#de nekker

[lachendelama]

Wachtrij entertainment bij Provinciaal sport- en recreatiecentrum De Nekker in Mechelen. Niet alleen voor vermaak, maar ook om er voor te zorgen dat het goed door loopt en iedereen bekend is met de regels.

#wachtrij #entertainment #denekker #mechelen

[misscalming]

I hate history as a subject- “to what extent did the spread of enlightenment ideas lead to the outbreak of the revolution” but all my brain remembers is the doomed yaoi subplot between Robespierre and Camille, Danton being an unkillable baby , Saint-Just being the worse son ever and Marat living in the sewers.

[bestiarium]

Oude Rode Ogen [Flemish/Belgian folktales]

When it comes to Belgian folktales, ‘Oude Rode Ogen’ is in a bit of a weird position. The story is common on online blogs about folklore or mythology, usually hailed as one of the most well-known Belgian monsters. But if you actually try to find Belgian sources or ask Belgian experts, you’ll find that the story is virtually unknown there, only being mentioned by a handful of authors. Therefore, I suspect that this was a very niche tale that only recently gained traction via the internet.

The name ‘Oude Rode Ogen’ literally translates to ‘Old Red Eyes’ which is fitting because the monster is a giant black dog with brightly burning red eyes. He can transform into a very tall man, about 2m10 (6’ 11”). According to art historian Hilde van Gelder, tales of this creature were told in Mechelen (Flanders) in the late 17th century. In these folktales, Oude Rode Ogen is a swamp-dwelling monster that takes children who venture too close to the marshlands. It hunts at night and sometimes attacks adults as well. Oude Rode Ogen is a bogeyman, meaning this story was told to dissuade children from playing near potentially dangerous places (and from staying up late, for the monster was said to eat kids who are awake at night). Vincent Menten, author of ‘The Beast of Flanders’, additionally claimed that the creature had the power to take away the ability to hear, see and talk of anyone who looks directly at it, leaving its victims mute, blind and deaf.

This creature was also known in Wallonia (the southern part of the country) where it was called “Le Tchén al Tchinne” which is a regional dialect for “Le Chien à la Chaîne” which translates to “the dog on a chain”. Hence, the monster supposedly dragged a heavy metal chain behind it.

The story claims that after several children had inexplicably gone missing in the region, locals began to suspect that these disappearances were connected. Rumors began to arise that the kids were taken by a werewolf. Eventually, a tall man was caught in an attempt to kidnap a young girl. He was naked and tried to run away when his attempt was foiled, but got shot. Instead of dying, however, the man transformed into a large black dog, which quickly fled the scene. With no other option, the people of Mechelen combed the city for suspicious individuals and found a poor homeless man. Though his connection to the city’s unnatural enemy could not be proven, he was found guilty and executed. To make sure the monster wouldn’t come back, the body was skinned entirely and the skin was buried underneath the local cathedral.

But the vengeful spirit of the creature continued to roam the area at night, in the form of a large black dog with glowing red eyes. Oude Rode Ogen is searching for his skin, so he can put it on and be reborn again.

This monster is thought to be related to (or to be the same creature entirely) as the Nekker, a Flemish aquatic bogeyman that attacked people who ventured too close to wells and rivers. Its name is derived from an old Germanic verb meaning ‘to wash’, referring to the aquatic nature of the monsters. Though the name ‘Oude Rode Ogen’ is very rarely mentioned in offline sources, myths and folktales of Nekkers are well documented.

Sources: De Lavigne, G., 2015, Les Chiens Célèbres, Réels et Fictifs, dans l’art, la culture et l’histoire, Lulu, 572 pp. Van Gelder, H., 2015, Contour 7, Fooling Utopia, Leuven University. (image source: Emryswolf on Deviantart. This image depicts a generic evil black dog, as they are common characters in world mythology)

[inexplicifics]

Very much enjoyed the curse-breaking sex fic between Lambert and Milena!! But it really reminds me how much I would very super duper extremely like to see a scenario where someone finally gives a noble father – such as the Duke de Roggeven or Count Lettenhove, to name a couple of examples purely at random – exactly what they damn well deserve, I.e. sluggification or nekker feeding etc etc. If you ever fancy a bit of noble murder, I will be a very enthusiastic supporter! :)

I really do need to let Yen slug someone one of these days, you're entirely correct.

[michaelgrieveblogt]

Wandelen en Fietsen van Mechelen naar Muizen

Wandelen en Fietsen van Mechelen naar Muizen

Vandaag gaan we met de fiets en te voet van Mechelen naar Muizen en terug.In deze video neem ik jullie mee tijdens mijn wandel en fietstocht langs de Dijle.Dit mooi stukje natuur brengt ons van Mechelen naar Muizen.De beelden werden gemaakt op 9 maart 2021Veel plezier met deze video 😉Als je mijn video’s leuk vindt zou ik het fijn vinden moest je een duimpje omhoog geven en abonneren op mijn…

[malinials-blog]

Mechelen maakt zich klaar voor Halloween...

Mechelen maakt zich klaar voor Halloween…

Mechelen maakt zich duidelijk klaar voor Halloween. Afgelopen week zijn er al halloweenfeestjes en evenementen gepasseerd, we maken ons allemaal klaar om dinsdag er een griezelige nacht van te maken.

View this post on Instagram

De nieuwe kalender staat online! Check snel onze link in bio 😉 #hellooctober #malinials 🍂🎃

A post shared by malinials(@malinials) on…

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

Duny: Prince of Maecht (Updated)

Updated all the Duny photos I edited instead of re-blogging the old ones - with the exception of the last two. With the new tools at my disposal, gave my old Duny edits a cleaner and sharper look.

Many thanks to @alphagravy who provided the raw photos of Emhyr in Tesha Mutna armor, and the Toussaint knight’s armor, and to The Bloody Baron for the nekker and bandit BG.

De-aging, recoloring, hand-painted hair and spikes are all done in photoshop and paintool SAI by me.

[jerimystoltzcreations]

May 27, 2022 Folklore Month Oude Rode Ogen (Old Red Eyes in English), also known as the Beast of Flanders and The Necker and The Nikker (but Oude Roge Ogen is not aquatic) in his human form, is the Belgian Boogeyman (or Boogeydog). He is a bad-tempered giant black dog with red eyes, sharp teeth, the speed, intelligence and strength of the Dire Wolf who is feared for his uncontrollable anger, especially to misbehaving children who stayed up way too late past their bedtime. He haunts Flanders, Belgium staring from the late 17th Century and early 18th Century after reports of children turned up missing and believed to be victims of a cannibalistic shapeshifter. Witnesses claimed of seeing a large naked black man running away after trying to steal a young girl from her bed, he was shot at and seen to change into a large black dog. A homeless black man was soon found living near Nekkerspoel and without trial was lynched and skinned alive. The skin is said to be buried in the basement of St. Rumbold's Cathedral in Mechelen. During the early 18th century till present a ghostly dark figure with fiery red eyes has been seen in Mechelen and surrounding areas. It is said that he seeks his skin to become whole again as the demonic figure he once was. During the 20th century the ghostly being became known as The Nikker, also known as De Nekker, a story told to children that stayed up past their bedtime that they'd be eaten alive if they didn't go to sleep. #CreativeMultiverse #Folklore #OudeRodeOgen #art #artwork #artistofinstagram #artist #artistforhire #Custom #create #drawing #drawingaday #draweveryday #illustration #pencil #sketch #ink #colordrawing #Sketchcard #fabercastell #copic #twitchstreamer https://www.instagram.com/p/Cec_HPMu4mn/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[fandom-star]

Title: Once A Lettenhove...

Prompt: Lettenhove

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier (established), Jaskier & Ferrant de Lettenhove

Rating: T

Warnings: swearing used in anger, discussions of being disowned, paranoia of “what could have happened” in reference to The Mountain

Written for @themountainarchives

Notes on lore before proceeding: I put a lot of background research into this and came up with a few things -

There does not seem to be a place called Lettenhove in the Witcher canon, I scoured everything. (I enjoy other people who use it as a place, but my brain won’t let me!)

From there my brain went "what if some of the royal families worked in houses like the noble families work for Klingons (Star Trek)?" So I went with that, because I can work with Jaskier being a Viscount of Lettenhove (house) in place of a Viscount of Lettenhove (place). 

Everything about Ferrant (Jask's cousin) was picked up from the Witcher wiki - his page is sparse but it did the job alongside authorial liberty.

Read on AO3 or under the cut

“I have a bad feeling about this, Geralt, why don’t we head back, I think I saw something of interest on the noticeboard of that nice little-” Geralt stopped in front of him and turned to face the uncharacteristically nervy bard with an expression of both concern and disgruntlement that only the Witcher could achieve. “Is something wrong, Jaskier?” he asked. “You’ve been trying to argue against this contract since we picked up word of it.” Still seeming bothered, Jaskier shook his head as though to dispel his thoughts. “No. No, fine. Ignore me, probably tired or something,” he said, not particularly reassuringly, before skirting around his companion. “Come on! Don’t want someone else doing the job for us!” After watching Jaskier’s back for a short moment, Geralt hummed, unconvinced about his partner’s insistence that he was okay, before following him, figuring that Jaskier would talk if he wanted to.

Jaskier had been on edge since he and Geralt had arrived in Kerack, his eyes constantly wandering, searching to avoid anyone he recognised. Geralt had certainly noticed, but had the kindness to keep quiet about it. Sighing, Geralt stopped to dismount Roach and lead her by her reins so that he could reassuringly brush his hand with Jaskier’s. A small, thankful smile graced Jaskier’s lips as he squeezed the Witcher’s hand. However, it seemed that he’d let his guard down to embrace Geralt’s gesture for a moment too long, because: “Julian!” a cheerful if somewhat haughty voice exclaimed in greeting, and Jaskier knew without looking that the voice was approaching and there was nothing he could do about it. He turned away from Geralt, but not without seeing his partner’s curious head tilt. After steeling himself, Jaskier met his cousin’s eyes, which were sparkling with an excitement that seemed at odds with his proud frame. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen any of my fellow Lettenhoves!” Ferrant continued, not seeming to pick up on Jaskier’s discomfort. “It’s surely been twenty years since I’ve seen you in any case, cousin! You haven’t changed a bit!” Jaskier could feel the second Geralt realised how he knew the name Lettenhove. “Lettenhove?” the Witcher asked, his gaze on Jaskier piercing as the bard shrunk slightly. “Ah! Yes, Viscount Ferrant de Lettenhove, royal instigator of King Belohun,” Ferant told Geralt as a means of introducing himself. “And who might you be?” Jaskier could feel Geralt’s tension, as well as his own, before Geralt replied. “Geralt of Rivia, I came on word that the city is having trouble with a nekker colony.” Ferrant blinked in surprise. “We sent out word quite some time ago, the king was getting quite worried that no-one was going to come. I can take you to see him right away.” Ferrant gave Jaskier a confused look that the bard didn’t respond to, before leading the pair through the city. Geralt said nothing to Jaskier.

“You never told me you were a noble.” Geralt quietly commented as he went through his bags. Jaskier sighed as he perched on the edge of the bed. “I suppose I assumed you knew.” “Of course I knew you were well-off, I didn’t know you were from the fucking Lettenhoves!” Geralt exploded, making Jaskier flinch slightly. “Didn’t realise it made a difference.” Jaskier whispered. “Of course it makes a fucking difference! Your family- you could have had me killed and no-one would have noticed or questioned it! Your cousin’s a fucking executioner Jaskier!” Jaskier frowned, watching the Witcher stand by the window with his back to him, hands in fists at his sides. “What… is this about the mountain? Geralt, it’s been three years since you apologised for that! Even before you did, I wouldn’t have been drastic enough to even think about wanting you dead!” Jaskier told him, tentatively approaching to lean his shoulder against the wall next to the window. He saw Geralt relax slightly, and smiled slightly in relief. “Good. Now I’m going to talk, and you’re going to actually listen to me ramble for once, because this is actually important.” “I always listen.” Geralt murmured, sincerely, gazing at Jaskier from the corner of his eye, making Jaskier smile wider. “Good. Well then. Technically, I am not nobility anymore. I used to be, I used to be a viscount, like Ferrant. But my parents disapproved of almost everything that I did, setting my heart on barding and travelling was the last straw and I was disowned as soon as I left for my studies at Oxenfurt. This is the first time I’ve seen any relative in about twenty years.” Geralt was silent but had turned to look at Jaskier. “You knew he was going to be here,” the Witcher quietly said. “That’s why you’ve been trying to guide us away from Kerack.” Jaskier nodded, not expecting his partner to respond by hugging him. “I’m sorry. For my outburst.” Geralt apologised, his voice a loud whisper in Jaskier’s ear. “It’s okay,” Jaskier assured him. “I’m sorry for not telling you about this sooner. They were… my family were just awful to me, and I never wanted them to be a relevant conversation topic.” “I understand,” Geralt said. “I would also understand if you want us to leave, find another contract.” “No. This one’s paying well, and we’re here now anyway, with a comfortable room for once that isn’t draining our pockets,” Jaskier insisted. “I’ll just do what I can to avoid Ferrant.” Gently, Geralt cupped Jaskier’s face and kissed him delicately. When he pulled back, Jaskier was smiling fondly. “Why haven’t you asked about my name?” he suddenly asked, still smiling. “Mm. Not a relevant conversation topic,” Geralt replied, kissing him again. “I… I love you, Jas.” Jaskier lightly chuckled against Geralt’s lips, before kissing him firmly. “I love you too, Geralt.”

[lemondropsssss]

ok so i accidentally posted the wrong version of this first chapter ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ who knows how i managed that, here’s the actual version with like, finished thoughts and shit. this story is on ao3 here

.

The mountain happens.

Words are said in a moment of anger and fear. Terrible words. The Witcher couldn't have hurt him more if he'd used his sword. Jaskier has made Geralt angry before, but this? This was different. This time he means it.

So he walks away.

Doesn’t get the stories from the others. He stops at their campsite and packs up his gear as quickly as he can. He knows there’s a few of his items in Geralt’s pack but he ignores them. Rooting through the man’s belongings with abandon is not something he should be doing anymore.

His ears are ringing and all he can hear is the steady thud of his heartbeat and the beat of his lute on his back as he walks.

His lute. Jaskier stops short and quickly pulls the instrument from its case. Still as beautiful as the day Filavandrel had given it to him, barring one small dent when he’d used the poor girl as club. He’d taken out four of the bandit’s teeth with that blow. Geralt had smiled at him.

Now thinking of that moment brings bile to his mouth, and he retches horribly into the tall grass. The rushing in his ears gets louder and louder. His grip tightens and he can hear the unhappy twang of pressed strings.

He needs to get it away from him as humanly possible so Jaskier grips his lute and flings it far over the mountain side. He doesn't hear it hit the ground, but knows there will be nothing left of it but scrap.

Good.

He keeps walking.

Jaskier is alone, half drunk on lack of sleep and actual drink from his hipflask when it happens. When the last twenty-two years of his life fragments around him.

It's the fucking metalsmith's that triggers it; one second he's ambling down the road in the vague direction of an inn, tavern, or otherwise amenable hayloft. And the next second he's brought to his knees by the smells of worked leather, hot steel, sword oil, and some burnt tang in the air he can't even name. It's distinctly Geralt and it breaks him.

Memories fall around him like shards of glass; cutting his skin until a biting stinging hurt is all he can feel. And when the pieces shatter they dig into him; flaming shards of the last decades burrow deep into him, the hurt taking root in his bones and the soles of his feet. And every piece sounds like...

Shut up, bard

Fuck off, Jaskier

Go away, boy

Why do you never listen?

He wanted you gone

You shouldn’t be here

He doesn’t like you

This is where we part, bard

He wanted to be rid of you

It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling

He’s telling you everything you need to know why don’t you take the hint you stupid useless excuse of a man

If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands

For once in your life do as your told

It takes Jaskier three months to get from the dragon mountains to Oxenfurt. Apparently, destroying his main way of generating income isn’t the best idea he’s ever had. It also doesn't help that most of the coin he does find he in turn spends primarily on wine and not say, getting to his destination in a timely fashion.

Cresting the hill, Oxenfurt is just as beautiful as he remembered it. He slogs through the city, thinking wistfully of one of Geralt's more useful talents; scaring other travelers well away meant less time pushing and shoving through people to get anywhere.

When he finally reaches the great carved gates to the University he’s stopped by two guards before he can even think to step closer.

“This entrance is for students, faculty, and the academics. Giving Door is around the back.” The guard gestured over his shoulder towards the back side of the citadel where Jaskier knew there was a free kitchen and a place to get staple supplies run by the University.

“Oh, but I am faculty, good sir,” He says with an easy smile. No need to antagonize the nice men with pointy sticks. “Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, at your service.” He mimes tipping his cap. The guards are not impressed.

It takes some wheedling, but soon the dean is summoned and Jaskier is recognized and clapped firmly on the shoulder and after just a little too long of the bowing and scraping and speaking of payment and contracts and gods cursed lesson-plans before Jaskier is allowed to retire to his rooms.

The rooms are as he left them, though he suspects that while he was being held captive by the dean someone came in to sweep, dust, and open the windows.

Here he is. Home. Or as much as passes for it anymore. He’d thought that Geralt was his home but- no. No. If he was going to do this and be here, he has to put that fanciful life aside. He has to accept that he doesn’t belong in the worlds of magic inhabited by witchers and sorceresses and powerful princesses. He was a bard. Less than that, he was a bard without an instrument.

Well then.

Time for a change.

The next morning he takes a long bath. His traveler's beard is scruffier than he likes, so he trims and shapes it carefully until he’s satisfied. It's important to look the part. He'd managed to squirrel away a hefty sum over the years, so he goes down to the city on a mission.

He buys new shirts, trousers, doublets, boots, coats, gloves. All in muted earth or jewel tones; burgundies, rusts, indigos, navies, and soft tawny browns. No black. He gets his hair cut shorter, something more fitting a professor at a prodigious university and not some fumbling idiot following a man who clearly doesn’t care for him.

When Jaskier gets home he carefully packs everything from his life with Geralt into a chest. His clothes, cloak, packs, songbook, and some small treasures children had given them as thanks. He grabs the last one, a crudely carved wooden cat. Geralt had been given this by an eight-year-old girl in some backwater village plagued by a nasty band of nekkers. She’d been so proud of her work, even Geralt couldn’t be a grouch to her. He puts that figurine back on the mantle, shuts the chest, and pushes it under the bed.

Slowly, he dresses in his new wardrobe. Shaking fingers struggle with new buttons, but he manages the shirt and half of the doublet. Trousers next, then boots. And finally, after an age of adjusting seams and doing then redoing buttons, he meets his eye in the floor length mirror.

The man before him is in his early forties. He's handsome, with a wide smile and bright blue eyes. Lightly built, but corded with muscles built over years on the road. A few streaks of grey swirl in his hair. He’s fit, almost six foot tall. Dark blue peeks from under his high necked burgundy doublet. Dressed like this, he looks like a professor and not some damned fool.

“Well then,” His voice is rough, even to his own ears. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” Saying it aloud made his breath catch, his stomach roll, but he stood firm. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” That felt marginally better. “Jaskier the Bard is dead.” Hardly any wobble to his voice at all that time. “Jaskier the Bard died on a mountain top, far from home and very alone.” Deep breath.

“My name is Professor Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

[bestiarium]

The Nekker [Flemish folklore; Dutch folklore]

In Dutch and Flemish folklore, these creatures are usually called ‘Nikkers’ or ‘Nickers’ but I wanted to refrain from using that word in the title. While the term was originally used to refer to aquatic mythical creatures, it was used in later times as a derogatory term for black people, under influence of a similar English word. The original term is thought to have originated from an old Germanic term for “bathing” reflecting the aquatic nature of these monsters.

In any case, these aquatic beings were mentioned by Adriaen Coenen in his 16th century “Visboeck”; he described them as malicious trickster spirits that also had good in them and were helpful and polite at times. They did, however, enjoy playing pranks on folks. Coenen claimed that Nikkers were marine creatures. In other sources, however, they lived in freshwater rivers, and sometimes they would steal people’s souls and store them in supernatural jars at the bottom of a river.

While the shape and abilities of these beings differed between stories, one characteristic they usually had was the ability to change shapes, and one of their favorite forms was that of an aquatic horse. For example, the castle of Lichtervelde (Belgium) was said to be haunted by a “Slotnikker” (castle Nikker) which often manifested as a horse to scare people. When people ventured close to the water at night, the beast would jump out of the depths to grab its victim and drag them into the water. It would pull them under but it always released them before they drowned, and then allowed them to escape (it was a malicious trickster spirit, but it did not kill people). Another prank this creature liked to pull was to hide itself in the barn. At night, when there were no people around, it would make awful noises that sounded like it was demolishing the entire building. People woke up and gathered around the barn but they didn’t dare to enter for they knew the area was haunted. When the sun rose, however, the noise stopped and the brave servants who ventured inside were surprised to find the entire barn untouched. Not a single tool was out of place, as if the Nikker had never been there.

One day, the creature had assumed the form of a horse like usual, and it waited in the meadow with the other horses. For some reason – perhaps it fell asleep? – it forgot to return to the water and it was still there the following morning. Now, the beast had lost its powers and one particularly cruel servant assumed it was a normal horse. He put the horse to work and set it in front of a harrow. The Nikker worked all day long, and when it rested for even a moment, the servant would cruelly whip it. When the night fell, the horse was suddenly engulfed in flames – for the creature had regained its power – and it took off into the sky while making terrible sounds. At midnight, someone knocked on all the doors and windows in the area but nobody dared to look at it. The farmer who worked at the fields heard a voice: “farmer, oh farmer, I threw your harrow into the water!”

The beast was still occasionally seen. Sometimes it was a horse, and sometimes it was a goat, with a lit candle between its horns. Eventually, the ponds and moat were filled up with sand or dried out, and the creature left. Supposedly, it moved to the Neuzebeek, a small stream close to the castle of Lichtervelde.

Folklore-wise, these tales are related to the Danish Nøkken and the German Nixe, both of which are similar aquatic bogeymen.

Finally, Nikkers were the subject of “De Verdwijning der Alvermannekes”, a 19th century book by pastor Jacob Lenaerts, about evil folklore creatures (representing paganistic heresy) that are driven out of from Flanders by the Christian faith. The book can be seen either as Christian anti-pagan propaganda or as an allegory for how Christianity drove out the local folktales and beliefs.

Sources: https://etymologiebank.nl/trefwoord/nikker2 https://www.abedeverteller.nl/?p=4003 Vlaams Sagenboek, by K. C. Peeters, Davidsfonds, Leuven Visboeck by Adriaen Coenen in 1579, which you can read here: https://galerij.kb.nl/kb.html#/nl/visboek/page/15/zoom/3/lat/-55.17886766328199/lng/52.55859375 Joos Meesters, “Boosaardige watergeest met dubieuze bijklank” in “Het Belang van Limburg”, March 27, 2021. (image source: Emma Weakley. Note that this image actually depicts a Kelpie, an entirely different mythical aquatic horse. I’m blatantly cheating)

[chirolibertusgebouwen]

Huur het Liberthuis

Het Liberthuis, de perfecte plaats voor jouw jeugdvereniging weekends (max. 30 personen) of vergaderingen, bijeenkomsten en cursussen in de week (max. 100 personen).

● tot 210m² binnenruimte ● groot speelterrein rond het gebouw en recht tegenover een speelbos ● overdekte gaanderij rondom het gebouw (hitte of regen zijn geen spelbrekers) ● sanitair, douche, keuken ● op wandelafstand van het stadscentrum, Nekkerspoel station, de speeltuinen en zwemvijvers van De Nekker, het zwembad Nekkerspool, natuurgebied Mechels broek, ….

Zijn je kinderen lid van de Chiro of woon je vlakbij? Dan kan je het Liberthuis ook huren voor een familiefeest. (max. 200 personen)

Prijzen

190€ voor 1 nacht of een hele dag (exclusief waarborg)

● huurprijs in de week €14/uur voor niet-commerciële organisaties (of €20/uur met keuken) ● huurprijs in de week €27,5/uur voor commerciële organisaties (of €35/uur met keuken)

Alle info én een up-to-date verhuurkalender zijn terug te vinden op www.kampas.be/nl/verblijf/liberthuis

Interesse? Mail naar Liberthuis@gmail.com

[jaskierswolf]

The Viscount and The Witcher pt.1/4

(Note: Reposted from my old blog. The rest can be found on my Ao3 or on my pinned masterlist)

Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove was bored. He’d been bored for some time now. In his youth he’d dreamed of becoming a travelling bard. He’d even focused his time in Oxenfurt on the liberal arts and had graduated quite successfully from the academy, but before he’d even begun his journey to becoming renowned troubadour, he’d been called back to his family home. The news of his father’s death had been an unfortunate one and he’d been forced to step up and become head of his vast estate.

There had been a moment, in the dead of night, witching hour, when he’d very nearly picked up his lute and fled.

He hadn’t.

He’d turned over and gone back to sleep. He did have a rather luxurious bed and he’d not been short of company to fill it with. He often wondered what would have become of him if he had run away that night, at barely eighteen. He often dreamed of the songs he could have written, the people he could have met, the adventures he could have had.

A deep part of him sorely regretted the path not taken.

Instead he drowned his sorrows in the most delicious wine from Toussaint and lured beautiful people to his bedchamber. He was determined to enjoy the few pleasures left to him in gluttonous amounts.

He gazed out of the window of his study into the gardens. They were stunning at this time of year. They weren’t the most well kept gardens, but he liked that. He enjoyed the wild long grass and the litany of yellow, white and purple weeds that sprung up in the summer. The sounds of bees filled the air, a constant low buzzing that he found both soothing and wildly distracting. He enjoyed a long stroll in the gardens when he wasn’t buried under paperwork. Quite frankly he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the different silk sheets used in the guest bedrooms or whether the local houses were paying their taxes in time. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if all of that diplomatic nonsense just disappeared?

Poverty could become a thing of the past. He’d given away vast amounts of his fortune whenever he could convince his lawyers to let the assets go but his estate only thrived more as the farmers, workers and merchants were able to work more efficiently and invested more funding into their livelihoods.

He couldn’t begrudge them that but he felt guilty for owning so much when they lived on so little so he kept feeding his money back into the surrounding villages and they kept growing and expanding their homes and businesses.

None of the surrounding lords or barons could understand how he did it.

He couldn’t exactly explain it himself.

He had been hoping to run his estate into the ground so he could run off and have the heroic adventures that he’d always dreamed of. Perhaps he would even run into one of those witchers. He was fascinated by witchers. He always had been, ever since he was a boy and he’d heard the rumours of the Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia. The rumours were that the man had slaughtered an entire village with his bare hands in some kind of blood-fuelled frenzy.

Julian didn’t believe that for a second.

He’d snuck down to the library and buried himself under books, scrolls and parchments, anything in his father’s great library with even the whiff of a witcher. He’d read bestiaries and fairytales, utterly bewitched by the tales of fae, vampires and werewolves. He devoured everything he could by candlelight. It was what had driven him to his chosen career as a bard. He wanted to experience those stories himself, he needed to live it. His thirst for knowledge and innate curiosity had seen him through Oxenfurt with ease. He’d been able to spend far too long in taverns and brothels whilst his peers studied books and manuscripts that he’d read within the first months of attending the famous school. The library had been enviable and he’d been unable to stay away for months.

He sighed dramatically. It had all been a fucking waste of time. He closed the leather-bound book he’d been scrawling in, even after all these years he couldn’t help the flashes of creative inspiration that hit him. It was like a vampire’s thirst, burning in his throat and heart. He had to write, he had to play and sing and dance. He ran his fingers along the underside of his writing desk until he heard a faint click and a drawer popped open. He tucked the book neatly into the draw beneath the pressed dandelion.

Dandelion.

It was to be his stage name had he followed through with his plans.

He’d kept the pressed yellow flower as a reminder. He picked it up and twirled it between his fingers before sighing loudly.

“Master Dandelion, renowned troubadour and poet.” He pouted before gently returning the flower to its cage and closing the drawer shut, it vanished into the wooden desk without a trace. “I supposed it is quite poetic,” He whined. “I am like the flower trapped in my own cage from which I cannot escape. The flower which holds my name and soul shares my fate.”

He groaned and bumped his head against the desk. The long feather in his hat flopped down, tickling his nose. He promptly sneezed.

“Ah. To the gods! Even my own hat hates me.” He moaned.

Thankfully he was pulled from his self-pity by a knock at the door. He jumped to his feet and straightened his hat, tucking the treacherous heron feather back into place.

“Come in!” He trilled.

Annabelle, a pretty redhead and one of his longest serving maids entered the room. “ Lord Lettenhove.” Annabelle curtsied.

Julian rolled his eyes and pulled the girl to her feet. “Annabelle, dearest, how many times must I ask you to call me Julian and none of this grovelling nonsense. Tell me, how are your family? Your mother was sick, is she feeling any better? I trust she received the medicine I sent.”

Annabelle blushed and smiled up at him. “Yes Lord Let - Lord Julian. Thank you very much. You are too kind to us.”

“My darling, I simply have nothing better to do with my fortune than ensure my staff are well looked after. How’s the little one, Eleanor if I remember correctly?”

“Yes, Lord Julian. She’s growing up fast. My sister told me she started to crawl yesterday.” Annabelle answered meekly.

Julian gasped and put his hand to his chest. “And you missed it! Oh my dear, my sincerest apologies.”

Annabelle shook her head. “I love my job, Lord Julian. There is no reason to apologise. You’ve already done far too much for my family.”

It was Julian’s time to blush. He hated how much his staff revered him, didn’t they realise his motivations were purely selfish? He just wanted to get out of this house! He wanted to leave them. They just didn’t see any of that but he didn’t let his frustration show. “Now now, they’ll be time to sing my praises later, my dear, what was it that you needed? We are not due another order from the farms yet are we?”

The girl laughed quietly. “No, nothing like that. Forgive me, Lord Julian, I don’t mean to make assumptions.”

She shuffled awkwardly on her feet. “Well go on! Don’t keep me in suspense like this.” He pouted with a hand on his hips.

“There’s a rumour going round, Lord Julian.” She blushed. “About a witcher in one of the outer villages. They were having problems on the full moon. Mysterious and gruesome murders.”

Julian wanted to jump for joy.

A real witcher.

On his land.

“Oh my!” He clapped his hands together. “We must send for him at once!” He ran to his desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment. “Now tell me Annabelle what monsters are more enticing to a monster hunter, vampires or werewolves?” He scoffed before she could answer. “No no, that’s too obvious, and unbearably dull. Nekkers? Oooh, what about a draconid? A forktail perhaps?”

Annabelle kept opening and closing her mouth but there was no interrupting Julian when he got like this. He barely even noticed he still had company.

“Or a wraith!” He laughed gaily. “Oh yes that will do nicely! A wraith haunting the attic! Then we may get to see the witcher in action, oh the tales I could write! Maybe I could publish them under a pseudonym, Master Dandelion may yet still live!”

His hands flew over the paper as he scrawled as quickly and elegantly as he could. Once he was finished he read it over quickly, cornflower blue eyes scanning over the words quick as lightning.

     My dear witcher,    

     On behalf of Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove, I would like to thank you for offering your services to assist our villagers with their furry little problem. I write this letter before the news of your success has reached me but I have no doubt that you will succeed in your quest! You must tell me whether you have slain the beast or cured it of the lycanthropy. I await the tale of your heroic adventure with great anticipation.    

     The Lord Lettenhove requests your presence at his estate. You see, my dearest witcher, we have a little pest problem of our own. A wraith haunts the house and our poor chambermaids are quite at their wits end with fright.    

     I beseech you. Don’t delay.    

     Yours, Dandelion.    

He chuckled at the name. He was going to have a lot of fun with this witcher, whoever it maybe, and he didn’t need the witcher knowing exactly who he was just yet. He sealed the letter swiftly and all but shoved poor Annabelle from the room so that she could deliver it hastily.

He followed after her and practically ran down the corridor and up the stairs to the master bedroom. He flung open his wardrobe as he hummed a new melody under his breath. He needed to choose an outfit. Something that was less Viscount and more genius bard.

He stripped off his golden doublet and trousers in exchange for his favourite plum set. It had intricate embroidery around the collar that he just adored. He paired the doublet with a white undershirt with lace around the cuffs and collar.

He took off his hat and twirled a strand of his soft golden blond hair in between his fingers. He’d been growing it out lately, he was really just so bored, and he’d been considering experimenting with some curling irons like he’d seen his cook use. He was certain that Hanna would show him how to use them if he asked nicely.

But did he have enough time for that?

He still needed to set up his wraith problem, and it needed to be convincing enough to keep the witcher around long enough to get to know him, perhaps he could even lure the man to his bedroom if he were that way inclined.

Gods he hoped he was.

It had been too long since Julian, no, Dandelion, had had a male lover.

Well, if he was planning to seduce the man then he really should look his best but first he needed to make sure that they stage was set. He picked up his old forgotten lute from the corner of the bedroom, gently trailing a finger down the neck of the instrument before quickly plucking at the strings and fiddling with the pegs to make sure she was still in tune.

“I am so sorry darling.” He cooed to the instrument. “It’s been too long.”

He tucked her into his old lute case and appraised his reflection in his mirror.

“Hmm…” He stuck his tongue out as he concentrated. “Not quite right. Oh yes! My hat!” He swiped up a matching plum coloured bonnet and pinned a feather in place because plopping it onto his head. He looked back at his reflection with a furrowed brow and then inspiration hit him and he tilted his hat so he fell slightly to one side. “Perfect!”

He giggled and bowed dramatically to his reflection. “Master Dandelion, at your service!” He grinned seductively.

Oh this witcher would have no idea what hit him.

[zielsvlucht]

De Brandingsgeest

Het eiland waarop we leven is een oase van vrede middenin een zee vol monsters. Ik ben nog niet oud genoeg om mee te varen naar de open zee, maar mijn vader vertelde me er over. De grote krabben die soms de boten in klimmen. De haaien die hen altijd volgen onder het wateroppervlakte als een zwerm gieren. De zeeslangen die boten doen schudden en mensen van de rand van het dek weg happen. De zeeën waarin wij leven zijn werkelijk vervloekt.

Onze ouders zijn meer dan vissers. Het zijn krijgers. Elke dag zeilen ze door de hel, gewapend met harpoenen en speren. ‘s Avonds komen ze terug met monstervlees. Ik mag nog niet mee met hen. Hoe graag ik het ook wil. Te gevaarlijk voor een kind, zeggen ze. Maar ik heb al te veel meegemaakt om nog een kind te zijn.

Daarbij, het verschrikkelijkste monster van allemaal leeft niet in de open zee. De grootste schrik van ons volk, en mijn eigen grootste vijand, is de brandingsgeest. Hij leeft niet op het land en niet in het water. Hij leeft tussen twee werelden in. Daar waar de golven het land op rollen. Mijn grootmoeder vertelde me dat alle feeën op zo’n plekken leven. Plaatsen van overgang. Plaatsen tussen werelden in, want daar kunnen zij hun eigen werelden bouwen. Daarom verschijnen ze altijd bij schemer. Tijdens zonsondergang, zonsopgang of in de mist. Ze glippen weg tussen de werelden en soms nemen ze iemand mee.

De brandingsgeest verschijnt ook enkel in de schemer. Ik heb hem gezien. Een schaduwachtige natte schim. Hij kwam uit het water als een vorm in het zeeschuim dat van de golven afspat. Toen ik hem zag versteende ik van schrik. Ik deed niets. Ik keek gewoon angstig toe terwijl de brandingsgeest de hand van mijn zus nam, en haar de golven in sleurde. Zo verdween ze. Ze kwam nooit meer terug. Meegenomen naar zijn schaduwenrijk onder de golven. Mij liet hij alleen achter. De schoft.

Mijn familie rouwde om haar. Mijn vader kon me niet aankijken. Dat begrijp ik. Ik had op haar moeten letten. Grootmoeder troostte me wel. Ze zei dat er niets was dat ik kon doen. De brandingsgeest had haar voor altijd meegenomen. Nu zou ze eeuwig rusten op de bodem van de zee. Ik huilde mee. Maar ik begreep het niet. Was dit dan alles dat we konden doen? Een hele stam van krijgers en we moesten het loslaten?

Ik kan het niet loslaten. Ik hoorde haar naar me roepen in mijn dromen. Haar stem, vervormd door de zee, zei: “Trek mij terug uit het water! Dood hem!”

Ja. Dat is het minste dat ik kan doen. In de vroege ochtend nam ik mijn vaders speer en sloop ik naar buiten. Naar het strand. Ik wachtte voor de ruisende golven tot de gloed van de volgende dag aan de horizon verscheen. Dan stapte ik het water in. De zee bulderde om heen. De meeuwen knersten. Maar ik schreeuwde luider. Ik riep zijn naam.

Toen hij opstond uit de golven, wees ik mijn speer naar hem. Niet meer, dat zei ik. Nooit meer. Nooit meer zult gij kinderen verdrinken. Ik zal u teniet doen. Geen Kludde. Geen Nekker. Geen gij.

Golven rolden langs me voorbij, maar ik bleef staan. De schim naderde. Ik viel aan. De speerpunt schoot vooruit, maar hij ontweek het. Snel zette ik een stap naar achter. Ik stak opnieuw. Sneller. Krachtiger. Deze keer was het raak. Ik hoorde hem schreeuwen van pijn, als een treurige zucht zeewind. Rood water droop de golven in. Hij viel achterover en werd één met de zee. Verbijsterd stond ik daar, want ik had mijn snelle overwinning niet verwacht. En mijn zus, was nog steeds weg. De dood van de brandingsgeest had haar niet terug getoverd. Ontgoocheld als ik was, riep ik haar naam naar de golven in de hoop dat ze zou verschijnen.

Ik merkte pas te laat hoe het rode water naar me toe stroomde. Ik hoorde hem achter me uit het water rijzen. Voor ik me kon omdraaien, greep een koude sterke hand mijn nek vast. Met veel kracht werd ik voorover geduwd. Met een plons ging ik het water in, en dan werd ik tegen de zanderige zeebodem gedrukt. Ik had de speer laten vallen. Ik spartelde, stribbelde tegen, maar de brandingsgeest was te sterk. Hij duwde harder, en plots zakte ik door de zeebodem heen. Ik zonk een koude duisternis in. Glipte weg naar een andere wereld. Ik opende mijn ogen en zag de sterren om me heen kolken. Ik zag de golven niet meer boven me. De zee, het eiland,… Het was allemaal verdwenen. Ik riep om hulp.

Na een lange stilte hoorde ik mijn zus antwoorden.

[wepurge-rpg]

Crown of Winter apesta (como todos los de GoT), es como antes o peor. Yo aguanté dos semanas y de milagro. Follirol, grupismo, amiguismo y un staff inútil. // Y eso que no conoces el foro de Witcher que hay. A todo eso que dices suúmale baneos, sanciones injustificadas y dictadura total. La gente incluso teme abrir un foro de esa temática porque los tóxicos del Staff del foro existente atacan de inmediato. Parecen un grupo de Nekkers jaja Ojalá crearan nuevos foros de esta temática xq da lástima el "monopolio".

D:

R.

[salted-barbed-wire]

The Devil May Care

Chapter Four

Summary: Devils have their secrets. Word Count: 1320

Prelude.   Chapter One.   Chapter Two.    Chapter Three.    

“So, Balor was slain despite his best efforts?” I smiled, flipping through the pages of the book.

Finn nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Aye, so the bookssay. He became now what is known as Loch na Súl. ‘Lake of the Eye’.”

“You don’t sound so sure about that,” I leaned forward towards him.

Balor mimicked my posture, leaning close to me. My senses picked up his cologne. It was a woodsy, warm, musk with hints of vanilla. “I don’t. According to my father, Balor is still alive. His son Lugh didn’t slay him, but instead made a deal with a stronger demon from another land to seal his powers away. Balor lays at the bottom of the lake, waiting to break the seals over his powers, to get his eye back and to get revenge.”

“Revenge on his grandson?”

“For his grandson,” Finn whispered.

“I though his Lugh betrayed him?”

“He did,” Finn’s eyes darkned. “But the demon Lugh made the deal with, drug him to the netherworld, where he ended Lugh’s existence. Not to mention Balor’s daughter was ripped apart by the shapeshifter. Family is family, even the demon Balor knew that.”

“Demons are so strange.”

You haven’t even scratched the surface, snojepe.

“So are humans,” Finn said.

“Wait, you said the demon that Lugh made a deal with was a shapeshifter? I don’t remember too many demons named in Irish folklore that were known mainly as shapeshifters.”

“Because he was from another land, a Dutch demon that would be the equivalent of today’s boogeyman. Shapeshifter, soul stealer, and a terrifying son of a bitch,” he fiddled with his now empty coffee cup while he spoke. “If I remember correctly his name means ‘Old Red Eyes’, my Dutch is too rusty to call him by his real name. According to legend he would leave people def, mute, or blind if they came face to face with him.”

I watched him for a moment, letting his mind wander silently. “You know quite a bit about demonology. Kind of a strange thing to be an expert in.”

Finn’s laughter was musical, “My dad, actually was very well versed in his folklore. He knew all of it like he was there. He loved telling my siblings and I the legends and mythology.”

“Must’ve made for some strange nightmares.”

“Uh-yeah, you could say that. But I enjoyed them as I got older even more.” Finn’s phone buzzed, “Is it that time already? I have to get going, but I’d love to talk to you more sometime. Maybe over dinner? And maybe we talk more about you?”

“Me?”

Finn smiled softly, “Absolutely.”

Give him your number, snojepe. Go on a date. Things are going well.

Finn stiffened, “Did you say something?”

Shit. “No, no, I- was just going to ask for your phone so I can put my number in it.” I took Finn’s phone and entered in my info, “thank you for taking time to talk to me.”

“Of course, it was a pleasure.” He took his phone back, catching my hand before I could pull away. “Until we meet again, Jackie.”

With that, he stood walked out of the shop, looking back before exiting.

Meet me at your apartment. Aleister’s voice commanded.

~

I walked in the door and Aleister stood leaning in his usual all black suit against my counter, an apple in hand. “You did well, snojepe. Do you believe me now that you’re charming?”

“Not in the slightest,” I huffed, setting my purse down before walking over to him. “’Snojepe’, that’s Dutch, isn’t it?”

Aleister maintained eye contact with me as he took a bite from the fruit. He remained silent.

“I thought you were the Devil? Not some red-eyed demon that has been striking deals since the dawn of time.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest, “How do I even know if I can trust you if you’re not who you say you are? You’re just some boogeyman that Balor has it out for.”

He half slammed the apple down on the counter top, taking a step towards me, “Oh, my little dropje, I’m exactly who I say I am.” Aleister’s eyes flashed a solid red color as they poured into me. I could feel static building around the room, and I began backing up slowly away from him. “I am no boogeyman, not anymore. No, I’m much worse now.” Aleister stalked towards me, “I am the Devil. I earned my title, my throne, my powers. You shouldn’t trust the Devil, love, but believe me when I say I’m no ordinary demon to talk back to.”

He had me backed into the wall, his glowing garnet eyes threatening me as he spoke. I could feel his energy, his power surrounding us. It swirled and whirled like a blizzard.

“I just want to know,” I whispered. “For curiosity sake, who you are- or were, whatever.”

His shoulders visably relaxed as he looked me over. His eyes returned to their more human look before he cleared his throat.

“I’ve been called many names, ‘The beast of Flanders’, ‘De Nekker’, ‘Oude Rode Ogen’… but I am the Devil, the King of Hell. I use to be a boogeyman or an urban legend, killing, spellcasting, soul stealing, and causing chaos. But I took my shot at greatness when it presented itself.”

“You struck the deal with Lugh?” I asked.

He nodded, “That was a long time ago. Balor had been quietly hatching a plan all those years. Now he’s possessed the boy you have a date with, somehow. I think he of Fae decent and that’s how Balor has control of his vessel.”

“Is Finn alive?” I asked, thinking how beautiful and charismatic the man I sat with today was.

“Not likely. He’s most likely lost his life-force to the demon by now. Why?” Aleister’s attention snapped back to me, still trapped between him and the wall.

Heat spread through my face, “Just wondering.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, “Snojepe, you have a crush? Did his body please you?” His icy touch brushed against my arm as he caressed it. Aleister leaned in and breathed deeply through his nose.

“Did you just smell me?” I exclaimed, trying to move away.

He blocked me, forcefully placing his hand on the wall by my head. “Your hormones are noticeably higher today, and your heart has been racing quite a bit.”

I furrowed my brow at him, “What do you care? His vessel is nice.”

“Mmm, nice indeed.” Aleister’s eyes wandered over my figure shamelessly. “My question is, are these symptoms from Balor?” He leaned in closer, whispering in my ear, “Or those delectable dreams you were having last night?”

His closeness was too much for my senses. The mentioning of the dreams I had of him the night before, was not helping. My knees were ready to give out from underneath me, especially when he inhaled again, closer to my neck this time, causing goosebumps to prick my skin all over my body.

A low rumbling chuckle came from him and he backed up away. “My number is in you phone, snopeje. Call me when you two get the first date set up. By the end of the month, we’ll have him right where we want him.”

There was a snap, and Aleister was gone.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

My head ached. I needed to sit down. To my bedroom I walked, knees still wobbling. I threw myself onto my bed and sighed. Alesiter wasn’t wrong, my hormones were all over the place.

Take the edge off?

I shuddered at the thought, what if Aleister was still in my head, listening and watching?

My phone buzzed in my back pocket and I pulled it out to check it.

NEW MESSAGE: 666 “I won’t be in your thoughts for a while, I’ve got some business to take care of elsewhere. Please call when Balor contacts you. Rest up, Snopeje.”

Don’t trust him.

A chuckle echoed through my ears following my thoughts.

~~~

Chapter 5->

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