#frigid hare

[atomic-chronoscaph]

Bugs Bunny in Frigid Hare (1949)

[astrodances]

Jumping for joy bc it’s my birthday!!! 😄🥳🎂💛✨

[dailylooneys]

Frigid Hare

(1949, Chuck Jones)

[omgthatdress]

It's really kind of hard to talk about drag without mentioning Bugs Bunny. He's appeared in drag so many times that it's impossible to keep track of.

Officially making his debut in 1940's "A Wild Hare," Bugs first appeared in drag a year later in "Elmer's Pet Rabbit." The surrealistic and subversive nature of cartoons means that Bugs's drag could get around the Hays Code while all other forms of drag were banned from appearing on screen.

There's actually a lot of ways to look at and analyze Bugs's use of drag. One of the most notable things to take away from it is that Bugs never used drag in and of itself as a gag, it was always a clever way to get out of whatever situation he found himself stuck in.

Bugs frequently used drag as a mean of seduction and using Elmer Fudd's heterosexuality against him, but also as a way of being under-estimated. A soft, pretty woman could never be dangerous.

Bugs's most famous outing in drag, "What's Opera, Doc?" poked fun at the snobbery around opera and took "the finest art" down a notch.

However, it's worth nothing that some of Bugs's outings in drag came at the expense of marginalized people, like arctic indigenous people in "Frigid Hare"

or poor southerners in "Hillbilly Hare"

Nonetheless, Bugs's use of drag is iconic and an enduring part of his image. In 2020, the US postal service immortalized Bugs in drag by issuing two special edition stamps:

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 4: Emerald]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

💎 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💎

Back into the sitting room, fleeing like a hare from hounds, but Rush is here trying to grab you. You careen to the door to the private promenade deck and dive out into the bitter starlit cold, your breath fog, your shoes slipping on the yellow pine planks that overlay the steel skeleton of the ship, weight that could drag you down to the ocean floor. Rush is in pursuit; he swipes at your arm and gets ahold of your coat sleeve, soft pink wool. You wrench yourself free, twisting out of the coat and dropping your handbag, colliding with the barrier, Tudor-style timber paneling beneath vast windows the frigid night air pours in through. Your hip bruises against the wood, you can hear black waves crashing below; then you collapse to the deck, your spine pressed to the wall, trying to back away when there’s nowhere left to run to. You realize you are still clutching Aegon’s small aluminum lighter and shove it beneath the skirt of your gown. Rush draws his pistol.

“No no no!” you plead, showing him your palms, cowering beneath one of the windows.

They could throw me out of it. They could say it was an accident or a suicide.

The deck is lined with potted plants and lightweight wicker furniture. Inside, you can hear Rhaenyra saying something, though her words are muffled; it’s a tone you wouldn’t have thought she was capable of. She sounds afraid. Draco and Dagmar must be asleep, Fern tucked away in the tiny maid’s room. There are no witnesses to what will happen next. Your heart thuds in your chest, swollen and sickly. Cold North Atlantic wind washes over your bare skin and leaves you freckled with goosebumps.

Like a lightning storm, like a hurricane, Daemon surges out onto the deck. He is still tying his robe shut. His hair hangs in dark, damp strands over his forehead. You picture it again, though you don’t want to: Daemon with Rhaenyra like he’s never been with you, the impulsive desire, the dire necessity.

Why not in Rhaenyra’s bed? Why would he bring her here?

Because he thought you wouldn’t be back until midnight…and to prove he can get away with it. To succeed where he failed with you this morning. To feel like a man again.

“I didn’t see anything,” you tell him, but you cannot keep the shock and disgust from your face, intractable like a wild animal.

Daemon kicks one of the wicker chairs at you. You bat it away with a scream and press yourself harder against the barrier, trying to disappear, trying to become somebody else, a girl who didn’t agree to marry a renegade of a man who showed up smirking and cavalier at her father’s Connemara marble quarry.

I want to go home, you think with helplessness like a child’s.

“I didn’t see anything,” you say again, sobbing now. With one hand, you claw at the windowsill above you so you have something to hold onto if he tries to drag you away. The wind, sweeping down from the Arctic, burns like blue fire in your lungs. “I don’t know anything.”

Daemon dives to the floor, hooks his fingers into your hair, yanks you closer as you cry out and flinch away from him. “One word, one fucking word, and you’re gone,” he is threatening, a blade-sharp hiss, and you can smell Rhaenyra’s perfume on him, marking his flushed skin like a bloodstain; but Daemon’s deep-set green eyes—emerald, malachite, jade, serpentine, Connemara marble—are fearful. This is strange; this is unlike him, this is a foreign language.

He loves her, you realize. He’s terrified to harm her, to lose her.

“I would never—”

“Over the railing,” Daemon snarls, jerking your head to the side as you whimper. “Your bones at the bottom of the ocean, your name forgotten.”

“I won’t tell, please, Daemon, please, don’t hurt me.” You look at Rush. He’s staring indifferently down at you, his pistol still in his hand. You turn back to Daemon. “I’ve never told anyone.” About the bruises, about the man you really are. “Not my parents, not a soul. I don’t want to tell. I just want to stay with you and Draco. I won’t jeopardize that. Please, Daemon, please—”

“No one would believe you,” he says; but if that was true, he wouldn’t be so frantic. “You’d be a madwoman. They’d lock you up in an asylum, put you in a straightjacket, cut the pieces off of you that made you so hysterical.”

“Yes,” you agree, yielding, toothless.

He rips at your hair again, pulling you away from the barrier and to the center of the floor. Rush steps out of the way to make room. You don’t fight Daemon. You have to convince him your fighting days are over.

Why doesn’t he kill me now? A dagger to the jugular, a body splashing into opaque waves?

Because he needs his perfect family in order to march triumphantly into the skyscrapers-and-streetlights labyrinth of Manhattan. Because he can’t eclipse Viserys if people are whispering that his wife is dead under peculiar circumstances, fallen overboard on Titanic’s famed maiden voyage, insane or drunk or maybe—just maybe—murdered by a man’s rough rageful hands.

“What did you see?” Daemon says, testing you.

“Nothing.”

His palm cracks across your face. You yelp, more startled than in pain. Your skin is going numb from the cold; he’s hit you harder before. Now he doesn’t want to bloody or bruise you, he doesn’t want to leave evidence others could notice. He wants his threats imprinted irrevocably into you like scars. He wants you to listen. “What did you see?!”

“Nothing,” you moan, and then the door to the sitting room opens. You, Daemon, and Rush all whirl towards the noise.

In the doorway stands Fern with a silver-plated tray of tea and biscuits. Her black dress and white apron appear hastily thrown on, rumpled fabric and some buttons left undone. She blinks a few times, but she seems more nervous than shocked. Her eyes flit to you and then settle benignly on a wicker table. She ignores the chair that Daemon kicked earlier, lying overturned at the edge of the deck.

She knew what was happening, you think, grateful, a little awed. She’s here to try to stop it.

“It’s so cold out tonight,” Fern says at last. “I thought I’d make tea.”

Daemon doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never cruel to the staff, that’s one of his charms. His miners worship him, his valets believe him to be their true friend, his housekeepers fret over him as if he’s their husband or their son. Daemon rarely acknowledges Fern directly, as if she doesn’t quite exist to him, a ghost whose silhouette appears on eerie nights, squeaks of door hinges and objects nudged a few mysterious centimeters. He chooses his enemies with great care, like a gardener pruning diseased leaves. Daemon understands that the ones who toil beneath his feet are in the best position to rise up and devour him.

Fern sets the tray down on the wicker table and waits, her hands clasped decorously in front of her. “Will you be requiring anything else, sir?”

There are several electrified seconds—waves thrashing against the ship, wind howling as it tears through your hair—and then Daemon laughs and releases you, as if this has all been a comical misunderstanding. He stands and goes to the tray, picks up a cup of tea, and slurps on it as steam billows up into his face. “How kind of you.”

Fern bows her head in a nod, not leaving. Rush glances between them, then slides his pistol back into its holster.

“Draco should have a mother,” Daemon tells you, looking down from a great height. It sounds like it is meant to be a compromise.

“He should,” you reply. Even if I cannot touch him, cannot be alone with him, cannot teach him to love me.

“It’s not good for boys. When their mothers up and die on them while they’re still so young.” Daemon is reflective for a moment—an unusual skin for him to wear—and then slinks towards the doorway. “Fern, darling, change the bedsheets, will you?”

“Yes, sir. Right away.” She follows him back inside, a brief glimpse at you over one shoulder. Rush glowers at you and disappears with them. You are left alone on the private promenade deck.

Your head spinning, your bones freezing, you struggle to your feet: palms flat on the pine planks, black opal ring glimmering in the moonlight, knees groaning as you lift them. Slowly—stunned, aching—you pull on your pink wool coat. You find Aegon’s lighter and hide it in your handbag, then stand there clutching it like you’re on your way to some glittering social engagement, a tea party, a dinner, a gala, a Christmas party. But what you’re on your way to is purgatory, like the one Dante wrote of, a prison where you will sweat out your sins over and over again.

Why did I believe him? Why did I marry him? Why can’t I find a way out?

You leave the deck like an autumn frosting into winter, bleak, hushed, listless. You do not return to your staterooms but pass through the doorway that leads to the B-Deck hallways. The corridors are quiet and still, occasional stewards running the last errands of the night, a few men in black suits puffing on pipes and cigars, swirling clinking glasses of brandy, ruing all the blights that have incumbered their earnings: foolish wives, Democratic politicians, dissolute immigrants.

You flee towards the stern of the ship, far from the first-class sections. Outside there is a greenish hue to the sky—dim echoes of northern lights—and stars that sparkle like jewels. There is no one lingering by the back railing of Titanic, and for good reason; the air is so cold it bites like fangs, and the roar of the propellers is terrible, so loud and so guttural, sea monsters like the ones early explorers drew into the margins of their maps clawing up from the depths. You fall to the deck and sit with your knees to your chest at the end of a pair of benches—hiding in the shadows where you will not be seen by wandering passengers or lookouts scanning for icebergs—and gaze into the east as Titanic chugs westward, away from Ireland, away from everything your life could have been.

Tears bleed down your cheeks and turn from magma to ice there. You wipe them off your face with the sleeve of your pink wool coat. You ignite a cigarette with Aegon’s aluminum lighter and smoke it all the way down. You light another, and another, poisoning your blood with each breath, polishing the barbs off reality. It’s not enough. You need a drink. How long until you’re just another languishing housewife addicted to laudanum or cocaine? How long until you’re a drunk like Aegon once was?

I want to go home. I want to go home.

There are footsteps, sluggish and clumsy. An intoxicated man. You are about to scramble to your feet and escape when you see who it is. Aegon flops down beside you in a stolen black coat, the pungent miasma of Guinness wafting off of him and his face splotchy and red, looking away from you, ashamed of himself.

You say: “I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“And obviously there’s a reason for that,” Aegon slurs. He rubs his eyes, watery and unfocused, bloodshot and despondent. “I’m having a bad night.”

Me too. “Did you know?” you ask, a hoarse voice, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers.

Aegon is confused. “Know what?”

“That Daemon can’t get hard for me because he’d rather be sleeping with his niece.”

“What?” Aegon gapes at you, incredulous, revolted. “Daemon is fucking Rhaenyra?”

You nod, taking a drag. There is a faint orange glow, a warm hit of nicotine to your blood.

“I can’t believe that.”

“I can. I saw it.”

“Jesus,” Aegon mutters, staring out into the endless ink spill of the Atlantic Ocean. Then, more sympathetically: “No, I didn’t know.”

“You never heard anything?”

“Not like that,” he says. “I mean, I remember when I was a kid and people were talking about Daemon being a bad influence on her. But they said he was teaching Rhaenyra to go to parties and stay out too late and swear and smoke, not…you know. Not that he was committing incest with her. That’s some Richard III mischief.”

“Now I understand why you know so much Shakespeare.”

“My parents couldn’t send me to boarding school fast enough. I was shipped off the same week I turned five. Cake and presents one day, shoved on a train the next.”

“I’m afraid Daemon will do that to Draco.” You can’t keep the quiver from your words. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me now that I know the worst of his secrets.”

Aegon turns to you, and through the haze of dark bitter Guinness that’s still sloshing from his stomach into his bloodstream you can see he fears the same thing.

“I want to go home,” you sob, breaking down. Ashes build on your cigarette until you toss it away. Tears spill from your eyes, the River Shannon, the River Clare. “Nobody here cares about me.”

“I do,” Aegon insists, touching your face, trying to make you listen. His sand-colored hair lashes in the wind. “I care about you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Why do you care? Why can’t you leave me alone? Did you go to O’Connell’s Bar to spy on me, was all of this to spite Daemon and—?”

“No,” Aegon says, a truthful boyish confession. “No. I didn’t know you’d be there. I didn’t know anything about you except that Daemon had married some quarry heiress. I heard he’d be there for an interview, and I was curious, and I kind of thought it’d be fun to fuck with him if he ended up recognizing me, and so I got a job at O’Connell’s and made sure I’d be playing the night Daemon showed up. That’s all there was to it. And then I saw you in that bar in Galway and you were…” He shakes his head. His voice drops to a whisper, aching and reverent. “You were so sad, and so beautiful, and I…I’ve never done anything important in my entire life. I’ve never helped anyone. But I looked at you and I felt like…I thought…I could save her. And maybe that would make all the rest of my mistakes worth it, the wasted years of drinking myself to sleep every night, the aimlessness, the emptiness, the way I abandoned my mother and Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. I followed you onto Titanic because I had to try to help you. But by leading me home, by bringing me back to my family in New York…maybe you’re helping me too.”

I wish I was yours, you think, so vividly you almost tell him. I wish I was a stone in your mine to be found in the darkness, chiseled from the wall, studied and cut down and polished, set in gold or silver to be worn on your ring finger, your blood pulsing beneath my ageless gleam.

“Please stay away from me,” you beg him. “Please, Aegon. I don’t want you to die.”

He says as his thumbprints clean tears from your cheeks: “What if Daemon was gone?”

“You mean what if I pushed him over a railing and into the Atlantic Ocean?” you ask, sniffling. “Assuming I could get him alone, and he didn’t stab me first or drag me overboard with him, they would know it was me. Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra. And they would make me pay. If I lived, I’d spend the rest of my life in a prison or an asylum. I wouldn’t get to go home. I wouldn’t get to keep Draco.”

Aegon doesn’t know what to say, and this is because there are no answers. You aren’t overlooking anything. Sometimes reality is cold and unfeeling and lethal, primordial, reptilian, mindless black eyes like a shark’s.

You smile miserably at him. “I’m going to miss you when the ship docks in New York Harbor.”

“Daemon wanting to fuck Rhaenyra doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Stop,” you say, wincing, standing to leave him. Aegon reaches for your hands, but you hide them in the pockets of your pink wool coat. He gazes up at you, drunk desperate heartbreak. You wonder how clearly he’ll remember this tomorrow.

“If you were my wife, I’d never look away.”

“You have no idea who I am. You’ve never really seen me.” Never held me, never uncovered me, never opened me and filled the void with your own rushing blood. Then you depart before someone can come searching for you and discover Aegon, rip away his disguise, toss him into the roiling frigid surf stirred up by the propellers.

In your staterooms, the lamplit air is silent and warmed by the ship’s furnaces, shoveled full of coal at all hours of the day and night. Fern is waiting on the sofa when you enter. She looks at you as if she is relieved, then vanishes into her tiny maid’s room without a word. Your bedroom has been tidied, the linens changed; but the mineral ether of sex still hangs in the space like tapestries from a wall. You try not to notice your reflection in the mirror.

Daemon never touched me like he touched Rhaenyra. He never wanted me, I never satisfied him.

Daemon doesn’t come back all night. You sleep on the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the morning of Sunday April 14th, you dress in green, the color of the Emerald Isle, the color of deep poisonous envy. You affix small emeralds to your ears and one massive stone around your throat, found in Madagascar in one of Daemon’s Grandidierite mines, a lush verdant glint in a nest of cold blue like deep water, like ice.

Heavy enough to drown me, you think wryly, a swift glance at the mirror, turning away again almost immediately. I’d go straight to the bottom.

Before you leave the bedroom, you slide open the top drawer of Dameon’s writing desk, presently abandoned. His dagger is there, gold hilt and spherical gemstones like miniature planets, all fatefully aligned: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. You lift up the dagger and study it, circling the tiny emerald world with your index finger. You are jealous of Rhaenyra getting everything she’s ever wanted. You are jealous of any woman who’s ever touched Aegon, who knows what it feels like to lie beneath him, to be known by him.

You place the dagger back in the drawer and slam it shut; the whole desk rattles. Then you go out into the sitting room, where Fern is attempting to wrestle Draco into his black wool coat, a small version of Daemon’s.

“No!” Draco is bellowing. “I don’t want to wear it, I don’t want to, let me go!”

“You’ll freeze to death out there, lad,” Fern says, strands of her long copper-colored hair escaping from her bonnet and a sheen of perspiration on her forehead, looking like she’s been to war.

Draco is stomping on the toes of her shoes to little effect. “No I won’t!”

You peer around, searching for your geriatric nemesis, a banshee, a vampire. She is nowhere to be found. “Where’s Dagmar?”

“She’s feeling seasick,” Fern replies, still struggling with Draco. “So she’s lying down in Draco’s bedroom. I’m sure she’ll be up and around again before you know it. She’s a tough old Cailleach.” And there’s no danger in being overheard; Dagmar wouldn’t know what that means, just like you don’t understand her when she mutters her strange Scandinavian curses.

You immediately scoop up Draco and run with him out of the staterooms, Draco giggling shrilly, you beaming as you fly down the corridors and ascend the Grand Staircase two steps at a time, your green shoes slipping on the English oak wood as you zoom past the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock. All around you are first-class passengers watching with startled looks, a little baffled, a little amused. High above is the dome of glass and wrought iron, brisk white-gold sunlight streaming through. You carry Draco out onto the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and take him to an unoccupied portion of the railing beside one of the lifeboats. You hold him so he can see over the barrier and out into the calm murky blue of the North Atlantic Ocean, hundreds of miles southeast of Newfoundland. The breeze is icy, the sky infinite and cloudless.

You spot slate grey fins cutting up through the water in arches, a whole pod of them. “Look, look! Dolphins!”

“Dolphins?” Draco says doubtfully. “Dolphins are real? Not just in books?”

“Of course they’re real. And they’re friendly, too. Back in Galway, sometimes they swim right up to the pier hoping the fishermen will share the catch of the day.”

“Neat!” Draco shouts. “Can I throw things at them?”

You pause, unsure how to reply. You resist the urge to shake him and say: Do you crave violence like Daemon, are you burning up inside with his fire? Do you want to be a monster like your father? One day will you paint amethyst bruises on your wife? “Why would you want to do that?”

Draco shrugs. “I like throwing things.”

“Well, throwing things can be fun, but if you throw something at a dolphin you might hurt it. Do you want to hurt the dolphin? It’s a living creature just like you. They have friends and families, and blood in their veins. They can feel it if you cut them.”

“No,” Draco decides. “I don’t really want to hurt the dolphins.”

“You can throw things in other situations, like if you play cricket or hurling or Gaelic football. Or baseball, I guess. Now that we’ll be living in America.”

“Okay,” Draco says, gazing at the ocean. Fern trots over to you, breathing heavily from trying to keep up, but she’s grinning. She has brought the coat Draco refused to put on, and this is fortunate, because now as you hold him on your hip you can feel your son is shivering.

“Do you want to put on your coat now?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” Draco says reluctantly, and you lower him down to the deck and help him tug the sleeves over his tiny arms. You suddenly remember when he was born and being so fascinated by his hands—so small and wrinkled, so powerless, always grasping—and Dagmar forever clawing him out of your arms, bundling him up in blankets and whisking him away to other corners of the castle.

“Fern was trying to help you when she told you to wear your coat. She knew you would be cold, and now you are, aren’t you? When adults tell you to do things, it’s not for no reason. They just want what’s best for you.”

“But I don’t like to do what other people say. I like to do what I want.”

“And that’s totally understandable,” you say. “Sometimes you will get to make your own decisions, especially as you get older. But right now you’re very, very young, and there are just a lot of things you don’t know yet, so you need adults more. Please be kind when Fern is trying to help you with your coat or your shoes. She doesn’t mean to upset you. She wants you to be safe and healthy.”

Fern gives you a modest, thankful smile. Draco is mulling this over. “The older someone is, the more they know?”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” you say.

“So Dagmar knows a lot more than you.”

He’s not trying to be cruel; he’s trying to figure things out. The world is so new to him. You wish you could recall what that feels like, to see everything with vast light wonder. “Well…” you begin delicately. He loves her; you cannot win by bludgeoning her into a mess of bloodstains and bone shards. “Yes, she probably knows more about certain things.”

You pick Draco up again to distract him, and he is captivated by the seagulls swooping through the air, laughing and tracking them with his wide eyes, a sunlit green beneath pale blonde hair that is disheveled from the wind. There is a figure lurking on the periphery of your vision, a man in black, a coat and a hat, hands in his pockets. You turn to see it’s Aegon, perhaps ten feet away and pretending to survey the horizon. Your heartbeat quickens; you stomach drops.

What on earth is he doing here? Why can’t he leave me alone?

But of course, you don’t want him to. You stare at him and instinctively touch the emerald that hangs from your throat, Madagascar, Ireland, treasure, envy. You think of how your bedroom smelled when you returned to it late last night.

Fern seems oblivious to Aegon. “I feel so much better knowing there are lifeboats aboard,” she says, looking at the vessel you are standing beside.

“There aren’t enough of them,” you tell her, a low murmur that Draco pays no attention to.

Fern is alarmed. “No?”

“They can fit about half the passengers, no more. So if anything happens, make sure you don’t waste any time finding yourself a seat.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am,” Fern says, troubled.

“Have you seen Lord Targaryen today?”

“No, ma’am,” Fern answers, trying to keep her tone neutral. She isn’t sure if it will be a relief to you or a knife to the heart. “He moved some of his things to Rhaenyra’s rooms before he departed last night. I suspect he will spend the rest of Titanic’s journey there.”

“He’s so fond of his niece,” you say flatly.

“Yes.”

“And she is in need of company, as her own husband is always fraternizing with the Parisians.”

Fern isn’t sure what she’s allowed to say. She smirks and bows her head to hide it. Now Aegon is strolling closer, ostensibly casual. “Good morning, ladies!”

Fern curtsies politely. “Good morning, sir.”

He casts Draco a glance—Aegon seems puzzled by him, maybe a little wary, certainly not accustomed to being around children—then extends an open hand to you. “What an engagement ring! Might I trouble you for a quick look?”

You set Draco down and he is promptly enamored by an orange-sized rubber ball someone has left here. “Of course.” You try to act indifferent, but when Aegon takes your left hand in his own you feel a jolt of warmth travel like a wave up the length of your arm.

Aegon turns your hand one way and then the other, inspecting it. Underneath, his fingertips stroke the lines of your palm. A tremor cascades down the rungs of your spine, helpless hypnotic longing. “What is that, onyx? Obsidian? Jet?”

“Black opal. From Australia.”

“A prison colony,” Aegon says, grinning at you from under the brim of his hat. “A place for villains and beasts.” Swiftly, he takes his right hand from his coat pocket and presses something into your palm: a folded piece of paper, a note, a message in a bottle from a castaway. Then he steps back from you as if it takes great effort.

“There you are!” a craggy voice cries out, and Dagmar is crossing the deck. She seems restored, if a bit wan. She swishes over in her charcoal-colored gown, her white hair twisted into a severe bun, and when Draco bolts to her she kneels down and catches him in a fierce, territorial embrace, her gnarled hands encircling his diminutive body. “Out and about without me? And I wager you haven’t even had breakfast yet, have you, my love?” She glares over his little shoulder at you. “You must be famished. How terribly irresponsible to let you suffer.”

“He ate some tea and biscuits when he woke up to tide him over,” Fern offers meekly.

“I was having fun with Mam,” Draco tells Dagmar, and you see the calculations on her cunning ancient face. She can’t scold him, she can’t correct him. She can’t defeat you with naked wrath any more than you can demand he stop loving Dagmar. You have sailed into new waters, a subtle silent war.

Aegon is receding, disappearing into the crowds of first-class passengers strolling the Boat Deck. Dagmar glances at him and then looks again, her jaw dropping open, her attention captured like a jewel in the pocket of a thief.

“What is it?” Fern asks, peeking bewilderedly at the stranger. Draco is chasing the rubber ball around again. Your pulse thuds hot and hectic in your ears.

Dagmar’s sharp blue eyes are uncharacteristically dazed; she shakes her head as if she’s just seen something impossible, an angel or a ghost. “He looks just like Viserys when he was young.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Dagmar spirits Draco off to breakfast, Fern returns to the staterooms to complete her chores for the day. You take the Grand Staircase down to A-Deck and slip into the Reading and Writing Room, mostly unoccupied this early in the day, to read Aegon’s note. Outside on the Promenade Deck, you can hear Daemon and Rhaenyra strolling by with a number of companions, chuckling and chatting away in a world where all their wishes are granted.

Daemon is saying: “There is an Armenian legend about a so-called Queen of the Serpents, who carries in her fanged mouth a stone made of light. Some nights she tosses it up into the air, where it becomes the moon, full and shining, until it inevitably drops back down to the earth. And as the proverb goes, happy is the man who shall catch the stone where it falls…”

You know that story. It was in one of the books you gifted Daemon for your first anniversary.

With trembling hands, you unfold Aegon’s note. He has written in black ink:

Petra,

One last painting?

Don’t go to dinner tonight. Meet me at the stern.

- Picasso

[novlr]

How to write the cold

The way we feel cold is universal, but the way we contextualise it is not. Cold has a variety of connotations for readers, so it's important to decide how to use it, and what mood you want to convey in your scene.

While cold is often associated with negative aspects in writing, if there's anything the winter season teaches us, is that it can be a positive thing as well. Rather than just using the word cold, in your next writing project, try to contextualise it. Describe the weather, the light on the snow, the comfort of warmth after an icy swim, or the fear and loneliness of the dark on a cold night.

Here are our quick tips on how to write the cold:

In nature

Clean mountain air

Glittering ice crystals

Unique wildlife, like snow hares or polar bears

Snow muffled sounds

Steam rising from hot springs

Icy water in rivers and lakes

Overcast and rainy

Bright sun on fresh snow

Icebergs, glaciers, and ice floes

Storms and blizzards

Branches moving and creaking

Frozen ponds

Morning frost on grass

Snowdrops pushing through snowdrifts

Crisp and clear night skies

Wolves howling in the dark

Bare branches scraping against windows

Eerie shadows

Foods and objects

The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg

Heavy winter coats and scarves

Rich, hot meals with lots of gravy

Tea or coffee left out too long

Ice-cream, sorbets, or ice-lollies

Metal that is cold to the touch (like pots and pans or door handles)

Cold beverages straight out of the fridge

An icy bath

Freezer trucks or walk-in refrigerators

Dry ice

Crisp, fresh sheets on cold nights

Ice sculptures

A tap with a drip that freezes in place

Frozen celebratory drinks (like daiquiris)

A single cube of ice floating in a whisky glass

A cold pack for an injury

Character moods

Isolated

Lonely

Aloof

Sad

Comfortable

Snuggly

Focused

Panicked

Indifferent

A lack of affection

Calm and calculated

Disengaged

Serene

Depressed

Awestruck

Anxious

Reverent

Melancholy

Nostalgic

Impatient

Frustrated

Reflective

Character body language

Hunched shoulders

Crossed arms

Shivering

Snuggling into something warm

Rub hands together for warmth

Tight or strained expression

Biting dry lips

Furrowing brow

Glaring against brightness

Tense and rigid stance

Stand close to others

Slow, deliberate steps

Move quickly to somewhere warm

Sitting relaxed in a warm space

Actions and events

Start a fire or build a shelter

Winter hikes

Outdoor activities like skating, skiing, or sledding

Traffic jams or snowed in cars

Frozen lakes cracking underfoot

Dodging icicles falling from rooftops

Going ice-fishing

Long sea voyages

Frostbite

Suffering from a cold, the flu, or pneumonia

Brainfreeze

Snuggling under a warm duvet

Sipping from a steaming hot drink for comfort

Cold-water swimming

Walking to work in the rain

Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere

Chrismas in July in the Southern Hemisphere

Reading a good book by the fire while it snows outside

Positive aspects

While cold is often associated with negative emotions, using it as a juxtaposition can often help to accentuate the positive feelings you want to convey.

If it's cold outside, a character enjoying a hot chocolate under their duvet will give a much more positive impression than if they were simply staying in bed.

The beauty of the natural world in winter, like snow, ice, and winter foliage can also be used to create a scene of happiness and wonder.

Negative aspects

Cold is often used to describe characters who are emotionally detached, calculating, or generally unfeeling. It's become an easy way to clue your readers in to how they're meant to feel about your character.

There are also more creative ways to use the cold, however, like describing the disappointment of forgetting about a hot drink you put down somewhere and only remembering when it's already gone cold, or the feeling of shock after you first step out of a warm shower.

Helpful synonyms

chilly

frigid

icy

wintry

frosty

cool

nippy

freezing

glacial

brisk

chilled

cool

polar

bitter

snowy

raw

refrigerated

arctic

rimy

draughty

[ruumirmir]

A Fatuu's Floriography - What does nature's flora have to say about them? Part 1 of Flowers for the Harbingers series .༊·˚

Flowers for the Knave

Buds that bloom under the Crimson Bale Moon

Arlecchino's calm demeanour hides a mind sharper than the sharpest of pins. Like the delicate patterns of lace, her thoughts fall into place with a flawless precision.

Beneath her calm and collected exterior, however, exists a dangerous side, as Arlecchino will not hesitate to resort to all means necessary to achieve her goals—

‘Sappho’ Rhododendron, the flower symbolizing caution and danger. It speaks of riches and prosperity and of kissing your convictions with the energy of unwavering belief and faith.

You could not let go of the disquiet easily at first. Amidst tender moments, The Knave often found your heartbeat fleeting and fast, like a skittish jackrabbit tailed by a wolf. And she kept her distance from you on the chance assumption of unease; for a good while at least. You noticed of course, after the fifth instance of subtly failing to end up in her arms. It was hard, first and foremost, to still your beating heart in the presence of The Knave, all sharp and cold despite the steadfast blaze of a hearth within. And it was harder still around Peruere, the soft glow of an ember wrapped around your finger. "Do I make you nervous?" She had asked, gaze burning through your hands that shook slightly while pinning the stem of a Rhododendron on her winter coat; right over her breast. Urgent duty calls, but never urgent enough to refuse a harmless request from you. Dawn hadn't seeped into the sky yet. Maybe you were cold. Maybe you were unnerved by her. It hadn't been too long and Arlecchino hadn't brought the same warmth of Peruere outside of closed doors yet. You weren't sure what you felt. It wasn't fear. Never that. She burned far too bright to let any shadowed thoughts come near you. "No." "You just make me feel too much." Her lips betrayed a whispered gasp; tensing under the sudden energy of your kiss for a moment before reciprocating. The frigid air confined in your bedroom felt just a tad bit warmer, comfortable enough to fall back asleep in her absence. You were given a rare, wider curve to Arlecchino's usual smile. Her cupped palm slipped from your jaw, trailing down and down, a dangerous path of shivers in it's wake till it rested above the part of you that felt too much. "Mmmh," She felt the rhythm mirroring hers. Maybe your little rabbit was more excitable than skittish, for it was joined by another hare. Maybe the wolf was just the hare's clothing, shed long ago with caution to the wind. "I can tell."

‘Penny Black’ Baby Blue Eyes, addresses qualities of tender sensitivity, innocence and trust associated with one's early childhood relationship to the father, or other significant masculine figures that are in some way... disturbed.

"Father! Why didn't you tell us they'd be visiting?" The protest was accompanied by several others from pouty lips of the littlest children. You, for the most part, were swamped by a chorus of bright-eyed kids and teens extending their hands to you for the chocolates you brought. "Yeah, Father," The title slid off your tongue easily. Archons above, how well it suited her. "-think of the children. They could've known to eat a lighter lunch to accommodate space for the ungodly amount of candies I've bought." A few of them laughed alongside you, wrappers crunching emptily already. Arlecchino was shaking her head with a sigh. If she had any qualms to being called Father by you, she didn't show it. The first child who had piped up with that comment looked up to see The Knave's hand patting his head. "With the ungodly amount of confectionaries my children consume from your generous visits... I might have to issue a new rule to restrict such gifts—" Her expression was a serious deadpan, fooling most, but you could pick up the humor it in. Hopefully you weren't imagining it. "After thinking of their health, of course." The outcry took a couple minutes to subdue. The atmosphere, tense as it got under Arlecchino's glare to hush the children, was tender as can be on a lazy Saturday afternoon. "I hope you've all given them ample gratitude for the chocolates." The chorus of 'Thank yous' was immediate upon Arlecchino's dismissal, finally ushering you further inside the orphanage towards her office upstairs. The bag of lunch you had brought to share with her already lukewarm in your hands. Today, perhaps, was the final piece of the puzzle, completing the picture painted to you from the previous handful of visits to the orphanage. You took a moment to smell the wafting aroma of Penny Blacks decorating the crudely made pots, hung off colorful ropes right over her door while she unlocked it. You chuckled when you caught the messy handwriting of names under each pot. Arlecchino held the door open you. A hundred men may die at her hands, but not chivalry. "Unfeeling as you say you are..." You mumbled, glued close enough to her side to hear. Arlecchino cast you a sidelong glance, fingers deftly unpacking the lunchboxes. "The children trust you more than anything." "Which... actually brings me to something I'm curious about." You quickly began, trampling down the hesitance. You hadn't actually brought it up before, wary of digging up unsavory memories. A positive hum from her urged you to continue. You'd both have plenty of time to talk over the humble sandwiches you made. "What was the previous Knave like?"

'Black Spider’ Asiatic Lily, typically symbolize wealth and prosperity, but it can be a powerful symbol of the spirit of a loved one that offers hope and encouragement to someone grieving the loss.

'Royal Wedding’ Oriental Poppy, represent consolation, remembrance and death. The color white on this flower spins the tale of victims fallen to the whims of war and conflict.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Arctic hares have very long legs that allow them to be extremely nimble and agile.

They usually tuck them in to preserve heat and survive the frigid conditions of their environment.

When they do this, they transform into snowballs.🐇❄️

[synthwavecryptid]

I took a shower and after my last post I had so many sad thoughts about rabbit Dutch while I was in there so now I’m making them yalls problem so don’t go into the read more unless you also want to have brainworms about Dutch’s scrambled egg mentality and mommy issues

Like it’s not as uncommon as folks think for new parents to struggle to bond with a new baby, usually through no fault of their own. Being stressed or overwhelmed can impact it, as can preexisting conditions, and postpartum depression is brutal.

Just. Dutch being resigned to the idea he won’t have any offspring with Hosea, a little sad about it even when he himself doesn’t know if he wants any in the first place, suddenly getting his world upended with a gift he’s on the fence about.

Absolutely heartsick over it being a cryptic pregnancy, so he never had the opportunity to come to terms with it, to get attached and start looking forward to it, not even the chance to make a choice if this is something they can or want to do. All of that taken away, replaced with a sudden surprise that isn’t necessarily bad, but not necessarily good either. Doesn’t help that it’s just the one kit, not the two or three or even four that’s standard. He should be excited, over the moon even, but instead he’s tied up in shock, some fear, and the strangest sense of failure. So overwhelmed he can’t quite get around to connecting with that elation he knows has gotta be buried in him somewhere. And then that just… snowballs to proper postpartum, bless his heart.

He does get better (mostly), loves Arthur so much it hurts sometimes, but that really scrambled his mental state and he never really gets over it. Probably made him an awkward, hot and cold parent for a while; adoring and engaged and all about it for a bit, then hands-off and a little frigid and borderline dissociative for a bit, and then repeating with adoring. A cycle he’s aware of (because I’m sure he and Hosea have had rows about it before), but he just. Doesn’t know how to stop it, or fix it.

Which makes me double sad thinking about how maybe a combination of things, including Dutch’s erratic temperament, possibly pushed Hosea away in Arthur’s teen years. Brought Bessie into the picture, a genuinely lovely lady who maybe Hosea could have more kits with, give Arthur some half siblings, because if it worked once it may work again (despite the fact that after Arthur, Dutch’s heats never took again). But that just puts another nail in the coffin of Dutch’s multifaceted mommy issues, because now he sees himself as a further failure and will act out to compensate.

Cue Dutch bringing home John, this scraggly ass orphan, ostensibly because saving a child from a hanging is the right thing to do, but also because he has Dutch’s coloring and Hosea’s hare attributes and Dutch wants to make a statement. Wants to be the big Robin Hood putting his finger up to the law, but also wants to prove he can still grow their family, still has worth as Hosea’s doe. He’s a little unconventional but that’s no reason to look elsewhere.

ANYWAYS IDK IM INJURED OVER THEM

[bunbitti]

warm

songbaek x cryptid!reader (idk what I'm doing, why did my first fic with Songbaek on here have to be weird); platonic

~500 words

tw: none

Songbaek had been searching for a new spot to train, since it seemed more and more people had been stealing his spots. Not that he'd ever mind being asked to help his fellow disciples with training, but could they maybe stop outright replacing him in whatever place he decided to train? A little consistency would be nice once in a while, but he figured it would be a good test of his discipline to be flexible.

He wandered out past the sect grounds a little farther than he normally would for training, and found a cave.

It was snowing. Snow never stopped him from training before.

He'd also never seen this cave before, but also he'd never gone in this specific direction before. Huh. Surely one of the others would've seen it before, though..?

Maybe he'd peek in to make sure things were safe before focusing on his training.

He found a massive rabbit curled up inside. Not massive as in one of the larger rabbit breeds, but so large that it was probably a few times larger than him if it'd also stood up on its hind legs. If he went off its fur color, maybe it was a snowshoe hare instead? But they shouldn't exist in this part of the world?? Well, a massive hare shouldn't exist in any part of the world, and here it was, so he decided to dismiss that discrepancy.

"..."

It shifted, and he flinched. He shouldn't have flinched, but it had opened its eyes and blinked at him before stretching its legs and yawning.

He never thought an animal yawning should be so terrifying, but it had sharp teeth next to the teeth a hare would normally have. Why did the hare have the canines of a wildcat?!

He was about to back away, but it reached out and snagged him in its strangely hand-like paws and pulled him into his cave. Songbaek had only had the thought once before, when Chungmyung had defeated him in a spar years ago with the aura of a vengeful demon, but was this how he would die? To a carnivorous giant hare in a cave he should've left alone?

Songbaek found himself surrounded by fluff. He vaguely felt the body heat of the cryptid seeping into his body, and he couldn't do anything but relax. The cozy heat contrasting with the frigid cold outside was making him want to fall asleep already. He tried to stay awake, but his strict discipline did nothing to help him.

His eyes drooped shut.

Songbaek woke up hours later. The hare was sleeping again, and he was being cuddled like a child would cling onto a stuffed animal or doll. But it was somehow the best sleep of his life, better than the countless times he'd passed out from the exhaustion of training, or for any other reason.

Huh.

Weeks later, Zhongnan disciples started to wonder where Songbaek went in the middle of the night when he claimed he couldn't sleep.

[dailylooneys]

Frigid Hare

(1949, Chuck Jones)

[evolutionsvoid]

The mountains are not the most welcoming of ecosystems, always getting worse the higher you go. Fierce winds, minimal amounts of food, dizzying heights, frigid cold and erratic weather. If it is not one thing plaguing your day, it is another two from that list. All my trips up in the mountains have had their fair share of issues and challenges, some easy to overcome and some that make me wish I focused more of my studies in the tropics. But despite all the hardships, life does exist up there and thus I must go there to see it for myself! Plenty of species that see all these problems and somehow accept them as a way of life. Then they just make it work! It is incredible! Absolutely incredible! I feel there is something inspirational to take away from something like this! However, keep in mind that these species aren't all just happy little success stories of how hard work and good ol gumption solves life's challenges. Some grow to be as hardy as the ecosystem they live, while others choose to mimic its lethality....

In certain mountain ranges out east, where the peaks stand tall and snowy, is a notable species that carries a certain infamy: the Yuki-onna. They are a member of the harpy family that is quite a bit bigger and taller than your usual harpy. A full grown Yuki-onna stands about as tall as a human, which means it has a pretty impressive wingspan to boot! They are clad in feathers of black and white, and their hair-like plumage upon their heads is a pitch black. Due to their high up homes in the mountains, they are a species that are more often read about than actually seen. If you ask the locals, however, they would tell you this is a good thing. As far as they are concerned, your life would be much better if you never saw one of these in the wild. It would be longer too!

So why the fear around these big birds? What is so threatening about a tall harpy? Well, if we dive into their diet and hunting strategies, you will quickly learn the reason. Yuki-onna are predators, hypercarnivores to be exact. Their diet is entirely meat, taken from any animal they can find on the mountains. Since the ecosystem is so extreme and the meal options are limited, these birds will take on any creature they spot (within reason) as they never know when they will next get the chance. They have very keen eyes, able to locate small critters scurrying amongst the rocks as they soar through the air. Typically, they want something a bit bigger and meatier, but if hunger is haunting them, even a small fuzzball like a hare or weasel will do. What they want most are things like mountain serow who are on the slopes grazing upon what little vegetation they can find. Beasts like these climb these tough slopes to escape larger predators, finding safety on steep inclines and loose footholds. Surely no bear would dare try to scale these slopes, and even if they did, the serow would spot them a mile away. However, the Yuki-onna doesn't have to worry about climbing, as they drop in from above. These attacks are swift and silent, seemingly coming from nowhere. And this is when they deploy their most powerful weapon: gravity.

While the Yuki-onna has sharp talons and a powerful grip, there are easier ways to dispatch prey up here. With a beast clinging to the steep slopes, all is needed is one good push or pull to cause them to plummet to their deaths. This is their favorite strategy, swooping in, grabbing hold and then dragging their flailing victim right off a cliff. They then let go and wait, as eventually their broken bodies will come to a rest and dinner will be served! In cases when food isn't near a lethal drop, they can still be a great danger. They are strong and know where to strike to put prey down for good. The ambush will remain the same, but they will aim to sink their talons into the neck or spine, then clamp down hard til something breaks or someone gives up. If their strike fails, they can always reset the encounter by heavy flapping of their wings, which stirs up the snow. In seconds, the prey is blinded by a small blizzard and the bird slips away. Once again out of sight, they will circle around and find their next opening.

Another tool at their disposal is their excellent vocal mimicry, which allows them to copy anything they hear. When the winds are whipping and the snow is blinding, the Yuki-onna may utilize its voice to fool prey with familiar calls. They know which sounds go to which animal, and have figured out what kind help lure food closer to them. Often they use calls that mean "help, I'm lost" or "the herd is over here," with the hopes that other animals may hear it and try to follow the sound in the blizzard. Some have even been seen using the calls of the young, triggering mothers to come running at the sound of their distress. This mimicry is typically done near a cliff edge, luring them to a deadly drop. Once the animal gets close enough, they pounce and pull them to their doom.

Yuki-onna are solitary creatures, spending most of their lives alone. It is only when the breeding season comes and a viable mate is found will they accept company. For as long as there is an egg or a young chick, the two will work together. In such frigid temperatures, an exposed egg would freeze within a minute, thus the female must remain sitting on it constantly. It is up to the male to provide for both of them. Once hatched, the chick can last a bit longer in the cold, allowing parents to swap spots without issue. But once the chick is grown big enough on its own, the whole family dissolves and moves on, going back to a life alone.

Though they are a beautiful sight to see and their hunts are fascinating, the Yuki-onna are not a loved species in these parts. While harpies can be hit or miss with folk, due to their wide range of attitudes and behaviors, the Yuki-onna is a bird that is always in predator mode. Like I said, they need to eat whatever they can whenever they can, so any meaty beast is fair game. What I am trying to say is that man is most certainly prey to them, and humans falling to them is not a rare event. Their method of dragging prey off the side of a mountain works on them too, and many lost climbers and travelers are assumed to have met this fate. What makes matters worse is that this does not seem to be mere accident or a case where they blindly go after any prey they see. Studies and stories suggest that Yuki-onna have actually started adapting their strategies to hunting humans, and they are scary good at it. Remember, they are very good mimics...

Those who have braved the mountains for long enough will have a story about hearing a voice upon the wind. The sound of another human speaking to them, despite there not being a single soul around for miles. The words can be hard to hear at times, and come off a bit odd, but many attribute it to the howling winds and disorienting echoes. Wise men would not follow such a noise, but those lost or desperate may be fooled into thinking help is nearby. And as they follow the voice, they see a silhouette in the snow, one of a woman with long black hair. I hope at this point they realize it is a ruse, but when the body is cold and the brain is deprived of food and proper air, some folk may not be thinking straight. Even if they do change their mind, it may be too late. The "clothes" of this woman will fan open into great wings and she will launch herself at them. Talons dig in and pull them off their feet, and then the next thing they know they are falling to their deaths. Indeed, Yuki-onna impersonate humans to lure them in, often mimicking calls for help or even the sound of rescue teams. Some folk say that even traveling in numbers isn't guaranteed safety, as a Yuki-onna may copy the voices of your fellow climbers and use those to draw you away from camp. So with that, many people of the region prefer to keep far away from the mountains, and when someone disappears up there, they simply shake their heads at the foolishness of those who dare test their luck.

I would like to end the entry there, but I unfortunately feel like I got to bring this up. Because people get....ideas when they see illustrations of these birds and hear their voices. Yes, a Yuki-onna is person-sized and in a blizzard can certainly give the impression of a robed long-haired woman. With their intelligence and vocal performance, they can absolutely sound like a human and pretend to have short conversations. And of course there are even stories of humans who fall in love with a Yuki-onna but I would advise you to read to the end, as those tales never end happily. These birds need lots of meat, which often forces their would-be suitor to sacrifice other people to them. And often these tales have a hero or traveler dispatch both of these culprits behind the many disappearances, in some cases by having the Yuki-onna turn on her human partner and eat them. So yeah, not a happy tale. Because they are always predators at all times. They live to hunt. It doesn't matter how all these little things may add up into the idea that these are consenting sapient bird women, because they DON'T! So what I am saying is.....you see it's...what I am getting at is.....just don't. Don't.

Chlora Myron

Dryad Historian

----------------------------------

"Yuki-onna"

Time for some different harpy species! Unfortunately, I must admit I am not a fan how the wings turned out. Eh, not great...

[swordluck]

⚘ @hawksblooded // cont.

Alizebeth was a figure cut from fairy-tale pages. A beach pebble polished by years of wind and wave, a dryad sprung from mossy, vine-riddled cracks. Weathered in beautiful ways, her roots ran deep into the soft belly of the earth, her flint tongue fluent in the language of seasons and storms and shifting light. Even her hound – a lithe, long-limbed creature of cream and shadow – seemed understood on some primal, unspoken level.

It was a beautiful exchange, Anri thought, even as unease curled like smoke in the corners of her mind. Once, she had seen a similar beast shake a small child dead, had watched in dark-eyed terror as its squabbling pack pulled him apart like a hare. Ever since, she had doubted even the most obedient of velvety, black-lipped maws.

But this was no space for old horrors. Not today, not here. Not while the sun was warm on their backs, the sky stretching bright and endless. Not while the river ran clear and cold, minnows darting around her knees in open-mouthed streaks of quicksilver.

Despite the unwelcome memories, despite Alizebeth’s grumbling participation, Anri smiled warmly. Hurt recognised hurt, and she wondered if, beneath the hunter’s brittle words and bristling weaponry, there was something raw – a bruised and tender spot, one wreathed in broken glass and steel-tipped pikes. Knowing that some wounds were best nursed in secret, healing only in the dark, she dared not ask.

Instead, she waded deeper, careful not to wander so far as to be snatched by the current. Mountain-birthed water rose, pressing frigid kisses to her thighs, then her waist, stealing the heat from her skin in a stinging rush that shocked the ache of travel from her bones. It was bracing and joyous – but Alizebeth moved as though the river might rise up and devour her whole. Restless hunter eyes trailed over the sodden stoop of the banks, cutting through curtains of reeds, ever cautious and wary.

“Perhaps,” Anri said softly, her voice lilting with its gentle cadence. “But even the diligent must rest – and play.”

With those words, she cupped her hands and splashed water toward Alizebeth, intending to draw her companion’s attention away from imagined dangers.

“Let the river bear the weight of your burdens for a time, hm?”

Anri was still smiling as she worked with wet fingers to remove her hair pins, honeyed waves tumbling from fraying plaits, kinked with the memory of their bondage. Pale, dappled light played across the damp-dark hair that fell to the tundra between her shoulder blades, across the rose-tipped breasts that perked with the cold. Among her own sex, there was little room for shame. The young acolytes of the cathedral had bathed and dressed together, flinching as a flock when the man-eating saint lunged. Her childhood had been one of crowded dormitories and wishful whispers, escape found only in dazzling flights of fancy. Unfortunately for Alizebeth, old habits died hard.

“I think we should stay here, you and I,” Anri continued gently, her cornflower eyes bright with a quiet, girlish mischief that she was sure her companion had already come to dread. “We can live as water sprites and grant wishes to weary travellers.”

[mysticstarlightduck]

Last Line Tag

Thank you for the tag, @sarahlizziewrites (here)!

I'll go with a backstory snippet from The Forgotten Ones for this one because I still need to write some more content for Supernova Initiative (:

TW. Implied past torture, medieval dungeon setting, general whump (characters are not having a good time, in short)

There were footsteps on the corridor outside the rusted, magically suppressant iron door of the cell. Nursing a myriad of lashes, cuts, and bruises from his latest session under the Magisters 'ministrations', Asael painstakingly dragged himself into a somewhat seated position, as he always did.

Behind him, Deryc was still asleep, wrists rubbed raw by the iron cuffs, somewhat bruised but otherwise untouched. He wanted to keep it that way for as long as he could manage to keep the brunt of the Inquisition's wrath away from his Kindred. But that didn't mean that every time those soldiers walked down that hall his heart didn't start racing in his chest like a hare fleeing from a wolf.

It wasn't long until the footsteps that had been coming closer and closer stopped the door was unlocked. Two armored knights stood at the threshold and the red-robed figure of the Magister strode into the frigid cell. Asael recognized the man and felt the last, damaged shreds of hope in his heart wither and die.

This guy was one of the worst ones.

"Have you changed your mind, heretic?"

Asael closed his shaking hands into fists, and as he opened his mouth to speak, he heard a slight rustle, followed by a sleepy hum and the clinking of chains. Deryc had woken up, and as much as Asael adored his Kindred's company, the young man couldn't have picked a worse time to make his presence known.

"I don't know," Deryc began with a tone that meant nothing but trouble. Asael wanted to scream through their bond for him to just shut up and not aggravate the situation. He would have if their magic wasn't being cut off, "Have you changed your mind about being a bigoted asshole?"

Tagging (gently): @sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart, @ray-writes-n-shit

@leave-her-a-tome, @writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid

@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams and OPEN TAG

[idontknowreallywhy]

Estera - Ch 11 - Run

(Previous… Prologue - Stars are Only Visible in Darkness, Estera - 1 - Colour, 2 - Dinosaur, 3 - Shoes, 4 - Thunderbird, 5 - Lesson, 6 - Safe, 7 - Gull, 8 - Deliver, 9 - Coffee, 10 - Flight)

(Sofasurf’s Recrudescence which is the foundation for all of this)

What’s happened to Scotty? Has Virg broken the door or just his shoulder? Has John eaten his own arm in despair? Has EOS accidentally overthrown the government of a medium sized country in her anxiety?

None of these questions will be answered here, as I leave the Tracys within the tender loving care of @sofasurf and her alligators and we quickly check in with somebody else…

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

One of the best things about Bez was his relentless enthusiasm about something as simple as her unlocking the front door. She smiled as he treated her to an impromptu drool bath and gradually nudged him down the hallway so she could put down her bags.

“You’ll never guess who I met today, Niebieski… the Commander of International Rescue! … Yes, he did seem nice… No, he didn’t have any treats…Yes it’s possible to be nice and not have treats, you daft creature… You don’t believe me do you?”

Extracting herself she reached up and fetched one of his favourite chews from the top cupboard.

“Give me a minute to get changed, Bez, then we’ll go for a run, ok?”

Receiving only chomping noises by way of reply, she left him to it and went to sort herself out. Grabbing her phone to check the time, it unlocked on the new contact screen and she smiled. He’d given her his personal number, just in case, but had been endearingly awkward as he’d asked her to save it under a pseudonym. Something to do with his brother John, someone called Kyra and security protocols, he was sorry it was such a weird thing to ask. She didn’t mind, she knew exactly what to name to save the number under.

She tapped the word ‘Blue’ and sent a quick message as he’d asked, given he’d not had his own with him.

“Was good to meet you today. Here is my number. I hope you’re doing ok? Estera”

Right. Job done. Next on the list: exercise.

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The wind was bitter as the sun slipped below the horizon and stained the clouds behind which it had been skulking most of the afternoon.

The plus side was it meant nobody else was out this far. They’d have the less well known Jacob’s Ladder beach to themselves while the rest of the dog walkers did a quick circuit of the main seafront. Bez, well insulated from the frigid air, lolloped excitedly down the steep path ahead and she ambled behind, limbs trembling slightly in the aftermath of their clifftop run. The exertion had helped focus her mind, as it always did, while she was actually running. But as soon as she allowed her heart rate to slow, the swirling thoughts returned.

The tide was right out, and it seemed every sea bird in the Westcountry had gathered to scour the shoreline for treats, their figures dark against the reddening sky and their fading shadows reaching many times their height across the sand towards her.

As expected, there were no other dogs on the beach - she unclipped the leash and let Bez hare towards the ocean, driving the gulls into the air in a squawking cloud, the combined sound of their wings like a drum roll in the distance. Usually his unbridled joy would be catching, but today she felt kind of detached, as if she was watching him frolic in a poor quality recording on a broken screen.

The shadows lengthened further.

Suddenly unable to contain all of the Everything building up inside, she let out a yelp and ran across the top of the beach towards the sunset. For a given value of running anyway. The pebbles sucked her legs downwards with every step, her feet slipping and twisting on the uneven surface. The wind whipped across the bay and blasted into her face, hair streaming and coat billowing behind her like a sail. Despite forcing her last scraps of pent up energy into her muscles she made barely any progress and eventually stumbled forwards, landing with a crunch amongst the stones.

She pushed herself on to her knees and paused, dizzy but aware of Bez sprinting back towards her, droplets of seawater flying from his fur.

Then he was there, shoving his soaking wet face into hers, blending the salt of the sea with the salt of her shame.

She’d left him.

The initial delight that he’d survived, that he hadn’t been stabbed to death in the square as she’d imagined was overshadowed by what she now knew his attempt to rescue her had cost him. The stories of the nearby camp were rife in the town. The open secret of the mass grave to the east of it. The horrors inside. Some said it was simple torture. Others had heard from someone who knew someone who had heard tell of twisted medical experiments. People said that when the wind was right, you could hear the desperate screams on the road, over a mile away. Nobody knew the truth of it because nobody came out.

People didn’t survive the camp.

And then there were the dogs. The constant barking as they patrolled the town, barely under the control of the thugs who held the leash. There were dogs at the camp too, she knew that. She recalled watching, helpless, from her window as her neighbour was dragged from his house by the snarling beasts. If he’d even made it to the camp alive, it wouldn’t have been long for him.

People didn’t survive the camp.

Somehow Scott had. She couldn’t quite believe it. It clearly hadn’t left him unscathed though. She covered her face and tried to picture the twinkle in his eyes as he had teased her about the toy in her pocket. The eyes of somebody who was alive and knew laughter. But she couldn’t find them. Instead she saw his wide, frightened eyes watching unknown horrors unfold behind her, in a reality only he could see.

She clenched her fists and yelled her apology to the sky, before pulling her knees to her head and wrapping her arms around her legs as she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Bez, damp yet radiating warmth, lay against her back and waited.

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[AO3]

Chapter 12…

[termiteterraceclub]

Termite Terrace Club - October 8th

1938 - Little Pancho Vanilla - Dir. Frank Tashlin

1949 - Frigid Hare - Dir. Chuck Jones (75th Anniversary)

1960 - Hopalong Casualty - Dir. Chuck Jones

#LooneyTunes #LooneyTwt #bugsbunny #roadrunner #wileecoyote

TV

1990 - Tiny Toon Adventures Season 1: “Prom-ise Her Anything”

2002 - Baby Looney Tunes Season 1: “All Washed Up” / “Did Not! Did Too!”

2005 - Loonatics Unleashed Season 1: “Weathering Heights”

2015 - Wabbit / New Looney Tunes Season 1: “Painter Paint Hare” / “The Spy Who Bugged Me”