#Kinfolk Metal

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Preview...

"A Tattoo and the Bloodsucker Blues"

(A Terry Richmond Vampire AU Fic)

Summary:

You thought the tattoo on his arm marked him as one of those Hoteps or Nation of Islam brothas that hawked bean pies on the corner with the Final Call. But little did you know it meant more than that. That's why you have to track him down and kill him... before the baby in your belly can turn into his kind.

(This fic will strictly be for the grown and sexy. Smut, Violence, Blood. Dropping October 30th at Midnight on All Hallow's Eve.)

“I don’t wanna wait for love

Every time I do

I don’t wanna wait for love

Waitin’ on him

Are you warm enough?

Coco blood

Are you warm enough?

Coco blood”

Celeste – “Coco Blood”

Celeste Profitt checked the GPS on her smartphone one more time before stepping out of her gun metal gray Dodge Charger.

She drove out to find the pale green double shotgun house, which was sequestered on the outskirts of St. Celestine Parish. Ten years previously, there had been flooding in the county her grandmother named Celeste after, and many families left the area when their insurance wouldn’t pay for water damage. The houses left behind looked like gaps in the teeth of someone with infected gums. It reeked of working class poverty, the kind of poverty Celeste ferociously clawed her way out of by holding down two jobs. One at the poultry factory, where she removed the putrid raw entrails of slaughtered chickens, and the other at a nursing home, where she cleaned shitty bed pans and kept company with neglected elders with no kinfolk nearby.

The shotgun houses left standing weren’t different from the Creole cottage she rented less than seven miles away, and she cut her eyes back to the one she needed. Damp air with the hint of rain coming caused her to sniffle. It smelled old around there, and something had definitely died in some bushes across the street. She zipped up her dark blue windbreaker and fingered the pepper spray she carried in the jacket’s pocket. Couldn’t be too careful around folks who chose to stay in a bad situation. It still smelled like floodwater and deep regrets.

She pulled a cigarette from her purse, but stuffed it back down to the bottom, reminding herself that she was pregnant now and couldn’t hurt the baby that rested in her womb. The urge to puff daily was a struggle, and she refused to toss a ten-dollar pack of nicotine in the garbage. Shit, she might sell a few loosies if she needed to. Her funds were getting low paying for all the high-priced gas she burned through looking for her baby daddy.

Terry Richmond.

That’s what he called himself, but now she wasn’t too sure if that was his real name or not since she couldn’t find his ass anymore once she decided to keep their baby. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She needed to stay calm and not think about the hurt and hate she carried in her heart for that man. Never trust a pretty boy with pretty eyes and a third leg. That should’ve been her motto from jump. But that was neither here nor there with the position she found herself in at the moment. Right now she needed some answers and the woman inside the pale green shotgun house was supposed to have the solution.

She fingered a plastic grocery bag she also carried in her purse. Inside it was a blood plasma bag she toted around every day that she fed from when the urge overtook her on some days. The cravings for blood grew worse, and the fetus inside her stayed absorbing every nutrient from her body. What it wanted most lately was the blood in her purse. The baby inherited fifty-fifty of its parent’s genes, and back when she thought things were cool between them, all lovey-dovey and real passionate in those early days…well, Celeste imagined their baby inheriting Terry’s pretty eyes and her thick wondrous hair. He was lighter than her and she figured the baby would come out a gorgeous brown that was a mix of their two different skin tones. The last thing she wanted was for her child to come out with Terry’s hunger.

For blood.

Celeste zipped her purse back up and concentrated on what she was there to do.

Talk to the Black witch of St. Celestine Parish.

The renowned Voodoo priestess down in Nawlins last weekend was a grand failure at solving her problem. That lady's Catholic ass made the sign of the cross several times throughout Celeste’s consultation, which was a bit much for her taste. Celeste grew up Catholic too, but found it irritating that a Voodoo priestess acted so scary about a bloodsucker, while also bragging about turning people who were made into zombies back into human beings. At least that’s what she claimed on her website. That phony bitch started whimpering and calling for Jesus when Celeste pulled back her shirt and lifted her bra to show the fang marks on her titties that Terry made that never healed properly. She explained how she became allergic to her silver jewelry, and fought with a three-inch bundle of developing cells over blood intake from the plasma bag.

She left the fake Madame Zeroni’s Curio shop disgusted and a hundred dollars broker.

Her homegirl Mercy texted the name of a woman who quietly practiced Hoodoo on her phone. Mercy believed everything Celeste told her because she had been there from jump, and without judgment, guided her to another root of the African diaspora tree.

Celeste lifted her foot onto the first creaky step of the shotgun house and the front door on the left opened. Behind the screen door she made out the face of a man with the skin-color of dark tobacco leaves.

“Yeah?” he said in a gruff tone.

Celeste glanced at the door on the right, which was her destination. She ignored the man and knocked on the glass window on the upper half of the wooden door. The neighbor opened his screen and stepped out.

“You sure you here to see her?” the man asked.

Without a screen barrier, his face looked younger and more handsome, his short locs pointing every which-way on his head like tiny black antennas. The front door on the right opened and a pretty, dark brown-skinned woman stuck her head out.

“Mind ya business, Bertrand. She ain’t here to see you.”

“Lynn?” Celeste asked.

“It’s me,” Lynn said.

She opened her door wider and glanced back at her neighbor.

“Come on inside before anymore noisy birds stick they heads out,” Lynn said.

Celeste stepped over the threshold and passed Lynn to get inside.

“Good Lord, gal, you got a head full of hair on you! How long you been growing it?”

Celeste touched her heavy and long bongo locs that fell down to her waist.

“Ten years now. Since I was a teenager.”

“So thick and pretty. Betcha when you go swimming it’s like fighting with an octopus, huh?”

Celeste grinned.

Lynn was much younger than she expected. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Out in the parish swamps, there was no telling how old melanated folks could be.

“Come on back here into my kitchen,” Lynn said.

Celeste waited for her to lead the way and they walked past two rooms straight to the neat kitchen.

“Hungry?” Lynn asked. “Got some beans and rice on the stove. Frying up some pork chops, too. Go ‘head and sit at the table.”

Celeste took a seat at a small table with a pink plastic covering. The savory odor of red beans and seasoned, fried meat made her mouth water. Her stomach grumbled.

“Oh, yeah, you hungry. I’ma fix you a plate.”

“Please, don’t go to any trouble for me.”

“Ain’t no trouble. Got plenty. I made extra for you, anyway. Pregnant women gotta eat good.”

Celeste stared at the woman. She wasn’t even showing yet and never mentioned being pregnant over their phone call consultation. Did Mercy tell her?

“Don’t get spooked, Celeste. I work as a mid-wife. I can smell a pregnant woman a mile away. Relax.”

Celeste watched the young Hoodoo woman fix a big plate of string beans, red beans & rice and a thick cut of pork chop fried to golden brown perfection. She plopped it down in front of Celeste and fixed herself a plate, too. Her close-cropped brown hair had a cute undercut, and both her ears had at least seven small gold hoops pierced through them. She wore an off-the-shoulder white t-shirt and booty shorts for the heat. Her eyes were small for her face and were the only thing on her that looked mature. Had she not known any better, Celeste would’ve thought she was chatting with a senior in high school.

Lynn sat down across from her and held out her hand toward Celeste.

“I like to say grace over my meals,” Lynn said.

Celeste clasped her hand, and a charge of energy seeped into her palm from Lynn. She closed her eyes as Lynn said a short, heartfelt prayer, then lifted a half loaf of Wonder Bread from her table. She unfastened it and handed Celeste two pieces.

“Ooh, wait, I forgot some libations.”

Lynn jumped up and brought back a large glass pitcher of fresh lemonade. She grabbed two plastic cups and poured them each a good fill.

“I don’t have no ice cubes for it, sorry,” Lynn said.

Celeste sipped and the sweet/tart taste was delicious and cold enough. Both women ate quietly for a few minutes, and after Celeste’s third bite of her pork chop, Lynn stared at her directly with fierce chocolate eyes.

“Did you bring the things I asked for?”

Celeste nodded and pulled out a bundle from her purse and slid it to Lynn.

“I got some hair from a brush he used at my place, and summa his semen. We made love the last time I saw him and he wiped himself with a washrag and threw it in my dirty clothes hamper.”

“Semen is good. Anything liquid from the body is good,” Lynn said, collecting the items that Celeste stuffed in a little sandwich baggie.

“Tell me everything about this man you’re looking for. From the beginning,” Lynn said. “In order for me to make a root powerful enough to find him and bring him back, I gotta know every detail.”

Those chocolate eyes stayed intense.

Celeste fought the urge to sip on the blood in her purse and took another healthy swig of lemonade from her cup before she told the tale, from top to bottom, of how Terry Richmond, a whole ass vampire, seduced her out of her panties, stole her heart, bit her, then left her with something growing in her belly that she was afraid of…

A.N.:

Reminder, this long fic is dropping All Hallow's Eve at Midnight! Comment below if you want to be tagged for a sexy, supernatural treat at the end of the month!

Tag List Thus Far:

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[mtjester]

Choose Y(our) Own Adventure #005 — You see a tiny, mysterious planet teeming with life

<-#001 <-<-#004

#006->

A vision comes to you. The colors reflected in the mirror’s dark surface blur and shift, and from them, you discern a sphere—a planet, you come to recognize, with shifting cloud cover, patches of deep purple ocean, and continents covered in the telltale vibrancy of rich, thriving ecosystems. It’s small, but its aura overwhelms you. You feel the energy from it thrum in your chest, like its vitality is forcing its way through the mirror. When you inhale, the air you breathe feels so unnaturally fresh and clean that it leaves you gasping. Koriena’s music curls into a song you can hear with your whole body, a melody that rings and pulses, a sound that feels like gravity in a way you can’t comprehend. It’s beautiful and terrifying, something beyond the grasp of a mortal mind. It drenches you in the unmistakable sensation of magic.

The vision darkens and dissipates, leaving you shaking and breathless. Slowly, another takes its place. You try to quell your emotions and focus. 

[angelfoodcake222]

Contains: 2nd person POV, harm to a beloved character, country/mechanic/medic GN reader in their mid/late-20s, platonic relationship.

Art by @smushles here on Tumblr

Today was hard enough as is; your boss was on your case throughout your shift, your romantic partner dumping you for your phony 'best friend' since early teenhood, & now, your car has been towed after your brakes had given out on you. So, to bring all of that to a tally, pesky boss, bad choice in people, & the universe has it out for you. Great. At least you still have your Yamaha parked at home to get to work once the weekend is over, for now.

You thanked the kind stranger for giving you a lift to your home far from the city before hopping out, dragging your feet to the main portion of your house for a quick change of lounge-worthy apparel. Your house wasn't unduly grandiloquent, but it wasn't a hovel either. Well, in your opinion.

Yours is a simple home, holding a whole bath, a half bath, three bedrooms (one guest room, one converted to an office area/boudoir, & the master bedroom), a kitchen/dining room, & a living room where much of your reading materials reside with a padded bay window bench. The storage part of said bench was filled with pens you'd use to fill your books with intimate marginalia, a habit you had formed in your preadolescence.

The mismatched bookshelves lining half of the room's walls, the same walls where a recently sold TV & its stand once stood & your dearly departed folks' (also sold) taxidermied 'trophies' hung creepily, held your numerous treasured tomes of precious comfort characters & scenarios. The hand-me-down couch never looked so welcoming in the time you've owned it, the cushions enveloping you with a loud creak of its aged springs settling after your weary body fully sunk into it. The take-out leftovers you were undoubtedly going to reheat & enjoy later. The garage's sounds never- Wait. What's making all that noise in your garage?

Clangs & clashes sounded from your side garage attached to your home via the pavilion-shielded walkway that practically hauled you towards them after you snatched up the lead pipe you had sitting beside the side doors in case of intruders or large animals. Another habit you formed over your time living alone aside from chronic lock checks & trail cams; inside & out. Your fluffy animal slippers squeak under you with each step but the metallic sounds overpowered them effortlessly. Whatever is in your garage making that commotion must be big. Upset, even.

Now, for context, you do not own just one garage, you just have an average-sized one that can hold two large 4x4 trucks & a normal car that is attached to your house while the rest is well hidden under many shielding. An unconventional, insistent want of your folks was a massive underground base-like bunker that was nearly forty feet high & a floor area of six or more professional football fields (give or take). You had stumbled in there once in your youth while your older kinfolk were working on some sort of immense project that they 'lost' a few days later after telling you it was a secret gift for a very secret friend that you'd never know of. Your memory is hazy, but you still like to go down there via the room-sized lift from time to time for a full disconnection.

The heavy, full metal door groaned in refusal to being moved from its closed position, though you needed to see what or who was causing such a racket; they might be robbing you or something! Most of your stuff was collected scrap parts to 'upgrade' your vehicles occasionally as a pass time & you knew you could replace most of what's in there, but you weren't as expendable as scrap. The noises stopped as bright yellow lights blazed over your half-shown self. Familiar feelings waved over you.

The blood within your body ran cold in milliseconds, goosebumps rose & hairs stood on their ends.

The dual lights flickered, no, blinked at your partially hidden form cowering behind the hinged barrier. You could only make out a hulking mass with the lights sitting where one would expect those of the optical variety to be located & a faint blue liquid around & on the being.

Whatever this thing was, it was a sturdy creature possibly clad in armor of some kind. A warrior, maybe? Your eyes adjusted to see a large gash on what looked like its 'waist' or 'abdominal' region, seemingly lethal. You didn't know much about the anatomy of your own species let alone an alien species.

When the visual hints halted momentarily, auditory ones took the wheel of thought. 'They're hurt!' you thought to yourself. Would this large entity let you aid it somehow, much less near its person? Is the liquid dangerous to you? All decent questions a person with a rational mind would think of in moments like this would have been thought of if your innately bleeding heart wasn't throbbing those reflections to pieces.

Those wide yellow lights seemed to widen as you slowly set the pipe onto the ground, holding your hands up to show that you were unarmed. Seem less intimidating. Try to be friendly in appearance. You smile faintly in hopes of seeming disarming to the hulking shape, speaking kindly to them before gathering metal of your own to introduce yourself.

"It's okay. My name is [Y/N]. What's yours?"

You knelt, holding an open palm out to the figure. Why? You weren't sure, but it felt like the right thing to do here. After a moment of tense silence, the silhouette spoke in a deep, though distressed voice.

"Optimus. My name is Optimus Prime."

I DID IT!

[A/N]: I cannot believe that it took me so long to write a >1000-word piece! Good to have it up though. I hope you all enjoyed reading this! 🤗

[mathpumamusic]

28-2-2024

[Carling & Will] "Carling & Will" : Music to nourish the primordial part of the soul. [Nate Smith] "Kinfolk: Postcards from Everywhere" : The opener is an insane banger, but it definitely got me geared for a different type of album than the rest of the songs ended up being. [Squarepusher] "Hello Everything" : I thought this album was gonna be restrained, but lo and behold, he got out the dental drill before it was over. [Woody Goss] "Rainbow Beach" : Super beautiful, I crave sunlight. [Moon Tooth] "Photoproph" : Much more refined sound, although I can't decide yet if I like the writing on this one as much as on their previous albums. [The Octopus Project] "Hexadecagon" : Just like with the earlier Nate Smith album, the opener got me geared up for a high intensity album, but the following songs were much calmer. [Arch Echo] "You Won't Believe What Happens Next!" : It's good mood metal, metal which puts you in a good mood. [zabutom] "Zeta Force" : All good listens, but the tracks are more standalone than some of zabutom's later work. [Aphex Twin] "Selected Ambient Works 85-92" : Lots of great listens, but I think his style hits harder when the juxtaposition between songs is more pronounced.

[pro-anomalocaris]

Dáirine took one look at Joseph and then turned her formidable glare on her children.

"This human is far too young to be here alone. His family will be worried. What were you two thinking, truly-"

"Oh, I don't have one of those," Joseph piped up, smiling a placating smile. "Don't worry, it's okay! You don't have to be mad at anyone." He watched with appreciative eyes as Dáirine grew from the mini-size fairies sometimes took to normal height. "That's so cool! Can I learn to do that?"

The fairy mother gave him a small smile. "Not likely, lad. Have you had anything to eat?"

"I'm fine," he tried to lie, but his stomach growled, and she tutted at him, taking him by the hand to guide him to a table. "No, really, I don't want to impose-"

"Hush up, little one. You need some supper." Dáirine shot her children a look. "Really, kids, taking a wee bairn like this and not even getting him some bread, the nerve - I raised you better than this."

They both ducked their heads, embarrassed, while their new human... friend? kidnapee? pet? was brought into the kitchen, hauled by his wrist by a frowning, concerned looking fairy. He no sooner sat down than he found himself handed a plate full of walnut bread with fresh butter, something he took one bite and instantly fell in love with. Joseph made appreciative sounds while he ate, eyes sometimes shutting as he savored the tastes. It was obvious to both siblings that their mother wasn't truly angry, at least not at the human, who she wrapped a shawl around and gave a hot mug of cider to before turning to her children again.

"You should've taken the wee thing to a shelter of some kind, to fatten him up. He's skin and bones. Truly, are there no orphanages left in the human realm? No churches? No charities? You know they don't do well here, with the perpetual sunlight and the seasons all out of order and the glamour-"

"Glamour doesn't work on him," Aisling muttered, and their mother rolled her eyes.

"Oh, well, that makes it all fine and dandy, now, doesn't it? The poor thing is carrying around a caterpillar and following you like a puppy. He's one of those humans too vulnerable to make a deal with without it being wrong. Aisling Aoife Fionbarra, you'd better have a good explanation for this." She crossed her arms, somehow intimidating despite being shorter than both of them.

"Mama, he was locked in a cage," Aisling burst out, wringing their hands, "alone in the night, in a cold little metal cage. He was calling out to make a deal with any old creature, and I was worried something far more malicious than I might stumble upon him - and then he was happy to take my weaknesses. He was happy just to be free instead of being hurt. I don't think anyone is minding this one, or watching him, or - he was happy he usually got to keep his food, and - he needed this. The healing food, and the warm sunlight, and litttle caterpillars to tend to."

"He's got no kin," Bruin put in, frowning. "I checked with magic. No bond to parents or siblings or more distant kinfolk. What was Aisling meant to do, leave him?"

Their mother frowned, looking between them, and then at the human, who was carefully feeding a bit of cabbage to the caterpillar, smiling gently down at it. "Aye, well. You meant it kindly. But you know most of his kind can't handle the weather or the light here. I'll call for a doctor, and so help me, if this poor boy isn't fit for this realm, you're putting him right back where you found him."

"Outside the locker, though, please," Joseph put in from the kitchen, looking worried. Dáirine's frown melted away, and she gave him a sweet smile.

"Of course, little lamb. No one is putting you back in a cage. You'll be nice and safe, don't you worry." She looked back at Bruin and Aisling, golden eyes glinting. "I want the names of the ones who hurt him."

"No," the human objected, and all three turned to him, wearing various expressions of shock. "They're not... I don't think they're really mad at me. One of them, he just wants other people to leave him alone, so he pushes other people around. And the other, he's just been super angry since his dad died. They're not bad people. They've done bad things, but they need help. Doing something bad back to them won't fix anything. Please don't hurt them."

"...I see why you two got attached." Dáirine sighed, undoing the ties on her apron and setting it aside. "Well. I'll get the guest room ready for the wee bairn."

Joseph waited for her to be out of earshot before he asked, "What's a 'bairn'?"

Some bullies shoved you into a locker the other week, and you made a deal with a fairy, your humanity for your freedom. Now you have an allergy to cold iron and an inability to lie.

[bikedweeb]

(via KINFOLK Steel Road ISP Frame & ENVE Fork Painted by Swamp … | Flickr)

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"I don't wanna wait for love

Every time I do

I don't wanna wait for love

Waitin' on him

Are you warm enough?

Coco blood

Are you warm enough?

Coco blood"

Celeste – "Coco Blood"

Celeste Profitt checked the GPS on her smartphone one more time before stepping out of her gun metal gray Dodge Charger.

She drove out to find the pale green double shotgun house, which was sequestered on the outskirts of St. Celestine Parish. Ten years previously, there had been flooding in the county her grandmother named Celeste after, and many families left the area when their insurance wouldn't pay for water damage. The houses left behind looked like gaps in the teeth of someone with infected gums. It reeked of working class poverty, the kind of poverty Celeste ferociously clawed her way out of by holding down two jobs. One at the poultry factory, where she removed the putrid raw entrails of slaughtered chickens, and the other at a nursing home, where she cleaned shitty bed pans and kept company with neglected elders with no kinfolk nearby.

The shotgun houses left standing weren't different from the Creole cottage she rented less than seven miles away, and she cut her eyes back to the one she needed. Damp air with the hint of rain coming caused her to sniffle. It smelled old around there, and something had definitely died in some bushes across the street. She zipped up her dark blue windbreaker and fingered the pepper spray she carried in the jacket's pocket. Couldn't be too careful around folks who chose to stay in a bad situation. It still smelled like floodwater and deep regrets.

She pulled a cigarette from her purse, but stuffed it back down to the bottom, reminding herself that she was pregnant now and couldn't hurt the baby that rested in her womb. The urge to puff daily was a struggle, and she refused to toss a ten-dollar pack of nicotine in the garbage. Shit, she might sell a few loosies if she needed to. Her funds were getting low paying for all the high-priced gas she burned through looking for her baby daddy.

Terry Richmond.

That's what he called himself, but now she wasn't too sure if that was his real name or not since she couldn't find his ass anymore once she decided to keep their baby. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She needed to stay calm and not think about the hurt and hate she carried in her heart for that man. Never trust a pretty boy with pretty eyes and a third leg. That should've been her motto from jump. But that was neither here nor there with the position she found herself in at the moment. Right now she needed some answers and the woman inside the pale green shotgun house was supposed to have the solution. She fingered a plastic grocery bag she also carried in her purse. Inside it was a blood plasma bag she toted around every day that she fed from when the urge overtook her on some days. The cravings for blood grew worse, and the fetus inside her stayed absorbing every nutrient from her body. What it wanted most lately was the blood in her purse. The baby inherited fifty-fifty of its parent's genes, and back when she thought things were cool between them, all lovey-dovey and real passionate in those early days…well, Celeste imagined their baby inheriting Terry's pretty eyes and her thick wondrous hair. He was lighter than her and she figured the baby would come out a gorgeous brown that was a mix of their two different skin tones. The last thing she wanted was for her child to come out with Terry's hunger.

For blood.

Celeste zipped her purse back up and concentrated on what she was there to do.

Talk to the Black witch of St. Celestine Parish.

The renowned Voodoo priestess down in Nawlins last weekend was a grand failure at solving her problem. Her Catholic ass made the sign of the cross several times throughout Celeste's consultation, which was a bit much for her taste. Celeste grew up Catholic too, but found it irritating that a Voodoo priestess acted so scary about a bloodsucker, while also bragging about turning people who were made into zombies back into human beings. At least that's what she claimed on her website. That phony bitch started whimpering and calling for Jesus when Celeste pulled back her shirt and lifted her bra to show the fang marks on her titties that Terry made that never healed properly. She explained how she became allergic to her silver jewelry, and fought with a three-inch bundle of developing cells over blood intake from the plasma bag.

She left the fake Madame Zeroni's Curio shop disgusted and a hundred dollars broker.

Her homegirl Mercy texted the name of a woman who quietly practiced Hoodoo on her phone. Mercy believed everything Celeste told her because she had been there from jump, and without judgment, guided her to another root of the African diaspora tree.

Celeste lifted her foot onto the first creaky step of the shotgun house and the front door on the left opened. Behind the screen door she made out the face of a man with the skin-color of dark tobacco leaves.

"Yeah?" he said in a gruff tone.

Celeste glanced at the door on the right, which was her destination. She ignored the man and knocked on the glass window on the upper half of the wooden door. The neighbor opened his screen and stepped out.

"You sure you here to see her?" the man asked.

Without a screen barrier, his face looked younger and more handsome, his short locs pointing every which-way on his head like tiny black antennas. The front door on the right opened and a pretty, dark brown-skinned woman stuck her head out.

"Mind ya business, Bertrand. She ain't here to see you."

"Lynn?" Celeste asked.

"It's me," Lynn said.

She opened her door wider and glanced back at her neighbor.

"Come on inside before anymore noisy birds stick they heads out," Lynn said.

Celeste stepped over the threshold and passed Lynn to get inside.

"Good Lord, gal, you got a head full of hair on you! How long you been growing it?"

Celeste touched her heavy and long bongo locs that fell down to her waist.

"Ten years now. Since I was a teenager."

"So thick and pretty. Betcha when you go swimming it's like fighting with an octopus, huh?"

Celeste grinned.

Lynn was much younger than she expected. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Out in the parish swamps, there was no telling how old melanated folks could be.

"Come on back here into my kitchen," Lynn said.

Celeste waited for her to lead the way and they walked past two rooms straight to the neat kitchen.

"Hungry?" Lynn asked. "Got some beans and rice on the stove. Frying up some pork chops, too. Go 'head and sit at the table."

Celeste took a seat at a small table with a pink plastic covering. The savory odor of red beans and seasoned, fried meat made her mouth water. Her stomach grumbled.

"Oh, yeah, you hungry. I'ma fix you a plate."

"Please, don't go to any trouble for me."

"Ain't no trouble. Got plenty. I made extra for you, anyway. Pregnant women gotta eat good."

Celeste stared at the woman. She wasn't even showing yet and never mentioned being pregnant over their phone call consultation. Did Mercy tell her?

"Don't get spooked, Celeste. I work as a mid-wife. I can smell a pregnant woman a mile away. Relax."

Celeste watched the young Hoodoo woman fix a big plate of string beans, red beans & rice and a thick cut of pork chop fried to golden brown perfection. She plopped it down in front of Celeste and fixed herself a plate, too. Her close-cropped brown hair had a cute undercut, and both her ears had at least seven small gold hoops pierced through them. She wore an off-the-shoulder white t-shirt and booty shorts for the heat. Her eyes were small for her face and were the only thing on her that looked mature. Had she not known any better, Celeste would've thought she was chatting with a senior in high school.

Lynn sat down across from her and held out her hand toward Celeste.

"I like to say grace over my meals," Lynn said.

Celeste clasped her hand, and a charge of energy seeped into her palm from Lynn. She closed her eyes as Lynn said a short, heartfelt prayer, then lifted a half loaf of Wonder bread from her table. She unfastened it and handed Celeste two pieces.

"Ooh, wait, I forgot some libations."

Lynn jumped up and brought back a large glass pitcher of fresh lemonade. She grabbed two plastic cups and poured them each a good fill.

"I don't have no ice cubes for it, sorry," Lynn said.

Celeste sipped and the sweet/tart taste was delicious and cold enough. Both women ate quietly for a few minutes, and after Celeste's third bite of her pork chop, Lynn stared at her directly with fierce chocolate eyes.

"Did you bring the things I asked for?"

Celeste nodded and pulled out a bundle from her purse and slid it to Lynn.

"I got some hair from a brush he used at my place, and summa his semen. We made love the last time I saw him and he wiped himself with a washrag and threw it in my dirty clothes hamper."

"Semen is good. Anything liquid from the body is good," Lynn said, collecting the items that Celeste stuffed in a little sandwich baggie.

"Tell me everything about this man you're looking for. From the beginning," Lynn said. "In order for me to make a root powerful enough to find him and bring him back, I gotta know every detail."

Those chocolate eyes stayed intense.

Celeste fought the urge to sip on the blood in her purse and took another healthy swig of lemonade from her cup before she told the tale, from top to bottom, of how Terry Richmond, a whole ass vampire, seduced her out of her panties, stole her heart, bit her, then left her with something growing in her belly that she was afraid of…

Chapter 2 HERE.

Masterlist

Tag List:

@nahimjustfeeling-writes

@planetblaque

@kindofaintrovert

@thedondada05

@blackburnbook

@avoidthings

@slutsareteacherstoo

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[gayaceramic-blog]

An oversized rice bowl for family-style dinners ... or maybe better as a sink?? Ha! Love ❤️ it!! . Hand thrown stoneware, black speckled glaze, 1300* C oxidation. . T-shirt by @toyoga_co Pyrites necklace by @anna_michielan Tattoo by @yleniacurotti_pmp . . . . . #gayaceramic #halfsleevetattoo #sink #bigbowl #ceramics #ceramic #porcelain #metal #luxury #michelinstar #handmade #style #homedecor #craft #pottery #kinfolk #interiordecoration #bowl #interiordesign #decoration #installation #table #tabledecoration #tattoo #restaurant #welovewhatwedo #bali #ubud #instacool (at Bali, Indonesia)

[dustedmagazine]

Fossilization — He Whose Name Was Long Forgotten (Transylvanian Tapes)

FOSSILIZATION - HE WHOSE NAME WAS LONG FORGOTTEN by FOSSILIZATION

Death has assumed numerous forms in humanity’s collective imaginary, and while the fossil is certainly evidence of something’s passing, we tend to use it ambiguously, as objective proof of death and as a way to summon the thing that once was. Big mock-ups of dinosaurs in museums of natural history, the curving forms of ammonites in beachside mineral shops, fragile mosquitoes trapped in hunks of amber — all of them invite us to see the beasts in motion, to eradicate the unthinkable sweep of time that separates us from lives turned to stone. São Paulo-based death metal band Fossilization tunes into the fossil’s manifest connections to demise (if not annihilation), and also into the object’s weirding relation to time. Long-ago, but present; distant but also in your palm, or looming before you. “Neanderthal Tomb,” the opening track of He Whose Name Was Long Forgotten, is almost too on the nose, its livid urgencies summoning one of modern humanity’s most archaic, atavistic kinfolk, and the figure of the tomb, into which all Neanderthals eventually tumbled. Species extinction? In our time of pandemic and accelerating climate change, maybe that’s not so distant a phenomenon, after all.

Fossilization plays an old-school sort of death metal (fittingly so…), which frequently slows to mid-tempo and doomy paces — no surprise there, since both members of the band also play in Brazilian doom project Jupiterian. Thiago Oliveira (guitars) and Paulo Pinheiro (drums) stick with their principal axes in Fossilization, but their playing demonstrates that they can also hurl themselves along with the most furiously fatalist of the many 1990s revivalists currently circulating grim noises via small-batch cassettes. He Whose Name Was Long Forgotten is smartly sequenced, allowing the band to strut, sprint and crawl to strong effect. “Blight Cathedral” commences with grand, elephantine riffing, deliberately expanding the drama of the music until the inevitable onslaught of blasts and growls sends the song an intense churn. The tape’s closing sequence is especially well staged, in which the title track’s chaotic intensities bottom out into the noisome, sluggard thump of “A Deplorable Epoch.”

There’s nothing particularly new here, but what else might you expect from a band called Fossilization? The music is cavernous and crunching, evoking a scrim of unpleasantly moist dust that renders a choking, claustrophobic sonic environment. “Neanderthal Tomb,” indeed. But the band plays with great verve and precision — it’s not easy to march in time with doom’s great, galumphing footfalls, then in the next measure to unleash the morbid, murderous energies of a song like “Blight Cathedral.” The duo’s backward-looking perspective accords with its interest in death metal’s traditions, the genre’s musical cathedrals to misery and rot. Somehow Fossilization manages to evoke any number of originary forms, but also to bring its brooding, gruesome songs to thunderous life.

Jonathan Shaw

[violetmuses]

Union || Epilogue

Dedications: We've reached the final chapter! Thanks so much for reading as always. @kestiscroft @cazzyimagines @stylesthesunflower

=====

2024

Tracee Wilson

“When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.” - Sophia Loren

“Sam!”

His footsteps almost tumbled down the hallway within seconds of me yelling from this bathroom. I’d stood in front of our mirror, but my hand trembled as I waited, almost dropping the test-stick by now.

As soon as the bathroom door swung open and I recognized his face, I allowed myself to smile.

“I’m...I’m pregnant.” I laughed, letting my eyes close and face downward as he took that test-stick off the sink.

“I’m so happy.” He whispered, gently hugging me as we stood in the mirror.

Despite what happened with Sharon one year ago, we moved on and allowed marriage to be our priority until Sam’s Captain American title kicked back into gear.

“Me too, Baby.” I kissed his cheek as we pulled away from each other, still taking in our circumstances.

“I’ll be here every step of the way. Don’t worry.” Sam held my hand, showing off that famously crooked but adorable smile.

“Thank you.” I’d felt extremely grateful for him, even as we stood in this slightly cramped bathroom together. Bucky, Sarah, AJ and Cass still shared the space with us of course, regardless of fitting bedrooms in the house too.

“Well, let’s go tell everyone.” Sam winked.

“Oh, no!” I chuckled, teasing my husband while holding my heart for just a second before we left the bathroom together.

________

“Are you serious?” Sarah’s eyes widened in the middle of breakfast and she clanked her forks onto an almost empty plate.

“That’s great!” AJ yelled, beaming towards Sam and I seconds later. Even Cass wouldn’t stop smiling by this point, either.

“Should we go ahead and start shopping for a crib, Sam?” Facing Sam and me, Bucky chimed in after drinking from his coffee cup.

“Thanks, but slow up, man. Tracee pregnancy hasn’t even reached the first trimester and we don’t even know our baby’s gender yet.” Sam answered, holding out his hand towards Bucky.

“Fine, I’ll settle down.” Bucky then rolled his eyes and scoffed, which prompted everyone to laugh at the table.

_____

“What?!”

We booted up this video chat with Torres later that day and my eardrum nearly bled as he shouted with joy on the phone.

“Yep. I just hope that you don’t mind possibly babysitting in the future.” Sam held the phone as I ate this spoonful of yogurt. We sat out on the pier together and just beamed all over again.

“Of course not. Anything for you two. Might have to child-proof my place in a few months, but it’s all right.” Torres laughed, glancing around his own messy living room during our call.

“Thanks for the support, man. We’ll keep you posted.” Sam said goodbye to Torres before hanging up and smiled, facing me not long afterwards.

“Now what? It’s not like I call my people next.” It was true. I was born an only child and my parents were long gone by now, watching over me from heaven. Most of the other family members weren’t close enough to visit, living their own lives, too.

Even our wedding ceremony had consisted of Sam’s family and the Delacroix community, leaving my personal end of kinfolk sparse. Few of my own relatives were fans of the Avengers, honestly, but I just didn’t care anymore..

“You’ve got us.” Sam draped his arm around my shoulder, reassuring me.

“Fair enough.” I sighed, watching as glorious orange and pink shades of one breathtaking sunset fell over this long horizon of the pier.

_______

“It’s a girl!”

Our princess, Maya Sabine Wilson, was born just a few days before Thanksgiving. We left the hospital after three days of checkups and last-minute reviews. Sam pulled up a chair every time, quietly fussing with far too many doctors all the while.

Now, Maya had turned three months old, carried around the house by Bucky and fascinated by his metal arm.

“Uh-oh, who’s stinky now?” I switched with Bucky to hold Maya and was in the middle of changing my daughter’s diaper when Sam lifted his cell phone near me.

I’ll answer it.” Sam told me before picking up that call. I nodded in silence, watching as I fastened the diaper in place and let Maya wiggle her small legs.

“Up we go.” I smiled, setting up a pacifier into Maya’s mouth and carrying her on my left hip again. Her growing head of dark hair soon fell onto my shoulder, but she faced Sam with loving brown eyes that reminded me of him.

“Hello?” Sam picked up, questioning whoever contacted us.

“Hi, Sam.” A woman answered Sam on the other line.

“Sharon, how did you get this number?” Sam lowered his voice to avoid frightening me as I held Maya.

“I have ways.” Sharon remained mysterious on the phone.

“What do you want now?” Sam kept whispering back to Sharon at this point. I completely understood.

“This call isn’t about me. Just know that someone else is looking for Tracee at this point.” Sharon cleared her throat on the other line.

“Hang up.” I mouthed to Sam. Enough was enough. We couldn’t spend the rest of our lives running, especially since Maya had been born.

“Sharon, if you tell me that Zemo has escaped The Raft again...” Sam trailed off his threat for Sharon, but still wouldn’t listen to me.

Instead of answering with the truth like a good person, Sharon only hung up on Sam moments later.

***

Post-Credits Scene

“What do you want now, Agent Carter?” Zemo turned off the flat-screen television soon after picking this phone call.

“Don’t give me that attitude, Zemo. We’ve got more shit to worry about.” Sharon snipped on the other line while speaking.

“I am disappointed.” Zemo said, scoffed as he paced back and forth in the hotel suite, once again freed from crutches of The Raft.

“Why?” Sharon almost laughed, but stopped herself.

“Because now you’re plotting revenge against her family. I planned revenge for my family.” Zemo furrowed his brow, clearly puzzled.

“It doesn’t matter. Valentina won’t help out and calling anyone else would leave me exposed. Are you going to finish the job or not?” Sharon lowered her voice, giving one final ultimatum.

“No.” Zemo ended this call and tossed that phone onto his bed, no longer caring Sharon Carter wallowed through her own dreaded concept of evil.

Despite his third chance of freedom, Zemo would never allow innocent people to suffer again.

[silkeared]

when  eternity  stretched  out  ahead   in  an  endless  line,  books  were  something  to  rely  on.  even  in  the  century  of  his  un - death,  calahan  knew  that  he  would  never  run  out  of  literature  ;  the  classics  he  was  yet  to  enjoy,  the  new  publications  and  the  almost  comedic  portrayals  of  his  kinfolk.  sparkly  skin,  super  spit  ...  they  kept  him  entertained  throughout  the  night  as  his  partner  slept,  an  easier  way  to  pass  through  a  promised  forever.  the  moment  the  sun  dimmed,  calahan  left  the  home  he  shared  with  his  boyfriend  —  and  his  pet  banshee  —  and  took  a  slow  amble  to  aphelion  to  pick  his  chosen  novel  for  the  night. the  overhead  bell  glittered  with  sound.  calahan  could  have  laughed  ;  for  years  he  had  existed  in  the  darkness,  moving  silently  as  though  he  had  become  the smoke  on  the  wind  himself.  now  his  arrival  was  greeted  by  the  song  of  metal  on  metal.  “i'm  more  interested  in  hearing  what  your  favorites  are.”  pale  fingers  moved  against  the  covers  of  the  front  display,  feeling  the  embellishments  and  embroidered  edges.  “and  if  you  say  dracula,  i'm  walking  straight  back  out  of  here.”

✧˚ · . 𝗙𝗢𝗥 ... open ! ✧˚ · . 𝗟𝗢𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 ... aphelion books !

the  orange  glow  of  twilight  filtered  through  the  windows  ,  bathing  the  bookshelves  of  aphelion  in  warm  hues.  golden  hour  had  always  been  ziggy’s  favorite  time  of  day  ;  it  reminded  him  of  gentle  birdsong  and  the  rustle  of  the  undergrowth  as  the  forest  animals  darted  back  to  the  shelter  of  their  burrows  ,  hunkering  down  to  weather  the  darkness  that  would  soon  follow.  dark  curls  bounced  with  every  movement  as  ziggy  danced  form  one  aisle  to  the  next  ,  precariously  balancing  a  stack  of  books  in  one  arm  as  his  other  hand  moved  to  tuck  them  away  into  their  designated  space  with  deft  fingers.  he  hummed  a  tune  under  his  breath  that  only  grew  still  when  the  gentle  tinkle  of  the  bell  attached  to  the  main  entrance.  the  nymph  grinned  ,  a  warm  ,  mega-watt  smile  that  could  light  up  a  room  brightening  his  expression  as  he  lifted  his  dark  gaze.  “  hey  ,  welcome  in  !  we  close  in  about  an  hour  ,  but  let  me  know  if  there’s  anything  i  can  help  you  with  !  we’ve  got  a  brand  new  display  of  mystery  novels  just  in  time  for  the  season  ,  if  you’d  like  to  take  a  look  !  “

[argyrocratie]

Between the 16th and 18th centuries, the Spanish, English, French, Dutch, Portuguese and Danish vied to control North, Central, and South America as well as the Caribbean islands. At that time, however, the Amerindians contrary to popular myth­­ were still the strongest military power in all of those areas, not discounting the breakup and conquest of the large Aztec and Inca empires. Thus, Europeans were forced to use a strategy of “divide and conquer,” forming alliances of convenience with and using the various Amerindian ethnic groups and confederations to fight each other, primarily to enslave the defeated and sell them to the Europeans, keep  all  of  them  off  balance  while  the  European colonies  were weak and, finaly, to police the enslaved africans and « indentured » whites.

 Outside of a small number of coastal enclaves where the Europeans could concentrate their power with the aid of ships and cannons, the only leverage they had over the militarily strong Amerindians was the use of their “trade goods.” Many Amerindians deeply desired these goods and eventually allowed themselves to become “enslavers”  –  on  a  massive  scale  –  in  order  to  acquire  the metal utensils, tools, jewelry, cloth, blankets, mirrors, guns and gunpowder, alcoholic spirits, knick knacks and other goods; either for use, status or in the case of the guns, powder, hatchets and knives – for sheer survival!

 It is true that the Amerindians practiced a form of enslavement prior to any contact with Europeans, however slavery’s overall effect on their societies was relatively mild, mainly because although  the  Amerindians  practiced  farming  on  a  broad scale,  the plantation farming introduced by the Europeans, which demanded huge numbers of tightly disciplined and overworked enslaved people, was unheard of… and undesired.

 Ironically, the Amerindians were successfully manipulated to become deeply involved in conflict with neighboring groups, the same way that on the continent of Africa vast numbers of people and wide expanses of land were simultaneously falling victim to an equally disastrous cycle of wars to enslave people for trade goods and weapons to defend themselves against enslavement.

 During  this early  period,  race,  as  it’s  viewed  today,  made little difference. After all, one could find Africans, Amerindians and whites all equally enslaved on the same plantations, in the towns and on ships. History shows clearly that all three cooperated with each other in rebellions, escapes and other enterprises. Indeed, such cooperation was always dreaded by the slave masters and was one of the primary reasons that the enslavement of whites and Amerindians was eventually phased out all over the western hemisphere.

Amerindians and whites found it easier to escape enslavement. The Amerindians knew the land and also had kinfolk to help or seek out. The whites could better blend in with free people, or join others moving to colonize other parts of the land. The Africans, on the other hand, had no such advantage. They either found sympathetic Amerindians to help them, or had to try to find and join with other runaways, called “Maroons,” fugitive enslaved people of North, Central and South America and the Caribbean islands who had set up their own communities.

 Africans continually escaped enslavement, from as far back as 1503 when they were first brought to this hemispher, and thus,Maroons were always active to a greater or lesser degree. The early Maroons were Africans, whites and Amerindians, and were viewed as a major threat to the entire institution of plantation slavery. In certain areas they threatened the elite colonizers domination and control of their colonies. In the elites’ calculation, any large Maroon community  stood  a  good  chance  of uniting  the  Amerindians  not addicted to their trade goods, with both the indentured and “poor whites,” and also the enslaved Africans – all of whom heavily outnumbered the landowning and other upper class whites.

- Russell Maroon Shoatz  « The real resistance to slavery in north america »

[roleplay-central]

One for Me (Berkova Blog)

The cleansing Rite went well, painful as usual in purging any taint from her. Yet still...Vanya couldn’t escape from the heady essence of vampire in her skin, and in her mind. Fortunately, she was skilled enough in her Gifts that she could hide any lingering scents or undead elements from her family’s sharp senses. Even her mother.

“I need not remind you, Vanya, what is at stake here. What has always been at stake.” Darina Berkova stared out the lime washed arched window from the third floor of House Berkova. The stygian queen of her gothic castle. Lightning flashed across snow covered mountains and illuminated her sleek silhouette.

Vanya only had a view of her back, but she was sure of what she would see if her mother had been facing her. No emotion, with molten coals burning in her deep sea gaze. Passive displeasure. As if Vanya’s presence was nothing more than an inconvenience. An expression she knew all too well.

“Do not think I am unfamiliar with the unwanted advances of greedy men. Every woman has a tale they must bear. You are no different. You cannot avoid him forever, skŭpi moĭ. You made this promise in blood by the witness of his Church, and our spirits. To go back on that pact is unforgivable.”

She placed a slim hand against the window pane as sleet pelted it from the outside. The heat from her touch fogged up the glass as she continued in her icy tone, “I expect you to hold your tongue, and your Rage. To do what you have been trained for. Taking orders. You know better than most that war and battles take many different forms. I taught you that.”

She paused as if to gather her next thought, “As unpleasant as this one is, to physically fight back would mean your death. By my own hands. Do you understand? Worse,” She finally turned around to pierce Vanya’s numb existence with her burning gaze, “harming the Child of Lazarus would put the rest of your family at risk with the Society of Leopold. I certainly need not remind you of the history of the Inquisition. Their vengeance is fueled by dangerous zealotry. It often comes swift and recklessly, burning everything in its path.”

Vanya did not move from her spot, the tight pull of her Dutch braid the only relief to the ache forming behind her eyes, “I will meet with him.”

Darina bared her teeth, “More than that, you will do whatever you can to keep him happy.” She turned back around, loosely holding her hands behind her back, “He and his Provincials still want something of ours. I do not intend to ever give it to them, but you will make sure he believes we will.”

“I understand.”

“If you fail me again, Vanya. There will be no more exemptions. Even if you are my blood.”

Vanya bowed although Darina wouldn’t see it. Without another word, she turned and left her mother’s library.

The cold stone of Vanya’s private quarters stung the warmth of her naked soles. She stood in front of her vanity mirror in a simple white night shift. The antique wood carvings that framed the mirror matched the embroidery of her gown. Intricate thorny vines. No flowers.

She tilted her head, the heavy braid swinging to the side. She tilted her head again to swing it the other way. An old memory resurfaced. That’s right, she used to do this as a child, staring at her unfamiliar image.

“You used to do that when you were younger. And then you stopped looking at yourself in the mirror.” The familiar slithering of a man’s voice echoed through her chamber. All too intimate. “I wonder why that is.”

She didn’t bother turning around, knowing who it was just by the scent that wafted in from the hallway.

Her heavy iron door shut behind him with a soft click.

“We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we? Do you remember the games we used to play?” Tap. Tap. Tap. Each hard click of his metal capped cane on the stone floor knocked against the thick hide of her numbness.

“You were only human in those days. Just Kinfolk child to your family when you were promised to me. But I think even then I knew you were special.” He came up behind her, touching her braid, pulling it over her shoulder with the slightest caress to the crook of her scarred neck as they both stared at her reflection.

“Tonight, we will play different games.” The Russian in his voice thickened, “Go to the bed.”

The tempest of her cloudy gaze brightened with electric flashes of her Rage.

“No.”

Their eyes finally met in the mirror and his amber glare glowed in return with searing golden magic. Fiery and intent. In the flames of his scrutiny she could see the tormented ghosts of the souls he’s ever burned alive. Turned to ash. Each weary line of his face like a tally to mark every supernatural being he crushed beneath his righteous boot, evil or not. No mercy. No remorse.

He was a formidable beast all his own. To think her strength was superior would underestimate his experience with hunting creatures like her. It was enough to make an eager Garou pup squirm.

Yet all she could think of was the handsome vampire and his deep scarlet stare. Wild. Half manic. Unpredictable and sometimes cold in its branding intensity. Her small body shuddered at the memory of their last encounter...the taste on her lips, then her tongue. More. She wanted more of that. Of him. Not...this...

“I hate to ask a second time, little wife.” As if sensing the forbidden trajectory of her thoughts, the sorcerer’s face grew tight with prideful anger and impatience. “I said...get on the bed.” He struck his cane hard on stone.

The next thing she knew, she was laying across the mattress on her back. She pulled her arms in, only to find them restrained by thick iron shackles. Her ankles sported the same sort of accessories, bolted to the posts of her large bed frame. Danger, her wolf spirit howled. Trapped.

She narrowed her eyes when she couldn’t shift into Glabro. Or any form. The instinct to fight, defend, and Rage burned through her limbs as she calmly pulled on her new bonds. Magically reinforced.

So, he came prepared.

They would not last long. If she tried. But the whip of her mother’s voice became yet another shackle on her retaliation.

“The innocence between those legs. I may not be a wolf, but I can smell it.” He inhaled deep with his eyes closed, brushing gloved fingertips against his nose as if he was close enough to taste.

Her knees involuntarily pressed together, shoulders cramping with tension. Yet she would not allow her mask to slip.

He suddenly disappeared, reappearing up on the wide mantel above her fireplace. He stood there, looking down as he pointed the raven skull of his cane at her, “Already in your thirties, and still untouched. God has continued to spare you for me. Another gift that blesses our reunion. But do not worry, little wife. I will not deflower you tonight. Or the next. That will come when you are ready. When you come begging me for it.”

He spun his cane around to hold it like a bow. With his free hand he pretended to load and pull back the string. Magic converged between his fingertips, manifesting into the shape of a golden arrow made of whispering flames.

“How about a new game, little wife? If I hit you, I will set one shackle free. But every time I miss, I get a kiss. Anywhere I like.” He let the magic arrow fly. It screeched through the air in a flash.

She didn’t flinch when it struck the mattress between her thighs, narrowly missing pale flesh, but the hard pounding of her heart rushed through her ears.

He grinned and drew another magic arrow, “One for me.”

[gemsalive]

[brim of my mage cap trembling where it presses up against the cold unforgiving metal of the barrel] they won’t. let you remember your history, home, and culture, causing you to feel that your only option left for reconciliation is to turn to your mortal enemy and the only person left who could ever possibly understand. because of kinfolk

they won’t let you reach out to hover a hand forever just shy of your companion’s shoulders, all the while oblivious to how screamingly desperate they really are for a touch that will never come anymore. because of Joke

[wolf-with-no-pelt]

Alleliuah-Skye Maccon

The Important Bits

Names: Alleliuah-Skye Maccon. 

Previous Names: Alleliuah-Skye Faolán || Lady of Winter’s Thorns ||  Wolfheart

Deednames: None.

Species: Changeling (Beast Hunterheart) || Kinfolk: Get of Fenris/Fianna by Marriage

Birthday: Unknown (July 21)

Location: Three River Valley Sept

Appearance

Eye Color: Dark, bruise-violet.

Hair Color: Golden and wildly curled.

Skin Color: Tanned.

Fashion Sense: Old, worn and comfortable. Her husband’s shirt, a pair of tattered jeans and her old boots are her favorite outfit.

Tattoos: None.

Scars: The canvas of her frame is littered with a variety of scars, some ritual, some earned, some given. Ritual scars: Large wings spread over her back, while an eye is centered in between them, against her spine. What used to be a thorny vine wrapped around her left bicep, but has been since mangled. Against her right shoulder are claw marks. On the left between the joint and her collarbone is an open triquetra. Around her navel is a crescent moon connected to a half sun with wandering rays. A Black Spiral Dancer once carved his name into her lower back, but that has been since burnt and healed off.

Mien: That golden hair of hers seems to be all the more wild and crazed, bristling with a life all its own. There are eyes hidden in her hair, that allow her to see all around her, as a manifestation of her paranoia. Her eyes are the bright amber of a wolf's, and her canines are enlarged, and she has sharp nails and pointed ears. Her scars remain.

Personality: Alleliuah is a quiet woman, but violent. Quiet only when things are calm, but at the blink of an eye, her temper can take over. Constantly swimming in the mire of a world she barely knows, PTSD and memories, along with the clean cut demand for survival, she has no qualms jumping into the thick of battle. Conversely, she's not great at showing her affection, but she will sacrifice herself without a thought for her loved ones.

Weapons: 

A war hammer forged by Gideon "Smiles-Until-Dawn" Sawyer of iron, oak and the bones of her fallen brothers, which has been imbued with Nymph magicks by Verena Ironbourn for maximum impact. 

She also wields a broadsword, originally Gideon's that she has recently discovered has the magick of flames embedded within the metal.

A Shadow Lord Fang Dagger.

A Skin-Dancer’s skinning knife

Dragon-Piercer, a Grand-Klaive Fetish previously owned by Wilhelm

Likes: 

Cherries

Macarons

Blackwater Whiskey

Wood Carving

Relaxing in her Hammock

Blacksmithing

Dislikes: 

Heat

Winter

Being Belittled

Slavery

Relationships

Current Lover: Rory “Red Hill” Maccon {Husband}

Former Lovers: Kael, The Lord of Winter’s Thorns  ||  Kana

Family: 

Wilhelm "Thunder-Howler" Faolán (Adopted Brother {Deceased}) 

Nelly Faolán (Sister-in-law) 

Kylar & Desmond Faolán (Nephews)

Duncan Deathbearer (Adopted nephew/packmate)

Arlene Iceheart (packmate)

Painted-Eyes (packmate {Deceased})

Speaker-of-Kings (packmate {Deceased})

Sees-Only-Blood (Adopted son) 

Fjord Maccon (Son {Deceased})

Friends: 

Kolina "Bloodsinger" Forepaw 

Mina Hudson 

Maximus "Rises From White Flames" Bloodwalker

Nadya "Luna's Claw Striking to Darkness" Aleksandra 

Gideon "Smiles Until Dawn" Sawyer {Deceased}

Mentor: Siv “Witchhunter” Kramer

Enemy: 

Tamaris

Kael, The Lord of Winter’s Thorns 

Eolian 

Ramiro  

Adam Haupt

The Story

Alleliuah was born on Hellifyno, in the mountainous region of the Northern Continent as the product of bastardized creatures. From the spoiled breeding of Fenrir wolves, and Fae magicks came a kinfolk with gnosis. This oddity led to the interest of the Lord of Winter’s Thorns, who took her as a Bride & Hunter. Over the years, her memory of her homeland was reduced to dim recollection.

Alleliuah's bizarre existence and bloodline from the Hand of Tyr, as well as being blessed by Gnosis made her attractive to the Lord. She became his wife and personal guard dog who accompanied him on hunts and was sent with a partner, Kana, from time to time to track down prized Changelings that had yet to get through the Hedge. He also enjoyed setting his dogs and changelings to fight in The Furnace during full moons. 

Occasionally, Alleliuah was kept in a cage with the other beasts, but often slept beside her husband. Like all Fae, he ran hot and cold and would often punish her, or simply neglect her. 

It was during one of these periods when she managed to make her escape. Tracking down a Changeling with Kana, who had fled, they were attacked by the woman. Alleliuah fell into a frozen river when it cracked, and was sucked below the ice. A great Leviathan of a Beast guarded a Hedge Gate hidden under the Glaeyze River, and it was pure luck that Alleliuah managed to get through.

FURTHER STORY

Centuries ago, Beowulf defeated Grendal and was crowned. But the life of luxury for the Fenrir was not in his interests. He began to seek out other monsters to slay. His Court's Mage located a powerful artifact in the midst of this, held by an incredibly powerful Fae. They managed to make it to Arcadia, but found themselves fighting a losing battle.

Some managed to stumble out of the Hedge on sheer accident, making their home in the mountains of the Northern Continent. Others, did not. Over time, they were pursued and forced to breed, and became warped by the magicks of Arcadia. As the decades and centuries wore on, they grew to be pale shades of what they once were. Limited to a single form, an archaic, garbled form of the garou tongue and loyal to an absolute fault. Hardy, relentless and violent. Those that did not make the cut, were left to roam. Those that did, were the Hounds of the Wild Hunt. The Lord of Winter's Thorns had been raising these wolves to fill in the ranks of his hunting packs, as well as his own personal Wild Hunt for changelings that escaped him.

The Lord of Winter's Thorns was a True Fae that had been corrupted over the years by a tainted circlet once created by the Bastet to mimic the Silver Fang crown. It had given him dreams and visions over the years, culminating to a War where Wyrm hopes to destroy the Garou that have arrived.

Contracts: 

Beast's Blessing: She has a supernatural affinity with wolves, and has a powerful personal magnetism about her.

Hunterheart Blessing: Her teeth and nails are far stronger than a mortal's and can deliver lethal damage.

Relentless Endurance: She can take grievous amounts of damage, but sequester the pain to the back of her mind and ignore it. Once the scene is over however, it comes back.

Lady Luck: Good fortune seems to follow her. However, usage of this Contract invites terrible consequences.

Trespasser's Spoor: Once the changeling writes their name on the entrance in chalk and blood, they may sense any threats that enter their territory.

Wildwalker: After sleeping outdoors, a changeling can freely move through nature with no obstacles.

Beast's Keen Senses: If the changeling touches an animal-type of their contract, they acquire the senses of that animal.

Nevertread: By stopping to cover a single footprint and expending the Glamour, all of her footsteps from there on until the Contract ends, will be obscured. Only supernatural means will be able to track her path. As a Beast, she can extend this coverage to benefit those that travel with her. Even when the Contract has ended, the footsteps that were covered, will remain covered.

Might of the Terrible Brute: The changeling drains her opponent's strength to boost her own.

Red Revenge: By calling out to all of the hatred and misery in the world, she can summon her wrath like an aura. Her skin blisters and splits, and blood surrounds her in a haze. It acts like an armor, moves quicker and incites fear in the opponent. It causes her to go berserk.

Trusty Blades: The changeling cannot be easily disarmed, and rearming or drawing blades is done reflexively.

Song of Flashing Steel: By using this clause, the changeling calls to her hand a weapon with which she is familiar that is in line of sight (or in the same world by expending Willpower). The blade will avoid all obstacles in its path there, bar solid barriers.

Gifts:

Ice Echo: She can conjure a perfect reflection of herself. The image is identical to the her, except that it is reversed, as though seen in a mirror (so any writing on her clothing would be backwards, scars would be on the wrong side, etc.) She can control the image easily, giving it voice and guiding its motion. Taught by the Wendigo lupus ancestor spirit, Little - Bear.

Howl of the Banshee: The werewolf emits a fearful howl that causes those who hear it to run in terror. A Banshee —  a mournful spirit of the dead — teaches this Gift.

Speech of the World: This Gift allows Gaia’s warriors to read and wield the spirit of speech, bypassing the need to learn different languages and dialects. The Garou may speak and understand any human language she encounters, though she speaks with an obvious accent, marking her as an outsider. Speech of the World doesn’t convey literacy, nor is it an encyclopedia of cultural information. An ancestor-spirit teaches this Gift.

Rite of the Hunting Ground: Lupus Garou mark their territory by urinating on trees and bushes. After the rite, no wolf or Garou can come into the area without immediately realizing they have entered another's territory. There is no compunction not to enter, however. Typically, the Garou must spend an hour marking her territory. Special messages, such as a greeting to other Garou, can be left as well.

Voice of the Jackal: This rite is performed when a Garou's behavior has shamed not just herself, but her entire sept or tribe. When the ritemaster performs this rite, he blows a handful of dust or ashes onto the offender and speaks the following: "Because thy (cowardice/gluttony/selfishness/etc.) has proved thee to be of jackal blood, let thy voice proclaim thy true breed!" As the dust and words envelop the punished Garou, her voice changes. Thereafter, she will speak in an annoying shrill and piercing nasal whine until the ritemaster repeals the punishment.

Aesthetics

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Quote: Aut viam inveniam aut faciam. If I cannot find a way, I will make one.

[daftydrafty]

OC Introduction

Meet Rheia DeMaren Evryali, a 5′4″ spitfire bard, currently traveling alone.

A Tomarbin, a race of Demi-Gorgons that specifically travel, barter, and trade with all the cities and races in Vrevell, Rheia looks almost perfectly human. Dark brown curls, a dancer’s build, and brown eyes tinted with gold. All races that live in the Gelgeas Plains share that trait, with tints of metallic gold in their eyes, no matter what their primary color would be.

Nicknames: in childhood, some of Rheia’s cousins near her own age would call her “Rhe-rhe”. Currently the nickname making its way through the Clans is “Songbird”, a nickname she finds infuriatingly predictable and ludicrous for a follower of the Mother Serpent.

Rheia frequently smells of the tea that she drinks like water, and whatever fruit is in season. There are many blends of tea that her people mix, so the exact notes vary depending on the season and the brew she chose most recently.

She’s vain over her olive-toned skin and even features that many find attractive, also over her long curls that are most usually left down or partially down.

Generally cheerful with a social nature, Rheia likes to spend her free time in Taverns. The opportunity to observe people, cheap food and drink, and the likelihood of nudging the mood towards song and dance make the atmosphere well suited to her.

Rheia’s greatest prides are in her skills in music, dance, jewelry crafting and bartering. As a bard, she is a skilled songstress. In fact, sound/music/voice is the medium her in-born magic expresses through. She’s not as strong a dancer as she would like to be, but does well enough in her performances.

Her secret shame is that, while many of her kinfolk have taken advantage of the boats and ships going across the southern coast, Rheia has never stepped foot on any water vessel. She cannot swim, and is terrified of drowning. She has no fear of bath houses or bathing in streams where her feet can touch the bottom. You’ll never get her to go farther than waist-deep, though.

A traveler, Rheia makes her home in the carriage and storage wagon that are her mode of transportation. She stockpiles valuable goods to sell as a supplement to her earnings from song and dance.

Rheia is a great barterer, and only occasionally uses her magic to persuade a deal to go in her favor. Usually when she senses that she is being cheated. Tomarbins value a fair deal, but the definition of “fair” is flexible, and so she will often tip the scale a little further in her favor if she can. Just to balance out the insult.