#otherwise I'll be freezing my butt off in Wanderer cosplay

[hybridshadowz]

When is or when was the genshin concert??? 🫢🫢🫢

Hi! The NYC stop of the Genshin concert is on the 13th! They have a 2pm showing and another at 8pm. I managed to nab tickets for the 8pm one

[fridgemagnethusband]

Die Schöne und das Biest

Chapter Eight, Part 2: Silent Dogs, Still Waters

Hey y'all!!! Sorry for yet another late chapter!!!! (I expect to be updating more regularly once the con is over, but until then, I'll be workin' my lil butt off to get our cosplays done!!) Without further ado, here's part two of our previous chapter for those of you who are caught up, and here's our master post for those of you just finding us! Happy reading, buttercups ♡♡♡

Suggested Listening:

You pass the little path to your house without so much as a glance in its direction, deciding your emotions had run high enough for one day. You continue towards the reservoir path, allowing your feet to guide you as your mind wanders. Silent dogs? You try to recall the last time you saw a dog, without success. Most of the villagers had barely had enough resources to take care of themselves, let alone a dog. The cats were useful enough, napping on the roofs of the little houses by day and catching the stray mice and insects by night. But a dog? A dog could only serve to get eaten here.

Despite the rain’s temporary truce, the air is still pregnant with a corpse-cold moisture, and your eyes scan the sky for a nonexistent break in the clouds. Lightning flares behind you and a resounding crack of thunder rolls overhead in reply, the subsequently charged atmosphere playing the hairs on your flesh like a theremin. Still waters? The reservoir seethes below you as you cross over the sluice, frenzied water bludgeoning the bridge as though enraged by the earlier storm. The swells lurch out towards the drowned houses, crashing into them with contempt as the rain picks up again.

You disentangle your mind from the thought in time to greet the wilder part of the forest. The knurled boughs of the old trees sweep low as if bowing at your arrival. Their leaves, too, were aflame with the colors of autumn. You’re not sure why you expected otherwise, but you smile and drag the age-old incense of petrichor into your lungs as you allow the titian weald to swallow you. The canopy overhead protects you from the storm raging outside, allowing only the occasional raindrop to plummet down to meet you as you pass through. With no birdsong to split the silence this time, you give yourself over to the capricious rhythm of the rain and absentmindedly hum one of last night's songs as you waltz deeper in.

—

You’re not sure how long you’ve been walking for when the crack of a stick cracking underfoot jolts you out of your reverie. You freeze in place, training your eyes on a bear in the distance. Dark fur hangs from its hulking form in lank, greasy tendrils which swing pendulum-like as it lumbers through the underbrush. Dread floods through you and settles in the pit of your stomach as the sounds of bone splintering underneath the force of its bite resound across the space. You watch the crimson viscera dangling from its elongated jaw with revulsion and try to back away from the creature, but terror maintains its iron grip on your limbs.

It throws its head back to snap up the rest of its prey with a gruesome finality before licking its muzzle and jagged teeth clean of any remaining gore. Another pang of fear spikes in your stomach as it lifts its snout to the air, head swiveling in your direction. It locks onto you with that precision known only to beasts of prey, its eyes snapping open.

You finally manage to take a step back as you meet its tundra-cold gaze. It bares its teeth at you, further wrinkling its already disfigured snout, and a guttural growl builds in its chest as it slowly advances towards you. It exits the brush, exposing its abnormally long limbs and dirty, curved claws. You take another step back, arms flailing as you stumble over the gnarled roots of the tree behind you. You frantically search the forest floor for the best makeshift weapon you can find, eyes never leaving the beast’s, when your fist closes around a sharp rock. Your fear fully eclipses rational thought as your mounting panic races through your bloodstream, and you try to sink further into the tree as you scramble back to your feet, the rough bark barely registering as it digs into the clammy skin of your arms. Hand trembling and heart pounding, you raise the stone as your only means of self-defense. This thing would make short work of you, but you weren’t going down without some sort of fight.

Both the beast and its growling come to a sudden stop in the middle of the path when something akin to recognition flashes across its unnervingly pale eyes. It closes its mouth and lowers its body until it’s nearly touching the ground, and you frantically look behind you, afraid that something even bigger has come along. When you don’t see anything, your eyes dart back to the beast, who had now ceased to look at you entirely.

Your more rational sense of self-preservation finally seizes you and you cautiously skirt the beast, beginning to slowly back away from it. You half-expect it to leap up and chase after you, but it doesn’t so much as twitch as you recede from it. When you feel like you’ve put enough distance between the two of you, you turn your back on it and run, mind going blank as your heart and feet frantically beat in time.

You spot the clearing with the weathered signpost in the distance, and your run slows to a trot before you collapse at the base of the marker. Hot tears flow down your face in an unbroken stream as you choke down ragged breaths.

What the fuck was that thing?

You could confidently say you had never seen anything like it. It had been too large to be a wolf, but too small to be a bear. Its cold eyes were wilder and more fearsome than anything than you had ever seen, but even still, there had been a certain amount of humanness behind them. Could this be what was attacking the villagers? Eating their livestock? Not caring about the damp, you rest your back against the signpost and try to rein in your breathing as you roughly wipe the tears from your cheeks with the backs of your hands. You turn them over to inspect your scraped palms, their stinging to helping to tether you back to reality.

Crying about it isn’t going to keep me from getting eaten by whatever the hell that was.

You squint down the path, watching for any signs of movement. When you’re fairly certain no monsters are going to come bounding at you from out of the forest, you pick yourself up off the ground, stabilizing yourself against the post.

“What is with today?” you growl in frustration.

I should just go back to the factory. But what if it follows me and gets the animals? You worry your lip between your teeth, looking down the path leading to the stable block. That thing would have no problem swallowing the chickens whole, and you shudder to think about what it would do to the horses.  And who knows how often Heisenberg has these meetings anyhow? Your eyes flicker between the two paths, lingering on the leftmost. Of course, you weren’t unaware of the fact that your curiosity had a funny habit of routinely trumping your fear, you just didn’t care enough to do anything about it. The mystery of what lies beyond had been heavy on your mind since you first came this way, and you weren’t sure when your next opportunity to explore it would come.

Not like today can get much worse anyhow. I’ll just have a quick peek, and if I don’t see anything, I’ll head back.

You warily start down the unfamiliar lane and relax slightly when you note the return of birdsong. Either side of the overgrown trail begins to rise until it bleeds into a pass, the narrowing footpath now winding between two steep, rocky walls. They tower over you until you can’t see anything but the heavy clouds overhead, and you travel through the gorge for some time, wondering if or when you’ll be released from this twisting stone corridor when a dull roar begins to grow in your ears.

You round the next bend, stepping into a small, rocky clearing. Water cascades down the craggy mountain face and falls into the pool below, causing a spray of fragrant mist to tinge the air. You breathe it in as you lean over the side of the clear pond to rinse the remaining debris off your hands, and you meet your tired reflection. Your eyes were red and puffy from today’s tears, and stray bits of hair sprouted from the hood of your cloak. You tuck them back into place, silently grateful that Heisenberg wouldn’t see you in this state when your reflection on the surface is broken. Your eyes follow the offending fish as it glides through the water. Its golden scales glitter even in the dim sunlight, and you suck your teeth in disappointment, wishing you’d thought to bring your fishing pole.

You continue down the winding path a bit longer and the pass opens back up, giving way to a sea of mostly yellow wildflowers instead. Indigo stalks of wolfsbane wave above them all as if to beckon you towards your final destination, and you follow their whimsical directions until you spot a small, derelict cottage in the distance. If not for the other small signs of life that clung to it, you’re not sure you’d have been able to make it out underneath the rambling rose bushes scaling its stone exterior. A lantern swinging noiselessly from an overhang, a toppled stack of moss-covered firewood, a weathered bench in a state of neglect. A sudden gust carries the spicy-sweet scent of the roses through the copse of trees and their perfume gently tugs at the loose threads of a bygone memory.

Wading through the surrounding shrubs, you catch a cluster of berries bobbing in the wind and smash a few of their small, violet-black bodies. Elderberries. You trail your fingers over the blush pink petals of the roses as you approach the front door, staining them the same brazen color as your fingertips, and rap your knuckles on the splintered door a few times. When nobody answers, you try the brass handle, unsurprised to find it locked.

You shuffle over to one of the dirty windows and attempt to peer in, but can’t make anything out through the tattered curtains. You half-heartedly try to open the window, expecting it to be locked as well and are shocked when it lurches upwards. You part the curtains to look in, but still can’t make out much in the waning sunlight.

Well, breaking into a stranger’s house wasn’t exactly on my to-do list today, but I can’t imagine anyone will mind, you speculate, dragging your finger through a thick layer of grime that had collected on the windowsill. You grab the bench and drag it over to the window, half-shimmying through before blindly reaching towards the doorknob. Your fiddle with what feels like the lock when you hear an affirmative click, and wriggle back out of the little window to try the door again.

This time the door swings open and the fettered sunlight finally stretches across the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the musty air. Loose papers stir in protest of the draft you’ve created and you quickly throw open the remaining curtains before shutting the door behind you. The collective objections of the papers lull, and you wordlessly pray that you didn’t shuffle anything around too much as you take in the cluttered room.

A hastily made bed. Two decidedly wobbly chairs at a small table. A colossal, wooden writing desk paired neatly with a matching wardrobe. An ash-filled hearth. The space wasn’t totally unlike your own house, save for the desk. If it weren’t for the thick blanket of dust doing its best to smother everything and the cobwebs drifting lazily from the exposed beams overhead, you’d call this place cozy. You comb your eyes over the stacks of books and loose papers littering nearly every surface and stoop to gather a few pages in particular that look to have spilled off the desk when you entered the cottage. You trace your fingers over the intricate botanical diagrams on the top page, recognizing this particular plant as the wolfsbane you saw on your way up.

Aconitum napellus – Highly toxic fall-blooming perennial. Little to no scent. Flowers range from bluish-purple to dark purple and pervade mountain pass. If very carefully prepared, extracts can be used to reduce fever, pain, and inflammation, or induce sedation.

You splay out a couple more pages, equally as impressed by their detail.

Artemisia absinthium - Odorous, perennial shrub. Bitter in taste and smells like sage. Covered in silky hairs and flowers in July and August. Spotted in dry, overgrazed areas and along waysides. Useful for treatment of labor/menstrual pains, cardiac stimulation, and gastric pain. Has anti-inflammatory properties when applied to skin as a salve.

Achillea millfolium - Ubiquitous plant with flat, dense flower heads and erect stems. Leaves are strongly aromatic and fern-like. Can be used to treat fever, cold, and diarrhea. Seen on roadsides and below timberline.  If chewed, can relieve toothache. Useful for stanching the flow of blood from wounds.

Must’ve been an herbalist. You eye the collection of jars on the mantel. But then why haven’t I heard of them?You add the pages to the top of an existing pile and pick them up to tidy them against the surface of the desk when a key spills out from amongst them. For the door? you wonder, tucking it into a pocket before turning your attention to the typewriter sat in the middle of the desk. You press one of its keys with a satisfying click and the hammer strikes the paper without making a mark. Not wanting to rifle through the drawers for typewriter ribbon, you grab a few of the closed journals from the desk, cracking open their covers in search of a name.

“I’d ask the Duke about you,” you thoughtfully address the long-gone owner as you flip through a few neatly handwritten pages, “if I thought he’d tell me anything,” you snark, rolling your eyes at his anti-scuttlebutt policy. A name jumps out at you and you thumb back a few pages to it, the curious look on your face only growing as you read the passage.

He won’t tell me about you, but she might.

You close the cover and dust it off, holding it out in front of you as you guiltily contemplate taking it back to the factory with you. On one hand, it looked like no one had lived here for quite some time and you seriously doubted anyone would be coming back. On the other, it felt wrong to take from this place, especially without knowing who any of this belonged to. You give the arguments enough time to wrestle one another before clutching the journal to your chest with a long sigh.

“I’ll bring it back as soon as I’m done with it,” you promise. If not out of guilt, then to swap it out for another, you tack on internally. You turn to leave and spot an old fishing pole and basket behind the door. You smile at the sight of them, huddled together as if they’d been waiting for you.

“These too,” you add over your shoulder. You gather them up into your arms, and with one last pensive look, you lock the door to the strange little cottage behind you.

—

He shucks off his leather gloves and carelessly tosses them onto the coffee table along with his hat and glasses, wishing to be rid of any and all reminders of the long day he’s had. His shirt quickly follows, settling into a rumpled pile on the sofa. He produces a small piece of leather cord and ties his hair back before lighting himself a cigar, waiting for the taste of nicotine to grind down the serrated edges of his dread before he begins crisscrossing the room.

His tired eyes rake over their spines as he tugs book after book from their snug places in haphazard piles and on overcrowded shelves before setting the massive selection of tomes down on the kitchen table. The savory aroma of whatever it was you had made for dinner lingers in the air and his stomach rumbles hungrily in response. Not wanting to make anything, he resigns himself to a cup of coffee and moves to grab the percolator from its usual spot when he notices a folded scrap of paper in its stead.

Dinner is in the icebox. I’m afraid coffee will have to wait until breakfast.

He chuckles at your pluck, now sensing the percolator tucked behind some dishes in one of the cupboards. She’s on to me. He removes the covered dish from the fridge and sets it on the counter, wondering why you bothered to make him dinner at all after he warned you that he wouldn’t be home until late. His tune quickly changes when he lifts the lid, unveiling one of his favorites. Whatever her reasoning, I’m glad she did. He picks up the cabbage roll and unceremoniously shoves it into his mouth with a groan, his lousy day melting in the face of your cooking. Even cold, these were easily the best he’d ever had. He picks up the abandoned recipe card, eyes skimming over the Duke’s handwriting for the second time that day.

“Sarmale de peste,” he reads aloud around a mouthful of food. “Might be your recipe, pal, but she’s outdone you.”

He settles at the table, unable to cram the rolls into his mouth fast enough to keep his mounting guilt from bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. His plan to keep you from leaving the factory was half-baked at best, but it was all he could come up with short of locking you in. He squeezes his eyes shut and runs a rough hand down his face.

I don’t want that for her. I’m sure she dislikes me and this damned place enough as is.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and takes another bite, focusing on the vase of roses in the middle of the table as he reopens his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had flowers in the flat. Had he ever had flowers in the flat? Surely when he was a younger, more optimistic man, but he avoided thinking about those days lest nostalgia show him just how bitter and cynical he’d grown over the years. He leans forward to pluck one out by its stem, ignoring the resulting thorn prick.

What am I getting her into?

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Chapter Nine