#this old woman is such a troll i promise you

[ursadolls]

Lesley's seen many unusual things her time but never a fish woman. Though she knew of mermaids and fairytales and folklore. She, at one time would have stuck her nose up at such farce. And yet she finds herself bound to a place outside of reality itself. Fiction and reality have become something long since merged. One feasting on the other until it dissipated completely.

An ominous figure. Half human and half muppet. Adorned a large pink coat, embroidered with symbols and tales of stories told. Stitches lining her face, with stuffing cropping out of some of the seems.

Still, she continues to draw in her notebook, not really looking towards the latter woman though acknowledging her with...

"🐾 -  ❝You can come and speak to me, you know I don't bite.❞ It was scornful yet tender like a mother reprimanding her child for not having proper manners.

/ @gorgonacoralli starter

[transform4u]

Just for Laughs

This story is heavily inspired, by the now defunct bouncyboytfs story, Straight Up Comedy. Which was one of my favorites of all time and got me into writing. The neon lights of West Hollywood flickered against the night sky, casting a vibrant glow over the bustling streets. Calvin Andrews, a 28-year-old grad student with a quick smile and a penchant for lively debates with online trolls defending the so called woke agenda, navigated through the Friday night crowd with an air of anticipation. Dressed in a casual yet stylish ensemble—a vintage band tee under a light denim jacket paired with slim-fit jeans and worn-in Chuck Taylors—he exuded the laid-back confidence of someone comfortable in their own skin.

Calvin had grown to love the sunny West Coast since leaving his East Coast hometown, finding a vibrant new community at UCLA where he pursued his dual passions in English and Gender Studies. His professors often praised his sharp intellect and unwavering dedication to his studies, qualities that were fueled by a deep-seated belief in social justice and equality. His love for literature spanned from the canonical works of Virginia Woolf and James Baldwin to contemporary voices like Roxane Gay and Audre Lorde, whose writings inspired his activism and shaped his worldview.

Outside of academia, Calvin was a prominent figure in UCLA’s LGBTQ+ community, serving proudly as the president of the Gay-Straight Alliance. Advocating for inclusivity and understanding, he dedicated himself to fostering a supportive environment where everyone could thrive. Music was another cornerstone of Calvin's life, his eclectic taste ranging from indie-pop sensations like Troye Sivan and Florence + the Machine to the introspective melodies of Sufjan Stevens.

Tonight, however, Calvin was eager to unwind and reconnect with friends over drinks in West Hollywood. Yet, unfamiliar with the labyrinthine streets, he found himself wandering off course as his phone battery dwindled. Spotting a promising glow ahead, he approached a lively bar, hoping for directions or at least a place to charge his phone.

Inside the dimly lit establishment, Calvin was greeted by the no-nonsense bartender who offered to charge his phone in exchange for staying to watch the comedy show and ordering a drink. Annoyed but realizing he had little choice, Calvin relented and requested a Vodka Cranberry, only to be met with a dismissive comment about "girly drinks." Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, he opted for a whiskey neat, settling into a seat as the bartender tended to his phone.

As he sipped his drink, Calvin’s attention was drawn to the stage where the next comedian made his entrance. A tall, muscular figure with a rugged charm and a broad smile, the comedian commanded attention with his Southern drawl and easy charisma. His dark hair was tousled, framing a face that radiated warmth and mischief in equal measure. Dressed in a simple black shirt and jeans, he exuded a casual confidence that immediately intrigued Calvin.

The crowd erupted into laughter as the comedian launched into his set, weaving anecdotes with razor-sharp wit and a touch of raunchy humor.

As the comedian delved deeper into his set, Calvin's initial intrigue turned swiftly into dismay. What began as harmless humor quickly morphed into a barrage of misogynistic and homophobic jokes that cut through the air with a venomous edge. The crowd roared with laughter, but Calvin felt a sinking sensation in his gut. "Now, I ain't sayin' women are dumb," the comedian drawled, his voice carrying easily over the laughter of the audience. "But have you ever seen a woman try to fix a car? It's like watchin' a blindfolded chimpanzee try to play Jenga!"

He squirmed in his seat, hoping to finish his drink and leave before the comedian's offensive routine could infect his evening further. But as the laughter grew louder, a dull ache throbbed in Calvin's temples. It felt as though a heavy fog was descending upon his mind, slowing his thoughts and dulling his senses.

Amidst the uproar, the comedian's voice cut through the haze, singling out Calvin with a mocking tone. "Big guy over here knows what I'm talking about!" the comedian exclaimed, pointing directly at Calvin. The audience chuckled as Calvin, bewildered, tried to comprehend the comment. He wasn't particularly muscular; in fact, his frame was slender from years of dorm food and late-night study sessions.

As Calvin sat there, bewildered by the comedian's unexpected focus on him, he felt an unsettling surge of energy course through his body. It started subtly, like a tingling sensation in his fingertips, but quickly intensified into something more profound.

First, he noticed his arms. What were once slender limbs now pulsed with newfound strength. His biceps, previously unremarkable, swelled visibly under his sleeves, each muscle fiber standing out in stark relief. The transformation seemed surreal, as if his body were defying the boundaries of what he knew possible.

His stomach tightened next, a sensation akin to his abdomen being sculpted from within. Calvin could feel the muscles beneath his skin contracting and tightening, forming a defined washboard of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 distinct abs. They appeared with startling clarity, delineating a newfound athleticism that seemed to materialize out of thin air.

Even his chest, once a featureless expanse, began to change. The fabric of his shirt stretched slightly as his pectoral muscles expanded, rising with newfound prominence. It was as though his entire torso was being reshaped, redefined into a physique that bore little resemblance to the Calvin of mere moments ago.

"Earth to meathead… earth to meathead," the comedian quipped, the audience erupting into laughter once more. The word 'meathead' echoed in Calvin's ears, his brain caught in a strange loop. His thoughts grew sluggish, as if encased in molasses, struggling to resist the comedian's words.

In that moment, Calvin's world seemed to shift. The audience's laughter blended into a distant hum, and the comedian's words resonated with an unsettling clarity. The room swirled around him as Calvin felt an inexplicable pull toward the stage, the comedian's charisma and authority casting a mesmerizing spell over his senses.

With each passing moment, Calvin's resistance waned. His mind, once sharp and critical, now dulled under the weight of the comedian's rhetoric. It was as though the jokes, laced with prejudice and disdain, were rewriting his perceptions, reshaping his reality.

As the comedian continued his routine, Calvin's gaze fixed on the stage, his expression slackening. The once vibrant grad student, advocate for social justice and equality, now sat transfixed, his identity slipping away like sand through his fingers.

As Calvin's physical transformation seemed to solidify, so too did the shift in his mental landscape. At first, there was a subtle fog creeping into his thoughts, blurring his once clear convictions and values. Laughter, loud and boisterous, erupted from his throat as the comedian spun crude jokes that would have previously repelled him. Calvin found himself guffawing at the very punchlines he would have condemned as offensive and insensitive.

The comedian, sensing a newfound ally in Calvin's transformed demeanor, launched into a tirade against what he mockingly termed the "liberal woke agenda." Panic seized Calvin momentarily; he knew this rhetoric contradicted everything he stood for. Yet, as the comedian continued his diatribe, Calvin felt an unsettling resonance with the words. The criticisms of political correctness and social justice initiatives began to make a twisted kind of sense in his altered state.

Slowly but surely, Calvin's mind underwent a profound metamorphosis. His once staunch progressive beliefs faded into the background, replaced by a growing skepticism and disdain for what he now saw as excessive sensitivity and moral righteousness. The comedian's words burrowed deep, reshaping Calvin's worldview with each passing moment.

He found himself nodding along to the comedian's rants, chuckling at the caricatured portrayal of "snowflakes" and "social justice warriors." The shift was disorienting yet strangely liberating, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Calvin's thoughts grew simpler, more black-and-white, aligning with the comedian's jabs at political correctness and cultural inclusivity.

The comedian paused for effect, his eyes scanning the audience before landing on Calvin. "You know what I hate about the woke agenda?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's all about being inclusive and accepting of everyone... except for straight white men! We're supposed to be ashamed of our skin color, our gender, and even our sexual orientation! Well, I say enough is enough!"

The crowd roared their approval as the comedian continued. "I don't care if you call me a bigot or a racist or whatever else you want," he said defiantly. "I was born this way - just like my love for country music and pickup trucks." He paused again, letting the tension build before delivering the punchline: "And if that makes me a bad person in your eyes? Well then... maybe it's time we stopped trying to force everyone into some politically correct mold!"

Calvin found himself nodding along once more, feeling a sense of camaraderie with this man who dared to speak truth against an oppressive cultural regime. The joke resonated deeply within him; it felt like validation for all those times he had been made to feel guilty or ashamed simply because of who he was.

When the comedian singled him out with a mocking jab— "Man, oh, man. I thought I was a douchebag, but you're loving it, meathead!"—Calvin barely registered the insult. Instead, he grunted in agreement, downing the remainder of his drink which had transformed into a beer, the amber liquid soothing his newfound sense of camaraderie with the comedian's perspective.

"Another one!" he hollered to the waitress, his voice carrying a newfound bravado. As the waitress returned with his drink, Calvin slouched comfortably in his seat, his once critical faculties now dulled by a haze of conformity to this new ideology. It felt easier to go along with the flow, to embrace the simplicity of the comedian's worldview rather than challenge it.

And so, amidst the laughter and applause of the crowd, Calvin Andrews—once a passionate advocate for social justice and equality—found himself transformed into something unrecognizable: a meathead, laughing heartily at jokes that once would have pierced his conscience, his mind now echoing with echoes of a worldview he never thought he would adopt.

As Calvin sat there, engulfed in the comedian's toxic rhetoric, the word 'douchebag' echoed incessantly through his brain. Each repetition seemed to reinforce a transformation that was unfolding before his very eyes. His thoughts grew muddled, his once sharp intellect now clouded by a burgeoning sense of entitlement and bravado.

Physically, Calvin felt a strange sensation ripple through him once more. His features seemed to shift subtly but unmistakably. His face hardened, acquiring a squared jawline adorned with a meticulously groomed chinstrap beard. His nose, once unassuming, grew slightly more pronounced, adding to the newfound aura of masculinity that seemed to radiate from him.

As his appearance morphed, so too did his sensibilities and personality. Calvin's hobbies and interests underwent a startling transformation. Gone were the days of poring over the works of Virginia Woolf or engaging in critical discourse on gender studies. The pursuit of knowledge and social justice gave way to a shallower existence, focused on more basic pleasures.

His academic aspirations shifted abruptly. No longer driven by a passion for literature and social change, Calvin found himself contemplating a business degree—a path he deemed more practical and financially rewarding. "College is just a stepping stone to better parties," he mused, a cynical smirk crossing his newly chiseled features.

His once eclectic taste in music narrowed to mainstream hits blaring from frat house speakers. The melodic musings of Troye Sivan and the introspective lyrics of Sufjan Stevens were replaced by pounding beats and lyrics devoid of substance but laden with machismo.

In conversations, Calvin now echoed the comedian's disdain for what he perceived as "liberal nonsense" and "PC culture run amok." His views on gender and sexuality grew rigid, laced with misogyny and homophobia that would have appalled his former self. He found himself making crude jokes and engaging in locker room banter, relishing the camaraderie of like-minded peers.

As Calvin's descent into this new identity deepened, he felt a strange satisfaction in his regression. The complexities of his former life seemed distant and irrelevant. He no longer remembered how to spell "Virginia Woolf," much less appreciate her literary genius. His vocabulary dwindled, replaced by a lexicon of bro-speak and corporate jargon.

But with each passing moment, the cacophony of his new life as a masculine conservative douchebag—grew stronger.

As the comedian's joke about his attraction to women resonated through the bar, Calvin felt a seismic shift within himself. It was as if a fog lifted, and suddenly, everything clicked: women were hot. This simple revelation seemed to rewrite the fabric of his existence.

In that moment, the pieces of his gay identity began to unravel. Memories of leading the Gay-Straight Alliance at UCLA, advocating for equality, and embracing his LGBTQ+ community faded like wisps of smoke. The vibrant nights out in West Hollywood, filled with laughter and solidarity, were replaced by scenes of testosterone-fueled football games and raucous frat parties.

Calvin's dorm room underwent a drastic transformation, shedding its previous décor of social justice posters and indie band artwork. In their place, posters of cheerleaders in provocative poses adorned the walls. The atmosphere shifted to one of hyper-masculinity, with empty beer cans littering the floor and the air thick with the scent of cheap cologne.

As Calvin struggled to reconcile this newfound identity, a name surfaced in his mind: Chaz Prescott. It was a name that embodied everything Calvin once scorned: arrogance, conservatism, and a relentless pursuit of female attention. Chaz was not just a new persona; he was a complete overhaul of Calvin's former self.

Chaz Prescott strutted confidently through the world, his speech peppered with crude jokes and objectifying remarks about women. He reveled in the attention of his fraternity brothers, engaging in locker room banter and boasting about conquests that existed more in his imagination than in reality.

Gone were the introspective moments and intellectual pursuits that once defined Calvin. Chaz scoffed at discussions of literature and philosophy, dismissing them as irrelevant to his pursuit of a business degree and the next weekend's party. His once sharp intellect dulled, replaced by a superficial charm and a penchant for shallow pleasures.

With each passing day, Calvin's transformation into Chaz Prescott seemed irreversible. The memories of his former life grew distant, replaced by a bravado that masked a deep-seated insecurity. He no longer questioned the comedian's crude jokes or the ideologies that once repulsed him; instead, he embraced them with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism.

As Chaz Prescott, he navigated a world where women were conquests to be won, and sensitivity was equated with weakness. The complexities of gender and sexuality were reduced to stereotypes and caricatures, and the vibrant spirit of Calvin Andrews faded into the shadows, a whisper of a past life that Chaz no longer recognized or acknowledged.

And so, amidst the laughter and approval of his new peers, Chaz Prescott—a creation born from a single joke—emerged as a symbol of everything Calvin had once rejected, a testament to the transformative power of identity and perception.

As the comedian wrapped up his set with a flourish of applause and laughter, the announcer's voice boomed through the venue: "Up next… you love him, you hate him… it's the king of the frat house… Chaz Prescott!" The name sent a jolt of recognition through the audience, eliciting cheers and whistles from those who knew the persona well.

Chaz, now fully embodying this brash and confident alter ego, flashed a cocky smirk to himself as he swaggered onto the stage. His presence commanded attention, exuding a blend of arrogance and charm that seemed to magnetize the room. Without missing a beat, he launched into the crudest, most provocative set of the night, each punchline hitting its mark with precision. "So, I was at this party the other night and I saw this girl wearing a 'Feminist' t-shirt. So, I went up to her and said 'Hey baby, is that an 'I heart dicks' shirt under there?' She got all mad and started yelling at me about how feminism isn't about objectifying women. And I just laughed and said 'Yeah, well you sure as hell aren't making it easy for us guys to respect you.'"

The audience erupted into stitches of laughter, hanging on Chaz's every word as he spun tales of exaggerated conquests and raunchy escapades. His delivery was impeccable, each joke laced with a raw energy that resonated with the frat house culture he now embraced. "But seriously folks, can you believe these woke snowflakes? They think they can come into our frat houses and try to change the way we think? Well let me tell ya something - we ain't going down without a fight! We are men! We like boobs! And beer! And sports!"

After his set, Chaz found himself surrounded by admirers, basking in the afterglow of his performance. Among them was a pretty blonde girl, her laughter still echoing from the front row. Chaz turned on the charm, flashing a smile that oozed confidence as he engaged her in conversation.

Gone was the introspective Calvin who once pondered the complexities of identity and social justice. In his place stood Chaz Prescott, a larger-than-life figure who reveled in the spotlight and thrived on the validation of his peers. As he bantered effortlessly with the blonde girl, Chaz felt a surge of adrenaline, reveling in the attention and adoration that came with his newfound persona.

Chaz couldn't help but notice the blonde girl's ample cleavage as she approached him. Her tits were like two perfect melons, begging to be squeezed and sucked on. He couldn't wait to get his hands on them, maybe even give her a little slap across those plump cheeks just to see if they jiggled.

As he engaged her in conversation, Chaz couldn't help but think about how much he wanted to teach this dumb feminist bitch what a real man was like. He imagined himself throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off into the night, fucking her brains out until she begged for mercy.

The girl was stunning - long blonde hair cascading down past her shoulders, big blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief, and lips painted red as cherries. She had an air of confidence about her that made Chaz want to take control even more. "So, what's your name?"

"I'm Lily."

Chaz just flashes his pearly whites "Well, Lily, I think it's time we got out of here. My frat is just down the street."

As they entered the frat house, Chaz couldn't help but feel a surge of power course through him. The room was filled with rowdy brothers, cheering and laughing as they watched on eagerly. He led Lily towards an empty pool table at one end of the room where several guys had already gathered around them.

"Alright boys," he shouted over their laughter,"This is my new friend Lily here - she wants us all to give her some pointers about how real men treat women!"

The room erupted into even louder cheers as several guys jumped up from their seats eagerly approaching them while others grabbed beers off nearby tables ready for whatever might happen next.

After a great set, there was nothing that made Chaz felt more powerful than ever. He loved the way his jokes made people laugh, but there was something even more satisfying about belittling fags and women. It made him feel like a real man - strong, dominant, in control. And nothing turned him on quite like that feeling of power coursing through him.

Without further ado, Chaz grabbed Lily by the waist and lifted her up onto the pool table. She squealed in surprise but didn't resist as he pushed her legs apart and positioned himself between them. He gripped her hips tightly, using them to control her movements as he thrust into her with forceful strokes that made the entire table shake beneath them.

As he looked down at Lily's big tits bouncing up and down with each thrust of his hips, Chaz couldn't help but grin devilishly. He gripped her hair tightly in one hand while using the other to slap her ass hard enough to leave a mark - all while maintaining his brutal pace on top of her.

The guys around them cheered him on, urging him to go harder and faster while they laughed at Lily's helpless moans of pleasure. It was clear that this wasn't about making love - it was about dominating a woman who had dared challenge their alpha male status.

[storydays]

Clay X Wife! Reader

"We call them meat circles." Clay greeted his brothers dramatically. Their brothers and Poppy greeted him in varying ways before he continued to pinch and baby-talk Branch, ignoring his pleas to call him "Big Branch" or just "Branch."

A voice called out, "Clay, darling, if you want to talk to an actual baby...yours are right here." The group turned to see a light-pink-haired Troll, wearing a dress with a similar design to Clay, walking over with 2 peach color haired Tollings, one sleeping who had mini wrist bands and a diaper and one awake, a yellow pacifier in her mouth, with a couple of flowers placed in her hair and a diaper.

"Melody! Hey, sweetheart, you're finally awake!" Turning to the woman as he took the baby, his eyes softened even more, "Hey (Y/N), how was your nap? You feeling better, baby?"

(Y/N) smiled, adjusting her son slightly. "Yeah, I feel like that fog in my brain is lifted, like I can think clearer. But enough about me, who are the new Trolls?"

"Oh, yeah! Everyone, this is my wonderful wife, (Y/N), and mother of our twins, Melody and Lallo! Baby, these are my brothers, John Dory, Spruce, who goes by Bruce now, and Bit-I mean Branch. That's Poppy, Branch's girlfriend---and wait a second, where's Floyd?" Clay asked, looking for his slightly younger brother.

After explaining why they were there, Bruce spoke up. "Wait, I just realized, you're a dad, too Clay!" He laughed excitedly. Clay grinned from where they were tickling Melody. "Yeah, man! These two are only a few weeks old, but they are amazing! I wouldn't change anything for them."

Melody then started to pull on her father's wild green locks. "Ow! Mel-Mel! Let go! (Y/N), get your demon child!" "Mm-no." snorted (Y/N), as she then gave Clay their son who'd woken up wanting to play with his sister and father. "You traitor!" cried Clay, fighting his grin yelping again when one of the twins grabbed his hair and pulled hard.

Viva and (Y/N) giggled, before finally giving mercy to the CPA. They each took a twin and turned to the group to give Clay a chance to compose themself.

-----------------------------LINE BREAK-----------------------------------

(Y/N) knew it would bother Clay if he didn't try to help his brothers, but she didn't want them in danger.

Clay gave the sleeping twins a kiss on the head before pressing his forehead against hers, cupping her cheek, and wiping away a few tears. "Promise you'll be safe and come home, okay? These babies are too young to be without their dad. And I don't want to be a widow."

Laughing softly, Clay whispered, "I promise," before pressing a kiss to her lips, and let her rush off to stall Viva.

Bruce pat his brother's shoulder and led them to Rhonda. "Don't worry, buddy. We'll get you back to your wife and kids."

-----------------------------LINE BREAK--------------------------------

After freeing Clay and the others freed Floyd, they came to rest at Putt Putt village and picking up (Y/N) and the twins.

Everyone getting along so well, and Bruce offering advice for those first time parent jitters, he could see written all over both of the younger couple's face.

(Y/N) being the most supportive wife,and getting along splendidly with Bruce's wife, Brandi.

The two having a bi monthly moms date, having a monthly girls' night, with Poppy, Viva, Bridget.

Every month, (Y/N) takes her daughter Melody and Brandi brings her daughters for a mommy daughter cousins sisters in law date.

(Y/N) being the Putt-Putt troll preschool teacher, having her kids in class when they're old enough.

Melody and Lallo are both names after music(Melody being the melody of a song, and Lallo means lullaby in Spanish.)

I headcanon that the Putt Putt trolls' two main languages are English and Spanish.

Let me know what you guys think!

@vacayisland

[hocuspocusbabyy]

Home: Eloise x Cressida. 18+ 🦢🕊️

Warnings: Affairs, outdoor sex, love declarations and cunnilingus.

Description: Eloise and Cressida go hunting.

Parring: Eloise Bridgerton and Cressida Cowper.

'We’re not far from the clearing'' Cressida stated, her riding boots ankle deep in mud. Wading through the woodlands on the outskirts of the estate. Thick branches wove their path blocking the view ahead, allowing no further than three feet of their journey observed. A low hum of creatures leaked through the marsh. Cressida was no stranger to the forest, many of her early years had been spent chasing deer, rabbits and foxes. Her origin.

''Have caution, Cress I beg of you.” Eloise wagered, trolling on behind her friend. She did not ask unnecessary questions, nor provide unwanted aid as so many other hunting companions and for that Cressida had always been grateful.

“Once a hunter, always a hunter.” Cressida mused, cutting away at the vines before her, “however, I will try my best to avoid any close encounters.” The blonde laughed at her own words, her chin flicking back to view her companion. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you Lou.” She winked.

''Always the gentleman.” Eloise complimented, shaking her head slowly as she surveyed their surroundings. A thick smog surged around them, the smell garnered attention. Thick frost encapsulates the ground, snow bunching around their boots as they thimbled through the forest.

The pair walked further into the woods, mud slowly converging into snow.''Whatever possessed you to join me hunting?'' Cressida asked curiously. Her gun flat against her side as she swayed to view the other woman.

''I decided, you were right. I should get out more and explore the world ‘outside of books’, it is an added bonus to have decent company” she admitted, a book stuffed with flower clipping and drawings from their adventures pressed on her chest.

Cressida smirked, ''well, if you are not to curse me, I will be sure to make a habit of telling you things you need to hear.”

‘’Oh how so fond I am of your habits.” The brunette sighed, attempting to strike down a particular stubborn grove of trees with her book.

“Eloise?” Cressida questioned, stepping forward, gently placing an arm in front of the other woman. A hand softly grasping her elbow, travelling along its roots to halt her hand. Eloise’s movements ceased, her chin downcast a strand of hair affecting her eyes.

“I merely wished to spend time with you.” She stated, motioning her head up in an attempt to do away with the irritating sensation. “I do not know what will come of this.” A strong hand coming up to tuck the strand away, found purchase at her face.

To look into those eyes was to teeter on the brink of an abyss.

Cressida strung her thumb against the brunette's flesh, tracing the accent of bone there. Slowly dislodging the book from her companion and striking the mass of foliage down herself with the top of her gun.

“I could have done that.” Eloise argued, her breath slightly laboured.

“I know.” Cressida shrugged, brushing off the book's cover and handing it back, “that does not mean you should have to.”

Eloise shook her head, rolling her eyes in the most unlady-like fashion before stalking ahead knowing full well the blonde would follow.

They walked for what seemed like hours. Finally stumbling upon an groundsman cabin at the edge of the estate. Eloise pushed the old hatch door with surprising force, inviting the blonde in from the cold.

”well hurry up then,” The brunette called out, already making haste towards the fireplace, battling with her corset as she bent down. Small flame whipping up at her hand as she stuck the flint, till a dim light gripped the glass wall of the outhouse.

“I fear I am turning numb” Cressida whispered crouching down beside Eloise, raising her hands up to the other woman. Her fingers stained red by the harsh November air, the slender tips white and frozen to Eloise’s touch as she reached out to squeeze them.

A soft glow cast upon her cheek, the perfectly sharp cheekbones, crescent of her nose… dimples chin.

Something within Cressida seemed to constantly burn, it unnerved her. As incongruous to her true temperature. If Eloise were a moth, she would be her flame.

“Miss Cowper, you’ll freeze surly. How could you withstand such temperatures for so long? Where are your gloves?!” The brunette panicked, rubbing the other woman’s hands firmly between her own. Truly she had been far too occupied with the other parts of Cressida to notice their absence.

“Well my face was already pained by smiling too much, I figured a little frostbite was a small price to pay for a moment longer with you.” Cressida shrugged, her gaze flicking down to watch Eloise cup her hands and blow onto them gently.

“I see.” Eloise mumbled, desperately trying to hide the smirk that threatened to grace her features. Her breath heavy upon the cold winter air, as though smoke, held an oddly comforting sensation for Eloise. Her lips dipping down to kiss the blonde's palms.

“You know if you wanted my attention there are far warmer ways to go about it.

The brunette, hunched down tending the other woman’s hands, gently rolling them between her own as her lips travelled down to her wrists. The smooth flesh resting upon her pulse.

“Eloise.” Cressida gasped as the warm flick of a tongue swept across her veins. “I do crave your attention. However I refuse to humiliate myself by asking for it.”

“Then do not ask.” Eloise whispered, a firm kiss against the blondes palm as she drew back to face her. “Isn’t it about time you did something selfish for once?”

“Eloise.” Cressida whined, her head lulling as the brunette pressed her lips to the tip of her index finger. The rest spread within her firm grip. Flexing beneath her motion.

“Do you feel that?” Eloise mumbled, her mouth working its way across each finger till she reached her thumb.

“A li—little” Cressida gasping as the brunette's teeth sunk into the thenar of her left hand. Tiny indentation littering the web space.

“Just a little?” Eloise teased blowing air upon the space, watching in awe as the skin of the blondes hand lurched beneath. Goosebumps erect and solid as the brunette continued her menstruations upon Cressida’s arm. Cool to the touch and all the more delicious to the tip of her tongue. “And now.”

“It is the strangest sensation.” Cressida breathed, the ability to decipher the sentiment lost. How was one to describe something so pleasant? As though untroubled light, quintessential and affable.

“Would you prefer I stop?” Eloise asked, pulling back to gaze at the other woman. Her fringe muses and feathered against her face, a frame that ought to be ornate as to house such striking features. Her cheeks robust and thick with tint, the blondes hands rose to brush across them. First with the backs of her fingers the cool touch causing the shorter woman to shiver. Her knuckles pulled in lightly at her flesh, a sickening motive of possession gripped Cressida as she turned her palms towards the other woman’s face.

The pads of her thumbs wiping beneath the Bridgerton girl's face, pulling at her burning cheeks till her fingers curled and settled beneath her jaw.

“It should be immoral to look as you do.” The blonde complimented, an awe stuck expression grazing her face. “Every motion, a transgression I cannot help but chase.”

Cressida's face fell forward, the crisp touch of her nose brushing against Eloise’s own. Clouds of cold breath lingering around them as they simply coexisted. The warmth of the others breath hot against their face.

“Do you wish to unknow me?” Eloise asked after a moment, her lips so close to the other woman’s that they touched as she spoke.

“I do not know you.” Her chest was tight, her fingers mapping the contours of Eloise’s back. Counting each notch of spine below her bodice, as water circling a drain. Washing her away.

“You know me better than anyone ever has.” Eloise argued, her mouth pressed upon the underside of Cressida’s jaw.

They did not understand it, this desire to consume another. Be devoured in return. obtain the scars as proof they were paying for the sins committed. If loving Eloise were a sin, Cressida would happily wear her sacrilege.

Eloise bit her. A growing heat upon her neck as the brunette dove into her, sucking until the flesh burst and coloured beneath her tongue.

“My greatest honour.” The blonde promised, extending her neck to the other woman. Her back pressed girly against the frosty glass as Eloise worked to mark her. The conflicting messages of November air upon her neck and Eloise’s tongue etching language into her flesh. Cressida felt as though every word she had ever uttered were meaningless in comparison to the words which she felt when Eloise spoke again.

“You smell of something floral. I could not tell you how many nights I have spent in these very gardens trying to replicate this scent.”

“And what did you find?” Cressida asked her hand raising to grasp the other woman’s neck, fingers tangled, tethered to the soft tissue. Her nails lingered up across the dip in her dress, before slipping beneath. Her palm cold against the burning flesh of Eloise’s shoulders.

“Nothing of interest.” Eloise deadpanned, her kisses becoming lethargic and long upon her neck. Her fingers racing to play with the thrills of Cressida’s dress. “I doubt I’d ever be able to replicate something so purely built of you.”

The blonde couldn’t help but grin at those words, a smooth warmth spreading throughout her body. She knew my story before I even knew how to tell it. As though she’d seen a map Cressida had no hand in making, intended footpaths, passed by and new trails formed for only her.

Whatever it were in this world that binds us all… dust, blood, consciousness, they are of a similar thread. Different species of trees planted side by side… Eloise is the one she’d choose the fruit off.

Eloise found herself willing to share that part with her, just as Cressida must share those parts of her. Their last thought at night, she were the first of the day. Left to linger in one another’s personhood. Eloise read Cressida as though she had been blank on every page, just waiting to be deciphered, filled and known.

“Eloise.” Cressida whispered, her hands trailing across the span of her shoulder blade. Gripping harshly as the sensation of teeth ran along her clavicle.

“Forgive me, I forget myself.” Eloise breathed, looking up but never stepping back. Her hands reaching up touch Cressida’s face, “Are you feeling any warmer dear?” She whispered, turning her palms away to graze the blushing with her knuckles.

“Substantially.” The blonde laughed gently, her own hands tracing along the length of Eloise’s arms. Fingernails dragging up towards her jaw line, as though tracing her likeness.

The brunette was turned to blush, a mirror to her companion as they both simply allowed to explore one another. Finger tips to earlobes, thumbs up on knees, lips against chests. Eloise’s hands trailed up the blondes back before tearing down at the garment. Pulling it from her flesh. Eloise, even now staring upon the other woman’s bare chest, she could only yearn for more.

“This space here.” The brunette started pulling the other woman’s attention to her fossa, Eloise’s thumb applying gentle pressure to the notch. “I love this place, I cannot for the life of me rem—what is it called?” She asked her fingers trailing lightly to her sternum in awe, “I claim this.”

“I thought we were against ownership?” Cressida breathed. Baring her teeth to the bridgerton girl in a soft smile, sedated by the bit of her lip. Something cunning to her disposition.

“Sometimes it pays to be selfish.” Eloise whispers against her throat before drawing a line across each notch with her tongue. Breaking out into a smile as the blonde shared her laughter. Her bare chest still pressed into the brunette’s cloak.

“Wait—wait, turn over.” The blonde starts, directing her lover to turn, “I wish to see you.” Cressida offers, her fingers pulling gently at the ties, till Eloise was freed of her confinements. “This.” She demanded pushing the final thread from the other woman’s body and tapping at the birthmark just below her waist. Browned skin no bigger than her thumb. “This is mine.”

Eloise glanced down, the alpine of her skin foreign to her with Cressida’s hands upon it.

“I stand bare before you and you stake claim to measly imperfection.” Eloise laughed, her hands waving lovingly between strangers of Cressida’s hair pushing it back, the blonde lowering to her knees.

Her lips chasing eager kisses with rushed breath. Reaching for any piece of skin available to her. Her teeth bumped along the edge of the brunette's hip, tongue curling across the joining of her ribs.

“There is no part of me that does not worship you.” Cressida declared her eyes flicking up to watch the brunette. Her face suddenly became so much closer as she reached down and grasped the back of her, pulling them each half way.

Their lips are harsh, brazen and lethargic across each other. Cressida’s tongue swirled upon her own as Eloise gasped and shook against her.

“When were you most happy?” Eloise asked between kisses.

“Now.” Cressida grins pecking at the other woman’s

cheek. The brunette fumbled with her own pleasure and she pondered her new question.

“When were you least happy?”

“Now.” The answer came again, thick against her lips.

“What do you love?” Eloise asked again, her lips trailing along the span of Cressida's neck, littering her chest and finally ghosting along her nipple. “Say everything.”

“Let’s see.” The blonde mumbled almost unsure of herself, “grass, fields with horses in them. Swans. I love Swans.”

“What else?” Eloise begged her knees firm against the hard wooden floor.

“Marmalade. I'm addicted. Baths, though not with other people.” The blonde jokes, relishing in the motion of the other woman blushing against her leg. “Shopping.” She continued a shudder as the brunette's tongue licked at the apex of her thigh. A beat of silence “Your handwriting.”

“Cress” She whispered the warm air welcome against Cressida’s heat.

“Christ Eloise, do you not want me?”Before finally the other woman sucked her clit forward. Feverish, febrile and hysterical. Eager to draw out the many sounds of Miss Cowper.

TBC.

[tropes-and-tales]

The Fourth Year

For the super-late Winter Prompts (2023 Edition)! The master list can be found here!

This one was requested by the lovely and supportive @justreblogginfics (I mean, honestly? Is there anyone more supportive than this lovely person?)

"From Under The Mistletoe prompts: #13 (snogging and not realizing other people are present) with Santiago Garcia"

CW:  Light angst (talk of Tom's death); pining (mutual); kissing; lot of typos.

Word Count:  1839

The Miller brothers put on the same party every December, a chaotic blend of their large and extended family and their friends.  Two disparate groups who somehow blend together seamlessly:  Tom and his wife have an easy friendship with a Miller sister and her husband.  Frankie, ridiculous as it seems, always falls in with a great-aunt, a crotchety old woman who has a soft spot for Frankie and his big brown eyes—and Frankie enjoys the benign flirting, the old woman’s stories, and most of all, her famous rum-laced chocolate cake in the shape of a Yule log.

Santiago?  He has his own benign flirting with you—a cousin of the Miller boys.  He sees you once a year at this party.  For three years now, he’s pined after you.  It’s the same cycle, over and over. 

November comes, and he realizes he’s a month away from seeing you again.  He hypes himself up.  He gives himself pep talks in the mirror, feels like an idiot afterwards, but he gasses himself.  Tells himself that he’s smart and funny and good-looking, that of course you’d love to go out with him sometime.

Three days before the party, he gets a haircut, gets his curls trimmed up. 

The day of, he feels a rare buoyant hope.  He showers, shaves.  He dresses and hopes he looks good but not like he is trying to look good.

The drive over, he plays his hype-playlist.  This is the year, he promises himself.  This is the year I get my shit together and make a move.

Three years of this cycle.  Three years of promising himself that he’ll make a play for you, and three years of that promise disintegrating the moment you see him and call out, “hey there, handsome!” as a greeting.  The moment he turns and sees you, every plan flows out of his brain and Santiago Garcia is struck dumb, his tongue clumsy and heavy in his mouth and unable to form coherent words.  You’re beautiful to him, and trolling your social media throughout the year can never prepare him for seeing you in person.

Smiling as you walk towards him.  Then the sudden feeling of you in his arms as you hug him, on your tiptoes as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him on the cheek.  The scent of you—your light perfume, your shampoo, maybe a bit of wine on your breath.  The lovely sound of your laughter as you joke around with him, then the feel of your hand on his arm, steering him deeper into the Miller home as you ask all about his year.

Three years of Santiago Garcia going chicken-shit and letting the moment pass him by.  His courage always fails him.  He always leaves with that sick feeling in his stomach, and he wakes in the morning with the depressing realization that he has to wait a whole year to see you again.

-----

This is the fourth year.  Santi could lie and say he finally has the courage he’s been missing, but the reality is that the driving emotion is sadder.

He’s not brave.  He’s just tired.

He’s tired of this game.  Tom is dead.  Frankie is in recovery.  He feels adrift in his own life; he takes contracts overseas, but only because he doesn’t feel like he has a home. 

The fourth year goes differently.  He skips his usual haircut, so his curls are a little longer, slightly unruly.  He feels less buoyant hope and more steely determination.  He drives to the Miller home in silence, the window down and his arm out the window as the warm Florida evening turns into night.

And the moment he crosses the threshold of the door, you’re there.  You’ve changed it up too:  you don’t shout “hey there, handsome!” 

Instead, your face lights up for a moment before you school your expression into something more somber.  You walk up to him, and you pull him into a hug—but this hug is tighter, longer.  And you whisper into his ear that you’re sorry about Tom, but you’re so glad he’s okay, and when Santi parts from you, he can see the way your eyes glitter with unshed tears.

“Don’t scare me like that again, okay?” you ask, and Santi wonders if his pining has been one-sided, as he always assumed.

-----

The fourth year.  Tom’s absence seems to take up some space.  The party is slightly subdued, less raucous than in years past.  Frankie settles in with Great-Aunt Roseanne and her boozy chocolate cake.  Benny and Will circulate with their sisters, all four of them in felt reindeer antlers.

Santi leans in the doorway between the living room and kitchen and just watches.  It’s the remainder of his found family, the Millers and Frankie.  He doesn’t want to lose the lesson in Tom’s death, which is that life goes on but can end in a blink.  Santi gets lost in his thoughts (those memories of South America, the slack, heavy weight of Tom’s body), and he startles when someone touches his arm.

He turns and sees that it’s you.  You smile at him, tentative, and ask if he’s okay.

“Yeah, great.”  He clears his throat from its roughness, then smiles back at you.  “How are you?”

You shrug, make a dismissive gesture with your hand.  If Santi roams the planet on contract work, you are the opposite.  You have a steady job, always in the same spot, and you have all the trappings of a stable life.  You have a home and a mortgage, a dog, a fish tank full of tetras, a garden where you grow four different types of tomatoes and six different types of hot peppers.  You belong to a hiking club, and you organize litter pickups with the local Girl Scout troop.

In other words, you have a full and robust life, and Santi yearns for even a tiny bit of space in it.  He feels like he could curl up at your feet like a dog and be happy just to be near you.

The two of you chat, and maybe this is the result of Tom’s death too:  you get a bit behind the surface-level chatting you usually do each year.  When you ask about his work, he’s honest:  he tells you it’s lonely and dangerous and how he wants to stay in the States. 

When he asks about your year, you admit that your parents divorced, and that it hit you harder than you thought it would.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you, and you do something you have never done in front of him:  you laugh, and it sounds bitter.

“Please, Santi.”  You roll your eyes and shake your head.  “I have a charmed life.  Whining about my parents divorcing, especially with me being an adult myself?  People have it worse.”

He’s never heard you sound like this, and he’s never heard you be self-deprecating.  He puts an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into a side hug, and a moment later you wind your arm around his waist.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t hurt too,” he chides you gently.  “Suffering isn’t an Olympic sport.”

You don’t reply.  You rest your head against him, and he likes the weight of it, the casual intimacy of holding you like this.  Maybe you like it too because you don’t pull away.  You keep your arm around him, and after a long moment, your head lolls to look up at him…but your gaze falls on something else.

“We’re under a bunch of mistletoe.”  Santi glances up and sees the sprig of silvery-green leaves and white berries, and then he glances down at your upturned face.  You’re smiling at him, and there’s a teasing quality there that is familiar from the previous three years.  It hits him that you aren’t just the gorgeous, teasing woman from years past.  You’re also someone who’s been hurt by your parents’ failed marriage, and someone who feels like you can’t really mourn it, and you’re far more complex—and human—than he ever realized.

It makes his superficial infatuation slide right off the cliff into wonderful, terrible love, just like that.

So Santi doesn’t tease you back.  He leans down towards your upturned face, and he moves slow enough to watch your reaction.  You don’t recoil or pull away.  Your eyes widen a bit, but you smile up at him…and you move towards him, meet him part way.

The first tentative press of his lips to yours, closed-mouth.  Quick.  Over before he realizes it.  But then a second kiss, bolder, lasting longer.  Closed mouths again, but the third is where you part your lips against his, where he breathes you in, and the awkward side hug ends as he turns you gently towards him and you lay your hands against the back of his neck.

Then the fourth kiss, and Santi stops counting them because he feels the soft press of your tongue against his, and you taste like the tart wine you like to sip and he hopes you don’t mind his own hoppy, yeasty beer-breath and you must not because you deepen the kiss, lick against the inside of his mouth.  Santi realizes that you’re actually the one leading this, not him, and he’s grateful that you are braver than he is.

The rest of the party fades away.  The low roar of laughter and music and conversation fades and Santi is left with just the roar of blood in his own ears, the barely audible whimper you make as his hands find your hips, as he pushes you gently backwards into the doorway—

“Pope, Jesus!” 

It’s Will…no, it’s Benny, and then it’s laughter and good-natured groans, and when Santi breaks away and turns to look in the room—startled out of his reverie of kissing you—Frankie raises his hands to his mouth, hooks his fingers there and lets out a piercing wolf-whistle that makes the Miller sisters clap and cheer at the show you and Santi have put on for them.

Only Will and Benny look peeved.  Will shakes his head, crosses his arms over his chest.  Benny calls out, “that’s my cousin, asshole,” which makes a wave of laughter rise and sweep towards where the two of you stand.

Santi turns and looks at you.  You look sheepish but not guilty, and you grin up at him, give him a shrug.

“Sorry,” you say.

“Don’t be.”

“I wanted to do that for, like, the last two years.”

He tries to play it cool, your admission.  It’ll hit him later, how he could be two years further along with you if he’d just been a bit braver, but Santiago Garcia will never be able to summon up much regret about it, in the end:  because now, in the fourth year of knowing you, you shrug again then take his arm in yours, lead him to a more private part of the home, and you kiss him again.

[sgiandubh]

Lo puedes negar hasta el cansancio pero cada vez te me pareces más y más a Puffy-Liar! su mismo modus operandi, hablas en círculos, te crees dueña ds la verdad absoluta, escribes largos "rants" donde hablas mucho pero no dices nada. Es cuestión de tiempo para que traigas de vuelta tus "privy info", "close to SC sources" a tu amiga Stella y el "vault" con las fotos de SC y el bebé rubio. Supongo que en WordPress ya no eras tan popular y extrañabas tener los shippers rogandote para que compartas la información de tu amigo "long throat" ya sabes, Puffy siendo Puffy. 😅🤣🤣

Oh, but hello you Master Troll Anon,

For the delight of this fandom, may I translate your venomous rant, that was supposed to what...? scare me? ... make me run for the helicopter on the roof, Ceaușescu-style?

You can deny it until you get tired, but every time you look more and more like Puffy-Liar! The same modus operandi as her, you talk in circles, you think you are the master of absolute truth, you write long rants where you talk a lot and say nothing. It's just a matter of time until you bring back your privy info, close to SC sources, your friend Stella and the vault with the pictures of SC and the blonde baby. I suppose you were not as popular on WordPress and you missed the shippers begging you to share the information from your 'long throat' friend. You know, Puffy being Puffy.'

Since your reading comprehension is so perfect, I will answer you in English.

I hope my letter finds you well, btw.

First of all, it's Deep Throat, not Long Throat. But you know... barista/barrister... Deep Throat existed, during the Watergate Affair. His name was Mark Felt and he was the Deputy Director of the FBI, supplying Bob Bernstein and co with all the needed info. Puffy's is a figment of her imagination, as you all know it.

I have doxxed myself not once, but twice . And I did it on purpose, because I knew you would do exactly this, in order to feel alive, perhaps:

First, my mugshot:

Posted on July 30th, while recounting my visit to Olympia: https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/724219876757176320/a-stupid-shippers-guide-to-the-peloponnese-part

Yes, darling, this is me: a Romanian, 45 year-old, Roman-Catholic diplomat. Not a 60+ Jewish widow from Massachusetts :

Then, because you were harassing @bjj3007-ichoosetobelieve, I posted this flat denial on August 18th: https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/725983370933354496/jeez-louise

In Romanian. Had I done it in French, my second mother tongue, you would have screeched it was inconclusive. Silly twats.

As far as I know, Puffy has some rudiments of French, but that's about it. Sorry, doll. Wrong number.

I don't care about your slanderous, uneducated and vulgar opinion. I despise your harassment attempts on people who were only liking what they were reading and were very warm to me.

You are not the first one to try and scare me. You have yet to prove I am a liar, with hard evidence, not with impressionist camelos.

There is at least one woman in this fandom who knows my name, my full mail address and all the specific details. Because she recently used them and got confirmation that I am who I said I am, I have the job I said I have and I live where I said I lived.

Her delicate gesture moved me. Yours brought a sort of disgusted amusement, if at all possible.

I know who you are. If I were you, I'd think twice before going on with the shitshow. I am not implying anything and I will not lose my time with you in court (my best IRL friend, the Madrid abogada, will gladly do it pro bono, btw). But you have nothing and you will continue to have nothing.

Because there is nothing you can have about me. I said it all, almost.

What this outburst is telling me, is one darn inconvenient thing for you, people. So, I'll say it in Spanish, cariño:

¿Vds tienen mucho, mucho miedo, verdad?

I promised to be your worst intellectual nightmare. I meant it.

So far, I think I am not faring that bad, eh?

[gojoest]

I HATE GOJOHIME SO MUCH OMFG

The annoying ass shippers on twitter have multiplied since the q&a and they’re continuously bitching and forcing gojohime down everyone’s throats 😭

There is no romance between them!! But they will NEVER understand this. They keep using the “gojo likes older women” thing when he doesn’t?? His preferences were never mentioned. Geges troll answer has caused so much fucking drama and debate

Also gojo doesn’t like her, he just teases everyone cuz he’s like that. She also hates him it’s literally canon. They keep saying enemies to lovers is their trope and its canon. It’s not??

SORRY FOR THE VENT 😓❤️

hiiii !! let me give you a hug first to calm you down 🫂

you know i don’t ship them either, in fact i see absolutely no potential between them in canon but we’re all here to have fun and things don’t always make sense with fanon ships or they do but it’s very subjective. like i am sure some ppl side eye me for shipping sukugo and yeah it makes absolutely zero sense tbh 💀 but EYE like it, it makes sense to me and i find it hot and i go crazy when i insert myself in that ship too

simply avoid things that trigger and agitate you like that, it’s literally not worth it dwelling on what gojohime shippers say to make their ship look more canon compared to other ships — it’s literally NOT and won’t be by the looks of it bc the honored one is long gone (man it hurts to say this 💀 i won’t do it again, i promise i just wanna make a point) and i don’t think gege will waste time on a flashback to show us possible but failed or unfulfilled romance between them bc : 1) that just makes no sense in the light of the manga’s progress and the themes it generally revolves around, and romance is not one of them let me tell you that. it’s close to 0, we’ve only seen bits and pieces with toji + mamaguro & miwa + mechamaru, ANYWAY

2) we’ve already seen the past arc and judging by their interactions there was no romantic attraction between them

i’ve already said what i think about gege’s troll answer about sugar baby gojo so i won’t repeat myself BUT the funniest thing is how ppl, children i suppose, consider utahime an older woman. gojo & utahime are 2 years apart. she is in her early 30s how is that old 💀 like if older women were gojo’s preference — which was never confirmed — she’d be instantly OUT, no chance

anyway, i think i got a bit irritated too im sorry kdkekj

one last thing tho, i don’t think utahime really hates gojo. i mean it’s obvious she cannot stand him which is why he keeps fueling her irritation but that doesn’t equal hatred. i think deep down she holds no grudge or ill feelings towards him and i don’t need it spelled out to me yk, i can read and draw my own conclusions — which is why i don’t think that “hate” in the relationship chart was in the sense of actual animosity. there are a lot of ppl that annoy the hell out of me but i don’t hate them, it’s just i don’t click and vibe with them and that’s the essence of their dynamic too, it’s one-sided irritation with gojo being very much chill about getting on her nerves

i’ll shut up now 🫡

[sylvienerevarine]

Sophrine Aulette's Solstheim Encyclopedia

wahoo I'm still not done with this Philomena Cunk-inspired nonsense. I promise most of what I write is slightly less stupid than this.

---

Raven Rock

The small mining town of Raven Rock was founded in 3.E 428 by the East Empire Company, who had called dibs on all the ebony lurking under the ground over there, as the Skaal weren’t using it. The mine was pretty successful for a few years, then shut down, then reopened under the direction of House Redoran, then closed again, then was reopened by me. 

These days Raven Rock is mostly Dunmer, except for one old Imperial fellow who’s married to a priest, and that Orsimer gentleman who’s always bothering people about loans. There aren’t any ravens, if you’re wondering. I asked.

Rieklings

No one’s quite sure what Rieklings are, exactly, but most scholars seem to think they’re a distant cousin of goblins. What we do know is that they’re small, blue, fond of pigs, and usually angry. 

You might think Rieklings are just mindless little beasties, but from my experience, they’re actually quite intelligent. Some of them speak a little Cyrodilic, which is impressive, because it’s a stupid language. They can also read, as evidenced by that copy of The Lusty Argonian Maid I found in one of their dens. Though one has to wonder about their taste in literature.

The Skaal

The Skaal are lovely people who live in a town so remote and small you could wander around in circles looking for it for about three days before Frea finally gets frustrated and comes to find you. That’s never happened to me.

This small Nord community has existed on Solstheim for hundreds, possibly thousands, of years, and has survived largely due to their immense stubbornness. “Sunlight?” they’ll say. “Green grass? Who needs it? All a fellow needs is snow and horker meat.” Bit strange, but it seems to work for them.

The Skaal worship one creator spirit known as the All-Maker, who very kindly invented wolves and bears and fish and turnips. They don’t have any temples; if you want to say a prayer, you just go sit down by a tree and have a good think. Lovely stuff, if you ask me.

Thirsk

Thirsk is a famous mead hall that’s essentially a combination tavern/hotel/fighter’s guild. It was invented by a fellow named Hrothmund the Red, who lived between three and five hundred years ago. Hrothmund left the Skaal village because he was tired of following rules and wanted to drink and fight without getting in trouble, much like every single person in Skyrim does.

The only rules at Thirsk are:

Mind your own business

If you’re going to throw up, do it outside

Don’t make any loud noise before noon

My Nana Sylvie became chieftain of Thirsk for a brief period in the late Third Era, after killing a nasty troll called the Udyrfrykte who’d practically knocked the place down. The current chieftain is a very nice woman named Bujold the Intrepid, who has never had any other nicknames, so don’t ask.

[bradshawsbitch]

the lullaby of mother troll;

masterlist | next chapter

summary; as a child, rhett had heard all about wood wifes, nymphs, nixies and vittror from his mother, as she told the tales that had passed from mouth to mouth throught the passing of time. he had always found water nymphs to be exceptionally fascinating… though his older brother perry assured him there were no such things in real life.

warnings; mentions of alcohol, adult themes in general, complicated emotions, family woes, whimsy.

word count; 2.6K

For as long as man-kind has roamed the earth, they have lived their lives through lore. Through the traveling of stories they live on - tales that prevail through the very lives that conjured them. Some fall into shadow, to be forgotten. Some live on, in an altered version of its older siblings. Creatures and beings, who once held such importance to mankind and their beliefs and superstitions long set aside as whimsy and lore - not to be anchored within the reality of man.

Some tales told to scare, some to comfort, some to nurture, and some to warn. Do not dwell out in the woods, or the vittra will bewitch you and curse your luck. Do not be lured by the sweet music of the water, for the nixie might lure you into the depths of the lake. And do not insult the wood wife with firearms as you enter her domain, for she will smite any man that dare shoot at her. 

These tales are still told to this day, but more so to carry on the history of human creativity, of the faith and beliefs of old. 

Cecelia had told these tales to her sons before bed, her body shifting so she faced her youngest more often than not. For she thought if she ever had to trudge through murky woods to find her heathen of a son again, she might scream out loud. 

The boy in question sat enraptured at the tale his mama told, clear blue eyes glittering like a clear lake on a windless day as Cecelia spoke of trolls, of wood wives, and of nymphs.

“Mama… I like the nymphs, they seem like the nicest ones you’ve told us about so far, right Per’?” her youngest looked to her oldest, and the elder of the two scoffed and rolled his eyes at his brother “You know they’re not real, right?” Perry rolled his eyes again for good measure, as his younger brother looked down, abashed, at his blankie that he held close to his chest. 

Rhett did not know that. His mama told him about them, he didn’t figure mama would lie. She told him not to. The younger boy didn’t tell his brother how much this revelation hurt him, because only yesterday when he had shed tears, his father had brusquely told him to stop.

Rhett so badly wished the nymphs were real. It was why he ran to the lake in the woods so much, to see if he could ever see one. His mother never knew why her son had taken such an interest in the lore around nymphs - sometimes it took her hours to drag her son away from the pond deep in the woods - where he would sit as if patiently waiting for someone. Drawn by the still, glittering waters. 

Some folklore had traveled not only through time, but over the seas as well - touching every  crevice where mankind stepped its foot. Though some were contained to a village, or an area surrounding. In Wabang, Cecelia knew there was one that some of the older townsfolk still believed.

The tale of a woman… the woman who resided within the woods, lakes and mountain ranges. Some called her the wood wife - men who were enchanted by beauty and promise of bountiful hunt back in the 1800’s, some called her the nymph - she who resided in waters and protected the woodland realm and all its creatures. 

She was different from the other tales though, for she would find a life long love - some believed it was her soulmate. She was no immortal being, though she was said to live far longer than any man. Any man who was selected by the nymph were lucky folk, for her love was everlasting - it was said. Some of the older residents of Wabang spoke of the last time she had chosen her one love, many many years ago.

The tall tale was told by a man deep in his drink, something he blamed on having sighted her ethereal being without being her love. He had sighted her with a man, with love in his eyes as she placed flowers in his hair. 

He told all who would listen of her beauty as she looked at her beloved, and how her face had contorted as she noticed him staring - her features twisting something awful - as if she could sense his tainted soul and mind. His dark thoughts and desires. She reflected him, his entire being back to him and he has not gone a day without a strong bottle or two since. 

Time went on, as it does, and soon Rhett was no longer a small boy running to the lake in the woods, his whole body vibrating as he sat patiently watching the wildlife. He felt as if something should be here. Something he was waiting for. When he got older, he did still visit the lake - though his enthusiasm and excitement dimmed, as it does with children who grow up too fast, too hard, and left to learn how to navigate life on their lonesome. 

As he grew older, he would sometimes bring girls into the woods. Never to the lake, no, that didn’t feel right. He usually brought them to the foot of the mountain, hiking skirts up their waists, or bending them over rocks with their boot cut jeans at their ankles. It was never as Perry had described it, Rhett usually thought as he finished. He never felt very satisfied, and sometimes he wouldn’t reach his peak at all, instead making sure his partner reached their high and pretending he did too. He chased it though - wanted to know about that euphoric feeling his friends and older brother had told him about. 

For a long time he figured he just ain’t wired right. He was made for bullridin’, drinkin’, smokin’ and being a dog. Sleeping in his truck on cold Wyoming nights, not wanting to wake his niece or his parents - too tired to hear yet another tirade about ‘being more like his brother’ and ‘learning some damn respect’.

He lit a cigarette on those nights sometimes, inhaling deeply as he looked up to the small glittering stars that dotted the night sky. There was something familiar in their pattern, he’d always felt.

Rhett always felt more right in nature. Always felt more right in the woods, by the lake. He had felt that deep restlessness take hold of him for quite some time now, settling in his chest. Sometimes he wondered if it was eased by going to the lake.

Inhaling the cooler night air on his 23rd birthday, Rhett licked his lips as he thought of how long it had been since he had visited his lake. As he pondered, he brought the side of his thumb to his mouth, picking at the already torn skin there with his teeth, brows furrowed slightly. It had to have been more than a year since he last visited the lake, and even longer since he had had a swim. 

Climbing into his truck, he winced as it roared to life in the still night sky outside of his parents house. He was sure to get an earful for that one in the morning. Perhaps he would have to spend the night by the lake to not disturb his family’s sleep again. The loud engine echoed as he sped across the pastures, only stopping when he reached the edge of the forest, swiftly grabbing a blanket and a flashlight from the trunk of the car and beginning the well traveled path to the lake. 

As soon as his silhouette could no longer be seen from the pasture, a shaky sigh of relief left Rhett’s parted lips. It felt as if the trees around him were humming with delight at his appearance, and he heard the soft hoots of an owl in the distance as he moved slowly through the path he’d worn down for years. Come to think of it, when he was a child, the path was there then too - although hidden beneath vegetation that had overgrown it. 

Following it felt like something he had always done, ever since he could walk. He couldn’t remember when he first found the path or the lake - he only knew the tale his mother told of her fear as she searched for him for hours. 

The pale moonlight illuminated branches and bushes along the path, and soon enough came the familiar clearing, the still water reflecting the light of the moon almost perfectly. For a moment, Rhett stood stock still. The lake still felt familiar and soothing, but now his skin was prickling again - and that sense of waiting for— something, someone overcame him again. Licking his lips, he pushed the faint buzzing to the back of his mind as he slowly reached for the back of his old t-shirt, drawing it down over his head, letting it fall into the grass below him. His boots and belt buckle was next, along with his jeans and boxers, and at last his socks. 

Running his fingers through his long hair, Rhett let his eyes flutter close, chest heaving in a deep breath as he felt the cool summer air caress his naked body. Rolling his shoulders, he could feel the dull ache that lingered there, especially in his left shoulder - the joint crackling as he rolled it backwards. Taking another deep breath, he focused on the feeling of the cold, dewy grass beneath his feet, and how his skin felt beneath his fingertips as he ran them down his chest and abdomen before they rested on the side of his thighs. 

Kneeling by the edge of the lake, Rhett slowly submerged his fingers into the dark waters, swirling them around as he felt the cool sensation surrounding him. Fleetingly he thought to himself that it would probably do wonders for his aching muscles - his inner thighs and abdomen had been killing him since his last bull. Rowdy son of a bitch. 

Exhaling slowly, Rhett placed a strand of hair behind his ear out of habit before standing to his full height to wade into the shallow waters. The chill of the still water soothed him somewhat, his muscles thanking him for lending them this reprieve. The same could not be said for his mind.

Wading out into the waters, he kept going until he was waist deep, letting his head hang as he watched the blurry reflection of the starry skies in the water. Biting his bottom lip, he let himself fully feel the physical ache his mental anguish was causing him. Today had been his birthday. His twenty third year on this god forsaken earth, and sure - birthdays had never been a big deal in the Abbott family, but somewhere he had at least hoped for a smile and a hug, or even a recognition of the day. Ever since Perry’s… incident though, nothing else had been important. Not even him. Especially not him. 

A soft groan broke the silence of the woods, his hands coming up to rub at his face as tears stung mournfully in his closed eyes. Was he being selfish? So much had happened in such little time. Rebecca was gone, Amy was in shambles… Perry was too, and now he had gone and fucked shit up beyond Rhett’s wildest imagination. The Tillersons’ were involving lawyers for the land, and now surely the fucking police would come like bloodhounds in the night. So much had happened - of course no one would be inclined to remember Rhett’s birthday. It wasn’t important. The sting of that realization had Rhett gasping in a breath as the dull ache spread in his chest, indignant hot tears rolling down his dust covered cheeks. 

“Fuck!” he exclaimed loudly into the darkness, letting his head fall back, so that his cerulean eyes were staring up towards the inky skies. Inhaling, he promptly pushed against the sandy bottom of the lake, pushing his body into a half dive that sent him towards the middle of the lake, now fully submerged. He let himself enjoy the weightless feeling as he surged through the water, that weightless feeling only partly soothing the ache his emotional toil had caused him physically. 

Breaking the surface again, he gasped in a deep breath, once again disturbing the peace of the woodland creatures in the vicinity. A bush rustled violently, and Rhett figured he must’ve scared away a poor rabbit with his sudden emergence. Inhaling deeply, he ran a hand down his face to brush the water away, his body turned to where the noise had come from. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could hardly believe he saw correctly. Fleetingly, he thought he’d seen a figure standing where the bush had rustled. Red and white billowing as the figure disappeared behind the treeline. 

Rhett stood frozen in his spot. In all of the years he had come here, he had never once seen even the slightest hint that any other than himself and his mother had ever ventured this far into the woods. It must have been a trick of the light. What light? Or a figment of his lonely imagination. Yes, that was surely it. Shaking his head solemnly, the soaking wet cowboy slowly made his way out of the water, droplets falling around him into the soft grass. He hadn’t thought to bring a towel, only blankets, so he laid one down on the ground, figuring the summer night would have to dry him the best it could. 

Laying down, Rhett had an overwhelming feeling that someone was watching him. It should unnerve him, but the thought only brought him peace - a sense of calm washing over him as he made himself comfortable on the ratty blanket he’d placed down. His eyes fluttered closed, and for the first time in months - sleep found him as quick and as easy as it would if he’d drunk at least half a bottle of whiskey, only, he was stone cold sober. 

That night, his dreams were marred by visions of a woman. A woman dressed in all white, with different faces and names, although in every single dream she was significant. She was the same, the same soul even if her face changed. She always held that look of love on her face, she was always reaching for him - calling for him. He was always just inches from touching her when the dream changed. He wanted to go to her, wanted to wrap himself up in her love and never leave. The last dream before his eyes opened, was of a flash of long, strawberry hair, dancing against the thin white fabric of a flowy dress. 

As he woke, a single word seemed to slip from his lips just when he was in the realm between asleep and awake “Naiad”. A sensation had disturbed his sleep, and as his eyelids fluttered open, the sensation of a warm hand lingered on the side of his face. Reaching up, his own rough hand came in contact with his stubbled cheek - no trace of a touch of another ever being there. Brows knitted together in confusion, Rhett slowly moved his body - ignoring the protests in his limbs as he rested against his elbows as he took in the clearing in the pale morning sun. 

“What the fuck…” was his not so eloquent words on the matter. Shaking his head, he reached for his phone. No missed calls. No texts. It was, however, nearing 6 am and Rhett knew Royal would be needing him for the cattle today. Sighing, he slowly got dressed - giving the lake one last glance before letting his heavy footfalls leave his place of peace - only to rejoin the world in which he felt he had no real say on the matter of his own peace.

chapter two. . .

tagging people who liked the masterlist & mutuals;

@lt-bradshaw @rhettabbotts @buckybarneslvr @wkndwlff @briseisgone @phoenixhalliwell @alebyyrose @mackenziestewart2 @sebsxphia @theharddeck @roleycoleyland

[expectodragons]

Bitter Water || Chapter 4

✦ Summary: Guided only by a thin paper trail and a promising job offer, Catherine Hart returns to the school of her youth. Taking on the mantle of Beasts professor, the young witch must find a balance between her lessons and her continued search of the Highlands. Especially when under the watchful eye of the Potion Master. ✦ Pairing: Aesop Sharp x Female MC ✦ Word Count: 7,700 ✦ Rating: Mature, 18+ only - minors do not interact. ✦ Tags / Warnings: Age difference, colleagues-to friends-to-lovers, mild violence, references to creature cruelty, slow burn. ✦ Story Playlist: Listen here ✦ Read on: AO3 || Tumblr (continue below)

The Great Hall is warm and bright compared to the thundering storm clouds currently drenching the valley. Mr. Moon had every available enchanted mop working double duty on the entrances as they were currently covered in a thin inch of water and mud. Gratefully, it was a Sunday, and the rain had only begun in the faint morning hours.

Catherine slowly tucks into her potato soup, dabbing bits of soft bread in the thick broth as Ranira, seated next to her, loudly reads the Daily Prophet to her – though she certainly had never asked for it to be.

“Mr. Augustus Rickens claims the need for further security trolls to be a confounded idea brought about by the media frenzy that the last World Cup created. Though he was forced to admit that, should the German team wish to play in their home country, then England, by nature, would be reluctant to recant their initial invitation to host. This of course led to several outcries from dignitaries across the Isles. Including a Senior Minister, Mr. Alphard Malfoy who said –“

While Ranira pauses for a breath, her fingers clutching the pages so violently that they begin to shake, a lone hoot echoes across the hall when, down from the rafters, soars a large ruddy-brown owl.

It passes the tables of students and instead finds its way to the young professor. The Rufous owl perches on the edge of the staff table, nearly dropping the thick envelope it had been carrying directly into Catherine’s soup – though she manages to catch it before the letter totally submerges.

“What a handsome bird,” The alchemy professor comments.

The owl immediately turns its head towards her, squawking in reply. With a wry smile, Catherine pets the bird’s neck plumage before turning her attention to the envelope in her hand. After wiping the left corner clear of soup, she rips the parcel open and unfolds the letter.

Written in elegant handwriting, she’s able to decipher the short message.

Cathy,

It would appear that my dear husband is rather forgetful. As he thought we had twenty-eight pairs of boots between us both, but I’m afraid we have only eleven. And to think, a new pair would cost us upwards of £21!

That’s all to say that we miss you dearly and we hope you enjoyed your time in Bouchar. We, unfortunately, had never heard of the city before you told us of it but it sounds lovely.

Oh, the owl’s name is Archimedes and he’s fond of eating assorted serpentines.

Best wishes, Miri

Surely it must be serious if her friend decided to encode an entire letter.

It takes her a moment to digest the message, a moment possibly too long as she finds the older witch seated beside her to be pointedly interested in her letter with that unnerving silver stare of hers.

“Correspondence from some old traveling friends,” she says airly, quickly tucking the letter away into her pocket.

Swiping up two pieces of bread, she extends her arm out for the owl, offering a chunk for him to eat as she gets out of her chair and rounds the table.

“Poor fellow, you must be exhausted. Where did you come from, eh?”

The owl nudges his head against her arm.

“Yes, yes. I imagine it was quite the journey.”

Catherine exits the hall, trying her best not to run, as she beelined for her quarters.

28, 11. 21. Bouchar. Serepentines.

The 28th of November. 21:00 hours.

Miriam, you wonderful woman you.

She all but runs to her chambers, desperate to write down the information before she burned the letter to ash.

On the third weekend in November, Catherine finds herself out in the middle of the courtyard with a warming charm to keep her from shivering as more and more students gather around the fountain.

Her breath twists up into the air like the icy smoke of a dragon.

Sterling finally comes down the steps of the Bell Tower with a wide grin, accompanied by the last few stragglers. She rubs at her arms, her red-tinged fingers digging into the woolen cloak sleeves.

“Alright, if that’s the last of you lot, let’s head on.”

She falls into step alongside him as the students hurry ahead up the road.

While it had been commonplace during her fifth year for the students to have access to the local village whenever classes were not in session, a rather unfortunate incident near the end of her fifth year – regarding her kidnapping by Victor Rookwood – ceased that leniency by Hogwarts staff. Now Hogsmeade visits were a supervised affair, usually contained to Saturdays.

This was her second time acting as a chaperon. Her first visit with Mirabel had been a highly entertaining affair. With Roland, she’s sure the excitement will be just about the same.

The valley is in a soft hibernation. Plants have wilted to a dull brown, the cries of local birds have vanished from the area, and frost lingers along the tall wisps of grass. Winter was still a distance away, but the reminder of its power remained.

Tucking her hands into the confines of her woolen cloak, she looks over at the Defense professor. A proud and determined look graces his features as he strides forward, dressed in a royal blue cloak that billows slightly behind him as he walks.

“So, Hart,” he turns his attention down toward her. “How did your students manage this past term?”

“Surprisingly well. Even the more… difficult cases seemed to be capable of proper handling techniques, despite their essays being atrocious.”

Sterling gives a polite laugh.

“I envy those of you who teach outside of the core curriculum. If you had a group of first years to worry after, I fear your answer may be different.”

She nods, “I imagine so. Luckily, that’s not the case.”

“Yes,” he says, dryly. “Lucky you.”

The majority of the students have already spread out to the local businesses by the time they enter the village.

A group of boys peers into Spintwitches’ front window – gawking over a new broom model Mr. Weekes had put on display. Further down, the pleasant thumping of a band inside the Three Broomsticks brings about a wide patronage of older students who clammer around the door for a Butterbeer.

“Oh, what have we here?”

Catherine watches as a small group of students sneaks along the side street heading towards the seedier part of the town.

“Professor, Sterling! Professor Sterling!” comes the cry of two young girls.

With a sigh, the young witch tilts her head towards the side street and Roland nods – heading towards the concerned girls. Another shiver runs down her spine as the wind picks up.

Following after the students, she spies them up ahead, gazing into an oddity and collectible shop near the Hog’s Head. Its faded signage reveals no name, but the wares are clearly of a particular form of magic.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” she clears her throat.

Five pairs of heads turn around, looking rather sheepish.

“Do you need assistance finding the main road?”

“No, professor.”

She gives a nod, folding her arms across her chest as she watches them slowly skirt around her.

“Then off with you.”

With another shake of her head, she follows behind the wandering group. Once they’re back on High Street, Catherine watches them take off in the direction of Zonko’s.

The entire trip was rather uneventful after that.

She stops a fourth-year from throwing a Clobber Ball in the middle of the crowded street. Assists in directing a fifth-year prefect to aid a third-year back to the infirmary after consuming too many Pepper Imps. And finds herself comforting a distraught sixth-year with a cup of tea over her very abrupt break-up with her boyfriend of one month.

By the time she and Sterling wrap up the trip and count the heads, she’s more exhausted than when she stayed out on her first welcoming weekend with the rest of the faculty.

“Oh, Roland. Would you mind? I almost forgot. I need to have a quick chat with Ellie Peck over my new feed supply schedule.”

With a tired smile, he nods, “I think I can manage the unruly lot back to the castle.”

“Thank you, and safe travels.”

She watches as the wizard heads on ahead of her, wrangling up the last few students outside of Tomes & Scrolls. Casually as she can, Catherine walks down the main street before she ducks along the side road, keeping her head down as she winds around the path to the Hog’s Head.

Squeezing along the worn gravel trail between the buildings, she steps up onto the squeaky boards of the dock. Unloading boxes from a larger crate in the back, she spots him. A boy, no older than twenty, with bright auburn hair and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He hefts another box of ale into his arms and carries it through the backdoor of the pub.

Leaning against the open crate, she waits.

“Hello, Abe.”

The boy grunts, gesturing for her to move aside. Catherine peers into the crate as he digs down for another box. Sweat clings to his brow while she tugs her cloak closer. Down by the water, the air seemed absolutely frigid, but not for the boy apparently.

“I have nothing for you, Hart.”

She lays a hand over his arm, keeping him from moving. There’s a dangerous glint in her eye when he meets her gaze.

“I somehow doubt that, Aberforth.”

With a deep sigh, he drops the box and flicks his wand at the door, closing it. He glances around at the empty dock with a calculated look before he finally digs his hands into his pockets and leans against the crate.

“A man was here a week and three days back. Said somethin’ or another about a shipment from Morocco coming along.”

“What’d he look like?”

From his pocket, he retrieves a cigarette. Catherine wandlessly lights it for him and he takes a long drag.

“Tall fella, dark beard with a swirling sort of tattoo by his right eye.”

The smoke rings float into the sky before they dissipate. The thick stink of tobacco lingers around them both as the boy flicks his ashes into the dark water below.

“Don’t know much more than that.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“A pair came in after him, no one from around here. Gal who kept her hood on the whole time and a man with shoulder-length brown hair and a pig-like face. Ivan kept me to the back most of the evening, so I only caught that bit about Morocco when I came in with another bottle of ‘78 out.”

With a nod, Catherine digs into her coin purse and pulls out two galleons – depositing them into the boy’s outstretched palm.

“Let me know if you hear anymore, or if you see any of them back here again. Alright?”

The boy sniffs, taking a final drag of his habit before he flicks the stub into the river and sets off back to work. She watches him, only for a moment longer, before she heads back to the main road and begins the long journey back to the school.

Catherine smells the warm brew of coffee wafting through the air as she approaches the familiar classroom. While it was a Saturday, and the majority of the school was preparing for the next quidditch match set to take place in an hour’s time, she was none-too-surprised to see the resident Potion Master sequestered away in his office.

She leans against the open doorway, watching as his quill scratches against the piece of parchment before him.

“One usually knocks,” he mutters.

“Apologies,” she smiles lightly, as she crosses the threshold.

Sharp finishes off the last few lines before he places the quill in the small dark inkpot on his desk and gives her his attention.

Hefting the small cloth parcel in the air, she says, “Thought I’d drop this off before the match.”

Begging her forward with his hand, she deposits the bag, allowing him to untie the small knot at the top.

She sinks down into the chair opposite him, tugging her scarf from out of her pocket.

“Courtesy of my fifth-years.”

A lone brow raises as he stares at the neatly separated bundles of Kneazle hair. With a nod, he merely folds the parcel back up and leans back in his seat.

“Howin’s method of delivery was far less desirable than this. I had knotted furballs appearing around my office for months.”

She laughs, “That sounds about right. But, as a bit of a potioneer myself, I know what the ideal presentation of ingredients should look like. Try not to fault her too hard.”

Sharp grabs hold of the steaming mug of coffee and takes a thoughtful sip, “It still surprises me that you went after the career you did. Your marks in my class were always near the top.”

With a shrug, “The potion-making field is overcrowded as is. The lengths it takes some people to break into the market is just unfathomable. Whereas the need for beast tamers is surprisingly large.”

“Perhaps not that surprising.”

Another smile breaks across her face, “Okay. Yes, the job has its hazards. But you would honestly be surprised by the lack of training some of them in the field actually have. That probably explains the numbers.”

He gives a soft hum of contemplation as he finishes off his drink.

“Anyway, just wanted to pass that along before the match, which… I should probably be heading to if I want to find a decent seat.”

As she stands from the chair, so does the potions professor as he reaches over to the coat rack and grabs a heavier woolen coat.

“Oh, are you actually going this time? Not just waiting for the betting pool to finish up?”

Sharp shakes his head, a smile on his face as he slips his arms into the sleeves of his overcoat.

“If it failed to cross your mind, I last assured you that I attend the games when Slytherin is set to play.”

“Oh, of course. How careless of me to forget.”

Catherine scoots around the chair, waiting for the older man to round the desk. He peers down at her, extending his arm out toward the door. With a sheepish smile, she exits the office first, followed by her companion.

As they head down the spiral stairs of the tapestry corridor, she ties her scarf around her neck, tugging the blue tassels over her shoulders.

“Out of curiosity,” she starts. “Who do you honestly have your money on this time?”

Sharp glances down at her, a funny smirk on his face.

“What would I gain if I told you that?”

She laughs, “I for one, could care less about the betting pool you lot play around with. I’m asking from a strictly Quidditch enthusiast point of view.”

He huffs as they make it up the stairs to the Bell Tower.

Without a proper reply, Catherine continues, “See, I would have to say Hufflepuff for any other occasion. But I’ve seen the way Slytherin’s been training. They’re downright brutal out there – even when they’re playing against each other. I can’t imagine they’ll be anything but a force to be reckoned with when they’re out there today.”

Outside, the bright afternoon sky grants the cool Autumn day with a rare swatch of pure sunlight. The warm rays shine down upon the courtyard, bathing the withering grass in glittering golden hues.

Sharp grins, “I won’t sway you either way, Hart.”

“Spoilsport,” she mutters, much to his amusement.

The stadium is packed today, as the weather is far more agreeable than the previous match at the beginning of the month. The enthusiasm seems to be higher as well, as she spots students in the Gryffindor sections waving bright yellow flags and streamers. Of course, the age-old rivalry would keep them from ever supporting the snake house.

And while her own biases usually followed the same line of thinking, today she was prepared to dip into the forbidden water in favor of winning a few extra galleons.

They take their time on the stairs up to the faculty tower. She almost wants to laugh when they emerge, as there is an almost visible line directly down the benches – with half the staff supporting Hufflepuff and the other supporting Slytherin.

Mirabel quickly beckons her over, but she has to give a sad shake of her head as she joins Abraham and Roland. The face the herbology professor gives her is one of shock and disappointment and it takes all her strength not to laugh at the poor expression.

“Ah, Sharp! Was wondering when we’d see you up here again.”

“Oh, Roland. You know he only comes to see his House win,” Abraham teases, patting an empty spot next to him.

Aesop sits down on the bench behind her as she takes the only other available spot next to Sterling.

“See we’re cheering on the same team this time,” he comments.

She gives a sad little glance over to Mirabel, who was now cozying up with Matilda and Mudiwa.

“Let’s just hope your luck is a little more fortunate this time,” Catherine teases.

With a wry grin, Sterling passes around the betting marks. She tosses in five galleons for the team win, as well as an extra two for the score. 280 to 310, Hufflepuff catches the snitch but loses the match. The young professor shrugs when the Defense professor gawks at her.

“Seriously? Okay, we have a score bet! Who wants to try and top it?”

A couple other professors whip their heads around and toss their coin in as well. She hears the potions professor chuckle lowly behind her and she can’t help but turn around.

“Willing to risk it, Sharp?”

His dark eyes bore into her before the makings of a smirk befall his lips.

“Not a chance, Hart.”

Her eyes harden in challenge, “What? Think you won’t get close to my bet?”

There’s a moment, where his gaze becomes like a brewing storm, and then he grins.

“Ten galleons, Sterling. 250 to 285, in favor of Slytherin.”

The young professor marks that down on the scorecard and gladly pockets Sharp’s money away. Aesop leans back, looking surprisingly pleased with himself while Catherine chooses the moment to childishly stick her tongue out at him before turning back around.

Slowly, the crowd grows louder with chants for the teams. Like a Graphorn in battle, the Slytherin team comes charging out onto the pitch – blazing through the sky with pride as they lift their hands up to stir the students into a further frenzy. Hufflepuff’s team zigs and zags across the field, flying directly over the heads of the Slytherins as they circle back around to their side of the pitch.

She’s on the edge of her seat as Kogawa flies into the center of the field with the Quaffle.

There’s an instant scuffle for the ball when she blows the whistle. It’s a flash of green and yellow robes. A blaze of yellow careens toward the end goals, only for a Slytherin chaser to knock into their broom – sending the Quaffle off into the stands. Boos and cheers alike echo out from the students.

Catherine blows warm breath into her hands as the ball is captured and tossed back into play.

The first goal goes to Slytherin, as well as the second and third. They get fouled immediately after as a Hufflepuff chaser spirals to the ground after taking a bludger to the head. Blainey levitates the poor girl off onto a stretcher while the team calls in their reserve player.

And then it seems the yellow team regains their strength, hitting back at Slytherin with all their might. They make five goals in the span of minutes, much to the lackluster groaning from Sterling sat beside her. Mirabel, on the other hand, is ecstatic as she cheers loudly.

A flash of gold catches her eye, high above the Ravenclaw tower on the opposite side of the pitch – and it seems the Slytherin seeker has spotted it too, as she rushes off after it. Catherine has to crane her neck back as the two seekers follow after the ball, far beyond her classroom, toward the Black Lake.

When she turns back to the game, she can feel Sharp’s knee pushing against her back as he leans forward. The Slytherin beaters are in a back-and-forth with Hufflepuff down on the other side of the pitch, and they’re all looking worse for wear because of it.

Soon, the score is soaring up higher than anyone expected.

“Another ten points for Slytherin,” the student announcer bellows. “If Vance can get the snitch, Slytherin will be at the top of leader board for the Quidditch Cup. Oh – it looks as if Warrington and Macnair are in trouble now!”

Kogawa sends another foul to Slytherin after they rammed Grant Powell into the goalposts and promptly knocked him out and off his broom. Blainey seems to have her hands full again down on the ground.

A new keeper gets substituted in and the game resumes.

“Theseus Scamander has his work cut out for him in his first official game – oh and that’s an unfortunate pass by Cygnus Black, as Slytherin racks up to 260 points.”

“Come on Bones, you can do this!” Mirabel shouts at the passing Chaser.

“Ooh,” Catherine winces as another goal is blocked by Slytherin’s keeper. She leans over to Roland, “It’s just getting painful at this point.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?” he beams.

Abraham says something to Sharp above the roar of the crowd and she can hear the two men openly laughing behind her. As she glances back to see what the fuss is about, she spots the two seekers flying back across the courtyard. She jumps to her feet – gaining the attention of the rest of the faculty in the stand.

“Come on, Vance!” Sterling roars in support.

“Yes, Whitby!” She hears from the Hufflepuff side of the stands.

Catherine follows the snitch as the glinting sunlight bounces off it – the two seekers drop down across the pitch, while Slytherin scores another goal in the process. Screams ring out in both directions. Hufflepuff’s captain is trying to rally her Chasers for another attack on the goalposts, while Macnair nearly knocks Bones off her broom with a bludger.

Another skirmish breaks out as Slytherin snatches the Quaffle back and takes towards the posts – just as Whitby flies back into view, his outstretched fingers nearly glancing the snitch.

“Berle passes to Walsh. Walsh takes the hit and, YES! Another ten points to Slytherin. Oh, there’s Vance now – it’s an all-out battle for the snitch now, Ladies and Gentlemen. Macnair takes aim and Whitby just ducks out of the way at the last second!”

Catherine glances over at the scoreboard, fully on the edge of her seat as the seekers make another lap of the pitch, following after the golden ball. Vance nearly knocks the Hufflepuff seeker off course, but he manages to righten himself at the last moment and –

“Yes! Yes, that’s it, folks! Whitby has caught the snitch. With 270 points to 300, Slytherin wins the match!”

A raucous chorus of boos and cheers echoes throughout the stadium as the Slytherin team takes their victory lap.

Sterling shakes her frozen hand, “Congrats to you two, it seems you’re walking away with quite the winnings today!”

She looks back at Sharp with a beaming smile, his own amused eyes meet her gaze as he claps for the team as they fly past the faculty stands.

Catherine counts out the twenty-seven gold pieces now in her possession as everyone begins to file down the stairs. She offers a tender grimace toward Mirabel as she passes.

“Better luck next time, yeah? They still have a chance to win the cup.”

She smiles in return, “While they might not have the same bite as other teams, their bark is certainly tougher.”

Waterford gently pats the herbology professor’s shoulder as they head down to the courtyard. Sterling is still there, dusting off his robes.

“That was uncanny luck, you two. I’ve never seen a bet so close before!”

The young witch shrugs, “I get the unfair privilege of being able to watch the teams practice every week. And this one is just too observant –“ she looks back at Sharp with a wily grin.

Aesop pockets the galleons away, a pleased smile on his face.

“Hart, you flatter me.”

Together, the three professors make their way down the wooden stairs.

“I imagine Blainey will have her hands full tonight,” Roland comments lightly.

Catherine huffs, “That’s an understatement. Those poor students, a bludger to the head is nasty business.”

“You played?” the Defense professor asks as they head towards the castle.

She nods, rubbing her hands together, “Seventh year. Seeker.”

He grins, “Chaser, from fourth year on.” Sterling glances back at Sharp for a moment, “What about you, Aesop? Ever played?”

Catherine turns her attention to the potions professor as well, curiosity piqued.

Sharp grunts as they make it along the gravel path, his pace slowed slightly, “Beater, actually. Third year through sixth.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” she wonders aloud, shaking her head slightly.

He glances down at Catherine with a raised brow. She just grins in return, lightly nudging his arm with her left elbow.

Roland holds the door open for them both, smiling cheerily as he asks, “So, celebratory drinks in the staff lounge?”

Aesop inclines his head in agreeance to the idea, but Catherine quickly shakes her head.

“ ’Fraid you’ll have to go on without me. I have a prior engagement I really must be getting around for.”

Sterling’s expression simmers slightly, the faintest frown upon his usually bright features, “Shame. Sharp, you’re up for a bit of indulgence though, aren’t you?”

She finds the potions professor studying her in quite a focused fashion. As though she was a puzzle he was trying to sort out. His gaze finally lifts to meet the other man’s.

“I suppose I could find the time.”

“Excellent! We’ll have a drink in your honor, Hart,” he beams before he takes to the stairs.

Catherine offers the older man a faint smile before she heads down the stairs toward her chambers without another word.

Crosskirk was a tiny hamlet near the northern tip of the country. While the weather was currently unagreeable in the Highlands, near the Bay it was downright unruly. Thick gray clouds rolled overhead as the crash and thunder of the waves hitting the rocks below kept one from truly knowing if a storm was approaching or not. The wind itself was terribly ferocious out here on the cliffs, a true gale brought from the north sea.

While the village was relatively populated by Muggles, there were a few hidden magical gems about.

Particularly in the ruins of the old castle north of the hamlet.

To the non-magical eye, it appeared for all the world to be a relic of centuries lost. To the passing wizard or witch, however, one could find a lively and bustling marketplace.

She had managed to sneak away one quiet Sunday after receiving Miriam’s letter – just to get her barrings about her before she attempted… what she was about to do.

Rummaging through the contents of her travel bag, she procures the potion she had kept close to her person these last few weeks. An old trick she had learned from a previous professor.

Attached to the stopper, a small vial is tied with three silver-colored hairs contained inside. Plucked from the head of a drunken wizard down in Sussex when she first arrived in English territory four months back.

Crouching down, Catherine tugs the vial free and pulls the stopper out with her teeth. Flicking back the lid on the rounded container, she carefully drops the hairs inside – watching them disappear into the foul green liquid.

Polyjuice is a nasty thing to down, no matter how many times you manage it. In the coastal market, not many heads would turn at the sight of a weathered old wizard. With a quick conjuration of her clothes into a more appropriate attire, the now disguised witch makes her way to the magical market.

Perhaps as a bit of a caution, she keeps her head down and adds a slight limp to her gait. An almost too-perfected move, Catherine will admit with some sense of guilt. This was not her first time trapezing around in the body of another, and it was unlikely to be her last.

The roads are crowded with patrons. A rich mixture of smells wafts through the air – hardy spices, warm baked goods, heavy herbs, and sweet flowers. The stalls are filled with the usual fares: garden plants and potion ingredients, while the occasional sutler has a selection of robes or books for sale. But what she seeks is a bit farther from reach.

She keeps her eyes peeled for a man with a swirly tattoo near his eye. A pig-faced man with shoulder-length hair. But no one matches the description which was perhaps wishing for just too much.

Further down, a large stall has a stack of cages and tiny covered paddocks with noisy creatures. Nothing suspicious of course, all the typical fare. Kneazles, Crups, Puffeskeins, and a few owls resting on metal hanging perches.

“Looking for anything in particular, old timer?”

She gazes up at the portly man lounging upon a stool, a hand-carved pipe between his fingers.

“No – nothing here’s caught my eye yet,” her voice is now that of a deeper masculine rumble and she unintentionally clears her throat to rid herself of it.

“Specialty wares then?”

The man glances around at the other milling patrons before beckoning her forward.

“That is… if you’re not interested in the usual type of items?”

She gives a slight shake of her head, surprised by how willing the man was being about openly discussing the topic. As though he had nothing to truly fear here.

“Meaning?”

He reels back, “Well, that is to say, I know some types are a bit harder to find around these parts. Porlocks and the like.”

With a conjured breath, she asks, “And if I was interested in something a bit more, how shall we say, exotic?”

The man’s eyes gleam.

“I thought you might be the type. Here’s what you want to do, back down that row, third vendor on the left – with the blue and green awning – ask to see Owen. He’ll get you hooked up with what you’re looking for.”

She tilts her head down, “Much obliged.”

“Of course,” he grins.

Miriam’s coded letter had told her that the next big shipment would be arriving around the 28th of November, roughly around 9 p.m. that evening. And while she had no information to give about Bouchar, this was a step in the right direction.

So, Catherine follows the vendor’s directions and finds herself standing before a barren little display. A wooden rack with hanging amulets strung upon braided cords, tiny crystals, and pendants; two boxes of tarot cards, and a few measly bags of tea leaves.

A young witch with limp red hair peers up from behind the stall.

“Can I help you?”

She clears her scratchy throat, “I was told to come see Owen?”

With a nod, she kicks a stack of crates beside her with her boot. Slowly, the lid lifts, and a man’s head appears from inside.

“Someone here to see you, love.”

The man in question gazes over at Catherine, a slow grin befalling his features as he pops further out from the box. He has a head of mousy brown hair, a pair of chilling gray eyes, and a rounded face with an upturned sort of nose that almost resembled… a pig.

“Well, come on in – if you think you can manage. Don’t need the Auror’s sniffing about, do I?”

Quick as she can with an exaggerated gait, Catherine makes her way over to the crate and peers down at the ladder. She hefts her leg over the edge, finding a rung, before she manages to climb down. The woman places the crate lid back over once her head’s through.

Though the area is not shrouded in darkness by it, in fact, it’s lit by several torches around a small dungeonous room; an office of sorts. The man waves her over, pointing to a wooden chair near a simple table in the corner. He takes a seat opposite her and pulls out a blank book.

“Now, I’m guessing this might be your first time here, yeah? But not the first time in the trade.”

“No, no,” she agrees, folding her leg over her knee. “First time in this market though.”

“Oh, good. Then you know the procedure. So,” he clasps his hands together in a fist and rests them on the table in front of him. “What’re we looking for today?”

Catherine gives a good-natured sigh, “Would you be willing to indulge the folly of an old man for a minute?”

With an agreeable nod, she continues.

“I have searched and searched, from Knockturn Alley to the backstreets of Pillworth. Perhaps you can finally be the one to help me in my endeavor.”

The man grins like a leech, leaning forward, “You’ve got my attention, old man.”

She rests her feet on the floor and bends forward in a conspiratory fashion.

“Occamys.”

With a breath of disbelief, he shakes his head, “Don’t know where you get off thinking a place like this would have bloody Occamys for sale. But I assure you, even if I did have one to spare, it certainly wouldn’t come cheap. Coin I’m sure a man of your position couldn’t even dream of having.”

“Indulge me,” she says. “How much?”

He gives an incredulous laugh, “Alright, alright –“ The man leans back, scratching his chin in thought, “If I had to place a number on them, I would say…. Two thousand, each.”

“And, in this scenario where I had such money to spend, how many would you have to sell?” she asks with an airy tone.

Another laugh, then he says, “Six. Though you might manage to get your worth out of them, think there’s a few nesting mums in the mix. If, I had them, of course.”

“Of course,” she nods congenially.

“Perhaps I can find something more in your price range though? I hate to turn away a willing customer.”

She gives a shrug, pulling out her drawstring leather coin pouch.

“Or, perhaps we can talk business.”

With a shove, the purse sails across the table – landing directly in front of the man – who, after a moment, unties the bag and peers down into the bottomless pouch.

“Now, hold on a second…”

Catherine leans back in the chair, her arms crossed, a proud smile on her face.

“Now, maybe we got off on the wrong footing,” the man schools his eager expression as best he can. Setting the pouch to the side – though his fingers seem to linger – he says, “While I might not have those lovely little creatures for you right now, I believe by tomorrow there might be a good chance I’ll have some in stock.”

“Ah, well, if the price you’re offering stays, then I might be able to stick around till morning.”

“Fair enough,” the man stands, as does Catherine, who then shakes his hand vigorously.

“Come back, ‘round six if you can, before the other stalls open back up. Sundays are usually slow, but we don’t need any more prying eyes, do we?”

With a playful wink, she releases her hand from the man’s grip. Though every other part of herself wanted nothing more than to drag her palm against her trouser leg – wishing to remove the invisible ick from the detestable man and his undesirable career choice.

Another parting word, and then she’s up the ladder and back out into the clouded light of the marketplace.

Tonight then.

She waits until she is well past the walls of the market before she apparates out of sight – holding back the urge to vomit, and not from the act of apparating.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The creature explodes from her wand’s tip, spinning about the air with its silvery wisps before its head appears in front of her.

“A message for Natsai Onai, if you will please.”

She presses a hand against the creature’s snout, speaking as clearly as she can, “Crosskirk at midnight. Send your best. And Natty? I was never here.”

With a nod, the patronus lifts into the air and soars out of sight – blending in with rolling dark storm clouds high above.

Catherine adjusts her dragonhide bracers before she coils her hair back into a tight bun. Dragging the black hood of her cloak over her head, she bends down – peering over the cliff face at the open mouth of the cave below. White sea foam crashes over the jagged rocks, frozen mist reaching out toward her.

The ship had been settled far out past the shoreline for the past hour, barely disguised by the shimmers of a disillusionment charm. While it could fool the Muggles and possibly even a few of her kind, Catherine could always see past the usual constraints of normal magic. A gift, of sorts.

Now… if you asked her fellow professors, they would say her dueling days were well behind her after the fall of Ranrok. She had become a studious learner in the aftermath – diligent in her lessons. The fire that burned inside her had dampened and she was no longer a cause of concern.

If you asked her old classmates, they would say that she had quit after receiving her posting at the Ministry a year after graduating. She had devoted herself to the job, aspiring to become the next big name in creature care.

If you asked anyone in her personal circle, however, they would tell you a very different answer.

While Catherine Hart was known for being a carer of creatures of all breeds and dispositions, she was also a well-known, and very heavily despised, figure amongst poaching groups.

The English Fury, she was called across Europe.

Cánrěn de nǚwū – The Cruel Witch, in the Far East.

Keeper of Beasts, in South Africa.

And, her more recent title, Cadela Loira – The Blonde Bitch, in Brazil.

While her skills at fifteen had been remarkable, at the time, they had remained largely unrefined during her school years. There hadn’t exactly been a guidebook on her particular abilities, let alone how to control those powers. While Percival Rackham had given her as much advice as he could, there was a difference between theoretical studies and real-world application.

Her time at the Ministry had given her a small preview of what she could accomplish.

But her time alone, in the field? That was where her true abilities began to shine. Particularly when it came to poachers.

Catherine was not a cruel person, though some may have viewed her otherwise. The Unforgiveables would never pass through her wand so long as she still had breath left in her lungs. There was a delicate dance she managed now with her spellwork. And sometimes, the inability of a poacher to cast a quick enough Protego simply meant their downfall.

And though it had been five months since her last proper fight, she felt no apprehension in descending the cliffs when the ship anchored itself in front of the cave’s entrance.

She was not a fool anymore – that’s why she had bothered to alert Natty. She was twenty-eight, not immortal. She no longer carried the weight of the wizarding world upon her shoulders and she was all too well aware of her own mortality. She carried the scars to prove it, should anyone ask.

Crouched behind a jagged rock, she lays in wait as the ship’s crew begins to prepare for unloading.

“Homenum Revelio.”

Like radiant beacons of spirits, the men’s bodies light up under the detection spell. She counts thirteen on the boat alone.

Inexplicably small crates are levitated off the ship – disappearing further into the cave system. Her anger only increases once she catches the cries of distress over the thunderous crash of the waves.

One by one, she watches the boxes get offloaded. Forty-three in total. No larger than a typical house cat.

The lights dim from the ship and the crew begins to walk down the gangplank into the cave. Checking her pocket watch – 11:09 – she reaches into her bag and pulls out the last necessary brew. The shimmering silver swirls of the Invisibility potion are indefinitely easier to swallow than the Polyjuice. At once, she disappears from view and makes her way down to the cave.

Gripping her wand, she slithers along the damp cavern wall – the splash of frozen surf drenches her clothes in icy seawater, but she bites her tongue and keeps pressing forward. Up ahead, the rowdy chatter of men around an open fire garners her focus. There were roughly twenty of them sitting around, digging into their meal.

Looking back towards the emaciated Hippocampuses, she aims her wand and silently casts Diffindo at their chains. The removal of the magically enhanced bonds makes the collars around the beasts’ necks unclasp leading to happy neighing as the dozen or so creatures dive back into the sea.

Sweeping her gaze across the cave, she spots three men in front of the large stacks of wooden crates.

“Bloody beast don’t know what’s good for him,” one says with a bark of laughter as he kicks the box with his boot.

Inching closer, though hidden behind a large stack of empty iron cages, she aims her wand at the three oblivious guards.

“Obdormiscere,” she whispers, repeating the enchantment for each man.

The first begins to sway on his feet, the second yawns loudly with a stretch, and the third leans against a crate before they all slowly sink down to the wet cavern floor in a deep slumber.

Luckily for Catherine, this doesn’t raise the suspicion of the others around the fire, as she quickly crosses the cave toward the crates.

She lets out a soft whistle as she scans each box. Again and again, waiting for the familiar echo – but only the distressing whines and howls of captured beasts can be heard. She sadly pats one crate with her palm.

“You’ll be out of here soon, I promise.”

With a soft utterance of Protego placed around the crates, she takes a breath. Turning her attention toward the other poachers, she raises her wand – her blue eyes hardening to an ominous dark ink as she points the tip at the ceiling directly over their fire.

“Bombarda.”

The resulting BOOM and crashing of shattered rock sends the men flying and she can’t help but let out a pleased grin as the effects of her potion wear off and she drops her hood.

“Depulso!”

Aesop had just finished his meal and had watched his plate disappear from the table when several owls soared down into the Great Hall. While receiving post was rare on a Sunday, there was a particular occasion for anything to be delivered. His familiar Great-Horned owl came along to drop a bundle down on the table before he flew off to the rafters.

He unties the string around his rolled-up edition of the Evening Prophet and begins to read over the major headlines. Further down the staff table, Shah and Aragon are also perusing their own copies.

The usual fare of Ministry dealings covers the front page, while, on the second, something of a new interest captures his attention. His eyes dart over the lines with keen interest.

With a huff, he lowers the paper and directs it towards his seated companion.

“Point of interest for you, Hart.”

“Hmm?” the young witch glances up from her steak and kidney pie, her cheeks puffed up with her bite. With a sheepish look, she quickly swallows and grabs hold of the page. Her eyes dart across the paper before they’re directed by the gentle tap of his finger.

“Poaching Ring discovered in Northern Hamlet?”

Aesop hums in a gravely tone, leaning over to stare at the article alongside her, “It appears the Auror department uncovered them just last night – some fifty exotic beasts were in tow.”

“Poor things,” she murmurs. Her dull eyes glimmer down the lines as she absorbs the entry. “An Erumpent? Six Occamys? Runespoors? A bloody Sphinx?” At the slip, she quickly covers her mouth and offers an embarrassed sorry.

He clears his throat, “Off to be sold for bits and pieces, I imagine.”

She nods, glancing back at him as she returns the paper, “They’re not exactly well-known for being particularly good house pets, no. Shame it doesn’t say what happened to the poachers though.”

Folding the paper in half and flipping the page to the upcoming Quidditch matches, he merely adds, “Likely off being questioned and booked. The article didn’t mention any fatalities, surprisingly. They must have a new code of ethics at the Auror office.”

Hart gives a snort of amusement, making him raise his brow. But she just shakes her head and returns to her meal. He misses the creeping smile that crosses her lips as she raises her goblet to them. A certain glimmer in her unusually dark eyes.

Aesop reads his fill of articles and opinion pieces before he folds the paper onto the table. With a tired groan of discomfort, he manages to stand from his chair – offering a parting word to his colleagues – before he begins to head back to his quarters for the night.

He does notice the young professor slyly draw the evening paper closer to her, unfurling the neat creases, and staring quite intently at a particular article. But he thinks nothing of it as he passes the Slytherin table – instead concerning his thoughts to a stack of sixth-year essays that were still awaiting him at his desk.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

[unnursvanablog]

The movies I watched in 2023

and what I thought of them....

See How They Run: It was a pretty solid movie to start the movie watching for the year. It had fun characters, a nice mystery and just had a really good style to it that I really enjoyed. Just charming overall.

Pinocchio (2022): I loved all those old-feeling special effects, all the props, scenery and costumes in this film. The film felt sincere and imaginative, which I would expect from an Italian film that was almost reclaiming its own fairytale from Hollywood.

The Menu: Some of the speculations and comments that the film presents might sometimes feel a bit stilted at times, but the film certainly offers a fun black comedy with interesting plot twists that you can't exactly foresee as you watch it, and the cast is wonderful.

Troll:  the action was fun, and I enjoyed the folktales and myths features of the story, but damn the plot was so predictable and the clichéd dialogue was so heavily styled from some heroic Hollywood movie that doesn't work in a Nordic film.

Banshee of Inisherin: An incredibly personal, quiet and interesting film that ends up being slightly lengthy at times.

Mr. Malcolm's List:  I adore being immersed in this kind of costume-drama and this movie kind of checked most of the boxes I want to be ticked when it comes to a romance costume drama of this kind. A very fun watch.

Good Luck to You, Leo Grande: A sincere, humorous, and interesting character story about an older woman experiencing her own body and such things for the first time in her life.

Wakanda Forever: I just thought it was nice, and it's certainly not as formulaic as most of those marvel movies that are coming out right now. But it didn't move me as much as I thought it would.

Viking Wolf: everything about this movie was pretty predictable and typical of such a monster movies. I was a bit bored.

Volaða Land: A rather slow, bitter and sad film, which is totally in the spirit of the subject matter and there are a few humorous scenes in between to break it up, but I still thought it was a bit too long.

Sisu: Incredibly fun action and bloodshed and although the scenarios often felt a bit unrealistic it does feel part of the fun and the film is very exciting and time flies by while you're watching it.

Coccaine Bear: The trailer for this film made it look a lot more fun than it turned out to be. I was tired of the humor present there after about half an hour.

Dungeons and Dragons – Honor Among Thiefs: funny and just the fine little adventure film. I didn't expect it to go super deep on the characters or anything. It is just such a fun popcorn movie, and I was happy with that.

The Last Kingdom – Seven Kings Must Die:  I watched this one with one eye open, not really caring about any of it, but I was just trying to finish it off so I could finally see how the tv show that preceded this movie was going to end.

Nimona: Followed the comic very well and expanded on it and just was one of the most entertaining animations I have seen in a while. There is good humor in it, and the characters are awesome. Loved the animation as well.

Indiana Jones 5: This is just a fun Indiana Jones movie. That’s pretty much it. Maybe the third best Indiana Jones movie in my opinion. You basically get everything you want from Indiana in this one, even though Ford is getting a little tired and it shows.

Hansan – Rising Dragon: It's a grand and spectacular visual film that puts a lot of effort into everything but ends up being a little too long in my opinion.

Dream: While the film certainly has heart and humor, it still felt like the story was in a bit of a hurry to get to the finish line before it's completely earned it.

Harry Potter 7 and 8:  I started watching the first movie with my little niece and then she got into the books (before Rowling went full on terf) and I have sort of just allowed her to enjoy the world that I once found solace in. Now my little aunt had finished the last book and I kept my promise to her to watch the movies it with her once she did.

Lord of the Rings 2: My little niece was once too afraid to watch Lord of the Rings but before the summer she had watched the first one – just not with me. But she wanted to hold on to this until I came over to her part of the country in the summer so we could watch it together. Also this is my favorite of the Lord of the Rings movies.

Polite Society: a strange mixture of Bollywood splendor and very dry British humor that works so fantastically well. A cool action-comedy with very charming characters and all sorts of fun shenanigans and wonderful female friendships.

Zom 100 - Bucket List of The Dead: Japan and Korea seem to be far better at making zombie movies than the Americans. This one was so much fun, before it lost its steam.

Barbie: The only movie of the year I watched twice because it was just excellent entertainment. Colorful and campy yet with a big heart and seemed to have something to say about the society we live in – although through a very narrow lens. Interesting and thoughtful, but sure was interesting that the one that got the most hype from the internet of such a female-centric film the main male character of the story. But that’s also telling of the society we live in.

Downton Abbey – New Age: Although I find the formula that these stories follow little tired now and you tell that from this film how some of the conversations and jabs and almost don’t come natural sometimes, I do think the characters are awesome and I've followed most of them for so long that they do have a dear place in my heart. Downton still makes me cry.

Ehrengard - The Art of Seduction: This film has its funny moments, and it is a fun little period piece. But Ehrengard, the title character, is more of a plot device than a character for most of the film, which I thought was a little silly.

The Last Voyage of the Demeter: A very good horror movie that made me cover my eyes and cry out as I sat alone in the movie theater watching it. Good horror, interesting characters, and thrilling storytelling. Great fun.

Sister Death:  It's has a really cool style to it, but that's kind of the only thing I thought the movie had going for it. There was something about it that made it difficult to follow the story, in my opinion.

The Marvels: It felt like another draft of a script that had been written with the same old story structure that Marvel still hasn't updated in a long time. It still somewhat works, but it's also really predictable and tired. I knew almost what each character would say before they said it, because Marvel has become a real cliché.

In Love and Deep Water: Just a really adorable Japanese romcom movie. Cute characters with a funny little murder mystery lurking around in the background. Just good fun.

We have a Ghost:  a fun idea and the cast was awesome, but wow this script felt stilted.

The Hunger Games – the Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes: Followed the book very well – I haven't read in years, so therefor I didn't do a proper review. There's a lot crammed in there in a rather short period of time, but I thought they were able to deliver Snow's character so the message of self-satisfaction and the promise of comfort and power trumps everything else for many people in this a position of privilege, even if other people suffer because of it. Did everything they needed to do.

This is Christmas: a cute little Christmas movie that, in a sense, is just a traditional romcom set around Christmas. But still it does manages to have a little more going for it than just two strangers falling in love around Christmas and I did enjoy the characters a lot.

1000 Miles from  Christmas: romcoms like this don't usually have the structure of pining and the buildup that I enjoy in a romcom. I thought things were happening a bit too fast here, but the story was adorable and the characters were fun though predictable. And although I thought all the little fact that one of the main characters 'hated Christmas' was a little overdone he didn't seem to be cured too swiftly of that ‘ailment’. But I would have liked more depth to it all, but there just wasn't time for that.

Monster: A heartwarming and heartfelt Japanese film where the three changing perspectives of the film keep surprising you until the very end without feeling too dramatic. Very attentive and compassionate.

[typing-noises]

mythological creatures (part 1)

hi guys, this is audrey and I am back :D it’s also me taking over for this week!! hereeee are some cool mythological creatures you could add to your wip…part 1’s focus will be some scandinavian, irish and japanese mythological creatures 🐍🧚🧟

scandinavian

elves: can take the form of dimunitive faerie spirits or tall, ethereal humanoids. associated with early morning mist or twilight specifically in swedish folklore. it’s said they dance in the low-lying mist during dusk or dawn and you can hear birdsong. little mushrooms sprout where their feet have danced.

fossegrimmen (norwegian)/strömkarlen (swedish): a water creature taking the form of a young man who sits naked while playing music on a fiddle underneath waterfalls. can teach humans how to play his music if they steal a piece of meat for him.

huldra (norwegian)/skogsrå (swedish): a forest creature who takes the form of a beautiful woman with an animal tail (often a cow or a fox tail) and a back resembling a hollowed out tree. known for being kind to charcoal burners by watching their kilns while they slept. some tales say that she seduces men by hiding her tail in a knot under her skirt.

kraken: giant, squid-esque monster from nordic folktales that can drown entire ships by wrapping its tentacles around them

lindwyrm/lindworm (danish): a limbless serpent that emits poison. grows fatter over time from the humans it consumes. legends say it likes coiling up around churches to prevent people from going to sermons.

trolls: forest dwellers with grotesque appearances; short limbs, slime-covered skin and fat bellies. known to live in family units inside caves or mountains. intrinsically connected to nature and not particularly aggressive towards humans but can be cunning tricksters.

valkyries: beautiful, female warriors who descend on battlefields to bring fallen warriors to valhalla (heaven promised to vikings)

irish

changelings: faerie babies that are swapped with human babies by faerie parents

banshee: a female figure who wails or shrieks to warn of an incoming death. can take various forms such as an old woman, a woman in white or a shroud, though it’s her wail and red eyes from weeping that can be used to identify her.

dobhar-chú: a half dog-half otter creature that lives in bodies of water and eats human flesh.

dullahan: a faerie that takes the form of a headless rider on a black horse. some folktales say that he uses a human spine as a whip and can foretell deaths – when he calls out your name, your death is imminent.

faeries: one of the most well-known creatures in irish folklore. they are split into two categories: unseelie faeries are known to be more troublesome while seelie faeries are more helpful towards humans.

fear gorta: legend emerged during the great irish famine in the 1940s. symbolises the spirit of starvation and takes the form of an emaciated, old man begging for food. generous passers-by are rewarded with good fortune

leprechaun: a small, humanoid being who loves being mischievous and playing tricks

pooka: a shapeshifter with bright, golden eyes who can transform into any form. it’s able to speak, confuse and terrify.

redcap: a malevolent goblin who can be found in castle ruins. described as taking the form of a short, old man. known for soaking his cap in the blood of unwary travellers who try to seek refuge in his lair.

japanese

tanuki: shapeshifting racoon-dogs known to be tricksters who enjoy playing pranks on and stealing money from passing travellers for fun

tsukumogami: household objects turned into spirits after acquiring a kami (spirit) of their own when living for 100 years. generally considered harmless but can be vengeful to the humans that abandoned them.

kappa: has amphibian and reptilian features – slimy, scaly skin in various shades of green, webbed toes and fingers. all kappa have turtle shells on their backs, beak-like mouths and are said to carry bowls on their heads with liquid inside that is said to be their life force. not necessarily friendly and known to lure humans into their rivers to drown them.

jorogumo: evil spider demons who disguise themselves as women to hunt for human flesh

kitsune: intelligent, mythical foxes with the ability to shapeshift. can be symbols of both good and evil in Japanese folklore. the most powerful kitsune were the nine-tailed foxes who had infinite knowledge. kitsune would grow a new tail for every 100 years they were on earth.

onryō: restless ghosts with long, unkempt hair and blue-tinted skin. driven by the desire to get revenge on people who did them wrong in their human life. reflect perceived wrongs, jealousies and crimes of passion.

that’s all for today! there’s still more that I haven’t covered yet…but part 2 👀 see you next time :)) - audrey

[cloudbattrolls]

Might Makes Wrong

Gliese Benral | Benral Hedge Maze | Present Night

Gliese, for all her tendency to snarl and slash at anything that threatened her, could be patient.

The blueblood could send her new necromantic constructs - far more hardy and mobile than her first ones, which had come apart with one good kick and and moved at a snail’s pace - out to patrol the corners of her hedge maze and report back to her. Creations of bone, magically improved dead flesh, and plants, they served her well.

She could have them trap a zombie, entangling her in thorny vines.

Gliese rode up to the struggling, flailing undead on her lusus, the psychic wearing a hard and satisfied grin.

“Well, well, well, look who we have here. The world’s shittiest undead. Any last words, chickie?”

Zeller looked at her with genuine fear in her mismatched eyes, her large ears pinned back.

“I don’t - I haven’t come close in weeks, love, what’s this about? I’ve hardly even seen Shedir lately…”

She sounded sad about it. Boo fucking hoo.

“Who cares?” Drawled the cuspy cerulean. “You’re here now, this is still my territory. I knew if I just waited a few weeks, your ugly mug would pop up again. Anyway, time to die, unless you do have some last words.”

“Wait!” said the woman, panicked. “I - I promise I was coming to tell you something helpful. About the mannequins.”

The hare troll’s eyebrows raised and she shifted her position on her lusus. The giant saber-toothed hare, despite his more limited expressions, looked just as dismissive as his charge. One lapine ear flicked idly as his daughter considered her captive’s words.

“Why?” Asked Gliese bluntly. “Why would you fucking bother? You know I want to kill you, and now I can, no matter what regeneration you have. As far as I’m concerned, I’m doing everyone a favor, especially me.” Her nose wrinkled as she recalled the undead’s attempts to flirt with her. Fucking gross.

“Please.” begged Zeller, some trace of an almost-familiar accent creeping back into her voice instead of the apparently false one she’d been using. What a dipshit poser.

“Please, the mannequins…you don’t understand how bad it is…you haven’t even been looking into it, have you? That other undead you were so busy with, oh my…I could feel him. Feel his power. A beacon…well, they’re like the hands of a beacon, but I scarce understand why or how.”

“Fuck’s sake, don’t be so cryptic.” Said the blueblood impatiently. “I don’t have all night. Really doing a shit job of convincing me to spare you.”

The plant zombies’ thorny vines gripped the lanky woman tighter and she cried out in pain.

“I’m not - not trying to be!” She said, almost sobbing. “It’s all terribly - augh - terribly tangled! I have trouble following it m-myself! P-please, just loosen…ack…l-loosen them a little…there’s a good girl…”

“Barf.” Said Gliese in disdain, but did so with a flick of her magic, a few blue lights swirling with the usual steady orange glow of her eyes.

“Thank you.” wheezed the zombie, her fancy clothing now mangled and shredded. “You really are…quite the stunner! Ha ha…I don’t mean that like I used to…no, you remind me of him…except better to look at, hahaha…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re crazy, I get it, now get to the point.” Snapped the highblood. 

“Am I so daft? I guess I am…well, who wouldn’t be…I think I’ve earned a little daftness, for little old me. Little old Zeller had to see trolls dragged away…learned the hard way it was nearly her, for once it was lucky I got my kill stolen! Oh, they like suffering, I think…suffering without cause…screaming and struggling. They remind me of him too…” She trailed off, staring into the hedges.

“Maybe if I had been more like him, I’d have lived! Hm. Or maybe I’d have died…there must have been others who died, it’s been so long, and Tuuya is so much older than me, I hear…”

Zeller said the worm swarm’s name in a strange way; half longing, half jealousy, with a craving that had an ache to it. 

Gliese’s glowing eyes narrowed.

“Okay, I really shouldn’t give a fuck, and I will probably regret asking, but what the hell is your deal with them? You don’t seem to have met them but you’re fucking obsessed. Why?”

The stitched-up undead gave a strange and terrible sad needle smile broken only by a small pair of buckteeth. Her short wavy hair was all askew from her rough treatment.

“Well, dearie, you could say we’re connected.”

Wait. She had teeth like - ears like - hair like - regenerated from fire like -

“Oh holy fuck.” Breathed the blueblood. “No way.” 

Zeller nodded as enthusiastically as she could while trapped by vines.

“God.” Gliese groaned. “I knew I’d regret asking because now I want to know. Now I have to let your dumb ass live a little longer.”

“Ehehehehee…” Zeller laughed giddily and slightly hysterically. “Hooked, hm? Like a little fish? Yes, yes, you’re right…but don’t think I’m the first. No, not me. I was the second…worse luck. The first was him.” She said, and her voice became dead and grim. 

“Him…I won’t speak his name. Maybe Tuuya has said it…let it grime their lips and tongue…I never will again. I didn’t want the face he gave me either, so I changed it, changed the horns too…oh, it helped not an ounce, it didn’t…not when he came calling.” Her voice wobbled with fear and weariness.

“Yeah that’s super sad.” Drawled Gliese uncaringly. “I’m guessing that was your ancestor? Tuuya’s never mentioned anything about theirs, so I’m still in the dark.”

“Good.” Murmured the undead. “Good…let his name die, like he must have if they are free…yes, my ancestor and theirs. The Lifeweaver. Ha! Should have called him Deathbringer…but he failed after all, because I came back! I came back…” her voice trailed off and she scratched at her neck stitches.

“Yaaaaaaay.” Said Gliese in the most sarcastic deadpan. “Hey, question. How come you’re not worms like they are?”

“Because I was a failure, love.” Said Zeller with a croaky little laugh. “The genetics all wrong…the integration a cock-eyed mess…I lived! I ran away…I had never really wanted it.” She gave a hiccupy little laugh, then shivered.

“He dragged me back to finish it anyway…that’s when it happened. Slept so long, no one was left when I woke…no one except the empire nosing around my cavern. Well, they weren’t nosing for long.”

She had a gleeful, hungry look in her eyes that reminded Gliese why she had to kill this piece of trash.

“Cool story! You won’t get to tell it again.” Commented the blueblood, commanding her own zombies to crush the disgusting undead.

Zeller screamed and begged, but it wasn’t the jadeblood’s pleas that stopped the vines from further tearing her body apart.

Gliese simply hesitated to throw away a potentially useful tool.

Yes, she could make good constructs now, but she wasn’t quite at the level of making sapient ones. Plus, it would be shitty to ask someone alive, someone who actually mattered, to endanger themself trying to investigate this thing. 

If anything happened to Zeller, who gave a damn?

“Okay, here’s how it’s going to go, so listen the fuck up.” She said, intent. 

The zombie swallowed and nodded. Many of her stitches had burst or ripped and were oozing grayish jade blood, her limbs holding on by shreds that were slowly beginning to weave back together. 

Not nearly as fast as Tuuya could, the psychic noted. Zeller really was just a clumsy prototype. No wonder the flamethrower had stopped her for weeks, though sadly not killed her. 

“You’re going to only feed on whatever dead people you can find. No killing to eat. I’ll be putting a sensor on you so I’ll know if you do.” She said, eyes narrowed. 

“You’re going to find out as much as you can about these mannequins and report back to me. I want it written up, too. We’re keeping records, we’re doing this right. Put a single fucking toe out of line, say any more gross shit to me, and I’m going to find out just how good your regeneration is.” Said the hare troll, soft and deadly. 

“O-of course, miss.” Croaked the zombie, ears fully down and flattened against her head.

“Cool, glad we got that sorted out.” Said the psychic casually, almost pleasantly. 

The spiky vines slowly released the undead, retracting into the constructs who had captured and held her.

Gliese snorted in amusement at the bedraggled, woebegone zombie trying to put herself back together with shaking limbs as she hopped off her lusus. 

She took a few steps toward Zeller and prepared to cast the sensor spell.

The constructs’ vines reached in again with a cerulean haze of magic and the jadeblood flinched, but they didn’t wrap around her this time. Instead a pair of them wrapped around her mangled wrist, their ends weaving something together, and then withdrew.

A blue flower - a forget-me-not on its own slender vine - now circled the undead’s flesh.

“Don’t think you can destroy it.” Said Gliese with a dark chuckle. “Or take it off. That thing’s magic and it’ll outlast even you. It feeds on the remains of your own meals, that’s how I’ll know if you try any shit. And if you do…” 

She looked meaningfully at the zombie’s slowly regenerating arms, riddled with puncture wounds.

Zeller nodded, still shaky. 

Gliese didn’t bother with a final remark. The psychic merely climbed back on her lusus, and urged the saber-toothed hare to turn around and take her hive.

[attzi-gearburst]

Day 4 - February 22: Distant (Iranji)

Word Count: 700 Summary: Iranji gets dragged out of an old memory. @daily-writing-challenge

Iranji was moving boxes out of the ship’s hold and down onto the docks, keeping a steady pace despite having been at it for nearly an hour. His fellow crew were doing much the same, though more than one side-eyed him as he tirelessly lifted, shifted, then repeated the work without so much as taking a break in between crates and barrels.

Finally, the quartermaster called him out. “Take a break, big guy! You want to go off drinking tonight that badly?”

“Nah.” Iranji shook his head, but set down his crate and stood next to her on the docks, where she was logging gear and equipment they were picking up. She laughed and looked up at him, expression amused. “Then what has you working so hard today?”

“Last stop before we head home. Get to see my girls soon.” Iranji grinned down at her, well aware that he looked at least slightly goofy.

She laughed again, and her expression turned from amused to oddly fond. “That’s right. I completely forgot that you’re a new father. This’s your first trip out since they were born, right? I remember we did at least one voyage without you. Maybe two?”

He nodded. “Stayed back when she was close to due, just in case. And then stuck around after, so she could heal.” 

And, honestly, so he could hold his daughters. Sometimes one in each arm, sometimes both in a sling across his chest while he helped his wife get back up and around. Her sister had been there, too, but had been far less interested in interacting with the girls. This had disappointed Iranji (though he hadn’t expected that the woman who had looked down on him for being a troll since the day they met to be any less racist towards his half-troll children). 

Something must have crossed his face, because the quartermaster’s expression softened further. “You miss them.”

He nodded, looking down at his hands. “Not sure I’m gonna be able to handle how big they got this voyage.”

“They grow fast,” she agreed. “But no matter how big they get, they’ll always be your babies.”

He raised a brow at her. “Speaking from experience?”

“Yeah. A boy and a girl, both old enough to have their own families by now.” Her expression turned wistful. “You do yourself a favor, Iranji. Take as much time with them as you possibly can.”

“Will do.”

He meant it. The thought of his girls being so far away from him made his chest ache. He desperately wanted to be home with them, watching them grow and learn. Rocking them to sleep, singing in the dark of their tiny house at Steamwheedle Port, was the thought that had gotten him through the entirety of this trade voyage so far.

****

“Iranji?” A hand rested on his shoulder, and he came back to himself with a soft gasp. He blinked, coming back to awareness, and looked down at the infant in his arms. These days, the distance between his girls and himself was vast enough that he doubted it would ever be crossed again, but…. 

He ran his thumb along the boy’s downy blonde hair. “Yeah? Sorry. Reliving old memories with your son.”

“Thank you for holding him while I unpacked. Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here with you?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Cap’n invited you herself. She loves kids.”

She sighed and nodded, and he watched the tension that had lived there for months finally ease from her shoulders. “And you’ll tell me, if you need space?”

“Plenty of places to sleep here, Beth.” She made a face, and he relented. “Yeah. But it’s gonna be fine.”

“Thank you, Iranji.”

He grinned and shook his head, then moved to carefully pass her son back over. “Nah. No need.”

While she snuggled her sleeping son, he looked around his quarters, thinking about what he was going to need to change for them. Another dresser. A crib. When the boy was bigger, soft padding for the furniture in case a wave hit wrong while he was toddling. 

Ira wasn’t his son. But he’d promised Tabitha that he’d take care of them both, and this time? 

This time he wasn’t going to be so distant. 

[windy-trickster]

⏰ Cervin, with also possibly a lil bit of Amdala? For the memory/past prompt (w/ the bonus) <:)

-> Small warning for blood + child abuse <-

Tears trickled down the face of a young Purpleblood girl, her arms bruised with little cuts and burns all over them, blood dripping down her arms from cuts left untreated by adults. A young Cervin sat beside his moirail, cleaning products scattered in front of him and a soft cloth in his hand. This sadly happened a lot to Amdala. Cervin's poor moirail was abused so much in her Clurch. All because she was a woman... "It's... It's okay, Ammie... I-I'll make sure you're all cleaned up! I promise! I-I always get you cleaned up whenever they hurt you... It's okay." Amdala, or "Ammie" as Cervin used to call her back then just sniffled and rubbed at her nose with her fist. Her Clurch makeup was getting all smeared from her overflowing tears. Cervin couldn't stand to see her like this. It hurt him to know there really wasn't anything he could do to help his moirail. He hated it, but he was a strong boy and knew Amdala needed him more than anything else right now. "It's okay, Ammie... Let the tears out, okay? You don't need to hide them when you're with me..." He smiled softly as he bandaged up his moirail's arms, making sure the wrappings weren't too tight before he leaned over and hugged onto the taller troll, closing his eyes. Amdala just hiccupped and hugged back tightly, squeezing Cervin a little. "Everything's going to be okay, Ammie.. I-I'll do whatever it takes to help you feel better... Some night... Some night you're gonna be old enough to get out of Clurch! And I'll be there for you when you do....! I promise!" "Do you mean that, Cervie...?" "Of course! I would never lie to you!" The little Blueblood pulled back and smiled at his moirail, holding her bruised up hands gently in his own. "And when you do. We can go get ice cream! And play as our little FLARP characters! I can get Falcon dad to act like a parrot too!" The two little trolls just giggled at each other before embracing each other once more as they sat outside on the front steps to Cervin's hive.

[reverend-dog]

Lady Belinda

A throng clustered in front of Marro Gate – mostly visitors and merchants, with a scattered few that bore the rough-and-tumble mien of sellswords. The gate’s portcullis was down, which accounted for the crowd, and the guards stood by attentively.

“There!” cried the watch captain, and pointed at the peach-colored wagon that approached. The squad pushed through the crowd to establish a cordon around the vehicle. Bystanders interrupted conversations and craned their necks to get a look at the cause of the disruption.

The driver’s appearance certainly should not raise such alarm. A human or humanoid female, the white streaks in her hair and wrinkles on her face showed her past her prime. Yet the lack of concern she showed her reception hinted that what she might lack in vitality, she compensated with wit. She puffed on her pipe and regarded the guards as they surrounded her wagon.

“Well,” the woman’s voice belied her years, strong and smooth with no rasp or creak of age. “This is more of a greeting than I usually get. The fine city of Balimpad that hard up for my wares?”

The watch captain bent a stern glare on the old woman. “You are the one known by some as… Lady Belinda?” Her tone made it more an accusation than a question.

The old woman’s smile faded, and she sucked on her pipe. “Oh shit,” she muttered. Louder, she admitted, “I -- I have answered to that name. Am I under arrest?”

The watch captain shook her head, the plume on her helmet swishing with the motion. “Arrest, no. But His Right Honor Magistrate Callus bids you grant him an audience, on a matter of urgency. We are to escort you to him directly.”

The old woman sighed. “Bound to happen sooner or later,” she muttered, then raised her voice again. “Well then, lead on, Captain! I promise I won’t break and run.” She added a grin to the vow.

The Marro Gate portcullis rumbled upward at a signal from the captain, and the cordon of guards kept close to the wagon as it trundled through the portal. The crowd took advantage of access being restored; most going about their own errands, but not a few following the peach-colored wagon and its escort, eager for any shenanigans that might occur.

At the city hall the parade stopped. The guard flanked the old woman as she clambered down, which earned them a measuring glance from their objective. “I hope some of you plan to stay and watch my cart,” she warned. “It’s only my livelihood, after all.”

Two of the guard were appointed to the task by the watch captain, which appeared to mollify ‘Lady Belinda.’ The rest accompanied her up the steps and into the building.

His Right Honor Magistrate Hamish Callus presided at the head of a crescent-shaped table. Flanking him on either side sat members of high-ranking families, merchant lords, and local celebrities: the Balimpad City Council. “Lady Belinda,” Magistrate Callus hailed as the old woman ambled into the council chamber. “Thank you for granting us this courtesy. It is the fervent hope of this august council that with your sage -- “

“Midge.”

Hamish Callus blinked in interrupted verbosity. “Beg pardon?” he stumbled.

“Midge,” the old woman repeated. “Short for Margaret. That’s my name. Lady Belinda,” she sighed and threw her arms in the air. “I thought it was a joke!”

Glances passed between council members, full of confusion and anxiety. “If your Ladyship – if you would favor us with an explanation?” Hamish Callus begged.

“You first,” Midge riposted. “How did you hear about Lady Belinda?”

“Your Majesty!”

Windows rattled with the force of the roar, and some council members jumped in their seats. Midge clapped her hands to her face. In the middle of the chamber, from a burst of smoke and fire, appeared a collection of monsters. Orcs. Kobolds. Gnolls. Trolls. Goblins, hobgoblins, bugbears. An azer provided transportation, which provoked coughing spasms among the council.

“Your Majesty,” repeated a brawny female orc, “we have come to your defense! Word reached us of your arrest, and we stand ready to -- “

“Stop!” Midge shouted. “I’m not under arrest! Right?” She looked to Hamish Callus for confirmation, and the magistrate managed an affirmative shake of his head. “What have you been doing?” she demanded. “How did these people hear about me?”

“Since your coronation,” the orc related, “we have heeded your command. Rather than attack and pillage, we have tried to engage in friendly traffic. Alas, our overtures have been misunderstood, both due to past misdeeds and current prejudices. When an unarmed group of pilgrims was set upon, their only defense was to invoke your name.” The orc averted her eyes, and the council witnessed perhaps the most rare vision in their lives: an embarrassed orc. “In order to lend credence to our claim, we told them your route and how to recognize you.”

Midge turned her glare on Magistrate Callus. “You attacked an unarmed group?”

“Of werewolves!” interjected another council member. “They were howling at the moon!”

“They were worshiping!” the orc countered. “They meant no harm!”

“Enough!” Magistrate Callus roared, and banged his gavel. “Lady – Midge, it appears you do have some influence with these – groups. Can you offer an explanation?”

Midge pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not really complicated,” she offered. “Trading’s been so slim with the allied races lately, I decided to try my luck among the monster nations.” She raised her hands for emphasis. “Turns out, they’re no so different, a few bad apples aside. Most of them just want the same thing as anybody, to live their lives.” She shrugged. “I just treated them like any other potential customer. Made such an impression on them, they asked me to be their envoy to you folk. Then one of them dug up an ancient law -- “

“Monsters have laws?” a council member blurted, then cowered in his seat as several monsters glared at him.

“This law,” Midge continued, “said that only royalty can treat with foreign nations, especially if there’s a history of violence. So they held a coronation.” She glanced at the monsters. “Now, this all happened while we were all pretty toasted, and by the time I came to, they’d all had to go home, so I just figured it for a drunken prank.”

The assembled monsters collectively gasped. “Please, your Majesty!” the orc begged. “We would never jest about our Lady Belinda, the Bright and Lovely Serpent!”

“So,” Hamish Callus enunciated in measured, deliberate tones, “you are… Queen of the Monsters?”

Midge looked at her subjects, smiled at the council, and shrugged. “Looks that way.”