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22 for the spotify wrap!

[ #22 was "death exists?" by Rory in Early 20s buuut that one doesn't really have lyrics, at least none I can translate, so you get a nonverbal starter. Also leaving it open for whichever muse. ]

Rain falls, the suited man apathetic to getting his clothes wet, well, he's soaked them far worse before. His black hair barely seems flattened at all by the downpour, just as wild and sea-greased as always. Howard is just staring, motionless at the lake in front of him, frozen in some poor imitation of the living state.

"...." He takes a few seconds to acknowledge the fact that the rain above his head has seemed to stop, blocked by...an umbrella? Held by what hand? Oh, he'll have to take the effort to crane his neck around and see. Ugh.

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She puffed out her mouth some air that was meant as a mix of personal resignation to her fate, and anger that had not yet ebbed since the incident. Ishmael crossed her arms, binding the fists that had swung into Heathcliff's face not too long ago.

Her eyes dithered to the floor. "...Thanks. I'd really hate to get a punishment like Don did that one time." If you hadn't witnessed the absolute barrage she'd dished out on Heathcliff earlier, her disposition would have fooled anyone into thinking she was meek and innocent. But she wasn't trying to look that way. She was in genuine fear of what damage the hammer of punishment would do to her body and mind when it fell.

At least now it seemed like she was getting a lighter sentence than before for her crimes.

"Say, that time Vergilius roughed up Don...do you know if that was a spur-of-the-moment thing? Or does he have that saved as some kind of last resort?"

" with this, everything should be in place. " her words finally breaking a silence that wasn't quite there to begin with for offices and deskrooms always brought activity's presence and not in soundlessness, voice just as soft as white noise in a buzz of a pen scribbling back and forth 'pon papers above papers, projects and blueprints requiring her attention but not now, not when what transpired in that one latemost mission needed to be addressed —for a certain redhead's sake more than a company policy's, pale azures upwards to meet olive greens and yet not even holding a flinch. " faust thinks with these corrections to your report, vergilius may abide your late acts of insubordination as an una tantum stress - related meltdown, and at best let you clean up mephistopheles for a month as a disciplinary action. "

@undcrcurrcnts ( ft. ishmael ) —starter.

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In honor of SPOTIFY WRAPPED,  send me a number 1-100 and I’ll write you a starter based on the song.

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“Where do murderers go, man! Who's to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar?” (ch. 132)

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[ EXPECT TO SEE MORE ISHMAEL ON THE BLOG LATER BECAUSE I JUST FINISHED HER CANTO V AND I'M NOT OKAY- ]

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"Stay out of it. It's nothing to do with you." ( hong lu @ ishmael ! )

She was caught quite off-guard by the sudden seriousness in agent number 6's voice. So much so, she froze in her tracks. her freckled face watched on in surprise as the man she's known as background comic relief and giggles the whole time suddenly scratch a line with his blade of voice in the ground was quite...chilling.

"Hong Lu? Are you sure you're okay? Hey, d-don't leave! Talk to me, please. I won't tell anyone if that's what you want, alright?"

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"Are you here to kill me? Because I have to admit, I find the possibility very exciting." ( scara @ dottore, as a treat )

"No. Killing you would not be pleasurable, and would also be a waste of valuable resources - read, yourself."

The doctor stepped around the lab room, coattails swishing behind him like blackened tassels, pacing before coming back to stand by the doll. Under the pestilence mask, fuchsia eyes slid down to those knee joints, as well as the ankles, paying attention to anything that deviated from the supposed norm of humanity.

"Why do I get the impression you almost want me to kill you? That would not serve any purpose. You are much better off being alive, as you are now."

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[ About to finally finish Canto V after Ricardo beating my ass so many times, wish me luck. ]

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How Intimidating Am I?

Send 🐹 for “You? Intimidating? Hell no.”

Send 🐰 for barely intimidating

Send 🐭 for slightly intimidating

Send 🐱 for moderately intimidating

Send 🦊 for fairly intimidating

Send 🐯 for very intimidating

Send 🐻 for “MOTHER OF GOD PLEASE DON’T EAT ME–”

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Like or reply to this post for a starter from Ishmael! If you don't select a muse, I'll randomly pick!

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Like or reply to this post for a starter from Ishmael! If you don't select a muse, I'll randomly pick!

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[ SHE IS GETTING SO MANY HATER MOMENTS IN THE NEW CHAPTER AND I AM SO HERE FOR IIIIIIIIIT ]

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What is left at Bram's abode is a curious present: a meticulously-wrapped box. Care seems to have been given in every aspect of the preparation; when unwrapped, inside sits an incredibly ancient work of fiction, faded lignin-scented pages speaking to its history. There's no doubt that this was one of the original copies that Edgar has managed to secure. Atop the cover rests a handwritten note: "I've always wondered what it must be like to live so long, the years passing by like days. Birthdays must feel like another day and not worth celebrating after a while, I assume--perhaps you must have stopped keeping track of your age at some point. Were I in your position, I certainly would.

But that's no reason not to celebrate the day you were born. From one enthusiast of old books to another, please accept this gift as a token of my appreciation. I've searched high and low for this particular copy. Hold on to precious memories from the past as much as you can, but always look forward to what the future may hold. Happy birthday, Bram. Yours truly, Edgar Allan Poe"

After an immeasurable time of no such thing, Bram's cheeks became dusted with a cheerful tinge of pink. No one had extended him such kindness in what felt like - and may as well might have been - an eternity. His spindly fingers grace the book's spine, grinning at the title and feeling glee tingle in his heart.

He'd thank him greatly upon their next meeting, and perhaps share their rather antiquarian tastes - albeit for different reasons.

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Casually puts a party hat on the vampire man.

"Mmh...?"

He lifted the hat off for a second, unable to see himself in a mirror's reflection to check, then placed it back on, his mouth spreading into a fanged smile.

"Thank you, my child."

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It's his birthday.

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Castle Amerongen, Netherlands, photos by Henk Vrehen

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