#Fibrous roots

[bumblebeeappletree]

Tammy digs deep on what’s happening below the soil and shows us how to divide roots for more plants.

Leaves, flowers and fruits are the stars of the plant world and capture our hearts with beauty and delight. But it’s the unsung heroes deep below the surface that are doing much of the hard work. Roots take up water, oxygen and nutrients for the rest of the plant, as well as sometimes storing energy. They offer anchorage and stability and support the glamourous beauty above.

The key to healthy roots is to choose the right soil because bringing them home means giving them a modified environment. Many indoor plants have roots that trace back to the rainforest, so they love premium potting-mix, rich with composted bark and organic matter. Whereas plants whose roots trace back to the desert, like cacti and succulents, love free-draining mix with sandy, grainy textures. You can find out more about your plants' preferences by checking the label or asking your local nursery. The right soil will allow the right balance of air and water to support the functioning of these very valuable roots.

Tap roots:

The humble carrot is a fine example of a tap root. It consists of one main single organ with only a few light root hairs. It’s strong and tough allowing it to penetrate down deep to access water. Much of the plant’s sugars are stored here which is why carrots taste sweet when cooked.

Fibrous roots:

Many grasses, bulbs and ferns grow fibrous roots. These are dense networks which spread out from the centre stem in search of water. Some plants may grow in clumps where an offshoot from the root or stem has the potential to be a new plant on its own. Clumping systems like zebra plant and flamingo flower can be easily divided.

Adventitious roots:

Adventitious roots are a broad category that are specialised for different functions. Orchids and Monstera have aerial roots which evolved to harvest water from the air and help climb high into the canopy. You can prune these off if unsightly. Other plants such as kikuyu grass, Snake Plant and Rabbit foot fern grow from rhizomes which are underground stems that function like roots. Rhizomes spread sideways sending up new shoots and roots at each node with all the material needed to form a new plant.

Vegetative reproduction:

Plants can create a new plant without a flower or a pollinator and it’s easy to take advantage of this to create more plants! Tammy shows us how to divide and multiply clumping roots and rhizomes.

Dividing Clumping Roots:

- Remove the plant from its container and loosen soil around the root system.

- Look carefully for a natural separation of plant material. There may be individual root systems coming from separate crowns (crown = connection point between root and stem).

- Gently tease these root systems away from each other. For smaller plants you can often do this by hand. Larger plants may be interwoven tightly, a sharp hand tool or spade may be required.

- Check each plant has a healthy set of roots and stems, discard ones damaged in the process.

- Shake off excess soil and remove dead growth or root fragments. Keep moist until planting.

- Prepare soil and re-plant at the original planting depth as soon as possible.

- You may want to cut back some foliage and water in with liquid feed to reduce plant shock.

Dividing Rhizomes:

- Look carefully along the rhizome for nodes of growth that have either a shoot or root forming.

- Using a clean sharp, non-serrated blade, cut into sections that retain one to three nodes each.

- Allow the individual plants to air-dry for a day or so before re-planting – this helps the open wound harden over and better regulate water intake.

- Plant close to the surface, only a few centimetres under the soil and water in.

- Keep moist until you can see new growth sprouting from the nodes of the rhizome. Depending on your plant, this may take 1 to 4 weeks. Anticipation is the most fun part of the process.

Plant roots are amazing! They are hardworking and often provide invisible support to the plants we know and love. Treat them well and they return the favour with lots of lush healthy growth.

[georgiapeach30513]

Trying To Save Me, Part 1

Summary: Fate. A word you were forbidden to ever speak. It wasn’t real and it didn’t exist. A word that was always whispered around you, but never to you. You didn’t know why you were fated for something. Just that the day you were born the great winter came and you’ve been on the run with your family since, but now they were gone. Traveling to what you thought was further and further away from the dark king’s palace. Instead, you had begun to get closer. Following a white wolf instead of your learned route. No wonder you wound up captive and given to the king as a gift. As was fated…

Pairings: dark king!Bucky Barnes X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  language, violence, death, curse, attempted SA, kidnapping, humiliation, objectification, non/con fingering, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 4.8K

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

A woman’s shriek echos up into the mountains while a young boy looks up at the sky. His freakishly green eyes look all along the night sky. His hand taps on the arm of the other man beside him as he points up at the sky. “You need to tell Malik,” he answers, keeping his eyes in the sky.

A twig in the distance breaks, and both men look towards the tent as a long drawn out scream comes from inside, “Go, now,” he answers annoyedly as he watches the first snowflake drift from the sky. “Our fates are sealed, I fear.”

The younger boy runs inside, eyes going large and round as a woman reaches down, and cradles a just born baby to her chest. Tears and sweat pour down her face as she clings to the child, rocking back and forth.

“Sire.”

“Silence,” a gigantic man says, stepping closer to the woman, “My queen. Let me see the baby,” she cries harder, shaking her head. “Let me see the child!”

“She’s just a baby,” she cries, looking up at him. “She doesn’t have to know. Nobody has to know. She’s just a baby!”

“Sire,” the guard says again, and the large man turns abruptly, eyes aflame as he approaches slowly. “My king, the snow is falling,” the queen in the background wails. Her hands slap at everyone who tries to take the baby from her arms. “He will come for her.”

“Clean them up. Cicely, stop your screaming. Everything you know, will be no more. If you want to keep the child. If not, we can end it now. It is fated…”

“Malik, she’s a baby! My baby! No, it doesn’t exist. Take the crown on top of my head. I don’t need this life,” with a sigh, Malik slings his head to the side and everyone in the tent scrambles. “What are you doing?”

“This will be a winter like you’ve never seen before. They’re loading the necessary items,” picking his crown off his head, he throws it to the ground. “She’ll never know. Yours, too,” the queen kisses her daughter’s head before letting her own crown fall to the ground. Life would forever be different.

You reach your hand into the snow, digging around a moment before you pull up a small root. Wiping it clean before gnawing your teeth into the fibrous twig. Glancing out through the thin trees. You haven’t known anything but winter. And typically you were alone. Had been for a few years, until him. The white wolf. He always lingers around when you scavenge for what little food you could find.

“It’s not meat, you beast,” the wolf’s eyes never leave you as it sits down into the snow. “I can see that you’re looking at me like you want to devour me, but you also know I’m too skinny for eating, huh?” Chuckling, you tear another piece off the root. “Did you eat a rabbit out of my trap? I’d like to get some real food in my belly. I have to start traveling again.”

The perks of living in a village was you weren’t completely alone. There is a comfort of having a wall, and humans, even if you didn’t talk to them. “I can’t go back into the walls without something. They do community soup. You have ruined my supper a few times. This shit is horrid,” you groan. A part of you wants to throw it at the beast that wouldn’t leave you be, but you need the sustenance.

“If someone saw you, they’d kill you. Your pelt and meat would be useful,” the wolf yawns, laying himself down fully in the snow. “You’re not even scared of me, huh? I wish you could talk, so you could tell me where we were. I miss my family. Ugh,” you groan, standing up and the wolf remains laying there. “Should you ever attack me, I will kill you.”

The wolf looks you completely in the eyes, his silvery blue ones a stark contrast to your overly green ones. Looking upon each other for too long before you throw the small remnants of the root towards him. “Do not pursue me, white wolf.”

Turning your back on a wolf could be stupid, but at this point you welcomed anything that would break up the monotony. Anything that would give you excitement outside of this routine life. You’d stop at the few traps you’d laid for the small game, and hopefully carry something back. The hunger in your belly grows stronger everyday, and if you want to leave this forsaken village, you need food. Real food.

‘Don’t stay in one place too long. Don’t give people your real name. Don’t look them in the eye. Don’t speak too much,’ all your parents taught you was running away and fear. You aren’t even sure why you had to constantly move, and constantly hide your identity to the point you aren’t even sure who you are. It was all made up lies after all.

Who were you? That is a funny question because you aren’t sure. There have been glimpses of who others thought you were. There have even been whispers that you try to ignore unsuccessfully. Mentioning a word that you were forbidden to say out loud. Who were you that made people fear you, and your family fear for you?

Leaning over a trap, you thankfully pull up a rabbit. That stupid wolf didn’t eat everything. Minding your business outside of the walls of the village is your safe space. People inside the walls, particularly the ones your age are cruel. Their curious but angry eyes always on you. Watching. Planning some form of your demise.

“If it isn’t the little sapling caught all alone again,” standing up straight, you look behind you at one of the village boys, but choose to just walk to the next trap. Don’t engage. Don’t give them a reason to hate. “What’s the matter, princess? You scared of a little fun?”

You didn’t want the fun he was willing to dish out. You wanted to eat, and leave this place. Talk to as few people as possible. They were the ones dragging you into their drama, “Yeah,” you stop your movement. Turning in the other direction when two boys start stalking you. “We just want to play a little bit.”

“Maybe fill your belly, so you have to stay. That’s what you’re getting ready to do, huh?” Three boys. You’re fucked. Instead of collecting from your traps, you walk towards the wall. You try to find something. A large stick, anything to use as a weapon. Of course there would be too many.

“She thinks she’s too good for us,” four. Where the hell were they coming from? Head down. Walk faster.

Another steps from behind a tree directly in front of you, and you nearly forget to breathe, “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. I’m tired of the girls here. I like fresh meat. I’ve heard your untouched,” fuck. Your bright green eyes look around at all five of them gathering around you. What amazing men they are.

Grabbing onto the knife at your hip, one of these jackasses grabs your arm, “Don’t think so, sweetheart,” another hand, another weapon.

“Girly, we just want to have some fun.”

“Fun for who?” Your voice isn’t as strong as you hoped. It is borderline screeching.

“Keep screaming. We like it,” god, they are just a pleasant bunch. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. First is pain, and then a blinding light as you drop to the ground. “Go on, give us a scream.”

“Are you too stupid to say anything?” You clench your eyes closed as you try to ignore the pain in the back of your head. Snow squishes up into your ear, and you drift off to anywhere but here. Hands grabbing the furs on your body, and you hate you’re always alone. There is never anyone to protect you, so you have to take everything.

“She sure is pretty face down like this,” one of their hands hooks under your pants. “We won’t tell anyone if you won’t. What the fuck? Ahh,” snarls. “Help me!” Your assailant screams while all his friends run away. Pulling the furs close to your body, you scurry around, sitting on your ass, and start to scoot away.

Those silvery blue eyes stare deep into your soul as his teeth dig into the boy’s shoulder deeper. “Get your knife! Do something!”

“You were about to rape me. All of you,” you would have to be a fool to not know what those boys were attempting to do to you. And this one had the gall to demand that you do something to save him. Who was going to save you from them?

“We were teasing, you little bitch!” The white wolf’s muzzle raises as he watches you. Too still for an animal in the forest. “Stab it!” His screams are hideous, but you don’t feel sorry for him. That disgusting excuse for a man would had laughed at every scream you made.

You give a single nod to the wolf, and he bites down so hard on his shoulder, you hear the sickening crack of his bones. His voice shoots into the twilight as the wolf drags him away. It felt like he was waiting on you to tell him it is okay to kill him. At least the beast would have some meat tonight as would you. You could finally get a full belly, and could leave this terrible place. As soon as the first ray of sun came through your tent, you’d be gone.

Grabbing up your rabbits, you try not to vomit at the horrid screams, and crunching bones that are not far enough away. Your stomach rolls, realizing the wolf was trying to keep the young man alive as long as possible. Wanting him to feel every bit of the pain he was ready to inflict on you. “Thank you, and you’re welcome for dinner, white wolf.”

No. You squint as you look up into the sky, and then back at the beast. That isn’t the right way. “You’re going to get me killed,” the wolf continues to look at you, turning his back he walks a few steps before looking back at you. “I’m not following you.”

He takes a slow calculated step towards you, snarling as he takes another. “Fine! But you follow me,” another step. “Don’t lead me closer to the center of the realm,” you don’t even know why that is a thing. Why did you have to stay on the outskirts? A wildling, living in an eternal winter. You are no longer a child, and surely people still didn’t believe the prophecy.

“Do you know what spring looks like?” You’re talking to a wolf. Walking where you shouldn’t be, and you have lost your mind. Wandering around because you no longer even understood why you had to do this. Humans weren’t meant to live alone, you couldn’t see the purpose of needing to lay low. It’s silly to assume that you couldn’t live the life that some did in the villages. Getting married, having a family, being as normal as winter would allow.

You didn’t want to bring a child into this world. A world where food is just as scarce as the warmth. And the king’s cruel reputation for using women as currency. Sounded like a grand world. What if you had a daughter, and she was one that was kidnapped by the king. Sold into whatever life he made them live.

Maybe those were enough reasons for you to not go close to the kingdom. “Do you think the king’s guards ever go outside the kingdom walls?” Your furry friend puffs as he continues his trek. “I suppose they’d have to. I wonder how the kingdom works. Why wouldn’t people just refuse to have children? And what is he doing with these women? Eating them? Does the blood of virgins keep him alive forever? Is the king really not that cruel, but the stories are because he hoards food? Maybe even something nice to eat. Not just to sustain oneself. Ahh!”

You flinch, having to step back as he starts to walk towards you again, “Okay, I won’t talk about the king. Truce. I am just talking, and didn’t realize you understood me,” nodding his head, he turns back around. Weird creature. Even though the wolf couldn’t respond, you feel the need to talk. Like you have an audience for the first time.

Why the hell did this wolf understand you? How did it possibly know what you are talking about? And did he like or not like the king? Maybe they were sworn enemies and talking about the king pissed him off. Or maybe they were in fact friends. “How was your dinner last night? I’m sure the meat was rotten, but I suppose it was better than a squirrel. Thank you by the way. Don’t think you and I have to be friends, but I think they would have left me for dead.”

There isn’t a doubt in your mind that’s what they were going to do. Fucking men. They were all little boys who wanted to destroy things deep inside of them. “Monsters. The word men shouldn’t even be used. They’re monsters. Like you, white wolf, I know you are a beast and can kill me, and eat me it seems, and I still follow you. Do you have any idea where we are going?”

You are glad that no one is around to hear you gab on with a damn wolf. One that would surely have you for lunch. “That’s probably what you’re doing, huh? Leading me to your den where you can all feast on me.”

The giant dog stops abruptly. Throwing his head up to the sky he bellows out a howl, and you cover your ears as his noise vibrates through your body. This didn’t sound like a normal wolf. Or maybe you’ve never been so close to one. Screaming out in pain as you move away from him. “You fucking asshole!”

You need to get away. The beast seriously did bring you to your demise. Sending out a distress call to his fellow demons to come chow down on your body. “Asshole,” you mutter under your breath, trying to run far away from the creature that is going to see that you’re ripped apart limb by limb.

“Where did she go?” Fuck! More men. Monsters. All of them. The only ones worth anything were the ones laying cold and dead in the snow. “Go in all directions. It’s time,” you’re going to die, actually die this time. Die out here in this frozen wasteland because if you run, they’ll chase.

“This will be easier than I thought,” an evil leer as the man spots your footprints. Damn this winter! There should be a downpour of snow right now. Instead you’re a sitting duck with a trial of prints right to you. Taking off your pack, you pull out your daddy’s necklace, and kiss it. If they wanted you, they’d have to catch you.

One slow, solid breath, and you launch out of your hiding spot, and spring towards anywhere. “Got her,” shit! Everywhere you run there are men. But not just any men. The ones you had tried to avoid for a lifetime.

“By order of the king, I command you to stop!” They could cut your head off. If you were going to die, you’d die trying. And you weren’t going to stop. What choice did you have but to do everything in your power to not be taken captive.

“Oomph,” you start choking as a large man wraps his arms around you tightly. “She’s a fighter. The king will love that. Someone that can deal with his overgrown bratty self.”

“Get your hands off me!”

“Cuff her,” the blond man says, nodding his head towards another. “Hold still!”

“I don’t want to be your toy!” You hate men. They’re disgusting. The most vile of humans.

“You won’t. Not ours anyways,” he chuckles as the chains are put around your wrists, and even your neck. “Careful now,” he says obnoxiously as metal is extended towards your face. “It shouldn’t hurt but just a little. With this on, no one but the king will touch you.”

You didn’t want anyone touching you. Not this guard. Not the king. Closing your eyes, you grit your teeth as the mask is pressed against your face. A quick sting from the metal that is too cold to be on your skin. But then something pricks the back of your neck, and your scream lights up the forest, and then darkness. Nothing but eternal despair.

You were warned. And you failed. The one place you were to avoid, you ran right to it. Stupid girl.

Living in a world of ice and all alone, you get used to things not going your way. You’re a bit too vulnerable in a society that looks down at you because you’re a woman. A marked one at that. But a woman whose only one purpose you possess is for men’s pleasure and carrying babies. Other than the last remaining people of your tribe, you never met a man that was worth anything. And now you were in the belly of the beast.

The worst man of all. Some people claim that his influence sludged out to the realm, and it’s what turned all men sour. The fairy tale that once upon a time men were chivalrous, and they changed along with the weather.

Once your mind came to it didn’t take long to figure out exactly where you were, and in whose dungeon you are in. His. The man you were told to stay as far away from. He was the bogeyman in the stories you were told growing up. Foul, hideous, loathsome, and the worst kind of human, and now you’re trapped with a damn metal mask on your face.

Feeling completely alone except for the stupid mutt laying beside you with his head on your lap, “You are filth. Don’t try and butter me up because you got me caught,” his head pops up, his crystal blue eyes staring deep into yours, and you turn away. “I’m going to die here.”

It’s something you have never doubted. Getting caught equals death. Being here, alone, with a damn wolf, with a mask cannot be a good thing. The king will most likely stall, making sure you have no fight left before he pulls you apart one inch of your skin by one inch. Your mind races with ways the dark king can destroy you.

It’s cold. Colder in here than even outside. At least outside there is a dryness to it. In here the walls drip with what you hope is water and not something more sinister. What could you possibly have looked forward to in this life? An eternal winter? Constantly fighting for men not to touch you? Becoming a wife that had no desire to birth children in this world? Maybe this is better off.

“Where are you going?” You whisper as the four legged menace runs away. “Coward,” even he knows it’s desolate here.

Clanging sounds from behind the door, and you roll your eyes up to meet the blonde guard that captured you in the woods. “About time you woke up. Come on,” his mouth sets into a leering smile as he pulls you up from the floor. Using the key at his side to undo your chains. “He’s been waiting on you.”

“Dare I ask who?”

“You know exactly who. Your fate,” swallowing bile, he pulls you into his body. No amount of making yourself heavier works as he practically drags you out of the dungeon. That word is a curse. You’re more scared now than you were getting caught. “I saw your necklace, girlie,” his laugh grates on your nerves as painful as the arm that is wrapped around your waist.

“We’ve been waiting on you.”

“To torture me,” he chuckles right into the shell of your ear, and you want to retch. “What is this on my face?” His talking stops abruptly. Continuing to tug, and pull on your body, “You’re hurting me.”

“Get used to it,” torture it is. Did you think anything less? The most vile of humans that you were supposed to stay away from, and he captured you. Of course you were going to be tortured. Now you have to suffer the consequences. He shoves you into a room so hard that you fall down to your knees, and you yelp. Turning around to look at him. “Face forward and have fun.”

You hear another man clear his throat, and you try to disappear. Looking down at the floor with your eyes closed as you listen to his light footsteps. Walking around you before his meaty hands go under your arms, hauling you up to stand. Your breathing is nonexistent, but his breath is heavy. Fragrant of a scent you can’t place. And he inhales deeply.

Leaning into your ear, “You smell like a fucking dog,” he should talk. You weren’t the only one that reeked of something, and he is a king. You’ve been in a dungeon. “I’ll enjoy watching you be bathed.”

Fuck. Torture seems to be subjective. “Has any man touched you?” What did it fucking matter? Like he was going to ask for permission? He had you tied up with something on your damn face, impairing your vision, and he cared about how many men have put their grimy hands on you? “If you want to be able to sit on your ass, I suggest you open your goddamn mouth. Has a man ever touched you,” he swats at your backside hard as he comes to stand in front of you.

“Men always touch what they think they can own.”

He clicks his tongue, smiling gleefully at you, “None of those men had the power to own you.”

“And you do?” His hand goes underneath the mask, grabbing your neck with his fingers on your chin as he turns you to look at a mirror. You stare horrified as a wolf shaped mask covers your face. Your hair is oily and matted, and your bones protrude out of your body. But the mask is evil looking on your face. Otherworldly, and it didn’t belong there, “You don’t own me.”

“Is that so?” This man is far faster than any other man as he pulls and yanks at the rags that dress your body. Pulling off everything in shreds until you’re bare before him, and he throws you over his shoulder. Marching out of the room you are in before he throws you into a body of water.

You sputter, struggling to keep your head above the water before standing up. Shivering and naked. Wishing you could throw daggers at every part of his skin. Looking around to see an audience of people staring at your shame, and you dip back into the water for coverage with your arms hugged against your chest. You want to yell and curse at him, but you’re outnumbered. “Clean her. Then we’ll all enjoy inspecting you.”

“What does that mean?” Panic rises in your voice as men and women come into the pool with you. Men grab at your arms while women scrub on your body with a brush. The king sits down in a chair, and a creepy smile spreads over his face. “What does it mean? Ow!”

If he wasn’t so vile you might find him handsome. Cheekbones carved so sharply, and dark hair slicked back. He rolls his fingers over the armrest, and you start counting every ring that is laid upon his fingers.

“You’re so weak,” he chuckles, staring too intently as the women cup and scrub your breasts. His eyes drift to your necklace as he leans back, “Do you even know who you are? Or why you have always been mine? Every inch of you belongs to me. Those eyes and your necklace prove it. Your mom was nothing but a lying whore, and your dad was a fool anyways.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t? I don’t know that your so called father sat on a stolen throne? And your lying mother laid down with the rightful king. Your sweet innocent father thought your eyes belonged to him. You telling me he didn’t know your mom was fucking his guard,” your eyes go large as you stare at him. They were eerily similar to Jarrod’s.

“She tried to fight this curse and our connection, and instead, let a cock drive your bastard self right to me. What do you know of the day you were born?” Nothing. But you wouldn’t tell him that. “I’m sure they didn’t tell you much. The first snowflake fell that day. Everyday that you’ve been kept apart from me was another day of winter. The day you were born every drop of blood in your body and every inch of your delectable skin belonged to me. The night you were conceived is the same night your cunty father murdered mine. His guard was pumping his wife full, and here you are.”

God the way he talked about your family is despicable. Because you really wanted to know about your mother’s affairs. “Your mom was so scared to give birth to the king’s daughter, she gave her cunt to the next best thing. Jarrod was always the king. You can’t fate. Just like you can’t escape my wrath. Remove the mask.”

A woman slowly takes the metal off your face, and you glare at him. Wishing your look alone could set his entire body on fire. His head twists to the side curiously as he looks at you. An odd softness before he looks at the swell of your breast, and the snarky smile appears again.

“Bring her to me. On her knees, so I can look upon what’s mine. Don’t fight it either. I’ll fuck you like an animal right in front of all these people if you fight,” your chest heaves as all these hands carry you in front of him. Turning you away before lowering you to the floor. Someone pushes down your head as you stay on all fours before the king.

“This is how I like to see you. Submissive, spread and so puffy for me,” his fingers run through your core, and you hear a rumble in his stomach, “you can try deny me, but your body backing up to my fingers? Your body craves me. It’s like a magnet you can’t escape, and if you keep acting like a needy bitch in heat, I’ll give you exactly what your body has been denied.”

That’s a lie. You’ve never wanted any man to touch you. Never desired anything from them, but even you can’t deny the moan that escapes your mouth as one of his fingers breaches your walls. Loud and salacious as you glance back at him. “Since you love how it feels when we’re connected, just wait until I fuck you.”

You keep your head low, knowing that everyone in this room can see you down on your knees like an animal, while the king has a finger inserted so far into your cunt. He pulls the appendage out before shoving two more in. The audience starts to walk closer as the king stabs them into you, and you hope you don't react. That the only thing he can see if your fingers curling up, and you biting on your tongue.

Your cheeks heat up in flames with embarrassment, but also a sickening pleasure that you wish you didn't feel. The lewd squelching sound of your body causing the king to licks his lips with need. Fucking his fingers into faster before pulling out. Denying you release, and he slaps over your lips. "Juicy enough to eat."

“You’ll never get to fuck me.”

“I will, and you’ll beg for my seed every night. Don’t forget this moment. The moment you learned that your life is meant to serve mine. Put the mask back on her, and I want her placed in her gilded cage right in front of my bed. Maybe she’ll like me fucking into some whore’s cunt. Or would you like to watch me fuck my hand? I’ll even spurt my cum on your face. Make the servants wash you after you lick up every drop of my load. One of these days, you won’t be able to deny us. And maybe then we’ll get to see the world how it was intended.”

“And how’s that, your grace?”

“Not covered in fucking snow,” his voice is harsh as he walks out of the bathing room. Leaving you with all these people just staring at your naked body. Dressing you like you are a doll. You’d never beg for him. You didn’t want him. Or any man. It would never happen. And winter had nothing to do with him fucking you.

Because you belonged to no man.

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Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @pandaxnienke @rogersbarber @theinheriteddutchess @buckybarnesisdaddy @jesevans @alexakeyloveloki

[gladosisstillalesbian]

have another old fic - I think this one is from 2020? chelldos, cute tenderness, maybe an omious sign of things to come <3

-

GLaDOS can’t help probing.

Like now, as Chell rolls her eyes and flinches away from her inquisitive claw as it interrogates the raw, angry skin around the gash on her forearm. It’s GLaDOS’s way of understanding something new - go in, poke around, assess the damage. Repair, if possible; like with a few quick sutures that leave Chell stinging and pouting but healed. Put contingency plans in place if not; antiseptic to ward off infection, prep treatments to minimize scarring.

If there’s one thing GLaDOS hates it’s the thought of yet another mark marring Chell’s beautiful skin. As far as she’s concerned, there are already more than enough of those.

Chell likes to joke that GLaDOS wants them to match: her all bright and gleaming, flat sterile surfaces and the composed hum of fine-tuned machinery and her bright, gleaming, sterile human. Chell likes to lean over and make rolls out of her stomach and ask GLaDOS if they make her mad. Chell likes to go exploring and get scrapes and mark up her body in ways that make GLaDOS’s wires twist with anxiety.

Chell likes to go exploring and along the way, sometimes she finds some of GLaDOS’s scrapes.

As much as Chell might like to pretend Aperture is perfect in its uniformity, she and GLaDOS both know there are places where nature had other ideas. Where knotted ivy and thick underbrush and trees in their infancy have laid claim to a room, or a test chamber, or even an entire wing of the facility; where they’ve dug their heels in and laid roots so deep and grown so tall that even GLaDOS’s most aggressive tactics can’t drive them out. Their branches itch at her sensors like the edges of a wound might; the humidity produced by the metabolic processes in their leaves worms its way into her machinery and make her ache with the searing heat of infection. They creep ever further, extending their tendrils and progeny further and further out from their strongholds with each passing year despite her best efforts to beat them back with fire and herbicide and saws.

Chell loves them.

GLaDOS accepted early on that Chell made an immediate effort to seek out her blind spots. The human need for privacy was something Chell made explicitly clear. And these miniature jungles are exactly that - GLaDOS’s cameras and microphones are either obstructed or destroyed entirely, leaving entire swathes of the facility effectively out of her control. She can’t count the amount of times Chell has come back from one of her little field trips relaxed, a little sweaty, smelling of a terrarium, tracking dirt under her shoes and with twigs in her hair.

When GLaDOS thinks about it, these organic infestations would never have gotten the chance to grow if Chell hadn’t killed her in the first place. So of course it would make sense that she liked to poke around in them - Chell was always so proud of the ways she could undo her. So she flips Aperture over and exposes its soft, green underbelly. She uses those terrifying, gentle hands to open Aperture up and look inside; she barrels headlong into the deep because it’s where she wants to be. Her way of understanding, of seeing.

Chell likes to joke that GLaDOS doesn’t like these places because they’re the one part of Aperture she can’t control. The one part she can’t remake in her image, shiny and sleek.

GLaDOS forgives her for this. The human brain is not equipped to compute numbers on the time scale at which these infections are killing her.

She doesn’t see how the vines grow, inch by inch, year by year, and like the shifting of tectonic plates they rend GLaDOS’s facility along its seams, battling back wires and machinery and bursting it from the inside like a cell does when it’s boiled by fever. Chell simply can’t comprehend these things; she can’t watch decades roll by like minutes in backlogged security footage and feel the fibrous, hungry things as they poke their way through her innards and spill blood in the form of air, of oil, of time. 

The human mind interprets these thickets of green as life; GLaDOS knows them to be death.

But still, Chell loves them.

[mrpenguinpants]

City of the Dead [ Commissioned ]

— A new planet has brought not only the Express crew, but also the IPC to an unknown land. Although… why does everything feel so familiar?

Word Count: 7.1k

Warning: Mild Gore and slight spoilers for the Penacony quest

— Aventurine, Topaz, Caelus, Dan Heng + March 7th

Request: [ A platonic exploration fic set on an Earth-like planet, now overrun by alien plant life and the long-lost homeworld of a male reader. ] Reader is based on an OC, so there are a few extra details/lore, but no OC names or physical details are mentioned. This is still a reader fic. [Masterlist]

Thank you for commissioning me and trusting me with your OC again! Since this fic had a big overarching story line, I hope I did justice to the lore you built. It's always lovely to hear your ideas, and I hope you like it!

You adjusted your coat, standing amidst the ruins of a city long claimed by nature’s relentless advance. The skyline, once a towering symbol of progress, had crumbled into a graveyard of steel and stone—skyscrapers half-sunken, their shattered facades strangled by creeping vines. Jagged fractures split the roads where gnarled roots had forced their way through the pavement, twisting the streets into uneven, alien terrain. A sickly green hue bathed the landscape, casting restless shadows against skeletal buildings. Some still stood, leaning at precarious angles, their frames groaning beneath decay. Others had collapsed, buried beneath the suffocating grip of massive, unearthly tendrils. Between the cracks in the pavement, grotesque flowers unfurled—translucent petals curling as if gasping for breath, pulsing faintly with bioluminescent glow in eerie rhythm with the unseen force that had overtaken this world. The air was thick and humid, cloying with the scent of damp earth and rot, each breath laced with something metallic, almost unnatural. Above, the sky stretched like stagnant water, a murky green that blurred the horizon. The ground beneath your feet was unsteady—fractured asphalt overtaken by roots as thick as pillars, weaving through like the grasping fingers of a long-dead giant. What little remained of civilization was suffocating beneath an endless tide of overgrowth. Moss devoured street signs and windows, erasing the past beneath a blanket of green. Vines slithered through shattered vehicles and crumbling doorways, creeping ever forward as if the city itself was being slowly digested. You buried your hands deeper into your pockets, your gaze distant yet wary. This wasn’t just a city lost to time. It was something else—something still alive.

The Astral Express had been gliding smoothly along its tracks when an unexpected burst of spores wove into its wheels, clogging the intricate mechanisms with a thick, fibrous substance. Within moments, the train lurched violently, metal screeching in protest as control slipped from its grasp. The crew barely had time to react before gravity took hold, pulling them into an uncontrolled descent toward the surface of an overgrown, green planet. Through the windows, all they could see was an endless sprawl of twisting vines and towering canopies—a world swallowed whole by nature’s relentless grip. It was only through a combination of Welt's black hole manipulation and sheer luck that the Express sustained only a single damaged engine. Not a catastrophe, but given the dangers of this unknown planet, it was a risk they couldn't ignore. The crew had barely touched down before splitting into their respective groups—Sunday, Himeko, and Welt veered right, where the stench of rot hung thick in the air, while you, Dan Heng, Caelus, and March took the path of iron and concrete, the remnants of a city buried beneath creeping vegetation.

The planet was strange—incredibly strange—and everyone wanted off as soon as possible.

“So… this is... Earth? Is that what Mr. Yang called it?” March muttered, scanning the area with a frown. Her voice, usually upbeat, sounded subdued, the weight of the planet’s corruption settling heavily around you all. Even masks of beauty looked wrong on this world. Flowers bloomed in places they shouldn’t—on the sides of buildings, in the hollowed-out skulls of old statues, from cracks in the pavement where no light should have reached. But they weren’t normal flowers. Their petals were too thick, too waxy, their colors unnaturally vibrant, almost glowing. Some twisted toward the group as they walked, their centers yawning open like mouths.

Caelus reached out to touch one. Dan Heng stopped him with a look.

The further you all walked, the worse it became. The city had been swallowed, but not in the way of an abandoned ruin overtaken by nature. There was something deliberate about the way the plants had grown—like they weren’t reclaiming the world, but replacing it. Buildings had collapsed beneath the weight of writhing branches, their insides gutted by roots that had burrowed deep, sprouting out of windows like grotesque, reaching limbs.

And the trees.

Massive, towering things, their trunks so thick they seemed like natural pillars holding up the sky. Their bark was not wood, but something tougher, something that gleamed faintly even under the dim light. Leaves stretched out like blades, some drooping low enough to drag against the broken streets. Some trees bore fruit, swollen and bulbous, their surfaces shifting slightly—like something inside was pressing against the skin, trying to escape.

“Ugh, I don’t even want to know what that was,” March wrinkled her nose as she stepped over something unidentifiable—goopy, slimy, and reeking of damp earth. It clung to her boot for a moment before slopping back onto the ground with a wet squelch. Definitely not something she wanted anywhere near her shoes.

Dan Heng’s eyes flicked across the crumbling landscape, his hand hovering near his weapon. The faint rustle of distant vines and the occasional groan of shifting buildings were the only sounds cutting through the silence, "Let’s... watch where we step and keep moving. We don’t know what’s waiting for us.”

“Well, if anything does try to attack, I’ll have my arrows ready! Wild man-eating plants might not be scared of fire, but ice is just as nice!” March, ever the optimist, shot him a grin, even going so far as to snap her fingers into finger guns at her silly rhyme.

"I’m sure that’ll work… until it doesn’t. Then is that when we'll see your secret strength? Should we stab you too?" You shot her a sidelong glance, your expression half-lidded yet amused, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

"You could at least pretend to have a little faith in me! And don't you dare point anything dangerous at me or I'll tell Himeko and Mr. Yang when we get back!" She puffed out her cheeks, clearly unimpressed, but the spark of determination in her eyes remained unwavering. A faint breeze rustled through the overgrown world around you, carrying the distant creak of shifting metal and the low hum of unseen creatures stirring in the undergrowth.

The playful banter settled over the group like a fragile shield, offering a sliver of warmth against the oppressive weight. As you all made your way toward the heart of the city, the ground beneath you cracked with every step, brittle and unstable beneath layers of creeping decay. The once-bustling streets were now eerily vacant, long abandoned by whatever civilization once thrived here. Shimmering pools of dark, stagnant water collected in the fractures of the asphalt, their surfaces disturbingly still, reflecting the pale, sickly glow of the planet’s dying sun. Your thoughts drifted, your gaze wandering over the crumbling cityscape, a strange unease settling in the pit of your stomach.

Something's been tugging at the back of your mind ever since the Express landed. An odd sense of familiarity that you couldn't shake. Something in the back of your mind, deep within the recesses of your memory, whispered that you were once here in this place before. Certain buildings that were now rocks and rubble, you felt like you knew what they used to be.

A crumble of brick catches your eye. A flicker of...something behind your eyelids that tells you what those rubbles of rock used to be. The remnants of rusted metal poles jut out of the ground, and you have the odd feeling there should be a sign attached to them, but it’s gone—faded or swallowed up by time. The eerie familiarity of it all unsettles you.

"Hey, you okay?" March's voice cuts through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present.

You blink, realizing you’ve fallen a step behind the group. Shaking off the haze creeping into your mind, you turn to her with a casual smile, "Fine. Just thinking."

"About what?" Caelus asked, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of curiosity. His eyes, sharp and steady, met yours, unwavering and expectant. It felt like the weight of the moment hung between you, a silent invitation for something deeper. You hesitated, the heaviness of his question pressing against the gnawing unease that had been slowly building in the pit of your stomach since you first set foot on this planet. It was a feeling that had woven itself into the fabric of your thoughts, following you like a shadow, but only now did it feel like it was demanding to be acknowledged.

The air around you seemed thicker here, somehow, charged with an unshakable sense of déjà vu. You couldn’t explain it—not to him, not to yourself—but it was there, lingering in the corners of your mind, refusing to let go.

"About how this place feels... like I’ve been here before," you found yourself saying, your voice quieter than you intended, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You shifted slightly, fingers tightening around the fabric of your coat as if grounding yourself against the weight of the admission, "It’s... strange. I can't shake it. I don’t know if it’s the city, or something about the way the air feels—maybe the way everything's… familiar. But it’s like I’m walking through a memory, one that’s just out of reach, like it’s teasing me."

There’s a knot in your stomach, but you push it down, hoping it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. The walls stretching out before you feel familiar in a way that unsettles you—like an echo of something long buried, just out of reach. The skeletal remains of buildings tower overhead, their shapes warped by time and nature’s relentless encroachment. The cracked asphalt beneath your boots feels unnervingly like a path you’ve walked before, and the air hangs thick with a sense of forgotten history. But there’s no time for memories now. You were here to investigate, to uncover what had happened to this world, and, hopefully, to find a way off this god forsaken planet with everyone intact and no leaves in your hair. With every step you take through the overgrown streets, it feels as though you’re trespassing—an intruder in a forgotten past. The silence of the city presses in on you, the weight of time and wethering hanging in the air like a shroud. Even the plants that creep over the remains of the city seem to watch, alive in a way that feels unnatural, as if they remember something you don’t. The feeling of déjà vu only intensifies, but you force yourself to push it aside. There are more important things to focus on now.

“Not that I remember, it's probably nothing,” you finally say. And that’s the truth.

For now.

---

The group continued onward, moving deeper into the city. The air grew heavier with each passing minute, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves or the distant creak of dissolving structures. The planet’s death wasn’t sudden—it was slow, inevitable. The kind of collapse that started at the foundation, while the ones at the top kept pretending everything was fine. The buildings around them loomed like broken skeletons, their once-shining facades marred by rot and the slow creep of alien plant life. They passed through what looked like a former park, now a twisted mockery of its original purpose. The swings were long gone, replaced by vines that snaked around rusted metal frames. The trees were warped, their branches gnarled and twisted like skeletal fingers. In the center of the park stood a statue—a figure that was now nearly unrecognizable, its features blurred and eaten away by the creeping vegetation.

Your eyes lingered on the statue. Something about it made your chest tighten. Your breath hitched in your throat as an emotion you couldn’t place swirled within. Memories, fragmented and blurred, flashed through your mind like ghosts, flickering just beyond your reach. The statue… it felt important. But what?

“Hey! If you're going to enjoy the sights at least say something! I don't want to play hide-and-seek here!” March called, her voice muffled in your daze. You barely noticed when the others stopped walking. Your mind was still clouded with half-formed memories—images and feelings that had no anchor.

You blinked, breaking out of the trance, your gaze shifting to her, “Yeah, I’m coming.”

But you didn’t feel like moving forward. It was as though a part of you had already been left behind in this forsaken place—lost to the decay, trapped in the remnants of what once was. The feeling gnawed at you, a weight you couldn’t shake.

Ahead, a crooked billboard stood precariously against a half-sunken building, its frame leaning as if it, too, had grown tired of the world's festering. The paint was cracked and peeling, yet the image beneath was still visible. A smiling diplomat shook hands with another man. Behind them, a gleaming utopian city stretched into the distance, untouched by the ruin that now claimed the land. Bold letters sprawled across the top of the billboard, their meaning lost to time but their message still clear:

“A NEW DAWN! RESOURCES SECURED—A PROSPEROUS FUTURE FOR ALL!”

March scoffed, looking behind the billboard at the wreckage left behind, “Yeah. Real prosperous.”

Dan Heng knelt, carefully brushing debris off a stack of old newspapers half-buried beneath the rubble. The pages crumbled at his touch, but a few headlines remained faintly legible, hinting at the world that had once thrived here.

“Rationing Measures Extended—Citizens Urged to Conserve.” “Power Grid Failing in Outer Districts—Authorities Working on a Solution.” “Protests Continue as Resource Shipments Prioritized for High Council.”

His brow furrowed as he flipped to another page, this one featuring a portrait of a well-dressed man raising a glass of golden wine at a lavish banquet. The caption, though worn, was still clear:

“Unity Through Strength—Leadership Brings Stability in Times of Crisis.”

The juxtaposition of opulence and the desperate headlines made the wasteland around you feel all the more depressing. The lavish images of wealth, now faded and peeling, contrasted violently with what the planet looked like now. It felt like the city's fate had been sealed the moment those in power had ignored the rot beneath the surface, the cracks in their perfect illusion.

“So they were starving while the elite were throwing feasts," Dan Heng’s grip on the crumbling paper tightened, his eyes scanning the headlines with an unreadable expression. A sickening twist churned in your stomach, the anger rising like bile. The bitterness, the frustration—they gnawed at you like something deeply ingrained. It wasn’t just the words on the page—it was something inside you, a distant memory, a forgotten anger.

March kicked a rusted metal canister, sending it rattling across the cracked pavement, breaking the silence, “How do you even do that? How do you watch people starve while you drink yourself stupid?”

“It’s easy,” you muttered before you could stop yourself, your voice rough with something you didn’t want to acknowledge. The others turned to you, but you weren’t looking at them. Your eyes were fixed on the billboard, fingers twitching slightly.

“They tell themselves they deserve it,” you continue, voice distant, the words slipping from your mouth before you fully process them, “That the people below them wouldn’t know how to handle luxury anyway. That if they didn’t take it, someone else would. So why not them?”

A heavy silence follows. The old billboards tower above you, their peeling paint and faded slogans promising a bright future that never came. Smiling officials shake hands with something not quite human, their pristine suits stark against the grimy, ruined city below.

If it wasn't for them...

“Hah. Sounds familiar.” A new voice slices through the tension, casual but tinged with sharp amusement.Your group tenses immediately, instincts kicking in as you shift into a defensive stance. You turn, eyes narrowing, and find old but familiar faces standing there. Topaz, a young woman with blue eyes and short, silver-white hair with a visible red streak. To her side, Aventurine, a young man with medium length, sandy-blond hair, along with magenta and cyan eyes with black slitted pupils. She’s leaning casually against the wreckage of a fallen building, arms crossed, a faint glow radiating from her Warp Trotter, which peeks out from behind her leg. Aventurine is beside her, his usual smirk plastered across his face. It’s impossible to tell if he’s actually impressed or just entertained by the situation unfolding before him.

It’s been a while since you've seen the two IPC members, the last time being on Penacony. Although these two were in Caelus's company more than yours, the memory of that encounter is still fresh, though time and distance have dulled its edge. Back then, Topaz had been all business, her sharp eyes calculating and unfazed by the chaos around her. Aventurine, on the other hand, had been his usual self—teasing, grinning, always with an air of detachment that made it hard to know where his loyalties truly lay. You study them now, the familiar mix of wariness and curiosity rising in you. Topaz’s usual neutral expression is less guarded than before, but there’s still an underlying strain in her stance. Aventurine, ever the wildcard, doesn’t seem to have changed at all. His smirk is just as sharp as the last time you saw him, but his eyes... there's something different there now, something more focused.

“You’ve been following us,” Dan Heng states, his tone carefully neutral, yet the edge in his voice hints at suspicion. His sharp gaze settles on both of them, as if weighing their every move, calculating their intentions. Topaz shrugs in response, her arms crossed tightly across her chest.

“More like we happened to be heading the same way,” she replies, her voice nonchalant, but there’s an undeniable tension in the way she speaks—like she’s measuring every word. "Can't say we’re surprised to find you staring at propaganda." Her eyes briefly flick over the crumbling billboard again, before returning to meet your group's gaze. "Makes you wonder how much of it the people actually believed... before everything fell apart."

The words are casual, but they carry an undercurrent of something darker. The ruinous state of the city around you serves as a grim reminder of the lies that once held this place together. The images of opulence and hope now seem laughable, but Topaz doesn't seem to share that same amusement. She watches you all, her eyes sharper than they first appeared, flicking back to the deteriorating cityscape. Aventurine chuckles, a low, almost amused sound that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He adjusts his gloves slowly, methodically, as if savoring the moment. The quiet, deliberate movements contrast with the way he dismisses everything around him, as if there's something ironically funny about the situation.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” Aventurine muses, his voice smooth and easy, almost like he's repeating a tired fact. “They didn’t have a choice in the end.”

His words hang in the air, dense and suffocating, as if they carry the weight of a thousand untold stories. It’s the kind of truth someone who’s seen the worst of the world would accept with a resigned shrug—someone who knows the rules of the game too well to question them. The quiet smirk on his face doesn’t reach his eyes; instead, there's a cold, almost clinical detachment, like he's watching a movie he's already seen too many times to care about the plot.

Then, his gaze flicks toward you, his eyes sharp and unsettling in their intensity. There's a flicker of something hidden beneath the surface—something observant, as if he's studying every twitch of your expression. His stare lingers a moment too long, like he's cataloging your reactions in a way that makes you feel exposed.

“But you already knew that.”

The words are smooth, but they hit you like a sudden chill. His voice carries weight, layered with implications. It’s not a question, but a statement, as though he's unraveling something deep inside you—something you didn’t want to admit, even to yourself. His tone is casual, yet sharp, like a blade hidden beneath a friendly smile. You shift uncomfortably, caught between the unease of his piercing gaze and the unsettling familiarity of everything around you—the billboards, the faces, the hollow promises. Something about this place, this moment, feels far too close to a past you can’t quite remember. It lingers just beyond reach, like a dream you can’t wake up from. The weight of his words hangs in the air, and suddenly, it feels thicker. There's something in what he’s said—a truth you've been running from—and the more you try to push it away, the more it creeps into your thoughts. The hopelessness of it all—the people with no choice, the promises reduced to smoke and mirrors—is too familiar, too raw. The silence stretches, each second dragging as you try to shake off the uncomfortable weight of Aventurine’s gaze. His words echo in your mind like an unwanted refrain, but you can’t quite grasp them. The tension in the air is thick, oppressive, as if everything—this world, your purpose here, even the people around you—has been drawn into some long-forgotten web you're only now starting to understand.

"Well, that's a lovely way to look at things," March pipes up, her voice sharp, attempting to cut through the awkwardness, "Not like we needed any more reminders of how messed up this place is."

“I’m just stating the facts,” he replies, unphased. His eyes flicker over to you again, and for a brief moment, you feel like he’s looking straight through you, as if he’s peeled back your layers and found something raw and exposed beneath, “I don’t expect you to like it.”

You want to snap back, to say something—anything—to push back against the unease gnawing at your stomach, but the words feel stuck in your throat. Instead, you focus on the surroundings, trying to ground yourself in the decaying reality of the world around you. The faint smell of rust, earth, and decay fills your senses, grounding you in the moment.

“We’re not here to dwell on what’s already happened,” Dan Heng, ever the pragmatist, breaks the silence again, his voice calm but firm. His gaze shifted to the horizon where the crumbling city meets the sky, "The Express had an...accident so we're temporarily stranded. I don't know what the IPC wants with this planet, but the Express has no intention of interfering as long as we can safely get off this planet."

His words are a reminder of why you’re all here—why you’ve pushed forward into this forsaken place. But even as he speaks, you can’t shake the feeling that everything is already too far gone. There’s something about this world, this situation, that feels like it’s already spiraling out of control. And no matter how hard you try to ignore it, a small voice in the back of your mind keeps whispering that maybe—just maybe—this place won't let you leave. Not anymore.

Aventurine’s smirk fades slightly as he gives Dan Heng a brief, almost imperceptible nod. “Fair enough,” he says, his tone shifting to something lighter. “But hey, let’s join together. Not as IPC members, but as fellow strandees! The more the merrier, right? In a place like this, it’s good to have a few friends, don’t you think?”

His words ring with a strange mix of sincerity and calculated nonchalance. The way he says it makes you wonder whether he truly means it, or if it's just another tactic, another way to test you, to see how far he can push. The playful edge to his voice doesn’t quite match the coldness in his eyes, but it’s a thin layer over the deeper, more guarded thoughts beneath.

"A few friends? With you? Didn't you almost kill us back on Penacony?" March raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. Her tone carries a hint of sarcasm, "That’s a bit of an optimistic take, don’t you think?"

"Optimism’s all relative. Call it what you want, but there’s no harm in making allies, especially when the odds are stacked against us," Aventurine shrugs, unfazed. His gaze flicks over the group, lingering for a moment longer on you, before he continues, “And besides, with this kind of mess, it’s better to have a few people watching your back, right?”

A quiet weight settles between the group, unspoken thoughts flickering between you all like a silent conversation. You glance at March, her furrowed brow mirroring your own hesitation. The words left unsaid hang heavily in the air as you exchange a glance—both of you wondering if you can trust what’s being offered. The unspoken doubt is shared between the two of you, but there’s something in the way your eyes linger on Aventurine and Topaz that deepens the uncertainty. Their motives are unclear, their calm demeanor too composed for this wreckage of a planet. Dan Heng stands off to the side, his expression unreadable as he studies the two IPC members. You can almost see the wheels turning in his mind, evaluating, analyzing, weighing the risks. His posture is tense, but it’s a quiet tension—one born from caution rather than suspicion. Then, Caelus shifts his gaze toward you, his eyes meeting yours. The intensity of his stare says more than any words could. He doesn’t hesitate. A firm nod, decisive and unyielding, seals his choice. His conviction cuts through the silent exchange, his approval of the alliance clear. There’s no room for doubt in his mind, no second-guessing. He’s made up his mind. March catches the movement out of the corner of her eye, a skeptical shake of her head following shortly after. She turns to you, her uncertainty mirrored in your own expression. She doesn’t speak, but the disappointment in her subtle gesture is enough. You shake your head, not in refusal, but in hesitation—still unsure if this is the right path. And yet, despite the doubts lingering between you and March, Caelus stands firm, an unwavering resolve settling in his stance. His decision is made, and in that single moment, the silence is louder than any argument.

“You don’t need to accept, and it’s obvious we aren’t friends,” Topaz glances over her shoulder, her expression flat and unreadable, “But you’ve seen this planet. We’re all stuck in the same mess. Our mission? Not your concern. Just like the Express is none of our business.”

She pauses for a beat, her eyes scanning the four of you, “It would just be safer for all of us if we stuck together.”

With that, she turns and starts walking again, boots scraping against the cracked pavement as she leads the way deeper into the city. Aventurine follows, his smirk never wavering, while March stays beside you, her gaze flicking between you and the others, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. The tension doesn’t ease, but it shifts. Now, there’s a shared resolve among the group. Everyone knows that despite the heavy weight of the past, the present is what matters. You have to push forward, no matter how heavy the past may feel, because if you don’t, there might be nothing left to fight for. Still, as you walk, your mind races, trying to make sense of everything. What’s your connection to this place? Why does it feel so familiar? And most of all, why does Aventurine’s cold, knowing gaze seem to hold so many answers you’re too afraid to ask? The path ahead remains unclear, but you press on, unable to shake the feeling that the answers you're seeking might be far closer than you think.

---

It wasn’t until you all reached an old, overgrown shopping district that things began to take a darker turn. The decay of the place was suffocating. Store windows were shattered, their jagged edges reflecting the dim light. Signs hung loosely, barely legible beneath the layers of plant matter that had overtaken everything, and the air smelled of rot and mildew. Inside, the shelves were barren, save for strange, dark fruit that clung to the walls—pulsing like something alive, unnatural.

You stepped inside one of the stores, your footsteps hesitant as they echoed through the hollowed-out interior. The dust of neglect hung in the air, mixing with the overwhelming scent of earth and decay. Your eyes scanned the abandoned aisles, the emptiness unsettling, as though even the air had surrendered to the slow grip of nature's reclamation. Only then did something small catch your eye—a toy, discarded in a forgotten corner. It was a simple thing—nothing more than a small wooden soldier. Its once-bright paint had long since chipped away, leaving behind a faded, almost ghostly figure. It should have been inconspicuous, but it wasn’t. Seeing it sent a ripple of unease through you, a quiet pang deep in your chest. Your heartbeat quickened, thudding in your ears. You reached for it, fingers trembling as you picked it up, studying the worn details.

A sudden flash hit you—one that wasn’t yours. It was from a time long buried, but it felt so close, like it happened yesterday. You were a child, sitting on the floor of your room. Small hands wrapped around that very toy, clinging to it for comfort. There was a warmth, a softness in the air—a voice calling to you, gentle and loving. Your mother’s voice. You could hear the faint melody of it, the sound tugging at the edges of your mind, but the words were slipping away from you, dissolving like mist. You tried to grasp onto them, but they fluttered just beyond your reach, fading before you could make sense of them. And then, an image—of a woman, standing before you. She was familiar, more than anyone you could recall, yet her face was a blur, indistinct and distorted by time, by the fog of your memories. You knew instinctively it was her—your mother. But no matter how hard you strained, no matter how much you willed the details into focus, she remained just out of reach, shrouded in shadow, like a forgotten dream.

For a moment, everything around you seemed to freeze. The pulse of the fruit on the walls, the rustling of wind through the leaves outside—it all faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding of your own heart. The toy felt heavier in your hands now, the weight of something lost pressing down on you. You clenched your jaw, forcing the image to dissipate, but the hollow feeling in your chest remained.

"You've been spacing out a lot," Aventurine remarked, his tone light but laced with curiosity. His gaze lingered on you, his dark eyes sharp with that familiar, unsettling focus, "Something on your mind, or are you just that mesmerized by the decor?"

You blinked, suddenly aware of the toy clenched in your hand. You hadn't even realized you'd picked it up, your fingers wrapped around it instinctively. The toy, a small wooden soldier with chipped paint and faded features, felt oddly heavy, as though it carried the weight of something far more significant than its size. It was too familiar—like a part of you you didn’t want to remember. A pang of discomfort twisted in your chest, but before the feeling could settle, you let it slip from your fingers. The plastic hit the ground with a dull thud that seemed louder than it should have been, echoing in the hollow space of the store.

"Just thinking," you said quickly, your voice a little too sharp, forcing a casual tone to mask the unease that had wormed its way deep into your bones. You wiped your palms against your pants, the motion far too quick, almost frantic, as if trying to physically rid yourself of the discomfort creeping up your spine. The air around you felt heavier, thick with unspoken words and lingering thoughts, as if the ground beneath your feet was somehow more uncertain than it had been moments before. You tried to push it away, to convince yourself that nothing was wrong—but it was hard to ignore the gnawing feeling in your gut.

"Nothing important," you added, though the words sounded hollow, even to your own ears. Aventurine didn’t buy it. You could feel his eyes on you, sharp and unwavering, like a hawk studying its prey. Something was unsettling about the way he looked at you, as if he was seeing more than you wanted to reveal. He leaned just slightly forward, his posture too casual for the weight of the moment, yet it only made the tension grow. He hummed, a low sound that lingered between you, a curious note that vibrated through the thick silence. It was almost... knowing. He didn’t speak immediately, his gaze still tracing you as if he were piecing together a puzzle, carefully fitting the scattered pieces one by one, until the whole picture formed in his mind.

“You really don’t know… do you?” His voice was softer now, but still edged with something sharper beneath the surface, something you couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t accusation, exactly. It was more like a quiet observation—a realization dawning. A flicker of something dangerous danced in his eyes as his lips curled into the faintest, almost imperceptible smile, “Perhaps that’s for the best."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning, and the weight of them pressed down on your chest. You couldn’t quite shake the feeling that whatever he was implying wasn’t just a casual remark—it was something deeper, something that cut straight to the heart of things you weren’t ready to confront. You stood there, frozen for a moment, uncertain of whether to respond or simply let the silence stretch on, letting Aventurine's gaze speak the truth that seemed just beyond your reach.

You barely registered his words. The air had shifted—cold, unnatural. A presence pressed in from the edges of your vision, the feeling of unseen eyes watching, waiting.

Then, a sound. Low. Guttural. The kind that vibrated in your bones.

The ground beneath you trembled.

---

“What… is that?”

The others followed Caelus's gaze, their steps faltering as they took in the grotesque scene. At first, it just appeared to be another cluster of thick, twisting roots clinging to the side of a crumbling building—gnarled, pulsating faintly beneath a slick sheen of moisture, as if the plant life itself were alive. But as they stepped closer, something twisted in the shadows of the roots, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Shapes began to emerge, indistinct at first, but unmistakable once they came into full view.

A body.

Or what was left of one.

It had been consumed by the plant life—no, absorbed—its limbs twisted unnaturally, bound by thick tendrils that burrowed into the skin like parasitic feeders, feeding on its very essence. The flesh had taken on a sickly greenish hue, blending into the plant matter like it was part of the same grotesque organism. Where the person’s eyes should have been, there were only empty, gaping sockets, hollow and untouched by life. The skin around them had withered away, leaving raw, exposed tissue where roots had burrowed deep into the body. The corpse didn’t bear any marks of a struggle—no blood, no sign of defiance. It was as though this person hadn’t fought at all, but had simply allowed themselves to be consumed, swallowed whole by the unforgiving green tendrils. The plant life had claimed them, leaving nothing behind but a husk of what once was human. There was no dignity in the way they’d been absorbed—only cold, indifferent assimilation into a force far larger than themselves.

March stumbled back a step, her hand flying to cover her mouth, a choked gasp escaping her throat, “That’s—”

Dan Heng was already at her side, his gaze sharp, his usual calm demeanor slipping into something more ominous as his eyes swept over the scene. His jaw tightened. There was something colder in his expression now, a recognition that didn’t come from the body itself, but from the process that had claimed it.

He was silent for a moment, eyes narrowed as if trying to piece together the grim truth, before his voice cut through the stillness, low and even, “The plants. They don’t just grow—they consume. It’s like they’ve learned to feed on living things.”

There was no need to elaborate. The implication was clear. This wasn’t just a death caused by mindless growth; it was deliberate. The plants had taken this person, drained them, and now, their body was part of something far darker and more insidious than they could have ever imagined. The realization hit like a blow, and it seemed to settle over the group, chilling the air around them.

March shook her head in disbelief, her hand still pressed against her mouth, as if trying to keep the fear from spilling out, “We need to move. Now.”

Then, the ground trembled.

A deep, wet groan reverberated through the ruined city, a sound so low and unsettling that it seemed to come from the very earth itself. The trees, their trunks warped and gnarled by the ever-expanding plant life, swayed as if something enormous was stirring beneath them, something ancient and powerful. The vines, thick and pulsating, trembled in response, a shudder rippling through the roots and branches like a collective exhale.

And then, from the darkness that had swallowed the heart of the city, something stirred.

Something monstrous.

A low, guttural groan reverberated through the crumbling earth, a sound like the dying breath of an ancient beast. The ground shuddered, cracked open in jagged, uneven lines, and something immense stirred beneath the surface. Roots, thick and gnarled, began to push through the fissures, like the twisted fingers of a long-forgotten god reaching for the light of the world. Each root was coated in a slick, blackened substance, a molten resin that hissed and sizzled as it met the air, releasing a sulfurous stench. From the depths of the earth, a tremendous force erupted. The ground buckled as a colossal figure rose from the cracks, its form shifting and writhing, impossibly large and grotesque. It resembled a tree, but one corrupted by time, fire, and dark magic. The trunk was thick and hollowed, veins of molten gold and crimson running through it like veins of a living creature. Massive, twisted branches reached out from its broken core, each one stretching toward the sky with claw-like fingers that seemed to tremble with a malevolent hunger.

The creature’s head was a twisted, hollow void at the center of the tree, its shape a grotesque parody of a face. Hollow sockets where eyes should have been flickered with unnatural fire, an eerie glow that sent shadows sprawling across the earth. Its bark-like skin cracked open with each movement, revealing glimpses of something far worse within—an ever-shifting, nightmarish mass of fire and corruption, pulsing and throbbing as though the creature itself were alive with rage and agony. The air around it was thick with the scent of burning flesh and scorched earth. The ground trembled again, and from the creature’s open mouth—if it could even be called a mouth—a torrent of roots and tendrils shot forth, thrashing violently, searching for anything to latch onto, to consume. It moved like a slow, grinding force, each step leaving the earth scarred, the soil crumbling beneath the weight of its twisted existence. The creature let out a screech, a horrible sound like the tearing of wood and the crackling of flames, and with it, the world seemed to bend and warp in response to its emergence. Its branches swayed with unnatural grace, but its presence felt like the world itself was being torn apart by its very existence.

But beneath it all, something more familiar, something deeply wrong. Another human form, or what had once been human, distorted and bloated by the suffocating growth of plant matter. A grotesque parody of motherhood. Her limbs were elongated and twisted, fingers curled into gnarled claws as if reaching out, not for protection but to claim. Her chest was grotesquely swollen, bulging with strange growths that seemed to birth and reabsorb horrors in an endless cycle, each twist of the flesh forming grotesque shapes that dissolved into the next.

Her face, if you could call it that, was obscured by layers of rotting flesh and vine-like tendrils that had twisted their way around it. But through the mess of corrupted growth, you could still see remnants of what had once been a human expression—frozen in an eternal grimace of agony, her mouth caught in a silent scream that never reached the world around her. Her hollow eyes, if they could be called eyes, were wide and vacant, yet filled with an indescribable pain that seemed to claw at the edges of your mind.

The sight was so unnatural, so impossible, that it seemed to twist the very fabric of reality. A twisted fusion of human and plant, struggling to exist in a world where it no longer belonged. And yet, despite the horror of it, there was something deeply, disturbingly maternal about the form—an endless cycle of creation and destruction, a reflection of nature’s will to consume and rebirth, no matter the cost.

The air thickened with the stench of rot and decay, the smell of something that had gone wrong, that had festered too long without intervention. The group stood frozen, eyes wide, the weight of the monstrous figure pressing down on them like an unbearable force. Each breath seemed heavier than the last, as if the very atmosphere itself were being consumed by the monstrous growth that loomed before them.

No one moved.

Then, as if in response to their stillness, the mass gave a low, rumbling growl, reverberating through the ground and into their bones. The vines tightened, the roots shifting in place as the creature’s limbs twitched, and for a moment, everything was still.

But it was only for a moment.

The creature moved again—slowly, inexorably—its form shifting as if to rise from the depths of the city, breaking through layers of cracked concrete and decaying remnants. Each movement of its body was a grotesque reminder of how deeply this place had been consumed, how completely the city had fallen under the influence of the twisted, corrupting plant life.

Your heart stopped.

The whispers in his mind became screams.

My child...I've found you..

My child...I've found you..

My child...I've found you..

Without thinking, you drew your weapon, your hand trembling only slightly as you steadied your grip. Your memories were starting to break through the fog, but they were still too fractured to make sense of. And yet, your gut told you something the others didn’t know—that the creature before you wasn’t just any corrupted plant.

It was something else. Someone else.

[marianadecarlos]

Mariana of Austria's Cancer

 On May 16, 1696, the widowed Queen Mariana of Austria died in Madrid from breast cancer. This painful disease has existed for centuries, and the chronicles written by doctors are invaluable in finding out which women suffered from it and how it developed. Unfortunately, science was still unable to provide relief and a cure, but in some cases, we can know the diagnosis and the evolution. The doctor who treated her certified Her Majesty's illness as follows: “Six days ago, our Most High Queen showed us a tumor that she has in her left breast (and that she had hidden for a long time) of the magnitude and size of a newborn's head. Although it is not between the ribs, it has its root in them, and it advances, and advances towards the exterior, showing on its surface five or six growths hard as stones.

The whole surface of the tumor is hard and purple, and it causes pains that sometimes reach the ribs and prevent Her Majesty from sleeping at night. Veins swollen with bilious blood and purple spots like those produced by trauma can be observed in the tumor. Its shape is irregular and horrible to look at, from all of which it can be deduced that it is a cancer of the kind spoken of by Galen, and which Cornelius Celsus calls “carcinoma.” It has not yet spread, but its color and the pain it causes make it feared that it will spread soon. An attempt is being made to cure it by the preservative and palliative method, with the consent of the Venerable Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons, and efforts are being made to prevent the tumor from growing by using attenuating and evacuating medicines, that is, by eliminating the fibrous humors and trying to reduce them. May God, Optimus, Maximus, restore Her Majesty's health and prolong her life for many years. Madrid, April 5, 1696.”

They tried to cure Doña Mariana by resorting to supernatural remedies, transporting the body of San Isidro and the Virgin of Atocha, to the Royal Alcazar, to whom the royal family was very devoted. The tumor opened up and reached a more than considerable size (the head of a seven-year-old child). The queen died on May 16, 1696 and was buried in the royal pantheon of San Lorenzo de El Escorial.

Source

[writhe]

yesterday: a walk in the woods, the gray sun // today: harvesting valerian & burdock root- valerian has a fibrous root system i combed the dirt from with my fingers, i sometimes find the smell of valerian to be acrid but i grew to find it sweet today. burdock has a long taproot & i found it harder to dig up. all very cold and muddy / some snow - looking out my window and again in franklin’s yard / an extremely wonderful dinner with friends (ft. insanely good pumpkin curry a friend made)

[saritawolff]

A Patreon request for rome.and.stuff (Instagram) - Pachyrhinosaurus perotorum… that I went a bit overboard with lol. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to draw my favorite ceratopsian, and to digitally adapt my old Pachy marker drawing design.

So! Pachyrhinosaurus! As seen above, there were three known species of Pachyrhinosaurus, living in different locations and eras in Late Cretaceous North America.

The oldest, P. lakustai, was native to the Wapiti Formation of Alberta and British Columbia, Canada. It’s known for the extra spikes it has at the center of its frill.

The slightly younger P. canadensis was native to the lower Horseshoe Canyon Formation and the St. Mary River Formation of Alberta and northwestern Montana. It was the largest of the three.

The youngest, P. perotorum, was native to the Prince Creek Formation of Alaska. As this ceratopsid seemingly stayed put during the long, dark, cold Alaskan Winters, it likely had adaptations for keeping warm.

The depiction of a “woolly” Pachyrhinosaurus was first popularized by Mark Witton as a speculative work, but the trope has prevailed. While many paleontologists find a heavy feather covering on a centrosaurine to be highly unlikely, and maintain that the animal’s size and homeothermy would have kept it warm enough, we still have no skin impressions to suggest that P. perotorum was fully scaly. So a feather coating is not completely out of the question (though it is unlikely). Still, I love the look of a woolly Pachyrhinosaurus and how it challenges our previous conceptions of non-avian dinosaurs. Stranger things exist in nature. I had to include a “woolly” option, especially since I already use the guy as my avatar on my paleo Instagram account, SaritaPaleo.

Pachyrhinosaurus was particularly unique in that it seemingly traded off something that had previously worked for other ceratopsians, horns, for a large nasal boss instead. For Pachyrhinosaurus, a battering ram worked better than a sword.

It was herbivorous, using its strong cheek teeth to chew tough, fibrous plants. Perhaps during the dark and cold Winters, P. perotorum would have also dug for roots or even scavenged carcasses. At any rate, from observations of their unusually conspicuous growth banding, it appears growth for P. perotorum would have been stunted during the harsh Winter, but was extremely rapid in the warmer months, an adaptation for the Alaskan climate.

The tundra of the Prince Creek Formation housed a surprising amount of diversity. Pachyrhinosaurus perotorum would have lived alongside smaller ceratopsians like Leptoceratopsids, as well as other ornithischians like the pachycephalosaurine Alaskacephale and the hadrosaurid Edmontosaurus. Theropods such as Dromaeosaurus and Saurornitholestes, as well as a yet unidentified giant Troodontid, lived here as well. P. perotorum’s main predator would have been the tyrannosaur Nanuqsaurus. Small mammals were also somewhat common here, such as Cimolodon, Gypsonictops, Sikuomys, Unnuakomys, and an indeterminate marsupial.

(Btw, the request tier for Patreon starts at only $5 a month. 😉 Link is pinned at the top of my blog.)

[gintrinsic-writing]

One Week In

For @meanlesbean! CW: body horror

--

It was an honest mistake. That was the best thing that could be said about the situation. 

“What’s happening to him?” Warriors demanded, staring at the crystal laying mere inches from Time’s shadow-cloaked body. “What is that thing?”

Twilight snatched the crystal up before anyone else could touch it. The urge to transform pulled at him, dark magic prickling beneath his skin. He was able to resist only due to experience. “It’s a magical item. I didn’t mean for—”

“It’s cursed!” Legend snapped. Several of the rings on his fingers flashed threateningly as he took a step back. 

Suddenly, the shadows around Time condensed and sharpened into little black prisms that dimmed the light around them. When they fell away, they dissipated like spun sugar on the tongue. 

Time’s skin melted much the same way. 

“Sweet Hylia,” Sky breathed. Then the screaming began. 

Time doubled over and howled, the sound too guttural to be Hylian. The flesh of his hands peeled and curled, large splinters of wood sprouting from the joints of his fingers. The vertebrae along his back fractured, each loud pop accompanied by a protrusion of heavily keratinized skin. He clawed at the sides of his face as if reaching for something, the pits of his eyes—first blue, then orange, then a depthless black—leaking jelly and blood. He grew and shrank and grew again, his clothes splitting at the seams. The muscles between his ribs parted as though from a sharp instrument, the overlying skin fluttering with every pained, shrieking exhale. 

“The Master Sword!” Twilight ordered frantically, his pulse racing from fear. “Sky, touch him with the sword! Hurry!”

After that, it was over almost as quickly as it began. Sky pressed the flat of the blade against one of Time’s spasming legs, and they all watched in horror as the transformations ceased; scales fell away like confetti, claws sloughed from weeping nail beds, fibrous roots slithered out of abused veins. Time wailed where he lie. 

Before Twilight could summon his wits enough to move, there was a metal rasp, then a blade was held to his throat. “You better have a good fucking explanation, dark,” Legend hissed, ignoring the startled sounds from the other heroes. “I’m not inclined to give a second chance.”

[teapot-of-tyrahn]

Zombiewood ficlet please :3

You hold on until you can’t hold on anymore. And Martyn had held on tight. He’d held on with all his might. That’s what trees did, wasn’t it? A seedling’s first instincts when it began germination was to root it’s radicles into the soil, to shed it’s seed shell and send root hairs into the marl, anchoring itself in the ground like a ship anchoring itself to the pier. Before it even thought about sending it's hypocotyl aboveground, it made sure not only it’s taproots had embedded into the dirt, but it’s secondary roots, it’s tertiary roots… even it’s fibrous roots had to have seeped so deep beneath the subsoil that the surface was surely a distant memory. Plants were intelligent in that sense. They had the right idea. They were in their infancy, they were vulnerable. They needed to forge as many rootways as possible, they had to have countless ways to transport transpiration to the xylem, they had to be rich in rootroutes and resources, they had to be ready before they showed their faces to world. To show their faces to the world. By the time he met his soulmate, he wanted to have put down roots. He wanted to have resources. He wanted to be prolific, frutiful and profuse, he wanted to be indispensable. Soulmates were symbiotic relationships, and he wanted theirs to be mutualistic, better yet, commensalistic; he wanted them to need him. If they relied on him, whether it be for resources or his resourcefulness, they couldn't abandon him. Maybe it was an irrational fear to have, given, after all, they were soulbound. Their healthbar, lives, and souls were intrinsically linked, abandonment was fundamentally impossible given the sheer nature of their connection, they were glued at the hip and tied by the arm, but still. Perhaps it was because of what had happened in Last Life. What he had become in Last Life.

The isolation had been unbearable. It had been excruciating. He couldn't go through that again. He couldn't handle being so alone he'd become delusional, he'd begun to talk to mannequins meant to mimic his former friends in a desperate reach for any companionship, abandoned and forsaken by everyone and everything he'd ever had. He couldn't go through that again. He didn't think he'd be able to survive if he did. But it was fine! Because he wouldn't. He couldn't go through that again… because he had a soulmate! He had a soulmate, this time, and his soulmate couldn't die on him, because if they died, he'd die, too. And they couldn't abandon him, because they shared a healthbar, the were soulbound, they were a pair, and besides, why would they want to? He was going to get so many resources for them, they'd be so impressed, they'd fawn over him and say: 'Ooh, Martyn, look at all the resources you brought for us! You're the best soulmate ever! I'm so lucky! I don't know what I'd do without you!'. He'd make such a good first impression they wouldn't even be able to fathom the idea of leaving him. They were going to be so proud of him.

"I'll do us proud, don't you worry." "Do yourself proud, don't worry about me." Obviously his plan hadn't gone as planned. In a game of soulmates, in which you were promised a pair, a partnership, a companion... Martyn was alone. Forsaken his own soulbound, abandoned by his fatepair, discarded by the person he'd been trying to make himself undiscardable to. At least Pearl had Tilly, but Martyn? He was completely alone. But it was fine! It was fine. He didn't need Tilly, or Pearl, because he would have Cleo, it would be fine. He had to have Cleo. He was hers. She'd see that eventually. She couldn't abandon him. That was against the rules. That wasn't supposed to happen this time. And yet it was exactly how it had happened last time; alone, deserted, desperate, desperate enough to say yes to what They'd offered him… No, he wouldn't let it happen this time. It's fine! He would win her back, this was just a little tiff, a petty miff, he would win them back and everything would be fine. He would not be alone. It would not happen again. Every tree had a woodwound or two, some burls and bruises, but he and Cleo were destined to inosculate. They were designed to. They would inosculate, even if he had to meld his scion into their stock to graft them together himself. Nothing could come between them, he wouldn't let it, he'd edaphoecotropate through anything that tried. Everyone knew that trying to stop a tree's tropism was futile. He'd just resort to thigmotropism if he had to. And yet, it seemed no matter what he did, no matter what he'd done, he still couldn't quite hold on tight enough. Or maybe the problem had been he'd held on too tight. His roots would dig into the soil, trying desperately to embed themselves into the ground, to intertwine with his soulmate's roots, but everytime he tried to sow the seeds of their relationship she would pull out the sprigs like they were nothing but weeds before they even had a chance to sprout. Maybe that's what she thought they were. Whilst he thought they were intertwining oak and linden trees, she thought he was nothing but a stranglers' fig, a hemiepiphyte who did nothing but suck up their shared nutrients from the soil for himself and leave her deprived. And maybe that was what he was. Maybe he'd been so desperate not to be left alone that, in the end, he'd become his own self-fulfilling prophecy, a damnation of his own creation. He'd held on too tight, clung to her with too much might, strangled his soulmate with the very string they shared. He'd held on until he couldn't hold on anymore. He'd held on until there was nothing to hold.

"Oh—  Martyn— !" Martyn had spent the entire season trying to get Cleo to say those words. To say his name. Not with distain, disappointment, derision or disgust, but with actual want for him, for their relationship, for their soulbound. But in that moment, she hadn't wanted him, no. She had needed him. And he hadn't been there. No, instead, he'd dug himself into his own grave. Almost literally. He'd hidden away, like a coward, locked himself in his own sarcophagus, sealed his own fate and tomb. Ironic, wasn't it? He was soulbound to a zombie, and he died six blocks below. Meanwhile, she'd been soulbound to him, Martyn LittleWood, and had died by being skewered by a tree branch. Surely, there was some dramatic irony there, some quip or joke, but for once, he couldn’t make a jest out of the situation. All he could think about was the darkness. It had been so, so dark. He couldn’t see. All he could do was listen. Listen to Cleo's screams. He could hear dogs howling, he could hear Pearl giggling -- "Get her!" -- he could feel the adrenaline pumping in his chest as his soulbound ran for her life, for their life. He clawed, scraped, dug and dredged into the soil with raw fingertips and the desperation of somebody who knew they'd nailed their own coffin shut trying to unhinge the lid with all their might, trying to get out, because Cleo needed him, and he wasn't there, he needed to help her, he needed to get out. Not to live, but because this couldn't be how he died. He couldn't die like this. He couldn't die as he lived, alone, he couldn't die alone in this hole, no, he wanted to see her, he wanted to be with her, if they were going to die he at least wanted to die with her, he wanted them to die together-- But they didn't. Even in death, they were apart. Even in death, he was alone. Even in death, just as in life, he'd abandoned them. He'd abandoned her on last day of their lives, just like he had the first. History always repeated itself. Or maybe Martyn just always repeated his mistakes. ["All you have to do is say 'I'm sorry for abandoning you on the first day'. That's it! That's all you have to do! …. All it takes is an apology, Martyn."] ["Pf, You're not getting one, we both know you're not getting one."] I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorryI'm sorryI'm sorryI'm sorryI'm sorryI'm sorryI'm sorryI'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Cleo.

[pipwasreal]

Febuwhump Day 16: Eaten alive

Characters: Teethface, Charles Rowland, Edwin Payne

Content warnings: tentacles (sort of), bound and gagged, helplessness, consumption (mentioned), digestion (mentioned), obliteration (mentioned)

The forest elemental reels them in, thick tentacular roots completely immobilising and silencing them. Charles' cricket bat and Edwin's books are equally useless right now. They can only hold on for dear existence and hope to be spared somehow.

Edwin tries desperately to remember anything about the creature that may help them escape, but the only fact screaming through his terrified mind is that it is ectophagus. A ghost-eater.

It is likely already weakening them, tasting them through the slimy roots wrapped around them. When their grip eventually falters it will catch them in its fibrous teeth, pin them with its enormous tongue and swallow them whole down its ridged oesophagus. It will absorb their energy, dissolve their forms and erase them from existence.

There is no telling how long the digestion process could take. Between dimensions, time becomes a meaningless concept. Ghosts do not sleep, so they will not be granted the mercy of unconsciousness.

Edwin is glad he cannot say any of this aloud, but his pitifully watering eyes must give away some of his fear, because Charles, kind, brave Charles, risks losing his own grip in order to take Edwin's hand.

At least they won't be alone.

[aaronsrpgs]

I've been working on the encyclopedia for SpeedRune, my rules-lite ancient world fantasy game. Here's the intro and some of the entries.

On Grazing & Shepherding

Being a failed guide to raising sheep across the wide world

& also a failed guide for accurate information regarding said world

An Apology to the Reader: When we sent our missionary, laden with food and gifts, on a momentous journey to discover new ways of raising sheep, we hoped that we would compile their findings into a document both helpful & hopeful for any being across the vast flatness of our world who, like us, takes joy in the labor involved in the raising of sheep, preparation of wool, and cooking of mutton.

What we got instead was a plagiarized & bowdlerized document, mostly taken from the poet Erlo, who himself was a collector of tales from thieves, outcasts, bards, and other untrustworthy types.

It is with great shame that we release these notes to the sheep-raising public, only because we made an oath. One hopes that enterprising shepherds might find, with devoted digging, some useful sheep-raising facts herein. However, it is our firm belief that everything presented here is a fabrication.

Our missionary has been branded a traitor and heretic, and their name has been removed from all records; they have been sent forth to survive on what fodder they can find.

In our failure,

The High Council of the Church of the Sheep God

A Plea from the Author

Ere, I was wont to think in bursting poems.

Regarding everything I write: it’s true.

Lo, though I may be punished for my tomes,

Often the writing’s harder to subdue.

-                     , missionary of the Sheep God

The heretical missionary’s name has been stricken from this work by the order of the Sheep God’s Grand Priest.

Angel

A sort of spirit or small god that lives inside us and is also a part of us, like the stomach or like spit. There is much debate about its purpose.

Some believe that the angel helps us discern what is best for ourselves and our people. This is alternately called moral behavior and selfishness. Some angels believe one should do right no matter who is watching, and failing to do so is called sin. Other angels only encourage righteous behavior in the eyes of the other, and the opposite of that is known as dishonor.

Others believe that angels come in many types: good, bad, childish and petulant, old and reserved. Some people are born without an angel or have theirs driven from them by a curse.

What is agreed upon across the world is that our urges and inner voices come from our angel, and when we die, the angel dresses up in whatever is left of us and goes to the underworld or haunts the place we perished.

Gender

For each person in the flat expanse of the world, there are at least two beliefs regarding gender and sex. However, all civilized folk at least pay lip service to the following story:

While most gods were selfishly sporting and fighting after the universe came to be, the Earth God had created art. Her first art was the art of pottery, and she made eight great pots, each painted in eight mineral colors.

Next she created the art of cooking, and in a sacred iron pot, she kept a broth brewing. The other gods’ sporting and fighting left plants growing in footprints and animals springing forth from wounds. Their sporting and fighting also left crushed stalks and broken beasts, and the Earth Goddess collected these. She dropped roots and leaves, skin and bones, into the broth. Every eight days, she poured it into one of her pots. Then a new broth began.

The pots of broth were sealed and submerged in the Earth Goddess’s other art, which we call magic (but which is actually something else). After eight full moons passed, the Earth Goddess cracked each pot, and people poured out.

This is why we come in eight different shapes called genders (which, unlike most shapes, is a shape on the inside of us). The broths roil in us, salty and fibrous, but some are more hazy, while some have the clarity of golden water. (There is a tongue for every broth.) And the waves of magic (which is actually something else) and the changing light of the moon allow us to grow and change and settle like a tide, taking new shapes and lapping up new broth.

There are those who don’t believe this tale. Some demand nine pots and something other than broth in our veins, for the gods could not conceive of a world other than their own. Other nonbelievers are sad little almost-humans who history desires to overlook, only sometimes they gain power and money enough that others begin to believe their sad tales.

Horse

These animals were permitted only for the gods and their chosen servants. They ate the grass of heaven and could move like lightning. A clan of humans grew angry with the gods, though, and plotted to steal some horses for themselves. They creeped up to heaven on a ladder woven of hair (this was before heaven was sealed), and on seeing the perfect horses masticating upon the perfect grass, they whooped and laughed and jumped up on the animals.

The horses went wild, unused to the imperfect rumps that now sat upon them. They whinnied and ran, hooves kicking up the immaculate sod of heaven, and they ran and ran some more, until spit bubbled from their mouths and sweat coated their flanks. Many of them died right then and there.

The humans tamed the few horses that lived and rode them home. They hid the horses in a barn made of sod, so when the gods came by and asked if their horses had come through, the humans could say, “Look at our fields. There are no horses there.” So the gods left and the day passed.

At night, a powerful weeping came from the barn, and a chorus of pleas: “We are here! There is no fresh fodder! We are in a tight, dark place!” The horses could no longer remain silent. And the gods came down like falling stars and pulled the sod roof off the barn. Their horses huddled there, and the humans came out and professed ignorance.

The gods, being fickle and strange, cursed both the humans and the horses. “If you so desire these creatures,” the Wind God said, “let it be that you can never be apart from them.” And the humans and horses were joined into centaurs, which have the top half of a human but with the jaws of a horse, and the bottom half of a horse but with the rumps and feet of a human.

Perhaps once a generation, the centaurs birth a true horse, and this fine beast is usually destined to serve a hero. And there are rumors that other people, far away from here, know how to treat a horse, and they are allowed the privilege of keeping whole herds of them. But I’ve never seen this.

New Rune: Horse

Act between the seconds, interrupting someone’s intentions and moving faster than anything.

Move yourself and your allies across countless miles in hours or minutes.

Add +10 to a roll involving running or acting as a herd.

Sheep

The holy reason for this manuscript. Here is what is known about sheep:

They are superior to most animals because they provide food, milk, wool, and a ride (if they are big enough).

They understand human speech but they do not deign to speak it.

They worship all gods, so through honoring them, we honor all gods too.

Their mouths are mortars, their teeth are pestles, and their stomachs are ovens, so their wool will take on the properties of what they eat. Pine cones make it warmer, juniper lets air flow through, and duckweed makes it water-resistant.

Goats are a kind of sheep with particular devotion to the gods of salt and metal.

Alpacas are a kind of sheep with particular devotion to the gods of sun and sky.

If one can’t have children, it is often said that one should raise sheep.

New Rune: Sheep/Goat

Walk up a wall or cliff.

Chew through two inches of any material.

Add +10 to a roll involving blending in with others of your kind or discerning the location of a predator.

[archetypal-archivist]

Notes for Outer Wilds World-Building

-head canon heavy, but grounded in reason I think-

Healthcare: Lots of treating symptoms but not a ton of fixing the thing that caused the initial problem as the Hearthian body is remarkably sturdy and when self-healing can't take care of it, it would take some advanced healthcare to fix it (ex. punctured lung, strong infection). And that's not always something the Hearthians have, as why would they put a ton of effort into advanced pharmaceuticals like penicillin and invasive internal surgeries when it's so rare that someone gets hurt to that point and doesn't immediately die from it in a matter of days? I picture most medicine is herbal in nature, plant-derived and highly concentrated if necessary, such as opioids/morphine for pain that can be taken by injection until you get home and can patch yourself up. Bandages and bed rest and going off of what's taught to you (with a dose of improvising) are key to Hearthian healthcare. For the Hearthians, it's less unwillingness to help in cases of disability and more not being sure how, as the tech to do so would need to be jury-rigged or made from scratch. How well this helps varies as some things like missing limbs and damaged hearing can be accounted for but things like malfunctioning kidneys can't. Ironically, diabetes would spell bad news for a Hearthian.

Food: They don't have birds on Timber Hearth or else we'd see a lot more primitive wings for flying, so that means the animal life differs from earth. Lots of bugs and amphibians and fish, but very few mammals if any as fur is weird to the Hearthians. Hearthians are likely omnivores, given their history, but no trapping of land animals beyond insects. I imagine mostly teams of gatherers picking food from known locations and being careful about how much they take, and maybe some "controlled burnings" to clear out unwanted brush and give room to grow for the plants they actually want. The burnings may be more of an accident but the effect is the same regardless. Berries, nuts (especially pine nuts), cattail tubers and pith, water reed shoots, edible wild greens, and bread made from the flour of ground up tubers/acorns/pine nuts is common. This is supplemented by fish, the fat of which (Google candle fish) and the gelatin formed by boiling their bones are also used in many things. Marshmallows are made the old way, from mallow roots and sugar cane. Snow covered in sap or molasses is a treat, made more common with the invention of rockets that let you grab snow and fly it back to the village before it melts. Chera (borrowed from the fandom) is a tough, fibrous fruit that is sort of bready and is used much like apples are as a thickener in bread and eaten as mash on its own. Pickling, smoking, and canning are very common in Hearthian culture and are key ways of preserving food for when certain key gathered plants are out of season. During the insect mating season when the flies are out in full force, people will smack the clouds of bugs with sap-covered sheets of metal, scrape the bugs off, and grill them up into patties like burgers. This time of year is all hands on deck and not everyone likes eating fly patties but as food, it's incredibly nutritious and ground up flies are sometimes added to food that is lacking. Cooking is communal for the bulk of it, with a town cook pot and storehouse being open to the public to pull from, but if you want to eat beyond standard hours or mass-produced fare, you're on your own and you best hope you know how to cook over a wood fire stove. Filling the communal food pot is often a job foisted on hatchlings and the elders supervise. Specialty foods like sap wine are a trade item or are saved for celebrations and traditions.

Travel: Hearthians don't have wheeled carts as getting things into their crater via wheeled cart would be difficult at best. Instead they'll drag chopped down trees where they need to go via sleds or float them on the rivers or lower them into the crater with elevators. Anything else they'll carry down personally. To get around the planet, Hearthians just walk and if it takes more than a day, they camp along the way. Now that ships are a thing however, travel has shrunk the world by a lot- not that it does the average Hearthian much good. The ships are dangerous, prone to causing fires if one tries to land on Timber Hearth proper as rockets plus grass equals bad. A skilled pilot can pick a decent landing spot that's damp or barren enough to not be a problem, but it's usually so far from where you want to go that it's better to walk anyway. Said average Hearthians also do not like dealing with g-forces or potential death. Those are the only reasons why it's not normal for astronauts to ferry average Hearthians around like a taxi service or to take materials from point A to point B across the planet. None of this matters on the Attlerock however, as there's nothing to catch fire there, so ships will haul stuff up there all the time at Esker and Hornfels' behest. Rocket fuel is made from flammable gases pumped up from underground by the mining equipment as waste. It used to be released into the atmosphere to keep the miners from suffocating or exploding (a problem, sometimes those spouts would catch alight) but Slate had the bright idea of storing it in tanks under pressure. They already had pressurized air for the miners at the deepest depths to breathe where air was hard to come by, why couldn't they bottle up the waste gases to dispose of more safely? Like burning it elsewhere?

Clothing: Fabric is made from the fibers of a linen-like plant called flush, names for the purplish hue at the base of the reed's stem. The weavers' house is filled with Hearthians whose job it is to separate the fibers out and spin them into thread. From there, the weaver in charge of the loom will dye the thread with plant-based dyes and use a flying loom to quickly weave bolts of fabric. It takes a LOT of thread to make fabric but thanks to the weavers' bugging Slate into making them into a machine running off water power, the thread-making time has been cut down significantly. However, the whole process still takes a while so most Hearthians only own a few pieces of clothing and they're expected to patch it, hand-me-down it, and wash it until it is literally in rags before they get more. Hatchlings get the worst of it, they get pretty much nothing but hand-me-down clothes as they outgrow things too fast for unique outfits for each of them. Scarves, hats, and handkerchiefs are an exception and are often the only piece of clothing a hatchling has that survives to adulthood, which makes them all the more precious. Dresses- which take more fabric- and anything patterned or multicolored is a sign of indulgence/finery or a very nice gift and is such relegated to fancy clothes for fine events. Shoes are made of fish leather or treated fabric strips wrapped around a wood sole and structure and then sewn in place.

Economy: Hearthians run on a trade economy, with every person expected to contribute in some way. You are always guaranteed food from the communal cook pot and shelter in either a house of your own or on someone else's couch/floor, but beyond that you get side-eyed if you ask for things too often without offering something in return. Fortunately, Hearthians have a strong oral tradition and a very relaxed (boring) lifestyle so most are happy to trade gossip and stories for basic amenities. Building houses, weaving fabric, gathering food, working in the mines, and watching the hatchlings and tasks like those are ones that are never required for people to do, you can walk off and take a break whenever. However, it's seen as poor taste to do that for more than a few days at a time without cause because if you aren't working, you're letting your fellow Hearthians down. If you can't do big work for health reasons or lack of skill, you're expected to pick up small work like knitting, patching things up, cooking at the communal food pot, etc. What most hatchlings end up doing is they either find a passion and just continue with it into a proper "job" that helps the village in some way, they get an apprenticeship, or they get picked up by an adult and pretty much conscripted in order to "keep them out of trouble." Fire watch and astronaut and jobs like it are jobs of high prestige and are very demanding in the body, and as such run as apprenticeships with Gossan and Tektite selecting who they want to teach from those that come up to them and ask to learn. Such jobs don't do much to physically help the village (beyond bringing back space relics but those aren't always useful to the village at large) but they do bring in a ton of interesting stories and those are prime currency for the Hearthians.

Life Cycle: Hearthians are hermaphrodites that breed like fish do- during certain times of year, Hearthians may feel the urge to slip down to the river and release sperm and eggs into the water. Couples can go together, but most don't make much of it, seeing them as temporary dalliances or choosing to put up with being a little hot and itchy for a few days, refusing to go, and then the season is done for them for the year. The sperm and eggs mingle in warm underground pools and incubate there until they get hard and heavy enough to be picked up by the current. Due to how the waters of Timber Hearth run, the eggs more or less end up being carried to the same place every year where Hearthians in charge of raising hatchlings go to pick them up. The eggs are candled to check for life, then swaddled and placed into cribs to hatch. Hatchlings are raised in batches together in the Hatchling House, with sick ones quarantined in a back room to keep the rest from getting ill (so things like measles don't wipe out a whole generation). Hatchlings are fed mash until their baby teeth fall out, then they are fed real food like fish with bones in it. They only are named when the caretaker is sure that they will survive their first month or three of life, then they are introduced to the village by that name. They are allowed to go outside for the first time once they can walk and talk a little bit, an occasion marked by giving them shoes. After that, a hatchling may leave the Hatchling House to live on their own once they have a place to stay lined up, work, and they either can drink sap wine (which hatchlings don't have the enzymes to digest) or meet a certain height. As Hearthians age, the ears droop more, the skin pales, and the body starts failing. Past a certain age a Hearthian just kinda stops healing, as if all their sturdiness is limited to their younger years, and if they survive past even that, then their mind begins to go. Deaths are grieved and the dead buried with song and music being played with a space being left in the song for the deceased to "play a solo" and the rest of the band picking up after as a reminder that life goes on. In a few rare cases, hatchlings can imprint on an adult and vice versa, which gives rise to more "standard" parent child bonds and frequently, apprenticeships.

Calendar: The Hearthian planet does have seasons, sort of, but mostly a "hot and dry" vs "cool and wet" divide. No snow, their winters are just slightly more rain than usual and their summers are slightly warmer and with a chance for thunderstorms. However, there are still holidays involved with the changing of the seasons, mostly tied to when food is more or less available and when the solstices are. The alignment of the planets is also celebrated but that's a more recent celebration that popped up and it intensified into a major holiday only when the observatory got built with its ability to lock down alignments to exact dates. Breeding season is an informal holiday, being a few days in Spring and Autumn where sap wine is plentiful and people are expected to take some time off from work to relax. Hearthian formal holidays involve getting everyone in the village to sing, dance, and play music together around a bonfire. Stories and sap wine flow thick and fast and the best storytellers and musicians are treated to the best food and treats. Musicians will sometimes "duel" for funsies to see who is better at improvising and technical skills, to the joy of the crowd. Informal celebrations, like when an astronaut launches for the first time or one comes home or a batch of hatchlings are given a name on their name day lead to similar events, just scaled down some with only non-busy people attending. However, Hearthians love a good party so many will make time for such gatherings if they can.

[geturasstomars]

anyone else peeling a fibrous root

[ficnoire2]

A Little Legendborn/Bloodmarked Symbolism (Spoilers ahead)

Mrs. Deonn has done such a bomb ass job in this series with all the delicious Easter eggs she has planted throughout.  From things being in threes, the callbacks to LB from BM, the foreshadowing.  The list goes on and on.  I like to play with some of these delicious elements (you can find my post of LB/BM color theory here) and have put forth my latest contribution.  

The Mighty Oak/Tree Symbolism

“Vera stands before me, bathed in blood and flame, hair stretching wide and loose like a live oak.” 

The oak represents  longevity, strength, stability, endurance, fertility, power, justice, and honesty.  As we know the oldest mother held Arthur back AND pulled Excalibur through Bree.  What I also found curious was the bit of Celtic history regarding oak trees.  Dara, which means oak tree, is a form of Celtic Knot formed by an endless series of interlocked lines with no beginning or end symbolizing eternity, strength, and unity.  Trees can represent the connection between the spirit world, ancestors, and can serve as entry points to other worlds.  In Legendborn when Sel tries to kill Bree in the graveyard and they have to run, he says “Datgelaf, dadrithiaf”  (I reveal, I disillusion) to open a door over the roots of an oak tree in order to hide from the hounds.  The roots of the tree providing protection and cover concealing the gate to the campus’ underground tunnel system.  

“But I’ve lived long enough to learn to live as the willow, not the oak.”  Valec says this in Bloodmarked before handing Sel his ass in his office.  This was a hella interesting statement coming from Valechaz.  The willow tree represents flexibility and adaptability.  Its branches bend and flex to withstand its environment.  It is seen as a symbol of humans’ capability to withstand hardship, loss, and difficult emotions. The willow tree is also seen as a survivor and a symbol of rebirth.  Baby if that isn’t Valec, I don’t know what is!  He goes with the flow, is resilient, and can and has withstood the storm.  He has survived chattel slavery and chooses his wit and street smarts if you will, as opposed to his strength and power.  However, don’t get it twisted, Valec will wear that ass out if needed. 

Cedar

“When he catches up, his fresh-laundry-and-cedar scent comes with him.  Of course he smells good.”  

When Bree meets Nick for the first time, I remember the cedar note of his scent standing out to me the most.  I have a hundred year old cedar chest that belonged to my great grandparents which reminded me why that note stood out.  Cedar symbolizes greatness, nobility, strength and incorruptibility.  Cedar never rots and according to Celtic astrology, the cedar symbolizes trust.  Well then Nick Davis, enter the chat. In my reading I also discovered that cedar represents the duality of nature.  Fierce and resolute, however, elegant and tender.  These trees are massive and the use of cedar in ancient times to forge vessels, homes, and the sarcophagi to carry the ancestors home is a testament to its strength and durability. If you peel away the winding fibrous bark of a cedar tree you’ll find a fragrant and sensual heartwood with medicinal and spiritual uses dating back to ancient times.

Bottle Trees

“The boundary is marked by bottle trees here and there.  She points to a tree about six feet tall a little ways behind us, on the other side of the gold root barrier.  Colorful glass bottles cover the end of each branch.  The light of the barrier plays off the blues and greens, illuminates the yellows and reds.  ‘When the barrier goes invisible and you’re walking around, you gotta look left and right, keep two bottle trees in sight.  If you see two, you can draw a line between them and know where Volition’s protection ends’.”

Mariah explains this as the crew enters the Volition grounds.  Bottle trees have roots in African lore and culture as well as in the Gullah people in North and South Carolina.  The practice of having bottle trees on the land originated in the Kingdom of Kongo in West Africa.  This practice was continued by the Africans who were stolen and brought to the Americas. According to folklore, bottles are placed on the branches of dead trees.  The bright, traditionally cobalt colored bottles were said to be a lure for evil spirits which became trapped after entering the bottles at night.  The spirits trapped inside the bottles would be destroyed  by the rising sun.  It was said that if a bottle hums in the wind, that was a sure fire way to know you have trapped a spirit.  Traditionally the bottles used are cobalt, which is said to have healing powers but can also range in color from bright reds to yellows.  The practice of placing bottle trees along your property has spread to the Caribbean as well as other areas of the south.  Being a Midwest girl, I thought this was a cool detail as we finally make it to Volition which is a place of protection, honor, and healing.  This was such a fitting detail to include knowing what is at stake for our crew. 

Leather

A symbol of power, protection, rebellion, freedom, and elegance (Valec has a hint of this in his signature as well) leather is strong and durable.  It has been used in everything from armor to boots and served as protection for the wearer.  

“A long line of Merlins in my family.  Ma da makes leather armor and things, pieces we can wear under our clothes if we go hunting in public…The old ways get forgotten, I guess.”  

Lark says this to Bree in Bloodmarked when gifting her the gauntlets his da handcrafted.  By the way, that was so damn sweet it gave me “the sugar” as the old folks used to say.  We know Lark has a nobility and respect for “The old ways” as we see him risk it all to get Sel out of the institute and on the plane.  Lark was showing Bree the ropes at the funeral.  Despite her warranted rage, he was there making sure she was safe in Selwyn’s absence, while giving her a bit of game to further protect her in the presence of the regents.  The scene in the beast where he is being snatched out of the car and he makes eye contact with Bree, 

“He roars, teeth bared.  Punches his fingers deep into the leather cushions on either side of my hips, down to the metal bars that bolt the seats to the floor.  Holds tight, stopping himself.  He growls with the effort, eyes pinned to mine, body nearly vertical, feet to the sky.” 

I kid that this was the worst first day of work ever, but the devotion to his duty, the willingness and readiness to protect Bree is so painfully beautiful it hurts.  Especially since we know Lark is the real deal, authentic as hell and wants to do what is right.  And of course, he was there at Volition carrying Sel back towards the main house because he truly holds honor in high regard.  The fact that he uses ancient materials and seems to have a general groundedness to his personality makes the leather accompaniment so appropriate.  Lark is protection.  Lark is rebellion.  Lark is freedom. 

Taking a deeper look into some of Tracy’s choices shows the painstaking detail she put into crafting these beautiful characters.  The symbolism of trees and their strength and endurance, their ability to withstand is so apt in this series.  The elements of nature that call back to ancient times, the roots, the growth. The way Lark’s family reaches back to simpler times when leather was used to make clothing, act as armor, and is handcrafted really speaks to the authenticity he possesses.  The time it took his da to create something so beautiful for something so brutal and merciless such as battle shows a level of care and respect that is clearly reflected in his being.

Let me know your wonderful thoughts and feedback.  Think I may do a little scent theory next.  

[ssunspotted]

((I know it isn't perfectly sensible, with how nebulous the question of where and how consciousness is stored in supernatural undead, but I'm thinking REAL hard about Tolya's brain having fibrous/thread roots physically trying to integrate into the atrophied parts))

[somethingclevermahogony]

Find the Word Tag

Thank you @cryptidwritings! I can't remember if I've ever been tagged by you before!

My words: downward, creeping, surprise, and tower

Downward

As Suru watched her fall, a strange feeling overcame him. The fear was momentarily banished from his head, replaced by a burst of irrational energy which left his limbs buzzing. He saw through clouded vision, the talons of the creature gripping onto the side of the ship, intent on shaking the rest of its prey loose. Though the world as a whole seemed to slow and blur, he could see clearly where he had knocked away the scale, exposing the fiery flesh beneath. A sound unlike any he had ever made before escaped his lips, an unearthly howl. With all of the might that his small broken body could muster he thrust downward, piercing the beast, driving the bronze deep. The ocean rippled and frothed, a rumbling roar emanated from the water. The claw retreated, ripping a large slab of the wood away with it and disappeared into the depths.

Creeping

The first light of morning was already creeping over the eastern sky when sleep overtook the two mortals. Ninma was the first and then Narul. They lay in the moss, and enjoyed the softness below them. They dreamt of fire and of spirits, and ancient peoples and places long since forgotten.

Surprise

Almost too fast for him to comprehend, his clothes had been removed and thrown gingerly to the corner and he was guided onto one of the benches. After a few hushed whispers between the attendants that, olive and sesame oil were poured across his chest and back, and then rubbed and massaged into his skin. They were quite thorough in their lathering of his body. Narul hoped that he wasn’t blushing. After they were satisfied with this they turned to his hair. They picked with pincers and tweezers, removing the twigs and stones which had accumulated there.  “No parasites.” One of the attendants exclaimed in surprise. “None?” The others gathered around, poking and prodding at his scalp for any evidence of lice or fleas or  ticks, which were to be expected in most poor or rural people of region. And yet they could find nothing. “I’ve never had them before,” said Narul “I guess my skin is too tough or something.” The attendants muttered appreciatively, one less task for them, he supposed. The attendants continued their work, they seemed more comfortable now, less afraid. They began to talk openly, about their days, about their work, small talk at first. Narul tried to reciprocate as best he could. Though this was quickly put to an end as one of them began to clean his mouth, poking and prodding between his teeth and tongue with bronze tweezers and a brush of sorts made from boar hair. After this, he was instructed to chew on some sort of fibrous and bitter root which numbed his tongue. They told him it was something called Nurisuru which came from the land of Ikopesh. With time they began to talk about him, and now Narul was sure that he was blushing. If they noticed they didn’t say anything. He came to learn their names; Numu, Katad, Akab, and Lutuki. In the end, it took nearly two hours to tame and clean his matted hair and teeth, with several combs, a pair of tweezers, and a full bottle of Apunian soap as the casualties.

Tower

 He ran south, past the combatants, through the valley. It felt as if his limbs had been possessed by some sort of fiery entity which drove him forward in spite of cold and exhaustion, irregardless of any feeling or thought. He ran, and the sounds of battle faded and yet he kept running, that terrified entity in his legs egging him onward. He had never run so far or so hard in his life. He stopped only when he could hear the river murmuring ahead of him and he could see the first of the strange limestone pillars which his father had once called spirit towers.

Tagging @creatrackers, @winterandwords, @finickyfelix, @writingamongther0ses

Your words are: Hardy, wall, shrill, and punched