#Nameless Asterism

[shiori42art]

Here I come with some doodles of the Reincarnation AU of the wonderful @tsarinaserenity 🫶🏻✨ Here you have this Preggy Divine Dorian! (NamelessBard)

Some outfit sketches! Yes. This could also be a Zelda AU AND I'M HAPPY, LOOK AT THEM!

AND!! I present to you the new son of KnightBard 🥹✨(His name is Aster because of the Windwheel Aster, makes sense if his sister is Cecilia) He has small pointy ears in this AU because he was conceived in the divine form 😌 Ignores that he looks like a vampire, it's his father's eyes' fault!

The "Horny Pose" from Preggy Dorian is a pose birds often do when they are in heat, including Dvalin (My budgie) Ass up, lost gaze 🫡 The reference! Lol ⬇️

[imari4444]

Happy birthday venti! (Some short comics I made for today, but they’re really rushed and I only colored in the first comic so the other two are more like glorified sketches ✨👍👍)

[ohcitron]

my best friends

[aster-go-brrr]

a while ago i had this idea for a thing where present day venti is actually a fusion between sprite venti and the nameless bard's dead body. idk if it's lore compliant or not but it sure is vibey <3

[spurbleu]

where the aster grows

neighbor!price x fem florist!reader

ch 2. impressions s. you threw a pail at your neighbor

You’ve got a good throw.

Perhaps not the first thing John should notice about the situation, given the fact he can feel the quiet familiarity of blood dripping down his temple, or the throb that follows its decent. But as you corner yourself by one of the labor tables, a road deer gasping for the air stolen by his entrance, it’s really the only thing he can think about.

“Who the hell are you?”

Guilt bubbles at the surface of his mouth, but it doesn’t take him long to remember himself. He’s no stranger to recoveries, and this entire first impression lacked any remnant of manners. But it’s never too late to find them.

He would also like to avoid meeting his end to a garden shovel, of all things.

John clears his throat, running a hand up the column of his neck.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you- my name is John Price; I live next door.” He’s got a voice for times like this- lowers it a half octave, baritone an inch slower than his usual cadence. Uses it for spooked civilians, or soldiers blinking back death. Wouldn’t call it comforting, but it’s close. Enough that after he uses it, your shoulders unhook themselves from the lobe of your ears.

He adds a slouch. A neutral position, drawing commonality between polar opposites. It’s as non-threatening as he’s able to look. “I’m Penny’s owner.”

Anxiety melts like molasses. Starts at your neck- stretching into a polite slouch. The aim of your arm dissolves by your side. Your breath slows, and for a moment so does time. Your eyes are blown wide, silting sunlight and the last bits of apprehension towards his stranger.

They are the brightest color in the room.

“P-Penny?”

He smiles. “The cat?”

As if on cue, a bolt of fur scampers to his boots- doing calculated twists between his ankles. He picks her up gently and scratches the spot behind her ear. “She lives part time in this store. With the owner when I’m gone. Must have snuck in here,” he holds her in front of his face with a stern expression, “been lookin’ for an hour. You devil.”

He steals a glance at you, past Penny’s head. The guilt swarms his throat for a second time, seeing your fear replaced with absolute mortification.  

“I- oh my god. You’re bleeding. I threw a pail at you.” Your face flushes. Cute. “I am so so sorry.”

John chuckles. “Don’t be. I made such a fuss opening the door I can imagine I scared you,” glad you have good aim sits on his tongue, but he bites it when he soothes his mouth into a gentle line. No need to soil the impression any further, now that he had just ironed out the broken silks.

“I don’t think I got your name...?”

A beat.

You offer it like its acid on your teeth. Spits it out with the last bits of terror, like a cavity that burns. But unlike the delivery, it’s soft. Curves along the line of your jaw, relaxes around your silhouette in a film that’s drunk on horizon’s champagne. Spills onto the white tiles of the floor by his feet.

Doesn’t even realize that he’s saying it back to you until he catches its last syllable on the back of his teeth. He blinks. “It’s…nice to meet you.”

John categorizes silence into two boxes.

Treasured. Costal nowhere. One in the morning. A city where all anyone does is sleep. The drag of his cigar. The pockets amid time and place that remain nameless. It gives a finite peace that John runs dry.

And then there’s this.

Stiff. Premeditates chaos. The quiet before a grenade, the cotton ears after. The hospital when someone dies, and the emptiness they leave behind. The death of conversation between a beautiful woman, and her impolite neighbor.

John will always put it out as quickly as possible.

“Well, I’ll get out of your h-“

“Let me help you.”

The silence fractures into small sounds. A wire snaps, wine cork pops, pin drops, among other fictions. The air that surrounds you beckons a peculiar clarity. Narrows when John sees you smile for the first time. What he did to earn it is beyond him. “Help me with what?”

You tap your temple. “Your head. I... You’re bleeding. I have an aid in the back,” the look he gives you must be telling, because then you say, “please.”

Christ.

“Alright.” Is all he can muster, albeit it comes out parched. You nod and scamper off to the back door.

Your absence allows him to soak the store in.

He’s been in plenty of times, so its layout isn’t alien. But he supposes that part of its charm is that it feels that way. Beyond familiarity. Every time he’s been in, he notices a new detail.

A freshly kilned pot. A corner section with seasonal flowers. You.

This time, he draws his focus to the carnations by the window. Red and alive, unfurls its buds with a grace he’s only ever seen in nature. He lets his hand come to lift the petals and smiles at himself.

He feels ridiculous, drawing so much depth from a flower, but its caretaker taught him the bizarre empathy.

The old woman would probably laugh at him.

“Uh…John, was it?”

He turns around, letting his hand fall back into his pocket. He doesn’t know why he feels caught, but the heat rises to his neck before he can stop it. “Yes.”

“Here,” You shove various gardening paraphernalia and metals from one of the work benches, push down to check its stability before stepping aside, “take a seat.”

The joke falls before he can stop it. “Aren’t we a little old to play doctor?”

Doesn’t regret it, because it makes you laugh. The hair on his neck rises, and he feels like a teen again, seeing a playboy for the first time. Since when did laughter have the same effect on him as cleavage?

Must have been sometime after 35.

He pulls himself onto the bench and grimaces when the oak whines. You snort. “Don’t worry. They hold anything.”

His eyes squint. “Didn’t you just check it?”

You bring your gaze down to grab an antiseptic wipe, a failed effort to hide your smile. “Nothing wrong with playing it safe.”

He hums. “Forgot I’m talking to the woman who throws pails at strangers.”

He flinches when you swipe chemicals across the cut. Undoubtedly to shut him up. “Maybe don’t break into your neighbors store.”

He rolls his eyes as you find a bandage. “I wouldn’t’ve if you weren’t holding my cat hostage.”

This gets you to step away. “Hostage? She was lounging in the window!”

“Clearly, she was trying to signal for help.”

A third, new silence bloats between you. He doesn’t have time to name it before it dissolves into eased laughter. You go back to applying the bandages while he vehemently ignores the soft feeling of your fingers against his face.

Kate’s words come back to him slowly. The same old song she’d been singing since she got married. Rhymes of settling down, making a home for himself, letting someone else take up the fight. He sees glimpses of these futilities every so often. Like he is now.

Niceties that fatten up the bones of his dreams and cushion the dull blow of walking into an empty home. Having someone there to wait for him. Normal. It bakes the room in a tenderness he can’t remember the last time he’s had.

But in the end, he knows none of this is real. Not in the ways Kate talks about.

Doesn’t stop him from noticing your barren ring finger, though.

“I think…I know why she got trapped.”

He glances at you as a response. Your shoulders have gotten noticeably heavy.

“My grandmother owned this place. She passed away last week.”

Oh.

“My dad must have closed up while she was in the hospital,” your voice breaks, before mending with a scoff, “he’s not very observant. Probably missed her,” she looks over her shoulder before scratching Penny’s cheek with a gentle somber, “glad there was an automatic feeder in the back.”

Despite being well acquainted with death, John Price never knows how to greet him.

Silence and wallowing are classics, but given the troughs under your eyes it would be both inappropriate and apathetic. He’d offer a cigar, but that’s only really been a hit with his soldiers, and he sincerely doubts you’d be the type grieve with tobacco.

So, he tries to picture your grandmother. A reflection of himself, 4 decades from now. Creased and warm. The way her cheeks folded around her smile. How her voice, too, was wrinkled. When she thanked him for lifting the new shipments or calling his cat Penny-girl. The subtle tremble of her hands, and youthful eyes that betrayed her age.

If grief is memory, that’s the best he can do. Looks harder, and he sees her resemblance in you.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he internally scolds himself for the cliché, but you seem to appreciate it, “I feel very lucky to have known her.”

That makes you smile. “Yeah, most people do.”

You clear your throat, and John doesn’t miss how you swipe your cheek with the back of your hand. He opens his mouth to say something, before reminding himself that he is still a stranger. No outstretched hand or comforting words take up the space a loved one leaves behind.

He’s observed this truth dozens of times, in spouses, parents, children. News about his own failings as a captain to bring someone home. Although it’s unwarranted in the claustrophobic place he sits in now, that same guilt capsizes when he sees you sniffle.

“Anyway,” you start, “I thought you should know, given the fact you were neighbors and…” you pick up Penny, who purrs in your arms, “apparently shared custody of her.”

He enjoys the sight of his cat in your arms more than he cares to admit.

“Thank you, I’m sure Penny will miss her,” he lips quirk, “she always did spoil her rotten.”

You pull Penny out from your embrace, so she faces you. “Don’t worry, I’ll spoil her just as much as Ma did.”

John does not mask his surprise. “Will you be staying?”

You turn to him, a genuine smile playing on your lips.

“Yes, with the shop and the house,” somewhere behind him, a flower unfurls itself from the final folds of its petals when you stretch out your hand, “I’m your new neighbor.”

Spring begins when he shakes it, and John has never been more afraid of anything in his life.

[antiquatedsimmer]

The Bramblewood property was more mausoleum now than a home, a decaying monument to everything Silas had lost. Whatever frontier charm it once held or scraps of any family legacy that clung to the land, had been long gone after Silas tore it down.

Each storm dragged the place a little deeper into the earth. The greedy, waterlogged ground swallowed the foundation inch by inch, and with every gust of wind, the house groaned through its rotting bones.

The floor around him was a graveyard of empty bottles, their glass throats tilted upward in what felt like cruel laughter. This was where his money had gone, not to food, not to warmth but into the endless, fruitless search for Josephine.

He could have left. Should have.

Started over in some dusty nowhere. Changed his name. Worked with his hands. Survived.

But the idea of starting again, made something deep in him twist with rage. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was not the one to blame.

This was her doing....no, both of them. Josephine & Lucile.

He dropped his face into his hands. His body shook, but whether it was from fury or grief or the slow crawl of madness, even he couldn’t tell anymore. Those feelings had blurred long ago into something nameless.

… maybe he couldn’t brute-force his way through this one.

The thought slipped in quiet, like poison. For the first time he cracked jut a little.

Maybe there was still time.

He still had a skill, one worth something. Europe was at war. Men were dying every hour, and someone had to build things back up. Not as a soldier. But just a helpful hand that could pull him out of this grave. He was nearly 30, he could find a job, a place to live...maybe someone who could love him...If he couldn't find them then maybe-

A crack of lightning lit the walls in stark white. A heartbeat later, thunder followed... Silas flinched, and the his daydream was cut short.

He reached lazily for the nearest bottle. Just a swallow left would do. Even a drop. Just something to keep the thoughts from growing teeth.

He tipped it. Nothing.

"…Empty," he muttered.

Just as he was about to bless the wall with another bottle something about it caught his eye.

The label.

Meanwhile, at the Doyle estate.

Rose, Aster & Daisy celebrated their 15th birthday!

[anemoi-i]

I swear, some of Mondstadt's best lore is behind either it's weapon series and/or weapons that detail Mondstadt's history.

Take a look at Freedom Sworn:

They say that a region's character follows that of its archon, and that this holds true both for the people and the land itself. But was it the unfettered archon who bestowed a love of freedom and wine upon the land and people amidst conflict? Or was it the people who nurtured the Anemo Archon's love of freedom as they pined for it amid the howling wind and frost?

The description goes on to say, "this is a question that can no longer be answered." But is this really true? Barbatos was a wind sprite by the nameless bard's side who observed his and the people's desire for freedom and the people of Mondstadt cared about their freedom. At that point in time, you can assume that Barbatos did NOT know he was going to ascend to become the Anemo Archon, so when he did, he became a newborn God who didn't really know what he wanted to be God of. Decarabian was called the God of Storms, but Barbatos is the God of Wind and Freedom. Had it been him strictly replacing Decarabian, he would be called the God of Storms, but he is not, and that is an important distinction. Sure, storms can be a result of harsh winds, but you'll remember that the winds of Mondstadt are always gentle and it is for this reason that Windwheel Asters can thrive and those that have watched for storms have a job "they hope they will never have to do" (based off a certain Mondstadt commission).

For the previous question, whether or not it was Barbatos that bestowed a love of freedom and wine to the people or whether or not the people nurtured Barbatos' love for freedom, why can't it be both? Barbatos saw the people suffering and next to the nameless bard, would come to understand the importance of their wishes and strive to make it so the people did not suffer again, even coming to the aid of Vennessa under the aristocracy centuries later.

It began with the people nurturing his love for freedom and ended with Barbatos carrying on their memories and ambitions, ensuring their efforts would not be in vain.

[m0thb0x]

name ideas pt1: ft - all our alters names

Abyss, Ace, Achillies, Adventurer, Alex, Apple, Archer, Archie, Art, Arti, Aspen, Aster, Astrid, Atlas, August, Axyl, Basil, Bear, Bee, Ben, Blue, Bones, Bonnie, Boo, Boomer, Boris, Borl, Bottle, Calip, Callie, Calypso, Candy, Cast, Charlie, Chayanne, Chloe, Cloud, Clown, Cody, Cole, Colin, Color, Connor, Corvead, Cosmos, Crow, Crowley, Cryptid, Cypher, Daemon, Daffodil, David, Daz, Delta, Dew, Dex, Doughy, Dr Sunshine, Dream, Dylan, Eli, Emry, Ender, Enot, Erin, Eris, Evan, Fang, Fawn, Fazbear, Felix, Fern, Flowey, Flynn, Foxy, Freddy, Fundy, Funtime, Ghostbur, Gummy, Hayley. Horse, Illiad, Ink, Isaac, Iv, Jack, Jacob, Jake, Jasper, Jax, Juno, Kai, Kirby, Kitzo, Kyra, Kyri, Leif, Levi, Lily, Limbo, Link, Lukas, Mabel, Mae, Majora, Mako, Malachai, Mangle, Mask, Meeko, Melo, MI, Micheal, Mimic, Mistress, Monster, Moon, Mrs Delight, N, Nameless, Nathan, Nexus, Nick, Night, Nightcat, Nightmare, Nikki, Oddity, Omori, Ori, Otherbur, Papyrus, Pathfinder, Pebbles, Philza, Plauge, Possom, Proxy, Rain, Ranboo, Raven, Reaper, Remi, Ren, Reverie, Revive, Riv, Riven, Rivult, Rose, Sage, Saint, Sal, Sammy Lawrence, Sans, Scar, Seros, Silas, Siren, Six, Slime, Sneeg, Spear, Spearmaster, Spencer, Springtrap, Sprinkles, Star, Strawbee, Sun, Sundrop, Survivor, Survy, Tallulah, Taz, Techno, Teddy, Terror, Tessa, The Puppet, Theseus, Timan, Toby, Tommy, Toriel, Trevor, Tubbo, Twilight, Valem, Ven, Venus, Vesper, Vio, Violet, Vive, Void, Webber, Wilbur, William, X, Zane, Zer0, Zero

Written by: Crow 📚🌿 - they/he/she Q: What names does the collective go by? A: Moth, Ren, Leaf, Bones, Box, Demetri, Demi, Phantom, and Ghost! We mostly go by Moth and Ren though!

[carinelian]

[10] Roses in a barren land

Also posted at Tapas here (and the rest, all for free!)

Once, Aster’s nameless prison mate had shared a story. 

It was about a child he'd found in the outskirts, a little girl with a gap in her teeth and a rose’s blush in her cheeks. She was a sprightly little thing that didn’t belong in the bitter cold, so the story went. Aster had been torn between interjecting that he grew up in the outskirts to asking whether or not this little girl was the prisonmate’s actual, blood-related child. 

A small part of him had the sinking feeling that this child may as well be imaginary, like all the other characters that the man had conjured to pass time. It happened sometimes, in the haze of hunger, cold, and imminent death. Aster had sworn that he wouldn’t laugh if this was the case. 

But all these remained in his thoughts, as the man passionately recounted his ‘encounters’. Aster had yet to put a face on the voice, much less a name, but he imagined a bright-eyed man on the cell across from him, whose light refused to be snuffed out.   

“Children are children no matter if they came from Elyssia or Taratus,” the voice echoed, carrying over the thoughts and sentiments of its owner from the cell across. “But children born and raised in hell are built differently. I offered her food, and guess what, she offered me to thieves!” 

He burst into laughter, a rare sound that was unheard of in the Fortress since the man joined their ranks. 

“Your food will only last her a day,” Aster reasoned, “but selling you out may feed her for three days. If she has a family, then shorter. Surely you get the logic.” 

“My body is worth more than a day!” Came an affronted reply. 

“Oh yeah?” Aster called out. “My apologies, I couldn’t tell.” 

“My face alone is a national treasure,” the other prisoner insisted, completely taken by his own, self-proclaimed beauty. “Those band of thieves, they actually mistook me for a woman at first! It would’ve been the end of me, but thankfully, I managed to escape.” 

His prison mate had then proceed to narrate a tale of his grand escape from the thieves, from managing to persuade his guards to step inside his cell, how he managed to knock them out, and discreetly run away from camp –  definitely exaggerated details, Aster thought, because if the man had been that good, then he would’ve broken out of Serberos already. 

This was a prevalent theme for his prison mate. On nights that the fortress was too cold and the walls closed in, he would regale the cells, both occupied and empty, with larger-than-life flights of fancy. It was almost pitiful, how his prison mate turned friend made himself part of historical events that no one else could have seen. Sometime ago, he’d told Aster about being able to arrange a parlay with neighbouring invaders. The other day, he’d told Aster about a court dispute between the Minister of Financial Affairs and Minister of Education, which ended in a high-stake gamble with all of their properties and assets on the line. 

That night, it was about thieves. And being a beauty, apparently. 

Most nights, Aster indulged him. After all, who was he to rain on a condemned man’s parade? 

“Then why couldn’t you escape here?” He dared to ask. They rarely talk about their sins – both alleged and true. But Aster had been feeling particularly brave then, and couldn’t care less if the person across him stopped talking to him forever. His eternity only lasted until his death sentence, anyway. 

“Who said I wanted to escape?” The man shot back. “I had places to be back then, but it’s different now.” 

Only dead men walk out of the fortress, the Emperor had said. He wondered if the same goes for whoever walked in. 

Aster doubted that anyone would be glad to find themselves rotting in this hellhole, but then again, he wouldn’t put it past his prison mate and his delusions. Which was amusing as it was pitiful. He decided to get in with the joke. “And how is it any different?” 

“This time,” the voice said, “the Emperor made the right judgement.” 

***

One lifetime and death sentence later, Aster still believed that the Emperor made an erroneous decision. 

Since their encounter with the wolf, the sun had long set over the horizon, and the air had turned as bitter as Aster’s grudges – unforgiving, piercing, and able to sink through the bones. At this point, they had covered miles and miles of the same scenery: the woods held no shortage of evergreens such as pine trees and cedar, and snow. Piles and piles of snow, stretching over all corners like a fluffy blanket. 

The view was astounding, especially for a man who was stuck in prison for a good portion of his life, but many people have died trying to brave through Taratus’ snow. It was called the empire’s frozen hell for a reason: there were those who had taken wrong turns and fell into icy lakes that froze over, some had gone cold before they realised what was happening, and then there were the bears. The wolves. The bandits. 

Countless predators at every turn, because the only law that existed out here was survival of the fittest. 

But if the General’s map had served right, they should be nearing the border within a day and a half’s trek. 

The entire time, the man who had yet to grow as Emperor Dominique Sibylla walked beside Aster, golden hair caked with snow. He had given up all attempts to make small talk, and appeared to have been focusing on putting one foot over the other. At first, Aster could tell that the man was trying to imitate his soundless walk – a trick he’d picked up as an assassin – but had only been able to produce stomps instead. 

Since then, he’d resorted to hiding his wheezes and bated breaths, probably too prideful to ask for a rest. Aster could tell that the scribe was unused to hiking – probably used to being carried around by the General, if their close relationship was any indicator – so a part of him wanted the man to swallow his ego and admit he needed a break. 

“Hey,” he called out in the open, without as much as looking back. “You alright back there?” 

A huff. Then, more stomping. “I’m not the one whose injured.” 

“I’m not the one falling behind, though.” He said out of spite. “Keep up!” 

There was a groan behind him, but instead of snapping back, the scribe had done as instructed and forced himself to keep up the pace. Aster could see the strain in his face, with his cheeks puffed up and lips chapped from the dry air. 

“I-I’m not falling behind,” he said to Aster. “I was conserving energy. Not all of us are show-offs like you.”   

Against his better judgement, Aster snorted a little at that. “You haven’t even seen me show-off for real.” 

“What’s there to show?” 

He should ignore him, given that this man was basically echoing everything that the Emperor had mocked during his failed assassination attempts. Aster had grievances against Florence Dominique Sibylla that can’t be resolved by a single stab alone; he needed to take his time and hit this man where it hurts. 

“My skills are in high demand,” At least, they used to be .The job market has yet to know someone like him in the industry. But if Aster trained his body well and made use of everything he could remember, it wouldn’t probably take him long to rebuild his network of clients. 

He expected the man to refute, just as he’d done at the wake of the slain bandits, but instead Florence only gave another huff. 

“You’re remarkably adept at killing,” he noted. “It’s hard to believe you’ve lived here all your life.” 

He didn’t, actually. But he figured that Florence didn’t need to know the future, especially one that he’d so vehemently fucked-up. Better safe than sorry. 

“For those living here, it’s a necessity,” he said. “You Capital City dwellers have your mind games and politics, we have our laws of the jungle. Simple.” 

Florence gave a soft laugh at that. “Not so different, then.” 

Ah. 

To be fair, Aster didn’t expect the Great Emperor to share blood with a commoner, as the name ‘Dominique Sibylla’ only rose to notoriety after the war. It was as if, out of the blue, a storm had swept over the capital, tore down the class division, and killed anyone who dared oppose his rule. It had been a ray of light at first – imagine a noble, finally making use of his privilege for good. But then the Emperor turned out to be just like the others. 

If the story is to be believed and His Highness truly did come from humble beginnings, Aster wondered: where did it go wrong? Was he truly evil from the very start, or had His Highness gone down this beaten path on his own, as a measly scribe, and then for some reason turned the way he was? 

He looked at this man, with his chubby cheeks and doe eyes, and tried to imagine the masked emperor standing in his place. The first was unflinchingly vulnerable and human, while the other was cold and hard to kill. 

You will die, but never before me. You will be sent to the Fortress of Serberos, down the coldest cells, where you can spend your remaining days wondering where you went wrong. 

Now that he thought about it, that order should be directed at Florence himself. The Emperor should be the one rotting in the cells, reflecting how he went from this to that. 

He hadn’t realised that he’d stopped in his tracks again, staring at the scribe to the point that the man had adopted a defensive stance again. Fuck. 

“What? Is there something on my face?” Florence asked. Then, in a lower, more alarmed voice, “Is there something behind me?” 

From the way he stood, Aster knew this man was bound to pass out soon. They may have taken the shorter path, but this one was steeper and less travelled by, making the snow deeper and the journey harder. 

“I’m thinking we can set up camp here,” Aster said. “Wait for me here, I’ll go get firewood.”  

COMPLETE LIST OF EPISODES

[aspiringtrashpanda]

Did you know the Salem Witch Trials memorial was raised in 1992, and the last convicted witch (Elizabeth Johnson Jr.) was officially exonerated in 2022 when the imprisonments and executions happened in 1692? Wild. Find the prompt list HERE.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

DAY 19 Prompt: Solomon Additional tags: Solomon's morally grey past, regret, angst

Twelve brisk steps from the wooden slats of the outdated square house, Solomon finds himself fenced in by a stone wall. The structure creeps just higher than his waist, and though the grout has begun to crumble between uneven edges and lopsided bricks formed through nature’s touch, the absence of any moss speaks of reverent care.

Satisfactory, Solomon decides, a solemn gaze sweeping over slabs of granite benches basked in dappled evening light. They could still do better, though. The rectangle of emerald sod, housing the oaks that protected engraved memories from too much exposure, remains well-kept and manicured, but a lack of real heart thrums within the memorial.

He supposes it is for good reason. 

Two long strides to the right, a daisy for Sarah. The knobs of the stems irritate Solomon’s palm, catch on his fingers as he makes his rounds. A larkspur for Martha. An aster for Susannah and a daffodil for Alice. 

“God knows I am innocent–” He reads aloud, his free hand tracing the truth that had been silenced with a rope. The stone says nothing in return, the wind still and lifeless. Though silvery strands had guided him mere moments ago, they now hang limp into his eyes, a constant reminder of the toes that dangled mere inches from safety. 

Salem haunts Solomon, a specter over his shoulder, a poltergeist in his coffee mug. Each sip turns the dark liquid crimson, sluggishly snaking down the ceramic to drip into the shallow graves at the foot of Gallows Hill. 

If he hadn’t–

If Ann hadn’t seen–

If only he had turned to face her, revealed himself to be the local apothecary, then perhaps the girls would never have picked up the hammer of injustice. When boredom is as potent a malady as smallpox, then hysteria is quick to spread.

The Putnam garden looms in his memory, lush with sage and elderberry, chamomile and marigold. He could have knocked, could have asked permission. Alas, a tonic from the previous night had rendered him haphazard, and a quick spell snipped the stems in favor of brevity. A dark shawl shielding bloodshot eyes from the morning sun, all Solomon had considered was the feather down of his bed. 

He had heard the gasp, the shriek of the young girl, the shrill demand to explain the impossible dissection of her garden without a spade in sight. Yet, he had fled, a nameless ghost of midnight rags billowing around him, his frame imperceptible.

The strike of the gavel wakes him in the middle of the night more often then he’d like. 

Solomon knows he is imperfection personified. Humanity he loved, he had lost, and though he shoulders their burdens, he cannot wash the blood from his hands. 

A thorn pricks his skin as he places a black rose beside Bridget’s date of birth, date of death. He lets the tiny incision leak ancient red into the curve of her initial. 

 It will not bring her back, but perhaps it will ease her spirit to know she lives on in his regrets. 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

The Salem Witch trials were actually bonkers. Check out the memorial site for more info.

OBEY ME! MONTH MASTERLIST

[cambriancutie]

yay yuri recommendations

nameless asterism is pretty good love triangle yuri and not in the horror genre

besides that my other yuri recommendations are all visual novels + half horror so yeahb list

la vita nuova (yuri not main focus & toxic but uts such a good vn)

reflexia (same as the prior but it's more of a focus)

it gets so lonely here

drmwrldgrl (not really horror but is yuri and surreal)

heartlovepowertemple (same as prior)

good morning is a social construct (same as prior)

could do more but linking takes a while

yay! ill def check these out!

[transanimegirl]

i like science in general but space oriented manga/anime is really good. nameless asterism, koisuru asteroid, insomniacs after school, stardust telepath

[sororalice]

Zero (A Purple Aster)

Songs Of The Nameless City 2. Mystical poem written 1-6-25.

1.

Zero is a place,

Where nothing ever happens,

Where no one ever looks out,

From behind the fence

Sleep is a place,

Where I can find a moment,

Where I don’t have to bear,

The thought of myself

But I am a dreamer,

So I find no peace,

Behind fiery and aching eyelids,

For I must walk the Nameless City

Endless meandering streets,

And paths that take me past,

All the lost dreamers,

Trying to find their way home

2.

There I held the hand,

Of a boy I knew once upon a time,

His fingers were so thin,

I was afraid I would break them

We walked along the avenue together,

As a silent parade of ancient gods,

Attended by spirits and wondrous beasts,

Made their way beside us

A bloody war broke out,

Between blazing constellations,

And I could see tired angels,

Attending upon the mighty

Their silent pleading came to me,

As they fulfilled their hallowed duties,

So I made my way over to them,

And offered to take up their burden

3.

I carried that weight slowly,

Sometimes I stumbled, sometimes I fell,

Where angels danced and leapt delicately,

I labored across the battlefield

Heel to toe, heel to toe,

Creeping achingly through the dark,

As spirits assembled on either side,

To watch the spectacle

Stepping slowly between the words,

Of prophecies and forgotten songs,

Finding secrets and hidden things,

The color of old lace

A hazel-eyed girl came to me there,

And offered me a purple aster,

As if making a payment,

On a long overdue debt

Art: Henri Fantin-Latour, “Asters In A Vase”, (1875)

[aroturier]

In addition to all the other French and English names suggested for the nameless twin, I've yet to hear anyone mention two male names which were actually popular in the mid-to-late Victorian era which also mean 'star ' like Aster, Esther and Estel.

Either Heston or Hester would make a nice name for the boy, don't you think? And a lot more masculine-sounding than Estel.'

Just y'know, tossing it out there.

[s0lar-ch3ri]

theory time!

so reasoning as to why i cant reblog the other one is just cause it doesnt allow videos when i reblog now which sucks but whatever so yeah! its a jrwi theory again, and whatever future info i have was 99% gathered from the wiki (the remaining one percent might not even show up in this theory so ye), and of course theres spoilers for the black rose one shot AND riptide pirates (dont have any exsct eps, all i can say is im at ep 101 now so anything before that is kinda fair game)

for the original theory post

k so we gonna put that one clip (scroll message, about a minute long) and talk about it, def mention all the connections gill would have with the black sea, shit like that

apologies for the buggy clip, just needed to add this and when i recorded i was in school aka just recorded like this for less risk, lets talk about the message though.

"a map that is a guide and a key passed around the hands of destiny, it leads to chaos infinity beneath the seas, the garden giant, the nameless prince, the unborn kings, all await to be inevitably free"

i think in my og theory post i talked on how gill was very connected to the black sea imo so how does all this tie in? lets do some quick lil notes first

ok so the scroll of legend lore has been held onto by gillion, the one closest to destiny's ties, and has not been used until now

chaos infinity while refering to the black sea could also be an undersea thing, what with the leviathins (nobody else remember how the pearl shard gillion has came from one? and how the pearl was never supposed to even see the light of day probs let alone be in some cat mans evil base? just me?)

while i wanna say aster mythborne aeiliana shes not real here so she cant be garden giant

BUT we do have a known leviathin(? could just be a dragon turtle) named duke who has plant shit and is controlled by a gollieth

nameless prince is everso chip coded but we looking all across our board here so yeah

it could apply that the "nameless prince" could refer to someone "unnamed" who holds power like that prince from edison kingdom or smth

it could also reference marshal jon, who's canon first name has been forgotten and canon last name is jon

unborn kings? honestly while i dont think chip's bit of mpreg is apart of this i think the lady inspiring it (aka aslana's mom) has some relations to this whole thing

we all read "kings" btw so theres probs multiple yall

would goobleck count? he is goobleck he must apply someway

non-literal one again? maybe their monsters or smth

wait to be free. huh. gee, i wonder, will the door nightmare with arlin come into play here. thatd be so fun. yeah. ahahaha im losing myself

okay okay maybe its not all clear and i honestly have had this as a draft for too long (as shown below)

BUT ill reblog this later cause ill really just be using text and images and shit

whats the basic idea? this is def where the oath from the sword comes into play (murdering destiny), with the whole "the black sea twists you" thing we may get hints of killion or even dark gillion again, the thign about it being a "key" might imply like a 'this means that' type deal rather then being actually a key, the chaos isnt really referring to the black sea but the state of the undersea in general (lost champion becomign criminal, ally shit gone, oversea war, etc), unnamed prince is either someone we havent met yet or someone who we dont expect to have a return (ie: were deemed before as not really lore relevant), and the unborn kings are monsters, oh and the garden giant isnt arlin but something related to the duke! THIS HAS TO CONNECT TO THE LEVIATHINS FR

some details/info about gill/things related to gill so i write this better:

"You promise to slay all evil before thee, crack corruption that takes hold of this world, strike swiftly enough to split the seas, and even if the thread of fate poses an obstacle against us, we shall sever it"

A hero born of moonlight, storm and sea. / They shall rise or fall to bring unity. / They will be tested or bested by evil’s hand. / By their choice one will remain: sea or land.

[socialmediasocrates]

YOUR PRINCESS IS IN A DIFFERENT CASTLE: a wip intro

Genres: fairy tale retelling, fantasy, adventure, romance, new adult

Status: plotting

Tropes: Knight in Sour Armor, Earn Your Happy Ending, The Power of Love, Don't You Dare Pity Me!, Boy Meets Girl, Girl in the Tower, Be Careful What You Wish For

In short: Two unremarkable side characters try to rescue their love interests from a demon who doesn't even know who they are...oh, yeah, and save the storyscape, that, too.

Synopsis

The starborn is among the last of its kind, doomed to a lonely eternity in the Graveyard of the Stars...or it was. Until a kitchen runner accidentally summoned it and botched the entire ritual. Now the starborn is Aster, a pathetic little man with an equally pathetic little crush. Grappling with suddenly having humanity thrust upon it was not in the Design. Being a nameless filler character in a story it doesn't even know was not in the Design. Inheriting an infatuation with Theobroma Cirolla, a pastry chef with the temperament of a wet cat on a good day, was not in the Design. But the starborn is making a valiant effort at doing all of the above, all the way until the day one of his own kin devours his story, steals Theo away, and casts him into the broader storyscape.

Forced to join forces with shepherdess-turned-witch Beata, Aster strikes out to save Theo, go back to his quiet, unbothered existence, and save the fabric of reality, in that order. None of this was in the Design, but the Design is unraveling. Along with his last goddamn nerve.

Characters

ASTER

The food runner was squishy where he wasn't gangly and bony, unevenly freckled all over, the image of earnest mundanity. It takes the starborn a solid week to get used to using these clumsy, slow feet, and nearly a week longer to adapt to the surprising strength of the arms and upper back. It trips over Aster's uselessly long legs all too often, sending trays laden with foot and drink scattering, shattering, and splattering all over rugs that look expensive. Nobody even seems surprised by this. At least it's slotting itself neatly into Aster's life.

THEO

Aster had thought the pastry chef called "Theobroma Cirolla" or "Theo, unless you want a finger chopped off" was the most beautiful person he'd ever laid eyes on. This, unfortunately, colors the starborn's perception of her, too. She is small, even for a human. Soft, composed entirely of curved lines and circles. The hair that peaks out from beneath her scarves is densely curly and roughly the color of melted chocolate. Her eyes are big and brown and ringed with heavy, dark eyelashes, and her skin is always a little flushed from the ovens. She refuses to lift her chin to look him in the eye. She is always looking up at him through that screen of eyelashes, and she is always looking at him like he's a cockroach in her bread basket. And the entire time, it is endlessly, hopelessly charmed.

BEATA

He thinks that you would end up with someone that looks like her if you took a cloud, dipped it in gold glitter, and sculpted a person out of it. The mystery woman has puffy wheat-blonde hair and deeply tanned skin and, most crucially, a shepherd's crook that bleeds magic. It is nearly blinding to look at. He has to blink four times for his sight to clear enough to make her out again; by then, he's more or less determined to avoid her at all costs. She is perched on a fence, waving to get his attention, a welcoming smile edged with venom on her face and a feral sort of panic in the tension of her shoulders. He wants nothing to do with her. Because life is never about what he wants, though, she is directly in his path.

FAUST

Now, give a good think to what you would do in Faust's shoes. You made a deal with a demon because you wanted people to like you better. It blew up in your face. The demon is now threatening to unravel the fabric of reality and ascend to godhood, and you are being rescued at this exact moment. If you think that you'd be a little grateful, it's because you're not Faust. Faust grins one of those stupid grins. He holds up some twisted chunk of metal in his hand and opens his mouth to say something. He never gets to, though, because Beata throws her shoe at him.