#A Familiar Story

[driftward]

A FAMILIAR STORY

I never made a master post for this! This is essentially the end to the adventure that started with The Incident and continued into Junelezen: Echoes. Relative to the other two, A Familiar Story is shorter and simpler, but it ties up many of the loose ends established by the other two and finally sets Zoissette on the path to new adventure. Big thanks for my Free Company, without whose support I'm not sure I would've written nearly so much. I am glad to have been a part of the group for these past years.

---

Collected Logs of Anima-Based Eos-Class Scholar Tactical Field Medical Assistant 'Lavender':

Log Entry 1

Log Entries 15-38

Log Entries 40-57

Log Entries 59-112

Log Entries 113-140

Log Entries 141-407

Log Entries 408-411

[random-xpressions]

Writes an entire paragraph and cancels it in a second...

Random Xpressions

[johnschneiderblog]

In my wheelhouse

Son Justin gave me the Kindle version of this book for Father's Day,

You can tell by the subtitle that the book tells a grim story - one that affects me personally. I can hardly put it down.

The calamity described by Carson Prichard is not exactly news to someone who has pursued the mighty chinook salmon for 30 years - from the peak of the Lake Huron salmon fishery to its present-day nadir.

Although the causes of the collapse are still being chewed over, most experts zero in on a disruption of the food chain caused by invasive species - plus the fact that salmon are, in truth, also an invasive species to the Great Lakes.

Although I miss the heyday of the salmon fishery, I'm grateful I was here to participate in it. Meanwhile, I'll continue to chase lake trout, the species that actually belongs here.

(The fish in the bottom photo, taken on July 25, 2018, was one of our last big ones.)

[nyctosaurid]

don bluth films occupy a weird space because he's both inarguably an auteur who directs very strange, earnest, often "ugly" films but also a guy who near exclusively made movies for 8 year olds in the home video era. so basically everything he's ever done is a grimy, dreamy rumination on death and spirituality and has a direct to video sequel called something like secret of nimh 2: mrs. brisby's holiday adventure

[quibbs]

just had SO much fun with the fallout tv show... i love you missus okey dokey

[proxycrit]

LINKTOBER DAY 7: goron hot springs!

Link and zelda are sent to death mountain to “deal with the problem” via Purah. Yunobo is tired.

(Recasting Death Mountain to be slightly on fire! I love it when things are on fire.)

More of my zelda au here! (It’s totk without the time travel)

My patreon’s here if youd like to support my crimes :0

[tibli]

i have been trying to figure out why the whole 'fae god' and katniss everdeen things with kendrick lamar on here were bothering me, and i think i finally put it into words.

most posts like that are probably coming from well-meaning white people (i am also partially a White People, to be clear), who otherwise dont really listen to rap. they cannot find a way to 'relate' to this black man who sings largely about issues that affect the black community– and rather than try and meet him where he is, they have to fit him into these little tumblr cultural boxes before he can be 'palatable' to them.

they have to shave off the rougher/more abrasive aspects of his work and activism because it makes them uncomfortable, that way they can pigeonhole him into something that allows them to enjoy his work without the critical analysis that MUST come with it

he is not your fae god, he is not a YA protagonist, he is not a little gremlin or a cinnamon roll or a blorbo. He is a human being with opinions and beliefs that deeply permeate his work, and to ignore that truth is to ignore the entire point. PLEASE try to engage with artists' work outside of the lens of tumblr fandom, and i mean that as nicely as possible. you are doing YOURSELF a disservice

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Thank you so much for the part 2 of the shapeshifter AU! 🙏 The atmosphere is so singularly spooky and sultry. Keep up the great work!

on it boss!!

70 / 1.6k / part 3 of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

...

You wait until the early evening. It's the earliest you can run. Your so-called familiars won't come out while the sky is still bright. Even so, the moon’s faint sliver stands faintly visible against the sky. You pack your things and fetch your traveling cloak. Vital components. Your dagger. Scrying parchment. You've survived on less.

Something catches your eye as you open the door. The setting sun gleams off the little glass vial on your hearth. You grab it. It's the thing Soap left—what he was teasing you about; the "little treat" he brought back. You see now what it is: black henbane. Your heart beats faster. Out of anger or anticipation—you're not sure which wins out. You'll certainly make use of this. But it will be despite your demons. Not because of them.

As you set off to leave, though, you find yourself face-to-face with a different threat altogether: townsfolk with torches and pitchforks.

The mob's torches flicker, casting jagged shadows across their grim faces. Their leader, a broad-shouldered blacksmith with soot-stained hands, steps forward. The pitchfork trembles in his harsh grip. "Off to consort with devils, witch?"

Behind him, a farmer's wife spits at your feet. "My boy hasn't slept since your cursed raven perched on our roof! You sent those monsters to torment us!"

A ripple of agreement surges through the crowd. You catch the glint of silver amulets around their throats—crude charms of rowan berries and iron nails. Your designs.

"I don't want any trouble," you tell them. You already intend to leave this place forever; all you need to do is convince them to let you go in peace. "I swear it. I condemn the demons that plague the village just as you do."

The blacksmith's shout cracks like a whip. "Liar!" He thrusts his pitchfork toward your cottage and the crow feathers littering the threshold. "Found your nest o' nightmares. Bones under the floorboards. Charms written in your hand guidin' those beasts!"

A teenage boy hurls a rock. It grazes your temple with a thump that rings in your skull. "She fed my sister to the black dog! Saw its yellow eyes in her window the night she vanished!"

Then a torch arcs through the dusk. It crashes against your doorframe, tallow and embers cascading onto dry thatch. The farmer's wife screams, "Burn the hellspawn out!"

Other voices roar in agreement. The mob surges forward as one. Their amulets glow faintly as they near your wards, rowan countering rowan.

You slam the door shut, scattering glowing red hay, and bolt for the back door instead. You flee toward the forest. Warm blood slides down your face and trickles into your collar. You crash through the tree line. Brambles tear your cloak. Torchlight dances between birches behind you. They’re gaining.

"Kill her before she calls the beasts!" one voice shrieks.

Another voice, a child’s, cries, “There! By the elder tree!”

Your boot catches on its massive roots. You hit the forest floor hard. Pine needles stick to your bleeding palms as you scramble up—and freeze.

Yellow eyes blink open in the shadows ahead. A wolf.

The blacksmith’s heavy gait clatters to a halt. “Christ preserve us.”

The hound steps into the fading daylight, scars rippling across its muscular flank. Ghost. He bares teeth longer than your fingers.

You back away only for another shadow to fall from the trees above and land next to you soundlessly. The shape is feline—Gaz—but he's no longer the size of a housecat. He's as massive as a tiger. A growl thunders through him. He levels his gaze past you. At the villagers. They don't stand a chance.

You whirl back on the villagers with wild eyes. "Get out of here!" you cry at the mob.

The blacksmith shoves a trembling boy behind him. "Back! Back to the—"

Ghost lunges. Not at the villagers. At you.

His jaws snap inches from your thigh, herding you backward into Gaz's flank. Gaz pins you with one paw on your chest. He keeps his claws sheathed, but the pressure is enough to bruise. His rumbling purr vibrates through your ribs as he licks blood from your temple wound.

"Demons!" A villager hurls a torch. It bounces off Ghost's shoulder. Embers catch in his fur. He doesn't flinch.

Soap's cawing laughter rings from the treetops. He drops down as a raven, shifting mid-fall into human form. He lands in a crouch. "Och, look at these brave lads! Come to play with the big bad devils."

The blacksmith thrusts the pitchfork at him. "Back!"

 Soap catches the shaft and yanks the smith forward. "Careful now. You'll poke someone's—" He drives the smith’s own weapon through his boot, impaling foot to soil. "—eyes out."

Screams erupt. The mob fractures. Some flee. Others stand frozen.

"No, don't hurt them!" you gasp out. You try to push out from under Gaz's paw, but it does you no good. "Leave them alone!"

Gaz's purr deepens into a predatory rumble as he drags his rough tongue up the side of your neck to taste your sweat. His hot breath stirs your hair when he growls, "Too late for mercy, love. Smell the fear on 'em? Ripe as summer fruit."

Soap wrenches the pitchfork free from the smith’s screaming form, flicking gore off the tines. "Aye, let's make it a proper feast! Been ages since we had fresh meat that fought back."

"Enough."

Price's voice cracks through the woods like thunder. He stands under the pines’ shadow as if waiting for the last motes of sunset to vanish before he ventures out.

"You lot should've heeded the warnings. Salt your thresholds. Avoid the woods after dark." His gazes pauses over a young child frozen in fear, no parents in sight. He tuts. "But you meddled. Stole from my witch. Harmed her."

The blacksmith finds his voice. "W-We didn't—"

Price steps forward. His boot crushes the smith’s bloodied foot into the ground. Bones pop. "See, that's the trouble with mortals." He crouches to stare into the terrified villager’s face. "You don’t admit you’re wrong."

"Price, please, just take me instead," you plead. "I'm what you came for, aren't I?"

Price's gaze snaps to you. He rises slowly. The flicker of your burning cottage on the horizon behind you reflects in his eyes and makes them glow. His expression tells you how little choice you have in that particular matter. Where you go, they go.

Then he looks past you. “Gaz."

Gaz’s hand slides up your inner thigh. "Already on it."

"No. Save the foreplay. We've got a village to raze." He grabs the bloodied collar of your cloak and hauls you to your feet. "You'll watch. Then we'll discuss your ungrateful actions." His gaze flicks away. "Ghost. Gaz. Clean up."

You can only watch Ghost and Gaz bound into the screaming mob. Your body feels lighter than the air. Then you remember the weight of the henbane in your cloak pocket. The next moment, it's in your hand. You crush the glass, ignoring the stab of pain. You send it sailing through the air, and it lands right on its mark—the roaring torch discarded in the leaf litter.

The henbane catches and wafts up into the air as smoke. It curls upward in thick, narcotic tendrils. The smell is heady, its effect potent and immediate. Soap snarls as the first plume hits his nostrils. He staggers back and clutches his head. Gaz convulses mid-pounce, collapsing into ferns as his tiger-like form shrinks to housecat size. Ghost whines low in his throat and shakes his massive skull like a dog with water in its ears.

Chaos erupts. Villagers seize the chance to bolt. The blacksmith drags his wailing son toward the tree line.

Price grips your arm hard enough to leave talon marks. His other hand clamps over his nose, veins bulging in his temple. You cough into your sleeve. Your vision swims. Henbane's poison works both ways, after all. It’s powerful for those who know how to use it for their own ends. Black henbane is what you used to summon your familiars and what bound them to you. But its hallucinatory effects are more pronounced on those who have surrendered the greater part of their souls to magic—or for those whose bodies are already flush with it. Price, Gaz, Ghost, and Soap don’t stand a chance. Even your soul is so considerably marked by witchcraft that you quickly fold to its effects. But you, at least, can twist it and warp it to weave a spell that might protect you.

Cloaked in smoke, you transform.

The shift hits you like a lightning strike—bones crackling, muscles twisting, vision narrowing into a something wide and preylike. The forest tilts, and suddenly Price's grip is gone. He holds your sleeve, but not you. You slip away, tumble through your limp clothes, and hit the forest floor on four paws. The world sharpens into smells of damp moss and wolf musk. Your rabbit heart hammers against ribs as thin as wishbones.

You dart left--straight into Gaz's waiting claws. The tomcat pins you with a paw, purring as his claws prick your scruff. Then he sneezes, henbane pollen glinting in his whiskers. You writhe free.

You race deeper into the forest with the wind at your back. The woods close in, but thorns no longer claw your clothes; roots no longer trip you. You are no longer an intruder. The forest itself turns toward you, opens to you. Thorns tug pleasurably against your fur as you bound past. Old magic stirs beneath your rabbit feet.

"Clever girl. Find her." Price's voice slithers through the trees far behind you, syllables slurred but venom intact. "And keep her whole enough to scream."

...

← part 2 / [part 3] / part 4 ➡

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[lotus-pear]

HIII SORRY FOR NO NEW ART have some concept sketches for the fic i'm working on instead

[imvec]

Scene from chapter 7 (!) of “living is a gamble, baby (loving's much the same)” by @stbot

And their ‘fake’ wedding

[chez-cinnamon]

Zombie story OCs <3

Felt like doodling my OCs some more, probably expect me to post more of them fgbjgnjh

The basic premise atm is a group of survivors in a town running a zombie fight club with unusually mutated and conscious zombies !!

[driftward]

Log Entries 113-140

Log Entry 113

She woke up late. She never wakes up late.

At least we still went for her morning run. Well, morning. Barely. It was lunch time when we got back. She washed up, changed outfit, went to the meeting room where the company usually has their lunch, and announced to everyone present that the courtship between her and the Chirurgeon had ended.

And then she retreated.

The Madam Commander is acting in paradox. Frantic, yet still. Bubbling full of emotion, silent as ice. Hands reaching for tasks, yet nothing accomplished.

I have seen her here before, and I am afraid. I cannot keep her safe this time.

I want her to take care of herself. I want to prepare. She is going to self isolate. We need food, water, books.

Stupid, stupid.

Log Entry 115

The Madam Commander’s brother is still at headquarters, which I did not fully appreciate. She went to him. The Leftenant was there as well, but whatever they were doing, they put it aside to let her stay.

Nothing happened. We’re well fed and there’s plenty of tea.

Log Entry 117

She sent the Mathye a fruit basket. I looked back through Lily and Foxglove’s notes. I’m pretty certain this is the wrong way to handle a break up. I referenced some stories from the archives.

They’re no help.

My own guidance recommends that, if opportunity presents itself, to send someone with relationship difficulties back from the field to sort it out so they are better able to focus on what’s right in front of them.

Guess we aren’t meant to be counselors.

Log Entry 118

I was so worried that I didn’t notice at first, but!

Something’s changed.

She wakes alone, but from that moment, she does not stay alone. If there is nobody where she intends to be, she seeks until she finds somebody.

Our friends accept us. She does not talk as much, but they seem happy to just have her there, and it’s a relief, I’m relieved, she’s not brooding, well she IS but she’s brooding with company, and most importantly, no running off to perform ill advised experiments with insufficient supervision.

I am not sufficient supervision. Noting that here should it come up again. She’s too big and too heavy for me to move by myself. That’s important to note. I’m noting it.

Log Entry 119

She could stand more variety in her diet.

Log Entry 124

She practically lives in the workshop, now. I think she’s determined that’s where her friends are likely to either be, or where they’ll look for her first. And she’s taken to machinery with enthusiasm.

Which is great! I can also access schematics! In theory. Fairies did lots of things back in ancient Nym. I am an Eos-class, so while I am specialized for helping my Scholar in field triage situations, fairies like me had other jobs, too!

And I am so much more than most fairies. I bet I could pick this up no sweat. Just me and her and her crew, working on these submersicraft and aerocraft.

Soon as I can interact with reality I’m going to bite everyone and everything. This is terrible has been terrible and continues to be terrible.

Log Entry 130

The Madam Commander is more worried about the Crystalficer as time goes on, and I think she’s right! Whatever has happened to the Crystalficer is eerily familiar to what happened to us. Everything was fine, right, until everything was very. Not fine.

The Marine seems to disagree. Where’s her fairy. Where’s Glitterdust. I want to talk to her instead.

A joke! I am hilarious. I still can’t talk to anyone.

Anyroad, worries about the Apple are on pause for now. It seems that someone else has recognized the Madam Commander’s excellence, and asked for her services.

An investigation. This is great, actually! It is well past time. The Madam Commander has recovered her strength well enough, if not her essence. She has been practicing with gunblade and chakram; so she is armed enough. She is smart, and clever, and even without me, she will be alright. The Marine and the Leftenant are never far from her side, and there are others she can call on.

And frankly this is better than her spending all her time in the workshop avoiding thinking about the Chirurgeon.

So, murder most grisly in the home of the land spirits! I wonder if they will be able to see me. We are off!

Log Entry 138

I have missed this.

Lily told me stories of their early adventures, and I have bits and pieces of Foxglove’s gestalt, to say nothing of my own memories.

Simply, my Scholar is an investigator.

And it is in an investigation that she is most in her element.

We’ve been directed to examine some bodies. I want to tell her what I can see! I want to help! I can see what’s wrong almost immediately. Their physical form may be whole, but their essence is depleted - further than even death would suggest, given how long they have been dead. If I was more here than not here, I could help perform the autopsy work.

But my Scholar is an investigator.

And while I have been helpful in the past, she doesn’t NEED need me for this.

Watching her work is a marvel. The way she notices every detail of a scene. The way she manages to see things nobody else does, not even me. The care with which she acts. The way she puts pieces of information together.

I thought I would try to help. And I think she managed to see the world I do, just for a moment, I’m… I’m not sure. But she saw the essence depletion, same as me.

A small puzzle piece! The Adept and the Marine are both here. She called on them both, and set them to work, and began to put the matter together.

It’s so good to be back in the field like this.

Log Entry 139

The Crystalficer was still on her mind, and so we went to their home. A small living craft, worthy of any proper Nymian. Her and the Marine disagreed on some matters, even as she examined the ship and noted it had been abandoned.

She wanted to go inside. The Marine disagreed.

It was a risk, but we took it. Just the slightest nudge, right? Just a brief touch, through, and I had her hand through the door and opening it from the other side.

I don’t think the Marine noticed. We examined the boat, and oh, my Scholar is so very very clever! I thought we were only working on the one case, but in fact, we were working on two! She determined that the Crystalficer was very probably the grisly murderer in the home of the land spirits!

Or… something infesting and controlling the Crystalficer.

A voidsent.

We are about to go investigate further.

Log Entry 139 addendum

IT WAS NOT A VOIDSENT HOLY SHITE IT WAS NOT A VOIDSENT THIS MAY BE MY FINAL LOG

Log Entry 140

The Crystalficer is back home, safe.

She had… summoned… a unique sort of egi. Now, I don’t know as much about egis as I would like. They are creatures of aether, like me. They are created via sophisticated geometry, like me. But while I tap into anima energies and am formed of symbolic logic, an egi… borrows… primal aether. Sort of like living aether, but elementally charged, and shaped by some kind of conceptual logic.

It was a terrible creature. I could call it a voidsent, I think, for it was full of the chaotic aether with which I am now all too familiar. It had many arms of dangerous blades. It was fast, and dangerous.

I was faster. I am still not sure how I did it, but at one point, I reached, and pulled myself and my Scholar through the in-between.

We avoided the worst of its strikes. We fought back.

It did not dissipate fully when defeated. A part of it is still part of the Apple. It will always be part of her, the Scholar opines.

I look upon it with a faint feeling of horror.

We may be different, but we are the same. Her egi… my Scholar’s fairy… me.

Our aether showing streaks of the strong mix of static and chaos. I know not where her egi got it from. I got the static from the Atelier, so long ago, pulled from the malfunctioning device, to protect my Scholar. And the chaos… again. That from the spaces we visited abyss. I took it to protect my Scholar.

But what if … I am the same as that thing?

A fairy is a symbolic construct that serves their Scholar.

But that thing defended the Crystalficer as viciously as I would defend my Scholar.

And I am clearly not a proper fairy anymore.

No. I won’t do it. And that’s that.

[blizardstar]

Me when Ashton Greymoore is denied honorable and meaningful self-sacrifice, and now must face the reality that they MUST keep living after it’s All Over

[canisalbus]

machete is like a delicate looking white flower, one where the petals turn transparent when it rains. vasco is a marigold for many reasons.

Ooo I like that! It never even crossed my mind to assign marigolds to Vasco, but it makes perfect sense. I had to look it up but the flower that turns transparent in the rain is called skeleton flower, and yeah, I can see how that would fit Machete.

I tend to associate irises, damask roses, and forget-me-nots with Vasco

And red carnations and poppies with Machete

[purpleelephantsocks]

Oh god, oh fuck, oh no; the parallels between Jean at the beginning of tsc panicking and telling Wymack "I want to go home" and Jean at the end of tsc falling apart after finding out his baby sister has died, telling Neil the same thing.

"I want to go home."

He is only nineteen

[choochooboss]

Emmet heading off for the holidays - first time alone. [Festival of Family 1/8] Some WIPs under the cut!

I'm so tired of looking at this - the composition and colors were a massive struggle and I still don't know if I made good choices or not.. Welp, I've been holding onto this well over a year now so it's time to move on! And it's not the only piece I've been holding onto; next one will be the biggest of the set of 8 pieces!