eowynstwin

[eowynstwin]

This month's pin up was a Selkie! :) I decided to try something new and do a trail cam footage kinda lighting.

Full + Nsfw version here!

[eowynstwin]

after 9 months ive finally finished this painting omfg

[eowynstwin]

my, my those eyes

[eowynstwin]

ℑ𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫🌿🌷

[eowynstwin]

fun fact i'm also a huge fan of cougars and pumas and other such cats. no reason to mention whatsoever. none at all

[eowynstwin]

hello! thought that you may enjoy this account on here: https://www.tumblr.com/sealsdaily/781820634868187136

sealsdaily my fucking beloved

[eowynstwin]

Ok I’ve spent the last week listening to Sundowning, This Place Will Become You Tomb, Take Me Back to Eden, and Even in Arcadia approx. 15 times each. I still need to relisten to both EPs, and I don’t have access to the graphic novel. I’m also not on Twitter so if lore has been dropped there i don’t know about it. But I’ve come up with a few theories with regards to What the Hell is Going On with Sleep Token:

Contrary to what seems to be the accepted “canon” (if it can even be called that, since ST has confirmed next to nothing), the narrative is not exclusively about Vessel’s relationship with Sleep. That’s not to say that their individual relationship isn’t a factor, but I think there’s more going on.

It’s important to pay attention to the name “Vessel” itself—technically, every band member (excluding the Espera) goes by Vessel. Vessel prime, the singer, is just the first one. The numerals are there to differentiate them—they all play the exact same role in worship, ie, the offering of tokens—the songs they perform. A vessel is a container that carries something from one place to the next. Nothing originates from it.

With that in mind, I think a more accurate interpretation of (waves hands at the band in general) all of that is that the Vessels receive tokens from the god Sleep to then offer to their listeners via song, either at live concerts (rituals) or their recorded albums.

Based on the content of each offering, I think it’s also safe to assume that Sleep is a god of love and desire. If I had to get hyper-specific, I would delineate (lol) His domain as the struggles of love. His tokens describe figures who yearn for a partner they cannot have, or for the healing of a troubled partner they just want to support, or for their own healing in order to be worthy of their partner, etc, etc, etc.

That’s only what’s going on at a surface level, of course. The dynamic between the Vessels and Sleep can’t be ignored as a microcosm of the tokens that Sleep delivers to them. Being the conduits of a god’s message cannot be easy, especially when that message communicates a feeling that is so universally human—the longing for and futility of love. Prophets of any god always seem to get the short end of the stick.

I think it’s best to interpret each album and, really, each song as individual tokens, but also as moments in an interconnected narrative. They are offerings from petitioners of the god Sleep, but they are inevitably colored by and reinterpreted through the lens of the Vessels, who are human and thus unequipped to handle the full attention of something divine. Put more simply, the Vessels insert themselves into the offerings, because they can relate too strongly to the feelings that are attached to them.

It’s also possible that Vessel prime’s encounter of Sleep in a dream happened when he himself was having his own difficulties in love, and this could be what summoned (lol) Sleep to appear. Through worshipping Sleep, Vessel’s pain was eased, but Sleep’s divine nature meant that that easement could only be temporary. Continued worship of Sleep only serves as a reminder of those difficulties, but Vessel longs for the comfort he found in that first moment with Him.

Ironically then, Vessel longs both for Sleep and the lover who caused him pain (one represents the other, I’d say). Vessel becomes trapped in the cycle of yearning, comfort, and pain, enduring because he hopes and believes that if he does, then he can find happiness in that cycle.

If I had to summarize it, the lore of Sleep Token as a whole is meant (in my opinion) to allegorize the experience of love itself as an act of worship, with all of the pitfalls that come along with it. Offering tokens of love is a ritual that is often futile, but we keep trying anyway, because sometimes we are rewarded for it. We don’t know when or how or why those rewards come—we can only take it on faith that they will at all.

[eowynstwin]

sorry for thinking the gray strands in your hair is attractive. as if i’m wrong.

[eowynstwin]

Hi! I hope you're well.

I just saw you repost Lilies and put how proud of it you are in the tags and I just wanted to say it's absolutely deserved - that thing is flawless. It's like it included all of the greatest hits of what makes John Price such a desirable man, like your mind is incredible, and obviously it was beautifully written.

I sent you an ask back in May where I just fangirled in detail about all of my favorite (John Price) fics of yours. I don't think it got answered so I figured it either got swallowed by Tumblr, or maybe it didn't get read because it was horrifically long, or it didn't get answered because I came across as pushy. So I just wanted to stop by to sincerely apologize in the event either of the last two options was the case, and to express that I think your writing is so wonderful. Lilies was one of the fics I gushed about in my original ask, and I was reminded when I saw your repost, so I wanted to ensure I had relayed how awesome it is to me.

If you happened to be interested in the ask and what I said about each individual fic in more detail, I did save what I wrote and I can share that if you want. If you already got it or you don't feel the need for more information that's totally fine.

Again much love! 💗💗💗 I'm happy for you that you're getting some long-awaited DIY stuff done :) that's always so hard but so magical

Hi!! I still have the message you sent me, it was so kind I wanted to keep it so I could read it over and over again. You were so sweet to send it, thank you very much—for that one and for this one too ☺️

[eowynstwin]

DOGMEAT PT., II | field dressing

BUTCHER!SIMON RILEY x READER

The faint scent of smoke on your sheets and littered cigarettes outside of your bedroom window unearth a series of bad memories—and with them, a clawing desperation to run. But when you make the ill-advised decision to flee during wildfire season—only to have your car break down in northern Manitoba, hours away from civilisation—you quickly realise that crownfires and smoke inhalation are the least of your concern when the local butcher finds you.

A charitable move—if only he hadn't spent the last eighteen years in prison for murdering his whole family.

(OR: Simon finds a misbehaving pup on the side of the road and takes it upon himself to teach them what survival really means, starting with how to field dress a buck—a cute first date if he wasn't holding a knife to your neck.)

18+ | DDDNE. noncon/rape. violence/threats of violence. animal death. graphic descriptions of dressing/animal butchery (hanging, skinning, dissecting). traumatic animal death. reader is forced to kill an animal. noncon knifeplay/breathplay. past child abuse. kidnapping. dehumanization. implied stalking. manipulation. victim blaming.

this is 37k and tumblr won't let me post it so there's a lil preview below, but you can read it on AO3 ANTHOLOGY MASTERLIST

Your car breaks down on the outskirts of Opaskwayak—somewhere north of the long stretch of road between Root Lake and Wanless.

She sputters over an uneven patch of pavement—with you weakly, desperately, encouraging her along—before her breath tapers off into a guttural, ratting choke, dying in the middle of nowhere. Far from help, and utterly unsalvageable—leaving you stranded without even her warm corpse to protect you from the elements after you were forced to abandon her in a shallow ditch before grabbing out your suitcase—and everything you own packed inside of it—from the back before the hacking plumes of black smoke she spat into the aether erupted into flames. 

(Fitting, you think, considering it was the smoke that made you run in the first place.)

But running is the furthest thing from your mind as you lean your luggage against a broken fence post on the side of the road. In fact, running seems incredibly stupid in hindsight when you're forced to wander out into the middle of the pavement, hand cupped over your brow, as you glare, desperately, down the empty road. 

A pointless thing, really. 

With the town you fled from being colloquially known as the gateway to the north, you give up, quite quickly, on expecting someone to happen down this lonely stretch of highway between the sprawling, dark green depths of the lakes and the jagged tops of black spruce and jack pine. Not when it just leads further north to sparsely populated lands mauled with rivers and lakes. 

There's only so much of the road left before it curves sharply into Flin Flon and then cuts into Saskatchewan, leaving the rest of the province untouched and sparsely occupied. Everything beyond this point meanders into small towns, unorganized hamlets, and communities only accessible through boat or airplane. A rugged, untamed sort of wilderness. 

And that's the thing about Manitoba, you suppose. So much of it is tucked away, hidden and inaccessible, that the beauty lay in its belly—

(but you've never found Winnipeg to be very pretty at all.)

Despite the futility of it, you still stand guard in the middle of the pavement, glaring at the unmarked branch of the road as if expecting a lone hunter or fisherman to come up from the lake and save you. But it’s a pipedream. Everyone is back in town, the Pas. Waiting for the evacuation notices to trickle in, or bunkering down for another humid, smoke-clogged summer in the north that burns itself to the ground every year. The other intersection—Provincial Road, if you're guessing correctly—is just as barren, but that's to be expected. All it leads to is a bible camp and other campgrounds.

Between the unrelenting heat of a mid-June swelter, and the stench of fires scorching the earth somewhere in the sprawling cluster of gnarled pine and dry spruce a little too close for comfort, the air is choking. Dense with tendrils of smoke that clot into a thickened paste of trapped heat from the pale, hazy sun, and smog. 

You're not sure it's even safe to breathe when it's this thick, but the only alternative is to go back to your car, potentially getting trapped inside as it burns. Death by fire or smoke. It's a little more ironic than you want it to be, edging like a knife across your sternum as it viciously reminds you of your stupidity. 

And it really is just that because despite what the shadows on your wall at night, and the heavy thump of boots pacing down your hallway wanted you to believe, ghosts are not real. They can't hurt you. 

not anymore—

(but something has been leaving snuffed out cigarettes littering the ground outside your window, and the muck, the sour pinch of stale smoke on your sheets when you're at work—)

Running, up until three hours ago, made sense. 

Somewhere in the slurried recess of your mind, still dripping with the thawing puddle of heavy, draping depression, clarity needles through the gap, leaving you almost breathless at your own stupidity. Nauseous, too. And it's mostly the ache of hindsight that feels like a battering ram to your gut, reminding you cruelly of what listening to voiceless shadows and submitting to paranoia has left you with. 

But you can't blame the entirety of this mess on panic and delusions alone—not when there was something almost instinctual about the urge to flee. An atavistic fear taking root in the last three weeks leading up to this sudden escape, making you look over your shoulder more and more each day. Checking your lock thrice in one night. Peering out of the curtains. Mistaking shadows for men in the dark. 

But really, it all began to blur together into a hazy, humid smear at the start of spring. 

It was the faint scent of old cigarettes haunting you whenever you went, lingering like a bad memory outside of your work, your house, until it ended up inside your home, on your sheets. That sickening smell of stale smoke and mouldering nicotine that left a sticky, greasy film across everything you touched. Smoke congealing in the hollow of your throat, rotting between that slip of skin where air breathed in from your nose pools on the back of your tongue. Thick, clogging. Unearthing bad dreams and memories buried under a scab. Things you kept locked tight inside of a flooding box. 

But something had disturbed the ghosts—the heat, maybe. 

It had been an unusually warm spring, one that slipped, syrupy and thick, into an unbearable summer. A scorching, oppressive thing that burned the pavement and singed the grass. Dredged up heat mirages, and made puddles of sweat drip down your back, slickening the skin on the crook of your elbow and the backs of your knees whenever you were outside for more than a minute. 

An inescapable, miserable heat. 

One that makes your skin grow slick, damp. Itchy. It made you scratch at the scab on your chest, the place where you keep your ghosts locked up tight, until your nail slipped under a small crack, and a piece flaked off. It's where the smell of cigarettes leaks from, you’re sure. The unease of being watched. Shapes in the dark. Spectres that haunt you in the balmy drape of another sleepless night—

It—this numbness—settled in the crack. Sealed it over so the ghosts had no way to back inside. A restlessness that hums under your skin—the urge to fight, maybe; to live—but it's overwhelmed by the anchor around your ankle, pulling you deeper into the depths. Drip, drip. 

Like rainwater filling a bucket, a box, while you just stand in the middle and let it soak you to the bone as it rises up to lick at your chin. 

It was the same slough. The same march. A familiar dance that no one tries to escape. Stigmergy, you thought in a moment of keen awareness that lasted as long as the whispers in the hall, clocking out amid the idle chatter, vague, broken whispers—shitty weather, can't believe they let that monster out in April, wildfires in Flin; think we'll get the Evac notice, printers jammed, use the one upstairs—as you make the familiar trudge up the street and back home. 

It made you dream at night about slipping quietly into the lake just a little ways away from your house. All the lakes, really. The rivers. The ponds. Your home is mostly scar tissue: muskeg, infertile soil, and wetlands. Swamp-like. Cradled in the basin where the lowlands of the shield meet the gaping maw of the bay. 

At first, most of it was half-formed images drenched in the haze of a confusing dreamscape; wisps of colour splashed across a sepia background. Shapeless and distorted; inkblots that disappear into a gaping emptiness when you wake the next morning, unsettled by something you can't remember. But each night, the picture grew clearer, more vivid, until you could make out the muddied shores of the lake. See your bare feet sink into the mudflat, toes squishing against the dry algal mat covering the rugged shoreline. 

The waves came after. Playfully licking between your toes before growing bolder, coyer, and curling around your ankles, every ebb and flow pulling on you lightly. But it's neither urgent nor forceful. It just is. A gentle lull. A soft come. 

You give in. Always. Ankles. Knees. Hips. Chest. Neck. Until your toes can't touch the bottom anymore, feet padding into a murky abyss opening up beneath you like a great, wide maw. 

Birds-eye-view: ink puddles under you. Black and unfathomable. You sit in the centre of this black hole ready to eat you alive and tread water obliviously. Kicking, kicking—struggling to keep your head above water. 

You're always wearing white. A long, flowing nightgown that spills around you in the dark water. A buoy at first, it keeps you up in a plume of soft satin, but the deeper you go, the more it drags. It pulls. Your own anchor of spun silk. 

Every night, you slip below the waves and into that maw. Swallowed whole. The fading white of your nightgown is all you can see billowing in the murky depths until it, too, disappears into the abyss. Down, down, down—

Waking with a gasp, choking, choking—water in your throat, in your lungs—but it's just the leaking ceiling dripping over your face. Drip, drip. 

You heave over the side of the bed, and spend the rest of the night staring at the shadows that dance across your walls until sunbreaks and they scatter. Your alarm goes. It takes every ounce of willpower to peel yourself off of the starchy sheets, eyes burning. 

And then the haunting began. 

The sound of your door handle ratting. Footsteps down the hall. The stench of cigarettes that reminded you of your childhood. Nicotine, the acrid stench of smoke, shouldn't be a nostalgic comfort in the same way people look back on Sunday morning cartoons, halcyon days. But it does. Reminds you of mid-mornings when you were a child, dunking your spoon into generic brand cereal (cheap knockoffs of the real thing, all we have the money for, don't be selfish, it's the same damn thing—) and watching reruns of old 90s shows on the big, black television in the living room. 

Your mom wouldn't leave her room until noon, but you could still smell the smoke from your spot on the living room floor, hear her sigh in bed, groaning from a narcotic hangover. From a real hangover. 

Unfamiliar boots tipped over on the worn mat in front of the door. Mud smeared on the sides. You eat your cereal, absently wondering if you'll have to call another strange man dad for a week until the police show up again—domestic disturbance, they'll say, and one will bend down to ask if you saw anything bad happen. You'll shrug like you're not standing in the eye of a storm, expertly weaving around broken dishes and upturned furniture. Feet covered in drywall from the fist-sized hole in the wall. No, you'll say. I was watching cartoons. 

With mascara smeared down her wet, tear-stained cheeks, your mother will light a cigarette with shaky hands—uncuffed, don't do that to the kid, don't let ‘em see that, Christ’s sake—and hoarsely spit, leave my baby alone. 

It was hard to ignore how everything had a fine, greasy film of nicotine dusting across it, itching at your skin. Choking you. Smoke clogging your throat. Walls yellowed, jaundiced. The air is a little misty, hazy, from the two packs inhaled everyday. 

You think it would have gotten better. That you might have adjusted to it, but it still trickles down your throat like tar whenever you smell it. A piece of broken nostalgia from your childhood. 

Until it became too much. 

Until the ghosts started leaving cigarette butts outside your window, and you woke up to the sharp snick of a lighter in the dark. 

You packed your things into the scuffed up suitcase leaning against the post last night. 

Maybe that, too, was a delusion. Some grandiose dream dredged up from madness and sleepless nights, spinning all these terrible, wonderful fantasies of escaping and leaving the scab behind for someone else to find. A snuffed out cigarette in an ashtray in an empty home. Freedom from the echoes that lingered in your head like smoke, whispering terrible things to you in the dark. 

But it left you little in the way of a plan, and as the fog that slunk into your gyri like the fires devouring the prairies begins to dissipate into ash and char sinking to the depths of your grey matter, you think it probably would have been better to just go to the police even it went against everything you were taught as a child. 

Or to your landlord to complain about the other tenants leaving their litter outside your bedroom window. 

(that's the thing about hindsight, though—it always comes much too late.)

[eowynstwin]

Yeah you know I am bummed that s3 of The Gilded Age is over but I do have a ton of Sleep Token lore to dive into and theories to write so it’s not gonna too hard to WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’LL BE TWO YEARS

[eowynstwin]

Hi,

I'm just stopping by to say that Peristalsis moved me to tears, and I reread it on a regular basis. Thank you for this masterpiece ❤️

PS: I decided to finally visit Scotland this year. Maybe I'll find my own Johnny there...

Have so much fun!! My goal is to get out there sometime next year. Thank you for reading!!

[eowynstwin]

I just found your fic w autistic!reader and read it all omg (not here to bully you into writing) I just wanted to say I love how you write autistic!reader it’s so genuine showing both the good and the bad parts :3 anyway I hope your doing good!

Hi!! Thank you!! I’m doing pretty good, I’m currently working on some diy projects for my bedroom that I’ve been putting off for two years. Painting the walls, putting a headboard on my bed, that sort of thing :>

I love writing autistic/adhd/audhd readers so I’m so happy to hear you’ve enjoyed it. I think I’m always going to be writing about neurodivergence in some fashion tbh 🙂‍↕️

[eowynstwin]

Wes Walker

[eowynstwin]

this scene from gone to earth is Price and Reader to me.

[eowynstwin]

[eowynstwin]

For every weird vague blogger and nasty anon you got like ten admirers who are to shy to put anything in your inbox! I am one of those shy people I figured I should break the mold…

Aww thank you! Tbh even when I’m online I don’t leave my dashboard so if anyone is talking shit I don’t see it. I don’t really care. I used to, and sometimes it gets to me, but I’ve realized that I don’t have to be the kind of person that entertains that kind of immaturity. There’s no benefit to taking anything like that too seriously.