#† 𝓜emes ● Aƞsweɾeɗ」

[priwenshallprevail]

‘there are worse ways to die. and worse things to do than die.’

The Irishman paused mid pluck between taut string and cable pulley, peeling it aligned between oak and what looked to be brass metal wedges custom to the weaponry ; the crossbow twanged in protest, the idle wheel stiffening. Canting his gaze to spy the opposite male while partially averting from the task , his brow spiking attuned to the topic at hand. Muddling his expression in sheer defiance. Yet hues peered ruminatively at the individual. " Ya over 'ere preachin' ta tha' choir , " he tipped onto exasperating aloud. " Still .. " His nose crinkled the further he thought upon it. He hadn't known this man long, if he could even recall at all. Yet he was never one to trust someone who butted their nose into another man's business so presumptuously. His demeanor shifted wary suddenly, shoulders tensing despite the confidence he clung into wearing. " Ta die .. they say, woul'be an awfully big adventure. " Humor no doubt lilted the reply, yet crested beneath it's presentation rumbled sarcasm.

[priwenshallprevail]

COLLARED. and I OOP.

A murmuring confession to his court of mind sprung depth to what could only dub now as an asinine pursuit. Confliction broke with such admittance that it corrupted his perusal over stoic resolve whilst he took to examining what surroundings he could make sense of. Which amounted next to nothing. Darkness bequeathed his sight, hindering his perception by a mere margin of movement at time. An injury that had been a day old, but unchecked, trickled pain to root over the slightest tip within motion. Triggering the hunter to gasp over it's plight. The air was dank, rancid even, burning his lungs at cost of his involuntary intake. It's arranging factor complimented dew on objects he touched. Feeling his way around being the only sensible alternative to navigate his way out. Partially stumbling through debris he had been certain on being organic butchery. He was determined to leave. Hell bent on returning with strategic vengeance. It wasn't but two feet he had gained before he felt the air shift -- parting molecules to birth a beast of it's more sagacious yield. Before he could lift the only weapon he currently held onto, he felt ice lace digits abroad him. Corrupt him. McCullum couldn't identify the creature's full manifestation preparatory to steel captivating his neck within it's cruel vice. " Gabh suas ort féin ! " Geoffrey had hissed under surprise. Backpedaling away from it's invasive command with a hand immediately shooting for the device to find himself plucking desperately at it's crevices amid aspiration to wring himself from it. " Ye got'e be feckin' kiddin' ! " The dagger he held onto as a lifeline abruptly ascended defensively. " What good will tis do ye, beast ? ! Grow fond of me already ? " He'd snidely commended over himself falsely. Yet spit at the creature's feet to appraise the circumstance with disgust.

@devourhe

[priwenshallprevail]

“get me out of this damn thing.”

SENTENCE MEME BALDUR'S GATE 3 / PART ONE @arcanescholxr

" Or ? " He ruminated aloft jeering snort. Fainting hint of a chuckle muffled behind an upturning twitch ridge lining tiers. Gleaming sapphire hues that took the smaller male in abruptly after his bold protest broke aloud. Harnessing instigation beyond a scowl suddenly resettling of the stage; staring within canting gaze influential under chaffing demeanor.

" Perhaps ye should be a good cub and start tellin'us t'a truth, fer starters. " He defined demand with it's sharp edge conjuring the threat behind it.

Despite his strict bite, he leisurely crossed the barrier between them. Imposing a lean inward, one hand supportive along the wall next to the witch whilst his opposite embarked to retrieve a dagger from the confines of his coat. A blade he showcased deliberately in a rotating flex before the tip found it's announcing prick under his captive's chin, utilized in tilting his gaze further to greet McCullum's own. " What say ye , witch ? "

[priwenshallprevail]

😰

Meme : Send me 😰 for a glimpse at one of my muse's nightmares! @astridnorddottir ( Heads up that I will be tagging more frequently. Because I was informed by another mutual that tumblr denied their notification from my reply. They had no idea. So this will be served as a precaution. If you get a double notification from this, I am sorry. Feel free to smack me if you do. )

It would almost always commence with that false sense of security. He knew it too, yet it still unraveled him on cue as reels of the past would tear into heart strings long thought to be severed. Of times more benefiting, simple. Where love was felt and not scorned. Easing him onto it's faux sense of belonging and compassion, nurturing out toward what wound currently festers inside the Hunter; a deeply corrosive, hollowed thing that he only felt when too much silence assaulted the wall he had no choice in erecting. A wall built on cowardice. Pain. Paranoia. Or it's accompanying mask that aided in warding off what insecurities and longing crafted inside since it's fabrication. Barricading weakness within. Yet it was due to this restriction that pullulated blame, allowed it to pillar out into dreams. Churning memories into nightmares.

Ꭺ Ɲιgнтмαяє cσηcєινє∂ ƒяσм Ɯαяρє∂ Ǥᵾɨłŧ

" McCullum ! " The name rang out in an echo cast out amid it's reverberating denunciation -- it's ventilating curse which entangled the surname habitually. Prolonging the man's cry in utter impatience which had been far beyond inflamed. The elderly man would furiously throw his saddle down as he stood shouting out at a pair of boys who differentiated in age, atop a horse barebacked in full gallop, evading chase. The very sole culprits for taking off with the prized Stallion Cob he only briefly allowed out to graze. Yet his blame mostly enveloped toward the youngest of the two. For it would be the eldest that brought the animal back with sincere apologies later that evening. Geoffrey at eight years of age had simply suckered his sibling into joining him atop the beast. As means of a challenge goading toward agreement. He would only get off of the animal if Ian could knock him off.

The moment the older boy hefted half his weight along the back end of the stallion to obtain a better leverage for his younger brother, to bite into this challenge. Geoffrey regaled him with a feral grin whilst he kicked his heels directly into the beast's rib cavity. The trap sprung. The horse partially reared into a startled angled gait that gradually accumulated it's trot forward. Ian was only halfway over the back end of the animal. Struggling at this point to not be left behind. " Ná déan é sin , Geoff ! " Ian baked panic into his address. Stretching his hand out across the bulk of the croup and hip point of the equine. Hopping in between it's transitions with intent to keep his footing steady and from being completely bucked aside during the disadvantage.

" Cad atá á dhéanamh agat? " Geoffrey was on the verge of laughter, spying his brother from over a shoulder. Obtaining humor from the struggle he then witnessed.

Ian gathered enough momentum to jump and hurl the other leg around in one final attempt to acquire better holding while sliding down onto it's backside from croup. It had been when the horse bolted full speed ahead that sent the older boy teetering forward into his younger brother. In which case, they both exploded with laughter over. Succumbing to the enjoyment of a nice ride , though stolen for thrills of the moment. Laughter that only acclimated louder the minute they sped past the owner in his furious spits which did little to pursue them. It would be with such laughter that the memory would dissipate, wash from one parallel to the next. Trail into echoes, distort and ferry -- for one minute he was on horseback with his brother, Ian. Enjoying life. The next he was standing barefoot amidst a withering garden that held a stench befouling the air; one not so unlike death. Decay. The evening dreary, the cold formulating ominous clouds.

Baffled on how he ended up there in the first place. His mother a few paces from him, humming a tune he knew by heart. Her back to him. Knees dug into dirt whilst she tended soil that bled. Why did it bleed ? Staining her gown a deep crimson. "Lil' Frey, com'te give blessin' te our sown ? " Though her voice harnessed a distressing gurgle to produce aloud, she still carried that familiarity in serene promise. One gifted to childhood comfort consistent over the nickname unique only to her. Influenced by books forgotten. Her aged wonders long discarded by sailors , sold by port markets. " Where is yer dheartháir ? Where has he gone ? " Her tone wilted onto woe. " Did ye kill him, Geoffrey ? Yer own brot'er -- who protected ye when ye couldn' even protect yerself ! " Emphasis exploited her ushered emotion which warped blame. It weighed on her movement as she dropped the trowel.

Embodying the same blame he took upon himself. As it rooted. Doubt manifesting across that particular decision. Doubt that only congregated further over the introduction of a leech surgeon. One who harnessed control he had never witnessed prior. Promoting that it had been capable. Causing this reflective turmoil to grow like a tumor. When he looked down upon his dream state, his hands were often drenched with blood. Fear and confusion would nauseate him enough to constrict his throat, that he could not answer her. To provide reason. Excuse. She would turn to stand. Greeting him with throat torn to ribbons. Blood washing over the entire facade of her gown. When she spoke again, the wound would pulsate it's river a deeper shade as her vitae deadened. " He faced t'a horror while ye coward. He did what ye could not -- and ye rewarded him wit' a sword t'rough his chest . " She parted a step aside. To give glimpse of the head that was rooting into the soil behind her. His brother, Ian. Eyes wide and soulless. Flesh the color of ash. The object of that which was to be sown. To give blessing upon. " Where is his body, lil' Frey !? " She wailed , distraught. " Where is t'a rest of him -- M' precious child ! " Her movement would contort abnormally as if no muscle to gravitate effort. Drawing her to hunch before turning to fall heaped across the head of his brother. A weeping contusion of merely bones behind a canvas of flesh. A nightmare that could easily extract emotion long after it was over. To awaken drenched in sweat, his face streaked with untethered sorrow. Grief that burdens him for the rest of the day. Forever crawling at the back of his mind. Reflecting amid the tasks at hand. A nostalgia condemned abroad trauma aimed to suffocate him. Often causing him to distance himself further than usual.

[priwenshallprevail]

[ bite collarbone ]

He wasn't expecting the sharp propensity abroad flesh. Nor the prickle defining teeth before the rush they caused, a rush in which made his heart flutter. It sung to both the beast and remnants of a man he desperately clung onto. Pain and heat that made his breath hitch. Not that he needed to breathe, though old habits were merited to deceitful defense, beneficial to keep. Made him feel alive. He drew in that faux breath, shivering with such delight that his shoulder muscle flexed involuntarily. He'd result in exposing his upper chest further for her as invitation to indulge within their sin of flesh. Hands nourished by touch , yet remained calloused by a past now worn upon his immortality. Reassigned birth marks correlated to his rebirth. Stamped to his name. To his vessel. The same could be said by the scars which loitered his entire physique. His torso became this cluttered map of hunts that once came too close with ending his life; trailing from chest to back, interwoven between ribs and shoulders. A voyage of clusters that one could spy from the open wheaten dyed dress shirt he casually wore currently. Exposing a now pallid complexion within prodigious contrast to his once beige undertone.

He first greeted her cheek, drawing her up whilst floating over brow by the pad of his thumb and circulating across her jawline. Tenderly removing the strand of flame-kissed hair from her face once their eyes met. Sapphire hues with ethereal veil stared determinedly, brows buckling under turmoil as if fighting off a spell he only internally heard.

The thrumming of her bite; a siren's call however loud to the swelling transfixed by flesh , marked visibly, would only remain briefly glaring. Exteriorly it would vanish. Yet the blemish lingered amid interior fibers. It's call edged at the corner of his mind. Enticing the feral nature which resided there, desperately aiming to keep it caged.

It bewitched him to return the favor, however. No sooner pressing his nose against the underside of her jaw. He'd nuzzle down into the crook of her neck. Lips smothering her pulse with a faint kiss, one that tarried to the spot. The ache behind his gum line, the bitter cause for him in clamping his jaw taught. Tiers quivered under strain. Yet still he lingered to the spot. Unable to think perspicuously. Swift came redirection once he felt the familiar crawl at the back of his throat. The animal in him begging for a taste. Just a taste. His targeted urge for a less perilous bite once he knew temptation took reign, and his control begin to wane. The unavoidable pressure which lurched his true nature to the fore. Before he could even register his mouth was pressed against her neck side.

Canines scathed into descending across contours of flesh. Reaching her clavicle and clamping down into her shoulder over distressed strain. He bit hard and deep. The warmth which flooded his mouth had enraptured him enough to give cause for the moan against the wound he reciprocated her with. Cradling her then within arms, ushering her close. Suddenly imperative of the warmth she radiated. Or the closure of just her presence. Her affection. Her touch. Her scent. The calling of her life's essence.

[priwenshallprevail]

🛀 What does their bedtime routine look like?

sleepy headcanon questions :

I honestly did not see this one until just now. My apologies, friend. Since I've already answered it earlier. I hope you don't mind for the copy and pasted answer with maybe an added trait. --- When the drugs are not provided. McCullum tends to pace a lot . He almost never can just settle down into drifting off. Quite a bit of tossing and turning would be the initial start of finally committing to laying down. Often questioning himself if they, Priwen as a whole , could afford him taking a nap. Cause that is what it would be , just a nap, never a full restful recovery. He knows the importance of a well rested hunter. How much more arduous his work is due to this. Yet he can't seem to elevate the stress he often buries from others to hold as his own burden.

Or worse, would be him anticipating the nightmares waiting on the other side. Were he to sleep without his medication. As a grim welcoming ceremony to accompany his parallel presence across the void. Both equal out into stressing the man over sleeping all together. Or at least not properly receiving an acquired sleep. He had been known for adamantly staying up 48 hours on a hunt one time before. It was due to this particular hunt that it had become custom of his men to ask , even scold him over, if he had slept at all during the following hunts. Or long hauled operations. Even going as far as telling him he needs to go to bed. Mainly the veteran comrades, the ones who would get away with approaching their commander in such a way with less repercussions from him.

In which case, almost always , mildly frustrates him of ever having to be asked/told to begin with. When his mind is set on something, it's near impossible to steer him away from it. Until his body gives out. He can become quite an unstoppable force.

[priwenshallprevail]

💊 Do they take anything to help them sleep?

sleepy headcanon questions :

Let me be honest. He's kind of a drug addict when concerning his sleep. In some verses he will be relying more heavily on these. While others, it would be more sporadic. But his sleep patterns will suffer over the less he takes. Lucky to ever get four hours during their absence.. The nightmares, haunting memories, all would bulk more expansively, become more aggressive, vivid. He takes opium with whiskey or gin. To nullify these symptoms. Or at the very least dull them. Though he would crave Poitín more if it were easily attainable among London as it would have been in Ireland. Under the table that is. ( A very potently Irish brewed moonshine variant that was outlawed by King Charles II since the 1600s, and heavily enforced by the English well into the 1900s). Never one without the other either, and always in larger quantity during his winding down. It is during this self prescribed ritual, that he becomes a heavier sleeper. Less prone to be woken up by anyone until it's course wanes. The only method thus far of delivering him a good six hours of sleep. The man is more haunted than what he lets on. Damn good at deflecting any questions relating to these formulas too. Don't expect him to open up much, if at all, even when prodded about them.

[priwenshallprevail]

🏃 What position does your muse usually sleep in? E.g. curled up on their side, on their stomach, etc.

🩳 What do they wear to bed? Do they wear anything?

😴Is your muse a heavy or light sleeper?

sleepy headcanon questions : 🏃 What position does your muse usually sleep in? E.g. curled up on their side, on their stomach, etc. :

He sleeps on his back majority of the time. Sprawled out. Maybe one arm above his head, the other across his chest. In his deeper addressed sleep ; maybe even drooling on himself. Ever a knife/dagger under his pillow, or the mattress. A firearm almost always present on the nightstand, or occupying the space closest to the bed. This , however , is only during the comfort ( if you can even call it that ) of their headquarters. Or heavily manned hideaways. Any other time he tends to curl in on himself, on his side with his back against the wall. Protect his limbs from any sort of extensive exposure. If he even graces a bed during these expeditions. In which case he has been prone to falling asleep while sitting upright due to sheer exhaustion of his body giving out and adrenaline running low. Yet never would he allow himself to drift deep during these sets. Completely aware still of his surroundings. Again, never shy from a weapon or three bout' millimeters away, or even still having them remain on person.

🩳 What do they wear to bed? Do they wear anything?

Whatever clothes he crashes in more or less. Be it his full gear, or lesser there of. He would be more comfortable removing some particles of clothing, sure. Most comfortable with just sleeping in trousers. Especially during the summer months. The colder seasons he'd add socks, or keep his dress shirt. So it can become this completely scruffy mess come morning/night after to accommodate a rather disgruntled hunter in looking even less approachable than the night before. Some even speculate that is a solid goal of his. Practicality, he would argue.

😴Is your muse a heavy or light sleeper?

On most days he is an insanely light sleeper. Suppose it is to be expected with his line of work. The man , at the most, probably only ever gotten four hours of sleep. If even that.

On days he slips in opium and whiskey/gin as a bedside ritual. He is dead to the world and may possibly get six hours of sleep from it's influence.

[priwenshallprevail]

🛀 What does their bedtime routine look like?

sleepy headcanon questions :

When the drugs are not provided. McCullum tends to pace a lot . He almost never can just settle down into drifting off. Quite a bit of tossing and turning would be the initial start of finally committing to laying down. Often questioning himself if they, Priwen as a whole , could afford him taking a nap. Cause that is what it would be , just a nap, never a full restful recovery. He knows the importance of a well rested hunter. How much more arduous his work is due to this. Yet he can't seem to elevate the stress he often buries from others to hold as his own burden. Or worse, would be him anticipating the nightmares waiting on the other side. As a grim welcoming ceremony to accompany his parallel presence across the void. Both equal out into stressing the man over sleeping all together. Or at least not a properly acquired sleep.

[priwenshallprevail]

😔

sleepy headcanon questions : Is your muse prone to nightmares?

Absolutely ! He suffers from multiple inducing nightmares. Some so vivid under stress and emotion that the pain carries out into wakefulness. Many of the most taxing nightmares involve his brother. Or even Carl Eldritch. Others a certain leech he just can't let go, regardless of verse. They are almost ominously reoccurring , and daily at that. There is never a day/evening without them in some form or cruel jest interwoven between pitched idleness. Things , while awake , he would keep behind a mask built from stone. But during the chamber of paralytic awareness , oddly.. that mask would crumble leaving an indention, a haunted open book in it's wake.

It is due to these nightmares that he has resorted into smoking opium as one of quite a few bedside rituals. To dull them, or nullify them entirely.

[priwenshallprevail]

😴

sleepy headcanon questions : Is your muse a heavy or light sleeper?

On most days he is an insanely light sleeper. Suppose it is to be expected with his line of work. The man , at the most, probably only ever gotten four hours of sleep. If even that. On days he slips in opium and whiskey/gin as a bedside ritual. He is dead to the world and may possibly get six hours of sleep from it's influence.

[priwenshallprevail]

oh no. don't tell me it's locked. + regis proceeds to faze from his side to the other side of the door and smiles innocently and unlocks the door. "better than bashing it in, don't you think?"

The Irishman had one crook necked crowbar in hand, elevated and partially pitted into the inner folds of the door frame. Splintering upon entry. Ready to crane his entire weight against it if need be. The slightest pivot followed with straining creaks vocalizing it's oak whilst it moaned under solid objection to each inclination. Noise that halted onto silence once that verifying click forfeited his push. When the door eased open with the elder vampire on the opposite end to greet him. The Hunter met those eyes with his fortifying scowl and a swirl of frustration emitting behind cobalt blues. Bracing himself along the outer frame line, one hand dangled with the tool in tow.

An irate tick coped a brow skyward. Tiers fought taught under a rigid jawline. Allowing the hardware to slacken between his fingers; sliding a notch down from his palm whilst he drooped it low by his side. " Nn -- would'ave rat'er bashed it in, t'anks. " He delivered into agitation. As if he could still refuse the help after it had already been committed. Or imitating this harsher way to pout over it, an even greater line to protest that it was a leech aiding him in the first place.

[priwenshallprevail]

💋(?)

He really had not been listening to the Witch's drabble on past adventures, or what protests which followed that may have condemned them together. This patrol was suddenly set to be a nuisance if any. His focus sought past the smaller male -- through him even. Sapphire pools growing with intensity scaffolding behind the usual defensive scowl. He knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't need advice from the magic user. In fact , he chose to avoid all what the other male had to offer; upon what the Hunter deemed unqualified. By muting it. Or rather muffling it to become just noise. Not so much as a single grate of concession would be extended. Becoming quite the expert concerning that selective hearing, according to some.

Words excused from lips he only briefly acknowledged , as if to probe in hinting the offering conciliation branch toward silence by glance alone. Mulish frown underhanded an otherwise conjuring vacancy. Arms adjoined abroad his chest at the cost of accumulated impatience. When their lips suddenly met, however , it shook him violently back toward reality. As if the picture now suddenly bled into foreground. What time had tarried, now froze completely. When did he become this close ? With the taste of the male lingering across tiers and infringing thoughts. He almost gave into equating on the act out of sheer surprise. Reminiscing sweet nectar. He instantaneously brought a hand, if not abruptly, to Dwight's chest, urging space between them. Prodding into the chest with one opposing digit. Finalizing his gaze onto him with recuperated lucidity.

" Tat' is somet'in I don't t'ink ye truly want, cub. I'll gladly give ye a nice equivalent romp in ta sheets -- Lord knows could use a fook, me'self. " It wasn't meant to be harsh yet it still obtruded relatively bullish in advance. Oxidized along his own spine of defense regarding others getting close. Even a tad arrogant despite the hedge of secrecy regarding the homosexual endeavor ; secrecy embedded into his conscience and influencing his timbre to nearly a whisper. It could have easily became misinterpreted by those who didn't know him well.

" Te help quench yer curiosity, t'en ? I'm down fer some craic if ye are. But romance is not in ta cards. " The periphery was suggestively playful among an otherwise pliantly sarcastic with honesty, drawl. Teasing promises barely accountable if caught through hinted glimmer abroad a rather tantalizing stare.

@arcanescholxr

[priwenshallprevail]

“it is you! you came back!”

Meme : "YOU CAME BACK FOR ME!" PROMPTS

The Irishman lifted his head partially from the deserted bar's counter top. His upper body laid suspended atop the oak he earlier took a stool to attend , fishing off the other side for a bottle, any bottle. Pivoting into a sharp incline which titled his gaze back. Ascending under a more hindered stare studiously invoking question than recognition when the voice broke silence, momentarily seeking the source of it's greeting at the awkward expense of his current position.

His movement for the elusive bottle staled precariously brief. It had been a look which rendered him upon this image of being caught red handed. Nicking booze from an establishment that was clearly closed. Never they mind how he got in. " So it is .. " he pressed plainly, tampering on uncertainty. Yet the look he held dispersed into one more begrudged. Idling back into his stool. " Never left , " bridged onto an air of uncouth intrusiveness.

[priwenshallprevail]

‘actually, I’m feeling fine. better than. I feel wonderful. I feel like roses and sunshine and glitter.’

McCullum honestly had been staring the man down for sometime, under harsh scrutiny at first before the pier elements of becoming lost over such declaration manifested itself across his countenance, wore evident behind his gaze. This perplexity reflected further once he diverted his attention along the weapon strapped to his own arm. Considering it for an extensional amount of time in silence. He hadn't even reviewed what could have been wounds , or the lack there of, nor scope any sort of regeneration upon his current company before his wheels were already turning at the possibilities and accusations that often followed after witnessing such an substantial amount in tolerance for pain.

Witnessing the male brush off an array of steel shrapnel like it had been nothing, produced only one outcome in his mind. Leech ? Corroded intrusively, if not hastily thought with an impulsive twitch of digits clasping across the crossbow's beveled heat plate on instinct.

" Really .. " he pressed discordantly, tutting. " What'a shame, " doubled down with sangfroid.

Lifting the weapon nonchalantly , partially angled aim firing one bolt with it's blessed orichalcum coated tip with every intention of hitting the other man's thigh or knee as a rather ruthless test, if not cruel -- were the male to prove to be human after all.