#Swan maiden au

[captain-mj]

Ahhfhajbsua I know it was just posted this morning but please I'm desperate, I'm begging on my knees for more swanmaiden graves

I need to see everyones reactions, especially Soaps. How will the selkie (he was the selkie right???) react to him doing the exact thing he's probably afraid of someone using his coat for? Even if graves betrayed them thats gotta mess with some trust

I'm so glad you liked it! Also, yes! Soap was the selkie Previous part here

Price left Graves in his cell for now. He made tea for those of his group that drank it. Vanilla for Ghost, Mint for Farah, Chamomile for Gaz. The coffee drinkers could figure it the evil coffee machine Alejandro had. It had burnt Price once and he had refused to touch it since. 

Alejandro laughed at him and offered to show him and he shook his head. 

“No thanks. Tea is better anyway.” Price held his cup gingerly. 

“Whatever you say, hermano.” Alejandro smiled before glancing around. “Where is your shadow?” 

“In containment right now. Tied up tight, don’t worry. Wanted to explain that we have him to everyone first. Get all of the outrage out of the way before we talk.” 

“So the plan is extort him for information right?��

“Exactly. The feathers are with me. If you can understand colonel, I’d like to hold on to them.” 

Alejandro nodded. “When you need to sleep or a break, just let someone know. Best we keep those watched at all times.” 

Price nodded and gently touched the feathers. He had stashed him in his gear, making sure none of them would bend or break in his pocket. They were really soft. Part of him anticipated some strange spell like Ghost had described when he put on Soap’s coat. A calling to control or own. But there was nothing. Maybe a small bit of protectiveness, but he couldn’t be sure if that was the feathers or how vulnerable Graves was in his current position. 

“Gentlemen.” Alejandro got all of their attention. After he had made himself and Rudy a cup of coffee, of course. Price thought they were sweet. “We’ve caught Graves.”

Ghost spoke up first. His mask was pulled up to drink so they could all see the angry frown on his face. “How?”

Price slowly held out the feathers, letting them dangle delicately. It reminded him of the windchimes he had seen recently. He had a neighbor as a kid who was obsessed with them. She would hang feathers on them, claiming that it did something to the spirits. She always seemed slightly sad. 

Price moved his hand, making the feathers twirl slightly. The light caught them and they shimmered, so beautiful. 

“They’re his. He’s a shifter.”

Ghost put his hand on Soap. It was subtle, but it was protective. Soap visibly tensed, holding the edge of the table tightly. 

Gaz’s hand went to his necklace, gently cupping it. Both of them had… intimate knowledge of having items like this over their heads. Price felt guilty for making them have to deal with this. 

“I can’t control his actions with them. But if for any reason you have to  hold them, be careful. Causes intense pain if you do anything.”

“That’s a downside?” Ghost muttered, glancing at Soap’s bandaged arm. 

Price shook his head. “Don’t want to kill him. He has a lot of information that will be useful for catching Shepherd. Plus, if we mess them up too much… They’re not like Soap’s pelt. They don’t repair.” He showed the single feather he had bent, how it still curved. “Break them too much, we won’t have leverage left.” 

Soap stood up and went to get coffee, ignoring the still steaming cup in front of him. 

Price watched him go before looking back at everyone. “Alejandro has agreed that I’ll keep ahold of them. I’ll be passing them off when I need breaks.” 

They all nodded and Alejandro continued. “We plan on interrogating him soon. We doubt it’ll be easy but he will give us information. One way or another.” 

One of the Vaqueros got him out. Someone most’ve sprayed him off because he and his clothes were dripping, but he no longer had the dirt and ash from before. It looked like he had been scrubbed clean as well, though it wasn’t clear if that was his own doing, the water pressure or someone else. Price’s stomach churned at the thought of someone touching him when he was vulnerable. The whole situation was far out of his comfort zone though. 

Slowly, Graves admitted through gritted teeth. “Yes. I’m a bird shifter. Born, not turned. Whole family was like this.” Price noted the use of the word was. He eyed him with caution as he continued to speak. “Feathers help me shift. Need them back.”

“All of them have feathers like that? Never seen them before.” Gaz asked curiously. 

“Maybe you’re not as well traveled as you think.” Graves hissed. 

Price interrupted, deciding not to let this continue. He lightly smacked the back of Graves’s head, since it was the only convenient thing he could do at this angle. “Tell us about Shepherd.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything.”

Rodolfo stood in front of him, the air shifting just a bit. “Why work for him? What did he give you? He left you to die.”

“He paid well. It’s not about him really. Can’t catch work if I have a history of betraying my customers, can I?” Graves grinned at him.

Price shook his head and, taking the feathers with him, walked away. “Get me if you get anything useful out of him.” He went to check on Soap. 

Soap was sipping a new cup of coffee and he smiled when Price came in. It didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m fine, Captain.”

“I know you are. I also know this is a touchy subject for you.”

Soap sighed. “It’s… necessary. I know that. If it was me, I know you’d do it to me too. Nothing personal. He’s the enemy. I just… hate that you can do that.” 

Price wanted to reassure him that he’d never let someone do that to him. Hell, he wouldn’t have to do much since he knew Ghost would put a stop to it immediately. But he understood that didn’t change the point. Price was willing to do it to someone else. 

“I’m fine Captain. If it gets us one step closer to taking down Shepherd, one step closer to getting revenge for Los Almas and stopping who knows what else, I’m willing to put up with it. Can’t say I’m happy about it, but I’ll live. I escape with a bullet wound. A lot of people didn’t escape at all.” 

Price nodded. “You’ll be a good captain one day, Soap. I just hope you never have to deal with anything like this during your service.” 

“Aye.” Soap smiled at him. 

Gaz kept Price informed on what was going on. Graves was determined not to spill any secrets. 

Price arranged for them to be alone again. He noticed Graves didn’t clam up quite as bad with just him. Most likely it was the volume of people that crowded around him. He couldn’t particularly blame Graves for lashing out when he felt cornered. 

“Phillip.” Trying to give the man a tiny bit of humanity back, he had him in a chair this time. Both of them facing each other. 

“Don’t. Call me that.” Graves growled at him. His hair had started to dry, but it still stuck to his skin. Price noticed it fell in odd patterns and suddenly the hair gel in his things made sense. 

“Graves. Talk to me. It would make this all so much easier.”

“I can’t tell you about Shepherd.” 

Price paused. “You don’t know anything about him, do you?”

Graves frowned. “Of course I do.”

“No. You don’t. That’s the problem isn’t it? You don’t know where he is.”

Graves rolled his eyes. “I’m not a toddler or a FNG. That little trick won’t work on me.” He did slump a little though, like the posture he had as a commander suddenly weighed on him. His arms were tied behind his back loosely so it made him look… small. Dejected. 

Price stared at him. Graves was a handsome man. He wouldn’t deny that. But… He was also really pretty. His features weren’t feminine per say, but they were a bit soft. And right now, on his knees, he didn’t seem like a commander at all. “Did you give the order?”

“I followed my orders as I was paid.” Graves hissed at him. “Shepherd paid me. I did as told.” 

“Your men did as they were told.” Price corrected. “As you told them too. And they’re dead for it.” He wondered how Graves coped with the loss. 

As the man’s face crumbled, he realized the answer was “not well”. His head tilted down and he shook it lightly. “Yeah. They’re dead. You took them out.”

“They we-” Price started, almost indignant. 

Graves quickly interrupted. “I’m not saying it was… unjust. You were men following orders, same as I. I just… I lost a lot of people that day. When you grabbed those feathers, I felt it. You say you’re not human, though I don’t know what you are. If you’re like me, you’ll understand.”

“I’m not like you.” Price meant it in more ways than one. 

“Then I can’t explain. But its like someone reached through time and space to touch me. A collar around my throat. Brand of ownership. I would never, ever let Shepherd do that to me. My men… Most of them knew. They wouldn’t have let that happen. Though it hurt, though the ancient bonds that bound me to those feathers hated me for it, I called their families first. I luckily don’t cough of blood or fall to pieces or anything too dramatic. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea that I was some martyr by doing that. But I called each one and walked here.”

“Didn’t bother to clean yourself up?”

Graves laughed. “No. Why should I? You guys blew up my fucking tank. You were expecting a half dead mess. That’s what I gave you.” 

Price stared down at him. Grief wracked didn't seem like enough to explain his expression. “What were their names?”

“No.” Graves shook his head. “I said I understood. I said I didn’t think it unjust. But I’d rather you rip me to shreds than have you say those names to me. You didn’t meet any of them. They’re dead and they’ll stay dead. Plus i think half of them would haunt me if I let you know.”

“Me specifically or the 141?”

“All of you. Vaqueros included.” Graves grinned a little, looking tired. 

“Did you sleep last night?”

“In this cold room with nothing but concrete and a bed I couldn’t manage to get on with how I was tied up? Yes. I long blinked for a while.”

Price laughed. “What?”

Graves watched his mouth. “It’s a joke. Your eyes are closed when you sleep.”

“I got the joke, Graves. It’s just… a rather bad one. Didn’t take you for the type.” 

“Good old Southern humor. Dry as a fucking biscuit.” Graves tilted his head back, stretching as if trying to wake himself up.

Price tilted his head, only now that it was pointed out, catching the slight lilt to some of Graves words. “Don’t sound southern.”

Graves said in the thickest accent possible. “Well, howdy Pardner, I’ll be sure to throw in some y’alls and hankerins and other southernisms in there for ya.” He laughed, almost giddily and Price wondered why a Commander got so fuzzy off one night of bad sleep. 

“Alright.” Price tried to mimic him, but it came out a little off which made Graves grin more. “I’ll stop pesterin ya for the night.” He ended up laughing half way through as he got up and moved Graves. It was only once he had almost lifted him off the ground that two things became very clear. 

One, the small part wasn’t in his head. Graves only came up to his chin, probably only about 5’9. He was also a lot slimmer than he looked under the gear. Still as toned as the average soldier, but definitely meant more for the stealth work that mercenaries would be of more use for. 

Second, Graves smelled like smoke. More specifically, burning metal and C4. He’d have to arrange for the man to get an actual shower because it was nauseating this close. 

Price dropped him in the bed. Watching him grunt when he fell on his bound arms. 

“Ow.”

“Don’t betray us next time.”

Graves huffed and stared at him. “What are you exactly?”

“I’m like you. Don’t really have a name.”

“Any stories about ya?”

“Nope. Sorry to disappoint. Go to sleep.”

“Any chance I can convince ya to tie my hands in front of me?” Graves looked up at him. 

Price laughed. “Absolutely not.”

“Worth a shot.”

[dyinggirldied]

Swan Maiden Athy!

[depressed-teacup-inc]

Wake up baby, new monster high au just dropped!

(Click for higher quality)

(For context: I tried making a Lukadrien monster high au where instead of going the easy route of Luka and Adrien being the monsters respective to their miraculouses—a snake and a cat—I tried to actually assign them monsters based on their personalities and themes that would fit them—a phantom of the opera and a swan maiden!)

Luka is the child of the phantom of the opera, but has daddy issues and resents that fact they inherited their father’s skill of hypnotizing and sedating others with their music

Adrien is the son of the swan maiden (Emilie) who ran away from Gabriel after finally retrieving her feather cloak that Gabriel stole in order to force her into a loveless marriage, so needless to say, he has a lot of issues

(Also for those that will point it out: it’s supposed to be ironic that Adrien’s monster is feather based, because senti-monster, he’s so unlucky that he’s allergic to his own powers, and Luka can now call him their Angel of music)

[cornix-the-void-crow]

Let me present to you something that sat in my head for weeks

[not-poignant]

Birthday Spotlight - Gulvi Dubna Vajat

[24th March - Aries]

Gulvi Dubna Vajat, the chaos-loving, determined, vicious killer and loving sister is the Unseelie swan maiden from the canon Fae Tales series. She's the lover of Fenwrel the Mouse Maiden, younger sister of Julvia Dubna Vajat, and bucks all the standards when she chose to become the first swan maiden to turn her back against the pacifistic ways of her kind so she could train with the Council of Lammergeiers and become a highly reputable and successful assassin who ended up working for the Raven Prince, in line to be the next Queen of the Unseelie Court.

Despite Gulvi's sometimes abrasive ways, she's always been well-liked among many readers. She's a staunch supporter of Gwyn's, a best friend to Ash, and for a time, Augus' declared enemy. She spent a few chapters just stabbing him to get revenge, because, well, he did kill almost her entire family.

Gulvi is a fantastic advice-giver, lives her own life, and is well-equipped to be Queen-in-waiting and Unseelie Queen. One day she'll take the throne for herself, and Gwyn is more than aware of it and more than happy for it to happen. Even if she did get him drunk all those separate times...

‘Make no mistake, you are lucky that I am friends with both Gwyn and Ash, for nothing would please me better than to come at you through your loved ones. Think about that, for a minute. I like that this hurts you. And if I didn’t think I’d be hurting this Court, and myself in the process, I would let Gwyn be executed by the Seelie Court in an instant just to watch you make more of these delicious, frightened expressions of yours. I can smell your fear, you horrid, mess of a fae, and I revel in it. You have not Ash’s sympathy, nor his support in this. And you do not have mine.'

~ Game Theory

From the Darkness We Rise - (fanfiction) Gulvi first appeared as an OC in this fanfiction in her swan maiden form, as an informant to Gwyn ap Nudd, even then an effective assassin who used French affectations in her speech and rubbed Jack Frost the wrong way every time she opened her mouth.

The Court of Five Thrones - Gulvi came through for Gwyn ap Nudd when Augus died (temporarily), offering him sage advice and getting him drunk. She's sent to assassinate many of Gwyn's enemies in order to manipulate people into giving Gwyn what he wants as King, she falls in love with Fenwrel, and pulls the heavy duty of serving as Queen-in-Waiting, all while nursing her fragile, near-death's-door older sister, who is stuck in swan form due to Augus' actions when he was once a villain.

Into Shadows We Fall - (fanfiction) Notable for appearing as Ash's best friend and Gwyn's ally, but she makes Jack too furious and he attempts to murder her, and in return, she stabs him with one of the best verbal repartees. It is her actions which serve as the turning point for Jack and Pitch, as she inadvertently severs a very important scarf in the process...

Game Theory - Drugging Ash, giving Gwyn advice even though they're on opposite sides, and stabbing Augus repeatedly while calling him a donkey are just all in a day's work for this graceful, ruthless, and surprisingly mature swan maiden.

Unwound - An interstitial between The Court of Five Thrones and The Ice Plague, this series explores Gwyn's occasional melancholy due to well...all the burdens he carries. Once more, Gulvi proves herself to be a staunch and true friend.

The Ice Plague I: The Forest of Fire - When Gwyn and Augus leave the Unseelie Court, Gulvi steps into her role as Queen-in-Waiting, but not before trying to forbid her sister Julvia from going on a grand quest (she fails, much to her anger).

The Ice Plague III: The Ice Plague - Gulvi has been working in the background throughout as Queen-in-Waiting with Fenwrel by her side, but we finally get to see her again, which comes as a profound relief for our ensemble team.

All That We Were, All That We Will Ever Be - In the final epilogue of Augus and Gwyn, in the Fae Tales canon, Gulvi is there watching vigil over a certain someone, even as she works a truly overwhelming job.

The Spoils of the Spoiled - High school student, girlfriend of Kayla (Gulvi is so incredibly lesbian), bitchy frenemy of Augus Each Uisge, best friend of Ash, and eventual friend of Gwyn ap Nudd. Gulvi is the one who suggests the detached apartment at the back of her house to Augus and Ash, giving them a place to live when they become homeless. She comforts Augus after he's molested by Efnisien, and she offers charming, funny, and sometimes caustic commentary throughout.

The Day the Ferris Wheel Came Down - High school student and best friend of Ash, Gulvi is up to her chaos-loving antics in this short oneshot!

The Best of Broken Resolutions - In one of my favourite AUs, Gulvi is a high-powered architect working with Gwyn ap Nudd who bitches out their work colleagues, judges all their outfits, and is immaculately fashionable. She's in a workplace relationship with Fenwrel, which isn't nearly the well-kept secret it should be.

Tumblr Prompts - Fae Tales - Anyone who asks me about whether I'll ever write any F/F should go here for a little kissing between Fenwrel and Gulvi in Basorexia.

With chaos as her heartsong in the Fae Tales canon, Gulvi embraces the chance to introduce a little unpredictability into the lives around her.

Despite this, Gulvi still has her swan-maiden roots, she is a loving, family-oriented, loyal friend and lover who just wants to have a good time in life.

A swan maiden who was raised a pacifist and then proved that her turning away from peace-loving ways wasn't 'just a phase' when she became one of the most notorious Unseelie assassins in the fae realm.

Any excuse to drink - which makes her a good friend for Ash

Protective of those around her. Once you are taken under her wing, she will fight tooth and nail for you, and sometimes against you, if you're your own worst enemy.

White wings, white hair, black eyes, and uses two kris daggers. She almost always is seen solely in hybrid form, never human or true form.

Helping Gwyn to get through the hard times with hard liquor and sisterly advice

Any time she insulted Augus, while Augus was powerless to retaliate

Saying 'La!' as a form of punctuation

Swearing

Despite her sometimes casual-seeming, party-loving nature, she possessed a courtier's tongue, holding her own against Albion at the end of Game Theory, and bringing both Augus and Gwyn to their senses multiple times.

Always loves an element of chaos in her life, though it's more muted when she's in human AUs, especially once she's in love.

Lesbian for life

Graceful and beautiful, and does not suffer fools

Gulvi is all about family whether she wants to be or not - chosen family and blood family

Will always find Julvia incredibly annoying and condescending while loving her fiercely

Tends to think of Augus as a bit of an idiot, all the way from 'too stupid to live' in Game Theory to 'I still love you though' in The Spoils of the Spoiled

I've always really loved swan maidens, after meeting them in The Bitterbynde Trilogy by Cecilia Dart-Thornton. I came up with a whole scaffolding of background for these beings, and still feel very fondly towards swan maidens so I'm not entirely surprised that when Gulvi was no longer a significant character in The Ice Plague because she was holding up the fort, Julvia became a significant character instead.

People always used to ask me if I shipped her and Ash, but Gulvi's love for Ash was never quite 'that' kind of love, even though she gave her heart to him. I always loved the idea of two best friends so bound together that the friendship would last an eternity.

Gulvi has tattoos of symbols on her arms from the Council of Lammergeiers as part of her initiation but I always forget she has them, so this is one of her biggest continuity errors in that I just don't mention them enough so we ALL forget.

I always like to imagine that Gulvi and the Raven Prince are actually extremely close, and we never see it because it's private - a friendship between two bird shifters.

Gulvi is from the fae side of Latvia - she's not French! She just picked up an affectation from the human realm because she liked it.

The reasons I gave my heart to him weren’t as clear as they should have been. They couldn’t be. They never are! Swans think they have such pure hearts, but… Ash is worthy, make no mistake, but I never wanted to be with him. Even as I gave him my heart, without his consent I might add, because he would have refused it – I knew I didn’t want to be with him. I didn’t want him to fuck me, I didn’t want to lie on a bed with him beyond collapsing together on a bed with marshmallows and fried foods while watching silly human movies about very profound things. He has always been a gentleman about it, even as I took something from the both of us the moment I staked him with the permanency of my love. But, Gwyn, I’ve never wanted to be with anyone. Ash gives me all of himself in our friendship. His love is a whole thing. He has such an abundance of it. It spills everywhere. It makes him do and say stupid things. It makes him wiser than he should be. He loves love. Whether it makes him a fool or seer. And me, with my cynical heart, I needed his idealism, his romanticism, all of it. He gives me something I have never been able to give myself. And he has enough of it – so much – that he can give it freely and I never have to worry about depleting him of anything. You see? Everyone thinks it’s unrequited. But that implies that it is one-sided, and it is not. They say unrequited love is not returned in kind, but he returns it. And they act as though I accidentally tripped over his feet, looked up, and fell in love with the stupid idiot he can be. But I did not. I made a conscious declaration to myself, to the world.

~ The Court of Five Thrones

[antebunny]

You should've left her in the pond

(A retelling of the swan maiden fairytale. Trigger warnings for: explicit body horror, gore, assault, dismemberment; implied animal death, cannibalism, and sexual violence).

~

He finds her by the water. Deep in the forests where sunlight holds no power and the shadows reign supreme. Fear of the wild has long since settled into his bones. Any hunter that reaches his age ought to revere the wild, or at least respect it. He doesn’t. Fear substitutes well enough. 

He strays too deep and wanders too far and in return the sunset sees him lost, far away from his cottage, still on the hunt. He stumbles upon the pond entirely by accident. One boot slipped over the edge before he registers the dark clearing before him. 

Perhaps I shall spend the night here, he muses. A pond has fresh water and is no safer than anywhere else. Still, unease squeezes his insides. He is still the hunter, not the hunted, but in the dark this can change at any moment. He tries not to think about how long it will take before someone from the village knocks on his door. (A while). Or how long before someone goes out looking for him. (Never?)

Faint splashing has him readying his bow. A catch will make this miserable day end that much better. A missed shot will cost him a precious arrow. He creeps closer, ringing around the pond. His foot slips on something soft and loose. Without taking his eyes off the darkened smudge in the pond where he heard movement, he picks it up. His fingers run over a wet, soft and feathery cloak. 

“Don’t take it!” An alarmed feminine voice rings out from the pond and into the darkened woods. 

His eyes flicker from the woman in the pond to the feather cloak in his hands. He may not respect nature but he did not get this far by ignoring the tales. “Are you a swan maiden?” His voice runs like water over gravel.

“Yes.” Breathless. The swan maiden rises from the water’s black surface, with more grace than he expected from a pond-dweller. She approaches him, skittish, determined. Every finer feature lost to the night, save for her bright red eyes. They’re beautiful. He yearns to know the rest of her. 

“Please,” she begs. “Give it back.”

Something yawns open wide at her words. Bubbling in his stomach, then frothing in the mouth, a waterfall, a hunger; call it curiosity, call it consumption. Or childishness: he just doesn’t want to. “No,” he says, perplexed by his own refusal. “Come with me.”

Her bare feet stumble over each other, closer to him with every step. He won’t fall for the pitiable fear in the curve of her hunched shoulders or be tricked by her fumbling feet. He knows the stories too well for that. And isn’t he owed something from this fruitless day? Doesn’t he deserve some joy out of this wretched night? This is just a different sort of catch, and he is a hunter, after all. It wouldn’t do to defy his nature.

The stories must be true, because she doesn’t fight him. She follows him out of the forests, afraid, stumbling, quiet like a whisper, yet silent in dignity. Let it never be said that swans do not comport themselves with grace.  

(She cries so pitifully the first night that he doesn’t touch her for the next month. But it’s not because he feels guilty. It’s not. He married her, after all. What has he got to be guilty about?) 

~

“Please,” the hunter says. “Eat.”

It isn’t right that he must beg for her to feed herself. 

The swan maiden hisses at him, maintaining her low crouch atop the wooden chest that contains her cloak. “Give me the key,” she says. Too pitiful to be a demand, too confrontational to be a plea. 

“No.” The hunter clenches both hands. In his left, the golden key. In his right, the bowl of duck soup that was supposed to be their dinner. She ought to be grateful. No other maiden in the village receives lovingly made duck soup for dinner. Porridge, perhaps, barley soup or mushroom stew. Never duck. 

“They will come for me,” the swan maiden vows. 

The hunter laughs. “No one,” he says, “ever comes.”

He wonders, fleetingly, if she is telling the truth. If she has a family, how long until they coming looking for her? A week? A while?

The swan maiden bares two rows of perfectly human teeth. “Maybe not for you.”

(Never). 

He hurls the bowl at her feet. Thick, viscous liquid drips down her dress. Those red eyes blink rapidly and well up with tears. He refuses to pity her. He refuses to apologize or return her cloak. He refuses. “Fine,” he hisses. “Starve.”

~

Perhaps it is for the best that he does not hunt or fight with sword or dagger. Sometimes he catches her staring at his arrows a little too long. When he fletches new arrows, she always joins him, across the table, and watches hungrily.

“What are the tips made of?” She asks on one such day.

The hunter reaches for another goose feather. “Flint.”

“Why are they shaped so?” She mimics the triangular shape with her hands. 

“For the highest chance of success,” the hunter replies, “and maximum damage. The arrows enter easiest from a smaller point, like this.” he demonstrates by taking an arrowhead and ramming it into the table. It quivers, and so does she. “Thus making way for a wider wound.”

She tears her red eyes from the arrowhead and leans forward gracefully. (Let it never be said that swans–swan maidens–do not behave with grace). Bony elbows dig into old wood, tongue flickering over pink lips. Hungry. “Will you teach me?”

He pauses, fingers over goose feather. “No.” 

After that, he makes his arrows only when she’s not around. Which isn’t often, since she’s always around. She can’t leave. 

~

The fading sun follows his footsteps back to his cottage. From his belt hangs one gold key and two plump rabbits. He’ll have to skin them himself–he won’t let a knife out of his sight, much less into her hands–but afterwards she’ll turn them into an excellent stew. Well, first she’ll pray over the rabbits and weep. But then she’ll pull herself together. She always does. 

A faint squelch stops him in his tracks and drags him out of his thoughts. There, leading up to his front door: footsteps. No, not footsteps. They’re not human. He squats, hunter’s eyes running over the gentle indentations. A duck. No, a goose. Or a swan. His eyes travel up the goose or swan tracks to the bottom of his front door. Fear knifes his spine. Dread runs deep. He sprints the rest of the distance and throws the door open.

She’s inside, boiling a pot of water. Her hand jerks on the handle when the door flies open, splashing hot liquid on her fingers, and she flinches. By the time he strides to her side, she’s smiling. 

“What’s the matter, dear?”

His breathing calms. “Nothing. I just missed you, that’s all.”

A polite laugh. “Well then.” Smiling, smiling, smiling. “What have you got for our dinner?”

He presents the two rabbits proudly, though he knows what comes next.

“Ah.” Sure enough, tears spring to her scarlet eyes. They spill down her nose, caught in the curve of her lips, because she is still smiling, through the tears, through everything. (Let it never be said that swan maidens do not carry themselves with grace). 

All he can focus on is his relief. The tracks outside do not belong to her. But of course they don’t. If she could leave, she wouldn't stay. 

~

But sometimes he thinks she might love him. 

Sunlight dances on the pink rose petals. They stand side by side in the cottage’s single window and admire the roses together. 

“They’re beautiful, dear,” she says. “But how in the world did you get them? What did they cost?”

He half-shrugs. “You said you missed smelling the flowers.”

“Yes, but–” she stops, cross.

“No, don’t stop. What were you going to stay?”

She hesitates. Licks her lips. Hungry. Who’s hungry? “But roses are so rare around here.”

“I’d do anything if it made you happy,” he says honestly.

“Oh,” she says, and again: “oh.” And she laughs. A bubbling brook in summertime. 

His stomach swoops, because this is real, and it’s true, and it’s burning him alive. And he ignores the tinkling little voice that whispers any thing but one. “If you left you wouldn’t be able to smell the roses,” he points out carefully. Not carefully enough.

She makes a noise, half birdsong, half hum, into his shoulder. 

He draws himself up, shoulder by her chin, lungs filling with fresh air. “If you could leave, would you?”

She hums again, rose red eyes on his neck. “I don’t know.”

And he believes her. (He has to). And it’s good enough. (It has to be).

~

On stormy nights he sleeps uneasily. The slumber of the guilty and the damned. He dreams of his wife’s skin covered in swan feathers, and of his hands, plucking the feathers out one by one while she screams and begs for him to stop. Inevitably the dream reaches the stage where her screams evolve, reaching higher pitches, more animalistic, until from her lips bursts a bright red beak, which opens wide, teeth shining–

He wakes. The hunter throws off his blanket and sits up, willing his heart to calm. Beside him, his wife slumbers on. He listens to the sheets of rain battering the cottage walls and the sound of her breathing; the sigh of spring, a summer breeze. (Let it never be said that maidens–swan maidens–do not live and breathe grace and beauty). 

The hunter slips out of their bed, feet crossing the floorboards without touching any area that creaks. He fishes the golden key out of today’s hiding spot (beneath the bed of roses) and takes it to the wooden chest. 

Fleetingly, he wonders if he can truly keep this up forever. Hiding and rehiding the key every day. Bringing water fowl and small game animals back for dinner, to see eyes that demand pity and fear in her smile. Waiting for her to break. Waiting for her to love him back. He banishes the thought as quickly as it came. 

The wooden chest opens silently. He reaches one arm down and runs his fingers over the soft, silky swan feathers. Pristine from years of disuse. He closes the lid as quietly as he opened it and stands. He looks at the bed. Screams ring in his ears, below the rain, but above her breathing. 

He walks to the front door. Breathes in and listens to the rain hurling itself against the wooden frame. Isn’t there something else, something higher, something calling out in the night? In a fit of idiocy, he throws the door open.

Outside, the forest howls in anger. Raindrops batter his toes and he steps back. Wind threads through the inky black night, bowing the trees to its will. A tiny red light blinks. The hunter squints and strains his eyes. Two tiny red lights blink. With his lack of depth perception, they could be large and far away or small and close by. They look like eyes. But what eyes glow?

The hunter closes the door. “Not tonight.” And he goes back to bed.

Something must have woken his wife, because she speaks when he slides back under the covers. “What’s the matter, dear?” She murmurs. “Nightmares?”

“It’s–” Nothing. She blinks at him innocently and he thinks of the red lights in the darkness, watching him. He cannot see the redness of her irises in the dark, but the knowledge haunts him. “Nothing.”

“Tell me,” she encourages. 

And he almost does. Well, he thinks about it. (No he doesn’t). “It’s nothing,” he insists. A dismissal. A refusal. “Go back to sleep.”

~

A problem is running around the village. He can tell by the little gatherings of people, their positions, their voices. Subtle changes invisible to someone who has not spent their life in this village. 

“What’s wrong?” The hunter asks.

“It’s the water,” the baker says. They’re in the village’s favorite gathering spot. The tavern. “There’s something wrong with the water.”

“How so?” The hunter does not usually engage in midday drinking, but he does today. Something from last night’s rain has not left his mind. 

The baker shrugs. “It tastes funny. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it’s the well. I wouldn’t drink it if I were you.”

The hunter leans back in his chair. “I’ll keep that in mind.” (He won’t).

“Whatever.” The baker shrugs again. “And tell your wife.” She side-eyes the hunter, countless questions in her eyes, questions that he’s long grown tired of. Why don’t we ever see her? Where did she come from? Why doesn’t she ever go outside? Who is she? What is she?

~

The nightmares worsen. On kinder nights she screams for mercy, for forgiveness, for a savior, for peace. On crueler nights she finds that she is the one with no forgiveness to give. 

(A swan head, severed at the neck by an arrow, rolling to a stop at his feet. Red beak opening wide, revealing two sets of human teeth, and one human question: “Why?”)

He wakes panting on those nights, running from the wolves. But they keep howling during the day. He doesn’t stray so deep into the forests anymore. She needs him to be back before dark, after all. 

(Well. Technically, she doesn’t need him, but–)

~

“What’s the matter, dear?” She asks one day when a sudden gust of wind sends him walking into the table.

“Nothing, nothing,” he mumbles. “Distracted, that’s all.” He casts about the little room for their water jug. “How is the soup?”

“Simmering,” she replies swiftly, with a sweet smile. (Let it never be said that maidens do not converse with grace and wit). She turns her back to the pot. “Are you looking for water? It’s right here, dear.” She serves both of them a glass. “But really, if something’s going on, you can tell me.” Her fingers linger on the glass when she hands it to him. She’s as human as they come but he’s never touched another human that felt this electrifying. “I’m here for you.” She smiles, too, well, smiles more, and it’s all for him.

He knows what she’s saying, underneath her spoken words: I love you. She loves him. He knows it. He knows. The hunter gulps the water down like a man lost in a desert. “Do you still want to learn how to fletch arrows?”

The swan maiden’s voice trembles. “Yes. I would love to.” 

“Then I’ll teach you.” 

The hunter leads her to where he keeps his secret cache of arrows–where he’s kept them today, at least. He doesn’t think he’ll be hiding them anymore. He has just a few unassembled materials–sticks, flint and feathers–on hand, but it’s enough for a first attempt. 

He doesn’t plan on letting her try for that long for two reasons. First, he’s developed a frustrating headache, and in his experience the only cure is a long and deep sleep. Second, her eagerness reminds him uncomfortably of her hunger to learn of violence, earlier in their relationship. She ought to know by now that he hunts out of necessity, not desire, and that violence does not justify violence, and that not all hunger is equal. He ignores the argument raging in the back of his mind. (When you first saw her, was that not hunger? Yes, but a different kind, an understandable one, a satisfiable one; after all, it’s my hunger). 

Sticks, not yet shaped. Flint, sharpened, but unattached. Feathers, loose and not yet fletched. A small wood-shaving knife. The hunter spreads them all across the table. “It’s a complicated process,” he prefaces. “Don’t feel bad if it takes you a while to get.”

She picks up the pieces one by one and turns them over in her hands. The stick, which she discards. A white goose feather, which she smoothes over and over. A flint arrowhead. She smiles wide. 

“Oh, I won’t,” she promises. 

Then she rams the arrowhead into his neck as hard as she can.

Well, more like his upper chest, because he jerks back on instinct. The scrape of the flint point across his collar bone is what he imagines burning alive to feel like. No, he thinks. NO. She wouldn’t. She can’t. She loves me. He stands without thinking, shoves her without thinking, and then the anger rushes in. He tackles her to the floor, but she’s got another arrowhead in her other hand and she swipes it across his face. Someone’s screaming, or roaring, like an animal. Is it him? His head spins. He’s dizzier than before, but it can’t be the rush of anger, it must be something else, it must be the water. Blood splatters her face, spraying from above. She screams. Did he punch her? Yes, but he missed. He tries again. One of her hands snakes through, grasps the arrowhead still buried in his upper chest, and twists. Pain explodes across his chest and in his head, pain like he’s never known. His arms give in. She rolls out of the way as he collapses. 

“Maximum damage,” she spits as she rises. 

She swipes something off the table and stoops down. He raises his arms to defend himself, and each slash of flint across his forearms redoubles his screaming. She grabs one of his arms with her free hand, and he was lying before when he said her touch was like no other, because this is like no other, before was merely some pale imitation, a ghostly foreshadowing, this is electricity, fire on his skin, this is burning him alive and–

The arrowhead sinks into his neck. 

He screams, or he gargles, feet lashing out blindly. One flailing arm finds the table’s edge and holds on tight. Sweaty and bloody hand on the old wood. An arrowhead strikes across his wrist, tearing through muscles and tendons and arteries. He didn’t know she had this capacity for brutality. She strikes again; same wrist, different line, making a jigsaw puzzle of his arm. He reels back, hitting the floor right before his hand does, jolting the arrowhead stuck in his neck. 

Someone’s screaming. It’s still him. He clutches his bloody stump with the hand he still has, eyes fixated on the lifeless fingers on the floor a foot away from him. I’ll never shoot an arrow again. A realization and a bargain. Both come too late. 

Blood soaks his clothes. He can’t feel a thing. Her foot comes down on the arrowhead lodged above his collarbone, pressing it in, and suddenly he can feel, but he’d gladly never feel again. His spine curls and he flattens to the floor, head banging against the floorboards. 

She looms over him, those red eyes he once mistook as beautiful overflowing with malice, a gentle curve to her lips. He screams until he chokes. 

Why? A horrible, rattling gurgle escapes his lips instead of a word. She still answers like she heard it loud and clear.

“It’s like you said, dear,” she explains, sweet smile in place. (Let it never be said that swan maidens–that swans–oh, you know). “No one was coming.” 

She reaches down and plucks the golden key from his belt. “You should’ve given me the key.” It may be blood loss but her teeth are longer and sharper. “You should’ve left me in the pond.” It may be the lack of light but there are small teeth on her tongue. Like a swan. Or a monster. She strides to the front door and throws it open. 

The wild streams in. Chipmunks and raccoons, scampering across the floorboards, chittering and growling. Insects, invisible until they’re crawling over him. A brown hare thumps to a stop by his face, eyes large and red and unafraid. The wind blows cool night air into the cottage and her bloodstained dress ripples in the breeze. Something bites him, teeth on his ear, and horror breaks through the all-consuming pain. Many things bite him, only some with teeth, and quickly the horror grows into pain once more.

“Please,” he sobs. An insect crawls over his face and into his mouth. He spasms and curls. The animals gnaw closer.

“What’s the matter, dear?” The swan maiden tilts her head, red eyes blinking, clawed hands on hips. “Isn’t turnabout fair play?” She squats by his side, fingers brushing his hair back tenderly. “I should thank you. It’s because of you that I’ve developed a taste for meat.” Eyes alight, tongue over lip. Hungry. “And I know just what to make for supper.”

[theladyheroine]

Swan Maidens & Other Birds! 🦢🦉🦜

❥ Types of Wizards prompt

❥ Hello everyone! 👋🏽 I know it’s been a long while since I wrote anything, but I am trying my best! I recently got back from vacation too so that was super fun! Anywho this post might be short but it seemed like such an interesting idea. Have fun & enjoy! Thank you!

Okay! So for anyone that doesn’t know, swan maidens are a lesser known mythical creature from European origins. ‘Though I think they come from French origin? But I could also be wrong lol but anyway, swan maidens are women who can turn into swans & back again via a cloak of magical feathers.

I wanted to create a few headcanons of what they might be like, but also what other birds would be like too!

Swan maidens are considered the most elegant and charming due to their snow white feathers. However, they can be quite vain creatures if you’re not careful. Much similar to fairies of older tales, these maidens are vain and will take any opportunity to be noticed. Even if they’re undercover.

Flaunting their feathers and fair features as they swim back and forth. Hoping to catch the eyes of other bird maidens or even humans. Or taking the opportunity to gaze at their own reflections. But, if you decide to ignore them or turn down their pretentious antics, be prepared for a mean trick or two. Expect a fair amount of shoes to go missing, your garden gets trampled or eaten, or they might just try to chase you off.

Owl maidens, unlike swans, are far less sensitive about their appearance and even towards humans. They are more curious than any, but you do not want to mess with them. Residing among tall treetops and mountainsides, they guard their domains from vicious predators or anything else that decides to make trouble. They are usually much larger than other bird maidens.

Those big intelligent eyes of theirs are always on the lookout, however, you might be able to catch them during the daytime if you’re careful enough. Considering they’re nocturnal like their feathery counterparts. However, they’re more like gentle giants and wouldn’t hurt a fly. They actually like to people watch at times, preferring to sit back and enjoy themselves than start something.

Raven maidens are not necessarily elusive creatures, but they are definitely the hardest to find due to their timidity. Plus, their dark feathers usually help them blend in with any shadows or other darker places. They usually fly solo or can be seen in pairs, but it’s best not to get near them. Else they’ll run or fly away!

However, if you get too close or prove to be a scoundrel, they’ll might to trick you! Mimicking voices and other sounds is one of their many talents, and will often use this ability to hide their presence. Mimicking the sound of a running stream, rustling leaves, even other animals. But if you’re up to no good, you might end up at the wrong place. As they can mimic human voices too.

Parrot maidens are probably the most flamboyant creatures other than swan maidens, if not more so. Painting the sky with their vibrant colors makes for a wonderful display, and they can often be seen in a big cluster together showing off their looks. However, they are incredibly loud! That’s usually what gives their identity away in the first place….

They sound more like clucking hens than parrots, chattering away from sun up to sun down about who knows what. However, due to that they are quite knowledgeable! Exchanging talks of various things is in their nature, as they are quite social, and you could gain something useful if you tried. Just trade them a story or something really pretty and they’ll tell you whatever you want!

[minecraftbookshelf]

From the still untitled Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss (+Martyn) Urban Fantasy AU oneshot (That I have been working on all night and have made huge amounts of progress on!)

“And all that was before we found the dungeon in the basement.” They turn to Martyn, brushing Hughes off with as much concern as if he were a fly. “The guy was a collector, apparently. And he’d been at it awhile.” Martyn looks around the assembled ambulances and their occupants with a new, more critical eye. A starved and weakened vampire, A silver-collared werewolf, two nervous and twitchy sirens. (wrapped in damp blankets as a paramedic with a lock-picking kit fiddled with the muzzles fitted around one’s face. Martyn makes a mental note, someone with flexible skill sets like that might work out at the Guild.) An emaciated naga. Two more paramedics carefully wheeling out a criminally (literally) small tank containing brackish water and an insensate mer. Oh this is going to be so much paperwork. Martyn is very glad the guy is dead. “There’s more inside,” Scott says behind them. Martyn glances over his shoulder and is glad to see him looking a lot less feverish and pained than before with the return of his coat. “I got a grand tour. He’s got a dragon-hide hanging on the wall in the library and a whole hall of displayed...parts.” So much paperwork. Jimmy had better enjoy that vacation, they’ll probably still be sorting all this out when he gets back. “He was going to put me in a concrete enclosure, Martyn. He showed me. It’s so ugly. Almost as bad as the rest of his house.”

[squishosaur]

not on my ref sheet but special shoutout to mtt and ortho i was thinking abt them 💞

[goldammerchen]

…Gil tells Rode a story…

1/2 LietPolPru chapters...!! Indirectly (Also Nonexplicit chapter)

Tumblr links: Chapter 1 (Francis) Chapter 2 (Antonio) Chapter 3 (Gilbert)

[dark-orca-dynasty]

It's done, I am FREEEEEEE

Colouring was the longest part of this I think, because that was when I was laying down the spots for her tail. The first version was a pain to do, so I looked up what actual snow leopard tails look like and realised I was going about it all wrong. Still not happy with the way I drew Alpheus' face either, but I'll just practice more I guess.

Things also got pretty chaotic around here, my sister now knows the most murderers out of anyone in the family (3 compared to the family baseline of 1), if that gives you any indication to the kind of life I'm dealing with.

I should have more time to work on this soon, my little brothers went back to school the other week so I'm no longer acting as a short order cook to a 5yo all day, leaving more time to contemplate feral catgirls and everything to do with The Deep.

I have a mermay thing planned too, so hopefully I remember to do that before I start on chronically ill Finn angst or using genderbends to analyse characters. But first, math and geometry because I promised someone I'd get them the measurements from the manor I drew for the AU, because I'm the kind of person who makes full on floorplans for my OCs.

[captain-mj]

Please oh please may I have a crumb of more swan-maiden Graves?

Of course! Poll at the end (it is mostly a joke... or is it?)

Price looked at the feathers a long while. He went through all of the people on base, trying to pick someone to hand them off to. He really, really wished he could blame the feathers for the way he was feeling. That it was some magic spell that made him want to keep them to himself. But Price knew himself better than that. He just didn’t want anyone else to have control of Graves. 

Graves was currently sleeping. Price had left him in the bed to do so, so he better be asleep. Little bastard. 

Price also needed to sleep. Which meant like Alejandro told him… he needed to give someone the feathers. He kept staring at them. 

Ghost was out. Price trusted him normally, but Graves had shot Soap and he knew he hadn’t gotten over it quite yet. He had temper issues on the best of days and with the best of people. 

Alejandro was out for similar reasons. Price didn’t fault him for being angry, it just wasn’t the best strategy for now. 

Rodolfo… maybe. Solid maybe. But he was the one that blew Graves up, so maybe not. 

Soap also participated and Price was worried the concept would be hard on him.

That left Gaz. Gaz had a necklace he needed and it was a little more akin to Graves’s feathers. Plus, he knew Gaz. He wouldn’t take advantage of this situation, even if he was angry about what happened. So Price reluctantly gave Gaz the feathers before heading to bed. 

Price had odd dreams. He didn’t like them very much. Dreams of all white rooms. Feathers and smoke. 

Waking up was a blessing. 

Price found Gaz in his room. The feathers spread over the table. He was doing paperwork next to them, but clearly was trying not to touch them. 

Price patted his shoulder. “You’re a good kid, son.”

Gaz smiled at him and looked at them, hand going for his necklace. “I’ve talked with Soap. I know you did but… I get it more, ya know?”

“What did he say?”

“Not much.” Clear code for nothing Soap would want repeated back to Price, so he didn’t push. “I felt the same way. If someone got my necklace…”

“Never going to happen.” Price promised. He looked at the small pendant. It had water in it, just a small amount from Gaz’s spring. If he had it taken from him, it would be a death sentence for him. Price would make sure it was a death sentence to whoever touched it too. 

Gaz smiled at him. “Thanks, Captain. I’m not too worried about it. Feel a bit bad for Graves but… necessary evils and all that. At least we’re not hurting anyone innocent.”

“Still thinking of Nik’s truth serum thing?”

“Yeah.” Gaz laughed. “Harsh as hell, but it got us what we needed. Just… gotta remember that.” 

Price smiled at him and slowly took the feathers. He walked downstairs. 

Rodolfo had a notebook. Graves had a split lip. Price watched quietly. 

Graves looked pained and he had a feeling he was hurt more than just where he could see. But he was talking. He told them a few things that he knew about and Rodolfo wrote it down. 

“Shepherd has a few safehouses. I only know about them because I found a file I wasn’t supposed to. Didn’t get all of the addresses.”

“Name the ones you do.” Rodolfo ordered and Graves nodded. It was a small handful, but it was a lot better than the nothing they had before. 

Rodolfo hummed. “Anything else useful?”

“Not right now.” 

He nodded and put the notebook away. “All yours Captain.” Rodolfo brushed past him, walking with the same unnatural grace he always possessed. 

“He rough you up?”

“That is one scary bastard.” Graves mumbled, spitting blood on to the floor. 

Price watched and took a deep breath. 

Smoke and C4. 

He leaned down and cut him free. “Get up.” 

Graves got up slowly and nodded. He followed Price slowly. 

Clothes. Price was positive there would be uniforms in Graves’s size but that would require either walking Graves through half the base, ordering someone to grab clothes or leaving Graves unattended. 

He changed directions, making a detour to his room and grabbing clothing. Then they went to the showers. The ones on this side of the base were usual abandoned and today was no exception. 

Graves perked up before side eyeing Price. Back with that thick accent. “Not going to peep on me are you?”

Price gave him an unamused glare and Graves shrugged, taking the clothing. He went in and Price heard the shower a moment later. 

Price may think Graves is pretty, he’d never stoop so low as to watch him bathe. He found himself touching the feathers. Part of him was curious on if Graves felt everything that happened to him or just the pain. Gently, he ran his fingers over one. They were so soft. 

Graves finished cleaning up and dried off. He felt the gentle petting and huffed a little. Once he pulled on his shirt, he peeked out. “Can you stop doing that?”

Price quickly let go so he was just holding him by the string again. 

Graves finished getting dressed and was a bit miffed that the clothes were so big on him. He rolled the pant’s legs up and then tucked the shirt into the pants. Drawing the drawstring tight, he managed to look somewhat passable, even if he looked like he was about to go to sleep. 

Finally, Graves stepped out and Price paused, examining him. “There weren’t any weapons in there for me to grab, Price. No need to stare me down.”

Price nodded and looked away. “Right. Come on.”

“Can we get food? I didn’t get a chance to eat this morning.”

“Rodolfo interrogate me all morning?”

“Yeah…” Price watched Graves’s put his hand to his ribs. “Mostly using magic, but he did hit me a few times. Scary…”

“He definitely earned Sergeant Major.” He led him to the mess hall, Graves following right on his heels. Price got him food and quickly went to put him back in his cell. Graves quickly glanced around first, cataloging everyone. 

“Looking for someone?”

Graves glanced at him. “Just in case, ya know?”

‘Just in case what?”

“One of my shadows are here.” Graves said it so softly. 

Price thought he looked gorgeous.

[red-dead-cryptids]

Abigail Roberts’ basic Cryptid information

Abigail is a swan maiden – not very monstrous, but a cryptid nonetheless.

Cryptid Appearance

Abigail has two separate forms, similar to Arthur — She has her secondary ‘human’ form and then she has her swan form.

Her swan form makes her appear as nothing more than your average, beautiful swan, which can allow her to blend in and escape cryptid hunters easily. Well, unless she’s in an area where swans are nonexistent.

As a human, she appears as close to human as a cryptid can get — though over her clothes, she wears a white, feather cloak/robe that appears as if she skinned an enormous swan. [see Cryptid Abilities to see the importance of this cloak]

Cryptid Abilities

Abigail is capable of switching from human to swan form with the use of her ‘swan skin’ cloak/robe. Without this garment, she’ll be incapable of returning to her swan form which would cause a semblance of despair.

Swan Maidens can ‘see’ into a person’s heart, a type of morality viewing if you will. Abigail is able to divine a person’s moral standing in the world. It helps against Cryptid hunters as well as when Kieran Duffy was being integrated into the gang.

Abigail is graceful & stronger than she looks, as well as excelling in hand-to-hand combat.

Abigail is not immortal, like many humans think Swan Maidens are, but her lifespan will far outlast the average human.

She is also capable of flying in her swan form.

Character (AU) Trivia

Unlike most Cryptids, she doesn't really have a trait that stays with her in her human form — unless you count her swan skin robe.

Swan Maidens are an all female race. While Jack takes after his father; the mentioned Marston daughter (if she had lived) would have been a Swan Maiden like her mother Abigail.

Her morality viewing lets her know if a person is ‘good’ or ‘bad’, so if Abigail trusts a stranger, most of the gang will as well. Key word — most.

If she sees a person’s moral compass as ‘good’, Abigail will help them as much as she can. Example: She loves Arthur and despises Micah.

If someone takes her cloak, she’s left nearly helpless and unable to transform / escape from capture (many Swan Maidens are forced into marriage this way); though the only times she removes it are when she’s bathing.

Abigail is fluent in the French language.

~~~~~~

Not too many details to start but it's something for now, and I still have lots more planned.

[grapefruit03]

Hesitation

“…if I could change anything, I would have said no to him.”

[birdiepaws]

btw if you’re still thinking about bird selkies (saw ur post in the selkie tag LOL) look up the swan maiden, theres a bunch of stories with similar themes to selkies 😉

I WAS NOT CURRENTLY THINKING ABOUT BIRD SLEKIES BUT I FORTOT SWAN MAIDENS EXISTED THANK YOU ANON

[zgmoony]

Selkie innit + swan maiden innit

Little ramble under the cut↓

Ok sooo being completely honest I am less crazy about swan maidens then I am Selkies but:3 they are still cool:3 anywaaaay

Basically think similar to selkie innit for swan maiden Tommy dream definitely stole Tommy’s feather robe thooouuugh think it would be interesting for like hmm c!dream hunting Tommy in his swan form (for selkie innit it’s a bit hard for Dream to chase him through the woods in seal form lol:,3 buuut maybe Dream stopping Tommy from swimming away in his seal form by throwing a net over him or something)

Also this was my first time drawing a feathery robe so wahooo:3