattered around the impact points. An unnerved feeling abruptly fills her chest.

“Let’s go,” Nikolai calls, standing at the entrance of the barn, looking back at Sadie with a stern expression and shadowed eyes.

With one last glance at the fence, Sadie rushes over, fighting to avoid the man’s searching gaze. He scoffs, leading her further into the barn. The inside is in worse shape than the exterior, worsened by the smell of unclean wool, feces, and mildew. Sadie is sure the horror must show on her face and feels thankful Nikolai has not turned to look back at her, instead bending down with a pained breath to gather a tin bucket in his frail grip. He turns back to her.

“While I head over to the well, go ‘round letting them outta their pens,” Nikolai says, voice gruff. “Now I need you to listen close to this part,” his tone gains a stern quality, and Sadie feels the nerves in her chest tighten. “Do not give any of these animals an opportunity to get outta that fence out there. They like to … wander, you could say, and then I’ll have to come out and round ‘em back up because you weren’t paying attention. So watch what you’re doin’. These creatures are smarter than you’d think.” He pauses, eyes searching her face. “Do you hear me?’

Sadie nods, eyes wide. “Of course, yes. I understand,” she responds.

Nikolai’s eyes stay trained on hers for a long moment before he huffs, heading back out the barn door, bucket held against his hip. “I’ll be back.”

Sadie nods again, waiting until the man has started to make his way out of the fenced area and down the hill towards town. She grimaces. If he has to walk that far to collect water, no wonder his joints ache, she thinks. She’s certainly not complaining, however, and instead takes the opportunity to survey the barn. As she’d noticed before, it’s clearly an old building, and the closer she looks, the more unstable it appears. She risks a glance at the roof above her, and quickly looks away, choosing not to think about the decaying wood above her head. As she steps further into the barn, the sheep pens become more visible. They’re simple, fenced areas bordered by planks of wood. Each one holds a sheep or two, some with fragile-looking young lambs. Many of them, though, are empty, and Sadie is reminded of Mary’s words the night prior.

“We eat what meat is available to us,” she’d said, all shifty eyes and nerves.

Sadie steps up to the low door of one pen, studying the sheep and lamb that rest together within. They lie together, the lamb leaned against its mother’s stomach, but in perhaps the most … detached manner that Sadie has ever witnessed an animal behave. Although they huddle together for warmth, the animals appear as though they’re hardly aware of one another’s presence. Their gazes are glazed and unfocused, legs sprawled out and ears limp against their skulls. Their bodies, especially the mother’s, are littered in bald patches and wounds. The mother has a large wound across her forehead, her wool stained brown with dried blood. Sadie thinks of the damage to the fence outside, the clumps of wool and crusted blood decorating the wood, and cringes at the implication. With their current disposition, she couldn’t imagine either of these animals ramming their bodies against the fence with enough desperation to harm themselves.

Trepidation worsened by this realization, Sadie lifts the latch to the door and pulls it open, and the creaking wood draws the animals’ attention. The sheep blinks, lifting her head, as if reconnecting to the world around her. She stands, clumsily and without care for her lamb, who is sent tumbling to the ground soundlessly. Sadie can’t help the gasp that escapes her mouth, but the sheep doesn’t seem to notice, simply stepping over her lamb and stumbling out of her pen and past Sadie, making her way out to the pasture. Sadie’s gaze follows her, but the sheep continues on her way without a glance back.

The shuffling of hay brings Sadie’s attention back to the lamb, who is attempting to right itself, weak legs shaking under the weight of its own malnourished body. Caught in a moment of morbid curiosity and a cautious desire to help, Sadie steps forward hands outstretched, but the lamb finally gains its balance, shoving past Sadie’s legs without a care. As it walks past, the matted wool on its backside becomes visible, and Sadie wonders just how long the two had laid there together, unmoving.

As the lamb follows its mother, Sadie sighs, attempting to shake away the goosebumps that have spread across her skin. She moves towards the next pen, and the lone sheep it holds. This one, a ram with cracked, blunt horns curled in a wicked shape around its ears, is in a similar state as the first two and makes its way out of the barn in the very same, unnerving manner. She makes her way down the rows, but the last pen draws her to a stop. It holds a young ram, a little too large to be a lamb, but too leggy and awkward to be considered an adult. Its horns are still small, and the tips are dull. It stands in the corner of its pen, facing the wall with a dogged focus. Its legs are racked with shivers, and Sadie wonders how long it has stood there, weakening its muscles to the point of tremors. As she stands there, wondering how to draw its attention to the open door, it leans its weight back on its hind legs, preparing itself, then rears forward with the full force of its body. Its horns meet the wall with a harsh thud as wood splinters,­and Sadie flinches, immediately stepping forward to grab at its wool the same way you would hold an unruly kitten’s scruff.

Only after she’s done it does she realize how risky of a move it was, how easily the animal could rear towards her to drive keratin and bone into her stomach or kick out with its hind legs. No matter how frail they may seem, a tired muscle won’t prevent a distinctly hoof-shaped imprint on Sadie’s midsection and worn-down stubs won’t prevent a bruised kidney.

Even as the ram remains still, seemingly unaware of Sadie’s grip on the back of its neck, she envisions what her grandfather would say about a mistake like this one. She remembers the first summer she’d stayed at their house, the first time she’d stepped foot into the barn holding rows of dairy cows --- distinctly in better shape than the one she stands in now, met with the excited calls of hungry cows rather than the eerie silence of ill sheep. Her grandfather had led her to one of the stalls, occupied by the oldest and most tame of his herd. He’d held Sadie’s hand as they stepped towards the animal that towered over Sadie’s young frame. As the cow leaned down to snuffle at Sadie’s hair, her grandfather told her in a steady voice all the ways in which a peaceful creature can be dangerous. How quickly a playful horse can buck its rider, how easily milking a cow can become a hoof to the stomach, how even the sweetest of roosters can dig its spur into soft skin at a too-fast movement.

Sadie releases her hold on the sheep’s skin, nudging its shoulder to turn towards the open door. It follows her touch mindlessly, and the first step it takes out of its hay-filled pen and onto the packed dirt of the barn’s floor seems to bring it to awareness just a bit, just enough to take its own unsteady steps towards the door, following the same path as the others.

Sadie watches for a long, tense moment, and begins to understand the glazed, dissociative look in the animals’ eyes, wondering if perhaps she should’ve stayed in Pruitt’s stuffy classroom listening to the overconfident chatter of Bradbury and his peers. With a thud that splits the heavy silence, the pen door swings closed before her. Sadie snaps back to reality. She shudders, both at what she had just witnessed, and at herself for feeling so affected by it. The seed of frustration that had welcomed itself into her chest last night grows, and she pushes the pen door back open and steps into the pen with a huff, determined to get something out of this strange morning.

The pen looks fairly normal, if a bit barren and dirty, but Sadie moves further in, peering at the wall the sheep had been so focused on. The wood is spattered with blood, dried and fresh, and has started to splinter in places. One such crack has formed a sizeable hole in the wood, about the size of Sadie’s fist, and she kneels down in the hay to peer through it, uncaring for the way its filth dampens her knees. Through the hole, the pasture outside is visible, and Sadie can see the flock of sheep making their way past the barn, towards the farthest fence. Past the farthest fence, the ocean is barely visible, the rolling waves audible if Sadie strains to hear them. Sadie wonders if the sheep simply wanted outside but feels there must be more to it. When she surveys the rest of the barn, she finds nothing more of substance, and resigns herself to the unfulfilled curiosity weighing on her.

“Alright,” she huffs to herself, voice breaking the heavy quiet of the barn. “Alright.”

As Sadie follows the flock’s path, she finds the animals gathered at the farthest fence. Some apathetically dip their heads to gather the yellowing grass of the pasture into their teeth, while the others simply … stare. Just as the last sheep was, they’ve planted their hooves in the dirt and watch the horizon, the ocean, like dogged sentries. Sadie steps up beside them to share the view. The sun has crept its way up past the horizon in the time Sadie spent inside the barn, though the sky is still dark with early morning. The ocean looks calm, waves rolling in and out slowly, meeting the sands of the beach gently. The picturesque sight is marred by the utilitarian iron fence that lines the grass just before the beach’s sands begin. It is tall, tall enough to withstand strong waves and winds. The base of the fence has been rusted by seawater and the sea salt encrusting it is visible even from a distance. Although it would certainly hinder a person from making their way to the water, it doesn’t appear impossible to bypass in any way. Based on Mary’s and Edith’s reactions last night, Sadie wonders if the fence is more symbolic than anything, a reminder of the fear of the ocean already held by the townsfolk.

As Sadie is studying one of the younger lambs, peering at the crooked position of its back leg and the grime encrusting its wool, she hears the outermost fence creak open and turns to see Nikolai carrying the bucket of water. At the same moment Sadie turns at the sound of the door, numerous sheep wheel around quickly, desperately, and force their way towards Nikolai, heavy step by stumbling step. One makes it quite close, too, as Sadie has already moved forward with a hand outstretched, prepared to grab it before it can bolt. Nikolai kicks out with a shout, nearly dropping the water bucket, and slams the gate closed. The sheep is unbothered by his reaction, and rushes forward anyway, slamming into the closed gate with the full weight of its body. It crumples into a heap, dazed by the impact, but its legs continue to kick, pushing at the dirt beneath it, mouth opening and closing without sound.

Sadie can only watch in horror, clenched hands still outstretched, even as the other sheep lose interest, rejoining their position against the far fence. Nikolai scoffs, stepping past the writhing animal to make his way toward the barn. Sadie looks between the man and the sheep, overwhelmed with a desire to move closer to the animal. Not to help, though, but to peer closer at its face, at the way its pupils roam, unseeing, and its mouth begins to foam with its desperation. She wishes she could pull out the notepad that sits in her pocket and record its behavior to study later.

“Are you comin’, or are you just gonna gawk at the damned thing?” Nikolai’s voice calls, and he sounds winded.

Sadie watches the sheep for a moment longer as it begins to lose energy, diminished to a twitching, heaving body. She commits the horrid image to memory, and follows Nikolai back into the barn, finding the man tipping the bucket of water into the troughs within each pen.

“Well,” he begins, heaving a deep breath as he sets the bucket on the ground. “Were there any dead?”

Sadie watches as he picks the bucket back up and carries it to the next stall, turning a calculating eye on her as he walks past.

“No,” she says, wondering what she would have done if she’d opened one of the pens to find a dead, decaying sheep. She wonders what the lamb would have done if its mother had died in the night, if maggots and flies had taken to her body with a frenzied hunger. Would the lamb have continued to lay against her cooling, festering corpse without even noticing her demise? Or, and this thought brings a nauseated feeling to her stomach, would it have joined the scavenging insects in their feast?

Nikolai grunts in response, continuing his task.

“What’s … wrong with them?” Sadie dares to ask, watching Nikolai closely for his reaction.

He pauses in his movements to look back at her. His chest is heaving in exhaustion, and his wrists tremble where he holds the weight of the nearly empty bucket. The looseness of his jaw somehow appears worse than it had just an hour prior, and the shadows beneath the redness of his eyes create a distinctly sickly appearance. Sadie can’t help but be reminded of the fragile, unnerving state of the sheep.

“They’re sick,” Nikolai spits, the most emotion she’s seen from the man. “The animals’re sick, the people’re sick, the land is sick. It’s all goddamned sick, and you’d do yourself an’ the rest of us a favor to get yourself the hell away from this place.”

The silence of the barn is suffocating following the man’s tirade. With the remaining energy from his proclamation, he heaves the water bucket up and dumps the rest of it in the next trough. That seems to be the extent of his capabilities, though, and he drops the bucket with a startling clang. It rolls, stopped by the edge of Sadie’s boot, and the man follows it, sliding down the side of the stall wall, coming to rest in the mud. His chest rises and falls rabbit-quick, and his eyes roll in their sockets.

“Oh god---!” Sadie begins, stumbling forward, kicking the bucket away. She kneels beside him, arms held out but wary to touch. “Are you, are you okay?”

Nikolai turns to meet her panicked gaze, seeming to regain a bit of clarity amid the frenzy. “Don’t you touch me,” he says, spittle flying from between the gaps in his teeth. “It’s your fault, you know? It’s always your damned fault. If you would just learn your lesson, just learn your place,” he leans forward suddenly, gripping at her shirt the same way Sadie had held the sheep’s scruff. “If she had just known her place, we wouldn’t be in this damned mess.”

Despite the pounding of her heart, the nerves wracking her limbs, Sadie’s curiosity, her damned curiosity, latches onto the man’s words.

“If who had known her place?” she asks, voice even, peering into his eyes. “Who, Nikolai?”

His demeanor has changed, though. His eyes have refocused, and they’ve lost their frantic quality. His grip on Sadie’s shirt loosens, and he instead uses his hand to push himself up from the ground, legs wavering beneath his weight. Sadie steps back, disappointment curling in her chest, as he fights to right himself. Once he’s found his feet, he huffs, and turns away from Sadie, bending to retrieve the bucket. Without a word, he carries it back to the corner it was originally retrieved from, leaving it to rest against the wall. Still avoiding Sadie’s gaze, he leaves the barn, making his way towards the pasture fence. The sheep that had tried so desperately to escape must have collected itself in the time it took to refill the troughs and has rejoined the rest of the flock down by the furthest fence.

“You’re gonna come back this evening to gather the animals back into their stalls,” Nikolai says, and Sadie rushes to catch up to where he has opened the gate. The sheep only have time to lift their heads, eyes widening, before the pair have slipped through the gate and closed it behind them. As Sadie pulls the latch closed, the sheep swing their heads back around to return to gazing down at the ocean.

“By myself?” Sadie asks Nikolai, now walking beside him. She wonders if he remembers how he’d acted in the barn, what he’d said, if he’s just choosing to ignore it. Sadie certainly won’t forget the way his crazed eyes met her own, nor the gnashing of his crooked jaw as he spit out the nonsensical words. Not for a long time, she’s sure.

Nikolai doesn’t look back at her when he says, “Can you not handle that?”

His tone is questioning, and Sadie feels like she’s being tested.

“Of course I can handle it,” she responds evenly.

Nikolai nods. “Alright then,” he says simply.

They walk to town in a tense silence, occupied only by the questions filling Sadie’s mind, and the echo of the heaving, desperate breaths of a man and a sheep.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

We're finally starting to get into the interesting parts...

Excited to hear what you guys think!

Tag list (lmk if anyone would like to be added or removed!)

@megarywrites @at-thezenith @repressed-and-depressed @plasma-studios @wrenofthewords @pb-dot @communist-mariner @phantomnations @thelittlestspider @inkingfireplace @silverslipstream @atreegrowss @i-rove-rock-n-roll @your-absent-father @borisyvain @ashfordlabs @digital-chance @boundedsea @kaze-writes @thebearthatreads @innocentlymacabre

[recovering-vamp]

New ttrpg = new blorbos <3

[snoopsday]

new wip is brewing....