#eldritch elderberry

[xovera-toz]

Six scenes from the everday life of this Lanternbearer Wirt.

"Withdrawal"

[...]

"Give me back my lantern."

Wirt shot the grumpy shadow a jovial smile. "Hm. I don't think I will."

"You have no use of it," the Beast insisted. Its voice had, slowly, over the days, taken on a pleading edge.

"Really?" Wirt glanced left and right: still dark forest in every direction- except skywards, where the stars painted the night a faint yellow. The lantern was his only source of light. "I haven't noticed."

The Beast snarled in frustration. It had to bear with this insufferable, sarcastic, no good sadistic- "Find one... any other. Not mine."

"Words, my dear fellow, were made to be used and used well." Wirt huffed. "In sentences, you see. And I don't think I see any spare lanterns around here. Do you?"

The Beast left without another word. Boiling inside, surely. Wirt didn't bother to hide his laughter from the empty woods.

[...]

He made sure the Beast's diet was proper and varied, just as the lunch lady used to say: Birch, oak, the occasional fir or willow. Never edelwood; those he avoided with care.

The eldritch creature was not happy.

"Give me oil." It begged.

Begged.

Wirt bet its hands were clasped in prayer under the dark shadowy layers. He felt delighted. "No can do. You need your nutrition." He wagged his index finger for good measure.

The Beast wailed.

[...]

"The forest feels... happier." Lorna told him one afternoon. They were making a small boat of sticks and moss, which they intented to place on the river and chase downstream. "Lighter. More welcoming."

Wirt nodded sagely, tried and failed to keep a serious face. "It's the diet, I tell you. As soon as the oil addiction washes out, it's going to get even better."

[...]

"I'll end you," the Beast threatened. Wirt got the distinct impression it was shaking its fist in his direction. "Suffocate you in a puddle, if I have to."

"You already kinda did." Wirt pointed out. "Not that it improved your situation, I suppose. Now, say- what do we think of wildflowers?"

The Beast fled in horror.

[...]

"It's blooming." Beatrice noted. Yes, she'd noticed- how could she not, when the cursed creature loitered around her house in its self-pity? She told her friend so.

She stabbed the needle into Wirt's torn cape again and again. It penetrated the material with ease, yet her smile seemed sharper than her tool could ever be. "The Beast is fucking blooming," she repeated.

For whatever ungodly reason, Wirt looked proud of himself.

[...]

"Make it stop!" Months ago, it would have been a demand. Now, it was a pathetic cry into Wirt's knees.

The boy stood awkwardly where the Beast had latched onto him. Not losing any of his hesitance, he gave the wooden figure a gentle pat on the head.

That just made the Beast's shoulders (Did it have shoulders? Shoulder-adjacent parts?) shake wilder in frustration.

Maybe he'd reward the lantern with some elderberry branches this time. It seemed to lighten up the creature's mood.

[reality-refuge]

Francis: hon, why don't you come sit with everyone?

Anton: nah, the bathroom is more fitting for my shitty personality.

[mattievictoria]

Cursed Plants and Witch Trees

“Mountains overawe and oceans terrify, while the mystery of great forests exercises a spell peculiarly its own.” 

—Algernon Blackwood, The Willows

The above quotation is from Algernon Blackwood’s 1907 preeminent horror novella, The Willows, a story that’s stayed with me since I first read it years ago. I'm a huge fan of anything that falls under the category of “Spooky Nature” (if you haven’t figured that out by now!) and Blackwood’s novellas and short stories like The Willows and The Man Whom The Trees Loved hold a special place in my creepy, tree-hugging heart. When I sat down to write this, I wanted to take a cue from Algernon Blackwood’s book (quite literally!) and write something about cursed and/or haunted trees. HOWEVER, during the course of my deep-dive into the Vegetable Kingdom (as Blackwood referred to it in his many writings) I found that all of it super Cursed— yes, Cursed with a capital C, because we’re talking Serious Business here. So, I’ve expanded my original idea beyond trees to include a variety of frightening flora, and I’ve chosen four plants to discuss: Elder Trees, Parsley (you’ll be surprised! Parsley is exceptionally Cursed), Hemlock, and of course, The Willow. I hope you’re prepared to take a casual stroll through the deep, dark woods. Take caution, however; there may be something foul and eldritch hiding in the underbrush… 

Elder 

 In his book Plant Lore, Legends, and Lyrics, Richard Folkard relates an incredible Russian proverb: From all old trees proceeds either an owl or a devil. If there was a tree from whence the devil sprung forth from the fiery depths of hell, it would be the Elder. The nefarious reputation of the Elder dates back thousands of years, and in pre-Christian Europe, the Elder Tree was associated with magic and  witchcraft. A type of dryad known as Hylde-Moer, or The Elder Tree Mother, was said to inhabit the Elder Trees of Denmark. One must always ask the permission of Hylde-Moer in order to cut down her tree and use her wood. If a wood chopper did not ask permission, the Elder Tree Mother herself would stalk those who took her wood and used it without her consent, giving them no rest. When Christianity was introduced into Europe, it was a common belief that the tree Judas hung himself from after betraying Jesus was an Elder. Some people even claimed that it was elder wood that built the cross that Jesus was crucified on. 

Elder trees are inherently linked to witches and witchcraft. There is a story told in Northamptonshire about a father who cut off a branch from an Elder for his son, only to watch in horror as the tree started to bleed. As they made their way home after the terrifying incident, they came across a woman in town who was said to be a witch… a fresh bandage wrapped around an injured arm. In Ireland and the British Isles, many claimed that witches would ride broomsticks and use wands made of elder wood. It was also a common belief that witches could transform into Elder Trees (like in the tale from Northamptonshire) and there were even stories in Denmark of Elders creeping around at night, peering into the windows of unsuspecting homes. However, because apparently fighting fire with fire does work, Elder is a common counter-charm to battle witchcraft. One sure-fire protection against witchcraft were elderberries picked on— you guessed it— St. John’s Eve (because this wouldn’t be a folklore article about plants if I didn’t mention St. John’s Eve at some point).

Parsley (and Celery?)

It may come as a surprise, but Parsley is a plant with a particularly Cursed history. From my understanding, Parsley and Celery, both in the family Apiaceae, have been confused for one another as far back as Ancient Greek writings have been studied by Classical scholars. I am not  a Classical scholar, however, and it seems like the Celery-Parsley debate was hotly contested well into the 20th century. As a result of this centuries-long dispute, I’ll be using both plants interchangeably. In Ancient Greece, both Parsley and Celery were associated with funerary rites and the dead. The origins of Parsley are attributed to the Greek Hero Archemorus, and it was said that Parsley sprung from wherever Archemorus’ blood seeped into the Earth. Victors of Greek Funerary games were given garlands of Parsley for this reason. Gravesites in Ancient Greece were adorned with Parsley, and Parsey was also associated with Persephone as well as Charon. Ancient Greek philosophers Chrysippus and Dionysus both thought it a grave offense to eat both Parsley and Celery, which should be reserved solely for funerary feasts. 

Somewhere down the line, Parsley became viewed as some kind of Spawn of Satan in England and subsequently, The US. It was said that “Parsley grows only for the wicked” and required three plantings— one for the gardener and two for the Devil. In parts of the Eastern US, Parsley was blown on to the seedbed from pages of the Bible. All of this is news to me; I’m a quarter Lebanese and let me tell you, tabouli enthusiasts everywhere (myself included) are probably confused, if not a little horrified. I did some research, and the Ancient Romans did not share the Greek’s grim view of Parsley. In fact, the Roman cookbook Apicius contains many recipes including parsley/celery. I have my own thoughts on this, and will elaborate in the next section. In the meantime.. be careful with planting and transporting Parsley, okay? 

Hemlock

Unlike our previous subject matter, Hemlock being on this list should come as no surprise to you. Interestingly enough —and this ties in with my theories about why Parsley became so Cursed— Hemlock is also in the family Apiaceae, much like Parsley. This family also includes popular favorites such as Celery (as I previously mentioned) Carrot, Parsnip, and a ton of other everyday vegetables and herbs. Hemlock has been referred to as “Poison Parsley '' and many other poisonous members of the Apiaceae family are similarly named, such as Fool’s Parsley (Aethusa cynapium) and Spotted Parsley (Cicuta maculatah). Hemlock is a highly poisonous plant, and every inch of it contains the toxic alkaloid coniine— which is fatal even in small doses. Hemlock is most known for being the poison Socrates was made to drink when sentenced to death for impiety and corrupting the youth of Ancient Greece. Again, I’m not a Classical scholar so I don’t know what became of Socrates after his forced suicide (and apparently google doesnt know either) but perhaps a garland of parsley was left on his tomb by one his many followers. This was a bit of a tangent, but I can’t help but feel the association that Parsley has with death and the devil are somehow related to its cousin, poison Hemlock. 

But, I digress, back to the folklore. In the northern parts of Europe, most notably England, Hemlock was an important asset in a witch’s pharmacopœia. The root of hemlock, which was “digged in the dark”, was a favorite among all of those who practiced witchcraft, along with nightshade and vervain. The plant and herb were powerful tools of the witch, and must be harvested properly, often in accordance to moon phases. Roots, like the hemlock root, were usually harvested in the dark of the moon, which sounds really cool and witchy, but there is a scientific reason for it. According to LocalUMass.com, “light, and heat from the sun and moon draw a plant’s nutrient-dense fluids (the source of their medicinal properties) upwards and into their stems, leaves, flowers, fruits and seeds. Therefore, when it is coldest and darkest, roots are most robust.” 

Listen, everything about hemlock is spooky in the best way possible. I will leave you with Hosea 10:4, which makes me think of a quote from Piers Haggard’s iconic 1971 folk horror film, Blood On Satan’s Claw. 

“They have spoken words, swearing falsely in making a covenant: thus judgment springeth up as hemlock in the furrows of the field.”

Willows 

I began this post with a quote from The Willows, and so we have finally made it to the titular Cursed Tree of Blackwood’s masterpiece of Weird Literature. Artists, like Algernon Blackwood, have been writing, painting, and singing about the Willow Tree for as long as mankind has been capable of expressing themselves through art. Throughout this long and storied history, the Willow has been associated with grief, death, wisdom, and longing, as well as being described as a bridge between our world and something else entirely. In Greek mythology, Orpheus carried a willow on his person during his visits to the underworld. Hecate, Greek Goddess of witchcraft ( as well as crossroads, the moon and many other things) is associated with the willow. Like Hecate, the willow tree is analogous with the moon, and is placed under the sign of the moon by astrologers. The Weeping Willow, in particular, has a strong association with death and the other side. In China, where they originate, Weeping Willows are used to mark gravesites. 

In her book, Discovering The Folklore of Plants, Margaret Baker comments that individuals traveling through Exmoor have been stalked by willow trees moving on their own accord after nightfall; dark whispers trailing behind travelers on long stretches of solitary road. I can’t help but wonder, were these stories that inspired Blackwood? It brings me back to the Elder Trees in Denmark, peering into dim windows long after the sun has set.

I want to end on one more literary passage concerning the subject of Willow Trees, because as I mentioned previously, Willows have been capturing the imaginations of artists for centuries. From Christina Rosetti’s poem The Willow Shade: 

Slow wind sighed through the willow leaves,

The ripple made a moan,

The world drooped murmuring like a thing that grieves;

And then I felt alone.

I rose to go, and felt the chill,

And shivered as I went;

Yet shivering wondered, and I wonder still,

What more that willow meant

~

If I’m being honest, I feel like I’ve only really scratched the surface of the wide-ranging, fascinating subject that is Cursed Plants and Witch Trees. But I hope, however, that you have found this interesting, or even a place to start your own research (which I highly recommend you do!) Of course, I will include my sources which can also act as a guide for further reading! (Friends, it has been a hot minute since I’ve written in any kind of MLA format so please let me know if something is incorrect!) 

If you take one thing away from this, remember: always ask The Elder Mother before you chop her tree down, and for god’s sake, please make sure you’re consuming parsley and not hemlock! 

Bibliography and Further Reading 

“As Above, so Below: Digging Roots and Scattering Seeds under the Scorpio Moon.” SUSTAINABILITY, www.localumass.com/blog/as-above-so-below-digging-roots-and-scattering-seeds-under-the-scorpio-moon. Accessed 6 June 2022.

Andrews, Alfred C. “Celery and Parsley as Foods in the Greco-Roman Period.” Classical Philology, vol. 44, no. 2, Apr. 1949, pp. 91–99, 10.1086/363177. Accessed 3 Jun. 2022.

Baker, Margaret L. Discovering the Folklore of Plants. Oxford, Shire, 2008.

Folkard, Richard. Plant Lore, Legends, and Lyrics, Embracing the Myths, Traditions, Superstitions, and Folk-Lore of the Plant Kingdom, by Richard Folkard ... London, S. Low, 1884.

M Grieve. A Modern Herbal : The Medicinal, Culinary, Cosmetic and Economic Properties, Cultivation and Folklore of Herbs, Grasses, Fungi, Shrubs and Trees with All Their Modern Scientific Uses. London England, Tiger Books International, 1998.

Mockler, W. E. “Moon Lore from West Virginia.” Folklore, vol. 50, no. 3, Sept. 1939, pp. 310–314, 10.1080/0015587x.1939.9718183. Accessed 12 Dec. 2021.

“Scholar Tree & Willow Tree | Dartmouth Folklore Archive.” Journeys.dartmouth.edu, journeys.dartmouth.edu/folklorearchive/2018/11/11/scholar-tree-willow-tree/. Accessed 6 June 2022.

“Willow Tree Mythology and Folklore.” Trees for Life, treesforlife.org.uk/into-the-forest/trees-plants-animals/trees/willow/willow-mythology-and-folklore/.

[rhetoricandlogic]

I’m not sure how to feel about bast. I’m a rape survivor and so many of the fandom are calling him a rapist and I really honestly liked him, even after having read the lightning tree. Any tips?

Good morning, Anon!

It saddens me that part of the fandom managed to diminsh/destroy your enjoyment of a fictional (!) character. This is not what fandom should be.

Bast is Patrick Rothfuss’ representation of a faun, serving exactly the same purpose as they do in mythology (as depictions of Pan) - to assist humans in need. As such, Bast adheres, as the only “alien” living amongst humans in Temerant, by the rules Kvothe set him. Almost. Well, by and large. By the character’s own reconing, he’s probably the fae version of a saint, seing as he deems himself and his kind more powerful than any human (see his conflict with the Chronicler and Felurian’s characterization of the fae, who hunt humans for sport, tear apart the worlds, imprison the moon, treating humans as playthings). By human standards, he’s a far cry from even vaguely moral. As all fauns (and Pan himself) are always closely related with sexuality (hence the symbol of fertility) Rothfuss surely stuck the character close to the roots. He went borderline with this character, seing as it uses elderberry wine and such to seduce human females, but not once do we come across non-consensual sex. This character is a marker of Rothfuss’ mastery of his element, inciting conflict and discussing the nature of power over other beings in all its shadiness. Is the way he tries to get Kvothe out of his catatony, moral  by human standards? Is his use of glamourie and elderberry wine moral by human standards? Is the use of his eldritch power over humans morally acceptable? All for the greater good?

These are the questions, the author presents to you via this character. Only you can judge.

I found, it never works well, if you take mythological or fictional characters out of their context and try to judge them by 21st century-tumblr standards. That way lies distortion to the extent that makes you feel “guilty” pleasure in reading or liking them. And what purpose does that serve?

Personally, I think happiness, joy or even contentment are experiences/emotions that are rarely come by in real life and if you let walk others all over your emotions with their opinions, it certainly destroys such moments. I have learned to walk away from such people. Call it hedonism, if you want to - I call it self-preservation. I like pleasure and I see no reason to feel guilty about it. Hell, did I enjoy and like Aquaman? You bet, I did. Do I know, it’s pulpy, sexist and low fantasy and full of logical inconsistencies? Sure I do. But it is colourful, it has beautiful top-notch CGI, the story is sentimental in a way that grips me and it has Jason Momoa in it. So, there. I enjoyed the hell out of it and it made me happy. I don’t have to justify my happiness to anyone.

Don’t let fandom dimish your love of a fictional character. Worst outcome is, you no longer like to read the series - and if you extend this to all the other popular series, soon there will be much less you can enjoy, like or be happy about. Awareness is good, desctruction of positive feelings is not. This is fantasy: one of its major purposes is escapism.

[shannaraisles]

Last Summer

For @skyholdherbalist, just because. ;) [Also on AO3]

Fresh tilled earth between chubby fingers, the smell of peat and loam to match the mix of dark dirt clinging to his skin. Gardening with Mother is always fun; she never complains about dirt on hands, under nails, on clothing. She kneels beside him and hums to herself, her own clever hands crusted with wet earth as seeds find their way into dark beds for the winter, as dead leaves and stalks are cut away in spring. Mother’s garden is magical, Cullen is convinced, no matter what Bran says. Mother can bring a dead tree back to life in just a few weeks; Mother can make food from nothing but her carefully turned soil. Mother isn’t a mage, but Mother is still magical to the small boy who sits beside her, giggling at the sensation of earth worms between his fingers.

Mother always smells like her garden, like good honest soil and rich greenery. Not like elfroot or spindleweed, like some of the other women in the village, but like the little bush she says is a tree, with its horrible black berries and pretty white flowers. She smells like summer, like the little flowers do when they first open up to the sunshine. Cullen doesn’t like the way they smell after that, but Mother can do wonderful things with the flowers. No matter how bad they smell when she starts making the special drink with them, it always smells and tastes like that first opening, the first breath of summer. She says the tree is special, that it keeps trouble away. He believes her with all his heart - what reason does she have to lie to her golden-haired boy, with his shining amber-warm eyes and curious sweetness?

Mia sometimes helps in the garden, but she isn’t allowed to pick the elderflowers when Mother makes cordials and lotions from it. Cullen does that, tottering down the uneven path with a basket almost bigger than he is, to plunk himself down in the shade of the oak that leans over their garden and pick the wide heads of tiny, fragrant flowers at their best that smell like the woman he loves the most in all the world. Sometimes his little fingers are clumsy and crush the petals; sometimes they drop their pollen all over him, and his eyes itch and water when he rubs them. But Mother washes the pollen away, and the itching goes away with it; she never minds bruised petals, not when her littlest boy comes up to her with a basket overflowing with the precious bounty from her magical tree. She smiles when Cullen presents his basket with pride, year after year, proud of his efforts in her garden, especially that year when she made Rosalie in her belly while still tending to the house and her family.

And in autumn, when the black berries are ripe, it is Cullen again who takes up his basket and fills it with the fruit of the elder tree, careful not to eat them or to lick his fingers. Mother told him once that the berries would make him sick if he ate them, and he didn’t listen. His tummy hurt forever when he tasted the black berries, hours and hours of aching and throwing up, and Mother sitting beside his bed with gentle eyes. He never tasted the berries again, but Father does. Father waits until Mother has done her special magic with them and they are safe in the bottles that smell strong enough to make Cullen’s eyes water. Father and Mother drink from those bottles sometimes, and they dance together in the dark of the kitchen when the children are supposed to be asleep. Cullen doesn’t know what makes the berry juice so strong, but he likes to lie awake and listen to his parents laughing together when they drink it. Father does not laugh enough, except when he is with Mother.

It isn’t until he is older that Cullen gets to taste the elderberry wine, screwing up his face at the fermented taste, grinning as his expression makes Father laugh and Mother smile. He does not like what comes from the berries, but what Mother makes with the flowers is special. The cordial is sweet with honey and tastes of summer; the lotion makes her hands smell like summer all year ‘round. Summer is his favorite time; as he ages, he always comes back to Mother and her garden, to till the soil and plants the seeds, to cut back the dead wood from the special elder tree. Even when he goes away, he remembers the smell. When summer comes, and the elder is in bloom, he feels a pang of regret for leaving home, and hopes that Mother still has helping hands for tending her magical garden.

He goes back before leaving for Kirkwall. He knows they won’t be there, his heart aching with grief for the loss of the parents who raised him with love. The Blight has tainted the home he loved, old blood still staining the places where his parents fell together beneath the cruel weapons of the darkspawn horde. The garden is in ruins, overgrown with weeds already; the old oak shattered and dead, casting eldritch shadows over the darkened ground. I should have been here. Tears cloud his vision as he turns away, needing to escape the mindless violence that destroyed the place where he was happiest, and the scent of summer touches his nose, stilling his steps before he can retreat. He turns once again, blinking those tears from his eyes, and finds again the shattered oak.

Beneath it, still blooming in the midst of all this death, the fragrant white flowers of his mother’s elder tree, a touch of her everyday magic remaining to curb the pain that blossoms in this broken place. A part of her still lives in the tree she loved, refusing to die when all else is lost. He remembers the sound of her humming voice as her hands turned the soil; the weight of his basket brimming with those blooms; the sweet smell of summer that lingers still in the lotions he pays twice their worth for when the peddlers pass his way. He moves to the little tree, drawing the dagger from his belt, cutting away the dead wood, the clinging vines. Giving it another year to live and be strong, perhaps, before the gentle memory dies completely. And he smiles, sad and broken, whispering his last farewell to the parents he loved, the home that was his refuge in the dark times so recently endured.

Home is gone, and so are they. He will not return here.

The old man kneels in his garden, hands callused by his years of weapons’ play and gnarled with age gentle as they turn the soil beneath leaves that sway to the breeze. This is his place, calm and safe, away from the haunted days of his youth, the renewing of happiness in his prime, the darker days that had followed. A small girl sits beside him, all giggling smiles and clumsy hands, plucking the white flowers from the elder tree to fill a basket almost as big as she is. He isn’t quite sure who she is, or where she came from, but he loves his little companion as dearly as his own mother loved him, passing on all she taught him as his days grow shorter. The eyes that look back at him aren’t his mother’s eyes, but the eyes he loved after her, eyes whose name escapes him more often than not with a sad frustration. Each day, he loses something more of the man he was, and returns once again to his childhood, to fresh tilled earth and the scent of summer in the air.

His little companion shuffles closer, resting her head against his arm, and he sits back on his heels, wiping his hands clean to stroke his crabbed fingers over the red-gold curls that crown her, hearing her whisper. Tell me about your mama, grandpa. Even she knows that his childhood is the only thing he recalls with clarity, the only thing the lyrium has not stolen from him. But this, he can tell her - about the hours spent tending to the garden, about elderflower cordial and elderberry wine, about humming and laughing and dancing, and the summer that never ends, so long as his mind can recall it.

And he remembers, for a moment, the love that gave him a wife and a child, and from that child, this grandchild who trusts and loves him in return. He has lost so much. But he does not regret a moment of the years that were gifted to him, the years of love that healed his heart and returned him to the land he had been born to. He lifts his granddaughter onto his knees, holding her close as she sighs happily, remembering all too briefly the times when he held his child in his arms and watched his wife tend this garden under his eye. Yet the memory that rises and remains is Mother, with her smiling hum and her magical tree, her loving and Father’s laughing, Mia and Bran and Rosalie playing ... and the summer that lasts forever.

[teeopia]

Cthul-a-Chew

Cthul-a-Chew “Cthul-a-Chew” by Heartattackjack Retro product packaging inspiration, and the advertising mascot characters of old allow for a whimsical colorful design approach. Cthulhu bubble gum mint madness flavor. Also available in Eldritch Elderberry Source: T-shirts

[reality-refuge]

...and what better way to celebrate a new house than a New Years party?!

[reality-refuge]

but first! a quick last spare check-in!

despite Dierdre's skill, Temperance insists on being a menace to the Delgato household.

Temperance: ugh these stupid posh artifacts!

Eldritch: haha!

Effable: wait! she has a backstory!

Dierdre: sorry kid, not interested.

[reality-refuge]

just some Eldritch appreciation, nothing more

[reality-refuge]

speaking of Deirdre, here's a little spare update!

Eldritch is currently pregnant and working her way into fashion fame! maybe someday she'll move to sulani and live the beach life she's been dreaming of.

Effable is on the verge of moving out. He's got a wife (!!!) and a baby on the way, but is still in the lower ranks of the culinary career - maybe he'd be higher if he stopped stealing shit out of the fridge.

Ember has just aged up to a young adult, and has plans to move to San Myshuno. They want to stick around for a little bit, though - the thought of leaving Mom in the big slightly less haunted house is a little sad.

[reality-refuge]

Eldritch: selfie time!

Effable: this is the one and only picture you're getting of me

Eldritch: just smile you doofus

[reality-refuge]

triple birthday roundup!

deirdre's finally an adult, and the twins are teens!

plus, another birthday is on the horizon...

[reality-refuge]

Siblings

once a pain in the ass, always a pain in the ass

[reality-refuge]

Eldritch: Eff?

Effable: ya?

Eldritch: you think anyone else at school lives in a haunted house?

Effable: given that this pack just came out, I seriously doubt it.

Eldritch: coooooool

[reality-refuge]

Marci: yeah...we got the wedding at a discounted effort bc it's brawl day

Effable: you think he has a chance?

Eldritch: did we grow up with the same Ecto?

Eldritch: ...he might have a chance

[reality-refuge]

Ecto: ...did y'all hear that?

Eldritch: unfortunately. where's Mom?

Ecto: you don't know?

Eldritch: why the hell would I know?!

Ecto: shit, we're screwed. we're screwed!

Eldritch: YOU'RE THE OLDEST, YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SAY THAT!