#haunted ridge

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Haunted Ridge

Swirling eddies of ash hide crumbling cliffs, treacherous drops, and the slavering maws of unknown evils.

Artist: Jonas De Ro TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[cautiouslyyyoptimistic]

Everytime I come across an anonymous ask from one of those danmei confessions blogs that is so utterly, bafflingly wrong I take psychic damage.

[bumtown]

Brugmansia or datura... "Angel's blow their trumpets down from heaven while Satan looks up tolling his bell."

[rustbeltjessie]

On the tape deck was Bruce Springsteen’s most haunted album, Nebraska, blue guitar, harmonica, his voice that cut through us like a rusted knife, like the wind whistling through the car windows, tangling our hair with ghost hands, we were far from Nebraska, in a different landscape though just as haunted, so

much history, how could anywhere with so much history not be haunted, how could anywhere anywhere not be

—Jessie Lynn McMains, from “Spook Hill” (TMP Magazine #6: Haunted Highways, October 2023)

[halibellecter]

Necromancy in my Ghost Hunter HiC AU

I'm jotting some of this down to add to later because I'm at work and need my work brain back...

This is a place where I drew heavily from canon, and a lot of things are the same. Having a spirit under your control is a power boost, but it's dangerous, and the spirit is probably not happy with you. The longer a binding runs, the more power... and the more rage.

It's vitally important to keep your practice as clean as possible. This is why Jonah has a sterilizer in her workroom. If too much of a body is left behind after destruction, the spirit might not be able to move on. This is why necromancy used to be a lot more dangerous; they didn't know this for sure and they weren't able to really clean everything the way a modern practitioner can. Nowadays, a practice with good sterilization protocols and strict controls on binding practice is pretty safe for the mage running it.

Binding is best kept as short as possible. Some ritual desecration and general marking up is unavoidable to strengthen the spirit's connection to their remains and establish and maintain an open line of communication. For Jonah to figure out why someone can't move on, the binding runes that we see in canon are necessary, but for shorter term 'contracts', they don't have to be permanent. Her tools range from the same instruments used in canon to surgical body markers for smaller amounts of remains and permanent alcohol based markers for full bodies, still single use. That was fun to explain to Matt when he walked in on her Sharpie-ing runes onto someone's corpse. She's even used eyeliner in a pinch. As part of releasing the spirit, she cleans the runes off if they were temporary before putting the body into the crematorium. It's not necessary, they'll burn up just fine, but a multi stage release ritual is easier on the spirit. Harder on the practitioner, but hey, when has Jonah ever cared about her own welfare? She's also, on occasion, had to work with bones or non-bio materials for a binding. Nothing much you can't do with a Dremel! :))))) Special care has to be taken for all that dust to be properly cleansed of course. Pain in the ass really.

Smocks - this is a big deal in necromancer culture. They're ostensibly just a fancy canvas thing, like a kappogi apron, that laces up the back, but they're very heavily symbolic. It's a much safer practice nowadays, but it has always been dangerous, and so is a specialty that's never worked by one mage. Dyads, triads, and teams are the standard and that's the reason that the smocks are *smocks*. They tie in the back. They lace up, very complex, and have to be tied off by *someone else*. Masters and apprentices tie each other off. Equals in a team all cover each other's back-- literally. Jonah's... I need to draw it. Her smock is not just worn backwards. It's painted on the "front", now the back, as a statement. Not only is not the front. It will never be the front again. She will never work with another. We're not beating the traumatized cop allegations, here. She lost her master in a really traumatic way, and she's DEFINITELY not over it.

Okay I think I can work now phew.

[wulfskins]

heat lightning 

[flashfuckingflesh]

The Jack-O-Lantern of EVIL Curses! "The Pumpkin Man" reviewed! (Scream Team Releasing / DVD)

Don’t Accidently Curse Yourself by Not Owning “The Pumpkin Man” on DVD! The town of Cromwell lives and breathes off the demonic urban legend known as Pumpkin Man during the town’s full embracement of the Halloween season. College student Catherine, the town’s biggest savant of Pumpkin Man lore, has been given a tidbit of information of where to look for clues in discovering the lost book of…

[mystic-mermaid-maggs]

[takenoprizners]

Hollywood Halloween_1

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Haunted Ridge

Artist: Piotr Dura TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[flawedplant]

Witches In The Wooded Ridges (2024)

Dungeon synth from Querétaro, Mexico. Deeply inspired by the melancholic beauty of Mexico's woodlands and forests.

[corythewitchboy]

The roots of Blue Ridge grow deep in my soul.

It was the place that raised me, not the people. As a youngster, I played in the woods, amongst the ruins of a failed industry, where the sorrow and hope is abundant. Grow wild, child.

The ghosts of your ancestors might whisper to you, and show you places long forgotten through the gentle, breezy hint of direction. You may see something not quite human just behind a tree, or a deer might stand just a bit too close to you. One thing was certain; respect the woods, respect their inhabitants, both the physical and the spiritual, and they will respect you.

Bare feet on the forest floor might turn up a railroad stake nearly too rusted to recognize. Perhaps a hunk of coal eroded from the mountains, or the remnants of a moonshiner's still.

It is here that anarchy, chaos, and beauty time in their own sense of a natural order unknown to man.

I miss them. Even if I never live there again, my heart will always dwell there.

[bumtown]

PREPARE TO MEET GOD

[wilwheaton]

On the clear, cold morning of December 29, 1890, on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, three U.S. soldiers tried to wrench a valuable Winchester away from a young Lakota man. He refused to give up his hunting weapon. It was the only thing standing between his family and starvation, and he had no faith it would be returned to him as the officer promised: he had watched as soldiers had marked other confiscated valuable weapons for themselves. As the men struggled, the gun fired into the sky. Before the echoes died, troops fired a volley that brought down half of the Lakota men and boys the soldiers had captured the night before, as well as a number of soldiers surrounding the Lakotas. The uninjured Lakota men attacked the soldiers with knives, guns they snatched from wounded soldiers, and their fists. As the men fought hand to hand, the Lakota women who had been hitching their horses to wagons for the day’s travel tried to flee along the nearby road or up a dry ravine behind the camp. Stationed on a slight rise above the camp, soldiers turned rapid-fire mountain guns on them. Then, over the next two hours, troops on horseback hunted down and slaughtered all the Lakotas they could find: about 250 men, women, and children. Fifteen years ago, I wrote a book about the Wounded Knee Massacre, and what I learned still keeps me up at night. But it is not December 29 that haunts me. What haunts me is the night of December 28. On December 28 there was still time to avert the massacre.

December 28, 2024 - by Heather Cox Richardson

This is such an important part of American history, and it was never taught to my generation for reasons that will become obvious when you read Prof. Richardson’s post.

[fear-is-truth]

imagine…

bathing in the afterglow of making slow, sweet love to charlie. the room is still, the only sounds are your soft breaths mingling in the quiet; the air is heavy with the scent of sex and sweat, your bodies tangled in the sheets. your fingers brush lightly over his bare back, tracing the ridges of his spine before they accidentally catch on the raised welts etched into his flesh, and he winces—and you freeze.

you’ve already guessed the reason for them—his guilt, his need to punish himself for this, for you. charlie is not the confident, charismatic priest now, the one who preaches with fire in his voice and conviction in his eyes. here, in this private sanctuary, he’s raw, fragile, and tortured in ways only you ever see.

“you don’t have to do this,” you say, your hand brushing over his back, carefully avoiding the marks this time. “i know why you do, but it doesn’t have to be this way.”

he turns his head slightly, dark brown eyes catching the faint light, but the usual bravado isn’t there. his gaze is tired, haunted, and yet, there’s still a tenderness in the way he looks at you.

“it’s... necessary,” his hand comes up to rest against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as if to soothe the guilt you’re feeling. “for my wickedness. for this.”

you shake your head, biting your lip, struggling to find the words. “but you don’t have to hurt yourself like this. there must be other ways..”

his eyes darken for a moment, his expression hardening, but then it softens again, just slightly. “sweet girl. if i don’t... if i don’t atone, what kind of priest am i?”

you rest your hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“i don’t want to be the reason you do this to yourself.”

he closes his eyes, a small, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “you’re not. but even if you were...” he presses his forehead against yours,

“it’s worth it.”

m.list © fear-is-truth do not repost, modify or translate

[redflagshipwriter]

Fast Car Chapter One (of four)

Masterpost

Danny hit the brakes hard and veered into a bicycle lane with a very Fenton sort of style and disregard for physics. He dodged the gunman in the carpool lane. He stuck his tongue out as he passed and then steered back into the right lane once he’d cleared the pedestrian. 

It turned out that Gotham rewarded the sort of drivers forged in the crucible of the Fenton tactical GAV, which was great. Jazz had gotten a job as a barista for her third year at Gotham U, so he had inherited the car that she had used as a delivery driver. She’d even somehow managed to pay the taxes on it despite the restraining orders that most government offices had on the Fenton family.

Jazz had been a pizza girl, but Danny wasn’t willing to work the late nights. He worked for three different rideshare companies. It was.. Well. It was a terrible way to make a living, if he was honest. It was wretched. But it worked! Until the car crapped out on him, this was a viable option to feed himself while he was enrolled full time at the university. He was available to drive early in the mornings and for a few peak hours on the weekends.

Danny brought an order of 17 coffees to a warehouse with serious ‘murders will happen here today’ vibes and whistled as he left. People in murder warehouses actually tipped pretty well. Worker solidarity or something. He left the early birds to enjoy their 3 am drinks and then idly checked the app to see if there was anyone else waiting for a ride or delivery. 

“Victor,” he read, and took a glance at the address. It was close! He snagged the request and turned on some bubblegum pop to enhance the ride over. 

He saw a man standing outside, haunting a storefront with metal shutters pulled down. Must be the guy! Danny pulled over, checked the app, and then furrowed his eyebrows. Huh. Seemed wrong. He fixed his face before he looked back over. 

In the app, Victor didn’t look especially young or fit. In person, he was easily over 6 feet tall and lugged a huge bulky bag like it weighed nothing. 

He also had a giant ugly motorcycle helmet with the vague impression of a caveman brow ridge built into it. Danny hid his judgmental thoughts and rolled down the window to chirp, “Hi! Victor?”

“That’s me.” Victor sounded like he was auditioning for the Deft Punks, electronics grinding out his voice to a silly robot autotune. Danny hid the way his lips wanted to tremble. You can’t laugh at clients. “Can I put this in the trunk?”

Danny hated that. “Go for it.” He opened the trunk with the button and hid his real thoughts. He didn’t like people using the trunk. Why not just put it in the backseat like a normal person? There was enough room for a person and a bag there.

‘Is there enough room for this guy, actually?’ Danny wondered, looking Victor up and down subtly. Were his shoulders padded or was he actually built like that? Bizarre. 

He had the sense that Victor was tense.

‘Ah., fuck. He caught me checking out his shoulders.’

Danny cleared his throat and whipped his face forwards again. “Normally I say to sit in the backseat, but I'm not sure that's enough room for your legs. Either is fine.” 

Victor took him up on the front seat option and readjusted the passenger seat back with a casual ease. 

Danny waited a moment.

Victor cocked his head at him.

“Seatbelt,” Danny prompted.

There was a long moment. Victor silently buckled his seatbelt. 

“Awesome.” Danny put on his turn signals and pulled out. He went slower than he preferred. He’d learned the hard way that most passengers didn’t like his driving. It was great for cutting time off when he was delivering food, but no good for nervous cargo like poor Victor here. The poor guy was so anxious that he kept his emotional support helmet on when a passenger in a car. 

Danny thoughtfully drove the speed limit and let Victor change music.

They didn’t have much to talk about. Danny didn’t mind much either way. He liked quiet rides and he liked chatting alright.

“Stop the car two blocks early,” Victor said. He pointed. “There’s fine.”

Obligingly Danny guided the car to a stop and shifted to park. He jumped out of the car. “I’ll grab your bag!” He called over his shoulder. He popped open the trunk and lifted Victor’s bag with a winning smile that said ‘I deserve a good tip.’

Victor had moved to the back of the car faster than Danny expected. He paused. He looked weirdly stiff. “Thanks.” He took the bag. “...Here’s your tip.”

“Have a wonderful day!” Danny said, pretending not to be interested in how much money it was. He waved Victor goodbye and pulled out. As soon as he was a block away he counted the bills. “Fuck yeah,” he hissed. Victor tipped like a crime boss. He stuffed them into his wallet and made a mental note of the account. He’d definitely try to accept requests from him in future.

He gave two more rides before he could go back to his shitty apartment and get ready for classes. Danny parked in the little underground garage near his place where he paid a monthly fee and jogged to his place. He got his bag and left on foot.

He had a pretty normal day. The only hiccup was that it was kind of hard to focus on his lectures when he could faintly hear what had to be every TV on campus playing the same news bulletin. Danny did his best to block it out, grimacing. Having advanced senses really sucked sometimes. If he heard the breaking news jingle one more time, he might cry. 

By the time he was free he felt pushed to his limit. He went back to his place and turned off all his electronics for some peace of mind. 

The next morning felt better. He turned on the tab that said he was available for work at 3 am and ended up bringing a huge delivery of breakfast materials to the same police station that he’d left Victor at yesterday. Danny hummed as he jogged up the concrete steps with three bulging bags of baked goods and coffee grounds. He handed them to a weary-eyed receptionist and accepted his tip without looking at it. He considered cracking a joke about them being busy and decided it was better not to.

He was still an illegal entity, after all. His parents were covering for him, but scrutiny was not his friend. He didn’t want any interaction with the police or the rogue band of detective freakazoids that ran this crime town.

Back in the car, he checked his tip. Danny clicked his tongue and made a disgusted sound. He hated cops. Cheap! There was nothing worse than being cheap.

His next customer tried to rob him at gunpoint as soon as he got in the car. Danny wrestled the gun away from him and ate it while the guy watched. “Just try and report me to the app,” Danny sneered between crunches of metal. It tasted like shit and the guy probably hadn’t washed his hands, so like, yuck. But it was a choice he was making for the intimidation factor, not because it was yummy.

‘Bet my iron intake is good now.’ Danny held out his hand. “My tip,” he said, and did not unlock the car door until the shaking wannabe carjacker had given him three dollars American money. Hell yeah. “Have a good morning.”

He went into the app and canceled the ride. There was another request waiting, so he drove to it. It wasn’t the name that the app’s request had shown, but- “Good morning, Victor!” Danny waved. “Call from a friend’s app this time?”

Victor stared at him dumbly. At least, that was Danny’s best guess of what was going on inside the helmet. “Yes.” He eventually said.

Cool, cool. Very weird. But he was an ok guy and he tipped well. “Hop in,” Danny said, and unlocked the car.