#born of bread lint

[otaku-tyriq]

Born of Bread - Battle Cards (Main Characters)

Standard Cards

Special Cards

Secret party Member under the cut (major spoilers for Born of Bread)

[mister-saturn-draws-things]

I love Lint and I needed him to know his friends love him too

[cookths]

Sly Cooper reference pallete change!

[sammirthebear2k4]

(Art Trade) Lint The Raccon

Art trade for @bryan360, This is Lint from the Indie Game "Born of Bread", I don't know anything about the game, but anyway, it was simple to draw one of the characters.

Anyways, hope you like it.

Lint (Born of Bread) belongs to WildArts Studios

Tags: @murumokirby360, @carmenramcat, @alexander1301

[silverscale12]

so a few week back i played this video game demo called born of bread, and it was super cool as someone who played paper mario on an emulator, i think this is the first time i ever played an rpg game without one! it's very original both in story and gameplay, and the character Loaf is just the cutest! i hope you like it!

{i really should make video game fanarts more often)

Born of Bread By Wildartsdevs

[foofyarts]

Various doodles of character from Born of Bread

[cwgames]

Seems we need to enter a fighting tournament. Along the way we meet Yagi who seem to be a fighter.

[itsaash]

Pumpkin Spice

@noots-fic-fests thank you for including this prompt so I can take something that happened in my life and turn it into something decidedly better, ha. Enjoy some fluffy, domestic Jily! And I believe sweater weather Harry was born in March? So he'd be 8 months old the next October

Lily had just wanted to make something nice. Sure, sure, the days are long but the years are short. But when you’re in the thick of having a 8 month old people could just fuck right off with that advice. Because the never ending loop of naptime, nursing, introducing solid food, play time, diaper change, and repeat made some days interminably long. And James was an amazing partner and an even better dad, but the season had started up again, and Lily was not in the groove of solo parenting. She was skidding on one wheel on the edge of the groove threatening to fall over at any moment. 

When she was nursing Harry, cuddling his warm body close, she’d sometimes scroll on her phone and cooking videos were some of her favourites. She’d be lulled by the perfectly aesthetic backdrops and clean kitchens. The process of turning a group of ingredients into something new and amazing. Her feed knew her well and alternated between plans and ideas for baby food, and delicious looking snacks and drinks. Being October, pumpkin everything saturated the videos. Bread, muffins, cookies, stew, coffees, all featuring pumpkin. She didn’t have much time or energy for more time in the kitchen after the essentials of baby food and basic meals. But maybe a pumpkin spice syrup was achievable? 

So after forgetting to get canned pumpkin at the next two grocery store runs, Lily finally remembered and was excited to make something for herself. Harry went down for his afternoon nap, and after stepping carefully to sneak out of his room she went into the kitchen to make the syrup.  The can opener, pumpkin, vanilla, and spices were lined up on the counter, and she measured  the sugar into the water for a double batch. She stirred the sugar in with her little purple whisk and watched it dissolve. She checked the recipe again, ok, it needed to reduce for a while. She turned down the heat and went to the bathroom. 

Then went to move the laundry into the dryer. Shit, that was a pile of clean laundry. The clothes got put away, and she tracked down the new box of trash bags for the garbage in the laundry room that she had emptied the lint trap into. May as well take out the other bathroom garbages while she was at it. Weird, this bathroom smelled bad. She looked around, had a diaper fallen behind the trash can or something? There wasn’t an obvious culprit so Lily finished emptying the bins and brought them all downstairs to the main garbage in the kitchen. 

The kitchen was a haze of smoke. 

“What in the ever loving pumpkin fuck of goddamn stupid pumpkin fucking shit…”

A string of incomprehensible curses continued as Lily dropped the trash bags and raced to the stove to turn off the burner. The water had long since evaporated and the sugar was beyond burned with her cute little whisk melted sadly to the side of the smoking pot. The smell hit her senses like a freight train as she put on an oven mitt and carried the pot outside and left it on the porch, slamming the door just a bit on the way back in. She turned the hood fan all the way up and went around opening every window she could get her hands on. Thank god it wasn’t too cold outside yet. 

Lily hardly knew if she should laugh or cry. It smelled truly awful. How had she not realized that smell was a burning smell? How could she have forgotten this one thing she had wanted to do for herself so quickly? And how had the stupid fucking smoke detector not gone off?? Although now in hindsight, with no major harm done, and the smoke already dissipating, she supposed she was glad to not have a baby awoken from a nap by screeching added to this situation. She walked away from the blaring sound of the hood fan and sunk to the floor under an open window on the other side of the house. Which is where she was when James got home. 

“Hey Lils love! I’m home — oh shit wow you’re right there! You scared me,” James said. He came in the door and was startled when he turned to take his shoes off and saw Lily sitting there. He set down his bag and walked over to her and slid his back down the wall. “Why are we sitting on the floor?” he asked softly, nudging her with his shoulder. 

Lily waved her hand vaguely at the house, cheek resting on her bent up knees. “I ruined our house with this awful fucking smell. Can’t you smell it?”

“Well, yeah, but you don’t seem to be panicking, so I figured it’s not an emergency.” He scooched even closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulders and Lily turned to tuck her face into the warmth of his shoulder. “Want to tell me what happened? You ok?”

Lily wasn’t crying, but her voice was thick and she was just so tired. 

“I just wanted to make pumpkin spice syrup. But then I got distracted and immediately forgot about it and it’s such a stupid thing to have done and now it smells so bad.” Her breath hitched at the end and she heaved a breath in. “And my little whisk and the pot are totally ruined.”

James just tightened his grip on her shoulders and hugged her close, let her breathe and be still and cry. 

“It doesn’t smell that bad,” he said, finally. 

“Fuck off, yes it does.”

“Ok, yeah it does.” He took in a theatrical sniff and winced. “That’s what burned sugar smells like? It’s nuclear level.”

“It was even worse 20 minutes ago,” Lily muttered. 

“Want to go cuddle on the furthest couch from the kitchen until Harry wakes up?” 

Lily laughed but nodded, and then moved to the couch in the theater room, which was quite separate from the rest of the house and had a baby monitor in it. James laid on the couch and Lily cuddled into his side, making herself small. James ran his fingers through her hair over and over. 

“You know it’s ok, right Lils? You’re fine, Harry’s fine, the house is fine. It’s ok.”

Lily hummed noncommittally. 

“Ok, but can you tell Loops about it? So that I can tell Sirius how bad sugar can smell? Because, honestly, who would’ve thought.”

James smiled to himself when Lily let out a real laugh and reached for her phone. She texted him, a smile quirking on her face. 

my house smells like sugar. And not the good kind like in cookies. Like the awful burned kind and it’s truly terrible. 

I also need to test my smoke alarms. 

These two things may be related.

Not one minute later her phone was ringing. James laughed and kept running his fingers through her hair as she talked to Remus. She told him the story, after reassuring him they were all fine, and her voice lost some of its tightness as they joked over the lengths they’d go to for a PSL and Remus threatening to come smell it for himself while the smell was “fresh”. She, laughing, said fuck off and good bye, hung up and turned to cuddle into James chest even closer. He smelled like the soap from the rink and like himself and when she breathed in deeply she didn’t smell the sugar at all. 

“I’m sorry I made our house smell terrible.”

“I literally don’t care, Lils. I’m just sorry it didn’t work out how you wanted it to.”

She let his breathing soothe her as his chest rose up and down under her cheek. 

“You can close your eyes if you want, flower. I’ll get Harry when he wakes up and I’ll go out with him and get a grocery store special for dinner.” Lily knew that meant a rotisserie chicken, a truly bizarre combination of the pre-made side dishes, and probably something sweet from the freezer aisle. But it was always perfect. She hugged him tighter and nodded. And she drifted off.

Lily woke later to the sounds of James and Harry coming into the house. James was keeping up a running conversation with Harry, talking to his son like he was much older than his 8 months. Lily stretched under the blanket that James must have laid over her, and the smell hit her nose. She cringed, but tried not to dwell and went to see her boys. 

“Mommy’s awake, Harry, look!” Harry babbled happily and Lily took him from James, kissing all over his face. 

“Did you two go on an adventure?” she said to Harry in an animated voice.

“We sure did,” James replied, picking up bags and heading to the kitchen. “To the wilds of Target. And we totally scored.”

Lily watched as he pulled groceries from the reusable bags like a magician pulling a never ending scarf from a sleeve. First came the expected rotisserie chicken, a container of spinach and artichoke dip, two options of chips, a pre-made spinach salad, and a few other grocery essentials.

“Wow, good choices, Harry!” Lily cooed. “I’ll be breaking into that dip immediately. Hopefully the terrible smell doesn’t ruin all this good food Daddy got us.”

“The power of spinach and artichoke dip can overcome anything,” James reassured her, and moved to take Harry from her. “Can you open up that bag, Lils?” he asked, pointing to one. Lily raised an eyebrow, but went to the bag and looked in. She paused for a long moment before reaching in and pulling out a wicker basket filled with all sorts of treasures. 

“James! What is this?!” she exclaimed as she freed the basket from the bag. 

“It’s a boo box!” James said happily. “You’ve been doing such a good job taking care of Harry when I’ve been on roadies, babe. And I love you so much, you do so much for us, so Harry and I wanted to do a little something for you.” He came over and leaned in to press a soft kiss below her ear and Harry pulled her hair happily.

“Thank you so much,” Lily said thickly. 

“You're welcome,” James said easily. He turned and settled Harry in his high chair, and got some blueberries and a mini cucumber from one of the bags and washed them to pass to Harry for him to gum. 

Lily looked through the basket. There was pumpkin spice syrup, of course there was. She huffed a laugh but was thankful for the easy version of the fall treat. Next she touched the new whisk, red this time, and sent James a small smile still tinged with sadness. There were also smaller bottles of brown sugar cinnamon, apple, and chai syrups. She set those aside and found three of the tubes that have all the ingredients you need for different soups, a foot mask, a lip mask, and finally underneath all of that she pulled out a crew neck sweater. It felt creamy and soft in her hands, with cute fall themed charms all over it. She hugged it to her chest and looked up at James. “James, baby. This is so nice.” James stepped close and took her into his arms, wrapping her in a hug from behind, his chin hooked on top of her head. He reached around her to point at some of the treasures. 

“Lots of syrups to try is fun, right? I’m so going to try that apple one in something. And look how funny that lip mask is. Harry laughed so cutely when I held it over my mouth and pretended to talk with it. Let’s see the sweater on, isn’t it so soft?” he rambled. 

Lily smiled with her eyes prickling as she pulled the sweater over her head. It was a bit oversized, the sleeves hung perfectly so she could scoop the cuff into her hands and feel the softness. James hugged her again, trailing his hands under the sweater to rub her back and feel the softness of the inside of the sweater. 

“I love it James, thank you.” 

“Love you, Lilyflower,” James said and leaned down to press a kiss to her lips. Lily turned and pressed a kiss to Harry’s head, thanking him too. He burbled happily back at her with purple fingers and mouth. James pulled out his phone to take a picture when the doorbell rang. He set his phone down on the counter.

“I’ll get it! But I’m so getting a picture of you in that sweater with Harry when I’m back.” He pointed finger guns at her as he walked a few steps backwards towards the front door.

Lily laughed and watched James’ back as he turned around and walked down the hall to open the front door. Her thoughtful, giving husband. The smell of burnt sugar still undeniably hung in the air, but it was fading. Her guilt was fading too, replaced with love for her family. 

“Hey! Oh wow no way,” she heard James say from the door. 

“Who is it?” she called as she started to put away the soups and syrups into the pantry. 

James didn’t answer and she walked back to the side of the kitchen from where she could see the door. 

“James? Oh!” 

He surprised her, he was right there when she turned the corner, a big box in his hands.  

“No one was at the door when I opened it. They must’ve just delivered the box and left.”

“What is it?” Lily asked.

James placed the soft cardboard box on the counter and opened the lid, revealing 6 of the most beautiful cookies Lily had ever seen. They were huge, fluffy and delicious looking. A chocolate chunk on, one that must be red velvet, one that looked like it might be peanut butter, and more that she could only guess at the flavours, but couldn’t wait to taste them and find out. 

“Oh my god. They’re beautiful. Who are they from? Did you order these too?”

“Nope, not me, oh here’s the card,” James replied. “Awww, they’re from Loops, see.” He passed the card to Lily.

To Lily

I hope these drown out the burned smell!! Congrats getting through the day without a kitchen fire!

Re

Lily laughed. “That little shit.”

“I’m surprised he went with cookies and not some sort of fire extinguishing blanket,” James laughed. 

“Don’t suggest it, or at least 2 will be at our door as fast as he can get them shipped here.”

“Actually, I think that’s kind of genius? I’m going to order one. I’ll send them one too.” He broke off a piece of the chocolate chip cookie and popped it into his mouth as he opened up his phone. “No harm in being prepared.”

Lily could only nod along with that logic, and she reached out and broke an orange cookie apart, and yes, as the taste of pumpkin spice cookie filled her senses, the burned smell finally faded away.

[facts-i-just-made-up]

Do I even want to know what sporks are?

The most grievous and recurrent misconception about the spork is that its name is a portmanteau of “spoon” and “fork.” Being part spoon and part fork this seems like the most obvious origin, but in fact the spork was invented by Edwin C. Sporke in New Orleans. Sporke invented the Spork in 1776, and the year is no coincidence. The story of the Spork is in fact, the story of the United States of America.

The year was 1773 and the industrial revolution was in its first decades. The colonists that would form the government of the United States were just arriving in the 13 colonies. At the age of 21, Thomas Jefferson had just been fired from his job in tech support at the University of Oxford. The only record of his duties there suggests that he mostly cleaned the old valuable globes, clocks, compasses, and the Ancient Abacus of Ankh-Ent-Ah-Baccus, where he is noted as having done a substandard job at removing abacus lint from the device. With no job and no prospects in England, Jefferson moved on up to the colonies in America, where he could begin a new life.

Jefferson came to America with only $7 to his name, and those dollars were worthless as the U.S. Treasury would not be formed for another 25 years. He arrived at the port of New Orleans, which was at the time called “Orleans-To-Be.” He had at the time no interest in politics, and applied to work at the only English-speaking establishment in the town. His days at McDonalds were unproductive. He slaughtered the cattle for beef, he peeled the potatoes for french fries, and he ground the bones for bread, which was made from bone powder before the evolution of wheat. But one important thing happened in his years at the restaurant: He met Edwin C. Sporke.

Sporke had arrived from Norway the year prior, and changed his name from Edvald Cornelius Sporkbeklagerdetfalskenorskenavnet to Edwin C. Sporke. Jefferson first saw him when he picked up his order for a Mutton McGruelbowl. Sporke sat down and, to Jefferson’s dismay, began trying to eat the liquid gruel with a fork. Curious, he brought the man a spoon and asked why he wasn’t using it instead. Sporke explained that spoons had been banned in Norway for hundreds of years owing to the infamous “Blood Spooning” of Vikings, from whom the Christian monarchy wanted to distance themselves. Jefferson encouraged Sporke to try, but he was hesitant. Finally, he agreed to eat the gruel with both at the same time, overlapping. The spork was born.

Because it could eat gruel more efficiently than a spoon or fork on their own, Raymond McDonald immediately began producing the utensil. This was done at first by having Jefferson weld spoons to forks, a job he so detested that he left for the east coast, taking the idea with him and keeping (most of) Sporke’s name attached, promising him royalties. Upon his arrival, Jefferson saw the next thing that would revolutionize the way we eat: The assembly line.

Famous entrepeneur- entrepeneuer– entreprenur—- famous businessman Henry Ford was living in New York, growing very rich with his mass constructed horse drawn carriages. Jefferson was impressed with the method, and immediately endeavored to accomplish a mass produced spork by means of his diligence, hard work, and persistence in buying slaves to do his real work for him. Among his early customers was Benjamin Franklin, who would go on to play so an integral role in the founding of the United States that well over 0.04% of Americans can tell you his role even today. Franklin loved the idea of the spork and showed it to George Washington, who could only eat gruel owing to the loss of his teeth in a bad poker game in 1771. The men got along splendidly, and the rest, as they say, is history.

For Jefferson and the country at least. Records of Edwin Sporke are fewer and less revolutionary. Sporke never got any royalties. Whether Jefferson never sent them or whether they were stolen by railroad bandits en route will never be known, but as railroads only began delivering mail after 1804, most historians suspect Jefferson cheated Sporke out of his share of the profits. The only thing we now know for certain about Sporke is that he died in 1779, stabbed to death with his own invention during an argument over whether zebras were striped or spotted. Sporke not only died in the encounter, but made a fool of himself by claiming that the animals were spotted, having been tricked at a local zoo that displayed a dalmatian claimed to be the elusive African zebra.

But thankfully we now know his name, and his fate, and his integral role in the building of both the U.S.A. and the spork that bears his name. In this respect he remains far more fortunate than Muḥammad ibn Muḥammad al-Nafzawi, who invented the spork in 1211 in Tunisia and is not remembered in any European history books at all for obvious reasons.

[westerhos]

Our Story: Chapter 7

Hi friends! Sorry for the delay here. I’ve been on vacation, so my priorities have been boozin’ and cruisin’. Thanks for your continued support of this story—I love hearing your feedback. This one’s a whopper of a chapter!

______

We often lose track of time in this great, big world of ours, in much the same way we lose a pair of keys, a couple of pens. “I swear I saw them two seconds ago!” we groan, groping to purse-bottoms, finding only lint and chump-change. So many things—these small facets of our lives—sucked into the void of bygones, taken before we can ever think to tie them down.

“I swear I was twenty-two just yesterday.”

This is how it is for Jamie and Claire, their years like old playbills confiscated by the wind and an invisible clock. Certain acts reappear from time to time, when the arm of a broom sweeps them into the light, when the frosting of dust disturbs, then floats. And for a brief moment, as the particles of time and forget resettle themselves, Jamie and Claire can hear their lives’ most glorious crescendos. The lowest notes tip-toe from the long-kept silence, rising and sinking slowly, steadily. All plucked strings, still vibrating, until the echoes die, cradling the past.

You can write an entire story with these bits and pieces of their lives, cut the acts together to form one winding opera. It plays and stops until, eventually, the grand finale. The overlap: a perfect harmony which carries them from their separate wings, to center stage and to each other.

And it is there, finally, that they meet again, lips and lives melding. They stand together in the orb of the spotlight. A single sun, glowing.

THE SPIRIT IN THE HORSE, 2000

Starring James Fraser, Jenny Fraser, Brian Fraser, The Doctor, Ellen Fraser, Fitzy (and a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else)

Though a bestselling author, JAMES FRASER did not grow up with dreams of books, but of horses.

He was born on an unusually hot day, spring 1968. Everything melting at its very seams, the birthing room’s thermometer feverish with mercury blood. His father and sister had fashioned fans from intake forms, moving heat-murk and birth-stink with the accordioned papers. They looked on with damp foreheads, lips white and tight, so that Ellen could have the breaths they saved.

At half-past noon, the doctor had caught Jamie’s auburn crown, dripping more heavily than his own laboring mother. All of this—the heat, the sweat, the waving forms—was taken as the stamp of Jamie’s fate. Surely, they had all agreed, he would set the world on fire, would be a brand forever puckering its skin.

The hibernators had emerged early that year, scurrying from their earthen wombs just as Jamie had slipped from his mother’s. Heat-drunk and dizzied, they had eaten everything in sight. Corn stalks, cabbage leaves, whole fields of barley—gone. Even Ellen’s strawberries, barely ripened—devoured by mid-April. The red fruits had shrunk to halves, then thirds, as the creatures munched and munched. Fleshy hearts eaten to bleeding, the pulp left to the sleepy stragglers.

And so on the day Jamie entered the world, the Frasers had returned to a dark and stifling house. Rot wafted from the windows, and the electrical wires were chewed cleanly through. One rabbit, the chosen martyr, had laid cooked in the grass, fur spiked.

Brian had thrust Jamie into his daughter’s arms, ran inside to rescue what unspoiled food he could (three eggs, a loaf of bread). Waiting in the yard, Jenny had imagined the wilting lettuce inside the fridge and Ellen, equally wilted under the blue hospital sheet. She had watched a squirrel leap across the berry guts, a rope of black wire between his paws.

How—if at all, she had wondered—would they survive without her mother?

Too exhausted for a trip to the store, Brian had fried the eggs on the driveway. The yolk was thick in his mouth and the sorrow thicker in his chest, before he realized Jamie’s cries had quieted. He started when he heard the horse’s whinny, the snorty exhale through its nostrils. Beside him, Jenny had scuttled away, feet scraping at the egg crusts.

Incensed by the heat and the crowd, Fitzy the horse had stormed her stable doors to freedom. She had brayed, desolate to find her owner gone, until she spotted the flame in Brian’s arms. Copper, auburn, cinnabar—all Ellen’s colors—poking from a swaddle of blue. And so Fitzy had bowed her head, brought Jamie into her awed silence. One shining moment, the first since Ellen’s passing—calm and peaceful.

Even now, 32 years later, Jamie loves to tell this story. How Brian had pressed his baby fist to the mane, his mother still a stickiness on his baby thumb. And how, as a young boy, Jamie had thought Ellen lived somewhere inside auld Fitzy. Something in the black bead of the mare’s eye: a flash, a peculiar spark. It was an acknowledgement that, until one night in 1989, Jamie had never felt before.

After his book tour in ’99, Jamie Fraser decided to take the leap—carpe diem—and purchase his own horse and his own land (fields way out in the Highlands; a farmhouse converted to splendor by his millions). The horse, like Fitzy, wears a chestnut coat. She is stubborn but loving, recognizes Jamie’s voice when he calls and his face when it floats above her stable door. He sees a flash of Fitzy—and of his mother, he thinks—when she surrenders her anger to Jamie’s flags of truce: a fresh Granny Smith, a carrot stick plucked from the ground. He sees a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else when she nudges his shoulder, apologetic. The only source of happiness, this beautiful beast, outside of his writing.

“Ye see?” Jamie had said after their first standoff, “Ye canna stay mad at me forever.” And when the horse had chomped the apple from his hand, he’d sworn that she was smiling.

“Mo nighean donn,” he’d whispered, and decided, then and there, to name her Sorcha.

______

CARROLL’S THEORY OF TRUTH, 2003

Starring Claire Randall, Frank Randall, Joe Abernathy, duncandonuts, wetwillie, mark_me_1745, parsleymarsley, l.mackenzie (and The Author)

When CLAIRE RANDALL is not working at the hospital, her nose is pressed to a blue-white screen.

For years, she had resisted those monstrous, blocky machines—Macintosh, Dell, Gateway—all brand names accompanied by her husband’s greedy and jabbing elbows.

But there was value in tradition, Claire had argued. A kind of sanctity in the ping of an Underwood or the swish of pen; privacy and authentic connection. Frank had merely rolled his eyes, always lusting after the new and shiny—whether it was a computer or a student’s gloss-plumped lips—knowing it was not “tradition” itself that his wife was holding onto.

“So like you, Claire,” he’d said bitterly one day, “wanting to stay stuck in the past.” And, of course, he’d been right. Just to spite him, she’d finally surrendered and gave him one for Christmas.

Gradually, Claire came to love the whirring engine, the wail of the dial-up, the period of isolation where she was unreachable by phone. Like time travel, almost, the way it took her places past and present, opening every door like some futuristic gentleman.

But mostly, Claire loved the computer for the freedom it gave her. Boot up the system, click the mouse, log on, be someone else. Online, Claire could play a different role than the surgeon or the amateur gardener, pretend she was not the wife who turned her cheek as often as she made her husband’s dinner. On the Internet, her identity was a thirty-word bio, her face a grey silhouette displayed comfortably—anonymously—inside a neat, square frame. A million different bodies growing inside her, once her fingers flew across keyboard:

Claire Randall, the British spy.

Claire Randall, the avid hiker, climbing the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Claire Randall, the mother, who loved the melt of ice cream down her daughter’s chin. Her tiny mouth, sweet and sugared, when it met hers for a kiss.

One website, her favorite, was this: a forum, populated by other faceless humans who, like Claire, could recite page 451 (or any others) of A Blade of Grass. In this corner of the online universe, they had spoken of The Author on a first-name basis, trading facts like prized baseball cards. But it was only Claire who could share the most private knowledge, attribute it all to her keen nose and thus earn the respect of 16 anonymous users.

Even so, Claire had been surprised by what they knew solely through their reading. The Author’s childhood, his relationships, his favorite color. She was able to ask her own prodding questions and receive correct answers, such as:

whiteraven: A long shot, but does anyone know how to contact him by telephone?

And five of the grey-faced few had responded.

duncandonuts: easier to send him send him a letter (might get lost among the rest of his fan mail though).

wetwillie: have you tried his agent, john grey, in london?

mark_me_1745: if u meet him, tell him 2 come 2 brasil!!!!!!! we <3 him!!!!!!!

parsleymarsali: Publishers Weekly mentioned he’s now with Geordie Gibbons at the Claude F. Agency, not Grey, @wetwillie. Think it had something to do with creative differences and missed deadlines.

l.mackenzie: pass that info onto _me_ if you find it, girl! <g>

By a stroke of luck, someone had known someone who’d known someone who’d known someone. And just like that, she was given a phone number the following Wednesday. A day like any other, if it weren’t for a single string of digits sitting in her inbox, a silent but ticking grenade.

She spent three months with the numbers inside her head, stored in a folder marked with The Author’s name. She did manage to call though—once—when her hand finally lowered from its hover. She’d waited out the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the robotic chime, “You have reached the voice mailbox of..." She had listened to the beep that followed and then the silence, stretching, until she remembered her mouth. It opened, exhaled, then shut abruptly with the click of her teeth. There was the clatter of keys and the thwop of a briefcase—Frank home from work.

She had almost whispered, but did not.

It was too much to have both men in the same room: one gently pecking her lips, the other pressing an electric current into her cheek, crackling. Too much, too much. Claire had slammed the phone down and cursed, “Bloody teleprompter. Always calling before dinner,” which had made her husband laugh. She’d made him spaghetti that night, the spices forming twelve digits in the saucepan no matter how many times she swirled the spoon.

It’s been four months since that first and only call, though Claire still remembers The Author’s number. She thinks of if—when—she will have the courage to call again, to finally speak and fill the space of eleven empty years. While Frank snores beside her, she plays the scene from start to finish, like a draft of the real, inevitable thing.

Again: the sonorous ring, the tinny greeting, the beep, and the silence that waits for her. But this time: her mouth opens—one, two three times—and five words repeated, again and again.

In some versions, she says them aloud. In others, merely pushes them, soundless, into the air. Still, they are there, held aloft by satellite arms high up in the sky. Somewhere between her and The Author, existing: I was born for you, I was born for you, I was born for you.

And what is said three times—even unfinished, even without words—is always, always true.

______

THREE TIMES THE WORLD ENDED , 2004

Starring Jamie Fraser, Jenny Fraser, and Laoghaire Mackenzie (and The Girl)

JAMES FRASER, age 34, can pinpoint three moments where his world fell apart.

He was eighteen during the first, a brazen thing, but still as green as the pot freshly stinking his Levi’s. After reading the call notice pasted to his door, he’d floated to the common room on a cloud of White Widow weed. He dialed, laughing, until Jenny’s voice had sobbed down the line, breaking the peace of his druggy fug.

Their father, she’d cried, had died the previous evening.

With the news, the had drugs turned. Floors slanted, limbs jellied. Jamie watched as a hole ripped open the wall behind him, its enormous black void revealing the space Brian Fraser had left behind. It had swallowed Jamie up, refused to spit him back again until The Girl reached inside and found his heart two years later. Returned it to him, like a love note, passed on the inside of her smile.

Jamie describes the second collapse in his two famous novels, A Blade of Grass and Two Centuries in Purgatory. This time, the world had split completely, Jamie and The Girl like two tectonic plates shifting in the night. It was his writing that had bound Jamie’s world together again, though the spine remained cracked, a few of the pages missing.

The third time occurred just last week though Jamie was not entirely surprised. It’s what happens, he supposes, when you build something on uneven ground. Physical presence—someone’s here-ness—does not equate to love.

Nine years after the second earthquake, a new person had come into Jamie’s life. She would stand in the doorway at 6:30PM, jump to her tip-toes to welcome him home. There would be steam from the stove, and utensils would gleam in perfect, shining order. Napkins would wait with their patient folds, each prepared to catch the food that she, his ever-present Laoghaire, had prepared during the day. And for those three years, Laoghaire’s toothbrush had sat next to Jamie’s, her silks hanging beside his cottons. Evidence, he had thought, that he maybe-almost loved her.

But then Laoghaire had grown curious—“Why’ve no made progress on yer novel? What are ye writing all day if it isna yer third book?”—and stuck her piglet nose into places it did not belong. She, in a rare moment of ingenuity, had unlocked the safe and found his letters.

And so this time, Jamie’s world had not ripped or split—but exploded with a thousand sticks of paper dynamite. Laoghaire had burned through the house, burned through the letters. She’d called the magazines and the bloggers, vowing to tarnish his reputation with lies: cheater, drunk, lunatic, fraud. Finally, she’d left, taking the napkins, the cutlery, and the toothbrush—but leaving the embers in her wake, smoldering. A few scraps had avoided the fire, and Jamie read them as the night rose.

My da once told me I’d know straight away, that I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t.

For so many years, for so long, I have been so many different men.

The love of you was my soul.

and

Yours, Jamie

Forever, Jamie

Come home, my heart. I am not as brave as I was before, Jamie

On and on and on they went. Singed pieces of his letters. Every one meant for The Girl who’d confronted his darkness, had rescued his heart at a Christmas Eve party.

4,380. One letter for every day he had missed her.

______

THE KILLING GIRL, 2006

Starring Claire Randall*, Henry Beauchamp, Julia Beauchamp, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, Frank Randall (and The One Person)

CLAIRE RANDALL* , resident at Boston GH, was five years old when she thought she was murderer. For years, she could hardly sleep, fearing not the monster beneath her bed, but the one beneath her covers.

Instead of counting sheep, she’d recounted facts as they’d been reported in the paper: Henry and Julia Beauchamp, parents of one Claire Beauchamp. Their mangled car, and a rocky deathbed set one hundred feet below. Both husband and wife, father and mother—dead upon impact.

Rarely, did this guide Claire towards sleep, and so she began to picture the accident as she’d recorded it in her diary. The same story, but more accurate—one that played behind her eyelids as if she had watched it all, a spectator on the road’s shoulder.

There was her parents’ blue Ford ribboning the cliffside. The low hum of conversation and the static of the radio. There was Claire’s goodbye before they left—“You always go without me! IhateyouIhateyou!”— which followed her parents and pushed them off the edge. She was sure it was her words that had broken her mother’s neck, had snapped it like a flower’s stem. One Claire Beauchamp, the little killing girl.

Five years passed before Lamb had found her in the courtyard, weeping her guilt into a mat of grey feathers. She had confessed to her five-year old anger then; how she’d pried open the rocky mouth and dropped her parents in.

“Death doesn’t move according to reason, my dear,” Lamb had said, “but only chance. And by no fault of yours.” He had patted her on the head like a priest grants forgiveness, and they buried the bird in the Nyungwe Forest. Wings and Claire’s blame laid to rest beneath the trees.

Still, Claire likes how accountability sets her world—so wracked by coincidence—back on its axis. Responsibility, however false, is easier to accept than the fickleness of husbands, of dead parents, of love and life. She assumes the role of the guilty to feel a sense of control, like she herself is in charge of the scale’s tip. And so:

It was Claire’s fault that the frost returned in May, all her marigold suns snuffed out.

It was Claire’s fault that the infection took the wound, gnawed the patient’s flesh so that a saw had to chop the bone.

It was Claire’s fault that midnight voices chirped down the receiver. The girls’ lovesick pleas—I need you. I love you. Leave her.—placed in Frank’s pockets by Claire’s own hands.

And of course, it was Claire’s fault that things had ended as they did. The final fight, every bit of hate, hers to claim:

“I am not an idiot, Frank! And I’m tired of being made into one.”

“Darling, you aren’t an idiot. I never said you were an idiot.”

“Don’t bloody ‘darling’ me, you bloody cad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How novel.”

“Truly, I am.”

“So that’s it, then? Just ‘I’m sorry.’ No excuses? No begging-on-bended-knee?” (Claire had scoffed. Her laughter, like the paring knife that guts the beast.) “No, of course not. Begging would be too embarrassing for you. Too much effort. All your energy is spent chasing skirts and quick fucks. You selfish, disgusting man.”

“So I’m the only selfish one here, is that it? Just me?”

“You’re saying that I’m selfish?”

“I am.”

“Me.”

“Yes, you, Claire! You, who is always working and never here. You, who sleeps with his books under our mattress, still wears the man’s goddamn ring on a chain. Like a fucking noose around our marriage, from the start.” (Claire had winced; Frank’s knuckles had cracked the wall.) “No, I’m not selfish, Claire. I’ve shared you with another man for thirteen years.”

“So I see you’ve lost all sense, but still have some fucking nerve."

“Cursing doesn’t improve your argument.”

“Wanker.”

“Now Claire…”

“Just go.”

“Claire, please—”

“Go.”

And thus, it was Claire’s fault that Frank had whispered, “You’ve never looked at me. Not once, not really.” And it was her fault that he had grabbed his keys, slipped into the blizzard and into his car.

And it was Claire—Claire, Claire, Claire—who became the ice that hissed against tires. Who launched Frank’s body through the glass, turned his skin purple-blue and the snow dark red. Her fault that the last thing she’d said was “go”, and Frank had taken her at her very word.

All of this, she has put upon her shoulders, for its burden is lesser than the truth: that she has no control, never did and never would. Claire is forever held at the mercy of a capricious gravity—she and everyone else, a little bit helpless. Always.

But there was One Person, she often remembers, who had given her a kind of foothold. On their wedding night, she had whispered about her mother’s flower neck, about the grey bird whose wings she’d given to the Nyungwe. And he had understood, promised forgiveness for whatever wrongs she had and would commit. “Real or imagined, Sassenach” he’d said into hair, “Already forgiven.” They had spiraled through life, the pair of them, both a little bit helpless—but everything shared.

But of all of her false faults, this is one Claire fears is true: that she is the reason The One Person is not here, but some 3,000 miles away. She was, after all, the one who had packed the suitcase and caused the gavel to fall, Divorce.

All her fault: Claire Randall. The guilty one, the killing girl, the widow. Spinning and spinning into empty space, grasping at stars, alone.

*[Note from director: Ms. Claire Randall has requested we change her name to Claire Beauchamp. Please reprint with this correction ASAP. Thank you.]

______

POINT OF CONVERGENCE, 2007

Starring Jamie Fraser (The Author, The One Person), Claire Beauchamp (A More-Than-Flash Of Someone-Else, The Girl), Geordie Gibbons

JAMES FRASER does not like to disappoint. It is his greatest fear, seeing someone’s face pull, twist, and finally droop into an expression of discontent. Even worse: when the expression is given a name, “I’m so disappointed in you, Jamie.” And worst of all: when the name is given by his agent, Geordie Gibbons.

One of the most important days of Jamie’s life began in anticipation of such disappointment. He had twiddled his thumbs beneath a table, dreading the moment Geordie’s fedora ducked beneath the restaurant’s eaves. The wait staff had milled around him: A waiter dashed towards snapping fingers, the hostess offered towels for rain-soaked heads. He’d felt jealous, watching them, of their readiness—how they could be so effortlessly on time. Jamie couldn’t even manage to meet his deadlines, the desk calendar at home flipped far beyond the designated X.

Jamie and Geordie were to have “lunch” and “catch up”. This would, inadvertently, devolve into an interrogation about Jamie’s third novel, which was nothing more than a series of working titles. It was a pattern, this lateness and lunching, never changing despite the demands and promises made by both parties. Geordie would remove his hat, exposing the frown previously shadowed beneath its brim. Their food would be served—Jamie, something yeasty; Geordie, a taxidermist’s culinary experiment—and Jamie would choke down a side of his agent’s disappointment. Eventually, they would part ways, and Jamie would return home, knock out a few pages. Turn in a shitty draft the next morning for the sake of postponing a second “lunch.”

But on this day, the universe had shifted; the pattern broke. Jamie had continued to sit there, all sweat and nerves, but Geordie’s fedora, the interrogation, and the food never came.

Because while Jamie had waited in the restaurant, CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP was arguing in her bedroom mirror: Claire vs. Claire, Head vs. Heart. She was thousands of miles away in a Boston apartment, but still—the tremor traveled, pushing a storm across the Atlantic, down the Royal Mile, to Jamie. The trajectory of his day and his life had changed as Claire gesticulated wildly at her own reflection.

So at 12:14, Jamie had been alone, Geordie unusually late for a man so fond of punctuality. He read the menu three times, settled on a whisky. Thought better of it; ordered two.

At 12:30, Claire’s battle had still raged, no victor in sight. The thunder had shaken the house, shaken the mirror on the wall.

At 12:46, Jamie had condemned Geordie, then deadlines. Art, he’d fumed, was beyond time, existed outside of it. He had ordered a third whisky when a wine spill was wiped up, gone before it had the chance to leave its mark.

At 12:48, Claire had moved to the kitchen. Both armies were advancing quickly, charging into the living room, to the yard, back to the living room, over and over. She and herself, it seemed, had reached a stalemate. Head and Heart had squatted, dripping rain, and awaited the other's surrender.

At 12:50, Claire had paused and looked through the window. She caught a glimpse of her garden, reborn and thriving despite the storm, and the sight of the marigold blooms did not reveal an emptiness inside her. She felt, for once, happy. Her Heart had stormed her Head’s walls, then, the gates of decision giving way.

At 12:51, Claire had opened her scrapbook, a secret once kept from Frank. It was filled with bits and bobs: a piece of bubble wrap, a bell from her holiday sweater. Both of them glued beside old polaroids. Again, she did not feel her Heart stutter, but expand; lift straight out of her chest. A full siege after that. Her Head’s weakest men fell beneath the lash of artery whips.

At 12:52, the end was near, and Claire’s Heart marched to her computer, hunted through years of mail. Its trophy had laid buried in a folder—one message with twelve digits—and the battle, at last, was won.

At 12:53, both Jamie and his phone had buzzed. The door opened, letting in the air. It had smelled of wet soil, earthy and ripe. Familiar, like a ghost’s kiss on the back of his neck. He put the phone to his ear, and…

At 12:53:05, he said, “Jesus, man! Where are ye? I’ve been waiting nigh on 50 minutes!” There was no response.

At 12:53:08: “Did ye get caught in the storm? Are ye calling from a pay phone?” More silence.

At 12:53:13: “Hello? Anyone there?”

At 12:53:20: “Geordie, man, is that you?”

At 12:53:25: A deep, shaking breath. An audible gulp. Claire’s Heart whispering its victory song.

12:53:26: “It’s isn’t Geordie.”

12:53:27: “It’s me.”

And at 12:53:28, everywhere, suddenly—the brightest sun.

Phew! This chapter is one of the longest, but it’s also one of my favorites. The structure is lifted straight from Fates and Furies—there’s a chapter that is just a series of the protagonist’s plays—and I was looking to try something new (it also weirdly fits in with the tone of the chapter introductions). In my opinion, the best thing about writing fanfiction is that you have so much room to experiment.

This structure also allowed me to do what I’d been wanting to do from the beginning: move away from the One Day conceit and explore Jamie and Claire’s pasts. It was very easy to just run with any image or idea that came to mind—we know so little about their childhoods; there are so many possibilities!

And speaking of why fanfiction is so awesome—and I mentioned this in another post—but it’s a blast figuring out how to incorporate canon into an AU setting. Using canon dialogue can boost the emotional punch of a line in a way that is just *chef’s kiss*. “I was born for you.” “I am not as brave as I was before.” Ugh, kill me.

I have to whistle past some of the melodrama and Frank’s computer craze (wouldn’t he also be a typewriter sort of person???). And modern!Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Brazil comment still tickles me. This is not meant as an offense to Brazilians—y’all are just always on *clap* it *clap*, and I love your enthusiasm.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed :)

[otaku-tyriq]

Born of Bread

When I say I screamed out loud at this point in the game I mean it.

[mister-saturn-draws-things]

Wow, I have something to post lol I'm playing Born of Bread and I think I found my favorite character.

[cookths]

[sammirthebear2k4]

To-Do List (January)

To avoid not getting confused, this is my first To-Do List of this year.

@murumokirby360

Cude in Mayu's clothes sitting at the camp fire with his future girlfriend, Mayu (FINISH)

----------------------------------

@carmenramcat

Sammir and Miya as Ballerinas (FINISH)

---------------------------------

@bryan360

Lint (Raccoon character from the indie game ''Born of Bread'') (FINISH)

---------------------------------

@alexander1301

Alex in Shadow R Clothes (FINISH)

Please be patient, thank you.

[bardicaberration]

winter prompt challenge day 6: hypothermia/frostbite. This took a bit of a turn from where I started, but look, it’s just... so soft.

---

caught in the cold geralt/yen rating: uhh, light M? strong T? 

Yennefer swore loudly and kicked a clump of snow. It exploded in a puff of soft powder and a strangled noise escaped her throat. Geralt chuckled softly behind her and she rounded on him, violet eyes blazing.

“Yennefer.”

“Geralt.” She turned on her heel, pacing from the mouth of the cave to the rocky outcrop under which Geralt sat, building a fire, and back again. Geralt beamed and Yen scowled, desperately wishing to curse the smug look off his face.

“Ah! So you’re speaking to me again.”

“I’m not.”

“Sounds like you are.”

“If you say one more word, Geralt, one more word, I will curse you so hard you wish you’d never been born.”

He considered this, cocking his head. In his younger days, he supposed, he may have gone in for that sort of thing. Being abandoned on the side of the road and picked up by a Witcher, then trained and mutated and honed into a killing machine with no choice in the matter, could do that to a man. Since he’d met Yen though, those feelings had faded and rarely even registered as a quiet hum. He was, in a word, content. The thought still surprised him sometimes.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, he realized, or else Yennefer was reading his mind again. She kicked another clump of snow, more furiously than the last, and growled at him.

“You sound like Lambert,” he said patiently.

She snorted. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

He shrugged. “No.”

Silence fell heavy inside the cave. The wind howled outside the snow fell harder. By Geralt’s best estimation, they were stuck until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Yennefer rounded on him, mouth curled into a snarl; she was definitely reading his mind again. Geralt leaned back against the wall, smug.

“Don’t read my mind and you won’t see things you don’t want to see.”

A particularly foul gust of wind blew across the mouth of the cave. Yennefer’s fur-lined cloak rippled and despite her best efforts, she shivered violently. Geralt pushed himself off the wall and crouched above the pile of kindling he’d gathered. It was meager—they were in a cave, after all, not a forest (thank god, he thought, casting a wary eye at the snow outside)—but he’d make do. A quick burst of igni lit the wood and a merry fire crackled where he knelt.

“Yennefer.” She grunted, turning to face him. Her arms were crossed and her face was rigid with frustration, but he saw the fine shiver running through her body. “Come here.” They stared at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching between her. She was so stubborn, sometimes, loathe to accept help when she was so used to simply doing things herself. Geralt would never begrudge her that independence; certainly, he understood the importance of choice when choice had been stripped from them both so young. But he also spent far more time roughing it and knew if she didn’t warm up now, she might never.

Yennefer sighed loudly and stomped across the cave to sit, landing heavily next to Geralt. He rifled through his pack, odds and ends littering the floor around him. Empty vials, decoctions, monster parts… Finally, he removed a wrapped parcel and held it aloft, eyes glittering triumphantly. “Aha!”

“No,” said Yen. “I will not.”

She did, Geralt was pleased to see. He’d warmed the strips of dried meat as best he could over their small fire. It wasn’t much, but it was better than starving. He’d learned that the hard way, forced into starvation on the Path when coin was light and monsters few and far between. He’d shoved the larger portion at Yennefer, who held up the stick and glared at it, as if she could frighten it into transforming into something more edible. Geralt laughed softly and imagined the possibilities. A pie, he thought, or a trencher of stew, a thick slide of fresh bread, warm and slathered with honey and butter…

“Not helping,” Yen scoffed. It came out garbled; she spoke around the hunk of dried beef in her mouth and Geralt smiled as she swallowed and brushed away invisible crumbs. Her face softened. “I’ll find you the biggest stew I can when we get out of here,” she mumbled. “Even though you got us into this mess in the first place.”

Geralt hummed under his breath. They had met up by chance: Geralt, in the middle of a particularly perplexing contract and Yennefer on an errand for the Lodge. Or perhaps it was destiny, Geralt corrected himself; she was a fickle mistress, after all. They’d reunited at the Inn at the Crossroads. He’d been halfway through a pint of ale—or what passed for a pint of ale in these parts of Velen—when she blew through the door, literally, a gust of strong wind shaking the building behind her. She’d been surprised to see him, but not displeased, and the ale was quickly abandoned in favor of absconding together to Geralt’s room, where they passed several hours in a haze of pleasure, each relearning the contours of the other.

Finally sated, dinner was called for and Geralt detailed the contract he’d undertaken. A local minor noble—extremely minor, he added—had been loosing workers left and right. For months, they’d been disappearing, sometimes several at once, sometimes none for several weeks. A monster was suspected, but privately, Geralt assumed they had simply had enough; times might be hard, but the pay was shit and the noble cruel. Surely skilled laborers were more valued in Novigrad. But coin was tight and Geralt had accepted the contact, reluctantly agreeing to look into it.

Yennefer, he learned, was on business for the Lodge. A mage named Izohr had recently gone rouge, destroying a large land holding owned by a minor noble—extremely minor, she added—and disappearing without a trace. Privately, Yennefer assumed that the mage was likely dead by now; they had experimented with magic, pushed the edges of chaos and had simply broken. But Yennefer was intrigued, enough to reluctantly agree to look into it.

And here they were, sated and fed and as they looked at each other both Geralt’s perplexing contract and Yennefer’s errand for the Lodge each resolved themselves and they laughed at the simplicity and fell into each other once more, agreeing to set out the following morning.

They set out on foot before dawn, Geralt fondly patting Roach on the nose before departing, and walked for several hours. Their combined efforts led them south, the sky clouding over as they climbed a rocky hill. Traces of magic littered the area and as they climbed further, it began to snow. Geralt had insisted they stop, leading them into a shallow cave and settling in to wait out the storm. He’d pulled her into the cave and kissed her fiercely, hot tongue licking into her open mouth, and she’d wrapped her hands around his neck, realizing the real reason he’d pushed for a break.

A short time passed—or so Yen thought, it felt like hours, or maybe days—and she rolled off of Geralt, not quite satisfied but thoroughly pleased and no longer thrumming with an undercurrent of desire. He lay panting beside her and she dipped into his mind, grinning wickedly as he thought about the things they’d do when they returned to the inn.

And then the wind howled outside and the snow began to fall in earnest and, Yennefer realized, they were trapped in this cave until at least the next morning.

Geralt dug through his pack again and pulled out a bread roll. He held it at eye level, surveying it critically, and—after discarding a small piece of lint—offered it to Yennefer. It was a peace offering, she knew. He had gotten them stuck in this cave for good reason, after all, although she would much rather be luxuriating in a large bed, surrounded by feather pillows and soft blankets with a very naked Geralt, pliant and yielding beneath her. She shivered—pleasantly this time—and wished fervently he could dip into her own mind and see this, only this, and understand the ways in which she longed to make him come undone.

Roll tucked away, Yennefer pulled her fur-lined cloak around her and turned to Geralt. She gestured for him to come closer and he obliged, shuffling toward her. Their shoulders bumped against each other companionably and they sat for a moment, quietly watching the mouth of the cave as the sky outside grew dark.

Silently, Geralt dug his wineskin out of his pack. He offered it to Yen, a silent peace offering, and she accepted, the last of her anger burning away, washed down with the pleasant red inside.

“That’s swill,” she said, a teasing note in her voice. She felt, more than heard, the satisfied grumble emanating from Geralt’s chest. She grabbed his cloak and tugged gently, pulling them both to the hard stone floor. They faced each other, nose to nose, and she carefully arranged their limbs to her liking. A fine shiver ran through them both, neither quite sure if it was the cold or the contact or both. She tucked her hands between their bodies and Geralt squeezed gently where his arms encircled her. He tucked his cold nose against her forehead and she closed her eyes, content.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Michelle Delacruz

“Much like a wild Mustang, this woman has an untameable heart. Wild and fierce, she carries the spirit of the West.”

Name: 

Michelle Manuela Delacruz

Born: 

August 16th, 1877 (Leo)

Notable Characteristics:

Raven hair

Black and purple color scheme

Fierce, light colored eyes

Three deep scars on the right side of her face

Extremely short tempered

Often goes by “Michelle Mustang” due to people often comparing her likeness to a wild Mustang.

Skills:

Sharpshooter

Master rider

Proficient hunter and tracker

Excellent at close combat

Weapons:

Lancaster Repeater

Carcano Rifle

Rare Shotgun

Bow and arrows

Duel wielding custom Navy Revolvers

Family:

Amelia Delacruz (mother, deceased)

Tomas Delacruz (father, deceased)

Joana Delacruz (older sister)

Natalia Delacruz (younger sister)

Background:

Michelle was born to a Mexican-American family out in New Austin. The second daughter of three, growing up in a small shack with her parents and sisters. Her mother a seamstress, her father a vaquero. Given their large family and meager earnings, they learned to live off the land.

One thing Michelle loved, however, was horses. She often was found playing with the steed her father used for work, soon learning how to ride at a young age. Since then she was hooked. When she was out on the land with her family, she would watch the wild horses run across the open expanse and dreamed to be riding amongst them one day.

Being of Latino origin caused more trouble than not for her and her family. They often experienced blatant racism, tailing them home, shouting insults and threatening to lynch or burn them. Regardless, they managed to get home safe.

Until one day, her father didn’t. At the tender age of 8, Michelle and her family found out he’d been ambushed and lynched. The gang of miscreants who performed it were whooping and jeering nearby, ready to take them next. This caused them to move out of fear, relocating themselves further North. With nothing but lint in their pockets and empty bellies, Amelia and Joana sought to find work.

Things were okay for a while. Michelle learned to hunt for the days when money was too scarce for a can of vegetables or a loaf of bread. When she was 14, her mother’s health began to decline from the constant overwork. Amelia died soon after, too poor to afford treatment.

With Joana being 16, they’d managed to secure a household when they struck a deal with a wealthy man, having jobs in exchange for three hot meals and a roof over their heads. Before then, Michelle had never seen a home so extravagant. She became excited when she learned this man had a barn full of horses. She became a stable hand and rode once again, quickly learning how to break and train a horse from the ground up and often assisted in foal deliveries.

After two years, this paradise had come to an end. The man had lost his wealth, which meant having to sell his property and thus, putting the three out on the streets again. None of them could find a steady job, and moved around a lot to find work. It wasn’t until Michelle came across a bounty board in a small town, offering a decent amount of cash for the capture of a criminal she immediately recognized as one of her father’s killers.

Even though Michelle had next to nothing; a worn lasso and a rusty Cattleman revolver, she sought out this man. Using her hunting skills to track him down, she found him in a small camp in West Elizabeth. He had a few guards that she’d taken out without much of a struggle. She eventually cornered him, watching cower and beg for mercy. Blinded by anger, she held the revolver to his head and demanded he look her in the eye. He did, and she watched the realization bloom on his face when he realized who she was. Oh how she wanted to kill him, her finger hovering over the trigger. An inner turmoil of morality burned within her, knowing killing him outright would not bring her father back. She proceeded to shoot him in the leg before tying him up. She then took one of the dead gang member’s horses and rode back, begrudgingly turning him in, but was the first one in line to see him hang.

Afterward, bounty hunting seemed to become a calling for her. Not only had she found each one of her father’s killers, she was able to save enough money to buy a small home for her and her sisters, all the while making a name for herself. At age 21 and having many notches on her belt, she sought to hit a big score: Roxanne, aka “Death Rider” ( @r0xy-w0lf​ ) and began to track the famous outlaw down.

After quite some time, Michelle eventually found her, intent on capturing and turning her in. However, something seemed...different. Roxy gave a vibe that contrasted from others she’d faced, and Michelle found familiarity in her. They sat and talked, with Roxy eventually offering her a place in her gang. Michelle wasn’t keen at first, turned off by the idea of becoming a part of something she’d been hunting down for years. However, Michelle was now alone after her sisters had found lives of their own, and she missed the feeling of close family.

She’s now a part of the Death Squad, who welcomed her with open arms. She’s still trying to figure out the ropes but finds herself fitting more and more each passing day.

Extra:

If there’s one thing Michelle hates, it’s bullies. Facing much prejudice and racism throughout her life have caused her to get into plenty of fights. She will not hesitate to swing a fist.

She was in fact known to hold secret fights as a teenager to pull in extra cash.

She will also stand up for anyone who can’t defend themselves within reason.

She can and will drink you under the table.

When she was younger, she would try to befriend the wild horses by spending time at a distance from a herd that lived not too far from her home. As they grew more comfortable with her presence, she would come up and feed them treats.

She supposedly has German roots from her father’s side, but this was never confirmed.

Very few people know she was a mother. Having entered a relationship with a childhood friend at the age of 18, putting a potentially permanent pause on her dangerous lifestyle with hopes to settle down. She gave birth to a sickly baby, who died just days later. This experience hardened Michelle, as well as caused an irreparable rift in between her and her lover. She often thinks about them both, but doesn’t consider attempting to settle down again.

Her baby is buried out in New Austin, in a place that only she knows. She will visit whenever she’s in the area, and on the anniversary of his death.

The scars on her face were received early in her bounty hunting career, caught in a melee fight with her target when she was momentarily incapacitated by a guard. The outlaw had gotten a few slices in before she was able to break free.

She visits Joana and Natalia as often as she can.

She’s come in brief contact with the Van der Linde gang in pursuit of their bounties, but they were too large and powerful for her to take alone. She found respect in their morals of helping people who need it. She sometimes will chat if she runs into one of them. She’ll often steal Arthur’s hat for a day or so without his knowledge and replace it when he’s not looking.

Horses:

“I prefer stallions to mares. Mares are too much like me, that’s why I don’t trust ‘em.” - Michelle

Dante: Bay Frame Overo Criollo Stallion

Michelle’s main mount. A stallion with a kind eye and sweet disposition that she found charming. Easily her fastest horse, and by far her best.

Santiago: Bay Brindle Criollo Stallion

Michelle’s second horse. She hadn’t been looking for another horse, until his unusual brindle coating caught her eye. She admired how sturdy he was, and certainly built to handle somewhat heftier work and hunts.

Rojas: Chestnut Arabian Stallion

Michelle’s longest held mount. She's not terribly fond of Arabians and their skiddish demeanor. Rojas however, was an exception. One of the colts she helped birth in her younger days, she bonded with him during her two years as a stable hand and broke him herself. After he was sold, she tracked him down when she had the money and bought him back.

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@theunholyoutlaw​ @verai-marcel​ @eddesceulla​

So, little known fact here for y’all: Michelle is an old character from another fandom that I decided to resurrect for the RDR universe, since in her original setting, she was also a cowgirl (a cowgirl with powers and a ghost horse lmao)