#Four-lined tree frog

[stickyfrogs]

Hanging Out With Friends at the Frog Pond at Kubah National Park, Borneo!

Four-lined tree frogs (Polypedates leucomystax), Harlequin Tree Frog (Rhacophorus pardalis) and Giant River Frog (Limnonectes leporinus)!

[brattyfics]

Summary: Set against the eerie backdrop of the Florida swamps in the 1980s, this supernatural tale follows Adla Bennett, a woman navigating life after the loss of her father. When she discovers a wounded creature resembling a wolf on her porch, she takes it in for the night, only to find out the creature is a shapeshifter named Terry Richmond. He asks Adla for her help in locating his missing cousin, Mike, intertwining their fates in a way she never expected.

A/N: Divider by firefly-graphics. This is the beginning of my Swampbound story for Scary Terry Night (October 30) featuring Werewolf!Terry Richmond with my fave @uzumaki-rebellion! If you haven’t already, check out her Tattoos and Bloodsucker Blues preview. I struggled to choose an excerpt, so I’m sharing the entire first part. This story features supernatural elements and some mild gore, so please keep that in mind. Happy Reading!

Adla had spent all of her life in Florida, yet the strange things that washed ashore after storms still startled her. Destruction was to be expected—broken tree limbs, uprooted plants, even splintered pieces of homes carried away by the wind.

Tangled in seaweed, turtle hatchlings, along with frogs and crabs scurried frantically, struggling to reclaim their place in the chaos. Sometimes she'd find the occasional oddity: a tattered shirt, a weathered cloth bag, knotted fishing line.

But she'd never come across anything like this—a mangled, bloody deer carcass strewn across the tall grass, torn flesh and fur mingling with pieces of shredded cloth. 

Her instincts screamed at her to back, but curiosity got the better of her.

She knelt down, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. Something violent had happened here. She scanned the scene, trying to make sense of it. 

A gator? No, they usually dragged their prey back into the water. 

Maybe a hawk? But even with its sharp talons, a bird of prey wouldn’t make this kind of mess. 

Possibly a bobcat? They prowled the swamps, their hunting disturbed by storms, always opportunistic. 

But no, the tracks didn’t match.

These footprints were too big—far too big. The prints were wolf-like but larger, deeper, as though the creature was far heavier than any wolf she'd ever heard of. 

Four prints ran parallel, perfectly spaced in the mud, until they faded into something stranger—two flatter, elongated impressions. 

Like feet. 

Human feet.

The footprints appeared far too big to be her own, and there shouldn’t have been anyone else wandering around the property.

A chill ran down her back even though the sun was shining. The mangrove seemed way too quiet, like the world was holding its breath. The usual racket of gulls and cicadas had vanished—like even they knew the storm had left more than just broken branches behind. One of the first lessons her father had drilled into her as a girl was to never run; not from a person nor an animal. 

Running makes you prey.

Adla pulled her hunting knife from her waistband, steadying her wrist as her eyes swept over the wide, open space around her. She was ready to defend herself if it came down to it, but there was nothing– no one hiding in the brush, no animal stalking her. Just thick humidity, carrying the earthy scent of wet soil and decaying leaves. 

She figured it was time to head back. 

With caution, she began her trek home, her footsteps muffled by the spongy ground, all while keeping a watchful eye on her surroundings. This land held secrets—some of which she had come to accept, and others she feared. 

The old myths— of beastly protectors with vengeful spirits, born of the swamp’s dark magic during the era of slavery— often lingered like shadows in the back of her mind, but today, the possibility felt much closer. The swamp was alive; gnarled roots of mangroves twisted out of the water like skeletal fingers and casted dark shadows on the surface of the water. 

Adla focused on the worn path ahead, until the low rumble of an engine made her pause.

She wasn’t expecting anybody—she never did. As a child, she had hated the isolation of living out here, but now? It kept the outside world at arm’s length, just as she wanted.

She hurried up the muddy incline, her boots kicking loose clumps of wet earth. At the porch of the old Cracker house, she leaned against the weathered wood, squinting down the overgrown path. A boxy, faded green Jeep Cherokee from the late '70s bounced along the uneven track, its tires struggling for traction in the soft ground. With an exasperated breath, she lowered the knife to her side.

It was none other than Jesse Hampton. She should’ve known.

The vehicle pulled to a stop, and Jesse stepped out, scanning the trees before his eyes settled on her. His mahogany skin glistened under the humid late-afternoon sun, and his damp t-shirt clung to his chest. His cap sat low, shadowing his normally neat hair, now curling wildly in the moisture. A few days' stubble covered his jaw—unusual for him but understandable after the chaos of the storm.

Even so, he was as handsome as ever.

"Adla," he called, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "You shouldn't be out here alone." His gaze darted behind her, as if sensing unseen dangers lurking in the shadows. "I get that it feels peaceful, but it's still dangerous."

The last thing she wanted was to give him more reason to worry or lecture her, so she swallowed the uneasiness she’d just felt moments before.

"You sound like my father, Jesse." She rolled her eyes, dismissing his caution. But Jesse's expression tightened, a hint of something unspoken hovering between them. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Adla, just... promise me you'll watch yourself. You've got a light in you that attracts attention, and sometimes that attention ain't the kind you want."

The weight of his words hung in the space between them. She could feel the worry lacing his words and caught an uncharacteristic flicker of fear in his eyes that was hard to overlook. “Quit that. I’m fine,” she shot back, the nagging feeling returning to her chest. She hated when he used that tone– like he knew something she didn't. 

She couldn’t understand the source of Jesse's recent worries. They had grown up playing in the wild jungle that was her backyard, always safe. The worst they ever faced was a snake that sent them running to her father for protection. Wild boars and gators lurked about, but they didn't bother anyone who didn’t bother them. 

“Live and let live” had always served her well.

“What you doing out here?” she asked, crossing her arms tightly.

“Do I gotta have a reason now?” Jesse countered, flashing a charming smile. She wrinkled her nose, picking up on the mischief in his tone. “You always have a reason when you show up at my place unannounced. So, what’s the story this time?”

Jesse owned a bustling convenience store in town, but most of his income came from various side hustles. He was the go-to guy for anything anyone needed, always finding a way to get things done, no matter the cost. 

“Just checking in on you, that’s all. Wanted to see how you were holding up after the storm. But if I’m not welcome…” He paused, a mock-serious expression crossing his face. “I can turn right back around.”

Adla scoffed, turning her back on him as she ascended the steps of the screened-in porch. “You say that every time, but you always end up following me inside.” He fell into step behind her, his boots thudding against the weathered floorboards. “You don’t even bother asking if you can come in anymore,” she teased, shooting him a sidelong glance.

“After all the times I’ve been here, why would I bother? Especially when you’ve welcomed me in plenty of times.” He leaned against the doorframe with an easy grace, arms crossed and a playful glint in his eye. “Sometimes at night, if I’m not mistaken.”

Adla shook her head as she headed to the kitchen. “Come on, Jess, that ain’t the same, and you know it.” 

She opened the fridge and retrieved a pitcher of cold water, then grabbed one of the glass cups from the cupboard. After she poured, she handed it over to him, her hands wrinkled from long hours spent clearing debris in the yard. When he took the cup, their fingers brushed against each other, stirring the subtle tension that always rested just below the surface between them.

“Now, why you gotta put it like that?” Jesse asked, a pouty frown appearing on his face as he took a sip.

“'Cause I need you to get this,” Adla paused, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t like folks showing up here without a heads-up, and that goes for you too.” She hoped her sweet smile softened the message. Before anything, he was her closest friend, and she never wanted to hurt him. 

He grinned, leaning casually against the counter beside her. She considered asking if he’d been snooping around her property without her knowing— Jesse was sneaky like that— but figured it’d raise too many questions if he said no.

He set his glass down, inching closer with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I thought I was special, though.” 

She arched an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Now, where’d you get an idea like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tugged a curl loose from her messy ponytail, the spiral bouncing back like a rubber band. “I figured if I did that thing you like enough times, it might earn me a few privileges around here.”

She fought a smile. “What kind of privileges are we talking about?” 

“The kind that lets me show up whenever I feel like it.” He leaned in, his intentions clear as he tried to kiss her, wanting more than just a friendly chat. Adla pressed her palm against his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

Jesse was undeniably handsome, and she enjoyed having him around, but she wasn’t about to let anyone—no matter how charming—think they had a claim on her. She was in charge of her life, and she liked it that way. Getting serious with Jesse, no matter how often he hinted at it, simply wasn’t part of her plans. Especially knowing other women were enjoying that thing she liked too.

“No, sir,” she replied, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she shook her head, trying to lighten the mood. “You thought wrong. But since you’re already here, you might as well lend me a hand with something.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned in, steadily pressing closer, an eyebrow raised as his interest deepened. “And what would that be?”

“You can come help me set these traps and see what else washed up after the storm,” she said, avoiding his lips to steal a drink from his cup. She hoped to score some fat crabs and a few fish to stock the freezer for the next few days. Her generator had held up well during the storm, keeping the food fresh, but it was always smart to restock. Hurricane season wasn’t over yet and she felt a bit uneasy about heading back into the woods by herself. 

“Aww, man,” Jesse groaned dramatically. “I should’ve known that coming over here meant I was gonna have to work. You’re a real slave driver, girl, you know that?”

They spent the next couple of hours working side by side, enjoying a comfortable rhythm of silence mixed with casual conversation.

First, they checked her garden for storm damage while Jesse caught her up on the latest town gossip—apparently, Mrs. Flowers had been caught with Mr. Jenkins in Mr. Flowers' house. The mustard greens were ruined, uprooted and twisted by the wind, so she pulled them up. Thankfully, the okra and sweet potatoes had weathered the storm just fine; she just hoped the excess moisture wouldn’t lead to any rot.

Next, they moved on to setting her fishing nets and traps, but instead stumbled upon another surprise.

Like the mangled bird she'd spotted earlier, several fish heads littered the bank where she usually set her traps, alongside crab skeletons missing their claws and backs, stripped bare. This wasn’t the typical gator damage—no, this was something far worse, disturbingly messy and strange for the area’s usual predators.

She scanned the ground for any more footprints but saw nothing. No paw prints or torn cloth either.

“What in the world?” Adla muttered, staring at the destruction. “What you think did this? A gator?”

Jesse leaned down, his brow furrowed. “A gator wouldn’t leave pieces like this.”

“Something else did this,” She finished his sentence. Adla’s skin prickled and suddenly, hiding her unsettling feelings from earlier felt foolish. She described the strange prints and the shredded bird she’d found to Jesse as he listened intently. He ran his hands over her shoulders, trying to soothe her.

“You shouldn’t stay out here alone tonight, Addy. Why don’t you spend the night at my place?”

Adla couldn’t shake the feeling of unease about what the darkness might bring, but she couldn’t take Jesse up on his offer, even if his grandmother’s old house was just a few miles up the road.

The old woman had adored her, having been the one to deliver her. Still, it just didn’t feel right to spend the night in another woman’s house, even if that woman was no longer alive.

Plus, sneaking around with Jesse where others could see was out of the question. 

She wasn’t about to give anyone a reason to stir up drama or question her independence. Lord knows she couldn’t bear the thought of becoming the next Mrs. Flowers, her good name dragged through the mud to anyone willing to listen.

“No one—and nothing—is gonna run me out of my house,” she replied, her stubbornness rising to the surface. This place was her sanctuary, the fruit of her labor and her ancestors' struggles. They’d fought hard for what they had, and she felt a fierce pride in maintaining the one thing that truly belonged to her. 

Out here in the swamps, peace was something you earned, not given. She would defend her home if it came to that.

“You don’t even know who or what it is, and you want to stay out here alone? That doesn’t make a lick of sense, baby doll,” Jesse insisted, his persistence typical but unusually intense.

“I’m not your ‘baby doll,’” she shot back, irritation rising. He seemed to be making a habit of testing her clearly established boundaries more recently. 

“I already told you—I’m staying here. You should head out before it gets dark.”

“Come on, don’t be like that—” Jesse began, his voice smooth like molasses. He might’ve been charming, but today, she wasn’t about to let those sweet words sway her.

“Go,” she pressed, stepping forward to cut him off. “I’ll handle the cleanup and make sure everything’s locked up tight, but I want you to leave—now, please.” 

Jesse held her gaze for a long moment, recognizing that determined look in her eye. He knew better than to push too far when she was set on something. “Alright, I’ll go,” he finally relented. “But I need you to promise me you won’t leave the house tonight. Whatever you do, don’t cross that threshold, okay?”

Her face contorted at his strange choice of words.

“Why would I be outside? I’m not foolish enough to wander around out here at night. What’s got you so riled up today, anyway?” She reached out and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer. 

“Just trust me on this,” he urged, his tone serious as he finally locked eyes with her. She’d never seen him look so grim before—what was he hiding? 

“You’ll be safe if you stay inside tonight.” He repeated carefully. 

Last she checked, danger didn’t give a damn about doors, but it was clear he wasn’t leaving until he knew she’d listen to his advice. 

“Alright,” she said, dragging the word out as her confusion showed. “I’ll stay inside tonight. Not like I was planning on wandering around anyway.”

“Good,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead and lingering there as she wrapped her arms tightly around him. “I’ll call you tonight, and you better answer. If you don’t, I’ll be back out here, with or without your blessing.”

As he turned to leave, Adla couldn’t help but smile after him. Jesse could be a handful, but beneath that cool exterior, she knew he cared for her as fiercely as she did for him. 

In the wilderness of the swamps, that bond meant everything.

He lingered in her driveway while she hurried to gather the crab shells, tossing them into her compost bin—no sense letting them go to waste. He didn’t start his engine and pull away until she was safely inside with the door closed, waving his goodbye from the street as she watched him from the window.

After locking up, she sank into a well-deserved bubble bath, a simple yet sweet reward for a day’s hard work. The clawfoot tub, older than she was but still in impeccable shape, had become a beloved fixture in her home. 

The bathroom, filled with the soothing scents of incense and candles, wrapped around her like a comforting hug. After her father’s passing, her top priority had been to breathe life back into the old house and make it feel like home again.

Every now and then, she spotted reminders of her past, like the doorframe where her father had marked her height on the first day of school every year or the cast-iron pans he used to whip up their dinners each night. But mostly, she had truly claimed the space as her own—weathered yet undeniably new in some ways– hers. 

Her short time in the city had been a far cry from the peace she now enjoyed in the country. Balancing multiple jobs just to get by, she constantly dealt with nosy neighbors prying into her life, questioning why a young woman like her was living on her own. The men she met often couldn’t take “no” for an answer, turning her daily life into a constant struggle against unwanted advances.

Worse yet, she had attracted the attention of a stalker—someone she’d never even seen who kept slipping threatening handwritten notes under her apartment door, claiming they knew who she was and had been watching her. It was both terrifying and emotionally draining, but she hadn’t tucked her tail and run home until her father died. 

Whenever thoughts of him lingered too long, the guilt of not being there when it mattered most consumed her, so she kept herself busy. 

Her part-time job at the new bed-and-breakfast in town helped her pay the bills and left her enough time to create. On weekends, she sold her art—pieces made from found objects collected in the woods—at the flea market a couple of towns over. Any spare moment was spent bringing something to life, whether sculpting or tending to her flowers. She loved working on the coastal hibiscus that grew in her yard, their bright blooms a small splash of beauty against the swampy backdrop. Her life wasn’t glamorous, but the peace she found in it was worth far more than anything else.

“When You're Young and in Love” by The Marvelettes played softly on the record player. It had been one of her mother’s cherished favorites, or so her father often reminisced. To Adla, the song captured the slow, simple peace she felt only at home. While she couldn’t completely understand the carefree idea of being swept away by a fleeting romance, it still forged a bond with the mother she never got the chance to know.

Her father had only a handful of pictures, but from those, she could see the resemblance. She had inherited her father’s height and perhaps his temperament, but everything else came from her mother—her rich skin tone, flat nose, and wide, expressive eyes. Those features made her feel close to a woman whose memory was etched in her heart but absent from her life.

With a soft sigh, Adla rose from the now-cool bathwater, wrapping a towel snugly around her waist. Taking a moment for herself, she slathered on a generous layer of cocoa butter lotion, the rich, nutty scent enveloping her like a comforting embrace from home. Her earlier worries faded into the background. Satisfied, she slipped into an oversized cotton nightgown, covered in bright floral patterns that mirrored the blooms in her garden. 

She went through her nighttime routine, carefully checking that everything was turned off and every door was locked tight. As she switched off the last light in her cozy home, the old wooden floors creaked softly beneath her feet—a comforting sound that added to the charm of the place.

Just as she was about to settle into bed, faint sounds echoed from outside—rhythmic, insistent scraping and thumping carried to her ears by the wind. Strange noises weren’t uncommon out in the boonies, but something about this one sent a shiver down her spine, drawing her into the hallway.

Adla glanced toward the door, a strange compulsion tugging at her, urging her to step outside despite Jesse's warnings. It felt as if something—or someone—was calling her, and the pull was too strong to ignore. She hesitated, biting her lip, fighting the overwhelming temptation.

Something clattered loose as she unlocked the heavy door and pushed it open. Through the screen, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Adla squinted, trying to make sense of the dimness outside. There, bathed in the cold glow of the moonlight, lay a massive creature. Its shadow loomed so large that it seemed to stretch across the entire porch.

A knot twisted in her stomach. What in the world? This wasn’t no bobcat. This creature was more like a coyote, but much larger. It resembled a wolf, though she knew they didn’t roam these parts of Florida. Its amber eyes glowed like lanterns in the dark of the night, locking onto her with an intensity that sent chills racing down her spine. Jesse’s warnings echoed in the back of her mind. What if this creature was more than it seemed? 

I know this fool ain’t lookin’ at me like I’m dinner. 

Adla squared her shoulders, drawing on every ounce of strength she had. “You don’t belong here,” she called out, her voice steady and commanding. “Now, git!”

The wolf let out a low growl, a deep rumble that reverberated through the still night air, commanding her silence. It took a slow step forward, large paws thudding against the wooden floor, and she noticed it was limping. 

A deep gash ran from its back down to one of its hind legs, blood dripping from the wound and staining the old wood beneath it. The sight of its injury stirred something deep within her—a mix of concern and fascination that left her momentarily spellbound. It was odd but something kept her feet rooted in place, drawn to the creature and its imposing presence for reasons she couldn’t quite understand.

“Don’t you come any closer,” she warned, her heart racing as she reached for the shotgun she kept above the door, her gaze fixed on the beast. Adla tightened her grip on the cold metal, the weight of the gun both comforting and alarming as she aimed it at the creature through the screen.

The wolf paused right in front of her, as if held back by something she couldn’t see or understand. She glanced down at the door’s threshold, recalling Jesse’s cryptic words.

This was her moment—a choice between life or death. But Adla found herself frozen, her finger hovering over the trigger, unable to pull it. 

The large, beautiful creature let out a mournful whine before collapsing in a heap on her porch, nearly at her feet, its strength finally giving out as if it had resigned itself to whatever fate awaited it.

Despite its pain, something flickered in its amber gaze—a silent plea, asking not to be seen as a threat. The creature’s body shook, not with aggression, but with a desperate need to protect itself rather than harm her. The sight of that defeated animal struck a chord deep within her, stirring up memories of her own struggles not so long ago—exhausted by the burdens of life, yet somehow still pushing forward. 

A lesson her father had once shared echoed in her mind: “Listen, baby girl, we only take what we need from this world, and we don’t kick folks when they’re already down. Respect the creatures out here, just like you respect yourself. Life's tough enough without us makin’ it harder on each other.” She could almost hear his voice, the warmth of his wisdom wrapping around her like a protective blanket. 

Adla let out a deep sigh, lowering the shotgun. She hoped the wolf had enough sense to slip off her porch and find its way back through that little doggy door, the one that had been shredded and left with a gaping hole. Sure, it was already intruding on her space, but it showed no signs of being able to bust down her doors with its weakened strength.

The blood staining the porch was already beginning to dry, and she knew she’d have to scrub it down in the morning. If the wolf didn’t make it through the night and died on her porch, she could always call Animal Control to handle it— it wouldn’t cost her a dime to let the creature have one more night of life. 

That thought offered a flicker of comfort as she triple-checked that both the screen door and the sturdy wooden door were locked tight for the night.

Adla placed the shotgun within arm’s reach and settled into bed, her mind lingering on the wolf outside. She couldn’t shake the strange pull she felt. Yet, there was a quiet resolve in her heart—she would let the creature be. 

Maybe it wasn’t just a wolf. Maybe it was something more—a mirror reflecting her own struggles and wounds, a sign sent from her father to teach her something. The night was thick with uncertainty, but she felt no fear, only calm curiosity. She’d done all she could for now. 

As sleep tugged at her, she hoped that the wolf, with its heavy wounds and haunted eyes, would make it through the night. Tomorrow, she’d face whatever came next, but for now, she surrendered to the stillness, trusting that both she and the wolf would both survive until morning.

I’m open to any feedback, especially since this is my first time finishing and publishing something of this length. Does this preview raise engaging questions that make you want to know more, or is something unclear or missing? Did it draw you in or did it drag on? Please let me know your thoughts. Any insight would be invaluable to me as I continue to develop the story. (Send an anonymous ask if necessary).

[the-nosy-neighbor]

I hope you are ready for some full-on weird content. I have been looking around and analyzing the Commercials video, which i have mentioned a little here and there. My go to at this point is to look for hidden or otherwise obscured stuff in the video. I found something. I hope you guys can see it, and it isn't just me (how thematically relevant).

This is the moment when the line "Eddie Dear was happy" starts repeating and his eyes snap open. If you really look, you can see Eddie's arm with his watch. I have been unable to get more detail out of the area to the left of that, but the left side is from a still used in one of the record ads.

You can see the tree on the left and the igloo looking shape.

In the very middle, you can see a black line, and I want to say it is Frank's collar, but honestly I have nothing to go on there.

When i was messing around with these, i thought I saw a hand curled, palm up on the ground in the front. However, I closed that one and haven't been able to duplicate it.

I have looked and looked for a drawing of Eddie as he is here: short sleeves in a white shirt. Arm at his side, wearing his watch. I thought initially it might be one of the husbands in white drawings, but he isn't wearing his watch in that one. I also went to look at "you'll be ok" drawing but it was very different and no watch. There might be something relevant on Clown's ko-fi.

Another thing I noticed is the chair shape on the left. It looks like the top of a dining chair from the 80's. And we have seen this chair at least one other time:

The chair at Wally's and in the flash to the giant toy place are different chairs (if this is a chair, i could be convinced it is a rocking horse). Oh, possibly one more:

This shape has been making me crazy since the update. You can see that same shape on the left, which resembles a chair or a throne. The main clump has shapes that look like antlers, but I think they are hands. Could this be a missing puppet? We just see the puppeteer's hands? The shape is so complex and I have had no luck manipulating it to make it more visible or understandable.

Eddie is a live hand puppet. Could those be his hands?

So, i had been thinking that Eddie realizes that the group is on to him, whether that is his relationship with Frank or him sneaking stuff out (I was thinking the latter). In this video there is a lot of layered sound and layered video, slow fades and very low lighting. The more I look at it, the more I think that I am overreacting to layered things and reusing props. I'd be interested to hear what people think.

Why a chair? What does Eddie remember that makes him freak out? I think Eddie remembers the times he has died or been killed. Or that there are multiple versions of him, with the focus on the pea on the plate perhaps making him think about multiples? FINER THAN A FROG'S HAIR SPLIT FOUR WAYS! Are there 4 Eddies? That is what he says right before the realization.

[nightprompts]

&. 𝐧𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝: 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  inspired from the pun book from the last of us, here are some dialogue prompts of various puns. feel free to edit and change as you seem fit. )

❛ for a fungi to grow you must give it as mushroom as possible. ❜

❛ it doesn't matter how much you push the envelope. it'll still be stationary. ❜

❛ what did the mermaid wear to her math class? an algae bra. ❜

❛ people are making apocalypse jokes like there's no tomorrow. ❜

❛ why did the scarecrow get an award? he was outstanding in his field. ❜

❛ what did the triangle say to the circle? you're so pointless. ❜

❛ a book just fell on my head, i only have my shelf to blame. ❜

❛ i tried to catch some fog earlier. i mist. ❜

❛ i stayed up all night wondering where the sun went. then it dawned on me. ❜

❛ diarrhea is hereditary... it runs in your genes. ❜

❛ what did the green grape say to the purple grape? breathe, you idiot! ❜

❛ i'm reading a book on anti-gravity, and it's impossible to put down. ❜

❛ what is a pirate's favorite letter? tis' the c. ❜

❛ i wasn’t originally going to get a brain transplant, but then i changed my mind. ❜

❛ what washes up on tiny beaches? microwaves. ❜

❛ why are frogs so happy? they eat whatever bugs them. ❜

❛ i don't trust trees. they're shady. ❜

❛ i was going to tell you a pizza joke, but it's too cheesy. ❜

❛ i want to be cremated as it is my last hope for a smoking hot body. ❜

❛ there’s a new type of broom out. it’s sweeping the nation. ❜

❛ did you hear about the man who lost his left side? he’s all right now. ❜

❛ what do you call a bee that can't make up its mind? a maybe. ❜

❛ i tried to make a belt out of watches. it was a waist of time. ❜

❛ i got fired from the calendar factory, just for taking a day off. ❜

❛ did you hear about the guy who got hit in the head with a can of soda? he was lucky it was a soft drink. ❜

❛ tequila may not fix your life but its worth a shot. ❜

❛ why are there fences around cemeteries? because people are dying to get in! ❜

❛ thanks for explaining the word 'many' to me, it means alot. ❜

❛ i once ate a watch. it was time consuming. ❜

❛ why are teddy bears never hungry? they are always stuffed! ❜

❛ i don’t trust stairs because they’re always up to something. ❜

❛ never trust an atom, they make up everything! ❜

❛ i couldn't figure out how to put my seatbelt on, but then it clicked. ❜

❛ how do construction workers party? they raise the roof. ❜

❛ what do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary? a thesaurus. ❜

❛ when a clock is hungry, it goes back four seconds. ❜

❛ i made a pun about the wind but it blows. ❜

❛ it's hard to explain puns to kleptomaniacs because they always take things literally. ❜

❛ what did the ocean say to the beach? nothing, it just waved. ❜

❛ i have a joke about chemistry, but i don't think it will get a reaction. ❜

❛ i'm on a seafood diet. i see food and i eat it. ❜

❛ why did the restaurant on the moon get bad reviews? it has no atmosphere.❜

❛ how do you organize a space party? you planet. ❜

❛ i once heard a joke about amnesia... but i forget how it goes. ❜

❛ the frustrated cannibal threw up his hands. ❜

❛ it takes guts to be an organ donor. ❜

❛ why is the mushroom always invited to parties? he's a fungi. ❜

❛ a guy walks into a bar... he was disqualified from the limbo contest. ❜

❛ jokes with punch lines can be painfully funny. ❜

❛ so what if i don’t know what apocalypse means? it’s not the end of the world! ❜

[rainbowolfe]

Could ya do shamura with someone who makes poisons and potions

Title: An Olive Branch So Fragile

Warnings: None

Notes: Anon, I. I lost the plot on this one XD Enjoy disgruntled, freshly-introduced Bishops with a cameo of potion seller.

Shamura sighs for the umpteenth time. They gaze up at the moon peeking through the trees, and it gazes back down at them with pity. They’ve been wandering aimlessly for almost an hour. It's cold and they don't particularly wish to be outside, but it was the only way for them to get a break from the stressors within the walls of “their” kingdom.

The worm with a maw of fangs he can’t seem to keep to himself. He who claims to be this group’s founder despite being the youngest of the four—so young he has yet to even complete his metamorphosis. Leshy. At least, that's what the frog keeps calling him.

The frog that verbally rips them to shreds if Shamura dares to even raise their voice at either of her dear companions. She who has deemed herself judge, jury, and executioner on all matters. They're fairly certain the only thing keeping her from tearing them apart physically is their ability to keep her and her two parasites fed. Her appetite would be impressive if it weren't so insatiable. Heket. A name taken, not given.

The squid with a reputation that precedes him. He who acts as if he’s too pretty to do anything that requires any amount of effort. He does not cook nor hunt nor clean, and he looks upon Shamura with quite a bit of disdain if they ever ask him to do those things. They don't speak to him much, but he talks at them at all hours of the day. Kallamar. A name he seems to begrudge despite answering to it.

The spider. Not themselves, but the spider before them. Allocor. The name was still fresh in the Crown’s memories. They who carried the torch of the Old Faith after a bloody fallout, and hoped to reignite the hearth with what was left: two traitors and a child.

Perhaps it was less that that abomination fell into their web, and more that it jumped into it on purpose to escape this train wreck. Shamura noticed early on that any thoughts of abandoning this project were met with splitting headaches and fevers from the wrath of an unknown entity. Whatever deal that'd been struck was bound to this Crown, thus Shamura inherited it when they chose to be its bearer.

Their pedipalps tuck closer to their face when they sense smoke. Following it to its source, they come across a little shop built into the bones of a long dead monster. They raise their hand to flick a bell hanging in the doorway as they enter.

“Is this establishment manned?” They idle just inside the doorway.

There’s a long pause followed by the scrape of a chair against wood. “Shut the door. Cold as the tundra out there.”

Shamura is happy to oblige. Lit candles line each aisle of the little shop, working in tandem with the roaring fire to provide sufficient lighting. They listen for the breaths of another who may be hiding in the shadows; feel for the vibrations of a Beast trying to creep unseen.

But there’s no one else in this morbid domicile. No one but Shamura and an anteater that towered over them as well as the shelves and carousels housing their products. Potions. Potions, poisons, balms, and salves; crowding every available surface.

They can feel her heavy steps and hear her tail dragging against the floor as she moves through the aisle next to them. She’s making no effort to hide her movements, nor is she moving with any haste, so Shamura remains at ease.

For now.

“Working late on such a lovely evening? Or perhaps your day is just beginning.” They address her as she enters their line of sight.

“The evening? Lovely?” She chuckles slightly. “You Beasts of the night are funny things. Just like the serpents that slide on their bellies with pride, you have no idea that you’re being punished.”

“The hours of darkness hold as much wonder and beauty as the daytime. Such sights are not accessible to the cowardly, however.” Their eyebrows quirk upward as the woman brings down a slat of wood in front of the door, it’s end fitting neatly on a metal shelf opposite of it. “Is there a problem?”

“I don’t feel like babysitting, Crown Bearer.” She gives the apparatus a firm pat. “Gives me a chance to catch up to you if you decide you’re too holy to engage in commerce.”

Shamura simply hums in response and returns to wandering the aisles of the shop. They’ve already spotted another exit they can use if the need arises. They have no intention of stealing or purchasing anything, they came in here to reap the benefits of the fire.

The shopkeep returns to her work station on the far end of the modified remains. In it’s skull is a kitchen of sorts, multiple pots boiling over an open fire. Some give off arcane energy. Some give off unpleasant smells. Others give off both.

Shamura catches a glimpse of this work station when they work their way down the aisle closest to it. Their curiosity quickly takes hold of them. They complete one more aimless lap around the store before approaching the shopkeep once more, as casual as one could be.

They remain a respectful distance away while they watch her work, taking in the many on-going projects and assortments of oddities. From organs and bones, to cloth and flowers. They can identify tails, hands, and eyes from various beasts as well as they can identify the bundles of dried flora. They manage a glimpse into a cabinet filled with dozens of small, pear-shaped flasks full of unknown liquid when she pulls out one that is particularly viscous with a color that seems to perpetually shift.

“Ah, you are not a merchant. You are an alchemist.” They comment. Explains the excess.

“Mm. Beasts usually call me a witch and leave it at that,” She responds. “Full marks for you, silk-spinner.”

Shamura bristles at the ‘nickname’ and returns to watching in silence. For as chaotic as it is, it soothes their nerves. The steady drip of a retort flask into a beaker. The delicate preparation of each ingredient before it is added to the appropriate mix. Some cut into even slices, others ground into an unrecognizable form in a mortar. The occasional sound of pages turning when she references her worn, yet ornate book. She’s as enamored with her work as they are.

She soon forgets they’re even there, at least until she turns around to pull a potion off the shelf. She freezes, a swathe of emotions crossing her features. She seems inclined to tell them to leave, so they interject with more small talk to distract her from the idea.

"How quaint," Shamura scratches the back of their leg with the opposite foot. "A colleague of mine dabbles in potions—poisons, primarily... Solely."

They tap their finger in their elbow a few times. That wasn't a necessary detail to share, was it? It's not as if this alchemist would know.

They shake their head to clear away their inner monologue, "His methods are far more occult, however. He draws venom from the heart. Shapes intent. Not always his own. Makes, ah… How did he put it?"

"Makes real what was once intangible?"

"Yes, that’s right."

There's a pause, Shamura expecting her to continue. When they realize she doesn't intend to, they're inclined to fill the silence themselves before it went on too long.

"You are familiar with such methods?"

"Indeed, I am," She turns back around to add the potion into a bowl to be mixed. "Will you be purchasing something this eve?"

"I'm considering it." They lie.

She grunts at them.

“Why stick to such traditional methods if you know of better ones? Cuts down the clutter, the costs, the labor… He cannot make more than poison but… he says it is possible to produce other substances.”

“Curious. I would think a venomous creature such as yourself would appreciate a more natural method.”

“That is the reason, then? Fear of what is considered unnatural?” They roll their eyes. “How… boring.”  

She scoffs. She moves the four pots towards the edge of the fire to simmer, then turns around in her chair to face her ‘customer’. They had her full attention now, though she was starting to lose theirs.

“Perhaps it’s a bit different for you blessed types, but normal beasts of science such as myself must ere on the side of caution when it comes to curses and spirits. It is a volatile craft that bites back as it pleases.”

“Tell me more.”

-/-/-/-/-

Shamura spends almost an hour chatting with the Alchemist, maybe more. Once they found a topic that got her riled up, it was easy to keep her going. They learn of all her very strong opinions regarding the haphazard mixing of alchemy and magic that's been happening as of late. They intended to drag this out for as long as possible, as once she kicks them out, all that is left to do is to return to the Old Faith’s compound.

But alas, a timer set for one of her brews reminds her of the time of night and the tasks she needs to complete.

“By the light of the Sun, have we truly been talking for so long?” She tsks. “No offense, night dweller, but you'll have to make your leave. Ahh, so much time lost…” she stands and begins to get back in the rhythm of things. “Last chance to purchase something.”

“Right…” Shamura figures they could buy something small in exchange for taking up her evening. “What will five coins get me?”

“Coin? I have no need for coin.”

“Then what?”

“Resources.” She leans over and reaches into a drawer whose contents clatter noisily when she opens it. She holds out an empty, pear-shaped flask to them. Its opening is covered with thin cloth rubber-banded onto it.  

A sigh. “Of course. Resources.”

“I have need of venom. As little or as much as you’d like, and you may take one potion of your choosing.”

Shamura rolls their eyes then grabs the flask. “First my silk, now my venom. What next? My urine? The bile from my stomach?”

“Tempting, if offered by a different creature.” She titters. “Though I am in the market for eggs, if you happen to lay those. Or know someone who does…”

“By the 'Crates, you people are feral.” Their message is only slightly muddled by the flask in their mouth, pushed up against one of their venom-producing fangs.

A slow drip of venom fills the flask. It's mostly clear with a yellowish tint.

“You cannot re’phoke your offer but, do know ‘ish nothing lethal.”

“Worry not. I can make plenty of deadly things on my own.”

“Then why?”

“What seems worthless to one is gold to another.”

“Vhery profound.”

The alchemist rolls her eyes and decides to throw them a bone. “I know your kind by your tail. Not many of you left, at least not around here… but your venom is very mild. Diluted properly and administered in small amounts, it becomes a very effective pain reliever. One I prefer over poppies and the like.”

Shamura figures they've produced enough venom by now. They pull the half-filled flask off their fang, offering it back to her,

“I never thought venom could be used in such a way… though it does make sense. I wonder…”

“The blade that ends lives is the same blade that slices bread.”

They pause, putting their thought on hold to process what she had said. The corner of their mouth twitches with a smirk. “That one wasn't as good.”

“Mm. I'll workshop that one.” She swirls the liquid in the flask a few times, holding it up to the light. She gives a slight nod, satisfied.

She gestures. “Take your pick. Any three.”

“Oh, I get three now,” They chuckle under their breath. “Seems I overpaid.”

For as many laps as they had done around the little shop under the guise of browsing, they never really took in what was being offered. Even so, its difficult to tell what’s being displayed at a glance. The only potions with consistent coloring are the ones of health and recovery. The pigment of blood is a difficult one to recolor.

Every bottle is plugged with a cork and sealed with a covering of wax, the alchemist’s personal emblem embossed into the lid. They’re categorized by colored ribbons tied around the necks, and further sub-categorized by the symbols painted onto their labels.

They stop in front of a carousel of seemingly like-objects, slowly spinning the display as they call out to the Alchemist.

“These growth potions, are they���? Define growth, exactly.”

Her response is a bit hard to hear from her workstation, “The mark of the thorn are those potions suited for combat, while the mark of the torch will relate to expansion of the mind. Joy marks the potions intended for more… indulgent matters. Matters of the heart, some would call it.”

“Ah. I can only imagine what goes into a potion such as that.”

“Not what you would expect.”

They hum to themselves and continue on. Being that the only potions they have awareness of are those of healing, poison, and strength, they’re quite overwhelmed with the selection at their disposal. Three potions? They hardly have need of one. And it felt a waste to take anything just to throw it away or lose it in a trunk. They… suppose they could give them to their new colleagues.

A peace-offering of sorts. They narrow down their options, make a selection, and confirm it with the Alchemist. She packs them into a simple, wooden carrier that could hold up to four. She covers it with a white cloth, tying a bow at the top that also functions as a handle.

An off-white potion of growth for Kallamar—a boon that not only increases one’s size, but one’s strength as well. For as passive and lazy as he acts, it is just that. Acting. He’s the warrior of their trio. Shamura’s seen as much.

A powder blue potion of flutter for Heket—a boon that challenges Nature and allows previously flightless creatures to hover off the ground. She’s rather stationary for a frog—at least, Shamura thought so. Between Kallamar’s willingness to fetch things for her and Leshy’s inclination not to make her chase him (both concessions not offered to Shamura), they suspect her inertia is due to some sort of limitation rather than personal preference.

And finally, a dark purple potion of energy for Leshy—sweetened and bubbling with constant motion. Not that the kid needed extra energy, but it was one of the few things in here mild enough for a child. Shamura’s fairly certain he won’t be interested in any of the perfumes or cosmetics.  

It’s just as dark and cold outside as it was when they entered the woman’s shop, but it certainly feels colder to Shamura. They hear the heavy chunk of the latch closing behind them. The Alchemist probably wishes she’d done that in the first place.

They flick the side of their Crown with their middle finger, causing it’s crescent-shaped eye to brighten and illuminate their surroundings with a purple-pink glow. There’s nowhere left to go now but home. Well, not ‘home’ home. But it’s their home now.

They hope everyone’s in a better mood than when they left. Or, better yet, they hope that everyone’s retired to their rooms for the evening. They could just leave the gifts at their doors or in the common room.

Unfortunately for Shamura, hope is not a currency Fortune accepts.

Shamura finds their colleagues gathered in the gazebo, as the trio did every evening for dinner. They find it odd that they're still out. Perhaps the conversation was particularly good this evening.

“Good eve, Heket. Leshy, Kallamar.” They nod their head.

They do not receive a response. Leshy goes to, but suddenly thinks better of it. Heket crosses her arms as she turns to face the arachnid, gripping the sides of her arms fiercely.

“How kind of you to finally join us. How was your time in the forest?” She sneers, baring her unnaturally sharp teeth.

“…it was as one would expect. How was dinner?”

“Just grand! As one would expect.”

“I bro—”

“The meal would’ve been better hot, but we wound up eating it warm trying to wait for you. But, at least you enjoyed yourself tonight. Right?”

Shamura clenches their jaw, a click sounding from their teeth slotting into place. They pry them apart again so they can respond.

“You do not typically wait for me, why would I believe tonight would be any different?” Shamura responds flatly. “I cannot read your mind. You won't allow me.”

Heket tenses, fists clenched. Her throat bulges for a second, but she forces the building croak down. “If you cannot read a simple letter, what good is it to let you into my mind?”

“What letter?”

“The letter. I attached. To your door.” By the last sentence she’s speaking through her teeth. “Bright red envelope. Hard to miss.”

Shamura considers going back out into the woods. Maybe they didn't mind trading their bodily fluids with an anteater over whatever was unfolding right now. The neutral mask fails as they suck their teeth in annoyance.

“There was nothing on my door this morning. Perhaps it fell. Or it was—…” They trail off, a memory from this morning suddenly striking them. Something that didn't seem noteworthy at the time. “Leshy.”

“What?” She snaps, cutting them off.

They pretend not to notice. “He was in the hall this morning, shredding red paper. Or eating it, maybe. Which was it?”

“I was just tasting it, I’m not a savage.” Leshy scoffs, with enough offense it almost made Shamura laugh.

“And… what did it taste like?” Heket interjects.

“Paper,”

Shamura cannot hold back the snort of laughter this time. They turn and pretend to be focused on Leshy to avoid her ire.

“But it smelled like breakfast! Isn’t it weird how things smell one way, but then taste like another?”

Shamura blinks once. Twice. “Sure.”

“It was a really good breakfast, but you missed that too.”

“Was I invited to breakfast as well?”

Shamura’s question remains unanswered, Leshy talking over them. “Usually I try to save some to eat before lunch, so I can enjoy it for even longer, but it was too good to save. So when I smelled it, I thought it was my second chance!”

A pause. Leshy stares intently through Shamura, as if he’d forgotten why they were talking about this. His eyes focus on them properly when he remembers.

“But I didn’t get it off the floor. Kallamar gave it to me. And it didn't smell like Shamura, it smelled like breakfast. So there’s no way that was their letter.”

Two pairs of eyes shift their gaze and land on a squid that's been uncharcteriscslley quiet. Then a third. Kallamar keeps his eyes fixed on his nails, which he’d been carefully painting this whole time. Too carefully.

“Yes, I believe I did give him a few documents to entertain himself with this morning. I do so regularly. It's good practice to destroy sensitive paperwork,” Kallamar responds nonchalantly. With a tone that makes one wonder if they’re overreacting.

When he's satisfied with the coat of paint on his middle finger, he slips the brush back into the bottle and looks up to meet eyes with Shamura. “If you misplaced it, just say so. You don't have to make a whole thing out of it.”

Kallamar maintains eye contact for a few more seconds before returning to his activity. He flashes a grin at Leshy as he pulls the brush from the bottle once more to apply a second coat.

“Leshy, while you’re here, why don’t I paint your claws too? With so much space to work with, I could do some lovely designs.”

“Blegh. Keep that stuff away from me!”

“What? Afraid of a little color?” He chuckles. “You’ll come crawling back to me come Winter, begging me to beautify you.”

“In your dreams. I’d never do something like that.” Leshy crouches down to get on all fours, a sort of defensive stance in case Kallamar tried something. “It’s unbecoming of a leader to paint himself like a maiden. Hint, hint.”

“Is that so?” Kallamar leans back in a theatric display of offense. “Well, it is a good thing I’m not our leader then, yes?”

The two erupt with laughter.

Meanwhile, Shamura’s been… thinking. Their first instinct was to push the issue and call Kallamar’s bluff. How is it that they are the one being put at fault here? Their second instinct was to outright pressure him and strongarm him into confessing. A bit of pain is plenty incentive for the average beast.

But they know Heket won’t allow either of those things to play out. It would only devolve into an argument with her, as it always did. It doesn’t ever seem to matter what Kallamar did, or what Leshy did. Only how Shamura responds. Even if their criticism is valid or their annoyance is justified.

Even now, when surely even Heket could see what Kallamar had done. Shamura cannot even comment on it or else—

They stop themselves.

This time it was obvious what Kallamar had done.

wcalm down. As much as it pains them to let it slide, it’s their best option. They clench and unclench their fist to release a bit of tension.

And though the mane covering their neck remained puffed up, and their claws periodically twitched, they manage to go against their combative nature. They roll their shoulders and finally turn their gaze to address Heket.

“He’s right. My sincerest apologies, Heket.” Another twitch, barely perceptible to the naked eye. “I must have… misplaced your letter before I got the chance to read it. I truly did not mean to snub your invitation and keep you all waiting.”

That last part was true, at least.

And just like that, the sparks of conflict are snuffed out. Heket seems lost on how to proceed, having spent the last hour stewing in her anger, preparing to unleash it in full on Shamura. Kallamar becomes so focused on their exchange that he fails to hold Leshy’s interest, and the worm goes to make his leave.

He does an odd little wiggle to settle himself into the dirt, then dives down as smoothly as if he had dove into water.

“Ah, Leshy. Before you go, I have a gift for you.” Shamura calls in his direction.

It makes Shamura wonder how many arguments, how many misunderstandings, how many headaches were facilitated by this slippery bastard. The conflicts with no clear catalyst, where the initial confusion is consumed entirely by their and Heket’s mutual anger with each other.

Heket and Kallamar both give them a confused look. Leshy’s tail disappears into his hole, but the shifting bulge in the earth below makes it clear he’s coming closer.

“I have gifts for all of you, in fact. I ran into an alchemist during my evening stroll.” Shamura trails off, second-guessing if they should explain any further.

 They unwrap the unassuming carrier that has gone unnoticed by the three of them and set the potions on the table for them to access. Kallamar props his head on his hand, feigning disinterest, though he’s really scanning the bottles to deduce their origins. He waits for Heket to say something, but she steps away to the pile of dishes, ingredients, and pots she’ll have to take back inside when she’s done here.

“Mm. Cute,” Kallamar shrugs. “Very thoughtful. But, you know, you shouldn’t buy potions from just any random alchemist.”

“Is that so?” Shamura can’t help but to roll their eyes this time. “What makes one alchemist any less ‘random’ than another?”

“Connections. Quality,” He lazily picks up the rounded flask, swishing around the off-white liquid like a fine wine. “I’ve never seen this seal before and… it seems rather thick for a potion.”

Leshy pulls himself out of the ground and climbs back onto the bench with a level of grace one wouldn’t expect from such a chaotic creature. His tail sways side to side while he works out the meanings of the labels and ‘weird shapes’ on the containers he can reach. Kallamar sets down the flask, then grabs the pear-shaped one to do the same.

“This one is not as bad…”

Shamura narrows their eyes. “Do not feel you have to accept it simply because it is a gift. If you do not like it, I would gladly—”

“Tomorrow, then. Be early.” Heket grunts awkwardly, setting a lidded bowl on the table near Shamura. “And don’t eat past midday.”

Shamura takes a moment to process being interrupted and what she actually said. She prepared a bowl just for them? “…understood.”

With an excited chitter, Leshy lays claim to the potion of growth. Though the powder blue potion glitters in a way that draws his eye, increasing his size (even if only temporarily) wasn’t an opportunity he would dare to skip out on.

“Thanks, Shamura!” Leshy chirps, snatching the bottle and tucking it into the safety of his foliage.

“Leshy.” Kallamar quickly glances at Shamura, then Heket, now urging her to say something.

Shamura addresses Heket with a nod and a quiet thanks before they take the surprisingly warm bowl to retire to their room before they ran out of patience. Their pedipalp twitches with curiosity as they hear the clunk of heavy glass hitting wood, but they resist the urge to turn around. They continue on.

Heket catches the pear-shaped container before it can roll off the table. It survived the force with which Kallamar threw it onto the table, but she didn’t want to test its limits any further.  

“Leshy, hold on—!” Kallamar lets out an exasperated sigh as the worm bounds away. He stands.

“You stay, we need to talk.” Heket grabs his arm as he tries to leave anyways.

“Can we talk after I retrieve whatever concoction that stupid bug just gave our brother?” Kallamar attempts to snatch away, but Heket tightens her grip on his arm.

“Kallamar.”

“You intend to just let him drink tha—”

“Kallamar,”

“What?!”

“Look at me,” She lowers her voice to a deep rumble. She feels him flinch and releases him. “…please.”

Shamura wonders if he’ll do so as they turn a corner and exit listening range.

[hoy35]

Theories surrounding how the mushrooms in Anura are not the creation of Heket

In my comic series Fairy ring, I mentioned that the Menticide Mushrooms are not the creation of Heket, and the main storyline is associated to this setting. Although you could look at it as a feature in an alternative universe, I do believe that this may be how things unravel in the official game... (It may be disproven. After all, it's just a non-canon theory.)

Prof 1: The Serpent's Tablet

The Serpent is a key character that only appeared in the DLC in the form of "offering the truth to the Lamb". They are mentioned to be the greatest fanatics in the BGM and the comment of the Five Bishops, they worship and defend the Great Ones, which refers to the Gods who created the world in COTL, and tries to unearth their past.

In their fifth tablet, the Serpent documented that they discovered a place with a Godly skull, with small mushrooms that have spots like eyes around it.

(Shamura made their debut in the seventh tablet.)

This could be referring to Sozo's place in the realm of Anura, where there is a giant skull.

In the background, there are birch trees with red eyes.

This shape seems like the "all seeing eye", but there is one alteration: the line representing the eye crosses the lower eyelid by a great length. My friend adds that "this makes the eye resemble the shape of a mushroom".

(P.S. There are also different symbols of eyes in Kallamar and Leshy's realms, I also have theories surrounding them, but let's not get into it in this article.)

Although this shape is scattered across Anura, it seems that Heket may be trying to suppress it. Unlike Leshy, who directly mentioned that the chaotic flowers in his realm are not his creations, Heket did not mention whether she appears earlier or later than Menticide Mushrooms. But... since it already appeared by the time the Serpent is still alive, Heket probably should not be credited for the creation of these mushrooms.

Prof 2: backgrounds during the crusade

I don't know if the background assets would appear randomly and there are actually more backgrounds for one type of map, but let's assume that there are only one type of background for each type of room background.

In this case, there are actually changes in Anura for regular background and purged version. Last time I checked, Anchordeep seems to be the same in both forms. Darkwood may have changed a little. Please allow me to make further testing before reaching a final conclusion.

So, the first thing we see is the candles lit on small, white tree trunks. This may be Heket's attempt to suppress birch trees, which would be infested with mushrooms in the background.

If the trunks grow further, it would show signs of the same red eye-shapes. Furthermore, there are no complete birch trees in the game foreground. They are all chopped or suppressed.

Someone has to put the candles there. I don't think regular followers would dare to touch their beloved leaders' creations. Therefore, it may be the order of Heket towards diciples and followers to do so.

There is also a mushroom in the background with frog eggs atop. Other mushrooms do not have the same shape of red lines on it. The shape looks like an eye sewed together...

Next, let's look at one room that has changed in regular and purged versions ——the giant frog skull room.

First, let me ask you, have you seen giant spider, squid, or worm skulls in her siblings' realms? The answer is no, right? (There are giant skulls of other species, though)

Even if there are skulls or corpses of the same species of the Bishops, they are usually in simpler form.

But these giant frog skulls have exactly four eyes, something not even Heket's followers or disciples have.

It's as if the game is hinting at her demise, and Heket may be using these followers to predict how much time she had left due to the infection.

In addition, in the background, the purged version had visibly more birch trees and visibly more mushrooms grown out of these trees.(You may zoom-in to see the pictures above)

Due to her absence, no one is still suppressing the Great One. Therefore, the trees and mushrooms begin to grow wild.

The initial room for the crusade and the sacrificial room also changed. There are dense birch tree forest in the background in purged version of Anura. I forgot to take pictures, though. *cries

Prof 3: Heket's "tatoos"

The red eyes happened to grow around her wound, where it's assumed to be the weakest. Therefore, it would be more like an infection than fashion choice.

In addition, making tatoos around her wounds would be linked to painism. It's probably too painful.

The eye patterns also disappear when she is in purged form. Maybe the God no longer feels the need to infest and pester her because she is no longer in charge?

In purged form, the mushroom surrounding her statue also dies.

Also, her follower form seems to have healed from the infection. Or it may just be the creators being lazy and not adding details.

Prof 4: Heket never mentioned associations to Menticide Mushrooms in her conversations. The game let SOZO tell the lamb about it instead.

In addition, Heket got mad when the lamb handed her mushrooms after the indoctrination. Although we usually interpret it as her getting angry because lamb is being pitiful to her, it might also be that she hates these mushrooms? Maybe that still makes sense?

The game seems keen on making little word-plays. Like how Forneus mentioned "how can you say no to a God". Before the DLC, we just assumed that she ment Narinder. But eventually Shamura confessed that they were the one who took away the kittens. So the "God" was actually referring to them.

This may be the same for Heket's case?

I believe that prior to Narinder's betrayal, Heket was doing a good job suppressing the God under the instruction of Shamura. But … due to her injusry, she slowly faded and by the time Lamb appears, Anura is in such a worse state. Also, despite Kallamar and Leshy are also suppressing Gods in their realm, the madness in Anura does not mean that Heket is weak or anything. This God is the most active one, and has begun to be active long before Shamura was even born. It might be the hardest chore for the siblings, and healthy Heket was handling it just fine. So... bad kitty!!! Bad!!

Also, if this theory were to be true, then Narinder would be doing her a favor by killing her prior to her death from the fungus infection. Good job, kitty!

Ok that concludes my theory. If you have anything to prove or disprove it, feel free to tell me!!!

[babylon-crashing]

the psycho'vac

I.        In a glass case                in the dark                         in an alcove                                in the dark                in a church in Rome,        in Sienna, in Florence,                                bits of saints mummified like the monkey's paw or                        Daniel Dravot's withered head                                                sat in the dark                        waiting for the faithful                                                to pass by, tourists to gawk at, for children of archeologists                to be terrified by.        Outside the Uffitzi                        one could buy postcards                                        fragments of Bosch's                                                        Last Judgement (1504)                                        reaction against sexuality                        that was creeping        back into the faith – every where lusty, fleshy figures                        were being torn apart, swallowed whole by frog-eggs,        tossed into pits of fire and snakes,                                        onto pitchforks and trees of thorn                while the saved, the fleshless,                                desiccated, loosely built creatures                        closed their eyes and lay upon the ground to pray.

II.

It starts while you sit in an outdoor cafe near the great clock in the ex-Lenin Square, forever at 11:45, while swallows who nest in the ruined eaves dart low, dark sickle-flashes, sweeping, skimming. Your notebook is open, pen cast down. You sip at the tiny cup of bitter coffee-sludge (when you are at a friend's house the old tatik takes the finished cup from your hands and reads the ground-stains, having you press your thumb into the hot residue, always with the curious shapes rimming the inside lip.) There is a smell thunder in the air. It starts when you walk down one of the city's mud streets, the rain coming down for four days nonstop. You stand in a crumbled doorway, a truck rumbles past full of cabbage heading for the market, spraying mud and gravel into the air. The wave-like clouds come down off the nearby mountains, things urgent and low to the ground, overwhelming the ruined factories and caved-in apartments, the one-room emergency boxes families of eight or twelve had been living in for the last seven years. It starts as you walk down the street. Under your boots, laying in unmarked graves, thousands of bodies, crushed and buried, their calls bubbling to the surface. Waiting for someone to hear.

III.

After the first baby in the orphanage you work at dies, then the second and finally a third, you go on a walk. It has been lightly snowing. Behind the city lays the broken rail yard. Even though there is no penicillin at the rail yard and none of the doctors who refuse to come to the orphanage to heal "things" as they call your babies will be there, you walk without a hat in the late afternoon gusts. You climb up through an abandoned cab engine, the iron sticking slightly to your gloves, its wooden passenger carriages trapped under a fallen wall. The train - its olive green and chrome and red 1940s Soviet art deco - slightly covered in wet-powder. At your feet, in the lee of the cab engine, dozens of empty hypodermic needles. Beyond the cab, the twisted rail lines; toppled buildings and other ruins; open pits of crude oil sunk in the ground; a whole roundhouse with the roof caved-in. It looks like a temple. Something holy, but you who never believed in the sacred or the holy, who saw ghosts as simply cultural abstractions. When you reach the roundhouse you find nothing inside but rubble and years and years of snow.

IV.

Humor. An US Embassy worker, an American working for a Foreign Aide organization and a Peace Corps Volunteer run into each on the street. Soon an Armenian friend walks by.

"This morning for breakfast," the Armenian said, "I had Frosted Flakes with milk."

"You had Frosted Flakes?" cried the Embassy worker, "How did you get Frosted Flakes in Armenia?"

"Oh, I bought them at the black market store near my house."

"You had milk?" cried the Foreign Aide worker, "How did you get milk?"

"Oh, I mixed the powdered milk with water."

"You had water?" cried the Peace Corps Volunteer, "How did you get water?"

V.

All winter long you were in isolation

watching it grow. You had given up

on the poetry brought in the 40-pound

box from home. You had not spoken

English in over three months, ever since the first

frost coated your pillow – there was no heat

in your hut, the rains turned to ice.

You wore your jacket and thermals and gloves

to bed and gave up on poetry. Reading

a poet writing about wasted sex no less

in San Francisco was a hateful thing.

Reading a poet, in Berkeley, where they

have everything, speculate on her fat

soul was a hateful, too. Under your floor

boards the dead called out your name, until

vodka, Russian water, kept the their

voices at bay. Intolerable, how clear they

came in. All of them complained,

griped, belly-ached in a language

untranslatable until your perception:

It was a cross between Armenian

and Russian that the old women spoke

down in the market.

VI.

It is sad to see these old people one, two, three generations apart from their children. These haughty, thin old people unable to speak of these things anymore, needing always to speak around them, as if at the dinner table to speak with clarity would make the magic happen all over again. To listen to them submerge their magic, to protect their children. There was a woman, nearly a hundred, who lived in a nearby village. As a baby she had escaped the Young Turks' Genocide in 1915, had witnessed the USSR rise and fall and had lost eighteen children and grandchildren in the earthquake. You visit her, she speaks in the ancient language, the old Armenian words, "God has forsaken the Armenians" – and spends her time looking for her god among the graveyards where 50,000 of her people died in 4 minutes in 1988. You will be leaving soon, returning on a 32-hour flight. Numbers. Something is inside you. Parasite. You will be leaving soon, and she has no more use for the living. Her words drop away, become muddled, confused, a lexicon of secrets, you pass by gravestone after gravestone on the way to the surface, thousands of them, until there is no more room for air.

VII.

Of course, you

take it with you.

It grows hideous

inside you, even

after the Peace Corps'

doctors arrived and demanded

that you are Medically

Evacuated -- the ol' Psycho

Vac -- three days before your

twenty seventh birthday, you

take it with you. You have

grown thin now, fleshless,

desiccated. They do not

even let you say good-bye

to your babies, such is the state

they find you in. On the flight

back to DC you sit next to

a woman, Dutch ex-missionary,

who explains that sometimes,

the young men God has sent

to do his bidding go crazy.

They, who fear for the safety

of their souls above all else,

do not know how to take

care of themselves so far from home.

She knows this, she assures you,

she has seen it happen. As

the stewardess pushes the cart

for the evening's meal by your seat

the thing that rests inside you

gurgles once in agreement

and then is still.

][][

Notes.

This is it, my grand attempt back in 2002 to put words to my nightmare.

The poem starts out in Italy because that is where I learned, for the first time, about the religious fever dream that is Hell, when I accidentally saw the LSD-madness of Hieronymus Bosch's art and it blew my little brain at the implications of such a concept. It didn't seem like much of a stretch to link the mummified bodies of Bosch's righteous in that painting with the babies dying under my care.

The, "the one-room emergency boxes," are called "domiks" and are basically railroad boxcars used to house the vast homeless population suddenly needing protection from the cold. Gyumri was never really rebuilt and 30 years later there are families still living in their rusted-out boxes.

[theorphicangel]

𝐌𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 | 𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | chapter one

summary: You had a dream...one simple dream. And it wasn't asking for much. 'Much' being the act of escaping from the one place that you've known for the past eighteen years of your life and possibly committing the worst act of betrayal on your own poor, sweet and loving mother?

But him? All he's ever dreamt of is having an island with nobody but his own bullshit to deal with and a shitload of money.

That was a simple dream.

So how the hell did he end up in a deal with a stranger who has nothing but a shit ton of hair and a creepy frog?

tags: strangers to lovers, tangled!au, thug!levi Ackerman, lost princess, sfw

Crossposted to ao3

prologue | chapter two

You think you’re going to lose your mind.

No, you don’t just ‘think’. You know you’re going to lose your mind.

These four walls offer you absolutely nothing. Staring blankly at you, they remain mute. Refusing to speak to you or offer any kind of salvage.

There’s absolutely no where to paint. In every corner you look, an idea has already been created and transformed into color. Never did you think that there would be a limit put on your creativity.

The best thing you can do is retouch where you can, whilst searching for a single space or gap in which you can fill, no matter how small. Your eyes dart all over the coated walls searching, looking, wanting for a break. Something. Anything at all.

Slumping your shoulders, you silently surrender and let the colorful walls of your tower win. This time at least, you’re too stubborn to give up yet.

Glancing around the room you instead search for another activity to do, desperate to cure your restless mind.

Yet you’ve come to meet disappointment for a second time today with most of the tasks on your list already completed. You can practically see your reflection on the kitchen floor as well as the laundry already being done, on the counter are the cookies you’ve baked to pass the time, there’s the pile of books on the ground opened to their last page.

You’ve finished them so many times you think you could recite it all line for line.

The set of chess lay unfinished on the table next to the new dress that you were sewing for yourself. Hell, even your new pet avoids giving you company.

You don’t even want to think about brushing your hair…again.

Squinting your eyes towards the antique clock in the corner of the tower, it informs you that it was only 8am. And mother wouldn’t be back for a while.

A weary sigh leaves your throat, waltzing through the room. You only perk up at seeing your journal lay open on a chair, your thoughts unfinished as boredom grew the better of you.

Immediately, you head towards the only entrance to get inside the tower and take a seat on the mini balcony. You rest your back against one side, spreading out your legs.

Taking in the landscape ahead of you, all of your racing thoughts and ideas slowly come to a rest.

You’d like to think mother nature is your best friend. She never fails to surprise you with her forest of trees that greet you everyday or her sky that’s filled with beautiful species of birds, ones that you never knew existed.

Despite waking up to the same scenario everyday, she always offers something new to you. You watch intently for the first sign of seasons change whether it’s spotting the first brown leaf or predicting which flowers will bloom, you’re never bored.

It’s certainly a distraction that you are always on the brink of freedom. The horizons that seem to spread for miles await you, waiting patiently to be explored.

Those are the only details that change in your life. The rest remains the same.

Flicking through the pages of your journal, there’s an influx of words. Some days emotions rush over you, your thoughts struggling to keep up as you fill up every line. But some days, you’re empty with not much to say.

You flick to a brand new page, pen in your hand at the ready to write down your thoughts. A soft breeze brushes past you and it has a warm touch. Mother nature emphasizes the arrival of summer, providing you with solace as you struggle to find your words.

It’s your birthday tomorrow. You’re not really sure how to feel about it.

You feel sad about it but you’re not sure why. Normally, you would feel excitement, particularly regarding the floating lights. And normally it’s with that thought that your stomach churns with impatience.

But instead there’s a feeling of sorrow, no– it’s not that. You scribble over your last sentence in your journal, searching for another accurate word to identify your emotions.

It’s almost a sense of…dissatisfaction with…everything.

It’s going to be your 18th. A day you had been looking forward to for years, ever since you were little. After living a life so restricted and sheltered from the world, the heavy gift of freedom was upon you and it was…scary.

Now, you would be able to do whatever you wanted when you wanted. Now, you could finally explore the world whenever you wanted and when you wanted.

You could experience all the new sights, sounds and tastes of the world. A part of you was indefinitely scared but another part of you couldn’t wait to take it greedily with your own two hands.

Well, with Mother’s permission.

For years you have dreamt of exploring past these walls, experiencing the true world. Not just through Mother’s words but through your own eyes. Most of all, what you really wanted was the freedom to experience the floating lights.

Those lights which shine brightly in the dark night sky each and every time on your birthday without fail.

An unknown gift from the world to you. You have no idea what the true purpose of the lights are but somehow, it feels like they mean something to you.

You can vividly picture your younger self, tiptoeing out of bed, hastily passing your mother’s bedroom. Even then you knew how to avoid certain creaks on the stairs.

Able to reach the balcony when you were on your tiptoes, you could finally experience the lights of the world. There seemed to be millions and millions, filling the usually dark night sky. Illuminating your face and your eyes, to this day you’ve never seen anything brighter.

They carry a sense of beauty that you envy. Perhaps it’s the way that they all stick together and float together, or perhaps the freedom they have to rise higher and higher into the oblivion until the simple human eye cannot see them anymore.

In a way, that’s how you wish to be. That was your true dream. To leave this tower with the freedom to go and see the lights for yourself.

No permission needed from anyone.

Which is why for your 18th you’ve taken the decision to go and fulfill your dream. Sure, from the view of the tower it is pretty magnificent but it’s hard to obtain a full grasp of the experience.

To be able to fulfill this you would inevitably need the consent from your mother first. After she’s the only person you know to have ever set foot into the real world. You had figured that you would need a guide and who else would be perfect enough than someone whom you trust and who had known you for the entirety of your life?

The question though… is how would you go about asking her?

The outside world has always been a sensitive topic for her, never hesitating in sharing her horrible and terrifying experiences with you. However this would nonetheless make her the perfect guide to show you the world for the very first time.

But surely for your 18th she’d finally let you see the world for yourself?

Placing your pen down, you shut your journal and disappeared back inside the tower to again look at your antique clock.

It’s only half eight.

She’d definitely be back by eleven.

Which gives you plenty of time to prepare your own speech to persuade her.

—

“Let down your hair!”

A moment of stillness was felt as Mother Gothel’s voice echoed throughout the forest, her gravelly voice seeming to bounce off the tough barks of the trees that stood as silent spectators around her.

For a split second, a wound of fear grew in the pit of her stomach. A fear that you had left.

But not a moment later she quickly reprimanded herself and pushed away the impulsive thoughts. It wasn’t like you’d ever survive for that long anyway. Not without her.

A smirk soon latched itself onto her lips, quickly fading as soon as she saw the rope of your hair being thrown down. Taking a handful, she latched on professionally, securing her feet in a hook of your hair and slowly she was being lifted up, higher and higher.

She glimpsed over at the view, a light blue sky with a few clouds rolling in. Misplaced across the sky. Her eyes wandered over the view without a second thought and quite frankly bored of the scenery, yet she knew she had no right to complain as it was necessary to conceal herself away.

Once she had settled down inside a long exhale of air escaped from her lungs and in a high pitched tone she exclaimed aloud to you.

“My, my, my dear, how on earth are you able to do this day in and day out without fail? Why must it be exhaustive, no?”

An innocent smile reached your lips after a series of drawn out pants. “It’s nothing Mother.”

The palm of her hand reached the top of your head, patting your hair playfully. “Then I don’t know why it takes so long.”

Her cloak is immediately disposed of, hung up on the hook before she marches right past you. After a few hours of deliberation, you’ve decided that it’s best to address the topic straight away, as soon as she returns home so that you don’t lose your confidence to ask later on.

But before you can introduce the topic of the conversation, she’s instead standing by the antique oval mirror. You follow her apprehensively as her hands stretch and poke at her skin, inspecting every inch of her face. Joining her side, you’re intimidated, deeply unsure of how to grab her attention.

“So…Mother.” you begin, hands clasped around your back as your fingers fiddle with each other in an array of nerves. “I wanted to ask–

“Do you know what I see?” She cuts off unexpectedly, wrapping an arm around you. “I see a strong, young, brave, confident and of course beautiful woman.” Her grip around you is tight and for a moment you get a burst of confidence that fills your body.

“Oh, you’re here too!”

And in that same moment it is quickly lost.

Not missing the way your face fell, she pokes at your side with her finger.

“Darling I’m just teasing, will you stop taking things so seriously?” She returns to the mirror, inspecting herself all over again.

Fiddling with your hair, you impose a fake laugh to cure the mood. “As I was saying mother I was wondering if–” Suddenly waving her hand around, you pause in the midst of your sentence.

“Mother’s feeling a little run-down sweetheart, won’t you sing for me first?”

“Yes Mother.”

You’re quick to grab a chair and a hairbrush, rushing back to her and pulling her along to sit. Giving her the hairbrush, you’re haste to grab a stool and sit yourself upon it. Quickly closing your eyes you sing– no mumble through the song as fast as you could.”

“Power gleam and glow let your power shine…”

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Ignoring her, you continue throughout the song before coming to an abrupt end. “...what once was mine.”

Your mother’s voice was stern as she said your name, confused as to why you rushed the process.

You turn around on your stool to face her, finally getting her attention.

“As I was saying Mother, tomorrow is my birthday.”

“Already?” she responded, “Why of course it isn’t, you had one last year. I remember it precisely.”

You chuckle nervously, hands now twiddling with a lock of your hair as you mumble.

“They happen every year mother, you know, and I was wondering, well it was more of a spontaneous idea-”

Your name is once again said with a sharp tone.

“You know how I feel about the mumbling, bla-bla-bla, spit it out for me darling.”

You nod, chuckling half heartedly despite her not even looking right at you. With a sigh you decide it’s best to just say it straight out. “It’s my birthday tomorrow and I’m turning eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” she raised a brow.

You nod timidly. “By now I think I’m mature enough now to see the world for myself.”

“The world?”

“I just mean in the sense that I was already thinking about the gifts that I would like to see.”

“Which is?”

You had already begun to climb onto the mantlepiece in front of her. There were purple curtains which covered the painted walls. Adrenaline ran through the course of your body but if you weren’t able to contain your excitement it could all go terribly wrong.

“Mother, you know how badly I’ve dreamt every year for one thing. And one thing only. I’ve been spending my life in this tower, watching and waiting for it. The one thing I want the most…”

Drawing back the purple curtains, you reveal the full picture of the lights, shining brightly against the night’s sky.

“The floating lights.” you say, your own eyes drawn to your painting, almost in awe that you managed to draw it completely from your own memory. “I want to see them, in person.”

There was a long pause as your mother observed your own drawing. You watched anxiously, your hands balled up in fists as she squinted at your painting. Without much more than a sigh, she turned away and disappointment immediately filled your bones.

“You want to go outside?” Mother strolled over to the entrance of the tower and slammed the wooden window shutters with a loud slam.

“Look at you, as fragile as a flower.” Her hands trailed over you as you joined her on the floor. Her touch was soft and gentle as well as her tone of voice towards you. “You know why we stay up in this tower.

“I know but–” you interjected.

“That’s right!” She moves along stroking a handful of your hair. “To keep you safe and sound dear.”

“I guess I always knew this day was coming, knew that someday you’d want to go and flee the nest. Soon but not yet–”

“But-”

You were stopped again with a finger placed over your mouth, “Shhh trust me pet, Mother knows best.”

“It’s a scary world out there my dear, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. You haven’t seen it for yourself but there’s ruffians and thugs, there’s poison ivy to watch out for and quicksand!” She noted, counting off everything on her fingers.

“There’s cannibals and snakes and terrible diseases, I mean, remember the plague?”

You swallow thickly, hanging onto her every word.

“There's large bugs and men, men with pointy teeth, who want nothing more than to use you and trick an innocent flower like you my dear.”

You look down at the floor, no more words to say in defense. You were completely clueless. Anything that she did say had to be true. After all she was the only person that you knew who had seen the world for itself.

She swiftly took a seat in her chair, “But hey what do I know? I’m just your poor mother, I only changed and nursed and bathed you. So you can go ahead and leave me, I deserve it. I deserve to waste here and die alone!”

“Mother I didn’t –”

She looks over at you, eyes observing you up and down, not letting you finish.

“Where do I begin with you? You probably won’t even survive for long enough out there without me. You’re sloppy and underdressed, immature and not to mention clumsy. Without me you won’t have much to live for, god they’ll eat you up alive! Gullible, naive, ditzy and hmm…a bit vague, what more can I say?”

Looking down at your feet, any source of confidence in you had now been washed away entirely. She was right. You’re a fool if you’d think you’d last out there. You can barely copy with a spider in your room, how would you ever imagine dealing with all of…that?

Sensing your deflation your mother heads over to you, her arms outstretched. She pauses a little bit away from you, so you can step towards her. Embracing you, her eyes meet yours intensely filled with nothing but love.

“I just love you very much dear, all I ever want to protect you. Do you hear that? I love you very much.”

“I love you more.”

“And I love you most.” she finishes.

Enveloping you into a hug, there’s only a slight break before she says your name again and meets your eyes again however this time, there’s an emotion in her eyes which you can’t quite grasp. All you do feel is unease from her stare.

“Yes?”

“Don’t ever ask to leave this tower again.”

Her tone was sharp like a knife with the tip laced with venom, piercing through your gut. Her past words about you had already pierced through your heart and this was just the finisher.

You guess you won’t be achieving that dream anytime soon. Despite feeling deflated, you understood. The world was a dangerous place. And after all, Mother just wanted to protect you from the cruel dangers of the world.

Here, with her, was in fact the safest place to be.

reblogs + comments much appreciated! :)

[delurkr]

Anne and James and sibling OCs in 1948

1948 being the year Anne and James married. Penelope is Anne's sister, and everybody else is James's family.

Cropped sections are further down. There's some connections from @108garys 's Super Massive Family Tree that play into everything (here's their portrait of older Penelope), and I'll leave it to them if they want to refresh everybody on the details. (Edit: 108garys gave lore in the notes). Some of the OCs have more lore than others, but I'm not getting into it here or doing deep dives about personalities and all that, so I just stuck together very non-deep little likes/dislikes/favorite activities lists for everyone. But first some notes on the art:

I went for a balance between dressy and casual, so most of these wouldn't be everyday outfits but none of them are formal either.

Nobody has naturally curly hair. Shirley has a perm, and Anne and Penelope use only curlers. (Unlike the other two, Penelope doesn't curl it every day).

If Anne's dress looks piecemeal that's because it is. Around 1948 was when women's fashion was transitioning from shorter wartime styles (minimum fabric) to longer hemlines, but ofc most women didn't just toss out all their old clothes, so the new things they bought were in the new style, while they also continued wearing what they had and sometimes altered their shorter things in various ways. The white border on Anne's dress is a recent addition, and so is the embroidered pocket because big pockets were also fashionable and it was intended to make the border look more like it belongs.

Shirley uses a brace, a built up shoe, and sometimes a cane due to effects from having polio when she was very young.

Bob has been in the U.S. Army for four or so years and he's currently a corporal. If part of his uniform is inaccurate then oh well because there were some details I just wasn't finding clear answers on (do point it out if you know something that's wrong tho). Also that's his hat he's holding in case it's hard to tell.

Ok now for the other stuff:

Anne, age 17 -

Likes: Dancing; recycling; Frank Sinatra music (don't spread it around); telephone party lines; the scratchy sound of crossing things off her to-do list.

Dislikes: Noisy children; poetry; men's cologne; bleached blonde hair; house pets; wrinkled clothes; rain on her hairdo; complainers; people with bad posture; anonymous love letters; being late; people who are late; unraked leaves; these peasants (most of the boys at school); being told she's too opinionated.

Favorite activities: Growing plants, mostly flowers; taking the mick out of James ❤

Penelope, age 8 -

Likes: Bicycling; puppies; reading, mostly fairytales; sticky sweets; movie stars.

Dislikes: Mud; talking to strangers; not having had her first kiss yet; never getting the lowdown after Anne's dates.

Favorite activity: Eavesdropping on the phone party line with Anne.

Shirley, age 24 -

Likes: Card games; chickens; picnics; reading; red on just about anything.

Dislikes: Snow; frogs; Bob; the sound of her own voice.

Favorite activity: Canoe rides to read on the open water. Her preferred victims to accompany her are James (she'll use her oldest-sibling authority for as long as she can) and whoever she happens to be dating (is that a weird date? idk but she calls it a no-go with a guy if he can't handle the quiet time).

Bob (Robert), age 22 -

Likes: Arm candy; being outside; cheating at card games; beer; animals, especially wildlife; pulling practical jokes on April 2.

Dislikes: Peas; serious conversations.

Favorite activities: Hunting; chasing women. (These things are not connected).

James, age 19 -

Likes: Holidays; history; picking dumb arguments; playing hockey when the pond freezes over; reading; PDA with Anne ❤

Dislikes: Waiting; hand-me-down clothes; being called Jimbo; having glasses.

Favorite activity: Finding money on the ground.

Clarence, age 11 -

Likes: Pocket knives; pirates; model train sets and dollhouses type stuff.

Dislikes: Surprises; hugs; getting up early; "old" people; getting his picture taken (that one's partly a joke, because I accidentally drew him looking a little moody for no reason).

Favorite activity: Fixing appliances and things around the house (under supervision because "fixing" is a bit of an overstatement. He can take things apart but has yet to learn how to properly put them back together).

Kathy (Katherine), age 7 -

Likes: Parties; collecting things; Brothers Grimm-style fairytales; terrible creature horror B movies.

Dislikes: Bugs, especially bees; nightmares from the terrible creature horror B movies.

Favorite activity: Poking dead animals. Trips to the butcher and dead mice found in the attic are her lifeline for now until she starts doing dissections in school. She definitely doesn't store said mice under her bed in jars she stole from the kitchen.

~~

Cool so now that everyone is sufficiently grossed out I'll leave it here for now 😊 Stay tuned I guess because sooner or later I'm going to follow this up with the three youngest when they're older, around 1959 because that was a happening point in time for them. And lastly, 108garys is free to hate anything I wrote because we share the OCs but I consulted them on very little of this lol.

[bonesxbows]

The Lonely Wolf That Stalks (Connor x Reader)

My Masterlist

was written for a school writing class, beauty & the beast mashed together with princess and the frog, except its you and Connor, and there are no princesses or princes

(WARNINGS) - one and a half slightly detailed animal attacks - minor blood

not very canonical, this was something I had to write for school but figured I'd still publish it here. Connor's name is never mentioned, neither is your own, but trust me it was written with him very much in mind.

if you do like this, please leave reblogs and perhaps a comment! they're very much appreciated!

Banners by @strangergraphics

Throughout the colonies the war pushed on, the patriots growing restless and the redcoats growing impatient with every passing day, but out of the reaches of the war were the things that no battle or bloodshed could change. The stories that the people told their children, and who they, in turn, told to their children. Such stories were aplenty out in the tribes that dotted the land that the patriots or the British had yet to claim, but some trickled into the colonies through way of travelers and traders. And even though the war grew tenser with each passing day, one such story never seemed to change. The story of the lone black wolf.

Within Boston lived one person, around the age of twenty, who had heard of the story of the black wolf. They were a unique one, though, for when most heard the story they knew that it was just a tale, but they believed it to be of the truth. A black wolf did stalk the woods between the border of New York and Massachusetts, they claimed, with fur as black as coal and eyes that glowed like pieces of amber, just like the wolf in the story.

Most knew better than to believe in stories that came from the native tribes, most wanted the tribes to be dealt with anyways, but they were different. They would run around Boston, while doing whatever needed to be done that day, telling anyone who would listen about the black wolf that they knew was out there, until one day, a man, a stranger, had said something to them.

“If you so believe this wolf is out there, then why don't you go try and find him then? Go break his curse and quit bothering the town with this nonsense.” the man had said. They had every right to be angry with him, wanted to yell at him, tell him that it wasn't nonsense. But instead, they did exactly what he had suggested. If no one else would believe the story as they did, if no one else would brave the wildlife to find this wolf and free him from the curse that had turned him into such a creature, then they would. Within a few days, they were on horseback, heading out into the wilderness to find this lone black wolf. 

They hadn’t been on their horse for more than a day since they left, but already the forest seemed confusing. Nothing but a sea of dark green and brown flooded their surroundings. They could hear river water lapping over rocks nearby, but where that river led they had no idea. They were lost. Their best bet, they thought, was to head for the river. They had no clue where the river led, but surely it eventually had to empty back into a town. Perhaps they could find the wolf before they made it that far. The river was a cold blessing in the summer heat and they jumped off of their horse to stoop down into the water. They splashed some of the refreshing liquid onto their face when they heard a twig break in the forest across the stream of water. They looked up just in time to be met with a bear emerging from the tree line. It was a huge black bear, easily four times the size of them, and the sight made them freeze. They did not move, they were even unknowingly holding their breath in, but the bear still caught sight of them. Its beady black eyes locked with their’s and it growled as it stood up on its hind legs, doubling its size.

But then, there was a howl. A long, deep, threatening howl. Across the water, upon an outcropping of rock, stood a wolf. A wolf with dark black fur and eyes that shined like jewels in the overhead sun. The bear fell back down onto all four paws as the wolf stared at him. They felt like the staring contest between the two animals dragged on for hours until the bear finally decided to head back into the woods it had come from before. They watched as it trodded back through the trees, disappearing from view. But when they looked back at the rocks to find the wolf again, it was gone. They had seen it! It was real! But now it was nowhere to be found.

They didn't know what to do. The wolf had been right there in front of them, and now it had disappeared. Their heart was racing. So they threw caution to the wind and took off after it, not caring about the bear, or how cold the water was against their feet, or even about their horse who neighed and stomped as they left it behind on the other side of the water. They ran, making a beeline for the base of the rocky cliff where they had last seen the wolf, and taking off into the woods.

“Wait!” they called out as they ran, hoping the wolf would hear them. They heard a growl from within the mess of trees and skidded to a halt, trying to catch their breath as they looked around. Two eyes glowed from beyond the shadows of the trees, but they could feel that something was wrong. As the wolf stepped closer to them, they could see that its eyes were black, not gold, and its fur was grey, not dark black. Their yelling had grabbed the attention of the wrong wolf.

They tried to slow their ragged breathing, tried not to let the wolf see how scared they were, but it was circling closer, and the snarl it wore made the hairs on the back of their neck stick up. It barked and growled, and they were sure it was going to jump them soon. They took a step back, and the wolf lunged at them, claws out, teeth gnarled. They pulled their arms up to cover their face, fully expecting to feel the sting of teeth sinking into their skin at any moment.

But the pain never came. Instead, there was another growl, and then a whimper, and then there was no noise at all. They lowered their arms to see what had happened, and near their feet lay the grey wolf, eyes glistening over and neck bloodied. In front of them stood a shadow of a creature; the black wolf. The blood that stained his teeth and snout explained what had happened.

They dropped to their knees, letting the adrenaline wear off. The black wolf inched closer, stepping around the corpse of the other wolf. Both of them kept their eyes locked with one another until they were just a few inches apart. They outstretched their hand, letting the wolf sniff it before they reached up to pet the top of his head. He let them do so, melting into their touch.

The two of them stayed there on the forest floor until night had fallen. Now that they had found him, they were not going to lose him again. But as the night crept onwards the air became chilly, and the light coat they had on did nothing to stave off the cold. So when they began to shiver the black wolf inched closer and laid down. He allowed them to lay down next to him and bury their face in his fur, never once snapping or growling at them. It wasn’t much warmth, but it was enough to fight back the chill, and they quietly thanked the wolf, softly kissing his head while petting his fur, as they drifted off into sleep.

They awoke to sunlight splashing on their face, the sound of birds and forest creatures could be heard. What was most surprising though, was the nearby sound of someone breathing. They remembered the black wolf they had fallen asleep next to, but this breathing sounded human, and not at all like an animal. When they opened their eyes they were not met with black fur, but instead, dark copper skin. In place of where the black wolf had been the night before lay a native man, with long black hair pulled into a bun. His clothes looked strangely colonial, however. They held back their shock and instead wiggled out of the grasp of the man and sat up on the grass. The man opened his eyes when they moved, and they immediately noticed how they gleamed like gold. He sat up and the two of them stared at each other, a dusting of pink covering their faces.

“So the curse was broken with a kiss then?” they said, breaking the staring contest and the deafening silence.

“Yes...a true love’s kiss.” the man replied. His voice was calming.

“I see...” they mumbled, pleasantly surprised with the news.

“How did you know where to find me?” he asked.

“Honestly? I didn’t. But I believed in the story when no one else would, so I just knew I had to find you. No matter what it took.” they explained.

He nodded. “Thank you. For not giving up,” he said, and then picked himself up off the ground, extending his hand to them. They took it and he whisked them up off the grass. The two of them locked hands and walked off into the forest, together.

[stickyfrogs]

More Magnificent Friends from the Frog Pond at Kubah National Park, Borneo!

Four-lined tree frog (Polypedates leucomystax), Giant River Frog (Limnonectes leporinus), Dark-eared Tree Frog (Polypedates macrotis), and File-eared Tree Frog (Polypedates otilophus)!

[mulholland-driver]

Father-Daughter Dance

You said, "It's my turn to have a family." In that instant, I craved starting over. Can we?

It hurts It hurts It hurts It hurts It hurts.

Watching my whole life erupt Out of body, on the ceiling, Raining confetti in visceral colors While you broke the news I wasn't enough.

You crossed the ocean to stay. I turned off my phone, And my mind, And my heart, And I was nothing, And no one, And I would never Be corporeal again.

A sacred piano shattering under sore fists, Every discarded key engraved with "I'm sorry," And "I love you," And "Please don't leave me like this."

I gathered up every memory:

Sitting on your shoulders Plucking tree-stars from the maples. Feeding box bugs to terrarium frogs. Cooking homemade fried chicken To Howard Jones music videos, And five movies For five days For five dollars.

I wove them with tear-soaked tissues. Cloaked in handmade hatred, I sustained rage with half-bent truths Just so I didn't have to miss you.

But every day I looked in the mirror, And saw your eyes  On my face, And I Couldn't Cope.

When overdose grew mundane And the void inside my chest Reached every extremity, I prepared to dissect four years of pain.

I picked up the phone, Whiskey tremor hands Cracking open the line. Hearing your voice, I was home.

[aftout]

Tell us about the crazy don't starve takes then

TAKE ONE: Wagstaff actually has MANY creatures from the constant hidden away in his lab. MULTIPLE. A lot of them are dead, but the carcasses are still valuable resources. That spider who ate webber got the easy way out, if anything.

TAKE TWO: Wortox is color blind. He’s got Tritanopia, to be more specific: cannot tell the difference between purple & red, pink & yellow, and blue & green. The only reason he knows the exact color of his fur is because of his mama.

TAKE THREE: Genny ends up adopting Wickerbottom’s old cat after finding it roaming about the library’s rubble.

TAKE FOUR: The pigs are actually well-versed in necromancy, hence the reckless rushing into battle and the touchstones.

TAKE FIVE: The pig king is Wilba’s dad. He and Queen Malfalfa got a divorce waaayy back and he ran off to start his own kingdom with his own people; most of which were also affected by the werepig curse.

TAKE SIX: Excessive use of shadow magic makes Maxwell physically sick as well as lowering his sanity. Coming back to his senses after summoning multiple shadow duelists or helpers can— and often does— cause him to vomit.

TAKE SEVEN: On the topic of Maxwell using shadow magic: it’s far from pretty. Nightmare fuel seeps out from his eyes, nose, and mouth.

TAKE EIGHT: Wormwood’s speech patterns are a result in him not being fluent in English. As Alter’s kin, his mother tongue happens to be the language spoken by the ancient civilization.

TAKE NINE: One of Them happens to be everything all at once, a physical form that constantly shifts and morphs so quickly that it can barely be considered physical at all. For one second it’s nothing more than a frog, the next it’s a shadow weaver, and then for just a moment it’ll be the worst version of yourself.

TAKE TEN: The Charlie that actually sits upon the throne is barely intact. Shadows hold her rotting bones together and pure horror seeps out from her slack jaw. The more power she displays as queen, the more her human body wilts.

TAKE ELEVEN: Since Maxwell never had control over every layer of the constant, whatever the Krampii are up to has been unbeknownst to him for ages. All he knows is that their bags have wormhole properties and that unnerves him a bit.

TAKE TWELVE: Willow is Wickerbottom’s granddaughter. Becoming a mother herself at nineteen, Wicker’s relationship with her own daughter was somewhat strained, and they lost contact the second said daughter was old enough to run off on her own. Neither Willow nor Wickerbottom are aware of their shared blood until way later down the line.

TAKE THIRTEEN: If Wanda crosses her eyes, her double vision gives her a fuzzy glance into a mirroring timeline. Doing this gives her awful migraines, though.

TAKE FOURTEEN: Wheeler and Wolfgang end up becoming super good friends! Not only are they training buddies, but Wheeler also helps Wolfgang with his bravery.

TAKE FIFTEEN: Wilba and Wurt overcome their prejudices by bonding over how inaccurately Mermio and Pigliet portrayed their respective peoples. They end up rewriting the book together.

TAKE SIXTEEN: Jack, Wendy&Abigail’s mom, and Genny end up becoming close friends. They work together trying to expose Voxola as corrupt.

TAKE SEVENTEEN: Woodlegs has been in the Constant for so long that he’s forgotten he was ever on Earth to begin with.

TAKE EIGHTEEN: Wilbur actually knows a fair amount about the Constant’s history, including tidbits about the ancient civilization as well as the mythology of Them. Unfortunately, no one can understand what he’s saying, so it’s not like he can share any of it.

TAKE NINETEEN: Walter has a younger brother named Theodore. He still sends the pine-tree pioneers letters asking if they’ve managed to find Walter.

TAKE TWENTY: Lucy is Woodie’s wife who died by getting crushed by a tree. She haunts his axe specifically since it was a gift she gave him on one of their anniversaries.

TAKE TWENTY-ONE: Speaking of, Woodie isn’t even sure where his curse originates from. It’s an age-old family tale. All he knows is that the Constant’s magic levels have made it significantly worse.

TAKE TWENTY-TWO: Wes was actually there for the whole portal building thing Maxwell and Wilson did pre-dst. Wilson freed him from that invisible box, it’s not like he had anywhere better to run off to. He didn’t necessarily help build any of it, though, he was just there for moral support.

TAKE TWENTY-THREE: The way Wendy calls upon Abigail isn’t quite as dainty as portrayed in game. She carries a little purse around with her that has all of the requirements for this to be successful; which includes a ritual knife and Abigail’s ashes. Using her own blood and the remnants of her sister, Wendy can summon Abigail out from the flower she possesses.

TAKE TWENTY-FOUR: Wanda’s ageless watch explodes when she dies. Lol. And instead of leaving behind a skeleton, she leaves behind this weird static called life essence. It’s required that you preserve it if you want to be able to resurrect her.

TAKE TWENTY-FIVE: Maxwell’s parents wanted him to be a lawyer. Jack was the only one who supported the idea of him being a magician. Tough!

TAKE TWENTY-SIX: Wormwood is half tree guard. That’s why he’s so ffffucking tall. The gem Alter sent down to the Constant’s surface took control over a dead tree guard and then suddenly the city of Hamlet had a new royal gardener. Life is so silly!

TAKE TWENTY-SEVEN: Wigfrid’s real name is Anita and is actually a child prodigy. She absorbs herself in her role for a sense of purpose because acting is all she’s ever known.

TAKE TWENTY-EIGHT: Wilson is Wagstaff’s nephew 👎

TAKE TWENTY-NINE: Klaus absolutely despises mortal beings because they took his eyes. Bwaaamp 🎺

[bobgongo]

Whilly & Bunber (part 2: Handy Weapon)

< previous next > or start from beginning

What is more vicious? The the sharp hook which becomes of a falcon's beak, or the razor teeth of a lion's jaw?

There's likely an objective answer hidden in this question that the more informed of us can see, but surely anyone can come to the reasonable conclusion that both at once would be the most vicious, most sinister, most horrific choice of them all? Serrated teeth to line a curved beak surely is capable of at least twice the damage than one or the other would have been capable of on their own? Don't worry, combining the two wasn't made clear to be an option-- don't beat yourself up over it. After all, who could imagine such a creature to exist? What foul monster would need a ripping set of canines to go with their already puncturing beak?

Unfortunately, there is an answer, and that answer was burrowed deep into the branches of a tall, dark pine tree. During the day they would be well concealed-- however it was currently night, and that meant they were practically invisible. A large creature most resembling a bird, they were gifted with greasy black feathers which sunk into night's darkness. Running one talon at a time through this monstrous curse of a mouth (likely to maintain its point) the bird's eyes stalked the woods below them; scanning branches, beetles, leaves, frogs, rocks, caterpillars; the eyes passed over the prey reluctantly. They were hungry for something more... filling. The creature closed their eyes and keened their ears, waiting for the subtlest rustle, snap, flap, breath...

~

"SHH! Why you-- would you put that down?!" Bunber hissed at the non compliant cat, who had just picked up a stick and was haphazardly waving it around. Bunber pecked and slapped Whilly's hand, a meaningless effort which only multiplied his giggles.

"It's to protect us!"

"Not if you keep knocking it against trees!"

Another wave of giggles stole Whilly's breath. "It's my weapon!!"

"You have claws and teeth. You don't need a weapon!" Bunber whispered. "What are you, a monkey?!"

Tears streaming from his eyes, Whilly fell to the ground in a paralyzed wheeze. Okay, Bunber thought, appreciating the sudden silence, this is an upgrade.

A rustle in the trees. Nails scraping against bark.

Bunber's feathers flattened. He twisted and craned his neck, rapidly flicking his head from one place to another, desperately searching for the source of the noise. Whilly's stagnant wheeze finally gave in to booming laughter. "SH!!" Bunber squealed. He desperately hopped onto Whilly's muzzle and clamped it shut. Bunber leaned into a shaky whisper. "There's something here." Whilly went silent, laying dumbfounded on the forest floor.

There was silence; it knew. Bunber spoke directly into Whilly's ear this time. "We can't just lay here, we have to go." Whilly nodded-- a faint smirk still lingering on his face-- and got onto all four feet, beginning to slowly crawl through the forest. The pair came to a root and Whilly gently hopped over it. His paws landed with a loud CRACK onto a twig. Bunber's heart sunk.

A glittering set of jaws came swooping in front of them and snapped. Whilly ducked, Bunber burst into flight, and the beak flew up with nothing in its teeth but a stray feather. The creature swung above the canopy and turned around, spotting Bunber's silhouette frantically flapping away. With a grin and a powerful swish of their wings the creature entered a high-speed chase after their prey.

Down on the forest floor was Whilly, head craned up, peering past the treetops. Whilly spotted the monstrous silhouette soaring in the moonlight. Whilly grabbed his stick and followed behind. The creature was faster than Bunber-- already it was slowly catching up with the little pigeon-- but it wasn't faster than Whilly. The stick now in his mouth, Whilly was sprinting on all fours. Hop, tuck, dodge; he slid past every obstacle, a master of the forest.

The creature was nearly at Bunber's tail, but Whilly was ahead of both of them. He hopped onto a tree and dug his claws into its bark, wriggling up the branches. His frazzled little head popped out the top of the canopy. Bunber was flying in Whilly's direction, the two locked eyes. Whilly held up the stick, Bunber's eyes lit up. With a mutual nod, Bunber swerved downwards and tucked in his wings to form a beautiful backwards roll mid-air. The creature skid to a stop, their prey suddenly out of sight. Faltered, disoriented, at halt... the creature was vulnerable. Whilly took his chance.

BONK!

Bullseye! The stick was flung and knocked the monstrous bird right in the head. With a great fwoosh the creature crashed into the trees. Bunber flew into view and landed on Whilly's head. "Go, go!" he screamed. Whilly's throw was a good shot, but the two could already see the creature begin to stir.

Whilly jumped out of the tree and burst into an agile sprint. "Bet you're glad to have a monkey for a friend!" A giggly grin was smeared across his face.

"Just keep your eyes on the forest." Bunber muttered.

< previous next > or start from beginning

[avalentina]

12 Days Of Christmas

(Draco Malfoy Style)

Image not mine

A few things to note: bulleted text is the original song line, italicized chat font text is Draco's feelings about the line, and the indented text is Draco's version of the line!

I was going for a head cannon style with this one but I probably failed...

All dividers are by @firefly-graphics

Hope you enjoy! -Ava

Draco talking to Blaise:

D: Did you hear Snape today? Apparently the new girl Y/N or whatever is like a potions prodigy, like Snape was actually impressed with her potion.

B: Don't tell me you're crushing on her just because she's better than you at potions.

D: She's a half-blood from America, and she's gorgeous, intelligent, snarky, and yet also somehow kind. She's fucking perfect is what she is. I just, I've liked her since she first set foot in the Great Hall.

B: Just have fun, and do something Christmassy, at least I think that's what she called their holiday.

D: That's it! The carols she was singing while decorating the common room, there was that Twelve Days of Christmas song. I'll do something fun for those days.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree

Yeah, nope, not getting her that… but maybe…

On the first day of Christmas, I gave to my true love… an invitation to the Yule Ball

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me, two turtle doves

Ok, that one isn't too bad, but improvements must be made

On the second day of Christmas I gave to my true love… two golden birds made of light, Avis!

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me, three French hens

Ummm, what, why, just why?

On the third day of Christmas I gave to my true love… three poinsettias

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me four calling birds

What is it with this song and birds?

On the fourth day of Christmas I gave to my true love… four barking cruppies

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me five golden rings

See, that one I like, that one I really like, however I can still outdo it

On the fifth day of Christmas I gave to my true love five golden snitches!

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me six geese a laying

Oh for Merlins sake, can they quit it with the birds?

On the sixth day of Christmas I gave to my true love… six chocolate frogs

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me seven swans a swimming

That's actually kind of romantic, like a swan dance

On the seventh day of Christmas I gave to my true love… seven fountains performing with music and lights and colors (every ounce of my transfiguration and potions knowledge was necessary)

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me eight maids a milking

Nope, nope, nope, absolutely not, she's a transfer from America and she's best friends with Hermione even though y/n’s a Slytherin

On the eighth day of Christmas I gave to my true love… eight house elves' freedom

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me nine ladies dancing

Good, but I have a better idea, and I think she'll like it

On the ninth day of Christmas I gave to my true love… nine mooncalves dancing under the stars

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me ten lords a leaping

My day to show off my skills!

On the tenth day of Christmas I gave to my true love… ten dancing lessons (she did ask)

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me eleven pipers piping

Ooh, I can work with that!

On the eleventh day of Christmas I gave to my true love… eleven frogs a singing with the choir

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me twelve drummers drumming

Twelve battle drummers maybe?

On the twelfth day of Christmas I gave to my true love… twelve durmstrang students dueling (with fire)

And that was my successful Fourth year, I enjoyed it, and so did y/n, enough that she agreed to be my girlfriend.

Want to hear y/n's reactions to each gift? Let me know in the comments or by liking this post!

As always, I hope you enjoyed! Happy Holidays!

-Ava

Thank you for requesting a tag!

@freedomfireflies

Comment or DM me if you would like to be added to the Holiday Writing Spectacular Taglist!

[mcalhenwrites]

First few lines of some of my works

The Hostile Credence: Smoke rose from collapsed chimneys and blackened the morning sky. Soot dusted Ewan’s boots. The low walls that had failed to shield the village were one of the only constructions left standing, and there were as many corpses buried as were visible on Gadvale’s cobbled roads. Name the Frogs:

Even noise-canceling headphones aren’t enough to drown out the patter of rain against the windows.

There is no place in Oswalka where Irving can get away from the frequent rain, just as there is no place he can escape his father’s reputation. Stargazers' Hill:

For the first time in their lives, the people at the Glasser Mortuary did the opposite of their jobs: they pulled a body out of a casket. This one happened to be breathing, which was fortunate for all of them. Humphrey Glasser did not need his hard-earned reputation to be shaken by a police investigation. Rascal: The slipper slaps across the seat of his trousers, pushing him forward as his fingernails leave new scratches under the lip of his wooden desk. The rubber sole stings even through two layers of cotton. Merciless strokes leave oval prints on the flesh of his backside. Geckos, Automata: “I don’t want to live. Not like this. Can you make it stop? Could you kill me?”

Agatha blinked twice at her creator, even though his eyes were closed and he could not see her message. No.

What was it that he held in his hands? A worn photograph, revealing the dull colors of a young man’s curly black hair, his olive skin, and his gray irises. The stranger was smiling. Seasons:

Father says I was born from the fall of the first leaf of autumn. As it drifted downward, he held out his arms, and the leaf became an infant.

It used to fascinate me to hear the story of my birth. Not just mine, but my brothers’ as well.

“All my children are born from a season.”

“But there are four seasons and only three of us.”

Father tweaks my nose with his finger, grinning. “Yes. I don’t like summer.”

Serrated Petals:

In a forest of smoky quartz and glass-leaved trees sits a fortress of stone armor protecting coppery veins. Its spires and battlements overlook the deadlands beyond. A lake is tucked behind the crystal mountains surrounding the castle. Each section is part of a larger work of art from the infamous Otto Brynner.

Roland has been obsessed with the poetic descriptions—and the paintings—of Brynner’s handiwork since he was an impressionable lad still clinging to his mother’s skirts. Galleries would host his first introduction to the magnificence of Brynner’s magical sculptures and architecture. Display cases preserved the razor-thin edges of appropriated glass leaves, artists would attempt to capture the well-documented sight on canvas or porcelain plates or even kites, and children could hold a chunk of the land’s smoky quartz in their palms.