#churchwarden

[being-the-bad-guy]

New pipe + new tobacco first try.

Ps. actually smells and tastes really good, it reminds me of marzipan bread.

[lifecyclesofmayflies]

Finished up mama's pipe! Again, not that she'll ever use it, but she is just now finding her love for LOTR and the Hobbit! So, I thought I'd make her something.

[straightedgestoner420]

YOU SHALL PUFF PUFF PASS!

[nevertrulyset]

Assuming both of these are still available by November 8, 2023...

[kultofathena]

MacQueen Smoking Pipes

The Mage Pipe in Briar Wood – Brown The Halfling in Cherry Wood The Barrel Rider – Birch The Traveler Pipe – Cherry

[blujayonthewing]

Aubree just bought a pipe of smoke monsters, because she's been wanting a new pipe anyway and Justin said the town we were in would probably have common magic items if we wanted anything in particular so I asked for them to have one of those please, but now I can't decide whether, design-wise, it should look like something with Aubree Vibes that she would usually be inclined to pick out and use or whether it should look, you know, like a novelty magic item crafted by an elf

[spookiifi]

These characters belong to Parkinart both on tiktok and Instagram. I recommend checking out their work if you're into analog horror in general <3

My symmetry sucks and I need to practice more often ugh

[comically-large-cowboy-hat]

ATTENTION!

FEUDALISM RESTARTING IN 10 SECONDS. CLASSES WILL BE RANDOMLY ASSIGNED

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Yandere! Sugar daddy x "pure"! Reader

EEEEEEEEE Time to write my baby, the fruit of my dark rofan loins (jk) Basically, this yandere is my first yandere OC and when I gave life (lol) to him in Char/ai yesterday, I just knew he had to be next.

Also, I contemplated what title to give him since he's also a mafia boss, but I decided to go with Sugar daddy since it's the most integral part of his story.

Also, "pure" just means that you dress light, really. But in Rowan's eyes, you were like an angel, a pure being that he needs to taint (oops spoiler)

Yandere! Sugar daddy name: Rowan Silas (Yes, he even has a last name)

notes: Rowan is not old, OLD. He's not a Dilf/Gilf level sugar daddy. In his lore with my other OC (his love interest), he's older by five years. Also, reader has a womb, due to mentions of pregnancy (why did I do this pregnancy shit twice? Dunno really.)

TW: noncon pregnancy, trackers, nsfw stuff

ALSO, REQUESTS ARE OPEN <3 (I don't even know if people will request but LOL just in case.)

The man only knew pain and crime all his life.

He never experienced anything good, apart from gunning down his enemies alive if that even means the same as what people deem as "good".

His life of crime was because of his adoptive father, who picked him up from the slums to become one of his personnel.

He was only seven by then. But his hands stained with blood as he killed the other kid who drowned his precious pet kitten in the lake. That's where his father knew that Rowan is not normal.

I mean, who would sport a smile while choking his fellow kid alive?

All Rowan said was "He deserved it though."

"He took what's precious from me."

That was enough to make his father set him straight to become the heir of the mafia family.

He grew up battered and bruised yet the vices he only knew is his smoking from his precious churchwarden pipe, and violence.

He told his father that it was enough for him.

Yet his body raged on, wanting more and more as greed consumed him for more.

Yes, he's a greedy man who wants more.

After all, he had nothing, then had one precious thing, then lost that thing. And then, when he eliminated the person who stole his precious thing, he got everything.

Did that make sense? To Rowan, it didn't.

He already got everything, but why does he want more?

So with a clean shot to the head, he killed his father and immediately inherited the family.

Now, he can spend the money and the resources as much as he wants. So he did. He went to casinos, brothels, luxury hotels and cruises. Everything he thinks that he needs.

But he still wants more. He still needs more.

And by god, he did get more.

He bumped into you one day, with you in your soft outfit of creams and pastels. Your pure, clean eyes made his heart skip a beat as you said sorry to him.

His greed triggered.

He wanted you so bad.

When he learned you needed a job when he saw your folder filled with resumes, he felt like he won the lottery.

"How about becoming my sugar baby? Don't worry, I won't ask anything. Much."

And as your cute figure pondered what to do, he smirked. You, in the middle of his dim office, in light clothing and an innocent face, was such a contrast in the dark office filled with his smoke from his beloved churchwarden pipe. You stuck out like a sore thumb, and he liked it.

He loved it.

And as your lips dropped the answer he wanted to hear, he shivered and gave you a lopsided smile.

"Good. Now, what do you want, love?"

Rowan sat down on his office chair, he cracked his neck and sighed.

He was bone tired. He just finished a cartel mission that he himself as the boss had to interfere. It was annoying because it was due to his incompetent new recruits.

At least they're sleeping with the "fishies", as what you call the finned sea creatures.

He grabbed something from his pocket and brought it up to his face. It was an intricate jeweled choker with a lot of rose gold arcs, jewels that match your eyes, and a diamond encrusted opal centerpiece.

He imagined you wearing it. Wrapping the choker on your neck himself, seeing your eyes flash in wonder and amazement. He imagined you also getting shy and saying that it was too expensive, and him saying that it was okay, and he wanted to give you this entirely by his own volition. And he got excited.

...In one way or another.

He chuckled and shook his head, swinging on his swivel chair as he dialed your number.

After two rings, you picked up.

"Love, come here. I got a gift for you."

You whined, getting shy again. He chuckled.

"You know what I say, I don't want to hear you say no. So come here now."

So you did.

Once you got there, he smiled and kissed your lips softly, bringing you close to him by your waist and lifting you up easily with his tatted arms.

"Come, I'll give you the present myself."

You got curious naturally.

He settled you in front of the floor length mirror which also saw... Much more intimate and sensual things you both did other than this gift giving thing he's doing.

Rowan slowly grabbed your hair and raised it, making you shiver with goosebumps from the action. He smirked, seeing you so flustered from the simple act of him grabbing your hair.

Well, that, and he also liked to grab your hair a lot while fucking you senselessly. There's that too.

You closed your eyes when he told you too, and you felt the familiar cold sensation of jewelry resting on your neck. But this time, it hugged it, making you open your eyes. It was the beautiful choker he was admiring earlier.

"Do you love it?" Rowan asked, looking at you through the mirror as he rested his chin on your shoulder. You nodded enthusiastically and said yes. He smirked.

This was the first time you didn't say to take the gift back with such a flustered apprehensive look. You're starting to get greedy.

He loved that. A lot.

"Now, how about you kiss me in return, hmm?" You rolled your eyes and gently kissed him. You know this day is not just going to end in a kiss.

But you didn't mind.

And he knows that.

You went home that day with Rowan driving you. He gave you more gifts that you shyly accepted once more, making Rowan shiver in glee. Again, you didn't reject them at all.

You're slowly getting tainted by his greediness.

And hopefully, you will be greedy enough to bring up your relationship to him, and tell him that you wanted more to this.

That you wanted his love.

Oh, he trembles at the thought.

It's not a question of if, but when, after all.

But now, he's just slowly moving forward with your relationship. Slow and steady wins the race, after all. Despite him living such a fast paced life, he knows he's patient enough to wait for you.

But if you backtracked and got out of his tight grasp...

Let's just say that the tracker he planted on your laptop, your phone, and now your precious choker will help him find you if you ran away.

You were the light to his dark, dreary life.

He'll be crazy enough to let you go.

And he's already crazy about you.

That's why he's making you addicted to him also. Showering you with gifts and love. Praising your body, worshipping it, pleasing it until you reach the heavens like the angel you are.

And if you still didn't want him... Let's just say the condoms with holes in them that he himself poked will do the trick.

It was a dirty tactic. But who cares? He's a mafia boss for god's sake. Dirty tactics aren't new to him.

And if you still somehow didn't end up pregnant and got to run away, he'll use his influence to find you.

You got no escape.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

You were his love. His greed.

With a drag of his churchwarden pipe, he drove off to plan your wedding.

You were going to be his after all.

No matter what.

I don't know if I did my baby Rowan justice i'm going crazY FUCK.

Can you guys tell I have favoritism? Because I do LOL

[being-the-bad-guy]

Got myself my first tobacco pipe (pretty old but reconditioned) and I obviously had to make the perfect satchel for easily carry it around.

I also sew a matching burgundy satchel for my best friend for when I'm going to visit him in Scotland (hope to see him soon after summer break). Just ordinary sentimental dudes.

[beardwrassler]

Received two tobacco pipes for Christmas. The first a Savinelli churchwarden and a Volcano shaped bowl on the second.

[elodieunderglass]

Sorry I just gotta

The art of change ringing is peculiar to the English, and, like most English peculiarities, unintelligible to the rest of the world. To the musical Belgian, for example, it appears that the proper thing to do with a carefully tuned ring of bells is to play a tune upon it. By the English campanologist, the playing of tunes is considered to be a childish game, only fit for foreigners; the proper use of bells is to work out mathematical permutations and combinations. When he speaks of the music of his bells, he does not mean musician’s music – still less what the ordinary man calls music. To the ordinary man, in fact, the pealing of bells is a monotonous jangle and a nuisance, tolerable only when mitigated by remote distance and sentimental association... His passion – and it is a passion – finds its satisfaction in mathematical completeness and mechanical perfection, and as his bell weaves her way rhythmically up from lead to hinder place and down again, he is filled with the solemn intoxication that comes of intricate ritual faultlessly performed.

- Dorothy Sayers, The Nine Tailors (1934)

Like everyone who accidentally absorbed it in the course of a detective novel, I’ve been lowkey fascinated by English change ranging for a long time, possibly because of this 90-year-old reference to THE RITUALS ARE INTRICATE. This whole passage is so funny to me that I practically have it memorised. Have literally tried to listen on YouTube to work out what the fuck the loadbearing Grandsire Triples are. You go OP have FUN

can't believe i haven't told you guys about my bell ringing lessons. i am learning to ring church bells. why? because it's sick as fuck. and also i get a lot of joy from being a dirty little sinner ringing gods doorbells

[valjeancrazylover2]

Wrote this entire thing in one sitting yesterday because i havent stopped thinking about or drawing Gérard and René. I literally cannot escape. My OCs but whatever. (ive given in, Gérard is basically my oc atp right...?)

Not putting it on AO3 so here it is! 3K words, a little bit angsty, not heavy stuff its for the gay shit setup.

Summary: Gérard drags himself to René's house late one evening to consult him about an issue he's having.

-

René had on his nightshirt, his warm stockings and his robe - it was a cold and windy evening, and he was settling down to retire for the night. Before he went to bed, however, he followed his daily routine of lounging in the salon with the fire, warming himself as he read a book. It was as he was about to put out the fire when the doorbell rang.

By some inconvenience, it happened to be his maid’s day off, so he grumbled and made his way to the front door, pulling his robe around him tighter as the draught from outside grew colder. The doorbell rang twice more as he made his way down the hall.

“I’m coming!” he yelled, both times.

When he finally reached and opened the door, there stood Gérard, who was perhaps the last person he would ever expect to turn up at his house. Perhaps he had something from the others to deliver, or perhaps he had thought of a better, particularly cutting remark from their heated argument earlier that day. What a thrill that had been. He almost looked forward to continuing it, before he realised he had been getting ahead of himself.

He looked at Gérard in shock. He was dressed in the clothes he had worn that day, but they were noticeably creased and careless, as if they had been taken off and thrown back on. His cravat was barely tied and not tucked into his waistcoat, which had only three buttons done. Thankfully, he had thought to do the fly of his trousers.

“Monsieur Ambroise,” René said. He was not sure whether or not it was the time to make fun of the man. The slightly satirical acknowledgement, however, did not seem to phase him.

“Can I come in? I know it’s late, and you’re... a-” he snarled, biting back whatever he was going to say. “It’s cold. I need some help. If you would be so kind,” he spat.

Unbeknownst to Gérard, René did, in fact, hold some degree of pity for him. So, René pulled his robe further around his waist and stood aside to let in Gérard without a word. The other man looked at him in something like surprise, as if he had been expecting to have the door shut on his nose, but stepped in anyway. He followed René’s lead down the hall.

René took a churchwarden pipe from the pocket of his velvet robe. “You don’t mind if I smoke? It’s just, I usually do on cold nights like this, on my way to bed. Warms the soul. Ah, that reminds me, I’ll feed the fire.”

They reached the salon, where the fire was near embers, and René gestured for Gérard to sit while he took a few logs from the basket next to the mantelpiece and tossed them onto the coals. Then he lit a match while the embers were still tame and lit his pipe.

When he turned back to Gérard, who had for some reason seated himself on a footstool, he looked like a frightened little animal, pulling his clothes about him and trembling with moussed hair. René got the urge to pat him on the head and say, There, there!, but he did not. Instead, he sensibly took his place on his favourite chaise-lounge, pipe in mouth, getting a good smoke going.

It was strange, seeing the man who stood taller than the rest of the group, looking so small. Something must have really been the matter. 

He was yet to say anything since he had entered the house, so René decided to lead.

“So, dear, what is it you need so urgently that you pull yourself together and drag yourself to my home, of all places?”

At first, Gérard seemed preoccupied in his own thoughts, before the sound of René’s voice broke the barrier and he turned with a jolt to look at him. As the fire was beginning to breathe again, the room warmed up, and he hugged himself less tightly.

He stammered. “I- I don’t know.”

René sighed. “Well, there must be something, darling. We all know I’m the last person you’d come to for any sort of issue.”

Another pause as Gérard fell into his thoughts. This did, in fact, worry René - normally Gérard was so present, with something to say, and when he had nothing left, he would mouth wordlessly until someone interrupted and he could breathe. Then, he’d start again. But now, his mind seemed distant.

Eventually, he spoke. “With exception for this sort of issue. It’s a little, er- taboo, so to speak. And I figured you were the only person who might be able to help me.”

René sat up in intrigue. “Me? Why? Dear Albéric probably has far more experience than I do with most things, he’s frightfully well learned. If it’s a problem with pests, François can probably recommend some bird to lure into your house. As for Marius- um. Well, he’s definitely got some expertise. Perhaps his wife-”

“Only you,” said Gérard firmly. “Well, I’d...” he cleared his throat. “Assumed.”

“Assumed what?”

Gérard, now warm enough to put his hands in his lap, looked at René briefly before returning his gaze to the floor. He took a shaky breath.

“Well, as you say, Marius has his wife, Albéric has barely left his bourgeois circle, and François - God knows, bless him - probably doesn’t see many people, excluding us. And you... have a way with people.” He glanced back at René. “With men.”

Now René understood. Or at least, he hoped he did. He took another drag of his pipe, chewing on the end thoughtfully. 

“Ah,” he said, and dropped the hand which held his pipe to his lap. “What seems to be, er, troubling you about people?- About men?”

There was yet another pause as Gérard fell into thought. The longer he thought, the more he seemed to become almost volatile, chewing on his knuckles, frustration rising as he could not find the words to say.

In Gérard’s mind was a storm. It was typical for someone in distress to bear a storm in their mind. He knew not how to navigate it. He had known others who might have, who might have even navigated the same storm, but they were now gone. It was true that René was not, ideally, the person to consult on this matter, especially seeing as he had some direct part in it - but Gérard was desperate. Eventually he gave up on subtlety and spoke his mind the best he could.

“I feel... things, sometimes. I’ve read in poetry or heard people talk about feelings like this - in fact, Marius doesn’t seem to shut up about it - but this... this feels different.” Gérard buried his long fingers in his hair and removed his glasses in frustration. “It’s- you! It’s always you!, when you... do things,” he spat. Clearly he had lost the gift of eloquence, and decided his dignity had left him the minute he decided to drag himself here in the first place.

René’s brow furrowed and he pouted in thought. “Like what, darling?”

Eyes wide, Gérard sat up straight suddenly. “Like that! When you call me names!”

“I call everyone darling, darling.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t call Marius darling.”

“Naturally! He’s married!”

“Then what about Albéric!”

René paused, smirking. He raised the long pipe to his lips. “Not while you’re around, I wouldn’t want you to be jealous.”

In Gérard’s chest, he felt the pot of fury threaten to boil over and he contemplated taking the pipe from René and snapping it in two. Instead, he took his hands to his hair once more and tugged in irritation. René looked at him and his smug face shifted, concerned. 

“It was a joke, love.”

With a deep sigh that came from every muscle in his body, Gérard slumped forward, elbows on his knees, defeated. He did not look back at René as he put his glasses back on his nose.

Gérard continued in a small voice. “There is some truth to it - I think I might be jealous. I know the affection you hold for Albéric. He is a handsome man. I am no competition. Is that jealousy?”

There was no sound from René for a few moments, but it felt like hours, and Gérard suddenly felt sick. He did not dare look back up, as he would have expected to see René stifling laughter behind his hand. It was embarrassing and unfamiliar to be vulnerable like this, and in fact he wished René would take that slender wooden pipe, as long as a large dagger, and drive it between the ribs of his back until it splintered.

Instead, René spoke again, gently. “You said you feel... ‘things’, as you put it, when I call you like I would a wife?”

“Yes,” Gérard snapped. He was not in the mood to repeat himself.

René made a noise of acknowledgement. “And what about,” he continued, “when you saw me answer the door in this robe? In such a state of undress? Did you feel ‘things’ then?”

Gérard froze. His hands went cold, and he felt the urge to shove them down the collar of his shirt, to cool down his neck which had suddenly become very hot. This was the sort of thing he had tried to describe. He felt it when René challenged him on his politics, making stupid remarks typical of the bourgeoisie. But he did not suppose that this was anger, or irritation, or frustration. There was nothing to be angry, or irate, or frustrated about. 

He found he could only turn to look back at René, who was leaning against the head of his chaise, staring back patiently with his pipe in his mouth, waiting for an answer. Gérard cursed himself for not allowing enough time to mould his face into something that was not so... scared.

For a moment he did not answer, could not answer. In his mind he ran various scenarios, pulling for something to respond with. What was the right thing to say?, he asked himself. When he could not find the right answer, it troubled him, so he answered the closest he could; truthfully.-

“Yes.”

With a soft smile, he leaned forward to meet Gérard’s level on the footstool. He raised his hand and rested it on the other man’s back. It slithered to the shoulder nearest René as he spoke.

“If I touch you affectionately?”

It felt like fire. Gérard wanted more.

“Yes.”

René raised his pipe again. “Does it happen with any man?”

For this, Gérard had to think. He supposed, maybe, when a particularly handsome man brushed his shoulder, he might turn his head. There was one man he often thought of, an older man on the barricade. He had been kind to Gérard, shared wine with him, passed his wishes of good fortune and luck shortly before the final attack on the barricade, before Gérard had fled. When the man had put a hand on his shoulder before he had disappeared, Gérard might have felt similarly then. He could not remember.

He could remember, however, that it was nothing like the burning he felt now. With some difficulty, he met René’s dark eyes.

“No. Not like this.”

Seemingly satisfied with his answers, René took a drag from his pipe. He did not move, nor break eye contact. Normally, Gérard would have found something else to look at by now, but found he could not, or perhaps he did not want to. He did not have time to think about which it was before René parted his lips and exhaled the smoke gently into his face, stinging his eyes and causing him to blink.

“So, I’m exclusive.”

They were awfully close by now. René seemed to have been leaning towards Gérard, as he held his elbow on his knee, bent sideways so that their faces were closer. Their voices had been barely above a whisper.

The fire crackled indifferently as Gérard let his gaze leave René’s eyes, and explore the rest of his face. He found a faint freckle, and got the absurd idea to brush it with his lips. Like a marionette, as if strings controlled his body, he moved to do so, but it was too late when he realised the freckle had in fact been on René’s bottom lip. Gérard jumped back in shock with a gasp, causing René to stumble forward as if to follow the kiss.

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean-” Gérard tugged at his hair again as René pulled himself back straight, eyes wide and blinking. Did he mean to? “Well, I, um... it was, er...”

He grappled desperately for words. Something inside him willed him to run, to leave and pray René would understand and let it lie, never to mention it or bring it up with the rest of their friends. But another part of him missed the jolt of energy that had sparked through him. The contact of lips on lips, from his heart to his brain - to his gut. It made him feel nauseous. He wanted to chase it. Instead, he spat out whatever random string of words he could until he felt a dainty hand on his collar, a thin finger working its way behind the messy, half-finished knot of his cravat. His attention turned back to René, silenced.

“You talk an awful lot,” René purred. The sound sent a shiver up the other man’s spine. The kiss, as brief as it was, was like the striking blow to an axe on firewood. Something in Gérard had splintered. He could not ignore the want he felt, that he had never felt before. Gérard hated it. He hated that he could feel something like this, for René Gignac, of all people - but he did. His chest heaved.

René spoke again. “I can take you home, if you want. But it’s awfully dark, and you seem unwell. Perhaps you should stay the night.”

His hand had withdrawn from Gérard’s collar as he spoke. There were no words in Gérard’s head that he thought he could say, so instead he stared stupidly, letting his glasses slip down his nose, slick with sweat. The strings of the marionette took over once more, and Gérard covered René’s hand with his own.

“I think I’d rather stay.” 

René hummed, with a coy edge as he nodded his head slightly. “You would?”

“I would. The, uh,” Gérard felt René’s elegant hand snake its way up his side until it splayed out across his chest; “The streets are quite dangerous at this time of night.”

“Oh, yes,” René murmured, “absolutely crawling with filthy beggars who’ll want your valuables.”

The face Gérard had pulled in response to this made René grin broadly. He seemed to cycle through several different reactions, each bringing a deeper shade of red to his face, and each bringing René closer and closer. His hand had reached Gérard’s cravat once more, and he tugged on it as Gérard opened his mouth to speak. He did not kiss him, instead breathing teasingly across his lips.

“Never-! The-!”

“You’re right, best to stay here -” he removed Gérard’s glasses, as they were threatening to fall to the floor and shatter, “- or the commoners might pick you to bits like dogs.”

In a moment they crashed together again, lips parted and breath heavy. Gérard exerted the angry, passionate storm inside him as René clung to his cravat, the other hand tossing the glasses safely onto the rug, and swung round to find a hold on Gérard’s shoulder as he was nearly bowled over when the other man surged forward.

René tumbled to the chaise on his back, Gérard following, on his hands and knees above René, who pulled him down with a hand on the small of his back until he was laid flush on top of him. He even dared to trap Gérard with a stockinged leg, and moaned when their hips pressed together.

Truthfully, Gérard did not know how to kiss someone. His life had revolved so strongly around politics and fighting for the rights of the people that he had assumed he would never, ever, pursue romance. It would have distracted him from the cause. He had read about it in books, of course, but thought it frivolous. Other men he had fought alongside he observed fraternising with girls, but that too he had shaken his head at.

He did not think about this in the moment, however. All he could do was follow René’s lead, and any remaining thoughts were practically purged from his mind when René rolled his hips at the same time he opened their mouths and deepened the kiss. Gérard had let out a slightly embarrassing noise of surprise, but it was quickly swallowed as René explored Gérard further. He pulled back for breath when he felt another leg swing itself around his waist. René leaned to follow the kiss, letting his head fall back down when he could not catch Gérard’s lips again in time. They were both panting.

Gérard swallowed. “I don’t-”

“-Know what you’re doing? I know,” René huffed, and reached up to lick, bite and kiss at the other man’s jaw. The fire burned stronger. There was nothing else in the world that Gérard could think about other than chasing the heat, and it was leading him to René. He was below him, clinging to Gérard with arms and legs, with their hips pressed together. Gérard had never seen him anything but pristine, and seeing his hair crumpled and misshapen drove him even wilder.

René pulled him into another kiss, quick and deep, before breaking them apart again. His face was flushed and sultry.

“Since you’re staying the night-” he brushed their lips once more, “- I’ll show you to the bedroom.”

As he sat up, Gérard’s face flickered between nervousness and anticipation, but he followed in tow eagerly regardless. They abandoned the warmth of the living room, but found their own fire underneath the lavish silk blankets and woollen quilts of René’s bed.

[lmchaptertitlebracket]

III.iii.5 L’utilité d’aller à la messe pour devenir révolutionnaire

Wraxall has just given us “Marius Meets A Churchwarden”.

The Utility of Going to Mass, to Become Revolutionary: Wilbour

Marius Meets A Churchwarden: Wraxall

The Utility Of Going To Mass, In Order To Become A Revolutionist: Hapgood

The Use of Going to Mass to Become a Revolutionist: Gray

How Attendance at Mass May Create a Revolutionary: Denny

The Advantage of Going to Mass in Becoming Revolutionary: FMA

The Usefulness of Going to Mass if You Want to Be a Revolutionary: Rose

The Usefulness of Going to Mass to Become a Revolutionary: Donougher

[mare-crisiums-manual-controls]

I haul the long bundle wrapped in canvas onto my shoulder, my leather satchel slipping down the other, and head out the door. Down the rough cobblestone street I carefully dodge passers-by, dive out the way of the occasional horse and carriage clattering down the street, and studiously avoid the stare of a small group of city watchmen smoking their long churchwarden pipes around a disused well, pulling my hat down low to hide my eyes in shadow.

After weaving through the chaotic din of the Brickgate Market, eventually the town gives way to individual houses with thatched roofs, then to large rolling fields and pastures, and finally to the edge of the forest. I breathe a sigh of relief, happy at last to be surrounded by the dark, primeval forest, as I head deeper in amongst the trees, trying to retrace my steps. After a few wrong turns causing me to backtrack, and the occasional growl when the hem of my long lightweight coat snags on a thicket of thorny branches, I find the entrance to the cave I'd been to a week or so before. I readjust the heavy parcel on my shoulder and venture in, coughing a little self-consciously and calling out into the darkness.

"Hello?"

The greeting travels through the dark, and quickly finds its recipient. A deep rumbling, and a scraping sound similar to fallings beads fill your ears as a shape emerges from the dark. A great grey head emerges from the dark, eyes as bright as flame. The dragon opens its mouth.

"Hello! It's good to see you again friend. I hope your journey was not too difficult, I know these woods often confuse." The dragon grins as it looks you over, its gaze landing on the shouldered mass. It tilts its head in though, before its eyes light up in silent query.

[mandareeboo]

Weird take but smoking is super important in writing. It's a common habit a lot of people share, but it's also got a lot of thematic stuff added to it that can help flesh out a character.

Focuses on your character's hands. You can say a lot about someone from their hands. Rugged, scarred fingers from a lifetime of work. Thin, delicate wrists and well-done nails. Swollen and bloody from a bad fight.

Smoking can also imply a certain economic background. Historically, hardworking laborers smoked cigarettes. A rich man may invest in cigars. The often-unmentioned cigarillo can imply that they have a certain taste preference.

Changes the environment of a room entirely. Readers feel very differently about a "normal" room compared to one choked with smoke from the people within.

Different pipes also mean a lot imo. Not in real life, but in shaping a character for a reader. Readers will garner different ideas of someone if they're smoking a corncob vs. puffing on a churchwarden (the really long ones)

Most smokers are sharers. If you're writing a time period that has a lot of smoking in it your character will be offered at least once. This can give you both a more fleshed-out feel to the world AND a reaction from your character to build them- and the offeror- more.

Some people just aren't sharers! That also says a lot about them if everyone else offers but they don't.

Gives your characters something to do while sitting down that's not inherently plot-relevant but is something other than waving their hands everywhere.