#i need a casual hornblower tag

[chiropteracupola]

has anyone made an annotated map with all the various Important Napoleonic Wars Media and pinpointed wherewhen is the ideal meeting spot for as many Guys as possible?

[chiropteracupola]

First snowfall at Ardroy, please! And also, crawling!

'first snowfall' is a sequel to this fic -- after some discussions after finishing it, I felt like exploring how things might be going when they make it back to Ardroy in this particular au-timeline. which is to say, things are Not Great, but they're doing their best and they're together to see the seasons turn despite all that's happened.

Ewen sat bolt upright — strong and straight in the darkness, his hair all a-ruffle about his head. “Lochiel—“ The name came suddenly to his lips, gasped through pain and fear. Keith watched him in growing horror, as the fixed, staring eyes remained unblinking, and the mouth that had kissed his own mere hours before became little more than a roll-call for the dead. Here were a hundred names that Keith had never known, save for from these midnight utterances, and here were some that he did — Lochiel, Archie, the MacMartin brothers.

'crawling' is the hornblower horrorgore fic I mentioned last month, set just after Caudebec. the basic premise of this one is that if anyone were to reassemble their various dismembered limbs by sheer force of will and drag themself right back to the job they left behind, I do believe that that'd be William Bush!

“What are your orders for me, sir?” he asks, in a voice that rasps and rattles. The remnant of William Bush that still remains folds his hands behind his back, hollow as a lightning-ravaged tree as it is, and stands at attention, waiting for Hornblower’s reply.

[chiropteracupola]

song, blood, year

from a foth fic without much central concept:

Somewhere just outside his line of sight, some bird recited its high lilting song, and Ewen thrilled at the sound, for that was surely the harbinger of spring returning. Winter was by no means a silent season, but snow and cold did lay a kind of quietness over the land nonetheless. But that bright birdsong spoke of other things, of northbound geese and cracking ice and new growth unfurling.

from that 'william bush's nice summer' fic:

Bush gasped and startled upright, a flare of pain ricocheting its way across his stomach in jagged slashes. The brightness of a Caribbean afternoon again filled his vision, his eyes stinging as he opened them on a gore-stained scene. But as he blinked and struggled for breath, the blood-soaked deck and the blazing sun faded away, and he was back where he ought to have been, safely ashore in his own bed.

from a fic for 'the great escape' that I'm not sure I'll finish:

There’s a story that every sailor is half a ghost, that journeying by sea will send your spirit wandering to stranger places still. But Danny had felt himself to be a dead man walking for years already, buried and resurrected over and over again. Once again, Willie is digging him out of his sorrow.

[chiropteracupola]

from tgarnsl

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

< This Hornblower — he is your war-prince, then? > It was an odd way of putting it, but Bush found that it could not be termed entirely incorrect. “Captain is the more commonly used word, Mr. Isthill.” The long eyestalks flicked first to him, and then to Hornblower, who was conferring with the other members of that strange party. [He] cocked his head to one side, birdlike in his curiosity, but appeared to determine assent.

WOE! HORNBLOWER ANIMORPHS CROSSOVER!

[chiropteracupola]

for the fan-fiction guessing game: needle?

for someone who write a lot of slicing, I don't seem to write a lot of the stitching-up afterwards... so unfortunately these are both the Plant kind of needles.

from the foth green knight au:

The leafless oaks were thickly brushed over with white, snow clinging to the stroll-green needles of the spruce and the pine.*

from a new-ish hornblower fic:

He must have lain there sunning himself among the herbs for far longer than he had intended, for he woke to find his face fully in the shadow of the expansive rosemary bushes. Yawning, he inhaled the dry, dust-and-spice scent of them, new-grown needles prickling at his nose.

[chiropteracupola]

would it be silly to add 'pleasures of the harbor' to my already ridiculous hornblower playlist just because of that one contemporary review where somebody said that it reminded them of the 1951 hornblower movie

[chiropteracupola]

been watching Boats Movies and now I have got something adjacent to hornblower images on the brain again, hmmm...

[chiropteracupola]

Leviathan groom, please?

this (this being the tattoos-and-superstition story I've spoken about a few times before) is probably one of my favorite Hornblower fics, to the point where I've been working backward and forward on it for over a year as I try and fail to get it to be Just Perfect. trying to find the balance of exposition to explain the fantasy worldbuilding and actual plot has been very tricky with this one, especially as I haven't quite figured out just how either of those things works yet.

so right now, even though I like a lot of the current stuff I've written, I'm probably going to start over from the bones up, patching in the bits I liked from the first version as I go.

[SCRAPING SOUND AS A BIG CURTAIN IS DRAWN BACK]

basically, the structure that I have so far is 'too much exposition' -> [BIG HOLE] -> 'Bush wandering around in the snow' -> [SPOOKY DESCRIPTION I'VE NOT COME UP WITH YET] -> 'Bush having a long talk with a creepy thing' -> 'slapdash ending that's a little too goofy'

so the main points that need to get worked on are going to be streamlining the magic system and integrating the function behind it into the actual story (probably through some kind of opening Sailing Scenes), redesigning the creepy thing to fit better with the tone of the story overall, and of course, ironing the plot until it's nice and smooth.

I've had some difficulty managing stories with a larger cast in the past, and I think I'd like to push myself with this one and try harder to make the settings feel populated and living, which I think will be more compatible with the eventual redesign of the antagonist. I do think a face-stealing shapeshifter still meshes very nicely with Hornblower's Issues™️, but doesn't really work with the rest of the setting that I'm devising here. so it's back to the drawing board on the creepy thing, and I'm going to do a little research for inspiration before I settle on anything this time. rather than the face-stealer, I think a more standard Endless Barrow Party to get lost in/feel deeply uncomfortable at/charge boldly into on an ill-advised rescue mission will suit the two of them better.

and I'll probably have to pick a new title, as changing up the fairy-folk rules will mean that I lose the double meaning that made this particular one work so well. (it was always meant to be ambiguous whether it referred to Hornblower himself or to the face-stealer, since they're both hanging out somewhere in the middle of the sliding scale between husband and sea monster.) while it'll be a little said to break up my Boreas-lyrics tradition for Hornblower writing, I've been trying to switch to a snappier and more memorable titling system for some time anyway.

and if you're still here after reading all that, how about a scrap of the Exposition Brick that probably won't be coming back in the rewrite:

Entering the navy young had many its disadvantages, but one solid point in its favor was getting the ink-workings on you. They worked the best when they were drawn in as early as possible, it was said, and Bush had had his since he was barely eleven.

With so many ways a boy could die aboard ship, there was at least one surely preventable, if the right precautions were taken. The right knot in the right place, and they’d be tied down tight to the mortal world as well as human art could make them. There were other charms of much the same theory, hold-fast and love-stay-true and safe-at-sea, all with their own mark and their own meaning, but the faith men put in those, though strong, wasn’t nearly so hardy. Bush had seen nearly every other form of ink-workings fail at one time or another, but never these two, the sort given to the youngest and most likely to be stolen away.

He’d even heard the discussions among the hands, the boastful tales of a man claiming he’d nearly been spirited off as a lad, and would have been, too, if not for the marks on the backs of his hands. Sadder stories as well, for as he passed by on his rounds, he’d noted whispers of someone’s sister’s son stolen away, nephews and cousins and brothers gone under the hills never to be seen again. Why don’t they just put the protections on them proper-like, one man would say, and the other would shake his head, and mutter that such people couldn’t be reasoned with.

Whether it was that the ink-workings simply didn’t work on shore, or that the minds of those dwelling on land couldn’t wrap around a too-permanent way to keep their children safe, it still was that those on land went without the marks. Bush wasn’t sure quite why, nor did he himself understand exactly how the tattoos on the backs of his hands kept him safe. He was a plain sailor, not an artist or a witch, and he was content to trust rather than to make an attempt at unpicking the workings of the art.

[chiropteracupola]

perhaps it was not a good idea to put on the hornblower playlist on an evening when the vibes are already so discordant.

[chiropteracupola]

...new decemberists song is hornblowery I think

[chiropteracupola]

(from tgarnsl)

ohh these all sound so good!!! how about:

your leviathan groom

to keep it real

wood-god :-)

'your leviathan groom' is yet another installment in my vague collection of Hornblower Stories With Semi-Related Oh-Hellos-Lyric Titles, and probably my favorite out of all of them! even in a world where symbolic tattoos really can work magic to provide safety at sea, Hornblower still doesn't believe in the superstition, and so winds up being snatched off under-the-hill by some sort of fae-adjacent creature. you can tell I like a Tam Lin-adjacent plot, huh.

'to keep it real' began as something very different than what it's becoming, and was originally inspired by the House Filled With Chintz post - you know the one, I'm sure. what it's become in the intervening months is a sort of semi-surreal study of Keith's relationships with his mother and brother, and how Ewen might interact with him on a potential visit to Stowe House. and also a lot of gratuitous Horse Time.

'wood-god' is just. plotless kissing and descriptions of trees. that's it that's all. then again, it's only been around for a few days, and is but a few disjointed paragraphs at the moment, so I've yet to really find the shape of it!

charcuterie board of snippets of all of them under the readmore:

your leviathan groom:

“I come to claim him in the name of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, for he is its officer and its bondsman, and not for the taking of any other.” That was the script he’d been taught — plain and straightforward, and, he hoped, effective.

“Has he the marks on him, to prove it?” The thing raised Hornblower’s limp hand in its own, and turned it gently, showing its smooth, pale back to Bush. “No, no. He has not. He has not got the claim of any other already writ upon him, so mine he’ll be. Go back to your wood-and-wings, little albatross, and fly away.”

“I’ll not go without him,” barked Bush, slipping from the measured words he’d used before into something desperate and fierce. “What do you want him for, anyway? He isn’t a poet or a musician or an artist…”

“For the same reason that any of my kind ever want anyone, ocean-son. Because he is interesting. Because he is beautiful. Because he is beloved. Because he fascinates me.”

“Fascinate you all he may, he is not yours to take! He is needed elsewhere more than he is suited to be your little curio!”

“He’s dangerous as any of our own, your pretty captain. Sure that you wish him home to you again, to lay destruction on you and all that you hold dear? You’ve seen what he can wreak given the chance, and you’ll be caught by the blade of it sometime, it’s certain. Little albatross, which one of you has got the other wrapped around his neck? Here’s your chance, see? Go ahead and breathe, go ahead and see if you’re better suited to flying on your own! Think on it, ocean-son, for there’s much hurt you might avoid by leaving him with me.”

And Bush did think of it, but for all that he knew of a hundred thousand ways that a man might die aboard ship, to go on alone suddenly seemed the worst of his options. Despite all that he could imagine, and though he remembered quite well the days of his life as a new-made lieutenant, before the Renown, and with it, Hornblower, had come into his life, going forward without Hornblower seemed unconscionable. Whatever storms a life by Hornblower’s side might bring, Bush knew he would do his utmost to weather them, in much the same manner as he had done for all that had come before.

“I cannot leave him.” Bush felt the prickle of the rowan leaves in his lapel, and the tattoo on the back of his hand itched more than ever. He’d hold firm.

to keep it real:

His eyes flashed open, and there leaning over him was Francis, his worried expression much at a contrast with his richly embroidered green coat. Keith blinked up at him, half-seeing at the very most. He felt terribly weak and lost, all the armor he had so painstakingly cultivated stripped off and unretrievable. His hair cropped even shorter in his fever, the too-new nightshirt swapped for his old and sweat-stained own… the house threatened to swallow him up alive and grow a new son in his place. But no, that had already happened. And that son, uncaring of his embroidery and gilt buttons, now had his arms wrapped tightly around Keith and did not seem as if he planned on letting him go.

At a distance, the two sons of Lady Stowe could not have been more different. Keith was tall and work-lean, dark-haired like his father, a scowling shadow set behind shorter, softer Francis. The younger son was given to cheerful openness, while the elder carried the acid remains of a life spent in loneliness and betrayal. One had been so firmly bound to his career that being forced from it had almost killed him, the other had had all the wealth of the world handed to him on a silver salver.

But wrapped up in one another in such a way, Francis in all the silken stitchery of his life as a lord and a lord’s son, Keith plain and pale in white linen soaked with the sweat of his fever, they seemed fitted each to the other nonetheless. Francis’s hand slipped up to fit around Keith’s, and Keith gripped it desperately, too-long nails biting into soft skin.

“I do fear for you, when you go off to the wars, you know.” Francis spoke quietly, stroking his forefinger over the back of Keith’s hand even as his knuckles went white from the intensity of the grip.

“Mother would not have you stay long, and I see… Keith, I see now why you would not wish to. But will you stay here until you are healed, at the very least?”

“Francis.” Keith tipped up his head by a few inches, though it made the room spin and flicker to do so, and tried to meet his brother’s eyes. His voice had been made rough with disuse, and the sound was hardly recognizable as his brother’s name at all, but Francis hugged him a little more tightly before pulling back to look him in the face.

“You tried to leave!”

“I…” Keith tried to deny it, but could find no words with which to do so.

“Don’t think I don’t know what goes on in this house. I was told that you had been in the stable, before you… before you collapsed.” Francis straightened up, and Keith could feel, in the hint of chill that had come into his voice, that there was a little more of their mother in young Lord Aveling than he had previously thought. “If you had ridden away, as you clearly intended to do, only imagine what would have happened.” Keith stared back at him, blank and bleary-eyed.

“Wasn’t…”

“You might very well be lying dead on the road now, had you gone. Please, Keith, I know it does not sit well with you to stay here — and that you are fond of neither this house nor of Mother. But I will be here, and surely I could manage to be of some comfort?” Francis looked so sincere as he said it that Keith could not help but be touched by his brother’s fear for him. He gave another squeeze to Francis’s hand, gentler this time, and, trying not to aggravate his rising headache, nodded.

wood-god:

“And what d’ye think of that, Mr Balfour of Shaws?” Alan purred his way through the name, letting it roll buttery-slick from his mouth like some kind of small thing he might easily crush between his teeth. Unsubtle as ever he was, it was clear as crystal that he had a liking for the idea of having a fine gentleman at his mercy as much as he had a similar liking for David himself. Indulging himself further, Alan shifted his weight against Davie, leaning down to plant an elbow in the leaves beside his head.

“That you’re right smug, that is all.” David gazed up at him, remarkably unflustered.

“Oh aye? Tell me, what is wrong with that, my Davie?” Still smiling like a cat with cream on its whiskers, Alan leaned back somewhat, leaving a hand on either side of David’s head.

In that light, Alan, his hair stuck full of leaves and his clothing mottled with the forest floor, looked like a wood-god out of myth. His scarred face was bright with laughter, and there was a merriment in him that seemed to reach far beyond the confines of his body.

[chiropteracupola]

tagged by @finalgirlmartinbrody, thank you!

the game is to shuffle a playlist and list the first ten songs that come up, then tag ten people to do the same - I’ve chosen my hornblower playlist!

‘easy come, easy go’ by the decemberists

‘last friday night’ by katy perry

‘the war was in color’ by carbon leaf

‘heart of oak’ by jerry bryant

‘game i play’ by we are the guests

‘cairo’ by san fermin

‘unseen girl’ by emily brown

‘the devil’s paintbrush road’ by the wailin’ jennys

‘the dark-eyed sailor’ by steeleye span

‘the gambler’ by kenny rogers

and hm, I’ll tag... @alizuriacrow, @sailorpants, @subsequentibis, @accursedapothecary, @harpernovakaine, @benjhawkins, @seaglassandeelgrass, @qayzillas, @what-even-is-sleep, @ego-sum-arbor?

[chiropteracupola]

(Made up fic title game) "Live Like An Animal" and/or "It Shall Not Come To Pass"

(these notes are translated from my original, rather frantic ones scribbled out at 2am ...so do take the ideas themselves in that context as well)

live like an animal

hm, I think I'll go a little bit against the grain and imagine a hornblower one here? I think I'd like to see him truly snap more, just absolutely go off the rails, and this seems like the sort of title to imply such a story behind it.

now, I've seen stuff slightly of this nature done before, but I think I'd like to go in a different direction, if only because Creatures and Poeticisms are much more in my wheelhouse in a way that the logistical issues of a naval officer suddenly going rogue are not.

lack of control would have to be at the heart here -- some situation where he's trapped just far enough outside of his usual discomfort zone (it's hornblower after all, I really can't call it a comfort zone...) that his usual systems of operation can't carry him. so I'm thinking this is late-series, when he's already struggling under the weight of many an issue as it is.

whether it's rage or grief or even a major injury that forces him into this situation, it's something he's continuing to struggle with even as he has to navigate polite society on land, perhaps having to hid this sort of werewolfery of emotion from Bush and/or Barbara even as his internal structures start to crumble. maybe he's trying to adapt to a new role of some kind, and is trying as best he can to make all the constructions in his head serve him again even as he starts to realize they're built on a foundation of sand.

now, I can't quite figure out just yet precisely whether that werewolfery is a literal one or not, but either way this one is imagery-heavy, putting as much weight to the meat of the transformation and the feeling, perhaps, of being trapped in a body you're becoming less and less suited to as much as to his emotional struggles here. big claws, big teeth, spilt blood, hot breath, the works. decorous decorated war hero by day, rampaging shambling thing by night.

it shall not come to pass

well, that sounds like some kind of foretelling, so we're talking fates and prophecies and such, so this sounds like a good fit for something flight of the heron!

now, I'm not as up on my folklore as I used to be, and unfortunately, most of the knowledge that I've picked up on divination stuff that might match to that area and time period is pretty much all related to foretelling the identity of one's future husband. (although. I'm sure there is a different fic to be had in that idea. hm hm there's an idea to be played with at some other time.)

this is completely conjecture about how this might actually work, but I think someone who's the son of a seer and, out of all the characters, seems to know his way the best around the superstitious side of things, might go about trying to break a prophecy at the root, if he was given a situation where he had enough time to do so.

now, I've got no idea so far exactly how Lachlan goes about doing that, or how much success it'd be possible to have with such a goal, but one thing I'm sure of -- meddling with fate in such a way is almost certain to come with a body count.

[chiropteracupola]

WIP guessing: eyes, teeth, joy, light

four for four! very well guessed!

treasure island selkie au:

Trelawney’s eyes shone as his enthusiasm caught and flared, and he sprang to his feet as if intending to make a rush for the shore that very moment.

disjointed scrap of hornblower fic currently missing the rest of its story:

Stronger than the flavor of a dust-fouled well is the metallic tang of his own blood seeping into his mouth, and he worries at the new hole between his teeth and tugs at his jawbone as if he might manage to set everything to rights again.

foth tam lin au:

His face was smudged and his hair escaping from its plait in every direction, but he was smiling again as he had been that night at the ford, when both of them had thought themselves full of all the joy in the world.  

original seasonal spooky story:

As the wind shifted in the leaves, the lamplight shone brightly for a moment on the tightly posed teeth of the stuffed bobcat atop the cabinet, still gleaming-sharp in death.

[chiropteracupola]

WIP Words: Clasp; Shadow; Footstep; and Gentle

only one instance of 'clasp', from the foth tam lin au, although there are several more in the fic that I've been trying very hard to Not Be Writing Down for the last few days:

The eerie lantern-light went suddenly out, and all of a moment, Keith found himself lying half-in, half-out of the ford with Ewen clasped tightly in his arms, whole and hale and in his proper shape again.

we've got a few of each for the rest, so let's have at it!

foth ladyhawke au:

Ewen, perched on the doorstep with his chin in his hands, gazes idly out into the distance, the shapes of the valley beginning to lose themselves in the falling shadows of dusk.

one section of the rambling amoeba that is my kidnapped fic:

Words came to him, but they were empty, a hollow shadow of their usual shine.

the rat piper:

“Where is everyone?” she wondered, but there seemed to be no one else but Gannet to hear her, and no sound but the padding of her own footsteps.

foth undead!keith au:

A brief moment of respite — Ewen’s fingers twitching to stroke at Keith’s hair, just above his ear, and the click of Archie’s measured footsteps against the floorboards as he crosses to the hearth and retrieves his final tool, taken from his case much earlier and left to warm.

treasure island selkie au:

Standing on the cliffside, he watched the long line of it drifting slowly but surely between the next set of cliffs but one, the long fingers of cloud settling both gentle and vague all down the coast as far as could be seen.

unnamed hornblower-show fic (a missing scene from the duchess and the devil):

Her face went still, the only sign of movement the gentle flutter of her hair in the draft of the half-open window.

[chiropteracupola]

fine one last one and then I’ll stop. hornblower is not the Man With A Chin that is just not him. william bush is the Man With A Chin.