#fringed sage

[ghostoffuturespast]

26 July 2024 - Friday Field Notes

It's been really hot and dry out here on the prairie lately but I've been finding some pops of color here and there.

This one is Oppositeleaf Bahia (Picradeniopsis oppositifolia) and a new one I learned recently. Funny, how you learn something and you suddenly start seeing it everywhere. It's been popping up all over the native plant garden at work since we cleared out all the old vegetation. Short and cute, it doesn't like being crowded out by taller plants.

Prickly Poppy (Argemone polyanthemos) - still one of my favorites. Has these beautiful white crepe flowers, lots of spines, and toxic yellow sap. Delicate and deadly.

Bee Balm or Wild Bergamont (Monarda fistulosa) - planted a bunch of this in my front yard and I'm looking forward to it blooming next year. Fingers crossed. Great hardy perennial pollinator plant that can get up to 5 feet tall and is found in most of N. America. It's in the mint family. This one is safe from the Rabbits and other large herbivores, not from Cutworm Caterpillars though.

I'm sure I've talked about this one before as it's also a favorite - Fringed Sage (Artemisia frigida). I always ID this one by smell. Not a true sage, but has a very fragrant woody sage-like aroma. I'd roll around on these if it wouldn't smush the plant.

Such a niche Milkweed that it doesn't even have a Wikipedia page... Plains Milkweed (Asclepias pumila) is one of the smallest Milkweed species with a max height of 1 foot. Almost all the members of Asclepias are toxic (containing cardiac glycosides) which is kinda funny since the whole genus is named after Asclepius who is the Greek god of medicine. Which isn't to say cardiac glycosides don't have medicinal uses, but they also have a long history of being used as poisons.

Hairy Evening Primrose (Onethera villosa) - found a bunch of this growing down by the creek which I'd never seen before. The leaves and stem are covered in hairs (hence the name hairy) which are quite soft. Many prairie plants have hair on them to help reduce transpiration (water loss from stomates - which are the pores in the leaves and stems of plants. Stoma are used for gas exchange, kinda how like we breath). As soft as this plant is, I don't think it's as soft as...

Velvetweed (Onethera curtiflora)! I think this one wins on the softness scale. The Hairy Evening Primrose and Velvetweed are both members of the primrose family. While it has a very apt common name, this plant does feel like velvet, it's also known as "Lizard-tail Guara" since it's got these whippy flower stalks that well, look like lizard tails.

[vintagehomecollection]

Interior Visions: Great American Designers and the Showcase House, 1988

[arulia108]

Series for school about native plants in my area

[chasingrainbowsforever]

Sage Green Throw / Blanket

[sagehaleyofficial]

Follow @sagehaleyofficial for more memes every Monday!

[goldieclaws]

Me being me, which basically qualifies as being incredibly particular, I felt like Blue Bones looked too human (minus the pointy ears ofc) when I draw her from the shoulders up, so I decided to add in some markings on her to make her that little bit more unique/interesting to look at.

So, I opted for swirly markings that made me think of a pretty tiara, which I think suits her quite well :>

Reblogs appreciated, thank you! 💖✨

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[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Lion's Pride [Part 3]

Gender Neutral Reader x Leona Kingscholar Word Count: 6.2k

Summary: Your new job as a Full Time Royal Therapist does not pay nearly as well as you'd like. Or, Leona is more of a problem child than he would ever admit, but you're surprisingly okay at dealing with that.

[PART 1][PART 2] [PART 3]

Sometimes you felt like you hardly knew what it meant to be a functional person, living a comfortable life on the fringes of society. So in comparison, trying to think of what it meant to be an actual prince, ruling over all of said society was something you literally could not comprehend no matter how hard you tried to wrap your head around it.  

“If you’re a Prince, what were you doing in a hole?” you asked, because you had far too many questions and concerns, and this one at least seemed easy enough to address. And also because you were genuinely pretty curious.  

The newly dubbed ‘Leona’ twitched against your back and you felt the low rumble of his snarl work its way from the depths of his gut all the way up through his chest and out his mouth.

“Holy shit,” Ace wheezed. “Screw this. I’m getting out of here before I wind up implicated as an accessory in your murder.”

And so your trusty friend abandoned you to the wolves lions?—darting away so quickly he always forget his bag, shoes, and everything else in the process.

You waved after him as he departed, knowing full well that he’d wind up stumbling back within the week, maybe two at most. He always did, no matter how much he complained about your Present Company. Plain old ‘murder’ was actually one of his more polite accusations. When he’d run into your Hunter friend the first time, Ace had gone on a wildly incoherent rant about how he was going to find your corpse strung up in a tree like some weird, ritual, sacrifice. And then that had devolved into something-something cannibalism or other. The visiting Hunter had just thrown his head back and laughed, positively enamored with the grisliness of it all. Ace had vanished for almost an entire month after that encounter, but he did come back—glaring up at you with a miserable pout like you were the one who’d gone and fucked off for thirty whole days.

Leona snorted and you felt the puff of breath against the back of your neck.

“Coward,” he grumbled, though he didn’t sound particularly displeased about your friend’s sudden departure.

“Fear lets us be brave,” you responded, wise as a sage. Or maybe an old frog in a puddle.

“Yeah?” he intoned, rolling his eyes. “And when’s that little rat ever been brave?”

“There’s always tomorrow,” you chirped, and that snort turned into something dangerously close to a chuckle. Which—gasp!—how dare such a pleasant sound fall from the lips of someone so obstinately determined to be otherwise! You grinned at the low tones of it, only for the snickering to cut off sharply in his throat once he’d realized what he was doing. And then of course he shoved you forward and out of his lap with a great amount of indignant snarling.

You laid there for a few minutes—face down in the sun-warmed grass and laughing quietly about just how ridiculous this stupid Lion was, before finally sitting up with a pleasant stretch. He could put on airs all he liked, you knew there was kernel of something far less angsty and murderous buried at the heart of him.

“So,” you hummed, lazily making your way back to your feet. “What exactly have I done to draw the realm’s Prince to my doorstep?” You squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re not here about the fairy gate thing, are you? Because that was actually an accident.”

“The what?” he frowned, brow pinched in confusion.

You waved him off. “Ah, nothing, nothing.”

Something in his jaw twitched, like now he was going to push the subject out of principle of you being shifty. But he just sighed and brought a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

“I need your help,” he said finally. Just as crabby as the first time he’d asked, if perhaps just a touch less imperious.

You arched a brow. “I think you’ve mentioned that already, yes.”

Silence.

The Lion stared you down with a slowly deepening scowl, and you stared back with a smile as placid and unmoved as the shallow pond you’d nearly drowned Ace in not an hour before.  

“If I apologize, you’ll help me?” he asked after a long moment, the question turning sharp at the end on a bitten of growl.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” you hummed back and he crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, with all the pleasantry of someone undergoing a root canal. And all the sincerity of Ace swearing that this was the last time he’d get caught evading the tax man, promise.

You sighed, feeling a bit cheated. But you hadn’t really stipulated anything beyond those two little words leaving his mouth, so if anything, that was on you.

“Alright,” you huffed. “What is it you need help with?”

The Lion glared at you suspiciously for a long moment—glowing eyes narrowed into slits and tail twitching back and forth like he was swatting flies. Finally, he sighed and lifted his hands out in front of him with a pointed flex.  

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” he frowned sourly, wrists twisting to display the pointed claws tipping his fingers. “I’m not supposed to get stuck in between.”

Your eyes traced the fluffy tufts of his round ears, the black-tipped tail swishing irritably at his hind, and allowed yourself a melancholy sort of huff.

“But you look good like this,” you pointed out sadly. Because he really, truly, did. Leona without his squishy lion ears would just be… grumpy. Miserable, and angular, and angry. Nothing soft worth coddling at all.

“That’s not the point!” he snapped, baring his overlarge canines at you. There was a darker cast along his cheekbones that seemed to be making a valiant effort to crawl all the way up into his fringe. “And don’t fucking say that!”

You frowned. One second this stupid dick wanted to be praised to the Heavens and back! Practically swanning about, demanding you bow down and acknowledge his blatant superiority. But, oh no. Apparently your meager half-sentence masquerading as a compliment was too much for his delicate, princely, sensibilities.

“Fine,” you griped. “You’re ugly.”

He growled—low and rumbling—and if he was anymore of a cat you’d say you could see his hackles raising in indignation. But before he could launch into another vicious, verbal, evisceration of your person, you cleared your throat loudly in an attempt to get him back on track.   

“What do you mean by ‘stuck in between?’”

He sneered down at you testily for a moment before reaching up to pinch at the bridge of his nose again and letting out a put-upon sort of sigh that was not at all indicative of the fact that he was the one asking you for help.

“The Shift. When you found me in that pit, I should have been able to Shift between that form and this one without issue,” he frowned, brow tugging down tight with something a bit more disquieted than his usual, flat, annoyance. “The iron was a problem, but once I was out of the trap, it should have been fine. I’ve dealt with cursed snares like this before, and the effects have never lingered as long as this one has.”

You blinked owlishly. That did sound… fairly unpleasant. And honestly, if you were in his position you’d also be at least a little concerned that something else was at play. But, still, all that being said—

“I’m sorry,” you frowned, more or less genuine. Perhaps leaning a bit harder into less.“But I don’t understand how that has anything to do with me.”

“You were down there with me,” he argued. “You dismantled the trap.”

Uh, yeah. By messing with bits that looked breakable until they broke. Not exactly a high-level intellectual pursuit.

You didn’t say that, of course. Because after a few days watching you scuttle about your homestead like a particularly vocal lizard in the dirt, you were sure he already thought you were stupid enough without you outright admitting to it. Nevertheless, the Lion observed your zip-lipped silence with an ever-deepening scowl.

“You took it apart,” he tried again, nearly a growl.

“Yes,” you said with a nod.

“You know how you did it,” he continued, firm. At your lack of affirmative, he pushed again. “You know. I watched you do it!”

You raised your hand nervously and made a little so-so tilting motion.

Anyone less refined would no doubt have had their head in their hands at this point, but Leona just curled his lip at you and looked like he was fighting valiantly not to put your own very silly head through a wall.

“It was charmed,” he spat. “Bound up with talismans, and cursed down to its very moldings. That isn’t something any random farmer could walk up and break.”

“Oh,” you blinked, taken aback, and struggled to recall if there had been anything so obviously enchanted about the trap you’d fiddled into bits. “Was it?”

And head had officially met hands. He ground his clawed fingers into his temples like you were a headache that with enough determination and massaging he may somehow be able to will away.

“Couldn’t you go just home if this is such a big problem?” you asked, still genuinely baffled at it all. “Get help from your family? I mean, you’re a Prin—”

“No,” he interrupted, emerald eyes gone glacier cold.

You frowned, as unimpressed by his prickliness as you usually were. But something in you was hesitant to prod at whatever it was that had managed to tug a feral rage so tightly across his face—like drawing a shade over a window until the entire home was cloaked in shadow, or slipping away behind a carved mask too heavy to ever wear comfortably. It was an expression so sharp and so bitter that if you hadn’t only just yesterday watched this stubborn man lounge about in the sun as your chickens hopped all over him like he was the world’s most carnivorous jungle gym, you wouldn’t ever have known that they could be the same person at all. 

“Alright,” you shrugged, and some of that angry, hunched, defensiveness eased into confusion.

“Hah?” he frowned.

“Alright,” you said again. “We’ll figure it out here.” He glared over at you balefully, and you waved off the obvious retort on the tip of his tongue about something-something-you have no idea what you’re doing-something-something-dangerous risks and lifelong consequences-blablabla. “I have a friend who would know a lot more about those kinds of traps and talismans that I do. He could help, probably.”

“Probably?” he scoffed. Though when he rolled his eyes, they weren’t quite so hate filled—lids hooded with a familiar, begrudging sort of irritation rather than outright malice.

“He’s a bit of an enigma,” you explained—wiggling your fingers in a little, sparkly, dance to emphasize the, well, enigmatic part.

Another huff. But amidst that grumpy bellyaching, you watched those fluffy ears of his slowly perk back up atop his head, and his tail swish leisurely behind him. The Lion certainly didn’t look happy (but did he ever? So was that really a fair comparison?), but he definitely seemed like he’d thawed into something less ‘frigid dead of winter’ and more ‘unpleasantly nippy spring morning.’

“Weirder than you, herbivore?” he sniffed, looking down his nose at you and crossing his arms loosely over his chest. “I find that hard to believe.”

Normally you would too. But, well…

“He’s charming,” you chirped pleasantly, and Leona’s face twisted up like you’d served him a bowl of rancid yogurt.

.

.

That night you composed a letter to your dearest Hunter friend. You thanked him for bringing you the White Moor Stag, elaborated a bit on the new marinade you’d been experimenting with, and then ended the whole thing with a polite plea for his aid in deconstructing the mechanisms of a magical trap you’d encountered. You bribed one of your two carrier pigeons with some snacks and watched it fly off into the unknown with a little, cream-colored envelope tied to its foot. Message talismans were much simpler and far more convenient, but the Hunter always seemed to appreciate the personal touch of postal birds.

Leona glared at you from the window, and made some dramatic swipe at your pigeon like he meant to knock it out of the air. The poor bird tottered about like an overfilled water balloon—jiggling and wriggling in its roundness before eventually righting itself and continuing on into the sky with a warbled coo coo.

“Don’t be rude,” you huffed at him.

“I can’t believe you still won’t let me in,” he sneered from beneath the fluff of that blanket you’d gifted him. “I apologized.”

“Yes, but you actually have to mean it,” you explained, not unkindly, as he prowled just beyond the glass. “But we’re making progress!” you beamed. “That’s something! Maybe you’ll make it in here within the next five years, hmm?”

“Or I could just wipe out the entirety of your ridiculous dirt farm now,” he threatened, a bit of that sandy magic swirling sinisterly along his fingers.

“You certainly could, your highness,” you agreed easily. His lip curled unpleasantly, but that glowing, gritty, arcana faded away and he didn’t move from where he’d tucked himself up under the duvet.

After another solid fifteen minutes of his pissy glowering and barbed insults, you pointedly unclipped the ties on your curtains and let them fall shut so that his ridiculous pouting was hidden away behind the thin, cotton, mess of poorly stitched flowers and herbs.

(You did leave a nice dinner plate on the ledge before that, with extra portions of meat and a neatly frosted cookie for dessert. Because as much as your day had been a bit rough, you had a feeling his melancholy extended far beyond being left out in the dark for another evening.)

.

.

The next morning, your doddering pigeon returned with an elegantly bound scroll—all embellished with golden filagree and tied up in a neat, crimson, bow.

“Why does this freak call you ‘mon cher ami,’” Leona sniffed, tongue curling awkwardly over the unfamiliar words.

You sighed and debated snatching the letter back, but all that would probably culminate in was the paper in tatters and a smug beastman lording his superior letter-wrangling skills over your head like a trophy.

“It’s just one of his little ticks,” you explained with a shrug. “I told you���he’s charming.”

“Ah, yes,” Leona drawled, tracing a claw along the parchment’s edge with a soft shhhhhft. A raised, white, line cut across the paper’s surface like the beginnings of a wound. “Waxing poetic nonsense in a foreign language. Rambling on about all kinds of useless fucking garbage. Charming.”

“You,” you snipped, reaching out to smack at his tightening grip before he could rend the poor correspondence to bits, “are not one to talk about ‘charming.’”

“Oh?” he scoffed. He maneuvered around your tutting to hold the letter over your head. Typical. When you leaned forward to try and wrangle it back, Leona leaned in closer—eyes going hooded and lips curling into a smug little smirk that promised all sorts of trouble. “Haven’t had any complaints about that before. Who’d be saying otherwise?”

“The person you left stranded at the bottom of a pit, you inglorious oaf,” you griped. His ears immediately swiveled to pin flat against the top of his head, and you used the distraction of his indignation to finally snatch back your prize. “Besides,” you huffed, straightening out some of the new wrinkles. “Not very Prince-like, is it? A real prince would have swept in to save the idiot in distress. Sword drawn, banners flying,” you sighed, a bit too besotted with your own imaginings. “Why did you have to be such a dick, huh? Ruined my fantasies for the rest of my life.”

“And what?” Leona snapped. “Some rogue bastard sending you cursive garbage does it for you?”

“Better than being left for dead in a hole after saving their life,” you smiled—perfectly, poisonously, pleasant.

Leona rumbled something indiscernible under his breath and turned to glare petulantly off across your garden.

“Besides,” you hummed, looking over the letter. “There’s more important things. Like this—right here. Do you know what a self-bored stone is? He’s thinking maybe there was a process like that with the iron shackles. Or maybe something to do with seeping the components in herbs… Hmm…”

“Whatever,” Leona scoffed. “I’ll try whatever it takes to fix this shit.”

You clapped him amiably on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, tête de noeud!”

“The fuck did you just call me?!”

“Poetic nonsense,” you chirped, and Leona looked half ready to drop you back into the hole where he’d found you.

.

.

The first attempt to aid the Lion Prince in his conundrum didn’t go particularly well.

You’d tried to work off of the whole ‘overlap with a self-bored stone’ theory, but all that really amounted to was you gesturing like an over-serious crossing guard for him to walk under every low hanging branch, every arch, beneath the stunted beams of the chicken coop. You dangled rocks from strings and waved around your little creations like slightly more dangerous pompoms.

Penelope clucked irritably when one of the pebbles fell with a plunk into her nest, and Leona frowned up at you from where the wayward chicken had firmly situated herself in his lap.

“How was any of that supposed to help?”

You drew a blank and promised to try something new tomorrow.

The next day you tried herbs. The Hunter had listed off quite a few that were known to cause lingering issues with magical creatures, and you harvested the lot of them from your garden with ease. You held them up to Leona’s face one by one, brow furrowed in concentration, as you waited for… something.

“How is this any better than the rocks?” he complained.

You pushed the bright, butter-yellow, blossoms of some Saint John’s Wort under his nose until he sneezed and shoved you away with a slew of indignant threats to your person.

The following few days were spent perusing your meager library. You carted every book you owned on magic, and binding rituals, and rune smithing out into the yard. Leona looked over at the slowly growing pile of tomes with a truly unimpressed scowl.

“You could have just invited me inside,” he griped, rolling his eyes. He was splayed out in the grass at your side, his head tossed lazily across your lap after he’d complained that he needed at least some leverage to see what you were trying to read.

“Nice try,” you hummed, reaching for your page of hastily scribbled notes. “But you’re not getting off without a genuine apology that easy.”

A week passed in this fashion, with you attempting to string together more and more ludicrous ideas—throwing everything you had at the wall and hoping something, anything, would stick. But Leona’s ears stayed tufted and round. That tail seemed to only grow more twitchy, his claws longer and sharper.

You sent the Hunter another letter and waited anxiously for a reply. When it arrived the next morning, Leona snatched it from your pigeon before you’d even made it out your front door. It was a miserable sort of day—pouring rain and with nothing but the grey cloud cover overhead to color the world.

He read it over once, twice, before dropping it to the ground. You could see the tendons twitching along his jaw, could practically hear his molars grinding in his frustration.

You plucked the note from the grass and looked it over carefully.  

‘Mon ami, while I am loathe to address this, perhaps it is not the make of this trap at all that is causing such a vexation? Is there any chance that rather than this being a lingering malady, that this friend of yours was simply unable to overcome the initial curse in the first place?’

You glanced back up at Leona, who was intermittently clenching his fists at his sides. You could see the harsh indentations from where his claws were digging into the skin of his palms.

‘Sometimes such things just happen, je crains. The flesh may be willing, but often the spirit is weak. You mentioned this Roi du Leon has a powerful family he may turn to for assistance. Certainly one of them may be strong enough to overcome this curse for him, even if he perhaps is not.’

“Of course it’s all because I’m a fuck up,” Leona snarled. Some of that spitting, sandy, magic of his seeped into the air. It bit at the rain like an overeager dog. You could see it dancing along his skin—fighting to pull his features one way or another.

“He didn’t say that,” you pointed out gently. “And even if you were, there’s nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. Your family—"

“—Would rather I keeled over dead and stopped sullying my brother’s perfect fucking reputation!” he snapped. “Heir to the King’s Roar,” he scoffed. “Stupid. I was never going to be a king to begin with. And even if I had been born first, they would have deposed me to put their flawless, favorite, golden boy on the throne anyways.”

That... That was a lot. You stared at the pacing Lion with wide eyes—unsure how to help, unsure if any attempts to do so would only make this worse. This was—this was so above your ‘happy, homey, hermit’ paygrade.

“Of course this is all because of me,” he hissed, that roiling, angry, arcana coiling around him like curdled milk. The pupils in his eyes flickered oddly from round to thin-cut, hard, lines. Beastly. “Of course it was because I wasn’t good enough.”

“Leona,” you tried, as gentle as you could be.

The Prince threw his head back and laughed. And laughed, and laughed.

“I should have known!” he cackled, borderline hysterical. “I should have fucking known!”

“Leona—” you tried again, reaching out a hand.

Only to be immediately knocked on your ass by an explosion of magic.

You’d heard of self-destruction—of implosion. The arcane wonders of the world were a wily and unyielding mistress. While creatures like Leona who were so naturally steeped in ancient magics and sorcery could control that beast more adeptly than some little mortal like you, it didn’t make them any less susceptible to its dangers. If anything, they had it worse. It was like sitting in a shallow stream versus wading out into a roaring ocean. So much more opportunity, such a higher aptitude for greatness, but far too easy to drown beneath the churning tides of it all.

The inky, geometric, swirls along his arms pulsed like a heartbeat. They crawled along his skin and traced black patterns into his veins. Even you could feel the horrible, dark, stickiness of it—as the magic ate him alive. His face twisted back and forth between human and animal, and you watched him contort and snarl under the weight of it before turning on you with a vicious roar.

Uh oh.

The first wave of magic seared the ground, leaving nothing but strange, grey, sand in its wake. The more he snapped and clawed wildly at anything and everything, the more that dusty desert spread. You managed to hop out of the way of most of it—sparing a single, sad, thought for all the poor plants you’d worked so hard to cultivate dying a miserable, grainy, death.

The next arc of magic shot straight from his clawed fingers, and it managed to catch the flesh of your forearm. It was sharper than any dagger or sword that you’d ever had the pleasure of accidentally nicking yourself with, and it tore its way down your arm like a raging beast, leaving an eerie, tacky, bubbling mess in its wake. And ouch did it hurt—like someone was taking a fistful of coarse sand and rubbing it into the open wound. You ground your teeth against the strange, gnawing, sensation and hastily wrapped a bit of torn fabric around the weeping gash to keep it a bit more contained. You waited for the worst of it to pass, for that initial bite to fade into a more manageable throb. But it didn’t. It just got sharper and tighter, hotter and hotter. For a moment it felt like your skin was crackling—like firewood popping and splitting beneath the weight of a blaze. From across the field, Leona made a noise like a hurricane given voice, and you bit back a groan.

‘Oh come on,’ you hissed to yourself. ‘Not now, please.’  

And while you’d been mostly referring to the Lion losing another brick of his sanity fort, your wound seemed to pulse at the command—a sensation not unlike the soft drone of the wards carved deep into the support beams of your dilapidated home, and an impression of words tingling along your nerves without any real shape or form. ‘Alright. Later then.’ Like a breath of wind along your fingertips. That pulsing doubled back, and the wrap you’d hurriedly tied around your forearm hummed low with gentle arcana.   

And then the cracking stopped. Just like that. Like it’d given up on eating you alive and decided to head home early for the day.

Huh, you though a bit dazedly, before hurriedly ducking out of the way of another swipe.

You clutched your still smarting but at least now functional arm to your chest, and Leona turned on you and your ethereal booboo with a raging snarl. But then that glowing glare caught on the blood trailing down towards your wrist in too dark, too thick, rivulets and his eyes went wide. It wasn’t much, but the strange bought of shock rocketing through him gave you a handful of seconds of ceasefire. You reached into your pocket with your uninjured hand and pulled out a thick bit of cardstock. This was supposed to be for emergencies, goddamn it! And you’d spent so much money on this stupid little thing! And—

You shook off the mildly delusional complaints bogging down your brain and unfolded the paper between your fingers. The sigils inked into it hummed against your skin, and the rain sluffed off its face like the cold and the damp were no bother at all.

“Fucking—” you flung the talisman at your ridiculous, rampaging, guest. It fluttered like the beat of a hawk’s wings and dove towards him with just as much vicious precision. “GO TO SLEEP!”

The enchantment smacked into his face with an echoing THUNK and you watched those too-bright eyes of his roll up into his head as he collapsed to the ground in a heap.

With the main source of all the Magical Warfare knocked unconscious, most of the miasma began to disperse—like dust caught up in a gale. The rain washed away the rest. It slid into the mud and seeped back into the earth. The plants and animals seemed to give a collective sigh, and some of your more courageous chickens even started to venture in close to peck at the leftover destruction.

You approached the felled Prince hesitantly. The talisman had been meant for subduing an enemy with a more human constitution, so you doubted it would keep him down for very long.

“Hey,” you grouched, poking his side. He twitched a bit but didn’t move otherwise. “Hey, asshole,” you tried again. Still, nothing. Uh oh.

You reached down to wedge an arm under him and hoist him upright. The singed skin of your forearm brushed along his jaw as you attempted to maneuver his bulk, and his nose twitched sharply at whatever scent was trapped in the dark, cracking, gash there. His brow scrunched up like you’d just doused him in spoiled milk, so naturally you went about waving your wounded flesh beneath his nostrils like the world’s strangest smelling salts.

After a moment he blinked back awake, face twisted up into the most properly disgruntled mien of distaste that you’d ever seen on a person who’d only just barely managed to claw their way back into the world of the living.

“Herbivore,” he rumbled, still looking more than a bit dazed.

Good enough.

You manhandled him back onto his feet as best you could—turning yourself into an impromptu crutch to try and get him mobile again. The sand shifted and sank beneath your heels, making dragging his ridiculous, dramatic, ass even more of a challenge. As you hauled him towards your cottage, you complained to him in earnest. Every little irritation under the sun. Half because you’d probably never have another opportunity to bitch at him so thoroughly without getting your own earful of grievances in return, half to keep him conscious—keep him focused on staying here. With you. And not… Wherever it was he’d gone in those moments of delirium.  

“I still don’t get why you call me that,” you griped, readjusting your grip on him when he’d started to slide down to the point his nose had buried itself against your collarbone. “Herbivore. I’ve cooked so much meat for you since you decided to crash here. Talked about how I prepare it, and the flavors I experiment with—I literally gave you some from my own sandwich when we first met! That I ate the rest of! In front of you!—”

When you finally herded him over the threshold and into your little cottage, the wards and their protection slipped around him like the soft current of a stream. You hardly even noticed the way the old magics ruffled his hair—and that was only because you were actively looking, half convinced the house was still about to toss up an invisible barrier and send him sprawling back into the dirt.

Leona wobbled on his feet, and his eyes were still too far away and grey.

You grabbed him by the ear and maneuvered his too-tall self into one of your rickety kitchen chairs. The wood groaned under the sudden press of his dead weight, but it didn’t collapse beneath him so it wasn’t worth fussing over. Once you were certain he wasn’t about to fold over sideways and crumple to the ground (or at least, that he was angled enough over a rug that he wasn’t going to crack his head on the stone floor), you rushed off to your bookcases and shelves and began hurriedly rumaging through your collection of nonsense.

The charms, the charms. Where were your emergency charms?! You’d thought you left them right there on the—Ah! There we go.

You pulled the raggedy binder from its place on the shelf, blew away the coating of dust that had settled over the top of it, and returned to your patient.

You flipped open the worn leather hooks and began sorting through the dozens upon dozens of sheets of enchanted parchment within. They were unimpressive—just small, rectangular, bits of faded paper inlaid with the softest kinds of magic. Not meant for much more than coaxing warmth into chilly limbs or placing a soft kiss over a scraped knee. But medicines were medicines—whether arcane in origin or otherwise. If you—if you just doused him in the things, that would probably work. Right? Of course it would. That made perfect sense.

So you slapped the first talisman square in the middle of his forehead. Leona swayed at the wet SMACK of the paper gluing itself to his soaked-through skin, but aside from the faintest, startled, widening of his eyes, he didn’t do anything else to complain. So you stuck the next charm to his cheek, and then another on the opposite one too.

“Magic overuse is dangerous,” you chastised as you went about layering a veritable novel’s worth of pasty, paper, enchantments up his arms. The soft spells worked their way into his skin, and you watched those twisting, black, shapes skitter back up towards where they’d once sat peacefully curled around his bicep. “Are you trying to kill yourself, hah?!”

Instead of snapping back at you like normal, he just sort of… sat there. Accepting your angry accusations in frosty silence. He absolutely looked like a cat that you’d fished out of a bag in the river. Pathetic, and sad, and droopy. And… quiet. So, very, quiet. You frowned, because as much as you didn’t particularly enjoy being insulted every minute of the day, the Lion’s biting little remarks had become… familiar, at the very least. Even if they weren’t entirely pleasant. Even if he was far from pleasant.

The dampness on his skin was starting to curl the edges of your talismans, and you reached forward with a huff to at least pull the freezing, soaked-through, vest off his shoulders. The leather jacket landed with a wet plap on the stone floor, a cold puddle already pooling around all its stupidly intricate, embroidered, edges. Something fluttered out of one of the open pockets—small, and off white, and crinkled. You stepped over the whole mess to retrieve a pile of towels and didn’t give it a second thought.

“Make a mess of my home, why don’t you,” you complained, dropping one of the towels over the entirety of his head before reaching forward to start drying him off with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. “Drip all over the floors I just mopped, why don’t you. Be emotionally constipated and almost turn my whole yard into a sand pit, why don’t you—”

A hand reached out to snag your wrist, and you let him pull you away from your attempts to rub all that stupidly thick hair straight off his head.

From beneath the curtain of the cotton towel, you could see Leona glaring at the long, dark, scratch curling along your forearm. It certainly wasn’t… nice to look at. The gymnastics of getting him into your cottage had managed to displace the impromptu bandage, so the whole of it was just there. Bruised, and dark, and odd looking. But ugly or not, it was hardly bleeding or anything anymore! And he was the one who had almost just self-destructed in your front yard!

‘Think of the accusations!’ you wanted to wail. ‘Can you imagine the garbage I would have to deal with if I wound up with a dead royal fertilizing my garden?! No thank you!’

But before you could complain about his fussing, his claws flexed against the soft skin of your palm and you saw the muscles along his forearm tense—like he was fighting to keep still.

“You should be dead,” he muttered, terse.

You huffed. “Look, I know you think humans are all sorts of pathetic, but I’m not that—”

“You should be dead,” he repeated, sounding as if the words had to tear their way out of his throat—scraping like shards of glass all the way up.

You stared at his dark eyes and dripping bangs—the shadows playing across his cheeks and the strange, hollow, wrongness that had settled over all of him. With a heavy sigh you plopped yourself down into the chair across from his and dragged a handful of the leftover charms your way. Pointedly, you took one and slapped it over the wound. And then another.  

“See?” you said, flexing your wrist in his grip to put the creeping, black, cut on display. The talismans glowed softly against your skin and the lingering whisps of darkness licking at the the injury began to fade. “All better. Not something a dead person would say at all.”

Leona frowned, but at least it looked a bit more annoyed than outright bleak. And besides, frowns were better than whatever that stoic, expressionless, numbness had been.

“Though I appreciate your concern,” you grinned, pointedly sharp and prodding. Like a toddler standing by with a stick, hoping to poke out a reaction. “Truly, whatever would I do without the Great Lord Lion there to fret over me?”

But instead of the acidic ‘I wasn’t fucking worried,’ that you were expecting, or even a more muted grumble of dissent, Leona’s brow just pinched in displeasure and your awkward attempts at teasing faded into terse silence.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear—his head low and eyes lower.

You sighed and twisted your wrist around to pat at his hand. There was the faintest tremor in his fingers and you tangled your own between them to give him something to squeeze, something to hide the shiver of lingering malaise that he would no doubt deny with his dying breath. You observed the stern, tight, expression warping his otherwise handsome face—the miserable, puckered, angle of his mouth and the way the emerald of his eyes was cut through with a shadow of genuine remorse. You reached out with your other hand to pet at his soft, round ears. They squished flat beneath your palm and your lips twitched up into a fond, little smile. Leona tipped his chin just enough to glower at you from beneath his bangs with no real heat, and you sighed and gave him one more pat for good measure.

“You’re forgiven.”

.

.

.

TAG LIST [CLOSED]

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[ninsletamain]

Happy B-day to one of the sweetest people I know @quarantineddreamer! Much love from myself and @frostbitepandaaaaa!

We hope you enjoy your gift! A certain someone told me you’d like an X-Files AU. (:

“I think you’d have better luck interviewing the victim, Andor.”

Cassian turns around, undeniably relieved to see his partner, Special Agent Jyn Erso, perched on the bottom stair of the half-rotted stoop. She blinks up at him from under the brim of her almost comically large umbrella. Her eyes are knowing, her expression as lucid as ever. She had, no doubt, witnessed the entire debacle between him and the local law enforcement on her short trip from the car to the sway-backed and moss-fringed front porch of their newest crime scene investigation.

“Ah, that’s not my job, Erso, that’s all you,” Cassian tosses back archly. Jyn rolls her eyes and he comes to join her on the bottom stair. He assumes that she does not wish to venture inside the rotted, sodden prairie Colonial until absolutely necessary (and perhaps is wanting to dodge the ire of the local sheriff that Cassian had just pissed off in almost record time).

“Lay it on me, Andor. What is it this time?” Jyn asks, trying to sound bored but he knows better. His partner likes to evoke the straight-laced, no-nonsense career woman but Agent Jyn Erso is also the most accomplished forensic pathologist and scalpel wielder in the FBI��� perhaps in the whole damn country. And one doesn’t reach such lofty acclaim by being squeamish. She had also quietly denied several career opportunities over the years that could be considered, well, more sane, in favor of chasing lights in the sky and slicing and dicing in backwater morgue bays.

Had stuck with him. But he tries not to think about that part.

He ducks under the umbrella and they venture out in the weedy front yard in tandem. Jyn makes no effort to accommodate his seven inch height advantage and Cassian does not expect her too. The rain is a dismal, steady drizzle and much of his back is damp within a few steps.

“The victim— 34, male— looks to have been frightened to death,” he announces as if commenting on the shitty weather.

“Cassian,” she groans, stopping to look at him like he had just expressed his desire to join the circus. He knows that tone well. It’s also never a good sign whenever she uses his first name. “Frightened to death?”

He nods, trying, and apparently failing, to keep the amusement off his face because Jyn’s eyes close and she sighs mightily as they continue on their way. “You ever heard of the Boogey Man, Erso?”

“There’s no such thing—“

“Look, I’ll leave it to you, Dr. Erso. Once you get the autopsy done and dusted then you can call me crazy.”

They reach the car and Jyn pulls the door handle on the passenger side. She drove here, but she is not fond of driving— especially when there is a perfectly good man to do it for her— and Cassian is always happy to oblige her in her few glints of prissiness.

She closes the umbrella, shakes out the rain and swings her sensible kitten heels into the car. “Cassian, I’ll save us both some time.” She leans precariously close to him, elbow on the center console of their little rented Cabriolet. He freezes in the midst of fastening his seatbelt (after having to push the seat back what felt like a good four feet). Her hair is damp and a bit wild despite the shelter of the umbrella (her hair always gets frizzy in the humidity— he thinks it’s unbearably cute) and he can smell her perfume. His heart stops in his chest.

“You’re crazy,” she pronounces sagely and falls back into her seat.

He puffs out a laugh, shakes his head, and fires up the car.

[hamsternella]

Immortal!König x Fem!Reader

cw: mentions of non-con, obsession, possessiveness, inspired by Mad Max: Fury Road, MDNI

.

.

You were his favorite. Of all the wives you had been the only one to give him a strong, healthy son—a pure, clean baby. Of all those frightened and rebellious women, you were the only one with the mettle of a sage and the loyalty of a dog. You, the wife of submissive demeanor and gaze at his feet; always guarded by him, your ruler, König.

Your life had been doomed since the one who, then just a teenager, with a soft face and hands tanned by metal and sand, snatched you from the arms of your parents, lost in the middle of a devouring desert of men and hopes. That boy so pure and lethal, with bloody hands and nimble legs, bound you to an uncertain fate. He desecrated the purity of your mind when you were barely a creature, small and malleable; and though hatred grew softly and silently within you, it was your lips sealed against his on your coming of age, and the day of marital union, that led you to have to accept the inevitable.

König certainly loved you. It was not a love as such, the kind that can be described in poems or songs. This was a raw and painful love, where your judgment drowned in the darkness of a room sealed like a cage. Where your body lay on soft, neat sheets—where your tears soaked them. You hated König, even if he swore to watch over you and the hundreds of children you would bear him in the future with your fertile womb. You hated him with all your soul; even if feeling his body collide with yours took you into an abyss of terrifying pleasure you never thought you could access. All of this was familiar from the years, but it still felt alien to you, to who you were. To who you were supposed to be— no, who you wanted to be.

And he was so repulsively sweet. The sex was not satisfying at first. König enjoyed defiling you hard and fast, always seeking to fill you to the brim with his seed. Abundant and warm. The elixir of an immortal ruler; sometimes the dregs of a perverse humanity that had become attached to his blood and bones. But ever since you gave him his first healthy son, the nights of union were of caresses and halting words; gasps and stifled moans as his cock stroked the fringe of your wet entrance, always trying to find that spot where he could sink to the base; the tip of his member reaching those spots that tore tears and pleas from you.

Time made it clear that among all his wives you were the favorite, the best. The only woman with a sacred womb, capable of carrying strong and invincible warriors through the plagues of the desert; the one who carried with her the total attention of her ruler, maintaining his expectations and his affection. You had the best clothes, the best food, the best companions and even a room apart from the other wives—König was too paranoid that a fit of jealousy could end your life or that of your future babies. The coolest and safest thing for the only creature in the world that could give him something other than the death and flaws he had been condemned to deal with. How could he risk losing you?

Eventually König begins to feel lovesick. You don't understand why, exactly, but you know that what is happening is not a good thing. The confinement, the jealousy, the possessiveness and the insistence on keeping you pregnant is weighing you down; the relationship that once began as something merely transactional —your life and integrity at stake— was suddenly a nightmare in the flesh in which you had to survive by avoiding stepping on the husks on the floor. One false move and who knows what König would be capable of to prove to this perverse world that you were not at the mercy of life's coincidences. Cruel, unstoppable, undeniable... König had to do the impossible to stay tied to your side.

[ghostoffuturespast]

22 March 2024 - Friday Field Notes

Rabbitbrush (top), Spring Mountain Parsley (bottom left), Fringed Sage (bottom right)

The Spring Equinox was earlier this week and while the calendars might say it's spring, some days it doesn't necessarily feel like it. The prairie is beautiful, but it's a harsh place to live sometimes. There is limited water and the climate alternates frequently between extremes. So even though the calendars say spring, the prairie is slow to wake up. The patient sort, the prairie knows to wait.

Most people might think it's too early to start even thinking about gardening, but that depends on the types of plants you're planting. Many domesticated garden varieties of plants and agricultural crops have been selectively breed to reduce seed dormancy for human benefit. The seeds from domesticated plants germinate more readily and more consistently than their wild cousins. Which makes them easier to grow, harvest, and eat, but because of that they require a lot more babying and care. Wild plants are much tougher.

Seeds are living organisms, the offspring of plants, and they contain everything a seedling needs so it can germinate and grow. Wild seeds are incredibly patient, they will wait months, sometimes years, before they will even consider growing. Some have armor so thick that it has to be chipped away at by rocks and ice, freeze and thaw cycles, before water and air can even get to the seed. Others contain acids and hormones that have to be used up between specific temperature ranges before they'll even think about sprouting. While others, not fully developed, are knocked off the fronds and petals of their parents, children that brave the elements and just prefer to wait and see. Wild seeds do not rely on a calendar, because they know and can feel when it is truly spring. When it is safe for them to finally venture out into the world and grow.

I have no idea if this Rocky Mountain Bee Plant that I planted will grow this season. It's suggested to do fall plantings so it'll overwinter. It has a very thick and tough seed coat. I'm hoping the abrading I did and the snow might help it along a little. If not, it'll be a surprise for next year.

A couple of Pronghorn lads enjoying the trail.

CW: dead animal, road kill below cut

This Beaver was hit by a car trying to cross the road. Underneath the road there is a storm drain that connects a retention pond and feeds into the creek at the site that I work at. The storm drain is grated off, to help improve the flow of water and to make sure detritus doesn't get stuck in the channel, which increases the chances of flooding. Because this Beaver was trying to follow the water and because the drain was grated off, they had no choice but to cross the heavily trafficked road. It's unfortunate that urban infrastructure often does not consider the needs of all living things. Grating off that storm drain means no wildlife can use it as safe passage.

I salvaged the tail from this Beaver for educational purposes for work, the rest them was too far gone to keep, so my coworker and I moved them off the road and onto the shoulder a safe distance away from any cars.

Most likely this Beaver will first become food for scavengers, Coyotes and Corvids, before it starts to decompose. Insects will lay their eggs on its rotting flesh so their larvae will have something to eat, perhaps the fur will become a part of someones nest, and then the bones will bleach. Crumble to dust and return to the soil to feed the billions of microorganisms beneath. It will help the plants grow. Maybe some day, it might even help another Beaver live.

It's sad this Beaver died, but in nature nothing is wasted and nothing is forgotten. Life and death are so inextricably linked and one does not exist without the other.

And heck, maybe that Beaver tail I kept might inspire a future engineer. Help them build a better and more compassionate storm drain.

[rosiesdisneydrama]

I am only on the fringes of this fandom but the Pre Series aus (and old man yaoi) slowly sank into me until my brain was tricked into making an au.

Behold! Witch Stanley! (I've been calling it the Witch Way Next au)

Basic idea is pretty simple, after he was kicked out, Stanley stayed with someone he found out was an actual Old Witch. Who, after hearing what happened, decided to all-but-legally adopt him and started to teach him magic. (Bc they were old and, despite being a witch, weren't immortal and have never had a family to pass on their skills to.)

They helped a lot with his mental health/internalized issues while he lived with them. Making him more stable and put together than canon.

They passed away after a few years, but gifted him basically all their tools (like a near-bottomless suitcase and dufflebag to help him carry it all without anyone noticing) to use and self-study/learn after they were gone. A lot of his work while traveling was as a Magic Fix-it/"Handyman" instead of sales work and cons. (Unless someone needed to be taken down a peg or two.)

Now some other notes (Some of which are one the drawing)

He uses the witch's surname most of the time, to denote that he was their student/succsssor. He also has their book of contacts for other magical people/shops they knew around the country (which he's been adding to)

He smokes herbal cigarettes now, which he makes himself. They can be used to cast spells since many of the ones he was taught use smoke/burned herbs as part of their ingredients!

His lighter helps him conjur/fight with fire magic.

Wears a protective talisman all the time. He sleeps with it on, even.

Every hotel/motel he's stayed in smells like lavender and sage when he leaves. (Lavender and Sage are protective/purifying and can keep malevolent and violent magic and creatures away.)

His clothes and health are better when he and Stanford meet again because he's in a better mental state than cannon. (Thanks to lots of soul-searching and identity-grappling while learning to use magic)

His messy mullet-like style is actually semi-intentional because of a spell he uses a lot when he's in a tight spot.

He actually didn't come to Gravity Falls because of his brother. He was asked to go there as a favor to someone he knows and bumped into his estranged twin by accident.

And that's the basic gist of how Stanley is different in this. As you can imagine, a lot of things probably will change from canon, if I continue adding to this.

I would actually like to talk more about it, so please send asks if you want me to ramble about anything in the au!

[feroshgirlsims]

Subplot 4.1 - Revenge is Best Served How?

PREV | NEXT

(Part 1 of 2)

[TRANSCRIPT]

Villareal Residence

Jacques: What’s the news about Miko? 

Akira: The witches are keeping her close. The Order of Enchantment is all over her. 

Jacques: She tell you that?

Akira: Didn’t need to. I watched it happen. 

Jacques: And what about her friend? The artist—

Akira: Photographer.

Jacques: Whatever. 

Akira: Not whatever. It’s two different things. And anyway, there is nothing to say about her. 

Jacques: [laughing] If you give a fae a cookie…

Akira: What the fuck did you just say to me?

Jacques: Do you like cookies so much you would die for them?

Akira: What kind of question is that?

Jacques: The kind that matters.

Akira: I am really not in the mood for this shit.

Jacques: Neither am I, Akira. I don’t care what you do in your free time, but I want to know why the witches want Miko so badly. Scramble whoever’s brain you need to, and bring me answers.  

Akira: Noted.

Jacques: Akira—

Akira: Hop off my dick. I already said I would do the job, so let me do it.

Gunnar: Why do you let him talk to you like that?

Jacques: He reminds me of myself when I was young. And Akira won’t fail. He is incapable of breaking a vow.

Gunnar: If you ask me—

Jacques: I didn’t.

Gunnar: It sets a bad precedent.

Jacques: I’ll keep that advice in mind. Now, onto business. A spellcaster is going to come to you for a job.

Gunnar: Unlikely. We spy on the witches. They don’t hire us.

Jacques: This one will. Because he’s desperate, and every desperate creature makes their way to the Devil.

Gunnar: True. And the witches on the fringes still do business. Got a name?

Jacques: Simeon Silversweater.

Gunnar: A fuckin’ sage? You’re telling me a Sage of the Magic Realm is going to hire us?

Jacques: Yes. When he calls, send Akira. Oh, and Luna wants to go to some carnival with her friends. Tell JJ to take her.

[chasingrainbowsforever]

~ Soft Greens ~

[reegis]

More Hadeon lore?? I love them sm

aaaa i love to talk about my dumb babies dont give me any excuse..

She’s actually part of like. a whole Thing. which i will now ramble about for ENTIRELY too long, so ill put it under the cut

ahhh im so bad at explaining things even tho theres like. a lot of lore & worldbuilding (by my standards anyways)

but basically all of my angel & demon OCs are part of an idea i have for an rpg/ttrpg?? set in a world where God, angels and demons all exist in the world, mainly in a sort of eldritch sense. God has essentially gone missing for thousands of years - with only scattered miracles to occasionally make Its presence known - and in Its absence, the angels have taken on their own warped interpretation of Its edict while the demons have wreaked havoc, and both have entwined themselves very heavily into human society (mostly to humanity’s detriment).

The players would create a character (human((religious, cult, or agnostic)), fallen angel, redemption demon, etc) that would give them certain skill sets/abilities/affinities depending on their choices, but the overall goal of the game is to Meet/Find God (and your characters reason for this would vary)

The continent in the game is basically one enormous mountain range, with the peaks actually reaching the heavens (think like olympus) with those living closer to the peaks being basically ultra religious societies who still believe God is there and everything that happens is still somehow part of Its plan, and those at the base and few small surrounding islands (which deal with much more demonic corruption and angelic attacks) doubting It still exists, and becoming home to fringe groups of cults creating their own deities (sometimes literally) and agnostics.

Players would meet somewhere at the base and progress up the mountain, and - depending on their group make-up - meet angels and demons along the way, both of which could potentially be foes or allies.

The angels exist in a hierarchy, with the seven Seraphim at the top, but almost all of them pose a potential danger. With God no longer at the reigns, the angels have had centuries to interpret Its will however they see fit. Many of the lowest ranking angels still hold the original ideals and are mostly harmless, granting blessings and offering sage advice, but are of no Real help. Of the higher ranking angels, many have gained their own twisted sort of moral compass and have lost touch with Gods original love for mankind. What is or isn’t a sin, what deserves punishment or what deserves blessing, has become subjective to them and they bestow their judgment upon mankind with great prejudice.

The demons exist in a hierarchy as well. As angels stripped of their holy power (and thus blinded) when they attempted to overthrow God, they seek to earn back their power and sight by stealing souls. The harder to corrupt a soul is, the more power they obtain when that soul finally succumbs. Lower level/weaker demons mainly seek to cause wide spread devastation and death, as they dont have the power to corrupt, but feed on any souls lost. Higher level demons are more insidious, possessing or manipulating people in power, in search of “higher quality” souls to assist their climb.

There are also a small group of “fallen” angels and “redeemed” demons, who exist sort of outside of the status-quo since they no longer fit neatly into either group. Fallen angels are (usually lower ranking) angels that have fallen in love with humanity and rejected their base angelic nature to live amongst them. They forfeit most of their angelic power and assume a more human-like appearance in order to live amongst the humans they adore, but have a still-perceivable “otherness” that leaves them mostly an outcast. Redemption demons are somewhat similar; they have gained/retained enough love for humanity since their fall that they no longer seek to claim human souls for power and are instead attempting to regain Gods love through redemption and acts of kindness. Falling from heaven has irrevocably changed them physically, however, and they face great hardships attempting to fit in to human society.

Of the Seraphim, Hadeon represents the Wrath of God. He is tasked with finding and punishing sinners, those who would blaspheme or turn against God. Originally she was the fair hand of Justice, but in the centuries of Gods absence, his sense of right and wrong have become irrevocably warped. Their presence can first be felt with the smell of ozone, and a sudden intense pressure, like a storm on the horizon. She, and the army of angels under her command, hunt sinners through the streets, meting out their vigilante justice. Where he goes, indescriminate bloodshed almost always follows.

Her mindset is entirely black and white, but despite eons walking the earth they retain a naïveté of human society that makes her pretty easily distractable. He can occasionally be reasoned with and/or distracted, and even more rarely convinced to bestow a blessing.

Hadeon is one of the first Minor bosses the player faces, and your decision to either befriend, escape, or kill her will play a role in your later encounter with other higher angels.

obviously there are all of the other Seraphim, and other high ranking demons that have their own names/info/etc i could literally keep going on and on abt them & more in depth world building forever probably but i will stop now 😔

[drachonia]

𝐟 𝐢 𝐫 𝐞 𝐚 𝐧 𝐝 𝐢 𝐜 𝐞 .

Leonardo x OC insert (Julliet)

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i've had this sitting in my WIP folder for like..well over a year. decided on a whim to finish it, thanks to @valkyyriia and @natimiles for the encouragement! i appreciate you both very much. i hope you both like this little fic of the boy. <33

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰��𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fictional interpretation of a historical figure (ikemen vampire), drac's weird little ideas, william jumpscare at the end.

Parties were never really his favorite, at least aside from the wine and the numerous opportunities to observe something interesting. The young man with ash brown hair drew out a small bit of charcoal and glanced around the room from his place against the wall, eyes scanning the ballroom for a subject to study.

He briefly contemplated sketching one of the pillars to the edges of the staircase scanning from the ceiling to floor. Once amber eyes reached the bottom, they locked with a pair of contrasting burgundy hues that reminded Leo vaguely of blood, cliché as that sounded to him. His lips quirked up as the wide-eyed maiden seemed to start at the realization he was staring at her. Fingers gripped the charcoal as he started to sketch her features, quickly managing to get down the softness of her jawline and the sharp curve of her brows before moving to the intense eyes and looking back up again only to see she vanished from the base of that pillar. His ever-present heartbeat stuttered for a moment, brows furrowing as he glanced around for where she may have gone.

“Are you looking for someone?” A soft voice reached his ears, turning his head to meet those same eyes again, but this time much clearer and closer, “You know it’s impolite to stare. Especially without introducing oneself.” She tucked her boyish fringe behind one ear, a teasing smile on her lips as she curtsied to him, “My name is Julliet, what’s yours?” She looked up to the young vampire, a grin on her lips as her own fangs showed the slightest bit. He hadn’t seen her before now. Was she a new vampire? Just someone he hadn’t paid any mind to? No matter, he was finally close enough to get a proper look at those eyes.

“Leonardo.” He grasped her hand, lifting it and pressing a kiss to the back of it with a smile even he didn’t think he could give. Fingertips brushed hers as he drew back, feeling a faint crackle of nerves. What was this? Who was she? What exactly brought about so much curiosity toward her? Maybe it was because she was an unknown to him, but he could practically taste the freedom she exuded on the tip of his tongue when he breathed in. She gave off a fresh scent, noticeable but not overpowering, like rosehip or sage.

“Well, Leonardo, what are you drawing?” She peered in to look at what he’d been scratching out, only to freeze for a moment, “Is that..?” Her bright eyes glanced up to meet his and felt the blush creeping up his neck to his ears, ready to retort and make an excuse before she quieted his thoughts with a happy smile and a gentle giggle. Leaning on his arm she reached her hand out a breath from his sketchbook, careful not to touch his work.

“It’s so well-done…how did you do all of that so fast? You only looked at me for a few seconds!” Her eyes shimmered in wonder as he chuckled lightly at her pure-hearted admiration. He glanced down at her other hand where it rested on his forearm, supporting her from falling into his side. For the first time, Leonardo noticed how small another’s hands could be next to his own. Briefly he wondered to himself if he could capture the feeling in a drawing or figure a way to better remember it in this irritatingly eternal existence of his.

And he thought, only for a moment, Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she would be mine?

The thought itself caught him by surprise as he returned to his senses, rubbing a hand over his mouth to soothe the sudden ache in his fangs.

Just then, he heard a call across the room, “Giulietta!” He almost jolted at how much the timbre reminded him of his father. A man who resembled the young woman at his side climbed the stairs across the hall from them. He felt her stiffen at his side, “I-I should go before my father sees me.”

“Do you make it a habit to hang around unsuspecting men?” He teased her lightly, “The scandal..!” That light smack to his bicep was every bit deserved.

“Never! You’re the first I’ve gotten curious enough of.” She muttered low to herself, but loud enough that he heard, a boyish grin stretching across his face as he opened his mouth to tease her.

“Giulietta!”

She shrunk away from him, “I should go…”

“Do you think we’ll get the chance to meet again?” The words practically pushed past his lips before he could stop them, not that he would have bothered.

“Maybe.” She seemed to like the idea from the bright smile that lifted her rosy cheeks. Giving a sheepish smile as she darted off to the call from her father

“Giulietta di Cappelletti!”

“Yes, father!”

The name was one he was vaguely familiar with, it wasn’t a family his parents held a high opinion of. He knew as much as he leaned on the railing and continued to polish her portrait. Strange, the name she had given him wasn’t something he was familiar with, but the one his father called was very much Italian.

“Julliet.” He mused, brushing his thumb over the page to mimic the flush on her cheeks in monotone.

In the darker part of the corridor, a young man scratched out his own notes, having been watching like a spectator at a theatre. And the titular words he scribbled with a flourish at the top of his parchment were ‘Romeo & Juliet.’

lace headers by saradika.

[hazyange1s]

MC: Ronan Sharp

Basics

Full name: Ronan Finley Sharp

Nickname(s): Ron (pronounced with a hard o), Sharpie, Prince Charming (by Sebastian)

Gender: male

Species: wizard/Selkie

Date of birth: September 21, 1874

Nationality: English and Irish

Blood status: pureblood

Wand: laurel, unicorn hair, 13 in, reasonably pliant

Appearance

Hair color: dark auburn

Hair style: loose, short waves with some curtain fringe

Eye color: hazel

Skin tone: fair; often with a light tan

Height: 6’1”

Body type: lean and toned

Clothing style: wears all colors (but especially loves light neutrals, warm tones, and black), prefers comfortable and unique fabrics (flannel, cashmere, fur)

Accessories:

Wears the Sharp family signet ring

Enjoys the occasional hat

Keeps his mother’s picture in his pocket watch

Other distinguishing features:

Freckles (of course)

Scar over his right eye (tried to Apparate at thirteen and splinched himself — still has poor vision in that eye)

Personality

Traits: friendly, enthusiastic, fun-loving, clever, sarcastic, perfectionistic, bossy

Likes: shakespeare, comfort food, medicine/biology, fall, making people laugh, generosity, genuineness

Dislikes: superiority complexes, dishonesty (from himself and others), large birds, flakes

Hobbies: chess, healing, charm creation, archery

Fears: the BIRDS man, abandonment, not being good enough

MBTI: ENFJ-A

Enneagram: 2w3 (268) so/sp

Zodiac: virgo sun, cancer moon, sagittarius rising

Temperament: sanguine

Archetype: the Caregiver

Similar characters: Apollo, Cedric Diggory, Richard Gansey, Lily Potter, Padme Amidala, Derek Shepherd

Family/Friends

Father: Aesop Sharp

Potions master and Slytherin alumnus

Stern with high expectations but well-meaning

Married his step mother when Ronan was five

Mother: Kassady DesRosiers (Fallon)

Pureblood

Dragonologist, Gryffindor alumnus

Killed when Ronan was 15 — he never got to meet her

Sibling: Raegan DesRosiers

Half-blood (same mother, different father)

Technically twins — Ronan was conceived and born first, but they shared a womb for 7 months

Gryffindor

Don’t meet properly until their sixth year

Pet: Apollo (tawny owl)

Received after his Hogwarts letter

Sort of the “communal owl” that all of his friends “borrow”

Gets into fights with the other owls oops

Friends: Poppy Sweeting, Diana Blackwine, Arthur Plumley, Adelaide Oaks, Ominis Gaunt, Garreth Weasley, Leander Prewett, Natsai Onai

Magic

Boggart: ostrich (lame)

Patronus: seal

Polyjuice: turns light green and tastes like fennel

Amortentia: lemon, butter, sage, frankincense

Special abilities:

Selkie blood — passed down from his father’s side and dilute enough to present rarely in a bloodline. Allows him to hold his breath underwater for extended periods of time; great swimmer, affinity for sea-dwelling creatures

Does not possess ancient magic

Exceptional and instinctual Healer

Backstory

Ronan was born in Cambridge, England in secret. His mother Kassady had hidden him from her abusive husband — as well as the fact that he was the product of a love affair with her former suitor; Aesop. Ronan grew up not knowing his birth mother (or the fact that he had a half/twin sister); raised by his father until Sharp married when his son was five.

He had a relatively happy childhood, though Ronan always felt slightly out of place. He was not the overly studious, serious type, which caused misunderstandings between him and his strict father… especially when Ronan is sorted into Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin (the Sharp family’s ancestral House).

But as he grows and learns more about his past and his family, he begins to come into his own as he becomes a Charms prodigy and a guiding light for the next generation of Keepers 😉.

Academics 

Best Subject: Charms, Magical Theory

Worst subject: Ancient Runes

Favorite teacher: Ronen and Kogawa

Least favorite teacher: Sharp (he’s harder on him than the rest oop)

As a student:

Very popular and personable; gets along with pretty much everyone (but isn’t a pushover)

His dyslexia causes him some trouble. Overall his intelligence and hard work helps him find ways around it

Mischievous — sort of a “thief in the night” that nobody suspects

Future

Career: Mediwizard

Ronan desires to make something of himself; to make a difference and be somebody useful in society. After seeing the impact that the goblin rebellion had on people and watching his sister/friends struggle with all manner of ailments (both mental and physical), he changes his career path from an Auror to Mediwizard.

He’d always had an interest in biology and medicine. The job allows him to dive deeper into those fascinations while giving him the adventure and variety Ronan secretly craves — he winds up traveling around Europe after Hogwarts under the employment of St. Mungo’s. Specializes in curses and mental illness.

Future spouse: undecided for now (side note: I’m always open to MCxMC ships! Ronan is pansexual so we’re not picky 😂)