#golden sable fur

[classyinfur]

[thoughtfullydecaffeinateddu-blog]

FMF Malagosia Bela Golden Sable

Riding in a fast flash car …

[itsabouttimex2]

Could you write something for shadowpeach with yandere wukong? Maybe it takes place right after wukong sees macaque for the first time since he killed him or maybe it takes place during season 4 when wukong gets trapped inside the scroll and sees their relationship before he killed macaque and once he gets out of the scroll he got full on yandere? :3

(Hai, im rlly sorry. i just realized i sent this originally when your inbox was closed. im super sorry😭)

(Hey, no big deal! It’s sweet that you remembered your request!)

Lost and Found

“…you hurt a lot of people,” the Great Sage starts, plucking at the hair around his wrists, “and you don’t even feel bad, huh?”

“I’ve got nothing to feel bad for,” returns his rival, rolling a drupe pit between his palms- a remnant of the peaches that Sun Wukong so adores. “None of this was my fault.”

It’s hard to tell whether or not Macaque is being sincere right now- he’s more guarded now than ever before, even as rays of sunlight spill softly across his pitch-black fur and his stomach fills with sweet fruit.

He’s like shattered obsidian, inky blackness casting rainbows in the glinting light.

“Bud, you made a deal with the literal most powerful demon in the world, and didn’t even try to-

“Keep this up,” cuts in the umbrakinetic, “and I’m gonna leave.”

Wukong springs to his feet suddenly, crushing a few pink-white petals under his reckless soles, squashed into mangled clumps of cellulose under the reckless monkey- then crushes a few dozen more as he charges to Macaque and slings himself over the startled simian.

“No, no, no! Bud, you said we would-“

“Get off me! Dammit, I’m not some kind of toy!”

“No! Lay down and listen to me!”

Macaque struggles under Wukong’s iron grip, his claws digging into golden arms as the tension between them crackles like static. The multi-eared monkey snarls, his claws scraping at Wukong’s clothes and fur, but the Great Sage’s skin is long hardened by fire and trial- it remains unblemished.

“Listen,” Wukong huffs, his voice trembling somewhere between desperation and long-baked sorrow. “You can’t just walk away every time someone calls you out! That’s not how this works, Mac! That’s not how we work!”

Macaque’s pupils narrow to slits, his breath heavy as he glares into Wukong’s golden eyes. The sunlight dances on them, warm and radiant. “You think- you think a little chat will make ‘us’ work? ‘Us’ never worked!”

“It can! We can make this work, if you would just try!”

Macaque stills, his claws frozen mid-scratch against Wukong’s wrist. The afternoon sunlight filters through the cherry blossoms, casting fractured patterns across their fur. For a moment, the only sound is the wind rustling the petals around them.

He gives, eventually. The sable simian huffs and deflates under his old mate’s grip, going slack against the meadow’s grass.

There’s a moment where Macaque leans in, ruffled black fur thrown askew with effort and sweat, still flecked with debris from the Lady Bone Demon’s final push for utter “perfection”.

He’s tired, worn, spent from battle and spent from a lifetime of old regrets circling his heart.

But he’s still Macaque.

“��not in a thousand years, Wukong.”

Even though the rejection is tempered, the king wilts under it, golden fur dimming under the weight of his mate’s refusal.

“Mac... you can’t just-“

“I can. I make my own choices now, Wukong,” the darker monkey snaps, lips pulling back to reveal his sharp canines- a threat, if the matter is pushed.

...but the king just can’t let this go. Not after centuries spent waiting and wanting.

“...there’s no one else who can protect you.”

A harsh snort comes from Macaque’s creased snout, the unpleasant sound smoothing into chuckles.

“From what, O’ Great Sage? What do I need to protected from?”

“The Celestial Realm, bud. You think they haven’t already figured out who you threw your lot in with? That you made a deal with the Lady Bone Demon?”

A pause, sharp and stiff- he’s hit a nerve.

“...they wouldn’t. Not after I helped defeat her. Not after I put my life on the line,” he almost pleads, as though the court could hear his defenses. “They wouldn’t.”

“After what they did to me? You’re not off the menu, bud- you never are. Not after you’ve wronged the Celestial Court.”

There’s a dread rush of panic that starts to race through Macaque’s cold veins, an icy chill radiating slowly through his skin.

“They wouldn’t.”

Right after he says it, Wukong signs and rolls off of Macaque, offering a hand to help him up.

“They never let go, bud. The moment we sieged their home, there was no way they’d ever stop looking for a way to ‘repay’ us.”

His old rival sits up with panic in his shrouded eyes, slapping away Wukong’s hand.

“No,” he snaps, bolting upright under a shower of plink petals. “You’re right. They won’t. Which means I-“

“You’re leaving,” the king sighs. “You’re running away, again. You’re gonna leave me, just like every one always does.”

Macaque pulls his face into a nasty sneer, dark and creased. “You don’t get to try and pull me into some little pity part, Monkey King. Not after you put me in the ground.”

To his surprise, one of Wukong’s golden eyes twitch, lit with a sudden anger.

“You know what? No. No, you aren’t going anywhere,” the monkey snaps, snaring one of Macaque’s wrists in his hand. “Not until you’ve actually started to change. You spent five centuries down in the underworld and don’t even start to think “Hey, maybe there’s a reason I ended up down here?!” Not even for a second, Macaque?!”

The umbrakinetic pulls back a little, eyes wide with surprise at having his usual shit-slinging slung back at him.

“That’s not- shut your damn mouth. I don’t deserve to be yelled at, and-“

“Did I “deserve” to be alone under a mountain for five hundred years after one fight? Did I “deserve” to be abandoned while I was fighting the Jade Emperor? Did I “deserve” to be collared by the Celestial Realm while you got to run around wreaking havoc?”

Things are going wrong, Macaque faintly realizes. He’s not usually the one get reamed out for centuries old mistakes, a dynamic he was quite fond of- Wukong takes all the blame, and he slinks off to hide in the shadows. That’s what he likes.

And he realizes more and more with each passing second that things are going further south- especially when he see the way that Wukong’s hand dips into his pocket.

From it, he procures a gleaming circlet.

No. No. No.

It’s wound with the image of branching vines and flowers, a step up from Wukong’s own in term of design- perhaps someone had grown bored with it

The golden hoop exudes a warm, almost soothing aura- it’d be calming if Macaque didn’t know what it could do.

But he knows almost everything about it. He knows how it works. He knows who made it.

Guanyin.

She had been like a mother to the Monkey King during his short stay in the Celestial Realm, one of the very few gods that he thought of fondly- and one of the even fewer who looked on him fondly in turn.

“My dear Monkey,” she had cooed to the intruding demon, both her warm hands cusping his furry cheeks, “what have you come for today?”

“Guanyin, I… I found my old mate,” he admitted to her, his palms nervously clasping over her own. “And I don’t know what to do. I want him back, but...”

“Oh, my little pilgrim... you wish to reunite with... wasn’t his name Macaque, then? Well, if you do desire this... shadowy little imp... I will lend you my aid.”

Her head had dipped forehead, lips gentle on his forehead, a blessing born of warmth and love- a blue sigil etches across the skin-warmed spot, riding the king good luck and protection. “Anything for you, my dear Monkey. Take my blessings, and take this... this circlet. I trust that you will do good with them.

But Macaque hadn’t know that.

That Wukong had a plan all along, that it was backed up by an adoring goddess of mercy, that he had a damned tightening fillet from the start and was never above using it-

All he knows at this moment, frozen in place form shock- is the tightness around his forehead as Wukong snaps the hoop into place.

“We can still fix this, Moonbeam. I’m not losing you again.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Heraldry

Heraldry - is about showing people who you are.

In England, it started in the later 1100s, when knights began to wear helmets, and they couldn't be recognised. So they began to paint unique combinations of colours, shapes and animals, called their 'arms', on their shields and banners. Only one person was allowed to use these arms. When people saw a knight wearing them in a battle or tournament, they could tell who he was.

It is the science and the art that deal with the use, display, and regulation of hereditary symbols employed to distinguish individuals, armies, institutions, and corporations. Those symbols, which originated as identification devices on flags and shields, are called armorial bearings.

Strictly defined, heraldry denotes that which pertains to the office and duty of a herald; that part of his work dealing with armorial bearings is properly termed armory. But in general usage heraldry has come to mean the same as armory.

The Colours of Heraldry

The 5 traditional colours are, with their heraldic names:

Red = Gules

Blue = Azure

Green = Vert

Black = Sable

Purple = Purpure

Plus the two 'metals':

Gold or yellow = Or

Silver or white = Argent

There are also 'furs', the most common being:

Ermine: representing the white winter fur of stoats, with their black tail tips.

Vair: representing squirrel skins, in blue and white.

If something (say a dog or badger) is shown in its natural colours, it's called proper.

Conventional representations of tinctures used when it is not possible to print the actual colors:

Heraldic Ordinaries

Ordinaries - the simple shapes used on heraldic shields, against a colour, metal or fur background. If you are making your own design, choose one of these main ordinaries:

Fess = horizontal stripe across the shield

Pale = vertical stripe down the shield

Bend = diagonal stripe

Chevron = like a house gable, pointing upwards

Cross = a plain cross

Saltire = a 'St. Andrew's cross'

Chief = bar across top edge of shield

Bordure = border round edges of shield

Pile = downward-pointing triangle

You can also divide your shield into two colours, either vertically or horizontally, or into four different-coloured quarters.

You don't have to use an ordinary, but if you do remember to never put a colour on colour or a metal on a metal. Try to remember this heraldic rule: colours don't show up well against colours, or metals against metals. This also applies to charges.

Heraldic Charges

Charges - emblems added to the shield, on the background, the 'ordinary', or both.

There can be one big charge, or several smaller repeated ones. Here are some of the common charges you could use:

Crosses - of many different types

Stars

Rings

Balls

Crescents

Diamonds

Flowers

They can be any colour, but remember never put colour on colour, for example a green star on blue, or metal on metal, for example a white flower on yellow.

Many knights also used animals as charges.

Animal Charges

Any animal - either one big one or several smaller - can be used as a charge. They can be shown in many different ways, for instance:

Rearing up (rampant) - like the lion and the hare in the pictures above

Standing (statant) - like the dog

For birds, with wings outstretched (displayed) - like the eagle

Walking along (passant) - like the other lion

If the animal is looking towards you, it is also guardant or 'on guard'. So the lion in the picture is passant guardant.

The ancient royal arms of England are 3 golden lions, one above the other, walking along on a red shield: or, in heraldic code, gules three lions passant guardant or.

Just to make things more complicated, lions passant guardant are also called leopards - but they don't have spots.

Choosing Your Animal

Animals symbolised different qualities. So for instance:

Lions = bravery

Dogs = faithfulness, reliability

Stags = wisdom and long life

Eagles = power and nobility

Badgers = endurance or 'hanging on'

You could also design your own animal charge.

For instance a cat, horse or other favourite pet.

Or you could choose a fabulous beast...

Fabulous Beasts

Though often used as 'charges', these fabulous beasts never really existed.

But some people believed they did, maybe because they'd heard about them in stories made up by travellers to distant lands, like crusading knights or merchant adventurers. Pictures of them also appeared in 'bestiaries', a popular kind of illustrated medieval story-book.

Here are some you could use:

Dragon: the earliest and most common fabulous beast, also used as a badge by Romans, Anglo-Saxons and Welsh. A brave and cunning defender of treasure.

Griffin: a combination of lion and eagle. Symbolises watchfulness and courage - and also guards treasure.

Cockatrice: a cross between a cockerel and a dragon, supposedly hatched from a cock's egg by a snake or toad. Could kill by looking at you, and symbolised protection.

Manticore or 'man-tiger': a fearsome man-eating creature with a lion's body, man's face, tusks, horns and a deafening trumpet-like voice.

Cadency

Cadency - the use of various devices designed to show a man’s position in a family, with the aforementioned basic aim of reserving the entire arms to the head of the family and to differentiate the arms of the rest, who are the cadets, or younger members.

Heraldic works in the 16th century refer to cadency marks as:

a label for the eldest son during his father’s lifetime;

a crescent for the second son;

a mullet (five-pointed star) for the third;

a martlet (a mythical bird), the fourth;

an annulet (a small ring), the fifth;

a fleur-de-lis, the sixth;

a rose, the seventh; and so forth.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

[chicinsilk]

Harper's Bazaar October, 1974

Cheryl Tiegs wears a sable fur coat. By Christian Dior Furs, New York. With this natural golden fur, Cheryl adds depth to her eyes with the new volcanic gray gel cream eyeshadow and the taupe tartar color pencil, warms up her mouth with the new secret rose cream lipstick touched with natural lip gloss. All by Christian Dior. Hair and makeup by Benjamin.

Cheryl Tiegs porte un manteau de fourrure de zibeline. Par Christian Dior Furs, New York. Avec cette fourrure dorée naturelle, Cheryl ajoute de la profondeur à ses yeux avec le nouveau fard à paupières gel crème gris volcanique et le crayon de couleur taupe tartar, réchauffe sa bouche avec le nouveau rouge à lèvres crème rose secret touché de brillant à lèvres naturel. Le tout par Christian Dior. Coiffure et maquillage Benjamin.

Photo Rico Puhlmann

[rocknrollbabydollblog]

★☆THE ESSENTIAL ROCK N ROLL STYLE GUIDE (PART 1)★☆

Second-hand, thrift and vintage stores are your best friend - especially the aisle that no one can find and the corners that no one is bothered to rummage. First priority is to choose a rock muse style icon. Pattie Boyd’s cut-crease makeup, perfect pout and psychedelic mini skirts, Marianne Faithfull’s thick bangs and love for velvet and snake-skin, Pamela Des Barres’ wild locks and clown makeup, Anita Pallenberg’s chunky belts, hot pants and huge sun hats, Bebe Buell’s 70s cover girl waves and backless halters, Linda Keith’s fur hats, Ginger Gilmour’s golden ringlets and lace bell-bottom sleeve tops, Mary Austin’s skinny scarves and bohemian prints, May Pang’s octagonal sunglasses and straight jet black hair, Linda McCartney’s classy midi skirts, Lori Maddox and Sable Starr’s spandex shorts, wedgie platforms and crazy hair, Charlotte Martin’s baggier effortless Parisian style, Alice Ormsby Gore’s bohemian layering and flowy midi skirts, Jenny Boyd’s medieval-esque dresses and peasant-style, Iggy Rose’s eye crystals and makeup, and of course Miss Priscilla Presley’s perfect feline Egyptian cat-eye, black hair and ivory complexion. Groupie rock muse style ranges from where you’re going to who you’re seeing. If you’re offering your boyfriend arm candy at his Album Launch, you’re not going to be wearing the same pair of hot pants and lace-up boots that you did at his last concert. And if you’re lounging around in the studio at 12am, you’re not going to be wearing that glam paisley dress you wore backstage on tour. Groupie style is all about knowing what to wear and where to wear it. Gigs and concerts will call for a more flamboyant, and ‘out-there’ look. Style staples for concerts and gigs include hot pants, knee-high boots, snake-skin, fur coats and of course afghan coats, chunky jewelry, face gems and body glitter, halter tops and mini skirts and dresses. This is very similar to festival style if your rockstar boyfriend is playing there - however, more flowy and bohemian styles are more welcome and especially face gems and body glitter. Sun hats, lace-up gladiator boots and sandals, and peasant maxi dresses and blouses. 

Stay tuned for part 2 where I will be discussing style staples for album launches and recording sessions.

[dopeycryptid]

So, I've been coming up with an idea for a Warrior Cats horror story (wow, what a surprise, Dopey *sarcasm*)!

This is obviously a work in progress, as I'm still trying to come up with a way to possibly start writing this. And also because its Warrior Cats AND horror-based story, there will be some mentionable unsettling topics: gore, animal death, psychological cruelty, etc.

So of course if you are uncomfortable by said things, please don't subjugate yourself to reading it, your mental health is important!

I have some characters already hashed up, however I might in the possible near future be interested in involving other peoples' characters, so don't hesitate to hop into my askbox with your ideas (because that's the best place to get ahold of me [I will make the discussion private as well if you'd like, just say so]).

I also always love and appreciate feedback, and if ya'll have any questions about anything, feel free to pester me about it. *thumbs up*

The Dark Lands Clan:

Leader- Silentstar A tall slender all-black tomcat. Striking electric blue eyes. Personality traits: Calculated, somewhat cold, persuasive. Relations: Adderpaw 112 moons.

Deputy- Goldenshade A large long haired yellow tomcat with faint tabby markings. Amber eyes. Personality traits: Proud, tends to throw his weight around. Relations: Sunpaw 89 moons.

Warrior- Winterstrike A slender white tomcat with a long, bushy tail. Vibrant lavender eyes. Personality traits: Calm, secretly manipulative, strong sense of a bigger purpose. Relations: N/A 64 moons.

Warrior- Duskblaze A semi-large long haired black and gray tomcat with dark bengal markings. Bluish-green eyes. Personality traits: Sharp-tongued, avid risk taker. Relations: N/A 27 moons.

Warrior- Mothsong A brown she-cat with sokoke tabby markings and thicker fur around her neck and tail. Golden yellow eyes. Personality traits: Swift-pawed, doting towards younger cats. Relations: Spiderpaw 44 moons.

Medicine- Moonheart A medium haired silver tomcat with one crooked back leg. Crimson eyes. Personality traits: Fatherly, insightful, somewhat no nonsense attitude. Relations: N/A 141 moons.

Apprentice- Adderpaw (later Adderfrost) A long haired black and white speckled tomcat. Left eye is a striking electric blue and the right eye is a pale baby blue. Personality traits: Adventurous, eager play-fighter, kind. Relations: Silentstar 10 moons.

Apprentice- Spiderpaw (later Spiderthorn) A slender brown tomcat with mackerel tabby markings. Bronze eyes. Personality traits: Loner, short-tempered. Relations: Mothsong 6 moons.

Apprentice- Ghostpaw (later Ghoststripe) A medium haired bluish-gray tomcat with a lighter gray streak along his spine. Blood red eyes. Personality traits: Timid, a tad absent-minded. Relations: N/A 10 moons.

Apprentice- Sunpaw (later Sunbreeze) A medium haired yellow she-cat with a nubby tail. Sable green eyes. Personality traits: Nervous, soft-spoken, loves playing with moss balls. Relations: Goldenshade 8 moons.

Other Characters:

A monstrous creature only known by the Clans as “the Beast” that resembles a giant blood-soaked stag with tall, jagged black antlers and a hollowed face with a broken jaw. It is the main reason the Dark Lands Clan was nearly wiped out moons ago, leaving so few members.

A dog (Del Gigante Lupine) with silvery gray eyes, rightfully nicknamed “Wolf”, who guards a neighboring Two Legs’ junkyard. It's also implied that he is sometimes used for dog-fighting, hence a lot of the scars he’s sustained.

[golden-reedwolf]

Anything really will be merled these days. Even golden jackals come in merle now!

In the mottled animal’s case, the phenotype was highly resemblant to agouti or dark sable merle dogs’ look that is caused by a SINE insertion in the SILV gene. Using fragment analysis, we found a peak at 434 basepairs with a wild-type allele of 171 basepairs, which means the animal has a 263-basepair SINE insertion, which categorizes it as Ma +, atypical merle animal.

White and other fur colourations and hybridization in golden jackals (Canis aureus) in the Carpathian basin

[brownie-gives-cats]

hhhhhcat. love kitties. love dice. what do your magic die say about me, cat gifting person…

I actually do roll physical dice! I'm so glad to find a use for them since I don't play ttrpgs anymore. This time, the magic dice say 60! A common cat, but no less special because of it. <3

Tumblecreek (he/they) is a red-and-chocolate calico tom with yellow eyes. Over white fur is mixed dapples of chocolate--a rich, sable brown--and ginger--lighter, almost golden hued, with false tabby stripes giving it a streaking texture that contrasts with the two solid colors. His face is perfectly bisected between the two colors. There is noticeably more chocolate to him, and in larger dapples. His yellow eyes are large and have orange flecks.

Tumblecreek is a cat that will go with the flow no matter what. He hardly ever holds his own opinions, only mimicking whatever the cats around him are saying and doing. He's very good at fitting in, even with groups of cats that are very different from each other, and has close friends in different Clans, ranks, and social circles. Tumblecreek doesn't like drawing attention to himself and values his privacy. He has a strong connection with both StarClan and the Dark Forest, finding himself in one of the two afterlives almost every night, but very few cats know about his ability. He is a strong swimmer and earned his warrior name a moon early after rescuing a patrol from a sudden flood.

[classyinfur]

[moths-wc-aus]

boarclan’s kits!

COMET - a golden-furred charlie with fluffy ear tips.

the kit of codmask and fallinghail, comet is a loud, bright kitten who's so so ready to be an apprentice already!

EDDY - an orange and brown pointed molly.

IVY - a yellow pointed tom.

BLACK - an unusually speckled black molly.

SMALL - a red and black pointed tom.

the first litter of cinnamonhop and an unknown sire! they're excitable, rambunctious little things that cinnamonhop absolutely adores.

DAPPLE - a brown tortoiseshell tom with a white paw.

SABLE - a red and black braided tabby molly.

QUIET - a black and white tom.

treetail and twilightlily's second litter of kits, these babies are so baby that they haven't even opened their eyes yet.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 48, 28 novembre 1897, Paris. Toilette d'hiver: Mantelet en velours violet. Modèle de chez Mmes Coussinet-Piret, rue Richer, 43. Chapeau de la Maison Lenthéric. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Description de la gravure coloriée:

Toque-béret, à fond plat incliné sur le côté droit, violet, brodé d'argent. Bouillonné entourant la calotte et sur le côté gauche, une crosse de fantaisie, formée de deux plumes d'autruche-couteau blanches, bordées d'un petit tour de plumes gris argent. Petite touffe plumes molles noires, surmontant une tête d'oiseau, blanche, enfouie dans une torsade de gaze blanche. Sur les cheveux un bouquet de violettes de Parme.

Mantelet d'hiver pour visites, en velours violet, garni d'une riche broderie, découpée et appliquée. La partie supérieure ajustée dans le dos, est ornée d'un grand col Médicis en zibeline dorée, soutenu d'un large nœud de ruban assorti à la broderie, et garni d'une longue boucle en strass. Sur les côtes le mantelet forme de vastes manches-collet, qui recouvrent d'autres manches ajustées aux bras. En avant, le mantelet tombe droit, en deux pans-étole, étroits, bordés de fourrure semblable au col, ainsi que le bas des manches, et la basque en arrière, qui termine le mantelet très court par derrière.

Jupe en satin gris perle, brodée au bas, de quilles dégradées de hauteur. La partie inférieure est garnie d'une étroite bande de zibeline.

Manchon de zibeline.

—

Toque-beret, with a flat bottom inclined to the right side, purple, embroidered with silver. Bubbling surrounding the crown and on the left side, a fancy crosse, formed of two white ostrich-knife feathers, edged with a small round of silver-grey feathers. Small tuft of soft black feathers, surmounting a bird's head, white, buried in a twist of white gauze. On the hair a bouquet of Parma violets.

Winter coat for visits, in purple velvet, trimmed with rich embroidery, cut and applied. The fitted upper part in the back is adorned with a large Medici collar in golden sable, supported by a large ribbon bow matching the embroidery, and trimmed with a long rhinestone buckle. On the sides, the cloak forms wide collar sleeves, which cover other sleeves fitted to the arms. In front, the cloak falls straight, in two narrow stole sections, edged with similar fur at the collar, as well as the bottom of the sleeves, and the basque behind, which ends the very short cloak from behind.

Pearl gray satin skirt, embroidered at the bottom, with graduated quilles. The lower part is trimmed with a narrow strip of sable.

Sable muff.

[fierypen37]

Prompt: Dany meets Night Watch Jon.

A Dragon or Three

Once, as Mance Rayder bore down on the Wall with the greatest army the north had ever seen, Jon had wished for a dragon or three. Now he watched from atop the Wall as a black dragon descended from the clouds like a god. The wind ran its icy fingers through his hair, a few strands flying loose from its tie to whip in his eyes. He was afraid to blink and miss seeing a living dragon dive from the perfect blue of the sky. Gorgeous beast. The powerful stroke of wings as large as ship sails, gleaming black. Here and there the sun caught a crimson streak. He squinted. A pale speck on the beast’s back. Daenerys Stormborn herself.

“Lord Commander, what would you like me to say to the Queen’s man?” Satin’s sweet voice broke his trance. The awe raising his soaring heart crashed down to the mundanities of running a castle. Far below, it was a seething anthill. Men running to and fro in preparation for Daenerys, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and her entourage.

“About what, Satin?” Jon asked, clenching and unclenching his fist around Longclaw’s hilt. Satin raked a hand through his springy curls and gestured to the mess below. Far beyond, he could see the queen’s men approaching from the kingsroad.

“About . . . this! Where are we going to house and feed all these people?” Satin asked. A knife thin smile touched his lips.

“We’ll figure that out. Come, let’s go down. There is much to do,” Jon said. Together they entered the winch-drawn cage and began the long descent down. Jon craned his head to watch the dragon’s descent. From the tail of his eye, he watched Satin’s eyes widen in tandem as the dragon grew closer. Bigger than an aurouch. Bigger than a mammoth. Bigger than the giants he’d seen north of the Wall. The dragon roared. The sound rattled in Jon’s ears, made the fine hairs on his body stand on end. A savage smile touched his lips. Any who heard that sound would tremble. Perhaps even a dead army.

Once again on solid ground, Jon sent Satin scurrying off on half a dozen errands. He settled his black cloak around his shoulders, the fine sable fur tickling the side of his neck. In deference to royalty, he dressed in his finest blacks. It was her laugh that greeted him first. A bright burst of sound. She was smaller than he’d pictured, the crown of her head coming to his collarbone. Windblown braids and cheeks pinked with cold, the curve of her smile struck him straight in the gut. A sharp, golden-eyed look from one of her women prompted the introduction.

“Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the Seven Kingdoms, may I present the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow,” she said in a voice smoothed by some singing accent. Jon sank to one knee in the snow. He heard muted thuds as all of the brothers in earshot made their deference.

“The Wall is yours, Your Grace,” Jon said, charmed by the scuffed toes of her boots. Well-worn and oiled, it was obvious she preferred them to silk slippers. This one. This one could save them all—if she would only believe him.

“Rise, Jon Snow,” Daenerys said. Jon met her gaze, startled by how fucking beautiful she was. Too beautiful to be fully mortal.

“We have a feast prepared in the keep,” Jon said, offering his arm. Satin appeared at his elbow, breathless, and fell in with the queen’s entourage. A glance over his shoulder found among them squat man with black device on a grey-green field that he couldn’t place. A Reed? What was a Reed of Greywater Watch doing at the Wall? Queen Daenerys stole his attention by threading her arm through his elbow.

“We have much to discuss,” she said.       

[chicinsilk]

Chanel Haute Couture Collection Fall/Winter 1960-61. Gitta Schilling wears a red wool dinner ensemble consisting of a dress and loose jacket trimmed with sable fur. Golden buttons and a golden jewel signed Coco Chanel.

Chanel Collection Haute Couture Automne/Hiver 1960-61. Gitta Schilling porte un ensemble de dîner en laine rouge composé d'une robe et d'une veste ample bordée de fourrure de zibeline. Des boutons dorés et un bijou doré signé Coco Chanel.

Photo Yurek

Photo Yurek

[licially]

Another one hour practice::

≥ This time it features my Lackadaisy OC: Andrew Jacobs (second image), and Mordecai Heller in a very very hypothetical situation.

In the bombed out quarry, the dust settled. Excavation machinery littered throughout the ground served more as cover than their actual purpose, and the spotlights that were once used for helpers and workers that wanted some extra overtime for being overly dedicated towards the goal of finding riches from the earth below. 

One such site nestled itself between the Mississippi river and nearby McKinley bridge that served as a railway during the era’s boom for transportation. Rapid industrialisation brought on rapid developments for the city as a whole, with railways being a hot commodity to bring people, materials, and supplies over from other major cities to this place without the need to make round trips. One of such materials are from the quarries surrounding the river, and one such quarry was Sedgewick Sable’s.

Within this quarry, alongside countless others sprinkled throughout the region, he had networked hundreds of workers and thousands of business opportunities thanks to the essential materials from them: coal, clay and aggregates of sand and gravel. These key ingredients in the construction and energy departments made Sedgewick one of the most sought after persons within the St Louis area. 

As of right now, the quarry is abandoned. Not because it’s closing down, but it’s the dead of the night. Disturbed by 4 shots from the depths beneath the open wound of the earth.

Ducking from cover to cover, just behind some more excavators, hid a well fitted cat. He peeked out of a tiny vantage point from one of the tiny holes meant for screws, and analyzed the immediate area in the tunnel vision he had forced himself upon. As he looked around, more and more stones and gravel covered the ground like the seas, and the dark night sky contrasted between what was too far and what was too close. 

He backed out, slowly, as his ears twitched to any subtle sound that may give a clue to where another… thing, whatever it may be, is. 

A cricket chirp, just a bit to the distance. To the left, about 3-4 feet away from him.

The wind blew slightly against his ears again, this time only proving a disruption more than being a helpful asset.

Silence blended into the winds. A good opportunity to focus on the threat at hand,

Soon, footsteps. Directly to his right, with some hastily drawn breaths.

Knowing this, he fled back towards the left and behind the frontside of the cockpit of the excavator, just enough time for him to take another vantage point: the glass of it doubling as a mirror. Knowing this, he kept his gun poised on his right hand, using his more dominant side to adjust the golden pince-nez that slipped closer to slipping off. 

His eyes bore a deadly glare: a green gaze that heavily contrasted the black and light gray fur that covered him. His suit, although dirty from the earlier gunfight, serves complimentary to the fur and camouflage for a more intimate and dark encounter for his works as the triggerman of the Marigold gang. He had been spending time perfecting his art of flawless executions, whether it be people or a job. 

At last, he spots the person fallen prey to his trap through a double reflection of the mirror: a scrawny, rough around the edges gray cat, with a death stare muddled between his yellow and purple eyes. Their pocket watch dangled into a side pocket from their suit, and his jacket was all sorts of torn up, revealing hidden scars and markings of their fur as they stepped closer and closer towards Mordecai. 

He spoke up. In the face of death, the opposing party spoke up in a raspy voice:

“I promise I don’t mean any harm.”

Mordecai, on the other hand, didn’t want to fall into the bluff. No matter how truthful it seemed. As he swung around the corner, and aimed towards the left hand side shoulder. When he did analyze him during the one-sided conversation, he spotted a handle of a gun: a Colt Detective Special. 

However, the disadvantage at hand was he would have needed to have one chamber unloaded in case of misfiring. Knowing his way of talking, he was up against someone who wasn’t proficient in firing guns let alone to carry one for this specific scenario. 

As he pulled the trigger, the recoil struck Mordecai predictively towards his left hand, where he is most dominant. His eyes kept a fixed position on the person who received a bullet, which was the detective. He witnessed him clutch at his left shoulder and gritting his teeth in pain, expectedly applying a lot of pressure onto the wound. However, he stood there.

Unexpectedly, he kept talking.

“I… do not. Mean any harm.”

Even though it’s choked by the impacted wound, it didn’t seem forced at all. Usually, most would run away and some would attempt to strike back. Those who did the latter did not see another day, and those who did the former only lived for a few seconds. After which, they would soon join the graves who attempted to be brave about it.

Blood dripped towards the gravel, still lit up by the spotlights directly above their heads. 

“Harm is an intention, not a meaning.”

The triggerman shot back at him, with words and not bullets, and wills to indulge in a conversation untethered by harmful intentions. However, the gun still pointed at the detective, and one wrong move could prove fatal. 

The detective stayed vigilant, and spoke through the hissing.

“I wanted to talk about… Marigold. You left it by your own accord, correct?” 

“Well yes, but what relevance does that serve in this current… scenario?”

Mordecai replied, slowly lowering his gun. He let absolutely no one else know about this, only Mitzi had the word from him. But, as the detective let out a slight cry of pain, he posed another question that got Mordecai’s full attention.

“The case of Atlas May has been reopened. It’s believed that Mitzi May had involvement in the case. And you were the last person seen with her, before she vanished overnight.”

[varldsormr]

♡ + winter

Send me ♡ + a word, and I’ll write a headcanon scene.

He never cared for winter.

The north wind bites like frozen metal, and he jerks aside just enough to feel the tip of an arrowhead graze his cheek; A speck of red stolen for the white storm bearing down from the mountains, scattering all but the bold and the ravenous.

They hunt him. Even here, even now -- the hounds of Odin, were they so befitting of the name; gloryseekers, sniveling creatures of mad dellusion and visions of grandeur, warriors young and old hoping to turn into the golden halls and stand before the gods with the blackened heart of a serpent in hand - the poison of his lifeblood seeping through their skin, their lungs, their breath. Whether they scour at the behest and favor of the One-Eyed himself, The Thunderbringer, War-Torn, their own whims, it mattered little. They are all the same.

Valiant.

Reckless.

Pestiferous.

Another falls and another comes - like rats, scurrying out of othe walls and the floorboards, a hidden, writhing nest festering just beneath his feet. Too far and they're lost to the fog. Too near and they grasp for any bit of him their copper-born claws and fangs can reach. The gleam of their blades fragments but a moment amongst the flurry of powdered frost, hard to catch and catching hard against his hilt, grinding iron lengths to steel and silver to flesh. He thrusts back with mustered force and one leather-clad hero staggers backwards - feet failing purchase on the ice - sparing him time to brand his weapon a shield against the onslaught of the next.

Across his shoulders the thickly draped fur is as much a hindrance as a crucial barrier against the wind, as heavy upon his back as the frigidity threatening to burrow into his bones and the acid strain burning flesh. It buys him time, but only little.

He is moving too slow.

A twinpoint needle whistles through fury and rips through both muscle and hide, stealing his voice with an arch into the gale. Unhindered one buries in the heat of his side, blossoming a fire-wet warmth as three more sink to his back; through gritted teeth and iron on his lips he swings blind, wild at the dozen arms that lunge at the scent of his weakness, desperate to tear him apart and rend their chunk of meat from whatever remains.

Alone he is strong, but together, they are many, and desperation is no more shame than the prize of mere survival.

They call him a beast, but he is only what they make him.

A pang at his wrist and his sword drops. Snaring coils around his limbs and suddenly he's pulled, back. Pushed to his knees he feels their weight a hundredfold holding him down into the snow, fingers like barbs pressing into every bruise he failed to feel and every cut that bares him open. From around and out of sight a gloved fist closes tight around his throat, restricting his air, forcing him up, sable-ink eyes turned skyward and bearing witness to the roar of their demand. And if he had wondered why they toy with him, staying blades from claiming glory, a shiver runs his spine to bristle and then he need no longer.

The flock parts. Sanguine hair flares a beacon through the fog as a spectre walks forth beyond the pale, the storm bending in for their emergence. It is not his enemy, but they bear his mark; carved into the emissary's chest like a brand upon their soul. With a shadow of war and thunder in their wake, they carry the presence of Him with every step of their lumbering silhouette, moved with the verysame swagger of arrogance and snow crunch crackling like lightning underneath the tonnage of their feet. The gods are never known for their subtletly. He'd scoff if he thought the sound could escape him.

One by one he feels the hands on him pull away, loosened by reverence. A familiar, self-righteous grin, twisted into something cruel and raw on the face of this hunter, stops and peers down where he's weighed by his own debility to the earth - defiance the only instrument the serpent has left to bare but his teeth.

Is it an insult, or a sacrifice?

They kneel, and his own breath, hot in his lungs, fades to mist in the space between them. They raise his chin with a finger, tilts their head to flash a sliver of the naked skin beneath their jaw as his own is left hoarse and blemished. They draw a knife, a small, contemptuous thing, but the razor edge of it is not half as sharp as the hatred unsheated within him.

For a moment, nothing cuts through his senses but the stench of liquid metal. Sulfur and copper strangling cries of new alarm - his teeth, with a lunge, buried deep in the thick of the emissary's throat. The lapse is theirs and he's on them in an instant, weary and starved, a cornered drake with little sympathy for startled cries of circling vultures, nor how the garbled pleas of the greedy and bold drown just as quickly as the wanting with venom in their veins and a rush of blood onto their tongue. They'd worn their divinity like armour, and he wrings it from the core of them with canines in their flesh.

In the blurry edges of his sight, he sees the seekers scatter - robbed of foolhardy vigor, their pray, turned predator - but does not let until the thrashing body below lies still and coldly vacant. Their dagger, discarded in the ice. Their patron, unbound. When he finally he sits, he falls onto his haunches with a rasp, a shaky exhale, and does not move except to breathe. How long, he does not know.

Around them, the powdered white is marred by specks of blazing red, melting away into an early thaw. The spring never lasts long this far up north, but if it comes at all, it may just find him waiting.

He's never cared for winter.

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

// Miðsvetrarís, The Wild Hunt, part. I, ??? A.D.