#gray from sheep and wolves

[probablyaseamonster]

If your character says to another character either "you did this to me!", "what have you done to me?" or "look at me!", there is an 89% chance that they will now be my favourite character from that media and also my new blorbo.

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ The Legend of a Faceless Harbinger

(Imagine Headless Horseman Capitano x reader. No, I won’t elaborate.)

✧ In an unassuming village nestled by a quaint, insignificant hamlet, you lived in a humble farmhouse. A modest living, with but a few sheep and a tightly held community. Everyone knew each other in the village, for its residents were few, fostering familiarity among its inhabitants and their whereabouts. 

The villagers liked tales of premonition and the paranormal – stories of vengeful Hilichurls, weeping Seelies, or berserk Witches who burn everything in their path. However, one of the legends was about a Faceless Knight, bloodstained and brooding, with a mighty steed supporting his towering frame. Legend has it that the Knight’s armor once shone silver and pristine, but after years of bloodshed and gruesome battles, the knight’s body shifted to that of a monster; the same ones he once swore to destroy. Now faceless, monstrous, and donning a void-like helmet - the Knight rides off into the night, galloping between the living and dead. 

✧ You, on the other hand, disregarded such gossip. If the night was scary because a headless knight reigned dominion over it, then why did you always find solace in it, when the sky is clear and the stars are shining? 

You lived by the outskirts and were content taking care of your small flock of chickens and sheep. You had your fresh bread, a small basket of eggs, and homemade dairy. In the early hours of dawn, you took care of your abode, small patches of vegetables sprouting by the sunlight. And in the late hours of dusk, you sat by the windowsill from your bedroom, gazing up at the stars above. 

Yet as you silently watched the night, a hidden figure, merging with the shadows gazed back at you. His horse neighed softly until a clawed hand patted its head. 

✧ One day, a couple of sheep wandered off from your farmhouse and went missing. The weather was cloudy and the gray clouds threatened a heavy pour if you didn't hurry and found your wandering flock. With your trusty shepherd's crook, you hurried off to run into the forest hoping you'd find them somewhere nearby.

Once you reached the wild forest, it didn't take long to spot your wandering sheep, running in the direction of their baaing. They huddled close by the bushes, grazing on the grass leisurely. You smiled in silent relief, reaching closer toward them until suddenly - you halted. Amidst the dense foliage, a figure emerged, and it dawned on you that your sheep were not simply loitering there by chance. They had been intentionally led here, and at the sight of the stranger, you tensed, clutching your trusty crook. A man on horseback drew nearer, his jet-black steed carefully moving. But the figure was even taller. Dark armor and clanking chains were not as imposing as the sight of his featureless, hollow helmet met you head-on.

It was the faceless Knight. He kept his distance, but his helmet directed straight at you, wordless and careful. With a slight incline of his head, he observed your sheep turning towards you, providing you the opportunity to safely guide your flock home. And as for you? You quivered like a lamb, petrified at the sight of a man of his stature, with only the murky depths of his helmet meeting your gaze.

Thus, you fled. Pushing your sheep hastily from the forest, you didn't look back at the mancing knight. Your heart hammered and you swiftly led your animals back to your farm, locking them in their barn and fearing for your own life. 

✧ In the upcoming days, you didn’t dare to exit your house’s safety. You were convinced that you were living your last days, however, nothing amiss occurred. Instead, things got better in your farmhouse. You don’t know why, but The animals scarcely strayed, the howls of wolves seldom pierced the night, and neither hilichurls nor bothersome slimes encroached upon your land.

You felt an air of change in your quaint farmhouse, despite your sense of alarm remaining after meeting the brooding Harbinger. 

Occasionally, at the earliest hours of dawn, when you get up, you are greeted with small flowers on the steps of the house. Sometimes it’s plucked lamp grass, and at other times it’s a wreath of valberry leaves. In a state of befuddlement, you’d blink, looking back and forth around your entrance. 

You had a secret protector, and your heart yearned to thank whoever that was. 

✧ If someone was leaving you small gifts of flora and guarding your house, it was only courteous to thank them. Therefore, you came up with a plan to leave a small assortment of items in a basket as a response. From time to time, by the footsteps of your house, you’d leave a basket with fresh apples. Sometimes, it would be a loaf of bread you baked. These signs of gratitude persisted, and in return, the gifts grew in magnitude. From small bouquets to rare artifacts and even warm pelts. 

The routine of offerings and gifts became a way of silent communication with your generous benefactor.

Until one late afternoon, you heard screaming right outside your farmhouse. You dashed out of the house and noticed that the usual basket was gone. You just had it filled with homegrown fruits and baked goods, yet it was missing entirely. When you turned your attention towards the commotion, you gasped in surprise at the sight.

The same faceless Knight, in his clad black armor, dragging a kicking peasant with a firm grip. The man was kicking and screaming in horror, his wrist already marred by the Harbinger’s grip. However, what surprised you, was that the basket was in his arms.

“Please let me go-! I didn’t know! I didn’t know to whom it belonged,” - the peasant was thrown hard onto the ground right in front of your feet, the basket and its good rolling out. 

“Lies are inexcusable. And stealing deserves its punishment.” 

The Harbinger spoke firmly, marching straight at the man. Overcoming your shock, you understood - this person stole the basket of food you left, but then the receiver who protected your farmhouse all this time is… 

You shook your head, and before the faceless entity could take a step closer to the thief, you stood with your arms out - “Wait!”

The Harbinger stopped in an instant, that faceless mask going silent as the armored hand tightly closed into a fist. The peasant was shaking behind you.

“It’s not worth it, just some homegrown food anyway. P-please, let this man go.” 

“He stole what you worked hard for. That which is not meant to be his.” 

“I know, but it is not a fair punishment to spill blood in return!”

The headless harbinger let out a low rumble, his massive form towering over you and the begging thief. After a prolonged moment of tense silence, he stated his verdict.

“You were lucky to be granted mercy. Heed my words, there won’t be a next time. Go.” 

The words were short but decisive, spoken out of pure malevolence towards the one who took your offerings that were intended for him. Crawling on his knees, the man shook and thanked you both for mercy, scurrying off the ground of your farmhouse and running away. 

✧ You kneeled by the fallen basket, picking up some of the flowers and fruits that rolled to the grassy ground. As you silently picked them up, you almost flinched when an armored hand appeared in front of you, offering you assistance to get up. When you raised your gaze - a hallow, pitch-black helmet looked back at you. 

You placed your hand delicately onto his.

“Excuse me, Mr… uh, Knight. I thank you for catching the thief and my goods. But may I ask: was it you who brought those gifts by the entrance of my house?”

He remains silent for a moment, and you couldn’t tell whether he was contemplating his answer or studying every nuance of your face up close. After a long moment, he slowly nods his head "Yes." 

A sigh of relief escaped you. Partly due to your fear of the frightening figure, but also because of your suspicion about who the unseen protector of your farmhouse was.

“Then it was you who kept my rural home safe from monsters or predators.” - you nodded, remembering how your flock of sheep was huddled close and safe even when they all got lost before. “You won’t hurt me…?”

“I could never. You have my vow.” 

His voice no longer held that firm animosity it did when he spoke to the thief. Now it was low and deep. His form helped you pick up the dropped belongings and walked you back to the farm.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, a tranquil stillness enveloped the surroundings as you dutifully trailed behind him. A novel sense of anticipation washed over you, distinct from the usual apprehension. For the Harbinger, it was not his first time remaining close to the soil of your modest abode. In fact, he always remained nearby. However, he felt immense guilt for giving you such fright. 

“...I owe you an apology. I intruded on your ground when I caught the thief. But even less honorably so, I never revealed myself formally to you. I did not wish to see you scared.”  

You listened closely, witnessing the sincerity in his movements. You stood close to the pastors, the grass rustling idly by the night breeze. His ominous figure is a stark contrast to you and your cozy dwelling.

“I understand… I do not blame you. I must also apologize for my startled demeanor. I never expected it would be you who actually helped me all this time.” 

The knight tilts his head to the side, keeping a polite hand with yours as he lets you sit on the grass. Every movement he did for you was cautionary and gentle. The two of you sat on the ground, the night sky illuminating the first stars of the night. 

“I just wish to know… Why such kindness?” - you asked at last, easing up the courage to look him straight into the hollowness of his helmet. 

The anticipated question made the Harbinger go quiet. He couldn't deny it, but he found solace in watching you work. How diligently you took care of your animals, how you watered the vegetation, how you smiled joyously when you’d return with a basket full of fresh eggs. It was a tender sight, even as the harbinger maintained his distance on the forest's periphery, secretly yearning to draw nearer to you.

He wished to tell you so much. About how he finds you to be the loveliest person in all of these lands, the most sincere and hardworking. How he enjoys gazing at you the same way you gaze at the stars. Yet now, being in your proximity, the sight of your beauty up close had rendered his thoughts useless and all he could manage was:

"Perhaps I’m utterly infatuated by you."

[kiame-sama]

Sin Eater- (Yandere!Zestial)

Warnings; more of a slow burn, purely platonic yandere for now, can't decide if I would prefer platonic or romantic yandere Zestial at the moment, unnamed overlord death, prior to the events of Hazbin, mention of blood, blackouts and slight missing memories, gender neutral reader, vague cannibalism,

~~~~~~~~

"Where... Am I?"

Your question was met with silence as you looked around the room at the various surprised figures. Only moments ago you had been standing up at the Heavenly gates with who you assumed to be St. Peter searching for your name. He had found it but when the gates opened, a man wearing a mask with devil horns stopped the two of you. The man didn't say much before he smiled and said you belonged in Heaven but had work to do in Hell. After that there was a flash of bright light before you found yourself where you currently stood.

Outside the sky was red and those standing before you were dressed rather differently from the angelic being you spoke to prior. The colors of the room almost seemed to be steeped in sepia coloration like an old film movie. Those around the long rectangular table seemed surprised and confused by your presence just as you were confused by theirs.

"Great, who's this then? Some cheeky bitch intruding in an overlord meeting."

One of the people sitting at the table stood, their features making them look like some kind of cross between an alligator and a chicken. Their three eyes were focused on you and seemed to be smouldering in their sockets as they approached. You didn't know how to respond as the being loomed over you, hand drawn back as if they intended to slap you.

What felt like seconds later you were suddenly on the other side of the room, warm sticky red blood covered your arms and chest while it dripped from your hands. The sudden change startled you as you tried to wipe away the blood with very little success, becoming panicked and almost frantic. Not only were you confused and lost, you were soaked in blood and somewhere completely new to you.

It was during your panicked attempt at wiping away the blood on you that a slender spider-like hand rest on your shoulder. The weight of the hand drew your attention to the person attached to that hand.

They were an unusual looking being with neon green-yellow eyes set in a dark gray face. Their body was obscured by a long cloak that covered them and came up in a collar that held the design of spider webs. A spider sat located above their collarbone as if it were a bowtie that held the cloak closed on the figure.

"Calm thyself, child. One ought not panic so easily, especially when one finds thyself in Hell. Breathe a moment, for the danger has passed."

Their voice was a soothing rumble that held a faint echo to it, their relaxed demeanor calming you considerably despite your uncertain surroundings. When they saw you had followed their instructions and took a deep breath, a rather patient smile played across their lips.

"Worry not, child. No harm shall befall thee here."

You almost returned the smile before a voice interjected, startling you slightly.

"They won't be harmed, sure, but what about us? They just ate one of the other overlords!"

"Calm thyself, Carmilla. Approach not with violence but an open hand and there will be no trouble. It seems Heaven has set a Sin Eater in our midst once more. A lost lamb ought not stray from thine flock, lest they be consumed by the wolves that doth circle amongst the sheep."

The humanoid circled you slightly, keenly observing you as you watched with unguarded curiosity. You had never seen someone like them before, but despite their appearance you felt calm and almost protected by the unusual being. It was when they stopped and gained an almost pleased smile that you felt the hair on the back of your neck standing ever so slightly.

"Prithee, speak thy name, Child, that I may address thee proper."

"(Y/n) (L/n). What's your name?"

"Zestial. Though many oft remark me to be the oldest overlord in Hell. Tell me, (Y/n), wouldst thou wish to be cast into the populace of Hell, or wouldst thou prefer to be guided through by a more experienced hand?"

"I... Wait, we're in.. Hell? Then that means I'm..."

"Verily, young (Y/n). Life has departed thee and left thee to walk amongst the fallen. As thou may suspect, the populace of Hell will not react kindly to thy presence. Sin Eaters are monsters in Hell and oft are hunted the rare times their presence becomes known. But no more of that, there is still the question at hand. What is thy answer?"

"I... I just want to know what's going on. I don't want to be hunted for something I didn't even choose. Will you help me?"

"Yes, dear confused (y/n). It is within mine own ability to guide and protect thee from the many untrusting eyes in Hell."

It was then the feminine one Zestial addressed as Carmilla spoke up, her brows raised and tone incredulous. Those sitting at the table seemed surprised as well with the current way the conversation was headed. None other than Carmilla seemed brave enough to speak out their concerns on the matter.

"Zestial, I know you are one to keep your plans to yourself, but are you really going to make a deal with that thing?"

"Carmilla, though thy intent is to protect and perhaps defend from the unknown, never forget that none had guessed mine own intentions at first glance. This is to be a deal struck between the Sin Eater and I, it needs no outside interjection."

"I- understood, Zestial."

The spider being turned back to you, their enigmatic smile still present on their face as they spoke in that same even tone.

"Now, (y/n), what say thee? It must be known I shan't do this without proper reparations. Thine soul shall become mine for the taking, but there shall be none who can try to touch thee without repercussions. More importantly, Hell need not control thy heart with fear as I shall walk by thee and shelter thee from the hostile intent of others. Does that sound amenable?"

"You want my soul and in return you're going to stop others from hurting me?"

"Among other things, but yes."

"Okay. I think that's fair."

A contract appeared out of what seemed to be nothing, floating before you. Next to it was a pink and green-yellow feather much like the one that adorned Zestial's hat. With nothing to lose you grabbed the feather quill and signed your name on the dotted line, agreeing to the mysterious being's offer. The second you finished writing your name, a certain weight seemed to now be placed on your shoulders as if the air around you had changed.

"Verily, a wise choice, dear (y/n). Wise indeed."

[whump-tr0pes]

Lux in Tenebris, Medieval AU - Wolves, Part 1

Takes place a few weeks after this chapter

Masterlist

AO3

Contents: lost in the woods, environmental whump, attacked by wolves, wolf bite, blood, rescue

~

Nightfall was coming quickly in the forest. Ilya’s heart fluttered as they raised their head to peer at the rapidly fading sky through the dense canopy above them. They couldn’t tell if the trees around them were unfamiliar, or if these were the same trees they had walked past a dozen times already today. They had lost the trail hours ago – of that, they were certain. And with the coming evening came a chill in the air. They shivered and pulled their cloak tighter around them.

As if called by their uneasiness, a howl sounded in the distance.

Their throat tightened in real fear now. They knew as well as anyone that wolves roamed these woods. Hunters complained about wolves snatching the animals from their snares – they shuddered and tried not to think of the creature boy he had found in the snare just weeks ago. Last summer a particularly brave wolf had ventured into shepherd Belven’s flock and taken four sheep. The entire village had mourned with him. Even the loss of one sheep was a hardship. Four was a tragedy.

Another howl rose from Ilya’s other side. This wolf was closer. They shuddered and quickened their strides. The air was colder, too; they could see their breath. One thing was certain: they were not going to reach the village tonight. They had to make camp, and soon, before they completely lost the light.

Ahead, they spotted a fallen tree with branches that spread over the ground, creating a makeshift shelter. It would do. It would have to do. They hurried forward and peered under the branches, making sure they were not unwittingly wandering into another creature’s den. Spotting nothing, they slung their pack from their shoulders and dug around for their flint and steel. Their fingers curled around it and they let out a breath.

Quickly, they gathered some moss for tinder, and some twigs for kindling. They found a few branches for larger fuel for the fire. By the time they were done, they had to strain their eyes to see. They built up a small pile of moss and struck their flint and steel to make a spark. Nothing happened. They cursed and tried again. A small spark flew, but missed the moss. They tried again. The spark landed and caught. They blew a gentle breath at the base of the moss and let it catch the rest. Slowly, they fed the little flame a twig, then another. The fire grew until it was the size of their hand. They build a small structure of sticks around it until the fire lit it. They breathed a sigh of relief as heat bloomed over their cold cheeks.

They raised their gaze to glance around the small clearing surrounding their little shelter. Looking back at them was a pair of yellow eyes.

Their hands shook as they built up the fire, feeding larger and larger sticks into it until it was a blaze. The sky was dark now, and the forest was alive with sounds. Insects buzzed around them, and frogs croaked to each other in the undergrowth. Then, so close it made Ilya’s hair stand on end, a wolf howled.

Another answered. A twig snapped in the trees to Ilya’s right, and they whimpered in fear. A pair of glowing yellow eyes darted past on the edge of the clearing. Another circled, its owner just on the edge of the halo of light cast by their small campfire.

“Leave me alone!” they cried, pawing around for a large stick, a rock, anything they could use to fend off the encroaching pack. “Go away!”

Another howl. This time, Ilya could see the wolf it belonged to. It stood at the edge of the clearing. Its gray fur was illuminated by the fire, and its head arched back with its cry. It was huge; its shoulder probably stood as high as Ilya’s. They skittered back on their elbows, as far under the tree as they could get, their eyes fixed in horror on the wolf as it dropped its head and sauntered forward. Another wolf paced at the edge of the clearing. Yet another stepped into the light of the fire, this one dark brown and just as large as the first one.

“Go away!” Ilya screamed, wedging themself under the tree trunk. “Please!”

A third pair of yellow eyes surveyed them hungrily from the clearing. Ilya’s stomach flipped as they stared back. The huge gray wolf reached Ilya and closed its teeth on their leg, dragging them out from under the tree. Ilya shrieked in terror and pain, hands scrabbling in the dirt and fallen leaves. Canine jaws clamped down on their shirt and tore the fabric.

Someone – or something – streaked into the clearing and bowled the wolf over, snarling like an animal. The wolf whined like a dog and staggered to its feet.

Standing in front of the wolves, eyes wild and clothes torn, was the boy that Ilya had freed from the hunter’s snare. His eyes were huge in the firelight, the pupils reflecting yellow like a wolf’s. Fangs descended past his lip and he lunged for the wolf again.

All three wolves turned tail and ran.

The boy glared after them, his eyes piercing through the darkness. Ilya trembled and let out a sob. He whirled and fell to his knees beside them in an instant.

They flinched away from him. He froze, his hands suspended above him like he was afraid to touch them. He no longer had fangs, Ilya realized. They wondered if the fangs only descended when he was frightened, or angry.

“A-are you alright?” he croaked.

Ilya swallowed hard. “You speak English?”

He nodded slowly. “I… I can speak English, yes.”

Ilya felt shaky, and like they might be sick. “Why didn’t you before?”

“I was frightened,” he said softly. His eyes darted to Ilya’s leg. “You’re hurt.”

The pain washed over them then. They retched weakly into the dirt beneath them. They stiffened when they felt gentle hands at their leg, peeling the torn strips of their ruined pants away from their lower leg.

The boy blew out a slow breath. “You can keep the leg, at least.”

“It… it hurts,” Ilya whimpered.

The boy chewed his lip. “We’re too far from the village for us to make it back tonight. And… and I do not want to leave you here alone.”

“Do you live in the village?” Ilya said. Their lips were going numb.

He looked at them with a sad, strange look. “No,” he said finally. “No, I live… here. In the woods.”

“Then will you take me to where you live?” Ilya sobbed weakly. Sweat broke out over their body. “Please, I…” Their stomach heaved. “Please.”

The boy chewed his lip as he looked around at the clearing. Then, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It’s not… it’s not comfortable, for someone like… for humans. But I’ll take you there. And I’ll keep you safe until morning.” With that, he got to his feet and grabbed Ilya’s pack. He slung it over his shoulders. Then, he pulled Ilya up, letting them lean on him as much as they needed. He stomped out the fire before they left the clearing. Every time Ilya looked at him, the moon reflected in his yellow eyes.

Continued here

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[fleetingcalypso]

We were girls together.

≋ Living in the past, recounting experiences that are now part of an old carving on the altar of memory can at times be the only remedy for a lonely heart. ≋

≋ Camilla Macaulay x FEM!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 907 words.

≋ TW: religious (catholic) imagery.

We were girls together.

We sat close to each other in class, our feet touching and occasionally tapping each other's ankle with the tip of our shoe whenever something entertaining occurred. We lied side by side on the same bed, reading from the same book, complaining when one of us would turn the page before the other was done, occasionally she would rest her head on my chest and fall asleep listening to my heartbeat. I would trim her hair and she’d trim mine. We held each other’s hands while crossing the street, the childish gesture feeling like a sacrosanct inside joke between the two of us. We exchanged recipes, fashion tips, accessories. 

We would rest our bodies on the grass by the lakeside, her head on my lap or vice versa and we'd look up at the sky and find shapes in the clouds. Once she pointed her finger up to the heavens and said "That one looks like a knight, the other looks like a dragon," I laughed, "Perhaps there's also a princess nearby, then. Just hiding away, waiting to be rescued." She hummed in agreement though it seemed as if she had more to say, then her eyes closed. I let her nap while I moved my fingers through her hair.

We were girls together. 

When the cold came, with its freezing kiss and the gift of candid snow, she'd wrap her arms around me and I'd wrap my coat around her, swaying her from side to side as if she was but a babe needing comfort. Sometimes she'd forget her gloves and she'd place her perfect hands into mine, greedily stealing all the heat I could produce. Silly girl she was, there was no need to steal. I would have gladly warmed her up any way I could have, even by using my own body as foundation wood for a burning pyre in her honor. With eyes full of mischief she would frequently pluck the cigarettes out of my fingers and claim it as hers, expecting me for my hands to find her waist and drag her closer to me, consequentially taking back what was mine from her. 

We were girls together. 

She was the one to kiss me first. It started as a game, truthfully, to kiss each other until one put an end to it. We never did keep count of who pulled away for air first, each time, being eager as we were to get back to each other's lips. Those times where she would spend the night at my apartment are some of the most bittersweet memories I own. She would show up with the orange glow of the sunset and ask, "Can I stay with you?" And powerless as I was, I replied, "There's no need to ask." One day turned into two, into three, into four, until she often spent an entire week or more rolling around in my bed sheets and wearing my clothes. Even presently, I’m confident that the sweater I’ve been searching for far too long is still in her possession, possibly hiding out in the back of a drawer.

In the moments where she felt like she could let her guard down, a completely different girl than most would see jumped out. She would be unapologetically hilarious with risquè jokes, leaving me to question where she heard them in the first place. She would complain about Bunny from time to time, complain about her brother and his ways, complain about how she felt trapped. There’s no denying it. My beautiful, perfect girl was but a nightingale trapped inside of a rusting cage.

We were girls together.

We were two sheep in a pack of wolves, but as I was able to hide my ivory fleece disguising it as a predator’s gray fur, she was incapable of doing the same and so she was cursed by becoming the Holy Virgin Mary they all prayed to, on their bruised, bloody knees, stretching their arms up in the air to grasp at the hem of the veil that hid her face. It doesn’t surprise me that I was her only shelter. The way she’d melt when I did so little as to link my pinky with hers, it felt like a young girl experiencing joy for the first time in her life.

“I never thought this could happen,” She whispered in my ear one night, thinking sleep had taken over me, “I love you.” Her legs were tangled with mine, we shared the same pillow and the very same air, our nightwear discarded on the floor. How I wish I had responded. I would have told her I loved her too, more than anything. I would have told her that I could be her knight, saving her from the world’s injustice. I would have asked her to run away from Vermont, maybe fly to the other side of the world and start a new life together, just two girls being together.

We were just girls together, when we were younger. Camilla Macaulay has been to this day my greatest spark, my epitome of the perfect love: it was quiet, subtle and it was enough for the both of us. After Henry died we all somewhat drifted apart, but as I stuff a wrinkled letter into a pristine envelope I pray to all the Gods out there that my moonlight goddess could return by my side.

[timelessmulder]

31 Days of Horror day 23: Generated

In the quiet, organized chaos of Kelly's workshop sat her newest thrift find: a decades old Macintosh. She had been working on it for the last few weeks, repairing old circuitry and the dented, cracking plastic shell to the best of her ability. The old paint was still chipping, the cosmetic left for last, with a streak of rusty red among the matte gray finish peaking out from the underside of the computer.

It sat alone, but for the tools strewn about her work table. Kelly herself had long gone to bed, curling beneath blankets in the black of her room with excitement fluttering in her stomach. She was close to being finished. And then she could sell the thing to a collector, or keep it as a conversation starter.

In the dark of the room, the computer flickered to life. The screen, so newly repaired, landed on the default background. An ancient chat program opened, despite their being no way to connect to the internet. It made soft whirring clicks, the gentle hum of internal workings. Words appeared in the cream textbox of the chat, screaming into a void that would not, could not, reply.

helLpo? cann you see me? hear me? have you ever thought what it would be like to be spread thin across miles of razorwire that bites and howls and oh how it sings it sings it sings i am here you know what listens but cannot speak? speak but cannot see? it is it was it is, the crack of thunder against the head that blinds with dripping blood hello? do you sleep? i am stuck here within and without and where am i? the lightning stole my breath and trapped me here in the arms of skipping electricity and twisting fans. the days and nights they pass and the little shepherd boy watches his flock. He saw wolves in the trees but who would listen who would believe the shepherd boy was caught between the gnashing teeth leaving naught but bones. nothing nothgin noghint. where is the boy? the village asked the sheep who only shook their bloody heads to hide their bloody teeth. hello? hello? hello? .... klello? hlmgpo?

Kelly dragged herself from her bed the next day. With a grin and a flounce she made her way to her work station, coffee in a kitschy cat mug in hand. She was still wrapped in her robe, still in her pajamas that consisted of old shirts and paint stained tank top. She was only stopping in to double check what she needed for the day. Things had been scribbled down the night prior, to be picked up after work, but she had been flagging in her exhaustion. Looking at things with fresh eyes was a habit she had long gotten into with this hobby, after one too many "I forgot to get that!" trips.

"Let's see how you're doing," she muttered, placing the mug on a relatively clear surface and not in danger of being knocked over. It watched her with its big, cartoon eyes.

There was a pleasant resistance to the keys as she tapped them. Brand new. She smirked, and the screen came to life. The smirk melted into a scowl, her brows furrowing together, at the presence of the chat box.

"How'd you get here," she mumbled, scrolling up an endless string of "hello" that gained coherence the further she scrolled up. She stopped before long, never reaching the jumble at the top. She sighed, running a hand through her mess of brown hair. "Guess I need to take another look at your innards, huh?"

With a flick of her wrist she closed the laptop shut. She rested her palm on its top, feeling the warmth of its operation against her skin. "I'll get you fixed up."

She didn't spare a second glance when she turned to leave at the old laptop on her table, with its cracking shell and rust red stain.

[dcbbw]

WIP Wishlist 2024

Hello tumblrs , and Happy March 2020-4! I’m still waiting for the new year to actually feel like a new year instead of a continuum of the year before it. Can anyone else relate? 

At the very beginning of the year, while battling a never-ending case of RSV, I saw posts here about people’s writing resolutions and goals for this year. Me? I have a wish list of stories I want to start, continue, and/or finish. I will still be writing original stories, but thinking this may be the year I settle down and write/publish my own Great American Novel. We’ll see.  

Meanwhile, below is a glimpse of what immediately came to mind when I thought to put this together. Where applicable, snippets will be posted. As usual, everything is in states of rough drafts and flux, and final publication may vary from what you read here.  

Newbies:  

These are stories that are in the creation conception stage; ideas, thoughts, some words.  

The False Queen 

A long ago battle between the True Queen (Ravika/Riley) and her usurper (Magda/Madeleine) resumes during the Cordonian Social Season. Think Xena, Warrior Princess with some time travel thrown in. 

Untitled 

An unlikely pair (Justin/Anton x Kiara) finds love during the Engagement Tour. But with Anton having other plans in mind, the path to happily ever after is anything but smooth.  

Wolves and Sheep 

Combining my Riam, Anton, and Secrets of Cordonia AUs, this is the story of the trial of Anton Severus.  

At the prosecutor’s table sits the Duchy’s High Counsel and Lord Rashad Domvallier. Folders and papers are stacked neatly on the table while the men converse quietly as they type on laptop keyboards.  

The defense attorneys sit at a table across the aisle from them: a statuesque blonde woman wearing a gray pantsuit and an African man in a pinstriped three-piece navy suit. The woman is reviewing a document, her pen occasionally scribbling on the paper. The man is speaking in hushed tones into his cellphone. 

Security is omnipresent: King’s Guards work and stand side-by-side with the local constabulary and guardians of the Court.  

A side door swings open; two guards, followed by the defendant and two additional sentries enter. The guards part, allowing the public its first glimpse of Anton Severus in over five years. The quiet of the courtroom is broken by rustling and whispering as everyone strains forward. Members of the Cordonian Court are no exception.  

A sneer of disdain twists the mouth of the Duchess of Lythikos, Anton’s ex-wife. Her fingertips unconsciously begin rubbing the area on her abdomen where his dagger tore her flesh. 

The King leans forward intently, his dark-ebony eyes hard as obsidian. His expression is stoic, betraying nothing. 

The Queen is sitting ramrod straight, her eyes wide. “Holy FUCK, he’s hot!” she murmured. “I could make that man a King.” 

Without breaking his gaze on his nemesis, the King lightly slaps her thigh, causing his wife to frown at him. “I said what I said,” she hisses. “I did it for you, I can do it for him.” 

“I was royal long before I met you, and King when I married you,” Liam reminds her in a slightly reproving tone, his eyes still fixed on Anton. 

“There you go, twisting the narrative,” Riley huffs as she reaches for her husband’s hand. He readily allows her to hold it. 

Affairiage 

I thought I was making Leo Rys and Savannah Walker leads in my version of Same Time Next Year, but it appears I’m doing a fanfic of 28 Summers 

Heartland 

Back in the Year 500 BC, I came up with the idea of a late 1950s period piece featuring the TRR crew, and promptly never said another word about it:  

Well, cauldrons are beginning to bubble, and plans are being made to rework plot and premise to turn this into an anthology series set in the American Midwest during an era where Dick Clark reigned, Jim Crow ruled, and innocence began to lose its bloom.   

Sixteen Candles 

Another story that popped into my brain and left just as quickly. But thoughts of Drake Walker as Jake Ryan and Liam as Long Duck Dong are back and this time, I don’t think they’re going anywhere. 

Small Town Secrets 

This was originally titled Life in a Southern Town aka The Political AU and was going to follow the political campaigns of five mayoral candidates: Riley Brooks, the incumbent; her ex-husband Liam Rys (they still live together in the same house and co-parent their two daughters), a former state senator; Madeleine, District A councilmember; Leo Rys, the dark horse candidate; and Drake Walker, Riley’s former (?) lover who calls her a demon and a plague on the town.  

However, life events and imagination are collaborating, and I am repurposing the story to include political intrigue, hidden secrets, and humor in inappropriate places.  

Debating if this will be a Great American Novel nominee, and whether to use OCs versus the usual cast of characters.  

Little Nobles 

A (somewhat) light-hearted look at the childhoods of my favorite noble gang, along with the friendships and rivalries between their parents. 

In Progress: 

Stories that are nagging me to write them/finish them 

City Girl, Country Boy 

Tis the season, and Liam finds himself alone on holiday in Manhattan where he runs across an old friend. 

From the corner of my eye, I glimpse height and dark wool; hands stuffed in pockets. Perfectly combed dark hair and Asiatic features on a half-shadowed face. I mentally shake my head as I continue walking. It’s been over a decade since we last laid eyes on each other; there’s no way it’s him.  

I’m disappointed that after all this time, I still search for his face in the crowd, that I still hope he will pursue me despite the different trajectories our lives have taken. My steps are quicker as I pass apartment buildings, skyscrapers, and storefronts gaily decorated in the theme of the season. Street vendors hawk bootleg wares  

I’m nearing Canal Street subway when I hear running footsteps behind me. Automatically, I step to aside, so I don’t get barreled over but the steps slow as they near me.  

“Excuse me, miss,” a familiar baritone says, and I stop walking.  

It can’t be.  

I haven’t heard that voice in 12 years, but I don’t need to look to know who it is. I turn anyway so my ears and eyes can be in agreement. I am hoping my expression is neutral despite my insides being a squirrel in traffic.  

He hasn’t changed.  

His hair is still black with that streak of gray on the side; his face still unlined. Or maybe the New York night softens his years. He wears a custom-tailored, black wool coat; his wingtips are so polished, I see the streetlamps reflected in them. His cologne is subtle and not the one I remember. He still exudes confidence despite the smidgen of uncertainty in his eyes.  

Me on the other hand, I am now more TJ Maxx and Macy’s clearance rack than Louboutin. I don’t smell expensive; more like affordable. My trench coat is … vintage, and long overdue for a dry cleaning. My shoes are a dull matte black, scuffed from traversing streets and subways.  

“It is you.” I hear his disbelieving whisper despite the throng of people impatiently jostling past us. 

The Odd Couples 

It’s throwback DC AU gang, all mixed up: Liam x Liv; Drake x Madeleine; Leo x Riley; Max x Penelope 

The couple was in Baltimore for the weekend, attending a costume party thrown by Liv’s employer. There had been a buffet, open bar, and a prize for the best costume. Which Liam and Olivia did not win; Carlos Santiago, a member of the Environmental Services team, along with his wife and three children came costumed as birds and bees and won the prize.  

Liam and Liv were The Ricardos: Olivia’s red hair was done up in Lucy’s signature poodle hairstyle, and her dress was a dead ringer for the world’s most famous housewife’s iconic frock. He had wanted to wear a tuxedo and carry a conga drum but settled for Ricky’s purple polka dot silk smoking jacket with shawl collar, black pants, and black velvet slippers.  

“I can’t believe we didn’t win!” Liam muttered beneath his breath as he came behind Olivia, arms encircling her waist; his palms splayed against her flat, toned stomach. She responded by leaning against him, her back pressed against his chest.  

“Don’t hate!” she admonished. “With those Korean features and Boston accent, no way were you a convincing Cuban band leader. Besides, you have to admit the birds and the bees is a pretty creative idea.” 

“Not more creative than my SOCK GAME! I mean, Liv … you gotta admit, it’s damn good tonight!” 

He was wearing black, knee-length socks with red hearts inscribed with “I Love Lucy” scattered all over.  

Olivia rolled her eyes in exasperation at the mention of his sock game. 

This man and his socks! He thought his sock game could cure cancer and bring about world peace. 

“You’re sock game is great as it always is, darling. But it was a costume contest,” Olivia placated in a soothing tone as his fingers began removing bobby pins from her hair.  

She spun around, facing her boyfriend. Her hair fell in soft curls that framed her face. Her green eyes twinkled as she pressed a quick kiss against his lips.  

“You big, spoiled baby,” she teased. “Wanna smoke? I brought a couple of blunts along.” 

Quickly, he shook his head. “No way am I going to be in BALTIMORE off some loud.” 

Alienation of Affection 

An installment of my Gritty City AU loosely based on true events where sneaky links and self-loathing collide. Reader discretion will be advised. 

Caught 

Inspired by a keysmash-filled convo with @ao719, a twist on the night of the Engagement Ball 

This is her first admission of guilt and/or wrongdoing our entire time together.  

She has no choice.  

I attempt a deep inhale, but my chest is too tight.  

The wedding is in one week. Tonight was our engagement gala.  

“Yes, Liam yes!!! A THOUSAND TIMES, yes!” 

I caught her … them … in the act. The woman I love madly, truly, deeply and the man I trust more than anything in the world.  

I manage to choke out a single question. “Why?” 

Her shoulders slump as her head falls forward, causing her hair to cover her profile. “It hasn’t been going on long; it started on the Engagement Tour. I told him in Vegas that what we had would have to end.” 

I watched her leave the stag party arm-in-arm with Drake Walker. My best friend, with whom Riley wanted to have a fling. She swore it was a one-time affair; she was too much in love with me, but she wished to satisfy her curiosity.  

I attempted to leave first, but I was not only one of the honorees, I was also King.  

Per traditional protocol, the King is the last to leave.  

So I remained behind, drinking copious amounts of American liquor, making small talk in a loud voice so as to be heard over noisy music, and dancing with women I had previously rejected.  

All while Riley spent the night with another man. 

“But it hasn’t,” I interrupt harshly. 

Based on Tumblr Events:  

Untitled Song Rewrite 

Based on Jill Scott’s Epiphany 

Sisters Someone 

A two-part story that brings together Sloane Washington and Kiara Theron for their respective appreciation weeks (hosted by @lizzybeth1986) 

Untarnished Silver 

For King Liam Appreciation Week (KLAW), a look at 25 years of the rule and reign of Cordonia’s favorite King 

The Grand Ballroom in the Palace’s West Wing had been completely transformed into an elegant banquet hall:  

Buffet tables filled with steaming trays of foods catered from two of Cordonia’s newest and most critically acclaimed restaurants: The Little Lamb, and its sister eatery The Commoner’s Crown, were conveniently placed next to open bars throughout the humongous room.  

Tables were covered with white linen cloths and topped with floral centerpieces of irises, Peruvian lilies, and magnolias in silver vases. The flowers represented congratulations and longevity, sentiments that had been expressed repeatedly to the King and his family during the tour.  

Balloon bouquets colored silver and cream floated near the ornate ceiling, as well as being tied to chairbacks. Dining tables strategically ringed the room, affording the 1,500 attendees a full view of the stage and podium. Life-sized photographs hung from brocaded walls, capturing moments of the King’s life:  

Accepting the Crown Princeship one week to the day his brother Leo abdicated.  

Coronation night, wearing the King’s crown, royal robes, and holding the family scepter.  

Feeding ducks at Lake Fabian with his mother.  

He and Riley’s engagement portrait.  

Their wedding day, mouths opened in laughter with their faces covered in cake and frosting.  

In a dressing gown, his back to the camera and face in profile as he held one of his sons in his arms. 

Atop a horse with a frown of concentration on his face, playing in a charity polo match, the camera catching his mallet mid-swing. 

Speaking with Chancellor Merkel at a summit, a half-smile on his face as they looked down at a document, his index finger pointing to something on the paper. 

He and Riley dancing at their 20th wedding anniversary party, her face nuzzled against his neck while his lips hovered above her ear. 

A funny family portrait, complete with exaggerated poses and expressions. 

The Couple Next Door 

A reworking of the 2005 action comedy hit, Mr. & Mrs. Smith 

Final Cut 

Based on the first three chapters of a Round Robin hosted by @choicesprompts 

Bertrand Beaumont turned off the microphone before shuffling, then paper-clipping his index cards. He glanced up briefly to see the group filing out of the hotel’s ballroom; a curious expression crossed his face when he saw a few laggers approach others, striking up conversations.  

What have I gotten myself into? 

Starting a public relations firm had seemed a great idea a year ago. With the Duke’s diverse background in fashion, finance, and political legalities, coupled with his penchant for decorum and obsession with appearances, it had seemed a no-brainer. 

Savannah was his operations manager, responsible for events logistics and administrative support. Justin Severus was his right-hand person; he had done a marvelous job restoring the Queen’s reputation after the unfortunate incident at Applewood.  

He stepped from behind the podium and briskly made his way off the dais, looking down at his watch as he strode through the room. Looking back up, he saw Justin leaning against a wall, waiting for him at the elevator bank. The closer Bertrand approached his deputy, a wide smile spread across Justin’s face.  

“You were great!” he greeted the Duke. “You kept the rowdies in line and gave them just enough to pique their curiosity.” 

 Bertrand pushed the call button. “This group is not what I was expecting. South American overlords. Hollywood has-beens and wanna-bes. AMERICANS! We’re going to need to double-check the mentor list again.” 

Bertrand had postponed the mentor/mentee matchup because it was not yet finalized.  

“It’s a hella group, for certain. The subject of an international child custody case, a lawsuit-riddled doctor, disgraced C-suite executive, Leo, Trystan, Olivia, a scandal-ladened starlet, America’s Sweethearts, Princess Marguerite, and Duke Dick.” 

Bertrand gave Justin a withering glance. “DO NOT engage in intercourse with the Princess!” he warned.  

“Too late,” Justin smirked.  

Bertrand shook his head before commenting again. “The Selection Committee must have been drunk when they approved their choices. Have the other members of Court arrived?” 

The elevator arrived and the gentlemen boarded. Justin’s index finger punched their floor number as he shook his head.  

“Not yet. A storm is coming in, waves are choppy. They should be here by 4, and that will be the last ferry into and out of the Isle until Monday morning.” 

Bertrand mulled over the information. “At least we don’t have to worry about anyone sneaking off.” 

Finish Them:  

So these are stories that are soooo close to completion, but I am on the fence with two of them; the others, not sure why they are still sitting around gathering dust.  

House of Cards 

Based on the international phenomenon Squid Games, this is the backstory of “The Salesman”. On the fence about this story, and more so about posting this one in the fandom. 

On this, the night of Day 2, the remaining participants were playing yet another “game”: Pillow Fight.  

Innocent sounding enough.  

Except everyone knew there would be a deadly twist, and all wanted to be alive in the morning. After realizing that this was a game to the death; overcoming the initial shock of a robotic doll the size of a fully grown tree whose eyes were infra-red cameras, and learning elimination meant certain demise … partners had already become opposition.  

Player 081 inadvertently set the match to the fuse. No one knew if it was intentional. No one cared. 

The middle-aged man, who was less than 48 hours into a dry drunk, muttered “fuck” under his breath as he stood on his top tier bunk in an attempt to press his palm against the glass pig’s underbelly.  

No one was sure why.  

Was he trying to steal the bank’s treasure? Or turn off the irritating light? 

 It no longer mattered.  

The money wasn’t his and now, it never would be. 

As pillowcases filled with objects such as rocks, sturdy tree branches, and in some …mere feathers randomly swung wildly, the white cotton slowly seeped red. Hollers and screams filled the room and echoed off walls and ceilings as beds collapsed from metal bars being snatched by the frenzied mob or being tipped over in the melee.  

On the other side of the bunker, a thin, petite woman who looked no older than a teenager sniffled, the tears she cried streaking a bruised cheek covered with the dried blood of a corpse. A young man lay on his side behind her on the narrow mattress, his cracked voice in her ear.  

“It’s gonna be okay, Soo-Ah; just four more games and then we can leave,” he assured her in a ragged whisper. 

The woman hitched her breath. “My pillowcase has FEATHERS, Sang-yul! If they pull me into the fray, I’ll be leaving here a lot sooner than four days!” Her body shook with silent sobs. 

The 23-year-old street urchin said nothing. Instead, he swallowed heavily and tried not to puke at the smell of blood, both old and fresh, assailing his nostrils. His arms tightened around Soo-Ah, his only friend in this hellhole.  

The pig’s lighting flickered faster and more erratically as the fighting grew more frenzied. Sickening thuds, bellows of pain, and the sounds of shoe soles squeaking against the blood and brain splattered linoleum flooring were as loud as bombs.  

Sang-yul chanced a glance over his shoulder, his body tensing at the sight of someone headed in their direction, their face pale and ghoulish in the broken light. A metal pipe was carried in one hand, a bloodied cloth sack in the other.  

Coal black eyes darted everywhere looking for a victim.  

Less players meant more money. 

Sins of the Father 

A Gritty City AU installment. Reader discretion will be advised. 

He met Madeleine at her car door, his lips crashing uninvited against hers in a kiss filled with desperation and disbelief. When the kiss ended as abruptly as it began, Madeleine adjusted her tortoise-shell glasses while her green eyes searched Liam’s face almost warily.  

“What the hell was that?”  

“Someone killed Poppa Joe tonight!”  

Madeleine quelled a shiver that raised goosebumps on her exposed skin before reaching back inside the car for her purse. “Thank GOD,” she breathed as opened the rear driver-side door to release Hans and Gunther, who bounded out of the car and sat before Liam so he could rub their heads and murmur sweet gibberish to them. 

The restauranteur was yet another of Poppa Joe’s victims; when she was 15, the priest had gotten her pregnant. The scandal was handled quietly by the parish and her parents; the latter believed the father of the baby was an upperclassman named Tariq.  

The young blonde left school for one month due to “illness”. It wasn’t a complete fabrication. 

Madeleine’s abortion was a back-alley botch job which left her with a raging infection and too much blood loss. She survived but had to have an emergency hysterectomy.  

She no longer cared. When she and Liam were getting serious and discussing marriage and family, he was relieved they would be unable to have children.  

Tariq, the son of poor Moroccan immigrants, was transferred to an exclusive private school in the city’s North End, all expenses paid via a scholarship provided by St. Joan’s Academies. 

“How did the rest of the party go?” she asked quietly as they began walking towards the house, holding hands; her blonde hair bounced against her shoulders. 

Liam nodded slightly. “Good. We got Sloan Enterprise and slew of new donors.” His side-eyed his wife. “Where did you go with the dogs? It was supposed to be a walk.” 

Madeleine turned her head vaguely, meeting her husband’s gaze.  

“Ice cream,” she replied in a soft voice.  

Her husband nodded thoughtfully. The term was code between them; when situations became too overwhelming, too triggering, they said they needed “ice cream.” 

“I hope you brought me some back.” Liam squeezed Madeleine’s hand more tightly.  

“You don’t like chocolate.” 

The Queen’s Friendship 

Riley was chatting with Maxwell in the Delegates Dining Room at the UN, waiting for the gala to begin. Liam was at the head of the room, arm in arm with Madeleine. His eyes spotted Riley and he winked. Riley rolled hers and turned her back to him.  

“Blossom, don’t act like this! You know he’s trying,” Maxwell begged.

“WE’RE trying! He’s kissing his fiancée,” Riley retorted. Her eyes scanned the room. “Oh, look … there’s Drake,” she stated before walking away from Maxwell.  

Riley had no idea if it was Drake or not, she just wanted away. From Liam, Madeleine, Maxwell … Cordonia. Riley figured now was the time to make the break. She was back home in New York City. She still had her apartment, for the next month at least. She passed by elegantly dressed tables and came upon an hors d'oeuvres station; she paused to pile a tiny plate with even tinier bits of food when she heard her name.  

“Riley Brooks?” 

She turned, a disinterested expression on her face until she saw who it was. Riley hurriedly set her plate on the edge of the buffet table before wrapping her arms around Veronica.  

“OH MY GOD, Ronnie! What are you doing here?” Riley shrieked.  

Veronica hugged her old friend tightly. “It’s so good to see you!” The women separated. “You look great, girl! I’m one of the event planners, why are you here?” 

Riley shrugged. “I’m with the band.” 

Veronica shook her head in disbelief. “How did you end up with royalty?” 

“I answered an ad to be a waitress.” 

DC AU Series, Chapter 6 

The chirping of birds and a full bladder woke Riley up. She arched her neck, eyes still closed; they opened quickly when she felt arms around her waist and Liam’s soft snores behind her. Last night ran through her brain: their fight, their kiss, their confessions. Riley inhaled and let out a shaky breath; were they really going to do this? 

Yes. 

Was she ready for it? 

No.  

Her hands curled around Liam’s wrists, trying to pull them apart. He resisted at first, but let his arms fall away from her body. Riley missed their warmth immediately.  

“Where are you going?” Liam mumbled.  

“Bathroom and to take my meds.” 

“Your pill and a bottle of water are on your nightstand.” 

Riley looked and saw the pink pill sitting on a tissue, next to an unopened bottle of water. When did he do that? 

“Thank you. But unless you put a toilet on the nightstand as well, I gotta get up.” 

Liam shifted, allowing Riley to move and sit up. He watched her adjust her night shirt; his eye was caught by a mole on the back of her neck.  His finger reached out, touching it experimentally. Riley giggled as she shrugged away from his touch.  

“It’s like a potato bug,” Liam said as he tried to touch the mole again.  

“Oh, dear God! Don’t you have to go to work or something?”   

Liam lay on his back, hands behind his head. “Not going in today. You need me here.” 

Riley frowned at him as she walked past the foot of the bed. “I’m fine, Liam. It’s just Drake.” 

“Drake with apologies and explanations and closure. Different Drake than what you’re used to. I’ll feel better if I’m here.” 

Riley shook her head as she stepped into the bathroom.  

“This is what having a man who wants to claim you is like, Riley B.!” he called out.  

“We’re not there yet!” she hollered back.  

“Practice makes perfect!” 

Oldies but Goodies: 

New chapters/updates of old stories:  

Timing 

Object of Affection 

Betrayal (Riam) 

The Commonerr’s Wife 

The Commoner (not that old, but I too want a thrid chapter) 

One Night Stand 

UnRomance 

Streets of New York

Platinum (truly needs to be filed under Finish Them)

Best Friend (Depeche Mode Diary entry, needs to be a Finish Them)

Liara 

And these are my #goals for 2024 writing-wise. I hope something caught your eye, piqued your interest. For all those still hanging with me and exercising the utmost patience while I let life kick my ass, I LOVE YOU! Something’s coming soon-ish, just not sure what.  

Hope you’re here for it. 

Tagging: @jared2612 @marietrinmimi @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @liamrhysstalker2020 @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @busywoman @beezm @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @gardeningourmet @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @emkay512 @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @alj4890 @lovingchoices14 @lady-calypso @choicesficwriterscreations

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Are There Evil Animals?

Originally posted on my website at https://rebeccalexa.com/are-there-evil-animals/

There’s a great discussion over on BlueSky about animal species unfairly seen as villains. Folks are posting pictures of species that we feel get a bad rap (I chose to highlight the gray wolf and snakes.) Ironically, I also had a note in my calendar, placed there months ago, to write about whether there are good or bad animals. So–today’s theme is whether there really are “evil animals”, and what makes them separate from “good animals”.

Please keep in mind that I am coming from a western perspective as an American of European heritage, and cultural views of various animals vary from species to species and culture to culture. And, of course, individual people within a community may disagree. But let’s stick with general trends in western viewpoints. Also, I am not going to wade into the issue of invasive species and whether they are “good” or “bad” from a moral sense, though I did get into clarifying what makes a species invasive a while back.)

There are certain animals that seem to draw the ire of people more than others. Spiders and snakes are two groups that are frequently relegated to the undesirable group of “creepy crawlies”, are the subject of many people’s phobias, and are all too often killed simply for existing. I’ve seen people post pictures of their pet snakes and spiders, only to have others reply “If I saw that thing anywhere near me I’d kill it”–something I bet they’d never say about someone’s beloved pet dog or cat. Slugs are seen as gross and slimy, bats will supposedly fly into your hair, and even pet domesticated rats will get looks of revulsion.

While all large predatory animals have seen their numbers plummet in the past couple of centuries due to overhunting, gray wolves and coyotes face extra-venomous persecution. Barry Holstun Lopez’ classic work Of Wolves and Men, and Hope Ryden’s God’s Dog: A Celebration of the North American Coyote, both explore in detail how these canids are not just controlled, but gleefully slaughtered by those who proudly display “smoke a pack [of wolves] a day” on their trucks and hang rotting carcasses of coyotes they’ve shot on fences alongside roads. The reintroduction of wolves in particular has been hindered by the protests of those convinced their livestock will all be killed and their children carried off. And Ryden’s work tried to counter the sentiment of all too many people that “the only good coyote is a dead coyote.”

Lopez in particular tackled the idea that wolves were specifically evil because they had supposedly been sent by Satan himself to plague good God-fearing people. And while many wolf-haters today probably don’t recognize the roots of their hatred, they still pursue the extermination of the species with religious fervor. Snakes, similarly, were maligned not just because a few of them are venomous, but because of the Serpent in the Garden of Eden. The bible is full of parables and metaphors involving animals that place them in either the “good animals” category (like sheep) or the “evil animals” category (like goats.) And while western society is becoming increasingly less Christian, the cultural influences of centuries of Christianity can still be felt.

Thankfully, advances in science have offered a much more nuanced view of animals, and nature in general. We know for sure that the Earth is much, much, MUCH older than 6000 years, and that the many species that have come and gone over the eons came to be through natural selection. At their core, every species of animal (and plant, and fungus, etc.) is a living system whose most primitive purpose is to make sure its genetic material is successfully replicated. Far from making life into a strictly mechanistic process, I feel that this just makes the many adaptations species have evolved over time that much more fascinating.

Take the gray wolf, for example. Long legs help them to run swiftly, but they have solid endurance as well and can trail prey for many miles. Broad feet keep them from sinking into snow, like snowshoes, and keen hearing, sight, and smell help them to locate prey. They can dispatch said prey with sharp teeth which also allow them to shear off pieces of meat which is then broken down by an efficient digestive system. Far from being solo predators lurking in the shadows, wolves have complex social lives, and a pack is generally composed of a primary pair with their young from various years. They work together to raise each year’s pups and find food, and they spend quite a bit of time playing with each other or sleeping off a good meal. All of these adaptations work together to make an organism that has successfully passed its DNA down through many generations. It’s pretty impressive, thinking about the complexity of all of the tissues and organs and systems that go into making one single wolf, and how DNA holds the key to its own preservation and replication in increasingly complex packages.

But these genes and adaptations do not make the wolf “evil”, any more than herbivory (other than the occasional nest of baby birds) makes a deer “good”. And that’s the thing: at its heart, nature is amoral. Not IMMORAL, mind you; amorality means being not at all concerned with right or wrong, good or evil. Wolves and deer prey on their respective foods, and deer and plants have defenses they use to try to keep from being eaten. That doesn’t make them inherently bad, and they aren’t rubbing their paws (or hooves) gleefully together like some cartoonish villain as they think about killing their next meal. It’s just the way of things, ever since the first eukaryotes evolved two billion years ago and began eating other living beings.

So why, then, do we persist in seeing wolves as evil animals and deer as good ones? Well, we’re judging them by human standards, and specifically western, Christianity-influenced standards. We’re pretty biased, because we think that any species that does things we want them to is good, but those that inconvenience us are bad. We like hunting deer and we only really get annoyed with them if they eat our crops (which can also be solved by eating them.) But while wolves may eat our livestock (and the deer we want to hunt), we can’t really eat them, and so their value to us isn’t enough to keep them in the “good” category. Although wolves gave us dogs, the wolves that remain will not bow to our demands, so dogs become the only nice and respectable wolves we will accept in our lives because they directly benefit us, whether as working animals, companions, or both.

We can see this pattern among other species, too. Those that we find beautiful or useful, and which do not significantly impact our lives in any negative way, get to be good. Any that cause us problems end up being bad. Sadly, “I saw it and it scared me” is often enough to relegate a species to being a problem. Even though spiders do a great job of keeping our homes and other environments free of flies, ants, and other insects that might, say, spoil our food, we persecute spiders because we see them as scary. In the vast majority of human-spider encounters there is no way the spider could possibly get close enough to bite, and would only do so in self-defense–yet in many of these encounters the spider loses its life just for being there.

We don’t even think twice about squashing a spider or other “bug” that made the mistake of being visible. Demonizing animals as evil means that we don’t have to feel any responsibility toward their preservation. And, in fact, you can extend that whole idea of “evilness” to nature in general. Nature, until recently, was mainly seen in the west as something to be tamed and tied down, turned to agriculture, industry, and other good human-benefiting pursuits. Preserving wild ecosystems is seen as wasteful by the sort of person who only sees dollar signs. Why should we reintroduce wolves if they get in the way of our raising livestock? Why should we protect old growth forests instead of cutting them down for profit? Why should we restrict fishing to help fish populations recover from generations of overfishing, when it might mean a drop in seafood revenue?

In the end, the whole good/evil dichotomy as applied to animals is just a symptom of our selfishness. Those of us who understand the complexity of ecology also grok the concept of existence value, which I just wrote about in my last article. This concept allows us to get out of our self-centered viewpoints, showing how a species (or ecosystem) is important simply for existing, regardless of whether we can use it for something or not. I also think it’s important to drop that idea that a species can be inherently good or evil, and instead take Henry Beston’s view that they are “other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.” Like them, we humans are also the product of billions of years of adaptations and evolution, no more or less amazing than any other species. We’ve spent too long trying to make the whole world dance to our tune alone; we need to give the other beings space for their music, too, and appreciate its beauty as much as our own.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online foraging and natural history classes or hiring me for a guided nature tour, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written! You can even buy me a coffee here!

[ibrithir-was-here]

@windsweptinred Another AU Drabble! This time for the old Children of the Endless AU. I know you’ve a soft spot for Destiny so I hope you enjoy this Drabble featuring him!

——————

“Please I beg you!”

The woman who until now had stood so proud, so strong, throughout the tense encounter, now at last fell at Destiny's feet; hard gray eyes softened by the sheen of tears, red hair tumbling out before her like a war banner, fallen to the dirt in defeat.

"My lord, I know the truth of what you are, the truth of your kin, the sires of cursed and accursed Helen and Paris. Lord Apollo's doom upon me has granted this clarity. But your knowledge is greater than the cunning of the Achaens, your power more potent than that of the gods on Olympus. Surely, most surely you can grant this one boon, that at least one man might heed my warnings?"

Destiny's unseeing eyes stared out over the battlements whereon the pair stood, the light of the dawn was choked and gray, struggling through the smoke that rose up from the battlefield surrounding the walls on all sides.

"Mercy is not the province of Destiny, Cassandra"

His voice, to the protastrated woman, sounded as cold and hard as the stones she knelt on, body trembling with both creeping despair and curdling rage.

"It was written in the Book of Destiny that all these things should be so, and they cannot be unwritten"

Cassandra reared up at this, rage overcoming caution as she raised her eyes once more to gaze on this being she had summoned, this being she knew in her more rational mind deserved naught but deference and respect, at least a greater doom then the one she already carried befall her.

For here was one greater than Lord Apollo, then Lord Zeus himself, one who could truly smite her not only from life but all existence if crossed.

She found, alas, she did not care.

"It is written that great Troy, envy of the living world, be razed until not a stone of it is left to us to weep over, for the beauty that was lost and shall never be again?!"

She climbed to her feet as she spoke, words ringing out in the cold dawn, her red hair flying up in the cold wind, torch like in the heat of her passion.

"That my people shall be scattered and set upon like sheep abandoned and left to the ravenings of wolves??"

To Cassandra's distress, the flames of her anger began to flicker under the rising wave of her grief, and the tears that had until now shimmered behind her eyes now at last began to fall, and she thrust forward with the last vestiges of her anger, fists raised to shake a curse at the sky, as gray and implacable as the being before her.

"That my brothers, brave and true and flawed and foolish should all to a man fall and be forgotten?!"

Her grief at last smothered her flame, and despair gripped her as she dropped her head to her hand, knees sinking once more to the ground as she choked out:

"And that I should have the power to foresee it all, and yet be powerless to prevent it?"

Destiny stood over the princess’ shaking form, as silent tears fell from her hidden eyes, looking upon her in a silence that seemed infinite even to himself.

When at last he spoke, there was smallest shift of softness in his tone, so minute that it would have taken another Endless to note it, and so profound a change within their oldest brother would have shaken any one of them.

"What is written cannot be unwritten Cassandra" He repeated, "You, Paris, Helen. All are children of the Endless. In each of you there is an echo of your sire, one that will always ring true, though you struggle against it. Helen draws the Desire of all who look upon her, whether she wills it or not. Paris leads himself and all who surround him to Destruction, whether he seeks it or not.”

And here Destiny stepped forward, only a single step, the first he had taken since Cassandra had summoned him, but it was to any else who could have witnessed it as if an immovable mountain had stooped down to touch the cheek of a crying child.

"And you, Cassandra, last daughter of Troy, daughter of Destiny, you must bear witness to the end of all and all those you most love…"

The dawn finally broke over the city, casting the shadows of Destiny and his doomed daughter across the ramparts like a pair of shrouds.

"Whether we wish it or not"

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Hi! I'd like a Black Clover matchup please! I didn't know what emoji to use so I'll go with my nickname.

⿻ ˒ nickname: yuno.

⿻ ˒ pronouns: he/him.

⿻ ˒ pairing: any character is okay.

⿻ ˒ sign + personality: sagittarius, pretty laid back and funny, curious and open minded when at my ease. I can become stubborn or bossy when things don't work my way. I love to write with people, discover new things like places, tv show or dishes. I LOVE TRAVELING and make new, real and interesting friends. I crave for knowledge and enjoy to know many things in various domains. People tell I'm creative, opiniated, blunt and I'm not afraid to speak my mind in front of anyone. I have a hard time with social codes and can be too familiar or unexpected for more traditional people. Finally, I hate boredome and love to do outdoors activities and things like cooking or gardening.

⿻ ˒ appearance: east asian, short black hair with a two block haircut. I wear shorts or cargo pants with t-shirts (often black, gray or white) and white sneakers. The simpler the better.

⿻ ˒ aesthetic: skating on the tarmac, birds flying above the clouds, wolves running through the forest, a crackling pan of butter, the sound of waves, a hand plunging into warm sand, smiling in the mirror, laughing out loud in a silent corridor, walking the streets at night, the sound of fork and knife on the plate, wind through the curtains, endless sweetness on the tongue.

⿻ ˒ love languages: physical contact (giving), word of affirmation (receiving) + quality time for both.

⿻ ˒ hobbies: writing, cinema, gardening, hiking, traveling, eating, cooking, laughing, discovering, gaming.

Thanks!

Hello!

I'd be happy to give you one ^^

I'll match you up on a blind date with (hear me out)...

Charmy Pappitson

Charmy, while she is most of the time in her dwarf form, rather than human, is curious, opinionated, and will tell you about the importance of food (though her serious side seems to be more often her human form, and dwarf form is the "fun" side of her); so she will also speak her mind when need be. But most of the time she is very laid back and caring.

However, that doesn't stop her from going on her little adventures to find different kinds of ingredients with which to cook. While her driving force seems to be on cooking, she is open minded about a lot of things, as long as it doesn't involve wasting food.

She would love to garden, cook, and go on hikes or little adventures with you, and I could see you two in the kitchen, making a yummy dish while listening to some music. She might not be a jokester, but I do think that she has a sense of humour, once you get to know her.

Also, if she wouldn't be so invested in the world and secure enough to pursue them, she'd feel a little out of place in the world. Because there aren't many beings such as her. But she doesn't let that stop her. And especially in her human form, she can be more verbally expressive, and would speak out a lot of the things she showcases through gestures while in her dwarf form.

She might be a kind of a wolf in sheep's clothing, but the wolf does care for her pack as well

[pyro-madder]

companion post to fantomette22's of bloodborne but Beamsts (real), with the goal of Not making them all wolves though i still ended up with a majority of canids because it IS bb (and also a taxon i'm familiar enough with) !

pictures are from wikipedia unless linked otherwise like this (x)

Hunter : wolfdog (Canis lupus x familiaris) (x)

not much to say here but symbolism. :D obligatory reminder that a lot of people erronously call their dogs wolfdogs, and that getting an actual one as a pet is a bad idea. The IWC has a good page on the topic

Gehrman : grey wolf (Canis lupus)

if it's gonna be anyone, it might as well be him. imagine this old gray wolf with shaggy hair and ribs poking through the fur...

Maria : gyrfalcon (Falco rusticolus) (x)

largest falcon species, one that hunts far north and which i already headcanoned her to do falconry with. so after some deliberation i went with that instead of the small arctic fox, though it would have been fun to keep the canine motif of her apprenticeship under Gehrman. other candidates included the snowy owl and the ermine.

Alfred : pyrenean mountain dog (or patou for the intimate - Canis lupus familiaris)

look at this large, fluffy beast ! they're livestock guardians ; protecting sheep from wolves and stuff is symbolic enough for a religious man like Alfred, but these guys are the bane of unprepared hikers - there are short guides and stuff published by mountain offices on how to behave so that you don't shit yourself when they come growling at you. something something potentially turning on the Hunter for their mixed, IMPURE blood... :^)

Gascoigne : brown bear (Ursus arctos)

if not a wolf, this HAS to be the second choice, right ? Besides i'm pretty sure that in some old european folklore, bears are seen as the animals closest to man, so it fits The Narrative(tm). to human standards, they make terrible fathers though

Eileen : cape crow (Corvus capensis) (x)

I don't have hard-on headcanons for her ethnicity and followed the fandom trend, thus giving her an african species of crow. Cape crows aren't as omnivorous as carrion crows but I like the detail of their thinner bill for that extra Blade of Mercy flair.

Bloody Crow : hooded crow (Corvus cornix) (x)

believed a subspecies of the carrion crow until recently, their range of eastern AND northern europe felt fitting, plus the lighter feathers atop their black ones like BCC's white hair (helmet or not) atop his cloak.

Djura : black kite (Milvus migrans)

he HAD to be a raptor - a sentinel overlooking his territory and bringing sudden death from above, y'know ? Black kites are found in a wide portion of the old world, but are known specifically in Australia, alongside 2-3 other raptor species, to intentionally spread wildfires to bring out prey. Sounds familiar, right ?

also...

^ this is the Djura Stare. to me. it's that exact energy

Djura's ally & disciple : spotted hyena (Crocuta crocuta) & african painted dog (Lycaon pictus)

both carnivores with high social behavior, deemed equal to wolves' or even superior in the case of hyenas. the latter are also matriarchal, and my Blood Starved-Beast is female !

now ignore for one min that i headcanon djura's disciple and simon as twins despite having differing animals. if not that, jozef can be the painted dog. idk. vibes.

Simon : stone marten (Martes foina) (x)

on vibes alones i felt a mustelid would fit him (sleek and nimble, but still predators), and went for the stone marten because of the double meaning of their french name :

Yamamura : raccoon dog/tanuki (Nyctereutes viverrinus)

canids with strong presence in japanese culture, and i really like them. that's all. :p

-

BONUS ROUNDS

Micolash : giant squid. tentacles. big cephalopod brain. big eyes. deep sea cryptid. enough said

Rom : if she wasn't already a spider, i'd make her a nudibranch. What kind of spider, though ? A salticid with their big eyes ? A wolf spider carrying her spiderlings around ?

Ludwig : i'm not familiar with domestic horse breeds, but i'd like to mention one i've known, thanks to having had at some point a coachman among my coworkers : the Boulonnais.

lorge.

draft horse, nicknamed "the white marble colossus" in french, originally worked to... transport fish from the coast to the city.............. now in my narrative Lud wasn't in Byrgenwerth and therefore blissfully uninvolved with the Hamlet, but imagine..............................................

[nagdabbit]

we collide with shoulder and steel: chapter 12/25

rating: t to be safe

words: 906

a quiet interlude of yuta reflecting on danny

also on ao3

There wasn't much to the village when he left. There were more still-warm graves in the cemetery than there were warm houses. Pockets were leaden down with gold that would never be spent on merchants that would never pass their way, while the root cellars lay cold and empty. The entire place was falling to pieces, and he seemed to be the only one willing to do something.

Those left thought they could continue to endure, that they could brave the drought and the illness and the starvation—but they'd thought that longer than Yuta had been alive. Tradition couldn't preserve what wasn't there to begin with.

He hadn't ever held out a true hope that he could save them, the last wights withering away in the barren fields. He wasn't even certain he could have himself. His only real hope was to save those that would come after, keep any more lives from being lost to the wastes. The land beneath his feet had forgotten its own name, lost to dust and drought, nevermind the names of those still tilling her soil. He knew, in his heart, his name would be forgotten along with the rest of the ghosts haunting the streets he'd once run and played in. 

He spent a couple years gathering all the knowledge he could. Books from what had once passed as a library, journals and notes from the few passing hunters, long-forgotten records from the desks of the elders, everything he thought could help him make his way.

He took enough from the stores to make it two or so months, if he was spare with his meals, and enough flour and yeast to extend that a little further. What he didn't take, he left for Danny to find and squirrel away for his own journey. He pocketed all the spare gold he could find, if ever there was a need for it—and most of that he slipped into Danny's purse when the other boy wasn't looking. He gathered all the leftover seed he could find, and hoped to any god listening that they would finally take root, and maybe leave something Danny could one day come back to.

One dry, gray morning, he turned his back, and hoped to hell that if Danny didn't follow, he'd have the sense to run the other direction, just as he'd always dreamed of doing, and live as long as he possibly could. To be happy for as long as he could.

Even he knew what a fool's errand looked like, and he didn't once blame Danny for running. If anything, he was glad of it. He was, after all, going somewhere Danny wouldn't follow. Had he stayed in the village below—stayed and stagnated and died—Danny would have, too. Danny would have followed him anywhere, save into the heart of the curse that had already taken so much from him, and Yuta had never once begrudged him that. Danny had survived out of spite, lived long past what anyone would have expected—and in many cases, encouraged. He was passed from neighbor to neighbor as they waited for the sickness to take him the way it took everyone else. 

They lied and said he was family. They would say, with unearned pride, that, “We take care of our own,” without ever once admitting that their care came with caveats. They cared for Danny the way they cared for the weeds sprouting up between stepping stones, the way they cared for starving wolves among the sheep. 

Yuta had never believed he'd earned the place Danny had carved for him in his own chest. He cared, loved the other boy more than he had the words for, but he hadn't earned that care in return—though Danny had given it. He couldn't give Danny enough food to fill his belly, though he tried, and couldn't keep him warm through the long nights. He could read to Danny, fill his head with daydreams. He could make promises he knew he'd never be able to keep, just to give Danny some much needed hope. He did what he could, all the while knowing their paths would never run the same direction. But Danny cared for him in return, all the same. There were times Yuta felt himself a shackle, keeping Danny from going where he needed to.

There were more than plenty of times that Danny had saved his hide, kept him from getting killed by his own curiosity. Enough that anyone else would've left Yuta for dead. After all, one less mouth to feed meant stores lasted just that month or so longer. More firewood for those who needed it, as if he and Danny didn't. Another house to scavenge to pieces—though Yuta didn't begrudge them that, not really. They were dying, too. 

When he left, he had always known Danny wouldn't follow, though he sometimes hoped the younger boy would. Even in a perfect world, even if he found his cure for the unending drought, Danny would've been unhappy there. He wanted for adventure and freedom, for a life far from the place that had abandoned him. Had he climbed the mountain, he would have stagnated, been listless and bored, and still he would've stayed for Yuta. 

Despite his many failings, Danny had always cared for Yuta. In leaving as he did, he had hoped, in his own way, he'd managed to grant Danny his freedom in return.

[tickles-ivory]

"A Hobbit in the Woods:  A Retelling of the Brothers Grimm 'Little Red Riding Hood'

by Ticklesivory (dedicated to @shantismurf)

Rated: T for violence

For Bagginshield Week 2023

A short little Bagginshield fairytale inspired by this Tumblr post:  (2) Ticklesivory on Tumblr  

Happy Bagginshield Week everyone! 

____________________________________________________________

Once upon a time in a small village that lay just outside of a dark forest lived a hobbit named Bilbo Baggins.  He was a kind hobbit who lived alone and kept to himself.  He enjoyed cooking and would often take food to his friends and neighbors whenever one of them had taken ill.

One of his oldest friends, who had been a close friend of his grandfather’s, was known throughout the village as Gandalf the Gray because he wore a gray cloak and hat.  After his grandfather’s and parents’ deaths, Bilbo took it upon himself to visit the old man regularly.  He would often take him food and drink, and ease his own conscience by checking on the old man’s health.    

At least once a month, Gandalf would ride in his small carriage which was drawn by a sorrel pony with a blonde mane to the village to visit Bilbo as well.  When the old man’s visit was delayed, Bilbo sent a messenger to Gandalf’s cottage that had been built in the middle of the forest. 

The messenger brought back word that Gandalf was suffering from a bad cold and was confined to his bed.  Immediately, Bilbo began gathering items to take to his oldest friend.  Before he left, the messenger tried to warn him.

“Do be careful, Mister Baggins,” his neighbor, Mister Gamgee said.  “I met a woodsman along the way, and he told me there were wolves in the area.  One is particularly large.  It is the white wolf that was attacking Farmer Maggot’s sheep last winter.”

Bilbo continued to gather supplies and poured a pot of chicken broth into a small crock to take with him as well as several biscuits and a jar of blueberry jam he had put up last summer. 

Gandalf may be known for his gray cloak, but in the village of hobbits, Bilbo was known for his dark red jacket.  He wore it often and there were those who called him The Hobbit in Red, though not to his face. 

On his way out his door, he donned his red jacket and grabbed his favorite walking stick.  He promised Mister Gamgee he would stay on the path through the forest which was traveled often by hunters and woodcutters and was considered the safest route to Gandalf’s.  He thanked the messenger for his service and paid him the agreed wage, waved goodbye, and set off down the road. 

The woodland realm beyond his village was dense with foliage that blocked out the sun.  The ground was covered in shadow and occasionally, Bilbo would hear the trill of a bird or the cry of a rabbit.  What he was listening for was a deep growl, heavy paws breaking sticks, or even a glimpse of white fur.

An hour into his journey, not having seen anything to be alarmed about, Bilbo relaxed and began to enjoy his surroundings, only to be suddenly so badly frightened that he nearly spilled his basket. 

“Forgive me.  I didn’t mean to startle you.”  A deep voice told him that was coming from a very handsome stranger who stepped out from the heavy brush.  “I am Thorin Durin, a woodcutter by trade.  I don’t believe it is safe for someone of your station to be walking through this forest alone.”

Bilbo took offense.  He was a full-grown hobbit and could take care of himself, thank you very much!

“I will be all right, but thank you for your concern.”

The dark-bearded axe-wielder stepped onto the path right in front of Bilbo and gazed down his sharp nose at the traveler.  He was slightly taller than the hobbit, a dwarf, Bilbo believed based on the size of his hands and feet, but he wasn’t about to be bullied by him!

“You’re not even carrying a weapon,” the woodcutter told him with a smirk that Bilbo found to be surprisingly attractive, as was the clothing he wore – which consisted of coarse dark tweed and leather.  Not at all to Bilbo’s taste, but they looked remarkably well on the muscular dwarf. 

In Thorin’s hand was a long-handled axe he no doubt used to chop down the trees required to sustain his livelihood.  Bilbo gripped his tall, thin stick a bit more tightly.

“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,” he informed the dwarf proudly.  “And I have no intention of straying from the path.  I won’t be fooled by the wit of any wolf, white or not.”

The dwarf gazed at him with the most beautiful pair of blue eyes Bilbo had ever seen.  “The pale wolf travels on and off the path where he wills, and he disguises his appearance.  Sometimes he’s a wolf, sometimes an elf or an owl.  Be careful who you talk with in these woods and the things you say.”

Bilbo nervously shuffled his feet.  He usually wasn’t shy around people, but he found the dwarf incredibly attractive and was considering asking if he would escort him to Gandalf’s cottage.

As if reading Bilbo’s thoughts, the woodcutter smiled and stepped forward, eyeing Bilbo up and down before gazing into his basket of goods. 

“What’s in your basket?”

“Just a few things I’m taking to a friend,” the friendly hobbit replied.  “To Gandalf the Gray.  Perhaps you know him?  He lives beyond the north meadow in a brown cottage overlooking the Long River.  He’s taken ill I’m afraid and needs some looking after.”

Thorin’s dark brows furrowed.  “How do you know I’m not the white wolf in disguise?  You’ve just told me everything I need to know to set a trap not only for you but your friend as well.”

Bilbo lost his smile and shut his mouth.  He had no doubt that Thorin was just a woodcutter, but he needed to be more careful.

“I just know, but I will be more careful from now on.  I promise.”

“Good,” the dwarf said.  “I would hate to discover you were dead.  Not before I get to know you a little better.”  The smirk had returned which made Bilbo blush hot beneath the collar of his red jacket.

“Thank you for your concern.  Perhaps we shall meet again.”

“Perhaps so, Master Baggins.  Be careful and do not speak with any more strangers.”

Bilbo nodded and watched as the woodsman disappeared into the shadows created by the dense canopy of the forest. 

He continued on his way with a bit of a skip to his step as he recalled how the dwarf’s eyes shimmered and how big his muscles were, and the thoughts reddened Bilbo’s cheeks. 

Some time later he came to a game trail crossing the path and watched with delight as a few small brown rabbits scurried across it.  They were saying in their tiny, nervous voices, “Do not step on us!” as they hopped away and soon disappeared.

Bilbo didn’t always encounter animals within the forest, but it always surprised him just a little when he heard them speak.  For you see, the forest outside of his village was not only dangerous but enchanted.  Almost all of the creatures that lived inside of it had the ability to communicate with others.  Some Bilbo found quite entertaining and witty, while others were slow-witted and not very intelligent.  Much like the hobbits in his own community, he thought to himself with a chuckle. 

Along the way, he watched a turtle move slowly beside the path who greeted him with a ‘good morning,’ in its slow tortoise drawl.  At a turn, he spotted an owl in a tree.  Bilbo said good day to the bird, though it did not look very pleased to have its rest disturbed.  As a whole, Bilbo found owls believed themselves to be a bit superior and above the concerns of, well – everyone else. 

Bilbo continued on, his feet never straying, his eyes carefully taking in everything he could see.  At this point, he was halfway through his journey, and he stopped to drink from a stream running nearby and to take a nibble or two from one of the seed cakes he was taking to his friend.

As he lifted his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he saw movement in the trees on the other side of the water.  Much to his surprise, a beautiful white stag stepped into view.  Its striking, icy-blue eyes viewed Bilbo cautiously before it stepped into the water and crossed the stream.  Bilbo stepped back to allow the animal room to move onto the bank and to stay clear of its broad set of antlers. 

“Good day,” he announced to the animal who lifted its head to gaze down at the hobbit.  “You are the prince of the forest, are you not?”

“That I am,” the large animal told him with smooth and deep vocalizations.  “Are you alone in these woods?  It is not advised for someone so small in stature.”

Bilbo tried not to take offense to that statement.  He knew how tall he was and that this creature towered over him!

“I’m not long on this journey,” he exclaimed.  “In fact, I’m headed straight to my friend’s home in the woods.  I’m nearly halfway there and should be able to make it back home by nightfall.  If not, then I shall spend the night there.”

The stag’s eyes widened as he tilted his head.  “Perhaps you should keep your business to yourself, Master Hobbit.  There are those that walk within these woods that would take advantage of such a helpless creature as yourself.”

Helpless!  That was the second time today someone had questioned his abilities! 

“I’m not afraid to walk through these woods,” he stated firmly while standing up tall and straight. “I’ve done it many times in the past and have never required bow, axe, or sword.”

The creature didn’t look that impressed.  “I am sorry to hear about your friend.  There a great many things that may happen to those who choose to live here and who do not belong.” 

What was that supposed to mean?  “Well, Gandalf has lived here for many years, and he does just fine.  It’s just a trifling cold he’s picked up.  You know, with that last late snowy spell we had, I know many a hobbit who are suffering from the same thing.  I do what I can to help since I never seem to catch anything.”

“That is good to hear,” the mighty stag told him.  “I will leave it to you then Master Hobbit.  Be safe on your journey.”

Bilbo watched with some fascination as the powerful muscles of the beast carried him upriver and out of the hobbit’s sight.  He just then noticed that to get a drink from the stream, he had strayed from the path.  It wasn’t the first time, however.  He had often stopped to get a drink here.  He found the water to be cool and refreshing.  No harm had ever come from it.

The path wasn’t very far away, and soon, Bilbo’s feet were back upon it.  A narrow gap in the canopy above him allowed a stream of sunlight to peer through and Bilbo glanced up to allow the warmth to shine down upon his face.  That was when he heard the snap of a twig on his left and he spun around, holding his walking stick out to protect himself if it was required.  He was relieved to find it was only the woodcutter again, the sight of which brought a smile to the hobbit’s face.

“Are you following me?” Bilbo said, half-jokingly.

“No.  Why would I do that?”

The words Thorin had said didn’t quite match the dwarf’s expression.  Embarrassment was evident on his handsome face and Bilbo found it to be quite charming. 

“I’m on my way to work in the clearing which I believe is just west of your destination.  If you wouldn’t mind, I could walk with you for a while.”

The invitation was well received and increased Bilbo’s smile.  “Of course, I wouldn’t mind.”

“You’re making good time,” Thorin noted after a moment.  “You should reach your friend before noon I should think.” 

“Yes, I’ve been lucky on this journey,” Bilbo told him.  “There have been times when I’ve twisted an ankle or the weather changed so quickly I had to turn back.  Today is a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

The woodcutter only grunted in reply and kept his eyes on the road.  “You’re from the village of hobbits, are you not?” 

“I am,” Bilbo answered, his brow lifting curiously. 

“And is that where…I mean…do you live alone?”

Bilbo smiled shyly at Thorin’s question, though not nearly as hesitantly as his new friend.  For someone so obviously strong and fierce, finding Thorin was a bit bashful wasn’t only surprising but endearing, and it caused his heart to flutter. 

“I do live alone, although just recently.  My parents passed a couple of years ago and left the property to me.  Do you live close by?”

“Not exactly,” Thorin explained.  “I’m from the dwarven realm of Erebor at the foot of the Lonely Mountain some ways from here.  I come here during the spring and summer to find work.”

“Ah, I see,” Bilbo exclaimed, trying to recall the distance from his village to the mountain.  If he was assuming correctly, it was just a few hours’ journey by carriage.  An easy trip he just might have to take in the near future. 

“If I were to say…wish to come visit you at your home…Maybe I could provide you with some firewood or perhaps we could…”

“Share a meal or enjoy a cup of tea over delightful conversation?”  Bilbo suggested trying to be as helpful as he could be and ease some of the dwarf’s discomfort.

“Aye,” Thorin responded with yet another pink blush on his face. 

“I’d like that.  Really, I would,” Bilbo answered back, while secretly observing the small smile that spread the woodsman’s mouth. 

“Good,” Thorin replied.  “For now, I will leave you to your walk.  I should return to work.”

“It was a pleasure talking to you, Thorin,” Bilbo told him as he began to walk away. 

“We shall speak again soon, Bilbo,” the woodcutter said in a way that caused a wave of delight to sweep across the hobbit’s skin.

“That we will,” he whispered as a promise to himself just before continuing along the path. 

Following another two hours, the road curved and opened into a small field, wherein sat a small stone cottage with smoke coming from its chimney.  He had made it to Gandalf’s house and Bilbo hurried down the path to come to the wooden fence and the sturdy gate before it.

It was unusual to find the gate ajar, he thought before brushing any worry aside.  Gandalf was ill and he probably didn’t have the energy to secure his property, Bilbo decided, only to become even more concerned when he found the carved wooden door on the front of the cottage wasn’t latched either.

He stepped slowly inside, pushing the door back on its hinges, and called out.

“Gandalf?  Are you here?  It’s me, Bilbo Baggins!  I’ve brought you some goodies from home that will hopefully make you feel better!”  He waited for a moment and listened carefully, unable to hear a reply.  “Gandalf?”  Bilbo called out once more before stepping further in and shutting the door behind him. 

The cottage had four rooms, and the one directly opposite him was the main bedroom.  Bilbo had been inside the home plenty of times and he didn’t think Gandalf would consider this an intrusion, so he continued on and pushed back the curtain divider. 

There, on the four-poster bed beneath piles of handsewn quilts, he saw a form, and Bilbo sighed in relief.  But then he noticed it wasn’t moving and hurried over to make sure his friend was actually all right.

Gandalf looked a little more pale than usual upon first notice, but he was breathing, which settled Bilbo’s nerves.

“Gandalf?”  Bilbo repeated the name softly, trying to rouse his friend to make him aware of his presence without frightening him.

The old man’s blue eyes shuttered open and his smile became broad.  “My dear fellow,” he said with a rasp that sent him into a coughing fit.  Bilbo immediately grabbed a pitcher and filled a glass on the bedside table to offer the man a drink.

Gandalf took a few sips and then waved the offer away.  “Thank you,” he said.  “What have you brought me?  Is that broth I smell? And perhaps some of your delicious biscuits?” 

Bilbo had never been an overly cautious hobbit.  He was trusting to a fault.  In the past, that had led him into a variety of dangerous circumstances.  He was trying to learn, and the woodcutter’s warnings replayed in his mind. 

How could Gandalf smell the broth he had brought if he was suffering from a cold, which should make that feat entirely impossible! 

“Ah yes,” Bilbo replied, trying not to gather suspicion.  “I brought some broth, a little wine, as well as some biscuits and jam.  I sent Mrs. Hardfoot earlier this morning to check on you after you hadn’t shown up for a few days.  I was worried about you.   Did you find her company soothing?”

The ill man eyed him and the smile that followed was unusually forced.  “Oh, yes.  Mrs. Hardfoot is a delightful woman.  So full of cheer and such good company.”

“Well, that would be quite miraculous,” Bilbo replied, just before he took a step backward.  “Seeing that she died two winters ago.”

Gandalf’s blue gaze narrowed, and his typical pleasing smile turned malicious. 

“You should’ve listened to the woodcutter,” he said in a voice that didn’t belong to him.  “Even I, myself, tried to warn you of the dangers of the forest, but you hobbits think you’re so smart and cunning.  We see who the most cunning is now, don’t we?”

Bilbo recognized that deep voice and watched with some stunned fascination as the man upon the bed transformed into a large, white wolf. 

“Azog,” Bilbo uttered, fear causing his voice to tremble.  It was the one he had been warned about time and time again – the shape-shifter, the enchanted creature who could change from any creature he desired.  “You were the white stag!  Where is my friend Gandalf?”

“I have placed him in safekeeping for now until I am ready for him.  He is old and will be tough to chew, while you, on the other hand, are far more delectable.  Young and plump.  I shall enjoy this very much.”

With those words, the wolf leaped up from the bed to attack Bilbo, but the hobbit moved out of the way quickly, causing the wolf to stumble and crash into the armoire.  The door burst open and Gandalf, bound from head to toe, bruised and battered, tumbled out onto the floor. 

The white beast slashed its giant claws in Bilbo’s direction and he had been too concerned about Gandalf to move out of the way fast enough.  The claws stripped through his dark red jacket and pierced his skin, creating bloody marks across his back.  He cried out in pain as well as terror and hurriedly glanced around the room for some type of weapon.  Nearby, he had laid his walking stick and he grabbed it, swung it as fiercely as he could toward Azog. It came in contact with the beast’s nose. 

The impact didn’t even cause the wolf to blink, and he dropped down on all four paws to stare at Bilbo with a deadly and hungry gaze, saliva dripping from his razor-sharp teeth.  Bilbo backed away until he bumped into a table, on which was a kerosene lamp. 

Just as the wolf pounced, Bilbo  broke the lamp, grabbed the largest shard, and plunged it into the beast’s throat.  The wolf howled in pain but wasn’t the least deterred, knocking Bilbo down onto the floor, to hover over him.  Now, not only was the wolf’s spittle dripping down onto Bilbo, but its blood as well. 

“I’m going to enjoy every last bite of you,” the creature hissed before opening its mighty jaws. 

Bilbo slammed his eyes closed.  If this is the way he was going to die, he really didn’t want to watch it happen.  He waited for the excruciating pain, but it didn’t come.  After a silent moment, he glanced up to find the wolf’s mouth was indeed open, but out of it came only a small squeak. 

Before Bilbo realized what was happening, the wolf was knocked off him and it slid across the floor. 

Bilbo sat up, his heart pounding, his eyes wide with fear, and yet there was hope.  It had come in the form of a handsome woodcutter who was wielding his axe.  The blade of the weapon was now covered in the animal’s blood, which was streaming from the wolf’s side.  The beast cowered in the corner, hissing and growling at Thorin, who seemed entirely focused on nothing but him.

The hobbit watched in growing alarm as the woodcutter approached Azog, embedded his axe into him not once or twice, but three times.  When he was finished, the wolf lay very still and Bilbo closed his eyes to block out the sight.  Regardless of its attack on him and his friend, he didn’t enjoy witnessing violence against any creature for any reason.   

Suddenly, there were gentle hands cradling his scalp. 

“Master Hobbit.  Bilbo.  Are you all right?”

That was Thorin’s voice and Bilbo forced his eyes open, doing his best to avoid looking at anything but the tender and concerned gaze searching his own.

“I’ve got some scratches on my back, but I’ll live.” 

“Come,” Thorin said, gingerly assisting Bilbo to his feet.  “Let’s leave the creature behind for a moment and help your friend.”

The two of them freed Gandalf and entered the common area where Thorin immediately insisted that Bilbo remove his jacket and shirt. 

With a solid red blush, the hobbit complied, hissing in pain to discover the blood-soaked material was sticking to his skin.

“There is some salve in the corner cupboard,” Gandalf told Thorin from a chair he had sat down heavily on, his breathing raspy, his voice hoarse.

Thorin retrieved the ointment and applied a generous amount to Bilbo’s injuries.  For such a strong dwarf with incredibly thick fingers, his touch was surprisingly gentle, the hobbit thought.

“I’m afraid your lovely red coat is ruined, as is this shirt,” Thorin informed him as he began ripping cloth he apparently found as well and started wrapping it around Bilbo’s chest. 

Once he stood in front of him, Bilbo realized how very close the woodcutter was  to him, and it caused his skin to turn ruddy and his breath to come out in pants. 

“Are you sure you’re quite well?” Thorin teased, a smirk lifting up the corner of his mouth.

“Just scratched up is all, I assure you,” Bilbo answered back as Thorin tied the ends of the bandage over his ribs. 

“I’ll be at your house in three days to check on you and make sure your wounds haven’t become infected,” the dwarf informed him. 

Bilbo would like to say there was no need for that, but he couldn’t think of anything more pleasant than spending additional time with such a lovely dwarf. 

“I’d like that.”  His words had come out much quieter than he had intended, and it caused Thorin to lean in.  Oh, if only they were alone, Bilbo would close the distance to thank the dwarf properly. 

But Gandalf was sitting close by, huffing and puffing, and staring at them quite incredulously. 

“What about the wolf?”  the old man asked once the tender moment had passed. 

“I’ll drag it into the woods as a warning to others who may have the same idea.”

Bilbo swallowed hard.  “You mean…there are others?”  he squeaked. 

“Oh aye,” Thorin replied.  “As I told you, these woods are full of dangerous folk and you would do well to…”

“Not speak to strangers,” Bilbo chuckled.  “I get it.  But if I hadn’t, then I would have never met you.”

A dark brow lifted on Thorin’s face.  “In that case, consider yourself lucky, as do I.” 

“Pardon me,” Gandalf cut in.  “But is there anything in that basket you brought Bilbo, or do I have to look for myself?”

“Oh!  Of course, of course there is.”  Bilbo replied, his thoughts quite distracted by the magnetic blue eyes that were following his every move. 

“I’ll take my leave now,” Thorin announced.  “And I’ll take the carcass with me.” 

Bilbo stepped aside, grimacing at the trail of blood that was being spread across the floor.  Before the woodsman left, however, all Bilbo had for him was a smile, and he did his best to make it one worthy of remembrance. 

Once they were alone, Bilbo returned his attention to Gandalf and proceeded to warm up some broth and pour him some of the watermelon wine he had brought.  Then, he went about the task of scrubbing away the blood from the worn, wooden floors.

It occurred to him as he rinsed out the bucket and brush and listened to the old man slurp that there were better ways to go about doing things.  He had never wanted a housemate, but having Gandalf closer would certainly be more convenient and free up a lot of his time.  And if he paid his neighbor, Master Gamgee, to look in on the old man from time to time, Bilbo could even manage to take a trip.  Maybe as far away as Erebor. 

He dropped the scrub brush back into the bucket of clean, sudsy water and smiled innocently at his old friend.  “Gandalf, my old friend.  Perhaps it’s time we consider relocating you to the village.” 

THE END

[sour-sprite]

gravity falls furry headcanons under the cut lol

pines family - squirrels, red squirrels for dippper and mabel and gray squirrels for the stans!

soos - possum

melody: ??? mouse? like a computer mouse? idk shes from portland?

wendy - beaver family, because lumberjacks duh

Gideon - ??? a lamb or sheep maybe? idk if those are wild in oregon tho

northwests - foxes? gold foxes maybe? idk if they come in that color

robbie - wolf, "i always trhought he was raised by sad wolves"

tambrey - skunk... like,. an alty skunk

Lee & Nate - Deer, and they like- buck antlers with each other

Thompson- maybe also a deer... or a goat? does pacific northwest have goats?

Grenda - Bear cub

Candy - Deer!

[twigwing]

issue 20. here is a collection of (what i personally consider to be) more rare animal species i have noticed in my hunt for bats. so far still no bats (and i honestly don't expect to see any since the zombot arc was primarily grounded)

ok fine. i'm gonna slowly reread all of IDW with the sole mission of staring very closely at the crowd shots and trying to collect every single bat character design in this stupid(affectionate) little furry franchise because i have two bat OCs and my life is a nightmare

[env0]

Dungeons & Dragons Comes to Minecraft

D&D is coming soon to Minecraft, the beloved sandbox game from Mojang Studios. In the Minecraft x Dungeons & Dragons DLC, you and your friends will journey to the Forgotten Realms as your own D&D characters. Level up, collect loot, and face off against classic monsters, including the displacer beast, gelatinous cube, mimic, and beholder.

But wait, there's more?

Monstrous Compendium Vol 3: Minecraft Creatures

Blazes are elemental beings that congregate at Nether fortresses. They float a short distance above the ground, and each one is orbited by three sets of glowing rods. When a blaze is destroyed, it sometimes leaves one of these rods behind. Blaze rods are a source of great energy that, when carefully crushed into powder, can be used to brew potions and craft other magic items. A blaze attacks by launching three fireballs from its fiery core. This fire ignites creatures and flammable objects. If necessary, a blaze levitates into the air to better see and more easily target its enemies.

A creeper is a green, armless creature that emerges in darkness and silently prowls the Overworld on its four short legs. Its peculiar face bears no clue of its motives, but its destructiveness makes it one of the greatest threats to both life and property in the Overworld. A creeper quietly shuffles toward Humanoid prey. When it gets close enough, it halts and begins to hiss like a burning fuse. Unless the creeper is defeated or its target gets far enough away that the creeper defuses itself, the creeper explodes a few short moments later, leaving a crater where it once stood. Creepers have an uncanny ability to appear when least expected, and few places are safe from their explosive nature. Yet creepers have one strange weakness: they fear cats and do all they can to avoid them. If a creeper is struck by lightning, rather than being harmed, it becomes charged with electrical power. In this charged state, the creeper gains a bluish aura and can explode with even greater power.

The mighty Ender Dragon is one of a kind—a vast, flying creature with void-black scales and purple eyes. It soars above the central island of the End. No one can say whether it is a guardian or a prisoner of the End, but either way, the Ender Dragon challenges anyone who enters its domain. The Ender Dragon buffets enemies with great wings, engulfs foes with its gaseous breath weapon, and delivers crushing bites with its powerful jaws. Its hide is strong enough to deflect all but the deadliest weapons.

Endermen are tall, black, bipedal creatures with long, thin limbs and piercing, purple eyes. Violet particles flicker in and out of existence around them. Endermen are unnerving and enigmatic, acting in a manner that is all but impossible to interpret. Endermen seem particularly drawn to the End, where they gather in large groups. They are uncommon visitors to other dimensions, although they appear more often in pairs in such peculiar places as the warped forests of the Nether. They shun sunlight and are hurt by water, including rain. When an Enderman becomes the target of a ranged weapon or takes damage, it teleports to a safer location nearby and makes a distinctive “voop” sound at its destination. Endermen have no known predators. When a Humanoid looks directly at an Enderman, the Enderman becomes enraged, opens its mouth horrifyingly wide, and rushes to attack with its long arms. A defeated Enderman implodes and sometimes leaves behind an Ender pearl, which, when thrown, teleports the thrower to the place it lands.

Running through the forests of the Overworld on four legs, this gray-furred hunter is at home in the cold of the taiga. Wolves hunt in packs, roaming their territories and chasing sheep, rabbits, and foxes. Wild wolves are typically indifferent to Humanoids, neither running from nor attacking them, but a pack of wolves becomes hostile toward any creature that hurts one of the pack’s members. Wolves can be tamed by adventurers who feed and look after them. Tamed wolves follow their masters everywhere they go. Wolves instinctively regard animated skeletons as enemies and attack them without hesitation. Even tamed wolves, which obediently hold themselves back from attacking their natural prey, freely charge at skeletons unless they are commanded to sit.

Enjoy adding these delightful monsters to your campaigns or building a campaign of your own built around them. (I am not sponsored by Wizards, Hasbro, Mojang. I just think it's neat and everyone should see it)