#(thomasin is their mother)

[normalbrothers]

you know john's whole 'tommy i need a wife now because my kids are running around at night and i can't handle it bla bla ' is funny. because maybe if he got less drunk in pubs and spend some time at home, this wouldn't be an issue. and thinking of, on the topic of who's the most like arthur sr? you bet it's john.

[svnnyd4ys]

oughh Samantha taking after her mother, even when she was younger and not even knowing it.

having visions of Sally (who was always the more rambunctious of the two) falling out of that leftenmost window; of meeting Egbert (who was destined to be with her, always with) at her uncle's stables for the first time. the most important events of her life always came with the same feeling, the same funny turn, the same things would happen every time:

Sally would knock on her bedroom door, begging her to play. (Samantha would turn her down, sobbing once she finally heard the sigh of discontent from her sister as she finally left)

Thomasin would come into the room after she thought Samantha had fallen asleep, and gently brush the hair from her face, before taking a silent vigil by that window. (how still Samantha would be, as her mother would finally be looking at her instead of past her)

she didn't remember the visions. it was always an intense feeling of deja vu, an intense "i've been here before. i've seen this but i can't stop it"

she remembered the migraines. the nursemaids and nannies fluttering and fussing around her. (her father never coming to her room, "Sally needs him more. You have your mother!" the governess would explain, as she and Samantha did their private lessons)

unlike Sally, Samantha loved reading and writing. the lessons with the governess were the highlight of her week, and she was encouraged by her to keep a journal.

so she'd sit in that leftenmost window (the same one that Sally fell out of, the same one that her mother would take her to the astral plane through, the same one that she sees Egbert coming back home from) and she would write.

and when Samantha is finally told the truth, she picks up those journals for the first time in years, and she reads and she writes.

when Egbert comes home, she reads and she writes.

pieces slowly click into place. Samantha is starting to understand herself, but she's not sure that she'll ever be able to forgive herself, or her mother, or her father, not fully. but Samantha feels like herself for the first time in years.

it's just about midnight on Sally's 18th birthday, and she knocks on Samantha's bedroom door. it's tentative, and unsure, and Samantha thinks she might be hallucinating at first, but when she goes and sees her little sister stood there (crooked smile and crooked teeth, and her crooked nose that never fully healed after the window incident)-

"Sam? Do you- Can- Would you like to sneak down to the kitchens with me?" Sally asks. she's nervous and Samantha's nervous. and then Sally starts to turn, "It was stupid- actually- nevermind- I just thought, for old times sake-"

"Can I grab my housecoat first?"

[archive-double-knots]

also, no, the irony that thomasin's first magic was a fire spell is not lost on her.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

“The VVitch” (2015) and “Nosferatu” (2024) Are More Similar Than You Think

Robert Eggers made “The VVitch” and then thought: what if Thomasin and Black Phillip/The Devil had an demonic sexual love story going on? Time to make my own version of “Nosferatu” (the first script is from 2016).

This man is really out there making historical horror movies about ostracized women making pacts with the Devil.

“Wouldst thou like the taste of butter? A pretty dress? Wouldst thou like to live deliciously? […] Wouldst Thou Like to See the World?”

“You are not for the living. You are not for human kind. And shall you be one with me ever-eternally. Do you swear it? […] As our spirits are one, so too shall be our flesh. You are mine.”

How these films are similar:

Both Thomasin and Ellen pray for something at the beginning of the film, and the Devil answers: Thomasin asks for forgiveness and guidance, Ellen prays for companionship and tenderness;

Both Thomasin and Ellen are ostracized in connection with their womanhood and sexuality: Thomasin is growing into a woman, and Ellen has “hysteric fits” with strong sexual undertones;

The Devil (Black Phillip and Orlok) essentially kills everyone around them, until they are the only left, to force their hand into accepting him (a bit different in “Nosferatu” because it’s a remake);

Both films have a pair of children which are “foreshadowing bombs” in the narrative (Mercy and Jonas in “The VVitch” and Clara and Louise in “Nosferatu”);

In both films, the Devil offers something tempting to both these characters, which they accept: Black Philip promises freedom and knowledge, and Orlok promises eternal passion and sex;

Both pacts involve blood sacrifice and death to seal them: in “The VVitch” Thomasin kills her mother, in “Nosferatu” Ellen kills herself alongside Orlok.

Thomasin was accused of being a "witch", a “whore” and having a pact with the Devil by everyone around her, until she actually did at the end. Ellen is also seen as “deranged”, “diseased” and often compared to supernatural beings ("changeling girl", "sylph", "fairy", etc.) until she becomes just that at the end, too. They are both the Devil’s concubines.

“I’m that very witch. When I sleep my spirit slips away from my body and dances naked with the Devil. That’s how I signed his book.”

Thomasin taunts her sister, Mercy (“The VVitch”, 2015)

In another post, I already explored which demonic figures Ellen and Orlok are meant to be in this adaptation: Babalon and the Beast.

There I saw a woman sitting on a scarlet beast that was covered with blasphemous names and had seven heads and ten horns. The woman was dressed in purple [lilacs] and scarlet [blood], and was glittering with gold sunlight precious stones and pearls [sunlight]. She held a golden cup in her hand, filled with abominable things and the filth of her adulteries. The name written on her forehead was a mystery: Babylon the great, the mother of prostitutes, and of the abominations of the earth.

“Scarlet beast” = Orlok, a vampire

“blasphemous names” = names of the Devil

“Seven heads” = heptagram, the seven-pointed star (Orlok and Babalon’s sigils)

“Ten horns” = ten lilac flowers

“Golden cup” = it’s the Holy grail = womb

“Filled with abominations” = sex with Orlok, necrophilia

“Filth of her adulteries” = she’s married to Thomas before God, and she’s defiling that vow on their marriage bed

“She [Babalon] rides astride the Beast; in her left hand she holds the reins, representing the passion which unites them. In her right she holds aloft the cup, the Holy Grail aflame with love and death.”

Aleister Crowley, “The Book of Thoth”

In some occult circles, this “Beast” is the Devil himself, which makes me ask: is Orlok the Devil?

Not only he’s referred as such several times in the actual film, but also the fact he was one of the Solomonari, a dark wizard, in life, a servant and a student of the Devil. We are told “the Devil preserved his soul that his corpse may walk again in blaspheme.” So… who’s actually walking in that corpse? Orlok’s soul or the Devil? Being a servant to the Devil is being a puppet to the Devil, essentially. This is pretty much what the abbess says to Thomas: it’s the Devil that makes Orlok’s corpse walk.

In another post I already talked about how Orlok prepared his own physical death, because the book containing the “maiden’s sacrifice” was found by Von Franz in Knock’s office, his fanatical servant, which is shady to say the least. The Devil is a deceiver after all (as Ellen herself accuses him of being), so making the heroes believe they are beating him while doing exactly what he wants them to do, it’s not far fetched, and even rooted in religious belief.

Why would Orlok want to die in the physical world? Because he wants his spirit to be set free, he doesn’t want to be trapped in a freaking rotten corpse, which explains why he tells Ellen she’s “his affliction”; she’s the one who trapped in that physical form when she awoke him, probably. He wants to return to spiritual form, and wants to take Ellen with him; which explains their covenant, and their blood sacrifice at the end to seal it. And Ellen was also fully aware of what she was signing for, she knew what her physical death would mean (being forever joined with him in hell, or the Underworld or whatever “celestial sphere”), and that Orlok would die too (obviously).

[the-hornedwitch]

The Devil is in the Details: Compelling Depictions of Lucifer in Film

We are often bombarded with depictions of Lucifer as the antagonist. As a Practitioner of the Left Hand Path, I have a complex relationship with these portrayals - one that I refuse to let hinder my enjoyment of film. Horror with religious undertones has become one of my guilty pleasures, along with dramas and action films that explore end-times scenarios and battles with Lucifer/Satan. While He is frequently cast as the villain, which is understandable given the mainstream narrative, I'd like to explore some representations of The Dark Lord that I believe capture aspects familiar to those of us who walk this Path.

Black Phillip- The VVitch

"Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?" That line in itself embodies all that is Lucifer. It is near-whispered, layered and echoed with other voices, to young Thomasin, who stands with her mother's blood dried to her skin. The words hang there, not so much as a question but an invitation.

During the Puritan Era (1625-1660), European settlers adhered to strict religious doctrine that often bastardized and corrupted the indigenous practices of the American inhabitants, as well as the former pagan practices of their own European roots. We see this nuanced portrayal in the film as we follow Thomasin and her family. Her father William, while pious, is a very proud man. His lack of knowledge when it comes to surviving off the land is well depicted through his struggles with growing crops and hunting. We see the only thing William is good at is chopping wood and defending his eldest daughter from the grieving rage of her mother, who seems to hate Thomasin not only for the tragic loss of baby Samuel (taken by the Witch of the wood), but for her very existence as a young woman coming into her own.

Early in the film, we're introduced to an imposing presence: a striking 210-pound black Arapawa billy goat, whom the twins Jonas and Mercy affectionately call Black Phillip. Thomasin learns from Mercy that Black Phillip speaks to them - what seems at first like childhood fantasy takes on a darker significance as Thomasin begins to experience various supernatural events. These incidents build to a crescendo when middle son Caleb returns naked and "bewitched" from his desperate journey into the woods for food.

As Caleb lies in religious ecstasy, succumbing to the now potent supernatural forces, we witness the complete breakdown of the family dynamic. It begins with the twins' shocking refusal to pray over their dying brother - a pivotal moment that fractures their parents' illusion of maintaining a godly household. This escalates into the stereotypical 'witch' accusation turned against Thomasin, but the film subverts our expectations by making this accusation both false and prophetic. This event seals Thomasin's fate. As she is condemned to the goat pen with her siblings, both her mother and father are met with the full force of what they fear: The Devil.

It is the next morning that we realize there is far more to Black Phillip than what we were led to believe. After Black Phillip's killing of William (the symbolic removal of corrupted masculinity), and Thomasin's survival-driven killing of her mother (the symbolic removal of the corrupted feminine), Thomasin stands alone.

Once night falls, we are granted conference with The Dark Lord Himself, in His form of Black Phillip. As Thomasin stands with her mother's blood dried to her skin, she conjures Black Phillip to speak with her as He did with Jonas and Mercy. The velvety, layered, and echoed voice we are greeted with is both loving and terrifying. With the simple words "What dost thou want?" we come face to face with the Liberator Himself.

This entire scene is handled with such nuance and care, it still gives me chills. Thomasin's innocent reply of "What canst thou give?" followed by Black Phillip's response, "Wouldst thou like the taste of butter? A pretty dress? Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?"

With each offer, there is deeper meaning behind its simplicity. Butter, a simple pleasure you and I share, was something denied to Thomasin as her family struggled. A pretty dress, a symbol of femininity Thomasin had been denied through her parents' rigid religious indoctrination. To "live deliciously" transcends these mundane luxuries. An invitation to not only physical freedom, but spiritual liberation. Lucifer is giving Thomasin a chance to reclaim everything that was rightfully hers, before it was stripped away by religious doctrine. She is offered back her autonomy, her sexuality, her power, and most importantly, her true self.

All this is offered to Thomasin with the simple request of signing her name in His book - a book He had offered her mother, a book that symbolizes freedom and not the fear-based notion of giving one's soul away. Much like myself, Thomasin hesitates. "I cannot write my name." Yet in His patient glory, He offers, "I will guide thy hand."

This rather simple exchange shows us the true nature of The Liberator. Instead of responding with demands of blind obedience, He shows her understanding and patience at the exposure of her vulnerability. One that is a direct result of the patriarchal restrictions He now offers her freedom from. Her inability to write isn't met with judgment, instead He offers assistance. Depicting the aspects of Lucifer that represent His role as a mentor in one's transformation. Instead of forcing and commanding, He is supportive and guiding.

His gentle patience stands in stark contrast to the rigid demands of her family's faith, that was riddled with conditional love based on the adherence to their doctrine. Lucifer offers unconditional acceptance and guidance on one's journey to self-realization.

With the offer of rebirth as her true, honest self, Thomasin follows Black Phillip into the woods. There, she is openly accepted by other Witches, as they physically rise above the flames of a fire into the night sky. Much like myself, Thomasin weeps and laughs at the new-found glory and power she has found in herself.

Unlike Christian and mainstream depictions of Lucifer as something evil and hateful, "The VVitch" offers a more nuanced truth that resonates with me as a practitioner of The Left Hand Path. Through Black Phillip, we see Lucifer not as an antagonist, but a patient guide who offers true liberation. Yes, Thomasin does lose her entire family in a rather horrific and ritualistic fashion. It has been my experience that we must go through hardships and difficulties to learn what needs to be learned, to grow into who we truly are. While we can sit and complain that we are suffering, we must understand that these hardships allow us opportunities to transcend. Lucifer guides us, not unlike how He offered to guide Thomasin's hand. His power lies not in corruption or deception, but in the gentle recognition of our innermost desires for freedom and self-realization. The transformation He offers Thomasin - and indeed, offers to all who seek Him - is not a fall from grace but an ascension to one's authentic self. In those moments of hesitation, when we stand like Thomasin with the weight of doctrine and judgment upon us, He does not demand or condemn. Instead, He simply offers to guide our hand, leading us not into damnation, but into delicious truth

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 117 (A Genius Idea)

Ash and Pearl arrived downstairs to find their parents. "Mommy, the lights went out and the TV, too!" he cried.

Heather nodded. "Pearl's mom checked the electrical box out back and it's totally fried."

Dylan, an electrical engineer, spoke with Heather and Anjali. "I can't keep trying to patch around the same problem. That box is done, but the city says they won't be able to get someone out to replace it until tomorrow morning."

Anjali frowned. "That doesn't help us get tonight's meal on the table."

"I have an idea, but I need some beakers and some bubble gum," Ash said. The adults looked confused. "We can make a heating system with candles and metal trays!"

"What's the bubble gum for, buddy?" wondered Conrad.

"To hold them together! Bubble gum won't burn if we use it to secure the trays on the outside, and I can make it harden faster if there's a science table here!"

The adults were all impressed by his idea, and they set to work prepping a makeshift heating station to continue cooking the food. It would take longer this way, but at least everyone would eat a hot meal tonight.

Ash worked away at a rickety old science station donated by the local middle school, while Pearl glanced around the cavernous, dark shelter. "Hurry, Ash, it's getting dark outside!"

"It's only nighttime. It's not that scary."

"My mom says nights in the Spice District can be dangerous."

Ash tried to work a little faster. "It's okay, Pearl. Our parents won't let anything happen to us. Why did you take your coat off? It's cold in here."

"I run hot! My dad says it's genetic."

Once the food was in the makeshift ovens, everyone took a break outside, purchasing coffee and pastries from the cafe to enjoy in The Soup Kitchen's eclectic courtyard.

Chatting together at a long table, Heather's mouth dropped open when she spotted a face she hadn't seen in years. "Marcus Flex! Is it really you?"

Heather's first vet tech turned at the sound of her voice, breaking into a wide smile when he recognized her. "Doc Nesbitt! No way! What are you doing in the city?"

"Volunteering here with my fiance and my son."

"Man oh man, Ash must be so big now."

"I am!" he said, speaking up across the table. "Who are you?"

"I used to work for your mother, but I've lived here since I left town."

Heather nodded. "Are you and Thomasine doing well?"

"Things with us couldn't be better. I know I was a bit non-committal and flighty back when I lived in the Bay, but Thomasine changed me. I can't imagine spending my days with anyone else but her."

Heather smiled. "That's great Marcus. Are you working? I've been worried about you since you both left town."

He nodded proudly. "I'm in marketing now and she's a mental health nurse. We lived in a real dump of a place for a while, but then one day this woman knocked on our door and offered us a bigger suite in the building for the same rent. She just wanted to trade for a smaller place, and we thought she might be out of her mind, but she showed us her ID and she's never missed paying the landlord the rest of our rent."

"No offense, but that sounds a little suspicious," said Conrad. "Paying your rent and hers to live in a crappier apartment. Only a criminal would do that."

"Rafaella keeps to herself. If she's into anything, it's never affected us."

"What did you say her name was?" Heather said.

"Rafaella Santos, according to her ID."

Heather and Conrad exchanged tense looks. "What's the address of your old apartment?"

"910 Medina Studios. Back in the Arts Quarter. Thomasine works in the Spice District on weekends and I like to stop by to give her an afternoon coffee. I'm usually there by now, but she'll totally understand when I tell her I ran into you, Doc! I really am sorry I just took off all those years ago."

Heather shook her head, trying to keep her sudden mix of emotions from showing in front of Ash and Pearl. That was Conrad's old apartment, and this Rafaella Santos was probably using an assumed name. She noticed Conrad down the table - the same wild thoughts were running through his mind.

"It's alright, Marcus. It sounds like everything worked out for the best. And if you can let me know how to get the money to you, I can finally send your share of the proceeds from the VetConnect extension you helped me come up with."

"That's kind of you, Doc, especially after I left without a word. It's been great catching up with you. Thomasine's just about ready to speak to her father again - she thinks - so we might be back in Brindleton Bay for a visit sooner than later."

"It would be great to see you, Marcus."

They got up then to head back to work, but before Marcus had left with his cafe order to go, Conrad approached him. "This Rafaella Santos - can you tell me what she looks like?"

"She changed her hair colour recently, but she was blonde before. You could tell it was straight from a bottle, though. You really think she's a criminal?"

"I think she might be a drug smuggler. I don't suppose I could convince you to wear a wire?"

"She doesn't say much. I've tried to be friendly."

"If it's who I think it is, she's not friendly."

"Thomasine wouldn't want me getting involved if she's dangerous. I'd love to help you and the doc, but we've been talking about maybe trying for a kid."

Conrad nodded. "I get it. You've given us enough to take it from here. There might be some officers scoping out the building over the next little while, until we know it's her, so if you're serious about taking a trip to Brindleton Bay to see your wife's family, maybe now's a good time. Just stay out of 'Rafaella's' way. Don't let her think someone might be on to her, and don't tell her you saw us. Oh, and, be prepared to take over the full rent in the larger apartment soon. If we get her, those contracts will void."

"I'll talk to Thomasine, but I'm glad I could help. Thanks for the heads up, Lieutenant Gordon."

As Marcus turned to leave, Conrad's heart started racing. If his instincts were correct, Ximena had been hiding out in the last place he'd lived in San Myshuno all along.

Now Conrad felt just days away from finally catching her. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: Pay no mind to Ash's reindeer hat in the "genius idea" pop up. I sent them on the rabbit hole family volunteering event immediately after staging their Christmas Day photos. Didn't even think about changing their clothes since it was a rabbit hole. But then this pop up ended up dictating storyline so that's why he's wearing it in the inset but not at the lot.

Also the goal was empathy, but with Ash's genius trait and the pop up we got, he had the choice to solve the problem himself or call for help. Since his phone's been confiscated due to creepy pranks, there was really only one choice. His empathy bar didn't budge but his responsibility and mental increased. So his empathy is in low green territory at the moment (better than red!) and I'm hopeful he won't roll a douche trait. Since he's still got a ways to go until teenhood, I've got more time to play around!

NOTE 2: Second-save Marcus and Heather instantly became the best of friends while they reconnected, which is clearly because they're finally certain Ximena's within reach, all thanks to him!

[mysticmemos]

I love Thomasin’s journey to freedom in The VVitch. From the start she was blamed for things that weren’t her fault and you can see how ingrained the hypocrisy of christianity is into their lives. When her brother noticed things about her it was her fault, when her father sold their silver cup it was her fault, when the twins never did their chores it was her fault. Her father succumbed to pride, her mother to envy, her brother to lust and the twins to sloth. She was the purest member of her family, yet they blamed her for their own sins. Thomasin had likely been dealing with this long before the witches preyed on her family, yet when they did she was blamed for that as well and accused of being a witch. Some people believe Thomasin didn’t have a choice to sign Black Philip’s book because she was manipulated by outside forces for so long. That she traded one master for another, but I don’t see it that way. Her family, who had already succumbed to cardinal sins, were exiled from their village and moved out into the middle of no where. The witches likely would have preyed on her family anyway but they saw Thomasin as an opportunity so they gave her an in. Thomasin signed Black Philip’s book and for the first time she tasted freedom from the hypocrisy of christianity. When a master offers freedom, freedom from subservience, freedom from hypocrisy, freedom from from blame, is he really then a master? No. When a master offers freedom, he is not a master, he is a liberator.

[tieflingfingers]

What and who: Astarion tries his first attempt at close quarters. Thomasin isn't happy about it. Summary: Thomasin awakes to find a silhouette hovering over her. Between blades, blood, and bickering, Astarion tries to find a way to feed himself without breaking the mild trust they have. Warning/Content: Re-write of first bite scene, character lore, and Astarion character study. Adjacent to horror/angst/humor/the seed planting of fluff. Vague mentions of abuse/trauma. Part of campaign remix, but can also be read as one-off. Word Count: 4,925 Ao3 Link

In the depths of the Dales, where agriculture and pillagers roamed free, lived a forbidden courtship. Proof of peace and harmony sprout from its bud. It was the birth of a child. One whose cheeks were pink and supple like her human mother. Like her mother before her and those before them. Skin stained shades of raspberry as though she, too, was grown from the same acre of land. Soil rich enough to build a lineage of women feminine yet sturdy. 

Paternal instincts didn’t come naturally to the infant’s father, but not out of his own volition. He was a drow softer than the Underdark would foster. Intimacy was prohibited. The gentle touch of sun-warmed flesh even more so. Only a handful of meetings left a legacy he’d never know. A daughter bathing in light not afforded to him whilst he was swept back underground.

But, living on farmland proved rich with experience. The child braided ribbons into her hair to keep strands out of her eyes while tending crops. Hours under the sun left imprints on her skin that mirrored her mother. Skin decorated by a labor of love. Speckled and peachy against silver tints.

"There’s so much to see in every plane, Thomasin,” her mother interjected between lullabies.

Perhaps her parents were both stricken by their own nagging wanderlust. Thomasin heard countless stories of travels beyond her young comprehension. Stories of a drow that defied Lolth. Not by mighty bloodshed, but a gentle demeanor. The defiance of a man wanting nothing more than freedom. Details that were mulled over so often, he began to feel more like a fairytale. His character evolved with the human’s fallible memory.

Some evenings, the drow was heroic against his raiding caravan. Other times, he simply was a man whose fingers ached for acceptance. All of it, all of him, muddled together, fed Thomasin like breadcrumbs. They were memories she could cling to, even if he existed only through anecdotes and physical letters left behind. He was folklore.

-

Lifetimes away from her original roots, Thomasin became the conduit of their dreams. She’d witness the vastness of their plane. Places where adventures never ended. But, her mother never truly warned of life’s woes. How merciless it could be, even when fruitful.

Thomasin spent the evening concocting medicinal magic. They were common procedural spells that ward off inflammation and voided the need of stitches. As content as her new companions were, it wore the half-elf down, and so she retired to her tent earlier than the others.

It wasn’t long until she was tucked away underneath a makeshift blanket. Sleep hadn’t always come naturally, so she took advantage of exhaustion. Her dark hair sprawled around her head like a halo, strands entwined and unfurled from restless slumber. But, no matter how hard she tried, her mind remained partially tuned in to life outside her tent.

Thankfully, it was nothing more than banter around a campfire. They rejoiced in comradery fueled by dinner whose foundation was primarily red wine. It eased tension. Let their playful jabs and jokes wash off their backs. This possibility of protection comforted the half-elf a bit.

So, Thomasin remained in her nest. At forty-five years of age, she figured fatigue stemmed from her human half. The same that made her frame worn yet strong. Travel brought city inclines, grassy hills, and crouching through thistle in the name of foraging. But, no matter how much she pushed herself, she was constantly decorated. 

Easy on the eyes. It was a habit, more than anything. A default state of being.

Curated fashions were collected over years. Gifted, stolen, sewn, swapped, and saved. Pigments made cheeks looked pinched and sparkles smeared over scars from unfortunate scraps. Her hips were wide when seasonal harvests were plentiful. Her posture bordered between straight and feminine. It was as though every aspect of her persona had been created from decades of standing in front of a mirror.

Starting this new journey, as involuntary as it may be, she was thankful for what piece of home she carried. The belongings of an abandoned home still packed in her bag after getting abducted by mind flayers. Scarves made of fine stolen silk, whose weave snagged. Books with split bindings lovingly re-bound by bundling pages until whole once more. Their contents ranged from fictional anthologies to sappy romance to guides of edible flora.

Residing next to potions, bottled perfumes soaked into cork tops. Her violin slept in the corner. Its body had been as plucked, popped, and rewound as hers. Simple blessings.

Eventually, noises dwindled. Those outside finally laid to sleep. The forest began to rustle louder, as though it had been waiting for their commotion to cease. To be able to exist in its most natural state. It harmonized. Branches creaked and native berries were plucked by gusts of wind. Whenever the unknown awoke Thomasin, she reminded herself of her mother’s saying.

“We are a guest to nature. The nocturnal world has always lived with us, just as the light does."

What she lacked to consider, was the nocturnal entering her den.

Cast shadows were almost tactile in their density, hovering atop her skin. An ever faint sensation. One that resurfaced her hypervigilance born from syndicates. And, for a split second, she caught a glimpse of the greyed silhouette above.

Dread set in.

Before her was a tale as old as time.

Domineering men proving she was just consumable company.

There was no hesitation in her reflexes. No need to identify who it was. No time. Words fled from her lips in rapid succession. The spell, readily accessible, flowed from an unnatural tongue. It was a series of broken common, deep, and high drow. Unintelligible horrific statements. The whispers trickled in a river of flowing smoke, its blue haze snaking its way into the figure’s skull.

As the weave infiltrated their thoughts, it illuminated streams that spilled down the planes of their face. Down their cheeks like painful tears and pouring from an agape mouth as though squeezing the last remnants of a well’s ground reserves. 

In a full blown panic, the figure gasped. Thomasin wouldn’t prolong the forced terror, but she knew even a single second of torment felt like hours. The pressure entangled within her foe’s temples and dragged its ephemeral claws around an already battered brain.

Out into the moonlight, Astarion stumbled from the mouth of her tent. He had flung himself backward, landing square on his palms. He stared back at Thomasin, but it was apparent he was still recovering from the sudden retaliation. He appeared disillusioned. Frightened in a way that made her uncomfortable.

Thomasin scuttled to the entrance with ragged breath. A small dagger embedded so deep within her fist, her knuckles grew white and sharp. Although her blade had become a beacon of last resort rather than an eager desire. Chips and wear along its metal mumbled its victims, but that couldn’t defy the obvious shaking of her hands and the memories of every time she’d fallen victim, herself.

In the darkness, the light from her cryptic illusions mellowed until both elves peered at one another in shades of livid grey. Before her, Astarion was shivering in place. Jaw slackened and back hunched. He knew he had to simply endure. Magical cruelty was unyielding, but the clutches of the Weave always dissolved before he did. 

Thomasin recognized her chance to approach. Survey the feigning of undeath she figured he existed within. His humanity, stunted. Stagnant. She peeked her head out further like a writhing animal curious about a writhing beast. As though her quills plunging him into fright was an act of wry mercy. 

Astarion’s knuckles appeared speckled in shades of bruised plum. Its fruit’s tender exterior tumbled, prodded, and thudded against the dirt before truly ripening. His heavy breath revealed the sheer discomfort his posture took to maintain. It was as though his frame ached under the weight of its growing hunger. They were wordless pleas of pangs. Pains of a pallid complexion.

Eventually, Astarion melted into his body once more. Pupils no longer dilated and dissociative. No longer forlorn. As his fingers eased from their strained grip into the grass, his gaze flicked back up to hers. It reeked of exhausted predation.

“Gods—shit,” he muttered. “It’s not–”

Thomasin’s intuition begged for civility. Her history beckoned her to protect herself through any means necessary. It boiled to a froth from her gut. Words clamored to be free, vitriolic in her throat. Syllables bashed against her teeth. But, she ground them down until the unbridled anger condensed into something meek. Uncharacteristically so. 

“Astarion- Please. You promised,” Thomasin whispered.

His eyes trailed down to the dagger she still held tight. 

“You don’t have to use that. Blades among friends is never the answer, honestly” His voice cracked. “An old-hat solution. Passé, even.” 

“I-” She looked around the camp with bleary eyes. It was still. Oblivious in each tent’s drunken slumber. “Is this from all that dessert wine you found? Fucking hells- you have ten seconds to plead before I wake the others.”

“Ten seconds?” The elf swallowed his distress, struggling to smooth its ridges with his usual temperament. “Going back on a promise?  I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I’m not some kind of- oh, I don’t know.” His hand twisted about in the air in search of answers. “A ne’er-do-well? I thought we were better acquainted than that.” 

His lilt was slithering back into his grasp. He even let out a light titter.

“Thomasin. Darling. You’re beautiful, but I am no ill-intentioned monster.

Astarion shifted to tend to the impact upon his wrists, wringing his hands around sore joints. Thomasin watched him repress every line of dialogue that would fail to placate her. But, there was overcompensation in his eyes. After their tumultuous days, little strength was left to press down the fatigue he forcibly polished like an ever rotating stone wheel. He was stuck with the excess. Nothing but powdered iron and rust.

The elf’s ears drooped at the unnerving silence between them. He caught her hesitance. But, even her reluctance to strike couldn’t mask the sheer adrenaline coursing through her. And before he knew it,  Astarion found himself pulled by his linen shirt collar.

His back slammed against crackling wicker. It was the mat flooring of her tent. Wavering between fragility and disorientation, he found himself straddled and pinned by the half-elf’s knees. One restrained his forearm whilst the other dug into his open palm. His fingers curled under the crushing weight.

“Absolute bitch- I need that!” Astarion hushed himself, but not before hissing through his teeth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Next was the fine point of a dagger nestled between his jawline and jugular. Any quick movements would prove deadly to Astarion, if he wasn’t careful, but the act of unrelenting threat grew muddled. It wasn’t her voice that faltered. Nor her commitment. It was the droplets that hit the elf’s face under her. Gravity pulling what laid along her lashline with little consent.

“What were you thinking? Sneaking up on me? Inside my tent? I wanted to consider you more than some… tawdry dandy… The lack of tact. I’m not afraid to end you where you lay, you know. Those weren’t falsehoods I spoke of.”

“Wait- There are few things I have a difficult time wording,” Astarion uttered. “Nothing awful, terrible, of course. I wouldn’t dare ruin the company we keep. Sometimes actions are more via–”

The microscopic tilt of Thomasin’s hand shoved the blade deeper against his neck, cutting shallow within the flesh. She was terrified, but couldn’t allow herself to voice it. Every word of his tasted like milk and honey. If only there weren’t gall in his heart and fraud in his deeds.

Astarion gasped and pulled his shoulders upward as though he could make distance between them. “Ah! Easy there. No need to spur a horse going full speed. Listen-”

A huff jut from his nostrils. His eyes closed to shield himself from the consequences. Each sentence raced behind the next, detailing the confession that finally caught up with him. The reason for his comeuppance. 

“You remember that ghastly sight we saw on our walk earlier? That hog . You remember the one, yes? The one with those curious little wounds on his neck.” A weak laugh fluttered out, making the wound sting more. “Exsanguinated. Perhaps… the stories of creatures going bump in the night aren’t entirely as they seem. That-Perhaps… Perhaps! Just maybe, vampire spawn live amongst you just as your peers.”

Astarion opened his eyes to witness her reaction, although it was not as extravagant as he expected. It was quiet contemplation wracked with desires. For mercy. Possible bloodshed to solve it all.

After years of prowling, he was left to his own devices. No masters or gods to tell the elf what to do or how to act. No higher powers to blame. No scripts for the circumstance. No one to pick up the pieces.

“I could have guessed as much,” she finally spoke up. “You lack subtlety, I fear.”

“Look. I won’t be saccharine about all of this. I am not in this state of being out of choice . I-There are powerful people in Baldur’s Gate, you know this. Cazador resides in the high mansions of the city, maintaining his control through slavery. I was only lucky to be plucked from his clutches.” 

The muscles in his face struggled to maintain a calm. His dignity, visibly pained.

She paused, recognizing the name from word of mouth. The rare occasions she associated with the upper echelon, where her escorting brought forth gifts of fresh seafood, fresher furs, and the freshest hearsay. She was suddenly grateful she’d never accepted invitations to the grand castle in the sky.

“Do you survive off animals?” she asked.

“Typically, yes. I’ve existed under strict rules for as long as I’ve been riddled with this disease.” 

He averted his eyes and recalled the list of his master:

“‘First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.

Second, thou shalt obey me in all things.

Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.

Four, thou shalt know that thou art mine.’”

Astarion’s glanced and lit up at the sight of her expression softening.

“Though… quenching my thirst has proven difficult out here, “ he continued. “Every day I grow weaker. It gets more and more difficult to fight beside you all and hide such ailments. Aha… Color me… desperate.” The admission was bitter to taste.

Thomasin unsheathed the blade’s tip and pressed her thumb against Astarion’s wound. The gentle touch did not heal, but rather pondered over the damage. It was a souvenir of who she once was.

Astarion didn’t let his guard down further. He couldn’t. She had no reason to spare him the quickened death of a dagger through his chest. The obvious answer was self-preservation. Yet, she was suddenly tender, despite her weight heavy atop him. He let out a weak laugh. The reality was, he was still alive.

“Vampirism seems to have an odd relationship to the city streets,” Thomasin said. “I came across your kind every so often, but rarely did we speak. I imagine murdering the harlots would put a damper on your ability to blend into flophouses…” She grabbed his jaw, turning his face to assess the gnarled scar on his neck. The trauma of a blistering bite. Under it was an elf he once was. “I suppose part of me wanted to encourage whatever humanity is left inside you.”

“I… Well…” he mumbled, uncertain the comments called for offense or flattery.

“...Did you want to feed off me?”

He inhaled sharp, nodding his head in her clutches. “Yes! Yes, I would, very much so. Not a drop more than you are willing, of course .”

“Will… I turn?”

“No, I am merely a spawn. Transforming you into some thrall isn’t in my…  vampiric wheelhouse.”

Thomsin felt coziness in the unconventional path. Dangers were plentiful and often more perilous than the man sitting before her. What was more indulgent than snake oil? The grey morals that provide true, unfiltered respite. The enticement of taboo relief. A thought that would later morph into regret if she didn’t take the chance. She yearned to finally relax. To finally feel something. Or nothing. Anything.

Although she’d never admit it to herself.

After short deliberation, the half-elf freed Astarion and positioned herself beside him. A shaking hand tucked her weapon back into its sheath. Her knees pulled into her chest. And, as she was about to consent, a noise escaped her throat. A whimper. Biology voicing its disapproval.

“Ah-What should I do?” she whispered.

“Just… let me take the lead. You sit pretty.”

Astarion sat up and gathered what energy he had left. He groaned and articulated his fingers, instructing his limbs to cooperate once more. Gradually, he oriented himself behind her with a slow stalking grace and encouraged her shoulders to rest against his chest.

It was as though a spark livened him. Not a sensation of excitement from pocketing coins or fulfilling lewd fantasies. This felt different. The vampire never had the luxury of an artery so willing and gifted. Wrapped in a bow, so to speak. Yet, he had an epiphany. 

Every fiber of his being had subconsciously prepared itself for another death. His master professed this fate. He could already hear the joyous cackling Cazador would make upon finding his withering starved body in the forest. It was everything he promised upon escape.

Even if he wished to disobey, Astarion had never fed upon a victim nor been taught to. Rodents' bodies were compact, whereas living speaking anatomy had nuance. In fact, he’d only witnessed feasts from a distance with palpable envy. One could recall wounds, but where would be best to bite? How could he ensure she was preserved, leeching life without the inevitable corpse on his hands?

Astarion proceeded to mimic those dining in the halls of his home. The decorum was different, but that wouldn’t matter. The elf proceeded to wrap an arm around her waist for support and gently brushed aside long strands of hair. They ran down her clavicle like a cascading curtain, revealing her neck.

"How much will it hurt?" she asked. 

Seconds went by. No answer. He was enamored by the mere concept of a meal. Stone still, ferality awoke within his brain, although he eventually snapped back into reality. He felt like a starving animal careening toward rats for sustenance. He was.

"It's only a pinch. A nick. Just…” His words trailed off, voice low and heavy. “Just relax yourself against me. I'll keep you steady.”

"What if you go on a count? I breathe in and out a few times?”

“Sure- Yes. Let us count.”

There was impatience in his tone being strangled. The elf was fueled by tunnel vision. Unshackled hedonism. Still, he played along.

“One.” 

“Two.”

And not a syllable more. 

Thomasin’s flesh being punctured felt like the hissing of an unkempt fire. Dried kindling snapping and sparking against moisture in the air. She yelped. The wound in her neck pulsated in a way she'd never experienced, uncomfortable and siphoned. Excitement of the unknown had all but culminated into panic.

But, if there was one about the half-elf, it was that she was stubborn. Her nails dug into his shirt, pawing at the linens for his cold embrace. They searched for any semblance of safety. Through creases and cuffed folds, they landed at his wrist and etched a codex into his skin.

Astarion's body began to writhe against her in pure intoxication. With his hand guiding her head, he rose to a kneeling position, fulling taking control of the dance macabre. The footwork proved messy, but style was far from his mind. Never had the finer tastes in life been so abundant. Every sense was sharpening. Every emotion, ecstatic. 

The elf’s eyes had nearly glazed over until a pain brought him back. It was Thomasin’s nails. He realized her composure was crumbling.

"Keep counting, love,” he managed through a tongue coated in the blackened blood pooling at his lips.

Diving back into her neck once more, Thomasin finally let go. The pain that once seized her neutralized. What now resided was a bloodless calm. Their hearts raced at uneven beats, momentarily syncing until they passed one another. Hers slowing whilst his engorged with borrowed life. He ventured into an aggravated fervor at the expense of a bard’s descent into the dirt. The oozing ebb and flow of building delirium. An amalgamation of every misstep and the bottles of whiskey that couldn’t quite wrap them in creature comforts.

She did as she was told and crept into a languid submission, head rolling any way his body contorted hers. 

Back to counting. 

Two. Three. Four.

The numbers coinciding felt more like concepts than measurements.

Five. Six. Seven.

Internal dialogues began to devolve. Abstraction. It washed over her. Abrupt and startling like tumbling into a cold lake. Although its cool waters rejuvenated where her soil never knew rain. Repose began to blossom.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Thomasin clutched onto him as a safety net. She ran her fingers along his shirt. They trailed over every stitch, discovering mending he’d sewn by hand. Bumps and valleys. 

By now, the sounds of his neglected appetite were fading into the ether. Numbers had lost meaning and she had to find new ways to remain grounded. First, it was the threads. Then, the slowing repetition of her heartbeat. They were the last ways of documenting how unsubstantial seconds passed by.

Time was trivial in the face of the physical.

Sensations lured her forward with warm euphoric dreams and brighter visions of the past. For a moment, she couldn’t identify the emotion heavy in her chest. Whether they were death’s temptation. But it wasn’t long before she realized they weren’t all acidic.

They were shades of colored wax she used to liven monochromatic children’s books. They were the light noise of tin cans tickling your ears as they clinked down cobblestone walkways. The mythical society of dust particles floating indefinitely against a window’s evening light. The stray fuzzy knits of her favorite sweater and the lingering scent of perfume from hugging close friends. 

They were the protective glow from oil street lamps guiding her way home. The giggling and tingles of bubbles popping from steins of beer. Fogged mirrors from steaming rooms with a hot bath and the way sounds muffled when sunken into a wooden tub. Stories told under the covers, fairytales to romantic confessions, until everyone fell asleep to dwindling candlelight.

These all lived in a hypothetical mist that rolled in. More of a fog, like those she experienced during her childhood winters in the Dales. How she’d begun the exchange with Astarion was unimportant. Details melted into something viscous. Consumed how the two had even met. 

Her fingers were still moving as far as she could understand. The atmosphere felt heavy against their journey, but they operated as their own entities. Their coordination, unsteady, persisted out of habit. The stripped down basics. 

Repetitive motion. Color. Air. Pressure. Darkness. Enveloping darkness.

“Stop,” she mumbled. “Please.” Words seemed warped from her lips, unsure she had even spoken them aloud. They felt incorporeal.

Hunched over her, Astarion was coursing with vitality he’d didn’t know how to tolerate. His fangs were hooked and mania was the only voice in his head. It wasn’t until he noticed her shallow gasps of air in his arms. How her muscles no longer fought against him. The desire to simply finish her screamed at him, but he found the strength to pull himself off. 

The elf’s grin framed his pointed teeth in their glory. He chuckled in his daze, unsure if her pathetic grasp for life were to be laughed at or pitied. She was food. An object. For once, he didn’t share that feeling. 

Astarion scoot back to let her head rest in his lap so he could revel in his dinner. Although, his fantasies couldn’t help be bombarded with the reality of her death on his hands. It all conflicted. Anxieties had been buffered by his bloodied delectation.

He slapped her cheek twice, printing her blood against her flesh in a hasty spattering. 

"C'mon. You haven’t lost that much.”

To no avail, the elf snapped his fingers over her shut eyes. He jostled her side to side. Pressed his hand against her neck, hoping to calm the flow unleashed. Soon, he noticed thin ribbons of red staining both of their clothes and caught himself staring  at the blood wet between his fingers.

“Wake. Up. Don’t make me start asking gods for favors.”

Despite a faint pulsing thump against his hand, her responses were absent. Even looking at her made him uneasy. He wondered if holding his gaze for too long would unlock parallels between him and this random young woman. A thought that would anger him if not for being appeased by his leeching. 

Suddenly, he considered her backpack and yanked it to his side, digging around for anything of use. He needed to stop the escalation. A potion. A salve. A deity with a worrying sense of humor.  

Within, a diamond shaped bottle glittered. One he recognized. It was commonly consumed among mortals for hangovers, bar fights, or the lucky escape from an owlbear. The concoction healed minor injuries and illnesses in a foul swoop. Thomasin’s sickness was more dire than half a bottle, but it was still a victory to toast to.

Astarion tucked a pillow between his thigh and her head to create elevation. And, with a gentle tug by the pad of his thumb, he lowered her bottom lip. Its glittering elixir slowly but surely ran down her throat.  

“Aha, wonderful. There you go. Watch your pretty little head.”

It took a minute or so, but Thomasin’s eyes finally flickered open. She had been unceremoniously thrown back into the realm of the living, where she lay in a veil of crimson strewn across her face. The land smelled of iron much richer than she remembered. But, her comprehension of her surroundings faltered.

“Do you know how irritating these stains are going to be to get out?” Astarion said, taunting her, egging her on to get a reaction. 

Thomasin’s body suddenly flinched. A ragged titter. The half-elf was at least somewhat responsive.

“Wasn’t it wonderful though?,” she whispered, nearly inaudible. 

Astarion’s ears perked up. Crisis had been averted. He was prompt to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the remaining evidence of bloodletting. With fresh water from her canteen, he soaked the fabric swatch and grazed it over her shoulders, chest, and neck. It wiped away what streamed down her arms. What dripped down her back. A courtesy of aftercare, wringing the tainted water into a bowl between each cleaning. 

Once she acknowledged she, too, was alive, she resigned herself to slumber. His touch was oddly gentle. Comforting. The mindless task allowed him to think clearly for the first in centuries. Although he was unsure what to do with said thoughts. Knowing what he was feeling had become impossible over the years. Trusting them, even more so.

The longer he studied her face, the more he considered it helped repress the urge to kill. It forced him to humanize his prey. A concept he wasn’t privy to. A new novelty. 

The elf ran his hand along her cheeks and admired her freckles through backhanded compliments not spoken aloud. He traced along the thick scar across her nose, pressing into the curl of her lashes to reveal her blinded eye, and conjured stories of how it came to be. Then, his trail took him up. The space where her fringe often fell and covered her forehead. 

Right atop her brow, a tattoo had been intentionally hidden. The pattern consisted of four shapes laid in a row, overlapping one another in mashed thieves cant. Its black ink had faded. Damage that could only come from years of sun and forcible scrubbing.

“Everyone in Baldur’s Gate is owned by someone,” he mumbled, twisting his head every which way to decipher the tattoo’s meaning.

Eventually, he grew bored of solving her mysteries and situated himself in the corner of her tent. From the sullied water bowl, he wiped his own face with a dampened cloth, sneaking self-indulgent licks of what was left on his forearms. Only then did he notice he was shaking. 

But the only person that could judge him was comatose. Her chest gently rose and fell with each rickety breath, but she would awake in the morning. For now, he'd keep an eye on her. What if she choked in her sleep? Stopped breathing altogether? He would be blamed.

It wasn’t difficult to busy himself in the confines of her tent. He was used to much more unwelcoming atmospheres where dangers lurked. Threats much more vile than him. 

As he rid of incriminating stains, the water bowl grew dark and rich. What the elf had cobbled together was a fine wine of his own. Stealing an empty glass bottle, he began to store the liquid away for a rainy day. A treat for later.

Even engulfed in his usual unease, he couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe it was amusement. Maybe fatigue like before. Disbelief, even.

One thing was certain.

By the gods, he was rightfully fed. 

[crazycoke-addict]

In Scream (2022), during the opening scene. While Tara talking to ghostface whom was definitely Richie. She mentions movies like Hereditary, The Babadook, It Follows and The Witch. Since she has more knowledge in elevated horror than slashers. However these movies have deeper meaning to Tara than we thought. The Witch, The Babadook, Hereditary is about family grief and loss. The Witch is about the family suffered a loss of newborn. The Babadook is about a mother and son grieving over a father/husband.Hereditary is about the family suffers the loss of two family members. In each movie, after the grief and loss, the family themselves start to become strained themselves although it appears it happened more earlier.

In Hereditary, Annie talks about how he suffered from sleepwalking and almost was going set her children on fire but her eldest son woke up which resulted her to wake up as well. Since than, their relationship has been strained since. In The Witch, the family was banished by the community due to religious dispute. I'm not too sure about The Babadook but there could be something there. In Scream, Tara's family started to strained the day when Sam found old diaries from their mother, Christina. The diaries reveals the truth about Sam's father being Billy Loomis. Sam confronts her mother not realising that Tara's father is standing behind hearing all of this.Tara's father leaves the family than later on when Sam turned 18, she ends up leaving too. I think while watching these movies, Tara felt like somebody understood how she felt without knowing her.

When Sam returned after hearing about Tara's attack. Her guilt and remorse on what happened since she believed she is responsible to her sister's attack has similar to the two older siblings, Thomasin from The Witch and Peter from Hereditary. Thomasin was supposed to looking out for the baby but during playing peek a Boo, the disappears or wandered into the forest. Thomasin felt responsible than later is accused of being a witch by her own family. Peter went to a party where he had to take his little sister Charlie. Not knowing the cake had nuts which Charlie I'd allergic to. Peter drives fast during it Charlie puts her head out. Peter is startled by a dead deer and swerves the car where Charlie hits her head on the pole. While Carpertner don't deal with the loss of a family member passing away. They are grieving over the relationship once had and how Tara had to grieve over the loss of her father and Sam who walked out on her all those years ago.

Hereditary, The Witch and The Babadook all feel like there's this curse upon the family like it's in the bloodline. Hereditary parallels more with Scream (2022), the bloodline in question is actually from the female itself. Annie's mother was the leader of cult that Annie wasn't aware of where the cult member targeted her family to caused distressed and vulnerable on the first born. In Scream (2022), Richie and Amber are doing something similar to Sam. Since their plan is to frame her for the murders by having her get a psychotic breakdown like what happened to her father and grandmother years later. Since, Thomasin was accused as a witch and Peter had to broken. Sam's identity and hereditary on if she might become like her father is similar to all of that. It's in a way of saying that Sam is cursed herself. Another movie I haven't mentioned is It Follows.

While I don't know the full detail of the movie, I know it is about a girl who hooks up with a guy where later on she is stalked by spirits that only she can see. This is message about sexual transmitted disease. The only parallel I could connect Scream (2022) to It Follows is the fact that Christina had Sam when she was teenager which is frowned upon since people see it as throwing your life away. Since we don't know when Sam saw the hallucination billy loomis. He represents the ghosts in It Follows where they don't leave the main protagonist alone. Sam can't use someone like how the main protagonist from It Follows could do to get rid of Billy Loomis. It is to say that Sam is the sexually transmitted disease to her mother.

[adamwatchesmovies]

Jojo Rabbit (2019)

Jojo Rabbit walks a delicate line. One scene is laugh-out-loud, darkly comedic. The next is soul-crushing. When you look at it on paper, it shouldn’t work. On the screen, it’s memorable, tender, hilarious and insightful - a picture like none other. There are some who will find it tasteless but for the rest, it's one you'll be compelled to revisit.

In the final years of WWII, Ten-year-old Johannes “Jojo” Betzler (Roman Griffin Davis) dreams of serving in Nazi Germany's army like his absent father. While at Hitler Youth Camp, Jojo follows the advice of his imaginary best friend, a child’s rendition of Adolf Hitler (Taika Waititi). After an accident cripples him, he is sent back home. There, he discovers his mother (Scarlett Johansson) is harbouring a Jewish teenaged girl (Thomasin McKenzie).

This film excels at exposing the hypocrisy of the propaganda necessary to keep the Nazi machine (and similar systems) going. Jojo is only a child and even he has difficulty understanding how Elsa can be a demonic creature with horns and wings that drinks blood and can mind control good German boys, is cripplingly fascinated with shiny things and also an enemy the Nazis will easily eliminate. To him, she looks just like a normal girl. None of the interactions they have confirm her as dangerous.

The characters of Elsa, Jojo and his mother are all played relatively straight. Everyone else is a living contradiction. Rebel Wilson plays Fräulein Rahm. Despite being unmarried, she boasts having given birth to 18 children for Germany. How that’s possible, who knows. Her unreleting enthusiasm for the Nazi cause is bizarre considering her job at the Hitler Youth camp is to teach the girls there to dress wounds, take care of the injured… and have children. Not particularly exciting compared to the boys, who get to play with live munitions and enjoy the outdoors. The next noteworthy contradiction within the film is Nazi Germany’s attitude towards children. We’re told they’re the future, that the world will belong to them but as the tide of war shifts, we see the kids become be extremely disposable in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bit of off-sceen gruesomeness. The whole thing is topped by Taika Waititi’s portrayal of Hitler. Self-described as a Polynesian Jew, even if Waititi wasn’t directing and writing, his casting would feel like a smart, subversive inside joke. As the film begins, this Adolf Hitler is Jojo’s best friend. Once the boy starts questioning what the authorities have been feeding him, Hitler becomes increasingly hostile and comical. He’s more “so pathetic you’re glad you can laugh at him” than “funny because it’s so wrong to see Hitler doing this” kind of funny.

Lest you think this film does not take what happened during WWII seriously, understand that key scenes make you forget all about the fanciful imagination of Jojo’s world and bring you back to reality. The scenes with him and his mother, for example, are surprisingly grounded. You can feel the exhasperation Rosie must feel as her son makes all of these statements about Adolf Hitler, the Nazi cause, Jews and Germany. How frustrating it must be for her to endure what she hears. She could tell Jojo what the truth is, but he's a child. He doesn't understand what's really going on and doesn't understand that admitting the truth out loud could have serious consequences.

Though there are some big, memorable laughs within Jojo Rabbit, the dramatic revelations are so sobering that the drama/comedy split doesn't feel like it's down the middle. Said revelations only come in during the latter half of the movie, however, so they hit you when you least expect it - and hit you hard. This is not the kind of movie you easily forget precisely because it makes bold, bizarre-sounding choices. Though there is a chance you'll be so off-put by "Jojo Rabbit" that it won't be your cup of tea, every move that's being made has been carefully considered and the themes used throughout make it a picture I don't hesitate to recommend. (February 10, 2023)

[svnnyd4ys]

updated SFTH family tree!

i've created a new post so that it is easier for me to explain all the little bits and bobs involved :)

thank you to not-an-idiot for helping me and for the amazing ideas!! (idk if they're okay with being tagged, but i hope that you see this :) )

here's the overview, more details under the cut!

-

"Big-Dick" has been Arthur's nickname for all his life, and it's his pen name. He is the main source of any and all 'powers' within the family, as he is also able to traverse across the astral plane (he's either immortal or a time traveller, but either way, he dedicates his books to his great-grandson - Samuel 'Big-Dick' Babb-Dailey, which is )

Jonas Langbrook is the manor owner from 'Too Big to be a Jockey'. He loves his nieces on Thomasin's side (Samantha and Sally) and encourages Samantha to spend more time out of the Xavier household by inviting her to come and help in the stables. This is where Samantha and Egbert meet for the first time.

Earl changes his last name because he is ashamed to be associated with his family, especially after Jonas' antics... He is the father from 'Priscilla's Final Petal'.

Annabelle is Priscilla's biological mother, and the child of Inga and Hugh from Marigolds, Bluebells and Hugh (which I haven't watched in ages so if this is incorrect pls tell me!!)

(feasibly, she could be adopted and they are just raising her together bc of societal standards at the time, am not saying it has to be romantic!!)

Samuel is the protagonist from Beetroots & Murder - Samantha and Egbert die when he is young, Sally/Earl are unable to take him in so he gets adopted and moves to Somerset with his adoptive parents, Cyrus and Summer Setchell.

He becomes a single father to James Babb-Dailey (the father from 'The Neighbour's Under The Bed') who is the father of Johnny and Janae, which explains the future dreams. (and if Samantha and Egbert die in a fire, then it kind of adds to the lore)

[archive-double-knots]

Laying in bed. Can’t sleep. Headache still. But thinking about this. Thinking about a different but more fun way this could go.

Guard A: isn’t it kinda weird how… quiet it’s been lately?

Guard A: like the emperor hasn’t really been sending out any new orders or anything.

Guard B: ha, you had time off didn’t you? He’s been sending out orders. At least ten a day.

Guard A: What? But no one’s been petrified or-

Guard B: He’s been ordering everyone to get gifts and things for the Empress. It’s like he’s a teenager in love.

Guard A: well, I mean, of course the emperor loves her, maybe it’s their anniversary or-

Guard B: If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was under a love spell or something.

Guard A: yeah right, people have tried making love potions and they’re all just scams.

Guard B: haha yeah, I know. He’s just been acting a bit weird. Like, lately, he started calling the empress by a nickname? And according to the rumors, he’s even been discussing how to redeem wild witches with the coven heads.

Guard A: redeem wild witches? Is such a thing possible?

Guard B: Now, this is all just rumors, but.. *now whispering* Supposedly the Empress has wild magic, but she’s managed to control it with that broom of hers. It’s kept her from.. losing herself. Apparently it was a gift from the Emperor himself, he loved her so much that he made a conduit for her so she could stand at his side.

Guard A: ah, that explains why he is so desperate to fix the issue with wild magic. He just wants to save his wife.

Guard B: yeah, but according to what I heard: The Emperor has been bringing the Empress into the Throne room, and apparently they’re even discussing changing the day of unity

Au where tia actually does use her mom's magic to subjucate philip before he can kill caleb. au where tia basically turns philip into her butler using potions lol

very "You think im an evil witch? Fine, I'll show you just how evil I can be." except its tia so that means....just making him docile and complacent and taking care of him lol

[gromky]

most self indulgent headcanon for me has gotta be the shelby’s mother being named Thomasin. not finding the gif i want but imagine the woman pacing back and forth mumbling to herself <- it makes me feel like that lmao

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 28 (The Trouble With Marcus Flex)

Heather received great news from the developers of VetConnect when they agreed to help her build the PetConnect extension. They believed it would be successful and might even give her enough to buy out the Landgraabs, but for now, she just had to get it finished.

At work the next morning, she thanked her problematic vet tech, Marcus Flex, for the idea. But ever-flirty Marcus took it as something more.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. Heather pulled back immediately. "Half the clients who walk in here might fall to a puddle at your feet when you kiss them like that, but I'm your employer, Marcus."

"I'm sorry, Doc. I thought-"

"I should fire you. I can't because you kissed me and it'll look personal, but this is your last chance. Pull your socks up around here, or you'll have to find another place to work."

He was twenty-one years old and noncommittal by nature, but he finally started paying attention in his evening classes and began to pull his weight around the clinic.

Then one day, a girl came in with her family’s German Shepherd, Jax. She wiped tears from her eyes as she signed him in.

Instantly, Marcus was taken with her, approaching her and her dog with more trepidation than Heather had ever seen in him. "Hi, uh, my name's Marcus Flex. I'm sorry to see you looking so sad, but we'll take care of your dog and make him feel good as new."

"My mom was supposed to bring Jax for his annual check-up today, but she just died of heatstroke from the heat wave," she said gloomily. "I miss her so much."

Marcus wanted to reach out and comfort her, but his boss was watching nearby with a stern glare. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Miss...?"

"Thomasine Chopra."

Heather poured herself an espresso and smiled at Thomasine and her pet. "How are classes going at Deadgrass Isle High School, Thomasine?"

"We took a few weeks off to mourn my mom. Dad took us to the city to distract us, I think, but I couldn't sit through math class so I'm grateful. Needless to say, my last year of classes will start a little late."

Marcus looked away, flustered.

"I'm so sorry," Heather said. "When I heard about your mother's death I couldn't believe it. I can't imagine what you're going through."

"The card was really sweet, and Jax loves his Buttercups. Everyone in town's been great, and they've made things a little bit easier."

"Well, Marcus will take extra good care of Jax today, and I'm always here if you or your family need anything. Not just for Jax."

Heather's endlessly flirtatious vet tech had caused her as much grief as he'd proven he wasn't entirely hopeless. She couldn't help but think he needed guidance, and while they closed up at the end of the day, Heather warned him to wait for Thomasine Chopra. "I don't care if she's 18 already. If you think your feelings mean anything this time, keep your distance until graduation or I will fire you."

Marcus nodded, still a little shell-shocked by his new affections.

Could Heather continue to manage motherhood, the Landgraabs, and her clinic? ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: When Heather opened her clinic, Marcus was one of the sims she could hire and I went for it immediately because I love playing with premades. But then Marcus became an obnoxious NPC who made out with every single customer constantly because the Romantic Aura Action Plan had been default activated in Brindleton Bay. It all gave unflirty Heather a negative 'witnessed crass moment' moodlet EVERY TIME. So I finally decided to give him a storyline with the intention of moving him into the save file so he'll age naturally, make nooboos, etc. Somewhat unfortunately this is the only unmarried sim Marcus wanted because I also hadn't adjusted my age gap romance settings after playing the Ultimate Decades Challenge in my last save, so YA and teens could flirt etc.

All this to say I promise I won't let Marcus become a complete toad. Since I love my premades, I'm plotting a decent arc because this save did him a little dirty.

[afabstract]

Joy Review: Engagingly Understated Tribute to IVF Pioneers

Joy, starring James Norton, Thomasin McKenzie, and Bill Nighy, brings the inspiring journey of IVF pioneers to life with understated elegance and heart.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4 out of 5. Director: Ben Taylor Writers: Jack Thorne, Rachel Mason, Emma Gordon “You’re aware they’ll throw the book at us? The church, the state, the world. We will unite them all against us.” “But we’ll have the mothers. The mothers will back us.” In the early 2000s, when my brother and I were still school kids, we heard about a couple in the family whose daughter was a…

[tieflingfingers]

Exquisite Corpse

Exquisite Corpse: (noun) a game and/or method by which a collection of words or images is collectively assembled

(Character exploration and scene rewrite.)

Word Count: 4737

Pairing: Astarion x Tav (oc, half-drow bard, Thomasin.)

Summary: Rewrite of the first bite scene, fleshing out my character lore and diving more into a character study of Astarion in the moment. I always imagined it as two elves fumbling and bumbling mostly. (3 drafts and about a month of writing in my spare time.)

Warnings: Adjacent to horror/angst/humor/the seed planting of fluff. Vague mentions of abuse/trauma/whiskey. Two scrappy folks trying to not 1v1 each other and play nice. Wyll is the only adjusted one here.

Far into the depth of Faerun, lived proof of a forbidden courtship blossomed. Proof sprouting from its bud. The birth of an honest lovechild. An infant whose cheeks were pink and supple. Raspberries stained flesh, always grown on the same acre of farmland. The same acre as her mother and her mother before her. A lineage built feminine yet sturdy. 

The child was of half-drow descent, bathed by light not afforded to her father. Her mother would daydream about teaching her to braid her hair and tend crops. They’d one day read books about traveling lands beyond even her own comprehension. Tangible blessings. 

From the half-elf's first moments, she was adorned with a ribbon of pink undertones. Settled beneath her flesh, risen with every laugh the infant mirrored. Her mother would imprint her love with a nestle. Skin that was decorated by a labor of love. Sunkissed, speckled, and pressed against her child’s cheek.

"There’s so much to see in every plane, Thomasin,” her mother whispered.

The legacy of Thomasin’s father seemed to get swept away into the Underdark. Far off tales. His complexion was described as deepened in silver tints. A tall gentleman who wore a gentle expression. One whose light was never fostered. Yet, he still knew where the light resided. Ideas and vagaries never to be spoken aloud.

 It merely settled in his chest. Muddled and confusing to define, but important enough to carry over the years. Memories of his presence were left like breadcrumbs. Morsels that only found themselves within letters and anecdotal praise of her childhood. Memories that tried their best to not be muddied. To not be tainted. These weren’t documentations of Drow pillaging and contemporary misinformation. He was folklore she'd grow to cherish.

Now Thomasin marched on her own, keeping the tale ever-expanding. Adventures on the topsoil her mother birthed her upon. Proven as fruitful as they were merciless.

Tucked away under a thick quilt slept Thomasin, lifetimes away from her original roots. Dark hair sprawled around her head like a halo. Strands entwined and unfurled from restless slumber in the throes of her tent. Her mind clung to the background noise of new acquaintances. Their words mingled amongst one another, recounting anecdotes or playful jabs. Wine often was the foundation of dinner. Even without hearty meals, they bonded over the fire and warmth in their bellies. Each crackling pop of its flames became a countdown to silence.

Her body rest. Every night, flames eventually simmered down to a flicker. One by one, newfound companions retired to their sleeping mats, lulled by the alcohol slumped in their core. Only the light shuffling of whoever had been appointed lookout would be left. And so, under the awning of an old oak tree, she drifted back into what sleep she could muster. 

Within her confines, limbs wrapped themselves into the fetal position. Forty-fives years of age and her hands had documented such. Rings adorned each of her fingers, clanking against one another, twisting round and round like the rings of a tree. Encrusted gems wore generous scuffs and gold-plated metals revealed their true lacking luster. Prized as ever, nonetheless.

Her frame was worn but strong. Travel brought forth steady inclines, grassy hills, and whatever could be foraged from the land before her. She’d decorate herself with curated fashion tastes, pigments, scars from unfortunate scraps. Hips wide when the seasons were plentiful and a posture curated over decades of structure. When the journey grew tedious, laborious for the soul, there was comfort in her nest. 

Her satchel had a thick leather exterior, propping itself up like a presence of its own. 

Inside were only the essentials: 

A tiny stoneware bowl, gifted from past friends. Scarves made of fine stolen silk, whose weave snagged from nature’s long undeniable embrace. Books with split bindings lovingly re-bound by hand. Meticulous and maintained, threaded bundles of pages becoming whole once more. They bore anthologies of tales from the mouths of Faerun and guides to the edible flora in untamed territory.

Tchotchkes and tucked away keepsakes. Bottled liquids and lotions, floral and earthy scents slipping past cork with the faintest aroma. A violin whose strings had been plucked, popped, and rewound more times than she could count. An instrument beaten and babied all in the name of livelihood. Her comforts. Her essentials.

Images of tea times with loved ones and anxious liminal space leaked into her brain. Nighttime often plagued her with contentment and groveling in tandem, but it felt all too mundane these days. What was left would soon be filled with ideas for limericks anyhow. The thought alone found some sort of peace. It stretched itself thin and relaxed her stiffened joints. The glossier the top coat, the more fulfilling her slumber. 

Despite swaddling herself as if curled beside a hearth, awareness of her surroundings rarely faltered. Noises would always harmonize. Rustling leaves. Native berries plucked by the gust. As her mother always said, “We are a guest to nature. The nocturnal world has always lived with us, just as the light does."

Even then she wasn’t prepared. 

The nocturnal had entered her home.

Air began to feel thicker, heavier. The weight of cast shadows had an ever faint density atop her skin. There was no consideration for what or who was lurking. Only survival, a split second to allow her eyes to open and catch a glimpse of the grey and black shadow hovering above her. They darted back and forth to soak in the silhouette whilst her right eye inferred behind its cloudy cornea.

A pit formed deep within her chest. 

Before her was only reassurance of common fears. 

Domineering men and strategic company.

There was no hesitation in her reflexes, however. No need to process anxieties. No time. Muscles tensed, but words fled from her lips in rapid unnatural succession. A spell that slept so readily inside her in case of emergency. Reciting broken Drow language, texts of her youth, and vague horrific promises. The whispers trickled their way from her tongue into a river of flowing smoke. Cryptic, glowing only the faintest blue haze. A haunted melodic had snaked its way into the elven man's skull.

It crept through his ears, igniting any inkling of apprehension into a full blown panic. He gasped. It was only a mere few seconds, but the pressure entangled within his temples. Sharpened ephemeral claws wrapped around his brain's already wrought and battered disposition. The terror swirled until it managed to escape through his tear ducts and ever so slightly agape mouth. 

Into the darkness outside her tent, Astarion stumbled. He flung himself backward, landing square on his palms, disillusioned by sudden backlash.

Thomasin's breathing was ragged. She had managed to scuttle to the mouth of her tent, a small dagger unsheathed from her thigh. It became embedded within her fingers through an unyielding grip. A brilliant strategy if it weren't for the woman's shaking hands. Chips and wear along its metal mumbled its victims' names. One by one, few and far between, until they were inaudible with the next sharpening. The old blade had become a beacon of last resort use.

From the base of her other palm, mellowed light appeared. It bobbed about, rhythmic in its sway, and glinting upon both elves untimely unpolish. Before her, the perpetrator had been illuminated. Astarion was shivering in place, unable to grasp emotion beyond the familiarity of magical cruelty.

He knew he had to simply endure. The clutches of the Weave always dissolved before he did. Luckily, Thomasin had little intent to prolong such anguish. She knew, in this short stretch of vulnerability, she could approach him with caution. Like a writhing animal peeking with curiosity at another writhing beast. Quills plunged their way into the other's side in fright in a sort of comical mercy.

Astarion’s knuckles appeared speckled in shades of purple like a bruised plum. Its exterior had been tumbled and prodded, hitting the ground before it was truly ripe. Stabilizing his breath shone how his posture looked uncomfortable to maintain. His frame ached under the weight of its growing hunger. Worry wore heavy on an aching jaw and his pallid skin tone spoke of unrevealed pangs.

Although a hint of relief seemed to wash over Astarion. Gradual, but all too welcomed, he had begun to melt back into his previous state. His fingers eased from their strain in the dirt as eyes flicked back up to hers. Exhausted predation.

“Gods—shit,” he muttered. “It’s not–”

Words clamored to be set free from Thomasin’s throat, vicious and vitriolic, but adrenaline kept her frozen. Syllables bashed against her teeth, grinding them down until the unbridled anger settled into something meek sneaking from her lips. Uncharacteristically so. 

“Please, don’t do this. Whatever you-Whatever that was about to be,” Thomasin interupted. 

“You don’t have to use that, truly. Honestly. Aren’t blades and gutting a friend on sight a tad passé these days?” His voice cracked. 

Thomasin’s brow furrowed. Almost incredulous. Silence to allow him to consider literally any better defense.

“Perhaps my reputation precedes me, but I promise I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Do you see me as some kind of– oh, I don’t know. Some ne’er-do-well? I’ll admit, I’m a little hurt,” he whispered almost as audibly as his speaking voice. The lilt in his cadence was slithering its way back in. 

Astarion rolled his shoulder, shifting weight to straighten his spine and tend to the impact onto his wrists. His answers were temperate. Collected, if it weren’t for stutters and awkward laughter forcing themselves to the forefront. Every crack would be blanketed by familiar social cues and overcompensating charisma. Thomasin recognized it. There was little left to hide the fatigue he pressed down, as if forcibly pulverized against the weight of an ever-rotating stone wheel. Nothing left but powdered iron and rust. 

“There are few things I have a difficult time wording,” Astarion continued. A breath in and out, perhaps for dramatics. “Nothing awful, terrible, of course. I wouldn’t dare ruin the company we keep. Only those most mild of con–”

She watched as his entire body tensed up once more. Pale elven ears drooped down the moment he caught a glimpse of another in their proximity. Wyll had peeked from his tent in the near distance. He was hunched over and clinging to the slumber he’d been awoken from. Like a concerned mother investigating neighborly spats, too far to piece together what was occurring.

“Is everything alright?” he asked in his own hushed tone.

Astarion laughed. Each chuckle punctuated itself as if to convince his audience of good tidings. His unregulated volume rang even unnatural to him, and he immediately quieted himself. Before he could dig himself deeper into the metaphorical grave, his prey spoke up.

“It’s nothing,” she said, tucking her dagger delicately within her sleeve. “Seems Astarion spooked himself. Spooked me too with all the noise.”

This earned a smile from Wyll. And then a yawn.

“You two need not worry. The forests are just as bustling as the city streets, I can assure you. It’s probably the wind. Wake me and the others if trouble is afoot.”

“Aha, yes. Afoot,” Astarion managed.

Thomasin sighed. For a man that often boasted of suave proclivities, he was doing himself little favors. 

“Of course, don’t let him infringe on the Blade’s beauty sleep. I’ll stay up for a little while until he gets his barings,” she reassured before nodding to the gentle horned man. Enough to quell the situation and bid sweet dreams between the three. 

As the coast was clear, Astarion’s uncertainty made subtle changes upon his face. His ears never fully rose, now unsure what he was dealing with. He found himself thrust into his prey’s tent by the scruff of his shirt collar, white linens now bathed in full bloom of blues and calm violets. The infallible expression of confidence on his lips juxtaposed the cramped corner he pushed himself into. In fact, as her dagger grazed the crook of his neck, he appeared almost enthused.

Thomasin sighed. The closed quarters between them seemed to not intimidate as planned. She recoiled the act just enough to speak genuinely.

“What the fuck were you doing?”

“Alright, darling. Alright, don’t behead me before you’ve even let me have my peace. Sharing is caring, you know, and-” He laid out both of his hands before her, gesturing to his next suggestion as fact. “We know you do secretly care about me.”

Thomasin rolled her eyes. She had moved her position a mere inch before he piped up again, preparing his rebuttal after every previous rebuttal. 

“Fine, fine. You’ve pulled my leg enough. You know- There’s that ghastly sight we saw on our walk earlier in the week. Hog had those curious little wounds on his neck.” The man continued to smile, but his voice betrayed him. It wracked his nerves to say such aloud. “Perhaps… the stories of creatures going bump in the night aren’t entirely as they seem. That-Perhaps… Perhaps! Just maybe, vampire spawn live amongst you just as your peers.”

Astarion watched as her chest jolted with sudden inhalation. This was subdued fear he’d witnessed all too often in his two centuries prowling the night. However, this was different. No masters or gods to tell the elf what to do or how to act. No higher powers to blame as he could always do on script. 

He found himself leaning forward, grasping any form of recovery.

“Thomasin, darling. I am not in this state of being out of my volition. I-I-There are powerful people in Baldur’s Gate, an evil powerful man that I had the luck of being plucked from.” He swallowed hard. Visibly painful yet still attempting to be dignified. “That does not… quench me of my hunger, I’m afraid.”

Despite every part of her intuition pleading her to not give in, she felt her limbs ease. She hadn’t simply forgiven him, but he sat there unguarded. Unprotected in a manner no single person at the campsite had ever observed.  

“So… you feed on animals? That doesn’t explain…”

He averted his eyes. “I won’t be saccharine about all of this. Every day I grow weaker, everyday it gets more and more difficult to fight beside you all and hide such ailments. Color me desperate.”

They both offered the other a weak laugh in near unison, like it was their individual responsibility to squash this heavy reality. Her mirth surprised Astarion though. She had no reason to spare him the quickened death of a dagger through his chest. The obvious answer was self-preservation. He found her hesitance almost more frightening.  

 “Miscommunication is going to kill you before that big bad man does…But, it seems my familiarity with vampirism isn’t riddled with tales of rabid monsters, after all,” she finally said in the midst of silence. Nervousness pinkened her cheeks, but she spoke with quiet, unexpected reassurance. “If I allow you to drink from me, will you feel better?”

His gaze intensified in its confusion. Every fiber of his being had subconsciously prepared itself for another infinite living death. There could be a stake planted deep against his ribcage. Withering starvation in unfamiliar forests. Everything his master had promised would happen upon his escape. The camp could rise up and make a spectacle of it. Why wouldn’t there be theatrics, even in death? It’d amuse everyone he’d left in Baldur’s Gate.

His lashes fluttered as he blinked away all the unholy thoughts. He was as alive as he could be, gathering what was left of his energy to sit up and appear cordial.

“Of course, dear. Not a drop more than what you are willing to give. Only consensual blood between traveling companions. I promise over your dead–my dead– Imagine a much more pleasant metaphor.”

Thomasin had begun to chew at the thin skin of her lip. Whilst her decision making never had the best track record, there was coziness in the unconventional path. Dangers had always felt more perilous than the man sitting before her. And so, she took a deep breath, as if releasing all of those logical worried feelings.

 By the gods, she hoped she wasn’t to regret this. Her parents must’ve been rolling in their assumed graves, surely. If only they could cover their eyes.

“Alright,” she whispered, slipping her blade back into its sheath. She shifted back and pulled her knees closer to her chest. “What should I do?”

Astarion's movements were slow. He'd slink around her to position himself behind, her shoulders encouraged to rest against his chest. The vampire never had the luxury of indulgence. Never an artery so willing and gifted. Centuries of punishment still tugged at his strings though.

  There was never anyone to teach him how this operated. How to properly feed upon a victim. Where to bite, how to ensure preservation, leeching life without the inevitable corpse left in its wake. 

Thomasin hadn't heard him speak a word since she granted him permission. Only his arm wrapping around her waist in support as he brushed aside long strands of hair. They ran down her clavicle, cascading like a curtain to reveal her neck. The mere sight awoke something feral in his brain. Some dying animal careening to its waterhole for sustenance. 

Suppressed enough to keep control. Remain in control. He wasn't uncouth, just thankful for the dim lighting. Gold filling to hide the hairline cracks in his pottery.

"Is this going to hurt badly?" she asked. Her hands found their way to the sleeve pressed against her abdomen. Seconds went by, no answer. Only the visible shift in her muscles as she tensed up. She heard his sharpened inhale.

"No, no, no. Just- Let yourself relax against me. I'll keep you steady."

"Is this good? What if you go on a count? I breathe in and out a few times? You think that'll help?"

His voice grew quiet, hurried yet somewhat consoling. 

“Yes, yes. It's only a pinch. A nick, even. Just…” His words trailed off, finding himself hesitating at the touch of her warm hand on his forearm. 

One, two-- and not another syllable more. 

Puncturing into flesh felt like the hissing of an unkempt fire. Dried kindling snapping and sparking against moisture in the air. She yelped. Muffled by her own bite, screwed tight to keep herself from squirming too hard. The wound in her neck pulsated in a way she'd never experienced, uncomfortable and siphoned. Excitement of the unknown had all but culminated into panic.

Thomsin’s nails dug into his shirt, fingers pawing at the linens and cold embrace. They searched for any semblance of safety. Through the creases and cuffed folds, landing at his wrist and forearm in search of relief. 

Unbeknownst to the half-elf, there was a deep seated desire to keep going. Something in her subconscious she hadn't acknowledged enough to decipher. Whatever it was, she knew she could endure. Using his arms as a brace, every scuffed gem and gold plated scratch made its own codex into his skin. If there was anything left of her, she'd leave a legacy behind somehow. 

Astarion's body writhed against her in pure unbridled instinct. One of his palms pressed up against Thomasin’s jawline to keep her in place, learning how to lead in this macabre dance. Never had the finer tastes in life been in such abundance. Firing up his senses and lighting every vein within him, his thirst quenched for the first time felt like newfound riches. His eyes had nearly glazed over until the sharp pain in his wrist brought him back. Thomasin's composure seemed to be crumbling.

Just as her jewels deepened their imprint, she felt him pause. He had pulled his head back. Only an inch or so. How she caught his attention was a miracle, he thought. Tongue coated in blackened blood, pooling to his lips with unabashed hedonism. Whether he'd revel in his deeds later were of no concern right now. 

"Please, keep counting, darling,” he managed to utter.

As he began once more, the pain that once seized her adapted, evolved. The half-elf felt herself venturing into a bloodless calm.  Hearts beating in near sync, quick to bypass one another. His aggravated fervor and her descent into the dirt. The oozing ebb and flow of building delirium. An amalgamation of every misstep and the bottles of whiskey that couldn’t quite wrap them in creature comforts.

And so, she did as she was told. Her body followed, creeping into a languid state, limp wrists and head rolling in any which direction he pleased. Back to counting. 

Two. Three. Four.

The numbers coinciding felt more like concepts than measurements.

Five. Six. Seven.

Internal dialogues had begun to devolve. Abstraction. It washed over her. Abrupt and startling like tumbling into a cold bath. Somewhere, contentment began to leak in. Whether it was the making of his presence or her own phantasms, mysteries for another day.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Thomasin clutched onto him as a safety net. She ran her fingers along his clothing. Over every stitch, discovering mending and clinging to hidden patchwork. Every bump and valley. 

By now, the sounds of appetite and neglected vigor happening in her ear were fading into recollection. How his words always felt sticky with innuendo. Lines he must've told every living being that entered his vicinity. It was never as off-putting as she put forth though. She was drawn to the act, thankfully not always out of naivety.

Decades of elven living could spoil and sour even the most headstrong. Every dark alleyway, every social situation. Put under examination for survival. Erecting this statue of overconfidence often made the most sense. Even if she knew little of the gory details that crafted him, Thomasin sensed the act fizzling out.

She focused on sensations, careful to not get lost in every other countdown. The threads. The slowing of her heart beat. The amount of unsubstantial seconds that had gone by.

It beckoned her forward with warm euphoric dreams and brighter pasts, melding into undefined emotion deep within her chest. Color illustrations of bedtime stories and the sound of cobblestone walkways. Dust particles existing indefinitely against a window, evening light peering through. The knits of her favorite sweater and scents of perfume from close friends. 

The protective glow from oil street lamps and air bubbles popping in steins of beer. Fogged mirrors from hot baths and the way sounds muffled when sunk into a wooden tub. Stories told under the covers, fairytales to unfiltered confessions, until the magic illumination fell asleep too. 

These all lived in a hypothetical mist that rolled in, similar to early mornings of her childhood. Thickening, more of a fog. How they'd begun the exchange was unimportant. Details melting into something viscous. Consuming how the two had even met. 

Her fingers were still moving as far as she could understand. Coordination unsteady, but they lived with their own memories and habits. Operating as their own entities despite feeling the weight of the atmosphere weighing down on them. 

The repetitive motions. The color palette. The air. The pressure. The darkness.

Enveloping darkness.

“Stop,” she mumbled. “Please.” Words seemed warped from her lips, unsure she had even spoken them aloud. They felt incorporeal. Crawling towards what momentum was left.

Astarion noticed his eyes had adjusted to near pitch black.

 Her bulb of light had extinguished, blues and violets now deathly quiet. The seas livened and dulled over the course of what felt like hours for the two. A man coursing with vitality and adrenaline he had never fully endured feeling the shallow gasps for air in his arms. As much as Astarion wanted to celebrate, he cursed. Repeating them over and over, scooting backward to let her head lay in his lap. He slapped her cheek twice, printing her blood against her flesh in a hasty spattering. 

"C'mon, damn it. Now is not the time to be stubborn."

Each word tripped over another. He snapped his fingers over her shut eyes, suddenly noticing the thin red ribbons staining his hands and the drips collecting along her neck. Pathways and riverways intertwining, making their route down his arms and dying both of their clothing. He pressed his hand into her neck, hoping to calm the flow he had unleashed. After what he had consumed, anything trickling was important.

“Wake. Up.” He jostled her. “Don’t make me start asking gods for favors.”

Faint pulsing was felt beneath his bracing of her neck, but responses were absent. He couldn’t hold his gaze for long, seeing his own parallels across the young woman’s face in a way that stung. His focus darted about, looking for anything that could stop this escalation. A potion, a salve. A cleric deity with a worrying sense of humor.  

“I fear I may not be on good terms with them anyhow,” he half-heartedly joke, rummaging around until he spotted her backpack. Glass bottles clanking around in leather. Within a diamond shaped bottle glittered liquid he easily recognized. Commonly consumed among mortals for hangovers, bar fights, or the lucky escape from an owlbear. Healing minor injuries and illnesses in a foul swoop. Thomasin’s sickness was more dire than half a bottle, but it was more than enough to toast to.

“Aha, there you go. Watch your pretty little head.”

He tucked a pillow between his thigh and her head, creating elevation. Down came a gentle tug by the pad of his thumb. He pressed on her lower lip to part them and the elixir ran thin down her throat. 

It took a minute or so, but Thomasin’s eyes finally flickered, settling shut once more before her consciousness revved back up. Harsh, haggard, getting unceremoniously shoved back into the realm of the living. Where she lay with a veil of red strewn across her face and the soil smelling of iron richer than she remembered.

“Do you know how irritating these stains are going to be to get out?” Astarion said, taunting her, egging her on to get a single word. Expecting little reaction. 

Thomasin’s body suddenly flinched. A laugh. Still dazed, but somewhat responsive.

“That was nice though,” she whispered, nearly inaudible. 

Astarion’s ears perked up as he was prompt to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the remains from her body. Wringing the tainted water into a bowl, applying fresh from her canteen, and persisting with a gentle touch.  

He watched as she gradually resigned to the cushion of her bedroll. He took his time, cleaning what was left of his feast. Being alone in such a bizarre twist of fate. He figured he’d appreciate the stillness, running his hand carefully along her cheek, stopping to try and identify patterns laid across her brow. A small series of shapes and probable letters that were almost entirely hidden by long fringe. The same color as her hair, although time and resistance had faded its ink a tinge. 

“Huh. Little rugged of a design for classical violin, don’t you think?”

 He twisted and tilted his head every which way, trying to figure out its meaning. “Artists.” He snickered, everything hitting him gradually. There was success in both his snark and of not committing murder. The absurdity of how his life path was now diverging. His jokes were all weightless though. No one to praise or scoff at him. Only silence making reality far more grounded than he liked.

He wiped his own face with the damp cloth, sneaking self-indulgent licks of what was left on his forearm. It was only then he realized he was shaking a little, but in the dead night, it was a vulnerability he could conceal. Away from judgemental eyes. The solace in that alone tickled him.

In the darkness, he dragged Thomasin’s quilt over her, stopping just above the waist.  Distracted by the way her body gently rose and fell, rickety but alive. He left her partially uncovered, but respectfully settled at the furthest end of her small tent to keep an eye on her. Making the best of his sleeping quarters was child’s play at this point. Curled up, knees to his chest as he’d spent many nights in cold chambers.

Astarion rubbed his forehead. Emotions in intense situations had become muddled and hard to identify over the years. Perhaps it was amusement. Fatigue, relief,  mild disbelief. Fed. 

“By the fucking hells.”