#tangled-brambles-in-a-wild-wood

[etherfall]

What does N call Alder? I think a cute fanfic idea would be the first time he calls Alder his dad, whether it's to his face or like, "my dad told me..."

I've got a little story just for this moment, hope you enjoy!

“Alder!”

Alder, who was sitting at the front entrance to their home, turned his head at the sound to see N excitedly bounding across the grass with his poncho trailing behind him. 

It had been a few months since he first found N in the woods. To Alder’s delight he was adjusting very well, and was now incredibly comfortable being in his home. For the first few weeks N didn’t speak. Alder was initially worried that his critical period for language learning had passed, but N was very smart and quickly picked up English.

N’s old shirt and pants had been replaced with a cream-colored poncho embroidered with gold lace that Alder had spent all night painstakingly sewing. Although he had lost many nights of sleep, it was worth it to see N’s smile of happiness as he slipped the new poncho across his shoulders. It felt good to be taking care of somebody again.

N stumbled to a stop, panting as he caught his breath. Alder let out a chuckle, amused.

“Slow down there N, what happened?”

N tugged on his hand excitedly. “Alder you have to see this!”

Alder stood up from the front steps of the house and let N lead him into the forest. “Where are we going? You still haven’t told me what’s happening.”

“Shhhh!” N said, hushing him. Alder smiled and closed his lips, letting the boy lead him deeper into the woods.

When they had gotten a good distance from the house N suddenly crouched down, pulling Alder into the bushes with him. He pointed into the brambles, wide-eyed and awed. 

“Look!”

Alder squinted, trying to see what N was pointing at. His eyesight had definitely waned over the years, but he eventually made out the figure of a Sawsbuck who was followed by a group of Deerling. 

It was truly a sight to behold. The great Sawsbuck held itself majestically, blinking slowly as it turned its head. The dapple of soft forest light scattered across its brown fur in a beautiful display of pattern. It would have blended in perfectly with the surrounding trees if not for the crowd of bright pink spring Deerling that were bouncing back and forth at its feet. Alder let out a breath of deep admiration. It was always a breathtaking scene to see such a beautiful creature in the wild.

The Sawsbuck dipped its head to calm the excited group of Deerling, nuzzling one softly with its nose. The Deerling wiggled its tail, letting out a happy bleat of excitement. The Sawsbuck lifted itself up regally and began to trot away into the woods, with the Deerling following behind. Soon they disappeared into the thick tangle of the forest.

Alder was beaming. The Sawsbuck was a great surprise to see. When they were both sure the pokemon were gone, Alder stood up and brushed the dirt off of his pants.

“That was a really beautiful thing you found, N. Did you see all those Deerling? That Sawsbuck is one busy dad.” He said with a chuckle.

N stood up as well, his expression of awe shifting to one of confusion.

“Wait, what’s a dad?” He asked, puzzled.

Alder silently face-palmed himself. He had completely forgotten that N had a very different upbringing than other people. He racked his brain for a quick explanation.

“Err…well I suppose you could say that a dad is a parent who raises you and cares for you.”

Alder gestured towards the forest where the Sawsbuck had disappeared. 

“That Sawsbuck we just saw is the dad to all those young Deerling. He cares for them and makes sure that they are all safe.”

Alder could see the gears in N’s head turning. He tried to clarify it a little more.

“Pretty much everyone has a dad, and their job is to look out for you as you grow up. Whether that be, let's say, making you food or teaching you how the world works. A dad doesn’t have to be related to you by blood, but he should be there to support you.”

N brightened in understanding, then turned his head to look at Alder. 

“Wait, that means that I should call you dad!”

Alder paused, stunned by the sudden response. “I…what?”

“Well you made me dinner every day, you gave me a home when it was raining, and you made me new clothes!” He said, excitedly lifting up an arm to show off the poncho. “You taught me about things I didn’t know and took care of me.”

N nodded to himself, beaming, oblivious to the fact that he was making Alder melt with happiness. He turned his head back towards the forest, looking out at where the pokemon had disappeared. A small smile hung on his lips.

“If you say that everyone has a dad, then you must be mine.” He murmured, tilting his head to look at Alder. “Right?”

Alder felt his heart twist. A complicated feeling of delight and sadness tore cruelly at his heartstrings.

“Oh N… A dad can be anyone, as long as you believe they care for you enough.”

N wrapped his arms around Alder’s waist, repeating the word a few more times, before burying his head into the folds of Alder’s poncho with a soft smile on his face.

“I like that. I think that I will call you dad.”

Alder felt as if he might start bawling. He tucked one hand around N’s shoulders, pulling him close. He pressed his other hand against his heart, turning his head to look down at N, trying to capture the moment forever in his mind.

“You can call me whatever you want N, but I feel very honored that you would choose to call me your dad.”

They stood together in the embrace, basking in the warm evening light. Alder turned his head away, feeling his heart flip with so many complicated emotions that had been dormant for years. He didn’t know if N knew the weight of the words that he had just said, but all he hoped for in the moment was that N was feeling comforted and loved. After a while Alder gently let go of N, giving him a bright smile.

“It’s starting to get late. Let’s head home now, son.”

N looked confused again. “Son? What’s a son?”

Alder laughed, ruffling N’s hair before gently taking his hand and leading him out of the bushes towards their house. The fading tendrils of the afternoon sun danced across their ponchos as they made their way through the woods together.

“That’s a name that I would call you N, the person whom the dad loves and cares for the most.”

[helenablogsworld]

Echoes of Romance in Abandoned Libraries

The damp air hung thick as the twilight settled over the crumbling estate, its ivy-covered walls blending into the darkened woods. A single lantern flickered along the cobblestone path, casting long, trembling shadows that reached like skeletal hands toward the sky. At the heart of the estate stood the library, once the crown jewel of a forgotten scholar's life, now an untouched relic of time’s passage.

Annabelle’s footsteps were light, almost reverent, as she crossed the threshold of the library. Dust motes danced in the beams of fading sunlight that poured through cracked, leaded glass windows. The scent of ancient parchment and decaying leather filled her lungs, a familiar comfort that had drawn her back, time and again, to this forsaken place.

For years, no one came here. The great minds who once haunted these halls had passed into oblivion, leaving only their thoughts etched into brittle volumes. But Annabelle, an outcast from the nearby village, found solace among the forgotten books. There was peace in their silence, and something more—an unseen presence, a whispering that only began when the room was still.

She paused before a tall, creaking shelf, her fingers trailing over the spines of aged volumes. Her heart quickened as she reached the familiar book, its leather binding worn and soft. Letters on the Philosophy of Love, read the title, embossed in fading gold. She hesitated before pulling it free, her hand trembling slightly. Every time she opened its pages, she felt the touch of someone long gone. A phantom of intellect and passion.

The book fell open to a page marked by a single dried rose. Beneath it, an inscription caught her eye, penned in a sharp, elegant hand: To the one who dares seek truth through love.

Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen this before. With trembling fingers, she turned the page and found something strange—a letter folded and pressed flat against the yellowing paper. The wax seal was unbroken. Her pulse raced as she slid her thumb beneath the seal, breaking it with a soft crack.

The letter was brief, but each word seemed to echo in the stillness:

"If you have found this, then you are not alone. The truth of love's secrets lies not in philosophy, but in the heart of those brave enough to seek it. I have waited in these shadows, and I will wait for you still. Midnight, by the lantern's light, beneath the elm in the west garden. Follow the echo, and find me."

Her heart pounded. The ink was fresh, as though written yesterday, yet the library had been abandoned for decades. She glanced toward the windows, where night had fully descended. The west garden, long overgrown with thorny brambles and wild roses, beckoned her with the promise of mystery.

Without another thought, she grabbed the lantern from the desk and hurried outside, her breath catching in the cold night air. The estate loomed around her, its cracked stone walls bathed in the pale glow of the moon. The path to the west garden was narrow and hidden beneath the tangle of vines and branches, but she knew it well—every corner, every twist, as if it had been etched into her very soul.

As she reached the clearing, her breath caught. Beneath the towering elm, an ancient lantern flickered, though no one stood beside it. She stepped closer, the crunch of dead leaves beneath her feet the only sound. Her eyes searched the shadows, waiting for a figure to emerge.

But there was no one.

Instead, the wind carried a voice, faint and distant, like the echo of a memory.

"You’ve come."

Annabelle froze. The words drifted through the air like a whisper, as if the wind itself spoke to her. She turned in every direction, seeking the source, but found only the stillness of the night.

The lantern’s flame flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows on the ground. Her pulse quickened, the thrill of the unknown coursing through her veins.

"Who are you?" she called out, her voice barely more than a breath.

"A scholar, once. A lover, once. But forgotten, like all who pass through these halls. And you? You seek truth where love lingers—among the forgotten."

The voice was closer now, as though it swirled around her, a presence without form. Annabelle’s heart beat wildly in her chest. She felt a strange pull, as if the very earth beneath her feet beckoned her closer to the elm.

"What truth?" she whispered.

There was silence for a long moment. Then, the voice returned, softer, almost tender.

"That love, like knowledge, does not die. It echoes, long after its time has passed. And those who dare seek it shall find it, even in the quietest places. Even here, in the shadows of forgotten libraries."

Annabelle’s eyes filled with tears, though she could not say why. The presence was close now—she could feel it, like a hand reaching through the veil of time. She pressed her palm against the rough bark of the elm, her heart aching with the weight of something she could not name.

"Do you hear it?" the voice asked, barely audible.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then listen. You will always find me in the echoes."

And as the lantern’s light faded, leaving her alone beneath the stars, Annabelle stood in the silence, listening to the echoes of a love long forgotten, yet never lost.

[mousetoe-wc]

I Got bored one time awhile ago and made a list of every prefix plus some into organised sections so I thought I might as well share.

All the ones that aren’t cannon to warriors, yet at lest are bold

Describing names

Colours: red, russet, copper, golden, amber, yellow, green, blue, violet, pink, white, gray, black, ebony, dark, pale, silver, brown, tawny, fallow

Pattern, Texture + Size: spot/ted, dapple, speckle, freckle, brindle, patch, mottle, ragged, tangle, kink, bristle, fuzzy, curl/y, wooly, soft, sleek, little, tiny, small, slight, short, tall, long, big, heavy, crooked, broken, half, stumpy, shred, torn, jagged

Actions + Character: flip, pounce, bounce, jump, hop, crouch, down, low, drift, flail, strike, running, fidget, mumble, whistle, snap, sneeze, shiver/ing, shining, flutter, fallen, lost, rush, fleet, quick, shy, sweet, brave, loud, quiet, wild, hope, wish,

Other: claw, whisker, dead, odd, one, spike, fringe, echo, song, hallow, haven

Elements

Time + Weather: day, night, dusk, dawn, morning, sky, sun/ny, moon, storm, lightning, thunder, cloud/y, mist/y, fog, snow, blizzard, ice, frost, dew, drizzle, rain, clear, wind, breeze, gale, shadow, shade, bright, light,

Earth/Water/Fire names: stone, rock, boulder, slate, flint, pebble, gravel, sand/y, dust, mud/dy, meadow, hill, rubble, river, ripple, whorl, float, rapid, shimmer, lake, swamp, marsh, wave, wet, bubbling, splash, puddle, pool, creek, fire, flame, flicker, flash, blaze, scorch, ember, spark, ash, soot, cinder, smoke

Plants

Trees: alder, aspen, birch, beech, cedar, cypress, pine, elm, willow, oak, larch, maple, bay, rowan, timber, bark, log, wood, twig, acorn, cone, seed, spire

Berry/Nut/Fruit/Herb: juniper, elder, sloe, holly, yew, mistle, bramble, hickory, hazel, chestnut, nut, apple, cherry, cranberry, olive, pear, plum, peach, chive, mint, fennel, sage, basil, mallow, parsley

Flowers: aster, poppy, primrose, rose, bluebell, marigold, tansy, pansy, briar, cherry, daisy, dandelion, daffodil, tulip, violet, lily, myrtle, thrift, yarrow, heather, lavender, blossom, bloom, flower, petal

Other: leaf, frond, fern, bracken, sorrel, hay, rye, oat, wheat, cotton, reed, pod, cinnamon, milkweed, grass, clover, weed, stem, sedge, gorse, furze, flax, nettle, thistle, ivy, moss, lichen, bush, vine, root, thorn, prickle, nectar

Animals

Mammals: mouse, rat, mole, vole, shrew, squirrel, hedgehog, bat, rabbit, hare, ferret, weasel, stoat, mink, marten, otter, hog, wolf, hound, fox, vixen, badger, deer, doe, stag, fawn, sheep, cow, pig, lion, tiger, leopard, lynx, milk

Birds: robin, jay, cardinal, thrush, sparrow, swallow, shrike, starling, rook, swift, dove, pigeon, crow, raven, duck, goose, heron, wren, finch, swan, stork, quail, gull, lark, owl, eagle, hawk, kestrel, buzzard, kite, hoot, feather, bird, egg, talon

Fish, Reptiles + Amphibians: pike, perch, pollack, trout, tench, cod, carp, bass, bream, eel, minnow, fin, snake, adder, lizard, turtle, frog, toad, newt

Bug type Names: bug, lady or ladybug, moth, spider, ant, snail, slug, beetle, bee, wasp, dragon or dragonfly, bumble, worm, maggot, cricket, fly, midge, web, honey

Skyclan + Warriorclan: Bella, Billy, Big, Harry, Harvey, Snook, Ebony, Monkey

[sapphicslaylist]

[STP] On Borrowed Paths Chapter 10 - Markets and Mealtimes

Prev Next

“Your [Thorn] is wary of you. It might take some doing to gain her trust.”

Time to Flight Rising Familiar bond the shit out of this idiot.

—- Further development of their relationship and the ties that connect them. —

The rest of this story was something Spectre knew. A bramble-bound teen had arrived at the cabin in Quiet’s shadowy arms, unconscious and clearly wounded. The soft vines which ensnared her had kept The Princess from bleeding out; a bit of wilder magic which at the time she couldn’t place. Escorted at his sides were a startled badger and aloof Chimera; both tails flicking worriedly as they regarded her.

“Quiet?”

“Ambushed,” Quiet breathed. “They tried to slaughter the whole kingdom. Went down to rescue the Fae… There were empty cages but no sign of them. I guess she must’ve gotten them out.”

As he stepped into the cabin, his new familiars closed the door behind him. “I’m going to set up the couch, and see if I can tend to her.”

What happened next seemed to come rolling back. The corvid administered additional ointment on each cut, and Spectre stayed by his side until she arose. A Changeling child was the first and only Bean she’d seen in ages, and thank goodness for it if those memories were commonplace horrors. The girl couldn’t stay for long there; just until the wounds healed. And once all was said and done, she was escorted to the woods - with no trace of her but her crown.

Several things seemed to come from Spectre’s revalation: so it seemed their paths were linked. The Wild had indeed returned, with an aching, mortal body that enfolded around her. Somehow, the Voices’ service to both of them didn’t seem to be coincidence -

Spectre broke from a dreamscape of silence to look over her host’s palm. Marred by bruises and scarring, the tangled mark of the Wild laid on her palm. It almost resembled the marks which Quiet had scattered through his hand -

-But no. If either of them were to talk about any of this, they’d have to figure it out together. Bringing it up unprompted would only lead to more conflict.

Thankfully, morning came swiftly enough, batting curtains of golden light over the counter. Beast remained curled up around the basket as the pair of siblings scarcely stirred from the linens within. The heavy, frigid silks of Spectre’s form had kept Thorn in a dreamless sleep, hands crossed over her heart with only the occasional twitch of a tail as they rose. Much as Spectre wanted to let her remain, she’d need her current host to wake up before she could leave. The time was now.

“Come on; you’ve got to get up.” There was a cerebral tap upon her gentle words. Thorn ignored them.

“Five more minutes,” the heiress grumbled.

There was another tap - this time from her side. An ear twitched as she heard the shift of feathers and heavy form from the far side of the room, but even then didn’t stir. There was the ticklish sensation of Spectre’s own trailing along her nerves, squirming slightly at the sensation. It was unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

“Come on, I hardly ever get more than three hours,” Thorn whined, shifting to the other side. This, in turn, threw her face into Witch’s sleeping arms. Thankfully this time she at least had the courtesy to sheath those darn claws -

Or not. But if they had to be out, at least Witch decided to use them to knead her tangled mess of hair opposed to leaving marks along her skin.

“Gone by morning, hmm?” Spectre chuckled as her own attention turned towards her hesitant husband. 

Comparatively, Quiet was a mess. It looked like he’d gotten sleep, but barely. His wings were folded awkwardly as he looked over his spectral wife, who by now had wriggled from Thorn’s hold into the open. There was a twitch and an absent giggle from below as she did so, watching as the heiress snuggled closer to her sister.

It was safe to leave the pair alone for now. There was a smile of relief - one that faded looking over her exhausted husband. Judging by his posture and hesitancy, there was something on his mind.

“Let’s talk in the other room.”

Quiet said nothing. Only a shallow nod, following back to the bedroom. The descent behind him was tense, rigid; better to get things sorted here and now. Padding back to the bedroom, there was a twitch from the badger who settled beside the bed. Smitten only gave an understanding nod as he leapt from its foot and carefully strode out; his work here was done.

For a moment, Quiet merely stepped to the bed with his back turned. Wings shuffled as he sat there, arms crossed; there was a tense silence that only further deadened the air in Spectre’s presence. Already, it was clear the mistake was deeper than expected.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Spectre offered, trying to soften the mood. “What ha-“

“You left me.” The words tasted acrid on his tongue, but they needed to be said. “You were so focused on siding with the Fae that you didn’t even check on me.”

Spectre looked over him, puzzled. “That’s not how I remember it. Things were abrupt last night, but you still let me take control. I… I was checking the whole time; and once it was too much- “

“You were. I could care less about that part,” Quiet murmured. “I don’t think either of us knew she would go that batshit. Frankly, you seemed just as startled - no. That’s not why I’m upset.”

“Then why-?”

“You checked on her profusely, yet scarcely even asked on my end. I was alone until Smitten picked up on it.”

Spectre hesitated. What he said was true; she hadn’t been the greatest wife that prior night. 

“I thought you needed time to process.”

“I would’ve rather been asked than assumed.” Quiet breathed a sigh, shaking his head. “Look, I know this is important to you, but I need to know before you make a move like that. The Fae have been aggressive since they first got here, and regardless of their reasons I need you as backup.”

“Understood. I’m sorry.” Spectre merely clasped her hands in front of her. “They most certainly have their reasons. But regardless, this is our house; we’re the ones who set the rules, not them. Perhaps I was a bit too lenient.”

Quiet nodded, shuffling his wings. “I could do a better job myself. I did go along with your plan in letting her run wild, even if I didn’t know what the intent was.” Then, after a pause: “Is that really what Borrowing is like?”

“… Some of it, but no. You forget that she’s Fae and I’m not. You never gave me any trouble.” Then, with a skeletal grin. “I mean, besides the obvious.” Just to test him, her features warped into a wrinkled smirk, making Quiet shudder.

“By the Wilds… Don’t do that,” Quiet breathed, laughing nervously.

There was a giggle as Spectre acquiesced to her normal disposition. “Regardless, I have a few ideas on how I might still be able to help. You don’t need all the details to give you a hint or two.” But her gaze soon lingered to the marks along the palm of his hand; how was she going to explain this? 

“How is your hand, by the way?”

“Mmh? Fine, I guess.” There was a shrug as he flipped it over. “It’ll scar over. Nothing like the castle siege.”

Yep, those were definitely the same marks as Thorn’s. Whatever it meant, it didn’t seem good.

“What about yours? You still felt the onslaught through the central nervous system.”

Spectre hesitated. Often more times than not, some form of scar or scratch would form along her phantom body - a kind of empathetic weight which the pair of them shouldered between themselves. Sure enough, the mark was there; subtle, translucent claw marks which would heal overtime. It seemed the irate Fae had caught a two-for-one special in leaving her sigil - something which, no doubt, was unaware and unwitting. Wild’s mark wasn’t just handed out to just anyone.

“I’ll be fine,” Spectre crooned. “My nerves are obsolete at this point; it’s you I’m worried about.”

“I’m better now that we talked. Thank you.” His gaze shifted softly to hers, clicking his beak. Her hovering form whisked up easily, giving a quick peck on the cheek. 

“Anytime.” 

“At least we got that settled.” Absent-mindedly, Quiet reached over to the bedside table to retrieve the blade. “I might as well do my part in making things easier, now.”

The tip of the knife pressed against his talons. In an instant, Spectre understood; her wistful form circled his shaky dominant hand.

“You’ll cut yourself with that tremor. May I—?”

A talon grazed her incorporeal chin with a nod. Fingers splayed out as he permitted her access once more, feeling the flex and ache of the ghost settling along his nerves. 

It was good to be back.

For the next half hour, not a word passed through them; just the subtle sound of clipped talons as Spectre guided his implement from within. Not a single drop of blood spilled as she carried on in due diligence, steadying the shudder of every shaky breath.

————

Snarling creatures echoed across the walls of the cabin as Quiet returned. His hand still had the chill of Spectre’s presence, adjusting to the weight of newly-trimmed fingertips. His claws weren’t necessarily the lightest, after all; it would take some getting used to with this peculiar dexterity. Hopefully it would be worth it in the long run.

“Guh- hey! That’s not fair!”

Quiet discerned Witch’s snarky voice in the fray. The sound seemed to be coming from the blanket nest, where the newer chimera had wrapped around it like a protective mother. In the mess of things, he could see a pair of tails lashing, limbs catastrophically flailing as they locked with each other. Somewhere from within his digits, there was a soft chuckle.

“What?”

“They’re sparring,” Spectre clarified. “The Fae have different ways of bonding than you and I.”

There was a growl that was definitely Thorn’s, watching the red-headed Borrower poke her head up just long enough to nip at her sister’s ears. One of Witch’s legs kicked her off, rolling Thorn to the ground.

“You’ll be fine,” Witch chirped. “Your reflexes are more than adequate.”

“You say that because you’re losing,” Thorn retorted with a contented huff. “Still, good to know. I had a feeling that whole ‘incident’ knocked more out of—”

Thorn caught sight of him, stiffening. All conversation halted as she raised a hand partway, mouth agape to show the fangs within. But her eyes communicated something different than the threat; there was that solemn, aching pleading he’d seen when Den would stray from her task and feared retaliation.

Don’t hurt me, they said.

Quiet’s own widened, then lowered with a shake of his head. Not even on my mind, his responded.

For a moment, it seemed that the Borrower stood there, taken aback; but she soon recognized that her own nonverbal language was understood. He got the sense that it would come in handy the more he interacted - be it of her own volition or mere chance. 

Her eyes softened, half lidded. Her hand retreated and mouth closed with a nod back. 

Thank you.

“You’ve been standing stiff for minutes; what are you —? Oh.” Witch blinked back at Quiet, raising her claws with a giddy grin. That one was still trouble, truce aside. “And here I thought you’d be sleeping all day. Finally decide to get your feathers preened?”

There was a mocking tone in her voice; typical. Instead of countering, however, Quiet gave a shrug. “Do these look preened? Just rolled out of bed. But it looks like so did you.” The corvid was used to emoting with his head. A doglike tilt followed his words, plumicorns erect; a typical showing of amusement. 

Thankfully, Witch caught on. “You’ve looked worse,” she chuckled. “I suppose this is an improvement.” The borrower yawned, giving a catlike stretch. The cracking of her joints was audible. Her grin turned more sinister as she dangled her blade with a laugh. “See you around.” Quiet grinned back, giving a shake of his head. It was all talk; the little one was just puffing herself up. It was lucky that she had that confidence as she approached the edge of the makeshift ‘bed’ with a flick of her tail.

“Sis?”

“I’m coming; give me just a moment.”

“Alright, suit yourself.” With a quick recoil, Witch sprung off the ledge, past Beast and basket. It was impressive, really. In an instant she’d leapt nearly a yard with those feline limbs — a feral trait which her sister seemed to be lacking. Presently, said sister was watching him with a sort of hollow intrigued as she flexed her fingers. There was a wince; it looked like it stung. But sooner than later, it seemed her magic took hold; a stream of petals fell from her hands as she trailed them along the nest. They continued to dribble like drops of blood as she, too, made her way from the basket and across the back of her mentor.

She left the table adorned with foliage. Soft vines shed their thistles as they weaved along the basket’s edge, growing more vibrant as she descended from the spot with petals in tow. Red, then white, and then the trail was cut off as she gestured for him to turn his back. But Spectre watched just as patiently until the little Borrower scuttled with her sister out of sight.

“She’s gone now,” Spectre assurres. “You can turn back around.” 

Quiet just got caught the sound and heavy thunk as Beast made her own way down. Only her tail vanished from sight as he turned to face her, admiring the floral mess left behind.

The message was clear; from bloodied roots, this Borrower, too, had laid down her claws.

It’s done, the petals echoed. There’s no bad blood between us. But it’s hard to shake the feeling there might still be; you frightened me. And I hurt you back.

How or why he could discern that from a few poppies, Quiet wasn’t sure. But what he did know was that she’d extended the olive branch; so long as he followed her word, things would be alright.

Quiet ran his fingers along the possessed hand.

“What do you say we make some breakfast? I have a feeling our guests might be hungry.”

———————

Spectre’s old haunt was dark and warm by the time the siblings returned. Neither spoke much as they passed the tapestry which spread across the walls, still adjusting to the used space. The prior night had given Thorn some context beyond just the echoed words and belongings left behind. Perhaps in another life, their hostess would’ve drafted these diagrams for the Domestic records. Thorn remained in the study as Witch transcended downwards, eyeing the scuff marks with a trail of intrigue.

They’d gotten in so late the first night that she’d scarcely gotten the chance to admire it all. Every intricate detail shone through the study from organs to nerves, to DNA strands which scrawled their sequence to the side. The careful pen marks left no abrasion, coated in heavy layers of dust and filament. Sighing, Thorn trod over to the heart. It filled the space of the room, upfront and center; the inner workings were diagrammed carefully to the side. But over top of the usual inks was something that the human eye couldn’t see; only a Borrower could detect that ectoplasmic “x” where angry nails had slashed straight through the center.

 A life lost. Another gained. Thorn placed her hand to the center and brushed the shape of her own mark in the grit before making her own descent.

We’re one in the same, you and I. I’ll do what I can to make things work.  

The plasm took it in as Thorn descended the stairs. Small dribbles of the substance filled in the cracks, yielding to the weight of this act of salvation.

The kitchen, thankfully, still radiated enough light to accommodate. Night-visioned as they were, the switch between dilated and neutral pupils was unpleasant for any Fae. Spaces like the roaring fire Witch had started were much more comfortable - at home, safe and sound. Her nerves were settling now with the filtration of opium through her veins. Taking a few of the seeds that’d clung to her fingers, a one-nailed slit of the shell revealed the fluid inside. That would be good enough for a thimble of two of tea to make it stronger.

An absent tail wrapped around the handle of the stovetop kettle; her hands fished for one of those tiny little cups. Seemed it wasn’t just Quiet who had access to clay; it looked hand-kilned by the fireplace.

You’re safe. That’s what matters.

Spectre’s words from the first night echoed in her mind. Goodness, had so much happened in the span of two? Well, this would be night three. Third time’s the charm.

She could at least try and be civil the next time around. But that took numbing the clawing instinct of fight or flight.

Thorn waited to pour the tea into the cup and settle herself. The warm, bitter taste of tannins coated her tongue as she thankfully gulped it down, feeling that calm hypnosis spread through her like wildfire. One thing the Fae had mixed feelings about was the use of poppies for anything but pain - but frankly, she couldn’t give less of a damn. Much worse rules had and would be broken; even with the truce, it would be hard to stay away from him. And somehow, she sensed that wouldn’t be his fault.

A twinge of pain hit the mark on her palm. Subconsciously, Thorn smoothed it down to silence, carrying on with her day.

________

Outside, Quiet was preparing quite the meal for his two new guests. Small hashbrown patties sizzled alongside ham omelettes, and an array of cut-up fruit decorated itself on a fancy platter. He’d figured that giving the newcomers a heartier serving would be the way to go; Witch was of decent weight, but he distinctly remembered the concerning frailty of her sister in his palm. Scrawny yet fierce indeed, but that didn’t mean the malnourished borrower couldn’t stand to gain a few more calories.

The scent of smoked meat filled the air; it wasn’t long until two Fae lined up near their spot, ferociously sniffing. Cooked meat wasn’t something they got often, especially anything that smelled so tender. Thorn seemed to hesitate in her numb trance, brows raising as she watched Quiet… Microwave a grape???

“Okay, that’s weird.”

Thorn hadn’t even realized the words had been spoken until Witch turned around.

“Science in the microwave? We’ve seen worse,” Witch shrugged.

“Eugh, don’t remind me.”

“I think we may be able to pick off things - oh! That’s new.”

Witch noticed the tiny platters, giving her sister a small nudge. “Looks like we don’t even need to scavenge the leftovers. He’s giving us the good parts!”

“Huh?” Thorn blinked. There was a small unease in her at the notion at first, but sure enough - everything seemed to be portioned out with a beautiful precision and care. Well, that was something she couldn’t turn down. Suppressing instinct would be worth it.

Scanning the room by habit, Thorn managed to look up just as the grape sparked in the microwave; with gloves mitts (okay, that was weirdly adorable) he removed it and set it down on the table. As if on cue, his eager wife slid from his hand to the cup, phasing in to nibble at the residual byproduct.

Oh, Plasma! That’s what it was. Just another reminder Quiet found ways to accommodate.

Watching her a moment, the bird gave a loving shake of his head. “The strange things I do for you,” he murmured. “Possession, microwaved fruit - at least we found a food source that works for you.” 

“Whatever works, right? Just because I don’t have to eat doesn’t mean it isn’t nice from time to time.” There was a fond look over at the other plates. “Shall I go ask the Fae what they’d prefer to drink?”

“Water's fine. Thanks.”

Both ghost and corvid blinked at the sight of Thorn arriving first; her tail was twitching restlessly on the kitchen counter, although more subdued than usual. There was a glint of fear - or perhaps embarrassment? - as she rubbed one arm tentatively from where she stood. Quiet caught himself as she averted his gaze, reciprocating in respect. Right. This Fae did not like eye contact. At least not in her civil state of mind.

“I thought you were sticking to the shadows. Have a change of heart?”

“…More like an exception.” Thanking him was still challenging. Either she’d get used to it, or else no longer have to. She still couldn’t make her mind up on which.

Thorn’s tail curled around her legs, as though trying to keep her from falling over. Even with the haze she was in, the slight unease was palpable. Quiet decided better to hand over the plate before it got any worse. 

“No need if it’s too early. I was planning on leaving it where you could find it. But while you’re still here —“ A gentle, trimmed talon slid it over - so he had meant cutting his nails. As strange as his hands looked with them that short, it was enough for Thorn to absently grasp for it as he nudged things towards her.

That was quite the sacrifice to be made for her own comfort - and one of many in successive patterns. She would surely note that for later when she was better situated. 

So instead, she took what was offered and scampered off when he wasn’t looking. Miscalculating, Quiet chanced a glance to make sure she’d gone. Much to his surprise, she’d found her dining spot behind a green jar, watching almost expectantly.

Amusement flickered in his eyes. Was it better to tell her?

“… You do know that’s glass, right? You’re not exactly hiding.”

“You’re not supposed to be looking,” Thorn retorted. “But yes. It’s… The best compromise I have right now.”

‘Stay hidden’ or ‘remain exposed In the open’ were probably what was being met dead center. This way, Quiet figured she could watch without getting close - with a weapon at the ready if he broke their bargain. He merely nodded and looked away to grab Witch’s plate —

— Gone. His hand raised in shock as he saw the rounder Borrower abscond with her helping (and a chunk of his own), carrying the plate in her mouth as she ran back on all fours. Once she’d reached her sister, she gave a smirk as the plate shifted to rest in her lap.

“Not too bad, huh?”

“Impressive!” Quiet could tell by now the teen was looking for praise, but even he could admit she was a solid scavenger. Her arrogance was earned as she settled down to nip at a piece of Thorn’s food.

The borrower practically inhaled it. With a small click of her tongue, she tilted her head and gave a nod.

“All clear.” Then, with a swish of her tail: “But of course, I’ll take what you don’t.”

Poison checking. Quiet didn’t need to ask, especially with what he knew of this teenager. There was a huff from Thorn in response, before she, too, began to eat.

This was something Quiet had never seen before. Be it crouched over and nibbling like cats or holding the plate to scrounge at things, he had never gotten a chance to see the usual dietary habits of their kind. Spectre’s was more artificial in its own right; more of a stand-in for usual consumption. Both ate heartily, with Witch finishing first with a lick of her lips - wherein her sister was more cautious, crouched over her plate with her eyes directed outwards. Towards him, as though expecting the gesture of kindness to be rescinded.

There was the eye contact - and Quiet immediately understood why it was a rarity. Wide feline eyes stared out at him; bright as a startled animal, betraying her plausible civility. Much as she’d told him, the existence of “tamed” Borrowers were purely mythological. Even the calmest of the bunch had a storm inside, and crouching uneasily over things, she was drawing the line in the sand.

Stay right where you are. I’m fine watching from a distance.

The sudden understanding of her voiceless language seemed almost too easy. But be it rescuing or being saved by a chimera, these were cues they’d learned from the same source. So when he turned his back, it seemed the fear abated.

“Hmm… Someone’s learning quick.” Witch noted. “I didn’t expect he’d be so immediate-“

Witch felt a sharp brush against her hand, somewhere between the counter and her sister’s plate.

“Hey; you already had yours,” Thorn growled. “You know what to do if you’re still hungry.”

“Oh, actually finishing it off?” Witch crouched herself, fingers playfully curled into claws. “Fine, fine. But I’ll be around.” A small swish of her tail was met with a nip as she went by; roughhousing at any point wasn’t uncommon between them. At least this time it was all fun and games.

Thorn shook her head. From fierce brawls to overhunting, there were far worse things Witch’s bloodthirst has lead her into. No harm in a little morning scrap.

“How’s your head? You want to take up the morning adventure?” Witch ran a hand over Thorn’s forehead inquisitively. Finishing up the last few swallows, Thorn cupped it in her own hands and brought it downward. 

“The fall was better than it looked: just a little sore. But you’re right; I probably should start learning the routes.” Then, with a twitch of her nose: “You’re just offering because you want to sleep in, aren’t you?”

“Hey, if we’re getting meals served to us I might as well nap. Enjoy it while it lasts, you know?” Witch shrugged. “You know what to do if I’m not up by lunchtime.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Thorn watched as Witch skittered away on all fours, giving a twitch of her tail as she absconded. Once she was out of sight, Thorn took her chance. Even if her host was awake and eating not too far away, this would be good enough.

The fridge was off limits. So naturally, that meant the journey started in the pantry.

Scaling the walls was much more challenging without the same claws that Witch had, but she’d manage. Finding different rungs in the walls would do the trick, and thankfully several of the screws and picture hooks were far enough out to climb. This took a bit of precision; it didn’t help that the unnerving scrape of silverware on those china plates was not too far from here. But Thorn managed to make her way to the middle shelf regardless, wriggling through the crack in the door. Having a slightly more flexible spine had its advantages.

Once sealed into the darkness of the pantry, her eyes began to dilate in adjustment. A few chance sniffs confirmed that Witch’s journey had been reckless and messy, with a variety of condiments scattered from the work. I should probably talk to her about that, Thorn noted with a sigh. We can’t be wasting that much food - especially while we still have permission to take the better stuff. Many Borrowers had been strangled for less.

Her own path started by the jars of fruit; pickled plums, jams, and various other preserves lined the kitchen cabinet. Obviously, taking anything too sticky would be a problem, but she could chance a plum or two. Dipping a hand into the brine was a bit unnerving, yet worth it with the salty, sour taste of the prize within. Wrapping it in a few spare bits of tissue paper would do the trick.

The droning of the feast behind her limited to a clink of glass or two: she could hear the muffled conversation as her gatherings grew. Small bits of shelf-stable cheese, powdered milk; a few almonds to grab for Witch. Most of this stuff was new to her, and she was intrigued to sample it all. Granulated sugar falling to sand in the bag, some barley - 

Then something… familiar. There was no denying the stench of

fermentation as it clogged her throat.

It’s not—- Stop it. It’s just normal alcohol; he probably uses it for cooking. There’s no reason to get—

But it was worthless trying. Instinct clouded rational thought, and in a moment she pounced.

There was a rigid thrust of something sharp across the kitchen. A tangled mess of hissing, swearing profanities rang violently from the cabinet, leaving Quiet to watch as a wine bottle dredge the wood flooring in residue.

“Okay, no.”

Shuffling over, Quiet heaved a sigh as he swept aside the broken glass. “I’m fine with rummaging, and I don’t mind if you need to ‘hunt.’ But when it comes to glass-“

There was a thrashing of vines which appeared to have split the bottle in two. Hang on, that was some trajectory for anyone her size to have thrown it. Perhaps it was better to check?

Against his better judgment, Quiet opened the pantry. There stood Thorn - or rather crouched the little borrower - with widened eyes so transfixed on the debris below she’d scarcely noticed his approach. So it looked like her intent was to break it after all.

But why was there such distaste for-?

Borrower. Red wine. Oh, shit.

Quiet blinked. His own thoughts seemed to have ebbed away by the time she’d finally looked up, still tense. But at least it seemed there was an attempt not to strike immediately, the lashing tail indicated conflict.

The widened gaze lying within her pupils diminished. There wasn’t another word as she finally scoffed, turning away to scramble in deeper.

Wasn’t ‘never turn your back’ one of those little rule book tenants she seemed so keen on following? Either way, the moderate relaxation of her body seemed to indicate one thing: she trusted him.

The air felt thick and heavy. The frigidity coated his lungs with every breath - was it easier to try and soften it, or let it be?

“It’s, uh, a little early to be drinking.”

Maybe lightening the mood would help? This ‘maybe’ proved unhelpful as the Borrower shot him a look of disdain, scrambling upwards and out of sight.

“It’s a little early for you to be getting in the way of things,” Thorn retorted, only a lashing tail and nimble hands visible. This strange, gargoyle crouch seemed to be a favorite position of hers, keeping his stare from somewhere a few shelves above. “And besides, you’re breaking our agreement. Again.”

This time, however, the consequence wasn’t a full slash of hostile vegetation. Quiet knew enough had been said. Each gaze kept the other’s, until the corvid’s hand slid down to eye the shattered glass.

“You could cut yourself,” he finally murmured. “Or, it could land on someone else. No throwing glass.”

This was certain to get the Fae’s ire; here he was, talking to her like a misbehaving cat. She kind of was, actually, when you got right down to it; behaviors and posture definitely matched. So he knew that when the lashing of her tail stopped hitting the cupboard, something seemed to have gotten through. Instead, the puzzled Borrower crawled downwards towards his line of sight and out from the shadowy abyss.

“I didn’t expect it would land that far away.”

Her tone seemed apologetic; softer, more tired. But there was still that defiant spark which held it from compliance, giving a shake of her head as she looked back. The dilation was almost pleading.

… Oh. Oh.

There wasn’t a kind way to test this, so it was better to just cut to the chase. Tentatively, Quiet reached in once more towards the back of the shelf - the scuffling immediately turned to panic. The fear in her voice presented loud and clear in every passing syllable:

“Wait, what are you doing?”

Yep, that’s what he expected. The second bottle scarcely graced his fingers before there was a trill of alarm, knowing he had to drag it out despite the apparent pain it caused. Or perhaps because of it. 

Trying to keep his composure, Quiet shuffled the bottle to one hand. Avoiding eye contact was best; he could feel every awful tremor in that frightened gaze just plenty where he was. His eyes scanned briefly over the list of ingredients, already knowing what he wouldn’t find listed. But on top of the familiar petals, she had mentioned something about a distillery; if Thorn really was one of its captives, then all wine was wine enough to take issue.

“You know, this really wasn’t a great year,” Quiet chuckled. “I don’t know why I keep this stuff around.” Then, with a surprising amount of ceremony his own arm shifted -

There was a flinch at the sound of a much larger shattering as a backhanded throw catapulted it behind him. Transparent shards fell towards the sink, leaving a hole in the vacant kitchen. Thorn merely stared.

“I…I’m sorry, did you just-?”

“Out the win-dow,” Quiet chirped in a sing-songy manner. “Whatever’s going on with it is better left out there. Haunted wine, not haunted wine, I’m not asking questions. But I think I’m better off leaving this to a one-ghost household, don’t you think? Spectre’s hospitality does have limits.”

There was a wink as he looked back. So it seemed he had caught on to the reason behind it, after all. How?

… Was it okay to laugh?

A snort of a giggle passed through the uneasy silence as Thorn bowed her head. “That was… Stupid,” she breathed, covering her face.

“It’s stupid, but you’re laughing,” Quiet guffawed. “So I guess it was just stupid enough.”

There was a grin that managed to break the tension when she looked up. It was still full of sharp, feline fangs, but they weren’t angled at him in distrust. Okay, so that was clearly a good deed. An expensive, albeit necessary one…

Quiet puzzled over the window. The break hadn’t been even, and the glass from both the floor and window sill would need immediate attention. That was probably where he should start, right?

“I should probably sweep up, and then-“

The scuttling form in the cabinet indicated he was talking to no one. It was still strange watching the feral siblings and their antics, running around much like wild animals opposed to people - but in the same respect, it was amusing. Adorable, even, when it was accompanied by such-

-No no no. That was a seething mess of a woman who would probably steal his hands if she could. He was already perfectly fine without any additional-

A hard crunch of exoskeleton seemed to jolt Quiet from his thoughts. A partial cricket (perhaps half the size of its huntress) laid pinned before clawed fingertips, looking up at him with curious, dilated eyes.

“…. Okay. I’ll just, um, leave you to it, then.”

Quiet’s own fingers skimmed the door to the pantry and closed it, shuddering. He wasn’t entirely sure what entities he had let into his house, but they weren’t the kinds of Borrowers he was used to.

“I need to grab some things from the market; do you need anythi-?”

Another hard crunch, unblinking as she stowed it into her bag. Part of him wondered if she was doing it on purpose to put him on edge. It was definitely working if so. That was cue enough to leave, closing the pantry as he settled again at the table.

“We’re going to need a new window,” Spectre mused. “Whole place looks like another murder happened.” Sticking out her tongue, Spectre circled his head expectantly. “Well, shall I join you?”

“Yeah, probably. If I’d known the lot of you could eat this much, I would’ve gotten out the reserves. Market it is.”

————-

The Markets were a familiar sighting for those associated with the woods, albeit hidden from sight behind false underbrush. Jagged curtains of briars and weeds clumped together to form the entrance, which cascaded from one side of the path to the next. Usually, these were removed through a pulley system by the neighboring wildlife, yet this time it merely took a raise of one hand to step through them seamlessly. That was… Unusual.

“Woah-ho-Ho! If it isn’t our fine feathered friend. Fancy the new spellcasting.” From the corner pulley, a silver Enfield walked over in a handstand. His unusual, bright blue fore-talons were unmistakable in their webbed glory. The market had been Contrarian’s idea in the making, and it shone enough in the strange variety which scattered market stands for the next several miles. But it was also a place of true peace between the Cryptids - of unity. Quiet reached down to scritch Contrarian behind the ears before he spoke.

“Good morning to you, too. I uh, I don’t know how I did that? But it’s a treat to be back.”

“We hope you’re coming in good standing?” Hero inquired. Contrarian’s vulpine tail was presently right-angled into a perch for his comrade, who looked like he’d seen better days. “How are the Fae behaving themselves?”

“It’s been a process,” Spectre spoke for him, faint trails of her form wicking his pharynx. “It would’ve probably been a smoother transition for domestic residents.”

“Oh! Good to see you’re in good spirits, too,” Hero replied with a dip of his head. “We’ve been curious about your whereabouts as well.”

“Oh, you know - been here, died there. The newcomers can get rather jumpy at times. Might actually be good I’m in this state for the moment.”

Hero looked over them, puzzled. Quiet sighed and raised his hand. Scar tissue was healing, but the connective neural branches of the sigil grew less separate over time.

“Now that’s Wild,” Contrarian quipped. Only Hero seemed to notice.

“It’s not funny,” Hero grumbled, shaking his head.

“Oh no, I don’t think you understood-“

“— Plenty, actually,” Hero hushed him with a foot on Enfield’s muzzle. “We should get him supplied; it looks like it’s already begun.”

Quiet cocked his head. “What’s already begun?” The look on Hero’s face didn’t bode well. But before he could respond, Spectre readjusted herself to take over.

“The outbursts. The panic. We really should find something to help ease the stress and redirect their anger.”

Spectre’s word fell above Quiet’s. That meant keeping quiet, well, to Quiet about this whole mess. Their first duties towards the Heiress had a conflict of interest now, watching as she steered him towards the markets.

 Hero threw his head into his wings. “This is bad,” he groaned. “She wasn’t supposed to - didn’t she already have someone picked out?”

“Looks like she decided to throw us all a curveball,” Contrarian shrugged, tucking his head beneath the crouched handstand. “You need to get more used to the calamity of if all. He certainly has!” The enfield’s tail flicked towards the wine splatters in Quiet’s feathers. “I would’ve given him an encore for that ol wine toss.”

“But he’s not prepared for that! For any of this!” Hero puffed up, feathers a scattered mess. “And I’m not entirely convinced she is, either. Spectre gave us a lot of tension-“

Contrarian let his back feet drop. “Well I tried to tell him, but you wouldn’t let me. Guess we’ll see what ‘Wildcard’ the heiress draws, then.” His ears flicked over towards the corvid.

“Oh, yeah? And what are we supposed to do to help?”

The Enfield rubbed his talons together. “That one’s easy - getting the basics! The Fae certainly know a thing or two about cuisine.” Coming from this cryptid, that likely wasn’t conventionally appealing.

Hero squinted. “… Do I want to know?”

“Eh. Shrimp aspic, oxtail and liver paste - you know, the usual. Sometimes those little chocolate mice that scurry around for them to chase. Say, that’s not a bad idea…” 

Contrarian bounded forward, leaving Hero yards away. “Hey, Quiet! Can I suggest tying a bell around your neck? That way they can hear you —“

Hero placed a wing over his forehead. 

“… This is going to be difficult.”

Quiet’s return that night was late, and it seemed that the Fae had gotten their share of the house unoccupied. By putting some distance, it seemed he had garnered some trust between them and allowed them some piece of mind. As he shuffled to put the market’s haul away, it seemed that the shelves were tidier than before they’d even come. Scuff marks buffed, claw marks the only indication of their presence within. Well, this was a nicer surprise to come home to. After shuffling some jars around, the fresher catch of cricket slid forward to greet him; he didn’t need to see the trace of sharp-nailed hands to understand.

“Oh, is this for me?” Quiet nudged a finger forward, sliding it into his open palm. From the granular texture, it had been adorned in a handful of spices; most likely one of the more common meals out in the woods. Well, the Fae food was much more odd than dangerous; no harm in sampling it later. He exchanged it with one of the chocolate mice from his outing. “Thank you. You said it was fine to lay some things out, so I figured I might as well-”

He scarcely got a chance to place the confection before it was swiped away immediately. Quick, hungry - so he was right after all about it being a front. The aura shifted from exhaustion to purring comfort immediately - and judging by the contented sounds of snacking in the corner, there was enough to know he hadn’t poisoned it this time.

“I’ll set out some more tonight. They’re, um, supposed to move or something if left unattended? Figured it might be of interest. Anyways, I’ll leave you be.”

Quiet turned his back. Only as he walked away did Thorn poke her head out from behind the shelf and scamper back into an adjacent tunnel. But the calm that came confined wasn’t the sake shaky relief; this was the beginning to something entirely new. She could feel it.

Quiet waited until the footsteps died away. Only then did he saunter back to his room and vanish from sight.

[rpgsandbox]

Welcome, traveller, to the fungus-wracked tangle of Dolmenwood, and beware, for all here is not as it seems…

Dolmenwood is a fantasy adventure game set in a lavishly detailed world inspired by the fairy tales and eerie folklore of the British Isles. Like traditional fairy tales, Dolmenwood blends the dark and whimsical, the wondrous and weird.

Streamlined rules and helpful introductory materials guide novice players, while unique new magic and monsters bring a fresh sense of the unknown to veteran role-players. We’re launching the three Dolmenwood core books, plus a range of delectable extras.

Check Out a 76-Page Preview PDF!

Check out our free 76 page preview PDF of material from the 3 core books!

Preview also available at DriveThruRPG and necroticgnome.com (no account required).

Rife with intrigue, secrets, and magic, Dolmenwood draws travellers of adventurous spirit, daring them to venture within.

Explore the wild places of the Wood, travelling through bramble-choked dells, fungus-encrusted glades, and foetid marshes, bedding down among root and bracken amid the nocturnal babbling of strange beasts.

Unearth treasure hoards in forgotten ruins, haunted fairy manors, dripping caverns, crystal grottoes, unhallowed barrow mounds, and abandoned delvings.

Confront fell beasts, roving fungal monstrosities, terrible wyrms, tricksome fairies, and restless spirits of the long deceased.

Recover saintly relics and shrines lost in the befuddling tangle of the Wood, gaining the favour of the Church by returning them to civilisation.

Forage for weird fungi and herbs in the untrod depths of the woods, many with useful magical powers—and many that can be sold for profit.

Strike against Chaos, defending civilisation from the encroaching forces of the wicked, half-unicorn Nag-Lord who lurks in the corrupted northern woods.

Unravel secrets of deep magic, charting the obelisks, dolmens, and ley lines littered throughout Dolmenwood—but beware the sinister Drune cult that wards them.

Seek the counsel of witches and hags, masters of magic that can heal, hex, or divine the future.

Meddle in the affairs of the nobility, allying with a noble house in its intrigues and power plays in the courts of High-Hankle and Castle Brackenwold.

Journey along fairy roads, ancient magical paths bordering on the ageless realm of Fairy that allow travel throughout Dolmenwood—and perchance to realms beyond.

Return to the homely hearth to share tales of peril with quaint locals over a mug of ale and a well-stoked pipe.

The Dolmenwood Player’s Book (A4 size, Smyth-sewn hardcover, 192 pages approx., 1 ribbon marker) contains the complete game rules plus all character options.

Player’s introduction to the intrigues and mysteries of the forest realm of Dolmenwood.

Familiar character creation with the six classic stats, level and XP, Hit Points, and Armour Class.

6 playable kindreds: goat-headed breggles, starry-eyed elves, tricksome grimalkin cat-fairies, everyday humans, fungus-riddled mosslings, and bat-faced woodgrues.

9 character classes: cleric, enchanter, fighter, friar, hunter, knight, magician, minstrel, and thief.

4 kinds of magic: mighty arcane workings, fairy glamours and runes, holy prayers to the host of saints, and the odd knacks of mosslings.

Detailed, flavourful equipment with lists of adventuring gear, armour, weapons, mounts, hounds, inn lodgings, tavern fare, beverages, pipeleafs, fungi, and herbs.

Simple core rules: roll a d6 or a d20 plus modifiers versus a target number.

Easy-to-follow procedures for travel, camping, foraging, dungeon delving, encounters, combat, and downtime.

Full examples of play and introductory materials make the game easy to learn.

The Dolmenwood Campaign Book (A4 size, Smyth-sewn hardcover, 464 pages approx., 2 ribbon markers) presents a lavishly detailed campaign setting, ready for years of adventure.

Referee’s introduction delving into the regions and history of Dolmenwood.

Mysterious lore of the lost shrines, standing stones, ley lines, fairy roads, Wood Gods, and fairy nobles.

7 major factions: the Chaos-godling Atanuwë, the wicked fairy Cold Prince, the sorcerous Drune, the human nobility, the breggle nobility, the monotheistic Pluritine Church, and the enigmatic witches.

12 settlements detailed with major sites and NPCs and beautiful maps.

Expanded procedures for weather, getting lost, encountering monsters, fishing, foraging, and hunting.

200 pages of fantastic locations waiting to be explored.

Over 280 NPCs with their own desires and schemes.

Referee advice on starting and running campaigns, awarding XP, designing adventures, and creating dungeons.

Starter adventure to get you right into the action.

Hundreds of magical artefacts from enchanted oddments to mighty relics.

Over 250 rumours to drive adventure.

Easy-to-reference presentation designed to minimise page flipping and prep time.

The Dolmenwood Monster Book (A4 size, Smyth-sewn hardcover, 128 pages approx., 1 ribbon marker) details a bestiary of creatures that lurk under Dolmenwood’s eaves.

87 fully detailed monsters dripping with flavour, including encounter seeds and beautiful illustrations.

48 mundane animals including unique Dolmenwood fauna such as gobbles and gelatinous apes.

9 types of of normal humans: anglers, criers, fortune-tellers, lost souls, merchants, pedlars, pilgrims, priests, and villagers.

27 NPC stat blocks for common adventuring classes.

Adventuring party generator for rolling up NPC adventurers on quests of their own.

Over 300 rumours describing monsters as featured in local folklore.

Monster creation guidelines to keep players on their toes.

Easy-to-read stat blocks and bullet point presentation for quick reference.

Dolmenwood uses a lightly customised version of the acclaimed Old-School Essentials rules system, tailored to Dolmenwood and with some major quality-of-life upgrades. Players of all editions of Dungeons & Dragons will find the Dolmenwood rules very familiar.

Ability Scores: Roll for 6 ability scores: Strength, Intelligence, Wisdom, Dexterity, Constitution, Charisma.

Kindred, Class, and Level: 6 kindreds, 9 classes, levels 1–15.

Hit Points (HP): Roll 1d4, 1d6, or 1d8 (determined by Class) for HP. Re-roll 1s or 2s. 0 HP is dead!

Armour Class (AC): AC 10 = unarmoured, better protection raises AC.

Initiative: Streamlined side-based initiative makes combat fast and exciting: each side (monsters / adventurers) rolls 1d6 each Round—highest roll acts first.

Attacking: Roll 1d20, add Attack bonus and modifiers, try to beat the target’s AC, roll damage.

Saving Throws: Roll 1d20, add modifiers, try to beat a fixed target number on the character sheet.

Ability Checks: Roll 1d6, add ability modifier, 4 or higher succeeds.

Skill Checks: Roll 1d6, add modifiers, try to beat a fixed target number on the character sheet.

As an adventure game in the heritage of the RPGs of the 1970s and 1980s, Dolmenwood espouses the danger and excitement of the old-school play style.

Emergent character creation: Unique and surprising Player Characters emerge from quick random rolls, rather than from detailed character build optimisation.

Exploration, puzzles, and tricks: Players’ ingenuity and creativity are challenged by devious puzzles, traps, and tricks. Simply rolling dice to succeed is often not an option!

Creative thinking encouraged: Easy-to-learn rules for exploration, encounters, and combat provide referees with a robust framework from which to make impromptu rulings on players’ outside-the-box antics.

Fast, exciting combat: Combat encounters are quick to play out, leaving plenty of time in game sessions for exploration and role-playing. As in real life, combat is not fair or balanced—players whose clever tactics tip the balance in their favour will prevail!

Zeroes to heroes: Characters advance from humble beginnings to heights of great power.

Open-ended sandbox play: Campaigns focus on freeform stories evolved over the course of play, with players driving the action.

Kickstarter campaign ends: Sat, September 9 2023 4:59 AM BST

Website: [Exalted Funeral] [facebook] [twitter] [instagram] [youtube]

[mineralaccident]

the only one soothing your world

stray, some brambles

could do you good.

rip the silk from your distress

and let the wildness of your cage

tear you free -

a heart of tangled wood

is a wilder soul, misunderstood

with incandescent fire

where shadows hold sway

and stray -

burn the shackles of your disguise

and lead the way.

beauty blooms

in seeds of bone,

untamed. you'll learn from this.

[revelwrites]

The Red Door

Haley found the door by accident. One minute she’d been carrying boxes from the van to the house and the next, she’d found herself standing at the edge of the woods.

There hadn’t been any conscious thought, just an urge that couldn’t be denied. Stepping into the tree line was like entering a new world. Sunlight flitted through the rustling leaves to dapple her skin in warmth at odds with the cool darkness under the canopy. The scent of pine needles and moss was so strong she could almost taste it. An odd elation lifted through her as she navigated the rutted-out path she’d found. A creek bed maybe.

Wholly different from the world she’d came from. Free. The city had never really felt confining to her, but here? She realized the noise and chaos and rush really had weighed her down.

Brambles of wild blackberries caught at her jacket and jeans as she passed, the thorns snagging her much as the ripe, dark berries did. And she was a child again, plucking handfuls of blackberries and not minding when they stained her fingers and mouth as she wandered.

She turned on impulse, but the house and yard were lost to the trees. A faint whisper of unease lifted through her, but she kept moving anyway. The house wasn’t going anywhere. Neither were the moving boxes littering the living room floor.

There were tangles of wild honeysuckle to perfume the air and the curious, spindly mimosas with their feathery pink flowers that looked out of place among the sycamores and pines. From somewhere nearby, a cicada screamed out into the hush. She had no destination in mind, only the desire to not go back just yet.

To see how deep the woods went.

And then there was the impossible door.

It was firmly shut and lacquered red with gold filigree scrollwork over the face of it and a tarnished knob. Her first thought, as she wiped blackberry juice off on her jeans, was that there must have been a house there long ago. Burned down maybe.

But no. Aside from the door and its dark wooden frame, there was nothing but the woods. Smiling, she circled the door. Tried the knob to find it locked which only made her laugh at the absurdity of it. Feeling impish, she reached up and rapped on the door. The sharp sound broke against the soft rustling of leaves and sent a squirrel above into a chattering tirade.

Still smiling, she stretched. The shadows around her were unfurling and stretching. She wasn’t sure how long she’d wandered, just the sun had to be going down. Hours lost, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Still, she turned back and began walking.

Behind her, came the sound of a knock.

Her breath shuddered out of her, the fine hair on her nape lifting. She froze. No. She’d imagined it. She’d look over her shoulder and she’d be alone. No one knocking on the other side of the door. There was nothing there. She’d walked around it and seen nothing and no one.

Despite her certainty, she couldn’t calm her suddenly racing heart. Couldn’t make herself look. Above the canopy, a cloud sailed in front of the sun and the forest deepened. Darkened and cooled. Goosebumps lifted along her bare arms.

Breath loud in her own ears, she started forward. Back home and away from the silliness. The childish fear. And that’s what it was, half-thoughts drifting up from the depths of her mind about what exactly had knocked.

Nothing, she thought fiercely. Nothing was there to knock.

The birds had stopped singing. The cicadas too. Shuddering as she took note of the silence, she lifted her head to the canopy. If there were birds, squirrels, anything but her, in the woods they’d gone still and silent. Even as unfamiliar to the forest as she was, she knew deep down that the silence was wrong. The world was holding its breath in anticipation.

The knock came again. Louder and more insistent to make the door rattle on its hinges.

She ran.

Heedless and headlong, heart trying to hammer its way free of her chest and her panicked breaths harsh. She fell twice, skinning her knees and scraping her palm on the rough bark of a tree, but even then she kept running. Like all of hell was on her heels, because maybe it was.

She didn’t stop until she burst free of the tree line, brambles clawing at her in passing as though to keep her from escaping. And threaded through all of it, that bright, mad terror. She staggered into the sunshine, skin crawling. Forced herself to look back.

To see nothing. Only the trees. Still, she backed slowly away, some part of her half expecting something to come boiling out of the woods at her. Almost hesitantly, a bird began to sing before another picked it up.

And she felt like a fool as she scrubbed her palms over her upper arms. Nothing there. Nothing to fear.

“Nothing.” She whispered out loud, her voice shaky with the lie.

She kept backing up, reluctant to turn her back to the woods even if the trees did look harmless again. Inviting. That same longing that had drawn her into the woods to begin with hummed through her, sweet and aching. She shuddered, finally turning, and racing across the yard and up the steps. Not caring if she tracked mud and leaves all over the kitchen as she burst through the door and locked it behind her.

Moving through the house, she turned on the lights one by one to banish the shadows. Around her, the empty house was silent.

That childish, irrational fear was still there even though it felt particularly silly. She could nearly convince herself that it had all been just her imagination. There couldn’t have been a door there in the woods.

Why would there be? None of it made sense, so it couldn’t have been real. Not that that thought was all that comforting. For her imagination to run that wild, what did that say about her? Too much stress. There was that.

She dug through one of the boxes in the kitchen to find a bowl and a couple of cans of vegetables. More digging turned up a can of soup and a spoon. At turns angry and uneasy, she heated a can of tomato soup in the microwave while promising herself to buy actual groceries in the morning and then to finish unpacking. She sat at the kitchen table; the warm bowl of soup cupped between her palms to feel the warmth. She sat there long after it went cold, the spoon untouched like the soup itself.

Until the night crowded against the windows and her fingers began to tremble. The dark had never bothered her before, but now her mind wouldn’t stop wondering what was out there. What could be just on the other side of the glass watching her.

She pushed back from the table, the chair’s legs shrieking a protest against the hardwood floor. Left the uneaten food on the table and headed upstairs to her bedroom. That light went on too. That door locked.

And it still wasn’t enough. She felt like a child terrified of monsters as she stripped out of her clothes and pulled a soft, worn shirt on over her head. She hadn’t gotten a bedframe yet, so it was just the mattress laying in the middle of the floor piled with her sheets, quilt, and pillows. Her eyes darted to the empty closet, feeling silly. Shivering at the cool boards under her bare feet, she dived under the covers and wiggled into the center of her makeshift bed, legs curling under her.

Quicker than she would have thought, she was asleep.

Ensnared in the dream, everything felt slow and muted. Pine needles and leaves pricked her bare feet, moss and mud squishing between her toes. The briars scratching at her bare legs and tugging at her oversized sleep shirt. The scent of the honeysuckle vines perfuming the night air with cloying sweetness. The silence around her was deafening and wrong. All pieces of a puzzle her dreaming mind tried to untangle.

Don’t.

Even the blood in her veins felt thick and slow as she made her way through the trees. She knew exactly where she was going and fear was a distant echo at the edges of her mind, unable to pierce the fog she was in.

Up ahead the red of the door gleamed wet-looking in the darkness. And from the other side, a soft rap of knuckles on wood. A demand that she unthinkingly responded to in the strange compulsion of the dream.

Her hand went to the knob, a momentary jolt of surprise flitting through her at how warm the metal felt against her palm. She turned it and pulled it toward herself, the hinges sighing softly. The jangling wrongness in the back of her mind grew louder.

Run. Don’t look.

The door opened to reveal a darkness so absolute, so deep, that her skin crawled. Those shadows had substance, a sense of movement. Of so many eyes that slowly blinked open.

Heart racing, she gasped in a sharp breath. The scream was caught in her throat. Trembling, she desperately willed herself to move. To run.

Especially as the shadows stretched out, the coiling darkness forming into the crude shape of a hand to reach out. Not touching her but waiting for her to reach out in turn. Expectant.  A low, moan filled the air, and it took her a moment to realize she was making the sound and that she couldn’t stop. The shadows were still condensing, churning as they reshaped themselves.

The shadowy hand shifted to grip the doorframe, tendrils of smoky shadow fraying into the night. Shifting, the bulk of it leaned out towards her. Beckoning as those eyes stared hungrily.

And the darkness crowded in at the edges of her vision to swallow her whole as the shadows stretched closer.

Part Two

[thewelllitweenie]

The Meat Forest

A story about a normal forest and it's normal bounty that I wrote earlier this year. It and others can be found in my substack.

There is an oddity known to few who live in safety in the towns and cities of civilization. The seemingly mythical place is less of a secret to those who live closer to it but no one is asking them and they’re not volunteering the information either. What is important to know is that all who know about the living sin, without council or collaboration, agree individually that this should be kept secret. Rarely if ever is it spoken about between two who are cursed with it’s knowledge, because to talk of it is to acknowledge to another living person that you both accept that something like it can and in fact does exist in this material world and not just in the lands of dreams.

This is the abhorrent ecosystem known simply as the Meat Forest. Some hidden occult texts once deciphered may call it Hell’s Larder, the Great Wet One, the ArborMeatum, Fleischwald or even the Growing Temple-Of-Earth’s-Flesh. But they all mean the one and only Meat Forest, a fleshy dark spot on the notions of natural world in the collective psyche. A sprawling place similar to the wild woods far from the hands of lumberjacks and human interference only that in single aspect is a recreation rendered in living apparently healthy flesh.

Tall bony trees; draping branches of fleshy leaves shading all below in a canopy of skin; open meadows of delicate grass-like feathers prickling up in goose bumps in the breeze; boulders of skin sporting soft, downy hair like mosses and lichen; sprawling vines of toothed tentacles tangled into thick brambles; and delicate orchids like blooming organs and open eyes. Somewhat confusedly the denizens that call the Meat Forest home share it’s odd configurations, creatures you would recognise as deer crested with proud antlers shaped like grasping human skeleton hands; in place of its pelt a skin like that of a new born baby. Hairless primates, their translucent skin displaying the riotous colours of their internal organs, swing hand over hand through the boughs of the bony trees searching for fruit reminiscent of human anatomy. A small hairy spider perches on a toughened web of extruded sinew and watches for prey with it’s eight upsettingly mammalian eyes. Even the tiny ants march to and fro, their carapaces gone, instead an army of little skin tags in the shape of an ant tend to their young and seek food. Interestingly the only creatures native to this land that resemble their non-meat forest counter parts are worms, they are still as squishy and wriggly as they ever were though some species are significantly larger and parasitise the land itself. Which brings us to the land itself: the meat forest doesn’t sit atop a top soil as would a natural wood. No, instead and unsurprisingly, it’s meat, seemingly as far down as a person could manage to dig before the hole filled with slowly seeping bright red blood. There is periflesh boundary to the forest; if one were so inclined you could walk out from the forest and watch as the flesh underneath becomes more interspersed with dirt and rocks until you were at its very edge and there you could, with some assistance, observe as little tendrily fingers groped their way through the grains of soil and slowly grew and thickened.

There are those who, despite the unspoken taboo, wish to actively engage with the Meat Forest and covet the smallest parts of it to keep as their own. It calls to them in their weakest moments like a bad friend who knows you’re vulnerable and wants to lead you to ruin. These people know it’s not to trifled with, best left alone and forgotten; that a vigorous walk followed by a nice quiche would be infinitely better than being shuttered away applying cypher after cypher to banned texts trying to glean just a little more information. Within that vanishingly small group of people in the know there’s a smaller cohort, those who have managed to touch a fraction of the bounty.

Some years ago, during a gruelling drought that gripped the continent, parts of the meat forest were dried out and died, a swathe of bony trees, their leaves hanging limply in the harsh sunlight, crusted with sweat and oils from the dying marrow within their branches. A similar fate befell an oak stand nearby, though it had succumbed much sooner, and one day as luck would have it a bolt of lighting obilerated an oak tree exploding it in a hail of fire and thus the trees began to burn. Smoke blanketed the area as the lazy breeze did nothing to blow it away, only spread it around and put the finishing touches on the meaty leaves curing in the smoke. By sheer fluke a traveller had become lost in the smoke trying to navigate through the oak trees and encountered the charcuterie hanging like ripe fruit. Not knowing better and somewhat delirious with heat they picked bushel after bushel thinking they had come across a wood camp of some hunters preserving their kills. This misunderstanding only lasted a few days after the traveller was rescued from dehydration and revealed their haul to their benefactors who, appalled at this transgression, attempted to persuade the traveller to burn the meat to cinders and bury the ashes. They explained, as much as they were able and willing, the wicked blasphemy that was the unspoken forest. The confrontation grew heated as the traveller was suddenly unwilling to give up this miraculous haul. In the end there was violence and staggering off with a broken shoulder and new pony was the traveller. In time they made it home however they died shortly after and their bag of meats vanished.

For the better part of two years the depraved individuals with enough wealth or power to afford the insane cost would hunch over a small cooking fire with a grill and watch with shivering breath as the bacon danced and sizzled over the coals. Hearts pounding in their chests and their sweat hissing as it dripped on to the grill, they would experience a sensation akin to religious ecstasy as they took hold of the profane meat this focus of their desire. Any attempts at self discipline to savour and enjoy this sin for as long as possible evaporated. Their bodies told the story of their weakness, burns on their fingers from reaching in to directly touch the meat, blisters on their tongues and mouths deadening the flavours as the agonisingly hot grease burnt them as they bit into the rashers. The days that followed were hollow and cold, full of regret at rushing through a hurried and shameful morsel, despair that they did not experience it properly because of the burns on their tongues, impotent fury they did not have the means or ability to get more, for the price is just so steep. A deep soulful yearning for more, to know more about the place the brought this obscene delight into being.

Because of the nature of the crime, each sinner in this cabal knew nothing of the others, not even how many there were or how to contact the seller, known only as Them. They would come to you when they knew you had enough to barter with to obtain another serving. No one knew how They found who would be amenable but certainly no one publicly had spoken out about this sinister door-to-door delicatessen so presumably everyone who approached was interested and was interested in keeping quiet. Then one day it stopped.

The flesh had run out. There wasn’t that much to begin with and even with diligent slicing with the sharpest of blades there were only so many servings that could be stretched out. Enough money and power had changed hands to fund and run a small nation, but even with all that it still had run out. Some buyers, strung out and desperate, assumed the experience could be recreated with other sinisterly obtained meats and turned to cannibalism but this was not remotely the same. This eventually led to a number of executions and questions from society as to why several seemingly unconnected people had been caught committing such a depraved act, whilst those in the know learnt of the names of others sharing their predilection. More must be sought out for They so enjoyed the wealth and power it brought, and so a team was dispatched by Them. Ignorant of the pain that is to come and the spiritual damage that will be done to them, these happy and brave friends march out clutching a series of sealed orders and directions content with the assurances of their rich rewards upon their return and the incredible care and wealth given to their families in the mean time paid in trust.

[logarhythm-bees]

To Unearth and Back Again; ⛅Chapter 13

Chapter Twelve | Table of Contents | Chapter Fourteen

See ronithesnail's absolutely wonderful art for this story!

I've been thinking of things I don't know And I'm not about to settle with the present if my heart wants to go You've got your convictions and I've got mine But if you're trying to tame the lion in me it'll be a waste of your time

-Wild I Am, Vocal Few

Roman had been wanting his alone time with Virgil today to be in the mindscape’s collective living room and having a nice picnic. He hadn’t really planned on it being in the middle of the forest, chasing a semi-animate thread as it glowed from between the trees, but here they were.

He supposed it could have been worse. He was still alongside Virgil after all.

The trail led them through the woods, winding around trees and piles of leaves. It seemed much more…everywhere than it had been when they were following Thomas, almost tangled in how it shot back and forth in the brush. 

“It is pretty erratic, isn’t it?” Virgil said what Roman was thinking out loud. “Maybe that means we’re getting close. Stuff gets more challenging the closer you get to the goal, yeah?”

“Encountering challenges means you’re going the right way.” Roman agreed, stepping over a bramble bush. “That doesn’t make them any less challenging though, does it?”

“Not really,” Virgil agreed. His eyes lit up then with a realization. “But I have one thing that could make it easier.”

Roman looked at him curiously, and Virgil took his hands and turned his palms up. Roman blinked at him as Virgil reached for his own belt, softly gasping as Virgil laid his sword carefully in his hand, so aware not to let the blade cut either of them.

“Easier to fight with a sword.” Virgil smiled at him, and Roman smiled back, turning the sword so his hands were around the hilt. “How’s your hand?”

“Better.” Roman said, giving the sword an experimental swing. He took the sword to the brambles, allowing them to step over it easily and giving them a clearer view of the trail.

“Good.” Virgil said, and kissed his hand, which made Roman swoon a little bit.

“Supposed to be good for you, I hear,” Virgil told him, blushing but not losing his cool, as opposed to Roman, who had lost his grip on his cool like it was an ice cube and it was summer in Florida. “That’s what, uh–Patton used to tell me, anyways.” Virgil bit his lip in the same moment Roman did, words still unsettled much like the guilt in Roman’s chest. He suspected Virgil felt much the same way.

“Forget about that for now, Lost in the Hoods” Roman flipped Virgil’s hood over his cloak good-naturedly and placing a hand on his back, gently guiding him forward, “trauma later, trail now?”

That got a laugh out of Virgil, breathy and joyous, and Roman felt himself truly happy for the first time since they’d stepped into this adventure. 

“Alright, alright.” Virgil said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Let’s go!”

Roman cleared the bushes out of their way, using care with his sword this time. He kept the brambles and what may-or-may-not have been poison ivy at bay and helping Virgil over the bushes where his longer pants got snagged. He even lifted Virgil over one of them, which made the both of them giggle.

Virgil took up the front when Roman started getting tired, clearing the bushes with his daggers. Roman offered his sword for use, and swore he saw a blush on Virgil’s face when he made the suggestion, but Virgil denied it. He was grinning to himself though when he turned back to clearing the bushes. 

Virgil stopped all of a sudden, and Roman walked into his back with an “oof.”

“You good?” Roman asked.

“Sorry.” Virgil said, gesturing Roman closer from over his shoulder. “The thread ends here,” he explained, gesturing towards the thread in question, which stopped as it wound around one of the flowers growing out of the soil.

“It’s facing that way,” Roman offered, pointing in the direction. “Maybe that’s where we’re supposed to be heading?”

“I think that’s a good guess.” Virgil agreed. Roman bounced on the balls of his feet. 

“Then let’s go!” Roman called, running ahead, and Virgil laughed as he ran after him. 

The harsh brambles and roots had given way to blossoming flora, flowers of all shades and types lining the sides of the dirt path. Their sweet smell filled the air as Virgil caught up to Roman with a playful “tag!” before darting ahead and through the trees.

“Oh, it is on!” Roman laughed.

He tumbled after Virgil, boots scuffing against the dust. The wind was blowing in his hair as he ran through the woods, chasing after Virgil as he darted through the greenery. Roman didn’t give up the chase, running fast, but Virgil was faster, his fight or flight running through his veins with gleaming adrenaline. He jumped over roots and stray flowers in the path, leaves crunching under his feet. Roman jumped over a particularly unruly tree trunk, feeling as though he was catching up when Virgil slowed down to a jog ahead. Roman put in the last shards of his adrenaline, charging ahead, and where Virgil stopped, Roman tapped him on the back, cheering.

“Tag!” Roman called. “You’re it!” He jumped ahead to take off again, but Virgil didn’t move, so Roman stumbled to a stop and turned around.

“Virgil?” He questioned.

Virgil chewed at his fingernails, chipping the paint. “I think,” he mumbled nervously,” we took the wrong path.”

Roman looked around to realize that the dirt path had brushed away into soil and grass, a spacious gap in the trees letting the sky show and giving them a little room to breath. It was just a small clearing that they stood in now, no continuation of the path anywhere in sight.

“Ah.” Roman muttered. “I see.”

He didn’t see a way to continue, which was the point.

“Can you call for the others?” Roman asked.

“I’ll try,” Virgil said, taking a deep breath before he shouted in his trademark thunder, “ELLO?”

The sound echoed through the trees, scaring off some of the birds, but he didn’t hear any evidence of a human response

“Anyone?” Virgil yelled again in tempest tongue. Nobody responded.

“I think we have a problem.” Virgil winced.

Roman screamed in frustration and threw a rock into a tree. “I’m going to kill my brother.”

[whitegoldtower]

A new flavour of elf; ad-lib improvisation from the pov of the King, a dangerous and tempting creature, a combination of vampire, elf and Eldritch being. This species of elf thrives in natural darkness and decay, is very much carnivorous, and can either lure in prey to eat or to create more of its kind (usually through the sharing of blood, but also through mating). When a human is impregnated by this sort of elf, they will feel compelled to indulge some rather cannibalistic cravings, and will birth what can only be described as a mandrake under a new moon. The scream of the newborn will kill the mother (which it will then proceed to eat) unless it is immediately submerged in goat’s milk.

As with many types of fae, these elves will do favours for humans who ask nicely and leave adequate offerings. More often than not, these favours are… dark. Think of it as like hiring an otherworldly assassin. Those killed by this kind of elf are identifiable by their peaceful, almost pleasured expressions, lack of blood in their bodies, and also by the lack of certain organs. Picky eaters, they tend to leave everything except for the blood, the heart, the tongue and the kidneys.

They accept offerings of blood, wine, meat and overripe fruit, and are physically identifiable by their hollow backs, sharp and graceful features, spidery black hair and ‘talons’ on both their hands and feet. They can be temporarily paralysed by dropping a pair of open scissors into the hollow of their spines or placing a silver coin in their mouths when asleep, allowing for a speedy escape from one. They prey on regular humans, and are more likely to consider those with a magickal gift or ability (such as witches) as mates.

I was born of the red blood of the alder tree, bled into being under the absent light of the black moon. Where the shadows under the canopy are cast, there have I been. Where the moon’s light does not touch, there am I. When the deepest waters of stagnant lakes stir beneath the duckweed, there will I be. As you wander the woods alone and feel the cold whispers of the night at your throat, when you awaken with your hair in knots and tangles, when the fermented juice of the reddest apples and darkest sloes drips down your chin, you become tangible with my domain. Step into the shadowed cave, gaze into the blackened pool, bathe in your jilted sunlight. Twist your fingers into the brambles, child, and watch your lifeblood with fascination. Hear the call of the wild-hunt, eat of the fruits of the Otherworld, stroke the fur of the white hounds tipped with crimson. Caress the bones of those who fell prey to the wilderness, laugh as the spiders weave gossamer into your hair and the maggots wriggle around in your gums. Take my cold, regal hand and thrive in your deathliness. The humans cannot love you like I can, my child. They would force you to crawl when you were meant to run. I would teach you to sour their milk, rot their fruits, and you would walk with me as your father in darkness.

Do you think me repulsive, or beautiful? Do you see my hollowed back, full of cobwebs and wilted flowers and not find yourself curious? Would you not flock to my side, beneath my shroud, and glide under my wing? Would you not be comforted by the scent of blood and oakmoss, of witches’ bonfires and overripe apples? Come to me. I have something to show you - It’s a flower, nothing more. Yet when I take the petals between my lips, and bite, I snuff out its life. And just as easily, I can return it. I may pluck the reinvention of the flower from my crown, now; twice as beautiful. Wouldn’t you like to be beautiful too?

[steveskafte]

LONG JOURNEY LOST Everything was an adventure with our little lives bordering the forest of Beaconsfield. We never reached the end of what the woods meant, under the shelter of a hundred thousand trees making their hard climb up the mountainside. The four of us kids would pull on ragged rubber boots, running out wild in the woods together. We’d enter wherever the tangle would let us, under angry tendrils of wild roses and through the hilltop field of raspberry bushes, rasping and tearing our skin with their spines. If I could find a spark in my mind, some invented story of a jungle-wandering trekker, I’d become him for a moment. Maybe searching for prey or praying for shelter, running headlong into the young growth. I made too much noise to catch a creature in the trees, but sometimes I’d spot a red fox running off, or the shocking shuddering of a startled pheasant spreading its wings. We cleared the old survey trails, three boys and our sister, with just a hatchet and a handful of hand tools. They were paths of discovery, uncovered wanderings to a deeper magic. I made maps of every bend and curve on big sheets of paper, marking locations of significance – here stands the treehouse, nailed up in scavenged lumber; there goes the furthest trail to the darkest corner, here grows the tallest tree I’ve found. We’d make our way to a stream that dripped down beneath the briars and brambles, kick off our boots to naked feet, and wade in cold water that held a chill all through the summer. We’d make dams in the mud, hold back the rushing flow, call out gravity for being less of a law and more a suggestion. I fell in love with the rainstorm as soon as I knew what it meant – sometimes in springtime, with echoes of thunder and wonder, torrents of southbound water faithfully seeking the river. Like young gods, we’d toss in little plastic boats, and watch them drift from sight. We never named a thing in the woods. The Stream, that’s all we called her, the only one close enough to matter, just a blue squiggle on the map. By the banks stood three sickly apple trees, hopelessly overgrown and past their prime, and the blue skeleton of a pick-up truck rusting in the shade. We’d follow the trickle north and steep, through tangled brush and fallen trunks, over loose rocks and slippery scrapes on granite boulders. We’d dig deadly caves in loose dirt edges, often collapsed by the next time we passed, never considering the risk of cave-in when we were present. Every return home was the triumphant arrival from a long journey lost. There was a kind of happy, lonely, empty feeling of being more independent than yesterday, a little bit wilder than expected. On my walk back, I’d duck between the twin wooden posts of the Beaconsfield sign, and imagine another world on the far side. An imperceptible change maybe, some shift to another dimension. I knew that I was imagining, but it would have been cheating to admit it. April 13, 2024 Beaconsfield, Nova Scotia Year 17, Day 5998 of my daily journal.

[ophelia-jones]

Thorns pt 1

(*this tale takes place in an au set in the time after Negan killed Glen and Abraham but before our heroes took Sanctuary out and locked Negan away.)

Daryl was outside the walls, as he preferred to be, hunting. He was hoping to be able to supplement the shared food supply with as little evidence as possible for the Saviors. If they had fresh meat and ate it immediately, then buried whatever wasn't useful, like fur, no one would be the wiser. He was fantasizing about putting an arrow between Negans eyes when he heard a sudden crashing of branches and leaves as something approached in a hurry. He turned toward the noise and readied his crossbow for whatever might be coming his way. At least, he thought he was prepared for anything; animal, walker, savior… but what emerged caught him off guard and his crossbow sagged slightly as he stared in open mouthed surprise at the nearly naked woman running through the forest. 

She was short, 5'3" or so by Daryls estimation and maybe 115 or 120 pounds, which is a pretty healthy weight all things considered, so she hasn't gone underfed or unprotected for long.  She has long, wild brown hair that is tangled by the wind and collecting twigs and pine needles, and her thighs, hips, shoulders and upper arms are covered in stunning tattoos of Vining pink roses. He can see this because the woman is wearing only a pair of pink lacy panties and a matching bra. These are torn and beginning to soak up the blood from injuries she has sustained. She may have been injured before she began fleeing whatever she is running from, or the injuries might well be from trees and brambles catching her, clawing at her as she pushed through the dense forest.  Her feet are by far the worst, torn and bloodied and raw.  He can see it in her gait, she won't be able to run much longer. He raises his bow again and aims it at her reflexively.

"Stop!" He calls out in a voice that would stop Satan himself in his tracks. The woman's eyes go wide and her face looks like a hunted animal that has just run directly into a trap. She manages to draw up short and stop, but nearly falls over with the effort. She lifts her hands submissively but doesn't fall to her knees, and her eyes flash across the scene to the east and west for an escape route.

"What the hell are you doing?" Daryl growled, taking a few tentative steps in her direction.  She is gasping for breath, her chest heaving and her hands trembling, but once she locks eyes with him, she does not look away.

"You're not one of them, are you?" She answers his question with one of her own.

"Who?" He demands, closing the gap one slow step at a time.

"The saviors." She replies, calming slightly as she comes to realize he is not one of Negans men.

"Hell, no!"

"OK, OK, good… look, there are about a dozen of them hunting me right now, so you should probably get out of here, too if you don't want a run in with them. They are armed and angry." She said, sidestepping slowly to the east, ready to try and make a run for it again.  

"Hold on, hold on…" Daryl told the woman as he tried to process what she had just told him.

"Look, dude, I had a little head start but I ain't moving very fast anymore, I can't stand around." The woman said, looking nervously behind her. Two walkers stumble out of the woods, drawn by the noise she made as she scrambled through. She is unarmed but picks up a sturdy branch and prepares to try and defend herself. Daryl dispatches the closest of them with the arrow he had loaded for hunting deer, and then quickly moves to intercept the second walker and take them down with his Bowie knife.

"Thank you." She tells him weakly, still clutching her stick.  She is trembling all over now.

"Come on, if you can make it a couple miles south, I can get you outta here on my bike." Daryl says, slipping off his leather vest, then his dirty flannel shirt and offering the shirt to the woman.   She cautiously accepted it and wrapped it around her cold and bleeding skin. It fit her like a short dress.  Daryl put his vest back on over the t-shirt he'd worn beneath the flannel and nodded, satisfied that she was less naked, if not fully protected.  

She looked unsure at first, but when Daryl began marching south, taking long, quick strides, she decided to take the risk.  She is stumbling and hissing with the pain, having a hard time keeping up. She made it a little over a mile before stumbling and falling face first, catching herself, barely, with her palms. She struggled back to her feet.

Daryl, who had been grumbling at her to keep up, turned and sighed. He paced slightly from side to side, looking at her as if considering whether to just leave her or not. At least, that's what it seemed like to her. When he suddenly approached her and scooped her up, one massive arm under her ass and around her slender legs, she cried out slightly. 

"Keep it down." Daryl told her brusquely, "lean over my shoulder a little and try not to squirm. Damn." 

"You don't have to carry me, I'll keep up!" She protested, but Daryl scoffed.

"Like hell you will. You don't weigh shit, I can get you back to my bike twice as fast this way." 

She wanted to argue, but she was exhausted and in terrible pain in her feet and legs. She did her best not to throw him off balance, her breasts pressed against his shoulder and one arm clinging to his back. She let the other arm dangle so it wasn't in his face, his scruffy beard rubbing against the flannel with each step.

"I'm Lacey, by the way." She told him quietly, looking down at the side of his weathered face, his blue eyes squinting forward.  He grunted slightly in acknowledgement and waited long enough to reply that she had stopped expecting him to.

"Daryl." He said, simply. 

"Thank you, Daryl." She sighed, still frightened and hurting, but less so than half an hour ago. Maybe it was because she was exhausted and could only maintain that level of terror so long - but she thought it was more to do with her unexpected hero.

When they arrived back at his motorcycle, Daryl lowered her gingerly to the ground and secured his crossbow to the saddlebag. He swung one of his legs over the bike and offered Lacey his hand to help her get on. 

"Hold on tight." He told her, and she did. She rested her cheek on his back, against the leather where an angel wing had once been sewn on.  

After a dozen miles, he stopped on the side of the road and spoke to her again.

"Alright, we put some distance between us, now tell me what the hell was going on, exactly and how you ended up with saviors hunting your scrawny ass." Lacey laughed at this, and wasn't sure who was more surprised at her reaction, it had happened without a thought. 

"Sorry." She said when Daryl looked at her as if she were a lunatic.

"I was taken in by Negan and the saviors a few months ago. I … Negan was starting to listen to me, to ask my thoughts on some things. He's a madman, but … I thought I saw some spark of humanity in him. I hoped I could draw it out." She started nervously. Daryl scoffed at this.

"There ain't no good in that son of a bitch." He spat.

"Well, I was trying anyway - and he was showing me something akin to respect. Simon didn't like it. So last night he snatched me out of bed and drug me outside the gates. I told him Negan would have his head on a pike for killing me, but he is smarter than I gave him credit for. He said he was going to tell him I ran off. I better move fast because he was going to go in and raise the alarm, that every soldier Negan had would be coming after me." She sighed. "Even if they took me alive, which is a very big if - Simon probably had people ready to say they had witnessed my desertion or heard me planning it. Negan will be too pissed off for me to talk him down and make him believe the truth. Its just a matter of if I die fast or if I die slow." Her green eyes shone with tears, which she blinked away.

"Why?" Daryl asked with his eyes narrow and his head cooked to one side, listening. 

"Why… why, what? Why would they ki me?" She asked, and Daryl nodded. "Because everyone now thinks I ran off to sell Sancuary information to Negans enemies. I know too much about the ins and outs of the compound, of their operations.  And because Negan would look weak if he didn't, and he can't have anyone thinking they can get away with betraying him." 

Daryl nodded, understanding enough about Negan to see that she is right. 

"Look, being caught with me will be dangerous. If you can just help me get somewhere I can clean and bandage my feet, find some shoes, I'll go my way and let you go back wherever you come from. I won't ask you to put yourself or anyone you care about in danger for me." She told him sincerely  Daryl shook his head slightly, looking down at his feet.

"Naw, I didn't do anything, and I can't leave you out here on your own like this. I'm going to take you back to Alexandria- we have supplies to get you healed up and dressed at least."

"Alexandria?" Lacey's eyes went wide and she shook her head. "Oh, God. I couldn't put you all in more danger. Negan ready has a hair up his ass about Rick Grimes - he'll burn the place down to get to me if you take me there."

Daryl frowned and looked into the morning sun as it climbed higher into the sky.  He pursed his lips.

"Well, if he doesn't find you out here, he's going to search every community for miles around for you anyway.  We'll just have to make sure he doesn't find you when he comes knocking." He told her determinedly. He climbed back on the bike and told her to hold on once more before taking her the rest of the way to the gated community with the massive steel walls around it. Lacey was in awe when they let Daryl and his motorcycle through - it was a stunning, perfect little Virginia town. It felt like a perfectly preserved piece of history. Maybe it was shock, or exposure but to Lacey it felt surreal. 

"Daryl." A man in a deputy sherrif uniform greeted them, holding up one hand to indicate he wanted Daryl to stop and shut off the engine. 

"Rick." Her rescuer greeted the deputy in his guttural, quiet way. Lacey looked him over - this was the man who had driven Negan mad with fury? He wasn't at all what she had expected. 

"What's this?" Rick asked in his heavy Georgia drawl. 

"It's a long story. Can we take her to the infirmary and then get Carol and Michone to come down, too?" Daryl asked with a deep sigh. "I don't want to repeat myself and, well, you all might not like it. I want to make sure Lacey gets patched up before you throw the both of us out."

Rick laughed slightly before scowling at his friend. He didn't say anything more, just nodded once and gestured for Daryl to take his bike closer to the infirmary while he went to gather the others.

"They won't really exile you, will they?" She asked Daryl nervously. He gave her a half smile and shook his head.

"Naw. It ain't like that around here. We take care of each other." He replied. "Sometimes we die trying."

[pathologising]

Do you have any recommendations for books/textbooks about prions? I only have a basic understanding and I'd like to learn more. Thanks!

SORRY THIS IS ANSWERED SO LATE im on pc now so i can list these badboys out! Most of the books around prions are like...egregiously expensive so i much prefer research papers to scouring the web for pdfs of textbooks (and also a lot of the books are a bit out of date anyway!)

forewarning that these articles may require prior knowledge on some molecular bio and chem topics (and of course just understanding how proteins work) but when in doubt google i suppose!

comprehensive paper on prions  

paper on misfolding 

UC berkeley’s site on prions (for their chem engineering students but i think its neat and helpful + contains much less jargon and covers some necessary prior knowledge)  

artifical strain of human prion protein created in vitro (i just think this is neat tbh)

molecular pathology of prions

another paper on the pathology/pathophysiology

 a website on the pathology for residents (maybe a little easier to read imo)

CDC’s page on prions (easier read + contains useful links)

NIH’s page on prions (another easier read)

theres wayyyy more stuff besides this out there obv! i like to check pubmed to stay up to date and get more info, but it’s just a matter of googling and also seeing if there are opportunities around you to work with proteins (i say proteins in general and not prions seeing as very few places actually work WITH prions themselves but you may have a lab nearby or at your uni that might!)

[myhoneststudyblr]

Hi! I've seen a lot of posts on Tumblr talking about study challenges (ex. "day X of 100 days of productivity"), and I was wondering if you could explain those. Do people do them in groups, or is it an individual thing that you can just randomly start? Thanks!

i talk a bit about the 100 days of productivity here! 

you don’t have to do them in groups (in fact most people who do 100 dop do it individually) but sometimes if you have challenges that only run at a specific time (like most of my challenges) then people will essentially end up doing it in a group just because they are all doing it at the same time

basically:

100 (or 30 or whatever length) days of productivity can be done at any time and indidividually 

challenges for a specific time (eg. summer challenge, winter challenge etc) tend to start and end on specific dates (although you can join them throughout that time period) and you essentially end up doing them in a group 

[greekstar]

Warrior cat name Ideas Prefixes - A-Z A Acorn Adder Amber Ant Apple Arch Arrow Aspen Ash Asher Alder Amber B Badger Bark Beech Bellow Birch Berry Bird Black Blizzard Brave Breeze Bright Brown Bell Bug Beetle Bluebell Blue Bounce Brindle Brush Bush Buzzard Buzz Bee Bumble Bass Basil Bubble Brine Beaver Bison (I feel like this only goes good with ‘horn’ or Bisonpelt/fur.) Bat Bone Butterfly Burdock Broken Bramble Bracken Bay Brisk Blossom Briar Boil Branch Bud C Cloud Cloudy Crystal Cold Cricket Cliff Cardinal Crying Cougar Coyote Cobweb Chick Cow Cave Cheetah Carrot Coral Cactus Claw Cedar Cherry Cinder Clover Copper Creek Crooked Crouch Crow D Dew Dewy Duck Dusty Dust Dune Down Dagger Dodge Dolphin Daisy Doe Dapple Dappled Dark Dawn Dead Dove Drift Dusk E Eagle Ebony Echo Egg Eel Ember F Fallen Fallow Fawn Feather Fennel Fern Ferret Finch Fire Flame Fleet Flint Flower Flow Fly Fox Freckle Frog Frost Furze Fuzzy Foal Falling Fall G Gale Gust Golden Gold Goose Gorse Gorge Grass Gray Green Grass Goldfish Guppy Ghost H Hail Half Hare Hawk Hay Hoot Hazel Heather Heavy Hollow Holly Honey Honeycomb Hummingbird Horse Happy Hornet Hound Heron I Ice Ivy J Jagged Jay Joy Jaguar Jackdaw Jump Juniper K Kestrel Kink Koi L Lake Larch Leaf Lark Leopard Lichen Lightning Lily Lion Little Lizard Log Long Lost Loud Low Lynx M Maggot Mallow Maple Marsh Meadow Milk Minnow Mint Mist Misty Mole Moon Morning Moss Mossy Moth Mottle Mouse Mouth Mud Mumble Mink Muddy Moonlight Mountain Mushroom Monkey N Nettle Needle Nut Newt Night Nimble O Oak Oat Odd Olive One Otter Owl Orange Ocean Orca Opal P Pale Perch Pool Pike Peak Prickle Pounce Pine Petal Petal Pebble Pear Patch Pirate(kittypet or loner) Polar Peach Panda Pond Pigeon Plum Q Quail Quick R Rabbit Rain Ragged Rat Rattle Root Raspberry Reed Red Robin Rock Rose Rowan Rubble Running Rushing Rush Russet Rust Rye Raven Raccoon Rustle Rattlesnake Ravine Rapid S Sage Short Sheep Sedge Shrew Slate Slow Snail Sneeze Sorrel Soot Spider Spruce Sun Sunny Swallow Shallow Shade Sharp Scorch Sand Sandy Sky Silver Smoke Snake Soft Snow Sparrow Speckle Splash Spotted Squirrel Stalking Stalk Stalker Starling Stone Storm Stumpy Stump Sweet Swift Shred Sloe Shell Seed Shimmer Shimmering Skunk Spirit Squid Shy Sound Summer Sapphire Spiraling Spiral Shark Saturn T Tall Talon Tooth Timber Tiger Twig Tumble Thorn Thistle Thrush Tawny Tangle Ting Trout Torn Toad Tiny V Vine Vixen Void Vole W Wasp Weasel Web Weed Wet Whisker White Whale Wild Willow Wind Wolf Winter Wisteria Whisper Whispering Water Wave Waver Whisper Watermelon Whistle Wood Y Yellow

Yew

Yarrow- suggested

You guys DONT WANNA KNOW how LONG this took. I’m crying. And I might’ve missed some so feel free to send me messages in chat to request me editing it and putting it in some (not like messaging but the. Chat in this post lol.)

@cryptidclaw I also did this for our Au to help us with renaming.

I will get to suffixes soon I promise.

[brigadeleadxr]

@veiliisms​ asked: ‘ "Quiet. Listen. You hear that?" from renji? :> ’

Paranormal & Supernatural Encounters  |   ACCEPTING 

❝ DID YOU JUST SHUSH ME?!” Her voice resonates beyond the treetops. ( Haruhi is not well known for taking instructions. ) In fact, even in the woods at this late hour, she looks like a SOURCE of danger rather than one who needs protecting. There’s mud caked on her hands, twigs and leaves tangled in her hair and uniform. A bonafide WILD CHILD ! 

She had, of course, very reasonably, been hunting for rock trolls. Even more surprising, that she had turned up nothing so far.......or ever. Haruhi scowls at the stranger. 

“IT’S REAL SKETCHY FOR SOME GUY TO BE OUT HERE AT NIGHT, Y’KNOW.” ( not her) “ WHO EVEN ARE YO — ” OH SHIT. Well she definitely heard it that time. A sharp rustle in the brambles. She tucks down in the nearest bush, forcibly pulling the man with her. “ what was that?????” oh, NOW she whispers. A loud whisper, but still. She doesn’t seem frightened. In fact those amber eyes eagerly watch the spot for movement. “ D’you think....IT’S A ROCK TROLL?? ”