#fishermcn

[yellowfingcr]

"What tits?"

"I'm presuming this is a jab at the remarkably reduced size of my chest. However, though my finest asset resides behind as I think we can all agree, I am of the just idea my front is very good and very lovely."

"But, hey, one could say I have as much tits as you have ass, friend Crow. Which is to say next to nothing."

[through-fire-and-flame]

[ Jesus CHRIST Bree-eye!! Holy SHIT Sam!! ]

[izar-tarazed]

✨

Send ✨for Izar to assign your muse a constellation and read their fate from the stars As well as she knows her craft—for after all, astrology is a kind of craft—, as much routine as she has by now with the essential steps of determining someone’s constellation before refining it all as she reads the fate proper… her results still surprise her.

And more so now.

It has taken Izar unusually long to get a hold of whatever the stars have in store for Sam. She has looked into a variety of star maps from different traditions, as she often does when it seems due; in his case, knowing his ancestry, she has gone through the meager notes she has gathered on Albinauric cosmovision, but there is little mention of the night sky in there.

And it’s not that her readings have been without result; it’s just… unusual.

She still seems a little bewildered when she sits down with Sam and unrolls her map, a wealth of loose pages and notes gathered within the scroll. There is the slightest furrow to her brow.

‟You see, there are many ways to look at the night sky,” she says, straightening paper and trying her best to sort the twirl of scribbled notes. ‟To focus on the stars is the most obvious, of course: look at what’s there, connect the dots with imaginary lines, spot figures and purpose between the pale silver spots. That’s how most constellations come to be. But there are some that are, well, the other way around. There’s patterns to be found in the absence of stars. The darkness, too, tells its tales. I’ve found your constellation to be one of these: the Hook. Not easy to see if you don’t know what you’re looking for.

But you’d find it to the east, one of those constellations that seem particularly far from us; and observing it over the course of the night, you’d see it move closer to the horizon, as if to dip into the sea. There are stories of old—as there usually are—of this Hook made of darkness that offers no guidance, and holds nobody’s lodestar within its silhouette. Some say it was left there after a battle so ancient that no one even remembers what entities might have fought, and for what purpose: discarded and forgotten. A battle, or a hunt. But others claim it is still in use. That it sinks down into the salty waves every time night comes to a close, and pulls forth the sun, piercing into it with the pointy end to retrieve it from beyond.

This, they say, is the reason why sunrise is gold mingled with hues of red: the sun bleeds a little when it’s pierced by the hook; it fights back as it’s pulled up, some days more than others.

…Of course, sunsets are red as well. But, erm… that is another story and shall be told another time.”

She pauses, tracing the form of the dark constellation with her fingertip, lost in thought for a moment.

‟Now what does the Hook mean, lightless, distant on the horizon, often overlooked among the stars and their light? We might think that without light, it serves no purpose. That it’s merely reminiscent of a long forgotten hunt where it failed to take hold in whatever beast it was aimed up. But no—there is purpose. Painful and piercing as it may be, but it pulls up the sun every day. Maybe this is what it was left for there. Maybe the sun is the ancient beast it was meant not to slay, but to snag from the darkness dawn after dawn? Maybe, of course, it isn’t even about pulling up the sun, but trying to hold it down? To make it bleed; to carve into its light and essence and turn gold to red for whatever reason? To slay it after all, always failing, and always trying again?

The Hook—both tool and weapon, depending on the hands wielding it—is about the impact and ambiguity of our actions and goals. It might bring the daylight, but it still hurts it; or it might manage to hook into the sun, and wound it, but the sun will still go up. It’s about making a difference from out of the shadows. I could slip in, of course, how it’s about persistence and all—alone, overlooked and so distant, the Hook is still there, unceasing in its efforts—, but that is a trait that many constellations share, whether they’re made of stars or of darkness. This is not what sets the Hook apart from them.

It’s about being what it is; being the way it is; a little crooked, not perfect in any way, but there, maybe spitefully so. Maybe painfully so. No mighty weapon; no rich tapestry of legend to envelop it. Just a hook, but fierce enough to sink into the sun, and spill blood for the world to see, remaining invisible in the process. I’ve seen you wield your fate like this hook, and you’ll continue to do so. You might hurt. They might hurt. Blood and sunlight; you can cause it both with what you have at your disposal, not regardless of who you are, but because of it.”

[swordluck]

🔥 assuming you're amiable to it of course!

“Oh, but he is ethereal, isn’t he?” Anri’s words slipped past her lips, instinctive and unguarded.  As they hung in the air, she hesitated, second-guessing herself.  

“What I mean to say is… he has a lovely face,” she corrected quickly, a blush creeping across her cheeks, blooming there like bindweed.  It was an intrusive question, and any answer she gave felt unbearably intimate.  “His cheekbones are magnificent, and his eyes – they’re unforgettable.  They remind me of storm clouds.”  

Dark and restless, melancholic and enduring, moody and dramatic.  If eyes were windows to the soul, his seemed to be half-swallowed by the white-capped churn of a grey sea.

“There is something steady beneath all that turmoil.  Something sharp, strong.”  Anri tilted her head, her cornflower gaze growing distant as she studied the memory of him.  “Actually, his eyes rather remind me of flint.”

[hawksblooded]

👤+ Sam

↣ A HUNTER'S THOUGHTS.

“SMALL, RATTY THING, THAT one… Used to wonder how he’d made it, hunting the things he did,” she pauses briefly, recalling the moment of their meeting. “Such a frail looking man, with a flighty gaze, his hands always moving. I took him for something equally gormless. Then, when we first fought by each other’s side… I saw something in him. Incredible fury. He moves like lightning. Can’t tell where he’ll strike, so quiet he is until the moment of it.”

“He fights without grace and artifice. Nothing to prove to himself or others. His life is proof enough that he knows his enemy. Got to admire that. And those hands… he does unbelievable things with them. Such skill as I've never seen.” Alizebeth clears her throat. “His craftsmanship, is what I mean. Showed me something once that took my breath away - a firearm, he called it. Like nothing I’d even imagined. Whatever you can name, he can understand it, rebuild it. He can make it his own. No wonder his fingers are always stained. Small price to pay for genius, I think.”

[schattenmagier]

"I want to see you wear" a pirate outfit?

[ I'm having fun with these! :D // Accepting! ]

// A pirate but not a pirate captain surely! She is not the leader type. And a relatively simple outfit ofc! An outfit like this is perfect to move quickly on a ship as well.

[hearthtales]

((for maude & arthur))

sleep: how many hours a night does my muse sleep? do they take naps? how restful is their sleep? do they experience nightmare? if so, how often? 

stress: does my muse handle stress well? what is a surefire sign for others to tell that they’ve become stressed? how does stress affect them mentally / physically? 

༄ all about health

sleep: how many hours a night does my muse sleep? do they take naps? how restful is their sleep? do they experience nightmares? if so, how often? 

maude — oh gosh, it depends on the night. typically i’d say she gets about six to seven hours of sleep, but she gets bad overthinking nights about once a week where she only sleeps a few hours. if you see maude napping, it’s not on purpose — it’s because she couldn’t stay awake any longer. her sleep is fairly restful on the nights she doesn’t have nightmares and when feld leaves her dreams alone. she gets nightmares about once a week as well, sometimes more often if life has been especially stressful.

arthur — arthur is very much an “early to sleep, early to rise” type person. ever since the incident where he almost died, he doesn’t need much sleep to feel rested, but he still tries to get at least eight hours each night to feel more normal. his sleep is very still and quiet and restful (aside from the occasional soft snoring). he never takes naps. if he dreams or has nightmares, he rarely remembers them. dreams for arthur are fuzzy, cold, fragmented things.

stress: does my muse handle stress well? what is a surefire sign for others to tell that they’ve become stressed? how does stress affect them mentally / physically? 

maude — maude is excellent to have in short-term crises; she’s very good at keeping level-headed. long-term stress takes a bigger toll on her, especially the stress related to her contract with feld. when she is stressed, she stress-cleans and overworks herself in general more (her hands get more reddened and cracked as a result). her ocd flares. she has more trouble sleeping. she gets bad headaches. she gets quieter, blunter, and more irritable around others. flickers in nearby flames (such as candle flames or the fire in a hearth) can also signal her stress.

arthur — arthur is almost scarily good at handling stress. he keeps outwardly calm regardless of how bad things get. it is extremely difficult to visibly upset him. inwardly, stress feels more like a cold numbness to him. his near-death incident numbed his emotions to a degree, including his anxiety. if one is observant enough, they might notice he gets quieter during stressful times, more prone to distracting himself by whittling and other chores in the woods when he’s not caring for his loved ones. the scar on his chest sometimes aches more when he’s stressed as well.

[luckyberet]

🌺 send this to ten muns you think are wonderful!! 🌺

Thank you so much! You too are wonderful! Always so kind and positive in messages, brightens my day! Been following you for ages and always joy to see you around. Excited for our ideas for ER threads!

[zcrayas]

❝ is something wrong? ❞ far be it for the roaming perfumer to pry too deeply into the affairs of the volcano manor, doubly so when said affairs belong to one of the two ladies that manage the whole thing. yet rya hasn't said much of anything today, not even while watching him brew aromatics and other potent tonics in the small space he's been alotted for his services to the recusants. definitely more than a passing strange, that. crow tilts his head towards her consideringly, grey eyes narrowed with something that might just be concern as he rasps. ❝ not like ya. seemed a mouse, quiet as. what's on ya mind. ❞

BLOOD AND DARKNESS || @fishermcn

" Oh..." the presence snaps the young woman out of deep labyrinths of her thoughts. Her gaze turns towards his voice, but the gaze of the green eyes seems almost.. empty. Moving as if searching a spot to focus.

His conclusion would be correct: Rya had always been there, hosting the champions and visitors of the manor - almost as if afraid of missing out of interaction.

Now, she had withdrawn from others to far quieter corner, accompanied by her own silence. How tired she must seem right now, and still trying to wear her best smile as if to say: 'don't worry about me'.

But that smile is far smaller, than her genuine one.

To confirm his words, she sighs with a nod. No, she isn't feeling well even if it was only apparent in her current demeanor. Yet, it wasn't anything strange or extraordinary. To Rya.

" You have sharp eyes." She comments with another small smile, shaking her head slightly. " I am not feeling too well... Forgive me for concerning you. This happens from time to time... ever since I was born I have these passing moments I feel the World gets blurry... But I assure you. It lasts a mere week and then, I will be just fine. "

[miserycorde]

@fishermcn "Some o'them bastards like it. Live to fight'n die, fight'n die… bloody madmen."

"I don't doubt that for a second... one would hope that people like this are few and far between?"

[sxnguinesxnctum]

f for old yharnam im sorry you guys had to burn next time dont get the furry plague

thoughts and prayers 🙏😔💔

[yellowfingcr]

@fishermcn liked for Something!

"Here's your gift, Sam. You have been drawn by my very own hand. And if you're asking, what are those squiggles? They mean an explosion happening behind you. You aren't looking at it. You are cooler than that."

"You also caused it."

[through-fire-and-flame]

"Godsdamned ingrates..." Mornings after the hunt in Yharnam rarely arrive with fanfare or celebration, the overcast sky scarcely giving ground to the sun as the doors being creaking open. Even when the streets are scrubbed clean of befouled blood and the corpses piled onto wheelbarrows and carriages for their fiery fates, there's little words to be said by the citizens to their supposed saviors... little good, that is. Soot takes a nasty sort of pleasure in returning an older man's sneer with the menacing rattle-clank of his riflespear shifting, flinging a rude gesture at the swiftly retreating figure before pulling out his pipe. "Mother Kosm take'm. Got some nerve puffin' about like that..." Once, twice, thrice flicks his match against the tinderbox before the pipe is set alight, and Soot takes a long drag before puffing out a perfect ring of smoke. "Don't know how ya do it." His grey eyes slide over to Laurentius, and without so much as a warning tosses him a wrapped bundle of fresh biscuits. "Not sure why ya do it, neither. Why bother?"

"Wot, the hunt?" comes the coughing reply, as a soot-stained hand emerges from his coat to catch the bundle. Careful inspection of the shadow underneath his hood would reveal, in fact, a mouth somewhere in there, though it would have to be a careful inspection indeed, given all the ash.

"'s wot we do, mate," Laurentius says, eyeing a biscuit plucked from the bundle. It's an odd sensation, watching gray daylight bleed back into the skies overhead - it's the way the adrenaline recedes from his blood, the way his shoulders sag and all the eager violence from the night before catches up with him.

"'s all I know how to do, at any rate," he mutters, a moment later. "There's beasts where there shouldn't be beasts, and if it ain't us wot gets 'em, it'll be them wot gets us."

[izar-tarazed]

@fishermcn suggested:

"Milk o'them Trina lilies. Puts ya out, though. Cost ya too."

​..."Honestly, at this point I don't mind either of that if it just works. How much of that stuff will a Hero's Rune get me?"

[swordluck]

Afflicted as they are, undead and ashen one alike, such things as eating or sleeping are scarcely required. But to go without only further distances them from their now bygone mortality, the eventual wearing away of the self and soul from their affliction quickening without such human acts to ground them. Perhaps it might worry Anri then, that in the time since their reunion in the Cathedral of the Deep, he's not so much as laid his head down at their camp fires. "Taking first shift," Crow'd say, only for the morning to greet her with estus soup on the fire and the sound of his cruel sword being sharpened. "Gonna work on some firebombs 'fore tucking in," he'd reassure, yet his bedroll remains as untouched and rolled up as it's been since the start of this venture. Maybe she can see it, in those glances he spares her when the cowl is pulled down and his gaze is weary and worn-down but grateful. Nightmares dogging his step, the wages of Aldrich's terror having left stripes upon his head and heart... yet above them both, sleep he'll abstain solely to assure himself that the Anri next to him is not merely a dead man's dream.

Their path wound through a dense grove, thorn-hooked vines reaching as if to snare them, snagging their tattered fabrics. The weeping ground beneath their boots was rich with mulch, the stagnant air steeped in the earthy scent of moss and fungus. Twilight filtered softly through the claw-tipped boughs that scraped the sky above, cloaking the world in muted blues and greys. Anri walked ahead, her step light – buoyed by Crow’s steady, familiar presence. It was she who stopped first, her helm tilting slightly as she caught something in the thin sliver of her vision.

“Blackberries,” she exclaimed softly, something akin to joy bubbling behind that single word. Pushing up her visor, she turned to face her companion, her pale face framed by wisps of fair hair that had slipped free of her helm. “Look there.”

A tangled, sprawling bush stooped under the weight of ripened fruit, the beaded bodies of berries gleaming like dark jewels. Anri removed her gauntlets as she approached, peeling away not only steel and leather but the weight of the day’s trials. Bare fingers, pale and slender, reached carefully into the thorns, plucking at a particularly generous cluster.

“Oh, they look so sweet,” she murmured, turning to Crow, her face aglow with an unguarded smile. Her eager palms cradled the dark fruit, their juices already staining her skin in hues of plum and crimson.

“If you will not take care of yourself,” she said both playfully and plainly, “then I may be forced to feed you myself.”

Before he could summon one of his deflective remarks, she found the best berry of the bunch and held it to his lips.

“Humour me, Samuel.”

For a moment, he was stock-still, the shadow of his cowl obscuring his expression. Then, with a sigh that sounded like the loosening of some inner knot, he leaned forward. His lips brushed against her fingers as he took the fruit. Anri tried to ignore the warmth that bloomed in their wake, tried to focus instead on imagining the burst of juice on his tongue, bittersweet and autumnal. A grounding simplicity, a scant meal shared. A gift to be grateful for.

“These small, unremarkable things – they tether us,” she murmured, her gaze fleeting and fond. Eyes settled on him for only a moment, before diverting to the thicket around them. Then, as though reaching a quiet understanding, they stood side by side and feasted out of the cups of their hands. Fingers pincered, purpled, sticky with juice, they picked the fattest and ripest of the wild fruit, sharing small murmurs of appreciation.

When the last of their impromptu harvest was devoured, Anri tugged on her gauntlets and gathered her resolve.

“Come,” she said, gesturing to the narrow deer-trod path ahead. “Let us find a place to settle for the night – a place for you to rest.”

A pause, as her blue-sky gaze skirted over Crow’s shabby edges, the tang of blackberries loosening her tongue:

“Your kindness is commendable, but you must let me take the first watch tonight. Please, trust me to keep you safe.”

[hawksblooded]

↣ ITS RED AND DEADLY BITE. //@fishermcn

IT IS OFTEN WHEN one is devoid of them that one recognizes the makings of luxuries. Here, in the wilderness, they are without beds, without cooked meals, without much of the markers of civilization. It would be quicker to list what they do have - bedrolls, a dead campfire, a few day’s worth of rations and the clothes on their backs. But Soot isn’t missing any warm meals or the comforts of a bed. No, he’s missing a workshop. Hells, even a table would do. He mutters another curse as he tries to work, sitting cross legged on his bedroll placed in a snowless spot of the forest floor. 

They are camped beneath a verdant canopy, sunlight streaking through the branches, drawing mottled clouds over their small tent. The calm birdsong of the wilderness is only interrupted by the occasional echo of an axe’s chopping. Alizebeth’s breaths leave clouds of mist about her black hair, but she’s still shed her armor in favor of a mere tunic, the bear-skin cloak around her shoulders for only source of warmth. It’s comfortable for a winter day, and so they have left no fire going, but the night will be long, and it will be cruel, so she busies herself with the preparations regardless. Soot is too occupied to help, anyways. 

“Where’s that bloody screw at-” he says, more to himself than to his travel companion. Before him lies the dissected remains of Svetlana, Alizebeth’s dearest crossbow. Damaged in a fight, the hunter had insisted on stopping their travels until it was fixed, or turn back to the nearest smithy. He’d been entirely unwilling to waste four days’ walk, and elected to fix the damned thing himself. He knew full well how much the hunter’s weapon meant to her, and had felt a surprise that bordered on shock when she, with some reluctance, had handed it over to him. It had taken him some time to take the thing apart, being not of his own design, but he’d quickly figured out the core mechanism, and now works at putting it back together after some tweaking. More cursing hissed through teeth as he fails in his endeavors. “Build me a desk with that axe o’ yours, would ya?” Soot sighs, rummaging through fallen leaves and underbrush for some tool or other. He stifles a cough, briefly leans his head on the tree trunk he’s resting against.

He doesn’t notice the lull in the noise, Alizebeth’s axe firmly planted in a log, her hand resting upon its handle as she looks at him. Doesn’t notice her eyes run the length of his jaw, of his fine face framed with straw-blonde hair, down lean arms and towards his hands, still holding the bones of her beloved crossbow. He doesn’t notice anything, except that he still hasn’t found that damn screw. When the hunter’s work resumes with the crack of split wood, he jumps.

It’s dusk, now, and the chopping has stopped. When Alizebeth returns to their encampment, kindling and trapped rabbit in hand, she finds him half-asleep. Svetlana rests in his lap, diligently reassembled, as he rests against the wide trunk. The shift of its weight as she picks it up wakes him from near slumber. “Rabbit? Lovely,” he mutters, voice raw with disuse. “Y’should try her out. Should be tuned to your liking, but y’never know. Maybe I got it wrong.” “You never get it wrong,” she states matter-of-factly, hanging her quarry upon a branch before loading the massive weapon with a bolt. The hunter looks around, finds a suitable target in the winding branches of a tree. With a loud whistle the bolt flies; a soft thud as a frosted apple falls to the snow below. She hums.

 “So?” Soot asks her, pleased grin on his sharp features. She looks down, crouches by his side as she places the crossbow back into his lap. He cocks an eyebrow. “Seems I got it wrong after all,” he sighs, reaches for Svetlana. He’s stopped by her hand, wrapped first around his wrist, then draped across his own hand. Alizebeth’s fingertips drag over its rugged surface, stroke fine digits reddened with the cold and blackened with the soot that gives him his name. She can feel his callused skin, just as worn as her’s, as she caresses prominent knuckles. They’re miracle-makers, those fine hands, she thinks. If he died, they should become as relics, and every would-be tinkerer, craftsman and smith should be made to kneel before them in prayer. But he will never die. Not as long as she lives. “Well, well. That’s new,” he begins to say, but the words lose their meaning in his throat. There’s a light in her eyes, hot and intense. It’s that same look she wears in the throes of battle, and it boils his blood in turn. She closes his cold fingers over her own, turns his hand over as she brings it to her. He watches, stunned, as she wordlessly kisses the heel of his palm.

Then, just as silently, she leaves. He hears the knife at her side unsheathed as she begins to gut the hare that will serve as their supper. Her lips will taste of oil and soot until she partakes of the meat. Above him, swaying in the cold wind, white berries hang from their evergreen boughs.