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sunshinebingo · 3 months ago

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A Gwynriel meet-cute fic inspired by my writer's block and the music video of I Hear A Symphony by Cody Fry.

Synopsis: Gwyn tries everything possible to put a stop to her writer's block, unbeknownst that her source of inspiration will appear right at her door.

Word Count: 2.4k

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

She sat, alone and upset.

She sat in her home, as lonely and desperate as she had ever been, and waited for a miracle to happen.

Gwyn crossed yet another sentence, the words becoming less readable with every line she frustratingly drew across them.

“Ugh. I’m a lost cause,” she complained.

What was she doing wrong? She was applying every advice she had received from her fellow authors, some of which had worked for her previous writer’s blocks. She was so desperate that she was even doing everything all at once to increase her chances at finally writing. Her head had been a blank slate for too many months now.

The first step had been to put on her comfiest hoodie and shorts, her hair up in a high ponytail, and to sit on her comfiest chair at her desk with some cool water. She was also using a pen and paper instead of her laptop. Typing everything out later would be an extra step, but one that she was willing to take. If, she hoped hard, she managed to write anything at all. In addition to all that, she was using a different colour than black, and had convinced herself that she was using a different font. If she always used Times New Roman, Arial or Calibri, her own handwriting had to count as a new font, right?

She even had ambient music playing in the background; the sound of a peaceful forest that she imagined her heroine – a nymph – living in. From the different sounds that floated around her, Gwyn imagined the nymph sitting in her little cottage, with a freshly polished dagger on a table next to a steaming cup of hibiscus tea. Magical birds could be heard chirping outside along with her ethereal voice humming. Occasionally, Gwyn could also hear tiny footsteps and giggles that made her think of the little folks that she had introduced earlier in chapter 3.

All the conditions were perfect. Every element was right here in her head; the setting, the mood, the time and weather. Yet it still felt like nothing was happening. As though she couldn’t get her heroine to do anything, no matter how hard Gwyn poked her with her mental stick. Perhaps she was also waiting for something more interesting than everything her creator came up with.

Gwyn sighed and rubbed her eyes. The bright pink was starting to hurt her tired eyes and making her annoyance with herself grow. Maybe she should have picked a different one among her many colourful pens. Could a glittery one work?

She took a few sips of water from her favourite mug, followed by a few slow and deeps breaths during which she wondered how the hell she had managed to publish two books in four years with a brain like hers.

Reading and writing were a passion that she had successfully turned into her job. It meant more to her than just paying her bills and affording everything she owned. It was her source of joy and fulfilment; what had slowly let her out of her safe shell and had given her a reason to live. At least it was all of this when the made-up creatures living in her head actually did things that she could write about. Her team of editors and publishers would never approve of a story where the characters only sat and waited for the unknown for half of the book.

“Someone could die,” Gwyn tapped her pen against her cheek and thought out loud. But for that to happen, she would have to come up with a motive and a plan.

She imagined her protagonist staring blankly at her as if to ask, “Really?”

She scowled at the pink ink on the white paper and asked, “What else do you suggest to spice up the plot?”

She refused to give up on her story midway through. Something would happen. She just needed faith in her creativity and her skills. And a prayer or two to the writers’ gods to send a genius idea her way. With little hope that they would listen, Gwyn plunged back into her story, where the nymph was still doing a whole lot of nothing.

She sat there, as lonely and desperate as she had ever felt, and slowly giving up on the hope that miracles could happen, when a rattling sound disturbed the quiet of her home. It persisted until…

“Wait a second.”

…until the author realised that the sound was coming from outside her own apartment door.

“What the hell?”

Both of Gwyn’s best friends, Emerie and Nesta, the only two who ever showed up at her place unannounced, were currently at work. Even if they had gotten out early, they would have knocked or called after finding her door locked. Which it most often was. The building that Gwyn lived in was quite luxurious with an excellent security system. But judging by the person who had been trying to forcefully open her door for the last minute, Gwyn’s anxiety about her safety began to surface again.

She stood from her desk and made her way towards what could be an intruder. Holding her pink pen up like a serial killer might hold a knife, Gwyn brought her hand to the knob. If she was fast enough, she could press the button on the interphone right next to the door as soon as she opened it and alert the security guard. But what if Frank was already dead and now the killer was coming for her? Gwyn damned herself for having gone with an apartment on the second floor instead of the twenty-second. What was the benefit of having one of the best balconies in the building if she was among the firsts to die?

“Pull yourself together Gwyneth!” she told herself.

Her heroine wouldn’t cower before the one trying to break through her cottage. She would feel the fear but confront it. Gwyn might have no dagger nor claws; she might have no magic to bring down her enemies. But, like her nymph, she refused to die. Not when she had a story to finish. Gwyn summoned as much courage as she had often infused her nymph with and yanked her door open.

What she saw crouching before her with a key in one gloved hand and a black and blue helmet in the other didn’t look like a murderer. Not that she had ever knowingly come face to face with one to know what they looked like.

Gwyn lowered her pen at her side as the man straightened and towered over her with strong arms and broad shoulders that were hugged by a black leather jacket. His brown skin glowed under the dim yellow light of the baroque-style hallway of the building. His hazel eyes were like a blaze that bore into Gwyn, even as the rest of his handsome face showed signs of surprise. There was a hint of confusion apparent in the frown of his obsidian eyebrows that matched the colour of his short, dishevelled hair.

He looked like a male straight out of a romantasy. The type whose looks alone could mark him as someone who is always broody. Until he meets the one who can effortlessly make him smile with an adorable laugh, a teasing remark or an irreverent challenging look; the latter being the kind a writer like herself would describe as a withering stare that would earn the object of the male’s fascination an amused chuckle.

Was he even real? Or had Gwyn dived so deep into her fictional world that she had landed somewhere inside it? If it was the case, then it meant that there was more to her story that she had yet to discover, since she had never met such a stunning man in that world of hers. She didn’t even know that such beauty and magnetism was possible.

He was just standing there in front of her. Yet his eyes seemed to hold a power that made it impossible for her to acknowledge anything else.

“Hello.”

The deep voice she heard didn’t sound like it was coming from her imagination.

“Hi,” she breathlessly greeted back.

“Uh... Hi... I was...”

Gwyn took in every single fumbled words that came out of his plump lips, ready to listen to him say anything. But he stopped and, for a moment, just stared at her with an intensity that she did not realise matched the way she was looking at him.

“Can I help you?” she asked when the silence stretched, hoping that she hadn’t looked at him like she had never seen a man before. Although she was still not entirely convinced that he wasn’t a manifestation of her fantasies.

The man shook his visible stupor away at her question and offered her a small yet very charming smile.

“I think this is my new apartment.”

Gwyn frowned in puzzlement.

“I’m sure it’s not?” she said like she wasn’t sure at all.

He cocked his head to the side in thought before looking around as though he had dropped something. Then, realising he was already holding it, he held his key up for her to see.

“Isn’t this number 9?”

Gwyn’s frown deepened until realisation struck her harder than a lighting bolt.

“Ah. I see.” Gwyn pursed her lips to hold in a laugh. “May I?”

She extended her hand to the mystery man and motioned to his key with a tilt of her head.

He raised a brow at her. A corner of his lips slowly tugged into a smirk that disappeared a few seconds later. Whether he was trying to consciously school his features or not, Gwyn didn’t know. But she enjoyed the mischief that she had glimpsed for a moment there.

“You may,” he said as he dropped the small object in her open palm.

Gwyn held the key chain up and placed it next to the engraving on the wall with her house’s number on it. She showed him how, in this way, the key chain formed a miniature version of the engraving, with the design being the exact same, except for the 6 of her house number which didn’t match the 9 of his key.

His eyes darted between the engraving and the key, and to the redhead who was playfully wiggling her eyebrows at him. Then he laughed, his rich voice so beautiful that Gwyn imagined it would be impossible to ever tire of hearing it. And when she laughed with him, she found that she very much liked the harmony that their two voices created.

“I’m sorry.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “That was very dumb of me.”

“I’ll give you that. It was,” she said with a shrug.

The man eyed Gwyn like he was disappointed that she had so quickly agreed. His expression only pulled another laugh out of Gwyn.

“Yours is the one over there.” She pointed at the hallway behind him. To the second door down to her left. “Next to the wall lamp.”

He look there before turning back to her. Gwyn dangled his key in front of him.

“You won’t get my home just yet but you’ll get to be my neighbour.”

She found herself curious as to what kind of neighbour mister handsome here would be. Would they come across each other at random hours of the day and night as they went about their lives?

The smile that brightened his face was more disarming than any that Gwyn had ever seen.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, neighbour.” He extended a hand to her.

“I’m Gwyneth. Or just Gwyn.”

She shook his offered hand with the same one that she still held his key. He took it with him as he slowly, almost reluctantly, pulled his hand away.

“I’m Azriel. Or just... Azriel.”

He cleared his throat and adjusted the helmet he carried under his left arm. Gwyn smiled.

“Alright. Just Azriel.”

They stood there in silence for a while. Their gazes locked, their hands fidgeting with whatever they carried. Gwyn was here and somewhere else at the same time. His body, his face, his voice, his mere presence stirred something in her. It was thrilling and also...intimidating.

He was like a mystery that was yet to be unfold. A story that needed to be written. Gwyn sensed in her writer’s heart that his could be one with pain and pleasure, ire and love. His eyes were a window through which she wanted to dive into his soul and learn all of his secrets. She also wanted to know what kind of man he could be in his most caring or vulnerable state.

Knowing a person in such a deep, all encompassing way was almost impossible. But perhaps, Gwyn wondered as her eyes widened, her version of him could provide her with the answers she sought.

“I – ”

“I should – ”

“I need to – ”

They both laughed at their synchronicity.

“I should go check my actual apartment.”

“And I should get back to mine. I hope you don’t get lost on your way.”

One of his brows rose. “I will blame your directions if I do.”

Gwyn crossed her arms and scowled at him. But the effect was lost with the smile that threatened to spread on her lips.

She watched him turn around and walk to his apartment. No doubt sensing her eyes still on him after he opened his door, “just Azriel” looked at her again. Gwyn waved at him. He winked, then stepped inside. Without wasting another second, Gwyn closed her own door and rushed to her desk.

Words and images formed in her mind like music flowing out of her imagination; a scene playing out like a musician effortlessly soaring through the notes of their symphony.

Gwyn immersed herself in it and let her hand glide across pages after pages of her notebook. She wrote about the nymph and her intruder, a mysterious male that became more real with every element she discovered about his character.

It might have been luck or sheer coincidence. It might have also been an answer to her hopeless prayers. Gwyn had no time to care. What mattered was that she was now inspired.

#gwynriel #fluff #meet cute #gwyn berdara #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #acotar modern au #gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel fic #gwyn x azriel #azriel x gwyn #pro gwynriel #gwynriel supremacy

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christiansorrell · 1 year ago

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TTRPG Read-Through: Patchwork World

Here is a read-through I did last year (originally posted on Twitter) of one of the most unique PbtA games I've ever read: Patchwork World by Aaron King! - Christian

Credits up first. I know a lot of these folks and they are really cool! Excited to dig into this. I've heard good things, and it's been a while since I've read or played any Powered by the Apocalypse.

This is a cool, strong set up for me. I really like settings that ask characters to face a changing world and either take up change themselves or work to restore the old way of things. It's a headspace I find myself in a lot IRL these days so it's fun to explore.

I'm interested to see how the no stats, no playbooks angle of this game works, considering playbooks are typically such a staple of PbtA games.

Standard three-tired success, mixed success, fail forward resolution for rolls here and questions on the moves determine your bonus to the roll. Easy peasy. +2 is the max bonus.

Other types of rolls are described here. Interested to see how they come into play. I also love clocks and use them in pretty much every game I run so it's nice to see those laid out here too.

We just love a lil guy, don't we folks?

A good chunk of the opening here is spent on laying out a lot of solid foundations of roleplaying generally. It feels like a book (so far) that would work for entirely new players. It doesn't feel essential for me, but I never mind a game that supports varied experience levels.

Character creation is wide open, especially since there aren't playbooks and the text stresses that character creation is very much worldbuilding because of this. Fate-like concepts and tags are in here too which are things I generally enjoy. I like the Drawback mechanic.

Moves are in the playback I set in the other room so I'm gonna go grab those. You get two chosen moves and everyone has access to a number of default moves. You've got three other life/XP things to keep track of too. I'm especially interested in Hex.

There are a lot of moves! They seem quite varied and often very weird, fitting well with the titular patchwork world. You can have a duck's slick soul to dodge more easily or a magical space suit or speak to birds or be good at cartography. Overwhelming, but in an exciting way.

You also choose a community as a party. While PCs all have their original homelands (before the end of the old worlds), you know have a community that gets its own little sheet. This is a cool reshaping of the Gangs from Blades. I also like how the community can change over time.

Coming back to a PbtA game after months of more OSR-minded stuff, I think a lot of what these games contain are things that experienced players would say you could just do in any game at any time that it makes sense in the story, but I do find value in stating what's possible.

Esp since many players come to games with artificial limits on their options (whether that's from video games, more traditional RPGs, etc.). I just think good GMing here requires making sure that the players don't limit themselves just to the bevy of explicit options either.

GM moves (mostly to guide the response to failed rolls). I really think the community aspect of this set up is one of the biggest appeals to me so far. That and the wild list of moves, which I'm sure makes for amazing parties of characters.

I always feel like it's never something I should be in my own writing (for some probably unnecessary reason), but I enjoy the first-person, casual writing style throughout the book. Makes for a very chill read.

Good to see this game employs the Branson Reese style of NPC naming.

Stress acts as a single catch-all health and challenge rating for NPCs. Ideally, I'd hope this would help lead to the PCs approaching encounters with more than just violence.

Sections like this are what I'm referring to when I say this book feels very friendly to new players. It's got little anecdotes and thoughts like this throughout.

Look, it's been a while since I've seen A Christmas Story but... it didn't have ghosts in it right?

There's a sample adventure in the back (which I'll skip for this read-through) plus loads of random tables. Some wonderfully bizarre stuff in the characters and faction tables. Really gives you a good idea for how gonzo you can go with the setting.

Love these two in particular

Optional rules include hard mode (which I just think is kind of funny to see in PbtA, but could be cool if you lean heavy into the post-apoc setting) and some optional moves. I like that some moves focus on romance, something I enjoy IRL but never think to focus on in games.

I was wondering why this was the sixth edition!

That's all for the book itself. Going back to the packet to dig into the things I missed. Some expected bits in here but always one or two unique options I really enjoy. Leaking hex is cool (and could have some troubling cascade effects in certain situations).

I definitely wish, at least in sitting down to read like this, that the contents of the player packet was also in the book itself. I think PbtA has this tendency of leading to loads of pages on the table, but it can make them very easy to pick up and play or to learn as you play.

That element is definitely here, but I think the vast number of wide-ranging moves and the excitement that would drum up in my player group would more than makeup for that initial overwhelming feel of "whoa, that's a lot of papers out on the table".

Overall, it's the most I've wanted to play a game in this style in a while. I like that the base setup for the world is very much up to the players to determine via the characters they make. I like that PCs here will probably feel unlike any other folks have played before.

The community aspect feels like where I'd want to center my story around, as a player. Seeing that shift and change over time feels like it would be very rewarding and would help lean into the "the old world is dead, what do we want the new world to look like?" theme I enjoy.

Because Aaron King is cool and recently hit a lot of Twitter followers, Patchwork Worlds is now Pay-what-you-want over on Itch.

I'm not sure if physical copies are readily available. For full disclosure (guess I should have said this up front), I got this copy for free from Aaron! Not for the purposes of this thread or anything, just for fun a while back.

Thanks for reading more ramblings from me! If you like to do that sort of thing, check out my newsletter - Missives from the MeatCastle. It's got writings on my work, cool stuff I've run across the web in the last month, and exclusive rpg stuff! https://meatcastle.substack.com

#indie ttrpg #ttrpg #ttrpgs #rpg #fantasy #science fiction #pbta #powered by the apocalypse #aaron king #patchworld world #sixth edition #read through

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ask-indigo-park-swapped · 6 months ago

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==> MOLLIE: Talk to your friends!

[Rambley]

MOLLIE: RAMBLEY! HI!!! RAMBLEY: OH! HI MOLLIE!!! MOLLIE: Helpin' with supplies, Rambley? RAMBLEY: Of course!!! You know me, always doing something to help! MOLLIE: Of course, of course! MOLLIE: What'dya think of the Isles so far? RAMBLEY: Ah... I'd say it's just below the Swamplands for worst safety violation ever. MOLLIE: Hah! Not liking the heights, huh~? RAMBLEY: Nope! But, at least this place has a distinct lack of corrosive acid. That's more than I can say for the Swamplands. MOLLIE: Fair enough. MOLLIE: Say, have you seen Salem around? RAMBLEY: Huh? No, I think they decided to stay behind at Aviary Station. Something about making more potions. MOLLIE: Ah, that's a shame. I'd have liked to explore with someone from Aviary.

RAMBLEY: Here we go! RAMBLEY: Sorry, Mollie! I gotta run supplies now! See you later! MOLLIE: Bye, Rambley!

=> Ask about how the Isles float MOLLIE: Rambley, do you know what makes the isles float? RAMBLEY: Hmm... RAMBLEY: Well, the Isles are still mostly unexplored, so I don't have a lot of information yet - but I have a theory! MOLLIE: Oh? RAMBLEY: Yep! I bet that the reason the Isles float is... gems! MOLLIE: Gems? RAMBLEY: Yep! The scouts kept finding these dark, iridescent gems on a bunch of items and even in some walls in the Isle ruins. They don't match any other gems, so I bet they're magic or something! MOLLIE: Hmm... RAMBLEY: I bet they got some... anti-gravity enchantment or something, or maybe it's just something about the gems in particular that lets them float! Negative mass! En-cloud-er! MOLLIE: But what about the smaller islands? I don't think those have gems. RAMBLEY: Yeah, that's why I only have theories. The smaller islands float just as easily as the main island, but there doesn't seem to be a consistent reason why RAMBLEY: Maybe there's some artifact inside that causes the floating, but I have never heard of an enchantment that strong. So for now, my best theory is gems.

[Trader]

MOLLIE: G'mornin', Trader! Suprised to see you out of the Snow Line. TRADER: Ah, good greetings reckless one. You wish to trade? MOLLIE: No ma'am, I just wanted to say hello. Maybe hear any rumours about the Isles? TRADER: Hmm, we do trade for knowledge... TRADER: ... an explorer returned during early dawn. Having come from deeper within, the explorer had been telling stories about what ey've seen during eir expedition. TRADER: These ruins may have once been cult grounds. MOLLIE: Aw feathers, another dead cult? At least it's in a cool place this time, and not just some spot in the woods. TRADER: If that is all, we would ask you to leave. MOLLIE: Ah right, I'm holding the line. See you around, Trader! TRADER: Likewise.

[Ruta]

MOLLIE: Hey, Ruta! Excited to adventure in a new place? RUTA: Good morning, Mollie. I am very excited to explore the Isles. It was prohibited for exploration for so long I am required to be excited to explore. MOLLIE: We're like birds of a feather, you and me! You, me, and a whole flock'a folks. RUTA: Yes! This Outpost is very crowded with explorers! Even the scouts that explored this area are going back in. MOLLIE: Whoa, really? RUTA: Yes. These ruins are quite unique after all. MOLLIE: I heard that not a lotta scouts were let in though, only flyers like avians. Wouldn't they have explored this place top to bottom already? RUTA: No. Remember that scouts only do a quick sweep over areas. More in-depth explorations like what we do are very different, and with such a new area there are bigger risks of harmful traps that were missed. MOLLIE: It sounds like you got some advice to give, Ruta. RUTA: Correct. RUTA: Be more watchful of traps, Mollie, there is no guarantee that they are safe. In addition, do not count only on your wings for escape. MOLLIE: ... MOLLIE: ... is that it? RUTA: Hm? MOLLIE: I mean, your advice is usually more ominous than that. I already know to be careful of traps, and it's not like I only got my wings. I brought by grappling gun, and emergency rope, and a buncha other stuff. RUTA: My apologies that my advice is disappointing. Nevertheless, I must continue my preparations. Take care on your journey, Mollie, and good luck! MOLLIE: Good luck on your own adventure, Ruta! I'll keep your advice in mind!

Mollie decides she idled around enough - she is itching for some adventure!

Mollie enters the TETHERED ISLES. ==>

#story event #indigo park #indigo park swapped au #mollie macaw #rambley the raccoon #ahh here we go here we go! more story events hell yeah!!!#the next event will have a poll! there will be many choices!! i am Very excited #also just a reminder: mollie is the only one available for asks while the tethered isles event is ongoing #also trader is not an oc she is a reference to a different game. ruta is an oc and uses it/its pronouns please respect its pronouns #chrono

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random-thot-generator · 1 year ago

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Dirty Little Secret + pt. 3

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH x FEM READER

Summary: Johnny shows up out of the blue and gets to meet Aunt Rue. Cue the impromptu come-to-Jesus meeting.

Warnings/Tags: Angst - obviously, Profanity, Sex is mentioned but nothing explicit, Soap's POV, Rue's POV, Reader is taking a moment, Aunt Rue's a good mum, No use of Y/N

(Notes: Again, no smut. We're not there yet, folks. Wanted to get Johnny's side of the story out there, along with Aunt Rue's thoughts on the matter. Just a warning. Edited this to Kickstart My Heart on loop, so if there's a shit-ton of mistakes... my bad. 🤷‍♀️)

Word Count: 2K

Johnny felt like the wind had been knocked out of him when he heard your voice behind the counter, but when you suddenly popped into view, it almost brought him to his knees. The only thing that kept him from reaching for you was that horrible, devastated expression on your face. Tucking his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking, he took a hesitant step towards the counter, as if approaching a cornered, wild animal.

"I'm no' here t'cause ye grief, hen," he murmured, trying to make eye contact. "I jus' wanted t'see ya."

You blinked up at him, huffing a breath out of your open mouth. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again," you confessed, sounding dazed. "How did you…?"

Johnny scratched the back of his neck, feeling like a bit of a creeper. "I, uh… I saw ye on the news. Some sort o' festival 'r somethin'."

"The May Day celebration," you mumbled, remembering the news cameraman panning his camera along the row of booths on the boardwalk. "Bloody hell. So… you saw me and just decided to stop by for a visit? After six months?"

Johnny's look turned sour. "It was no' like I knew where the hell ye'd gone off to, now was it? Ye jus' took off without sayin' a bloody word," he replied, his tone low and accusing.

You scoffed, your own expression growing dark. "And how could I have told you, Johnny? It's not like you ever bothered to give me your number, remember?" you fired back.

The bitterness in your tone cooled his anger instantly. "I…" He huffed out a breath, shoulders slumping. "Yer right. Tha's on me." His contrite expression returned. "It was jus' a shock, comin' back an' findin' ya gone, yer flat empty. I was no' expectin' it. Not after…" He blew out a breath, running his hand over his mohawk. "I dinnae ken wha' t'think."

You crossed your arms over your chest, lips trembling. "I'm surprised you thought of me at all. Why did you even go back to my flat? Things not work out with your other bird?"

"Other bird?" he repeated, scowling, looking utterly confused.

Before you could clarify, your aunt pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Whatever she was about to say died on her lips as her eyes darted between you and Johnny. "Everything alright, love?" she asked you.

"Everything's fine." You dragged your eyes away from him to address your aunt, your tone softening. "I'm sorry 'bout your tea. The box was empty, and then he showed up, and…" You sighed, closing your eyes, shoulders dropping in defeat. "I— I need to go back to the stockroom. Maybe there's another box of oolong back there."

Picking up on the obvious tension and your need to escape the young man, Aunt Rue patted your arm affectionately. "'Course, love. Go ahead. I'll see t'him."

You gave a slight nod, eyes slanting towards Johnny for only a second, but then your chin gave a wobble, and you rushed through the swinging door. He called after you, taking an unconscious step forward, hand reaching out, but you didn't stop. A pained expression crossed his face before he turned and paced a few steps away, raising both hands to rub over his head, holding them there as he blew out a frustrated breath.

Rue pursed her lips, studying him before her eyes cut back to the kitchen door. "So, I take it ya know one another," she drawled.

Johnny turned back around, dropping his arms to his sides. He looked like a whipped pup. "Yes, ma'am. We were… She was my…" A myriad of emotions played over his face before he sighed, remorse evident in his eyes. "Aye. We know each other."

Rue smirked, brows lifting. "I see." She turned to the hot water urns and grabbed a couple of to-go cups. "Tea or coffee, lad?"

Johnny blew out a frustrated sigh. "Dinnae bother, ma'am. I should prob'ly jus' go. Sorry t'have bothered—"

Rue snorted, amused. "Ya ain't gettin' off that easy, lad. Been dealin' with that heartbroken lass for six months. I've got questions, an' you're just the one to answer 'em. So. Tea or coffee?"

Johnny opened his mouth to refuse but didn't have it in him to argue. "Coffee, please. Black with sugar," he mumbled.

Rue hummed in acknowledgment, making them both a strong cup, forgetting about the oolong. She needed all cylinders firing for this one. As she worked, Red finally showed, cheerful as always. He gave Johnny a friendly nod, opening his mouth to greet Rue, but she cut him off.

"No time for chit-chat this mornin', Red," she told him, throwing a couple of rolls into a bag and handing them over. She reached beneath the counter and grabbed his favorite jam packets, then rounded the counter to hand them to him. "On the house, yeah?" she said, ignoring his shocked expression. "Off ya go, then. See ya tomorrow."

Red could do little more than nod as Rue herded him out the door, casting a flummoxed look back as she shut the door and locked it behind him. Reaching for the cups she left sitting on the counter, she handed one to Johnny.

"C'mon, lad. Let's go out back an' have ourselves a wee chinwag."

She led the way to the back exit, checking to be sure you were still inside before motioning him out the door. Walking over to a pair of metal folding chairs leaned against the wall, she grabbed one, nodding for Johnny to take the other, then sat down with a tired sigh. Once, they were both seated, she crossed her legs and looked him over with a critical eye.

"Alright, then. First things first, lad. I'm Rue, her aunt, and you are…"

"John, ma'am. John MacTavish, but ye can call me Johnny."

She nodded, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "Well, it's nice t'meet ya, Johnny." She took a quick sip of coffee and smacked her lips. "Now, let's get down t'brass tacks, shall we?" She sat back and crossed her arms over her lap. "I'm goin' to take a wild guess an' say you're the reason why my girl came runnin' home with her tail between her legs. Not seen her in that bad a shape since her da dumped her on my doorstep, so it must have been serious. How long were ya together?"

Taken aback, it took a moment for Johnny to answer. "I been seein' her fer almost two years, but we were no'… I mean, it wasnae…" He huffed a frustrated breath and scrubbed his hand over his 'hawk. "It's— It's complicated."

Rue rolled her eyes, making a scoffing noise. "Bloody hell, this generation, I swear…" She shook her head. "Just say ya were fuckin', lad. Jesus." She scoffed again. "Complicated, he says…" she muttered.

Johnny gaped at her, surprised by her blunt words. His brows furrowed, an embarrassed look on his reddening face. "It was no' jus' fuckin'," he muttered, sounding defensive. "I cared 'bout her— do care 'bout her."

"Uh-huh. So, what happened, then? What would send my girl runnin' back to the one place she worked so hard to escape, hm?"

His lips parted, but he didn't have an answer. Eyes darting back and forth, he searched for an explanation, a reason why you would just up and leave him without saying anything. He thought it might have been another bloke, but after that last night together, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. So, why? Why did you leave? He had been searching for that answer for the last six months. Finally, he settled for repeating your confusing words from earlier. "She said somethin' 'bout another bird," he said glumly. "Dunno wha' the hell she's talkin' 'bout."

Rue's brows ticked up. "Sure about that? You're a handsome lad. Doubt ya have trouble pullin' the birds."

"No!" he snapped. "I'd never che—." He cut himself off, gritting his teeth in frustration. "There was no other bird," he grumbled out.

His hand clenched into a fist, the other warping the to-go cup, some of the hot brew spilling over his knuckles. Cursing under his breath, he set it on the ground, slinging the hot liquid off his hand. He glared at the back of his hand, then huffed a tired breath, his expression softening. "I dinnae want anyone else. Jus' her." He shook his head, looking lost.

Rue studied him, her head tilting to the side. "She never mentioned you, ya know? Never once spoke your name. I knew she was hurtin'— obviously, but there was somethin' about the way she looked when I'd try to bring it up, like she was... ashamed. 'Course, we've all been fools for love, so I figured some bloke had filled her head with a bunch of pretty words, promisin' her the moon an' stars, then broke her heart, but…" Her eyes narrowed. "Explain to me what 'complicated' means."

A look akin to the shamed face you would always give her now came over his. He started picking at one of his cuticles, studying it with keen interest, his bottom lip jutting out a little.

"When we first started hookin' up, it wasnae a big deal. We'd run into each other at the pub an' end up back at her place." He shrugged but then paused, his eyes growing solemn. "But then, somethin' changed. I'd catch m'self thinkin' 'bout her, like all the bloody time, while I was deployed. Then I'd come home an' find m'self goin' back t'tha' same damn pub, hopin' t'see her, gettin' pissed when she was no' there." He sighed, shook his head. "I finally gave up pretendin' it was jus' a hook up, an' started goin' over t'her place when I was on leave."

"So, you're a soldier, then," Rue said softly.

A grim look pulled the corners of his mouth down. "Aye. A sergeant in the Army. Special forces." He frowned, an inner struggle going on inside his head. "I ken 's no' the best job t'have, no' when ya got a lass waitin' fer ya at home. 'S hard t'make it work, bein' gone so much. Most birds canna hack it, end up callin' it quits. Figured I'd come home one day an' she'd be shacked up wi' some other bloke. Thought that might'a been wha' happened, but... I had t'see fer m'self." A sad expression made his eyes look luminous in the morning sun. "Tol' m'self I should leave her be, let 'er go, but I canna do it."

He sighed, leaned back in his chair and scrubbed at the scruff on his cheek. "I never tol' her how I felt, dinnae think it was fair puttin' tha' on her. Tried no' t'crowd her, dinnae hang about her place, makin' a nuisance o' m'self. Thought I was protectin' her, but it was jus' as much fer me, I guess. Dinnae help."

Rue's heart went out to the poor lad, despite how bloody stupid he was. "Could ya not tell that she loved ya, lad?"

Johnny's brows shot up, his mouth falling open. "She… She loves me?"

Rue sniffed a laugh. "Bloody hell, you really are an eejit, aren't ya?" She shook her head, amazed at how clueless he was. "'Course she loves ya, ya daft numpty." Her eyes grew shrewd as she watched him process the revelation, saw the hope bloom in his eyes.

"So, tell me, Johnny boy. What are ya willin' to do to get her back?"

part 2 part 4

#john soap mactavish #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mctavish x fem reader #cod soap x reader #cod soap x fem reader #cod soap #cod soap mactavish

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flygefisk · 1 year ago

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i will not ask you where you came from i will not ask and neither would you

syndor (he/they), who lives a humble life. he seems content, with his garden and his chickens, but there's something behind his eyes. maybe he's running from something.

howl (any pronouns), who has a second chance. it died with blood under its nails and came back different in some ways- but the wildness is still part of him.

(tw for blood, death mentions under the cut)

once, long ago, there was a god. it was a wild, ancient god, one of blood and lust and life. a forest god.

the god scented blood on the air, dragon blood. it cared little for the civilized folks, as most gods do. it cared little whether they lived or died. but it was a curious god, so it tracked the scent, bounding on deer's hooves to its source.

the god's paws left no tracks in the blood-soaked earth around the dragon's remains. the god considered the creature for a moment: the blade buried in its stomach, hands and coverings stained dark, its face contorted in rage. there was another scent here, under the obvious blood and rot, one even more familiar to the god.

a wild something, indescribable even to the god of such things, coiled around the body that was once its own. it stared up at the god, its teeth bared. the god raised its head and howled in its many voices, joined soon by the wolves and coyotes and hawks and hares of the forest, a mournful harmony of all wild things.

the something howled too, until its song became a scream, letting loose all the sorrow and love and rage of a life that would never have been enough.

the forest went silent. the god lowered its head and nuzzled the something, like a doe to her fawn, like a bear to her cub. wild things understand each other. they don't need words. the god heard the something's quiet plea:

another chance.

-----

once, not so long ago, there was a man. he walked through an overgrown forest, dirt on his hands and his shovel. he loved walking in the forest, listening to the sounds of nature. it was calming.

he paused near a burbling creek to wash the sweat from his face. he sighed in grim satisfaction- tired, sore, numb. but it was over, at last.

the man realized, after staring into the water for long minutes, that something was different. wrong. the forest was silent here. his eye was drawn to a large stone behind him- half his height or more, veined with black and glittering white patches. on its face, a hand print painted with something dark.

a strange impulse took over, something wild within him, and he began to dig.

-----

once, now. a scraping sound. crumbling earth. cracking twigs. then, light. sunlight. warm and bright and so welcome after so long in the dirt.

the creature reached out from its grave. its hands- long, clawed, discolored- shook as it pulled itself up. it blinked against the morning light, yawned as though waking from a long nap.

it almost didn't notice the man with the shovel. he stared at it, his expression unreadable. it ignored him, letting the world wash over it: a cool breeze on its face, the sound of the water, of birds and insects, of wind through the leaves, the cloying scent of dark earth giving way to flowers and trees.

finally, the man held out a hand- blistered, rough, covered in soil- and the creature let him pull it from the earth.

the man removed his cloak, wrapping it around the creature's broad shoulders. it rubbed the fabric between its clawed fingers- soft, warm, dark like good soil- and smiled. it should have been frightening, with its sharp claws and sharper teeth, but the man just smiled back.

wild things understand each other.

#flight rising #&howl #&syndor #howl is so gender tbh #if i had a nickel for every oc ive made #who was treated terribly as an afab in a medieval-ish setting #and took in dark magic to transition + take revenge on those who mistreated them #into a big ol monster with a thick curly mane #id have 2 nickels which isnt a lot but its weird its happened twice #(referring to king) (theyre pretty different in p much all other ways tho)

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refinedpet · 3 months ago

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The thing I find so annoying about the Pokémon teraleak is people talking about it that clearly lack an understanding on development process.

Like they'll point at something and make wild assumptions.

A decent example of this is the cool spooky Cacturne concept art!

This one!

I personally love and adore this art and the rest in the set. It feels so non-Pokemon and is maybe some of the most inspiring and fascinating Pokémon related material I've seen in a long time.

However, in reality, this wasn't going to ever be Cacturne, it's art that was drawn to get an idea on paper that they'd then Pokémon-ify later.

Same deal as stuff like people pointing at beta designs for the Flabébé line and calling them cut Pokémon.

Or saying "Diving was cut from Kalos" when in reality I'm willing to bet they were just testing it for ORAS since Kalos is lacking in any major water areas. And we know that Soaring was cut from X&Y now, so if it was actually planned we'd likely be aware of that

This next one, I'm gonna put an asterisk on how real it is as part of the leak, since now is the time a lot of people can just make stuff up and try to pass it around as part of the leak, and I haven't seen it from a credible sourse

But all the 'Zoophila' Pokémon stories written. To be blunt, if that shit is spicy to you, you clearly haven't read ANY mythology, that's all pretty basic and not something to freak out over. It's just writing stories that parallel real folk tales in our world but with Pokémon.

I'm fairly certain most people have just heard that they're a thing and are assuming the worst.

All of the information we're getting from this is insanely cool, but gods, every time I see a person talk about it, they are misinterpreting something and confidently saying it like the leak itself said that.

I don't have all the answers either, but I'm not out here making bold claims as someone who can't tell the cut fossil Pokémon is a Dodo bird and not a vulture, or that the poorly drawn Diamond and Pearl sprites are placeholders and not early versions of the finals

#skyla.ramble #Pokémon #Pokemon #This element has been annoying to me and I kill for actually good coverage instead of the low effort slop alot of Pokémon creators make #I will just see stuff on my own and wait for a cool person to make a 10 hour video covering everything #Also there's some problems with the leakers themselves as always but thats a more serious thing

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rainbowchewynuggets · 1 year ago

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youtube

IT'S DONE IT'S DONE IT'S DONE IT'S DONE

I've been grinding away at this for months. I can't wait for people to see it. This project turned out to have a lot of gears behind it, so check out the artist statement below!

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

I love this song. The first time I heard it, I already began picturing a story where a woman stumbled upon a gathering of birds in the forest and became so enthralled by their song that she partied with them until she became a bird, herself. It turns out that isn’t too far off from the singer, Yma Sumac’s, first experiences learning to sing. She would imitate the animals near her home in the hills of the Andes mountains as a very young kid, developing a vocal range that would make her famous later on.

From there, I fell into a montage of research on her life and the Peruvian festival music that defined her early career, as well as the complicated story of the exotica music she became most known for in the United States. I followed that up with a month-long dive into northwest Peruvian culture, mythology, ornithology, flora, and topographical studies. Then, I blacked out somewhere during the drawing phase, and now I’m here.

While I really value what I’ve learned while doing this project, I think it’s important to note that I did it all as an amateur researcher and a foreigner to the subject. I decided it would be a little conceited to try to make a totally accurate depiction of a traditional Peruvian festival, so I instead focused on referencing the regional variation of these traditions. Costumes and music have their own specific designs and textures depending on the area, and dances and festivities reflect local history. Yet, it all shares the same themes of celebrating prosperity and surviving hardship. Common motifs and characters reflect a shared heritage and cultural identity that coexists with individuality. It’s all just very cool to me.

So I asked myself, what if these birds had their own version of these traditions? What would a bird sing a folk song about? What would be new and cool to Yma, but still familiar enough that she could join in? (I got lucky, since Peruvian festival culture is already very reverent of birds and feather patterns.)

What I ended up with pulled a lot from the Carnaval de Cajamarca, which originated in the next town over from Yma’s childhood home of Ichocán. It also references these dances, among others:

Huaylarsh - Los Emplumados - Marinera - Tondero - White Dance / Los Chunchos

It’s also important to know that I took a lot of creative liberties with my research to pull the story together. I hope I haven’t used any elements in a harmful or insensitive way–and if I have, I’d like to know so that I can apologize. (I also missed out on some cool stuff, like the White Dance always having shaker beads on the legs.) I highly encourage you to have a look at some of the sources I did, and to look further if you’re interested. I found it all very enlightening, and I hope you will too.

Yma’s wikipedia, which seems like a mostly accurate overview based on other sources

Her official website, curated by a fan and friend

A segment on NPR about her musical career

The interview I got the opening from

The ornithology archive that saved my ass

I’d like to work on uploading all the frames as an image reel somewhere so they can be looked at individually. Might take a while, though.

Thanks for watching!

(To those using a screen reader, the video description follows this message. I'd like to apologize for putting the description as the last thing on the post. Not only is it extremely long, but this seemed to be the rare instance where the description would benefit from the context of the post's commentary before being read itself. I wrote and formatted this description in a way that I hoped would apply to aid various disabilities that impede enjoying music videos, and I am very interested in getting feedback.)

DESCRIPTION

[The following is presented as an animatic (a series of still images edited into a video) set to music. The art is drawn with condensed yet fuzzy pastel-like linework and full color. The song used is “Chuncho” by Yma Sumac. The song was composed to imitate the various sounds of tropical birds and animals. It has no lyrics, at least in a traditional sense. I, the describer, have tried my best to translate the especially abstract nature of this song into language that can be interpreted through text. Please use the best of your imagination to fill in the rest. An audio description will always refer to the visual description that follows it.

Audio: A male interviewer asks, “Since you are referred to the bird who became a woman in your native Peru, Ms. Sumac, may we hear your exotic voice?”

Visuals: A title card appears with gold lettering on a black background. It reads one word: Chuncho. The word is depicted as if it were carved into a flat surface with loose individual strokes.

Audio: A woman answers, “I will try to imitate the birds, as I did in my earliest years in the mountains of Peru.”

Visuals: Credits appear, also in gold text: Sung by Yma Sumac (Zoila Augusta Emperatriz Chàvarri del Castillo. Drawn by Carlie Hughes (rainbowchewynuggets).

Audio: The music begins with the steady four-note strumming of a guitar, which will continue throughout the song. Then, it is accompanied by low ragged notes from a heavy woodwind instrument.

Visuals: A green cicada flicks its wings as it rests on a plant with jagged leaves and a little white flower growing from the middle. Beetles of green, red, and yellow crawl around on trees and ferns among puffy yellow blooms. Yellow humpback beetles huddle together on a cold stone surface as mothlike butterflies cling to hanging purple-grey moss in the background. A cluster of butterflies of black, green, blue, orange, purple, and red flare their wings along stems and vines. A line of spiny cocoons hang from a vine leading up the center of the group.

Audio: A vocalist, the same woman as before, begins to sing in vocables. Her first notes are short, round, and bubbly, like the chirping of a small bird. The lilt of a flute follows.

(“B-bm, bui-bui-buiii…”)

Visuals: A small village sits on the side of a forested and scrub-covered mountain at night. Buildings twinkle with yellow and blue window light through the darkness. At the edge of the forest, a tall lean woman appears with warm orange skin, long black hair, a simple green dress cinched at the waist with blue trim on the neck, hem, wrist, and waist, and a powder blue shawl tied at the chest. She sneaks away from the village into the temperate tropical forest, glancing back to make sure hasn’t been followed. She grows more at ease as she leaves the buildings behind and strides between bushes, deeper into the trees. She passes a flowering plant with orange petals. Its bulbs are held aloft on long, long stems.

Audio: The vocalist sings in elongated threads of notes, wavering in a minor key in a mischievous way.

(“Whu, hu-uuuu…”)

Visuals: The woman grazes her fingers along a bush with little black berries and white spiky flowers. Her hand passes up and down with the shape of the bush, like the rise and fall of an ocean wave. She walks uphill, past pink clover and increasingly frequent stones.

Audio: The vocalist clicks and rolls her tongue with her notes, like drops of water splashing across stones.

(“Dlu, dlu-dlu-dlu-dlu-buiii…”)

Visuals: A voice suddenly gets her attention. The voice passes by as a green line with wide wave forms. The woman follows it. She passes through a stone forest–dense moss-covered rock formations that reach up toward the sky. The ground below is streaked with snake trails. The line of song is now yellow. It leads her forward along a trail through the rocks. She climbs a more precarious formation of boulders, through dense shrubbery and a dramatic rocky landscape. As the voice shifts redder, her colors shift pinker. Even the environment’s colors are shifting to pinks and blues. She climbs a hill, past tall spindly trees and a nearly vertical mountainside. The pink line of song leads her still upward.

Audio: The vocalist belts out the deep throaty call of a tropical bird trying to be heard far and wide. The notes increase in frequency, then widen into a whoop that softens to a murmur. The flute follows her with a few short forceful notes.

(“Ah, bya bya bya-bya-bya-bya-bya-byaaa, whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa-wi, wa-wa-wa wiii…”)

Visuals: When the woman reaches the top of the hill, a light shines up at her from the other side, returning her original colors. Below, she sees a gathering of human-sized bird people celebrating on a leafy platform. They’re dancing in different sized circles around a tree at the center. Rainbow colored ribbons of different lengths have been tied to the branches of the tree and hang down to form the silhouette of a condor. More ribbons and colorful bulbs hang from the leaves above. The line of song (now light blue) travels in a circle around the tree trunk. The camera zooms in, revealing details of the birds and their costumes. The birds are pigeons, hawks, cuckoos, seedbirds, and corvids. They’re all dressed in colorful hats, vests, slacks, and dresses with patterns that reflect those of their feathers. A circle of spotted woodpeckers closest to the trunk wear purple gowns and party hats. The party’s singing expands the blue circle of light. A wider circle of yellow, green, and white birds sit and watch the celebration from the edges of the platform. As a line of bright manakin birds zip by with their hands clasped together, the woman approaches from a nearby branch. She’s enticed by the party and joins the dance, clasping hands with a green parrot and leading the line with a broad smile on her face.

Audio: The vocalist makes a quick sudden series of escalating notes, then makes a hard sound with her teeth and returns to a low whoop. The flute echoes her.

(Ba-bana-baba-cht!, waw waw waw waw waw waw waw wiii…”)

Visuals: The birds switch to individual dances. A short red woodpecker and a tan long-necked bird with ribbons in her hair dance and sing together, their lines of song intertwining. The woman and three pigeons in red and black dresses stomp their heels in a quartet dance. She follows their steps flawlessly, familiar with the type of dance. When they begin to sing and whistle, she joins them–though her voice isn’t as strong as theirs and her line of song is thin and brittle.

Audio: The vocalist makes a low growl, at first imperceptible, that grows to a steady rumble. The flute follows.

(“Rhhh…, rhh, rhh rhhh…”)

Visuals: Then, the lights darken and redden. The woman stops to notice all the other birds heading to the back of the platform. They climb and flutter up to sit in fruit-bearing branches that grow just beyond. The woman finds herself a spot and picks a piece of fruit to eat. She takes a bite as a show begins. A band of various birds wearing ponchos and cloth hats sit down by the show platform. They play their instruments (flute, guitars and a drum) and count in the performance.

Audio: The vocalist makes more short bubbly chirps. They grow higher in small strings of notes until the phrase ends with a low long note.

(“Bom-bom, t-bom-bom-bom, mbom-bom wiii…”)

Visuals: Five owls appear, bathed in magenta spotlight before the center tree trunk. All of them have their yellow-spotted wings wrapped to mostly cover their black and gold-trimmed dresses. The four owls on the sides are short and red, while the one in the center is tall and bright purple. As all five begin to sing a golden song, they operatically open their wings and extend their feathers. As the light darkens to violet, the black and gold patterns in the folds of their wings leap out as if exposed to blacklight. They extend their arms upward and then double over to kneel on the stage, fully splaying their wings in a dramatic display. The woman watching is transfixed.

Audio: The vocalist rolls a noise from the back of her throat. Once, twice, three times–before hitching the roll up and down and letting it trail off. The flute makes a low hollow arc of a note.

(“Ghhh, ghhh, ghh gh-gh-gheee…”)

Visuals: Cut to the next performance. Two teams of blackbirds with long waving feathers compete, standing on each other’s shoulders to form two pyramids. The one at the top of each team lunges forward to try to strike the other with a long stick, propelled by their team. Their feathers glow with yellow light from above. The team on the left—with orange vests and red sashes—strikes first, only nearly missing. They gloat as the lime vest and green sash team on the right recoils and protests. Then, it’s the green team’s turn to take a confident lunge, forcing the red to frantically pull back in time to dodge. On the next strike, the red team buries the stick in the top of the enemy pyramid (actually tucked under the green leader’s arm). The victim feigns a mortal wound, and the entire team flies away. The red team poses, victorious. The red leader gets down to the floor to greet the widow of the green team, wearing a green dress. She peers at him from behind a silky black wing. As soon as he lands, she whacks him over the head with her own concealed stick. He is surprised. She is unamused.

Audio: The vocalist lets out a ghostly wail that wavers wildly like an eerie wind, higher and higher. A shaker instrument rumbles beneath her voice.

(“Woaaa… woaaa… woaa–”)

Visuals: Next, it’s dark. Three colorful birds in masks and costumes tread the air at an angle on the left side of the screen against a blue and green background. There’s a yellow spiky one, representing lightning. A blue round-feathered one, representing rain. And a spade-feathered green one, representing trees. Long beaded threads tied to their wings and tails wave and tangle across the screen as a group of five hummingbirds in shades of red struggle to survive the “storm” raging around them. The colored ribbons of the central tree are muted and flutter with the power of the wind. Two other birds hug the trunk, nearly out of sight. There’s a prop on the floor to the right made to look like a stone alcove, where more hummingbirds are hiding. The storm bringer birds beat their wings hard, casting the strings of lightning, water, and leaf shaped beads in huge chaotic waves. The five hummingbirds in vests and dresses wince and tumble against the wind, flying together in a tight circle. The threads crisscross behind them, an overwhelming force on the tiny birds’ scale. A red line of song floats up to reach them, guiding them down to the nest.

Audio: When her wail is at its highest, the vocalist pushes it further into the voice of a shrill songbird. The note hangs high in the air, then takes a few steps down and up. The segment ends with the sudden interjection of the low round voice–as if in surprise–and a trailing mumble.

(“Haaa, aa-aa aa-aa aa-aa, hoa? Ah, bw-huh…”)

Visuals: Those in the stone nest finish singing and reunite with the others, pulling them down to safety. A blackbird hiding behind the trunk spreads its wings, sitting on the shoulders of a brown woodpecker. The blackbird’s vest and wingspan are covered in yellow, signaling the coming of daylight. The storm birds retreat and sit still on a nearby branch. The wind is suddenly gone.

Audio: The guitar plays alone.

Visuals: After the stage performances, the audience members move back to the platform. They’re gathered off to the far left side of the central tree trunk, standing in a circle around a single figure. The light of the gathering area is deep plum-purple in far off areas and warm dull pink over the crowd. The empty space around the single dancer is salmon red, and the figure herself is blue.

Audio: The vocalist perfectly mimics the sound of a flutter, of delicate waving in the wind.

(“W-w-w-w-w-w-w”)

Visuals: The camera zooms in on her hand as it flits a pink handkerchief in the air.

Audio: The vocalist belts a pair of bold staunch vocables. The second note is held for several seconds before fading out.

(“Kyen, kyen…”)

Visuals: The camera pulls back to reveal the rest of her. She’s a blue eagle with wings that grade from red at the arms to pink to blue at the wingtips in a wavy pattern. Her smiling beak is bright pink. Her dress is royal blue with reddish-pink trimmed ruffles on the hem of the skirt, waist frill, neck frill, and the flower decoration on the side of her head. She stands with the hem of her dress in one hand and the handkerchief extended in the other in an open invitation to dance. A pale pink spotlight frames her head and shoulders against the darkness, and a dark pink line of song passes behind her. Her partner, an eagle of the same coloration with a blue vest and pants, pink shirt, pale orange sash, a blue hat in one hand, and a pink hanky of his own raised in the other, is calling to her. He puts his hands behind his back and takes high steps toward her. When the two are close, they turn and walk parallel to each other in a slow circle. The male’s back is to his partner. He looks at her over his shoulder with a smile and abruptly splays his feathers to be cute. There’s a layer of pink under his outer coat. She grins, entertained.

Audio: The vocalist repeats the two vocables, twisting the end of the second up into a high wavering trill that eventually soothes and disappears.

(“Kyen, kye–eee, ee, eee, ee…”)

Visuals: The two turn to face each other, circling tighter and tighter in unified song until they’re face to face, looking deep into each other’s eyes. With another turn, they’ve passed by each other and out of sight.

Audio: The vocalist makes a whisper, a ghost of the two vocables. Then, a few quick whistles, barely loud enough to hear.

(“Hyo, hyo”)

Visuals: The woman, who has been captivated by the dance, suddenly notices that the crowd has dispersed around her. Partners are walking off in all directions, leaving her alone. The dance is over.

Audio: The guitar picks up, getting faster and louder for a bit.

Visuals: The woman walks alone in the blue night air along a tangle of tree branches that form a pathway. She walks with her hands behind her back, her face looking preoccupied and a little disappointed. Bushels of soft leaves pass by in the background.

Audio: A high, light pleasant note from the vocalist overtakes the guitar. It grows until it fills the soundscape.

(“Aaa…”)

Visuals: An orange song reaches her from the direction she came, and she stops. When she turns, she sees a blue swift standing on the branch path, far behind her in an opening in the trees. The underside of his feathers is dingy orange, and he’s wearing a black vest, white pants, a rusty red sash around his waist, a bright green kerchief around his neck, and an orange rectangular accessory tied around his neck like a necklace. His face is obscured by a white hat with an orange band. He bows low with a hand on the hat. The hat comes off, revealing inviting eyes and a smiling orange beak. The woman grins and accepts the invitation with determination.

Audio: The vocalist draws long high vocables that resemble a wail. They trail off with a low note.

(“Whoa whoaaa…”)

Visuals: She and the swift untie the fabric around their necks and step toward each other as the line of song forms a ring above them. The woman holds the ends of the shawl in her hands and her hands at her hips with the body of the shawl hanging behind her waist. The bird holds his kerchief out in one hand with the hat in the other, held behind his back. He takes measured winding steps along the branches. The woman mirrors his steps, then pushes off of the main path and lands on an outcropping branch.

Audio: The vocalist’s song wavers back up and demurely bobs up and down, intertwined with tweeting from the flute.

(“Hoa… ohee…”)

Visuals: Her voice, seafoam green and a little stronger than before, trails behind her. She darts back onto the main branch and ducks behind the bird, then circles around to face him, the two only a few feet apart. They exchange steps pushing the other forward and back and flicking their garments in time with their movements. The woman’s voice grows stronger, nearly matching his. The bird quickly catches up as she moves backward, dancing beside her. The two dancers then leap from the main branch and fall down into the rocky forest below, passing by grassy plateaus and vines creeping through stone. Their song follows all the way down. They leap across boulders in the moonlight, side by side. The swift suddenly stops and folds his kerchief around the center of the shawl, hitching the two together.

Audio: The vocalist belts a complex series of syllables that mimic the heavy majestic cawing of a large bird or hawk. The flute makes itself known a little as the voice fades out.

(“Hlau-lau-lau hau-au-wau-wa-wiii…”)

Visuals: The woman, at the receiving end of the momentum, is swung wide and lets out a vibrant complex line of song that could match any bird’s. The two pull closer to each other and end their song on a low steady note. Then, they bow to each other as the camera pulls back. They’re standing on a rock that rises above a basin of water among huge formations of rock. Pairs of birds dance all around them in the shallows.

Audio: The guitar takes over for a bit.

Visuals: The camera cuts to an upward view of a varied group of birds sitting in branches, staring downward with interest. The light from the moon coming down through a break in the trees above is now cool green. The light coming up from where the birds are looking is orange-red.

Audio: The vocalist lets out the aggressive growling of a cat.

(“U-wau, wau-wau-wau-wau”)

Visuals: Below, the woman is dancing in a line with three reddish woodpeckers in a greenish clearing in the trees. They wear intricately detailed dresses in different combinations of bright green, yellow, red, and black with geometric and floral embroidery. The dresses are cinched at the waist with a piece of fabric covered in colored bands. Their heads are covered in scarves with the same colors and patterns. They sing and step aggressively toward the left of the screen. At the other side of the clearing, a line of four red and white faced woodpeckers with green beaks and wings face right. They wear bright green hats, kerchiefs, and sashes, yellow and black striped vests, and dark red pants with yellow tassels at the ankles. Their black shoes tap against the ground as they make quick little dance steps and flutter yellow handkerchiefs. They hold onto the brims of their hats and then lean down with a flourish of their arms, exposing the red crests of their heads sticking up underneath. The dance then changes formation. The girls dance in a line to the left as the boys step in a line to the right.

Audio: The growl hushes down to a wavering whisper, like wings beating in the dark.

(“Tchwahh-cwah-cwah-cwah-cwah-cwah-cwah-cwah…”)

Visuals: Out on a cliff by a waterfall, the scene is bathed in cyan. The line of dancers–alternating male, female, male, female–do a hopping dance from partners on the left to those on the right and back again as they move along the cliff, passing behind the waterfall as it disappears into the greenery in the foreground.

Audio: The guitar asserts itself again.

Visuals: Everything is suddenly red. A guitarist in a blue poncho and a red neck sash frets the neck of a guitar with a brown feathered hand. Rainbow ribbons are tied to the headstock. A deep orange song emanates from the strings.

Audio: The vocalist quickly accompanies the guitar with a harmonized version of the growl that revs up climatically, taking steps up the scale until it’s at its absolute height.

(“U-wa-wa ee-ee eh-oh! Oh-oh-oh-ohh!”)

Visuals: A congress of the partygoing birds stand in lines facing each other, all wearing blue outfits with red kerchiefs with rainbow tassels on them. The group jumps up and down in unison as part of a dance. The party breaks into smaller dances, and the woman dances by herself. She’s wearing a green skirt and flowy purple top with red underskirt, waist cinch, and scarf. Rainbow tassels are attached to the overskirt, and they swish with her movements. Beside her are a hawk woman and a pair of long billed bird men dancing in a circle with their ankles locked. A pair of red birds with white streaks on their wings suddenly hoist the woman into the air, as other birds are hoisted in the distance. As she’s held aloft, she sings and spreads her arms, revealing more tassels on her top, resembling wings. Her song is immense and beautiful. The camera focuses on one of the hoisted birds in the background, who has executed a handstand with the person who threw them. The blackbird’s feathers are all sorts of bright colors. The song passes by behind him. The excitement of the party disguises the presence of a looming pair of yellow slitted eyes peering out from a dark spot between the leaves nearby. A trio of purple pigeons dancing in a line with twigs and colored strings in their hands dip and weave together. The one in front balks, noticing the threat at last.

Audio: The high energy of the music suddenly cuts out. The shrill call of a small bird climbs up out of the silence.

(“Eee…”)

Visuals: A striped short legged pampas cat pounces into the center of the dance field. It misses the birds, but the illusion is shattered. The bird people are just birds again. They fly in a frenzy up through the trees to the safety of the early morning sky. The hilltop erupts with silhouettes of wings.

Audio: When the small bird’s call is at its highest, it tumbles back down and transforms into a low disquieting wail. The guitar re-enters.

(“Ee-ee-ee-ah-ahh ahh oohhh…”)

Visuals: The pampas cat has retreated into the dim tawny forest. It stands on a bent tree branch among bushes and hanging moss and stares into the camera with glowing yellow pupils. A tiny rodent scurries by and into a bush. The cat notices and darts after it. Nearby, dozens of bats hang from the underside of a rock formation that extends over a field of berry bushes. Their sleepy heads are tucked into their folded wings. A straggler flaps up to join the rest as the sun continues to rise. Elsewhere, a hive with wasp-like insects resting on the outside hangs over a rock. Sunlight gleams over the scene from a break in the trees in the background. A large brown mouse climbs up on the rock, backlit by the sun. It grabs a wasp in its teeth and leaves before the rest of the hive can wake up.

Audio: The vocalist makes a low steady murmur. A couple shakes from the shaker instrument follow.

(“Hoo…”)

Visuals: A colony of green and brown frogs with purple eye ridges, yellow faces, and orange bellies are asleep on dewy ridges of rock. A green cicada hangs out on a leaf off to the top left corner. The mouse jumps down through their resting spot, waking them all up. The frogs croak a green song as the cicada hangs on for dear life on the swinging leaf. The wind moans through the crevices of another stone forest. The little flowering shrubs that grow on the rocks bristle in the breeze. A variety of green, yellow, and blue lizards poke their heads out of the rocks, into the morning light.

Audio: The vocalist repeats the murmur. The flute follows this time.

(“Hoo…”)

Visuals: The camera pulls back to view the entire rock formation. The still rising sun shines only on the top half of right-facing stones. Long spindly tree trunks grow from the top left, out of sight. Long grass waves on the ground below. An alpaca-like vicuña raises its head from the long grass, facing the light. In the branches of the trees above, various birds perch facing left.

Audio: The vocalist makes a mysterious sound that begins as a harsh sound between her teeth and ends as a whisper. It echoes in the background.

(“Chwah-ah…”)

Visuals: The camera turns back to the village. Golden light casts diagonally across the brown roofs and tan buildings. The silhouette of a small bird flies toward the center of town.

Audio: The vocalist makes the sound again, then pulls the whisper up into a harsh repeated rasp from the back of her throat.

(“Chwah-ah qwah-qw-qw-qw-qw-qwah-qwah-qwah”)

Visuals: Down in between the one-story houses, the bird flutters down. Long shadows lay across a passage leading toward a door on the side of a building. We see the shadow of the woman land in the soft dirt path where the bird’s would have. She heads toward the door at a walking pace.

Audio: The call returns to a whisper. The vocalist clicks her throat in a short series of hollow sounds, nearly like the creaking of wood.

(“Qwk-qwk-qwk-qwk-qwk, qwk qwk qwk qwk”)

Visuals: As she opens the door to enter the purple interior light of the house, we see that she’s back in her green dress, but now her shawl is red. The sun glints in her hair. Before she goes inside, she looks back and winks at the camera with a smile. Then, she slowly pulls the door behind her until it’s shut.

Audio: The vocalist lets out her breath entirely as the accompanying music trickles into silence.

(“Haaa…”)

Visuals: The screen is black for a few seconds.

Audio: The high whistling call of a green manakin can be heard over the rustling of forest trees. The call’s tone is raised at the end, like it’s asking a question.

(“Twee?… Twee?… Twee?… Twee?”)

Visuals: The end card appears. Yellow and green lettering and a border lay on a black background. The text reads: Yma Sumac. Peruvian soprano and composer. October 13th 1922 until November 1st 2008. Biographical and reference info in description. Chuncho, 1953. Written by Moises Vivanco. Capitol Records, Universal Music Publishing Group. Carlie Hughes. Tumblr @rainbowchewynuggets. www.carliehughes.com. End ID]

INDEX

#chuncho song #animatic #chuncho animatic #night festival animatic #the night festival #yma sumac #the birds #the forest creatures #this was supposed to go up on her birthday but i got sick aaa #Youtube

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ariel-seagull-wings · 1 year ago

Text

The GOOSE-GIRL AT THE WELL

@inevitablemoment @professorlehnsherr-almashy @themousefromfantasyland @the-blue-fairie @princesssarisa @softlytowardthesun @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @faintingheroine @amalthea9 @tamisdava2

(A german folktale collected by the Brothers Grimm)

There was once upon a time a very old woman, who lived with her flock of geese in a waste place among the mountains, and there had a little house. The waste was surrounded by a large forest, and every morning the old woman took her crutch and hobbled into it. There, however, the dame was quite active, more so than anyone would have thought, considering her age, and collected grass for her geese, picked all the wild fruit she could reach, and carried everything home on her back. Anyone would have thought that the heavy load would have weighed her to the ground, but she always brought it safely home. If anyone met her, she greeted him quite courteously. “Good day, dear countryman, it is a fine day. Ah! you wonder that I should drag grass about, but everyone must take his burden on his back.”

Nevertheless, people did not like to meet her if they could help it, and took by preference a roundabout way, and when a father with his boys passed her, he whispered to them, “Beware of the old woman. She has claws beneath her gloves; she is a witch.” One morning, a handsome young man was going through the forest. The sun shone bright, the birds sang, a cool breeze crept through the leaves, and he was full of joy and gladness. He had as yet met no one, when he suddenly perceived the old witch kneeling on the ground cutting grass with a sickle. She had already thrust a whole load into her cloth, and near it stood two baskets, which were filled with wild apples and pears.

“But, good little mother,” said he, “how canst thou carry all that away?”

“I must carry it, dear sir,” answered she, “rich folk’s children have no need to do such things, but with the peasant folk the saying goes, don’t look behind you, you will only see how crooked your back is!”

“Will you help me?” she said, as he remained standing by her. “You have still a straight back and young legs, it would be a trifle to you. Besides, my house is not so very far from here, it stands there on the heath behind the hill. How soon you would bound up thither.” The young man took compassion on the old woman.

“My father is certainly no peasant,” replied he, “but a rich count; nevertheless, that you may see that it is not only peasants who can carry things, I will take your bundle.”

“If you will try it,” said she, “I shall be very glad. You will certainly have to walk for an hour, but what will that signify to you; only you must carry the apples and pears as well?” It now seemed to the young man just a little serious, when he heard of an hour’s walk, but the old woman would not let him off, packed the bundle on his back, and hung the two baskets on his arm. “See, it is quite light,” said she.

“No, it is not light,” answered the count, and pulled a rueful face. “Verily, the bundle weighs as heavily as if it were full of cobble stones, and the apples and pears are as heavy as lead! I can scarcely breathe.” He had a mind to put everything down again, but the old woman would not allow it.

“Just look,” said she mockingly, “the young gentleman will not carry what I, an old woman, have so often dragged along. You are ready with fine words, but when it comes to be earnest, you want to take to your heels. Why are you standing loitering there?” she continued. “Step out. No one will take the bundle off again.” As long as he walked on level ground, it was still bearable, but when they came to the hill and had to climb, and the stones rolled down under his feet as if they were alive, it was beyond his strength. The drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and ran, hot and cold, down his back.

“Dame,” said he, “I can go no farther. I want to rest a little.”

“Not here,” answered the old woman, “when we have arrived at our journey’s end, you can rest; but now you must go forward. Who knows what good it may do you?”

“Old woman, thou art becoming shameless!” said the count, and tried to throw off the bundle, but he laboured in vain; it stuck as fast to his back as if it grew there. He turned and twisted, but he could not get rid of it. The old woman laughed at this, and sprang about quite delighted on her crutch.

“Don’t get angry, dear sir,” said she, “you are growing as red in the face as a turkey-cock! Carry your bundle patiently. I will give you a good present when we get home.”

What could he do? He was obliged to submit to his fate, and crawl along patiently behind the old woman. She seemed to grow more and more nimble, and his burden still heavier. All at once she made a spring, jumped on to the bundle and seated herself on the top of it; and however withered she might be, she was yet heavier than the stoutest country lass. The youth’s knees trembled, but when he did not go on, the old woman hit him about the legs with a switch and with stinging-nettles. Groaning continually, he climbed the mountain, and at length reached the old woman’s house, when he was just about to drop. When the geese perceived the old woman, they flapped their wings, stretched out their necks, ran to meet her, cackling all the while. Behind the flock walked, stick in hand, an old wench, strong and big, but ugly as night.

“Good mother,” said she to the old woman, “has anything happened to you, you have stayed away so long?”

“By no means, my dear daughter,” answered she, “I have met with nothing bad, but, on the contrary, with this kind gentleman, who has carried my burden for me; only think, he even took me on his back when I was tired. The way, too, has not seemed long to us; we have been merry, and have been cracking jokes with each other all the time.” At last the old woman slid down, took the bundle off the young man’s back, and the baskets from his arm, looked at him quite kindly, and said, “Now seat yourself on the bench before the door, and rest. You have fairly earned your wages, and they shall not be wanting.” Then she said to the goose-girl, “Go into the house, my dear daughter, it is not becoming for thee to be alone with a young gentleman; one must not pour oil on to the fire, he might fall in love with thee.”

The count knew not whether to laugh or to cry. “Such a sweetheart as that,” thought he, “could not touch my heart, even if she were thirty years younger.” In the meantime the old woman stroked and fondled her geese as if they were children, and then went into the house with her daughter. The youth lay down on the bench, under a wild apple-tree. The air was warm and mild; on all sides stretched a green meadow, which was set with cowslips, wild thyme, and a thousand other flowers; through the midst of it rippled a clear brook on which the sun sparkled, and the white geese went walking backwards and forwards, or paddled in the water. “It is quite delightful here,” said he, “but I am so tired that I cannot keep my eyes open; I will sleep a little. If only a gust of wind does not come and blow my legs off my body, for they are as rotten as tinder.”

When he had slept a little while, the old woman came and shook him till he awoke. “Sit up,” said she, “thou canst not stay here; I have certainly treated thee hardly, still it has not cost thee thy life. Of money and land thou hast no need, here is something else for thee.” Thereupon she thrust a little book into his hand, which was cut out of a single emerald. “Take great care of it,” said she, “it will bring thee good fortune.” The count sprang up, and as he felt that he was quite fresh, and had recovered his vigor, he thanked the old woman for her present, and set off without even once looking back at the beautiful daughter. When he was already some way off, he still heard in the distance the noisy cry of the geese.

For three days the count had to wander in the wilderness before he could find his way out. He then reached a large town, and as no one knew him, he was led into the royal palace, where the King and Queen were sitting on their throne. The count fell on one knee, drew the emerald book out of his pocket, and laid it at the Queen’s feet. She bade him rise and hand her the little book. Hardly, however, had she opened it, and looked therein, than she fell as if dead to the ground. The count was seized by the King’s servants, and was being led to prison, when the Queen opened her eyes, and ordered them to release him, and everyone was to go out, as she wished to speak with him in private.

When the Queen was alone, she began to weep bitterly, and said, “Of what use to me are the splendours and honours with which I am surrounded; every morning I awake in pain and sorrow. I had three daughters, the youngest of whom was so beautiful that the whole world looked on her as a wonder. She was as white as snow, as rosy as apple-blossom, and her hair as radiant as sunbeams. When she cried, not tears fell from her eyes, but pearls and jewels only. When she was fifteen years old, the King summoned all three sisters to come before his throne. You should have seen how all the people gazed when the youngest entered, it was just as if the sun were rising! Then the King spoke, ‘My daughters, I know not when my last day may arrive; I will today decide what each shall receive at my death. You all love me, but the one of you who loves me best, shall fare the best.’ Each of them said she loved him best. ‘Can you not express to me,’ said the King, ‘how much you do love me, and thus I shall see what you mean?’

“The eldest spoke. ‘I love my father as dearly as the sweetest sugar.’

“The second, ‘I love my father as dearly as my prettiest dress.’ But the youngest was silent.

“Then the father said, ‘And thou, my dearest child, how much dost thou love me?’

“ ‘I do not know, and can compare my love with nothing.’ But her father insisted that she should name something. So she said at last, ‘The best food does not please me without salt, therefore I love my father like salt.’

“When the King heard that, he fell into a passion, and said, ‘If thou lovest me like salt, thy love shall also be repaid thee with salt.’ Then he divided the kingdom between the two elder, but caused a sack of salt to be bound on the back of the youngest, and two servants had to lead her forth into the wild forest. We all begged and prayed for her,” said the Queen, “but the King’s anger was not to be appeased. How she cried when she had to leave us! The whole road was strewn with the pearls which flowed from her eyes. The King soon afterwards repented of his great severity, and had the whole forest searched for the poor child, but no one could find her. When I think that the wild beasts have devoured her, I know not how to contain myself for sorrow; many a time I console myself with the hope that she is still alive, and may have hidden herself in a cave, or has found shelter with compassionate people. But picture to yourself, when I opened your little emerald book, a pearl lay therein, of exactly the same kind as those which used to fall from my daughter’s eyes; and then you can also imagine how the sight of it stirred my heart. You must tell me how you came by that pearl.” The count told her that he had received it from the old woman in the forest, who had appeared very strange to him, and must be a witch, but he had neither seen nor hear anything of the Queen’s child. The King and the Queen resolved to seek out the old woman. They thought that there where the pearl had been, they would obtain news of their daughter.

The old woman was sitting in that lonely place at her spinning-wheel, spinning. It was already dusk, and a log which was burning on the hearth gave a scanty light. All at once there was a noise outside, the geese were coming home from the pasture, and uttering their hoarse cries. Soon afterwards the daughter also entered. But the old woman scarcely thanked her, and only shook her head a little. The daughter sat down beside her, took her spinning-wheel, and twisted the threads as nimbly as a young girl. Thus they both sat for two hours, and exchanged never a word. At last something rustled at the window, and two fiery eyes peered in. It was an old night-owl, which cried, “Uhu!” three times. The old woman looked up just a little, then she said, “Now, my little daughter, it is time for thee to go out and do thy work.” She rose and went out, and where did she go? Over the meadows ever onward into the valley. At last she came to a well, with three old oak-trees standing beside it; meanwhile the moon had risen large and round over the mountain, and it was so light that one could have found a needle. She removed a skin which covered her face, then bent down to the well, and began to wash herself. When she had finished, she dipped the skin also in the water, and then laid it on the meadow, so that it should bleach in the moonlight, and dry again. But how the maiden was changed! Such a change as that was never seen before! When the gray mask fell off, her golden hair broke forth like sunbeams, and spread about like a mantle over her whole form. Her eyes shone out as brightly as the stars in heaven, and her cheeks bloomed a soft red like apple-blossom.

But the fair maiden was sad. She sat down and wept bitterly. One tear after another forced itself out of her eyes, and rolled through her long hair to the ground. There she sat, and would have remained sitting a long time, if there had not been a rustling and cracking in the boughs of the neighbouring tree. She sprang up like a roe which has been overtaken by the shot of the hunter. Just then the moon was obscured by a dark cloud, and in an instant the maiden had put on the old skin and vanished, like a light blown out by the wind.

She ran back home, trembling like an aspen-leaf. The old woman was standing on the threshold, and the girl was about to relate what had befallen her, but the old woman laughed kindly, and said, “I already know all.” She led her into the room and lighted a new log. She did not, however, sit down to her spinning again, but fetched a broom and began to sweep and scour, “All must be clean and sweet,” she said to the girl.

“But, mother,” said the maiden, “why do you begin work at so late an hour? What do you expect?”

“Dost thou know then what time it is?” asked the old woman.

“Not yet midnight,” answered the maiden, “but already past eleven o’clock.”

“Dost thou not remember,” continued the old woman, “that it is three years today since thou camest to me? Thy time is up, we can no longer remain together.”

The girl was terrified, and said, “Alas! dear mother, will you cast me off? Where shall I go? I have no friends, and no home to which I can go. I have always done as you bade me, and you have always been satisfied with me; do not send me away.”

The old woman would not tell the maiden what lay before her. “My stay here is over,” she said to her, “but when I depart, house and parlour must be clean: therefore do not hinder me in my work. Have no care for thyself, thou shalt find a roof to shelter thee, and the wages which I will give thee shall also content thee.”

“But tell me what is about to happen,” the maiden continued to entreat.

“I tell thee again, do not hinder me in my work. Do not say a word more, go to thy chamber, take the skin off thy face, and put on the silken gown which thou hadst on when thou camest to me, and then wait in thy chamber until I call thee.”

But I must once more tell of the King and Queen, who had journeyed forth with the count in order to seek out the old woman in the wilderness. The count had strayed away from them in the wood by night, and had to walk onwards alone. Next day it seemed to him that he was on the right track. He still went forward, until darkness came on, then he climbed a tree, intending to pass the night there, for he feared that he might lose his way. When the moon illumined the surrounding country he perceived a figure coming down the mountain. She had no stick in her hand, but yet he could see that it was the goose-girl, whom he had seen before in the house of the old woman. “Oho,” cried he, “there she comes, and if I once get hold of one of the witches, the other shall not escape me!” But how astonished he was, when she went to the well, took off the skin and washed herself, when her golden hair fell down all about her, and she was more beautiful than anyone whom he had ever seen in the whole world. He hardly dared to breathe, but stretched his head as far forward through the leaves as he dared, and stared at her. Either he bent over too far, or whatever the cause might be, the bough suddenly cracked, and that very moment the maiden slipped into the skin, sprang away like a roe, and as the moon was suddenly covered, disappeared from his eyes. Hardly had she disappeared, before the count descended from the tree, and hastened after her with nimble steps. He had not been gone long before he saw, in the twilight, two figures coming over the meadow. It was the King and Queen, who had perceived from a distance the light shining in the old woman’s little house, and were going to it. The count told them what wonderful things he had seen by the well, and they did not doubt that it had been their lost daughter. They walked onwards full of joy, and soon came to the little house. The geese were sitting all round it, and had thrust their heads under their wings and were sleeping, and not one of them moved. The King and Queen looked in at the window, the old woman was sitting there quite quietly spinning, nodding her head and never looking round. The room was perfectly clean, as if the little mist men, who carry no dust on their feet, lived there. Their daughter, however, they did not see. They gazed at all this for a long time, at last they took heart, and knocked softly at the window.

The old woman appeared to have been expecting them; she rose, and called out quite kindly, “Come in⁠—I know you already.” When they had entered the room, the old woman said, “You might have spared yourself the long walk, if you had not three years ago unjustly driven away your child, who is so good and lovable. No harm has come to her; for three years she has had to tend the geese; with them she has learnt no evil, but has preserved her purity of heart. You, however, have been sufficiently punished by the misery in which you have lived.” Then she went to the chamber and called, “Come out, my little daughter.” Thereupon the door opened, and the princess stepped out in her silken garments, with her golden hair and her shining eyes, and it was as if an angel from heaven had entered.

She went up to her father and mother, fell on their necks and kissed them; there was no help for it, they all had to weep for joy. The young count stood near them, and when she perceived him she became as red in the face as a moss-rose, she herself did not know why. The King said, “My dear child, I have given away my kingdom, what shall I give thee?”

“She needs nothing,” said the old woman. “I give her the tears that she has wept on your account; they are precious pearls, finer than those that are found in the sea, and worth more than your whole kingdom, and I give her my little house as payment for her services.” When the old woman had said that, she disappeared from their sight. The walls rattled a little, and when the King and Queen looked round, the little house had changed into a splendid palace, a royal table had been spread, and the servants were running hither and thither.

The story goes still further, but my grandmother, who related it to me, had partly lost her memory, and had forgotten the rest. I shall always believe that the beautiful princess married the count, and that they remained together in the palace, and lived there in all happiness so long as God willed it. Whether the snow-white geese, which were kept near the little hut, were verily young maidens (no one need take offence,) whom the old woman had taken under her protection, and whether they now received their human form again, and stayed as handmaids to the young Queen, I do not exactly know, but I suspect it. This much is certain, that the old woman was no witch, as people thought, but a wise woman, who meant well. Very likely it was she who, at the princess’s birth, gave her the gift of weeping pearls instead of tears. That does not happen nowadays, or else the poor would soon become rich.

#folklore #folktales #fairy tales #fantasy #literature #inspiration station #germany #brothers grimm

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