#icarian’s random stories

[theicarianworks]

Wrote a oneshot a while ago, and I figured I’d post it here. It’s fairly short, under 700 words, as well as under two pages.

There’s no actual violence, but there’s plenty of implications of it, as well as general sci-fi military type stuff.

Feel free to leave feedback, just keep the criticism light.

[killersfool]

hiiii i’ve a wee fluff imagine idea for bobby!! : )

bobby and the reader live together in a flat in dublin and the reader goes to trinity uni to study english literature (or smt else that has like a lot of reading and essay writing anol that craic) and she’s falling behind in a lot of her assignments and it’s all piling up and she’s just all overwhelmed and doesn’t know how to cope.

she ends up breaking down into sobs or shutting down at random points in the day due to stress and rob hasn’t got a clue what’s wrong and keeps noticing these random break downs throughout the week.

basically he comforts reader and helps to organise herself and just all fluffy cute comfort fic <333

If I could flip back time, bend the seconds and go back three years ago, I would do it right now.

Pile after pile of flashcards, annotated books with pastel post-it notes shooting out of the sides, folders of Irish poetry I can hardly understand, tattered photocopies of Hozier lyrics, every work of Shakespeare staring at me from my overcrowded booksheld — dusty, messy, probably even dank. Miss Carter has decided to set three more assignments onto my workload for the week. An essay on crime fiction (I haven't even read the first book on the reading list), my creative writing portfolio and then another essay analysing a piece poetry of my choice. Reading and highlighting Hozier's lyrics of 'I, Carrion (Icarian)' is the only thing keeping me going. Phoebe Bridgers blasts through my ears. It's quarter to 11. I need a break. An early night would be nice. Or TV. But do I really want to sit next to Robert whilst he watches his weird YouTube videos?

I kick my table. Not out of anger. Not out of irritation. I just want to see all of my notes topple ontp the floor. They do. Then I'm kicking the table three more times. Or maybe eight. All my flashcards are on the carpeted  floor, next to my discarded, empty packet of pinballs. I'd stolen them from Robert's stash. He'll never find out.

Climbing over my pile of unread books by my doorway, I push open the door. It squeaks. Some oiling would be nice. Trinity college really provides the best for their students! 

I still wish my roommate was also doing English, someone to bond with over shared trauma, to gossip about our nightmarish teachers and fellow students. But no, this guy is doing a degree in bloody mathematics. The complete dichotomy of English. No similarities. No way of comparing the courses to eachother. Him and his terrifying videos that he watches with his shoes up on the armrest, cheek in his open palm, drinking a cup of tea. Like it's that simple. Numbers and sin, cos, tan and circle theorems and whatever tragic nonsense is being spouted in his lectures.

He hardly speaks to me. Three years together and I barely know him. Sometimes I tag along with him when he goes out for breakfast. Once every two weeks. Sunday morning. We talk about school, about friends, about anything that pops in our heads. Yesterday we spoke about music. He originally wanted to pursue a career in music. A band. But they didn't work out. He took a gap year to pursue this group. So he's a year older than all of the other third years. He doesn't let that faze him. When he told me stories about his band, 'Inhaler', I had to lose eye contact, look down at the pink marshmellos floating about in my cup. He looked lost. This wasn't the place for him. He missed the confidence upon stage, the ability of making something out of nothing. Life is unfair. That is when I realised it. Hearing about shattered dreams and names of songs that were never produced.

I also realise life is unfair right now, as I accidentally bang my hip onto the kicthen island, the knife-like corner lodging itself into my skin. It's like the world is against me. 

Sometimes I wonder if Robert thinks I'm an idiot. I feel like I'm an idiot when I walk past his bedroom, hunched over his laptop, headphones on as he works through the most difficult maths questions I've ever encountered in my life. He makes university seem easy. Has his allocated times for study, going out with friends, the gym, practicing bass, going though record shops, meals, watching TV. Everytime he gets home, he drops his things down in the kitchen. I sneak a glance at the big green 'A*' on all of his test papers. I look up to him. His intelligence, his masterful management of time. I'm always too frightened to ask him how he does it. He'll think I'm stalking him. 

Me, on the other hand, I waste time. I don't have balance. I never have time to be with my friends. Always locked up in my room. A prisoner. Essay after essay. Poem after poem. Book after book. A constant cycle I've been in for three whole years. The stress is weighing down on me like a hundred bags of bricks. I need to stop for a second. To breathe in. To calm down.

So I do the last thing I would normally do. I go into the living room and sit beside Robert on the sofa. He's half asleep, jeans cuffed, hair all over his face. He sees me walk in, glances up, eyes big and speculting. He instantly moves his spindly, spider-like legs from the armrest to give me some space. I can hear some sort of maths video playing on the TV. I'm scared. At least it's not English. I'm immune to maths. It doesn't affect me anymore. Whatever logorhythmic scale this American YouTube man is yapping about isn't making my face contort at all — it's like sorcery.

This could be a way of winding down. Maths. I'm calmer now. No changes of focus or narrowing of perspective. No pathetic fallacy or magical realism. Just messes of words that don't really make sense at all.

"'D'you want to watch TV? I can turn this off if you want." Robert has his thumb on the home button.

"Leave it on. I just need a moment."

He dubiously puts the remote back down. He yawns, stretching out his arms and leaning back. I hate it when boys do that. With his parted, manspreaded legs, adams apple bobbing, head rolled back. It's idiotic. Completely idiotic. He doesn't seem too intrigued by Mr American man. The video is a guy next to a whiteboard writing millions of brain-numbing equtions. Robert is nodding along. I think I'm going to cry. I don't know why I want to right now. My hip is actually starting to throb and ache. I look down at my jeans. There's a hole in them. There's blood. It's wet. I hadn't noticed before. It's properly pouring out blood.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I exclaim, hand pressing down onto the cut through my jeans.

Robert swiftly nears me. He's looking at me up and down, hands trying to find a place to move to. It's dark in the room. He reaches for the lamp switch. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"I'm bleeding. Jesus christ. That kills. Fuck me."

He passes me his jacket and says, "Apply some pressure." 

Then he runs out of the room. Fast as a plane. A man on a mission. Long curls dancing to the rhythm of his steps. Mr American man won't shut up about algebraic expressions. He's got a really bald head. Glimmering. 

Robert is back. He has bandages. I don't know where he got those from. Antiseptic wipes, plasters, sweets, even a cup of tea. He was only gone for about five seconds. How did he manage to get all of that? He hands me the cup of tea and sweets whilst asking, "What happened?"

"I walked into the island like an eejit. I'm so feckin' stupid."

"Just breathe, okay. You're not an eejit. I do that every day." 

I have to unzip my jeans to let him check the cut. Which is awkward, to say the least. He's looking at me like a doctor — not really caring about seeing my skin — but I'm still so shy around him. He sees me struggle with the button. He undoes it, fingers coming in contact with mine. They're slender. So very perfect for the bass guitar. Then he's unzipping my jeans. Only the tiniest bit. A mere centimetre of my knickers appear out of the top. Any more than that and I'd be flush as a tomato. I've always had a little crush on Robert. Being stuck with a really smart bass guitarist with the dreamiest eyes for three years is enough to make a person fall. The reason I've been avoiding him lately has been due to that fact. I don't want to make it obvious.

He finds the cut. It's bled through my knickers, making a big blot of dark red. He pulls down the waistband of my pants, prepared to wipe the wound. I have to grind my teeth together to prevent a sob from escaping me. I'm crying. Stressed and hurt and just wanting to dissolve into nothing. The cold draft of wind isn't improving the situation. If only there was no such thing as coursework and I couldn't glide my way through university like Robert. 

More and more blood. I think I might pass out. The blue-eyed boy is knelt down on the floor, knees biting into the carpet so that he can properly see where to put the bandage. 

"So how's English going?" He's not looking at me. Only at the wound. I don't think he's noticed that I'm crying. I don't want him to. I cover my face with bloody hands, accidentally smearing the metallic substance onto my nose. 

I don't know what to say. Do I tell him how much I regret picking it? Do I make this already awkward situation about ten times worse? I hate when people pity me. I hate when I feel like eyes are lingering for far too long when I cry. But when Robert looks at me, it's different. The pools of serenity circling his iris aren't looking down at me with a sort of aristocracy. That's how my English peers stare me down. No, instead, he's looking at me like there's a billion questions rushing across his forehead. He just needs to decide which one to ask. Or to simply say nothing. Like I am. We've both learnt how to cohabit in silence. To walk past eachother and ignore the feathers of conversation falling between us. We're busy. Always busy. Except for those perfect Monday mornings that I always look forward to. Especially the one time when he showed me around his favourite record store. He had asked me to choose him a record to buy. I walked through the entire shop, fingers shifting records, reading unfamiliar artist names. Then, I saw it, the — now bane of my existence — Hozier's 'unreal unearth'. He bought it. He'd told me he only really knew 'Take Me To Church'. I'd leant against the till as he paid and said, 'it'll change your life.' Then he'd locked himself in his room. Through the ever so thin walls — paper thin — I could hear each track hum into my room. I never got the chance to talk to him about the album. I think the thought of bringing it up made me feel sick — due to the English essay upstairs still waiting patiently to be finished.

Now there is an excuse. To talk. I'm injured. I don't want to move. He's still attempting to wrap a bandage over my stomach, then across my back until it's around my torso. I feel his fingers graze my skin with every subtle movement, along my spine, the small of my back, my abdomen, my hip bone. He's still looking at me. Searching. Like I'm a new island and he's an explorer trying to name me.

"What's up, sweetheart?" He finally talks again. His words are throaty, emananting from the pits of his throat. He's still wrapping, waiting for an answer.

"Just college. You know. It's killing me."

He shakes his head. "You're so smart."

"Says you."

He shakes his head. "Look, this might be a bit weird but sometimes when you leave random essays lying around or even creative writing. I read them. They're incredible. Your mind just works in such an interesting way."

I'm at a loss for words. He reads those? Those are usually just failed attempts that I toss aside. Scrap paper. Strange drawings. I don't even want to look at them.

"You get top grades in every test," I sigh. "I'm barely passing. I'm the worst in the class. My professors hate me, I've got so much work, I'm falling behind in every assignment—"

Then I'm properly crying. Sobbing. Breathing so heavily I think I might collapse. Heaving. Sniffling. Covering my face so he can't see me. I'm like a child. Pathetic. Stupid. Worthless. I was never good enough for Trinity. Why did they let me in?

Warm arms, press of skin. Just above the wound, over my chest, arms dig into my body, hugging me from behind. Head burrowing onto my shoulders, knees into the sofa. His lips ghost the back of my neck. Tears are falling down. He turns me around to face him. I hate how he's seeing me like this. My cries are usually saved for when he's out with friends or blasting music on his record player. He's never seen me this vulnerable, just utterly ripped into shreds by the hands of life. His scent is making me feel better, the tissue now on my cheek makes me feel better, the quiet words of 'breathe, let it all out, it's okay' make me feel better. He's calming me down. I start to forget what I was even crying about when I look into his eyes. This intense eye contact. Remembering his height. Even sat down, his torso is far longer than mine.

"I've got an idea," he murmurs, peeling his body away. I miss the warmth. I miss the touch. 

"What is it?"

"We should go somewhere. Get out for a bit. Say it's a 'mental health field trip'." He curls his fingers to accentuate the apostrophes."Maybe down to the Cliffs of Moher. When you're all healed up of course."

"Give me a week."

"A week? I'll be the judge of that." He raises an eyebrow, now tying up the bandage.

"Where did you learn all this?"

"I'm actually first aid trained. Did it in my first week of uni." He takes a deep breath, settles back onto the sofa. 

I take a sip of my tea. My eyes are surely blotchy and red. I bet there's mascara all over my face. "Thank you so much."

"No problem at all. Do you want to tell me what's going on? Is there any way I can help?" He's referring to my school work. "I was alright at English in high school. No where near as good as you are. But maybe another opinion might help you."

"I'm really stuck on a Hozier analysis."

"I never told you how much I love that album. It's perfect." His eyes glow like they do when he's talking about something he loves. Usually it's caused by talking about playing bass, but right now it's due to the beauty of Hozier's music. "I learned the bass line of De Selby part two."

"Show me. Now." I don't even ask. It's simply a demand. Anything to take my mind away from that cut still bleeding profusely. A little concert would be nice. Especially if said concert involves watching Robert play bass. I sometimes peek through the crack in the doorway to see him sat down on his bed, pick between his index and thumb, bass guitar on his lap, headphones over his ears. The pure concentration on his face is unparalleled. Notes thrum quietly through the room. He falls into any piece of music.

"Alright." He laughs at my enthusiasm. "Then I'll help with your English."

"Thanks." This is probably the most I've ever spoken to him. I'm mumbling each word, not wanting to look into his eyes.

He disappears once again. This time I hear the thudding footsteps over creaky floorboards. I hear a door squeak open, the faint patter of rain upon the ceiling, the quiet murmur of distant sirens as night blooms. It's tranquil. For a moment, I'm at peace. Until I remember the stack of unread books in my bedroom. I groan into my hands. Everything just keeps getting worse and worse and—

He's back. Not empty handed. Bass in one hand, Hozier lyrics and my pencil case in the other.

"I emailed your professor about the trip. I'm sure she'll be okay with it." He's off again. He comes through the door with his amp and lead. He plugs both in. 

"You're a life saver, Rob," I say.

He starts twisting around the knobs on the bass. Volume up. Then he's tuning. He smiles up at me. I think I'm staring. I think he can tell. His long fingers, tattoos, rings. It's all too much. My fingers are restlessly tapping the armrest. My legs are up on the coffee table. He pulls out his phone and plays the song. Then I'm lost in the music. His eyes are closed as he slides his fingers up and down the neck of the bass, as he stomps his feet down on the carpet to every drum beat. If only I could go back to the days I'd go to concerts every day. If only I could go back and see 'Inhaler' on a world tour, watch Robert from the crowd, completely in his element. Exhilarated, chanting, knowing every lyric like it's my mother tongue. Sometimes I wonder what life could've been like if the band had worked out. If the world did realise just how incredible they are. But, here, appreciating each pluck of every string, the grin as he watches me. I can't take that for granted. 

[cherlockgomes]

Saltburn: an ode to all the weirdos in Greek Mythology

If Anyone But You is a modern remake of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, then Saltburn is a clever culmination of elements from Greek Mythology. The film borrows imagery and symbolism from the island of Crete to hint at the underlying themes of ambition and the class system that mark the film.

In order to understand the references, you’d have to know about the minotaur, Icarus and the labyrinth. 

On the island of Crete lived another one of Zeus’ offspring ( honestly, at that point, who wasn’t one of his offspring). Minos, the king of Crete, is an objectively terrible dude, but to cut a long story short, he was supposed to sacrifice his prized bull to the sea god Poseidon but decided to keep it for himself instead. Now the gods just so happened to be the definition of petty bitches, so in the most Greek Mythological way possible, Poseidon cursed Minos’ wife to fall in love with the bull. Their torrid affair (yes, she slept with the bull) resulted in a monstrosity that is the Minotaur- half man, half bull, complete nightmare fuel. 

Minos commissioned Daedalus to make a complicated maze to trap the monster. Sacrifices were sent into the labyrinth to be killed. Among them was Theseus, who, with the aid of Minos’ daughter ( who fell madly in love with him), managed to be the first to escape after slaying the Minotaur. Minos needed a scapegoat to pin the blame on (there’s something about a ball of yarn, and as I said, Minos is just a terrible guy overall), so he turned to Daedalus. He then proceeded to have him and his son locked up in a tower that overlooked the Icarian sea (I don’t know why he was so upset- I’d kill for a tower away from everyone with the bonus of a sea view in this economy). Daedalus, being the incredible inventor that he was, fashioned two pairs of wings out of wax so that he and his son could escape. Drunk on freedom and fueled by the recklessness of one’s youth, his son Icarus paid no heed to his father’s warnings and aimed for the sun. The heat melted the wax, sending him plummeting to his death, much to his father’s dismay.

Ok, so now that you have a gist I can begin to explain how a story about beastialty and wax could find its way into a movie that possibly single-handedly increased bathtub sales. 

The story carries themes of bloodshed, cannibalism, imprisonment and fear. One can view the family as the people sent to die at the hands of the Minotaur, or in their case- Oliver—the seemingly random costumes and decorations, like the horns Oliver wears, further aid the parallels. The maze (or Labyrinth) holds a statue of the Minotaur in its centre, under whose gaze Felix falls into an early grave. The cannibalism aspect also gives a more suitable explanation for the infamous bathtub and vampire scenes.

Felix’s character alludes to that of Icarus: naive, reckless and the companion of a tragic fate. In a way that’s almost jarringly in-your-face, the party scene further brings out this parallel in the form of his seemingly low-effort costume. The golden wings stand out against the rest of Felix’s understated outfit, thus tying together the symbolism in a neat package.

Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[house-of-mirrors]

hastily scrawled warning note and exceptional shott story? :0

hastily scrawled warning note: if you could go back and change one decision you made in the game, what would it be?

I try not to think about these things because like, what's done is done. Whatever decision I made at the time was right for the time, and I didn't know what I do now/feel the way I do now in the past. Though once I did reset the Homecoming ES because I didn't like the ending I got.

That being said, I'd go back to that very old story "Plotting Against the Masters" and change the answer to "for the cause." Just a small thing.

exceptional short story: what exceptional stories, if any, would you consider canon for your oc(s)? if you haven’t played any, which ones do you think would fit them?

I only play exceptional stories with my main character Orsinio. In general, most ES would've been something he did on a random Thursday unless it was something I really didn't care for. I've also played uh, a lot of ES!

That being said: The Waltz that Moved the World; Cricket, Anyone?; Totentanz; Paisley; Noises from Upstairs; For All the Saints who from Their Labours Rest; The Bloody Wallpaper; Say it with Flowers; Fading to a Coda; Codename: Sugarplum; the Crocodile who Would be King (only for the nemesis mention); Queen of the Elephants; The Thing that Came in with the Fog; Adornment; The Icarian Cup; The 12:15 from Moloch Street; Homecoming, My Kingdom for a Pig; the Tempest; Cut with Moonlight; Lost in Reflections; the Calendar Code; Inheritance; A Bright Future; Where You and I Must Go; the Shallows; Crown of Thorns; Devil's Due; the Empress' Shadow, the Poisoner's Library, Dream of a Thousand Tails; the Mushroom's Dream; the Gift.

Ones I have unlocked but haven't yet played that seem promising: Por Una Cabeza or Stolen Stanzas

ask game here

[funky-writer-man]

saw this and was like ooh hope she tagged me in this...yes!!!!

I write: daily | most days | a few times a week | a few times a month | random, I could write a few days in a row and then not for months. Since writing it just a hobby for me, I don't have a strict schedule with it.

I write most often: when I first get up | later in the morning | afternoon | evening | the wee hours of the night | whenever. It might be the dislike of school in me, but I hate working at all until at least after lunch. Mornings and afternoons tend to be for chilling. I do vague planning and coming up with ideas whenever, though.

In one sitting, I tend to write: a few sentences at a time | a few hundred words | a few thousand words | a complete chapter/section no matter how long | an outline | whatever comes. If I'm having a good writing moment, I'll get a few hundred words in.

I tend to write scenes: in chronological order with no skipping | mostly in order but with some filler/skipping | whatever scene I feel like | who knows what’s gonna come out. I put mostly in order, just because that's how I used to always do it, like I wouldn't let myself do other stuff. But more recently I've been chill with it, so I picked that option.

The things that comes easiest to me are: dialogue | description of senses | description of action | description of characters | exposition | other. Dialogue is the one that I find the easiest to do, no matter what's going on. I could do pretty good description or exposition, but I tend to not be good when mixing two or more. But dialogue I'm solid at no matter what else is happening.

I tend to write: on a phone | on a laptop | in a notebook | on whatever paper I can find | with speech to text | in the blood of my enemies | it doesn’t really matter to me | on paper first and then typed up | old school typewriter | on a computer. The same as the scene order one, in that I used to do one thing, but now it's different. Before I had a laptop, I solely wrote on my phone. But I started associating just the idea of writing on my phone with writers block, so I only use my laptop now, which I definitely prefer.

When I take a break from writing, it usually lasts: a few days | a few weeks | a few months | it’s kind of random, but quite a while. I do other things though, like if we were judging how much creating FOR my writing I do, then I would be top of the class. But actual writing I do not that much.

My favorite thing to do when I’m on a writing break is: recharge with other creative hobbies | read/consume other media | do something physical | catch up with old friends | work on my WIP in other ways like with playlists or art (i like to do picrews for my characters) | other. I struggle with getting into media, but I do enjoy it, and plan to do it a lot.

In general, I think my writing habits are: pretty much what I need them to be | okay, but I’m working on making them better | non-existent | not great | i’m excited to develop them further | totally random | perfect for me, I used to be quite anxious constantly about if I was writing enough. I felt like if I didn't write soon, I was NEVER going to do it, so I needed to do it SOON. But I realised that just made creating stressful, and I couldn't get enjoyment out of it that way. It's so much more fun creating my little hypothetical characters and stories and worlds, and letting the actual writing come whenever it does.

Tagging :]] @transmasc-wizard @lower-ones-eyes @icarian-angel @the-raine-woods

writing habits tag

Tagged by @space-writes!

RULES: Bold or color the things that you relate to and then tag some people to play.

I write: daily | most days | a few times a week | a few times a month | random

I write most often: when I first get up | later in the morning | afternoon | evening | the wee hours of the night | whenever

In one sitting, I tend to write: a few sentences at a time | a few hundred words | a few thousand words | a complete chapter/ section no matter how long | an outline | whatever comes

I tend to write scenes: in chronological order with no skipping | mostly in order but with some filler/skipping | whatever scene I feel like | who knows what’s gonna come out

The things that comes easiest to me are: dialogue | description of senses | description of action | description of characters | exposition | other

I tend to write: on a phone | on a laptop | in a notebook | on whatever paper I can find | with speech to text | in the blood of my enemies | it doesn’t really matter to me | on paper first and then typed up | old school typewriter | on a computer

When I take a break from writing, it usually lasts: a few days | a few weeks | a few months | it’s kind of random

My favorite thing to do when I’m on a writing break is: recharge with other creative hobbies | read/consume other media | do something physical | catch up with old friends | work on my WIP in other ways like with playlists or art | other

In general, I think my writing habits are: pretty much what I need them to be | okay, but I’m working on making them better | non-existent | not great | i’m excited to develop them further | totally random | perfect for me

Gently tagging @e-klair, @cream-and-tea, @scroll-of-aves and @squarebracket-trick for this!

[sureivy]

is that HALSEY? no, that’s just IVY CALDER. SHE is TWENTY-FOUR years old and is an EMPLOYEE AT DON’T FRET & PAWS 4 LOVE. rumor has it they’ve been in town for FOUR MONTHS / TEN YEARS. on a good day, they’re CREATIVE & VERSATILE. but watch out! they can also be IRRESPONSIBLE & VOLATILE. TRIGGER BANG BY LILY ALLEN (FT. GIGGS) plays in my head whenever i think of them. can’t wait to see them around springhill!

hello my pals ! i’m amy ( 20 // est // she/her ) and i am super excited to be here! we also over here bringing back a fairly old muse (i,, apparently,, play her during election years,,) with a couple of tweaks, so we love that for me! also! pls forgive me if this is lowkey disorganized, we’ve been in and out of airports all day! can’t wait to contract that sexy corona!

QUICK FACTS:

full name: ivy rose calder

date of birth: may 2, 1995

*does not perfectly reflect the below big three zodiac chart because that’s too much math

zodiac big three: taurus sun, pisces moon, aquarius rising

gender & pronouns: cis woman & she/her

sexual orientation: bisexual ( preference for women bc we luv that for her but we also luv leaving things open to chemistry )

education: high school diploma

enneagram: 7w8?

mbti: enfp

moral alignment: chaotic neutral

positive traits: creative, versatile, passionate, compassionate

negative traits: irresponsible, volatile, impressionable, hedonistic

BACKGROUND INFO:

triggers: brief implied sexual abuse, suicide, a lot of death talk?, drug abuse ( desoxyn ), overdose

ivy lived the first eight years of her life in newark, nj. she had a mere family of three – her mother, a model-turned-stay-at-home-mom, her father, a politician, and herself. she was much closer to her mother, but she and her father were close at night.

when her mother finally found out about this, she wasted no time in taking ivy’s father’s side. what a good mom! instead, ya girl was already getting in touch with cps herself... but wow... it was gonna ruin his career in politics :\

“Now, one thing I lerned from Storys is, when something big is about to okur, a riter will go: Then it hapened! This tells the reeder: Get Reddy. Here I go: Then it hapened!” - fox 8

then it happened!

humiliated, clearly never getting a platform back, and absolutely bitter, ivy’s father killed himself before being sent to prison. 

Very Tragique™

ok. so. to distance themselves from the poor memories, but to save money, ivy and her mother moved to springhill, temporarily sharing ivy’s aunt’s apartment while her mother began collecting enough money to buy an apartment of their own and keep it.

during this time, ivy was seeing a lot of people and she didn’t know why! they asked questions about her mental health, but she didn’t know why! i mean, totally not traumatic, right?

yes. instead of managing communication well, she became very fascinated by the concept of death. she had many questions about it, she, a youth, had some extended conversations with clergymen about it –– she never killed any animals, god forbid, but she was absolutely fascinated when she ran across them.

SO CLEARLY THAT WAS ALSO TRYING TO BE DEALT WITH.

ok, i’m gonna skip ahead a little. now in teen years and still fascinated by death, but in a healthier way!, and no longer in therapy because... like... that costs a lot of money!

she dealt with it the best she could. became enamored with music... because why wouldn’t she? some covers here and there, some originals here and there, living that youtube lyf, but not expecting anything to come of it. just liked validation! mood!

she also dealt with it the worst she could! became enamored with drugs! naturally, it started out small. some weed, some lsd, some molly –– you know, just drugs that you don’t typically think of as addictive. although her grades suffered, it was harmless enough...

upon graduating high school, she figured... no college. instead, with barely any money to her name, she was like “i... will go to new york... and i will become famous.”

and she did! she did go to new york! she found a few sketchy places that didn’t charge much for a few nights as she began networking - both socially and “i would like to be known for music” (i literally just forgot the word for networking like..... employment wise.... y’all i’m so dumb). when she’d made some friends, she began crashing on couches that were not quite as sketchy! 

but :\ she did meet these friends in sketchy places :\ and they were like “ok here r some new and more addictive drugs for u to try!”

what she wound up abusing using the most was desoxyn. it kept her awake, it kept her focused, it even shed a few pounds to create an excellent figure! what wasn’t to love! 

i mean it’s literally a prescription methamphetamine,,, when abused,,, literally almost exact same effects as meth,,, but when meth mouth, skin lesions, acne, etc aren’t occurring as a side effect? who was she to care!

20, she released an actual ep with the help of a super cool friend who made everyone call him puppy mills! wow! things were excellent! it wasn’t necessarily seeing mainstream traction, but there was a decent enough following! enough to release an album at 22!

perfect timing, btw! desoxyn was starting to become too expensive for puppy to afford and trying to fake having such a severe form of adhd that desoxyn would be prescribed as opposed to something like ritalin or adderal when it’s literally illegal to prescribe in some countries now?? too hard :\ but the money from the album helped her and puppy!

*olaf vc* puppy died. *end vc*

she was there for it too. she thought it was just a freak-out, took a LITTLE too much, but not OVERDOSE worthy... then he l i t e r a l l y died. and it was a painful death!

“oh wow! maybe prescription meth isn’t super cool after all! shucks!” but that was also an opening?? to visit death herself?? like... she didn’t necessarily want to die (sort of), but she wanted... an answer to the question that had plagued her her entire life... so she was like “ok hope i die then someone revives me but if i die then :\ i guess i die!”

did not die. but also did not get a satisfying answer to her question. the only way it would’ve been truly satisfying? if she had been dead for longer than a minute - then it would’ve given a definite answer! because the answer she received was just nothingness which, while peaceful... is it true?

she tried to detox alone, what because rehab is a business, and it... only... sort of worked. she would be clean for a few weeks, then fall back in, then clean for a few weeks, then fall back in. whenever she wasn’t just naturally focused and awake, or whenever what she was focused on was the past, she would fall back in.

i mean, a side effect is memory loss, so win/win!

she made the semi-wise decision to move back to springhill. wisest would’ve been to just move to a town/city she had absolutely no memories in, but better than moving back to newark!

so... without much to show, and with an unreliable streak, she knew she wouldn’t be able to start looking for much of an occupation – but she still needed money! so she began working at don’t fret out of a love for music, then began working at the animal shelter after completing training.

the main training was, of course, for putting animals to sleep.

FULL CIRCLE.

ah yes. how she pretends it’s healthy... even tho there are studies and statistics relating suicide to veterinarians and shelter workers who euthanize animals... ah yes.

has been back for four months now. love that. do not know how to finish this.

TL ; DR:

born in newark. moved to springhill at 8. childhood trauma that she is still carrying causes fascination with death. “i love music.” moved to ny at 18 because realistic. childhood trauma also causes dependency on desoxyn. releases an ep and an album. does not become famous, but they both have decent traction. moves back after an overdose. relapses... often. now sells records and puts animals to sleep. miss american dream since she was 17, amirite?

PERSONALITY / MISCELLANEOUS INFO:

one person one week, a totally different person the next.

wants to please people, but also wants to be her own person? it’s a whole deal!

in spite of her slight icarian incident, she still hopes to maybe one day become a real musician and performer. until then, we selling records and saying ‘goodbye’ to sweet animals!

can truly flip like a switch in interactions! does love ruining things for herself! almost always feels bad after bc :\ damn :\ alright :\

i’m very bad at these sections i really hate that i always include them!

is still avoiding healthy coping mechanisms. love that for her.

favorite movie is, unironically, the bee movie. favorite horror movie is cats.

SO GOOD at memorizing random lines or trivia. could probably recite literally all of who’s afraid of virginia woolf? other than that?? her memory is so bad. hate drugs for that :\

she uses her hair to express herself! (that sounds really boring.) ...she uses her hair to express herself!

but no. seriously. wears the black shag weave the most, followed by the blue/yellow combo ( we stan the badlands aesthetic ). occasionally forays into other colors and styles when money permits, but it’s usually gonna be one of those two!!

was an envy on the coast stan in high school which makes an inappropriate amount of sense.

will go out and steal the dumbest shit when she’s drunk. has a history of stealing chickens.

once again: hate that i always include these!! feel free 2 j consult the personality parts in the quick facts!!

CONNECTION IDEAS:

ok we gonna list some general ones for right now! all are open to multiple people unless there’s an asterisk by it!

close friends –– moonie, teagan,

ride or die

childhood friends –– moonie,

bad influence ( mutual or her on them ) –– veronica ( mutual ),

good influence ( them on her ) –– presley, hayden, gabrielle,

exes ( can be from high school or something like that if based in springhill, can be from 20s in new york if based in new york )

fwb –– trent,

will they, won’t they –– presley,

someone who knew her music ( can be neutral, a fan of it, or hate it afhkjsl ) –– presley, moonie, teagan, indiana, 

will also possibly be sending in some wanted connections for things that are! more specific!

truly anything!! also up to brainstorm and/or look at yours if you have them!!

UPDATE: i have created a wc page so we luv that for me.

OK. like this or hmu if you’d like to plot!

[saigebeaumont]

- ̗̀ * ( robert sheehan + cismale + he/him ) have you seen ( benjamin ‘benjy’ magwitch ) walking around campus ? they are a ( twenty-three ) year old, studying ( political science ). we hear they are in ( rho pi rho ), and can be ( magnetic & irresponsible ), maybe it’s because they are a ( leo ). they sort of remind us of ( shiny red apples, walking on ledges, kaleidoscopes ), maybe we can find out more ! ( james + 19 + est + they/she ) *  ̖́-  + theatre/track

hi hello as u may have seen my name is james and this is my baby, benjy. i dont know how long this is going to get so pls bare with me

tw; fire? 

gen. info

full name: benjamin ‘benjy’ henry magwitch / joshua hollowood but u will never catch him actually using his real name tbqh

nickname(s): think of a random name. any century, any gender, any amount of letters or lack thereof. that’s it that’s his nickname. previous aliases that he has claimed to be are - thaddeus, balthazar, dante, romulus, etc., etc.

b.o.d. - july 31st, age 23

label(s): the icarian, the blackhole, the insouciant, etc. etc.

height: tall

hometown: ???

sexuality: chaotically bisexual

bio. info

let’s try and make this short n sweet

so like. y’know when a faerie steals a human baby and replaces it with it’s own, weaker, inferior baby? benjy is the human baby in this case

except they weren’t faeries

dorothea and fawley were two...somewhat, in love, folks--who had really wanted to have a child of their own. when they did, finally, have their child--he was very sickly and small and neither of them wanted their child to be weak goddammit

so they did a switcharoo, like...switched at birth except i’ve never ever seen switched at birth, and ran off with this extremely rich family’s newborn baby instead!

dorothea and fawley were part of a circus, and thus, lil benjy was raised in a circus !! how cute.

needless to say he was raised in a very nontraditional setting, like, homeboy was homeschooled bc they were literally always travelling, around the country and once or twice out of country.

despite that, he never doubted that his circus family didn’t love him or anything like ?? yeah he never called his ‘parents’ mom or dad, but that’s bc it was like...everyone was his parent.

dorothea and fawley told benjy that his name will never define him, and he could be anyone or anything he wants to be.

this caused a tiny benjy to be CONSTANTLY changing his name. like, almost everyday he’d just declare a new name and everybody in the circus would call him that specific name. even when he did acts, he’d go by a different name every single time

this carried onto adulthood and benjy still doesn’t tell people his real name very often. sometimes they’re sort of normal names n other times they’re fucking bizarre.

when he was seven he declared his name was ‘sock’ for an entire month.

grew up doing a buncha odd lil jobs and roles in the circus, from being a lil handyman like fawley to being a magician’s assistant like dorothea. t’was a lil tiny animal tamer (before the circus stopped using animals in their acts because we don’t stan circuses like that no we do NOT) at some point but reeeaaally liked tightrope walking and things as such

also tried his hand at fire-throwing/etc. etc. but the like eighteen (minor!) burn scars across his body will tell u that it was not for him and he gave it up to pursue knife throwing tricks and juggling

wasn’t rly ever around ppl his own age, also never had a smartphone before he was like eighteen or so--he’s not old fashioned but he can definitely be behind on the times

also grew up listening to primarily older rock/folk music/whatever the fuck music his family created/his own music

that being said benjy is good w a guitar but bitch cannot sing. he sounds like a dying frog.

he also did a bunch of petty theft but that’s bc some of the other folk in the circus did it and he was like huh. looks like fun. bc benjy is thoroughly an idiot but more on that later. so he got some shit on his record but he got them sealed when he turned 18, like, asap

but. benjy is a dumbass. he committed ANOTHER petty crime, because the boy has addictive qualities, and he left some dna evidence bc boy’s got some mf hair

surprisingly, it wasn’t through his records that they found him via his dna  but, rather, his real parents who did a whole ass dna kit thing for fun one day

this came as a shock to everybody involved, honestly, though tbh ? benjy didn’t care that much that he had parents who weren’t the circus, but that’s bc of his entire upbringing.

either way his birth parents wanted to like. y’know. meet their delinquent biological son and when they did they were like ‘woah woah woah wtf ur in a circus’ and he was like haha yeah

n that was...sort of it, for a while. benjy was 18, had his GED, n wasn’t planning on going to college at all.

the circus was still traveling, the world was all right, etc. etc, benjy maintained contact with his bio parents bc it was Polite to do

and then the circus burned down! somebody did a flaming knife trick when they weren’t supposed to and, long story short--the entire circus went up in flames. there were no victims, no worries, but their entire livelihood was gone and they were all effectively displaced.

when his Rich Biological Parents found out about benjy’s newfound predicament that he 100% was not responsible for whatsoever, they were like . . . . listen. we’ve got a Reputation to uphold, but we’ll send you to college.

he’s been here since he was like, 21, so he’s a junior i think ??

he’s majoring in political science but it’s like technically his first year as the major bc his freshmen yr he wanted to do anthropology and then he switched to mathematics and homeboy was nvr satisfied but now he thinks he wants to do smth w social welfare so he’s doing political science w theatre and public affairs as minors

personality

he’s got. a big personality

he’s got this sort of energy that attracts others but they don’t really know why bc holy shit benjy can be annoying

he’s just super intense ?? like the boy does not know how to calm down, he’s constantly moving around and being dramatic and sometimes whiny

pouts more than a person should averagely pouts

i wouldn’t call him a liar because he can be, very very blunt, and doesn’t know how to beat around the bush, but he likes telling half-truths simply to either confuse others or to just b a lil bitch tbh

he’s got big dumbass energy like okay he’s smart he just doesn’t apply himself very often and he just. does dumb things

gets into fights bc he’s a dumbass. like. he will purposely provoke ppl he doesn’t like, n when he’s drunk he’ll do it to literally anybody esp ppl he likes

also just. doesn’t know when to stop talking. can find ways to ramble about nothing, asks questions w the intent of being annoying, etc. etc.

his ~parents~ didn’t rly believe in modern medicine n they were just like ‘an apple a day keeps the doctor away!’ so he’s got this obsession w apples. literally is always chewing on an apple or a toothpick or anything he can get his hands on. he’s like a teething toddler, essentially

probably the dumbass who plays wonderwall at a party tbh

okay but fun fact! he’s super nimble and just. cat-like, from all his yrs of practicing n performing tightrope walking. if he falls over it’s because he wants to fall over and if he falls over it’s bc he wants ATTENTION

he loves. being the center of attention? but he’s also content with being in the background if it makes sense. he just wants to be doing something, anything

anyways he doesn’t take shit seriously at all like, i don’t think he’s ever had a serious conversation in his life ?

big slut for parties. he loves partying, he nvr knew he loved partying until he went to ucla but he loves it

he’s got an addictive personality so like okay. he’s not Addicted Addicted to anything specific (besides nicotine) but he definitely has no problem with drinking n doing drugs Often.

i mean he’s reckless too he never knows when to stop, feels like he’s tryn to be the Superior boy but he’s not and he’s probably overcompensating nowadays to deal w the guilt of accidentally burning down his entire life

drives cars too fast, drinks too much, has no problem getting into heavier drugs

also okay on a lighter note the boy used to be addicted to cigarettes bc he started fairly young but hoo boy he’s now on that juul game

literally he always has a juul on him. spends all his money on juuls

he works as a florist n a gardener for extra cash even tho his bio parents send him money, just bc its one of the only things that really calm him down tbh ??

also i meant it when i said he doesnt tell ppl his real name, like, ever. at least his first name bc he loves his last name but ? u probably dont know him as benjamin or even benjy, just smth stupid like marcellus the magnificent or booboo the fool hahahsdfgh

did i mention he casually juggles bc i genuinely cannot remember lmao

uuuhh there’s more i’m sure but !! i have a really bad memory!

i also dunno if im keeping his fc but we will SEE

he’s basically like....still a five yr old child

OH okay so i remembered smth else

he’s essentially a nomad which means he hates being rooted to ucla so he’s usually off drivin’ around the coast bc he’s bored goddammit but he always comes back bc he’s a loyal dog

speaking of loyal dogs. he’s got commitment issues. but not commitment issues? it’s sort of like. he gets really interested in things/people, kind of focuses all his energy on that thing or person, and then one day wakes up and is just. terribly bored. tends to drop ppl like that, esp relationships, and he doesn’t think much of it bc it’s Normal for him

but believe it or not, if u call him in the middle of the night he WILL show up, or if u wrong him instead of him wronging u, he’ll still b endlessly loyal

like he’s shitty but he’s got a heart ?

also like i said. he is chaotically bi. both chaotic and bisexual and also the two combined.

he’s chaotic neutral in general

wanted connections ?? possibly ??

frat bros - [hulk hogan voice] brother. he needs them

general friends ! - if u dont hate him then u just. love him, man. no inbetween

exes - he’s probably got...a few of these, because his attention span lasts like a max of two weeks

hookups - they also dont tend to last very long just bc of how he is as a person, but y’know. they good while they last

ex-hookups, specifically

ex-friends - bc he’s an idiot

if u really want to u can bring in a circus pal but firstly idk how they’d afford school but honestly. we can work smth out. hmu [kissy face]

roommate - do they hate each other ?? who knows

bad influence - they only egg on benjy’s dumbass behavior

good influence - probably forces him to study for once, or take care of his dumb ass

idk what to call it but like. ppl who HE eggs on to be bad, is generally toxic to the other person

anything else u want [another kissy face]

[ayellowbirds]

Seventh night of writing! At 12,600 words, the first week is done with the target beaten. 

i’m currently only able to work for 14 hours a week; donations to support this are welcome! Feel free to let me know when you’ve donated, I’ll see about including a tribute of some sort to you in the text of the story:

https://www.paypal.me/ayellowbirds

https://ko-fi.com/ayellowbirds

As always, keep track of the tag for updates!

(logo fonts are Bradley Gratis and Yiddishkeit Bold)

I really do appreciate everyone who reblogs or likes these posts. It’s been very encouraging to see this response, and i hope that i’m rewarding that interest with the kind of content you want to see! 

Click the Read More to continue, or click here for the previous part (now with corrected formatting), and here for the first part!

She noticed Eciurtal looked frustrated about something, though. Probably that she wasn’t paying attention.

“I’m sorry, I was thinking of…” V. tried to think of an appropriate lie, “...my last solo mission. Would you mind repeating that?”

Chief Nurse Eciurtal had the distinction of being half-Icosan, and half-Rastra—a far western nation that had, thus far, opposed Icarian rule. In particular, her parent had been from a population of the people of the land found in one of the largest Rastriyan ports, a notorious thief known only as Silver Dhanukkar. The special scandal of Firoza Ciurtal’s parentage was not her mixed heritage, but that nobody would admit to who was her mother and who was her father. Silver Dhanukkar’s gender was a mystery as great as anything else about the burglar, and whether they had borne a child by the eldest son of the noble Eciurtal family, or sired one on that same son’s twin sister, it was unknown. The Eciurtals were notoriously private, eccentric, and possessed of a strange code of pride that excused Firoza’s existence while at the same time keeping nearly everything about her life secret.

Perhaps that was the reason she was attached to the Corpse as Chief Nurse.

“I said that you need to remember to keep your emblem on you, or else you won’t resurrect,” she said to V., sighing as she rubbed her own, an abstracted likeness of a squirrel with its tail curling around its body.

“Oh, of course,” V. said, reaching into her collar to pull out the animal symbol she kept on a chain so tight it might as well have been a choker. She was used to it being there, in spite of never having liked it or wanted it, like so much else in her life. “I never forget it.”

ONCE AGAIN, TEN YEARS BEFORE THE PRESENT, I KNOW IT’S CONFUSING

“Again, after your emblem is cast, never forget to keep it on your person. These charms will contain a portion of the very same immortal essence as our beloved Emperor, his personal gift to you as members of his Corpse,” intoned the Witch General, lifting one of the small bars of metal that would soon be reshaped into the likeness of an animal through powerful sorcery. It was aluminum, a precious metal that itself required powerful magic to process from ores, and was ordinarily reserved as a possession of Icosans.

L. raised his hand.

“Yes?” the Witch General asked, barely glancing in L.’s direction at the far left of the assembly.

“What’s an emblem, anyway?” the small, pale boy asked.

The Witch General—whose name was a matter of national secrecy, and in fact was rumored to be regularly and according to randomized timing replaced by a new Witch General in order to further confound enemies of the state—opened his eyes wide. Even from the floor below the podium, V. could see that he was so regular a user of the medicinal compounds that even the whites of his eyes had a bluish tone to them. Nobody in the audience seemed to offer any more understanding than L. had.

Those eyes darted towards the assembled instructors, who coughed and shuffled as if they were children themselves, caught having neglected a chore.

The Witch General sighed, and began, “as your trainers ought to have informed you well before now, an emblem is a personal symbol of profound significance in the likeness of an animal, monstrous creature, mythical beast, plant, or on some occasions, a type of person recognized by trade or other category.”

He handed the tray of aluminum bars to an assistant at his side, and gestured grandly to a brooch on his breast. Suddenly, a phantasmal image grew from it, a large white bird with a black mask over an orange beak. “A mute swan, the symbol of the office of the Witch General of the Icarian Empire; as an appointee to this office, I have been assigned this as my official emblem, and shall surrender it for another in the event that I am retired.”

The bird began to gesture with its wings and move its long neck along with the Witch General as he continued, “it is perhaps more traditional that an emblem be assigned either in recognition of a great deed of the recipient, or else on the establishment of a family or clan; this is considered by some to be a tradition originating amongst the Amoric nations—”

Doctor Flastbic, the instructor in magical arts, coughed audibly into his palm. The Witch General gave a brief glance in his direction, before continuing. V. felt as though there was something a bit more dangerous in his expression, now.

“—there is no substantial evidence for this, and it is well-established as a practice original to the Icarian Empire in recognition of the virtues embodied by our citizenry. Most significantly,” he said, now leaning forward and and enunciating in an annoyingly deliberate manner that V. was certain was covering the podium with spittle on each hard consonant, “an assignment of an emblem that most accurately encapsulates the character and potential of an individual may allow them to effect greater works of magic by focusing on this image.”

There was some shuffling and half-murmuring from the crowd. Doctor Flastbic had only just begun to teach them more than elementary wizardry, after having spent a great deal of time on theoretical, historical, and cultural matters, with special emphasis on the flaws in foreign and Amoric magical practices. On top of supposedly making them immortal, this promise of the emblems was akin to an offer of bonus points on their assignments.

“Owing to the significance of this, and in recognition of your age and the degree to which you have advanced in your training,” the Witch General said over the rising noise, smirking as he saw his audience become excited at his words, the phantom swan puffing up its breast, “the Emperor himself has authorized me to determine suitable surnames for each of you, based upon the emblem you receive.”

The rising chatter turned to silence for just a beat before gasps and the like of “did he?”, “what?”, and “really?” began to break out like birdsong at dawn. V. was stunned. A surname assigned with the authorization of the imperial authorities meant full citizenship. It meant that they would not simply be orphan wards of the state, but would be able to own land, have influence in local governance and perhaps even become members of the lower house of the Parliamentary Congress, and make all kinds of purchases and conduct business that they had only dreamed of. Once they had retired from the Corpse, of course.

So it was that V. was half-dazed as the assignment began, the Witch General personally divining their emblems, starting in the first row with A.—a barn spider, and thus the surname Aranya, matching her letter-name. The aluminum bar rose in the air and turned into something like a spoked wheel, before the Witch General’s assistant threaded a fine chain through it and presented it to A.

So it continued with the rest of First Row. V. was at once in a fog, and paying close attention. R., the gray fox, Renar. K., a wild mare, got the name “Glesb” from the Witch General’s more guttural pronunciation of the letter as “Go” instead of the familiar “Ko”. Making two canines in the same row, C. got the coyote, Koyot.

It was starting to get V. excited. Ideas were forming about what kind of animal would be right.

Second Row was much the same. E. gave a considered nod as he was assigned the book scorpion, and given the translated surname Ekdish. Þ’s was a more supernatural creature, the little beast of the near-eastern timberlands that was called a Teakettler. P. was granted Palomba, her emblem taking the shape of a mourning dove. M.’s was a little black field ant, and so she became M. Murashke.

Maybe something more monstrous, then, or magical? No, V. had a pretty good idea.

In the Third Row, O. was given the name Onza, after the Witch General identified her with the oddly vague “catamount”, without specifying which of the several animals that name described was her emblem. H. was named Hayfish, after being divined to have the tiger shark as his emblem. F. became Ferdbin, for the yellowjacket, while D. was identified with the razorbacks of the hill country, and was named Djavali.

V. was practically ready to say the animal’s name aloud along with the Witch General, but it wouldn’t do to interrupt. Especially not now that the Fourth Row’s turn had come, and—V. couldn’t understand it. That couldn’t be right.

The little metal charm was dropped into V.’s hands, and a name was assigned based on the animal in question. As B. was brought over, V. continued to mouth the name of what was most certainly the right animal, the correct emblem.

For whatever reason, the Witch General had given all of them names from the languages of the people of the land. Flastbic had been growing more and more clearly frustrated the entire time, and V. was dimly aware that the old wizard was now in the corner having a coughing fit.

It would have made sense—the Witch General had even pronounced V.’s name as the “vuht” that rang more true than the usual Icosan accent. But, why that animal? It just seemed so obvious, after all. They had even just been reviewing recent papers on the right one in their natural history studies.

Why not a wolf?

...and why did V. feel more comfortable naming that “Velfikhe”* instead of the masculine “Volf”?

* She-Wolf.

[tferins-blog]

woah sorry i’m late fam, it’s not my fault tho, i walked here. anyway ! i’m m and i’m straight up dying out here in the cst. i think my brain broke when i applied bc not only did i expose this bish to the nth degree by putting her middle name in the app ( how extra ) but ..... i def didn’t hit send when i first thought i sent it. i’m a disaster. anywayx2 i’ll put a little bit about little miss sunshine under the cut and all you gotta do is smash that little heart button and i’ll come to you for all of the plots

 DANIELLE CAMPBELL. — OH, HAVE YOU MET ERIN TAYLOR O’SHEA? SHE IS A TWENTY-TWO YEAR OLD CISFEMALE THAT IS FEELING DUBIOUS ABOUT THE PLANET’S IMMINENT DOOM. A BARTENDER, THIS AQUARIUS IS KNOWN AROUND TOWN AS THE ICARIAN, BECAUSE SHE IS COMPELLING & EFFERVESCENT, AS WELL AS SARDONIC & AUDACIOUS. HOPEFULLY, ERIN WILL SURVIVE. 

so this little spitfire is erin. your mildly unfriendly neighborhood bar wench.

she’s kind of a mess but not like….a hot mess. more like when your mom walks in your room and there’s like a sweatshirt on the ground and your sock drawer is open and shes like omg your room looks like it got hit by a tornado.

very headstrong. does not like rules.

she’s adopted bc her mom is dead and her dad is basically incarcerated sort of. it’s not something she like……advertises so i’m not going to go into deets here unless we determine it’s something your character would know about. ( sue me, i’m lazy )

all i’m gonna say is she went into therapy at a young age and as far as she’s concerned she doesn’t have any residual effects from it.

her dad’s best friend and his wife adopted her at seven and as far as everyone in the world is concerned they’re her parents.

she absolutely loves them ( me ? writing a muse who has a happy family ? the apocalypse must really be happening )

dad is former military. runs his own security company now and is lk scary af. def made sure erin knows how to handle herself. she might be like two feet tall but probably knows 12 ways to kill you with a spoon okay. and her mom is a high school guidance counselor.

spent her primitive years moving around a lot because of her dad’s job.

ended up in hawley about 5 years ago when she got into the university of scranton ( pre-med major. what a nerd. ) 

told herself she was not going to be that cliche girl who goes to school and falls in love and ruins her life but HAH, life is a real bitch like that. it was not the best relationship tbh, pretty dang toxic and her parents were not fans of him. (( oh hey look a connection. peep this for inspo if you wanna fill it ) actually that’s.... a bit extra ..... but it still makes me cry tears of blood every time i read it )

as most young love sob stories go, she ended up pregnant but ( probably ) never told him. took a random gap year in the middle of her college education to take off with her best friend. mostly bc she didn’t want her parents to know about the baby but also partly because she was just having one of those fuck it moments.

gave the baby up for adoption, obviously. you will not catch her doting around a toddler at the bar.

an odd combination of wine mom and vodka aunt.

she’s very tell it like it is, in your face. if you’re telling her your sob story over your seventh whiskey and coke she’s probably going to tell you to switch to well drinks before you go fucking broke.

wasn’t ever perfect but she used to be a pretty good kid. just kind of hit college and got a bit more free spirited and after the bad luck pregnancy she was like lol, ima do what i want. yolo.

part time pot baker. ( harry vc: i used to be a baker ) but seriously try the cupcakes.

if her parents wouldn’t have a stroke and die her life goal would literally be to own a food truck where everything has pot in it.

the paula deen of pot.

full time karaoke junkie.

likes the sad eyes, bad guys, mouth full of white lies.

has a little hedgehog named harvey. ( needs a roommate tho. )

as far as the apocalypse she’s kinda doubtful of it. like she’s heard the world was ending about a million times at this point and she’s pretty much walking around like jesus take the wheel.

relatively nice, just if you’re being a fucking idiot she’s going to tell you you’re being a fucking idiot.

comparatively she’s a lot like max from 2 broke girls, an odd combo of all the girls from friends, and robyn from himym. all my favs mixed into one little hurricane tbh.

i’ll stop rambling now but if you wanna plot just hmu or like this and i’ll come to you. :)

[ayellowbirds]

on the Deities of Qarqa

The recent bit of side story was the first time I overtly named any of the deities the people of the land worship. This was because, while Cypora’s Guide to Becoming an Evil Queen is a story based in Jewish folklore and culture, I didn’t want religion to be the focus of the first novel. My background is super agnostic (comes from being from Commie stock, yanno), and my sense of Jewishness isn’t informed by devotion to G-d.

So, neither is the world i’ve devised. 

The people of the land are a people of a covenant, yes: their ancestors swore to honor no one god above all others. Some interpret this more conservatively than others, and there are those who devote their lives to learning of even the most minor, obscure deities in order to offer proper attention to them. There are endless debates about how this relates to the monotheistic Icosan religion of the Icarian Empire, and at what point something counts as honoring one above all others. Many make the argument that the covenant applies to the people of the land as a whole, and individuals may have a patron deity, and so forth.

A list of but a small number of prominent deities follows:

Avzaman/haShantah Epoch-Father/The Year

The tireless embodiment of the passage of time, god of mortality, aging, and renewal. Turner of the wheel of the five seasons, who is also the feminine embodiment of the year, a relaxed and contented figure bearing great tusks. Both aspects and forms are one and the same being, even when appearing separately and acting in opposition to each other. In leap years, Avzaman rests while haShantah labors, and it is said by some that her work in these years is greater and more productive than Avzaman’s in all others together. Avzaman’s tusks point downwards into his bear, like a walrus, while haShantah’s rise upwards, like those of a hog or mammoth.

Baal’apar Lord Dust

Else called Al Bey, the fertile and barren earth, embodiment of useful soil and the act of creation and the work of art. A golem who became a living human before there was history or words, and the first to be killed at another’s hands. Achingly, horribly handsome, at all times not yet living, living, and deceased, or else according to the season.

Baal Tsachor The Strange Moon

Patron of loups-garous, bandits, outcasts and the disabled. The moon of loneliness, said to appear as a man with a full bosom, skin of a deeper black than any human, and hair of silver. The embodiment of those nights when the moon howls back, and the god of deep, dark nights where the moon hangs high. He is enjoying tormenting the Icosans.

Chamah Queen of Locusts

A goddess of the sun, especially at its highest, hottest times. She is heavily associated with the droning of cicadas during the hottest months of summer, and is a goddess of both life and death, illness and abundance. The final, ultimate judge above all others.

Choiot Life/Serpents

Choiot is said to be eighteen-handed, though whether this means on a single form or as nine figures with two hands each depends upon who you ask. The goddess embodying life as a force, she is prayed to for health, fertility, safe birth, long life, bountiful crops, and many other things. Her form is an interwoven mix of humans and snakes.

haGevurah The Lady

Embodiment of random chance, the most beloved and loathed of deities, said by some to be the one whom to you must not pray, and by others to be the most rewarding. Golden and shadowed, in the likeness of a shedah.

El Guerko Yunus Devil of the Deep Sea

A god feared among sailors, the ruler of the bottom of the parts of the ocean too deep and dark for any human to swim to and survive. A vast, shaggy entity with eyes like two great lights, he is both dreaded and somewhat esteemed as a companion, and some rare prayers speak of him favorably. He is at once a god, a haint, and a se’ir, a capricious dybbuk who can be of impossible size or tiny enough to squeeze into the smallest canoe.

Imatevah Mother Nature

The embodiment of the natural world and of uncorrupted green spaces, as well as the reclamation of ruins and urban space by nature. Equally gentle and terrible, she is said to often appear as no less than twice the stature of any human. 

Layli Night

Red-skinned, dark-eyed goddess embodying the dark hours, as well as the lights set against the darkness. Hers are the screech owls, and she shelters all in a warm blanket or a cool sheet. Beautiful and awful, her teeth are brown with blood.

L’vanah The Birch-White Moon

The moon of mystery and the illuminatrix of dark nights, the weaver of the tides and the snarer of the Icosans who keeps them trapped away from the world. A special patron of women regardless of the circumstances of their birth. 

Malkath Ha’Shamayim The Queen of Heaven

A goddess of love, war, royalty, family, the sky, livestock and plants. At once the bride, the mother, the maiden, the matron. Many-faceted, many-winged, her nature is both deeply personal and ultimately unknowable.

Q’dushah Holy One

The first thing in all of time to die, and the embodiment of death as a force. Q’dusha is said to have a true name, but it is never to be spoken amongst the living. She appears as a lion-headed woman whose hands and arms are made up with henna, and whose nails and teeth are as sickles. A patron of those whose love is forbidden or secret, and a protector of victims of sexual assault, she is followed by a band of twenty-eight bloody-mouthed beasts.

General Yodlebeymer He of Fir-Frost

A god of winter chill whose breath marks windows around the world, especially known in the north. Once simply known as Yodlebeymer, he became involved in the campaigns of the outlanders to battle the Icarian Empire, often riding out in all his terrible white-haired might astride a bull moose, and rose to an esteemed military rank.

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