#bovzek

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6, 10, 13 for any oc u want!! (the first game u rbbed)

thank you so much!!! doing bovzek and alois for these

How did you choose your OC’s name?

so bovzek is a czech name that means give from god. him and alois' story is based off a czech fairytale where bovzek fights the Literal Devil, so i figured it would be a good representation, especially because alois views him as a gift he doesnt deserve but will forever cherish.

alois is bc i was looking at names at the time for my transition and i loved it, and decided that even if i wasnt gonna use it for myself, it could use it for bovzek's beau!

10. Share a sentence of dialogue from your OC that you think represents them well.

Bovzek: “Excuse me, sir, would you prefer lamb or hog casing?”

so this comes from one of bovzek and the devil's first interactions. despite being before the Literal Devil, bovzek attempts to keep a brave face and refuses to give up hope, even for a second. he's just the Best yall

Alois:

“…Go on.” Alois said… “Hit me.  A smile grew with his realization, "C-come on. Break my arm, break my ribs—hit me! You can’t, can you? I can hear them: ‘oh no, oh sweet little Alois, what happened to your sweet little arm? Your sweet little leg? Oh no, your poor pretty face!’ Come on now! Break my jaw, you always talk about wanting to shut me up! Come on!”

Alois was laughing now, on the edge of hysterical, hands still pulsing hotly, gums sluggishly red. “Come on, hit me!”

Alois is in a terrible situation throughout the story, left in a cold, uncaring court with a corrupt, abusive king, but despite the violence he faces, he never fails to be brave.

13: How do they deal with pain (physical or emotional)?

Bovzek deals with pain through humor and a determination to survive that he's had since he was found half drowned as a child. He will not die. He wont allow it. His stubbornness is matched only with his craftiness.

Alois has survived his years in the court through dissociation and lies. He knows how to manipulate, but he's coming apart at the seems, and more often than not when faced with hardship he retreats into his brain and simply... floats away

[pansyboybloom]

pros of a new writing blog: no one is bothered by me screaming about my ocs

cons: there's now no one there to scream to about my ocs

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Pick your favorite OC and please share 🦉, 🐭, and 🧅!

ackkkkkk thank you!!!!! i'm doing bovzek for these, a very very old oc that recently resurfaced and left my heart full of love any longing <3333333333

🦉: have they ever had a bad experience with an owl?

so Bovzek is blessed by the fae, and as such has a close connection with nature, especially omens of death, like the barn owl. he deeply respects them and the spirits they carry, but as a small child barn owls terrified him, their screeching sounding far too much like the monsters that supposedly lurked in the Great Woods

🐭: are they afraid of mice?

far from it! When he was imprisoned by the Devil, Bovzek befriended the mice in the dungeons, taking great comfort in their company.

🧅: have they ever eaten an onion?

many a time. Bovzek grew up in an area inspired by the medieval czech and slovakian areas of europe, so onions were a big part of life, both for food and finance. his favorite treat that he'd have when the faire came to town was boiled onions with a milk sauce and salt poured on top, a common finger food back then! his husband, alois, who is royal and far from Bovzek's country background, is appalled by it.

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same anon! no problem if you dont, it was like literally yeeeears ago but i loved the devil character you wrote, so do you still have a copy of the time he tried 2 cut Beaver (thats his new name, its so much funnier than bovzek) teeth out? i think it was one of the first ones in the story??

This is bringing back soooo many memories, these boys were my heart and soul for so long. So, I went digging through my college google drive and was able to find it, since im fairly sure i deleted everything from this blog in a fit of despair (rip)

context for those of you who are new! this is one of the first drabbles i wrote for bovzek, one of my favorite ocs of all time. he's a gentle giant of a man and a poet, who through magical means was able to marry his beloved, alois-- only for alois' father to order him to fetch a dowry of the devil's hair if he ever wanted to see alois again. this takes place just after bovzek attacks and fails to overpower the devil, leading to him imprisonment. the devil is a sadistic, but lonely, bastard, and throughout the stories, bovzek saves his own life with his power of storytelling to keep the devil entertained enough to not dispose of him.

also this was written in like 2019, it does not reflect my current ability T^T

TW: broken bone, slight mouth injury [mostly just the threat of mouth injury], bovzek is dealing with a very fucked up individual as well as the aftermath of getting the snot beat out of him

The first thing Bovzek notices is that the room is warm, almost hot—a blessed relief from the terrible cold that still lingers in his lungs—and the second is that it smells metallic, like still wet, freshly sharpened sheers, thick and heavy. It’s not much longer than he is, and seems shallow, though Bovzek has little interest in standing and finding out; not with his head pulsing in time with his heart.

No windows, which is understandable, no door, which is alarming, and the ceiling looks to be the same smooth gray stone as that under his fingertips. Bovzek swallows. It hurts, but no worse than breathing. His throat seems too strained for both, and Bovzek doesn’t doubt it’s badly bruised. Which leads to the main problem; the Devil didn’t strike Bovzek as the kind of man—creature? —to take a break halfway through a fight. If his sister’s word was to be believed, Bovzek should be in sausage casing right now. Perhaps he needed to find a grinder first. Bovzek almost smiles at that. The Prince of Darkness hanging over a grinder like some common butcher.

“Excuse me, sir, would you prefer lamb or hog casing?” Bovzek asks the silent air, because without good humor men are but pigs. Even soon to be dead men.

“I take horse usually. Or human. Tastes the same, but men have a better snap with the bite.”

The Devil’s voice is just as smooth as it had been in the dining room, like oil slipping off his tongue, and when he walks to pitiful pile on the floor that Bovzek has become, his footsteps are near silent. He leans over into Bovzek’s field of vision, and Bovzek still gasps despite himself. He’s just so beautiful; it’s almost hard to look at. Blonde—not even blonde, too gold to be blonde, too white to be gold—hair curls loosely around his face, drifting in the air around his head, hanging delicately in his eyes. The hair is so close, so damn close, and if Bovzek had a door and a pair of sheers this whole damn ordeal could be done with.

“Forgive my rudeness, but your sister built you up much grander than you seem to be.” Bovzek says, tilting his head towards the Devil as he crouches beside Bovzek. The pounding in his skull regrets the movement. Bovzek doesn’t know how many times the Devil smashed his head back into that tiled wall, but the crunch lingers in his ears all the same.

“Did she now?” the Devil runs a hand down across Bovzek’s neck, sharp, manicured nails softly pressing on the purple, spotted flesh. “You know, the dead can be so boring. They all look the same, sound the same-- you can only grind on unfeeling fingers for so long. I’ve grown sick of skeletons and puss. It’s not the same without fresh flesh.” His fingers find their place on the bruises outlining his grip from last—night? Time seems strange here, sluggish and wrong—and applied the slightest pressure, not enough to cut off airflow, but enough to make the burst blood vessels ache.

“Hair—” He says, scrunching his perfect brows, “why hair? Why steal something so stupid?”

“I need it as a dowry for my beloved—just three locks, surly you wouldn’t miss--!” The Devil pushes harder, the dull pain under his fingers becoming something much more frightening.

“That’s adorable. You touch me, truly.” He shifts on top of Bovzek, straddling his hips, and pushes more of his weight down on his neck. Bovzek is determined not to gasp or gape like a fish, not like he had last night, gagging and wheezing and crying with his back stretched painfully over the edge of the dining table. Bovzek holds tightly to the little air he has in his lungs and the Devil’s hands shift, finding the best position, digging in the heel of his palms, his perfect nails drawing blood. Bovzek could feel his bruises darkening, and finally the need for new air and the growing ocean in his head outweighs his crumbling pride. He grabs the Devil’s hands and digs his fingers under them, twisting his hips underneath him, and sucks in on reflex when the stale, burning air in his chest becomes too much. With a contented sigh, the Devil lets go and leans back.

"I forgot how much fun this can be,” he says, flexing his hands, “the dead just sort of lay there. It gets boring.”

“I’m entertaining. Wonderful.” Bovzek croaks under him through wet wheezing. The Devil smiles. Not a hair is out of place, floating gracefully around him.

“I want my ring.” Bovzek said, glowering up at the creature straddling him.

“Excuse me?”

“If you’re going to sit there and say shit like that at least give me my ring back.”

The Devil blinks and Bovzek can’t tell if he’s fucking with him or just that dense. “Your what?”

“My ring,” Bovzek says, trying to keep down frustration as the Devil cracks his knuckles on top of him. “My wedding ring, you took it from me, I want it back.”

“You stole from me.”

“It was just hair!”

The slap seems to echo in the small room, certainly makes Bovzek’s already desperate head cry out, pain rattling in his skull. The Devil sighs, rolls his eyes as Bovzek swallows down a groan—his head, he can’t think, just knows his brain is pulsing, pressing behind his eyes—and shifts back to draw something from the leather slip purse on his hip

“It’s quite a nice knife.” The Devil says. It’s Bovzek’s devil blade, knife shining even in the dull light, and the maroon hilt seems even deeper against his pale skin. “Pretty. Did you steal it, too?”

‘It was a gift.’ Bovzek tries to say, but the Devil is already talking over him.

“Tell me, do you take off hands or fingers for stealing where you come from?”

“I don’t know, I—we never really—”

“You know what is always better? The teeth. They bleed beautifully.”

Bovzek’s eyes went wide. He ignores the aching stiffness of arms and shoves the Devil, tries to force himself from underneath the Devil’s thighs, but the creature just grabs hold of a hand and bends it back painfully far. Bovzek stills at the silent threat. Slowly, the Devil lets go and Bovzek lowers his hands.

“How many do you think? Three?” He taps the flat of the blade on Bovzek’s front teeth, and the soft clicks form a fist of panic in Bovzek’s throat. “Four, take out an extra as a reminder? Why don’t we just start and see what feels like a good stopping point?” He pushes back Bovzek’s upper lip with his thumb.

It only stings as the Devil first pushes the blade against his gums, then burning as he twists, and Bovzek can taste his blood dripping off his teeth onto his tongue.

“Phhwait—” Bovzek says, trying to keep his mouth still as possible. “You, you sthaid you’re bored, I can help! I’m a, a pfhoet!”

“A what?” the Devil said with a lazy smile, pushing deeper in, and the stinging became a searing pain down to the roots of his teeth.

“Pfhoet! Pfh—pfh—poet!” He manages to squeak out. “Don’t you want ssfhome one to talk to? I doubt the dead are good conffersation.”

The Devil sits up, devil blade slipping from his gums to rest on his lower lip, drawing up pinpricks of red. “You really think damn limericks makes up for anything, thief?”

“N-no, but aren’t you so, so bored? Wouldn’t it be nice?”

The Devil narrows his eyes, the pupils tilted and goat like.

“Which hand is your writing hand?

“Left.” The Devil leaves the dagger’s blade balancing on his mouth and takes hold of his left hand. It takes no effort from him to bend it too far back and jerk it down. The snap echoes, and when Bovzek curls away from him-- as if it could somehow help hold back a scream-- the knife slides forward and scrapes the roof of his mouth. The Devil snorts and jerks his hand back the other way; Bovzek swears he can hear the bones of his wrist grind.

“Should we do the other one too?”

“N-no, no— " Bovzek’s face burns at the words, and when the Devil moves the dagger and takes hold of his face, forcing him to meet his eyes, Bovzek imagines taking hold of his devil blade and sticking it right between his eyes.

“What kind of poetry?”

“All kinds—ballads, epics, hymns, whatever you want me to do.” The Devil stands.

“If you write one hymn praising anyone but me I’ll cut off every single one of your fingers, got it?” The blade and its delicate hilt disappear back into his slip purse and Bovzek’s muscles relax just a little. “Do you know how much you shine? Like the damn moon. It’s obnoxious.”

The Devil’s sister had said something similar. A sign of the fae’s good favor. Bovzek was certainly proving to be a shitty choice now, wasn’t he? Or maybe the fae weren’t pulling their full weight.

“Do you mind if I turn down the lights? It’s not like they’re all that important in the long run.”

“What—” Bovzek squints up at him’, and then he’s squinting up at nothing, just glowing goat like eyes in a sea of pitch black, and then the dark swallows everything up.

“Hello?” he calls out. Anything above a whisper hurts, and nothing answers. No oily voices, no echo, just heavy darkness. There is no difference between his shut eyes and the surrounding room. Bovzek carefully raises his right hand and gropes for his neck in the dark, setting on the bruises. At least it isn’t cold.

[transskywardsword]

pros of a writing blog: no one is bothered by me screaming about my ocs

cons: there's now no one there to scream to about my ocs

[transskywardsword]

part two of the prologue chapter for 'bovzek and the devil' a dark fairytale retelling! reminded that is this a rough draft, and i love constructive critique!

Where we left off: Claudius the VII, the King of Milan-Rosae, a fictional country in eastern Europe, ~1000AD, has become horribly lost in the great forest following a freak accident. found by a sanojuda, a type of fae, he agrees to take care of her ill child in exchange for passage home-- only to learn the boy is destined to marry into royalty. terrified that this might mean his own son, who is days away from being born, claudius plots on how to rid the world of the foul creature... (read the whole first half here!)

TWs: Claudius is a raging misogynist, including fantasizing about having sex with a woman who is not interested and objectifying her. he also really really wants to kill a baby. he graphically discusses killing a baby. it's really cruel. also attempts to drown one. the baby lives!

Claudius supposed the answer was easy enough. Babies were, as a matter of principle, not hard to kill. They were fragile, breakable, with bones that snapped as easily as spent matches and muscles that tore like wet parchment. Their skulls were thin and malleable, and a little shake or drop could end them for good. Hypothetically, it should be easy to wring the little spawn’s neck. The question was the consequence. Claudius had made a promise, and promises weren’t things easily broken, particularly when made with a fae, even if it was one as slippery as a samojuda. If the fae were to learn he planned to break their promise before it even had time to settle, well, then Claudius wouldn’t be long for this world. No, he would have to dote on the thing until the samojuda was sure it was in good hands, and could only dispose of it once the forest and its mother were far behind them. Then it was simply a matter of the right jerk of his grip and the baby’s neck would snap like eggshells underfoot.

Dawn came quickly as Claudius sorted lists of the easiest way to end an infant’s life and how he might dispose of a body without any knowledge of the crime reaching the forest. The baby cried on and off all night, an obnoxious sound that he couldn’t seem to muffle, even when he buried his head in the woman’s furs, and when the sun finally crept through the windows, Claudius was grateful. Dawn meant leaving for his home, meeting his wife, his son-- dawn meant saving a king from the thing wailing in the loft above.

“It’s a long walk,” the samojuda said, and Claudius jumped. The fae had slipped down from the loft in complete silence, despite the wailing thing in her arms, and she stood before Claudius with a look of haunting determination. “We should go.”

“Without breakfast?”

The samojuda raised a pale eyebrow, mocking in her silence.

“Fine,” Claudius grumbled, “no breakfast.”

The samojuda pulled a shawl form the box by the fire that had served as a cradle—if the spirals of wood shavings were anything to go by, it had belonged to her late beloved. She gently swaddled her baby before tucking him against her breast.

“Aren’t you going to change?” Claudius asked, and the samojuda wrinkled her brow.

“Why?”

“You—” Claudius cleared his voice. “Your breasts.”  

The samojuda glanced down at her bare chest

“Is there a problem with how I dress?” The samojuda said, her voice wry. The fabric of her skirts started just at her belly button, exposing milky skin. Her skin was unmarred, her breasts perfect, looking far softer and less pox marked than Wenzel’s own. His wife, while a true Byzantine beauty with her olive skin and dark curls, had been ill as a child and the sickness left its mark across her flesh, small divots of darker skin across her body, tainting her beauty. This woman had no such marks, not even an offensive mole or freckle. Claudius was struck suddenly by the samojuda’s  beauty. He hadn’t considered her pale starlight hair before, her wide, dark eyes, her plump figure. The lumberer must have been far darker than her lover, if the skin of their baby was anything to go by.

He could take her to bed here. Kiss her, toss the baby into the fire to burn as she writhed under him with pleasure. Surely one look at his cock would wipe away any thoughts of her stiffening lover, wherever the samojuda stashed the body. The samojuda would marvel at the size as he kissed her, moan into his mouth as he fucked her on her fire warmed furs, forget the baby as she rode him, her perfect breasts bouncing above him—

Claudius swallowed. He was a Godly man. His hand was tied with another in marriage, a wedding band on his finger. He couldn’t take another woman to bed; it would be a sin. A glorious, beautiful sin, but a sin nonetheless.

The samojuda let out a single cruel laugh and turned, caring little for her half-nakedness, and put out the fire. The coals hissed as she poured water on them, sending out puffs of steam, and the samojuda pulled a fur from the pile by the fire and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering the beautiful skin there. Claudius found himself disappointed.

It was for the best, he supposed. This way, if he was seen, it wouldn’t appear like he’d been fooling around with some whore in the woods. The samojuda slipped out the front door of the hut, waving Claudius on, and left it ajar as they walked from the clearing, deep into the woods. Claudius looked over his shoulder once, and then the trees were too dense to make out hide or hare of the little shack.

“Worried I’ll lead you astray?” The samojuda said, a hint of humor in her voice as they continued deeper and deeper into the Šumava.

“Now I am,” Claudius said in reply, and the samojuda laughed. It sounded like bells and clinking pearls, and struck Claudius with a strange fear. This woman could lead him astray, deeper and deeper into his beloved Šumava, feast on him and feed him to her dying babe.

Would she?

“You know what I am,” the samojuda said, “I am no will of the wisp. I’d much rather take the baby from your wife’s belly than lead you into the darkness.”

Claudius froze. “My wife—”

“I can smell her on you. She loves you dearly, you know. You don’t deserve her.”

“Excuse me?”

“I steal babies, replace them, and drown them in my well. I am a simple creature, I act as is my nature. Do you not as well?”

Claudius felt a sudden fear creep into his gut. This woman, this creature, wasn’t bound to human morals. Samojuda were crafty fae, nymph-like with a love for standing water, who lay in wait to steal infants one day and thrust changelings upon wonton women the next. Would she follow him to his home, take his heir from him?

She knew of his wife; could she smell his desire as well?

A new thought chilled him. Could she smell his plan to murder her baby now, before he’d even finished it?

Instead of devouring him, instead of flashing sharp teeth and leading him to a pond to drown him, the samojuda simply turned her back with a scoff and continued onwards, clutching her baby to her breast.

The baby. It all came back to the baby.

Claudius followed the samojuda as the sun rose, the sky going from black to rosy pink to blue. The sunrise was beautiful, even when filtering through the forest’s thick canopy. The samojuda hummed a melancholy mourning song to the baby in her arms, and the forest buzzed around her, the birds and insects seeming to have gathered to say ‘farewell’ to their half-blooded child.

Claudius’ feet ached by the time they reached the far end of the forest. Claudius’ heart pounded from the uphill hike, his feel pulsing in his boots, and he signed with relief as the farmlands of Milan-Rosae came into view. Fed by the Vydra, the agricultural circles around the walls of the capital city flourished; Milan-Rosae might be a small kingdom, but its capital, Abisa, was a grand, gilded thing of beauty. Surrounded by small villages and farmland that provided it with food, the three walls of Abisa served as mighty protectors—one along the outskirts of the city, one along the edge of the merchantry district, and a final that circled the moat of the castle. Perched on the peek of the many sprawling hills that surrounded the city, Claudius’ home was the crown upon the jewels over his capital. While he had manors and palaces throughout Milan-Rosae, the Abisali Court was a castle, unlike anything those east of the Rhine had ever seen. It towered, its many spires resembled the spikes of a dragon, its stained glass windows and bejeweled stone like rainbows dragged down from the sky and inlaid in the earth. Statues of the saints stood in attention beside carvings of folklore and fae, a sight that would petrify the Pope but reminded the people of Milan-Rosae of the glory of their beloved forest and river.

It was, in short, beautiful.

“Do we part here?” Claudius asked, turning to the samojuda. The woman sank back into the shadows of the trees.

“I…”

“Well? We had a deal, didn’t we?”

The samojuda’s face fell. She glanced to him, then down to the baby in her arms and adjusted it softly. She pressed her forehead to its bare chest.

“Give me just a moment more,” she said softly. Tears bubbled up in her dark eyes. The baby, as foul as it was, shared the same otherworldly eyes, wide and black and glittering, and for the first time all morning it began to cry again, a pathetic hiccupping sound.  

“You had all morning,” Claudius snapped, wrenching the baby from her arms with careless aggression. The samojuda cried out, lunging for her baby, and Claudius stepped to the side.

“His neck,” The creature sobbed, “oh, don’t forget his neck—”

“I’ll hold him as I well please.”

The samojuda’s eyes went wide. “Oh by the Earth, what have I done?” she whispered, and Claudius huffed.

“Given him a new chance in life,” he said, and he couldn’t help the smile that slipped onto his face, picturing the broken child, lifeless and unbaptized, left to rot mere hours from now.

“You… you’ll bring him to visit, yes?” She said, voice wavering. She had to know the answer already, stupid woman. “Every few months, at this spot? Or on his birthday, or, or even less often—just bring him. Let me know he lives and is happy.”

 “That is not up to me,” Claudius lied. Tears dripped down the creature’s face in time with her child.

“But, you—”

“I promised a breast to feed him, nothing more.”

The samojuda sank to her knees. She wiped the mud from Claudius’ boots with her shining hair, and the man kicked her aside. Objectively, it was unwise to anger a fae, but in that moment, the samojuda wasn’t a strong, terrifying creature of nature; she was a woman, sniveling and pathetic as any other woman.

Claudius adjusted the babe in his arms and turned on his heels to the sprawling farmland of his city, the beautiful stone walls just a few miles away.

“Please—” The woman behind him hiccupped, but Claudius paid her no mind. Behind him, he heard the samojuda rise to her feet, trembling, and call out to him.

“I shall see him again! I swear it! And should a hair on his head be harmed, I swear on this forest that you shall never no peace!”

Claudius could have laughed. Instead, he turned back to the thing's mother, moved the little baby’s too-thin wrist into a final wave, and then moved farther away from the trees, content to leave them behind.

The trees were but a green garden snake on the skyline soon enough. The Great Otter splintered into channels that provided his lovely lands with fresh water and irrigation, and the sound of the rushing water was pleasant in the mid-morning, far more so than the screeches of the soon-to-be-dead baby. The question was simply, how. How to dispose of the baby?

Claudius pondered this as he followed the river to the first signs of life in the villages surrounding the capital. He had to get rid of it quickly before anyone saw him, and then he could pay someone to take him to his castle and greet his wife with the stories of the most horrid day he’d had.

Though he wouldn’t mention the baby to her. No one needed to know of the infant and its death. That knowledge would die with it.

He came across a sawmill with a grand waterwheel at the edge of a small town, close enough to the walls to be time to rid himself of the thing. Claudius scanned the scenery around him. It would be easy to wring the neck, but he had no desire to dig a grave. Did the peasants here even bury their dead? Could he just leave it in the streets?

Suddenly, his eyes fell upon a pretty little well, well built with mud and stone, with a pretty little bucket and crank. It seemed to Claudius the prettiest little peasant thing he’d ever seen. What had that fae creature said to him?

“I steal babies, replace them, and drown them in my well. I am a simple creature, I act as is my nature. Do you not as well?”

Well, here was a well. Was it in Claudius’ nature to kill a baby?

It was in his nature to protect his son.

Claudius rolled his shoulders, walked to the well, and peered over the edge. The water seemed bottomless. Good.

Without giving himself the time to second guess his decision, Claudius took hold of the creature’s foot and dropped it over the edge. It landed in the water with a ‘plop!’ and its cries were silenced.

Claudius turned, and walked east to another farm home in search of a horse. The deed was done.

His son was safe.

*

The cathedral bells were ringing when King Claudius the VII of Milan-Rosae arrived at Abisali Court at the top of the hill in the center of Abisa. While Claudius had been gone, finally found by his closest knights and vassals who’d torn apart the countryside and forest alike in search of him, his wife had gone into an easy, short labor, and given birth to a beautiful heir, with skin as pale as his fathers, hair as dark and curled as his mother, and the dark eyes of them both. His cries were quiet, mournful, almost lonely, and as she took him to her breast, Wenzel found a strange sadness in her heart. She’d hoped the overflowing of love she’d feel upon seeing little Alois’ face would make up for the apathy of her husband, but as she looked upon his nose, which would one day be handsome and large, and squeezed his little hands, she saw a future of cruelty before him and couldn’t bring herself to care.

“You will know great hardship,” She whispered to the baby, “what a pity.”

“As all kings do,” said a lady in waiting. “Chin up, my lady! He is healthy and beautiful, and we should all be glad.”

Claudius marveled at the baby his wife presented to him, at his little toes and wide eyes, and instantly the samojuda and her creature was forgotten. After all, who needed to think of such things when the most perfect child in the world was before him? A child who would fight wars for him, beat down the opposition, rule in a way that would make his father proud.

Claudius declared the day a day of celebration, but it wasn’t just the royals celebrating. For outside the capital gates, at a certain mill house, a little girl was fetching water.

Rosalin the Miller’s daughter was seven and a half, and bitterly hated her chores. She’d much rather be in town, watching the world go by, than do the mundane jobs her mother gave her.

Rosalin reached for the crank, only to hear horrid gasping and thrashing.

“Just some dumb bird,” she muttered to herself, “who fell in and forgot how to fly. Poor thing.”

She stood on her tiptoes and looked over the edge, then screamed.

It was a baby.

Tangled in the rope for the bucket, the infant had light brown skin discolored from freezing water and the tension of the rope. Rosalin leaned over the edge and scooped him up, screaming for her father. Jon came running, thinking some wolf might have left the forest for a snack, a shovel in hand, and nearly dropped it at the sight of the infant in his daughter’s hands, not even a week old.

“Fetch the healer,” Jon said, voice firm, and began to pump the water from the baby’s chest. Keeping his arm straight, he placed two fingers in the center of their chest, pushed and breathed and breathed and pushed until the baby began to cry.

Now Jon had seen many starving babies in his time; a harvest was never a guarantee. And looking upon this child, he knew he hadn’t eaten once before his mother had so cruelly disposed of it. Jon scooped up the baby, grabbing the shawl he had been wrapped in without a thought, and ran to the main house.

Joshaline had been months along when God took their baby from them, far enough along to produce milk, and her breasts still carried the lingering soreness of milk left to sour inside her, Josha too heartbroken to milk herself. Which meant, God have mercy, she could feed the poor thing.

And feed him she did. While the royals honored the prince's birth, Jon, Josha, and Rosalin, the Miller family, with their forest facing well, celebrated as the baby lasted through the night, then the week, fed by Josha and beloved by them all.

“What will you name him, Mama?” Rosalin asked each night, and each night Josha shushed her, unsure if she had the right to love a baby that was not hers.

“God takes and gives, beloved,” Jon said to his wife. “He may have taken our own little one, but He has gifted us with the chance to save the life of another. Name him. Make him ours.”

“Bovzek,” Josha said softly, and the two other members of the Miller household held their breath as the woman of the house spoke. “I shall name him Bovzek. God’s Gift.”

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its very funny seeing what i will and wont make historically accurate with my oc's story. like i made sure bovzek has an antimony stylus wrapped in twine instead of a pencil and am meticulously researching what made up the canon of the bible in the kingdom of Bohemia pre the Prague translation for a throwaway line, but a small pocket bible that a random middle class* 12-year-old can steal with little genuine consequence (excluding the punishment of the sexton on guard)? sounds legit

*which didn't exist under feudalism

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honestly debating making a glossary for bovzek and the devil bc if you weren't raised on these stories the names of the monsters and fae in this can be. a lot.

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a major theme in 'bovzek and the devil' is old world vs new world; bovzek is half fae, literally coming from the old creatures in the forest, and raised to honor the old gods of the forest before christanity. his quest to defeat the devil leads him into a realm where christianity has begun to dominate, with witches and demons and the devil himself ruling over a domain that used to belong to the old pantheon. but this is 1155. christanity will 'triumph'. it doesnt matter who bovzek is-- what he is-- what he belives, or how hard he belives in it. even when he wins against the devil, catholicism marches on. bovzek's family must be left behind. bovzek's history must be left behind. all there is left to do is try to govern-- which we know doesnt last, as milan-rosae falls, forgotten by history and absorbed into the duchey around it.

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I’m trying to think of questions for Bovzek and failing miserably, so have some slightly silly ones: what are the boys’ favourite colours? Favourite animals? Their first thoughts on each other?

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE thank you!!!!!

bovzek's favorite color is green, deep and dark like the forest that provides for him and his family, while alois' is brown, specifically the warm, so-dark-its-nearly-black brown of bovzek's eyes

bovzek's favorite animal is the rooster! the house spirits in some czech and slavic folklore takes the form of a rooster, and as a half-fae, bovzek can see them clearly, so he has a huge soft spot for roosters and hens. alois' is mice. he always disassembles traps when he finds them in hte castle. they're the underdog, (underrodent??) just like him

bovzek has never seen royalty and never cared much for social rules when he first meets al, so he's far too casual, and can't help but think that royalty speaks like a bunch of stuck up idiots

alois is in awe. he is rarely around 'common folk' and the balls on this miller boy to just talk to him and snark at him is something he's never experienced. he's instantly enamored

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putting away 'pretending to be you' to work on 'bovzek and the devil' for the next few days, sorry loz girlies

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I’m having a Bad Day. Got into a car accident which majorly triggered my car related trauma and hallucinations and I am exhausted. Ask questions abt my Bovzek story perhaps?

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i've narrowed down the year i want bovzek and the devil to take place in to be the decade of 1150 AD and didn't feel like i had to make it any more specific, but religious politics was so buck wild in those years that the catholic church went through FOUR popes in less than 10 years and if i want to name specific religious leaders i HAVE to choose the year.

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i love your ocs so far! i hope you decide to share more (no pressure!!!)! do u have any face claims for anybody?

oh boy do i! i've drawn the boys and some other characters, but here are the references i use for them!

For Bovzek, Dylan Hasselbaink, specifically photos like this:

For Alois, a much younger (Al is 19) Aneurin Barnard in the white queen:

For Claudius, i had to go with Derek Jacobi from the 1996 Hamlet movie, bc Hamlet, ya know? perfect mix of charming and sinister through that movie, perfection:

and the Devil, the other main antagonist whom yall haven't met yet: Tom Cruise in the 1994 interview with a vampire. he's perfect, he's got the sharp teeth already, all that he's missing is the goat eyes:

this was so fun, thank you!!!

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Anyways have some Bovzek from the new chapter I'm working on!! TW for nongraphic discussions of corporal punishment via whipping of an old man.

Bovzek’s Bible wasn’t like the ones in Father Andrew’s church; this one was filled with poetry in the margins and writing in every blank space, filled with the Words of a Miller Boy instead of the Word of God. Father Andrew only had two Bibles. He’d once had three, but that one had gone missing years ago, mysteriously and without explanation, and when the sexton, Marcel, a bitter old man with wispy grey curls and a snaggle tooth, could not provide answers as to where the priceless piece of the Word had walked off to, Andrew gave him both a rigorous tongue lashing and a night under the whip. Not by his own hand, of course, for Father Andrew’s hands were far too smooth, his soul far too holy, to ever swing the leathers. Instead, the sheriff’s boy, who had a touch of cruelty in that red head of his, had taken the leather to old Marcel's back and then left the Bovzek to pick up the pieces. Marcel, as crotchety and sharp-tongued as he could be, had a heart under all those wrinkles and sexton robes; Bovzek just knew it. He had to—after all, it was the old man who had turned a blind eye to the missing pages from the third Bible each Sunday, torn carefully after being scored by a bone folder-- just a few wordless ones from the back that didn’t technically count as the Word of God, of course. Later, when the old sexton caught Bovzek with his pocket bulging with the corners of the book, the man had simply raised a hairless brow. “Can you even read that, boy?” Bovzek puffed out his scrawny twelve-year-old chest. “Aye. And I know my letters, and arithmetic.” Marcel cocked his head. “Do you plan to be a scholar then, child?” Bovzek would be better than a scholar or academic, would write words so beautifully that it would bring God Himself to tears, he was sure of it, but pride was a sin-- so was stealing, but that wasn't important at the moment-- so instead he simply nodded. “Good. Get out of this town. Go to the capital. Make something of yourself. And learn to steal better. You reek of guilt and suspicion.” And that had been that. Bovzek had a book for his poetry, a place for his ink and thoughts, a home for his creative musings, and Marcel got leather to the back. It was a deeply unequal trade, Bovzek thought. But Marcel seemed to show no resentment.

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bovzek's journal where he keeps his poetry is in a literal bible. it was stolen for him by a sympathetic sexton, the same one who taught him to read and write, when he caught Bovzek ripping pages out to keep so he could practice his craft. bc nothing says fae's son like actively debasing the bible in the name of creativity!