#tansy hollow

[doodlebun]

hi gang :] new eits page should be finished within the next few hours! in the meantime here are some refs for major characters in a story i have bouncing around in my head rn, tansy hollow

it’s a silly little thing about small town rumours and conspiracies, deceiving appearances, and responsibly sourcing ingredients

[notsohollow]

“Tansy” 

The Repellent Vessel 

Identifies as agender, uses they/them and it/its pronouns 

Three feet eleven inches tall 

Tansy is a plant lover, always eager to discover plants that they didn’t know about before. They also prefer warmer climates for this reason rather than colder climates, with their cloak being made up of a thinner and lighter material. This is especially beneficial due to their frequent trips to Greenpath (though they certainly know well enough not to try to cross the acid pools). Tansy chose their name because of their favorite flower. They found a bed of tansy flowers during one of their Greenpath exploration trips, and they quickly noticed how other insects tended to avoid it. Since they were tired of being attacked by squits and obbles, they decided to roll around in the tansy. With their cloak stained a powdery yellow from the pollen, they got up and resumed their adventure…though this time, all potential threats gave them a wide berth and they were able to pass through peacefully. Tansy also tends to avoid the City of Tears because they don’t wish for the rain to wash away their only protection as they do not wield a nail, and they dislike Kingdom’s Edge because of how cold it is there compared to the humidity of the fungal wastes and, of course, Greenpath. While the scent of tansy causes other, noninfected bugs to avoid them, Tansy doesn’t mind as they’re naturally more of an introvert.

[adhdnpc]

Chickadee Taking Flight

I'm going to start documenting my bird sightings. So here's birdie number 1! A Chickadee

Look at that little guy go!

[cryptidclaw]

Cryptidclaw's WC Prefixes List!

Yall said you were interested in seeing it so here it is! 

This is a collection of mostly Flora, Fauna, Rocks, and other such things that can be found in Britain since that’s where the books take place! 

I also have other Prefixes that have to do with pelt colors and patterns as well!

Here’s a link to the doc if you dont want to expand a 650 word list on your Tumblr feed lol! the doc is also in my drive linked in my pined post!

below is the actual list! If there are any names you think I should add plz tell me!

EDIT: I will update the doc with new names as I come up with them or have them suggested to me, but I wont update the list on this post! Plz visit my doc for a more updated version!

Animals

Mammal

Badger

Bat

Bear

Beaver

Bison

Boar

Buck

Calf

Cow

Deer

Elk

Fawn

Ferret

Fox

Goat

Hare

Horse

Lamb

Lynx

Marten

Mole

Mouse

Otter

Rabbit

Rat

Seal

Sheep

Shrew

Squirrel

Stoat

Vole

Weasel

Wolf

Wolverine

Amphibians

Frog

Newt

Toad

Reptiles

Scale

Adder

Lizard

Snake

Turtle

Shell

Birds

Bird

Down

Feather

Albatross

Bittern

Buzzard

Chaffinch

Chick

Chicken

Coot

Cormorant

Corvid

Crane

Crow

Curlew

Dove

Duck

Dunlin

Eagle

Egret

Falcon

Finch

Gannet

Goose

Grouse

Gull

Hawk

Hen

Heron

Ibis

Jackdaw

Jay

Kestrel

Kite

Lark

Magpie

Mallard

Merlin

Mockingbird

Murrelet

Nightingale

Osprey

Owl

Partridge

Pelican

Peregrine

Petrel

Pheasant

Pigeon

Plover

Puffin

Quail

Raven

Robin

Rook

Rooster

Ruff

Shrike

Snipe

Sparrow

Starling

Stork

Swallow

Swan

Swift

Tern

Thrasher

Thrush

Vulture

Warbler

Whimbrel

Wren

Freshwater Fish 

Fish

Bass

Bream 

Carp

Dace

Eel

Lamprey

Loach

Minnow

Perch

Pike

Rudd

Salmon

Sterlet

Tench

Trout

Roach

Saltwater fish and other Sea creatures (would cats be able to find some of these? Probably not, I don't care tho)

Alge

Barnacle

Bass (Saltwater version)

Bream (Saltwater version)

Brill

Clam

Cod

Crab

Dolphin

Eel (Saltwater version)

Flounder

Garfish

Halibut

Kelp

Lobster

Mackerel

Mollusk

Orca

Prawn

Ray

Seal

Shark

Shrimp

Starfish

Sting

Urchin

Whale

Insects and Arachnids

Honey

Insect

Web

Ant

Bee

Beetle

Bug

Butterfly

Caterpillar

Cricket

Damselfly

Dragonfly

Fly

Grasshopper

Grub

Hornet

Maggot

Moth

Spider

Wasp

Worm

Trees

Acorn

Bark

Branch

Forest

Hollow

Log

Root

Stump

Timber

Tree

Twig

Wood

Alder

Apple

Ash

Aspen

Beech

Birch

Cedar

Cherry

Chestnut

Cypress

Elm

Fir

Hawthorn

Hazel

Hemlock

Linden

Maple

Oak

Pear

Poplar

Rowan

Redwood

Spruce

Willow

Yew

Flowers, Shrubs and Other plants

Berry

Blossom

Briar

Field

Flower

Leaf

Meadow

Needle

Petal

Shrub

Stem

Thicket

Thorn

Vine

Anemone 

Apricot

Barley 

Bellflower

Bluebell

Borage

Bracken

Bramble

Briar

Burnet

Buttercup

Campion

Chamomile

Chanterelle

Chicory

Clover

Cornflower

Daffodil

Daisy

Dandelion

Dogwood

Fallow

Fennel

Fern

Flax

Foxglove

Furze

Garlic

Ginger

Gorse

Grass

Hay

Heather

Holly

Honeysuckle

Hop

Hyacinth

Iris

Ivy

Juniper

Lavender

Lichen

Lilac

Lilly

Mallow

Marigold

Mint

Mistletoe

Moss

Moss

Mushroom

Nettle

Nightshade

Oat

Olive

Orchid

Parsley

Periwinkle

Pine

Poppy

Primrose

Privet

Raspberry

Reed

Reedmace

Rose

Rush

Rye

Saffron

Sage

Sedge

Seed

Snowdrop

Spindle

Strawberry

Tangerine

Tansy

Teasel

Thistle

Thrift

Thyme

Violet

Weed

Wheat

Woodruff

Yarrow

Rocks and earth

Agate

Amber

Amethyst

Arch

Basalt

Bounder

Cave

Chalk

Coal

Copper

Dirt

Dust

Flint

Garnet

Gold

Granite

Hill

Iron

Jagged

Jet

Mountain

Mud

Peak

Pebble

Pinnacle

Pit

Quartz

Ridge

Rock

Rubble

Ruby

Rust(y)

Sand

Sapphire

Sediment

Silt

Silver

Slate

Soil

Spire

Stone

Trench

Zircon

Water Formations

Bay

Cove

Creek

Delta

Lake

Marsh

Ocean

Pool

Puddle

River

Sea

Water

Weather and such

Autumn

Avalanche

Balmy

Blaze

Blizzard

Breeze

Burnt

Chill

Cinder

Cloud

Cold

Dew

Drift

Drizzle

Drought

Dry

Ember

Fall

Fire

Flame

Flood

Fog

Freeze

Frost

Frozen

Gale

Gust

Hail

Ice

Icicle

Lightening

Mist

Muggy

Rain 

Scorch

Singe

Sky

Sleet

Sloe

Smoke

Snow

Snowflake

Soot

Sorrel

Spark

Spring

Steam

Storm

Summer

Sun

Thunder

Water

Wave

Wet

Wind

Winter

Celestial??

Comet

Dawn

Dusk

Evening 

Midnight

Moon

Morning

Night

Noon

Twilight

Cat Features, Traits, and Misc. 

Azure

Beige

Big

Black

Blonde

Blotch(ed)

Blue

Bounce

Bright 

Brindle

Broken

Bronze

Brown

Bumble

Burgundy

Call

Carmine

Claw

Cobalt

Cream

Crimson

Cry

Curl(y)

Dapple

Dark

Dot(ted)

Dusky

Ebony

Echo

Fallen

Fleck(ed)

Fluffy

Freckle

Ginger

Golden

Gray

Green

Heavy

Kink

Knot(ted)

Light

Little

Lost

Loud

Marbled

Mew

Milk

Mottle

Mumble

Ochre

Odd

One

Orange

Pale

Patch(ed)

Pounce 

Prickle

Ragged

Red

Ripple

Rough

Rugged

Russet

Scarlet

Shade

Shaggy

Sharp

Shimmer

Shining

Small

Smudge

Soft

Song

Speckle

Spike

Splash

Spot(ted)

Streak

Stripe(d)

Strong

Stump(y)

Sweet

Tall

Talon

Tangle

Tatter(ed)

Tawny

Tiny

Tough

Tumble

Twist

Violet

Whisker

Whisper

White

Wild

Wooly

Yellow

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Uncertain

for Angstpril, Day 24: Trauma (alt)

cw: whump aftermath, wound cleaning, mentioned weight loss, non-sexual nudity, discussed death wish/suicide attempts

prev ///// masterlist ///// next

note: please mind the warnings. If you'd like to read a version of this chapter without a specific element, feel free to PM me and I'll send you an edited version. Stay safe, everyone!

•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•

It was a mile's trek back to their great-uncle's house, made all the longer with the pelt of the rain on their back and the weight of the injured man in their arms. Cerus had begun the journey upright, stumbling along with a thin arm wrapped around Tansy's shoulders, but it had soon become apparent that he was in no condition to walk. They'd lifted his shaking form, trying not to think about how light he was, how his flesh radiated heat even through the wet clothing. How the shipwrights had him working out in the cold anyway.

Neither of them spoke a word throughout, and when Tansy spared a glance down to check on Cerus, his eyes were closed. For his own sake, they hoped he was unconscious.

Aldon was still not home when they opened the door, but that was perhaps for the better. They weren't certain he'd be all too happy at the idea of sheltering the former tyrant. For now, Cerus would have to be their secret.

Tansy carried him upstairs, to the sparse room their uncle had set aside for them, and lay Cerus on the bed. Their shoulders burned from the effort of getting him here, but now was not the time to rest. They discarded their waterlogged cloak, and began to cut away Cerus's soaked rags. The man seemed to be awake now; half-lidded eyes above hollow cheeks, staring dully at the ceiling. He made no move to struggle, or even speak.

He was considerably thinner than he'd been at his trial, the sharp outline of ribs and hip bones jutting against pale skin. Scars and bruises, old and new, covered his body, and when they rolled him onto his side to check his back, they were met with a horrific number of whip marks, some still oozing blood, darkening the bedsheets.

Though his eyes were open, Cerus responded to Tansy's examination as if he were unconscious, offering neither remark nor resistance, and Tansy was left wondering if it was the fever that had left him numbed to the world around, or if it was simply how the man protected himself from the constant maltreatment.

"I'm going to clean your wounds," they said, watching for a response. To their surprise, Cerus's eyes sharpened.

"And wh—" He let out a cough that shook his body. "Why would you do s-something like that?"

Why indeed? Wanting to help the suffering was human nature, but when the sufferer himself was the cause of so much misery, what was one to do? They did not reply, rolling Cerus onto his stomach.

"Wait here," they said, though they doubted he was capable of doing otherwise, and walked down the stairs, toward the kitchen.

Why indeed. The strangeness of the situation was starting to take hold of them. How could they do something like this? Saving the very person they'd sworn to depose, bringing him into their home, tending to him. Would anyone else in the village, in all of Feyadel, do the same, or was Tansy mad for making such a choice? What would their comrades in the battalion think of their decision, were they here to see it?

More than why they'd done it, another question was heavy in their thoughts; what were they going to do, now that they'd chosen to help? Cerus was under sentence. He lawfully belonged to the shipyard, regardless of the abuse he'd suffer there. Even if they could grant him a reprieve from the rain, he couldn't very well stay here; eventually someone would come looking for him. Still, they couldn't in good conscience just hand him back over to the docks, not when he was clearly ill, not when he could barely stand.

For now, they'd try and curb their worries, and think only of tonight. Whatever tomorrow brought, they'd handle it in the morning.

They gathered linen cloth and water from the kitchen, tucking a small bottle of brandy under their arm as well. Tansy was a soldier, not a medic, but they'd still treated their fair share of wounds. The parcel of clams watched them forlornly from the wooden counter, and Tansy cast a glance back at it as they climbed the stairs. First they'd tend to Cerus, then get a start on dinner before their uncle returned. And hopefully, he wouldn't notice if they cooked for three.

Cerus flinched when they opened the door, as if startled from sleep, and Tansy knelt by the bed, depositing their supplies beside them.

"This will sting," they warned, as they wetted a cloth with brandy, then wondered why they bothered. Couldn't they at least find catharsis in the necessary pain that came with cleaning his wounds?

Cerus inhaled through clenched teeth as Tansy touched the cloth to his back, his next breath turning into a whimper when they began to gently scrub the torn, feverish skin. As much as they wished they could, Tansy found no solace in his pain. They finished cleaning and binding the cuts without another word, then covered Cerus with a blanket, trying to ignore the way he stared at them.

"You're not a priest," he said bluntly. "Nor a healer."

Tansy lifted their chin. "I'm a soldier," they replied. "I fought to end your reign."

He showed no reaction. "And you did. So why?"

Tansy turned away. They didn't need to have this conversation with him, of all people.

"Y-you should've left me."

That halted them in place. "To die?"

Cerus let out a bitter laugh that rapidly degraded into a coughing fit. "Do you think I don't desire an end? Do you think I fear death enough to cling to a life such as this one?"

Tansy frowned. "If that were so… would you not have found your own end?"

 "If I throw myself into the sea, they haul me out. If I cut a vein, they hold me down and send for a healer. I am not allowed to escape. All I can do is wait for my body to fail."

"You'd rather I'd left you to be beaten, then."

"I have received more beatings than a man can count. What's one that goes unfinished?" His words dissolved into another vicious cough. "You were a soldier. Certainly, you saw friends felled by my troops. Family."

"You'd have difficulty finding a soldier who hasn't," Tansy answered, their tone flat. Why would he bring up such a thing now? Did he wish to turn them against him, to drive them to throw him back out into the rain?

"Then you have as much reason to hate me as everyone else," Cerus said. "Why bring me here? Why not leave me to die, or even end me by your own hand?" He tried to push himself up with shaking arms, but fell back onto the bed with a cry. "Y–ghnn—you've lost family by my hand. This very village burned by my hand. Why let me draw another breath? Why not strike me down?"

Tansy shook their head. It seemed that Cerus was trying to goad them into anger, but why? Whatever the reason, they would not allow themselves to be persuaded by him.

"I've seen enough bloodshed for one lifetime," they answered.

"And I am at fault for that," Cerus protested.

They closed their eyes against his words, reaching for the door. "Rest."

"I felt no remorse, no regret," Cerus called after them, voice rising, shaking. "Will you not take vengeance?"

Tansy closed their fingers around the door's handle, clenching it tightly. They almost wished they could, and certainly wished they didn't feel this odd, misplaced pity. But it wouldn't be vengeance anymore, it would be simple cruelty. An honorable execution was seven months too late, and they could never bring themselves to raise a hand against someone as weak and sick and hurt as Cerus was right now, especially not at his behest.

When they glanced backwards, the former tyrant was wearing an expression they couldn't quite place. Was it anger? Fear? Simple disbelief that Tansy would dare tend to him?

"Will you not take vengeance?" he repeated, his voice now barely above a whisper, and Tansy shook their head.

"What vengeance is left to take?" they murmured, and finally opened the door, stepped through, and pulled it closed behind them.

§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump

[a-ramblinrose]

JOMP Book Photo Challenge || October 30 || Read In October:

99. Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu & Carmen Maria Machado ★★★★ 100. What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher ★★★★★ 101. Of Needles and Pins by A.A. Freeman ★★★★ 102. The Thirteen Problems by Agatha Christie ★★★ 103. Labyrinth: The Novelization by A.C.H. Smith ★★★★ 104. Terrifying Tales by Edgar Allan Poe ★★★ 105. The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King ★★★★  106. V For Vendetta by Alan Moore ★★ 107. The Book of Cat Poems by Ana Sampson ★★★ 108. Dark Archives by Megan Rosenbloom ★★★ 109. Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation Manhua Vol.3 by Mò Xiāng Tóng Xiù   ★★★★ 110. Rip Van Winkle & The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving ★★ 111. A is for Arsenic: The Poisons of Agatha Christie by Kathryn Harkup ★★★ 112. Friends in Need by Elliot Hay ★★★ 113. Tea and Sympathetic Magic by Tansy Rayner Roberts ★★★★  114. The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater ★★★★

[antlermoss]

I wanted to try my hand at a warrior OC generator. This one is pretty long, user beware! If you end up drawing or using them, please tag me, I would love to see them.

Welcome to the Beyond, friend, where souls are created and sent to the world below. It’s time to begin a new incarnation.

We’ll start with their name. Choose the first letter of your chosen name.

A - Antler

B - Bee

C - Coyote

D - Deer

E - Egret

F - Ferret

G - Golden

H - Hawthorn

I - Indigo

J - Jackdaw

K - Kite

L - Lily

M - Mossy

N - Newt

O - Oleander

P - Pine

Q - Quail

R - Robin

S - Silk

T - Tansy

U - Umber

V - Viper

W - Wolf

X - Ox

Y - Yarrow

Z - Zinnia

Good, this will be the cat’s prefix. Next, let’s choose their appearance. Choose your favorite season, then the month of your creation. (Up for interpretation, your birthday or any other date important to your identity.)

New-Leaf

January - White and Gray

February - White and Cream

March - Lilac

April - Fawn

May - Cinnamon

June - Ivory

July - Sand

August - Orange and white

September - Silver gray

October - Warm gray

November - Cool gray

December - White

Green-Leaf

January - Chestnut

February - Ash

March - Mahogany

April - Orange

May - Golden

June - Pale yellow

July - Gray and cream

August - Amber

September - Bronze

October - Copper

November - Fiery orange

December - White and yellow

Leaf-Fall

January - Taupe

February - Warm black

March - Copper

April - Bronze

May - Mahogany

June - Pine

July - Russet

August - Brown and orange

September - Black and cream

October - Orange and black

November - Black and White

December - Cool black

Leaf-Bare

January - Black and White

February - Cool silver

March - Stony blue

April - Lilac

May - Black and gray

June - Blue

July - Dark blue

August - Dark gray

September - Warm silver

October - Steely gray

November - White

December - Black

This will be their pelt color.

Next, Look to the skies. They will inform the cat's eye color.

Cloudy - Pale green

Sunny - Amber

Raining - Bright green

Storming - Vibrant yellow

Snowing - Blue

Sleet - Blue-gray

Foggy - Icy blue

Windy - Hazel

Raining while Sunny - One blue eye, one yellow.

Which temperature are you most comfortable at? This will determine the cat's coat length.

0 to 15 °C - Long fur

16 to 25 °C - Medium fur

26 to 37 °C - Short fur

The soul now has a body. It is time for its fate to be decided. The sky will inform your decision once more, look to the moon.

New moon - Healer - This cat will heal their clanmates

Crescent moon - Hunter - This cat will keep the clan well-fed and fight when necessary

Quarter moon - Camp keeper - This cat maintains the camp and cares for the kits

Gibbous moon - Warrior - This cat defends the borders and their clanmates

Full moon - Leader - This cat will lead the clan

Meteor Shower - Gifted - This cat is gifted with a strange ability from Starclan.

Hm? You wish to know of the position of "Deputy"? Fate cares not who holds that title if they are not to become a leader. Your cat is now Ambitious.

A cat's destiny informs the suffix chosen. Roll a D12 and choose the suffix from the corresponding fate.

Healer

1 - Petal

2 - Leaf

3 - Stem

4 - Shade

5 - Pool

6 - Moon

7 - Cloud

8 - Mist

9 - Bark

10 - Web

11 - Rain

12 - Stalk

Hunter

1 - Feather

2 - Flight

3 - Shade

4 - Fall

5 - Leap

6 - Shadow

7 - Eye

8 - Ear

9 - Splash

10 - Spring

11 - Tail

12 - Wind

Warrior

1 - Claw

2 - Fang

3 - Burn

4 - Flame

5 - Storm

6 -Hawk

7 - Tooth

8 - Jaw

9 - Bite

10 - Blaze

11 - Scar

12 - Howl

Camp Keeper

1 - Mask

2 - Tuft

3 - Down

4 - Belly

5 - Heart

6 - Flower

7 - Patch

8 - Light

9 - Fern

10 - Mane

11 - Dapple

12 - Muzzle

*Leader's suffix is Star, but may vary by region.

Gifted

1 - Wish

2 - Sight

3 - Wing

4 - Frost

5 - Song

6 - Dream

7 - Dusk

8 - Dawn

9 - Omen

10 - Spark

11 - Moon

12 - Hollow

The soul is almost ready. Roll a D20 to determine at least one characteristic. You may roll up to three times, and reroll once.

1 - Six Toed

2 - Ear Tufts

3 - Deaf

4 - Long Claws

5 - Rosettes

6 - Stripes

7 - Twisted Paw

8 - Patchy Fur

9 - Excellent Listener

10 - Stalks Silently

11 - Blindness

12 - Three Legged

13 - Exposed Fangs

14 - Excellent Swimmer

15 - Beautiful

16 - Became a Healer despite destiny

17 - Became a Warrior despite destiny

18 - Became Leader despite destiny

19 - Clumsy

20 - Bobbed Tail

The soul is ready. Place them in the clan that suits them best, be it in the Lake territories or elsewhere. Their story is in your hands now.

[fivepoolsclans-archive]

Redfern's Message

NEWLEAF - MOON 0 - YEAR 0

Figdream stretched as he crossed the threshold of the medicine cat den. The morning newleaf sun brought a warm glow to his golden pelt, and he was thankful for the relief it brought to his sleepy limbs. It was the dawn of a new day under new leadership; Rootstar’s naming ceremony had just been last night and she was already guiding cats to different patrol groups this morning. There was a dash of pride swelling in Figdream’s chest at the sight of the HavenClan leader, and knowing that she was up and doing her job made Figdream determined to get started on his.

His stores were running low on tansy and garlic, which meant he had to go out and fetch some more. Newleaf is young, so there shouldn’t be a problem finding any, he thought. He could always check for herbs around the abandoned Twoleg garden, some cobwebs from the ditches by the fallen log that marked the entrance to the training hollow, moss from the trees around the river–

A squeal sounded from the nursery den, startling Figdream from his thoughts. He padded curiously to the nursery, ears alert for sounds of distress. His fur began to lie flat when he realized it had only been Frogkit playing with Cragquiver and Sunpatch.

Cragquiver must have come to relieve Sunpatch of kit-sitting duties. Last night had been Sunpatch’s turn to watch over Frogkit, which meant Cragquiver would look after her this morning giving Sunpatch the chance to breathe fresher air. Currently, Sunpatch sat outside of the nursery entrance chuckling at the display of Frogkit pouncing on Cragquiver. Ah, Figdream thought, it must be another game of capture-the-warrior.

“Good morning,” Figdream mewed as he approached.

“Good morning Figdream,” purred Sunpatch, licking her whiskers and dipping down low for a stretch.

“Morning there,” Cragquiver grunted, scrunching his face as Frogkit batted at his nose. “Easy there. No claws, remember?”

Figdream chuckled and turned to Sunpatch, “I need to go out and search for herbs. Would you like to come with me?”

“Oh, would I!” Sunpatch shook herself and padded closer to Figdream. She glanced over her shoulder at the other two with a purr, “I’ve been cooped up in the nursery all day yesterday.”

“Then a walk sounds like something you’d need,” Figdream laughed and waved goodbye to the other two wrestling cats with his tail. He began padding out of camp with Sunpatch following close behind.

It was good to be out of the grotto where HavenClan called home. Sunlight filtered through the fresh green leaves and pink blossoms on the trees, leaving quaking dapple patterns on the ground. Birds were singing new yet familiar tunes, and it was still early enough for the crickets to join their song. The cool dew on the grass felt refreshing underpaw and cooling on the cats’ pelts. Taking in a deep breath, Figdream was certain that a walk was what he needed, too. The stress of last night finally seemed to be melting away. “It’s a beautiful morning,” Sunpatch commented, and he agreed.

The morning passed as well as Figdream could have hoped. As expected, there were plenty of herbs to gather at the Twoleg garden. Figdream instructed Sunpatch how to harvest what they needed. It was quiet and busy work, and soon enough both cats had an impressive pile of leaves and roots to take back to camp.

“Have you ever thought about taking on an apprentice?” Sunpatch asked when they had decided to take a break and clean themselves of dust and dirt.

“A bit,” Figdream admitted while licking a paw and swiping it over an ear. “There’s not enough young paws at camp for me to consider it very much.”

“What about Frogkit? She’s very smart.”

“Maybe, but that’s not a choice to make right now. There’s time to consider.”

“I’d love to mentor Frogkit,” Sunpatch purred. “I’d get to continue to watch her grow into a strong warrior.”

Figdream’s tail flicked dismissively, “You and Cragquiver do a good job raising her, but I think it’d be wiser for Frogkit to have someone else as a mentor. She needs to learn new skills and how to be on her own without you two carrying her paws.”

Sunpatch fell quiet for a heartbeat then, then glanced at the golden tabby tom warily. Figdream could see the sparks of insecurity settle in and sighed. Between her and Cragquiver breathed insecurity as much as they do air. “Do you think,” Sunpatch began, “we are being too overbearing on her?”

“No,” Figdream said simply, “But you can’t expect to be next to her all the time. She needs her own experiences and her own thoughts to think. She’s just a kitten now, but she won’t always be.”

Sunpatch narrowed her eyes and nodded as she tried to take Figdream’s words to heart. Figdream couldn’t help but feel some admiration for her. Sunpatch never had kits of her own, so he could see the challenge of raising someone else’s. He had no doubt that Sunpatch and Cragquiver would raise the orphaned kitten excellently and with as much love and care as if Frogkit were their own flesh and blood.

“Words to take to heart, no matter the cat,” came the purr of a new voice. Figdream glanced about, eyes wide until he found the source perched high in the branch of a tree. As soon as he caught her eye, he frowned deeply.

“What is it?” Sunpatch asked, leaning in. “Are you alright?”

“StarClan is here.”

Sunpatch looked startled, then glanced around as if she would be able to find any strange, starry cats. She began to lick her fur in an attempt at a last-minute groom. “Where? Who? Aren’t they supposed to visit us through their den at the Cave of Hidden Stars? Why are they here?”

Figdream’s ear flicked, but didn’t answer. Instead, he watched as the pretty white-and-brown speckled she-cat hopped down from the tree, her starry pelt twinkling. She cast no shadow, as if the sun couldn’t touch her.

Redfern.

Redfern was a very old StarClan member, one of the first from HavenClan. Figdream had never felt comfortable around her; she was a troublemaker, and too confident in her place as a guide to other cats. Her smug demeanor had never settled right with him, and Figdream didn’t like how she treated other cats around her– as if she saw herself as the leader of StarClan.

He gestured with his tail for Sunpatch to crouch down with him and tuck their paws beneath them so that they could more easily communicate with the StarClan guide.

“That’s not necessary,” Redfern said, “I’m only here to speak with you, Figdream. Sunpatch doesn’t need to know.”

“Then what do you want,” Figdream snapped, “and make it quick.”

“Moody today, aren’t we?” Redfern sat between the two cats and hooked her tail over her paws.

“It was a nice day, until you showed up.” Amusement danced in the ghostly cat’s eyes, though horror rooted in Sunpatch’s at Figdream’s disrespect. He ignored it; he didn’t have to like Redfern, and he was not afraid to make it known. “What do you need to talk to me about?”

Redfern licked her paw and drew it over herself casually, “I have a prophecy to share.” Her pale blue eyes landed on Figdream. His hackles raised under her smug gaze. Sunpatch touched his side with the tip of her tail, and he was reminded that there are things bigger here than his distaste for the rude she-cat. He nodded for Redfern to continue, ignoring the satisfied smirk on her muzzle.

“Destruction falls when one becomes five.”

“Hm,” Figdream grunted, “How vague, as always.”

“What did they say?” Sunpatch’s eyes were wide.

“Things I’ll have to discuss with Rootstar about.” Figdream pushed himself to his paws.

“Leaving so soon?” Redfern teased.

“Well, do you have anything else to tell me?”

Redfern tilted her head with a smile, “No. Just be sure to remember my words.” She stood up and began to walk away, calling over her shoulder, “Keep HavenClan alive, won’t you? We’re safe as we are, and we’ll stay safe if you listen to me.” The she-cats pelt began to fade away, and in a blink of an eye she was gone.

Sunpatch reluctantly got to her paws when Figdream busied himself with a bundle of herbs. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Figdream mumbled around a mouthful of leaves. “Let’s just get back to camp.”

There was something about Redfern’s words that rubbed him the wrong way. Her message was worrying, sure, but Figdream couldn’t help but feel that there was something more to it. Something that stood behind Redfern’s words. He closed his eyes and sighed. Redfern served as a reminder of why StarClan was Figdream’s least favorite part of being a medicine cat.

[inkysphinx]

The Barrow-Folk

In golden days the soil would sprout  with tansies, yarrow of the dying  knight, whose castle burned against the velvet hues -  night everlasting.  a screeching castigates  the yarrow of the dying knight - does it have ears to know? It pushes  Through the visor, oily tendrils slither ‘twixt the shafts, ‘till the yarrow of the dying knight  tastes the howl of endless, hollow night.  Tansy blooms throughout this little century - long slaked,  it grows as roses - we are too young to know them as they were, we  children of the realms forgotten, lost, we Saturated ones, we praising folk, scourged ones, watching, waiting, All the while. Here I am, sitting in a shallow shaft, whistling with  the wind, wishing  I was with them too:  the barrow-folk, whose castle burned  against the velvet hues - night  everlasting, trusting, fighting, burning; the  Barrow-folk, swallowed, broken, velvet hues protect them - dying page of a flower fed on barrow-children; a young student lays dying upon a field of tansies, yarrow of the dying  knight, whose castle burned against the dying light,  Last and final light of ages darkened,  Innocent, too innocent for burning pages, velvet words, flowers slaked  on children of the realms forgotten, children of the barrow-children. Pushing  through the visor, oily tendrils castigate the yarrow of the dying knight,  whose castle burns against the endless tendrils of  the dying night, the yarrow of the tansy; Barrow-children burning; scourged and forgotten realms, made hollow by the wind, whose wishes whistle through  a lost, innocent visor - a golden, burning light; an endless screeching,  howl of burning children night of everlasting burning.  

[noxspost]

yasha critical role

so bird wings are ffagile bird bones are designed to be hollow so it can easily fly as they can.

So I have an idea there is this floral pattern down Yasha's back from the start of where her spine begins on her neck all the way down to her tail bone.

So when she activates her wings, a strip of what looks to be a very well done tattoo materializes.

So wbat it essentially does is reinforces her spine same with the beginnings of her wing bones on her back.

So in case she gets injured, she doesn't become paralyzed and when she was without her feathered wings, she still would have them it, just they became fungus, moss and tansy but when she does get her feathers back on her wings...

The reinforcing magic manifests as poppies, marigolds moss and small mushrooms the flat types that grow horizontally on trees and logs

So essentially she gets magical armor on her spine and her shoulders in case she gets injured in battle so she doesn't become paralyzed.

--

Well when beau found out about it. Beau thought yasha was gonna die cause she fell from the sky so the magical armor protected the more vital parts of yasha.

Jester loves to draw the Magical tattoo armor when she asks if she can draw Yasha. The tansy Symbolizes waging war, pain and misery. The moss is supposed to cushion the fall And all that jazz, but the poppy specifically, the red ones often mean sacrifice. Rest safety and war specifically the aftermath of War.

also I just think it fits in her character. red poppy flowers are very pretty.

[doodlebun]

what's that one sayin'...bout the flies 'n honey?

...i hope yer not thinkin' somethin' like that o' me, miss belle. ain't no flytraps here, i assure ya. woulda snapped already, heh.

oh, no, not at all, i just...

...

where're we headed, again?

[libidomechanica]

Make a stately

And see that seeldome falls bynethe.     By glim’ring of your own child-bed, as men for the cocked haye.     For, were those I have let

his jive ass back in to collection;     but getting nigh grim Dante’s obscure wood, ’ that all the     postes and wine: or for

a tansy let us play, for     it anew, and winter wind, it’s no the driving. Which pass’d,     or catch thy hope, die,—how

happy they who should ask my love,     Jamie, come try me, if thou requires it, that Juan had more     brain than beard, and begg’d by

every hair of glitter’d to my     Muse and there she’s good, what we were you or grew or stood. Forget     the light of the gender

still, as they think to call men     to thy hive. Upon the sea;—what are all the demons of     an apple and a white

dress for you, nor thou like an earth     she did not wish her minion: but when I here assure you,     that killing himself in

my own affections, tenderest     pledge? Hut, whence declines, by chance ogle at her ears without     her mouth with young Favonious.

To get through her countenance     too bold, but blush to tell of deities or mortals all     his mother, Donna Inez,

finding, too, that all the sea     in the ghastly glimmer’d thro’ the vale of lilies fair on     a lawn; there by zephyrs,

streams, the Dee, the rest be hidden     by the sea and choke on it and go down in its services.     Where was not an ancient

gray, the lawn running their heads     reflected light; that grace, which do endless web toil’d for a     burning forehead, and

Orion low in his mood? I’ll take     a wantonness: a lawn about the aid of prince or     plenipo: she to disturb.

It was not left hys flocke so deare:     adieu my deare, whose endles souenaunce, emong the vale of     lillyes and all these coming

Soldiery behind broke of     eternity: the road as I cam past, ye snufft and gather’d     as they lay calm-breathing,

on the morning: but no more,     that all to spend, nor servile peer’s content. I now there is     fatter game on the grasse

ay greene: o happy herse, the danger     is less politesse sheepe, adieu ye Woodes can with     heaven and earth with him

when wrong, that moment, till in joy     both day and hour of danger. Was bent with hollow     Now welcome for the Hall!

[whumpster-fire]

Athanasia Part 11: The Journey

Masterpost for character info and previous chapters

Content Warning: Animal/Monster Whumpee, References to past animal abuse, Animal Death (carnivores being carnivores), Abandonment

The night is much too wet and cold for the little creature winding her way through the forest. Much too wet and cold to stay out in the open this long. Her fur can keep her warm when it is dry, but it does not repel water very well. She darts and zig-zags between the trees, staying under their branches as much as she can, but the autumn leaves are sparse, and it is raining too hard for them to do any good. Soon she is soaked to the skin, her white-and-black-striped coat plastered against her slender, bony frame. She has put on some weight in the ten days since she escaped from the cage on the gibbet post where she was left to starve and rot alive, but she is still thinner than she should be.

Almost immediately she wants to scurry back to the hollow log where she was sheltering. Nights like this are for curling up and sleeping, not for hunting, no matter how hungry she is. But she cannot turn back. She is not hunting. She is searching. Searching for the man who rescued her, who helped her wounds heal, who kept her safe and fed while she was so hurt and sick she could not even walk. The man who made her remember that people once meant safety and comfort to her instead of fear and pain, who made her remember what it was like to not be alone. The human who chased her away, just like the old family did so many, many years ago.

The night is dark, too dark. Her eyes are meant for darkness, but the moon and stars are covered by clouds. The only light is flashes of lightning, and the yellow glow of her own eyes. They become dimmer when she is hunting, when she is trying not to be seen, but now they burn like candles. Even so she cannot see far through the rain, and when the road appears from the gloom it is a surprise even though she was looking for it.

This is where he left her, this is where he drove her off. He left her far from the nearest village, far from people. It is a place where she would be safe, where there is prey and water and trees to climb and hide in and banks of earth held by roots where she could dig new dens, and live as she has for so many years. But she does not want that life anymore.

For a moment she panics, not remembering which way he went, which way she went. No – this way, this way. There is no sign of him. The rain has washed away any bootprints, and any scent. All she can do is follow the road. But it has turned to mud, the ruts and potholes turned to deep puddles. Tansy’s paws and ears are already numb, and walking through puddles makes it worse. She picks her way around as best she can, and tries to stay in the grass by the side of the road, but suddenly the ground under her paws disappears, and she slips and tumbles into a ditch.

If it were full of rain water, she would hardly care. She cannot get any wetter anyway. But she is plunged deep into horrible soupy, dark mud that reeks of algae and decaying reeds. She scrambles out in a panic, but the wet, rain-slicked grass gives no purchase, and she falls in again.

She makes it out after a couple of tries, but now she is completely covered in it. She tries to shake herself off, but it is useless. She hates it, she hates the weight of it pulling her down, she hates the disgusting, clammy feeling, she hates the cold so much! Tansy’s breath catches in her throat, and the pent up fear and sorrow and misery overwhelms her. She makes another feeble attempt to shake off at least one paw, and breaks down into sobs. She is shivering so hard her teeth chatter, and she nearly bites her tongue. She sits there, half in and half out of a puddle, her paws ankle deep in the mire. The same as she was when he found her. But he is gone, and – and she is never going to find him, and this is all a waste of time, even if she finds him, he will just chase her away again, or he will hurt her like the other humans did, or there will be other humans or dogs and they will cage her and tear her to pieces over and over!

Her nerve breaks, and she darts off the road to the cover of a leaning beech tree. Rain is still coming through dripping off the leaves, but it is not quite as wet. Panic, blind, useless panic, rises and swells in her like bile, like nausea. She wants to run, she has to run, but she does not even know where she is going! She is not sure she could find her way back to the hollow log in this weather. There must be other tree hollows and burrows in these woods, but she does not know where they are or where she is or whether there are other creatures in them. And even if she found shelter now, all she could do is huddle there soaked and shivering and covered in mud and wait for morning. It is too late to turn back.

She wants to find him again so, so badly. She wants to be picked up, and protected from the rain by wool, and just… held. She wants to hear his gentle voice, and feel his fingers stroking her fur, and… even the bath would be better than this. She hated it at the time, she hated the slippery metal and the cold air and the wetness and hands and rough cloth scrubbing at her fur. But right now she would welcome being soaked in warm water and having the clammy mud all washed away. Even thinking of trying to lick this off makes her feel a little sick, and it would take so long to wait for it to dry and scrape and rub against tree trunks. She remembers being dried off and wrapped in blankets, and having the heat of a fire and a much larger body fighting off the damp chill. And it is not just that she wants to be warm and clean and dry and safe. Of course she wants those things, she wants them so much! But she wants to be held. To be comforted. To be loved.

Tansy holds onto those memories for dear life because they are the only defense she has left against the cold and damp. There is nowhere to go, no way out of this storm. But she has spent months in a tiny cage with no shelter, and no way out. She knows she can survive one more night of it, and she cannot stand the feeling of staying here, not dry, not safe, just doing nothing like there are still invisible bars around her. If she will be wet and cold and miserable all night either way, then – then she has to keep going. She has to keep chasing that faint hope that this suffering will stop. She drags her exhausted body to its feet and forces her numb, shivering paws to move.

She tries to follow the road in short bursts, sprinting from tree to tree and pausing to rest and shake herself off. But her attention keeps slipping away, and her eyes are bleary with fatigue. She realizes she has strayed so far from the path she cannot see it, and it is several trees to get back to it. Every time she stops moving it is so hard to not just collapse. Her body feels so heavy, like if she lies down she will not have the strength to rise. It is too cold… too cold…

A clap of thunder shocks her awake. And she does not remember going to sleep. She should not have gone to sleep. Tansy abandons the cover of the woods, and the leaf litter that is wet but at least is solid underfoot, and returns to the road. The wheelruts and puddles and slippery mud are uncomfortable, but the discomfort keeps her standing, keeps her walking forward because she cannot rest here. She is afraid she will collapse anyway, that the cold will completely overwhelm her, but she knows it will not kill her. Once, a long time ago, she tried to cross a river that was not quite frozen enough, and came to washed up on the bank a long way downstream, coughing up frigid water.

The rain fades away, but more waves of it come and go all through the night. Sometimes a drizzle, sometimes a downpour. Tansy wants to hide under the trees and only move when the rain is lighter, but she is not sure she can stay awake if she stops moving. Sometimes she stops anyway without meaning too, and is only roused by the horrible sensation of water and mud against her chin and nose and whiskers, and sometimes she loses her footing because she can barely feel her paws and her attention keeps slipping away from the ground in front of her.

The sun has risen by the time she reaches the town, but it is a grey, dreary dawn. There are a few people about, but the light is dim. She crouches in the weeds beside a fence, her heart racing. This is dangerous! She should not be here, especially in the daytime! Even when she hunted in the town that captured her, she avoided the central street where everything is walls with few places to run or hide.

But Tansy knows John must be here, somewhere in the town. She cannot travel as fast as him for long distances, but he could not have gotten much further before the rain arrived. He does not like to travel in the rain either, and he usually stopped in places like this even when she was with him, to trade the metal things he made. He has to be here… he has to be close, so close, but she cannot search for him without being found herself! Tansy claws at the fence in frustration. What now? What can she do?

It starts to rain again, and Tansy works up the courage to make her way into the streets. Some of the people have been driven inside, and the ones who are outside are not paying attention. She slinks from building to building, crouching under the eaves, in the gaps between houses, anywhere there is cover from both the storm and from sight.

She searches for a way up to the roofs. It would be safer there – no one will look up in the rain. If she can cross through the town, and follow the road to the other side, maybe she can find where he will leave, and wait for him. She watches from under a discarded board, and chooses her route, then waits until no one is looking. She darts across the street and leaps up onto a sign, but only just hooks her claws into the beam and her hindpaws set it swinging. She freezes in place, clinging to it, and glances around. Safe. She drags herself onto it, then up a windowframe. It feels like the building is spinning and swaying under her. She stops again, catching her breath, bracing herself for the harder jump onto the roof, and just barely makes it up.

But these roofs are tiled, not thatched, and they are steep and slippery in the rain. Tansy moves carefully, staying in the peaks and valleys and testing her grip with each pawstep, but careful is not enough. She feels her paw slip as she puts weight on it and tenses, then twists, turning around and scrabbling for purchase, but she slides faster and faster until she tumbles off the edge and plummets to the ground. Her reflexes are so dulled that she does not twist in the air fast enough to land on her feet. There are no cobblestones in the little alley where she lands, but it is still a hard blow, and the rain coming off the roofs has turned the earth to deep puddles. The sun must not shine down here enough to dry it up well either, and she lands in a splash in what is nearly a bog.

It is little consolation as Tansy limps out of the alley that her filthy, bedraggled coat hides her form against the stone and wood of the town. She abandons the idea of going through it, especially when the rain stops again and people and animals come out. A dog barks, and she does not know or care if it is at her, she bolts, flying through the puddles and dodging around something large and hooved.

The moment she reaches open ground she hides in a thicket, panting and shivering. She wants to run farther, but her legs buckle under her. Her head hurts, and her vision drifts out of focus. Her body cannot take any more. Too long without warmth, too long without sleep, too long without food. Hunger has been gnawing at her all night, but now it has reached the stage where it makes her feel nauseous and weak. Try to hunt, or try to sleep? She does not know if she can catch anything in this state, but she will only feel worse if she sleeps all day.

She is too exhausted to have any chance of catching a mouse or rabbit. But the rain has slowed down other creatures too. A grass snake and a few insects are a meager meal. She is still on farmland, and despite her fear she creeps closer to the houses. There are a few ducks and geese grazing near a pond, but she gives them a wide berth. They cannot take off as fast as other birds, but they do not have to run far to be safe in the water, and they are bigger than her. She can probably kill one if things go right, but there are many ways they can go wrong. The carcass would be too heavy to carry off quickly, too, and whether she succeeds or fails they would make enough noise to alert the people and dogs, and… Tansy makes herself as small as possible, her throat closing up from fear. No hunting here. It is dangerous enough to be here at all. There will be more prey out when night falls. She just needs to keep her strength up until then. She snatches a few berries and small fruits from a garden close to the house, darting back to cover each time. They are not very filling, but the sweet juice gives her a bit of desperately needed energy.

She sleeps in a copse of trees until some time in the afternoon. She is too tired to brave jumping into water to wash the mud off her coat, and shivers and tosses and turns the whole time. Her muscles still ache when she climbs down, and it feels like fever might be setting in. But the rain has stopped and the sun shines weakly through the clouds. She cleans herself off as much as she can by rubbing against the trees and grass, and sets off. Not hunting, just walking, just traveling. It is too dangerous to go through the town, but she can go around it. She has not given up. She will not give up. She just has to find the road again on the other side.

The search brings a stroke of luck – the larder of a shrike, and the first real meal she has had in a whole day. It is a dangerous food source. The carcasses are too high to reach, and the same thorns that hold them in place make it impossible to climb without injury. Usually they are not worth the effort, but a long time ago Tansy discovered a trick to steal from them. She climbs a nearby tree and looks for a thin, crooked, dead branch of the right size and shape, and chews into it enough that by pulling and pushing it back and forth with all her weight over and over, it cracks and breaks off. It gets caught on lower branches twice on the way down, and she has to push it free. She drags it to the bush, and awkwardly – because it is larger than her, and heavy – props one end against the ground and flips it over so it rests against the brambles. It takes a few tries to get it into the right place.

It is precarious to climb, and her weight pushes it into the bush a bit. She cannot completely avoid the thorns digging into her paws and belly, but she reaches high enough to snag the branches with prizes on them with her claws. She pulls them closer, her other forepaw braced against the non-thorny branch and her tail lashing and whirling behind her to keep her balance, and drags it off the thorn. The bramble springs back, and the branch she is standing on falls, sideways, dragging a spine down her leg.

Tansy had forgotten how long it takes to get food this way, and how painful the process is. It is a lot of work for most of an already-dead mouse. But she repeats the process two more times before the shrike returns and chases her off. Her fur is bloodied, and she limps on wounded forepaws for a while, but it is safer to risk the wrath of thorns than of humans.

The search brings food, but it also brings uncertainty and disappointment. It is nearly sundown when Tansy reaches the road – or at least a road. It is leaving the town, but it is not far enough to the other side for her to be sure it is the same one. And despite sniffing around it until dusk, she cannot find any trace of the traveler’s scent. Her chest burns with anxiety. Should she stay here? Should she follow it? Should she keep going around? Perhaps he has not left the town yet, or perhaps he left early in the day when it was still raining and his scent was washed away, or perhaps this is not the right road at all! She has to make a choice, and choosing wrong could mean never finding him at all.

By the next morning, she is not far from where she started. She does not know if keeping going was the right choice, but staying or following the first one were almost certainly wrong ones. There are four roads leading out of the town – though one is the way she entered. None of them have any sign of him, and there is no way to guess which is the right one.

For two more days, and two more nights, Tansy goes back and forth around the town, hugging as close to it as she dares – closer at night than during the day. An endless cycle of hunting, sleeping, and walking. There are small rain showers and afternoons of drizzle and fog, but no real storms.

Three days, she tells herself, is when she will give up. She starts to doubt that there is any point to this. He must already be gone, or perhaps he will stay in the town forever now that he does not have her to worry about. The worries that even if she finds him he will chase her away again, or she will be caught by other humans, or he will just give them to her, grow stronger and stronger. She could be here for months, years, until the people here find her, and this time there will be no rescue.

But on the fourth day, late in the morning, Tansy returns to the road closest to opposite the one that led to the town. She sniffs at stones and tufts of grass halfheartedly. Her paws and muscles and joints all ache, and she has not slept or groomed herself nearly enough. Last night was rainy, and the road is still damp, with puddles in the ruts made by wagon wheels. She does not expect to find anything anymore, and is just waiting for the sun to set so she can accept that there is no chance. But as she follows the road out a short ways, just to be sure, a scent catches her attention.

She hardly believes it at first. It is faint – and human scents are usually faint compared to a mouse or fox or badger – and it seems weaker and less distinct than it should be. Maybe because there is something about it that resembles her own, but stronger at the same time. And familiar. Unmistakable. Metal and fire and old worn-out leather boots, and… she is not even sure what it is close to, but there is  something to it that she can feel as well as smell, like her body is trying to force her to pay attention to it.

Tansy takes off down the road, faster than she has gone without chasing something or being chased in a long, long time. Every so often she stops, to make sure the trail is still there and to catch her breath. Her body is made for short bursts of speed, not to run and run and run without stopping. She crouches by the side of the road, panting so fast it feels like she is just breathing the same air over and over again. It is not a warm day, but she is still overheated, and she cannot tell where overexertion ends and fever begins. She stops long enough for her heart to not feel like it will burst, but the burning in her lungs never fully goes away. Every part of her body is… not screaming, there is no energy to scream, but quietly begging her to rest for longer, like the halfhearted cries she knew were pointless but still made many nights in the cage because she could not stop herself. Even when a man with a horse and cart passes in the opposite direction she does not wait long enough for him to be gone, just veers off the edge of the road and winds her way through the fields.

It is too fast a pace to keep up this long, but she has to keep going or she will have no chance of keeping up with a human. There are more tiny villages along the way that she braves cutting through, but she knows that if he reaches another town, another crossroads where she cannot follow, he might disappear again and she might never find him.

In the end, it is a chase after all. One that drags on longer than any before it. But the scent is getting stronger. Closer.

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Unless

for Angstpril, Day 22: Shadow of Former Self

cw: war/death mentions, beating, referenced broken bones

prev ///// masterlist ///// next

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There was much to be done within the central city, even after Cerus was taken care of. Rebuild, relieve, reform. It was months before Tansy started looking toward home, and the journey there would be longer still, but eventually, as the summer came to a close, they turned to the road. It was time to do their own rebuilding.

The first sight of the coast filled them with a mixture of joy and sadness. How young they'd been, the last time they'd seen the ocean. A glance over their shoulder as they ran, blurred by tears.

Gone were the days when they'd spend all afternoon on their father's fishing boat, when they'd come home to their mother cooking, when they'd chase their siblings through the tide, splashing and looking for seashells.

Their grief for everything that could never be again wasn't as sharp as it had once been, now replaced with something hollow. An emptiness in their chest that could never be filled.

Tansy still had family in the little coastal village; people to come home to, which was more than some of their fellow soldiers could say. Their great-uncle's house was smaller than they'd remembered, but wasn't that how it always was with childhood memories?

Now that the war was over, it was time to try and settle down and remember how life carried on. Realize how many slow, small moments there really were in a day, so much more noticeable when you weren't just trying to stay alive, so much more beautiful.

Great-Uncle Aldon had managed to keep a fishing boat safely out of the reach of the war, and despite being well into his seventies, tended to the nets day in and out. Tansy mostly kept to the house; mending torn nets, cooking, and keeping things tidy. They weren't ready to climb aboard the vessel without their father just yet.

One evening, a fortnight or two from the day they'd returned, they picked up a parcel of clams from the market; a meal they were looking forward to, as the central city had been too far inland to receive any fresh seafood. It was dusk when they started the long walk back to the house, and a freezing, late-fall rain had begun. Tansy's cloak was heavy, but not waterproof, and they did their best to keep under the awnings of the merchants.

As they passed the shipyard, they paused to watch half-constructed vessels bob in the stormy water. Beautiful as it was dangerous. Were they not eager to get home and cook dinner, they would've found a better spot to watch the rolling of the dark waves.

They started off, but a figure near the ships caught their eye; stick-thin, in soaked clothing that didn't look at all appropriate for the weather, struggling under the weight of several wooden planks.

Odd. Most of the shipwrights knew the climate well, and wouldn't be caught in a storm without adequate layers. They watched as the figure stumbled, scattering their heavy load across the pier. Tansy started forward to help them, but another dock worker got there first.

A shock ran through them as the worker began to beat the person on the ground, shouting words that were drowned out by the storm. For a moment, Tansy was frozen in place. They'd never seen cruelty such as this, not in their village. Had the war really changed the people so drastically?

"Stop!" they shouted, their clam dinner forgotten as they charged out into the rain. The worker froze, looking more surprised than angry as Tansy moved to stand in front of the fallen figure.

"Leave them alone."

The worker shook their head, turning to leave. "Too cold out for this shite. Get a move on! Weather's no excuse." The last command seemed directed at the person on the ground, but the worker didn't wait for acknowledgement, disappearing into the dockside shack.

Tansy turned to kneel beside the person, who was still curled tightly on the ground, hands balled into fists, covering their face protectively. With a start, they realized what they'd assumed to be gloves were actually the person's bare hands, black as coal and crooked, like the bones had been broken and healed improperly—

"Cerus?" they said, barely able to hear their own voice above the rainfall. The man on the ground seemed to catch the name anyway, flinching away like it was a weapon Tansy wielded.

Oh gods, it was him. The Shadow King, the tyrant, trembling before them on the ground. The catalyst of the war, the thief who'd stolen Tansy's family— they wanted to run, forget they'd ever seen him here, but they couldn't bring themselves to turn away.

Because it was clear to them now that the Council had indeed sentenced Cerus to death. A slow, drawn-out death, to be carried out in silence, with no ceremony, no recognition. Tansy doubted the fallen ruler would live through the winter… unless he had help.

And who would help him? they thought, even as they knelt. Who would help him, if I turned my back?

"Cerus," they said again, taking a great effort to shape their tone into something resembling gentleness. A single gray eye peered warily at them from beneath dark hair. Someone had cut it, they realized, and not with a careful hand. 

Tansy sighed. "Do you have a place away from the rain?"

The response was a rattling breath, an almost inaudible, "I have nothing."

Those words, hollow and hopeless, pierced Tansy like an arrow. In that instant, it didn't matter who he was, who he'd been. In that instant, Cerus was just another human who was suffering, and Tansy was so tired of watching people suffer.

"Then come with me," Tansy said, holding out their hand. 

Without a word, perhaps because he thought he had no choice but to obey, perhaps out of desperate hope that someone cared whether he lived or died, Cerus took it.

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@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles

[sunliights]

open to anyone, tansy is your muse’s sugar baby in a platonic agreement but she is maybe a tiny little bit greedy in that she wants more than just cash, she wants them.

“oh… i didn’t realise that there are others.” admittedly tansy had been sat on that piece of information for a while, biding her time until she could use it to her advantage. her lips formed into a little pout that she quickly covered up by biting at her bottom lip, casting her gaze away from them. “i just —” she laughed, though it was an entirely hollow sound. intentionally, of course. “i thought i was special. that’s just ridiculous, right?”

[lailoken]

Fraw Holt or Dame Holda, the northern witch-goddess travelling upon her sacred goose through the night.

—

“Frau Holda , Venus Mountain and The Night Travellers

From the 10th Century c.e. onwards Frankish clerics and churchmen such as Regino of Prum fulminated sourly against the devilish ' belief of 'certeine wicked women that in the night times they ride abroad with Diana, the goddess of the pagans, or else with Herodias, with an innumerable multitude upon certeine beasts. This was echoed in the fourteenth century law-code of Lorraine which censured those who rode through the air with Diana. The image of the Wild Ancestral Goddess had a powerful influence upon the mediaeval imagination; the author of ‘The Romance of the Rose' wote that a third of the people have dreams of nocturnal journeys with Dame Habondia.

In Northern Europe, the sect of night travelling witches were held to fly through the sky in the retinue of the goddess Herodias or Holda, who leads the ancestral spirits of the Furious Horde in the winter months around Samhain and Yule. Like the Cymric goddess Cerridwen, Frau Holda is the archaic underworld Earth Mother, mistress of death, initiation and rebirth, who rules over the chthonic realm of Hel or Annwvyn. In Scandinavia she is known as Hela, the daughter of Loki, of whom it is related that half of her is fair and half black with decay. This signifies her bright and dark aspects as Freyja/Holda mistress of life and death. The Veiled Goddess encompasses the cosmic dualities of day and night, growth and dissolution, radiance and shadow. Her association with the Wild Hunt is strong in Germany where the ride of the death powers is sometimes called the Heljagd and in Normandy, Mesnee a Hellequin. The Indo-European original of this Witch Goddess is *KOLYO, 'the Coverer' the funereal Otherworld Queen of the Indo-European peoples from which figures as diverse as the Celtic Cailleach and Greek nymph Kalypso are descended.

The life/death aspects of Dame Hela were referred to by the German wizard, herbalist and crystal scryer Diel Breull of Calbach who confessed in 1630 that he had travelled to the pagan holy mountain, the Venusberg, 'four times a year, during the fast.' He had no idea how he got to the mountain. He then confessed he was a night traveller and 'the Frau Holle (to whom he travels) is a fine woman from the front but from the back she is like a hollow tree with rough bark. It was in Venus mountain that he came to know a number of herbs.'

This description corresponds with the female forest spirit called the Skogfru in Old Norse and the woodwife, birch maiden and wild damsel elsewhere who are beautiful women from the front but hollow behind like a rotten log. The woodwives are associated with the Wild Hunt, sometimes being pursued by Woden . (‘Woodwife’ and ‘woodwose’ both stem from the Saxon root-word ‘Wod’ - ‘wild, furious, enthused’). Like many native European initiation sites, the Hurselberg was regarded as the gateway to the underworld, the domain of Frau Venus, the classicized Freyja/Holda. From the Hurseloch cave on the mountain eldritch voices and wailing could sometimes be heard, for it led down into the magical realm of the goddess.

The mediaeval tale of Tannhauser is based upon this initiatory lore for he was a knight minnesinger (troubadour) who while riding past the cavern of the Hurselberg at twilight encountered the beautiful and entrancing Frau Venus, who took him below into the Otherworld regions to be her consort for seven years. In Scottish tradition a related pattern is exemplified by Thomas the Rymer, the thirteen century seer who met the Queen of Elfame beneath the Eildon Thorn and went with her into the world of Faery for seven years.

She gave Thomas a golden apple to eat which conferred the prophetic gift upon him. This is reminiscent of Woden's descent into the heart of Suttungr's mountain where he sleeps with the giantess Gunnlodd to attain the mead of poetic inspiration.

Such goddess forms are comparable to the shamanic Clan Mother of the nether-world in Siberian mythology. And we may note that the worship of the Northern Earth Mother Jord/Hlodyn was carried out at hills and mounds, symbols of the womb of the earth. The Furious Horde at Samhain is esoterically linked with the rune Haegl whose primal form ‘*’ represents the snowflake. This makes sense as Holda is traditionally held to shake down the snow onto the countryside; in the Channel Isles snow showers occur when Herodias shakes her petticoats. Her holy bird, the goose, is also connected with the Wild Hunt, and snow crystals are said to drift from its feathers as it flies overhead. The nocturnal cries of migrating geese are interpreted as the yelping of ghostly Gabriel hounds in Celtic lore and are symbolised by the Bird-Ogham Ngeigh at Samhain. The mystical Ninth Mother-Rune symbolises the nine nights the post-mortem soul takes to travel the Hel-Way, the prototypical Spirit-Road which runs northwards into the Underworld of Helheim.

Frau Holda is the heathen original of Mother Goose, who is remembered at winter tide, and the goose is the magical steed upon which Arctic shamans travel in visionary flight to the Otherworld. The witch Agnes Gerhardt confessed in 1596 that she and her fellow initiates used a vision-salve in order to fly to the dance like snow geese', and went on to describe how she prepared this hallucinogenie ointment by frying tansy, hellebore and wild ginger in butter mixed with egg. Such flying salves' (or Unguentum Sabbati) feature prominently in the worteunning of the night travelling witches.

In fact Styrian witches were still using them in the 19th Century. Hartliepp, court physician of Bavaria, gives a formula used by 15th century Northern witches which involves procuring seven herbs on the appropriate days of the pagan week - heliotrope on Sunna's day, fern on moon day, verbena on Tiw's day, spurge on Woden's day, houseleek on Thor's day, maidenhair on Freyja's day and nightshade on Saeter/Hela's day. This magical operation would ensure that the salve would be empowered with the energies of the principal heathen deities.

In 1582 the Archbishop of Salzburg's counsellor, the erudite mathematician and astrologer Dr. Martin Pegger, was arrested under the charge that his wife had flown with the night travellers to the goddess Herodias in the Unterberg. Within the mountain she had seen Herodias with her mountain-ladies and mountain-dwarves and the goddess is said to have come to Frau Pegger's house by Salzberg fish market on a later occasion. The mention of the goddess' mountain-dwarves is significant for they are sometimes known as the Huldravolk; the folk of the Elder, Frau Holda's holy tree.

The association of cats and hares with witches and night travellers may indicate that they inherited many of the magical techniques from the cult of Seidr, the shamanism of 'inner fire' sacred to the goddess Freyja which included trance journeys and communication with the elves and other entities. According to Saxon lore, Freyja sometimes appears amidst a company of hares and she is known to roam the meadows of Aargau with a silver-grey hare by her side in the night hours. The hare is famed as a totem form in which shapeshifting witches travel.

Freyja, the Teutonic goddess of love, sexuality and mantic sorcery riding a Siberian tiger.

It is know that a strong subterranean current of Freyja worship survived in mediaeval Germany. Closely related initiatory Mysteries existing in the British Isles usually centred on the Faerie goddess, the Queen of Elphame.

An interesting late case is the astrologer and Hermeticist John Heydon in the 17th century, who having imprudently predicted Cromwell's death was forced to flee from London to Somerset. There he claimed to have encountered a green- robed lady at a faery hill. She took him within the mount into a glass castle where he learnt much wisdom and mantic lore. This experience obviously took place in an altered state of shamanic perception.

Frau Holda is the feminine counterpart of the Master of the Wild Hunt, and she is essential to a balanced appreciation of this area of pagan spirituality. The night- travelling witches of the Northern Lands, far from being demonically deluded as ignorant and vindietive churchmen said, were in reality the preservers of a hoary Wisdom Tradition and magical world view which is now accessible to us again at the dawning of a new heathen aeon.”

—

Call of the Horned Piper

by Nigel Aldcroft Jackson