#+It takes a Village| Township | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

charliemwrites · 6 months ago

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Oh, Witchfinder...

The rumors are seeds carried along the last frigid winter wind. There’s a cluster of townships that flirt at the edges of a dense forest in the northeast. The smallest and farthest village is said to be infested by those most heinous of Hell’s denizens, a witch. Witchfinder General Shepherd sends the captain of the 141st witch hunting division to investigate. "Let me pour you a drink."

Original AO3 Link

Content: Witchfinder AU, Dark Content, Dub-Con and Non-Con, Abuse of Power and Power Imbalance, Murder (non-descriptive), Possessive/Obsessive Behavior, Unreliable Narrator, Blasphemy and Religious Elements (Christianity)

The rumors are seeds carried along the last frigid winter wind. They sprout suspicion in the fertile soil of the witchfinders’ information network.

There’s a cluster of townships that flirt at the edges of a dense forest in the northeast. The smallest and farthest village is said to be infested by those most heinous of Hell’s denizens, a witch.

Travelling merchants who have weathered the journey tell tales of shrieking trees and shadows that creep around campsites. Water coppery with blood and plagues of nightmares swathing entire caravans.

Witchfinder General Shepherd sends the captain of the 141st witch hunting division to investigate.

It is a sunny spring day when John first steps foot in your apothecary.

A bell above the door announces his arrival, a little brass thing that peters off like good laughter once it’s closed after him. The shop is absent of customers in the late morning; all the better to ask his questions without others to share the weight of his attention.

A voice calls to him from a room beyond the counter, a bright compliment to the doorbell just gone silent, begging his patience.

Church bells ring for death too.

But death knells are not what flood John’s mind when you flutter into view, sage-stained hands smoothing ribbon-laced hair. An apron hugs tight about your waist, a stained linen cloth tucked between double-looped strings. A smear of vibrant green when you absently wipe your fingertips over a corner.

Barbed hooks burrow into his mind and hold fast.

You come up short when see him, eyes big and blinking like a trick of the light you can’t make sense of. He takes a heavy step deeper into your shop, herbs fresh and bitter in his nose.

What remains of the man he was before this moment clings to his shoulders.

“Oh, hello,” you say, “I’m sorry, I expected… ah, what can I do for you, sir?”

You close the last bit of distance to the counter, a half step for him two of yours. Dainty hands stack at the edge, one beneath the other like nesting birds. John crosses your humble shop in two long strides, boots loud as gavel strikes across a clean-swept floor. He is accustomed to being judge and executioner, a blood-soaked cloak draping his shoulders; something in his chest stirs at being yours.

“You are the shop keep?” he asks, dragging his eyes over yours.

You peer up at him through your lashes. Sunlight spirals through your irises, trips over the dark ring that separates them from pristine white.

“Yes, sir,” you answer.

“You’re the village healer, then?”

You blink again, brows doing a complicated dance deciding if you’re offended or not. “I am.”

Petal soft lips curl and press together on that last phonetic, hint at the question you didn’t quite ask.

“The others tell me you were beset by a witch last year.”

Your mouth parts on surprise, closes when you notice the silver medallion perched on his chest.

“Oh,” you breathe in realization. “Yes, in the autumn. Another witchfinder cured me.”

His eyebrows arch, but your expression remains open and guileless. The counter is less than the length of his forearm, but it’s too much distance. He wants to drag you to his chest and bruise that delicate jaw, squeeze a story from your polite tongue.

“I heard no news of this,” he says, hardening his voice into brick.

You tilt your head. “I couldn’t say why. He seemed quite proud of his victory.”

John’s eyes narrow. Pride is a poison to be imbibed in small doses. A couple drops on the tongue will do, a honeyed warmth fueling good, hard work and living well. A witchfinder must abstain regularly, lest the work become hollow and the living too well.

“His name.”

“Sir Graves,” you answer promptly, then tap a neat fingernail against the countertop, “I’m afraid that if he shared his first name, I don’t remember it.”

Not likely, he thinks. Philip indulges pride a little too readily by John’s estimate – and by most others’ as well. It’s no wonder when Shepherd feeds his lapdog feasts just for fetching. Could, perhaps, put the Devil himself to shame one day, glutted on lording himself over peasant folk looking for salvation by his sword.

If Philip was in this little village and saved a lovely young thing like yourself from perdition, he would have come back to trumpets.

“Odd, that.” John muses. “That I heard of your village’s witch, but not one of my own killing it.”

You hum. “Yes, you said.”

“And the witch is dead now?” he confirms.

One shoulder lifts, a tentative shrug. “I should think so. The village has been peaceful and I’m no longer ill.”

No, you certainly are not. You’re a portrait of health, haloed in good humors. John has seen mere brushes with the wicked rend men in their prime to frail simulacra of themselves. Yet you stand exquisite upon the year’s rebirth, cheeks round from a full belly through the winter.

“And yet I hear that the woods cry in the night.”

He heard no such thing on his journey in, but better to see how far the roots spread.

“I could not say,” you demure, “I sleep quite well, sir.”

He flicks his gaze over the precious silhouette of you, a pretty thing in a dress trimmed in yellow. An idle thought tiptoes to the front of his consciousness, a thief sneaking away his good sense.

You, tucked up alone in a too big bed, sleep soft and vulnerable, moonlight kissing bare skin…

The sleeves of your dress are scrunched up a bit at the wrist, tender skin and serpentine veins peeking past modest fabric. A dark splotch near your thumb draws his gaze.

He snatches up your little wrist like a lightning strike, yanking your arm across the counter while you’re still scrambling past a gasp to protest.

“When witches consort with the Devil, he often marks them.”

John’s grip is iron, though it wouldn’t bruise if you’d stop pulling. Surely you must know, just from the size of him, that you have no hope of resisting without indulging in some inhuman power. Even bracing your free hand against the counter for leverage, you’re held fast.

He tugs your sleeve down, revealing the discolored patch of skin to the light. You make a noise in the back of your throat, brows scrunched and tilted with distress.

“It’s just ink!” you squeak. “Let me—”

He concedes to his initial urge and locks his big hand around your jaw, from corner to corner. You squeal, supple lips bracketing teeth blunt of suspiciously sharp edges. A slick pink tongue pillows the floor of your glistening mouth. He twists his wrist, rough fingers hooking under your jaw and chin so that he can plunge his thumb into that noisy cavern.

He’s tempted, so tempted, to leave it there. To pet at your tongue until it’s a tame pet, jumping at his command. But your whines are getting pitchy, your eyes shiny, and he has no need of scaring you until you’ve been proven heretic. He dips into the saliva pooling behind your bottom teeth, then pulls away before you can do something monumentally stupid – like bite.

He rubs the wet digit over the mark and sure enough, it reactivates and dilutes a coal gray. Just ink after all.

When he releases you, the glass-laden shelf behind you rattles, glass vials shuddering together with a tinkling sound. Laughter at your expense.

“W-wha – why…?” you whimper, arms drawn close to your chest.

Perhaps he was hasty. He nearly startles that he does not feel more than passing regret – that you will be warier to approach him again. Hastily, disturbed at his own reaction, he forms his expression into a moue of apology.

“I know,” he soothes, weaving his voice into a velvet blanket around your tense shoulders. “That must have been frightening. That was not my intent, little miss.”

You sniffle a bit, those unshed tears still glossing big, round eyes.

“Witches are a dangerous kind,” he continues, “you know that for yourself.”

At your tentative nod, he curves his mouth into a gentling smile. Combined with the scruff of his facial hair, he knows he telegraphs warmth and trust – Soap has even teased as fatherly. The sight of it unfurls you, a wilting flower twisting towards the sun.

“You can understand, then, why I had to act swiftly?”

You nod slowly after a moment, taking the tiniest of steps away from the wall.

Brave little thing, he thinks with a wicked curl of fondness. The type of fondness a dog would feel for their favorite bone to gnaw.

He offers his hand, beckoning you to come of your own volition this time. His palm tingles in anticipation of your touch, builds into a burn the longer you hesitate, your touch the balm he needs to relieve it. Your eyes flick between his face and his hand; your unmarked throat bobs as you swallow.

Then you shuffle closer and glide your soft fingers across his, alighting his nerves.

“Though it is my duty, I do regret the affect it has had on our introduction,” he rumbles, voice lowering. You lean a bit to hear him better; he nearly drops to a whisper. “But may I offer my name, as a sign of good faith.”

Your answering smile is small, still shaky, precious like gemstones.

“I am Captain John Price, witchfinder. At your service, my lady.”

Men avoid you in the streets.

It’s a subtle gesture, a slight change of course or pivot of the heel. John doesn’t even notice until a group of three splits two and one to allow you unhindered passage. They don’t appear nervous, nodding their heads in greeting that you respond to with smiles and tiny waves. There’s a basket on your arm that they are careful not to bump, though none offer to carry it either.

The women, by comparison, frequently stop you in the middle of the street for a pleasant word or friendly clasp of hands. Like songbirds on the eaves, twittering brightly.

“Where are all the men?” John asks the baker.

“Begging your pardon, sir?”

“There are fewer men than women,” John notes, nodding to the main street – three women to every man. “Why is that?”

The baker blows out a breath, the long sigh of an elder man. “Oh, the same reason all boys leave home, you know? They go out to make their fortunes, chase fame, fall in love. We’re a small village, little of those first two to be found here.”

John chuckles his agreement, thanks him for the insight – and the fresh rolls – then strolls towards the smithy. The short journey is riddled with curious glances and whispers, none with concern, but none with eagerness. He thinks someone might whisper your name to another as he passes.

As luck would have it, you are outside the smithy, a younger girl hovering at your elbow with a worried brow.

“Is something the matter, ladies?” he calls.

You jump a bit, cup your hands together, one over the other. Hiding something. He arches an eyebrow and hooks a hand in the belt across his chest, thumb peeking out. Stops a polite distance away. Without the illusory safety of a counter, you appear ready to dart off like a startled doe.

“Or are we up to mischief this morning?” he teases upon seeing the younger girl’s flustered face.

You drag your teeth across your bottom lip, trepidatious eyes scanning John’s features. He keeps his smile warm and friendly, the set of his shoulders loose. Your gaze lingers at the corners of his eyes where the skin has begun to crinkle with his age. Then you giggle a bit, an embarrassed grin sneaking across your mouth.

“We’ve made a friend, Sir Witchfinder,” you reveal.

“A friend you say?” he asks, tilting his head.

You hum and lift your hands a bit in offering. “Would you like to see?”

He arches an eyebrow, taking his turn at a cautious measure of your intentions. The glint in your eyes is joyous, not sinister. Shaking his head a bit, he idles a step closer.

“If I end up with a face full of ash…”

“We would never!” the younger girl gasps.

“I wouldn’t dirty my hands for a silly joke like that,” you add with a cheeky curl to your lips.

“Let’s see it, then.”

You slowly, carefully, lift the hand on top. Sat in the well of your palm is… a mouse.

“This is your friend?”

“Handsome little devil, isn’t he?” you coo, thumb smoothing behind a rounded ear.

“A bit waterlogged, though,” he notes.

The poor creature’s fur is dark and clumped together, sticking up where it's brushed against your hands. It’s curled into a tight, shivery ball, beady little eyes staring out at a world far too big for it.

“He fell into the rain barrel,” the girl explains sadly, “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You could have sent it on its way,” he offers, peering at her across your arms.

This, apparently, is of great offense.

“He would die! It’s still far too cold!” she cries.

You hum in agreement, soothing the mouse as its ears twitch. “He’s a young one too, would be a shame that he survived the winter to die like that.”

A circler patch on your skirt reveals just how much of a shame you thought it would be.

“Well, what’s to be done with it now?” he asks.

You cuddle it closer to your breast, beaming as it huddles into the warmth of your body.

“Mallory, would you collect a wooden bowl your father won’t miss?”

“Gladly!” the girl chirps and scurries into the smithy.

Left alone, you don’t seem to grow wary of John again. Most of your focus is on your tiny charge, though you flick him a warm glance when he ventures a careful finger over its spine.

“What a stupid little thing,” he muses, not unkindly, “falling into the water like that.”

You laugh a bit, soft and quiet. A precious jewel shining from a riverbed.

“I like stupid creatures,” you reply. “When they lash out, you know it’s not with malice. Ill intent is an invention of man.”

His brows arch. “How do you reckon?”

You tilt your head, eyes sliding away in thought. “Well… I’ve never heard of mice starting a war for gold. Have you?”

Such a seemingly harmless question; it sits like stone in his chest.

“No,” he admits. “I have not.”

Mallory returns, a wooden bowl with high sides in her hands. You pluck a square of linen from the layers of your dress and arrange it at the bottom of the bowl, then deposit the soggy rodent atop. Its tiny black nose twitches, exploring its new bed.

“Set this in a sunny window with a thimble of water. When he’s regained his strength, you can return him to the forest,” you instruct.

John clicks his tongue. “Your father will not be pleased if it gets loose.”

Still, he tears a bit of bread from his bounty of rolls and drops it next to the mouse.

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Mallory assures and trots off with her occupied bowl.

You and John watch her until she’s disappeared back inside the smithy.

“It’s still a pest, you know,” he says after a moment.

You slant your eyes towards him, a sad twist to your smile now. “That didn’t make him any more worthy of drowning.”

“Someone may still kill it one day.”

You turn to him fully then, chin tilted in not quite a challenge. “Then why did you give him bread?”

It’s a question he could easily shrug off or wave away, but the weight of it settles heavy around his shoulders. Your gaze bores into him.

“I don’t believe in cruelty for cruelty’s sake,” he explains after a moment. “And I do not believe in suffering for principle.”

You blink at him for a moment, storm clouds churning in your eyes. Then someone calls your name and you bid John a quiet ado.

The sheep are huddled in the pasture, an off-white island in a blue-black sea of grass. Their sentinels perk as John passes, eyes glinting by fish-belly moonlight. They make no sound, only lift their shaggy heads to track his passing. John spares them a nod, one guard dog to another.

The nature of a witchfinder is not so different from theirs, to protect the flock and bend to the shepherd’s guidance. How must they feel when their master inevitably slaughters one of their own lambs and lets them taste of the meat?

The forest is loud for the first half-league. Mother nature has let her night children out to play – foxes in the brush and owls perched amongst crooked boughs. Perhaps she has welcomed the arcane tonight as well. The moon is not full, but the lure of sin drives the craven to sate themselves on unripe fruit.

John follows the trodden path to the river where the witch drowned. No trace of the execution or her remains. The wilds are cruel that way, swallowing the righteous and wicked alike and leaving not even bones behind. Marrow is always good for feasting, no matter the soul that inhabited them.

He follows the bank upstream a ways, deeper into the forest, and farther from the places that most would venture. The animals here are more cautious of unfamiliar scents and flee long before he might disturb their evening. As a consequence, the night grows quieter, lonelier.

Then silent all at once.

John is a blooded witchfinder; he knows what this silence means. His palm curls around the handle of his flintlock.

A shrill scream splits the air, high and awful. A death cry – a rabbit’s.

The insects return as the night folds over the bloodshed. John doesn’t move his hand from his pistol.

He waits, a chill wind gnawing at his skin, wriggling in the spaces between his clothes, tangling in his cloak. But there never comes a sign of anything more. Eventually, he turns and navigates back towards the village along the threads of deer trails.

Just as he passes the tree line, a breeze stirs. A few faint haunting notes burrow into his ears and carve maddening paths through his brain. Someone is singing.

His gaze curves towards your apothecary, though even from this distance the windows are ink black.

How easy it would be to steal inside, confirm that you are a good girl tucked up in bed. Perhaps even, for the sake of thoroughness, confirm with his hands and tongue that your croons are not the ones teasing him on an unnatural wind.

John takes a single leaden step towards your home. Towards you. Then the church bells toll – once, twice, thrice.

He pivots on his heel and returns to the inn.

You are at mass the next morning, in the third row from the front, tucked between the baker’s wife and the blacksmith’s daughter. The latter is giggling to you while the other parishioners trickle in and lace the pews. Your smile is bright and sweet, primrose blooms in the trellis outside the inn. A spiderweb of lace threads through your hair today, an intricate pattern he traces with his eyes, over and over and over.

He asked after you – before going to your apothecary and then after. You are well-liked, of course you are. Their precious healer, so handy with your tinctures and ointments, so kind in word and deed. A dreadful business it was, when the shadows appeared in your eyes and spilled over, vitality washed from your skin. You snapped at a huntsman one day, then snarled at the mayor’s eldest son a week later. They each fell fatally ill by month’s end.

You had not liked the witchfinder one bit. Had forced him from your shop and refused his men aid for their travel sores. No one knows what happened All Hallows Eve, when they dragged you from your home to the tiny village jail. All anyone knows were the rabid screams, the curses you shouted through the night, the staggering gait of one witchfinder come first light.

The villagers spoke little and reluctantly of the drowning. That you were marched, silent as death and blank as parchment down to the riverside in chains. The forest was silent when they bundled you up in canvas and roped it closed. There was a terrible splash when they threw your still body into the depths, how you sank and sank and sank…

You were sitting at old woman Josie’s side when they returned, dry and warm and so curious about where everyone had been for so long.

John watches you kneel for communion, mouth parting to receive sacrament. How powerful the Lord must feel, to be placed upon that silken tongue and taken into that soft mouth. The light shifts through stained glass, you’re dyed with Heaven and saints.

No, you are far too exquisite for God; all His angels would fall for envy of you at their gate.

Blasphemy tastes like fresh bread, warm and soft and a little sweet.

John forgets to cross himself. The eucharist has ended and you are gliding down the center aisle towards his post at the church doors.

“Good morning, Sir Witchfinder,” you chime.

The baker’s wife squeezes your elbow as you part ways. John replaces her touch with his own, turning with you towards the apothecary.

“I trust you slept well?” he asks, falling into step.

“Like a lamb,” you reply, “and you, sir?”

“Well, for what I got.”

You are a song that followed him into sleep. His dreams were laden with your big eyes and your soft lips and the memory of you yielding beneath his grip. He woke this morning humming your tune.

You have to tilt your head so far to gauge his expression. “Trouble sleeping?”

“I went into the woods last night, looking for truth to the rumors.”

“Oh! Did you find any?” You wear innocence like fine pearls.

“None. Though I may find something on the full moon.”

You hum, curious. “The full moon is important, then?”

“It is sacred to witches.” He scoffs, “Well, what passes for sacred to them.”

Another question perches on your lips, but a call of your name robs your attention once more. The mayor, asking for a tonic. You pause to ask after his symptoms, and his wife, and his niece in the next town over. It’s a simple yet beautiful net you weave, ensnaring the man’s good will. You promise a bottle before noon and continue on with John at your pretty little boot heels, a dog on a silver leash.

“Tea?” you ask as you enter the apothecary.

He nods. “My thanks.”

You hum and flounce off to the back room. He keeps half an ear on you there while he wanders the shop, a more critical eye upon your wares. There are jars labelled in looping script with commonplace items. A quartet of honey, a cluster of infused oils. Tins of balm for wind chafe and sunburn. Nothing of suspicion, though it would be a foolish witch that keeps virgins’ blood and reptile eyes in plain view. He’s still not sure if he expects to find them anyway.

Spurred by he knows not what, John rounds the counter. Beneath it is a number of other glass vials and containers with careful labels. Their uses are not included, but he recognizes some of them. Cinnamon powder, crushed chamomile, lavender buds, mint leaves. There’s also a little sheaf of bound parchment denoting inventory and sales; business is healthy for the village’s sole healer.

The quiet shuffle from the other room becomes supplemented by a light hum.

John’s feet move of their own accord. The backroom is a well-lit, clean space, but the entirety of his razor focus is on you. He does not bother to lighten his steps and so you’ve already turned by the time he reaches you.

A gasp pitches high in your throat when he backs you against the table behind you.

“Sir—”

You smell like vanilla and daffodils today. Incense in the church that’s been built for you in his mind. He braces his hands against the table to either side of you, caging you in.

“Price,” he growls against your ear. “Call me by name.”

The sweetest little shudder wracks through your smaller frame, a spray of blush blooming across your nose and cheeks. He exhales the urge to drag his tongue across it, let the heat burn his mouth, initiation by fire.

“I-I couldn’t possibly – never mind, what are you doing?!”

He could coo at the affront daring to color your voice. How dare this big man invade your shop and your space and your life, how dare he sink his teeth into the very thought of you?

“I heard singing last night,” he says instead, a growl in his chest that you surely feel against your fluttering breast. “It sounded like you.”

You shake your head, a little furrow between your brows. “I slept through the night, sir.”

“Price.”

“Captain, please, are you sure it sounded like me?”

He stiffens to his full height, towering over you. You try to shrink away, but space has become a commodity he will not afford you.

“You doubt me?”

That little spark of indignance is already cooling, smothered before it could grow into a proper flame. You try for reason with a man who thinks he lost it sometime between seeing you for the first time and his next breath after that.

“There are many children in the village,” you explain. Your hands inch up between your bodies, like ivy creeping up stone walls. Their roots will find purchase in the cracks you’ve chiseled in his foundation. “Perhaps it was a mother singing a lullaby?”

He grasps for all the good sense he was once graced with that made him captain.

Behind him, the kettle begins to shriek.

“Please… Price?” you murmur. “Let me get that?”

He allows the narrowest margin for you to escape. You take it with nervous, stumbling steps. As you collect the kettle from the modest fire burning against the back wall, he tries to wrestle up what remains of his tattered resolve.

John has always considered himself a fair and reasonable man. Unlike a tragic number of his fellows, who have never met a woman they did not condemn, he has strived to be more discerning. A shepherd dog cannot protect the flock if it bites its own sheep. He’s saved as many from the stake as he’s sent to the noose.

Since meeting you, however, he feels as if he’s stranded with no compass and no stars. You’ve robbed him of sense and patience and virtue, left a ravenous beast behind in his skin. It’s unlike any enchantment he’s heard of – one that wishes to ruin the caster so thoroughly. He’s possessed by his need to possess.

It’s some kind of magic, it must be. He doesn’t think he’d recognize himself in a mirror.

“We’re putting this to rest.”

His voice startles you, eyes wide and anxious when he closes the distance again. He counts his steps, measures them on whirls in the floor. You fidget at the sleeves of your dress, light blue trimmed in white lace. A bit of sky draped around temptation. Hell hidden in Heaven.

“The Lord’s Prayer,” he commands, “now.”

Though your voice wavers, you manage its entirety without stuttering or coughing, each word carefully enunciated. It is no surprise; you attended church and took communion without strain.

And yet… and yet.

“I need to be sure,” he decides. “I must examine you.”

You blink. “E-examine?”

“You must be familiar with this, yes? The Devil hides his marks in many places.”

Realization washes across your pretty panicky face. What an awful spell you’ve cast, that makes him want to see that expression when he wrests terrible ecstasy from your trembling body.

“I-I don’t…”

“I know,” he soothes, “it is frightening. We will do this last thing to ensure your innocence, and then I will not seem so mean, I promise.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you nod, perhaps finding solace in darkness one last time, before your glamour is revealed.

“One thing at a time,” he encourages, firm but not unkind. You look like your knees are about to give out. “It will not take long.”

With shaking fingers, you unbuckle the thick leather belt cinching your waist. You fold it in half and set it aside on a clear patch of worktable. Your gown comes next, laced at the front with a neat bow that had been hidden by the belt. This is draped atop the table as well, and then you pause, hands twitching in the skirt of the cream shift you’re left in.

John takes pity, generous with the promise of more to come. Delayed gratification has always been his vice of choice. “Let’s start from the bottom, shall we? Shoes next.”

You sigh softly in relief and bend at the waist, drawing the hem up with one hand. The other tugs at the laces of first one boot, then the other, stockinged feet padding out onto the wood floors. You tut offhandedly about tears while you set your shoes neatly aside.

Higher and higher your thin shift goes, a measure for the anticipation roiling in his gut. Your stocking climbs up to your thigh, where a clever little cuff hugs plush flesh, a slight bulge where you’ve laced it tight to stay in place. It slides down, down, down, and off your dainty little foot. Between the deliberate slide of fabric and the fluttering of your shift, bits of skin flicker into view like clouds passing over the moon.

The other stocking is just as torturous, just as hypnotizing. John drops to his knees when you’re finally standing barefoot, the hem of your shift still drawn up enough to display how you shift your weight.

Even your ankles are so small that he can fit his entire palm with fingers overlapping. You make a nervous noise as he pries your foot up from the floor.

“I’m going to fall,” you mumble.

“Hold onto me, then.” With his free hand, he guides one of yours to his shoulder. The other follows suit, balling into his tunic. “Just like that, there we are.”

You hum, sounding unsure but mollified. He tilts the limb until he can get a look at the sole, finds smooth and unmarked skin. The same for the other, and he luxuriates in how you lean into him for stability.

On both feet again, you seem to forget to let him go. He does not remind you while he smooths your skirt up your calves, your knees. He thumbs at a little bruise on the left and bites off a mean smirk when you twitch away.

“I bumped into a table,” you explain.

“Clumsy thing,” he tuts.

Your pouty little huff tempts him to look, but he refrains, rallying all his years of witchfinding service to the task at hand. There’s a scar on the inside of your left thigh that makes his mouth water.

“And this?”

“I dropped a kitchen knife when I was thirteen. My mother was furious.”

His teeth ache to bite into it. He taps at your hip instead. “The back now.”

“Oh.” You unlatch your hands from his shoulders to hold your dress for him. When you turn, he can’t resist drawing his palm up your thigh, marveling at living silk against his callous-roughened hand. It feels like he could tear you.

He stands, so close he can see the shade of each strand of hair. You glance at him over your shoulder, curious, but he wraps his fingers in your hair and faces you forward again. If you keep looking at him with those big, wet eyes, he’s going to do something unspeakable.

He examines the nape of your neck, the fine hairs that gather at the base of your skull. You fuss a bit about him ruining your braids when he tugs the lace ribbons free. Like a kitten, you subside when his fingers card through, scraping blunt nails along your scalp. It’s its own sort of magic, that. How your shoulders fall, and you lean into his touch just that guilty little bit.

“Back ‘round now, little miss,” he orders when the moment has stretched far, far too long for any justification.

He gives you another moment to gather your courage for what’s next and continues his inspection above your neckline. You scrunch your cute little nose when he brushes your ears and shiver a bit when he tilts your head back.

“Last of it now, c’mon,” he encourages.

A bit calmer now, you unlace the corset from your abdomen. An endearing little breath when it’s gone, ribs expanding like fireplace bellows. In nothing but soft linen, your nipples form rosy shadows through the fabric.

You have to turn away as you gather it up, flushing the brightest yet as you pull it over your head. The shift is piled with the rest of your abandoned clothes, and you are left wonderfully, scandalously, bare.

“No knickers?” he asks, a fingertip skimming over your buttock.

You jump. “I-I need to do laundry.”

He hums, amused despite the suspicious convenience of that explanation. Still, you are hardly the first woman to forget your washing, and you are a busy little bee at that.

“We’ll continue from here.”

The curve of your spine is a masterpiece, a thing for starving artists to make their name if they could capture it on canvas. He draws his thumb along each ridge, counting knots of bone down to the dimples at the small of your back.

Silver fissures decorate the lush roundness of your hips and lower stomach, where your body grew too fast inside your skin. A sign of a good, healthy childhood. They’re even softer and smoother than the surrounding skin, more decadent than silk.

“Once more. We’re almost done.”

You turn with great reluctance, arms drawn up and thighs pressed tight together. You’ve turned your face away, staring into the low fire. When he opens his mouth to coax you again, you fling an arm out, smacking into his chest. The other is still folded across the swell of your breasts.

“These as well… right?” you ask.

He tries to keep his chuckle soundless, but the dubious glance you send him from the corner of your eye is unappreciative.

Deft fingers unfurl when his thumb presses to the center of your finger palm, reflex that spreads them wide. It’s mouthwatering how easy your body yields. He turns your wrist and forearm over, checking along the tender parts beneath. You wrinkle your nose again when he holds it out to check your armpits as well. Once he’s satisfied with that, there’s some awkward shuffling to offer him the other arm.

“Your stomach, now?” he guesses, not trying to hide the patronization this time.

You jerk your head in a haughty little nod. He bends a bit to scrutinize your stomach, soft and well-fed. A sharp noise bursts from your throat when he thumbs at your naval. He arches an eyebrow as he tilts his head to your face, but you’re stubbornly looking as far from him as you can.

“That tickled,” you complain.

“My sincerest apologies, miss.”

Your nose twitches like you want scrunch it at him again. All that fussiness evaporates, however, when you realize what’s next.

“We’re almost done, little one.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Slowly, achingly, you lower your arms. They don’t go far, folding across your stomach with tight little fists. It only takes a glance to know that you are unmarked, but John is far from satisfied. He can’t bring himself to look away, fingers tingling with desire to touch that supple skin, to feel the weight of your breasts in his palms.

“Thinking naughty thoughts, are we?” he teases, the barest brush of a fingertip over one hard nipple. “And on a Sunday.”

“N-no!” you squeak. “There’s a chill. I-I’m not…”

“So when I check this precious little cunt, I won’t find you dripping for me?”

You yelp, hands flying up to cover your face. “You mustn’t say things like that!”

“Mustn’t I?” he wonders as he lowers to his knees. It sends an ache through them, but the view is worth the toll.

“I know this is all so unusual but that’s – that’s improper, sir!” you cry.

“How many times must I remind you?” He traces his fingertips up the back of your calf, delighting in the goosebumps left in his wake. “Call me by name.”

You squeal when he hooks a hand beneath your knee and jerks it over his shoulder. Your hand flies to his other to keep your balance, eyes huge. He rakes his gaze deliberately down the curving length of that delicious body until it settles on his prize.

Heaven, he thinks, is on Earth. It is here, nestled between your thighs. The pearly gates are dripping between plump lips in a bed of downy curls. The clouds are pink and shimmering; the apple of Eden is a swollen, throbbing bud. God’s throne is the tight little hole twitching around nothing, untouched for want of a worthy offering.

Heaven’s choir is your shuddering little inhale when his thumbs part your slit wider. It’s the bitten off sound from cool air blown over sensitive flesh. It’s your sweet, startled “oh” when he draws a knuckle through all that decadent wetness. Angels sound like your moan when he pays special attention to that forbidden fruit, light circles until your hips twitch.

“W-wait,” you whimper, breathy, “I’m a – I’ve never…”

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, “I won’t hurt you, but the Devil can hide things inside, can’t he?”

You whine as he prods a careful finger at your entrance. Your modesty is still intact, really the last bit of evidence he could ever need that you are innocent. He gathers your slick on his fingertip and prods gently at that thin bit of tissue. You shake your head, bottom lip pinched between your teeth.

“Calm yourself, little miss,” he croons. “This hasn’t been painful so far, has it?”

“N-no…”

“It will not be painful now, either. Just stay still for me.”

You make a weak little sound of agreement, hands clenching and unclenching. He massages at the membrane of your entrance in slow, even strokes, his thumb toying at that swollen button when you start to tense. It finally gives just that little bit and your body welcomes his finger inside.

He does not rush, keen to fulfill his promise of a painless touch. Who would forgo the pleasure of exploring Paradise in favor of sprinting from one end to the other?

When he’s down to the knuckle, he pauses, absorbing all of this exquisite moment, all of you. Shaking and panting, leaning into him with blush down to your chest. He curls his finger, draws it out just a bit, then sinks back inside. You bend your head to him as if in prayer, mouth falling open.

“Steady on, darling,” he coos. “You’re doing well.”

When you start to squirm, he hides a smile against your thigh and pumps his finger again. Deeper, faster, curling just that little bit to pet your supple walls. Your voice breaks loose when he finds his rhythm, a cascade of moans and whimpers that baptize him an acolyte. He devotes himself to your alter, to the pleasured twitching of your virgin cunt and the rocking of your untrained body.

He finds a spongy place inside that makes you flutter around him, a gush of slick beading a bracelet down his wrist. It soaks into the edge of his sleeve and beneath the leather of his vambrace.

“Th-that’s… oh.” You nearly sing with pleasure, a hymn made of monosyllables and whiny hums. He presses his thumb firm and insistent to your sensitive clit, rewarded by another flood of wetness and desperate whimpers. “I feel… ah, I feel l-like… what are you doing t-to me?”

He chuckles deep in his chest, brushes his lips along the side of your knee. Your traitorous pussy clenches around him, not nearly so demure of its admiration.

“Let that feeling build. Let it wash over you,” he purrs. “Don’t be afraid.”

You tilt your head back, crying your pleasure to the heavens as you tighten and shake. John braces your standing leg as your eyes roll back in your skull. You’re vicelike around just a single finger, it would be nearly painful around anything thicker. He rubs at that spot inside you, thumb still in place, unspooling your ecstasy like pulling a thread from knitted cloth. You unravel so beautifully for him, on and on until you’re a puddle in his hands.

It takes a little sniffle and a wordless mewl to coax him from your heat. His hand is drenched, slippery between his fingers. You lower your leg shakily from his shoulder, reluctant to put your weight on it with aftershocks still wracking your frame.

“Good girl. You’ve been so strong and brave, there’s a love,” he soothes, stroking your hip with his dry hand. “We can put this witch business to rest now.”

You tilt your head. Perhaps a nod; perhaps just exhaustion. He straightens while you gather yourself, flexing your fingers, likely sore from how hard you held onto him. He considers the mess on his hand, a temptation more intoxicating than any wine…

But he would rather drink from the source.

There’s a spare cloth folded into a neat square next to herbs you likely meant to cut. He cleans his hand with it and turns back just as you’re fumbling for your shift.

“Easy now, little miss. Allow me.”

John leans you up against the same table where you’ve piled your clothes, palms lingering at your waist until he’s sure you have your balance. You’re sweet and pliant under his touch, his voice. He redresses you with careful consideration, putting you back together just as he found you. Or nearly just.

The post-orgasm haze dissipates like fog with each article of clothing, an odd curiosity chasing across your face when he helps you back into your boots.

“You’re a strange sort of man,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “Is it because you’re a witchfinder?”

He arches his eyebrows as he stands again, arms winding around your waist to buckle your belt.

“I could not say without knowing what makes me so strange,” he chuckles.

You tilt your head, eyes still and deep, Leviathan’s abyss. Something is coiling behind your irises, a beast stirring from long slumber. Ripples in a lake will calm eventually, its natural state to be a placid mirror. You’ve become contemplative in your satiation; it’s the most substantial you’ve ever felt.

“You can’t decide to be cruel or kind,” you muse. “I didn’t know someone could be both.”

He presses his mouth to your temple.

“I’ve taught you a few things today, then.”

John sighs and runs his hands down his face, scratches a thumb absently at the corner of his jaw. His room’s modest writing desk is obscured by four pieces of parchment. One from each of his men, and a fourth from the witchfinder’s spymaster.

He sent Ghost, Soap, and Gaz to investigate the neighboring villages before setting for this one. They have each reported that there was nothing of note from any of them. Just the same things they’ve all heard. Rumors of a witch, a story of a healer who was exorcized of the evil. No curses or hexes since.

Laswell’s message was the last he was waiting for, just come in this morning.

Two men fell victim to your affliction. A huntsman, and the mayor’s eldest son.

The huntsman, an unpleasant man by the name of Robert, traveled along the province following his prey’s migration patterns. Apparently, he also had a predilection for women - girls, really - far too young for him. His last occupation before expiring: a certain blacksmith’s daughter.

As for the mayor’s son, there’s something to be said for still wearing that title at some four and a half decades old. Though Laswell’s information is scarcer here, owing that it was a very local matter, it seems he had a conflicted relationship with you. Would preen and fawn for your attention and then condemn you when you did not return it past politeness.

Even once boasted to a merchant two towns over that you would be the one he married, then stormed off when you declined to let him carry your basket.

Misfortune couldn’t have befallen better men, John muses. It was fortunate that no one else in the village fell victim to the witch’s wrath.

Fortunate indeed.

He sighs, sets his hands on hips. There’s really no need to stay, not now. None of his squadron have found any evidence of foulness. His own investigation concluded when his one suspect passed every measure of witchcraft he knows. He’s no reason to stay.

Gathering the parchments, he sets them aside and pens three identical messages commanding his men back to headquarters. He pens another to Laswell, thanking her for her diligence.

He returns downstairs, to hand his correspondence off to the innkeeper. Cecilia, the wife, is there instead. Talking to you.

“Oh, Captain Price,” she says, “dearest me, were you waiting there long? And here I am clucking like an old hen!”

“Not at all, madam,” he replies, approaching so that she need not go through the trouble of leaving her chair. You watch over the rim of your teacup, eyes dark and too knowing. “I thank you for looking after my correspondence.”

“Not at all, dear,” Cecilia coos. She takes his letters in one hand and pats at his shoulder with the other. “Now, then, we don’t want you losing any of that muscle, do we? How about a bowl of stew, it’s been cooking overnight.”

He stumbles out an agreement - not that he thinks it’s needed, she’s already bustling off to prepare him a bowl. You set your cup down with a gentle clatter.

“Important witchfinding business?” you ask, nodding after Cecilia.

And there’s the crux of it. You’re not a witch; you can’t be. He’s assured of that himself.

Yet…

Something lingers in the back of his mind, that animal knowledge of an unknown predator lurking nearby. Gut instinct tells him something is off, despite all evidence to the contrary. It has never betrayed him before.

“Something like that,” he answers.

You hum, apparently satisfied with that answer.

He’ll stay until the full moon, at least. Perhaps then better sense will finally win out.

There’s a garden in back of the apothecary, just sloughing off hibernation. You’re tending to what few brave plants have ventured above ground in defiance of the lingering cold. John finds an orange cat batting at your apron springs. It flicks its ears towards him, then turns back to your laces.

“Flaunting your familiars?” he asks to announce his presence.

You half turn, though your eyes don’t stray from the rosemary spines you’re collecting. “Do you mean Curtis?”

The cat overbalances and lands on its back, rotund stomach hindering its ability to gracefully recover. As far as familiars go, it would be a pathetic one, stocky and cockeyed as it is.

“He’s a village cat, but he likes to test his luck with the crows.”

“You’ve crows now, too?” he asks, sidling closer. He’s mindful of the neat rows of your garden, where seeds or bulbs may lie dormant. “You enjoy drawing suspicion.”

You scoff; it’s unladylike, but he’s enchanted by sincerity. “There have always been crows. They eat pests from the garden. Better here than in the fields, no?”

He does spot a number of crushed snail shells and unharmed leaves amongst your few charges.

“I defer to your logic, my lady,” he chuckles, hands up in defeat.

You shake your head, but he spies your smile regardless. “Have you need of me, Sir Witchfinder?”

“I’ve need of your expertise today.”

He follows as you gather your little harvest and sidestep him out of the garden, arm brushing his. Curtis brings up the rear, tail swishing. You don’t seem bothered by his presence and so John only closes the door after the cat is inside. Back to your preparation room; you’re ignoring the back wall by the fireplace.

“What is it?” you ask.

“The full moon is tonight. I intend to camp in the forest. Have you anything to deter wildlife?”

You hum, eyes gazing off and head tilting back and forth as if shaking the information loose. “Yes, I think so.”

You beckon him about the backroom and the shop. He holds a cheesecloth pouch open while you sprinkle powders and dried herbs into it, murmuring as you go. Calendula and some of that fresh rosemary for wolves, ground spice for bears, peppermint for foxes. It’s certainly fragrant, but even if it is not effective, it’s worth its weight in gold to watch you flutter about with a confident set to your fine brow.

You tie the pouch closed with a neat but tight bow and instruct him to sprinkle it around his campsite. When he tries to pay, you shake your head, flushing hotly as you tell him it is thanks for making your examination so… painless.

He chuckles and strokes a finger down your warm cheek to make you swat at him.

Just as he turns to leave, you take his wrist and press a smaller pouch into his palm.

“Lavender, to help you sleep,” you explain.

“Will I dream of you?”

“So improper!” you complain, pressing your little hands to your cheeks.

He dips down close, bristly cheek brushing the softness of yours. You shiver as his lips skim the shell of your ear.

“My thanks, love,” he whispers, “I will show my gratitude when I return.”

You turn your face away, “It is a gift, you need not repay me.”

He grins wickedly. “Oh, but it will be my pleasure to do so.”

You shake your head and push gently at his chest. “Out with you, Sir Witchfinder. You’ve preparations for your hunt, I’m sure.”

He goes, though not without locking his gaze with yours. “I will hear my name from your lips again.”

There was never a vow so sincere.

If God is the Holy Father, Mother Nature reigns His queen. It must be a contentious marriage.

It’s the first warm night and a fat full moon. John’s gut tells him that if ever there were a night for heathens, it would be this one.

He makes camp on the other side of the river, only just within earshot of the water. He builds a modest fire and scatters the sachet generously. It makes for a pleasant perfume, at least, and mingles pleasantly with the tobacco he smokes while he lets the night deepen.

The moon is high and the stars bright by the time he sets off from his campsite. Much like his last foray, however, there is little more than chittering animals and nightbirds to disturb the evening. John returns to stoke the fire after a couple hours. He is a patient man – except, apparently, where you’re concerned – he can wait for some sign.

It comes as he’s dozing on his bedroll, the scent of lavender fogging his mind with pleasant apparitions of you. The singing, again.

He pads through sodden leaf litter, ghostlike as he weaves among the vegetation, following faint notes. They grow louder as he picks his way through the forest, building in strength and pitch – and number.

It is not just one voice he hears but several, threads that twine a haunting tapestry. Soon there is not just melody, but shouts and whoops as well, powerful as they bounce off the trees. It is pitch black until all at once it is not. The thick tree line breaks upon a great clearing, where a bonfire smolders in the center.

Around it, a dozen dancing women. They are not naked, levitating hags painted in blood and ichor. They are dressed – or mostly dressed, in any case, as firelight gilds thighs peeking from skirts and shoulders bare of under-shifts. Some have their hair pinned back, others wear it loose, flying and tangling as they throw themselves about.

Hands joined and rising as they bounce around the flames, then spinning apart with cries of delight. A few plant their feet wide apart in the earth and drop their chests, hands extending towards the fire and then up towards the stars. The others whirl around them, voices rising to start a call and response that sends chills down his spine.

“When God is gone, and the Devil takes hold,” one set begins.

And the other answers, “Who will have mercy on your soul?”

A few refrains of this and then of others, until a single voice rings damnation above the rest.

“I am Death, none can excel. I am the door to Heaven or Hell.”

It has been burned into John’s bones, into his soul. Your voice.

A glamour he knows now. He knows, he knows. It is a foul trick meant to distract him from his true query, one he is ashamed clouded his judgement for so long. Of course you would not cast such a garish and obvious enchantment to draw his attention – lest it was not you that cast the spell in the first place.

Death is in the valley.

John knows his own capabilities, and he knows he cannot beat nor catch a dozen witches on a full moon. He must content himself with what he can, far as he is from their ritual and unable to distinguish any particular features. It need not be this night; he’s caught the scent and will root out the wolves from the flock.

The morning light is water between his fingers. He swims through it at the perimeter of the village, smoking another roll of tobacco. The night was long and cold; he did not linger near the witches, wary of being found. He gathered what little information he could, stamped out the coals of his campfire, and returned to the inn. Your lavender came in quite handy; he means to be especially generous with his thanks this morning.

You are not in the garden and the shop is still locked up from the night before. Perhaps you were called out early to treat some ailment. He makes a direct line from your shop back to the tree line and hears your humming again.

When he follows it this time, he’s led to a creek and your naked form sunk beneath the surface. Your back is to him, hair streaming with the current.

“And what naughtiness are you up to this morning, little miss?”

You shout, hands instantly flying up to protect your modesty. When you spin to find him, arms crossed, on the bank, you make an angry little noise and splash at him. Not even a droplet touches his boots.

“You know witches bare themselves in the open like this?” he asks.

You scrunch your nose at him, an embarrassed blush high on your cheeks. “That’s not funny.”

“You oughtn’t to be out here like this.” In fact, the more he thinks of another man stumbling upon you like this, the hotter his blood simmers.

It seems you’re not entirely unaware of your actions either as you deflate a bit. “I know, I know – but I spilled an entire jar of vinegar all over myself.”

A bloodless finger emerges from the water to point at flat rock, where your clothes are laid out in the meager sunlight. A brush and bucket rest beside it, suds still clinging to the sides.

“Clumsy thing,” he sighs, fond and exasperated.

“You oughtn’t to call me names,” you huff.

He arches an eyebrow and uncrosses his arms.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” you reply haughtily, turning away to scrub at your hair. He suspects it is to give you reprieve from his darkening gaze. “It’s terribly rude.”

He wades into the creek. “Rude, you say.”

“I do.”

You peek over your shoulder and startle when you see him approaching. “John, you’re getting wet!”

“I’m not the only one, I reckon.”

You sputter long enough for him to snatch you up in his arms, the entirety of your shivery little body pressed against his. The creek isn’t actually that deep – just to his waist standing. You’ve only been knelt down among the round stones of the bed, but he drags you up to your feet as you wiggle.

“Why do you insist on such impropriety?!” you groan, ducking your head.

He takes your chin between thumb and forefinger and tilts your face back towards him. Craves your eyes on him like the starving man craves food.

“I may be improper in word, but you are in deed, my lady,” he counters, drawing spirals at the small of your back. “A matched pair we make.”

You dart your eyes away and purse your pretty, pouty lips, but you cannot conceal your pleasure at his declaration.

“You oughtn’t to call me your lady either,” you mutter. “I am not yours.”

A serpent’s tail thrashes his insides. He swallows the sick, violent burn in his belly.

“No?” he asks. “How can that be when I’ve pleasured you the way a man pleasures his? When you take such good care of me with your teas and herb pouches?”

You blink, latch onto that last thought with endearing desperation to alter his course.

“Oh, how did the lavender treat you?”

“Quite well,” he answers, sweeping his hands along your sides. “Allow me to repay your care.”

Your fingers curl gently in his sodden shirt, peeking up at him through your lashes again.

“I told you, you need not – wah, John!”

He’s hoisted you up on the steep, grassy incline of the embankment by your lush thighs. Your weight is negligent when he has your knees nearly to your hitching chest. Splayed open and lovely, a breakfast fit for a king – no, for God. He would usurp Atlas to have you like this.

“Remind me again, little one, how exactly you are not mine.”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you try to gather your scattered words. Have just begun your very sensible quibble when he laps at the cream between your thighs. Digs his tongue into that precious hole he so recently collared as his newest pet. Traces the seam of your cunt to that perfect, round clit and flattens his tongue against it.

Whatever pretty bouquet of arguments you’d arranged are swept downstream. His mouth is mortar upon your flimsy defenses; devastates you to trembling rubble. The mewling pours fast and easy now that you’ve found your voice, pitches into a squeal when he sucks. You taste clean and human on his tongue, sticking in his facial hair, ambrosia from the purest source. He pampers your cunt to keep the drink flowing, swallows you down like the finest wine.

Even better than those weak cries, is the way you squirm in his hold. You arch your back and twist your hips, fingers tearing up flossy grass, then tugging at his wet shirt, then scratching uselessly at his forearms. He growls when you think to tug his hair, and the vibration of his voice against your swollen folds makes you sob dry.

“Please, please, John,” you chant. His new favorite psalm. “Please, I can’t, John, please.”

He hides a smile by curling his tongue as far inside you as it can go. When he comes up for air, you’re properly teary this time.

“Why not?” he murmurs against your neck, false concern makes your hips twitch. “Why can’t you, darling?”

“It’ll – I’ll fly apart this time,” you gasp. “I swear, John. I’ll fall apart.”

Oh, so precious. So sweet and perfect and utterly his. You can’t be anything else. Not now.

“Is that all?” he asks. “I’ll put you together again, just like last time.”

He dives in with your bitten off fretting in his ears, licking you into silence, compliance, until you’re obediently whimpering again. Your slick spills down his chin, his neck, smears across his cheeks. Gentleman that he was raised to be, he is a messy eater, and you are a delicacy.

Now that he knows what it sounds like, he recognizes the rising tide of your pleasure and rides its crest with gusto. You wail and whine about that feeling again, that sublime crescendo to a symphony played with your own body, by a conductor so cruel as him. He swirls his tongue around your clit, then suck it into ravenous mouth.

“John, John, John!”

He only just manages to cover your mouth; your songs are for him alone, no need to serenade the rest of the village. You taste like salvation, communion he’ll kneel for at every mass.

Overstimulation makes you noisy, fussy sounds in the back of your throat as you try to press away, pushing with earnest at his forehead. He relents only because you say his full name, sharp and scolding, and he needs to see the angry little furrow between your brows.

“You are incorrigible,” you pant.

He hums, licking shamelessly at his lips. “My sincerest apologies.”

“Lying is a sin.”

He gives you a look. It makes you burst into a fit of giggles to rival birdsong.

“Yes, yes, have a laugh at the old captain,” he grouches, lowering you gently to your feet.

“You’re not old, John,” you scoff.

“Older than you, spring chicken.” He pauses as he notices that the fine tremble in your limbs has not subsided. “And speaking of spring, you’ve spent far too long in this water. You’ll catch your death.”

“I would have been out sooner had I not been accosted.”

“Oh yes, I’m a terrible man,” he soothes, guiding you back to shore. “A scoundrel.”

You hum in placid agreement, clinging to his side to leech his warmth. “Yes, yes. All of that.”

“As you say, little miss.”

You tuck up against him by the fire in the apothecary’s backroom and send him warning looks whenever his gaze grows hotter than the flames.

John wakes in the dark.

He cannot move his arms or his legs. The mattress at his back is softer and thicker than the inn’s, absent the odd lumps that bent his spine at angles. He is also stark naked.

He has been captured, somehow.

Memory shines thin and useless beams through a waning fog. A thick, warm stew… sweet, floral tea… you…

You.

Where are you?

There is little point in trying to gain his bearings, though he does regardless. There are no windows to light his prison. Only the scent of exposed wood and slightly stale air. It’s warm enough, at least, even bare as he is. Sound comes from above his head, creaking boards.

He’s belowground.

Some minutes pass in consternation, his last memory your hands in his hair and his head in your lap.

Then the creaking above shifts. Away, then to his right. A louder, metallic squeak. Hinges. Individual steps now, descending a set of stairs. A faint seam of gold grows near the ground, a miniature horizon with an approaching dawn.

A click.

Candlelight infiltrates the room, shying from corners and exposed ceiling beams. John gets his first glimpse of his prison – a rather cozy bedroom. The generous bed he’s splayed on and tied to. A vanity in one corner; a bedtable to his left. A chair kept company by a small shelf of books.

There’s even a rich burgundy rug on the stone floor, on the other side of which you stand.

“This is one way to have a man in bed.”

You do not speak, only cross the room, round the bed. The heavy candelabra you’ve brought is set on the bedtable. The flames play ghostly shadows across your features, caressing the line of your nose and the curves of your mouth.

The silence stretches so far it begins to sag beneath its own weight in the middle.

You – or the facsimile of you – have not turned your gaze from the whirls of silver in the candelabra.

“You need not keep this shape any longer, witch,” John growls at last.

The illusion twitches, fingers curling tight in its skirt.

“I know this is a glamour, stop hiding behind her face.”

“Damn you, John!” You – it snaps around, gaze burning hellfire and brimstone. “There is no glamour.”

Held still before, he is stone now. “What?”

It – you? – snarl, showing all your teeth. Still as blunt and neat as ever.

“You witchfinders,” you scoff, shaking your head, “and your so-called purpose. You’ll see anything shiny and call it gold. By God, any woman is a witch if you try hard enough, isn’t she?”

“I acquitted you.”

You snort. “Was that before or after you wanted to wet your cock?”

It was always, regardless. He does not think it wise to answer. You don’t seem to need one.

“Graves condemned me only after I denied him – repeatedly.” You perch at the edge of the bed by his ribs and press your palm against the mattress on the other side of his head. John denies you the pleasure of leaning away. “He took me to the river in chains.”

“Magic.”

You roll your eyes. “What did I say? Use the wits your God gave you.”

When he just stares into your blown out pupils, you pull away with a groan, standing again.

“The blacksmith made the manacles,” you explain. Slow, quiet. “And Agnes brought my last meal.”

Mallory, the smith’s daughter and Agnes, the baker’s wife. Your church companions.

You hum as understanding smooths his brow. Despite the pleased lilt, your mouth is a flat, angry line. “Makes much more sense, doesn’t it?”

He tugs at his binds as you gather up the skirt of your dress.

“I took a blade to that wretched sack and swam with the current downriver,” you explain. There is no shift or corset beneath this time. “When I emerged, I snuck back home and hid right where you are now.”

You bend at the waist to unlace your boots, ass on full, beautiful display. You are no longer just a temptress; you are a succubus. The limited candlelight paints you in burnished gold, Hell’s currency. John is far, far too gone on your sin to help his reaction to the sight of you, even now.

“When the moon rose, Cecilia let me into the inn and unlocked their doors.” You kick off your boots, inner thighs glistening. You don’t even bother with your stockings. “One. By. One.”

You pad to the foot of the bed and place your knee on the mattress between his legs. It’s real weight, your weight that sinks into it. You crawl up the bed, body swaying over his, flesh and blood depravity.

“I saved Graves for last.” You straddle John’s thighs, trace soft palms up his abdomen and over his chest. The bite of your little, clean nails chases belies that deceptive gentleness. “I slit his throat with his own iron dagger. The blood looked like ink in the moonlight.”

His cock stands proud and flushed, pressed against your belly, begging entrance. A tower of pride in spite of God and all sanity, he throbs with the low thrum of pride in your velvet voice. He tries at the ropes again; they hold fast, creaking in reprimand.

“I fed him and his men to the river.” You lift yourself, wrap an elegant hand around the girth of him. Your lips part, above and below, at the heat of him against sensitive flesh. “I thought it was over. Hoped I could finally have my peace again.”

You grind the flared head of him against that bundle of nerves, back and forth, up and down. A sigh slips from your lips and blankets him in fire. Head tipping back, neck rolling as everything that makes you human sloughs off, overworn garments. You tease yourself and him, wetness dripping down his shaft and spilling over his groin. He is a slave to his desire’s whims, your whims, hips twitching to grind.

You crack your eyes open, damnation in your gaze. “And then you showed up.”

You bare your teeth and take him into you all at once. A ragged shout cracks you both in half, clashing in the lust-heated air between your bodies. You are tighter than a vice, strangling him in plush, slick walls.

“Fuck,” you grit, sucking in air. Your mouth drops open, a delirious bark of laughter hitching in your throat. Ruby crescent moons decorate his chest. “You fucking bastard.”

Swallow thick and harsh, as if you can feel him in your throat. It certainly feels as if he reaches that far, as deep inside you as he is. He wants to test it for himself, but the ropes do not relent despite his persistent tugging.

“I could not do a goddamn thing without feeling your eyes on me,” you snarl. “Is this what it’s like to believe in God?”

You rock your hips. A little at first, still somehow so mortal to the pain of a thick cock in your virgin pussy. And then your spite and pride overtake the discomfort and you bounce once, hard. Grin wildly when it guts a groan from him and do it again. And again. And again—

It’s torture, it’s paradise. It’s John’s undoing. Your face twisted in divine wrath and hedonistic ecstasy, riding his cock like you were born to bring men beneath your dainty heel. He drops his head back against the mattress, tries to arch up to meet your thrusts. You’re having none of it, hissing as you brace all your (not considerable) weight on his chest.

“I don’t care if God is real,” you breathe, “I care about the people He and His have forgotten on Earth. Does that make me a witch?”

It’s all so much noise to him with the way you squeeze around him, walls fluttering. You’re moving hard and fast, but not hard or fast enough. John moans your name, earns another of those scowls that makes him throb.

“Shut up, Witchfinder,” you pant. You rise up, back arching as you find an angle that breaks your voice. “I will have my pleasure and you will thank me for the privilege of delivering it. The least you can repay me for all the trouble you’ve caused.”

The angels themselves could come to his aid now, and he’d only ask that they cut him loose.

And for all your scoffing, perhaps there is a greater force at play because the rope circling his right wrist catches. A rough edge or a bent nail, it does not matter. John works his arm back and forth, sawing through rough fibers, any remaining blood in his body dedicated to this salvation.

Your voice rises with your pleasure, knees widening to get him deeper, but not with any actual intent to bring either of you to climax. No, you’re luxuriating, gloating. You’ve won. He reaches across while your head is tilted back to pull the loop from his other wrist.

He will show you the spoils you’ve wrought.

“Tell me, oh Witchfinder,” you smirk, diamonds dripping between your breasts, “what am I?”

Your eyes go beautifully wide when he fits his wide palm around your pretty throat. Small hands grasp at his wrist, need both just to wrap around the circumference. Lips parting, you clench down so tightly as he sits up and reaches for the silver hidden in your right stocking.

A paring knife, honed to a deadly edge.

“Now what did you plan to do with this?” he wonders. “Little girls shouldn’t play with knives.”

Eyes locked with yours, fluttering like butterfly’s wings, he slices his ankles free with two flicks of his wrist. The knife is discarded over the side of the bed, far from your sneaky fingers.

It is laughably easy to flip you onto your back, to bind your dainty wrists together with the remains of one of his. So he does laugh, cock still buried deep inside your pulsing cunt and his hand loosening from your throat.

Each blink brings you back to focus, until you seem to realize all at once what’s happening. You snarl, kick your legs, back arching at an angle that makes him grunt. And you are still so, so wet.

“I should have killed you!” you shout, even as John guides your legs around his waist. Your knees press into his ribs, ankles interlocked at the small of his back.

“You should have,” he agrees, pressing your tied wrists to the mattress. He forges a path of biting kisses up your chest, over your neck, licking where he can feel you swallowing noises.

“Oh, let go, let go!” you demand, except it comes out more a whine, and one you don’t even mean at that. Not when you twist your hips to feel him pressing inside you.

“Oh, my little witch,” John rumbles, drawing his tongue along your jaw. “Never.”

That just spins you up further, mouth clashing violently with his. He revels in the scrape of your teeth on his lips and tongue, chasing into your mouth and counting how long before you remember you hate him.

“I’m not a witch,” you spit when he pulls away.

“Then what was all that business in the forest?”

You smirk. “Just a bit of fun to hail the spring - and at your expense.”

He sinks his fingers into the roundness of your hips. “Funny.” And slams home.

You shriek, loud and shameless, body jerking as he sets the pace you couldn’t achieve atop him. It’s brutal and animal, you keen at every scrape of his fat cockhead against your (nearly) untouched walls. The headboard knocks against the stone wall, a steady, rapid beat to match his thundering pulse.

You’re still cursing and threatening him between moans, rocking your hips eagerly to meet every thrust. He snakes a hand down your stomach, down to where your bodies collide with obscene wet squelches. You yelp when his thumb finds your neglected clit, shake your head and struggle in earnest.

“Don’t you dare,” you wail. “Y-you don’t get to…”

He sheathes his cock as deep as he can and grinds.

“Say my name,” he commands. You shake your head, squeeze your eyes shut. “Say, ‘John, don’t make my pretty cunt come.’”

You whimper, high and keening, sinking teeth into your bottom lip hard. There’s nowhere for you to go but try to press your hips into the mattress - and he can’t have that, can he?

Manipulating your squirming body is becoming his new favorite addiction. John gets his knees under him, curls an arm around your waist, and hauls you up into his lap so easily. You’re half-limp and half-struggling and yet still he sinks you deeper and deeper onto his cock unti the head of his cock bumps against your womb.

“There we are,” he purrs against your jaw. “Do you feel me? Right here?”

He presses a covetous palm to the spot where he swears he can feel the pulse of his own drooling cock. Your arms loop over his head, try to pull yourself up and off. A firm flex of his biceps drops you right back down again, squealing.

“Just like this, darling,” he whispers, “You’ll milk my cock just like this.”

You moan, hide your face in the crook of his neck. This position slows him some, but he’s not lost any of the power or angling that makes your eyes flutter. He rolls his hips each time he buries inside, just to tease at your cervix. If he could, he’d bury himself there too and fill you with his seed directly.

As it is, he’s not nearly done with you yet. No, not when you’re starting to shake so badly that all you can do is grip onto him for support. Your clit is rubbing against his pelvis each time he bounces you to meet him. An object built solely for his pleasure.

“I’m going to - no, no, you can’t,” you hiccup, tugging and pressing closer, closer, closer. Your hips are twitching of their own accord. “You shouldn’t get to—”

He doesn’t even need to coax you over. A final shiver wracks your body as you clamp down. Head falling back, you scream to the ceiling, fingers twisting in the short hair at the back of his head. He rocks you through it, steady, until you finally go limp against his chest.

There’s a sharp pinch to his shoulder - you’ve bit him. When he eases your head away, your mouth is smeared crimson. At first he thinks you’ve managed to break skin; then he notices the bead welling up on your bottom lip.

“All that just to avoid my name,” he tuts, amused despite himself.

When he leans in to lick at the wound, you sigh softly. “I-I’m going to kill you.”

He grins against your mouth. Kisses you one last time as he pulls you off his cock. You whimper, sensitive, arms barely able to lift over his head. He lays you down gently, follows to ghost his lips and tongue over the marks he’s left all over your skin.

“Now, then,” he says, sitting back on his haunches. “Once more.”

Your eyes fly wide and panicked as he turns you onto your stomach.

“Absolutely not,” you gasp, scrambling away.

“Ah, ah.” He catches your hips and yanks you back. The force of it knocks your trembling and still-bound arms out from under you. “I’m not done with you yet, little witch.”

Chest against the mattress and hip high in the air, he has a perfect, unfettered view. And what a view it is. Your pretty little cunt is puffy and red, visibly stretched, and the sensitive little button above it is swollen with abuse. Slick drips and drips from your entrance, entreating his return.

John nudges your knees wide and fits himself between them, the dripping and flushed head of his cock slipping over your folds.

“Get that away,” you snarl, “you’ll fucking break me!”

You try to wiggle away, but he just holds you firm, waits you out. And when you pause to catch your breath, he plunges inside.

“If you don’t recognize God, then there’s really no need for ceremony, is there?” he muses.

You make a questioning noise, the best you can manage when he’s forcing the air from your overworked lungs.

“My little witch wife,” John croons into your ear, “what pretty children we’ll have.”

It’s suffocating, how tight you get around him, even as you buck and swear. Your voice breaks when he tilts his hips just so, torturing that spot that’s already tipped you over once already. It’s such sweet music to his ears, protests cut off on long, rapturous moans, each time he bullies your overstimulated walls.

“I’m going to keep you.” John adjusts his bruising grip on your hips. Widens his own stance and presses his chest to your back. “I will be your god and your devil. My name will be amen.”

He drives home especially hard, and your voice breaks with a sob. His groan twines with it, divine harmony.

“We’ll form our own covenant, you and I,” he rasps. “I will give you everything, and you will be mine.”

His end is coming. Balls drawing up tight and hard, sparks crawling up into his stomach. A ragged grunt leaves his chest as you spasm around him, leftover of the last orgasm or forewarning of the next. He shifts to one arm and wraps the other around your hip, reaching for your clit to ensure it’s the latter.

“My name, love,” he breathes, “that’s all I need.”

“You’re awful,” you cry, “I hate you, John.”

“I know, little one,” he moans, shuddering. “Show me just how much.”

You reach your peak with his name on your tongue, loud and clear. His ears ring with it. Hips tilted back to get him as deeply as you can, John finds his end in the rhythmic, coaxing pulses of your cunt. His cunt.

He buries as deep as he can, hips stuttering roughly against your plush ass. Hopes he’s gotten you pregnant on this first try - perhaps your baby will be born on Samhain. You’re cooing softly when he comes back to himself, so sensitive you can feel the last feeble twitches of his release.

“Easy does it, now, darling.”

He supports your hips as he slowly pulls out and your knees collapse. The sounds you make are truly pathetic, he shushes you half-heartedly while he pets at your sweat-sticky back. He doesn’t let you drop; that’s no way to treat his new wife.

John lowers you gently to your stomach, then reaches over your head to pull the knot of your binds loose. You make a noise as he rubs at the red marks left behind, kisses at any raw spots.

“I-I have a salve…” you murmur, “upstairs.”

“We’ll get it in a mo’,” he assures, pushing tangled hair back from your face.

You nuzzle into his palm, lips skimming his fingertips. Not quite a kiss. “Don’t pretend to be kind now.”

He chuckles, exhaustion leaving the sound mostly in his chest. “I’m not the one who pretends between the two of us, little witch.”

You huff. “I’m not a witch. Witches aren’t real.”

“Of course, love,” he huffs, “and neither is God.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #witch hunting au #witchfinder au #Witchfinder John Price #Village Healer Reader #captain john price #john price x reader #mind the tags #cross posted on ao3

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d20-lesbian · 7 months ago

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AFTER AN OVERWHELMING WAVE OF SUPPORT AND ENCOURAGEMENT, I'VE DECIDED TO POST THE WILL WOOD ESSAY!!!! it's below the break !!!!

I would like to really quickly state though that this essay is my property, I put a lot of time and effort into this, so please don't claim it as your own !!!! thank you <33

I will be analysing Will Wood’s song ‘Suburbia Overture / Greetings from Marybell Township! / (Vampire) Culture / Love Me, Normally’. which, for simplicity, most fans refer to as simply ‘Suburbia Overture’. This song is the first on his first solo album entitled ‘The Normal Album’, which came out in July 2020.

This song, in the most general possible terms, is a criticism of modern suburban life, how it is advertised as “the perfect life”, and how this advertising is incredibly false unless you fit the picture perfect standard that these facets of society seem to require.

The song itself is split up into 3 distinct sections, "Greetings from The Marybell Township!", “(Vampire) Culture” and “Love Me, Normally”. I'll be tackling each section one at a time in order to properly break down what each means, what different analogies they use, how they all relate to each other and the intended end result of the song and the message it intends to convey.

Let's begin with 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!'.

This section of the song uses a lot of analogies that compare suburban life to a warzone, the first line of this section being “white picket fences, barbed wire and trenches”. This section also focuses heavily on the concept of the nuclear family, and it often literalises the term and uses analogies based around radiation and nuclear warfare. Such analogies can be found in lines such as “the snap crackle pop of the Geiger, camouflage billboards for lead lined Brookes Brothers”. Now there's a couple of terms that require definitions in this line. The first of course being “the Geiger”. A Geiger counter, which is what this lyric is referring to, is a tool used to measure levels of harmful radiation. This, paired with the concept of billboards advertising “lead-lined Brookes Brothers” when lead is a material used to deflect radiation, and the knowledge that ‘Brookes Brothers’ is an American vintage style clothing brand, this line really paints a picture of a seemingly post apocalyptic/post nuclear war but still consumerist and capitalistic suburban society. The last line in that verse is “buy now or die”, which ties back to the concept of safety equipment being advertised on billboards, while residents of this town have no choice but to buy the products. This all relates back to the hyperconsumerism that plagues our society, and runs particularly rampant in middle to upper middle class neighbourhoods. The very same neighbourhoods that are often referred to as “suburban”

In the second verse of this section there are a lot of hard hitting lyrics that to me really show that this perfect idealised life is far from perfect or even good, so we will work through them one by one because I feel that they all deserve proper analysis.

The first line that i want to point out from that verse is the line “takes a village to fake a whole culture” which is clearly a rip off of the phrase “it takes a village [to raise a child]” but it also references the fact that usually suburban towns are incredibly monotonous in both residents and architecture, and so it takes the collective effort of the entire population of the town to pretend that there is an actual culture to it.

The next few lines I'll speak on all come in quick succession of one another, essentially blending them into one line.

“Your ear to the playground, your eye on the ball, your head in the gutter, your brains on the wall.”

So let's break these down. This line is easily split into 4 distinct phrases, and all of these phrases have a few things in common, which I will point out later.

“Your ear to the playground” is a play on the phrase “ear to the ground” which essentially means that the person with their ‘ear to the ground’ is attempting to carefully gather intel about something. Someone having their ear to the playground simply reinforces the idea of this suburban “paradise” being. Not as paradise-y as one would hope, seeing as the people who use playgrounds most of all are children, so this line is demonstrating that the picture perfect life that this suburban town offers is actually corrupting children so young that they are still on the playground.

The next phrase is “your eye on the ball” isn't a play on anything and is in fact in itself a common phrase. To have your eye on the ball means to be entirely focused in and paying attention to something, and not allowing anything to divert your attention. Given the last line this line very well could be another reference to the corruption of the youth and the idea that their every day play has already been tainted with the hostilities of modern life usually reserved for adults.

Following this is another well known saying “your head in the gutter” which, as most know, someone whos head is ‘in the gutter’ is someone who will see some sort of innuendo or otherwise vulgar/inappropriate meaning in something that was intended to be entirely innocent, leading to others in the interaction telling the perpetrator to ‘get [their] mind out of the gutter’

And finally, in my opinion the most hard hitting phrase in this set, “your brains on the wall” which is clearly in reference to the notion of ending your own life with a shot to the head, which would lead to, well, brains being on the wall. These last 2 phrases come in stark contrast to the seemingly picture perfect life that suburban towns offer and advertise, the concepts of suicide and perversion are not concepts one expects to see or hear when imagining this idealised form of life.

There is one main similarity in each of the 4 phrases, that being that each phrase has some body part being on something else, your ear to the playground, your eye on the ball, your head in the gutter, your brains on the wall. This similarity almost offers a body horror aspect to the song, which when paired with the concept that this is written about a seemingly post nuclear apocalyptic town presents an interesting idea of possible mutation, but i'll be the first to admit that may be a little far fetched. However that's not the only similarity that these 4 phrases share, another is the fact that they are all directly, or only slightly modified versions of already well known phrases, a similarity that is found in many lines over this entire song, through all 3 sections.

I want to analyse a few more lines before we move on to the second section of the song.

This next line comes directly after the previously analysed line, and it goes “home is where the heart is, you ain't homeless, but you’re heartless”

Sticking with the theme of using already existing and commonly used phrases, “home is where the heart is'' is once again a phrase that you could likely find as a cross stitch hung up on the wall of any of the homogenous houses you could likely find in this idealised suburbia. But what Wood is saying in this line is that home is where the heart is, and that while people in this town may not be homeless, they are certainly heartless, meaning that they in fact don't have homes. They have houses. Rows upon rows of houses that all look the exact same in the horrifying monotony that is suburban living.

Following this line is the lyric “it's the safest on the market, but you still gotta watch where you park it”. These lines seem to be in reference to buying a car. The car being the "safest on the market" is likely in reference to the fact that it may have a lot of safety features. But this is immediately negated by the fact that you “still gotta watch where you park it” meaning that the safety features could be a reason that the car gets stolen, rendering all the safety that those features offered useless because in the end it made the car and the owner less safe.

In the third verse of this section, you immediately hear the line “so give me your half-life crisis” which partially is a play on the term ‘mid life crisis’ wherein which one realises that they may have wasted their life up till that point and they're already halfway through, but the use of the term “half-life” instead of ‘mid-life’ is very intentional, as the term “half-life” can also be used to refer to the half-life of an isotope, which is the amount of time that isotope takes to lose half of its radiation, which ties back into the theme of radiation that we see mentioned a lot in this section.

Later in the same verse is the line “if it's true that a snowflake only matters in a blizzard”, which is interesting in a few ways, first, it brings up the idea of a singular individual means nothing on their own and that they only matter when they’re part of something larger or a larger group, but i also think that the use of the terms “snowflake” and “blizzard” instead of something like ‘raindrop’ and ‘storm’ is very intentional in the fact that snowflakes are known for being individual, none are alike, every single one is different. So saying that a snowflake doesn't matter unless it's in a blizzard is yet another hit at individuality, essentially implying that in this town individuality means nothing and is essentially rendered useless.

The final line in this verse is “everybody's all up in my-” repeated thrice, and on the third time the sentence is finished to say “everybody’s all up in my business” and before the word “business” can be finished its overlapped with the beginning of the chorus, the first word of which is a very loud “SUBURBIAAAA!”. I believe this is reminiscent of the fact that in towns like this, everyone cares so much about what everyone else is doing, they’re all so interested in everyone else's business, and i think that sentiment being stated and cut off by the word “Suburbia” is essentially saying that ‘this is the norm, this is just Suburbia, this is how it works around here.’

After the final chorus of this section, in the final verse, you'll find the line “chameleon peacocks are talk of the town” which particularly interests me because if you know anything about chameleons or peacocks you’d find that they seem incredibly different as animals. Chameleons blend into their environment in order to stay safe, whereas peacocks are known for parading around bright colours to make themselves look better, but if you think about it the term “chameleon peacock” actually makes a lot of sense, a person who blends into their surroundings in order to make themselves look good. This sentiment seems to perfectly describe the homogeneity of the people that live in these perfect towns, they're all the same, they blend in with one another in order to make themselves look good, or perfect.

Another line heard shortly afterwards is the phrase “he cums radiation”, rather vulgar, I grant you, but it's important because it is yet another literalisation of the phrase ‘nuclear family’. It could also be a reference to the general toxicity of this societal norm.

The final line in this section of the song is “the dog bites the postman, as basement eyes dream of a night at the drive-in, with an AR-15”. Which is another use of juxtaposition, intended to cause a kind of whiplash in the listener and reinforce the idea that while in this place there is scenarios that would happen in a hollywood movie esque picture perfect neighbourhood, like the dog biting the postman, there's also horrors that lurk below the surface. (although clearly not TOO far below.)

Now let’s move on to the second part, ‘(Vampire) Culture’.

If you listen to the song, you’ll immediately be able to recognise where 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!' ends and ‘(Vampire) Culture’ begins, due to the insane juxtaposition between the two. Where 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!' is soft and sort of reminiscent of the 1950’s, ‘(Vampire) Culture’ is loud, jarring and grotesque, complemented with much raspier and strained sounding vocals compared to 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!' ’s soft and melodic ones. The tone for this section of the song is immediately set with much more graphic lyrics, the very first line of this section (after the opening scream) is “i dropped my eyeballs in the bonfire, we fucked on a bed of nails” which absolutely sets the scene for how different this section will be to the previous.

This song immediately jumps into using cannibalism as a metaphor, with the first line after the jump start opener being “I caught kuru from your sister, and I'm laughing in jail”. While this line is written to sound like the concept of catching an STD from an act of adultery, Kuru is actually a disease only found in human brain tissue, meaning that you can only contract this disease by eating a human brain, and what's one of the symptoms for this disease? Uncontrollable laughter.

This use of cannibalism as a metaphor is used again immediately after in the line “smell those screaming teenage sweetbreads on that 4th of July grill”, ‘sweetbread’ is the term used to refer to the pancreas and thymus gland of an animal, usually a lamb, but in this particular case it is in reference to the human teenagers that supposedly lived in The Marybell Township, or a least they did before they were dissected, cooked and served at a neighbourhood 4th of July barbeque hosted by the same people that were once referred to as their neighbours.

This line adds an interesting level of patriotism to the song and criticism of how America utilises patriotism and their love for their country as means to justify harming the youth, however a 4th of July neighbourhood barbeque is also commonly associated with white picket fence gated community America, which ties us back to the base criticism of that style of life and how it is seen as the “proper” and “perfect” way to live.

These cannibalistic sentiments are followed up with the line “smile and wave boys, kiss the cook, live laugh and love, please pass the pills.” which brings us back to the repeated use of commonly known sayings being taken directly or modified only slightly to remind the listener of the setting were in, that being a seemingly 1950’s era tight knit neighbourhood.

Phrases like “live laugh [and] love” or “kiss the cook” are both phrases that could easily be seen in a setting like this, especially “kiss the cook”, as this is a phrase commonly associated with aprons worn by grillmasters at neighbourhood barbeques, not unlike the cannibalistic 4th of July barbeque that this particular neighbourhood seems to be hosting.

These phrases being immediately followed up with a sentiment such as “please pass the pills” serves to entirely undermine the pleasantries that, until a moment ago, seemed to be plastered all over the faces of the people living in this fictional town that Wood has created. I think that final phrase brings the listener back to the realisation that not all is right here, quite the opposite in fact, and drags them from their momentary paradise.

Circling back very quickly to the phrase “smile and wave”. I felt the need to point out that this phrase has been used for centuries as a way to say “stop talking and act normal” which once again reinforces that these people are pretending to be something they’re not in order to fit in.

We enter the next verse with the repeated phrase “it's only culture”, after that line is repeated three times we hear “sulfur, smoke and soot”, which could either be a reference to how dirty and disgusting the ‘culture’ is, or it could be a different way of saying that this culture and the people participating are going to hell, as per the common phrase ‘fire and brimstone’ and the fact that sulfur is another way of saying brimstone, and smoke and soot are both byproducts of fire.

The last line of this verse and the first line of the chorus blend into each other, so I’ll speak on them both.

First, the last line of the verse. It goes “you cocked and sucked your lack of empathy, pulled the trigger with your foot to prove you've got-”

Putting aside the clear innuendo, this line refers to the idea of ending one's own life with a long shotgun. According to the media, by the time the gun is cocked and the barrel is in your mouth, you're not able to pull the trigger with your hands due to the length of the barrel. This line instead presents the solution of pulling the trigger with your foot to end your life.

So this person “cocked and sucked” the gun (cocked the gun and put the barrel in their mouth) before pulling the trigger with their foot to prove they’ve got-

And here's where the verse blends into the chorus.

Because the first line only consists of one word.

“Blood”.

The person who was shooting themselves with a shotgun only to prove that they bleed. Which is where the title of this section comes in. “(Vampire) Culture”. This section seeks to portray either the people in this culture or, the more likely option, the culture itself, as metaphorical vampires, who aim to destroy those around them. This knowledge makes the next line “didn't they want your blood, so why apologise for being blue and cold” make a lot more sense. After all, if these culture vampires have drained you of your blood, is it not their fault that you’re now “blue and cold”, as bodies tend to be if they lack blood flow. However, if you look at synonyms for the words “blue” and “cold”, you could also interpret this phrase as meaning “sad and apathetic”.

A sad and apathetic person doesn't seem to be the kind of person this ‘culture’ seeks to enlist however, and so one who is “blue and cold” is shunned as an outsider.

What Wood is getting at is that if this culture is the one who made you sad and apathetic, then you should not apologise to it for being so.

The next verse is short, and like the previous one, also blends into the chorus in the same way, by having the last line of the verse cut off right where the chorus would finish the sentence with the word “blood”. However in this verse, there's an interesting line. “It's only culture and it's more afraid of you than you are of it”, which is a sentiment usually used by adults to attempt to subdue a child's fear of something, usually insects. However it's interesting in the fact that it brings up the idea that this culture that has caused so much damage and harm is actually incredibly fragile, and would, in theory be very afraid of the concept of the individual, because if this ‘culture’ is only being held together by the silent agreeance that everyone will simply pretend, then the idea that there is people who refuse throws the whole idea into jeopardy.

This line is followed up however, by the line that blends it into the chorus. “Go on drink that-”, clearly intended to be finished by the first line of the chorus, making the full line, “go on drink that blood”.

This line is in reference to the phrase “drink the kool-aid” which essentially means to pledge your undying loyalty to something, a concept, a person, a god, etc. and it derives from an infamous mass cult suicide where over 900 people drank poisoned Kool-Aid and subsequently died for the cult. It is not a far cry to believe that this event and this phrase is what the line is referring to, as it's something that Wood has referenced in other songs, so it only makes sense to believe that this is what he means here.

After that chorus we move on to the bridge, which begins by listing 3 pairs of names, all famous or semi famous, and each pair being similar in one right but opposite in another, the line goes as follows; “were you Nabokov to a Sallinger, were you Jung to Freud or Dass to a Leary”, so let's break down these pairs one by one.

First “Nabokov to a Sallinger”, these names belong to Vladimir Nabokov and J.D. Sallinger, both authors who wrote famous books that both surround the theme of innocence, but in very different ways. Nabokov’s book “Lolita” is a story told from the perspective of a grown man about his sexual obsession and attraction to a little girl, and his desire to ruin her innocence, exploring the theme of innocence in a grotesque and frankly horrifying way, which is in stark contrast to Sallinger’s book “The Catcher in the Rye”, which explores the topic of innocence through the main characters desire to preserve their little sisters innocence, and in that desire displays hesitancy at the idea of sex themself. Both books explore the topic of innocence, however while one seeks to preserve it, the other seeks to destroy it, two sides of the same coin.

The next pairing is “Jung to Freud”, meaning Carl Gustav Jung and his mentor Sigmund Freud, who once again are similar in one right, but opposite in another. Jung and Freud both had theories on the nature of the human mind, but where Jungs was all about the concept of spirituality and how that ties into the collective unconscious, Freud's approach was much more focused on the individual unconscious and the concept of sexuality.

The final pairing is “Dass to a Leary”. both psychologists, both at the forefront of the ‘Harvard Psilocybin Project’ (before they both got dismissed from harvard entirely following controversies around the project) Richard Alpert and Timothy Leary were both psychologists and eventually authors who studied the effects of psychedelic drugs on the human mind, and while they were co workers they ended up with pretty conflicting views. Dr. Richard Alpert, who apparently ‘died’ and was ‘reborn’ as spiritual guide Ram Dass, centred his teachings heavily around the concept of living in the moment, (in fact his best selling book, written in 1971 was titled ‘Be Here Now’) and he believed that psychedelic drugs were not needed and that a permanent version of the same effects could be achieved through meditation. Whereas Dr. Timothy Leary advocated heavily for the use of psychedelics, believing that LSD specifically had great potential for therapeutic psychiatric use.

All of these pairings and examples utilise the concept of duality and speak on how every coin has two sides, which can easily be tied back to the idea that the picture perfect suburban life is just one side of the coin. This idea is then reinforced by the next line, “were you mother, daughter, subject and author?”, The use of the word ‘and’ here shows that it's possible to be two sides of the same coin at once, just like how this town, which is perfect on one side of the coin, is still terrible on the other side of the coin. The line is stating that it's possible to be both at once.

The very last line in this section is; “you don't make the rules, you just write them down and do it by the book you throw around”. This line combines a few relatively well known phrases. The first being of course ‘i don’t make the rules’, which can have two distinct meanings. The first is to express a kind of sympathy for someone being punished, and the second is to absolve yourself of the blame for that person being punished, a sort of ‘don't shoot the messenger’ situation.

The ‘rules’ that are likely being referred to here are the societal norms and expectations forced upon people who reside in these towns, the standard for ‘perfection’.

However, following this sentiment up with the phrase “you just write them down” is essentially saying that while it's not the fault of the people in these towns, they didn't create the norms, they still enforce them. They expect everything to be in line and perfect at all times, they follow these ‘rules’ to a T, and they shun and punish anyone who doesn't fit the standard and/or refuses to follow these ‘rules’, which is where the line “do it by the book you throw around” comes in, doing something ‘by the book’ means to follow rules strictly and to the letter, nothing out of line, and to throw the book at someone means to punish them as severely as possible, usually used in the legal sense to mean punishing someone for their crime as severely as the law will allow. So in all, the lyric “you don't make the rules, you just write them down and do it by the book you throw around” ends up meaning ‘you didn't create these norms but you still enforce them by following them to an absolute T and punishing anyone who doesn't.’

With that we enter the third and final section of the song, entitled ‘Love Me, Normally’, a title it shares with another song on the album, but of course this song is partially meant to serve as an overture for the whole album, meaning it shares some similar lyrics with lyrics from other songs on the album, so sharing a title isn't all that surprising.

The first lyric in this section is “do you know the difference between blazing trails and slash and burn?” which is another instance of duality in this song. Trailblazing or being a trailblazer means doing something no one has done before, paving the way for other people to follow in your footsteps, it comes from the literal act of creating a trail in the woods for people to follow, usually by creating notches in trees or setting small fires, hence ‘blazer’, as blaze is another word for a fire. However “slash and burn” is a method of deforestation that involves cutting down and burning a section of forest to create a field. Both examples include using fire to change something, but where one is seen as progress and positive, the other is negative, and seen as a means of destruction. Once again, two sides of the same coin, innovation and destruction.

This is followed up with the line “going against the grain and catching splinters”, which is a line i particularly like because while it is something that literally can happen, if you run your hand along wood in the opposite direction to the grain, you're more likely to get a splinter because you're essentially pushing your hand against the chips of wood, but it also is another metaphor for the dangers of not being the same. Going against the grain in this instance means daring to be different, not going the same way everyone else is going but instead the opposite of that, and in this example splinters are the consequences one would face for being different, especially in a setting like this perfect town, where everyone is the exact same as everyone else.

A little bit later you hear the line “well Lot he had his lot in life, Job his job and i guess you’ll too, and die”.

Lot and Job are both figures found in the Bible, whose names both share spelling with common English words, but are pronounced slightly differently.

Job, from the Book of Job, was a man that was tested by God, made to suffer to test his loyalty, his ‘job’ was to believe unendingly in God and see Him as always correct no matter what.

Lot, from the Book of Genesis, was a man who went through a lot, and the phrase ‘my lot in life’ is a phrase commonly used by people to write off/explain why they don't have it as good as others, they say it's simply their ‘lot in life’.

The end of this line “i guess you’ll too, and die” i believe refers to the fact that everyone will have their own job and their own lot in life, and then everyone in the end will die.

This theory is solidified by the fact that the next line is “The Lord looked down and said ‘hey, you're only mortal’” which is a play off of the phrase ‘you're only human’. Wood himself said that the phrase ‘you're only human’ has always felt weird to him, he says, “cause like, of course I am, aren’t we all? How is that fact supposed to help? I still feel bad. What does being human mean to you?”. He follows this up by saying that the idea of God saying "hey, you're only mortal" offers the same kind of sentiment, but in a “cosmically condescending” sort of way.

The following line reads “giveth and taketh away, till things come out a certain way, leave you wondering when they might go back to normal… leave you wondering why they can't have just been normal”.

This line presents a sort of hopelessness in the realisation that things are constantly changing, nothing is any more ‘normal’ than anything else, there's no such thing as ‘normal’, which is an overarching theme found throughout the album. Once again bringing back the fact that for all intents and purposes this song is an overture for the rest of the album.

To conclude, ‘Suburbia Overture’ is, in my opinion, one of the greatest criticisms of suburban, middle class, gated community, nuclear family life i've ever seen, it highlights the problems in that life and showcases how this kind of lifestyle in its incredibly rigid and restrictive standards is incredibly harmful to the very concept of individuality, because the expectations and unspoken rules set in communities like this and the widespread idea of forced normality seeks to crush any individuality before it even has a chance to blossom.

The use of metaphors and phrases that are well known and are likely to be seen in settings such as this gated community suburban town that Wood has created really paint a subconscious picture of what this community looks like, the use of duality, how every story has another side, and how nothing that is seemingly perfect from the outside is actually perfect on the inside.

Will Wood is an incredible lyricist and the fact that he was able to cram so much symbolism and such a powerful message into a song just over 6 minutes long is genuinely incredible.

Thank you for listening to my/reading my autistic hyper fixated rambling, i hope i didn't melt your brain too badly <3

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hometoursandotherstuff · 4 months ago

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Holy SHIT! Speaking of "you never know what's going on inside a house," here's the home of avid maximalist collectors. You can't see the interior b/c of all their stuff, but it has a pending sale. It's a nice looking 1968 Mid-century modern tri-level in Ada, OH. 5bds, 4ba, 2,692 sq ft, $355k.

Hello. (Oh, it's already decorated for Halloween, too). Are those giant stuffies really necessary? (Note the Indian Chief statues on the left.)

Very large, long, living room.

The dining room is ready for Halloween, unless it always looks like this. You know, I live alone, maybe I should get a skeleton to sit at the table, for company.

There's a lot going on in the kitchen. But, as you can see it's very large.

They tried to update the dated cabinets by painting them 2-tone, but the hardware and design are a dead giveaway. I wonder if the bright red tool cabinet conveys.

So, this is a bedroom. I guess it's pretty big, by the looks of all the furniture in here.

I don't know what this is.

Looks like a sewing room or craft space in this bedroom.

OMG. Do these people intend to pack all this up and take it w/them? I would just light fire to the place and call it a day. I see a fireplace. So, it's a rec room.

I wouldn't even consider buying a house like this, even though it's big and cheap- you can't see if there are any problems. The carpets are so dirty. They never clean around this stuff.

This is nuts. These are the bedrooms. Look at the little village along the bottom of the bookcase and cabinet.

Here's a nautical-themed bath.

They made this M&M bedroom into a laundry room I think that's a w/d in the closet.

This is crazy. Most of the bedrooms are unrecognizable. This table isn't even for a train set- it's just some kind of a scene.

Clearly, they don't use this bath.

There's a large deck.

And a narrow deck continues around the house. Looks like a pond next door.

Under the deck, a narrow patio area.

Play area.

Garage and shed, plus a fire pit area.

Oh, there's the pond.

The triangular property is 4 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/8096-Township-Road-90-Ada-OH-45810/97144687_zpid/

#mid century modern home #maximalist homes #cluttered homes for sale #houses #house tours #home tour

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niteshade925 · 4 months ago

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April 14, Xi'an, China, Shaanxi History Museum, Qin and Han Dynasties Branch (Part 1 - Political Structure, Laws, and Military):

This was the final museum I went to while in Xi'an, and despite its name, it is not the Shaanxi History Museum/陕西历史博物馆. It is a new branch that's in a separate location from the main museum, so it's also referred to as the "Qin/Han Branch"/秦汉馆 (ugh I wish I could've gone to the main branch), and the museum building and its gates were supposed to imitate the look of Qin/Han-era palaces. It was raining cats and dogs the night before, so the ground still bear traces of that. I had fun though.

This museum doesn't have a lot of unique artifacts that other museums don't have, but instead focuses on the political structure, thought, life, and technologies from Qin and Han dynasties, so there were a lot of tables, maps, and diagrams in the museum. I will only be giving a brief summary of each thing here so these posts won't get too long (and take too much effort to make). If you understand Chinese though, these may be helpful worldbuilding references.

First is a rough timeline of the history Qin dynasty (221 - 207 BC) to Han dynasty (202 BC - 220 AD) (right side of timeline) and how it fits within the overall ancient world history (left side of timeline) in the same time frame, just as a general reference so museum visitors can have an idea of when these dynasties and events took place. The timeline included events starting from when Qin was still a state (Warring States period, 476 - 221 BC) until after the end of Han dynasty (Three Kingdoms period, 220 - 280 AD; and Western Jin dynasty, 265 - 317 AD). Here, 公元元年 means 1 CE/AD, so 公元前 means BCE/BC, and 公元 means CE/AD. Also I know the left side is hard to read, sorry about that, it was easier to read in person. There is a key at the bottom though:

A diagram of the Three Lords and Nine Ministers system (三公九卿制) that was used as the central political structure of ancient China during Qin and Han dynasties, which was replaced by the Three Departments and Six Ministries system (三省六部制) in Sui dynasty (581 - 618 AD). There are many translations for the same positions, here I used what I think fits best for each position.

The Three Lords/三公 are (left to right on chart) : the Imperial Secretary/御史大夫 (handles the audit system and helps the chancellor), the Chancellor/丞相 (helps emperor handle national political affairs), and the Grand Commandant/太尉 (helps emperor handle military affairs).

The Nine Ministers/九卿 are (left to right): the Minister of Finance/治粟内史 (oversees public finance and tax system), the Minister of the Imperial Clan/宗正 (handles affairs within imperial clan), the Grand Herald/典客 (handles foreign policy), the Minister of the Guards/卫尉 (controls imperial guards), the Minister of Justice/廷尉 (oversees judicial system), the Minister of Attendants/郎中令 (controls palace guards, oversees imperial household, serves as imperial advisor, etc.), the Minister Coachman/太仆 (oversees the care, training, use, and purchase of horses; horses were an important resource in ancient times), the Lesser Treasurer/少府 (oversees the emperor's personal finances and some taxes), and the Minister of Ceremonies/奉常 (handles official ceremonies, worship, and rituals, oversees court astrologers and court scribes/historians).

Qin and Han dynasty bureacratic systems. Right is Qin dynasty's system of commanderies/郡, counties/县, townships/乡, and villages/里 (levels of local government from highest to lowest). Left is Han dynasty's central government system, which designated the Three Lords and Nine Ministers system as the Outer Court/外朝 (executes policies), and added a Central Court/中朝 (decides policies).

A list of the 48 commanderies during Qin dynasty and their locations today, grouped by where they were located before Qin dynasty (for example 7 of these groups were states during the Warring States period). A few of the names of these commanderies continue to be place names today, and some others often make appearances in modern novels.

The Recommendatory System/察举制 of Han dynasty, which was how officials were selected. Basically this process consists of a few steps: first the emperor would set what categories of talents are needed, then local government would recommend people to the central government accordingly. The emperor would ask the recommendees how they would deal with current issues, and then gave them positions based on how good their policy ideas were. Ideally the local officials would be impartial with recommendations, but in reality the local officials often belonged to powerful local clans, so these recommendations gradually became a way for the powerful clans to stay in power. This system was replaced by the Imperial Examination System/科举制 in later dynasties, which put more emphasis on exams as a way to select talents.

The locations of Qin and Han dynasty national temples, sacred mountains, and sacred bodies of water on a modern map. Of these, the temples marked in yellow were the temples dedicated to eight deities worshipped by the state of Qi, so they are collectively called the Eight Deities of Qi/齐地八神. Although the state of Qin eventually defeated the state of Qi, worship of these deities continued through Qin dynasty into Han dynasty. The temples marked in red were dedicated to deities worshipped by the state of Qin. The temples marked in purple were temples built in Han dynasty. The sacred waters are marked with wavy lines. The sacred mountains are marked in light blue-gray (a few are outside of this picture). MDZS fans may recognize Qishan/岐山 on this map, and Three Kingdoms enthusiasts may recognize jieshishan/碣石山 as the place Cao Cao visited when he wrote the line "东临碣石，以观沧海" in his famous poem.

Replicas of a small part of the Qin-era bamboo texts found in a tomb of a Qin dynasty official at Shuihudi (睡虎地秦简). The originals are at Hubei Provincial Museum/湖北省博物馆. Many of these texts concern laws and decrees of Qin dynasty, and in another tomb in the same area there were also the oldest letters ever found in China (link goes to the full digitized text). These bamboo slips are meant to read from top to bottom, right to left, and the construction of bamboo scrolls are actually the very reason why Chinese texts read this way traditionally even on printed texts during later dynasties.

This was something I'd written about in the MDZS posts a few years ago, and now I've finally seen the real thing with my own eyes: the Tiger Tally/虎符 (I translated it as "Tiger Amulet" in that post but in fact "Tally" is the correct translation). Tiger tallys have two halves, each with gilded gold text upon them. This particular artifact is the left half of a tiger tally from late Warring States period (state of Qin), and reads:

"This is a tally of the armed forces, right half goes to the ruler of Qin, left half goes to (the official of) Du county. When the need to dispatch armored troops of over 50 soldiers arises, this half must find the other half held by the ruler in order to authorize this military activity. In case of emergency, there is no need to wait for this authorization." (“兵甲之符，右才君，左才杜。凡兴士披甲用兵五十人以上，必会君符，乃敢行之。燔燧之事，虽毋会符，行殹。”)

The different currencies (coins) of the states of Warring States period:

The different coins and coin molds during Qin and Han dynasties:

Left: Han dynasty disk-shaped gold ingots; these were rare currencies at the time and were mainly exchanged between the imperial family and nobility as gifts. Right: a standard weight from Qin dynasty that reads "weighs 30 jin/斤". Since Qin dynasty unified systems of measurements, and this weight is known to weigh 7.5 kg, we can easily convert the Qin-era jin to the modern kg (1 Qin-era jin = 0.25 kg).

Terra cotta soldier and horse from Qin Shihuang's mausoleum. As some people have pointed out, these terra cotta soldiers were fully painted and colorful when they were first excavated, but when exposed to air, the paint quickly peeled and the colors faded, leaving the sculptures in their familiar clay-color. Few of these sculptures still have their original colors intact, thanks to preservation efforts. The immense difficulty of preservation is also a reason why modern Chinese archaeology has that rule of "don't excavate unless absolutely necessary".

A Qin-era bronze jian/剑 (double-edged straight sword) from Qin Shihuang's mausoleum:

Left: Qin-era bronze spear heads and a pi/铍 head (on the right; pi is a type of ancient Chinese polearm). Right: Han-era ring-pommel dao/环首刀 (dao is a single-edged sword that can be straight or curved; interestingly, many ring-pommel dao artifacts exhibit a forward curve). Ring-pommel dao continued to be used in the military after Han dynasty.

A suit of armor made out of stone from Qin Shihuang's mausoleum. These armor sets weigh about 18 kg or 39.7 lbs each, which is........actually not too bad. There are specialized armor sets in later dynasties that can weigh 30 kg or 66 lbs.

#2024 china #xi'an #china #shaanxi history museum qin and han dynasties branch #chinese history #qin dynasty #han dynasty #warring states period #three kingdoms #history #archaeology #mdzs

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beardedmrbean · 3 months ago

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DOLTON, Ill. (WGN) — Self-proclaimed “Super Mayor” Tiffany Henyard is taking her threats against opponents to a new level: Threatening them with arrest.

“I will be seeking arrests for individuals involved,” Henyard said during an hour-and-a-half long Facebook Live broadcast. “I will be pressing charges. It’s a lot. And that’s just me telling you a little bit.”

However, Henyard didn’t specify what crimes she believes were committed. The social media stream of consciousness occurred Tuesday evening following a Thornton Township trustees meeting that was cancelled officially due to lack of quorum.

Up or down? Thornton Township meeting cancelled again after location dispute, safety concerns

“All this pointing the finger at Tiffany — or lying on me — I’m over it. Now it’s time for me to speak,” Henyard said on Facebook. She accused her opponents of a “power and money grab” while promising to reveal evidence at an unspecified later date.

WGN Investigates reached out to Henyards attorneys, who she claimed afterward, asked her stay silent. Neither provided examples of the alleged corruption or explained why Henyard might believe her opponents can be arrested and charged.

This isn’t the first time Henyard has promised – and failed – to deliver proof of her opponents’ corruption or her own vindication. She has previously promised to “spill the tea” on a short-lived podcast. She also went on a brief national media tour that backfired and cost taxpayers.

Faced with fury over spending, Henyard went on media tour — and billed taxpayers

Meanwhile, Henyard and her boyfriend are the subjects of an eviction lawsuit by the owner of the home they share in Dolton.

“I think in her mind she feels she’s untouchable, which is a problem,” landlord Genetta Hull told WGN Investigates.

Hull said she’s known the Henyard family for twenty years and assumed the mayor and township supervisor would be reliable tenants. Now, Hull said she fears losing the home to foreclosure.

Henyard and her boyfriend Kamal Woods — who makes $100,000 a year running violence prevention programs for Thornton Township — have failed to pay several months of rent after objecting to an increase caused by property taxes, according to Hull.

“I have other bills. I have a child to take care of. I can’t afford to pay for where you live! You’re making $375,000!” Hull said.

Henyard’s attorney, Max Solomon, declined to comment beyond saying he would represent the couple in the eviction case.

WGN Investigates has documented lavish spending, first class travel and questionable expenditures under Henyard’s reign in Dolton and Thornton Township. The FBI has served subpoenas and continues to investigate.

One of Henyard’s top allies on the township board recently resigned and another, her former assistant Carmen Carlisle, has turned against her, resulting in Henyard losing control of the township board she once dominated.

Henyard is facing a similar erosion of trust in the Village of Dolton where she’s the mayor. Dolton trustees have taken control of meetings and moved them to a park district building.

Henyard was recently boo’d as she left one of those meetings after arriving late. She unsuccessfully asked a Cook County judge to invalidate meetings that don’t occur at village hall.

#nunyas news #oh how fun

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krsnaradhika · 1 month ago

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can you please educate me on what the waqf board is? Asked my dad and did not understand a thing

According to this website, and many more:

What is a Waqf Board?

A Waqf Board is a legal entity responsible for managing waqf properties and ensuring their use for intended religious, pious, or charitable purposes. The term “waqf” originates from the Arabic word meaning “confinement” or “prohibition.” The board administers and oversees the proper maintenance and use of waqf assets, which include mosques, graveyards, orphanages, schools, and other institutions serving the community.

Now, what else does this board do?

Recently it claimed the land of 103 farmers. It is the third largest land owner in India, the first and second being the Railways and the Defence department. It claimed an entire village in Telangana, as well as one in Bihar. They say they're taking back the lands Muslims once donated, but that's what they say.

The Waqf Act was first passed by Parliament in 1954. Subsequently, it was repealed and a new Waqf Act was passed in 1995 which gave more powers to Waqf Boards. In 2013, this Act was further amended to give unlimited powers to Waqf boards to snatch anyone’s property, which even could not be challenged in any court of law.

Simply put, the Waqf Board has unlimited powers to claim properties in the name of Muslim charity — a power that no other religious body in India enjoys.

Instances of misuse.

• In the Avinashi case, as per revenue records, 216 people from Devendrakula Vellalar community were given free patta for over 6.3 acres of land in Devendran Nagar in Cheyvur in 1996. But the beneficiaries are now worried about the ownership of the land as the Waqf Board, in a letter to sub-registrar offices in Avinashi, Thottipalayam, and Joint I and Joint II sub-registrar offices of Tiruppur district on August 8, claimed around 93 properties on certain survey numbers in Avinashi and Tiruppur as Waqf properties.

• Thiruchenthurai, a village located on the Cauvery river’s bank in Tiruchirapalli district, also has a 1,500-year-old Sundareswarar Temple. Villagers are now wondering how the Waqf will claim ownership of this property as well.

• The Supreme Court recently held that in the absence of any proof of dedication or user, a dilapidated wall or a platform cannot be conferred a status of a religious place for the purpose of offering prayers or Namaaz. The decision came as a big relief for the Telangana government, as the state had subsequently leased out the land for setting up a university, township and other institutions of repute. The state government had appealed to the Supreme Court after losing out before the Andhra Pradesh high court in April 2012.

• The Rajasthan Board of Muslim Waqf has been requesting financial assistance from the Rajasthan government in order to pay its workers’ salaries. This is in strange contrast to the fact that Waqf Board has more than 18,000 properties listed across Rajasthan and it generates income from more than 7,000 properties.

• The Tamil Nadu Waqf Board has claimed ownership of the 1500-year-old Manendiyavalli Chandrashekhara Swami temple land. The temple has 369 acres of property in and around Tiruchenthurai village in Tamil Nadu.

• In 2021, Waqf Board wrote an application to Gujarat High Court, staking claim on the ownership of two islands in Bet Dwarka in Devbhoomi Dwarka. An irate court, however, refused to hear the application.

So uh, it's a bunch of people trying to instigate communal violence. The Hindus better look after this thing imo. This is why the waqf amendment bill is necessary. This board need not have so much power in its hands, and as India claims to be a secular state, no religious body should be having so :)

#waqf board #waqf properties #waqfbill #waqf amendment bill #tamil nadu #bihar #hindublr #hinduism

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dinoberrypress · 11 months ago

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The story of Little Wolves, our folk-tale TTRPG, is about The Enchanted Forest, its denizens, and the courts they fill. Throughout your adventures, you’ll meet wonderfully strange folk and aid them, and sometimes even their queens, in all kinds of tasks and favors.

Why is it the wolves who carry out these tasks? Well, that’s a story for another time.

During your journey in The Forest, you’ll find dens, circles, cottages, villages, townships, huts, treehouses, cabins and more all connected by road, path, trail, and wanderlust.

The various communities of The Forest are dedicated to taking care of each other and the woods they call home. They work together to ensure needs are met for themselves, their neighbors, and the world they all share.

There’s no end to what you might find on your adventures in The Forest, so be ready with an open mind and a ready heart. Remember, while the moon shines with light and hope, there’s plenty of darkness to discover between the trees.

If you want to learn more, follow our project on Backerkit and be ready for our May 14th crowdfunding campaign!

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whatavery · 10 months ago

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Ordained Defiance Ch. 1

Finally, after weeks of buildup, finally I can start posting this very special story. Of all the characters in Lackadaisy, I really wanted to create some Abelard content, because I love him.

So what better way to do so than to write a little fanfiction featuring him, his family and my OC? A slow-burn story set in the small town of Defiance, Missouri...

For the first chapter, I present you with an image of my new OC alongside Abelard!

This lovely piece here was drawn by the amazing @mergestucs1!

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With the sweeping, green hills, the freshly sprouting leaves on the trees and the mostly clear, blue sky, Defiance was beautiful in spring. The air was getting warmer, but the breeze still had a sharpness to it whenever it graced Abelard’s face. It was a Thursday morning like any other as he made his way into town on foot, the apricot-furred cat enjoying the spring weather. Abelard's shoes dug into the dirt road that led the way through the small town that was Defiance. Granted, it really wasn't much of a town (it was closer to a village, if anything) given how small it was, and how much distance there was between the homes here.

The lean reverend took long, fast strides, walking with purpose. His morning strolls generally took him all over Defiance. He started at home and took the scenic route out to Defiance General, going through the small community and finally ending by the church.

He'd left the store just minutes prior, having stopped by the outskirts of town to see the shop owner. It was usually his first stop these days. Most days Mr. Weaver was up and working early, despite his age. Abelard always did make sure to purchase something when he visited, often in the form of cigarettes or other small items, usually something edible. Sometimes he brought home bigger items such as potatoes and the like.

And Abelard would, of course, gladly take on Mr. Weaver in a round of chess when time allowed it. Reverend Arbogast usually wasn't one to turn down an opportunity to spend time with the locals. It was part of his daily routine, making sure to visit with members of their little community. Though he didn’t personally visit each and every inhabitant of the small town, he made sure to at least greet them whenever possible, whether by the church or around town.

The man running Defiance General was one of the few that Abelard regularly visited personally. As reverend, Abelard saw it as part of his job to maintain a good relationship with said community; it was what the reverend before him had done. And it was what he’d taught Abelard; it was any reverend’s job to spread the word of the Lord and maintain good relations to those who believed, and even those who didn’t. After all, it was how a man of faith might help others see the light.

And as village minister Abelard didn’t just do services in the church on Sundays. Of course, that was part of the job; he took care to preach to his fellow man, woman and child. Though it had been a while since the last time, he had also done confessions and he’d heard quite a number of things. But as was his sworn duty, he’d never disclosed this to anyone; it was for him, the Lord and the sinner to know.

He’d been doing this job for decades at this point, and everyone in Defiance, and the nearby townships, that was part of his congregation, knew him. He'd established a good trust and good relations with the community, but it had taken time.

The township of Defiance primarily consisted of a small collection of farm buildings and barns around a main road that stretched through the small town. Defiance General was the primary place to do shopping for those who didn’t wish to travel further away by car, where they had more options. St. Louis was about forty miles away and Abelard himself hadn't made the trip there in quite some time. He was content in this small town where he'd grown up.

The town itself had a few things of note, despite its small size. For one, there was a local mechanic, though it wasn’t really a proper business, just a farmer who knew how to handle cars and other machinery. It wasn't so unusual to see him taking a look at someone’s vehicle, just as he was today. The farm house he lived in with his family was one of the larger ones on the side of the road that Abelard walked on. The barn door was open and the tuxedo cat could be seen fiddling with the engine of one of his neighbors’ cars.

As Abelard passed, he was spotted by the mechanic, who wore messy overalls over his clothes. He waved to Abelard as he passed. “Good morning, Father Arbogast. How do you do?”

“I’m quite well, thank you,” the lean cat called back in a proper tone. Abelard waved back as well, and offered him the slightest of smiles. Abelard was clad in all black from top to toe; black shoes, black pants, black jacket, black hat. The only article of clothing Abelard wore that wasn't black was his white button-up shirt under his jacket. “I hope you are as well.”

Though not a man who smiled much, nor a man to whom smiling came naturally, Abelard still did his best to be personable with the locals. At least for the most part. That wasn't to say he was all-smiles around them all the time, far from it. Father Arbogast, as he was most often called, had quite a reputation for being a man not to cross. It wasn't often, but he’d had to tell local children off more than a few times, using the colorful language he had become rather infamous for. And for the most part, it worked. He’d even had to tell off their parents on occasion.

Children as well as their parents knew to respect him and that was how Abelard liked things to work. Abelard was never one to shy away from doing such things if someone were to do or say something morally apprehensive.

Abelard didn’t linger around too much as he continued down the road.

The houses around the main road were generally large, quaint farm houses, many of them quite old with a fair bit of distance between each one. Defiance had never had a large population. Abelard knew they currently didn’t even amount to a hundred. The entire community could fit inside the church during services, even despite how small the church was. In the open area of Defiance, they had a few small businesses, such as a post office, an inn and a carpenter who also did metalwork on occasion. There was also a single bookshop and of course, further away there was a train station with its depot.

The businesses were mainly being run out of people’s homes, further adding to the feeling of a small, tight-knit community amongst the locals.

The area all around was wide and open with small groves and forested area nearby fencing in the majority of Defiance. The rolling hills and fields all around offered space for farmland, like the cornfields near Abelard's home.

The cornfields had gone from being harvested for food to also being harvested for more unsavory reasons in recent years. He'd been there for it all, as the changing political landscape of America had ushered in changes to his life. Not just his life either; Abelard also knew the unspoken truth that farmers both in Defiance, as well as all over the country, were doing the very same thing.

Abelard had spent most of his life in Defiance, as had many of its inhabitants. He'd traveled to visit nearby towns and cities, but home was always here. For better and for worse. But the small town of Defiance needed him. The Lord’s work was never finished until the day of reckoning and Abelard intended on continuing to spread the word of the Lord till his last breath.

He knew that there was no such thing as a one-man army when it came to his job. Abelard wasn't entirely alone; he spread the Lord’s word, he preached to warn of sins and temptations in the hopes that his congregation would help spread the same message. It was the point of preaching at all to begin with, to spread the word of the Lord, to help enlighten and to save as many souls as he could.

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil… That part of the Lord’s Prayer had taken on a new significance to Abelard just a few short years ago. The nation-wide prohibition on alcohol had changed so much for so many people, again for better and for worse.

For Abelard? To him the very idea of stripping away a source of temptation in such a way was an affront. It had never been something that sat right with him; Abelard knew so many who saw it as removing the very option of giving in to sin from their lives, but Abelard privately saw it as a disruption to the natural order of things.

If anything, it seemed to have inadvertently added a whole new caliber of trappings into the lives of many. Abelard knew as much, being an initially reluctant participant in the illicit alcohol business.

But alas, here he was; illegal liquor had paid for much of the maintenance around the church and the town. Abelard knew that the cursed liquid would go on to add temptation back into the realm of the living – of the souls who would eventually need saving. Abelard knew that the very allure of the illicit only made sin all the sweeter to the ones who chose to give in to it.

But in the end, he knew that the truly good people would make the right choices, even with temptation in their lives. God would forgive sins, and although Abelard too would do his part to make sure people would not be led into the many pitfalls in life, he knew these complexities to be a necessary evil to separate the righteous from the wicked.

But Abelard kept these views to himself and a very select few close to him.

Passing more homes on his way, Abelard spotted more people who were getting their days started; a woman looking after the small garden around their front-porch where her small children were playing; a young couple leaving their driveway together in a car. Once more Abelard offered waves on his way, even if the children seemed rather frightened of him. He didn’t mind, of course. There was a fine line between fear and respect, and Abelard hoped they would learn to walk that line well.

If nothing else, Abelard hoped the younger generations would be given the chance to grow up with all of life’s complexities; the good, the bad and the tempting, all ever-present. Their parents (and he to some extent) would need to arm them to face the many trappings of life, and never stray from the righteous path. Whether they'd succeed or not was ultimately in their own hands.

All he could do was hope for the best… And hope that they may never get involved in unsavory business like his family.

Being in the liquor business had proven to have more downsides than upsides to Abelard. He resisted the urge to spit on the ground, to curse the names of those he'd had to deal with, as he continued on his way. Lackadaisy, Marigold, they were both the same to him; bands of immoral, cutthroat criminal that needed him and his kin for liquor and nothing else.

Though Abelard had no qualms with partaking in the making and smuggling of the liquor, dealing with others in the business had been less than pleasant. All the trouble that had come with it… It had cost him an organ player as well. Little Defiance had been the scene of some gruesome acts of violence, which Abelard still found unsettling to think about.

And that was despite all he'd seen and heard in his fifty-two years on this Earth.

Leaving the main residential area, Abelard passed the single inn that the town had. It was a small, family-owned place, a decently popular location that Abelard had visited many times. It was a two-story farm house where the family lived on the upper floor and the inn itself was located down below. It was one of the popular places for members of Abelard's congregation to end up after service on Sundays.

After passing the road that would take him towards the Arbogast Funeral Home, Abelard made his way past a tree line and out to another open area. The wide, open space was fenced in by trees from all sides, and the nearest farm houses could look right up to the white church with its single tower and tall spire that pointed straight to the Heavens. It was a relatively new church,; Abelard recalled in his youth that his parents had remembered the time when it was still newly constructed. Since it had been finished, it had been the church his family would visit for services every Sunday morning, and eventually the one that he himself would be the reverend of.

It wasn’t large and grand, but it was beautiful. All-white exterior, the church had two small steps leading up to the two tall doors out front with one short, wide transom above it. Further above the window as part of the tower was a clock, a relatively new installation. On either side of the large doors was a window, each larger than the one above the door, with a grid-like frame holding many small panes of glass. Each side of the church had four similar windows lining the walls, always making sure plenty of light could shine inside. The dark roof was angled upwards, the front merging into the small tower. The tower itself wasn’t that much taller than the roof, a small platform housing a thin, eight-sided spire reached higher than the roof, ending up in a sharp point.

There was always something to be done around the church, always something new to worry about, surprisingly so for such a small town. The illicit, ill-gained money helped keep the church in pristine order, and while they were currently out of a steady organ player, Abelard had other things to worry about. The groundskeeper was looking to retire. He was old and he had been looking after the grounds since before Abelard became the village minister. Just looking for a new groundskeeper would be a a mild challenge in the small community. Just something new for Abelard to figure out in the near future. Hopefully, the current groundskeeper would stick around long enough to find a replacement, so they wouldn’t leave the grounds unattended.

As a brisk morning breeze ruffled his facial fur, Abelard arrived by the entrance to the church grounds. The church was right by a crossroad; corn fields to one side, open stretch of grassland with graves on the other. The cemetery had expanded since the church’s founding, of course. Being framed in by the farmland, there was only so much space that could be used for graves; further away more grave sites had since been established.

No one was around at this time of day and as Abelard made it up the small steps to the large doors, he removed his hat and stepped into the Lord’s House.

It wasn't a very spacious interior, being a small church, but the space available had been optimally used. Stepping onto the wooden floor, Abelard walked up the aisle by himself. On each side of him were pews that could house the entirety of Defiance’s population during services, and there was even room for more people from neighboring townships. And in part owing to the small size of the church, Abelard had mastered utilizing the building’s acoustics to let his voice carry from the altar to the very back of the church, for all to hear.

Behind the last pew on the right side of the church, a small spiral staircase led up to a small landing above the entrance. This was where the organ was located, overlooking the small church’s interior. Abelard admittedly didn’t spend much time up there, nor did anyone else these days. The landing was close to the ceiling, which was painted blue like the sky outside, but even a man as tall as Abelard could comfortably stand up there without bumping his head on the ceiling.

Abelard made a mental note to attempt to send for a potential organ player in the nearby townships. He might even have to send for someone living further away, such as over in St. Louis…

The wooden pews that stood in rows on either side of the aisle were painted white, like the walls surrounding them. There were two windows up ahead flanking the altar, right across from each of the windows on either side of the door. Perfectly symmetrical. Along with the four windows on each of the church’s longer sides, plenty of light always poured in through these in the daytime hours. The same went for the circular stained glass window up above the altar close to the rounded ceiling. And of course, once it was dark, the multiple bronze candelabras on the walls and the large ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling in front of the altar would help keep the building illuminated.

Abelard stopped before the altar, right below the chandelier and closed his eyes for a moment, just enjoying the peace and quiet that the church offered him at times like this. The tall, lean cat had a white podium off to his left, where he would stand to preach and speak during services, facing the congregation.

Leaving the altar, Abelard slowly made his way back outside again, casting a glance out at the woods in the distance that served as the natural fence for this part of Defiance. Leaves were sprouting from the branches and the grass all around was starting to look as green as could be, it was a beautiful sight indeed.

The dirt road leading to the left from Abelard's vantage point led up towards where a small part of the cemetery was located. Further away along the road that ran along the side of the church was the Arbogast Funeral Home. It hadn't always been a funeral home, as it was these days; it had also been Abelard's childhood home where he’d grown up. He’d inherited the place from his parents and now it was also where he conducted his other ventures, including more unholy business.

Glancing up the path towards the cemetery, Abelard put his hat back on. The nearby funeral home would prepare the dead for burial, the church would hold a funeral service and the dead would be buried in the nearby cemetery. It truly was an efficient, albeit morbid, little system.

Abelard’s own parents laid buried there as well, as did other past inhabitants of Defiance and the nearby area. Growing up so close to not only the church, but also the cemetery had made Abelard’s skin crawl as a young boy, but these days the thought didn’t bother him at all.

The area outside and around the church was beautifully maintained, the grass kept short, the nearby trees kept healthy and the paths kept clear and clean. The morning sun’s rays casting a brilliant light over the trees’ fresh leaves, and the blades of grass, only added to the place’s natural beauty.

It was going to be a tall order to find someone new who cared about looking after the grounds this much. But Abelard had no doubt in his mind that he’d find the right person for the job, as was his responsibility. Odds were someone in town would be willing to do it – it would be easier and more efficient to not have to call in someone from out of town. Abelard knew he shouldn’t keep putting it off.

After enjoying a bit of time to himself, Abelard let out a content sigh. But he knew he ought to go about his business once more.

Turning back towards the church, however, Abelard spotted a single figure lingering by the white brick wall to the left of the church doors. He squinted slightly. He didn’t recognize the stranger at a glance, in part due to them facing away from him, apparently glancing out over the cornfields nearby.

The stranger turned their head as Abelard got closer, and already Abelard didn’t get the best first impression of them, noticing the way they were leaning on the church wall. They were practically lounging, like the church was their personal property.

“Ah, hello… Reverend Arbogast is it?” The stranger sounded uncertain as he spoke in a surprisingly soft voice. The Turkish Angora stood just a couple inches shorter than Abelard, his fur a grayish off-white color all over. His ears were particularly fluffy, though his fur overall was short, yet fuzzy. He had bangs reaching down to his eyebrows and the tips of his ears had white tufts on them. Very unusual.

Behind him he had a particularly fluffy tail that drooped ever so slightly. He wore a dark gray sweater with a thick, folded collar and a pair of blue denim pants. The right knee of his pants was torn open, his white fur showing through.

“Yes, how can I help you?” Abelard asked, his blue eyes taking in the stranger before him. Abelard's tone was polite, but slightly stiff. He didn’t recognize him, and yet there was something familiar about him at the same time. Abelard guessed he was likely from out of town – he made it a point to know everyone in Defiance, after all.

The stranger left the wall and approached Abelard, his fluffy tail fur swaying in the wind. Eyes met, sky blue and minty green, and Abelard noticed the younger cat had a face with soft, rounded, almost slightly… feminine features. The stranger held out his white-furred hand. “Well… I was just looking around a bit. I haven't seen this place in a long time…”

“You’ve been here before?” Abelard asked in surprise as they shook hands briefly. He squinted slightly at the white cat. Again, he got the sense that they’d met before…

“Oh, I lived here a decade ago, before I- Well, I moved out a long time ago.” The stranger’s stumbling didn’t go unnoticed by Abelard, but he was more so intrigued, though perhaps a touch suspicious as well…

Abelard still fixed the stranger with some amount of dislike, which based on the look on the younger man’s face didn’t go unnoticed. “Hmmm, I don’t recognize you… I know everyone in Defiance. What’s your name, young man?”

“My name’s Cainan – Cainan… Wirth.” Once more Abelard couldn’t help but feel as though something was wrong. The stranger seemed hesitant to give his name, which only made Abelard all the more suspicious of him. However, his name did stir something in Abelard – that sense of familiarity.

“Wirth? With an ‘i’?” Cainan nodded at this, though he didn’t meet Abelard's eyes when he did. “I see… Well, I might have known your parents in that case. Harold and Gabriela Wirth, correct?”

Abelard could see Cainan's face tightening at this, but the younger cat nodded. “Yup, them’s the ones. I was planning on visiting them after I’m done here, actually.”

At this Abelard raised an eyebrow as their eyes finally met again. He wasn't sure what Cainan's situation was, but this was… curious. For a number of reasons. The least of which being: “Well, they moved away a few years ago, if I’m not mistaken. They have not called Defiance home for a while.”

Cainan blinked up at Abelard with those pale green eyes. “… Oh.”

Was that disappointment Abelard heard in his voice? Or was it relief? Abelard genuinely couldn’t tell. The older reverend frowned down at the white cat. “You didn’t know…?”

The younger cat didn’t answer right away. Abelard could tell he was thinking hard about what to say. What was he up to exactly? He hadn't immediately struck Abelard as a troublemaker, though the way he hung around outside a church did seem suspicious. Abelard cast a glance over Cainan's shoulder towards the area beside the white building, which seemed to be quite untouched. When he glanced back at Cainan, the younger cat seemed ready to speak.

“Well, to tell you the truth, Reverend, no, I didn’t realize they'd moved. You know where to?” he asked. Again, Abelard found it curious how he spoke with the tone of someone just asking for the time; not with the tone of someone urgently needing to know the whereabouts of their parents.

“Hmmm, well, I don’t recall, I’m afraid,” Abelard told him calmly, though he watched Cainan closely, his gaze fixated upon the younger cat to wait for a reaction. Abelard had his suspicions, but he wanted to see just how Cainan might react to this information. To his surprise, the younger cat barely seemed to react at all – he just nodded slowly.

“Ah that’s alright. Guess I’ll try and ask around town,” was the response Abelard got, a surprisingly casual response. Now he was certain something wasn't right here.

“Were you hoping to run into them here?” The longer he spent in Cainan's company, the more Abelard could start to see some family resemblance. While he couldn’t say he'd been close with the Wirths, he still partially remembered what they looked like. He could see aspects of both Cainan's parents as he remembered them, when he gazed upon the younger cat before him.

“I suppose, yeah,” Cainan replied, his tone carrying that same casual carelessness as he spoke. Cainan seemed to hesitate for a moment, clearly thinking about… Honestly Abelard wasn't sure what was going through the young stranger’s mind. “I suppose I really just did come looking for you.”

“I guessed as much,” Abelard admitted, nodding slightly as he crossed his arms. The way Cainan had greeted him had indeed made it seem like he’d been waiting for him. Whatever this young cat could possibly want from him, Abelard didn’t know, but he was willing to hear him out. “So once more I ask you, how can I help you, child?”

Cainan’s left ear gave a small flick, possibly out of annoyance, though his facial expression didn’t show any signs of it. Abelard didn’t think calling him a child was unfair; he was young, clearly, though Abelard didn’t know quite how young. Perhaps he was older than his youthful face made him seem. “Well, I decided to return to town and, well, I’d like to do some work while I’m here. I’d like to… stick around for a li’l while.”

This was certainly a surprise to be sure. It wasn't at all what Abelard had expected of the young stranger, the reverend frowning slightly. He sighed. “Hmmm… And why didn’t you simply head into town and ask around? And why weren't you just honest from the beginning, young man?”

“I’m sorry, well, I figured this way was easier – I heard you were the village minister, so I figured… Actually, maybe this was a dumb idea.” Cainan suddenly seemed to change his mind mid-sentence. The younger cat shook his head and made to leave. “Sorry to waste your time, I should just drive-”

“Now hold it just a minute…!” Abelard put a hand on Cainan's shoulder to stop him in his tracks, gripping him firmly with his slender fingers. Cainan turned to look at up him, apparently surprised, his white eyebrows raised. “Slow down and explain yourself. I can’t figure out where to put you, if I don’t know where you came from.”

“So, you will help me…?” the Turkish Angora asked hopefully, his ears perking up immediately. Abelard let go of Cainan's shoulder and stared at him in disbelief. Had he been hoping for this kind of reaction…?

“I asked you to explain yourself. We shall see if we can find a solution to your predicament once I know everything… And I do mean everything.” Abelard had a feeling Cainan just might be a troublemaker, but of a different sort than the kind he had encountered before. He gestured towards the church with some apprehension. “We can step inside and talk, if you'd please.”

Cainan turned towards the church with an equal amount of apprehension of his own. He bit his lower lip and seemed to consider this for quite a little while. He awkwardly hovered around where he stood, though he didn’t step towards the church. “Uh… maybe we could talk out here? Or we could go for a walk? It was a long drive here, I’d like to just stretch my legs a little bit.”

Abelard thought it curious that he'd mentioned a long car ride, seeing as there wasn't a car around to be seen nearby. He looked at the younger cat, eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Oh, I drove into town, but I walked here,” the white cat hastily added, apparently not ignorant to the doubt written all over Abelard's face. The white cat offered a would-be innocent smile, but given the hasty way Cainan had offered up a rather flimsy explanation, it didn’t make Abelard trust him any more. “And besides… I haven't really been in Defiance for years. You could show me around… Please…?”

Abelard scowled at the shorter cat, crossing his arms again. Cainan continued looking at him with that would-be innocent smile of his, but Abelard saw right through it. Whatever he was playing at, Abelard wasn't going to let him win. He knew for sure he didn’t want to participate in his little games. But if he wanted to stick around and work in the town he grew up in… Abelard supposed it wasn’t the worst thing to want, even if he was being deceptive about it. Still, something wasn't right about Cainan…

“Very well, we can walk together,” Abelard finally agreed, though he still scowled at the younger cat. Cainan on the other hand seemed perfectly pleased with this outcome. It indeed seemed like this was the outcome the younger man had desired.

As the two of them left the church grounds and walked up to where the two roads outside the church crossed, Abelard couldn’t help but feel like this was all an elaborate rouse. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Cainan was trying to manipulate him in some way. His intentions sounded innocent enough on paper, but the way he went about everything didn’t sit right with Abelard. “Now, young Mr. Wirth-”

“Ugh, no… Just call Cainan… uhm… please. Reverend.”

“Well, Cainan… If you wish for me to… potentially assist you with your plight, I must ask you a few things. And I ask that you return the favor by answering my questions honestly.” Abelard turned his blue-eyed gaze upon the other and fixated him with a scrutinizing look. “Do I have your word?”

“Of course, I’ll be… honest.” The hesitation made Abelard scoff and offer Cainan a side-eye as the two walked down the dirt road together. “No, sorry, I mean it. I’ll be honest – I swear.”

Abelard still scowled, but he ultimately nodded, breaking eye contact to look ahead. The two walked along the road that ran parallel to the church’s front door. They moved in silence for a few seconds as Abelard gathered his thoughts. He still wasn't at all sure what to make of Cainan. He didn’t appear very trustworthy; the way he spoke, his closed off body language from the way he slouched and the way he shrugged so often. Abelard very much felt that the answers he got from the white cat would prove whether he was to be trusted or not.

“So, tell me: when did you move away? And how come your parents didn’t contact you to let you know that they'd moved themselves?” Abelard decided to go for two big questions back to back. When he looked over to Cainan on his left, the younger cat did indeed seem taken aback by the questions. Abelard simply hoped he'd honor his promise and tell him the truth.

“Ah… Well, those are very good questions…” Cainan replied hesitantly, looking away at the cornfield they walked past. Abelard could tell he was stalling to answer, and he was starting to feel rather annoyed with Cainan already. Though the scowl on his face didn’t go away, Abelard calmed himself the best he could, and just waited. “Well, to answer the first one, I left town when I was… I think fourteen. Thirteen? Around that time at least.”

“Really now? And how come you decided to leave Defiance then?” Abelard wondered aloud, and he couldn’t help but privately wonder if Cainan had run away. It seemed unusual to travel away alone at such a young age. But all the same it seemed so unlikely; from what Abelard remembered of the Wirth family, they were a respectable sort, a good family with good values. They were people of faith and everyone in town seemed to like and admire them.

At least if Abelard's memory served him correctly…

“Oh, I needed a change of scenery.” Once more, Cainan appeared so casual. He stuck his hands into his pants pockets, looking completely unbothered. He still slouched a bit, whereas Abelard took proper strides, back as straight as a board. “Small towns like this are nice, but I wanted to see more of what the world had to offer.”

Abelard had to admit, the younger cat’s answer had surprised him. Assuming it was the truth, he couldn’t help but find it almost admirable to want to experience things like that at such a young age. Perhaps that was how his parents had raised him?

Of course, being out in the world meant temptation. How old was Cainan now? Abelard wasn't sure, but if he left about ten years ago, perhaps… Ten years was a long time… Who knew, maybe Cainan was older than he seemed at a glance. “And where did the road take you then?”

“Oh, here… there… all over the place.” Cainan offered up another casual shrug, Abelard feeling a twinge of annoyance shooting through him at the sight. “I started going from town to town. I traveled down south for a bit, then over east to St. Louis for a while. Never really out of state, though.”

“And now you’ve returned home.” Cainan glanced on over at Abelard in a manner that told Abelard all he needed to know. The look told him far more than the young cat likely meant for it to; he didn’t like the idea of referring to Defiance as ‘home’. Although he said nothing, it was written all over the younger cat’s face. “And what did you do while you were away exactly? I take it you must have done some kind of work to get by, have you not?”

Cainan nodded as they approached the treeline that bordered the fields near the church. Past the treeline there would be yet more farmland with more houses and more of what Defiance had to offer. “I did a couple different things. Factory work, courier work, personal driver, everything in-between, really.”

It was of course a very vague list, but Abelard supposed if he truly was that versatile and had gotten a lot of experiences in his time away from Defiance, he might just fit in after all. It shouldn’t be too hard to find something for him to do at least; Abelard was sure he (or at least the locals) might be able to find a niche for the Turkish Angora to occupy. But of course, that was all up to the community and how well he got himself reintegrated with them.

Defiance was a small, small town, but there should be room enough for one more – it might even help that he grew up there. Abelard wasn't sure if anyone would remember the white cat, but perhaps if they did, that might ease the transition.

As the two of them reached and passed the treeline, they also reached a more densely populated area. This was of course relatively speaking as the buildings scattered here still had a considerable amount of distance between them. Cainan glanced around with considerably more interest than he’d shown up until that point, his green eyes taking everything in. “Ah yeah, I do remember this place… a little. It hasn't changed that much from what I remember…”

“Suppose there’s not too much of a point in showing you around then. Hmmm, let’s see… If you left some ten years ago, I suppose you may not have seen that we have a bookstore now, have you?” Abelard asked as they approached the nearest building. He didn’t remember exactly when the bookstore had been opened, but he was fairly sure it must have been after Cainan left home.

“Oh, I don’t think so, no. I might have to stop by later,” the younger cat said. Abelard thought it might be the first time Cainan said something genuine. At the very least it seemed more genuine than anything else he had said up until that point.

Out here, there was more open grassland, less of it dedicated to farmland, more of it just simple grassy, green hills that rolled along the beautiful landscape. While there was distance between the homes here, they were closer in proximity than some the farms around the church. Cainan looked around curiously as the two of them continued along the dirt road. “Ah, I recognize some of the buildings.”

“So, where are you staying exactly? I take it you’re not staying in your parents’ old home. Are you renting a room at the inn?” Abelard inquired as they neared the very same inn on their stroll. Although it was one of the larger buildings in town, they only had two rooms they rented out, seeing as Defiance didn’t see many visitors, usually. It had a seating area inside for guests to sit and dine as well.

“Oh, no, I’m not. I’ve already got a bed with my name on it,” Cainan replied vaguely. As the two of them passed the inn and approached other houses, a few people took notice of the strange duo.

Abelard would nod in greeting to them, but he could tell people were curious. “And where might that be? If you’re planning on working here, I think we ought to make sure you don’t have to commute back and forth…”

“Ah. Well, I’m staying on over in Cottleville, it’s not too far.” Abelard watched Cainan closely, trying to see if he was being honest. He had a difficult time with this young, white cat; he was easy to read at times, yet other times, such as now, Abelard hadn't the faintest idea what he was thinking. His face was neutral, blank like a fresh new canvas, not showing a single discerning emotion.

“I see. I suppose that isn't too bad as far as distance is concerned,” Abelard reluctantly agreed as they continued on their way. He fell silent for a moment, the older cat needing a moment to think things through. They passed by the post office on their way.

It was another business that had had its start in someone’s home, albeit a house considerably smaller than most of the others. A single-story house where the very front had been converted into the post office where letters were sent and received daily.

Abelard privately thought that if anyone had kept in touch with the Wirths, Cainan may be able to get their new address and send for them… if that was even something he wanted at all. Abelard had gotten the distinct feeling that perhaps there was some unpleasant history between Cainan and his parents.

“So, say if you were to stay here, what work would you be willing to do?” Abelard finally asked after a brief of silence. He fixated the white cat with a scrutinizing stare once more. He supposed this too might reveal a bit about Cainan's current situation, as well as his character.

“Oh, anything and everything,” the young cat said almost lazily. “I did do food service for a while, but I don’t know if the inn would need to hire any help. I don’t know what else there would be around here. But I suppose I’ll just have to find out.”

Anything and everything was a very wide spectrum, and Abelard wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. It could mean one of two things to Abelard; either Cainan truly was incredibly versatile and not at all picky; or he was desperate. Abelard supposed that regardless, it shouldn’t be too hard to find something for him to do.

“I really ain’t too fuzzy about it. Maybe I’ll just stick around for a few days and see what happens.” Cainan cast an inquisitive glance back over his shoulder towards the post office. It was one of the first buildings one would encounter when entering Defiance from the direction they were going. “Hmmm…”

“What is it?” Abelard looked towards the building as well, then looked back at Cainan. He raised an eyebrow curiously.

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just considering my options,” the younger cat replied with a shrug. Cainan pulled his hands out of his pockets and cracked his knuckles rather loudly, before resuming his slouching posture. “So, hmmm… anything else you want to know about me?”

Abelard could tell Cainan was hesitant, and odds were he was only asking to be polite; it was clear to Abelard that Cainan was being secretive on purpose. Whatever it was, the younger cat did indeed seem to hide something, though perhaps he just simply didn’t enjoy sharing. Abelard supposed he couldn’t blame him there.

“So, if you’re staying somewhere over in Cottleville, are you a permanent resident there? Or what is your living situation? I’m trying my best to understand here…” Abelard had a feeling he knew the answer, but he needed to be sure. That was assuming Cainan chose to answer truthfully, of course.

“I’m… more or less homeless at the moment,” Cainan admitted, looking up at Abelard. Their eyes locked again and Cainan just gave a small smile when he saw the look on Abelard's face. “It’s alright, I’m managing just fine for now.”

Abelard watched the younger cat for a moment as they continued on their way. He wasn't so sure; being a young man without a job and a home didn’t seem like he was managing. He supposed if he had money saved up that was one thing, but he also didn’t know for sure. Abelard's eyes drifted down to the torn knee of Cainan's denim pants. That seemed like something he could and would have fixed if he’d had the funds for it.

Although Abelard didn’t want to give Cainan too much just yet (in case he was the type to take an arm, when offered a hand) he couldn’t help but feel as though he ought to do something for him. As untrustworthy as he’d been acting up until this point, Abelard thought that perhaps he was making light of his own situation to make it seem less severe. Perhaps a coping mechanism of some kind.

Nevertheless, the two of them continued along the road. They didn’t speak too much outside of Abelard explaining which buildings were from after Cainan had left town, which seemed to be a good number of them. Even with Defiance’s small population, there ought to be quite a few new faces among them now, at least for Cainan who had been gone for so long.

The two had made it all the way to the road sign that would first greet those arriving in Defiance, at which point they turned back. They’d ended up further from the residential area and closer to Defiance General.

The post office was the first building of significance they reached on their way back. A decently sized building with just one floor, a quite scenic one given the open field behind it. Abelard knew a local artist had once painted a beautiful piece featuring the post office and its backdrop. It was, in fact, iconic to the residents.

Glancing through the main window as they passed, Abelard offered a wave to the local postman, Mr. Lang, who was working inside. The gray tabby offered a wave back, though he cast a curious glance at Cainan, who seemed to be glancing the complete opposite way. He almost seemed to willfully try to ignore the post office’s existence.

“Would you like to go inside? Perhaps we can ask if there’s work to be done in the post office.” Cainan turned towards Abelard again and looked apprehensive at best.

“Oh, uh… Yeah, we can head inside,” the younger cat replied, speaking with a similarly apprehensive tone, his eyes not meeting Abelard's. Abelard raised an eyebrow curiously. For someone who said they’d take on anything and everything, this was a curious reaction, when the very prospect of a potential job was brought up.

What are we going to do with you? Abelard privately wondered as he stepped up to the post office’s door, looking sideways at the younger cat. Abelard knew next to nothing about him at this point, maybe Cainan truly was doing better than he appeared to be.

He was an enigma, this one…

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy fanfiction #lackadaisy oc #oc x canon #Abelard Arbogast

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darklordazalin · 9 months ago

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Azalin Reviews: Darklord Frantisek Markov

Domain: Markovia Domain Formation: 698 BC Power Level: 💀💀⚫⚫⚫ Sources: Neither Man nor Beast (2e); Ravenloft Third Edition; Domains of Dread (2e); Realms of Terror (2e); Gazetteer II (3e), Fair Barovia Dungeon Magazine #207

Franktisek Markov is the Darklord of Markovia, a heavily forested island with the scatterings of a few small, abandoned villages reclaimed by nature; “Fran’s” manor; and the aptly named Monastery of Lost Souls.

Franktisek grew up on a small pig farm outside of the village of Vallaki in Barovia. This was after von Zarovich became a vampire and started all this nonsense with these Misty prisons. He married Ludmilla, a young woman from Vallaki and opened a butcher shop there. Franktisek enjoyed the act of slaughtering his pigs, though the act itself was not enough for him and in time he began to experiment on the animals. He performed amputations, skin grafts, glandular injections and became fascinated with the results. I’m not sure where he learned the art of surgery…it is not as if Barovia is known for its education system nor pig farmers for their collection of books. I digress, when his wife discovered his grim experiments, she threatened to leave him and inform the villagers of what he was doing.

Overreacting to this threat, Markov made Ludmilla his next experiment and performed numerous surgeries on her over the course of three days. She died on the third day, her body now resembled an animal more than a person. However, once the villagers realized the truth, they chased Markov into the Mists and Markovia formed.

The Markov Manor was eventually claimed by Thaani refugees from Bluetspur and the echoes of Markov’s past deeds upon Ludmilla had some…well, let’s just say interesting effects on the Thaani.

Before the Grand Conjunction, Markovia lay where the Shadow Rift now lies. Now Markovia has been transformed into an island west of the township of Ludendorf in Lamorida on the Sea of Sorrows. This transformation of Markovia is quite suitable for our transformed Darklord. Once a man, Franktisek is now a beast with the face of a man, forever searching for his lost humanity.

Franktisek continues his experiments on Markovia. Capturing various species of animals and transforming them into beasts with human-like features. Every attempt he sees as a failure as they have not sufficiently shed their animal side. These “Broken Ones” roam the island and worship Franktisek as a god, referring to him as “the god who walks among us”. Though I believe the Vistani have a better name for him: “Master of Pain”.

Any humanoid that finds themselves on Markovia will likely end up in Markov’s lab, where he transforms them into humanoids with beast-like features. He does not use any anesthesia, so these ‘surgeries’ of his are quite...memorable.

Markov can take on the form of any beast, though always retains his human head and face, which is as ridiculous and terrifying as it sounds. He tends to take the form of an ape, believing it makes him look more human. Perhaps there are no mirrors on the island so he can see how much that is not the case?

#ravenloft #azalin rex #darklordreviews #dnd #Frantisek Markov #Markovia #let's make the island of doctor moreau but worse

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heirbane · 3 months ago

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Okay, since I'm afoot, here's a tl;dr of Gaius's journey post ARR:

- HW: recuperating for the majority of Heavensward. if you want a specific time frame, I'd say his recovery took him close to a year with the spotty medical treatment he received. Unbeknownst to him, he was barely out of Eorzea, let alone far removed from the rubble of Praetorium for many of those weeks until he was stable enough to move around.

After that, Valdeaulin took him to the outskirts of Ala Mhigo, holing him up within one of the territories that Valdeaulin believed Gaius had released Black Rose upon. He fully intended to make the man suffer and rot there, to make him see the results of his actions, but soon found out that Gaius had not been the one to unleash the Black Rose - and had actually fought the Empire's use of it.

STB: from the edges of Ala Mhigo, Gaius and Valdeaulin meandered to Werlyt. They picked up Severa along the way, fleeing a platoon of soldiers that were stationed in Terncliff. Valdeaulin catches Gaius skulking about one night and threatens to disembowel him, as he thinks Gaius is attempting to escape his shackles. It is only then that Valdeaulin - and, as an extension, Severa - learn of the man's many children, all of them native to Terncliff. He had hoped to gather information about the occupation and the state of his children, as he assumed they were still stationed within Werlyt.

After Gaius's honesty, Severa is more forthcoming herself, and explains her own platoon had just come to replace those who had been ferried back to Garlemald to continue the Weapons project. Gaius's children, likely. While his loyalty to the Empire had been shaken by Ascian involvement, he still had hope that his brethren - when not under mind control or having their bodies puppeteered - would treat his family with respect.

In the mean time, he learned from Severa that the Garleans had furthered their expansion into Doma, and that she believed another shadow worked behind the scenes. They traveled abroad, visiting villages and townships while avoiding Kugane all together, given the presence of the Garlean Embassy. It is on the Steppe, in the desert lands that ripped away from their grasslands after the fall of Dalamud, that they track down an of Ascians and kill them.

SHB: the Ascian let slip their intent, as is their common folly: to rid the world of it's aether, in the hope that it would be a sizable offering for their God on the moon. They had another area they had been investigating, dubbed the Burn, and a second shadow remained there. Gaius and co traversed to the Burn, taking in it's horrific lack of anything living, and from there, ran into Alphinaud and the Scions once again. He learns of Zenos's death, of the liberation of Ala Mhigo and Doma.

It is during his confrontation with the Scions and the Alliance that he gets further information about the reality of the Weapons project. Maxima, a Garlean who had defected, spoke of the man now at the helm of the issue: Valens van Varro. Furthermore, steps were being taken to reignite the Black Rose, and whispers among the highest ranking soldiers said that Zenos's body had been puppeteered by another Ascian. He pairs up with Estinien to infiltrate the Capitol of Garlemald, lay waste to their Black Rose reserves, and find out the fate of his godson after all.

After they laid waste in the Capitol and Gaius hears the horror that Estinien had faced, Gaius is more certain than ever that his children are in danger under the Weapons project. However, Valdeaulin has only proffered him time away with Estinien: should the dragoon return to him without the Garlean, Valdeaulin would follow him to the ends of the earth until he is able to kill the man. It is with great trepidation that he returns, holding his worry and fears close to his vest... until the Warrior of Light returns to the Source, and he rallies his pride to ask of them a favor.

#hw spoilers #stb spoilers #shb spoilers #wounds tw #trauma tw #ⅹⅳ tertius oculus ( hcs. )#kidnapping tw #torture tw #emeto tw #murder tw #uh.#massacres tw #my timeline may be off. ive not replayed anything but h.w lately so pls forgive m3

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highqueenofelfhame · 2 years ago

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a/n: if you've been here for awhile or read through my masterlist, you might remember this one. it became a fan favorite but it was written when i first entered the fandom and there have been things i wanted done differently. things i wanted to rewrite or write better. so i'm doing it. it'll be the same story you love, if you love it, just better, longer, more thought out. a lot will stay the same but alot will change. if yu're wondering what the fuck i'm talking about, a rough version of this story exits on my masterlist titled "all i ask of you." anyway. i hope you enjoy this.

rowaelin // 5.8k words // masterlist

Sweat trickled in little streams down his back, gluing the tan, standard-issue shirt he wore to every dip and curve of his torso. On most assignments, Rowan Whitethorn didn't mind his uniform. Generally speaking, the material was lightweight enough in most climates that they stayed comfortable. The boots were heavy, sure, but they were comfortable.

In the middle of the desert, he hated all of it. The best time of the day was when he took it off to duck under a cold shower, then crawled into bed in nothing but his undershorts. Unfortunately for him, that was a long way off. The sun scorched them to the bone, and the slight breeze did nothing but send sand whirling through the air.

When Rowan got out of the Red Desert, he never wanted to see a single grain of sand ever again.

He walked down the street to the two small houses they used as a base. If anything, they were more akin to rundown shacks in a shanty town, but it worked. One was used for communications, and all their tech was set up throughout various rooms. They took turns on night watch, monitoring the cameras and comms for anything that looked amiss.

The other house was where they ate, bathed, and slept. Nobody had a semblance of privacy here, save for the shitty little bathroom. All the men but Lorcan doubled up in the rooms and slept on glorified cots every night, often mumbling to their roommates to stop tossing and turning. Their beds tended to creak and groan with every subtle movement. On bad days, tension soared until they inevitably went outside to beat each other senseless in the form of hand-to-hand combat practice.

The houses were on the outskirts of an impoverished chunk of land that couldn't even be considered a village at this point, though once upon a time, it had been a well-populated township. Now there were just rundown buildings and dilapidated houses that people crammed into for shelter. Less than two thousand people remained living in the desolate stretch of desert. All of them were skin and bones, the malnourished ghosts of who they used to be.

Over their last few months of being abandoned in the Red Desert, they learned that the breadwinners of the family, usually men, pedaled bicycles to the surrounding towns for work. A few of them were forced to walk, which was a feat in itself– the closest town was ten miles away and would take them well over two hours to arrive. Rowan had also learned, mainly from the children, that the ones that walked stayed in cheap inns during the week if they could afford it. Everything else was funneled into food and any other necessities they required, including running water that they really only used to cook and bathe.

Most of the women homeschooled their children to the best of their ability. Generally, they could read, write, and perform basic math. Much else was lost due to the lack of accessible tools for anything beyond that. Rowan had an intense respect for the people that dwelled here and did their best with what they had.

On the other hand, he could kill every government official who continued to leave these people behind. There was no excuse for such an extreme display of poverty in this day and age. It was made worse by how kind the people were. They lived in the worst conditions they had ever seen, yet still found joy in the little things.

Case in point: a few of the kids that Rowan gave the candy from his MREs to were chasing a soccer ball around the makeshift pitch Fenrys had built for them. He and his twin brother, Connall, were playing with the gaggle of teenage boys and girls, their bright laughter chipping away at his frozen heart. It had been long since anything had threatened to thaw his frozen core, but those children whooping and hollering got to him.

Rowan lifted a hand in greeting, shaking his head but offering a tight smile when they shouted for him to join them. If Lorcan hadn't summoned him, he probably would have. They had done a fat lot of nothing today besides trying to stay out of the sun. Rowan had only left the communications house less than an hour ago to stretch his legs.

Once inside, he found Lorcan sitting at the desk in the room they considered their office. It wasn't much more than a couple of chairs and a folding table, but it got the job done. Rowan rapped his knuckles against the door frame as he entered and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest.

"You wanted to see me?" There was no point in bothering with formalities unless people outside the Cadre were around. They rarely pulled rank amongst themselves. Rowan was second in command, but they usually viewed it as a partnership more than anything else.

"Yep," Lorcan exhaled, putting his pen down and bracing his arms on the edge of the table. Every muscle in his face was tense, down to the feathering of his jaw as he eyed Rowan. This didn't bode well. Whatever he was about to say wasn't good. There was no light hiding in the shadows of his dark eyes. Lorcan had a shit poker face when it came to bad news. With a jerk of his chin, he added, "Sit down."

"What happened?" Rowan slid into one of the folding chairs across from him and braced his hands on his knees.

"We're going to be a team of six again, starting tomorrow morning." That was all? That didn't seem like the tragedy he looked ready to drop on Rowan's head.

They used to be a group of six until Gavriel retired last year, and they still weren't used to being down to five men. While each of them brought forth their strengths and balanced out their weaknesses, an even number of people made things easier on missions because everyone could be paired off into two teams. During their last few, they had all wished for that extra body. Having another person would be great, especially if he was skilled enough to keep up with the rest of them.

Though several special ops units existed in the Terrasen Navy, Rowan's was the most elite and the smallest. Every other team had at least a dozen men assigned to it, but it wasn't necessary with the Cadre, the name Rowan's ex bestowed upon them. All of them were over six feet tall and corded with muscle. What they lacked in numbers, they made up for in skill. There was a reason they didn't push to replace Gavriel when he retired. Nobody else was a match for them in any capacity and would have been in the way more than anything else.

"Why don't you look happy about it?" Rowan asked, relaxing a bit and leaning back in his chair. Lorcan looked like he was grinding his teeth to dust and savoring the pain that came with it.

"Because I'm not."

"You had to approve it. He must be good enough to hold his own with the rest of us." His commander wouldn't accept anyone unless he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could do his job with expert precision.

Lorcan scratched his jaw, nails scraping against the stubble he hadn't bothered to shave away that morning as he said, "It’s not a he.”

Rowan’s blood turned to ice in his veins so quickly that he shivered for the first time in several months. Every hair on his body stood at attention, skin pebbling down his arms, shaking his head in a single sharp movement as he ground out, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to know who she was. Her name had been whispered up and down the grapevine over the last few years as she quickly climbed the ranks. At this point, she was almost as decorated as he was, and he had been at it for three years longer. Thousands of women served in the various military branches, but only one had ever been good enough to break the glass ceiling and become a Ghost Leopard.

The Ghost Leopards were Terrasen’s most elite special operations unit. No other military group came close to the skill and drive they had. Most people didn’t even try to join— the physical, mental, and emotional strength demanded was too much for many to handle. Rowan’s unit was the best the Ghost Leopards had to offer.

Rowan knew she had been part of two different ops teams, but never in a million years did he think she would join his own. Not because she wasn’t good enough. There was no question in his mind that she didn’t belong. Lorcan disliked the woman on a good day, yet he had approved her joining the Cadre after putting personal bias aside.

No, she had definitely earned it; he could admit that much. Rowan had just doubted that she would ever want to share any amount of oxygen with him ever again. Her assignment to the Cadre likely hadn’t been her own idea. Whoever initiated it must well and truly detest Rowan, though. The gods were playing a cruel, sick joke on him.

Lorcan’s features were frozen with tension, lips curling at the corners in distaste as he said, “Aelin Galathynius arrives tomorrow.”

~*~

All five men stood in a straight line, feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind their backs. They had decided on the dressed-down version of their uniform, foregoing the over shirts with patches, ranks, and names on them. They each wore the same tan t-shirt tucked into pants in a multi camouflage pattern in shades of brown. It perfectly matched the sandy ocean they were trapped in.

Heavy black boots anchored Rowan to the ground while they watched the helicopter land a few hundred yards away, kicking up enough dust that they were all happy about the sunglasses and camouflage balaclavas they wore. Without them, the sand would be in every fucking orifice for days on end.

The newest member of their team finally hopped out, landing with feline grace. To anyone else, she would have been unrecognizable with her face and eyes covered. Not even her hair peeked out as she walked toward them, heaving her bags higher on her shoulder. Rowan would know her anywhere, though.

It wasn’t until the helicopter returned to the skies and the dust settled that she finally pulled her balaclava down around her neck to expose her face. The aviator-style sunglasses stayed perched on her nose, and though her hair was slicked back into a bun at the nape of her neck, the golden strands still shimmered in the sun. The only difference in her uniform was that she wore her blouse with the sleeves rolled up and over her elbows. Seeing her like this made his vision cloudy at the edges, the memory of their first meeting creeping to the forefront of his mind. He forcefully shoved it away.

The sixty seconds it took her to be within ten feet of them seemed to happen too quickly and in slow motion all at the same time. No emotion flickered over her face, not even her mouth, which usually wore a smirk. Aelin Galathynius was all business.

Hearing her name multiple times in the last twenty-four hours had his mind twisted around itself in a tight knot he couldn’t unwind. Typically, everyone avoided bringing her up when they could, yet now he was seeing her in the flesh for the first time in years. With his heart trying to break his ribs, he was surprised that he heard Lorcan call her by her last name when she stopped before him.

It probably killed her to do it, but she saluted him the way she would any other commander. Lorcan gave her a nod in return, and her body relaxed. Aelin’s bags slid from her shoulders and landed with a thud on the ground at her feet. Rowan heard her sigh for the first time in ages as her hands dropped to her hips, and she gave them all a once-over.

Light and mischief danced in her fiery blue gaze until she looked at him. Any semblance of emotion flickered out like he’d extinguished the fire that burned within. It wasn’t the first time he had seen her eyes look so damn empty when turned on him. Her dead gaze yanked him two and half years in the past, holding him at gunpoint as he remembered the first time she had ever looked at him that way.

“I promise. Okay?” Rowan’s hands held Aelin’s cheeks like she was the most precious thing in the world to him because she was. It didn’t matter what he said or did, though. That heavy sadness wouldn’t dissipate, and she wouldn’t look at him.

“Rowan, I told you–”

“Baby, it’s the last one, and then I’ll take a job in the city, and it won’t be like this anymore. It’s going to get better, and we’re going to be okay.” He only had minutes left with her, and he hated wasting it like this. It would have been better spent sharing kisses or with him exploring her body to prove how much he loved her. Instead, when they woke up, Aelin had retreated so deeply within herself that he didn’t feel like he could reach her.

“You’ve said twice now that it was going to be the last time. When is it actually going to be the last time, Rowan?” Gods, he really didn’t want to fight with her before he left.

“This is the last deployment I’m going to make,” he swore, and he meant it. He’d already told his commander, and as much as he had hated it, at the end of the day, Lorcan understood. “I don’t want to fight with you right now.”

“I wanted you to stay and pick me for once, so I guess neither of us is getting what we want, are we?” The look in her eyes wasn’t one he’d ever received from her. There was no warmth of love, just a distant chill that felt so tangible goosebumps crawled along his skin.

“Aelin,” he sighed, tugging her until he could wrap his arms around her even though she tried to resist. At complete odds with her expressions and words, her arms tightened around his waist, and she fisted his jacket in her hands. Like this was their hardest goodbye yet, she refused to let him go.

They stood like that for several minutes, Rowan’s lips pressed to the top of her head while he breathed in her scent one more time. Nothing ever came close to how much he missed her when he was gone. Every deployment, he took something of hers with him, falling asleep to the faint scent of jasmine until time washed away any sign of its owner.

“You’re going to be late,” she finally said, pulling back and wiping her face with the back of her wrist.

“This is the last time,” he swore for a final time, taking her face between his palms and wiping at her cheeks. Aelin nodded, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder.

“Yeah. Okay.” The goodbyes were always hard, but this time was different. A warning bell was chiming in the back of his head, but he pushed it aside. They made it through everything else over the last five years, and they would pull through this, too.

“I love you.” Rowan kissed her, his heart shattering at the feel of her quivering mouth against his. A sob slipped out of her lips, her shoulders caving in. Aelin shook her head, letting it fall to read against his chest. “Hey. We’re okay.”

They were. It was an argument they’d had over and over for the last few years. While Aelin loved active duty, she had taken a desk job a few months ago when they had agreed that when Rowan got back from his last deployment, it was his last. Lorcan had begged him for one more tour because Gavriel was talking about retiring, and he didn’t want to lose them both at the same time. The day Rowan returned and told his girlfriend he was doing one last twelve month deployment, it immediately became a fight that wouldn’t end.

Aelin was twenty-six and genuinely loved her job, but she had wanted to start planning their future. Rowan was twenty-nine, and while he did want those things, he still wanted to keep building his legacy and rake in every ounce of glory while he still could. He wanted nothing more than Aelin, and he knew they could stick it out for one more year. They were strong enough to handle anything thrown at them. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

While the fighting had led to a lot of high tension in their house, they still loved each other at the end of the day. Even when it was hard, and they went months without hearing each other’s voices or seeing one another, they shared such a rare, blinding love that nothing could fracture it.

“I love you,” he said once more, kissing her trembling lips and wiping her tears away.

“I love you, too.” But her eyes didn’t meet his, and it was the image of her crying in the foyer that chased him into fitful sleep every night after.

~*~

“Aelin Galathynius,” Fenrys drawled, shaking his head as he took her in. Over the formalities of the situation, Aelin pulled off her sunglasses and dropped into a low bow with her arms spread wide. As soon as she pulled her eyes from Rowan and looked at their mutual best friend, she grinned.

“At your service,” she crooned with a wink. Down the line, Rowan snorted and turned on his heel, just about stomping the entire way back to the house. Aelin’s eyes rolled, and Fenrys held his arms open for a hug. With a squeal and a joyous giggle, she ran for him and leaped into his waiting arms.

“As soon as Salvaterre said we were getting a sixth again, I fucking knew it was you.” His voice was low in her ear as he spun them in a circle, finally putting her feet back on land so she could hug Connall and Vaughan. Aelin made no effort to further engage in conversation with Lorcan. They tolerated each other on a good day, and he was still watching Rowan as he disappeared into what she assumed was their living quarters.

“I missed you the most out of everyone,” she told Fen as he hefted her bags over one shoulder and threw his other arm around her to lead her toward the house.

“Even more than you missed Whitethorn?” It was a joke, one that wasn’t rewarded with laughter but by a swift jab to his ribs. He winced, lips pulling into a harsh frown. Aelin couldn’t help it. She smiled.

“Is he still being a bitter asshole?”

“Worse, if you can believe it,” Connall chimed in. A sigh was desperate to creep out of her lips, but she swallowed it down. She knew when she got the assignment that it wouldn’t be easy for her, Rowan, or anyone that had to be in close proximity to them. Aelin also knew that she could check the baggage at the door when it came down to doing their jobs. In their downtime, however… She was making no promises.

“We cleared out a room for you. Fenrys can show you which one,” Lorcan shot over his shoulder as he walked past them, headed toward the house next to the one Rowan had entered.

“I don’t need special treatment just because I’m a woman!” Lorcan merely waved dismissively over his shoulder and slammed the front door behind him.

“I promise there is no special treatment here in Hela’s fucking armpit,” Vaughan mumbled, nudging her with his shoulder as he brushed past. Indeed, it seemed their living quarters were a far cry from her house in Orynth. Not that the barracks or living situations on special missions were ever anything to write home about, but this was particularly shoddy.

Fenrys led her inside, gesturing to each fixture in the common areas and trying to sell them for far more than their worth. It wasn’t the worst place Aelin had ever lived in her decade-long career in the military, but his jokes had her in stitches by the time he led her to her ‘bedroom.’

Really, it was more of an oversized closet with a cot, a chair for a nightstand, and a single light operated by a cord that dangled from the ceiling. Someone had put a small fan on top of the chair that she turned on to test the airflow. Beneath the cot was just enough space for her to slide her bags, and the door shut almost all the way. It refused to latch, but you win some and lose some. It wasn’t the worst and definitely beat sleeping outside or sharing a room with any of the boys. Aelin had spent enough time with military men to know they smelled horrible.

Not that she smelled like jasmine at all hours of the day, but the women tended to try a little harder than the men did. It didn’t matter that she knew all of them personally. Maybe it was a little sexist, but she stood firm in the idea that women cared a little more about body odor than men.

After the grand tour was finished and she’d peeked into the guys' rooms, they walked back toward the kitchen. Aelin had arrived much later than planned, and Rowan was already preparing his MRE for dinner. The others quickly followed suit, and Fenrys knelt on the ground to dig through the box.

“Alright, we’ve got spaghetti with meat sauce, chili mac, a chicken stew, regular mac and cheese, and lemon pepper tuna.”

“Chili mac,” she said, firm in her decision. It was one of the best ones, and with their supplies looking a little low, she didn’t know how it was even an option.

Fenrys handed her the dinner, and she quickly removed all the contents. Along with the main entree, it held a few other snack items ranging from a beef jerky stick to a packet of Sour Patch Kids and a few things in between. She hummed contentedly at the fruit punch powder packet that she would most definitely add to her water.

Aelin was forced to sidle up next to Rowan to fill her pouch with water to activate the one-time-use heater that came with the meals. He said nothing as their shoulders brushed until she was finished, folding her pouch over to avoid spillage. Aelin handed her food off to Fenrys while she relocated everything else to the small table that would barely hold them all. By the time she retrieved it and took her seat, Rowan was already in his chair.

Because she simply couldn’t pass up on the opportunity, she sat next to him, not bothering to avoid their knees knocking or shoulders bumping as she settled. Again, he said nothing. Just stabbed at his own pouch of beef and barbecue and pretended she wasn’t there.

“Are you going to give me the silent treatment?” Aelin nudged his elbow with hers, tilting her head to look at him. Rowan finally relented and gave her a sidelong glance.

The others, including Lorcan, were claiming their seats. To their credit, it seemed that they were trying not to eavesdrop, but that was impossible in this house. Lorcan, however, looked ready to jump between them and dispel a fight that would leave two of his incredible assets licking their wounds.

“I was thinking about it,” Rowan replied tersely, not looking up as he shoved a bite into his mouth. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing for the last few years?”

“Ah, so Connall was right then.” Bitter asshole to his very core, apparently. Fenrys snickered at her remark beside her while Rowan tensed. Aelin could have been sitting up against a concrete wall and wouldn’t have known the difference.

“What are you missing most about civilian life?” Fen asked, likely an attempt to prevent a verbal sparring match. He popped a skittle into his mouth and settled back in his rickety chair.

“I barely remember what it’s like at this point, to be honest.” It was the truth. Aelin had thrown herself so thoroughly into work that she was only home for a few days at a time. The longest she’d been home was for a month last summer. There were days when she didn’t know what to do with herself and days when her mattress felt too soft, or the food too indulgent. Aelin pondered, mouth twisting to the side. “Usually, I would say long, hot showers. But I don’t think I’ll be craving any sort of heat while we’re here. Probably my nightgowns. I can handle everything else, but sleeping in silk is wildly underrated.”

“Can you not share intimate details while we’re eating?” Rowan grumbled. Aelin whipped her head around to look at him, her brow furrowed.

“Intimate details, my ass. You’ve literally been inside me. I don’t think it gets more intimate than that.” Had she chosen nightgowns specifically to wiggle her way under Rowan’s skin? Maybe. But it didn’t make his reaction any less stupid. “How the hell is sleepwear an intimate detail?”

Rowan opened his mouth to respond, but Lorcan beat him to the punch, looking for all the world like he should have told them to put Aelin in someone else’s company as he said, “On the topic of civilian life–”

“Please tell me we’re leaving this godsforsaken place,” Fenrys cut in, eyes wide and pleading.

“I just flew halfway around the world, and we’re leaving?” Aelin felt as exasperated as she sounded. It was a long way to travel to just turn around and head right back. She wasn’t eager to be cooped back up on any sort of aircraft so soon.

“In three days,” Lorcan confirmed, shifting in his seat to pull a roll of paper from his back pocket that he dropped into the middle of the table. Six pairs of eyes peered down, scanning the words even though it was upside down for Fenrys, Aelin, and Rowan. “I didn’t find out until this morning, or we would have waited for you to join us then.”

“What’s going on?”

“Since we’ve been monitoring the border here for months and nothing is happening, we’re more useful elsewhere. Another unit will be stationed here while we go to Rifthold.”

“What’s happening in Rifthold?” Rowan asked, leaning back in his chair. Aelin did the same while taking a swig of fruit punch, eyeing the unused drink packet from Rowan’s meal kit. It was grape, and she knew he wouldn’t drink it because it was too sweet. Maybe she could steal it when he wasn’t paying attention.

“A threat on the Crown Prince of Adarlan’s life.” Lorcan’s tone lacked inflection. He could have been talking about the weather.

“I’m all for preventing an assassination, but we’re the Terrasen military. Why are we getting sent in for this?” Vaughan had a point. A good one, too. Not that any of them were really complaining. Going back to civilization would be a damn vacation for them, the boys more than Aelin. She hadn’t been hiding in a shack in the desert for the last four months.

“Because all signs point to it happening at the summer ball, and our President, along with a dozen high-ranking officials from our government, will be in attendance. Preventing the Prince’s assassination will save their lives, too.” Everyone murmured their agreement. “We don’t know where it came from, though. Our source is unclear on that, which will be the trickier part. All signs point to it being an inside job right now because things have been intense between the king and his oldest son.”

“Dorian has been speaking out against a lot of his father’s policies. The king can’t do damage control fast enough. It was all over the papers when I was in Orynth last month. As quickly as the king puts out one fire, Dorian starts another. ‘Inside sources,’” Aelin added air quotes with her fingers for emphasis, “Claim that the king is getting really fed up. It’s causing a lot of unrest and protests among the people. More of them seem to agree with the prince than the king. It would make sense for it to be his doing.”

“That,” Fenrys drawled, holding one finger, “Is fucked up.”

“It is,” Aelin agreed. “But things have always appeared to be rocky between them.”

“We’ll be going undercover for a while. Adarlan’s government isn’t asking for assistance on the issue, probably because they’re starting it to begin with. But we aren’t willing to risk their version of ‘taking care of things.’ And if it comes down to it, President Galathynius–” Lorcan’s eyes shot to Aelin when mentioning her uncle, “–would rather save the prince’s life and risk tension with Adarlan over it.”

“Considering the King of Adarlan is a sexist, racist piece of shit, I don’t blame him,” Connall mused, letting his hair out of the bun it had been in since Aelin arrived. She agreed with her uncle. Dorian did as much as he could as a prince, but as king… He would pave the way to a better world.

“Do we have covers yet?” Rowan leaned forward, reaching for the stack of papers Lorcan had presented to them. As he sifted through them, Aelin noticed the commander’s face getting tighter with every page Rowan skimmed. Her brow furrowed as she looked over her ex-boyfriend’s broad shoulder.

“You two…” Lorcan hesitated. Almost like he was dreading the news he was about to bestow upon them. “The four of us will be blending in with the commoners. Our base will be a large manor set far enough out that nobody will notice we all congregate together.”

Beside her, Rowan went utterly rigid. If she thought he was tense before, it was nothing compared to now. The tendons in his neck were ready to snap. She swore she could see his pulse pounding in his neck as a vein protruded in the center of his forehead.

“No,” Rowan said, shaking his head and throwing the papers on the table. Confused, Aelin snatched them up to read them herself. Fenrys leaned in to read along with her, one of his fingers tracing down the edge of the page.

“It wasn’t my call,” Lorcan said defensively, right as her eyes landed on the incriminating words that had Rowan’s body taut as a bowstring.

“This better be a fucking joke,” she spat, pushing out of her chair and rising to her feet. It had to be a joke, a prank, a hazing for joining their stupid little boyband. The harsh lines on her commander’s face said it was anything but. “Married? Out of all five of you to make me pretend to be married to, it’s Rowan that gets picked?”

“We don’t know how dangerous of a situation we’re walking into.” Lorcan tried to sound calm, but his eyes darted between the former couple like they might burn down the world out of spite. Aelin was considering it. “Rowan is the best of us at hand-to-hand combat should you ever need the defense–”

“I can fight for myself. I can protect myself. Fenrys could protect me just as well as Rowan if that were truly a concern.” It was risky to shout at her commander so much, especially on her first day, but Aelin was just past the point of caring. Every fuck she might be able to give was caught in a tornado of sand, plowing through the desert in the complete opposite direction.

“You know better than anyone that Rowan has skill sets that would work well while masquerading as a Duke, just like you do for being a Duchess. Fenrys is too loud-mouthed, and the other two lack the general composure to pretend to be royal. Rowan always has the quiet, dignified mask in his back pocket. He can talk his way out of–”

“I don’t care,” she hissed, taking several steps from the table.

“Ace…” Fenrys said quietly, leaning back in his chair to grab her hand. “Lorcan has a point.”

“I know he does.” Aelin’s voice was muffled while she rubbed at her face. Nobody objected or disagreed with Lorcan’s mild insults because it was the truth. Sometimes, Fen didn’t know when to shut up, and while Vaughan and Connall could easily look the part, they were missing something that Rowan just had naturally.

When he walked into a room, he carried himself like he was important. Unlike typical royals, it wasn’t because he was looking down his nose at anyone but because he almost commanded respect from everyone. Rowan, as a royal, wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. Aelin knew that. She just wished she had more of a heads-up before getting thrown into something that hit a little too close to home where their former relationship was concerned.

“I’m sorry for yelling.” Her eyes met Lorcan’s, and he shrugged. Now was not the time for him to assume she couldn’t do her job because she was an emotional woman. It was sexist bullshit, to begin with, but her time in the military told her it’s what they all thought of the women. No matter how hard they trained or how many times they proved themselves, women were silly, emotional creatures that couldn’t handle anything.

“I expected it. I know it won’t be easy for either of you.” Aelin couldn’t hide the surprise on her face. Not the raised brows or the way her mouth parted at his words. Maybe she undersold him. Just a little. “Rowan?”

“Yeah.” The word was flat. Seeing his face wasn’t necessary to know his eyes were probably as vacant as he sounded.

“Can you handle it?”

“Don’t really have a choice, do I?”

No, they didn’t have a choice, but if it would save multiple lives, they would manage. Their tumultuous past would stay where it belonged when they were in public and doing their jobs. Maybe they would even find a way to be civil by the end of it. There was also the possibility of everything going up in flames, one violent explosion at a time until everything was burned and nobody was marked safe from the fallout.

Aelin really wasn’t sure which one it would be.

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