#just is creepy in general | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nevesmose · 11 months ago

Text

Coveting

Trazyn/Clone!Fulgrim requested by @chemos-factories (first time writing these two so drawing a lot of inspiration from your fics)

It's natural to play games with things you own.

Today's entertainment was an old favourite of theirs, and a way for Fulgrim to show off the knowledge he'd gained. Fulgrim loved nothing more than to show off.

"And here we see a typical cabinet of curiosities," he said, leading the way into the wide, marble-floored hall dotted with exhibit cases that formed a space so stereotypically like a museum as Fulgrim understood the term that, to an outsider, it would have verged on parody.

A strictly delimited playhouse, everything arranged just so and built to perfectly suit the superhuman build of the Primarch who was not a Primarch, in which Fulgrim had free rein to explore and learn as he wished.

Ancient scientists had done such things with rats in mazes once.

"They are also called wonder-cabinets," Fulgrim continued, eager to share his knowledge with his visitor. He was suitably attired in purple silks, and delicate gold bangles shifted on his wrists as he gestured to the object in front of them.

"Although the gathering of disparate objects and artefacts has no real scholarly intent or value, they represent an important step in the development of Old Earth's versions of museums as we would know them."

"How fascinating," Trazyn said, playing his role of distinguished guest to perfection.

"I think so too," Fulgrim answered. "And although the exhibit appears to be fully authentic to its ancient origins, further inspection reveals that the curator has included a number of deliberate anachronisms."

"Deliberate, you say?"

"Yes. To reward the attentive viewer for his study. For example, in the centre, beside a truly ancient specimen of monodon monoceros tusk, we can see a comparatively much more recent piece. A bust of an unknown subject by the remebrancer Delafour."

"Oh, how intriguing." Trazyn leaned closer, as though seeing the sculpture for the first time. "May I touch it?"

"My deepest apologies, honoured guest," Fulgrim replied, "but these objects are too fragile to touch. Lord Trazyn forbids it."

Trazyn stood back with a gesture of mock offence. "But I am, as you say, an honoured guest," he said. "Surely there's something here I can touch?"

The script being old didn't make the play any less entertaining.

Fulgrim hesitated for a moment. "The fragile objects are forbidden, but... I am not, honoured guest."

Sometimes he remembered that he had been something else, once. A being created for a very different purpose. But remembering brought pain and after so much time among Trazyn's other possessions it was infinitely easier to let go, to drift into the comfortable haze of being simply one more pliant, complaisant object to be arranged alongside many others. And so he did.

"A most agreeable solution," Trazyn said, radiating satisfaction as he moved closer to Fulgrim. "Shall we continue?"

The Archaeovist's hand settled comfortably in the small of Fulgrim's back and directed him onwards through an ornate archway with a subtle application of strength.

"Of course, honoured guest. We now enter the gallery of Terran dolls."

"Oh, how appropriate."

They halted in front of a tall, glass-fronted display case containing a multitude of dolls with painted ceramic faces and wigs of genuine human hair.

"In this exhibit," Fulgrim said, "we see every surviving product of the warrior and artisan Jean-Andoche Juneau, a toymaker from ancient Franc. The effort required to gather them here must have been vast."

"It was," Trazyn said. "Put your hands on the glass."

Fulgrim obeyed, bending gracefully at the waist to lean forward and place his palms flat on the cold surface. The dolls in their serried ranks smiled vacantly up at him.

"Good. Look only at yourself."

He locked his gaze onto his own face reflected in the glass, reducing Trazyn to a blurred outline as the Overlord of Solemnace moved behind him.

"Every object has a purpose, does it not?" Trazyn asked.

Fulgrim swallowed dryly as the Archaeovist's hand began to stroke languidly up and down his back. "I would agree, honoured guest."

"And, having acquired a truly beautiful, precious object, would it not be shameful for me to deprive it of its purpose?"

Necrodermis fingers glided up over the back of Fulgrim's neck and into his hair, stroking through it with intermixed possessiveness and reverence. He was intensely aware of how easy it would be for Trazyn to grab it if he wanted to.

"What is the purpose of a doll, Fulgrim?"

"To be looked at," he replied quietly. "To be dressed and posed as its owner pleases."

"And above all?"

"To be played with."

As all pretence fell away and Trazyn began to explore and claim his body in earnest, Fulgrim kept his focus on his own reflection as he had been ordered to and saw exactly what his owner wished him to see - himself in the glass as simply one more doll arranged among a thousand others. He matched their placid, vacant smiles with his own and felt nothing but happiness.

#trazyn x clone!fulgrim #request #neves writes #something about clonegrim being his special dress up doll just hits in a very satisfying way #trazyn the infinitely smug #“And then I railed him senseless in front of a thousand creepy dolls Orikan. Just to fuck him up even more. It was amazing Orikan.”#trazyn the infinite #clone!fulgrim #a rare triple ancient terran history joke btw: Juneau is the place in Alaska and Jumeau was a company that made bisque dolls #and Jean-Andoche Junot was a general in the Napoleonic Wars. couldn't resist going for a triple #wh40k #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #request fill

55 notes · View notes

wordpress-blaze-13004815 · 3 hours ago

Text

Back to some beginnings.

Meanwhile, the garden grows. And though I obsess each day in hours spent digging, watering, transplanting, tending, weeding and seeding, the magic that makes it grow humbles me. I think it is that sense of humility and wonder that drives some of us to toil endlessly over things growing in the dirt, when going to a grocery store would be so much easier.

End of the day I sit on the swing above the garden while dogs and wind chimes joyously play, noting that the grass needs mowing, the horses feet are in need of a trim as are my fingernails embedded with black from the soil where my hands are digging deep, and a good kind of tired eases into me, over me, down to my bones.

A break from sawdust and gear grease, in this season of chartreuse in the sun, and in the shade a shamrock green, I keep busy keeping the homestead going, getting irrigation up for the season, brushing the horses and dogs all of which are losing their winter coats, repairing broken pipes, and endless entertainment provided for free by the latest batch of chicks born just before Easter.

I sit here at the computer beginning and end of each day, a little sore and sunburned from earlier or the day before, searching my soul for a creative outpouring to share with you, inspire you, or maybe make you laugh. But tonight it feels more like just sitting there beside you in our tiredness, maybe in a comfortable silence, feet up and heads back and a smile upon our lips. That's how it is in high spring. I think you feel that too.

As my fingers pause above the keyboard, hoovering, awaiting the moment to descend, I wonder what can I share beyond the view, the sounds, the scents, the seasons, and somedays that feels like enough.

And so I write, as I have done over ten thousand days before this one.

Just to write.

What's the point, I question?

Just to write.

To hone my craft creatively. And share my words courageously.

It may not seem like much, but sometimes I feel it's all I have to give.

What else can I do to contribute and connect?

Do we ever really know?

But what we can always do is try.

So I try and write, and hope that what I share may be well received.

I returned to blogging for the creative outlet. I told you I'd focus on alternative building, off grid being and slow living. Funny I find myself sharing more about what's in my head or the view before me.

A quiet life.

A quiet voice.

A life with time and space to listen.

I never felt as lonely as in a big city surrounded by so many.

So much noise, I could not hear.

So many voices, I could not be heard.

Solace was found in wide and wild, open space and emptiness.

I wish to live with the sound of rushing waters and robins early morning, the redwing in the willows and wind chimes keeping me company on breezy afternoons, the evening shrill of frogs and crickets or endless silence and stillness as you star up into the stars.

These are the sounds I wish to hear, above the mindless chatter and seemingly senseless cacophony bombarding from big loud places.

And at the same time I know that this silence can be uncomfortable for many, maybe even most, like sitting across from someone at a table and finding yourself stuck in that awkward pause that silence so often can be.

youtube

When I first started building and living off grid over thirty years ago, I don't think we used the term "off grid." It was more like "un grid." It wasn't about living without dependency upon public utilities. It was simply living. "Without" was a part of it by necessity, not choice. Most of us were just trying to get away, be away, or trying to make do, and that was what we could do.

We were an odd sort back then. (Maybe we still are.)

There was old man Brinker, a WWII vet and eclectic artist who would take me to the coffee shops by the galleries of Taos or Canyon Road. He'd offer black coffee to my two year old son and chain smoke cigarettes in his old red Ford, smiling at and waving to young low riders that would raise their hands cussing us because he drove so slow.

There was Tim the goat man who'd pop up half clad in the wild sage bush when and where you'd least expect, with wide eyes and disheveled hair, looking around saying, "Seen my goats?"

There was the Mama Cass mama with long flowing floral skirts and a big booming voice that would hug you so tight you'd find yourself lost in her abundant bosom.

There were potential relationships that never would be with the bad ass biker, the grizzled cowboy and the spanish outlaw with scars on his legs inviting me to go into the firewood business with him. Alas, back then, my baby was the only man I had eyes for. My hands and heart were kept full.

There were the women's women who taught me about women's circles and full moon drummings and wild women collectives, permaculture, hand suede stuccoing, and killing rattlers that loomed in the lumber piles where my child played.

Then, we called our world "alternative." Choosing to build, live and be outside the box. Not a part of the system. None of the above.

Building a straw bale shack myself with a baby on my back wasn't a choice based on lack of trust in the system or wishing for more independence or feeling it was a "greener" way of living. It was a choice born from necessity. It was all I could afford.

Don't get me wrong. That didn't mean I felt lacking. Though there certainly were thing I was longing for, like stability, security and connection, and even a little cash to get a full tank of gas, I loved the simplicity, being closer to the earth, and doing it myself. Whatever it was. Or have the community kick in, and in kind, be there for them when it was their turn.

There was excitement, pride, and respect for the naturalness, plainness, and directness that simplicity allows. It was a time and space comprised of a group of folks out there doing the same thing. So there was camaraderie. It wasn't about outdoing the Jones. It was about helping the Jones' out. Knowing the Jones' needed it, and so did you. We'd roll up our sleeves and lift bales and spread stucco and share whatever building materials, seeds or groceries we had salvaging that could help another out.

So you see, it wasn't about intentionally living without. It was just about living. However we could.

Solid walls were an upgrade to a tent, and that's where my baby and dogs and I had been living before my first strawbale was built.

In those days, at least in my circle, there was no solar power, no running water, no building codes. Way down some dusty dirt roads, and a little outlaw, we hauled water. Used outhouses or a shovel in the shade behind a pinon tree. Foraged and dumpster dived not to be hip but because we were hungry. Used pay phones. Siphoned gas. My meager garden was kept alive by the water that first was used to bathe the baby and wash my clothes.

Now "off grid" often means living with all the comforts of "on grid," but with a sense of responsibility and independence. And that's great too.

But some times, an added element of simplicity can take you beyond "off grid" and back to the bare bones. And really, one way isn't right nor wrong. It's all just personal choice. And sometimes, just all that one can do.

Last week, a friend asked where our solar array was. He hadn't seen it at our homestead. It doesn't stick out. We have three little panels sitting on the roof of our garden shed. That's it. It was a small start up system we had set up back in Colorado and brought in the horse trailer as we traveled west. It was meant to be enough to charge power tools, devices, use limited satellite connectivity and maybe an occasional light. Enough to get us started. That was six years ago. It continues to be enough. I still prefer candles and gas lamps to the latest greatest LEDs.

I'm not saying this is "the" way. It's just our way. It works for me.

In light of that...

We spent the last several months downsizing our plans for the cabin we will be building this summer.

Over and over, we worked the plans out to be smaller and smaller. Not a trendy tiny house. Just a Little Cabin.

Less foot print. Less concrete. Less plumbing and electric (if at all to begin with).

And built with our trees, and our hands. A labor of love.

The smaller our plans got, the more simple our ideas became, the less stress we felt, and the lighter we became.

Simplicity is a temptation that entices me.

I may forever be lured by the fantasy of getting back on my horse and heading out, with nothing more than my pack horse can carry.

Just get on your horse and go.

Though the likelihood of me ever doing that again is slim. It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be.

The stress of forever seeking grass and water for the horses, slipping of steel shoes on hard pavement, sharing roads and camps with swarms of mormon crickets, roads with traffic and without safe shoulders to ride on, too many bears and not enough cell service to talk with my husband at the end of most days, forever fences and eternally locked gates and map apps that I never could quite figure, and feeling far more lonely than I ever wanted to be... I found simple is not always easy.

Staying home is easier. Turn the horses out in morning; call them in for the night. All the mowing, hoeing, weedwacking and watering is still easier than life on the road in today's not so wild Wild West with a culture primarily clueless to horses and blind to horse travel.

Sure, I think about it. Where and how I'd go. What I'd do differently next time. What else I'd take and what I could leave behind. Maybe I'd even try to convince my husband to go.

But that's a whole other story, another adventure I don't need to be thinking about now.

In fact, this week, I'm not even thinking about logs, sawdust, milling, cleaning slash and making one board and beam at a time, and the story we'll share of putting them all together.

Right now, my story is simply about preparing, planting, weeding and watering.

Watching the garden grow, one row at time, one breath at a time, one gentle wind at time, moving the oak leaves, tall late spring grass, wind chimes, the table cloth on the picnic table, and the refuse-to-be-contained wisp of hair that flutters across my smiling face.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Source: Back to some beginnings.

#Youtube

0 notes