#thornwood sound

[foxglovesound]

Foxglove Petalkiss of Thornwood Sound

Name: Foxglove Petalkiss Past Names: Lightning Tempestborne, Rubble Age: 30 months (2 years) Rank: Resident (undeclared)  Identity & Pronouns: Tom, he/him Orientation: Gay

Family:

Hummingbird Whistler || paternal grandmother, deceased

Agoseris Petalkiss || paternal grandmother, Thornwood Sound senior

Hail Tempestborne || maternal grandfather, deceased

Tormentil Petalkiss || father’s sibling, Thornwood Sound caretaker

Chanterelle Petalkiss || paternal aunt, Thornwood Sound resident

Goldfinch Halfstorme || father, Openheath Hillock rilshamiaul

Breeze Tempestborne || mother, deceased

Heatwave Tempestborne || older sister, Openheath Hillock lord

Sunshower Tempestborne || older sibling, deceased

Rainstorm Tempestborne || older sister, deceased

Arnica Petalkiss || cousin, Thornwood Sound resident

Residency: The Soot-Kiss Residency 

[borderland-ranger]

Weekend Warrior 2022: Day One (10/21/22) I arrived to the Ranger encampment around two in the afternoon and checked in, and promptly began unloading supplies and erecting my tent at it’s designated location. The ground here was hard packed of iron oxized, orange-tinted earth and clay, which presented some resistance as I pounded the wooden stakes of my tent into the ground. Once fully geared up, and armor donned along with my quiver and longbow, I approached where archery drills were being conducted for those interested in joining the archers of the Ranger forces.

As the hustling forces of the Ranger Skirmishers, a group broken into Red Wolves and Grey Wolves, trained on the slopes beyond the archery range, we were taught basic tactics. These included holding multiple arrows in the hand holding the bow for faster initial re-knocking, conversing with your squadmates about firing at the same time at the same target, speed shooting, and firing arrows on the move as dictated by the squad’s commander. For these training steps, I did so alongside a fellow new Ranger who introduced himself as Alde.

Wrapping up the training, we all assembled into three lines of thirty-some rangers and marched up the hill to the Mead Hall with a chant of “For the People!” Upon arriving, we positioned ourselves along the building’s side where other forces had rallied as well, where we received a welcoming speech by Zan Campbell and the official start of Weekend Warrior 6. Safety protocol was gone over, and upon its completion we formed lines to have bows tested for poundage by Kat, the leader of the archers among the Rangers, and other weapons inspected for safety concerns by Rolo of the Hearth Guard.

With everything checking out fine, we marched back to the encampment until it was time for dinner. Very soon after arriving however, a messenger from the Kingsmen camp entered requesting to speak with our leader, Commander Brandis. Brandis then led us all into the adjacent Kingsmen camp where Bryce had arrived. Bryce was a surviving bastard child of the old king of Olaran, and the Kingsmen had decided to place him upon the throne. Brandis oversaw numerous documents about the proposal, and agreed to the terms, as Bryce supported the cause of the Rangers as well and no complaints were had. We kneeled to our new king, and were informed that tomorrow night would be his official coronation.

Shortly after the event, the Rangers and Kingsmen travelled back to the Mead Hall, where dinner had been prepared with the two forces dining inside, while the Hearth Guard and Sea Lords dined in tents outdoors. It was here in the Mead Hall as I attained and ate my food, some chicken I cut into with my medieval cutlery, a number of relevant things that had already occurred despite this first night being meant to be a night of peace. Shortly after our departure to dinner, the Hearth Guard had already stolen the Banner from the Rangers, as well as the one from the Sea Lords. These Banners existed as items of interest to capture, with each faction having one, and once captured could either be cashed into the barkeep in the Mead Hall, or held to be ransomed. Also during this time, I overheard discussion that the Sea Lords had murdered an innocent Hearth Guard member at their camp, that a Sea Lord had been assassinated in the Mead Hall, and that since dinner began; a Ranger had been taken captive in the Sea Lord camp and had already been freed. Going forward, none would go to the Mead Hall without weapons again.

Finishing up there, myself and Alde were approached near the exit by a pair of Hearth Guard berserkers, who alluded to us that a beast existed in the nearby Thornwood should we be interested in acquiring pelts. It sounded suspicious, but I informed others back at the Ranger camp of the rumor and found that others had been approached with the same claim. Fully expecting it to be a trap, myself and twelve other rangers made our way with torches and lanterns down the road and into the Thornwood. Up front we led the way, my lantern outstretched from my left hand, navigating the undergrowth of poison ivy and thorns along trails that had not been recently cut or cleared. Finding nothing in the woods, we exited the treeline. There however, we were ambushed by Hearth Guard warriors, ten in number. Pulling my sword, I found alongside the treeline, dealing with only the warrior directly in front of me. An impact against my chest knocked me to the ground, killing me.  

Arriving back to the Ranger encampment, a number of Hearth Guard assembled just outside and were driven away. I then made my way back to the Mead Hall where I approached the bar and filled my cup with the Rangers mead; a special brewed mead for us of hibiscus and juniper. While there, I met four female rangers who had undertaken a quest that saw them heading for the Thornwood to collect a number of ingredients for a potion for Ranger faction member “Birdie.” I traveled along with my lantern, skirting the edges of the Thornwood looking for elm leaves, goldenrod, a unique root of our choosing, and a piece of fir. However once we returned and found Birdie, we discovered others had beat us to the punch and already fulfilled the request. The Mead Hall however was hopping with music, as Ranger Matthias played his fiddle, while Finn and Birdie led the crowd in song, performing “Wild Mountain Thyme” and “Rattlin’ Bog,” which I sang along to with Alde.

Stepping out for fresh, now cold, mountain air, I approached the gladiator pit after having downed a second cup of mead, willing to give it a go. After the current combatants finished, I stepped into the ring against a Hearth Guard warrior with a spear for “best two out of three.” In quick time I’d been stabbed in the right arm, and again afterwards painfully in the throat. I then decided to head back down the hill to the Ranger camp where a warm fire would provide relief from the dropping temperature. There for an hour or two I conversed with other rangers, listening as Lieutenant Hama played his guitar while I consumed some of the green apple brandy I’d packed for the weekend. Eventually, feeling frozen even by the fire, I retreated to bed to bundle up for warmth. However, the temperature had dropped so low that the wool blanket, my ranger clothes, a fur blanket, and coyote pelt were unable to keep me warm enough to even fall asleep. I shivered and trembled for hours unable to ever fall asleep, and got out of bed five hours later at 7 am as the Skirmisher began to mobilize for morning training. I would later discover that the temp had dropped to 29 degrees that night.

[me-know-nothing]

Grishaverse headcanon

Hanne Is obviously trans but doesn’t want to go by the name Rasmus. They decide to choose a new name, one of a Ravkan saint (genius move btw) and my mind immediately went to Feliks

Sankt Feliks is a very prominent figure in the book and I think ha was Fjerdan (at least his name sounds Fjerdan)

Like that would be even more genius. The prince, soon to be king of Fjerda is named after a Fjerdan saint. And seriously, the thornwood is literally the sacred ash of Djel. Could they make I any more obvious that Grisha are not the enemy then to have the king be named after a saint who was probably also the first personification of Djel and were Djel came from.

So headcannon: Fjerda is now ruled by King Feliks Grimjer, a secret Grisha and named after a Ravkan saint as well as Djel himself, and Queen Mila Grimjer (after they marry) an undercover Ravkan Grisha who single-handedly took down Jarl Brum and all his soldiers while high on crack.

[masculinepeacock]

II. Rose by The Oh Hellos

Tea turned into wine that night, not that Lensa was complaining. Lady Thalia had been the one to suggest, and had even brought her own bottle of cherry wine, so they wouldn’t have to bother the servants. She had been the one to suggest they send them out of the room as well, stating, “Well we aren’t helpless are we? We can do things for ourselves.”

Lensa drained the rest of her glass as Thalia said, “You know my family name used to be Thornwood.”

“Really?” Lensa asked.

Thalia hummed in assuredness. “Your parents were the ones to change it, when we aligned ourselves so closely with them.”

“Oh,” Lensa said. “I had no idea.”

“If it’s alright for me to say, they don’t trust you with much,” Thalia tilted her head back and eyed her curiously. “Which is ridiculous.”

“Well, I’m not supposed to rule so,” she shrugged. “Why tell me things like that?”

“Because you’re smart!” Thalia leaned forward now, over the table. “Much smarter than your brother! You see things as they should be, not as they are.”

No one had ever told Lensa she was smart, or praised her desire to make things better. She was just a spoiled idealist. “Lhoras thinks that my idealism is a flaw.” 

“Well I don’t think so,” Thalia said. “I think it's wonderful.”

“You know I think my brother might’ve been right about you. About why it’s so important to have you as a ward.”

“Really what did he say about me?” Thalia smiled as she took a sip from her glass. 

“That you’re dangerous. You make moves to better improve the lives of those who are a lower status than you, and aren’t afraid to make difficult decisions.”

A look of pride crossed over the other woman’s face, then her brow furrowed. “Do you think that makes me dangerous?”

“No,” Lensa mentally scolded herself for how excited she sounded, leaning forward. “I find you fascinating. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Then you are awfully sheltered,” Thalia smiled and said. “But I’m going to show you how to branch out. We’re going to be good friends…Lensa.” Thalia took her hand. “I can feel it.”

“Maybe my brother was right. You are dangerous. Just not in the way he meant.”

Thalia ducked her head and blushed, then looked up, her eyes looked mischievous under her eyelashes, “I sure hope so.”

[hikorzik]

Pauper update :

Currently testing several variations of lists I own ! I’m doing right now

- UW Familiar. Testing the good ratio between Sea Gates Oracles, The Modern Age, Mulldrifters, Meeting of Minds, Deep Analysis, if I should play a prosperous pirates... At the moment I’m doing 2x Ephemerate, 2x Flicker, 2x TMA, 4x SGA, 3x Mull, 3x MOM, 1x Deep Analysis, and Sage’s Row Denizen but I might change things a bit depending on how it feels !!

- Infect. Here I have SO MANY POSSIBILITIES. First of all yes I am bringing the Phyrexian Midway Bamboozle and *you know it* ! But. Do I play simic or mono green ? Do I bring 2x, 3x, or 4x finishing moves ? On the one hand, simic brings unblockable creatures and the possibility of experimental augury which lets me proliferate and cantrip a potentially good card. On the other hand, mono green is much more focused and doesn’t risk playing tapped lands and having cards I can’t play (in simic I go 2x island, 4x thornwood falls, 12x forest). Much testing to do... I have also bought vitality charms and pulses of murasa on the internet but they’re coming from barcelona and I doubt I’ll be getting them before my local which is on tuesday lol. Well too bad but I’ll make do!

If you want tell me what you think about it! In particular about the right ratio of finishing moves... I feel like 2 sounds like too few to really see them but 4 is too many since it costs THREE and I only run 17-18 lands ? I’ll have to try it out I guess !

[keeper0fthestars]

recrudescent (i’m right here)

Din Djarin / gn!reader 

1.6k words

warnings: angst / comfort, repressed memories, heartache, nightmares (and the panic that follows), mentions of death / violence

summary: ‘the past beats inside me like a heartbeat’ - John Banville

a/n: please heed the warnings and do not read if you are affected by things like this. 

the prompt for this came from this post

~~

The explosion knocks you back into the dirt. Smoke and ash fills your mouth. Sticks to the back of your throat, stings your eyes. You will yourself to sit up because this time, you tell yourself, it will be different. The ringing in your ears makes you lightheaded, the heat of the billowing smoke gets in the way, but you don’t need to see, you know these winding streets in the dead of night.

You run.

You don’t have to tell your feet which way to go; you know all the shortcuts, avoiding the white helmets with their flamethrowers. You’ll beat them this time. Your heart pounds twice for every stride you take in the packed dirt, the smoke gradually thins the farther away you get, and they don’t even see when you dart across the main path. Climbing the wall, the familiar chase stars and you’re ready for it. Narrowly missing the jump over the ledge, climbing up to the next roof, higher and higher, until your boot catches on a loose edge. You hear rubble fall, knocking the helmet down with a grunt but you can’t look back, there is nothing there for you anymore. There will be nothing ahead of you either if you don’t get there soon. And warn them.

The burn in your muscles doesn’t come as soon as it did before, but you’re older now, stronger. You’re through the trees by the time it hits and like last time, you push even harder. They’ll still be there. They have to be. You will get there in time. You’re older now, faster. You’re getting close, the taste of hot coals once again thick in your mouth and you try to call their names, to warn them, but your voice doesn’t carry. It’s dry as parchment, singed and black.

The house glows orange from inside and no one is here. No no no. Not again. Where are they? There is nothing left of your mother’s curtains in the summer kitchen. The blue enamel flowers on her pottery blister in the heat and no longer match the embroidery on her linens. You smell the scorch of thornwood as the flames lick along the beds and doorframes.

Eyes burning with smoke, the rubble bites into your knees. They’re gone. Everything is gone. Where are they. Clawing at the gravel, every breath scorches against a raw throat, you wish the flames would swallow you too. The grief that comes is like an old friend.

From some hazy distant place, you hear your name; a gloved hand touches your knee.

In a rush of fear, you don’t look to see who it is, your instinct is to kick it away but your feet feel like they’re stuck in mud and it takes an enormous effort to get away from the looming figure beside you. Wiping the sweat and soot from your eyes, you try to focus on the reflective round head beside you. He’s speaking but you can’t understand the words. Something familiar tugs at your memory but you don’t trust your memory because familiar means grief and heartache and misery. And familiar doesn’t matter anymore because you couldn’t save them.

You never will.

The hand won’t let go; no matter how hard you push on it. Please. Where are they?

In your desperation, your foot finally connects with a plank of metal so hard you cry out, sitting up, scrambling away.

“You’re okay,” he says again, his hand still on your knee, “it’s just a dream.”

He’d been startled out of a light sleep; the sound of choked sobs echoed from the other side of the hull, filled his stomach with panic. Detecting your frantic pulse and he’d scrambled over to you. A broken name falls from your mouth, a name he doesn’t recognize, sounding slurred like you were underwater. Under the soft light from the panel over your head, sweat and terror shine on your forehead.

“Hey,” his soft voice blankets your senses with calm. “It’s me. You’re okay… you’re okay.”

The voice tugs at your brain again, the blurry figure is still here and your body reacts to his soothing words. You stop struggling and sit up against the wall, hugging your knees to your chest.

The sharp pierce of your own fingernails digging into your palms brings you back to the Crest.

Just a dream.

Face wet, your lungs are no longer burning from ash and dust, they burn from exertion. In your exhaustion, you make out the beskar helmet through wet eyelashes. It was just like all the other ones. The same explosion, the same suffocating panic, the same fire.

Cool air fills your head as you struggle to catch your breath but your muscles droop like lead, you start shaking.

But that’s ok because he’s holding you up.

With his broad chest and solid arms. You weren’t alone.

No matter how many times you relive it, you would never get home before they were taken away. You’d never get a chance to say goodbye. You turn your face against the fabric of his worn shirt to quell the hurt in your chest but the piercing shock of fresh grief claws at your throat, your mouth starts trembling unable to stop.

“I tried but I couldn’t get there.” They were innocent. “Why couldn’t they take me instead.”

Stomach heaving, the agony of memories spills down your cheeks. It’s the kind of sobbing that leaves your heart ragged and hollow, as if you were a child, bawling on your knees. You cried for all the things you’d never get to tell them, you cried for the years you didn’t dare let yourself grieve, for the years you’d spent fending for yourself.

There are no words in Basic that comfort demons like this. His other language snags inside his mouth and he almost whispers the mantra he knows for protection. Does it still count if he didn’t say it aloud?

Taking your trembling hand, he places it flat on his chest, holds it there. He feels your fingers curl into his shirt over his heart, clinging to the fabric. Your head sags against his shoulder.

“Hear my heartbeat?” the gentle vibration of his voice curls in your chest. “Just… focus on that.”

He knows dreams like this. He wonders what else you’ve kept hidden for so long. You’d not had a nightmare like this the whole time you’d been flying with him, he would have known if you did. Vicious memories can resurface without warning, but he still finds himself wondering what brought this on.

Your day together had been uneventful, nothing out of the ordinary: a stop for supplies and fuel, a quiet couple of hours at one of the markets. The only uncharacteristic thing that stood out in his memory was when something had caught your attention that afternoon and you’d backtracked down the alley, your eyes on one vendor in particular. Like a pinhole, his memory zeroed in on that little cart where it stood behind everyone else on the corner. Two young girls were selling soft-crusted loaves and baked sweets and you’d dropped enough credits on their table to pay a small army. He’d noticed the looks of awe on their dirty faces when they saw the pile of credits, way more than what the Quinn cakes and spiced rolls were worth. He didn’t understand why you’d decided to purchase the contents of the entire cart, but he’d noticed the tender longing beneath your smile when you crouched down and spoke to the smallest one, pulling wrapped candies out of your bag and giving them to her.

When you’d rejoined him, arms full on the way back to the crest, you spoke before he could frame a question. There’s a children’s shelter on the other side of town, and I’m going to bring it all there tomorrow before we leave

Something bites painfully into his heart, swallows his stomach whole. His shirt is tear-stained and soaked and your breathing has evened out but he has no intention of letting go of you anytime soon.

He wonders if you were that young. When you got left behind. He wonders if you were as young as he was, by the time everyone you’d loved was dead and gone.

He pulls you closer to his chest, carefully tucks your forehead against the soft fabric of his cowl under the edge of his helmet. You don’t object to the closeness, exhaustion quickly takes over and you curl yourself into him.

“I’m sorry,” your voice scratches, a lonely sob still hitching in your throat, “didn’t mean to wake you-.”

His chest expands under your head; a deep breath crackles through his helmet. The soft brush of his palm on the back of your head, he murmurs. “Don’t be sorry.”

Maybe you won’t remember this in the morning, he thinks, as he reaches over your head and taps off the light panel. His visor adjusts to the blanket of darkness and the faint glow of emergency lights. Eventually, he breathes a sigh of relief when his newly emitted readings finally tell him you’re in a deep sleep.

You’re oblivious to how he carefully shifts himself and lifts your knees, bringing your limp body down on the cot with him, giving you a soft place to sleep, cocooned inside his arms.

In your sleep, you’re unaware of how you turn towards his touch when the backs of his fingers trace feather-light along your cheekbone. You don’t know that his breath catches in his throat when a soft contented hum slips from your lips. You don’t hear the whisper of his voice from the modulator. ‘I'm right here.’

The soft home-y scent of fresh pastries fills his nose, but that was because the lot of it was currently piled in the Crest’s galley.

He’d go back there tomorrow and buy more.

~~

Thank you for reading! 

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[theroyalthornoliachronicles]

Jardin de Périciennes, Manoir de Thornwood: 23 April 1850, 14:00

Mademoiselle Maybelline: Are you sure everything is alright? 

Madame Adelaide: Of course it is. 

Mademoiselle Maybelline: Ah, so I see we’ve decided to go with irritated and elusive this afternoon

Madame Adelaide: And you’ve chosen insistent and annoying. 

Mademoiselle Maybelline: Do you really believe I will let the matter fall to the wayside? Just save us both the trouble and tell me what’s wrong. 

Madame Adelaide: It’s not like it should matter. I’m not being presented, it’s as simple as that. 

Mademoiselle Maybelline: Oui...I had heard something about that, but why-

Madame Adelaide: “Oliver’s future must come first, Adelaide, surely you can understand why that is.” Honestly...I understand Oliver is the heir to the throne, but Oliver’s mind is already made up, and all my father is doing is depriving me of my own happiness for the sake of pomp and circumstance!

Mademoiselle Maybelline: Oh? Does that mean what I think it means? 

Madame Adelaide: Not yet...though he did say he had plans to speak to Papa....but...since I am not to be presented...

Mademoiselle Maybelline: He cannot. Oh Addy, that’s dreadful. I’m so sorry. But surely knowing him as well as we do, he will wait for you. 

Madame Adelaide: How can you be so certain? 

Mademoiselle Maybelline: You and I both know he completely adores you. 

Madame Adelaide: I suppose...

Mademoiselle Maybelline: How can you sound so unsure? Just a few weeks ago I was having tea with Violette and the Comtesse Douairière who were discussing the very subject. 

Madame Adelaide: Glad to hear my life has made it to the tongue of Thornolia’s premiere gossip. 

Mademoiselle Maybelline: The word is out, Addy. People know of his intentions, and even if they have yet to uncover his identity, they all seem to recognise how much he adores you. 

Madame Adelaide: I no longer wish to continue this conversation. 

Mademoiselle Maybelline: Addy-

Madame Adelaide: Assez.

Mademoiselle Maybelline: [Sighs] Very well. 

Madame Adelaide: I don’t suppose there is a mondamoiseau who has caught your attention?

Mademoiselle Maybelline: Don’t be ridiculous. 

Madame Adelaide: You do realise if you do not make a decision, your parents will? Surely there is someone out there you could find suitable?

Mademoiselle Maybelline: Perhaps...

Previous | Beginning | Next

[galaxysmoothmug]

Season change ocs 😎

Prizewinner of Redthicket Grove and Otter of Thornwood Sound!

Season change belongs to @foxglovesound

[sanktnikolais]

lost in the echo

A/N: this was supposed to be posted some time later before the actual release of Rule of Wolves, but it’s been released early so :>

or me just finding an excuse to write demon Nik going feral after seeing Zoya hurt :>

Word count: 3591

The King continues to fight his battle with his own demon. After seeing his General hurt in the war that they had fought tooth and nail for, Nikolai is one step closer to letting the darkness consume him.

Pain. 

          It was something that Nikolai knew so well and yet he could never get used to it. Whether it was entirely physical or emotional, it was always there, lurking and lingering like his own shadow. 

          Why? 

          The question came to his mind as another shout tore from his throat. It sounded almost like a wail, a desperate call for help. For himself? For his people? For everyone else that died in every war the country had been under for centuries? 

          For Ravka? 

          A head-splitting ache hit him, and he doubled over. He held onto the feeling, that one fleeting moment he felt the ground under his hands, before he was back to trying to regain control again. But despite the war for control in his mind, he realized that for once, there was one thing he and the demon shared the same sentiment—revenge. 

          For what? 

          Images flashed in his eyes. A shade of blue rushing towards him. A crack of gunshot. Blood. The excruciating pain in his chest. 

          Then nothing. 

          You cannot even protect and save her, young king. 

          There was another piercing pain in his chest, and this time, it felt like his heart was being torn out from his chest as he remembered looking at Zoya’s frail, bleeding form in his arms—

          Zoya? Did something happen to her?

          At that, the demon pushed back for control. The urge—the need—to destroy everything in his path was suddenly stronger than his will to get back to himself. Fury was the only thing driving him forward. Nothing else mattered.

          Yield, demon king, there's nothing else you can do for her, the monster said. Let the darkness come and take over.

          Nikolai closed his eyes and calmed.

          Let go. 

          He felt the monster’s claws on his shoulders, its grip tightening as the shadows slowly shrouded him in a veil of hushed whispers and angry voices. It felt almost natural, like welcoming a long lost friend after being apart for so long. Because in reality, he never really got free from the darkness the Darkling inflicted upon him; it chose the right time to let itself show again, when he was backed in a corner without any means of escape aside from accepting the demon that lurked within his heart. 

          Perhaps it was the main reason why it never left him, so he would have a last resort to turn to when things left him with no other choice. 

          All else faded to a blur, and then to darkness, his thoughts flitting away as if they were mere leaves easily carried by the winds until there was nothing left other than rage. 

          Talons extended from his scarred hands again, followed by the sound of an inhuman growl coming out from his lips. His wings burst from his back, and he braced his feet on the ground to launch himself in the air—

          Giving up so easily, King Wretch? 

          He froze. That voice—it sounded so familiar. Where had he heard it? He was sure he knew it. 

          A heavy feeling stirred in his chest, the nagging sensation of something begging to be released, to be free. He held on to that, a small speck of light amidst the endless darkness. For a moment, his mind quieted. Even the demon stayed silent, lurking. Listening. 

          It came again shortly after. This is not who you are. 

          But who was he? The nagging feeling became heavier and stronger as if something was forcing its way out and trying to escape whatever confines caged it down. 

          An irritated hiss escaped his mouth. It had come from the demon, the sound coming out like it was in pain. The question still lingered in his mind. Who was he? 

          The claws around his shoulders loosened, the shadows started to dissipate. He could still feel the monster reach out for them, but this time, he himself was holding back. 

          Who was he? 

          Come back to me, Nikolai. 

          Then there was like the sound of a glass shattering, and everything came rushing back to him. 

          Nikolai opened his eyes and fought back. 

          As he had expected, the monster tried to pull him back, its grip on him becoming much stronger than before. Still fighting the losing battle, young king? 

          He gritted his teeth. He knew the monster was goading him, throwing him off by telling him he was already losing. But he also knew it was starting to get weaker fighting against his sudden, newfound strength that allowed him to resurface again. 

          And it definitely didn't know how many times he had been backed to a corner and yet still found a way out. 

          Yield, the demon demanded again. 

          "I am the King of Ravka," he said, his voice hoarse from the demon's control but it was nevertheless his. "I do not yield to anyone." 

          But then the monster decided to show him his failure: Zoya taking the bullet that was meant for him. 

          For a moment, his will faltered, and the demon grabbed the chance to push the knife deeper into his resolve—into his heart. 

          You cannot do anything for her.  

          A shout of pure anguish tore from his throat as his mind focused on the person that mattered the world to him. 

          Zoya saving him from falling in the Fold. Zoya staying up with him most nights to grudgingly help him with the ton of correspondence. Zoya defending them from the dukes that dared to insult them during political gatherings. Zoya staying in his chambers and holding his hand tightly when his fears got the better of him. 

          Zoya, always Zoya.

          And yet you failed her. 

          The shadows overwhelmed him again, suffocating him. He knew he must fight them back but his resolve started crumbling again. 

          It was no use. He failed her. He failed her like he had failed Dominik, and then Alina. 

          Now everyone else. 

          And yet a small part of him still pushed back and never believed Zoya was gone. Because he would know. She was the other half of his soul, the other end of the red string tied around his wrist. There wasn't a single thing that she wasn't to him. 

          She was all and everything more.

          "She's still alive," Nikolai growled, and he felt the demon flinch like it had been burned. "I have not failed her. Only at the untimely end of my short life will I ever stop protecting her, then I will continue doing so in the next one I’ll live." 

          The monster cackled, and it could only do so much as its grip on him loosened again. He pushed back, feeling its clutches around him go weaker and weaker. 

          Come back, her voice from the day he took the thornwood to his heart echoed in his mind again, and he held onto it like his lifeline. Promise you'll come back to us. 

          Come back to me, Nikolai. 

          "I will." 

          The demon let out an angry hiss, the last threads of its ties around him snapping, and it grudgingly shrunk back to whatever darkness it hid. 

          Then there was nothing. 

***

There was still pain when Nikolai finally opened his eyes. But it was more of the physical rather than the one inside his heart. 

          His vision swirled as it slowly adjusted to the surroundings. The sky was bathed in a bright orange glow, the first signs of the approaching nightfall. It was when he realized that he was lying on the ground somewhere in the middle of the woods. 

          He sat up, but immediately regretted it when pain shot up to his side, making him stop his movements. Where was he? And how did he get here? 

          As if to answer his question, his head throbbed, and it hurt enough for him to double over to his side. Everything tilted sideways again. 

          "Saints," Nikolai groaned. He blinked several times to clear his vision, and when it adjusted again, he stopped. 

          Amidst the dimming light from the sky and the dark scars on his hands, he saw a single thread of a blue ribbon clutched in his palm. 

          The memory flashed back in his mind. Zoya fighting beside him. Zoya pushing him out of harm's way. Zoya bleeding in his arms. Zoya's hand falling from where she touched his face. 

          Zoyazoyazoyazoya—

          "Zoya." Nikolai's voice trembled when he called her name. "Zoya!" He looked around wildly, as if she would appear in front of him, alive and well, scowling at him and demanding him where he had been. But she didn't. 

          Tears fell from his eyes. Find her. He pushed up to his feet, forcing himself to stay upright, though his surroundings were swaying. 

          Find her. 

          Tying the blue ribbon around his wrist, he limped forward. And even when his body screamed in pain, he continued on. There was no assurance that he was going in the right direction, but it was better than staying put and not doing anything. Nikolai would trust his instincts. 

          Find her. 

          The woods seemed to be endless, the cluster of trees becoming thicker as he walked deeper into the forest. He didn’t know how long he had been walking—minutes? Hours? Days? He didn’t know. His foot found an uneven surface on the ground, and Nikolai stumbled forward. "She's alright," he hissed through the pain that shot up to his hands when he fell. With another growl of frustration, he repeated, "She's alright."

          She had to be. He didn’t know what he would do if she wasn’t. 

          “I’m coming back to you, Zoya,” he said, his voice breaking as he tried not to think of the worst case scenario that made another wave of tears fall from his eyes. He tried to push back up to his feet, but the images of Zoya looking so small and so frail in his arms kept appearing in his mind, and it made him feel weaker than he already was. “I’m coming back to you.”

          Get up, then, he chastised through his lamenting. Get up and find her. 

          Whatever strength he had before was slowly fading, dissipating into the thin air. The thought of seeing Zoya again was the only thing driving him forward. He wasn’t going to let go of that smallest sliver of hope he had in his heart, but its spark that continued to light his path was dwindling the more he tried to stay optimistic.

          Optimism was his strong suit, but it could also be the one to bring down the axe and shatter his heart for being too hopeful. 

          “She’s alright,” Nikolai repeated, but the saints knew how it was getting harder for him to convince himself that she was. His next words came out in a desperate, begging sob. “Zoya, please.”

          The blue ribbon around his wrist caught his gaze, the sight of it causing another sob from his throat. He clutched it to his chest as the sobs continued to rack out from his body. The helplessness he was feeling overpowered his logic. This wasn’t the time to grieve over things that he wasn’t sure of yet. But for someone who had always used his heart over his head, he could only do so much not letting his emotions take over. 

          It’s not you to let your guard down and quit, Lantsov, her voice came again, steady and strong like her will to set things right, the personality that Nikolai had grown to love dearly. Oh, how he wished to hear her voice again. Up on your feet, Your Highness. 

          A huffed laugh escaped his lips through his tears. Even in his imagination, she lingered. He really was a goner for her. 

          With the last ounce of strength he had, he willed his tears to stop and forced himself back up to his feet. He would come back to her. He would always come back to her, even if it meant fighting another thousand lifetimes and wars. Anything for her. 

          Nikolai took the path forward again. He hadn't gone that far when there was a rustle of leaves somewhere nearby. There wasn't a time for him to find a place to hide when there were suddenly people coming out from the bushes in front. 

          One moment he was standing upright, then the next second he was doubling over, gasping for breath. He fell down to his knees with his hand braced on the ground and the other on his chest. 

          "What—" He stopped. Grisha. 

          There was a series of clicks that followed, and the feel of the barrel of a rifle being trained at his temple. 

          "Identify yourself." 

          If Nikolai wasn't being deprived of his ability to breathe, he knew he still would stop breathing when he heard the voice. Tears stung his eyes, and it wasn't because of being suffocated to death. 

          Could it be—

          He lifted his head up. His current state made it very difficult, but he forced his way through the restrain. 

          And when his eyes met with the familiar blue ones that always appeared in his dreams, Nikolai felt as if he could breathe freely again. 

          Her grip on her powers faltered, and he drew in a breath when his airway cleared. 

          She's alive.

          The soldier holding the gun to his head sprung back, going down on his knees instantly with his rifle to the ground. His other First Army companions followed suit, but Nikolai couldn't acknowledge them, not when his mind had tunneled to focusing on her, and only her. 

          Tamar and Tolya stood their ground, relief obvious on their expressions, though there was still a lingering suspicion in their eyes. 

          His legs trembled as he slowly stood up. She's alive. Tears stung his eyes again, and he didn't bother to hold them back. He didn't care if the King of Ravka was crying openly. He didn't care if it was in front of his soldiers that expected him to be the tough figurehead he was supposed to be. 

          There was only one thing that mattered to him right now. 

          Nikolai took a step forward, his heart in his throat. His voice trembled when he called her name. "Zoya—"

          Tamar held out an axe and pointed it at him, making him stop abruptly. Confusion clouded his mind when he stared back at the woman, and then at Zoya. 

          Her eyes were bright, the longing in them not unnoticeable by him, who had been too blind to see the same looks being sent his way ever since he announced his engagement. What an utter fool, he was. 

          Zoya lifted her chin, the stoic face of the General of Ravka returning, and her voice was shaking when she said, "How do we know it's you?" 

          Nikolai huffed a laugh. Of course, precautions first before anything. He gave her a grin through his tear-stained face. "Is there any other king this handsome and idiotic and also afraid of spiders in suit?" he said. It was nonsense and he didn't know what else he could say. He just desperately wanted to run to her and pull her in his arms. "Should I retell the time I once tried to butcher geese?" 

          There was a short silence, and then he heard Zoya let out a disbelieving breath, but there was only an obvious relief on her expression. She looked tired; her bloodshot eyes gave away the worry she’d seemed to have since he disappeared, and her slightly pale skin and strained only meant she was still reeling from her injury. 

          And yet when he looked at her, he couldn’t think of anything else to describe her other than beautiful.

          Tamar let out a light laugh and lowered her axe. Her face softened when she gave him a smile and a nod, mouthing, "Good to see you, Your Highness."

          He mirrored her smile with his own before he turned his attention back to Zoya, his heart reaching out to her, the missing piece he had been finding for a long time. But she was already running towards him, her steps rushed as if the world would crumble down under her feet if she didn't reach him fast enough. 

          Nikolai met her halfway, his arms wide open as their bodies collided in a tight embrace, and finally, his heart was whole again. 

          She’s alright. She’s breathing. She’s alive. 

          “You’re alright,” he said, burying his face to her hair. He felt her arms tighten around his neck, and the feel of her warmth against him only made it clear that this was real. Another sob racked his body when he said, “Oh, saints. You’re alive.”

          Zoya let out a tired laugh. “You’re a mess,” she said against his neck as her hand came to clutch at his back. “You were gone for most of the day so I guess it’s only fair.”

          Nikolai pulled away just enough to look down in her eyes, seeing the old fire that never stopped burning even at their worst times, the same one that he thought was extinguished when she saved his life. She had always been the light to his darkness, the healing to his pain, and he vowed he would keep it that way even if he had to give his life over and over again.

          He reached a hand to her cheek as his eyes searched her face. “I thought I lost you,” he breathed, his voice coming out broken when another wave of tears hit him. His vision blurred. “I can’t believe I almost lost you.” 

          She closed her eyes and turned her face to his palm, her fingers coming around his wrist to rub soothing circles to his pulsepoint. “You worry too much,” she said. There was a smirk on her lips that she usually had, and it washed away the worry off her face. But the moment was short-lived, because she was suddenly heaving, her eyebrows knitting tightly together as if she were in pain. Her hand tightened on his wrist as a tear fell from her closed eyes. And then in a broken whisper, she said, “I thought I lost you too.”

          “I guess we both worried for each other so much today,” Nikolai murmured, resting his forehead against hers. He brought his other hand to her face and closed his eyes as well. “I’m here now.” 

          “You weren’t there when I woke, Nikolai,” said Zoya. Tears he never thought he would see her shed again fell freely from her eyes. “They said you were gone and I couldn’t do anything—”

          “Zoya, Zoya, my love,” he said, tilting her face up to his, and she opened her eyes. There was both fear and desperation in them, the same one she had when her amplifiers broke in the Fold. He gave her reassuring smile. "You saved me. Just like always." He gently wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs. "You did everything you can, and it gave me another chance to live. Never forget that." 

          Zoya searched his eyes frantically, possibly to see if there were some underlying lies in his words. But if there was something Nikolai didn't want to do, it was to lie to her. They had faced enough problems to fill up for their next lives, shed blood and tears fighting for their forsaken country, for them just to let lies hang between them as their thread to keep them together. 

          They were the King and the General. The Too-Clever Fox and the Stormwitch. Nikolai and Zoya. 

          They were two halves of a whole, the one wouldn't function well without the other. 

          Together, they completed each other. 

          Without any more hesitation in her eyes, Zoya pulled him down to her level and pressed her mouth to his. 

          It was like coming home, the warm and light feeling in your chest when encountering something so familiar, and it was all Nikolai could have dreamed how kissing Zoya Nazyalensky would be like. 

          Years of longing stares and stolen glances and conversations that had hid their true feelings flowed through their kiss, the love they had been trying to hide burning brighter than any light that shone in the night. 

          Nikolai was aware of the people around them, of what they could have been thinking as they witnessed the king and his general crossing the line they had set for themselves, and yet he didn't care. Neither of them did. He buried his hand to her hair as his other arm snaked around her waist to pull her even closer to him, and Zoya responded by kissing him deeper, her lips opening under his. 

          The war was still ongoing but they could have this one stolen moment for just the two of them. 

          A moment that had been long overdue.

          When the need for air became stronger than the taste of each other's lips, Nikolai reluctantly pulled away, resting his forehead back to hers. She still had her eyes closed and he could feel her breaths ghosting on his lips.

          "I love you," Zoya said, and it left him floored in euphoria after hearing those sweetest words from her mouth. She opened her eyes to look back at him. "I love you so much." 

          He huffed a laugh, feeling as if his heart would burst with all his love for her any second. This was more than he could have asked for. With a contented sigh, he said, "I love you too, General."

          And when he met her halfway as she pulled him down to kiss him again, Nikolai finally felt the one thing he had always longed for. 

          Peace. 

[pacific-rimbaud]

27 - panville (lets pretend its after their wedding) (lets also pretend this isnt me trying to extend bright objects epilogue in every way I can) (but just because you are the real queen of this ship)

Drabble #27: “I’m pregnant.”

by PacificRimbaud

Pairing: Pansy Parkinson x Neville Longbottom

Tags: WWII AU, unplanned pregnancy, hospital, brief mentions of war

Wiltshire, May 1944

“I’ve had a letter.”

Lavender’s voice dipped to a conspiratorial low, as though a letter was a secret Pansy both had an interest in and ought to be party to.

“From which one?”

Pansy shut off all attention to Lavender and inspected the label on a bottle of morphine tablets. Finding it sound, she filed it away in the back of the second shelf from the top in the medicine cabinet, and made a sharp graphite tick on the inventory form. 

“Lieutenant McLaggen. The fellow from Dunfermline. Oh, thank you.” Lavender received a wrapped bundle from one of the laundry girls, and set it down on the center of the table on the opposite side of the room. “He’s going to be in London next month, and wants me to come over on the train.”

Ticking at her form, Pansy fitted away a third vial, made another tick, and then filed a fourth in a martial row moving forward in the cabinet.

“You need to be careful with all that,” she said.

“Oh, I am.” Lavender checked the tag on the laundry. “I might seem silly, but I’m not daft.” 

Pansy scraped her pencil so hard against her form that it tore a small hole in the page.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You alright?” Lavender asked, hand paused at the task of untucking the edges of the bundle.

“I’m fine.”

Lavender laid out the edges of the cloth wrapping, removed a stack of cloth face masks, and set them on the shelf in front of her. “It’s only you look a bit flushed, Pans.”

Pansy tightened the aperture of her attention down to a ruthless diameter, wide enough for nothing beyond the minute detail of dates printed on pasted labels and the tick of her freshly sharpened pencil.

Once the old bottles were secured at the front of the shelf and the new ones filed behind them, Pansy closed the cabinet doors and brushed her hands against the cotton of her pinafore.

“I’m going to get some air,” she said, her shoulder nearly glancing against Lavender’s on her way out the door.

“Alright, love,” Lavender called after her. “I’ll tell you about the letter I’ve had from Second Lieutenant Creevey when you’ve come back.”

For a long while, Pansy had thought of the hospital as a cheap robe hung on the exalted bones of Thornwood Abbey. The war would end, and it would fall away as immaterial and disposable as the wrapping on a parcel.

No stain, no echo, no vibration of its requisition would be left behind.

It would be her sanctuary once again, and only hers, free to take her tea in solitary silence by the large window in the drawing room, watching the mallards dabble in the lake.

As it was, the drawing room was filled with men who sent up prayers to God if they woke with a headache from the anesthetic.

Day by day, Pansy felt the memory of her home drain away, replaced as it needed to be by the urgent and essential now.

She passed Daphne in the hall outside the room where her servants used to eat their dinner. She intended to keep up her pace and offer nothing beyond a tip of her head, but Daphne slipped her hand into the crook of Pansy’s elbow. 

“Your captain is looking for you,” she said quietly. “I’ve tried to deflect him, but I think he’s gone to Pomfrey already and knows you’re here.”

A voltaic shimmer traveled down the surface of Pansy’s skin and back up again.

“Fucking hell.”

Pansy turned around and stalked off in the other direction, abandoning the idea of a turn around the rose garden.

She nearly escaped to the nurse’s dormitory that was once her own, solitary boudoir.

But naturally he recalled the narrow service stairs in the east wing, and opened the door to descend just as she arrived at the top.

“Pansy,” he said, almost breathless with a sort of half-panic. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Neville.”

He held his hat at his side, pinched between his spare, muscled fingers.

His hair was never fully tamed, and the impacts of having put his hat on his head and then removing it again made themselves clear.

Pansy flattened herself against the wall of the confining stairwell, grasping her own forearms in her palms behind her back.

“Well?” she asked. She pursed her lips and lifted her chin, fluidly performing the impatience and imperious nonchalance that constituted the entirety of her personality as far as most people were concerned.

“I’m leaving.” He breathed in, an intake of air meant to fortify and compose. “Today. Just now, actually.”

His dark eyes scanned her own, but her vision caught on the pink line of scar tissue running from below his left ear, over his cheekbone, through the outside third of his left eyebrow, then turning back to end in a jagged half circle at the hairline at his left temple.

The scar and a Victoria Cross he kept folded in a handkerchief at the back of his top bureau drawer were the only mementos he had been given for a wound that had done everything in its power to end his life.

The desire to trace it with her fingertips flooded her with so much force that she pinched the skin of both her arms hard enough with her fingernails that she sucked in a breath through her nose.

“I wish you all the luck, then, Captain,” she said, leaning hard into the clipped tones of her breeding to mask the quaver in her throat.

“Pansy, please.”

She might have persisted—would have persisted—had he been any other man, but his hand was at her hip, and then his elbow was crooked behind her nape, and she was in his arms, sighing against the mouth that had been mercifully spared of injury for her own selfish, covetous, unappeasable use.

“I’m going to write to you,” he muttered against her jaw.

“I told you. I won’t read them.”

“I don’t care.”

Pansy took his hand in hers, and folded it over her breast.

She might have known better. Should have known better.

He made her mindless with want.

His hand closed hard, in the way that she liked best, over her too-tender breast, and she gasped with the pain of it.

He pulled back instantly, skin flushed and lips heated for her, and stared at her with an expression of hurt and confusion that she hated, instantly and forever.

“Pans, I’m so sorry. I—”

She prayed, earnestly, fervently, for his stupidity.

But there was only one time she’d known him to be a fool.

His thinking was both careful and thorough, and after a moment his skin paled.

“You’ve been avoiding me for a week,” he said.

She wouldn’t tell him.

She refused.

He would go, and meet the enemy at the door with nothing to remind him of her except the knickers she’d folded into his pocket on the afternoon he’d first taken her, breathless, his scar still red, against the grass bordering the rushes at the edge of the lake.

He would go, and there he would be stupid, beating back disaster with the hard brick of his self-sacrificial love.

Maybe he would come back to find her Miss Parkinson of Thornwood Abbey, sitting in her drawing room with a cup of tea.

Maybe he would come back to find her another man’s wife.

Maybe he would come back with no desire to find her anywhere.

Maybe he wouldn’t come back at all.

“Pansy.”

She was hard as flint.

She was so soft.

She could have told him the hour of the disaster with devastating precision.

Lying on her back, a prohibited object in his bed, she’d been lost with him moving in her, bleary eyes half closed, muting her voice against the sweat at his shoulder, heels at the small of his back holding him tight to her as she gasped out that she loved him.

She had hoped he hadn’t heard, but outside the borders of her own unbearable arc of sensation, she was aware that he’d finished inside her.

If she’d moved immediately after, it might have been possible to have done something, but she couldn’t care about anything beyond how it felt to be held in his arms.

In the dreary dark of the stairs, he studied her with dogged and patient intelligence.

And then his fingertips stroked down her belly, and flexed over the secret below.

He moved quickly then, ducking down and tossing her over his shoulder, and marching with singular purpose up the stairs to the second floor.

Below her, the familiar carpet of her ancestral hall streaked away from the backs of his heels.

He finally stopped at the mahogany door to what was once the least-offered guest bedroom in the east wing, and pushed it open with startling force.

He set her down on her feet in the middle of the room, and tightened one of his long arms around her waist.

The chaplain sat at his desk ramrod straight, auburn hair slicked into an adamant wave over his forehead and spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He cradled a pen in his hand, poised over a sheet of paper.

“Captain Longbottom. Nurse Parkinson,” he said, mannerly and terse. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m going to need you to marry us, Father Weasley,” said Neville. “Straight away.”

Father Weasley laid his pen down in a strict perpendicular to his page, and folded his hands together at the edge of his desk.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to submit the proper paperwork. Then Major Weasley will have to approve. He’s on leave in Devonshire at the moment,” he said, shifting his pen a millimetre to the right, “and isn’t expected to return until Tuesday.”

“Get Brigadier General Moody to sign off on it. He’s downstairs in the wards.” Neville’s hand tightened on Pansy’s waist. “I’m...that is so say we’re—”

He turned to Pansy, pink-cheeked, eyes shining, and smiled with half his mouth like an absolute clot.

Pansy couldn’t bear to look at him. Instead she stared hard at Father Weasley until he puffed a beleaguered breath through his nostrils.

He looked at the face of his wristwatch, then drew open a drawer at the side of his desk, and pulled out a blank form.

“You’ll need a witness.”

Neville released Pansy’s waist, stalked to the door and stuck his head out.

“Malfoy,” he called out. “You’re needed.”

Half a minute later, Captain Malfoy strolled through the door entirely unbothered, half-eaten apple in hand.

“Hullo. What’s going on then?” he asked.

“Give me your ring,” said Neville.

Malfoy looked down at the emerald ring on his little finger.

“What do you want my ring for, Longbottom? Go and get one of your own.” He looked Pansy up and down. “Where’s your wee cap gone, Pans?” He took an enormous bite of his apple. “I shouldn’t think the priest has it.”

“Father Weasley’s marrying us just now,” said Neville. “You’re needed as witness.”

Malfoy laughed. “What? Right now? What’s the bloody great rush?”

“I’m pregnant, idiot,” said Pansy.

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “Well that’s extremely naughty of you.”

With an effort, he pulled the ring off his finger and tossed it to Neville.

“You’d better have something a fair sight better than that in your vaults, Longbottom. I hope you’re aware that our Pans has champagne taste.”

Pansy tucked her hair over her ear. “Fuck off, Draco.”

While Father Weasley scribed at the form, Pansy tucked her hand in Neville’s, and turned to face him.

“I’m going to write to you,” he said quietly, rolling Draco’s ring in his fingers. “Constantly. I don’t care whether you read them.”

For two weeks, Pansy had watched the mirror with mounting terror.

She’d seen her soft, glassy eyes. Her swelling breasts. The heat rising visibly at the surface of her skin.

Fatigued and faint, nauseated and utterly sick with love and longing, she shifted to fill the open geometry of Neville’s body.

“Normally we’d get two days, Pans, but we’re...I can’t—”

She pulled up on her toes, and his arms tightened around her, lifting her nearly off the floor and into the warm space he kept reserved for her at the side of his neck.

“Were you going to tell me?” he whispered hoarsely.

“You can’t worry,” she muttered against his pulse. “You’re not allowed.”

“I’m going to use every last piece of paper I’m given.” He pressed his face into her hair. “I don’t care if you read a single one.”

Pansy breathed him in, using every sense to press him hard into the soft wax of her memory. “I’m going to read them all.”

[inej-the-wraith-ghafa]

let’s talk about about Leigh Bardugo’s book titles may sound pretty but uhh most of them don’t actually make any sense

1. Shadow and Bone - Okay, it sounds cool, and this one,,,kinda makes sense if you squint a little? the darkling has shadow powers so that where the shadow comes in, and the bone part can be referring to the antler amplifier. bit weird that alina’s light powers isn’t referenced at all because that’s the main part of the books, but overall not too bad i guess.

2. Siege and Storm - There may be a siege at the end of the book, but uh far as i’m remembering there wasn’t any storms, certainly not any with actual plot relevance. i get what she was going for with alliteration, and yeah it sounds like a pretty title but doesn’t really make sense in the context of the book.

3. Ruin and Rising - I really don’t have much to say here, it’s a pretty vague title in the first place. it’s another example of alliteration and it sounds cool, but it could to applied to almost any fantasy book and it would work as a title

4. Six of Crows - i think this may be the best title, there’s six of them and they’re part of the dregs gang who are repped by crows. no real problems here except that matthias isn’t technically part of that dregs but we ignoring that

5. Crooked Kingdom - look i adore crooked kingdom but to this day i could not tell you what the title means at all. i mean what kingdom are we even referring to? Kerch isn’t a kingdom, and that’s kinda where the whole book take place. the most sense i could make of the crooked part is that our main characters are all crooks, so maybe it’s alluding to that? idk man this book slaps anyway

6. King of Scars - this is the one title that actually doesn’t require any critical thought behind it LMAO. it’s about nikolai, he’s the king of scars. my issue lies with the next book however, bringing us to:

7. Rule of Wolves - “rule of wolves” sounds badass . but in the context of the book it doesn’t make that much sense? like yes it’s referring to Fjerda’s power, but,,Fjerda isn’t the only player in the novel. The key plots of the book is not just Ravka’s conflict with Fjerda but also with the Shu Han, and a even a little with the Kerch. so just making the title about Fjerda doesn’t really add up?? i feel like it would be better for the book title to be referring to ravka somehow since they are at the center of the novel

8. Language of Thorns - so language of thorns is a collection of short stories, and after thinking this one through its,,actually really clever? that is if i’m understanding this right - so in the first story there is this thornwood, where you are required to speak the truth. this is reinforced by the words in the back cover “love speaks in flowers. truth requires thorns”. So the title language of thorns implies honesty, meaning that all these fairy tales in the book are the “truth”. considering that a lot of the tales seem to start out with the premise of ordinary fairy tales but have darker/unusual twists from what would be a cookie cutter stereotypical ending, this makes a lot of sense and is actually pretty cool. i set out to critique it but nevermind, this one is an exception.

if you made it this far thank you, this post was made entirely in my head in the shower, (i was randomly thinking, huh. what does the title shadow and bone even mean? and it just spiraled from there) i mostly wrote it down to get all my thoughts sorted LMAO.

[foxglovesound]

Mink Witclaw of Thornwood Sound

Name: Mink Witclaw Past Names: Truffle Age: 36 months (3 years) Rank: Resident (guardian)  Identity & Pronouns: Molly, she/her Orientation: Bisexual

Family:

Wolverine Witclaw || mother, Thornwood Sound resident

Marten Witclaw || brother, Thornwood Sound caretaker

Residency: The Witclaw Residency Accessories: A scrap of fabric from her housecat days, woven to keep her hair tied back.

[nivathostin]

Biting the Hand that Feeds

The night had been so pleasant at the Westfall Fair. Nivathostin’s bleeding heart took him to the adoption pen where he took in the most pathetic creatures he could find there: a three-legged doe and a half-blind goat that had suffered an accident which left its lazy tongue hanging out. He spent most of his coin to rescue these animals and then offered everything he had left to a woman collecting donations that evening. He and Cerusani wandered together, and then she offered to buy him whiskey and a Westfall-style taco before they nestled themselves in the corner to enjoy their food and their new animal companions.

The night had been so pleasant until Aredhele arrived, and then she shattered everything with her terrible words yet again. He couldn’t escape her, and all the ghosts in his past grew more violent whenever she was around. She bit at him, and he bit at her, and then their words twisted into the foul memories of their past.

He set his fingers upon her abdomen and dared to bite back even harder.

“Where is it?”

Within the bright and vibrant atmosphere of the Westfall Fair, he asked Aredhele the looming question that sat in the darkness of his heart. The question that haunted him like a ghost day after day.

“Vynlorin has it...”

Anger. Rage. Spite. Nivathostin suffered under the weight of her answer, and it blinded him.

“You-- ...Don’t.”

He choked on his fury and wanted to vomit out the food that Cerusani had bought for him.

“In the end, we all do what Vynlorin wants. That is how it has to be, Niva. You ran away, and he captured you. There will always be a bigger, and better beast.”

Nivathostin stormed his way toward Thornwood manor with the conversation replaying again and again within his mind, and he hardly noticed that he was nearly dragging the suffering beasts behind him -- yet another thing that would bring disapproval from the terrible lord of Thornwood. But Nivathostin couldn’t spare an ounce of compassion for the man. Tonight, his fury had blinded him and he would defy Vynlorin for the first time since being brought back from the depths of the Nether.

Tonight Nivathostin would test the lord’s patience, and anger would be his courage.

The guards opened the door for the rogue when he arrived. Nivathostin was allowed wherever he pleased in Thornwood for he had become the lord’s dog who watched over the lands whenever Vynlorin was out. The men outside had no reason to question his actions even with his frenzied steps, and they opened the manor the same as any other evening.

Vynlorin sat within the dining hall and heard the rogue’s steps. How curious, he thought, to hear the man who always carried himself in silence, and the sound stirred him from his seat where his glass of wine was discarded on the table.

“Nivathostin?”

Vynlorin’s stern gaze fell upon those two wretched beasts trailing behind that now defiled his home, but the rogue didn’t stop. He rushed Vynlorin, discarding the leashes on the ground as his elbow rolled back and fingers crunched into a fist. The warlock caught the aggression in the rogue’s stance, and though he was confused and surprised, he was quick to react. Shadows skittered across his fingertips as he threw his hands out, beckoning darkness to tear through the fabric of reality.

“Nivathostin!”

Chains that twisted with the strength of the void snapped out of the air and lashed out toward the rogue’s limbs, but the rogue knew what the terrible lord was capable of. A sheen of his own shadows flicked off the rogue’s lithe form and crashed against the incoming chains, kicking the void magic back long enough for Nivathostin to throw that fist forward.

Crrshhh~

Vynlorin stumbled back and knocked the glass of wine from the table as he struggled to keep his balance. Nivathostin’s fist slammed into his jaw, stunning the lord as he remained hunched over the table with the world swimming around him, but he couldn’t recover. Darkness clouded the rogue’s eyes and terrible whispers skittered through his mind as the wicked taint of his race fueled him forward.

Nivathostin gripped Vynlorin’s throat and slammed the lord against the wall behind them.

“You’re a fucking monster, Vynlorin.”

The words rolled out of the rogue’s throat like a beast growling against its prey.

Vynlorin stared without fear into the man’s clouded gaze. He sensed the rogue’s wrath bubbling within, but the lord couldn’t make sense of why his dog now bit back at the hand that fed him.

Suddenly something clutched the rogue’s collar from behind and threw him across the room. The void elf was like a ragdoll as he rolled across the floor, and a heavy foot slammed down into his gut and forced a howl of pain to burst from his chest. When Nivathostin finally turned his gaze upward to his assailant, he saw nothing other than a heavy blade threatening his throat with the solid form of a shivarra at the other end of it snarling down at him.

Nivathostin’s chest heaved with breaths fueled by adrenaline as he remained pinned on the floor like a beast in a cage. Vynlorin’s demons never strayed, and they alone were the reason the lord could sit with such smug confidence within his own lair.

The lord stirred from the wall now. His piercing gaze wrapped around the rogue’s throat and would have strangled him if it could, but Vynlorin didn’t seek to harm the man; instead, he only wandered closer until he could stare down with pity against the dog that sought to tear him apart.

“Nivathostin.”

The dark voice crawled up the rogue’s spine and brought a renewed sense of fear within him. It was the same voice he had heard when trapped within the lord’s dungeon. It was the voice that scolded him when he didn’t comply with the lord’s demands. It was the voice that heralded a terrible night of suffering, and now the rage within Nivathostin subsided and twisted into the sort of fear that grips one’s soul as they stare into the eyes of death.

Nivasthostin danced his gaze from the shivarra to their master, and Vynlorin could see the fear now swirling within the rogue’s mind.

“Nivathostin.” Vynlorin touched his lip between words and noted the blood that glistened on his glove. He was amused that the rogue would attempt such an act, curious as to what led him to it, and proud that his pet had succeeded in such a bold task. His heavy-lidded gaze returned to the dog on the floor.

“I’ve grown fond of you, Nivathostin, but I hope this isn’t going to be a new habit of yours. I would hate to have to put you back in the darkness until you’ve calmed down.”

A heavy swallow rolled through Nivathostin’s throat and brought his flesh against the blade that threatened him. He couldn’t defend his actions, and he didn’t dare sling further insults against the master of the house. He knew he had lost and would continue to lose. Vynlorin was indeed a bigger and better beast -- a master that would, in the end, force every knee to bow in subservience.

Silence lingered between them, and Vynlorin knew his warning had been heard. He turned to mourn the wine now bleeding out on the stone floor until Nivathostin finally spoke.

“Aredhele is meeting with the underworld tonight.”

Nivathostin remained as a bleeding and broken man. He suffered the chains that life had bound him with and mourned everything he had ever been. Fate had finally crushed the last fighting spirit in his soul, and now he knew that he was nothing more than a dog being tugged around on the leash that Vynlorin wrapped around his throat. The meek words were spoken only through an unbreakable sense of duty, and the lord arched a brow over his shoulder.

“Is she? Very well.”

The lord started out of the dining hall, leaving the shivarra with her blade at Nivathostin’s throat as a reminder not to ever raise a hand against the master of the house again -- but he stopped at the sight of the crippled deer and goat that looked up at him with their pathetic little faces.

Vynlorin’s lip scrunched up into his nose as he stepped around them, shouting back another warning for the rogue who still suffered on the floor.

“And get these filthy creatures out of here before I feed them to the hounds.”

(Mentions: @cerusaniduskbinder​ @aredhelvaltieri @shandaumath)

[that-scouse-wizard]

Sightseeing Part Two

`A/N: Welcome to part two of Sightseeing, hope you guys enjoy my interpretation of Liverpool’s wizarding community. All I’ll say for the moment... Scouse Elves.

Also, just a couple of Face Claims for some OCs who are going to appear in this:

Thomas Tremblay Thornwood III A.K.A Old Tom: Mark Addy (also voice claim).

Marcus Jacques: Daniel John-Jules. Voice Claim: Levi Roots.

MC friends: Judith Harris @judediangelo75

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Judith let out a startled yelp that turned to shrieks as she and David dropped onto an almost-vertical slope, sliding down it and beginning to quickly pick up speed. It was made of a smooth, black marble laced with white lines, bright lights intermittently illuminating the passage. 

Judith however couldn’t have given less of a damn about how it looked in that moment. There was nothing to hold onto except David’s hand, tightening her grip with what felt like near bone-crushing strength. Her friend was the only familiar thing on the slide and she wasn’t about to let him go. 

Although in contrast to her, David was having the time of his life, laughing like a madman. All Judith could do was pause her screaming briefly as she gave him an incredulous look, at least he wasn’t worried. The slope was rapidly becoming less steep, eventually curving until it plateaued. The remaining momentum the two friends had still moved them forward to the end of a short tunnel heading towards a warm, orange glow.

Slowing, then eventually stopping, the two found themselves in a fairly busy pub. Red brick pillars held the building up. The flagstones of the floor were a deeper red, cut into hexagonal shapes and lined black. The tables were fairly small, pushed up against the walls of the pub to make a clear pathway through the building, each one accommodating two to four stools. Lanterns lit with candles, some on the table others levitated around in a fixed pattern illuminated the establishment, giving it a homely feel despite the simplicity.

A long, mahogany bar was being tended to by an unshaven, portly man. His receding black hair was flecked with grey, his stubble already having turned the same colour. 

Behind the bar was lined with various drinks on shelves, most notably though was a pair of broomsticks crossed over one another. Two flags were hung either side of the X-shape. One, like the flagstones, was red with the side profile of a lion in mid-roar painted in black. The other was a smart, marine blue with a white eagle painted on it, also from a side profile with the eagle looking to be in mid-strike as if getting ready to attack its prey. The two symbols were positioned to be facing each other as if their respective mascots were about to do battle.

Quidditch teams clearly, though Judith didn’t recognise them at all. 

David got up, Judith followed, her hand still firmly clasped in his as he guided off the black marble platform they found themselves on. Any interest other patrons had of the new arrivals quickly dwindled. Judith looked around taking in the sight, it was certainly very... red. Finally letting go of David’s hand, she balled it into a fist and promptly punched him in the arm.

“Ow! Judith what was that for?” David yelped, though both the grin and the laugh that accompanied his question made it clear he knew exactly why he’d received it.

“For taking me on that.” Judith hissed, gesturing to the exit of the slide.

David shrugged, “I said ‘brace yourself’.” He responded cheekily.

Judith looked thoroughly unimpressed, “What part of ‘brace yourself’ means ‘I’m going to put you on a bloody death trap?’”

A raucous laugh was what she got in response, though it didn’t come from David. The bartender seemed to be enjoying the show, “Friend of yours, David?” He asked with a chuckle, his accent making it known he was from Yorkshire.

 “She is,” David confirmed, sounding quite proud of the fact, “This is Judith, a friend of mine from Hogwarts. Judith, this is Tom, he runs the pub.”

The old man beamed at the introduction, “Thomas Tremblay Thornwood III, most people just call me Old Tom. Welcome to The Purple Griffin. Is it your first time visiting Under Mersey, Judith?” He asked kindly.

“Yes.” Judith answered quietly, giving a nod. The bartender seemed nice, if a little loud.

“Thought so,” He smirked, “Now, important question, Red or Blue?” He asked, slightly louder, a few patrons and even David looked to Judith expectantly.

“Um...” Judith mumbled, a bit confused as to what the question meant. They were both colours she wore and liked though she supposed did prefer red..., “Red.” She answered, the reaction from everyone who was bothered to listen was immediate.

“We’ve got another Lion’s fan lads!” Tom declared, causing those who had taken an interest to either cheer, others let out groans of disapproval. 

David was one of those who was pleased with her answer, giving her a slap on the back, “I knew you’d make the right choice.”

“Can you at least tell me what choice I made?” Judith asked, really needing some context.

“Liverpool Lions, Everton Eagles,” David said pointing at the red and blue flag respectively, “Both are Liverpool teams and frequently top contenders in the Amateur Division of the British and Irish Quidditch League. They’re fierce rivals with most other teams, but it’s at their worst with each other.” That explained it, Judith only knew of the twelve teams that were considered professional.

“And you support the Lions?” Judith asked, 

“That’s right, had to go with the Reds all the way.” David grinned. 

“Ah.” Judith nodded knowingly, her friend supported Liverpool Football Club, so she supposed it made sense he would be a fan of their Quidditch equivalent.

“In fact...” David began as he started rummaging through the pouch of coins his mother had given him, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Taking out six sickles before putting the silver coins on the bar and sliding them over to Tom, “Give us the Lion’s Summertime Specials.” Tom took the silvers with a conspiring grin.

“Take away?” The bartender asked, receiving a nod from David. At that prompt, Tom produced two cold bottles of butterbeer, causing Judith to give both of them a questioning look.

“I thought butterbeer was worth two sickles each?” She asked.

“Not the way Tom does them, watch.” David stated, now Judith was curious. Tom took out two large cups, emptying the contents of the bottles into them before calling out.

“Crocky! I need two pomegranates, and a mortar and pestle.”

“On it Tom!” A high-pitched scouse accent called back. It wasn’t long before the odd assortment of items was floated into the bar from the back area of the pub, guided by a house elf dressed in a starch-white chef’s outfit. His big, grey eyes only glancing at David and Judith briefly.

Judith’s eyes widened at that, the only house elves she had met were treated poorly at best, like slaves at worst. They would never refer to their master so casually, it was unheard of. The fact that this house elf had a healthy, lean build compared to the thin, frail frames of most other elves was another indicator something odd was going on. That wasn’t even mentioning how well-dressed the elf was. Perhaps David would know.

“Thank you.” Tom said to Crocky as he began deseeding the pomegranates, emptying the seeds into the mortar and starting to grind them up. The house elf disappeared back into the kitchens.

Judith watched the sight, curious as to see just what Tom was doing. It took a moment but Tom’s strong arms eventually ground down the seeds into a fine pulp. Mixing the juice into the butterbeer with a wooden stirrer briefly dyed the drink an orange colour. It didn’t last long as the mixture fizzed from the stirring, a scarlet hue quickly overtaking the contents of the cup, causing the foam on top to turn a light pink. 

“Go on then, drink up.” Tom said, looking ready to receive their verdict.

Judith took her cup, intrigued at the idea of a fruity-tasting butterbeer, Briefly knocking her cup against David’s one before taking a sip. It still had a sweet taste to it but lessened from the sour edge of the pomegranate juice. Yet the extra flavour wasn’t overwhelming, in fact it was quite refreshing, more so an ordinary butterbeer.

“It’s nice,” Judith responded positively.

“Good as always Tom.” David said, nodding in agreement.

“Glad I haven’t lost my touch.” The bartender grinned. The deep, rhythmic tolling of a bell from outside suddenly cut in, ringing twelve times before it was silenced, “Sounds like lunch time, you could always have some pub grub but I reckon that you’ll want to show your friend around Under Mersey won’t you, David?”

“That’s right.” David said.

“Well, off with you both then,” He said, making a shooing motion with his hand, “Just remember our motto.”

“Do us harm and we bring the weight of the Mersey down on your head.” David echoed with a grin.

“Exactly. Enjoy your time out there you two.” With that statement from the bartender, the two friends stepped out into the streets of Under Mersey.

-----------------

Judith was impressed, Under Mersey was definitely not like Diagon Alley. It wasn’t just a single alley. This place was an entire town, quite literally under the noses of muggles. 

Yet despite it being underground in a cavern that must have taken years to carve out, yet strangely, it felt no different to how it had been on the surface. It was warm with just the faintest hint of a sea breeze. A huge enchanted lantern acted like a miniature sun, moving slowly in tandem with the time displayed on a prominent clock tower on the southern end of the town. An illusory sky was even being maintained to mirror the weather on the surface.

The streets were a mix of cobblestone and pavements. Most buildings had chimneys that stretched far upwards, acting as support to the ceiling above. Four pillars at the four corners of the town also seemed to assist in holding up the ceiling, yet unlike the chimneys, they didn’t appear to be directly attached to any other building. It was certainly a feat of architecture that wizards had even managed to do this.

It wasn’t simply dull and lifeless though, Judith saw more than a few colourful plants growing either in planters on the streets or accommodated on outside window sills of buildings.

Luckily, David was willing to explain everything to her.

“Basically, we’re right under the River Mersey that runs by Liverpool. Vents on the ceiling and the chimneys are enchanted at either end to filter the air through. It’s why we’re able to breathe, and why the entire place isn’t flooded. The Pillars are where the town gets its water supply from. Pipes run underneath the streets to get it to the buildings. Not bad that it’s still around, seeing as construction began in 1801 and finished in 1823.”

Judith gave an impressed whistle. Whoever had come up with this, and even spent more than two decades seeing it through to completion must have had both ambition and patience.

“So what’s the deal with Old Tom and... Crocky was it?” Judith asked after having a sip from her butterbeer. They had left the building behind as they walked, though it could be easily found again, no other building had the same lavender hue as the brickwork the pub was made out of. Still, she was curious of the relationship between Tom and his house elf.

“That’s right,” David confirmed, “Far as I know, Old Tom is a squib, born to a pure-blood family. Don’t know when he and Crocky met but apparently, Tom gave him that chef’s uniform, Crocky just stuck around as an employee.”

“Really?” Judith asked in surprise. If any owner actually gave their house elf a piece of clothing, chances are they would take it and run. It spoke volumes of Crocky’s loyalty if he truly cared for the person who was apparently his ex-master.

“Yeah, I’ve been around them outside of working hours, the two of them act like best mates. Some even say Under Mersey is actually run by house elves.” Judith looked confused at the last part of David’s statement, causing him to elaborate, “The lantern, the ‘sky’, even the charms on the vents and chimneys? All of it is managed and maintained by house elves. The wizards and witches bring in business and live here. Some are even in charge of overseeing maintenance but ultimately it’s the elves who stop the place from bein’ destroyed.”

“Wow.” Judith said, marvelling at the sights again. She had a respect for the house-elves, putting up with so much. Quite literally holding this place together was just another feat that only cemented that sentiment.

Judith would have loved to explore the town a bit more but for the moment she was starting to feel a bit peckish...

“How about we go get some food?” David said.

Judith grinned at her friend practically reading her mind, “Sounds good, let’s go!” With that prompt, David guided Judith closer to the centre of the town.

This part of Under Mersey was by far the most active and Judith could see why, it seemed to be where most of the town’s shops were located. A wandmaker, a book shop, and practically every other kind of shop a wizard or witch could need. 

A stone fountain was the centrepiece for the town square. Two cormorants that towered over people, being at least eight feet tall. They faced away from each other, one looking west, the other looking east, the tips of their outstretched wings almost touching. A sprig of seaweed was clasped in their beaks.

However, both friends wanted to follow their stomachs at the moment and they certainly had options...

Looking one way, Judith could see that an odd assortment of restaurants had been packed into a single long street, thronging with people eager for lunch.. Chinese, Indian, Turkish. Spanish, Greek, French. Those were just some of the ones Judith noted. 

Yet despite the range of mouth-watering scents. the tempting food on display and even the occasional encouragement from a place’s owner, there was just one that really caught Judith’s eye.

A lot smaller when compared to the other restaurants, hanging above its doors was a string of flags. One of which was had three stripes blue on both sides, gold in the middle, with the head of a black trident in its centre.

That was the flag of Barbados, accompanied by flags of the other Caribbean islands. Above them was the name of the restaurant, only confirming Judith’s suspicions, Jacques’ Caribbean Cuisine. Judith knew exactly where she wanted to go, making a b-line for the restaurant as David followed close behind.

“Welcome,” A friendly tone was the first thing the pair of friends heard. Greeting them was a somewhat tall, lean and dark-skinned man. He was balding with a greying goatee, the hair he had left turning the same colour. He seemed to be in a cheerful mood despite his restaurant being empty in such a rush, “What can I interest you kids in today?”

Judith perked up at the man’s accent, it was similar to her Barbadian one, he definitely wasn’t British, “Where are you from?” Judith asked the man excitedly.

A bit confused at his question not being answered, the man responded, “Jamaica, and yourself?”

“I’m from Barbados.” She answered proudly, the man’s eyes went wide at that.

“Really? Girl if I was born a few decades later, you and me would have practically been neighbours!” He said enthusiastically, Judith grinned at, “And you boy?”

“Local.” David answered proudly, gesturing above..

“Ah, good, I like Liverpool. Think it’s a good city.” He said in approval, “Marcus Jacques, I came over here on request of the Ministry about thirty years ago. I was about twenty then, I’m fifty now.”

“Wait, I think I’ve heard of you,” David said in realisation. Judith looked at her friend curiously, “You started all of well... that outside.”

Marcus took on a smug expression at that, “Right you are, I got shipped up here by the Ministry, I was asked to come over after that war the muggles had in the fourties and decided the food this side of  the wizarding world could do with a bit more variety. Now don’t get me wrong, British food can be nice. Crocky at the Purple Griffin makes a great shepherd’s pie but I needed something to remind me of home. A couple more people got interested in the idea and we thought it would be nice to set up in the local community.” The man let out a chuckle, clearly reminiscing. David and Judith listening intently for him to continue, there was always a ‘but’ in these situations.

“See, a few in the local Ministry at the time were quite insular about new things coming in, they kicked up a fuss. We kicked up a bigger one and what you see outside is the result of the wizarding community here using the cultures right on their doorstep not too much differently to how the muggle side does. Anyway, enough of an old man’s ramblings, how about I give the two of you a taste of the Caribbean?”

“Yes please!” Judith said, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, “Do you serve brown stew chicken?” 

“’Do I serve brown stew chicken?’“ Marcus echoed back in a playfully sarcastic manner, “Of course I do, I’ll get right on it.” Yet he didn’t ask David what he wanted, “For you boy, I’ve got something special. Call it a Caribbean twist on something considered British.” 

Judith looked eager as she took a seat while David shrugged in acceptance. The owner leaving the two friends alone as he set to work in the kitchen.

“So, what do you think of your first time in Liverpool?” David asked eagerly as he sat across from his friend. 

“It’s... nice, I’ve had fun so far,” Judith answered honestly, “Though, can I ask something?”

“Yeah go on Judith.” 

“Can we plan these holidays in advance next time?” David looked perplexed at the question, “Please, David.” She quietly begged.

Though he was still a bit confused, David knew Judith wouldn’t just ask him a question like that out of the blue. He was sure she had a good reason, “Of course  we can Judith, whatever you want.”

Judith looked immensely grateful for his positive response, “Thank you David. You know, one of these days, I’ll have to take you to Barbados. It’s a beautiful country, white sandy beaches, lush greenery, the sea shining like sapphire.” She stated, clearly proud of her homeland.

David gave her a smile, “I’d like that, and now that you’ve described it for me, I’ll have to go.”

“To our future holidays?” Judith asked, raising up the half-full cup of butterbeer. 

David raised own, though his was almost empty, “To Liverpool, Lancaster and Barbados... one of those destinations is not like the other two.” He finished with a chuckle. Judith had to laugh as they knocked the cups together. From there on, the two settled into a content silence, it wasn’t long before Marcus came by with their food.

“Hope you kids enjoy.” He said, placing their meals and cutlery in front of them. 

Judith’s was several pieces of chicken covered in a rich, brown gravy that contained pieces of carrot and onion. Served with fluffy, white rice that soaked up any of the gravy was in contact with. 

David’s was comparatively simpler. It looked like fish and chips, strangely, the fish was in pieces. The batter looked crispy and light but was flecked with spots of red. The accompaniments... looked like very thick-cut chips but they just... weren’t.

“Saltfish fritters, and boiled and fried breadfruit.” Marcus confirmed.

Judith had already begun tucking in to her food, clearly enjoying it, “Mmm.” She managed to hum to satisfaction through a mouthful of food, giving a thumbs up.

David cut a small piece off the fish with a particularly prominent red fleck. It was nice, the batter was crispy, the fish soft with a distinct taste of salt. Then... hot... it was spicy. David began panting like a dog as he felt his nose starting to run.

“Oh no... I think he bit into a piece of scotch bonnet.” Marcus realised, “Hang on, I’ll get you some yoghurt.” It would be the only thing that could relieve the spiciness.

While Marcus sped into the kitchen again, Judith couldn’t help but laugh a bit at her friends misfortune, “David you’re a beater, and you can’t handle a bit of spice?” She chuckled, David couldn’t even muster a retort, just glare, causing Judith to let out another laugh, “Hey this is what you get for surprising me with how you got us here.” 

[violetleaves]

{ it’s a whole new elliot & minty era babyyyy @lovekilling​ }

         things have changed drastically since the harrowing christmas they brought to the thornwoods a few weeks ago. it would’ve been foolish for elliot to think that things were just going to go back to the way they were before their last great horror. he knows what she’s going through, even though they never talk about it; they’re both alone now. sure, minty still has two depraved sisters out there, but both of those bridges have been torched and he doesn’t expect any of the thornwood girls to ever want to rebuild them. every once and a while elliot will see a glimpse into the former minty he once knew, but that was more towards their initial arrival to their new york city getaway -- like when she’d taken him on an elaborate shopping spree in the upper east side, spoiling him with overpriced garments and scoffing at his lack of knowledge for the fashion world when he’d hold up a plain t-shirt and ask if this what she meant by casual avant garde. elliot would’ve never cared to put himself together like this in the past, but now that they’ve started this tiny life for themselves in this penthouse suite in a lavish nyc hotel, he loves to dress up for any occasion for the simple pleasure of seeing even the tiniest smile on the face of the girl he adores. 

but that smile faded quickly. elliot began to notice as the days went on that minty’s eagerness to get out of their luxurious hotel and distract herself became less and less frequent and the desire to stay in and order room service for each meal went on longer than just a couple of days. it’s reached the point where she refuses to leave at all, and no matter what kind of encouragement elliot tries to use to get her to follow him out the enormous double-doors of their suite, she rejects him the same each time: cruelly, and with a scowl on her face, insisting he go out and get drunk on his own. he does as she says most of the time, and when she claims to crave alone time the only place he feels comfortable leaving to is the bar downstairs. he doesn’t want to be too far away, just in case she needs him, because right now it seems like she might. elliot has never seen her this way, he honestly never thought he would see a version of minty like this, stuck in a state of depression he vividly recalls himself in once, but he can’t blame her. they’re both spiraling, pretty much about the same thing, but over entirely different circumstances. minty never asked him about the reason why he’d burnt down his childhood home that night, and neither of them have brought it up since, as cathartic as it might be to truly relate to one another. he still doesn’t want to talk about it, and unless minty is prying it out of him, there aren’t any plans to in the future. he almost prefers keeping it to himself now anyway -- minty is his top priority, and easing her out of this hopelessness so that she can be prepared to return to school in a few days is the only thing on his mind.

the last thing elliot wants is for her to become him, which may sound like a stretch considering how opposite they are -- but he can see the patterns. he sees the way she doesn’t want to do anything, the fact that the only person she can stand to interact with is him, and he wonders how long until she vocalizes that she doesn’t want to return to school. elliot doesn’t think he’d let that happen if the words did come out of her mouth, but he’s also not sure exactly what he’d say if she ever did say something like that -- remind her that she’s doing exactly what he did? say something humiliating, like she would? he’s unsure, and he doesn’t want to reach this point -- so today he’s especially determined to get her out. 

        “i think we should get out of the suite today.” elliot says calmly, but at the same time there’s a firmness to his voice as if to hint that this afternoon he won’t be taking no for an answer. “it’s finally stopped raining and we’re only going to be here for a few more days. you promised we’d go to the guggenheim.” there’s emotion lacking from his statement, no excitement about possibly going to a riveting museum, or disappointment that she’ll likely turn him down again, just seriousness in the hopes that she will take his tone as a demand. rising from the cozy leather chair he’s claimed as his since the moment they arrived, elliot stands before two dramatic, large windows covered by thick curtains blocking any sunlight whatsoever from entering the room. it’s been like this for a while now, and while minty has snapped at him for pulling them back a few times over the passing days, he doesn’t hesitate today. the storm clouds are finally passing, and though there isn’t exactly any sun beaming in the sky, as the natural light fills the room elliot feels sudden wave of relief, and even a little assurance. today is the day. he will get her out of this damn hotel.

he returns to her on the bed, doting as always as he sits down on the edge and reaches out to caress her face. minty is like a cat sometimes, and there’s always a slight risk when he’s affectionate like this that she might hiss and scratch, but right now he doesn’t care. elliot wants to show that he cares, that he’s trying, he’ll always try. he’s dropped the seriousness for now, and he’s all soft eyes and sweet touches as he pushes one more time. “just the museum, and something to eat. we can even bring it back here if you want. but we should get out, even if only for a minute.” 

[shandaumath]

Master

{The following is a retelling of RP that occurred largely between Vynlorin and @cerusaniduskbinder with a few points from @aredhelvaltieri and @barirnshadowwind, and @sparrow-of-arnud​ and @nivathostin​ for mentions. 

Very little has been altered from the original RP only for the sake of storytelling flow.}

[A simple parchment was posted on the notice board in the late afternoon. Very few words were written, but the words posted there were large and elegant and demanded attention. The seal of House Shandaumath sat at the bottom of the notice.]

WANTED: Hemomancer

Any who can provide reliable information on the whereabouts of a hemomancer will be handsomely rewarded. Further inquiries should be redirected to Master Vynlorin Shandaumath.

Search with haste. Time is of the essence.

...

“Master Vynlorin. When you have time I have information you are looking for.”

Cerusani’s voice rang out through the communication device that Vynlorin hated so much. He set aside the scroll of hemomancy that he had been researching and clicked the little button on the device attached beneath his shoulder pads.

“I have time now.”

“I am finishing up an appointment. I will be available in about ten minutes.”

He pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose. Another meeting with Cerusani, and it would end with just as much disappointment as the rest. But he couldn’t risk not seeing her. The fate of the sickly Ithildir depended on this hunt.

“Find me in Thornwood.”

Vynlorin left his books and scrolls in an organized mess and retreated from his study only to greet Nivathostin who had been standing outside as patiently as ever. The man had few interests and fewer words, and the master of the house had grown fond of him.

“Come, Nivathostin. We have a guest tonight.” As if being beckoned like a dog, the blue-haired ren’dorei following behind his master, and the pair made way into the dining hall for preparations.

....

It wasn’t long before Cerusani made her way into the room with classical Cerusani confidence. Her shoulders were back with her head held high even though she knew who she was meeting.

“Master Vynlorin. I made it here as quickly as I could. Thankfully I was just across the way and not in the city.” She did not dare take a seat anywhere as she waited for the man to acknowledge her presence.

The table was empty except for the bottle of Dalaran Red and two glasses beside it. One had already been filled and teased by the master of the house while the other remained cold and empty in anticipation of the coming guest. Aside from the usual servants that stood idle along the walls, Vynlorin was not alone. Next to his seat stood a thin ren’dore who, although far too skinny, seemed in decent health. The man boasted short blue hair and steady eyes that were unwavering in their inspection upon Cerusani when she arrived, but Vynlorin met her with a curious gaze as he waved to the empty seat nearest to her.

“Of course. Have a seat.”

A servant peeled himself from the wall with quick feet and reached for the bottle of wine and empty glass, pouring the woman her drink as she settled in.

Cerusani wasted no time in taking the offered seat with grace as she sat upon the wood which made a small noise. The servant who had poured the wine offered it up to Cerusani and she took it by the stem. “Thank you.” The two small words were offered to the servant before she began to swirl the delectable wine that they both enjoyed. However, Cerusani did not look at the wine but instead flitted her violet eyes between Master Vynlorin and the unknown man.

“Is he the one you need the hemomancer for? I thought it was Ithildir. That would be odd though as I told Ithildir what I knew two nights ago.” A brow arched as she shifted around the thoughts within her head. Politely she took a sip of the wine.

Vynlorin quirked a brow. “Did you? So you’ve already discussed it with Ithildir while he made no mention of it to me.” His finger gently tapped against the glass, and he entirely ignored the question she posed to him. After a moment of silent thought, he sipped and continued.

“What did he say about it?”

Cerusani sucked in the side of her cheek for a moment, contemplating.

“He said nothing but thank you. I gave him two names. Baron Herke Kruger and Lord Tion Harrowmire.” She relaxed back into the chair as she crossed one leg atop the other. “Baron Kruger once told me that Harrowmire had asked about learning hemomancy after a House of Nobles meeting. That is all I have. Though since it is frowned upon and illegal within Stormwind I am unsure if either are practitioners. It is better a lead than anything else.”

The wine within her glass swirled as she eyed the gaunt unknown man. “Did he want a glass of wine perhaps?”

Vynlorin twisted his lips and pursed them in displeasure as he received the information, but they soon pressed into a line at the attention sent toward the other man. A dismissive hand waved it off as Vynlorin looked up at the other who still remained as still and steady as ever.

“Perhaps Nivathostin’s biggest flaw is his tongue. He is a whiskey man and scorns wine whenever I offer it to him.”

There was no hiding the surprise on Cerusani’s face as she set the wine down on the table. Her eyes directly stared at Nivathostin as if seeing a made up story one only hears about once in a few moons.

“Nivathostin. Aredhele’s Nivathostin? I thought he was dead. Aredhele has always spoken of him as if he was dead. Not that she did it often. One time.” The words were low and wonderous.

Nivathostin couldn’t help but sneer at the name while his nose raised high as if he had just been insulted. “Perhaps it was always her goal,” he mused quietly with malice thick in his voice.

Vynlorin returned his gaze to his glass and allowed a snake-like grin to spread wide against his lips before chiming in. “I wasn’t aware you knew of him, Cerusani. How curious.” The master then motioned for Nivathostin to sit while waving the servants forward. “Do get a bottle of whiskey for Nivathostin here.”

With the command, the younger men scurried to the liquor cabinet, retrieved a dark bottle, and brought it to the table where they poured it into a glass and offered it to the blue-haired man taking a seat.

Cerusani finally broke her gaze away from Nivathostin and brought the eyes down to her wine glass. The ripples from the swirling radiated outward to the edges as she thought.

“I do not know much. Just the name. I know better than to ask more right now. Even if I did you would not tell me, Master Vynlorin.” As if the words parched her throat like Tanaris, Cerusani brought the wine to her lips drinking a healthy portion of it. As the glass was brought down she shifted in her seat, seeming as if she was no longer comfortable in the room. “Ithildir is dying. He had me run across Stormwind last night to fetch a potion for him. He is in no condition to fight on Sunday.”

Vynlorin shook his head at Cerusani, and Nivathostin fell silent once more as he sipped at the sweet escape of whiskey now snuggled within his hand.

“Nivathostin has had a rough few years, Cerusani, and we will do our best to make sure he’s comfortable. Let’s leave this as our little secret for now, yes?” The warlock’s predatory gaze fell heavily against the woman as his own silent threat, and the look only softened after he sipped back another dose of poison. “Ithildir is dying, yes, which is why it’s important that we find someone or something that can cure him quickly. You would do well not to fight him just as I must stay my own hand until he can recover.”

Cerusani knew the gaze that he cast upon her with the words of warning. Silence fell between the trio for a while with the only sound coming from Cerusani being the tapping of her nails atop the table.

“You want me to keep a secret for you. What do I get out of it? You’ve cast me aside. You call me a cat. You call me a disappointment. What do I get from this arrangement?” She rolled her shoulders back trying to give her the look of confidence she had when entering the room. “From your request I surmise that Lady Aredhele does not know he is here. Perhaps no one but you knows.” A brow arched as the words were pointed directly at the man.

Nivathostin paused his sip as he stared steadily at Cerusani, his breath remaining stuck in his lungs as he awaited the master’s response. Vynlorin too paused as his gaze fell into slits at the dare, and it was as if the room grew colder with a devilish curl of his lips.

“Quite simply, Cerusani, you get to keep your freedom.”

Cerusani set her wine glass down atop the table.

“I want more than that.”

Arms crossed beneath her chest as the two seemed to be in a stalemate. “You can do better, Vynlorin.” This was the first time in months that she had dropped the respect of his title.

All the servants in the room froze, stuck as statues as the tension in the air gripped their rapidly-beating hearts. Nivathostin too could feel the wrath of the master despite his innocence in the conversation. Vynlorin curled that devilish grin wider, and his wicked thoughts flashed before his eyes and danced in his mind as he considered his next move.

“Cerusani. I understand you enjoy being beaten. Perhaps you would like to demonstrate for everyone in this room what it’s like to be the subject of a lesson in disobedience.”

Cerusani should have known better and did know better but still she doubled down.

“No. I do not think I will be the subject of one of your lessons.”

The defiance flickered in her eyes as she took a moment to look from the Master to Nivathostin. Her right hand uncurled from underneath her chest and dipped into her pocket. As the hand came up from the table she held tightly onto her small communication device, finger pressed upon the button. “Lady Aredhele.”

“Yes, Cerusani?” Lady Aredhele’s voice rang out.

She took her finger off the button and cocked her head to the side once more looking at Master Vynlorin. “You can do better. Pick your next words carefully because there are different pieces to this puzzle I could pull out and say to Lady Aredhele right now.”

There was no going back. Cerusani had put this into motion.

Vynlorin squinted at the device as he heard the woman’s words ring out against his own ear from beneath his pauldrons. A soft sigh flooded from his nostrils, but he didn’t pity the woman’s fate that she had just sealed.

“Very well.”

And then, with a gentle utter beneath his breath, the shadows beneath Cerusani’s seat wriggled to life and crawled up the back of her chair only to wrest the woman’s neck backwards with its long, gangly claws. The shadowfiend crawled with tendrils and inches of nails that fashioned into claws, and it sought to squeeze the air from her neck while threatening to pierce the flesh. Nivathostin watched with dark eyes that were far too curious to hold sympathy for the woman, but the servants all sent their gazes downward and held their frightened breaths.

Cerusani pressed the button of the communication device. With all that she had left in her she squeezed out a sound.

“NIVAT-”

The word did not finish as the clawed shadows dug deeper, crushing her throat even more. With that the device fell out of her hand as the woman’s body began to grow limp.

When the radio clicked on again, the sound of broken glass was heard. Then, all was silent. Too silent. The radio connection opened after a long pause and the melodic buzz of static replaced Aredhele’s voice. There was too much emotion. Too many thoughts rushed to her mouth and she spat out with all the passion she could muster. “Where. Is. He?”

Vynlorin slammed his glass against the table and pushed himself to his feet with more fury than she would have ever seen before. His face grew dark like the very demons he commanded, and a quick flick of his wrist snuffed out every torch in the dining hall.

“Cerusani.”

That one single word dragged against the infinite dark of the shadows that now wrapped around them with the weight of every vile thought that had ever crossed the warlock’s mind. Nivathostin inhaled a deep breath that hitched itself in his throat with all the others who were unfortunate enough to be trapped in the cage with the beast and its prey.

“I am so disappointed in you.”

The woman’s eyes fluttered for a moment, taking in the darkness as it came. The little breathing that she was able to manage began to slow, become shallower. Her body limper with each passing second.

"It seems she has not responded. Would you like for me to find her, Lady Valtieri?" Barirn’s voice called out from the device.

“No no, that is alright. I will find her myself tomorrow.”

The shadowfiend grew stronger in the darkness, but its life was short-lived and soon dispersed into the rest of the room only to be replaced by the warlock’s own hand wrapped tightly around her neck. He held her firmly but allowed her breaths to trickle through so she could feel every word he uttered against her ear, his breath hot and heavy beside her.

“You could have shown me that you were capable of doing anything right, but now you’ll just be another pet to hang on my wall.”

The darkness flooded through her nostrils and reached deep into her soul, transcending flesh and breaking the barrier between life and death. His other fingers reached into his robes and pinched an empty soul shard that now glowed with anticipation for its new prisoner, and he muttered a dark and vile language as the ritual continued.

Everything within Cerusani began to twist and ache as her very source of life broke apart from her while the warlock reeled it out, slowly, slowly, until it screeched when it broke into the air and was dragged into the little shard. With nothing to see, the rushing wind that whirled within the room struck hard against the dulled senses of everyone within it, and the cold of the Nether skittered like static across their flesh.

Cerusani felt every little part of her body as Vynlorin worked his magic upon her. Her long lashes fluttered open to see the darkness of the room while the violet orbs looked as if the woman was in the depths of pure agony. Each passing moment Cerusani’s soul left her and entered the shard within Vynlorin’s grasp until there was nothing of it left inside her. Her throat beneath his hand moved as she swallowed to get out anything but nothing came.

The thoughts. The words. Everything stuck within Cerusani as her eyes fluttered closed once more. Nivathostin shuddered at the sensation of the Twisting Nether breaking through into the room, and the familiar touch of death and lost souls made his stomach churn.

Once the shard had fully sealed the soul within it, it sparked in a brilliant flash of light before falling into a soft purple glow that revealed the suffering soul within it. The anger mingling with the unnatural magics gave rise to Vynlorin’s own nausea, but he ignored it as adrenaline still pulsed within him and forced his hand to backhand the woman who had riled him so.

“You are no longer a student. No longer an acquaintance. You are a worthless animal who will learn her place.

The backhand from Vynlorin sent Cerusani’s slumping body to the stone of the floor. For a long while she laid on the cool stone before she began to come about. Her body convulsed as her skin began to glisten. The first attempt at righting her body failed with her body crumpling to the ground once more.

A retching sound came from her throat even with it being so dry. The dark floor was spewed with the wine she had consumed, and a mixture of her dinner of stew one of the villagers had made for her. The stench just before her nose prompted her to try to get up once more. Her weakened body managed to sit up as she looked around, finally settling on Vynlorin.

“Yo-.”

She had to pause a moment.

“Take everything.”

It made no sense perhaps to the men before her but it did to Cerusani. Shaking hands grasped at the chair trying to pull her to her feet, and after a few moments Cerusani was upon legs that felt like a baby deer.

“Ca-can I go now?” The view of the woman now was scant but a memory of the woman who had walked into the room with confidence.

Vynlorin stepped through the darkness, pushing the chair with his foot so he could take another step closer. That wicked hand rushed to the back of Cerusani’s neck to slam her head down against the table like a prisoner beneath his grip.

“You will address me properly.”

While keeping her head steady with one hand, the warlock returned the filled shard to its place in his robes before flicking that wrist to spark the torches alive again. The darkness fled with the flames so that Cerusani could see her captor looming above her.

Cerusani felt the impact of the wooden table against her face. Once more her stomach began to retch but there was no longer anything to give. Her body radiated with shivers as she looked up to the imposing man she had goaded into being the demon she knew lived somewhere in him. With the grasp of his hand on the back of her neck it felt as if she was his puppet when the words came out next.

“Ma-may I go now, M-m-master Vynlorin?” It was a struggle as every fiber of Cerusani ached.

Vynlorin kept her there a moment longer as he considered her plea.

“No.”

He responded with the same confidence that she had uttered to him when she damned herself to this fate. “Guards!” he barked, and the two men who had been guarding the outside of the door rushed in. “Take her to the dungeon. I’ll be along shortly.”

Each bulky man gripped an arm and yanked Cerusani with them, seeking to drag her along if her own feet couldn’t keep up. Vynlorin brushed the filth of the woman from his hands and waved Nivathostin to follow along.

Cerusani could not keep up as her feet dragged across the floor.

“Master Vynlorin. I wo-won’t say anything. Pleas-please.”

The words were the last things that left her lips as one of the guards smacked her on the back of her head, and she fell silent while they descended the stairs.