#tales from the swamplands
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I, Benjamin Gaunt, am happy to bring you another (long awaited) Tale From the Swamplands! This week’s topic is... Paranoia Living down in a bunker, hiding from the Fold, foments a special brand of paranoia. But there's lots of flavors to be had! Be they walks alone at night, trauma rearing its ugly head, or authoritarian theocracies, it’s easy to get wigged out now and again! Our tale for the week is another weird and wild installment of Into the Mire! I, Benjamin Gaunt, am happy to bring you another (long awaited) Tale From the Swamplands! This week’s topic is... Paranoia Living down in a bunker, hiding from the Fold, foments a special brand of paranoia. But there's lots of flavors to be had! Be they walks alone at night, trauma rearing its ugly head, or authoritarian theocracies, it’s easy to get wigged out now and again! Our tale for the week is another weird and wild installment of Into the Mire!
Some two decades past, during the Emberglow Era, authoritarian control and civil unrest threatened to tear the city apart. All the while, the stock market fluctuated wildly - a morally mottled fruit ripe for the picking. One lonely clerk had bigger plans than stocks, fancy suits, and titles. On a night like any other, fate's hand would give Curtwell Steiner his golden opportunity. Was its form something beyond his wildest dreams? Or, even, nightmares? One thing was certain: after that night, he would never be the same again.
Learn more in this week's Tale From the Swamplands: Disconnection - B. Gaunt
It's been a bit! But I'm pumped to bring y'all my best offering yet.
Episodes from here on out will certainly not be weekly endeavors - but I'm planning on posting new episodes to finish out the season, as well as re-mastering older episodes to match this level of quality (I've learned a lot to say the least). Let me know what you think, or if there’s any other corner of the Swamplands you’d like to hear more about in the future! You can listen to the show here, on YouTube, Spotify, any podcast player, or the show’s website!
#tftsl#theswamplands#tales from the swamplands#podcast#podcasts#bugs#insects#paranoia#conspiracies#narrative#radio show#audio drama#into the mire#horror#scary#weird#swamp#memphis#80s#synthwave#david lynch#kafka#twin peaks#Spotify
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Dungeon: The Tithing House
For decades the gang of highwaymen known as the Gallerwood Outlaws were famed and feared for equal measure, melting out of the forest to rob merchants, nobles, even mages, before vanishing back into the trees. Even after their awful deaths at the hand of a bountyhunter some years ago folk still sing of their deeds, and of the secret hideaway in which they stored their ill gotten gains.
Adventure Hooks:
Folk have been saying that the ghosts of the Gallerwood outlaws have been stalking the roads near where their bodies were hanged, still looking for one last haul. The party are tasked with investigating rumours after a fearful carter was set upon by these spectres, losing something precious in the process. This provides the excellent framing for a first adventure as each member of the party can be invested in retrieving something different out of the carter's cargo giving them a reason to work in the same direction.
As they investigate, the party will discover that these ghosts are infact local toughs who have dressed up and painted themselves phosphorescent cave lichen in order to shake down passers by. After giving them a thrashing and a Scooby-Doo unmasking, the party can retrieve the stolen goods and return to the inn for celebratory drinking. In the dead of night one of the party awakens to a shadowy figure looming at the foot of their bed, spectral face illuminated by the ghoul-light that flickers in the bowl of their pipe. Evidently the story of the party's antics has spread, and it appears one of the real ghosts of the Gallerwood wants a word.
Frauds and phantoms aside, entirely possible for the party to stumble across the dungeon while exploring the surrounding swampland, only realizing it served as a bandit hideout after stumbling into the remnants of their camp.
Setup: The ghost introduces himself as the late Cullen Carver, once founding and now final member of the Gallerwood outlaws. Cullen has an offer for the party, and is willing to guide them to the cache kept by his fellow bandits if they will perform for him a last request. As Cullen explains it, neither he nor the other outlaw spirits will be able to rest so long as there is no end to their tale, and there can be no end so long as the mystery of their hidden treasure remains unsolved in the common imagination.
Cullen is in high spirits despite being dead, so the party should expect some gallows humour as the hanged man leads them through the swamp's hazards, eventually arriving at the outlaw's secret base: The Tithing House, a long abandoned temple of Erathis concealed within the depths of the wilderness that's become infested with all sorts of mire creatures since the thieves met their end.
Challenges & Complications:
The Outlaws kept their treasure in the temple's crypts, and to access these the part are going to need to venture through the gauntlet of dark chambers and traps the bandits set up to keep eachother's hands out of the cookie jar. Cullen can help with some of these, but the whole point of the traps was to keep his fellow thieves honest. The only other way into the vault is through a heavily reinforced door, the key to which is currently in the possession of the bountyhunter who hung the Gallerwoods from trees in the firstplace.
While the party has the pick of spoils, Cullen points out a particular chest kept apart from the rest and calls upon them to fulfill their end of the bargain. This chest was Cullen's nestegg, put aside from numerous heists and robberies to be delivered to his wife and children in the event of his death. With no surviving highwaymen to carry out the promise Cullen's REAL unfinished business comes to light. The party can keep their word, or they can snipe the treasure for themselves, earning the spectre's undying enmity and curse to boot.
To get out of the the Tithing House the party will need to face off with a demon of avarice.. but not in the traditional form of bossfight. He'll approach just as they're leaving the dungeon, taking the form of a plump old man with a grandfatherly smile who wears the spotless robes of an Erathian friar despite the flooded cemetery in which they stand. He is all calm words and politeness, congratulating them on making off with such a fine haul and urging them to never mind that silly old ghost and his wishes, banishing Cullen beneath a nearby grave so that they can talk cordially. The Smiling Friar explains that he had a deal with the highwaymen; feeding off the greed of their crimes in exchange for concealing their hideaway and passage through the forest. There's no reason the party couldn't renew the deal, become the new band of legendary thieves, save that they'll have to forsake their ghostly guide and his last act of charity. Should they turn him down the Smiling Friar will call up the dead of the cemetery to slaughter them, clearing the way for the next band of ambitious treasurehunters.
Art 1 Art 2
#dungon#swamp#press start#undead#evil party#treasure hunt#bandits#mystery#low level#haunting#temple#dnd#dungeons and dragons#d&d#ttprg#pathfinder#rogue#swamp encounter
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This is it, after many years of mixing toons with tunes. It has finally come to this. As I’ve stated in my last video, this will be my final Cramp Twins video.
I always thought that if I ever stopped making these videos, I would close out with a very special kind of project, one that hasn't been done before. I’ve always wanted to push the boundaries of what can be achieved in the field of AMVs. After all, there’s somewhat an art to making them. Considering I made AMVs with songs that never had an official video, why not make one with a b-side? (One of those songs musicians include in addition to a single).
This time around, Soap City is in its darkest hour. It’s up to Wayne, Lucien and Tony to protect the swampland. Despite their efforts, it continues to be consumed by toxicity. Things can never be the same. But when it seems all hope is lost, will they ever find finality to their story?
Now this is one of my more plot driven videos, in which I would put certain scenes and parts together to form a story of its own. With this, I wanted to take it in an epic direction. I figured that my final AMV should be my grandest. Keeping with the theme of the song, I would incorporate these filters to evoke the look and feel of a martial arts film, As to homage eastern philosophy and lore as inspiration. I also wanted to show how much of our modern media has taken aspects from older stories and legends to form new ones. Which isn’t any different from what AMVs are. I’ve always set out to make more ambitious videos, and this was no exception. In my years of making videos, I can say that this is one of my biggest accomplishments (in terms of cartoon videos that is) and I’m proud of how it turned out.
When I had the idea for this AMV, I knew it would be my swan song (so to speak). I wanted to finish off on a high note, to achieve what I set out to do. And I hope the same will happen for the show itself. Because when I say that The Cramp Twins needs to have a proper conclusion, I mean it! You may have noticed I’ve been campaigning for this revival to come to fruition, yet it seems my suggestion has fallen on deaf ears. In an age where these entertainment companies are relying on nostalgia and old properties, I don’t see why these troublesome, technicoloured twins should be the exception. I realise I may be in the minority who like this show, but I think there’s so much good about it that deserves more than its given credit for. Not liking Cramp Twins is fine, but condemning people who have the opposite opinion or worked on it is not. Even if you don’t like the TV series, surely you would sympathise with fans who want to see a conclusion; considering the makers pulled a ‘Hail Mary’. I’m not ashamed to say that I stand by it, I see the best that it could be.
Personally, this was a series that really spoke to me, yet no one else remembers it. We all had that kind of series as children. Whether it be this or 'Snailsbury Tales'. I don't know, I'm sure somebody watched that!
No matter what some self-entitled people say, I’ll never stop adoring Wayne and Lucien’s ecological escapades. As long as the fans stick together, we can make a difference. As long as we never give up on demanding for that ending the show deserves, then maybe we’ll have closure. And maybe, creator Brian Wood will return in some form. This show will always have a place in my heart, and that making these videos got me much exposure. I also mean it when I said I had a wonderful experience making them. I thank you for sticking by me and my work, but now I must move onto bigger pastures. For a wise man once said, he who moves a mountain, begins by lifting smaller stones. So to all my friends, supporters and watchers, I say thank you, merci, gracias, obrigado, arigatō, xièxiè, gamsahabnida, danke, grazie, sas efcharistó and spasibo.
Cramp Twins belongs to it's respected owners and creators.
#cramp twins#the cramp twins#amv#cmv#music video#Soap City#Wayne#Lucien#cartoon#animated show#tv series#finale#swamp#dystopia#pollution#peace#message#proper conclusion#bringbackthecramptwins
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Viole(n)t Veneration
Saw this a while ago and thought I'd try it out. The actual challenge is below the cut because it's rather long.
Ping, because the writer requested it (which I am happy to delete if the writer desires): @herwarkeeper
What are your correspondences?
My main material correspondences are deer and aspen trees. However, wolfdogs are very close to me as well. Hydrophytic plants are also very closely linked to me, such as cattails, water lilies, and mangrove trees. Violet is my main color, as are the many other shades of purple, though the whitish-gray of smoke and the visceral redness of blood are also closely linked to me.
What is your inherent symbolism?
My main symbol is eyes. Anything and everything that resembles them (such as aspen trees or the spots on deer). This is how I observed, in my source. Whenever the trees seem to blink, I am there, watching.
I'm also very closely linked to scissors or shears, especially those rusted with years of wear or those that have been used for violence.
Smoke and fire. Ash-covered items. The embers of a dying flame. It is all part of me and I am part of all of it. Especially cigarette or wildfire smoke.
What would be a common myth of yours in popular culture?
I was the widely accepted creator of the world I'm used to. However, years of letting people stray led them to bastardize my myths and legends. I can be found in folktales that warn of the danger of the woods, in poems whose inspiration is no longer remembered. I've written one of these poems, I'll attach it at the bottom.
How would people worship you?
Defy their teachings. Defy their warnings. Walk into the woods. Walk into the mountains. Walk into the swamplands. Walk until you've lost the path. Walk until you've lost all direction. Walk until the trees and brush and critters look back at you. Walk until the rivers and lakes call for you to plunge into their depths.
Well... I would ask no one of this world to truly lose themself in the woods, the mountains, the swamplands. A simple walk among nature is enough for me now. A hike along quiet trails. A visit to a national park. Altars are also welcome, but I would prefer them to at least be outside.
What kinds of people would work with you?
Those that desire violence, but are chained by others. Those that are lost, and seek the eyes of the trees. Those that are shunned, and know not anyone else to turn to but my open arms. Those that are desperate, whose questions or prayers have never been answered.
Above all, those willing to make a deal with a devil in divine cloth.
How would popular culture misunderstand you?
I am not a deity of revenge. I am not a deity of penance or martyrdom. I am a deity of violence. Of all of the things that violence is and comes with: freedom, power, pleasure, artistry, intimacy. Those that seek revenge, penance, martyrdom, etc. do not desire violence for violence. They desire violence as a means to an end.
If you could, draw a symbol of devotion.
Hm... I'm not quite sure what to draw, actually. Or, well, I'm a tad bit too lazy to currently. I suppose a fitting symbol would be a pair of scissors with eyes as the handles.
The Lumberjack's Tale
The lumberjack, His boots all black, Strolled into the trees. He swung his axe, In a few whacks, An oak fell at his knees. Left and right, They fell all night, ‘Til the break of dawn. 'Lone was he, ‘Til ‘e found company, In form of a young fawn. Black eyes blink, 'Fore he can think, Its spots are quick to follow. He runs in alarm, Fearing his harm, Retreats to aspen hollow. Axe swings once more, But unlike before, A cry rings through the wind. Puts it out of mind, Forest has always been kind, And aspen stand is thinned. The longer he stays, More his confidence frays, As trees watch every move. Sap like blood, Mixes into the mud, How the forest disapproves. Wings and eyes, And all the lies, That ever passed his lips. They fill his gaze, A red-painted haze, As final word from him slips.
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i wrote a story for my mother about the big staff christmas party adventure that i just got back from… i want to post it here as well cuz i’m actually quite proud of it, been a while since i’ve written a story like this.. i’m so exhausted lol
there once was a hermit who was invited to the gold coast... they were so scared! the journey would be long and treacherous... but what was there to loose? so the hermit agreed and took the plunge. first would be staying in a strange house with a strange lady... there was not much room and no guest bed, but the hermit was strong and so was their mask, and they survived the night by being agreeable.
the morning was full of birdies, king parrots and magpies, a last taste of nature's magic and familiar feathered friends. bags were stuffed in the boot and off they went, guided by the tunes of daft punk. oh what a long road ahead of them.
the kingdom of movies was vast and crowded, populated by masses of people from all corners of the world. the hermit was tasked with running after children, but they were nothing compared to babysitting the strange lady. then travelling to the wet and wild swamplands, the hermit finally had found some peace and solitude in the depths of the wave-filled lagoon. though with ominous storms in the air, retreat was made to the great sea labyrinth, with its vast corridors and endless numbered rooms. organisation was not found there, only embarrassment and guilt over the poor serfs, slaving away to please the entitled fancy folk.
the hermit was placed into one of these numbered rooms with two others, with the strange lady and the groups bard. loud and talkative was the bard, but the hermit didn't mind, since that meant less silence they might've felt obligated to fill.
no one would have guessed the strange lady and the bard might not get along, they had been friendly in the past and seemed to gravitate towards each other, so what could go wrong?
but as night fell, and the group became intoxicated by many potions and elixirs, there was trouble brewing along with the storm clouds in the sky. all seemed well until back in the seclusion of their numbered room, the bard sang her songs, tales of the days events, but the strange lady seemed troubled by this, easily misinterpreting the lyrics and turning them askew. the strange lady began to target the bard with horrible psychic attacks, tearing down her armour of self confidence until the bard was raw with grief and terrible frustration.
as the group tried to rest from the adventures of the journey, the strange lady only escalated her attacks until there was great battles inside the hermits numbered room, the hermit could only but shield themselves from such terrible loud booming clashes, a devastating war over seemingly nothing at all. the hermit would have liked to defend the bard against such advances, but was terrified to find themselves in the midst of such a battle, so quiet they stayed, hiding under the only mask they could muster. nothing was resolved that night, the bard retreated, not getting any rest, while the strange lady pretended she was as innocent as a child, and cried to the hermit, telling many lies to defend her honour.
the hermit could not stand being found in the middle of such a stupid, horrid conflict, so angry with the strange lady, and ashamed for the mistreatment of the bard, though not feeling any of this wholly, lest their emotions rise up and get the better of them.
the morning brought much dread, the hermit had never found themselves in such a predicament before, but tried with all their might to be an impartial witness, to tell the lord the truth of the matter, but all this was quite swept under the rug, as to not ruin the trajectory of the journey.
thankfully, the maidens came to rescue the hermit, and every step was taken to distance them from the strange lady, together they escaped into to the sea labyrinth's maze of speeding carriages, with its pools of rays, fishes and sharks. there they hid and ran and ranged wherever they wanted, untethered from the group's structured steps, having a fantastic wild adventure, riding on as many magic carriages as they could manage.
the maidens ran away with the hermit and together home they traveled, stopping at kfc, stopping at mcdonalds, laughing and telling stories the whole way home. oh what a voyage, the hermit saw more in three days than they would have seen in many regular months, they were very tired, sore and worn down, but also glad for undertaking such a great trial, for they learned much, and came out the other side feeling like a much bigger, more solid person, filled with new experiences and still reeling from the superb speed of the magical machines.
never again will they blindly trust strange ladies, or tether themselves to such big personalities, not until their own has grown in size, at least.
now the hermit rests, and recollects, and lets the memories sink in, feeling very grateful for home, for familiar family, and that no matter how strange they may be, they will never be as strange or as single minded, or self concerned as they observed that strange lady to be.
#i have decided that roller coasters are awesome and i love them but not as much as i love waterslides.#i think it was good and i earned some friendship and respect from my coworkers and boss even though the 2am screaming match in my room was#very terrible and very overwhelming. and i fucking hate being stuck in the middle of such things more than anything else in the world.#the huge roller coaster at seaworld made up for it. i really enjoyed it and i got to see the sharks and thats all that matters
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Tales From the Swamplands
@talesfromtheswamplands
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More vampire!Bea?
[A/n: Dude, I can't even describe how long this chapter took. And even after all of the work, I'm still not 100% happy with it. Enjoy!]
Summary: Bodies start popping up within the city drained of blood and torn at the throat. Detective Ava Silva and her new partner Beatrice Alexander are determined to crack the case before more victims are discovered. But when recent technological advancements threaten how things are done, Beatrice has to put more trust in her partner than ever before.
Trigger warning: Please respect your triggers- like any creature feature there is blood, and death, and violence.
Masterlist | Read on Ao3 | Request Prompts
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three
The Blood Ties that Bind | Chapter Four | Ava x Beatrice
Virginia, 1864
Between the soft notes, the deliberate movements, and calculated noise, there was something human. Something in the creak of the bench, fingers pressing ivory keys, slight exhales of relief. When Beatrice played the piano, there was nothing else in the world. Not the earthly flicker of the fire, the sound of the needle piercing fabric before it tightened into a stitch. Even the steady creak of the rocking chair her mother occupied.
She leaned into the keys, breathed in the wood polish, and finished reading the expertly copied notes in front of her. She had written them, and had focused so heavily on the melody that she didn’t realize the man who stood with her father in the foyer.
He smelled of cloves, his head drawn from his head and in front of his chest. He tapped its rim, eyes reflecting the yellowed light from the kerosene lamps. Beatrice’s mother stood from her rocking chair with a look of indigence at the unannounced company. She’d chastised Mr. Alexander on many occasions for intrusions of such candor.
The man had a cleanly cut beard, and hair that would have been to his shoulders if not tied with a fine cut of twine. Beatrice did not like the way that he stared but was equally endeared by the disruption.
“You do not lie, Mr. Alexander.” He said, his teeth impeccably white, canines pointed. “Your daughter is that of great beauty and talent.”
Blush warmed her cheeks. She stood politely from the piano bench and offered her hand to the mysterious man. His grip was cold, tender, he placed a kiss against the edge of her palm, close to her wrist. Her heart beat like a snare drum.
“Oh, and this must be your other daughter.” The charming man smiled brilliantly at Beatrice’s mother, who let a giggle bubble up in her throat. “Quite the lovely family you have here, sir!”
Adriel Hale had traveled across states of swampland and droughts to make it their small Virginia town. He had entered the local tavern, fisting a newspaper clipping of an advertisement that Beatrice’s father had posted. The banker needed an assistant, and Adriel had taken quite a liking to the job before meeting the man that stood in front of him now.
Mr. Alexander reveled in the commitment, the dedication that Adriel Hale had shown in his journey. Before a job, he was offered the guest room while he studied the profession, while he shadowed the man who had always wanted a son.
A fit of sharp jealousy had overtaken Beatrice in that moment. She had poured over her father’s ledgers, over the diligence of poetry, and music. She did not shy away from hard work, from dirt and sweat, and everything that Adriel Hale had to offer.
There was discontent and envy that washed across her like low tide as he moved into the room down the hall from her. She watched him from the window of the study, catching his eye and his dazzling smile. They still did not speak more than pleasantries, and brief interactions.
One afternoon in spring shifted their relationship. She’d eaten dinner with Adriel and listened politely as her father regaled them in tales from the heart of town. They’d recently taken a two-day trip into the city and it sounded wonderful. Beatrice hung onto every word, of course, looking away when Adriel gave her a knowing look.
That night, she’d sit on the porch, using the last of the pink light to finish the last few pages of a George Eliot book that her father had brought back home with him. It was leather bound, smelling of freshly primed ink. She ran her thumb over the words, felt them in her bones. She hadn’t noticed Adriel’s presence until she smelt the shoe polish.
He lowered himself onto the steps next to her and she eyed him cautiously.
“You don’t enjoy my presence, very much, do you?” He asked.
They both stared out at the shifting fields of grass, the large oak trees that flanked either side of the dirt path leading to the large house. She could smell the water from the swamps around them, the lemon of the dense cake her mother had left on the counter to cool. Sweat gathered against the divots of her collarbone.
“I understand.” He continued despite her reluctance to give an answer “By all accounts, I am a stranger. I take your father's attention away from you, from your mother. It is not my intention to do so.”
Beatrice scoffed “Do not presume to know me, Mr. Hale.”
“I presume no such thing! I would like to get to know you, Miss Alexander. If we are going to be living in the same home, sharing a dinner table, there is nothing more that I would need than a cordial relationship with those who occupy it.”
Beatrice regarded him. He looked comfortable, splayed out on the front steps. His white button-down hung loosely from his arms, hair neatly combed back and tucked behind his ears. There was stubble cascading across his jaw, a wooden rosary resting over the fabric of his shirt. He smelled of wood polish, of the grass, and the ink that they used on checks at the bank.
“Well, at the very least, you can regale me with your thoughts about the Lifted Veil.”
“The novella? Mr. Hale, I think you’re mistaken. That is not published under George Eliot.”
“It may not be published under his name, but it is his work.” He reached over and tapped the leather cover. “I suppose he didn’t want to dive into the possibility of an afterlife that wasn’t of Catholicism.”
“As I recall, that story centers around one's ability to tell the future. To envision death.”
“Ah. That is the question. If you could predict your death and see a clear path towards it, would you?”
She pursed her lips and considered the question. Beatrice didn’t want to feed into Adriel Hale’s conversations. However, her mother often waved her off as she got breathless with excitement for literature, especially that of gothic horror. It spooked those around her, the stories of the unknown. It was not, and would never be, deemed acceptable literature for a girl like her.
However, she commended Adriel for not looking down on her reading materials. It was rare to find someone who took an affinity for George Eliot, much less someone who was living on the same floor as she did.
“I don’t believe so,” her tone was soft. She stared longingly at the freshly bound pages. “I fear that all my time would be dedicated to changing the nature of the outcome instead of the motions to get there. Life is meant to be savored. Not simmered in discontent and fear.”
He laughed, and she admitted that it was a glorious sound. She smiled at him, her lips turning up for a split second before they went back to the natural stillness of herself. “I like you, Miss Alexander. You are very blunt.”
“Beatrice, please. Call me Beatrice.”
The City, 1986
“Beatrice, are you even paying attention?” She hadn’t been. She knew that her mind tended to wonder. Her fingers were tracing the worn spines of the George Eliot Novels. They were filed away in ‘Classics’ now and something about that stirred annoyance in the pit of her stomach. What they really meant was old.
And yes, she supposed that she was. But when she first picked up the horror author she was within the limits of her natural life. She was alive, so very alive, and his words made her feel as such. There was a numbness to immortality that shifted in moments like this. Moments like the classics.
Ava had slammed a large and dusty book down on the table enveloped in the stacks of books. There was a microfiche behind them, thundering. It must be a dull whirr to Ava, to the librarian that had already shushed them twice before Ava pulled out the badge. Her eyes widened, and she made a sputtering noise before ducking away.
“This look ancient enough?”
“Quite.”
Beatrice sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs and Ava did the same. She was close, her warmth took over every inch of Beatrice’s body where they touched. Knee to knee. Elbow to elbow. Shoulder to shoulder. The vampire was on fire. Her heart didn’t’ beat with fervor often, but it threatened to do so now.
She had pulled out a large history of the Virginia town that Beatrice had grown up in. She had mentioned the name under the guise of history being her favorite subject. It was a risky, blade-driven move. Beatrice didn’t want to torture this girl, she was tortured enough. Breadcrumbs would need to be scattered for the detective here and there.
Though, her chest seized up when she got a good look at the large white church that used to sit in the center of town. She knew the pastor, knew his family until she watched flames ignite their home and grow from their guts. She saw fire in their eyes and heard their agonizing screams as their throats became greedily turned to ash. The worst way to die, she figured.
“Wow, I’ve never read a book this old.” Ava turned the page and winced at the crunched sound it made.
“Be gentle,” Beatrice chided, turning her face to the side. She could feel Ava’s breath on her cheek. Those deep-brown eyes bore into her. “This book is very old. I wouldn’t be shocked if it crumbled to dust within your fingers.”
“Right, gentle.”
It came out as a whisper. Beatrice swore that her eyes flicked down to her lips. It sent a shiver down her spine, but she braced herself against the table and turned the page. This time it didn’t elicit a horrid noise. Beatrice could practically smell the sweat that formed behind Ava’s ears, the quickening pace of her heart. She stared, even as Beatrice moved to the part of the book that boasted the town photos.
She ran the pads of her fingers over the sepia contours. There was the bridge that lead to main street, a rickety thing that would flood when the rain waters rose. Then there was a small photo of a horse-drawn carriage in front of the local eating establishment. And finally, the same church that was on the first pages.
Ava seemed to understand the importance of the way that Beatrice held her breath. She darted her stare from the book to the girl next to her. Her voice was low, “this means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
“It does, I…” Beatrice hesitated, tried to find the words within herself. “History is more than just facts, though I can see why it’s presented as such. People ate here, they lived here and loved here and now they’re just gone. Nothing but a faint memory in a book at the back of the library.”
“I understand.”
Ava’s hand took Beatrice’s and squeezed it gently. It was the only moment of tender respite that she had shown. They had gotten close to this moment in Ava’s apartment, but there was a line that had been crossed. Beatrice hadn’t noticed the trembling of her hand, but Ava had. Ava steadied it. Beatrice turned the page.
The bridge had slipped into disrepair. She can’t quite recall what took out the plywood and the metal. It could have been a fire, but the weight could have been tested by the groups of soldiers that had stormed the town. The picture was too worn to tell.
The local tavern had its windows shattered, the exposed brick smoking. The exposure on the camera had been tampered with and a ghostly haze clouded the entire photo. Still, the yellowed vision was nothing but dilapidated.
Ava drew in a sharp breath at the state of the church. The symbol that they were searching for had been burned into the side. The spire that had once reached its hands to the sky, had crumbled. Its frame was charred and black, the doors kicked in. If one were to stare long enough, the foliage took shape. Bodies piled, hell-eaten, and basking in a life that boasted no return.
“You said that this was a militia group?”
“Confederates, yes. They were trying to push back a Union group that had staked their claim. Late into the night, they started firing their guns and lighting their fires. No one was safe. Something in the world broke that day and civilians were no longer civilians. Just as soldiers were no longer soldiers.”
She remembers the screams, the fear, and the scent of burning flesh. Beatrice had not realized the tears, just as she had not realized the trembling. This was the type of pain that one could bury but felt the same as soon as it was uncovered. She pushed the book away, not wanting to damage it.
Ava seemed to hesitate in her next move. She reached forward and then didn’t before something in her stare broke. Something told her fuck all if she was going to sit here with her thumb in her ass as her partner cried.
Her touch was gentle. She cupped Beatrice’s cheek and used her the pad of her thumb to wipe away the moisture that collected under her eyes. Beatrice’s hand cupped over Ava’s, held it there in a gentle form of tenderness.
“I’m sorry,” Beatrice sniffed, she leaned into the touch. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
Ava lilted her head to the side “Don’t apologize for the way you feel, ever. Letting yourself feel is… how did you phrase it? There’s no shame in it. Some find it quite attractive, actually.”
Beatrice chuckled, sniffed, and regained her composure. She felt embarrassed, really, for crying over something like this. Even more so at the pang of longing that struck her when Ava took her hand away but kept their shoulders touching.
“Right,” She cleared her throat and tried to quell the redness of her cheeks. “This is the exact symbol. So whoever is committing these murders has to be a history buff or have some connection to that specific militia. That town.”
“Or they’re the same person and immortal, holding some type of vendetta against those who wronged them.”
“What?”
Ava laughed, a bubbly sound, and bumped her shoulder against Beatrice’s. “Come on, Bea. I’m fucking around. It’s probably some nerd that is holed away in his parent’s basement making civil war models. What a sick fuck.”
Virginia, 1864
The weather had taken a turn for the bitter cold by the time she had warmed up to Adriel’s presence in the house and in her day-to-day life. They had spent time discussing George Eliot’s new novel that he had procured on his latest trip with her father. Beatrice had leaped into his arms at the gift and felt the rumble of his chest as he laughed joyfully.
They read it together, wrapped in blankets on the dock that lead to the pond. The kerosene lamp lingered between them, stretched their features in a yellow haze. He was good company, and she hated to admit it, but eventually had to.
By Christmas of that year, she spent most of her quiet free time in his presence. Her mother remarked that they had taken to each other quite fondly, though Beatrice counted solely on Adriel for brotherly advice. Quiet relation to the house that they shared.
Beatrice had draped a blanket over her shoulders, had wrapped it tightly around her as she read by the light of the day. She watched the moisture in the window harden, fogs her view of the stretching hills from the second floor.
She saw Adriel’s reflection against the glass and did not turn her head before speaking. “Something on your mind, Mr. Hale?”
His hat was in his hand, and he juggled it against the brim, much like he had done on his first night. It was a true tell of nervousness. Beatrice closed her book, looked at him now, and the bloom of color in his cheeks. The slight smile he had on his lips.
“Well, yes. Actually. Your father seems to think that we have… chemistry.”
“Chemistry?”
“A spark between us, if you will.” He wiped his palm on his pleated pants, leaving a small smear of darker color. “Now, Miss Alexander, I do not want to presume to know you, that is the last thing that I want to do.”
Beatrice lifted an eyebrow. Her father had been watching them closely. He took note of their small touches at the dinner table as Adriel passed the food. Or the way Beatrice would teach him scales on the piano as the sun streamed through the window behind them.
“You are rambling, Mr. Hale.”
“I apologize. What I’m meaning to ask, would you accompany me to the Christmas Salon? As acquaintances, of course.” He lowered his voice, put his hand against the side of his mouth as if they weren’t the only two in the room. “But not if your father asks.”
There was a silent understanding in the room that felt like a breath of crisp winter air. Adriel had always been a man that noticed the world around him. With Beatrice being in such close proximity to him, she had the burning, regret that he knew her better than she knew herself. He had noticed her lingering stares, her interest in the female protagonists in the novels they read side by side.
She was grateful, she had to admit, that he hadn’t said anything to her about it. To her father, or her mother. She’d happily attend the small get-together after Christmas Mass. It would keep him quiet, and her content.
The City, 1986
By the time they’d left the library, the rain had turned into a light, stagnant mist, and the sky had turned to a muddy, awful brown. They weren’t able to check the book out, and Ava hadn’t been itching at the bit to do so. She’d bristled instead, at the quietness that overtook Beatrice. There was a deep sadness in her eyes, something that spanned her body language.
Beatrice had peeled a strip of skin away from the corner of her thumb. She didn’t draw blood or even a pinkness to her nailbed. Ava fought the urge to place her hand over Beatrice’s, to stop the nervous fidgeting that was so wildly out of character for the woman.
They’d closed the book, reshelved it, and walked to the balmy courtyard before Ava finally willed herself to ask the question that lingered at the back of her mind. It wasn’t like her to stay quiet, just as it wasn’t like Beatrice not to mention the dangerous fact that Ava skipped the two last, slick, steps leading to the library. She had barely flicked her eyes, just digging her hands deeper into her coat pockets.
Detective Silva had given up on annoying her partner into quitting. She still considered herself a lone wolf, someone who worked better when they worked alone. No one could understand her like JC, no one could handle her in the same vein. But, she figured, if there was a serial killer in the middle of their city, she couldn’t do this of her own volition.
Part of her, God forbid, began to care for Beatrice. It was something that she vowed never to do. If she cared, then she would hurt. She couldn’t take any more hurt, not as she tentatively licked her previous wounds. So why- why-did she care so much about the dimness in Detective Alexanders' stare?
She found herself reaching forward, giving the slightest swipe of the finger to the side of Beatrice’s arm. The woman drew in a sharp breath, blinked as if she was entering reality again. The look on her face was defensive for the smallest of seconds, before it melted away to a raw tenderness.
“Yes?” She lifted an eyebrow.
“Something is wrong.”
Detective Alexander scanned the courtyard, touch ghosting over her sidearm. This woman was smart, she checked all of the exits to the stone enclosure, the large oak tree that was saturated in green from the overabundance of rain. Sun had begun to poke out of the wispy clouds. She looked pale and shaky despite her assuredness in her movements.
“You don’t have a drink in your hand,” Ava said matter-of-factly. She rocked back and forth on the soles of her feet and grinned at Beatrice.
“Ava, it’s noon and we’re in the middle of tracking down a lead before another dead body pops up.”
“Well, you’re sad. And a half-an-hour in a dirty bar isn’t going to kill you. We can sit down. Talk about things.”
“We’re talking now.”
“Not what I meant.” She waved her hand in front of her “and you know it.”
Beatrice eventually consented when she realized that Ava wasn’t going to let up until they sat down and spoke about the large, crime-taped-wrapped, elephant in the room. There was a small establishment that had outdoor seating. The air was warm, balmy.
Ava ordered a club sandwich and Beatrice stuck with the only drink they had on tap. She swallowed the piss-warm beer as quickly as she could, leaving a bubbled film against its glass edges. Even the way she wiped the foam from her nose was elegant, by the back of her hand, not breaking eye contact with Ava.
“Right, okay. Would you like another?”
“No, I’m fine. We’re working. It’s unprofessional.”
Ava smiled at that. She’d been pushing the boundaries of professionalism for years now. Having a few beers after watching a corpse wash up on the beaches of the city. She’d be grateful, oddly so, that they were showing up in their full glory instead of random hands and feet, and the occasional torso. A beer wouldn’t kill Beatrice, strait-laced as she was. Ava let it go.
“If this is your attempt to catch me off guard, you’re going to have to try harder.”
Ava frowned “No… it’s my attempt at an apology.”
Beatrice looked up in something akin to shock. A strand of hair fell from her careful bun. It framed her face, her freckles more prominent in the sun. Ava ignored the heat that rose in her belly, and blamed it on the hot sauce she had slathered her fries in. She’d shoved one into the side of her mouth and chewed to avoid the scrutiny in Beatrice’s stare.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Ava shrugged “It’s not a big deal. Accept the peace offering in exchange for my sour attitude.”
“Sour attitude? Ava, my first week on the job you redirected me to an empty warehouse.”
“Okay, maybe it was more than a sour attitude.”
“Sabotage?”
“Yeah, yes. Sabotage, pretty deliberate at that. I didn’t want a new partner, I thought I could work better alone and damn well might still be doing so if these bodies hadn’t started popping up as they do. But… I don’t know, Bea. You’re what I need, I think.”
Beatrice flagged down the waitress and ordered another beer. This one, she sipped tentatively. The flavor was sour on her tongue and mixed with the blood in her stomach. She started to feel the warmth of the sun, the kindness in Ava’s eyes. It was unfamiliar and raw.
If she was going to try this, then she needed to do it right. “Tell me about him.”
Ava was mid-bite “huh?”
“Your partner. Tell me about him. He was important to you, and when things happen, things like what you both went through. I have a feeling that so many people have asked you about you. And that’s important. But… sometimes you want to talk about what it is you lose. Not to get your badge or your gun back. But, because you miss him.”
“I do. I miss him.” Ava tapped her fingers nervously against the checked tablecloth. “He matched me, did things the same way that I did them and it worked well, for years it worked well. We had the most solved cases on the force. But, he was more than that. More than the numbers and the killers he put away.”
Beatrice nodded, took another gulp of the sun-warmed beer. The sandwich lay untouched between them both, Ava picking at the fries. She waited patiently, not pushing Ava to talk as she gathered her thoughts.
“JC was picking up any shift that he could, trying to save money to buy a flight for his little sister. He wanted to bring her to the city, wanted to get her out of the situation he had fought so hard to leave. And damned if he wasn’t close.” She swallowed hard and grimaced “After the accident, I mailed the money. Addressed it to her, but that doesn’t mean she got it. Doesn’t mean she knew how much her brother cared.”
Ava nearly reeled back when Beatrice reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were cool, soothing. Her thumb moved over Ava’s knuckles, and she made no attempt to pull away. There was a small scar across her hand, scabs that were an angry red from when she punched through the window at the house.
Nothing about her was pretty.
But yet, Beatrice stared at her with a kind tenderness that was unmatched. There were no apologies, no advice. There was just this, just the two of them sitting under the awning of a dive bar. The sun bore down and dried the rain on the cement sidewalk.
Virginia, 1864
The polished wooden pews were adorned with garlands a deep green with large painted flowers that bloomed in red. They had been pushed to the edges of the church, opening up the center floor. Bibles, bound in leather and worn to thin sheets of paper were stacked along the edges. Candles were lit, filling the room with an evergreen scent mixed with wax and shoe polish.
Adriel was at her side, arm slotted through hers. He cleaned up well, hair slicked back and teeth glimmering under the flickering lights. The pastor's wife, Leanne Merritt, tapped away at the organ. She was heavy on the keys, playing a Christmas tune that Beatrice couldn’t quite pin down.
She nodded nicely at people that she had known since she was nothing more than a girl. They scrutinized her date, the way his hand rested over hers. But his suit was clean, and his eyes were kind.
Farrah Merritt handed Beatrice a glass with a wide base that was filled with malt wine brewed in the back of the only eating establishment in town. It was sour, tasted metallic, but made her feel warm so she drank it in small swallows.
“Beatrice,” She smiled, handing him a glass “Who is your handsome date?”
“This is Mr. Hale”
Beatrice covered his hand with her own, gave it a small squeeze. She could feel the nerves in his stance. Adriel, while he followed her father around like a dog on a short leash, he had only met most of these townspeople in passing. Beatrice grew up with them, skinned her knees on the same gravel as they did, and drank from the same cup filled with earthy wine.
Her subtle touch seemed to relax him. He stuck out a hand and brought Farrah’s knuckles to his lips before leaving a dainty kiss there. Beatrice swore she’d seen him breathe in, his thumb brush against where a large artery pushed out from her Holiday best.
The interaction was minute, nearly too quick to take note of, but Beatrice took note of everything about Adriel. He was a stranger who had made a home in her own and while she caught some of his idiosyncrasies, she never thread them together.
They lingered after plates of food were shoved into their hands, fruit cake and a type of gummy pudding that had an acrid taste to it. Adriel talked business, about buying his own plot of land in town and building a home there. They talked about the war, and how the Confederate soldiers were closing in, and how it should be brushed off. They’d never reach here, after all.
“It’s just barbaric.” Sarah Hatfield clutched her imaginary pearls. Adriel had lingered by Father Merritt, they spoke in hushed tones. “I heard they tore Beckton apart, and right before the holidays too.”
“Tore it apart?” Beatrice asked.
“Yes. It didn’t quite matter who they destroyed. Those soldiers only have eyes for one another. The stray bullets don’t have a place to land, now, do they?”
Beatrice didn’t’ much like this conversation and wanted to find an excuse to leave it as quickly as possible. There were rumors, of course, boys she attended school with who had been called off to war. It felt distant, far enough away for her to bury herself into her literature. She’d never stepped foot outside of this town and didn’t plan to.
Her respite came in the form of a toast from Father Merritt. He tapped a serving fork against the crystal of his glass. His wife turned a different shade of red at the action. Adriel had drifted back to Beatrice and placed a hand on the small of her back. She hated that it relaxed her.
“Folks, I want to thank you all for coming out tonight to celebrate this holiday with us.” Father Merritt’s twang seeped into his voice. “I would like us all to take a moment to bask in the glory of the lord. For we were created in his image, meant to share this exact instance of time in one another’s presence.”
Beatrice wasn’t one for religion, not inherently, and not when it came from Father Merritt. She’d listened to his sermons, front to back, and repeated from the same bible that she had read through when she was six years old.
So, she focused on her distorted image reflecting from the panes of glass in the church. It let to an inky darkness. Beatrice focused on the way she looked with Adriel. They were respectable, a handsome couple. She stiffened at the thought, but then focused on the feel of his hand on her back. Familiar. Comfortable.
The dancing flames of the candles mirrored themselves in the glass. Beatrice started to see double, so the blinked, vaguely aware of the droning voice of the pastor. When the duplicate lights didn’t disappear, she frowned, glanced up at Adriel who watched them grow closer with the same interest she had.
It wasn’t until an object busted through the bottom window did they startle. Sarah let out a scream, and Father Merritt dropped his glass. Beatrice watched as the malt wine spilled in a diluted red. Beatrice covered her head; her eyes were ringing. The doors to the church slammed open hard enough to put holes in the surrounding walls.
Fire, there was fire everywhere. It was hot and angry. A mob of men in uniforms had swarmed the church. She couldn’t’ tell if they were blue, or gray. It didn’t’ matter, she figured, because they all at the same feral and angry looks on their faces.
Sarah didn’t let up on her screaming. The nearest man slammed the but of his musket into her nose. Adriel turned his face away at the sight of blood. Beatrice gasped and the woman fell to the ground of the church.
“Now sir-“Father Merritt began.
A shot that was almost as loud as the world around them rang through the air. Beatrice could smell gunpowder, taste it on her lips. The bullet pierced his knee, sprayed a dark liquid against the back walk, across the podium that he stood at every single day.
A human noise escaped from his wife’s throat. Beatrice breathed in sharply, and turned her face into Adriel’s coat. He held the back of her head. The room was silent. The people she had come to know as friends locked their jaws and stared into the pool of alcohol that they never rose to their lips.
Beatrice clenched her eyes shut. She focused on her breathing, on the stars dancing in her eyes. Heavy, steel-toed boots, walked across the wooden floor. The sound was hollow, horrible and lingering. She struggled to track it over the hissing of her own heart in her ears.
The man stopped in front of Adriel, drew in a long, growling breath. “Mr. Hale. Apologies for the mess.”
The City, 1986
Beatrice insisted on driving Ava home. The rain had picked back up as the sun lowered behind the horizon. They’d left the bar and returned to the station with an odd sadness washing over them both.
Ava was working on her fourth cup of coffee, pouring over her case files. Stacks upon stacks of manila folders with small writing. They were beginning to blur for Beatrice, her head was pounding. She needed a drink with more consequence.
She nearly didn’t’ catch Yasmine lingering between the stairwell to the basement and the two desk lamps that bathed them in a warm, yellow glow. She picked her head up, locked eyes with gray nervous ones.
“Miss Amunet,” Beatrice leaned back in the creaking leather chair. Ava startled, her eyes snapping open. She stood with a quickness that was sure to conjure stars. “It’s late.”
The woman had her hands behind her back, took a few tentative steps between the maze of desks. Ava had been buzzing for the results of the DNA test. Guilt settled in her stomach along with her cold coffee. It seemed worlds ago, that she had crushed the vial under her boot and watched the blood run down the drain.
“Detective Silva, Detective Alexander.” She spoke.
“I don’t like the look on your face, Yasmine.”
Ava had lost most of her fight the more she talked about her old partner. But she did it with a passion until her head hurt and pain pounded at her temples. She leaned against the desk, crossed her arms over her chest, and leveled the medical examiner.
Beatrice tried (and failed) not to notice how toned Ava was when she would shed her suit jacket. It hung off the back of the chair like cooked pasta. The collar was damp, nearly sprouting mold from the moisture in the air.
So stupid to focus on the shape of her stance, the way her floral scent tickled the back of Beatrice’s throat when she was very near getting caught with blue dye on her hands, and her face, across her chest.
“The samples taken from Barry Palmer are gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone?”
Ava’s voice was calmer, and that was almost scarier than the yelling. The yelling, Beatrice could handle. She knew how to slow people down, to interrupt the anger when it was visceral. But the silent rage that stormed her vision now was horrifying.
“I mean it’s not in the fridge. I was running the working order and went to take out the slides when I realized they weren’t there. Everything was moved up, it was meticulous.”
This is when the yelling began “They didn’t grow legs and walk away, Yasmine!”
“I never suggested that they did!”
“Then find them!” That Boston accent took charge of Ava’s voice, her tone dark. She grabbed her coat and shoved her arm through it. “We’re working a case here and the last thing we need is misplaced evidence.”
Yasmine looked like she’d had a boot shoved into her abdomen and couldn’t catch her breath. Before Ava could kick her in the ribs again, Beatrice said “Thank you, Yasmine. For letting us know.”
She took that as her cue to leave. The rage wasn’t’ diffused, but redirected to the fact that Ava couldn’t locate her cigarettes in the breast pocket of her jacket. She threw it down on the arm of the chair and let out a deep sigh before heading towards the exit.
Beatrice worked quickly to flick off both lights out of habit from when being ignited would spark a flame. These were electric, they were in far less danger. She followed after Ava as if she was about to do something stupid.
“Going for a walk,” Ava mumbled.
“At two in the morning? Alone?”
“I’m a big girl, I can handle it.” She stopped, sighed when they reached the cement steps of the precinct. “You got a cigarette?”
“No. But I’ve got cash.”
“Come on, then.”
They’d spent most of the day together and had run out of things to discuss but remained in a comfortable silence. The sidewalk was glossed over with fresh rain, a mist hung in the air that made Beatrice feel like she was underwater, drowning in it. Three blocks into the meandering towards Ava’s apartment, she seemed to give up on the prospect of a smoke.
Their shoulders bumped into one another, and by the time they’d made it to Ava’s street, Beatrice laughed. Ava looked jarred and then smiled like she was in on the joke herself. “Something about losing precious evidence funny to you, Alexander?”
“No,” Beatrice shook her head, and wiped the moisture from the corner of her eye. “No, that’s… horrible, actually. Mildly inconvenient. It’s just, I haven’t walked a girl home in a long time.”
Now Ava was really smiling “That so? I hope you don’t expect me to invite you in, Detective.”
“That would be presumptuous. After all, you should be the one walking me home.”
“I bought you a meal.” Ava frowned “A drink. Two of them actually.”
They both laughed. All the tension between them dissolved into something warm and malleable. She’d taken Beatrice on a date. The library, the meal, and now the long walk home. Ava’s cheeks were red with blush, the noises from her throat something brilliant. Beatrice never wanted that sound to stop.
But, when it eventually did, she realized how close they were. She could smell the coffee on Ava’s breath. Small droplets of water danced across her hair, and her eyes, they caught the light above them. Before she could stop herself, Beatrice leaned forward, and pressed her lips against Ava’s in a small kiss.
“I’m” She flushed, stomach rolling “I’m sorry that was entirely-“
Before Beatrice could continue, Ava’s eyes darkened and sparked in a rolling closeness. She grabbed the lapels of Beatrice’s jacket and pulled her back in. This kiss was hungrier. It was desperate. A quiet sound escaped Ava’s throat, vibrated through the hand that Beatrice had left linger against the woman’s jaw.
They pulled away, heads touching and breathless. Beatrice murmured into Ava’s mouth. “Unprofessional.”
Virginia, 1864
Once the shock had worn off, rage threatened to consume her. Beatrice sat with her knees against her chest, her dress bunched up at her ankles. She watched as Father Merritt bled out on the floor. Adriel and the mysterious man that smelled like clove and vanilla and tin had a hushed conversation by the shut church doors.
Beatrice felt foolish. She felt like a hot iron had been smashed across her cheek in a deliberate slap to the face. She’d been instructed to stay on the steps that led to the podium and she mentally calculated her ability to escape from the church.
Where would she go? Even if she could squeeze past the two men, there were close to another dozen outside. Then a long stretch of forest and swamp she would have to wade through to get home. Even then, the only thing Beatrice would accomplish would be leading the danger home.
The danger lived under their roof for a better part of a year. She scolded herself for not noticing the slight inconsistencies in Adriel’s behavior. He would cast headlong glances at her and when she willed herself to look up, both men were watching the way she existed. There was something akin to pity on Adriel’s face.
She tensed when he neared her, stepping over Father Merritt. Everyone was silent, flanking the pews and hanging their heads as if they were using their entirety to pray to a higher power. Townspeople half-drunk on wine tracked his movements as he knelt in front of her.
“Miss Alexander,” He began, voice soft. She looked over his shoulder at the man with the musket. He gently guided her chin back to him. “I’m sure all of this is very confusing for you.”
She bit her tongue, careful not to draw any blood. When she didn’t speak, he lilted his head to the side, and softened his gaze. There was something behind Adriel Hale’s eyes that she resented. Something that was cold and well-masked, but something she saw, nonetheless.
“This is my associate, Vincent. He’s made a long journey over the holidays just to be here. He’s a soldier.”
Beatrice’s eyes hardened. He wore no uniform, not one that she recognized. His clothes were clotted with dirt and something darker, something that dried harder. Vincent had red-rimmed eyes and a torn jacket. His boots had sunk into the earth, tracking it onto the church floor. The sound of shallow breath faltered as he wandered near the pews of people dressed in their Christmas best.
He spoke to her softly like she was a child and that white-hot rage threatened to consume her. She wanted the facts, she wanted to know who Adriel was, and what these men were doing here. More than anything, she wanted to know why she had hastily agreed to be in his company tonight.
“I do not care who he is.” She growled, “who are you?”
Adriel laughed at this, and turned his head to Vincent. “This is what I’ve written you about! Dear friend, Beatrice Alexander is a spitfire!”
Talk to me. Not to him. Talk to me.
“Before there was a war within a war, there was a battle, dear Beatrice. Between species. Those of us that are truly superior to the human race. Those of us who are above it all, above mortality. The fear of death.”
Adriel smiled like a wolf and it unsettled Beatrice at her core. There was something unhinged behind his stare whereas Vincent’s was cool and calculating.
“We have been searching for a town, much like this one. It’s hidden, desolate, but working in such an order that is simple to manipulate. Miss Alexander, we are going to make history here tonight and I would like you to be apart of it.”
Beatrice snorted “A part of what? You’ve given no answers, Mister Hale. You’ve given me nothing but questions and the scent of blood.”
“A scent you will soon find solace in if you allow me.” He placed a cool hand on her leg. She stiffened and leveled him with a glare until he removed it. “Have you read the book of proverbs?”
“Long ago, I’m afraid.”
“Father Merritt, would you like to regale us?” There was nothing but a shuddered breath. The deep-red puddle had stopped growing around him, his hands slack on the wound against his knee. “Mm, perhaps not, then.”
Adriel stood, and started the pace the same way that he did when they discussed literature in the study. He had his hands in his coat pockets. Vincent seemed disinterested in his theatrics. Beatrice was frozen in fear, silent in her listening.
“The leech hath two daughters. Give, give, they cry. Never truly satisfied.”
Beatrice vaguely recognized the verse. She had underlined it through her first foray with the leather-bound book shoved to the back of her bookshelf. It had set a cold stone upon her chest. She laid in bed, watching as bleached light streamed through the window.
She lay frozen against the sheets, fingers gripping the fabric as the bed creaked beneath her. She stared at the canopy above her as pressure shifted. A woman, something that was supposed to look like a woman, shifted at the bedpost and crawled across the mattress.
Beatrice remembers the damp, mossy scent of her. The coolness of her hair dripped with water that left an earthy taste in the air. Sharp nails raked against the side of her face, a tongue trailed from Beatrice’s jawline to her temple as she trembled.
She drifted in and out of sleep that night, the pressure all the same on her chest. Beatrice was drenched in sweat when the sunlight finally reached her, and an understanding of the passage that she didn’t grasp before washed over her. She slept with the window closed for the next month, despite the heat of the summer.
“Ah, so you do know it.” He read the recognition on her face. “Such creatures do not exist only within the pages of the Bible. They are real and they are staring you directly in the face, Miss Alexander. They’re giving you a choice.”
“And what choice is that?”
“You can join us and feel the power of the world crumbling under your fingertips. Or you can perish with them.” He glanced at the shaking people in the pews, the man bleeding out on the floor. Sarah as she stirred from her slumber. “The choice is yours, Miss Alexander.”
Beatrice felt her heart seize. There was something akin to hope in Adriel’s eyes. She was a challenge to him, that much was apparent. It would be easy to lie on the floor and die. Beatrice was certain that after all of these months, he would make her demise a quick one.
But Beatrice knew she was a coward. She knew that before she gave him the slightest of nods, and she remembered it as she felt the sharpness of his teeth on her throat.
#Sister Beatrice#Sister Lilith#Sister Camila#Ava Silva#Warrior nun#Warrior nun fanfiction#Avatrice#Avatrice fanfiction
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TALES OF THE NINE REALMS; WORLDBUILDING
Sovereign
adjective sov▪︎er▪︎eign
of the most exalted kind
At the time of the old gods' death Yggdrasil was one land with no borders or kings. But over 400 years Lords and kingdoms arose and nine realms came to be. These Realms clashed and struggled for ultimate power resulting in a war spanning multiple generations that came to be known as The War of Realms. In the aftermath of the war the sovereign rulers of the Realms entered into an alliance creating The Council of The Realms which is ruled over by the High King. This High King also has sovereignty over all of Yggdrasil.
Nine Realms:
Arlheim - located on the western coast. Borders are marked by the Daggry Mountains to the north, the Lycon River to the south, and the Aleborg River to the south. Mostly farmlands and woodlands. Located here is Valhalla, the largest and most powerful city in all the Nine Realms. The High King's court and The Council of The Realms is held here.
Elfheim - located north of Arlheim. Borders marked by Daggry Mountains to the south, the Great Sea to the north and west, and the Lycon River to the east. Very mountainous with deep valleys covered in thick pine forests. The Light Elves dominate the land and there are very few non-elves living there. The court of the Sovereign Queen of Elfheim is located in the city of Gimli.
Darhkhiem - located east of Elfheim. Borders are marked by the mountains to the north and east, the Lycon River to the west, and the Leda River to the south. Mostly grasslands and rolling green hills. Many mining towns are located here. The court of the Sovereign King of Darhkhiem is located in the city of Heliodor.
Stonehiem - located north of Darhkhiem. Borders are marked by the Lycon River to the west, the Great Sea to the north and east, and mountains to the south. Filled with ice-capped mountains, glaciers, and frozen barren tundras. The least populated realm. The court of the Sovereign Queen of Stonehiem is located in the stronghold of Rothguard.
Jotunheim - located on the eastern coast. Borders are marked by the Great Sea to the east, the Trollem River to the west, and the Ironwood to the north. Mostly woodlands and low rolling hills. The court of the Sovereign King is located in the city of Skyguard
Mannheim - located in the center of Yggdrasil. Borders are marked by the Lycon River to the west, the Leda River to the north, the Trollem River to the east, and the dead woods to the south. Very flat plains and farmlands. Many roads run throughout Mannheim that connect the other Realms to one another. The court of the Sovereign King of Mannheim is in the city of Kattenguard.
Esaheim - located south of Mannheim. Borders are marked by the Nidhog Gorge to the west, the dead woods to the north, the Trollem River to the east, and the Great Sea to the south. The realm was once lush forests but due to active volcanoes the land has become barren. The realm was ruled from the city of Sutguard but has since been abandoned.
Fenheim - located on the southern end of Yggdrasil. Borders are marked by the Nidhog Gorge to the east, the Aleborg River to the north, and the Great Sea to the west and south. Mostly forests and swamplands. The court of the Sovereign King of Fenheim is in the city of Andvar. Andvar also holds the largest Library of Archives.
Marheim - located to west in the Great Sea. A collection of five islands: Iona, Antrim, Alban, Argyail, and Notun. The court of the Sovereign King of Marheim is on the island of Notun.
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I just watched Eps 1-5. Fantastic! I dig the worldbuilding and the storytelling shifts. The narrative frame is solid, and the differing perspectives of macrovolutes and humans shot-to-shot work well. Just wanted to share my appreciation - I'm interested to see where things go from here!
Aw thank you, I really appreciate that!!
(By the way, I recommend everyone check out Tales from the Swamplands for more sci-fi involving giant bugs!)
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Benjamin Gaunt here, back with yet another Tale From the Swamplands!
This week’s topic is... Memories There’s something wonderful in sharing our own perspective on that which once was - and though our recollections can often be hazy, it’s not hard find beauty in those variations! As for our tale, it’s time to dive once again Into the Mire! As per usual, I’ll assail you with:
The strange!
The bizarre! And,
The generally unlikely!
Three friends take a trip down memory lane to unravel the mysteries of a house at the end of a forgotten trail. It’s been around for as long as anyone can remember - But as to who lived there, or what caused them to leave the domicile in rot and ruin... Well, the truth within its walls is left merely in hearsay, echoes, and legends!
Legends much like this week’s Tale From the Swamplands:
The Whispering Walls of Dunmore House
- B. Gaunt
I’m super excited about this week’s episode - I think it’s my best yet! Let me know what you think, or if there’s any other corner of the Swamplands you’d like to hear more about in the future! You can listen to the show here, on YouTube, Spotify, any podcast player, or the show’s website!
#tftsl#theswamplands#tales from the swamplands#podcast#podcasts#bugs#bug#insects#arachnids#memories#narrative#radio show#audio drama#into the mire#horror#scary#weird#swamp
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The pale, winter sun slowly dipped below the dun-colored hills, setting the retreating stormclouds ablaze with color. The only evidence which remained of the less clement whether they carried was the treacherous ground beneath our feet as we strolled between decaying pastures turned to swampland.
“It is a lovely evening,” Watson declared, even as he drew his heaviest overcoat tighter around his shoulders, his cheeks a fetching pink from the cold air.
“Is it?” I asked in a contrarian spirit.
Watson’s pointed look and gentle nudge of his shoulder into mine were remonstrance enough, but I observed the twitch of his moustache, which told another tale. “I am certain you will get to the bottom of the mystery one way or another,” said he, with a consoling pat upon my arm.
I let out a sharp, barking laugh and briefly caught his hand in my own, as though I might feel the warmth of it through our thick gloves. “Indeed, Watson? I had put the matter out of my mind, but if you believe there is more to be found surely there must be something which you observed that escaped the good baker’s notice and even my powers of deduction.”
Watson demurred, and I caught his eye from behind his fine lashes.
A quiet fell over us as the last rays of color faded, giving way to dusky shades of night and a mist began to creep in across the hills. We drew closer together in the dark, my arm across his back, pulling his overcoat more tightly about his waist, and I felt him holding me nearer in turn as we hastened toward the warmth and light of the inn.
In the near distance, I heard the rough, rustic chime of tin cowbells. Watson and I turned toward the sloping fields, but there was no livestock in sight; all presumably in to pasture for the night. I observed with a glance that Watson shared my puzzlement, but it was by a silent agreement that we hurried on to the inn rather than pause to investigate another little mystery.
The fog closed in around us, and we were so preoccupied with our objective that I did not see the shadowy figure hurtling toward us until it slammed into me.
#v writes#Sherlock Holmes#ACD Holmes#ACD Johnlock#H/W#John Watson#prompt: a tin bell#December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness
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A Tale of Two Dragons
Emerging from her cavern nestled within the rugged mountains, a dragoness with green scales and a fiery-scaled belly stretched her wings wide, feeling the cool mountain air brush against her powerful frame. Her green scales shimmered like emeralds under the sunlight, while the scales along her chest and underbelly glowed with a smoldering, fiery hue, hinting at the dangerous inferno she harbored within. Today, she ventured not to defend her lair but to explore beyond its safety—a journey that led her to the foreboding Swamp Forest.
The swamp lay in a distant valley, cloaked in perpetual mist and shadowed by towering, twisted trees whose roots clawed deep into the murky waters. This land was a stark contrast to her own territory—there, the skies were clear, the rivers ran swift, and the forest bristled with life. But here, the air was thick with moisture, filled with the pungent smell of decay. Vines draped down like curtains, and the buzzing of insects filled her ears. Yet, what drew her to this eerie place was more than curiosity—it was the promise of new challenges, of territory unclaimed by her talons. At least, that was what she thought.
The dragoness descended upon the swampland, her landing sending ripples across a stagnant pool. Her clawed feet sank slightly into the wet earth, and she inhaled deeply, the air tasting of damp moss and ancient trees. She felt a shiver run down her spine, her fiery underbelly warming against the chill that clung to the ground. This place felt hostile, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle—or so she believed.
Unbeknownst to her, this swamp forest already had a ruler. As she ventured deeper, the atmosphere grew heavier, oppressive, and a deep growl echoed through the fog. The ground beneath her seemed to pulse with an unnatural energy, and shadows twisted unnaturally between the trees. She halted, narrowing her fiery eyes, her scales bristling with tension. She had crossed into the domain of another dragon—one far more accustomed to the darkness of this place.
From the gloom, a figure emerged. His scales were the color of the night itself, each scale reflecting the faintest hint of light like polished obsidian. He was a black dragon, his form sinuous and sleek, his eyes burning with a cold, blue fire that cut through the fog. His wings unfurled, blotting out what little light filtered through the canopy, casting a shadow that seemed to envelop her entirely.
"Intruder," his voice rumbled, deep and resonant like the roll of distant thunder. "This land is mine, claimed long before your wings touched its skies. Why do you tread where you do not belong?"
She bared her teeth, letting out a defiant snarl. Flames danced between her teeth, casting a warm glow that cut through the darkness surrounding them. "I do not fear your shadows, black dragon. I came seeking new lands to explore, and I will not be turned away so easily."
The black dragon’s lips curled into a predatory smile, his eyes narrowing with dangerous intent. "You are bold, green one. But this is not a place for idle wanderers. You challenge my right to rule here, and for that, you must prove yourself—or leave as ashes."
With a powerful roar, the swamp itself seemed to come alive, responding to the black dragon’s command. Vines writhed, water bubbled, and the fog thickened, swirling around her like a living thing. She took a step back, but the ground beneath her feet seemed to move, trying to pull her deeper into the murk. She unleashed a torrent of fire, blazing a path through the encroaching mist, forcing the darkness to recoil.
Yet the black dragon was swift, his wings cutting through the air as he lunged at her, jaws snapping shut mere inches from her throat. She twisted away, her claws raking across his side, leaving shallow marks on his dark scales. The black dragon roared, retaliating with a surge of shadowy energy that wrapped around her, dragging her closer to the swamp’s depths.
She struggled, her fiery scales burning against the cold grasp of darkness, and with a mighty roar, she unleashed her flame, burning away the shadows that sought to bind her. The forest trembled with the force of their clash—fire against shadow, heat against cold. Sparks flew as their claws met, and the very trees seemed to bend away from their battle.
But even amidst the heat of combat, there was a grudging respect that grew between them. The black dragon saw in her the resilience of a flame that refused to be snuffed out, and she saw in him the relentless tenacity of a darkness that never yielded to light. As their battle raged on, their strikes grew less lethal, more testing, each recognizing the strength in the other.
Finally, they drew apart, both breathing heavily, steam rising from their bodies. The black dragon’s blue eyes glowed with something new—an understanding, perhaps, or the glimmer of a different challenge. He lowered his head slightly, acknowledging her strength. "You are not like the others who have tried to claim my land. You possess a fire that could burn even the deepest shadows. But if you wish to stay, you must offer something more than defiance."
She paused, her fiery gaze meeting his. A slow smile spread across her scaled face, and she inclined her head, the embers of her challenge cooling into something more. "Then let us forge a truce, shadow-dweller. You guard the secrets of this land, and I shall lend my flame to defend it. Together, perhaps we can make this place something more than swamp and shadow."
And so, the two dragons, once enemies, now allies, stood side by side amidst the misty forest, each bringing their own power to the land they shared. Their journey was far from over, but as they took their first steps into this uncertain alliance, they knew that they had found in each other a kindred spirit, fierce and unyielding.
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A green dragoness, adorned with emerald scales and a fiery belly, leaves her mountain lair to explore the eerie Swamp Forest. Here, she encounters a black dragon, ruler of the shadows, who challenges her presence. Their clash of fire and darkness is fierce, but amidst the battle, respect grows. Together, they form an alliance, vowing to transform the swamp into something greater than mere shadow and flame. ==========================================
Title: Alliance of Fire and Shadow: A Tale of Two Dragons
Alt Texts:
"Green dragoness with emerald scales and a fiery underbelly stretches her wings against a mountain backdrop."
"Black dragon with obsidian-like scales confronts the green dragoness in a misty swamp."
"The green dragoness unleashes a torrent of fire in a dense, shadowy forest."
"Two dragons, one green and fiery, the other black and shadowy, face off amidst swirling fog."
"Dragons, fire meeting shadow, clash in a swamp forest as mist swirls around them."
"A tense alliance forms between a green dragoness and a black dragon in a dark, misty swamp."
Tags: Green dragoness, Black dragon, Swamp Forest, Dragon battle, Fire and shadows, Dragon alliance, Fantasy dragons, Mystical creatures
Keywords: Green dragon, black dragon, swamp, dragon battle, fire, shadow, alliance, misty forest, emerald scales, fantasy storytelling.
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Regional Variations in Bigfoot Types
Bigfoot is a cryptid creature that has captivated the interest of people all throughout the country. Even though there are many reports of sightings and tales of this elusive creature, regional differences in Bigfoot reports show the variety of perspectives and descriptions held by various groups. These variances give each region's Bigfoot lore a distinct taste by frequently reflecting the local environment, culture, and folklore. The Pacific Northwest is home to the most famous Bigfoot mythology, depicting the creature as a large, ape-like individual with dark, shaggy hair, typically standing between six and nine feet tall. This region, which includes Oregon, Washington, and Northern California, has rough mountain ranges and enormous, dense forests, making it the perfect place for such an enigmatic creature to live. Stories from this area frequently highlight the creature's amazing strength and size, as well as its capacity to blend into the dense forest. The rich indigenous traditions of the Pacific Northwest greatly influence local bigfoot legends, as numerous tribes have their own accounts of such creatures.
The Rocky Mountains provide a varied background for Bigfoot encounters as you move east. Remote mountain regions and high-altitude woods in states like Colorado and Idaho frequently host sightings of the creature. People in this area often refer to Bigfoot as the "Mountain Devil" or the "Wild Man," with sightings typically occurring near remote cottages or hiking paths. Stories often highlight the creature's endurance and perseverance in severe environments, which contributes to the mystique surrounding the harsh and unpredictable climate of the Rockies. These local stories, which present Bigfoot as a nature protector, frequently emphasize awe and reverence for the creature. The Midwest also refers to Bigfoot as the "Grassman" due to its association with the region's grassy, wide fields and deep woodlands, particularly in states like Ohio and Michigan. Midwest reports highlight how the animal can move quickly and stealthily through the undergrowth, becoming perfectly blended in with its surroundings. The fact that sightings of Bigfoot here frequently take place close to bodies of water, including rivers and lakes, raises the possibility that he favors these settings. People frequently portray Bigfoot in the Midwest as equally powerful and enigmatic as its cousin in the Pacific Northwest, albeit slightly smaller and less aggressive. One form of Bigfoot that is unique to the Southern United States is known as the "Skunk Ape." Mostly found in Florida, the Skunk Ape distinguishes itself from other local varieties with its pungent, disagreeable stench. The lush, humid vegetation of the Everglades provides plenty of cover, leading to frequent reports of sightings. People typically describe the skunk ape as having reddish-brown fur, being shorter, and being more nimble. According to local traditions, it's a more solitary and secretive animal that can make its way across the treacherous swamplands.
In the Appalachian region, Bigfoot is commonly referred to as the "Wood Booger" or "Yahoo." States like West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee abound with stories about this monster, often set against the backdrop of the Appalachian Mountains' thick, hazy woodlands. People usually describe bigfoot encounters in Appalachia as frightening, unsettling experiences where the creature appears out of nowhere and vanishes just as quickly. The rough, desolate Appalachian terrain contributes to the atmosphere of mystery and dread, and many residents see the Wood Booger as a relic from a bygone era or a guardian ghost. These regional differences in Bigfoot mythology demonstrate how flexible the legend is, fitting into a variety of settings and cultural situations across the country. Whether viewed as a mystery wanderer, a swamp dweller, or a guardian of the wild, Bigfoot represents the persistent human obsession with the wild and the unknown. The distinctive interpretations of the monster that each region has contributed to the national Bigfoot mythology enhance the fabric of the country's varied landscapes and communities.
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5 games to play first on your new Xbox
Glad holidays, or possibly it’s your birthday — otherwise you merely determined to deal with your self to a brand-new Xbox Collection X (or Collection S). Now what? Certain, you may peruse Polygon’s listing of the 22 greatest Xbox video games, or the 25 greatest video games on Xbox Sport Move. However you don’t have time for that! You’re in all probability studying this in your cellphone proper now whereas your new Xbox whirs merrily away putting in all of its fancy-new-console updates. The clock is ticking, and I’ve received you. Right here’s what you must set up first in your new Xbox.
Picture: Improve Expertise Initially launched underneath the title Tetris Impact in 2018 and later up to date into Tetris Impact: Linked in 2020, this beautiful and mind-melting Tetris expertise has much more occurring than simply, nicely, Tetris. (That mentioned, common degular Tetris is likely one of the absolute best video games ever made, interval, so there's that.) Eye-popping visuals and the pulse-pounding music accompaniment could have you feeling like a Tetris super-god, be it in single-player or multiplayer (co-op and aggressive modes can be found, each on-line and domestically, for 2-4 gamers). Excessive-quality headphones are extremely beneficial to totally immerse your self within the vibes.
Picture: Playground Video games/Microsoft Studios through Polygon There’s a motive that racing video games are sometimes held up as showcases of what new consoles can do, and Forza Horizon 5 suits that invoice completely, providing really gorgeous drive-by vistas. Mexico is the setting for this one, which suggests there’s an enormous variety in climes — from seashores to jungles to swamplands — to not point out very realistic-looking climate simulation. You don’t even must be that good of a driver to understand this one.
Picture: Bungie/Microsoft Sport Studios This assortment of Halo video games contains numerous video games, and plenty of of them are previous, so that they aren’t precisely going to indicate off the ability of your brand-new console in the identical manner as Tetris Impact: Linked or Forza Horizon 5. But when that is your first time proudly owning an Xbox console, you’ve merely gotta take a look at one of the influential recreation collection up to now. Should you’re actually undecided the place to start out and also you don’t need to return in time too far, go along with Halo 3 (2007) and see the way it feels.
Picture: Mobius/Annapurna Interactive This recreation doesn’t have any weapons; it’s all about exploration and uncovering the mysteries of an historic civilization. However regardless that it could not require the swift response instances of the earlier video games on this listing, Outer Wilds is perhaps probably the most difficult recreation of the bunch, as a result of it’ll actually put your mind to the check. As you discover every of the planets in a comparatively small however fastidiously crafted photo voltaic system, you’ll must assume laterally and permit your thoughts to be slowly blown as every of the items falls into place. Like I mentioned, it’ll be laborious — however in the long run, you’ll discover it to be one of many best tales you’ve ever skilled.
Ubisoft Montreal/Ubisoft I might be telling you to put in Murderer’s Creed Origins, which is the most effective Murderer’s Creed recreation, however at this level, I’m gonna cease messing round and begin getting actual. Should you’ve performed the opposite video games on this listing and also you need to know what to put in subsequent in your Xbox, the reply is Xbox Sport Move (and Murderer’s Creed Origins). Or you may save your self some money and get Sport Move first, as a result of Forza Horizon 5 is on there, together with Halo: The Grasp Chief Assortment. Tetris Impact: Linked and Outer Wilds was once on there, too, however they aren’t anymore — nonetheless, that’s proof that just about each wonderful Xbox recreation will get its time within the Sport Move rotation, making the service a really worthy funding. Read the full article
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REVIEW
The Mad Women by Amanda Tisevich
BELOW: First lines of my reviews for the four books in this series – still remember them and highly recommend this book if you like dark twisty psychologically intriguing tales.
THE KEEPER’S CLOSET: dark, chilling, psychological thrill-ride that explores a rather warped interconnected collection of people and their interactions with one another.
THE LIE BETWEEN US: First words thought at the end of the book…OMG…Twistily Twisted! Couldn’t put it down and had to find out what would happen next.
THE WIDOW OF WEEPING PINES: Wow...talk about a riveting read with some crazy people doing crazy things.
THE RAVEN’S WIFE: Dark, gritty, intriguing story with twists and turns aplenty – a great GOTCHA moment and much to ponder after reading this.
A thought-provoking series with stories that drew me in, wouldn’t let me go, made me wonder, and left me happy I could close the book and not have to deal with the madness except through words that may linger after having been read.
5 Stars
BLURB
Four women, four “deliciously dark thrillers with jaw-dropping twists.” Book One: The Keeper’s Closet - In this house of glass, looks can be deceiving . . . Book Two: The Lie Between Us - This detective's secret will follow her to the grave . . Book Three: The Widow of Weeping Pines - Obsession turns deadly in a sleepy coastal town . . . Book Four: The Raven’s Wife - Julia Klein killed her husband . . . Or did she? 🖤 What readers are saying: 🖤 “Crazy twists you won’t see coming …one of my favorite reads of 2022!” ★★★★★ – xobookfairy “Absolutely brilliant, one of the best books I've read.” ★★★★★ - PsychoThrilla Books “A thriller that kept me hooked the entire time.” ★★★★★ – TikTok, City Vein Lights “A complete and utter brain-melter!” ★★★★★ – NikkisBookNook “OMG – WHAT TF DID I JUST READ?” ★★★★★ - Goodreads Review Don’t miss out on this binge-worthy box set! (Seriously, it’s the perfect weekend escape). Each story is a complete standalone – no cliffhangers. THE KEEPER’S CLOSET: Lavinia Greer is at the end of her rope. She’s lost her job, her friends, her home. Desperate to pick up the broken pieces of her life, she finds herself on the doorstep of a successful author who has hired her to care for his ailing wife. Tristan Carrington is perfect. His house is immaculate, his career booming, his body ageless. Looks, however, can be deceiving. Just ask the housekeeper, the ex-wife, or the shadow lurking outside the window. THE LIE BETWEEN US: At three in the morning, Detective Ame Bassette receives a panicked call from her sister Delphine who has just killed her drug-dealing boyfriend. Ame makes a snap decision—to risk everything to save her sister from spending life behind bars. Together, they go on the run but quickly discover that some secrets will follow wherever you go. After hours of driving, Ame finds herself lost in the dangerous swamplands of south Louisiana, where she comes across Gramarye Lodge, a run-down hotel with a sordid past—that may be connected to a horrifying cold case Ame once investigated. Soon after checking in, it becomes apparent that someone doesn’t want Ame to leave. She begins to question who she can trust… and if it isn’t only her sister’s secrets that are coming to light. THE RAVEN’S WIFE: On a frigid winter night, Daniel Klein was stabbed to death in his penthouse suite by his wife, Julia. At least that’s what the police report reads. The truth, however, is far more sinister. After relocating to a remote cabin in the middle of the mountains, Julia’s only goal in life is to piece together her broken past. But questions about that fateful night arise when Logan, Julia’s brother-in-law, shows up on her doorstep—with evidence that things are not as they appear. It soon becomes apparent that someone else knows the details of that night, and they will stop at nothing to ensure what happened in the dark, stays in the dark. THE WIDOW OF WEEPING PINES: Therapist and struggling author Betty Lou Abbott has a secret, one she keeps locked in the basement of the historic mansion she inherited from her late husband. Her fiancé, Ian, also has a secret: he is having an affair with one of Betty Lou’s clients. She thinks so, anyway. As Betty Lou’s life becomes intertwined with the beautiful, successful Carmen Marquis, her intention to expose the affair turns into a dangerous obsession. Especially when she learns there is more to Carmen than meets the eye. Caught in the middle of this cunning pair of women is Nicholas Stahl, a crooked detective who is determined to prove the truth—that one of them is a cold-blooded killer.
#Amanda Tisevich#Amanda McKinney#Fiction#Thriller#Psychological Thriller#Thought Provoking#Disturbing#Twisted#Murder#Madness
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