#réiltín || beth riley

[whosxafraid]

@brooklynislandgirl

Happiest of birfdays to you my turtle dude. may there be many more years for me to bug the shit out of you at insane hours. :)

[whosxafraid]

Grip {Immortal}

Meme: SEND “GRIP” TO GRIP MY MUSE’S JAW IN YOUR MUSE’S HAND Status: CLOSED

Round and round the stone is spun between fingers that can not speak its tongue. Round and round the memory turns, and breath by breath replays.

Quiet. In all the ways that it can be in this realm. That lets you listen to the breathing of the world if you capable of such a thing. And while he is, he is deaf to it. For another’s breathing is all that he hears. All that he feels. All that he sees wrapped about him as she is. The rapid thrum of her blood slow and steady now beneath her skin. A speed that his own is falling away to match. The smell of warm spices and other private things laced into her hair, in which his nose is buried. And the truth of it is, that he could remain as they are for eternity and care not an ounce of another being. But that is not how this world of men works and…

               I fear he suspects.

         “Suspicion an’ knowin’ no’ d’same, love.”

               But it will drive him to act rashly.

         “He be huntin’ o’ghost fer ta seasons…he has no’ caugh’ i’y—”

Fingers gentle in their fervor at his jaw. Enough to have him shifting his attention away from the strands of hair playing through his fingers. Yellow and green finding her own amid the ocean of raven locks. And there is a light to them that gives his tongue pause. The kind of light to them that reeks of fear and trepidation.

                You know that is not what I speak of. We must flee before he finds out.

A hand finds its rest along her cheek. To reassure. To quell the fear that she neither needs right now nor should have at all. He has already begun building a way for her to escape. A way to flee with her and ensure the prince never finds them no matter how long or hard he searches.

           “Aye…an’ we be doin’ d’at, Reitlin. Ye wish ta be gone from here, an’ ye shall be. Jus’ o’wee bi’ longer, love….d’en all d’is be no’din’ more d’an o’memory. Oi’ swear ta ye.”

And somewhere a thousand years and change later…he’s been proven not entirely wrong hasn’t he? Sitting in this empty apartment. The taste of homemade liquor on his lips and salt on his tongue. Because he hadn’t been wrong about it being a memory…he’d just been wrong about who’s memory it would be.

[whosxafraid]

insp.

It was always you. It was always you. It was always you.

[whosxafraid]

Married Life Meme: Luka and mah sistah Beth (dealers choice of verse)

Meme: Married Life Meme Status: Open

Round and round the stone is spun between fingers that can not speak its tongue. Round and round the memories turn, and one by one escape.

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Actions unsuited for a lady. But he hardly much remembers how it is a human Lady should act. And there is nothing at all amiss to him about picking up the soiled garments, one by one. Laid over the chair by the fire. One he moves to stoke and encourage into something that will keep her warm til dawn.

His charge is to protect not to smother. And perhaps he enjoyed the afternoon with her, on the edge of the forest, far more than anyone can know. Because she is a Lady and he but a servant in two realms. And he tells himself it is duty that ensures she’s tucked in snugly, before slipping out her door. To run the green and wild lands until the morning comes.

forgets to run the dish washer

They won’t let him in. She is ill and unfit for company they say. So he sits and he paces and he waits. The stone before her door nearly etched with the strides of his feet. And with every come and go of her caretakers he tries to catch sight of her through the door, but the old women are skilled and quick for their age. Shoving trenchers into his hands, and soiled clothes. Demanding more water and clean linens.

And he goes for what else can he do? Returning from the kitchens with what was asked. And the pacing begins a new. A scowl kept to himself with the coming and going of the crowned prince. For who would dare tell the future king no? Who would dare bar his way? Not a soul–though one might beg it to be done.

pumps gas for the car

She wishes to ride today, and he will see it done. Rising earlier than really needed to ensure the beast bred to bare her was well fed and brushed and tacted. In good health and mood when she appears in the courtyard. Shining and bright. A red ribbon in her hair that stands stark against dark tresses. Her maids fussing after her that it is hardly a Lady’s place to be galavanting off on horse back to who knows where, when she should be spending the day at court.

drives when they’re going somewhere

But she comes. Radiant and unhindered despite the basket clutched in hand. One that he takes, ties upon the horses back for her, before helping her to mount. And he leads her and her favored friend away from the prattling woman. To the northern fields where they can both take heart, that not a soul shall see them. And for a few hours, at the least, they may be themselves without judgement.

rearranges the furniture

            “I would not see you sleep in such discomfort a night more!”

And that had been the end of it. For who was he to argue with a princess? And the highest Princess at that? Though he had to get used to the humanness of it all. The sleeping within walls of stone, and doors barred by iron. Had to learn to ignore the sounds that echoed through the hollow halls and the stillness of the air. Learned again the usefulness of blankets and the luxury of a pillow. 

Never mind at all that his feet stuck off the end. Never mind the room beside her own felt enclosed like a cage. He was near her here, and that meant he was able to do as he’d sworn more easily. And never could it be said that even a mouse or moth passed by her door, without the wolf’s consent. 

falls asleep with the TV on

               Tell me a tale. You must know of at least one.

Moments tick by in the quiet. One pair of eyes transfixed upon the heavens while the other sees nothing but her. And he thinks…oh how he thinks. A thousand stories across a hundred handfuls of years–she wishes for a tale. And it must be something grand. Something worthy of her ears and her time.

          “D’ere were o’farmer d’at were blessed wi’d d’ress sons. An’ when d’ey be grown an’ were toi’me fer d’em ta be foi’ndin’ o’lass ta marry he be callin’ d’em together…”

By the time the little princess mouse had run her bell thrice and made her way along the road to meet the farmer with her sweetheart by her side—his little princess had long fallen into dream. Tucked against his arm with his shoulder for a pillow. And perhaps the wolf remained as he was for hours more, until the cool of the evening woke his wisdom to move her to her bed.

gets to use the bathroom first

A beast in part he may be but that does not at all mean he must smell like one. But bathes are drawn for kings and queens. For their children and for lords and ladies. Not for those that serve. So he is left with but one option. To find a river near the royal encampment, after the evening extravagance. 

Shrouded by the dark and given sight by a waning moon. But skin as pale as his own stands stark against the blackness of the water. Reflects the circle fires and the starlight. And perhaps he knows not that a Princess watches through the pulled too curtains of her tent. Perhaps he knows not of the heat that it brings to her cheeks, and what it stirs in her. 

Or perhaps he does, and he lingers in his washing longer than necessary.

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

          “Be ye troi’yin’ ta catch ye dea’d?”

A stride or three carries him to the fire. Stoking and adding fuel to the embers. Forcing it back into a roaring dance, whose heat bleeds into the room far to slow for his liking. And a fur is fetched from the chest near by. Laid about her shoulders and wrapped around her tightly. Hands doing what they can to rub her frame. To bring heat back into limbs. Only to stop with her words.

                 He knows. My brother. He knows. And I fear he means you harm.

A flicker of light that has no source amid green and yellow. And it takes but a moment for hands shift. For fingers to catch beneath her chin and lift her face to his.

          “He can troi’y, Réiltín. He may even suceed. Bu’ d’harm he do will be upon himself in d’en’. Me duty be ta ye. An’ oi’ no’ abandon me pos’. No’ matter wha’ da prince moi’ght do. Oi’no’ will leave ye. Ye, believe d’at….aye?”

A forward motion, a collapse and there they remain. Tangled in each other by her hearth. For he meant what he said. He would not leave her. Not for anything. In this realm or the other.

sets up holiday decorations

Picketing tents and unloading tables from wagons. It is not easy work but he sees it done all the same. For tonight the castle will be alive both within and without. A festival to honor the harvest and a new cycle of seasons. Celebrations that will ring across both realms. And there is a joy in him that perhaps some do not understand. 

So when she comes flitting to his side. A crown of flowers set gingerly upon his head. There is a smile that escapes. One that settles deeply into his bones. And the crown is left where it is. For when a princess offers you good tidings and a gift—you keep it. And you honor it for as long as the flowers hold their color.

leaves the lights on 

              But it will go out without tending.

       “D’en oi’will tend i’.”

           All night?

        “Aye, Réiltín. All noi’ght.”

A promise that he keeps. For she does not abide the dark well. Afraid of the things within it. Afraid of the spirits and their tricks. So he tends the light. Keeps it burning bright and warm. Because he can not tell her there is nothing to fear. He can not tell her the darkness would not dare. For even the dark must live by rules. Rules that were written far before either of them were every thoughts. Rules that his Lady was there to help write.

uses the bathroom with the door open

It isn’t his fault though perhaps his luck, that the foolish boy had left the prince’s best saddle to the elements. Draped over the wall meant to mark the grounds of the cattle fields. Maybe he should have left it be, but how can he? Sitting there as it had been, just begging to be stolen. Or worse yet ruined.

And it’s all fun and games is it not? For the faire folk are like the wind. They blow both ways. And one ill turn deserves another. So the saddle is taken. The leather used to alleviate the itch in his teeth. The detailed stitch torn bit by bit by bit and scattered across the dewy grass. And eventually….stained with liquids never meant to be applied.

And there he leaves it to be found upon the morrow. Another casualty of the monster the prince has yet to capture.

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It seems to grow louder with each occurrence. The rain that pours down in sheets, has found it’s way into the thatching and through the stone. He’s not the tools to mend and fix and he must wait for the morning. 

Morning that can not come fast enough. Morning that he meets with little rest and lagging feet. Both of which she notices. As well as the dampness of his boots. For he had not else to catch the invading rain in but them, and not the time nor tools to dry them before he was expected at her door.

        I will have the holes addressed before the day is out. 

           “Aye, as ye wish.”

[whosxafraid]

@brooklynislandgirl

I be always here. Even wen ya no’? Aye, Love. Even when I no’.

[whosxafraid]

Favourite weapon?

Meme: I have seen many questionnaires but none including history. What a shame.. Status: OPEN

To this particular question the old wolf does nothing more than smile. Toothy and wide; before lips are closing around the end of his cigarette. Because if really she needed to ask, she hadn’t been paying attention.

[whosxafraid]

Do you own some historical item? ( coin, clothing, weapons, books, ect) If yes which one is your favourite?

Meme: I have seen many questionnaires but none including history. What a shame.. Status: OPEN

The answer is simple. Both parts of it. Though he doubts she really wants to hear the truth to the latter part, so he lies. Regardless of how heavy that makes the bit of stone sit in his pocket.

         “Aye….”

          “Be o’book. One oi’be trackin’ down recently…firs’ o’dition o’d’brother’s grimm tales.”

And there’s a small chuckle at the joke of it really. Because why wouldn’t that be his favorite? Darkly tinted humor aside of course.

[whosxafraid]

Look at the clock and assume the numbers are forming historical year ( 17;58 would be 1758) What was / is / will be the world that year? Any event happened then or will happen?

Meme: I have seen many questionnaires but none including history. What a shame.. Status: OPEN

A glance at the silent clock on the wall. 2026. It’s not really that far away all thing considered. Easily within the life time of those middle aged people and younger around him. But regardless he takes his time. Thinks about how to answer her question. Because the reality is that sort of thing stopped occurring to him a long time ago. What will the world be like tomorrow…in a hundred years. Though the truth of it…might not be what she’s hoping for…let alone what she might think reality has in store.

          “Twenty-twenty six….s’no d’at far away, lass.”

          “Oi’canna much be tellin’ wha’ d’future be holdin’ fer d’world…d’ough oi’be bettin’ i’no be changin’ all d’at much. But oi’suppose d’ere always be maybe…humans be havin’ a tendancy ta surproi’se….bu’ d’ey also be creatures o’habi’. So reality be d’at tomorrow le’ o’lone seven years from now be o’fi’dy fi’dy shaw’ o’wha’ d’sun be dawnin’ on nex’.”

[whosxafraid]

Of Island Folk

Running. He doesn’t do it often, but he’s old enough to know when to stand his ground and when to ask for the proverbial check. So he’s running, with hell on his heels. Hell in human skin, armed to the teeth. 

And not for the first time he wonders if the whining mutt stowed in the bag at his back is worth this level of trouble. But there’s no going back now. He highly doubts they would simply take the creature back now; not that his conscience would let him anyway. Even cats didn’t deserve the living conditions they’d been keeping the dog in.

He cuts down an alley. A quick glance up and thank the gods; the building to his right has a fire escape. Boots skid to a halt, a few fast steps back and he taking a bit of a running jump. Clearing the first level, hands grasping the railing on the second. A downward shift and he’s vaulting himself up six more floors.

Over the railing, the bag pulled to his front and crouching down. Tucking himself into the shadow of the building. Where he waits, gaze stuck on the street below. But he doesn’t have to wait long. The mortals barreling by beneath him and onward down the block. And he takes a moment to breathe. One hand wrapped round the prayer beads about his neck, as his head falls back against the brick beside the window at his back. He might be getting to old for this shite, but he thanks her anyway, a quiet sort of relief that slips from his lips in his native tongue.

       “Go raibh maith agat Máthair.”

[whosxafraid]

{Immortal} 37, 43, 47, 50

Meme: Character SolidifyingStatus: OPEN

37. How is your character’s imagination? Daydreaming a lot? Worried most of the time? Living in memories?

               “Imagination….be o’controlled skill fer me. Oi’ have i’bu’…no in da sense humans be picturin’ i’. Dreamin’ no be o’d’ing oi’be able ta experience in ages so canna much speak ta i’. Me memories oi’ suppose be d’closets d’ing ta dreamin’ oi’ can muster on me own. Far as worries…dunna suppose oi’be havin’ much o’dat anymore. Leas’ no fer meself.”

43. Does your character have any secrets? If so, are they holding them back?

              “Aye…e’eryone be havin’ d’ose. Even d’mos’ innocent o’creatures. Jus’ be o’matter o’ how bad o’how dark d’ey be. Holdin’em back? Aye d’at be d’definition o’ a secret,aye? Sum’din’ ye hol’ back from d’worl’ fer d’ere sake, maybe ye own….sometoi’mes bo’d.” 

47. Do they want to project an image of a younger, older, more important person? Does they want to be visible or invisible?

          “Me survival be partially countin’ on be no one o’importance. D’ough given me stature an looks oi’canna change…s’no been easy. So oi’learned how ta be jus’ o’nough, aye? How ta be o’staple d’at is fer o’whoi’le d’en cut me loses slow bu’ all o’once so when oi’ do vanish…oi’ be gone. An’ humans fer as long as d’ere memory be…i’be fadin’ eventually. Mos’ o’d toime, o’leas’. Bu’ sure d’ere be toi’mes oi’ be wishin’ oi’ were invisible from more d’an oi’already be. Usually be toi’mes oi’ take o’break from civilization. ”

50. What  are the prevailing facial expressions? Sour? Cheerful? Dominating?

           “Prevailin’? Toi’red pensiveness f’oi’ were havin’ ta be takin’ o’guess. Canna really be sure, no really takin’ notice be’fer.”

[whosxafraid]

[whosxafraid]

He’ll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley He’ll forget the sun in her jealous sky as we walk in fields of gold

Indie | Fandomless | OC Beth Riley Réiltín | Branches And Roots

So she took her love for to gaze awhile upon the fields of barley In my arms she fell as her hair came down among the fields of gold

Indie | Fandomless | ORT Luka O'Rìan | Cause In A Sky Full Of Stars He Thinks He Say Her