#cobblestone paving stones

[natural-indian-sandstone]

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[streetmatt]

Paving stones, cobblestone, you name it.

By Matti Merilaid.

[stonefooting]

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[jkstones123]

Cobblestone paving, cobblestone garden paths, and cobblestone flooring have all emerged as popular trends in the realm of home improvement.

[cripplecharacters]

What might be a good way to design a wheelchair in a medieval fantasy setting? The issues being that it seems to generally be a no-no to make a walking chair with legs as a wheelchair replacement, and the fact that terrain in that kinda setting is not all that friendly to wheelchairs, with dirt/mud paths, cobblestones, etc.

Hello, thank you for your ask! Please note I’m not a historian, just someone who’s done a lot of research. If anyone on Tumblr wants to add anything they know about the subject that I didn’t cover, feel free!

I’m going to start with the terrain before I get into the wheelchairs, and to start, a wheelchair can definently get over dirt and cobblestone. Even back before paved roads people needed smooth roads in order to transport carts, and even Rome had very well maintained cobbled roads in 300 A.D. to make transport as efficient as possible. There are, of course, uneaven or poorly maintained cobblestone paths, and those would certainly be an issue. If your story takes place in an area with uneaven stone roads, I’d recommend looking into manual hiking wheelchairs for design inspiration. Dirt paths shouldn’t pose as much of an issue either, unless they’re like covered in roots, plants, mounds, etc, but a well traveled dirt path should be packed well enough to not be an issue. Mud can pose an issue, but even dirt roads with hard-packed dirt from heavy foot traffic should have much more shallow puddles and less loose mud than regular loose dirt would. If your character likes in a particularly wet/rainy area I’d recommend looking into beach wheelchairs and manual all-terrain wheelchairs. Otherwise, your character should be fine on ancient roads! Now, onto ancient chairs.

The medieval ages span quite a long time, from the 5th century A.D. to the 14th century, and wheelchairs have been being created for that entire time. While many other disability aids were also being used during that time, I’m going to focus on wheelchairs and wheeled aids so I don’t make this too long, and because that’s what was asked. A quick note is that the first self propelled wheelchair was made by a watchmaker named Stephan Farffler in 1655 [pictured below], so if you want your character(s) to be able to propel themselves you’re going to have to take some creative liberties. [Note: Stephan’s chair was probably very useful for getting over uneaven terrain, with its three wheels and low center of gravity making it harder to tip.]

Records show that Greece was one of the first countries to develop wheeled-aids. The first instance of the Greeks using something similar can be found on a vase from 530 B.C. depicting a child on a bed with wheels being taken outside. Now there isn’t much surviving evidence of ancient Greek mobility aids, but there have been Greek temples found with both stairs and ramps, which imply people were being wheeled into temples fairly often [source]. There have also been vases imagining Triptolemus on a wheeled chair since 400 B.C., though it seems like imaginative work rather than something accessible to the public considering the chair doesn’t look like it could stand upright? But then again I’m not a historian and it’s possible a wealthy disabled person at the time took inspiration for what their chair would look like, or vise versa.

The first record of a wheelchair in China is found on a stone carving from 525 A.D. showing a wealthy man in a custom chair. For those with less money, records show they had been using wheelbarrows to transport disabled people since 200 A.D., and this form was definently more common for the average person who didn’t have money for a custom chair. [I unfortunately couldn’t find artwork depicting someone being carried in a wheelbarrow during this time, every picture I found was from the 1900’s and sooner, but feel free to look them up for inspiration.]

Wheelbarrows were then brought from China to Europe in the 12th century and were also used to transport people, as well as having the design changed.

In 1595 King Phillip II of Spain received the first clearly recorded wheelchair after becoming bedridden with gout. Unlike the other chairs it had the ability to have a reclining headrest and adjustable footrest. This chair was definently designed more for confort than practicality, as the king probably wouldn't need to travel any unkept roads like a poor person would.

Wheelchairs developed way more during the 18-19th centuries, and you can always look there for ideas if you want your character to be more independent.

I hope this was all helpful!

Mod Rot

[brotherblaze]

double black² —wednesday addams

▹ wednesday addams/gn!gorgon!reader

▹ synopsis: Wednesday witnesses exactly how the fights you get into usually start out, and the aching consequences.

▹ content warnings: violence, angst

▹ word count: ~2,2k

▹ part 1 | navi / AO3

"The movie was shit, by the way; pure torture. At least I was alone 'cause normal people don't go to the movies on a fucking Tuesday."

You cradle the flame from your lighter in the palm of your free hand as you bring it to the end of your cigarette. The sweet smell of mint washes over you as it ignites and the lighter snaps shut with a resounding click. You inhale and the tip glows bright red.

"That's a horrible habit," Wednesday comments, sitting next to you on the stone railing surrounding the front lawn of the school. She eyes the cigarette with a look of contempt.

"It's supposed to start tasting more and more disgusting as time goes on." You pluck the cigarette from your mouth and balance it between your pointer and middle fingers. "Like soap, I think. Guess I'll quit when I get there." You take another drag and tilt your face up. Smoke rings float into the air. Gray soot falls off the burnt end and lands on the stone you're sitting on. Wednesday brushes it off with a frown.

She opens her mouth to respond with a biting retort but a sharp whistle cuts her off. It's painfully loud and she whirls around to tell whoever it is to fuck off. You beat her to it, shoulders turning and body following until you're sitting so you're facing the school. The man grins and says something in a foreign language.

You reply, tone sharp and biting, and extinguish the red-hot end of your cigarette against the stone railing. "Stay here," you tell her before you push yourself off the railing. Your boots thud dully when you land, scraping along the cobblestone-paved road to the stranger as you approach. Whatever you tell him next is drawn out.

Your voice has a lower pitch in this language. Rougher. Throaty.

(Wednesday finds herself liking it.)

Whatever you talk about, it leaves you agitated. There's a straightness in your shoulders she doesn't usually see, hands curled into fists at your sides. The man raises his hand to jab you in the shoulder and you slap his hand away. When his eyes meet Wednesday's, you immediately step into his line of sight. She watches a grin curl onto his lips. He leans down slightly to whisper something to you.

Your answer to whatever he said is a mouthful of spittle in his face.

He moves fast, too fast for him to be just human. The speed leaves her dizzy from just watching, and her heartbeat leaps into her throat when he suddenly has his arm wrapped around your throat from the back. You only hold a hand out, pointing a finger at Wednesday. "Don't." You wheeze loudly when he tightens his grip around your windpipe but your gaze stays on Wednesday like you're ordering her to stay where she is. "Don't."

The stranger says something. She sees his mouth move, but can't decipher what he's saying. The letters in his words don't make sense and the shapes his mouth makes when he speaks are odd. She can't focus, her gaze pinned to your face, the way your teeth grit together.

His hand is suddenly in your hair, arm around your throat loosening just enough to force your head forward and down to meet the brunt of his knee. Your teeth snap together as the world tilts on its axis and you fall onto your side, palms scraping along the gravel lodged between the cobblestones.

The spring air is cool and you welcome the burn in your lungs when you inhale. It doesn't last.

The hard nose of his boot strikes your ribs. It rips a pathetic wail from your lips as the pain rushes through your torso. Your eyes are watering. You attempt to roll away from him and your efforts are met with another hard kick.

The burn in your lungs becomes unpleasant all at once as you attempt to breathe. Every muscle in your torso is screaming when you attempt to pull yourself onto your knees to stand. Another kick to the ribs, another screeching wail of a banshee. This time, something crunches.

You roll onto your back, chest heaving. There's a lump in your throat you force back down.

Wednesday is rooted to the spot. Her feet feel like lead and she can't will them to move, to step forward and drag you away from the confrontation by the lapels of your jacket—maybe whack your assailant over the head with a thick branch.

She can't even startle when a new figure pulls the man off you, can't focus on the way coach Vladimir presses his knee against the stranger's throat. She just stares at your slowly moving figure, curling up with a wet gasp, shielding your head with your arms. The snakes in your hair are lying limp on the ground.

Larissa Weems arrives moments later, crouching next to your curled-up body. Her hair is in disarray, large strands of white falling out of their neat updo, curling around her face. Her fingers curl around your wrist, her mouth forming words to say something in a language Wednesday can't understand. You only curl further into yourself with a choked sob.

Wednesday's feet finally move and her boots scrape against the gravel. Weems' head snaps up and her eyes narrow on Wednesday.

"Ms. Addams, return to your room." Weems brushes a particularly annoying loose lock of hair behind her ear. Her gaze is hard, scrutinizing—like she's planning a murder and willing to commit it right in front of everyone's eyes. "Now, Ms. Addams."

Wednesday doesn't argue, can't even find her voice to argue. She places one unsteady foot in front of the other, knees weak, and heads towards the dormitories.

Your body aches.

It's dull, but it's everywhere.

Pain tingles in your ribs when you breathe and you almost want to growl out a swear but your jaw aches, too. Your tongue feels like dead weight in your mouth.

The muscles in your neck are tense, erupting in searing hot pain when you let your head tip to the side. The pillowcase against your cheek feels scratchy and you make a mental note to buy a new set of bedsheets once you're able to stand.

Wednesday is sitting in the beanbag chair next to your bed. Her textbooks are placed on the edge of your bed and she's furiously scribbling something into the notebook in her lap with a fancy fountain pen. She's wearing your sunglasses.

"Good evening." She continues her hasty scribbling, not bothering to look up as she greets you.

"I feel like I got into a fight with a bear. And lost." Your voice is hoarse and your throat dry. It's like you've swallowed sand.

"Something like that."

She caps her fancy pen and finally looks up. Her lips are pulled into a tight line but you can't see her eyes. She gently adjusts your sunglasses but doesn't remove them. Yet you can still feel the intensity of her gaze. So, you turn your head to stare at the other side of your bed.

You're met with a pile of colorful decorative pillows, fuzzy blankets, stuffed animals of all colors and breeds, with weird, bulging acrylic eyes. Even Enid's pink-and-orange sweater is resting next to your pillow, neatly folded. It's a size too small but you appreciate the sentiment.

"Enid thought you'd be more comfortable this way," Wednesday says from her spot in your beanbag chair. She doesn't move. You clear your throat and grumble something under your breath.

"Lotsa colors."

You have an accent, Wednesday realizes. It's faint, but it's there. English makes your voice softer—higher. She misses the roughness it had the night before.

She abruptly stands, straightening her sweater and pants. You turn to look at her with wide eyes, lips turned into a small frown like you're afraid she's leaving for good. Ask me to stay, she thinks.

But you don't.

"You missed dinner," she says. Her voice has the same lilt but for a moment the intrusive thought that maybe it's too harsh for your current condition flashes through. But you make no deal of it, only hum like you've resigned yourself to accepting any bad news she might announce. In a move that surprises even herself, she speaks, "I'll go get it."

You stare at her with wide eyes, mouth moving like you're about to tell her not to, to tell her you can do it yourself. Her reply is the most venomous look she can muster and a curt, "Don't move."

She's out the door before you can argue.

And she returns with a large tray in hand, holding not only your dinner but every single vegetable she could stand the sight of. Something about five different colors of vegetables.

Instead of where she left you, Wednesday finds you lying face-down on the edge of your bed. You groan, voice muffled.

"I take back what I said. I feel like I got run over by an 18-wheeler."

"Why are you out of bed?"

"I had to pee, like, really bad." Your arms are shaking when you push yourself onto all fours to climb back into the still-warm spot. You move slowly, every single fiber of every muscle in your body is screaming at the slightest movement. Wednesday watches from the side.

She places the tray on the edge of your bed once you've settled in and you bristle when you see that's plated.

"I hate mashed potatoes."

Wednesday ignores your comment as she sits next to the tray. She digs the spoon into the mashed potatoes on the plate and stirs it with the diced meat and gravy. She picks up a spoonful and holds it out to your lips.

"Eating like a poor 18th century eastern European peasant—my ancestors are rolling in their graves." Yet you lean forward to accept what she's offering. "They didn't survive the treat of gulags for me to eat bland mashed potatoes in the 21st century."

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

You lift your hand in front of your mouth and swallow. "Tastes like cardboard." But she doesn't give in to your complaints, only hums and lifts another spoonful to your mouth. You accept it. "The texture's horrible." You accept the next spoonful, too. "I can keep going."

"I have a lot of mashed potato left."

That shuts you up. Instead of arguing, you let her feed you. It's silent, only the sound of the metal spoon scraping against the ceramic plate when she reaches for another spoonful, accompanied by your grumbles when you discover an unmashed potato chunk in your mouth. She hands you a baby carrot once the plate is empty.

You pat the empty space next to you on the bed and shimmy slightly to the side to make more room for her. Your ribs strain and you clamp down on your tongue to keep a pained hiss in your mouth.

Wednesday places the empty plate onto your nightstand and climbs onto your bed. She tentatively lies down, like she's waiting for you to change your mind and reject her, to tell her to get out. You don't, you just break the baby carrot in half and shove both pieces into your mouth at once.

"How come you have a two-person bed?"

That sounds like a safe enough topic to start out on.

You look at her with a raised brow and hand her one of Enid's gaudy pink pillows to rest her head on. You clearly find joy in the face she pulls at it.

"I work in Jericho in the summer. Everyone else goes home and Larissa doesn't want me to sit around for three months, so she said she'd let me get new furniture if I made the money myself. I guess my constant begging was getting annoying."

Wednesday's eyes flicker to your lips. She reluctantly drags her gaze up again.

"What did he say?"

Your face drops. The crease between your eyebrows appears and she wants to reach out to smooth her thumb over it. Instead, her hand tangles into the sheet.

"Doesn't matter."

She sits up, leaning her weight on her hand still tangled with your bedsheet. "So he was just a douche whose girlfriend you flirted with? Another one of your conquests like everyone in school keeps talking about?"

"I think you should leave."

You turn onto your side with a string of swears under your breath and pull the blanket up to your chin. For good measure, you grab one of the stuffed animals Enid had left and bury your face into its soft fur.

Wednesday doesn't move for a few long moments. The seconds tick by on the alarm clock on your nightstand. Finally, she stands, straightening out her sweater, and quietly packs her things. On her way out, she grabs the empty plate.

The door clicks shut behind her and she stands in the hallway. She takes a moment to collect herself, a breath in, a breath out, and adjusts her backpack before she takes the first step towards the stairs at the end of the hall.

Something in her chest aches.

taglist: @stupendousbananajudgeshark @vaeeeel @eclipsesmoonshine14

[sirjaketkiszka]

It’s a Sin: Chapter One

Priest!Jake Kiszka x Fem!Reader

+++++++++++++++

Father forgive me, I tried not to do it… Turned over a new leaf, then tore right through it…

+++++++++++++++

Word Count: 4,811

Warnings: vague mentions of religious trauma, uneventful, and poor writing.

Disclaimer: apologies for any potential spelling errors or grammar mistakes.

It’s a Sin Masterpost

+++++++++++++++

The gentle melody coming from the car’s radio fades out of earshot as the view from the backseat fully encapsulates you. Dark gray, gloomy skies act as an incessant threat of the chance of rain– a common occurrence for this time of year– as the branches of the towering western hemlocks sway against the strong wind.

Passing a large sign that reads: Garden’s Gate, your eyes take in the sight before you; Various wood-built structures line cobblestone sidewalks just off the side of the poorly paved road, and small homes nestle themselves between what you assume are family-owned businesses. An assumption you make based on your previous research–

Garden’s Gate, established in the mid-1800s, holds a population of only 253. Well, 254 now. It’s heavily religious, extremely traditional, and very tight-knit. Every building is original, a well-functioning relic, and upheld by its caregivers; the citizens. You can’t lie, the town does intimidate you, especially coming in as an outsider– a non-religious outsider at that. But when you saw pictures of the town while scrolling on your laptop, you fell in love.

Just coming into view is the town’s church, the first building to be created when the town came to be. The foundation is built from local wood, chopped just mere feet away from the church itself, and it’s surrounded by scattered tombstones. The years gone by remain present on the church’s slowly rotted wood as flecks of the boards peel away from the exterior walls. Still, the church stays upright, a consequence of minute renovations that strayed away from disturbing its original composition.

An arched, intricately engraved brown door represents a stark contrast compared to the withered appearance, and similarly, arched stained glass windows take their place on either side. Just above the entrance is a circular window, the panes reminiscent of a daisy, and above that is a smaller square window. A bell hangs from the rooftop of the church, encased by sturdy pillars that uphold the cross.

The outdated taxi turns onto a gravel driveway, just a quarter of a mile long and directly across from the church you’ve been admiring, and leading to your new home. When the grumbling crunch of the rough pebbles begins to slow, and the tires come to a halt, you nearly jump out of the cab. The driver plasters on a polite smile, putting the car in park and exiting to retrieve your bags from the trunk.

���Please, let me get that,” You insist, rushing to his side and peeling your eyes away from the beautifully built cottage before you. The both of you fumble to lift the heavy luggage from the car, an exaggerated oof punching from your lungs when you set the suitcase on the damp ground. When the driver gently places your smaller bag on top, you graciously thank him, handing him the hefty toll that accumulated from your journey from the nearest airport; over an hour away.

As the faded yellow car turns around and descends the long, winding driveway, your feet stay planted, your eyes frantically observing the exterior of the house; it’s quaint with tall windows and deep green grass crawling along the layered stone skirt of the structure. The worn paint is off-white, but chipping off in various places, and the roof is harboring a light fuzz of growing moss, a result of the constant dew blanketing over the town. You love it.

Slinging your small carry-on over your shoulder, and firmly gripping the handle of your overweight luggage, you trek across the scattered stone path leading to the front steps. The two short steps creak and groan under your own weight and the added load. As far as you know, the house has remained unoccupied for years but was taken care of by members of the local church.

So, when you lift the dingy doormat inches away from your feet, retrieve the house key, and open the door with an agonizingly loud rasp, you’re surprised to see how well-kept the interior is. Any leftover furniture is covered with discolored bedsheets, and there’s a lack of dust that you expected to see when first entering.

Somehow, the inside of the house is eerily more cold than outside, causing goosebumps to pepper along your skin. The air is stagnant, just the tiniest specks of dust floating past your line of sight, and like the steps leading up to the door, the stained pine hardwood floors squeak beneath you.

“Just needs a little love,” You sigh, surveying the open living room. It seems as though the only furniture left that isn’t yours is the used leather couch, the oval-shaped coffee table a couple of feet from it, and a large, empty bookshelf that resides to the left of the room. All the other furniture, however, is yours– delivered just the day before by a moving company you hired. Was it smart to tell them where the key was so they could go in without you? Probably not, but nothing seems out of place or alarming.

While it’s the middle of the day, the murky sky prohibits any ray of sun from shining through, resulting in the dimly lit space in front of you. Thankfully, the light switch is beside the door, and you flick it upward; though, it doesn’t do much.

There was very little information online about the house you stand in, and all you know is that it was built not long after the town originated. It still has its original flooring, the same awful wallpaper installed in the 1970s, and turns out, the later-added light fixtures from the mid-1900s.

Finished with your gawking, you drag your hefty suitcase into the house, pass the threshold, and leave it leaning against the wall with the smaller bag. As you step further inside, you notice the layout; the kitchen is to the right of the first floor, a large cut-out space in the dividing wall allows a look out into the living room, and there is no dining room, just a spot big enough for a dining table in the corner of the kitchen.

The kitchen is small, but big enough for just you. Due to previous renovations, polished sandy stone counters lay upon dark mahogany wood cabinets. It’s not a look you would usually go for, and it’s certainly not your taste, but that was a problem for later, you ultimately decide. Thankfully, a gas stove and rundown refrigerator are provided with the house, although you’re not entirely sure how well they work. The refrigerator hasn’t been plugged in for however long, and you’re extremely relieved to see that the shelves are spotless and no lingering smell wafts from it when you cautiously swing the door open.

Taking in the final sweep of the kitchen, you notice a packed box labeled “Bedroom: second floor” is set on the counter beside the built-in sink, most likely forgotten by the movers. You lift the decently heavy box with a quick huff and haul it to the stairs to the left of the living room. Carefully looking over the box, you ascend the stairs and are met with a slim hallway, consisting of three doors; your bedroom, the bathroom, and a smaller room, which will most likely be your hobby room.

The bedroom door is left open, allowing you to shuffle into the bland room without struggling with the doorknob. Setting the box onto your bare mattress, it bounces against the plush material, nearly falling over the edge. An exasperated huff rushes past your lips as you plant your hands on your hips, spinning in a slow 360 while your eyes scan the room; The walls are a beautiful shade of sage green– a consequence of the previous tenant– and the floors match the dark red mahogany of the kitchen cabinets. Now this, you wouldn’t change.

Moving boxes littered the hardwood floors, most of them piling up in the farthest corner, acting as a reminder of the extensive work you have ahead of you; unpacking.

You must’ve spent hours just unpacking the boxes belonging to your room– going back and forth on what should be placed where and if you should hang your clothes or fold them into the dresser. Needless to say, these are very important decisions. And with important decisions, came great hunger pains.

“My goodness,” You mumble under your breath, checking the digital clock you unpacked and noticing that the last time you ate was just before your flight. Eight hours ago. Needing a break, you lift from your seated position on your bedroom floor and stretch, letting out an obnoxious groan at the sensation of your joints cracking and back arching out of your previous slouch.

You figure now’s as good a time as any to explore the town, and it’s definitely not because you have no food. On any other day, you would cook. In fact, you love it. The art of cooking felt calming for you, but it’s only something you do as a hobby. It stays sacred that way. Had you pursued it as a career, it would’ve been tainted. Not done purely for enjoyment, but out of obligation.

Either way, you need to eat now. Your stomach growls and cramps at the mere thought of food, and your arms instinctively wrap around your torso for a sense of relief. Where can I eat? What can I eat? You don’t know the town well enough, but perhaps walking down the vacant streets will lead you to a restaurant, or a store, of some sort.

Loud footsteps echo through your house as you saunter down the aged steps of the staircase, your exhaustion and hunger forcing you to move at a leisurely rate. Unsure of the early evening weather, you grab your jacket that hangs on the coat rack by the door anyway, pushing your arms through the thick sleeves and leaving the front open.

Just as you expected, the early October air nips at your face the moment you open the front door, the tip of your nose immediately reddening and cheeks turning rosy from the harsh cold. In your hometown, it’d still be decently warm, probably in the low-70s, but you relished in the colder months. You always look forward to wearing your plethora of knitted sweaters, warm leggings, and chunky boots.

The hinges of the door screech behind you as it shuts, and you turn to lock it, pocketing the key and walking down the ridged path ahead of you.

It’s a short walk, and it’s nearly a ghost town. In the five minutes it takes you to walk to the main road, cross it, and enter the town, you have yet to see a single soul. The uncomfortable atmosphere reminds you of an episode of The Twilight Zone. Actually, the very first episode of The Twilight Zone… Small town. Completely alone.

Your inner monologue nearly leads you to run back home, but you push through, realizing how ridiculous the thought is. As you step into civilization, if you could call it that, you do notice the silhouette of store clerks passing in your peripheral as you search the store signs. Phew.

The stores are decently spaced apart, and some of the elderly structures are homes of the town residents. The uneven cobblestone sidewalk urges you to walk cautiously as you admire the historical details, reading the signs as you stroll by;

Bank. Very thorough.

Seamstress. Not quite it.

Antiques. The whole town is one.

Bakery. Perfect!

The bakery sports large windows displaying their baked goods, and the sight of them causes your stomach to grumble. Your hand impatiently wraps around the store’s doorhandle, swinging it open, and making the bell above it ring. The interior isn’t very well-lit, like most things here, apparently. There’s a total of three tables in the dining area, each with two seats, and a large L-shaped counter that houses all of the pastries.

Hungry eyes scan the abundance of food, probably enough to feed the whole town, you assume, until they land on the cashier. She stands behind the glass counter, a large outdated cash register stationed in front of her. You can tell by the look on her face that she knows you’re not from here, and despite her customer service smile, she’s wary. To dilute the tension, you smile, stepping up to the register.

“Hi, there,” Your voice rang out louder than you expected, and you may have freaked her out even more.

“Hi,” She pauses, her voice reflecting her concern, “Um– What can I help you with?”

“Well, I just moved here,” You explain, and the tension in her stiff shoulders falters for a moment, “So, I’m not sure what to get, what do you suggest?” Maybe asking her for her opinion would ease her anxiety, and it seems to work.

“Oh!” She perks up, eyeing the pastries through the glass and pointing, “You’ll love our housemade muffins. Any flavor, really.”

“I’ll take one of each flavor then,” Your insatiable hunger does the talking for you, but you know you’ll eat the rest later. You have quite the sweet tooth, and sure, you should be eating a “real” meal, but– you have no excuse.

“Perfect,” She smiles, genuinely this time, as she places each flavor into a medium-sized box; Blueberry, chocolate chip, banana nut, poppy seed, and cinnamon crumble. Yum. Setting the box on the counter beside the register, she rings you up, stating your total as you happily hand her your card, “So, you’re the one who bought the house across the church.” She states. It’s not a question. You guess your move was the talk of the tiny town. There’s no surprise there.

“Word gets around, huh?” You chuckle, taking back your card when she hands it to you.

“Well,” She chuckles as well, insinuating that of course word gets around in a town with a population below 300. “We didn’t think it would ever sell. Not that there’s anything wrong with it! It’s just that newcomers aren’t very common, you know?”

“I figured,” Your tone is understanding as you shrug, grabbing the box off the counter, and the decent weight of the baked goods surprises you. The cashier offers you a gracious smile as you thank her for her help, spinning on the heels of your feet and heading for the door. Your hand stalls on the doorknob, and you turn to look at her, “I’m sorry, what’s your name? I could use a familiar face around here.”

“Sara! Without the H,” Her cheerful voice carries across the small bakery like she’s relieved that you asked, and it makes you feel warm, “What’s yours?”

When you answer, she repeats your name back to herself as a reminder and waves you off, calling out to you to let her know how you like the muffins. You didn’t go into town expecting to make any friends so soon, but you’re sure glad you did.

Rushing home, your eyes focus on the moving ground beneath your feet; bulky stones make your steps wobbly, and you’re careful not to trip. Unlike your short journey into town, it feels as though the walk back takes an eternity due to pure impatience.

The crisp air pinches your skin as you work against the breeze, your eyes looking both ways down the entirely empty road as you cross it. The wet gravel shifts under your feet as you stomp up your driveway and finally approach your home. Though, at the moment, it feels like just a house. Vacant, void of fond memories, and any familiarity.

You ultimately decide eating alone at your thrifted dining room table feels too depressing, so you settle for the slightly damp front door steps. Plopping down, the light layer of moisture soaks into your pants, and you squirm at the feeling.

“Gross,” You grumble, your hands fidgeting with the folding lid of the paper box. When you flip the top open, you’re face to face with five large muffins, all delicately handcrafted and baked to perfection. The uncomfortable feeling underneath you becomes a distant thought as you grab the blueberry muffin with two hands, letting the box balance on your legs. You waste no time bringing the fluffy baked good to your mouth, your lips parting and teeth flashing to consume a substantial bite.

The sweetness coats your tongue and an exaggerated groan leaves your throat as you chew slowly, your teeth crushing the shriveled blueberries. You’re not sure if this is the best muffin you’ve ever had, or if you’re just really hungry. Though, it didn’t matter. If the bakery did a blueberry muffin this well, the rest had to be held to the same standard, you hope.

So, for the next five minutes, you take a bite from each muffin, eyes nearly rolling back at the taste of each one. If you really wanted to, you could finish all five right this second because of your persistent hunger, but you’ll show restraint… For now.

Just as you’ve circled back to the blueberry muffin, you notice a line of people waiting outside the church just across the street. It’s not Sunday. You thought to yourself as your eyebrows furrowed, watching as a priest opened the doors to the church, welcoming the group of church-goers in. The amount isn’t large, maybe ten people, but you keep watching intently. They’re too far to hear, and even to see clearly, so you assume that the priest is thanking each member for coming with every vague nod of his head.

You’re unable to get a good look at the priest, but from your seated position, he looks young. Squinting your eyes, you’re only able to make out that he has long hair, and is average height. His features are blurred as a result of the distance, and you find yourself wanting to wander over there just to see him. Something about his presence is alluring.

Once you think you’ve had enough of the food in front of you, you close the box and stand, your eyes still drawn to the church. You aren’t religious, not at all, but the concept intrigues you. Devoting your life to a person, or people, you’re not confident exist. Believing in something greater as a sense of comfort. You admire it. But, you also despise it.

Reemerging suppressed memories cause you to zone out, planted where you stand on the last step of your small porch. The silence morphs into whispered echoes of your childhood, and your hands absently squeeze around the delicate box.

The kids exiting the church hurled overplayed insults at you. None you haven’t heard before. If anything, you wished they were more creative. You couldn’t lie, though, it all hurt the same.

A single drop of rain pulls you from your recollection as your eyes frantically blink, realizing you’re staring down the church, the priest looking directly at you through fickle raindrops. Still, you can’t make out any defining features, and he seems to be struggling with the same predicament. The line of people has filed into the ancient building, but he stands there, looking at you.

Not bothering to acknowledge him, you turn around and step up to your door, quickly unlocking it and stepping inside before the rain becomes a consistent downpour.

The sight of your disorganized living room and kitchen causes an irritated exhale to exit your lungs. That would have to be a problem for tomorrow since the comforting sound of speckled rain on your lanky windows pulls a yawn from you. The day wears on you– traveling, unpacking, a bit of exploring– it all takes a toll on you.

Your feet drag as you set the half-eaten muffins on the kitchen counter, and you lazily complete your nighttime routine, having to actively pull from boxes to find what you need. You figure a lot of your unpacking will play out that way; you needing something, then having to search for it, and inevitably unpacking the rest in the process.

Usually, you’d struggle with falling asleep in an unfamiliar environment, but the moment your head hits the pillow, your heavy eyelids blind you. Your breathing evens, your body falls limp, and your features soften in restful bliss.

“You shouldn’t let their words bother you, baby,” Your mom swept the hair sticking to your tear-stained cheeks away and cradled your face in the palm of her hands.

“They kept talking about you,” You sniffled, looking her in the eyes with shame, “They said mean things.” Your voice came out in a whisper, and she sighed.

“Do you want to know why?”

A knock at your door causes you to shoot up from your lying position and a startled gasp expands your lungs as you bend at the waist with your blankets pooling around you. Your sleep-ridden eyes move around the room, remembering where you are, and that yes, you did move into a new house. Most of the empty boxes have been moved to the hallway, and the rising sun casts a soft light across your bed sheets. Looking at the clock on your otherwise bare nightstand, it’s still relatively early, 7 o’clock to be exact, and you aren’t expecting any visitors.

The lack of central heat sends a chill down your stiff spine as you search for your robe hanging in the nicely sized-closet. Wrapping the warm, soft garment around your trembling frame, you head downstairs where the knocking continues for the second time.

“Coming!” You call out, hopefully loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear.

Through the stained glass, you see a dark figure standing on the steps, their head rotating and looking around the outside of your house. You pause for a moment before opening the door, the bright contrast of outside piercing your dim-adjusted eyes, causing you to squint to focus. When your gaze finally lands on the man in front of you, you realize it’s the priest from yesterday.

As you had guessed previously, he’s of average height and has long, wavy hair that has grown just below his shoulders. The ends of his chestnut hair are thinned out, but it holds decent volume as it swoops into a side part, likely a consequence of his hands running through it. His face is chiseled, his high cheekbones prominent through his hollow cheeks, and his jawline is well defined. A light purple hue swatches underneath his eyes, emphasizing their captivating auburn shade of brown, and his blush pink lips quirk in a friendly smirk. He’s young, probably around your age, and it surprises you.

He’s wearing all black– a long sleeve button-up, paired with his clerical collar, and a pair of jeans that are a slightly lighter shade of black compared to the rest of his outfit. Over everything, he’s wearing a black petticoat that stops right at his knees, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

“Uh– Hi, can I help you?” You ask, still holding onto the door, and shielding half of your body.

“Hello, I’m Father Jacob Thomas Kiszka,” His voice is surprisingly smooth, and your heart quickens a beat, “I haven’t had the chance to properly introduce myself.” He smiles, pulling his hand from his pocket and holding it out for you to shake. His fingers are lengthy, and his hands are quite veiny, and they curl around your hand gently when you accept the handshake. His palm is warm, and incredibly soft as his semi-firm grip bobs your guys’ hands up and down.

“It’s no problem,” You dismiss while releasing his hand and letting yours awkwardly hang beside you when his lingering warmth melts away, “I only got here yesterday.”

“That’s right,” His smile falters a little, falling into a permanent content smirk, “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Not at all,” You lie through a clenched smile, suddenly very aware of the state of your house, and you, “Can I fix you a cup of coffee?” You ask while stepping aside, letting him cross the threshold. When he slides past you, his overpowering scent floats just beneath your nose as you breathe in. The breeze in his wake smells strongly of cinnamon, a mixture of other rich spices, and musk. You find yourself breathing in again, holding the scent in your lungs like a drag from a cigarette.

Shutting the door behind him as he graciously smiles at you, his eyes wander around the still-covered furniture in the living room, and the boxes piled along the walls. Heat creeps up your neck, embarrassment burning in your gut from the mess.

“I’m okay,” He finally answers, turning to you with that perpetual smirk.

“Suit yourself,” You shrug, disappearing into the kitchen. The coffee maker is stashed away in one of the boxes, and you don’t plan on searching for it now, but you need an excuse to step away. Your hands fly to your frizzy hair as you roughly brush out any kinks with your fingers, and you rub the remaining sleep from your eyes. Had you expected company, you would’ve looked somewhat presentable, but you haven't been granted that pleasure.

When you reappear in the living room, he immediately turns to you, both hands back in his pockets. His presence is slightly offputting, though you���re not entirely sure why. Despite his average size, his vitality consumes the space surrounding him, including yourself.

“I apologize if I’ve woken you up,” He speaks, his eyes discreetly glancing over you, “I understand that it’s early.”

“Please, it’s okay,” You wave a hand at him, “I was already awake.” Another lie.

“Right,” He chuckles, and it’s apparent that he knows you’re lying, “I won’t be long– I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

“I appreciate that, Father,” You smile at his welcoming words, and for a moment, his body language is conflicting. He’s contemplating something, and you’re eager to know what it is.

“May I ask, do you attend church, Miss…” Oh. That question. It’s not your first time hearing it, and honestly, you expected it, especially from him. The end of his last word drags out as he waits for you to introduce yourself, something you forgot to do when he did so himself.

You answer quickly, stating your first and last name, but insisting that he calls you by your first. “Miss” felt too formal. You are anything but formal. “I can’t say that I do,” You answer his question truthfully, and you don’t miss how disappointment radiates off his stature.

“That’s a shame,” His words alone sound harsh, but his tone is discouraged, and you know he doesn’t mean it the way it came out. “I’m sure you can tell, but this town, the people, are very… devout. I figured I’d ask,” A pause, “Perhaps, if you’d like, you could join us.” His insinuation feels like a punch in the gut, and you hate to have to reject his offer, but attending church is out of the question.

“That’s a lovely offer, Father,” You say sincerely, and the shift in his demeanor indicates that he already knows you’re going to decline, “But I’ll have to turn you down on that, I’m sorry.”

“No worries,” He waves you off now, his eyebrows furrowing at the increasing concern on your features. You hate saying no to people, and somehow, rejecting a priest’s offer for you to come to his church feels even worse. “Just thought I’d ask,” He shrugs, offering you a flash of a closed-mouth smile.

“Alright,” An uncomfortable silence falls in the space between you two, and his gaze lingers on yours for a moment longer.

“Anyway,” He clears his throat, eyes shifting from yours, “I should get out of your hair– let you get settled in.”

“Of course,” You step toward the door, opening it for him and watching as he steps back outside, turning to face you, “Thanks for stopping by, Father.”

“It was a pleasure,” Your name rolls off his tongue effortlessly, and you feel guilty for silently wishing he’d say it again, “I’ll see you around.”

Watching as he turns around, you observe how he strides down the stone path, his hair swaying with every swift step and broad shoulders mimicking the movement. Unable to look away, you keep your eyes on him until he’s disappeared into the church, not sparing another glance in your direction. You still feel as though you’re not completely awake, and your strange, brief interaction with Father Jacob only solidifies the contemplation of whether you’re dreaming.

An unexplainable and nagging feeling settles in your gut, but you choose to ignore it, chalking it up to built-up stress. Closing your door, you face the surplus of labor scattered across the living room and kitchen. Procrastination calls to you, but you refrain.

“Let’s get this over with.”

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A new Jake fic, hurray! I hope you all enjoyed chapter one <3

I’ve been waiting to write this since the idea came to me in a dream, oddly enough. Much love!!

+++++++++++++++

Taglist:

@musicislove3389 @fleetingjake @peaceloveunitygvf @dancingcarbon

+++++++++++++++

Tags:

[firstdeerwife]

Masterlist

C.3

Mimzy

---

The night breeze of New Orleans gently caressed _____ as she walked alongside Alastor through the cobblestone streets.

The streetlights cast golden glimmers on the paving stones, and the distant murmur of the city created an almost magical atmosphere.

Their footsteps echoed in harmony, accompanied by a comfortable silence that was only occasionally broken by light comments about the weather or the streets they were passing through.

"Is the city always this quiet at this hour?" _____ asked, glancing at Alastor.

"Quiet at first glance, perhaps," Alastor responded with a half-smile. "But New Orleans has many secrets that awaken when the sun sets."

"Like you?" _____ joked, though there was a serious tone in her voice.

Alastor looked at her, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mystery.

"Maybe," he said, dodging the question with a smile. "In fact, what do you think if I show you one of those secrets tonight?"

_____ raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"What do you mean?"

"There's a little club not far from here. An exclusive place, only for those who know where to look. If you’re free tonight, we could go."

_____ thought for a moment. Although she was engaged to Charles, the prospect of exploring a new place with Alastor, someone who inexplicably attracted her, was tempting.

"I accept. When do we go?"

"Tonight," Alastor replied. "I can introduce you to a friend of mine, Mimzy. She's... an interesting woman."

_____ couldn’t help but feel a twinge of discomfort hearing the tone Alastor used when mentioning Mimzy, but she decided to ignore it. After all, she was just a friend, right?

---

Hours later, _____ found herself in the club that Alastor had described. From the outside, it seemed like a modest, almost insignificant building, but upon crossing the doors, the atmosphere changed drastically.

Jazz music filled the air, and cigarette smoke mingled with the scent of fine liquors. The lighting was dim, just enough to make out the figures moving to the rhythm of the music.

"_____, I want to introduce you to someone."

Alastor led her to a table in the corner, where a woman stood as she saw them approach.

Mimzy was the complete opposite of ____: short, curvaceous, with thick thighs, wide hips, and ample breasts.

Her platinum blonde hair, cut in a short bob style, gleamed under the lights, and her pale skin contrasted with the deep red of her dress. Her eyes, surrounded by dark makeup, settled on _____ with a mix of curiosity and challenge.

"So you're _____," Mimzy said, extending a hand with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "I've heard a lot about you."

_____ shook her hand, feeling a subtle pressure that made her grit her teeth.

"Oh, really? I hope it's all good."

"Of course. Al is quite the gentleman, isn’t he?"

The tension between the two women was palpable, and though the conversation continued politely, _____ couldn’t help but feel an uncomfortable sense of competition every time Mimzy directed a glance at Alastor. But what unsettled her the most was Alastor's apparent indifference toward Mimzy.

Though the woman clearly tried to attract his attention, Alastor remained calm, focusing his interest on _____.

"I must say, _____," Mimzy continued, taking a sip from her glass, "you have a rather... refined air. I didn’t expect to find someone like you in a place like this."

"And what kind of person were you expecting to find?" _____ replied with a forced smile.

"Someone less... restrained, I suppose," Mimzy shot back, looking _____ up and down. "But I suppose that’s what makes you interesting to Alastor."

_____ was about to respond when Alastor intervened, changing the subject with the ease of someone who had done this many times before.

"Mimzy, don’t be so harsh. _____ is a fascinating person, with much more than meets the eye."

Mimzy smiled enigmatically, but _____ could perceive a slight flicker of annoyance in her eyes.

When the music shifted to a softer rhythm, Alastor leaned toward _____.

"Would you like to dance?"

_____ nodded, grateful for the excuse to distance herself from Mimzy. As they headed to the dance floor, Alastor whispered:

"Don’t let Mimzy get to you. She’s like that with everyone, but it means nothing."

"Nothing?" _____ replied as they began to move to the rhythm of the music. "You seem pretty close to her."

"We’ve been friends for years," Alastor admitted, guiding her gently. "But there’s something different between us."

_____ didn’t respond immediately, letting the music fill the silence. Alastor’s movements were fluid, and the closeness between them provoked a mix of emotions that confused her.

Her heart beat faster, not just because of the dance, but because of what she was beginning to feel.

It was more than just attraction; it was a deep connection that she had never experienced with Charles.

"Are you always this mysterious?" _____ asked as they twirled around the dance floor.

"Does it bother you?" Alastor responded, his eyes shining with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"It intrigues me," _____ admitted, feeling her heart beat faster.

"Then I suppose we’re in the same situation," Alastor said softly, leaning slightly toward her.

_____ felt a shiver run down her spine, but before she could respond, the music ended. They slowly separated, still maintaining eye contact for a moment longer before returning to the table.

Mimzy was watching them with an enigmatic smile, as if she knew something they didn’t.

"Did you enjoy the dance?" she asked in a tone that didn’t make it clear whether she was being sarcastic or genuine.

"I enjoyed it very much," _____ replied firmly, keeping her gaze fixed on Mimzy. Though she didn’t say it out loud, there was something inside her that made her want to mark her territory.

---

The next day, _____ and Charles met for their usual afternoon date. As they walked through the park, Charles couldn’t help but notice a change in her.

Her gaze, her posture, even the way she spoke, everything seemed slightly different.

"You seem different,"

Charles commented, trying to sound casual.

"Different? In what way?"

_____ replied, revealing nothing.

"Just... different. I can’t explain it."

_____ smiled to herself, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Charles.

"Life has ways of changing people, Charles. Sometimes we don’t even realize those changes."

Charles frowned, a feeling of unease growing inside him. Something had changed in _____, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

[secretmellowblog]

As long as it's @valvertweek, here is one of my favorite Valjean and Javert scenes I've written (for my recently updated fanfic Annoyances):

“But I should have expected no better, as this is a false country— I have been compelled to see its falsehoods, to see that all of society and law and government and legislation and magistracy and sovereign authority and civil service and penal codes and all the dogmas on which rest political and civil security, can apparently only be summed up as a great farce someone is playing,” Javert’s words began to blend together into an utterly incoherent snarl of rage, “it is all deceit, deceit from on high, from the very forces ‘on high’ they tell you are incapable of deceit, they lie to their servants, so that their servants believe themselves honest when they are simply party to a great lie—and then they put their empty-headed imps of dandies into the uniforms of lieutenants, and they put their saints in the green caps of galley-slaves and brand them ‘forced labor for life,’ and they trick their honest servants into crime by dressing up the true authorities in the costumes of the false, and the false authorities in the costumes of the true! If there is any ‘true’ authority all! If one can trust in anything! If there is not a rift in the very firmament! If it is not all rubbish, waste, anarchy, a shapeless mass, ruin, chaos—If the very ground beneath our feet does not give way—!” “Oh,” Jean Valjean said, stumbling on a loose paving stone; he lost his balance, clutched at Javert’s coat, and dragged him to the side. Javert staggered.  In a moment the two of them had fallen to the cobblestones in a confused painful tangle of limbs. “Hmm!” Javert said, extricating himself from underneath Jean Valjean. Then he rose to his hands and knees and shook the sewer mire off himself, like a dog shaking the mud out of its fur.  “This is why thought is useless,” Javert explained with a wag of his finger, haughtily dropping his eyelids. “See there! I was too busy thinking over some nonsense or other I have already settled, that I did not see the loose stone. You see what it is.” “Ah,” Jean Valjean said, lying face-down on the pavement.

[sixteenth-days]

the heart of the pyre

[This is a ficlet by my cowriter Zeph expanding on a scene from our bud @liloinkoink's Lamplight fic!]

There’s an army in Dogwarts. 

It masses and seethes, left behind like so much kindling scrub after spring’s riot of flowers has dried away its beauty under the blazing sun. It sparks. It catches.

There’s a fire in Dogwarts, and its people are dying. Ren is among them, not doing that, rushing between wells and walls, streaked with smoke or blood or charcoal, shouting to and from his people as they coordinate bucket brigades and wrench open escape routes. He had a sword. He’s lost it in the fray, and now he has a plank of wood scrounged from the base of a half-built wall. Intermittently, it’s been catching fire.

Please, he begs, mouthing the word, catching his breath, wrenching an axe out of his ribs and throwing it generally back in the direction it came from.

They’ve lost a good portion of the market district already. The charred bones of children litter the ground in skeletons of buildings. Ren is the walls and shield and life of this place. Protecting it is what he’s for.

Please.

Please, he begs. He’s a god already, but it’s a prayer anyway, to himself, to what he’s willing to become. Please. I made myself a god. I’ll make myself anything.

Spark and kindling, on his heart, on his charcoal bones. Please please please please please.

It catches.

Ren knows every corner of Dogwarts; built many of them; repaired more. He knows the sidestreets and markets, the walls of his own temple. He’s the closest thing there is to being Dogwarts, as much as anything has ever been- his bones aren’t paving stones and his blood isn’t wellwater but they may as well be, the way he loves, the way the city loves him back.

And yet he’s never known it so completely as in this moment, redefining himself as something that consumes what dares harm it, scraping power from his bones and heart to save it, never known how to set it ablaze and how to not, never known the grain of wood the melting point of steel the flickering ashes of human skin. He’s known what Dogwarts looks like to a human. To a god that loves it. 

He’s learning, in flashes too ceaseless to pull apart, what it looks like to a pyre.

In the future, if he’s remembered, the poets will say this was inevitable: that the moment he survived the licking flames by dint of his own self-iterative nature, the moment he built himself a pyre and didn’t die, the moment he made himself something more-than-human but remained, essentially, himself, that in that moment he only put off the inevitable, and doomed himself to one day become the thing that should have killed him.

Ren wouldn’t, though. He makes choice and choice and choice, and sacrifices his flesh to the flames like he once sacrificed his mortality, and he burns. And he burns.

And he burns, and unlike fire doesn’t die, and like himself doesn’t die, names himself protection and power and pyre and doesn’t die.

His people flee, flooding out the gates, out the paths he makes between himself for them, afraid and unafraid of the licking flame of him. He sees them go, lit in orange and red. He tails them, leads them, surges upon their attackers, burning in thin lines between cobblestones, blackening slate, consuming bone. He sees their faces, flat flickering images, sees them the way fire sees, melting points and fuel, sees them the way the god of Dogwarts does, beloved faces passing through the smoke.

He does all this, becomes all this, sees all this hears all this, a surging screaming roar rising rising rising up with the flame of him, rising up with the smoke of him, him who is Dogwarts who is the fire consuming Dogwarts, who is Ren, still, somehow, between flashes of heat and light.

And, well. Ren has experience immolating himself for his people, but even a god will stumble, especially if that god is, at its heart, just one man who loves so deeply he’ll make himself into anything. One man, even a god, is only so much against an army. Even a god can lose. Even a fire. Ren doesn't die, but a pyre is an ending.

The city empties. The fire, which is a god, sputters, retreats, mourns, but doesn’t fade. The years turn, winter to spring again, ashes like snow on the breeze, spring to summer again. And on these charred, beloved grounds, victim to sun and rain and scouring wind-

There’s a fire in Dogwarts, and it doesn’t die.

[natural-indian-sandstone]

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[searchingforserendipity25]

Daeron/Maglor "...because the world is ending"? 😚

Hi @polutrope <3 This one one has been living in my docs as Daemags date night (the night to end all nights) for a month. Here it is at last!

The Night to End All Nights

Daeron had been deep into the roadless deserts, when Arien fell - her last blazing sunset had lit the dunes with dreadful beauty, rose sand purples and a red redder than red.

Then, the quiet. Handfuls of stars, snuffed out one after another.

He made his way onwards. Once, the land had not been desert; once, there had been paths of cobblestones paved with sound craft, and there had been chariots, carriages, riders and companies making their ways from glorious cities whose names were lost in the dust, removed from the world entirely, if not for Daeron's memory.

Daeron lived much in memory, now. There the dry well, there the empty streets of the empty city. Here, a deep-rooted peach tree had grown, where only a gray husk remained - he had gathered wild fruits from its generous boughs, shared them with an old enemy in the shelter of its shade, licked the juices from his fingertips and wrist and mouth until he shook as finely as the green leaves in the summer breeze.

Wherever he passed the land groaned with its own undoing.

Beleriand had been thus ruined, in its moribund years; but this was a ravaging wasting sickness, not a wound upon Arda to be solved with the amputation of one continent or another. Above and around and in all places a hundred, a thousand birds flew madly, till they dropped exhausted upon the last grass of the last spring.

The matter of the sky splintered and rained down great boulders of iron that shook and shattered the earth, smoldering with a fell fire, all the hard stone of the mountain ranges shaking and shaking like a single fevered body, bound up in strange resonances of power. One fell near enough to him that the raised dust clung to his lungs and fouled his throat for a time: and then Daeron grew afraid, for a time, shaken from the clear, beautiful rage against Morgoth into fright.

The cough passed, slowly.

The very air grew colder, made cruel without the sun. The waters grew wilder, without the moon; and all creatures grew despairing and violent, in the absence of starlight.

Still: Daeron went onwards. There was a great epilogue to judge - he was not a light-hearted critic, but he did intend to be there at the end, and at the start as well.

And he had an appointment to keep. They had agreed on this, a long time ago, and Daeron for his part was determined to cross crevasses as needed not to be the faithless one.

He had not thought Maglor would fail to be there. Not truly, in any case - not this time.

The land leaned towards the gaping of the world, its old longing for water calling out so starkly it was almost a song. This place had been full of life, once: a lake with many small islands, many new-made voices raised in song rippling the waters.

All the little water that remained reflected only darkness above, darkness around. Not enough remained of the waters of Cuiviénen to be drunk. Daeron’s torch lit it like the flare of a false moon, fading as passed it by.

It was quite beautiful, in its way. All things were unraveling to Song at last: the last fields of grass clinging to the cliff-side called out a rustling wind-song even as they turned to ash, glorious a rush of Music with the memory of the seed’s patience in winter and the growing rush of spring turning to the conflagration of summer.

Daeron closed his eyes. Did he weep, at the beauty of it? He could not sing. It was not time, yet; his voice curled thick and urgent in his aching throat, waiting.

They met at the very edge of the shoreline, where the whitewater rush of the shattered Encircling Sea broke into the gaping maw of the Void. The fall was very steep, the precipice very high, taller than any tower ever wrought. The sound of the water was an unnerving, slithering quiet, for it fell through fogs and mists; and the fall had no end.

A single raised light flickered, there where crumbling stone and air met, but the burned hand that held it up did not flinch from the licking slants of wind-swept fire.

“You are late,” Maglor said, chin raised. His voice, too, was less splendid than it might have been. Certainly less proud. Daeron’s heart turned in his chest, treacherously fond. “And I see you have not even brought any wine, either.”

“It was your turn to bring the wine,” Daeron pointed out. His words rasped in his throat a little, at the start. “I brought it last time."

"Forgive me! If it is any consolation," Maglor said. "I crossed the lands where the marketplace where those sweet bean pastries you loved once stood. Alas! Nought but ruins remain. There, here, everywhere! I had half a mind to start without you."

"That is well enough," Daeron said. He felt a little drunk already, dizzy with terror and Maglor's proximity.

His face caught the torch light, his eyes very bright. Maglor smiled at him. It was an effort - he could see the ancient grief moving in his face, a depth like the strata of the earth being pressed away to make room for it.

They had met on appointed dates two dozen times altogether. By the white piers of Belfalas or the moors of Arnor, sharing the same flask under the vibrant stars of Rhûn’s fields. Brushing knuckles; pressing their mouth’s where a touch had been, in the indulgent absurdity of second-hand lovemaking between two ancient creatures.

They had met. Not many times, but often enough; and always at the parting, regardless of how sweet or how bitter it might be, there was the renewed promise. We shall meet at the end! Even when it had been said in contempt and fury, and the end of the world not long enough to suit the day’s rage.

It passed, the anger. When one lived as long as they did, it grew very difficult to cleave to anything for very long. Grief was a habit, and singing duty and care and craft; all the rest passed and thinned as mist in the sun. Until they met again - until they met each other, and all colours grew bright, the winds colder, the summers gentler.

Daeron waved it away, lightly, light-hearted. O, he felt mad, trapped against the great maw of the black night - but a strange thing very like a laugh trembled on his throat.

"I know I shall! That is not my concern. I knew you would not start without me,” Daeron said. "I could not doubt it. And yet I am glad that I was late; I could not know how much of gladness remained, before I saw your light in the dark, waiting."

“Then I am glad," Maglor said, and the salt that clung to his hair prickled Daeron's nose when he neared. "Though it was a cold wait, and the journey colder still. You give me too much credit. For once! But I could not tarry. There was nowhere else to walk to, nor any other place I could wish to be."

“It is quite beautiful,” Daeron said, looking upon the cliffside. His eyes strained to see the scant starlight reflecting on the distant spray, silvering the night for brief instants. “In its way.”

“The sea was more beautiful,” Maglor said. "Its white sands and silver pebbles gleaming, and the black basalt sand of the Western islands. Gone, all gone! Now we are islanders only, the Encircling Sea the only sea; and its waters fall beyond reaching. I miss the sea-that-was, though it never did thank me for my company."

The mountains were gone. The fallow fields, and the valleys with their crumbling walls left abandoned in long lost days - the great cities of Men, one empire after another devoured by a greater and most ancient greed.

They had seen many kingdoms rise and fall together, over time; but there had been a constancy in that, not this absence of voices and wills, this death-bound silence.

It had not been often that they had wandered together for long. That was a thing neither of them could withstand easily - not they, minstrels to the dead, whose last elegiac duties were not suited to company. Their paths diverged, coming apart to come together again, and there had been joy too with every bitter parting. But they had agreed on this, under the light of the stars, Ages ago. Cuiviénen, at the end of all things - this much, at least, when the time came, at the end.

Daeron laid a hand on his cheek, and felt the warmth of it with a dizzying desire. So it would be this, then, he thought. The last touch; the last kiss, soft as a balm, a vertiginous fall into an embrace from a height no lesser than the sundered face of the breaking world. Daeron held him close with fierce hands, chased the stains of bitter soot on Maglor’s heeks with his mouth, tangled his fingers in braidless curls as dark as the night.

The last, the last! His eyes stung. Daeron was greedy, at the last, covetous with love as had ever been his vice, slow to relinquish. Love renewed all things, even grief; though the grief of Arda's fall had seeped into him into a killing drought, and no more tears remained in him to be shed.

The Music murmured its own last notes, a soundless song of mingled joy and despair.

More despair, at the end, and Daeron had feared, feared, feared it tremendous, more than the Starkinder's defeat or the death of all fruiting trees. Wandering alone in the lightless dark, voice failing and nothing listening, he had thought on the Theme and feared there would not be enough of joy, in the end - had judged his purpose beyond himself, all of Melian's careful and wise tutelage wasted and worn through.

So it had been, in solitude.

"Sweet Daeron. Forgive me,” Maglor said once more, sighing against his neck. His solid warmth was no greater than the flame's, wavering much as Daeron wavered on his feet. "I bring no gifts, and my might is diminished. The melody is yours, if you like. It is not wine, but it might suit your tastes as well, or better."

"It shall be," Daeron said. He knew it as he spoke, and almost laughed for how clear it was to him; he gripped Maglor's hand tightly. "But not mine alone, I judge; for are we not both singers of laments? One last paeon, then: and let not all things that were good and great and terrible fall unremembered, while there is breath with which to sing them."

Above them and around them the last stars went pale, and weary, and dead. The two torches flared, faded, lost the last of their fire.

Then, the quiet. Daeron stepped back. Raised a hand, to mark the time.

It was very easy, after all, to sing together at the end of all things: easy as summer, even in the dark.

[stonefooting]

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[satohqbanana]

Rewrite Tag

Rules: Rewrite the previous person's lines in your own style, then supply a few new lines for others to rewrite.

A.k.a. my favorite writing activity (again). Let's GOOOOO!!! Apparently, I tagged @kaylinalexanderbooks in my last Rewrite tag, but the published post must've eaten up her line and my rewrite of her line. 😭 I do remember doing it; do take note that I reviewed and edited the post before I published it so it says "I have two sets of lines from two writers". I'm so sorry Kaylin for the mixup. As an apology, please have three rewrites:

Line 1: Warning: Body horror, possibly upsetting imagery

Orange and white fur tore out of the follicles of my skin, with high-frequency black stripes coating my body. My skull squatched and stretched and crunched into a new form, ears and muzzle rearranging themselves into a feline structure. My spine and hips warped and elongated into a longer torso, stretching into a tail, contourting until I had no choice but to put my hands, morphing into padded paws, on the ground. My nails grew alarmingly quick into claws I could retract, my teeth burst out of my gums into fangs. My entire body tensed in the exhilarating pain. Once I was comfortably in the complete form, I almost collapsed out of relief.

Mine:

Now see, while the power to transform is truly amazing, the act of transformation can be quite a bother. During which, pain overwhelms my human flesh. I keep my eyes open to watch streaks of black, white, and orange cover my arms and long, sharp nails grow from my fingers. I fall to my knees as my torso elongates and my spine stretches into a tail. I support myself with padded paws as my skull morphs itself into a boxier form. I must admit, though, that the shift from hearing sounds from next to myself to hearing sounds from above myself can be a bit of a delight - as is completing my very furry feline transformation. My paws are all cold and sweaty, but my heart relaxes in relief.

Line 2:

“How’re you and Niri? I accidentally found out you texted him.” “We’re fine.” Hannah smiled a bit. “Is that a hint of red on your cheeks?” I asked. “Now, don’t you start,” Hannah said, pointing harshly. “I had to deal with Charlie and Amanda grilling me about the boy I was texting in your absence.” I smiled. “I’ll come save you.” “Thank you.” Hannah swung the door open and we went back into the crowded family room. I tried to ignore the devices pulling me back.

Mine:

"So. That little text of yours." "Hm?" The slight flush of Hannah's cheek tells me I don't need to say the thing. I still say the thing, though. "I meant Niri." "Oh, don't me!" She crossed her arms and turned her head away. "Thanks to your little antic, I've barely survived the hot seat with Charlie and Amanda." "Alright, I guess I do owe you one. If anybody asks, it's because I like the attention, and not because silly widdle Hannah isn't ready for The Talk--" With a harsh palm, she hit my shoulder multiple times. I can only laugh. It even distracts me from the devices probing into my head. "…thanks." "I got you, Babe. Our blood kin better be ready for me." With that, Hannah swung the door open, and we presented ourselves before the family.

Line 3:

Jack scrutinized the castle before him. It stretched up, up, up into the sky--and as they were already in the clouds, Jack didn’t want to know how high the tallest tower was above the ground--how he wouldn’t like to be the poor bloke who was defenestrated from it. The castle was made of some sort of dark stone, giving it the unsettling feel of a haunted house. There was the cobblestone path, yes, but on either side of it, Jack realized that yes, they were still on clouds, though where the castle was, the clouds were dark and gray, and when Jack listened closely enough, he realized that there was a booming irregular pulse of thunder that shook the ground ever-so-slightly, enough to cause the stone beneath his shoes to rattle.

Mine:

Jack followed the cobblestone path that paved the gray clouds around him. Soon, he arrived before an eerie castle held together by strong masonry. It knocked on the gate of the highest level of heaven - so he imagined as he gazed upward. Standing atop its towers must've been exhilarating and horrifying - the last fool who'd fallen from one definitely saw their life flash before their eyes. As that incident came into mind, something flashed in the inky clouds as well. Seconds after, thunder rolled and the ground - or the clouds - shook in its booming roar.

And the new line you must try to rewrite is this snippet I wrote for a test scene in Arcanium:Liberatio:

Curious, he followed the voice. A sensation from his palptayl gave him directions. Following that impulse, he exited the market district and found himself before the Garden of Hues. Beyond the trellis gates were pillars peeking from the vines they supported and trees carved to create arbors beneath the sky. Fragrant flowers of different colors bloomed here and there and short wooden fences marked the stone path before him. The sound of running water almost dampened the song that piqued his interest, but the melody called to him once more. Ignoring the sights before him, he placed trust in his palptayls and jogged through the garden. His motions disturbed the surrounding fauna but he cared little. Desired implored him to uncover the mystery and he ached to know whose song this was that instilled intense emotions in him.

Please note that "palptayls" was my term for a special set of antennae that Lyarshu has. This is temporary, as I realize having too many special terms can confuse readers in the long run. :(

This is a gentle tag for @wyked-ao3, @literarynecromancy, and @drchenquill.

Arcanium tag: @philosophika (ask to be added)

[thegatesofsilverandbone]

Liam sat up abruptly in bed, his body drenched in sweat. The memory of the game lingered vividly in his mind, but something else was happening now—something more real, more intense. His skin tingled, his muscles ached, and before he could make sense of it, his hands began to change.

He stared in shock as his fingers thickened and elongated, sharp claws sprouting from his fingertips. Thick, rough fur burst from his arms, crawling up his chest. His bones cracked and shifted, his legs lengthening and growing stronger. His face stretched, his jaw lengthening into a snout filled with sharp, gleaming teeth. He stumbled to the mirror and saw his reflection: he had transformed into the gnoll shaman from the game. His breath hitched as he stared at his bestial form, but the shock didn’t stop there.

Outside his window, the familiar suburban neighborhood had changed. Where there had once been quiet streets and houses, now there stood towering, fantastical buildings—stone structures adorned with carvings, banners flapping in the wind, and the faint glow of magic illuminating the streets. The air hummed with an energy that felt alive, and the sounds of creatures moving echoed faintly in the distance.

Across town, Ethan’s transformation had begun as well. His body bulged with muscle, fur spreading rapidly across his skin as his jaw extended into a snarling wolf’s muzzle. His hands, now claws, tore through his sheets as he transformed into the powerful werewolf he had chosen in the game. When he looked out his window, he saw not the familiar city, but a vast, fantasy metropolis. Towering structures lined the streets, and the sound of heavy footsteps and growls filled the air. Beastmen of all shapes and sizes roamed the streets—wolves, bears, lizards, and more, each powerful and fearsome, living as though this city had always been theirs.

Jared, whose transformation was smooth and silent, moved gracefully as sleek black fur coated his body. His eyes gleamed with a predator’s sharpness, and his movements were fluid, almost effortless. He felt alive, attuned to every sound and smell around him, and when he looked out the window, his breath caught. The familiar skyline had been replaced by towering spires, glowing softly with magical energy. Beastmen of every kind moved about with purpose, and the streets were bustling with a strange, otherworldly life.

Ben, the last to feel the change, was hit by a wave of raw strength as his body swelled with muscle. His chest broadened, fur growing thick and bristly as his form took on the power of a bear. His hands became large, clawed paws, and his face morphed into a fierce bear’s snout. When he looked outside, the world he had known was gone. Instead of the peaceful suburbs, he now gazed upon a grand cityscape, filled with towering stone buildings and beastmen. The world had transformed, and they were no longer human.

The four friends, now fully transformed, met in the center of what had once been Liam’s neighborhood. The streets were paved with cobblestone, and the air was filled with the scents of fire and magic. Beastmen of every type wandered the city—large, hulking creatures mingling with lithe, swift ones. Wolves, bears, lions, and all manner of fantastical beasts filled the streets, living their lives as though this world had always been here. It was a city unlike any they had ever seen, yet it felt strangely familiar.

"This is insane," Ethan growled, flexing his new werewolf muscles. "What the hell happened?"

Liam, still reeling from his own transformation, looked around in awe. "I don't know, but it’s like the game came to life… everything’s different now."

Ben, towering over them in his bear form, nodded slowly. "We’re not in the real world anymore. This is… something else."

Jared, sleek and feline in his panther form, remained quiet, his eyes scanning their surroundings. "Look at them," he said, gesturing toward the other beastmen. "They don’t seem surprised by any of this. It's like they’ve been living here forever."

The city bustled with life, beastmen going about their daily routines—traders haggling in markets, guards patrolling the streets, and children, both human and beast, playing games in the alleys. This was a world where magic and beasts ruled, where strength and power were paramount.

As they stood there, trying to comprehend the new reality, they realized that they had become part of something much larger. The game wasn’t just a game anymore. They had transformed, not just physically, but into beings that belonged in this new city—this world of magic, beasts, and fantasy.

And in this new world, they were no longer just players. They were part of the story, part of the city, and the possibilities stretched out before them like the endless streets and towering spires of the beastman metropolis.