#verse: sallow hills

[smoakandstar]

a real fucking legacy | mia + bucky

@redeemablesoldier

Mia crashed hard the night after the fire and slept through half the next day. Her throat still felt raw from the smoke, her muscles aching from the effort of helping drunks out of the building. Nobody had been seriously hurt. Her father would have been proud, and that stung more than the fresh burn on her arm. She could feel it closing in on her as she paced around her empty room. Without a shift to work that evening, she felt restless and adrift, and the longing to be out of Sallow Hills was stronger than ever--as was the bitter knowledge that she truly was stuck here.

She made regular use of the gym in town, but as long as the weather cooperated, she preferred the woods. It was quieter and had less traffic, with one or two obvious exceptions. Steve and Bucky knew where she trained and sometimes stopped by to say hello when they heard her out there. She'd been methodically shooting arrows and throwing knives for at least an hour, her muscles burning in protest, before her feelings finally caught up with her. The Prince was gone. Her dad was gone. Her hopes of getting back to her brother again might as well be gone too.

She'd have denied sitting on the freezing ground and sobbing like a child to anyone who asked, but she was too deep in her meltdown to even look up at the sound of footsteps. She had no doubt Bucky could sneak up on her if he wanted, and she recognized his deliberate steps. If someone had to witness her falling apart, he was probably the least offensive option. There was something dadlike about both of the soldier mechanics, and she had a feeling they would have made easy friends with Oliver.

--

He’d been concerned after the fire at the Prince, glad to know that Mia hadn’t been seriously physically hurt. The rest was up for debate, but he doubted that she would really show anyone that she was hurting if she could avoid it. With what he’d learned of her, he figured that she would make her way to the woods when the lack of a work shift got to her, so he made his way where he knew he would find her.

The sound of sobbing made his heart wrench, but he didn’t quicken his steps in worry. It would do no good here. Instead, he made himself absolutely, clearly known, taking careful steps that made noises with each one that she would hear. He made his way to her and crouched down in front of her, within reach but not invading her space.

“I’m here,” was all he said, but he knew it was probably all that he actually needed to say. It wasn’t a small offer, not when he was making it. Slowly, he reached out to brush a hand lightly over her hair with a soft question, “May I?”

--

She hadn't expected it to hit her so hard. It shouldn't hurt so much to lose some random job in a town she didn't even want to stay in, but Mia knew it was more than that to her. The Prince was the only place in Sallow Hills where she really felt like herself and like no one expected anything different from her. She didn't have to pretend to be happy or heroic or anything else.

She also knew that if that was the only thing, she wouldn't be crying about it. This had much more to do with Oliver than it did with the fire. Everything she hadn't allowed herself to feel since the funeral was welling up inside of her, sharp-edged and ugly. It refused to be shoved back down again, even when he knelt in front of her.

If anything, the offer just made her cry harder. She nodded without looking up, not moving out from under that soft touch. She hadn't given Bucky--or anyone here--any reason to be that kind to her. She didn't deserve it, but she didn't have the energy to keep pushing everyone away right now.

--

His heart ached for her, the normally angry and fierce young woman finally letting herself feel something. It was hard to hold up a front sometimes, and all it ever took was one real trigger. He’d had his own meltdowns in similar fashion. All the physical exertion and ignoring it in the world wouldn’t help for long.

Seeing her nod, he shifted to sit next to her, his hand never breaking contact with her. “Come here,” he murmured, his hand drifting softly over her hair in comfort. He had done it before with Rey, and long, long ago with his sister. Everyone needed a safe place and a person to turn to. If she was going to let him be that for her, even for a moment, he would.

--

Mia could handle a lot, but someone being kind to her in the middle of her breakdown wasn't one of those things. If he'd yelled at her, she could have gotten angry, and that would have been so much easier. Instead, she just had to feel this, all the way through. She leaned against him, tucking her face into his shoulder as she cried. She imagined it was how being comforted by a dad would feel, but she wouldn't know. Oliver hadn't been there for most of her life, and never for anything like this.

There was something black and awful rising up in her, the source of all this pain. She couldn't stop it from coming out, but still, it felt like choking on the words, like she was pulling out something sharp that had been lodged deep for a long time. Nevermind that she'd never once mentioned the Green Arrow to anyone in Sallow Hills, and there was no context for this conversation. Then again, Mia had daddy issues written all over her.

"Why did he have to die?" she sobbed, clinging to him. "I just got him back. Why did he care more about being a hero than being my dad? He'd rather die for the whole world than stay alive for me." She wasn't being fair; she knew that. A whole world against one sad little girl would never balance. But he'd always made that choice. It was the reason she'd grown up without him. Why did it always have to be him? Why couldn't he choose her, just once?

--

He waited patiently for her to choose to curl into him, hoping she would take at least some of the comfort he was willing to give her. When she tucked her face into his shoulder, his arm slid around her while the other slid over her hair. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn just how much she had buried, how much she hadn’t really dealt with. Trauma was nothing easy to process even if you wanted to.

Staying silent, he let her get it out, just making sure he held tight to her. Sometimes the hardest thing to process was someone actually being there for you when you weren’t used to it. His throat went tight with the realization that she was the daughter of someone like Steve, someone so good that they made the hard sacrifices. It made him that more determined to stay as retired as the universe would let them.

“I’m sure he wanted to be with you, sweetheart, more than anything. But if the choice was him or you, that’s no choice,” the words were a soft murmur into her hair. “He chose you, in the hardest way, I bet. I’m sorry he’s not with you. It isn’t fair to you, at all.”

--

Even if Mia had wanted to face this, there hadn't been time. She'd barely made it through Oliver's funeral before she was here. She'd thrown all her energy into escaping instead of grieving, and she'd failed at both. It should have been William and her mom, all of them holding each other other through this. Instead, she was at the mercy of kind strangers, but at least they were kind.

Steve and Bucky had hero type written all over them, Steve especially. It had made her resistant to their offers of friendship, but it was really hard not to like them, even for Mia who didn't want to like anyone. "He never chose me. It wasn’t supposed to be him. Someone else could have..." It came out a broken sob because even Mia knew it couldn't have been anyone else. It was why she hated the whole hero deal. They were made like that, so ready to die for the right cause instead of living for their families.

"I barely got to know him," she whispered, wiping away tears with the back of her hand, more seeping out to take their place. "He died when I was a kid. When my brother and I got sent back, I thought maybe..." She thought maybe they'd have a chance to change it, and they had. Everything had changed, except that. Even venturing into Purgatory for Oliver's soul hadn’t changed anything in the end. "I thought we could be a family."

--

His heart ached harder for her and it made him selfishly glad that he and Steve hadn't had the opportunity for anything like a family until they were all but forced into retirement by a bubbled town in Wales. She deserved to have her actual family to grieve with her, rather than someone she didn't want around, but he was who was there. The least he could do was grieve for her and support her however much she might let him.

"What would the world, your life, have become if he hadn't?" The question was soft and careful, wanting to try and figure out how best to help get her through this. He knew that he would sacrifice himself time and time again for the people he loved if it meant their world stayed intact and safe, that they stayed safe.

He held her just a little tighter, reaching a hand to gently brush tears away and keep her hair from getting stuck. "I'm sorry that your second chance didn't work out the way you hoped."

[hollowpillow]

╔═.✾. ═  LOG *** :  blue sargent  |  demifemale, she/they |  21 years old.

Just spotted JANE BLUE around town.  Our records show that they remember [fake memories] from their source : the raven cycle (canon).   They were first spotted in MAY 2022 and our best guess is that their last memory would be loosing sight of Gansey just as they were about to meet up with Ronan and Adam in Sallow Hills.  Archivists watching them state that they still have the a walking amplifier; sensibly eccentric; the fated page of cups; patchwork dresses; you can borrow my energy vibe about them.

━  from Armes E. Sallow’s  personal archives. ═.✾. ═╝ ↳・゜lydia graham .

  ↳・゜pico de gallo (she/her). 26. cest.

↳・゜Blue came to Sallow along with Gansey, Ronan and Adam to look for Glendower. At least, that was the plan. A few mishaps later, some splitting up, and Blue walked across the border to Sallow Hills all on her own, suddenly overcome with a feeling that she was supposed to be doing something, without being able to remember what. Blue now has false memories of their life, and doesn’t remember their friends or their mission. What they do remember (however false), is that they came to Sallow Hill for a job, and to start a new life.

TAL:  Right, thanks for sittin' down with me.  Can ya tell me your name and where your from?

No problem. My name is Blue Sargent, and I'm from Henrietta, Virginia. That's in the US.

TAL:  Thank you. We've got lots of people from the US, so you won't be alone in that.  Can ya tell me what the last thing you remember from your home is?

Yeah, leaving to go here. Sorry, what was this for again?

TAL:  Sorry, I know it's a weird question.  We've got a history of memory loss in this town so we like to try to make sure everyone's feeling alright.  Have you been feeling like your memory is blurry or like there's bits you don't remember?

[she frowns a little, eyebrows furrowing. When they replies, it's a little hesitant.] No, I remember everything.

TAL:  Right, well if ya start feeling off, there's some people at the hospital who are well versed in this kinda stuff.  Remind me, how long have you been in town?

Okay, right. Uh, six months.

TAL:  Not too bad.  Are ya feeling settled?  Is there anything me or town hall can do to help you feel settled?

No, I don't think so? That's very nice of you, though. I've got a job, place to live, the normal things.

TAL: That's good! Where are you workin?

Oh! I work at the food bank.

TAL:  That's super cool!  It's definitely a feature o' this town I love.  Right, questions.  My boss has a whole list for me.  What do you think was the strangest thing you saw before comin' to this town?

Your boss seems a touch too interested in the people here.

TAL:  Yeah well, she'd say it was to preserve the history o' our town for future generations.

Weird questions for that purpose. Weirdest thing I ever saw? I don't know. My whole life would probably fall into that category.

TAL:  We get that a lot, honestly.  I do a lot o' organizing and transcribin' and people just say that.  We'll skip ov'r it.  Can ya tell me, do you believe in the magical, spiritual, or mythical?

Yeah, I do. Those things tend to find me before I go looking for it.

TAL:  Well that's good you believe, cuz we certainly have our own collection of weird things in this town.  I hope none o' them give you a hard time.  Right my boss wants to know what kinda traits your loved ones would give to you.

What kind of weird things? [a pause] They'd say I'm sensible.

TAL:  Magical and mythical beings o' all times.  More recently, rips between our world and the Otherworld.  And sensible is a good thing to be.  Is there anythin' else you'd like to say?

No. I don't think so. Is there anywhere I can find any information about that. The rips and the Otherworld?

TAL:  Not much that's been put out to the public.  But I'm sure if ya ask around a bit.

Right. Thanks.

[themightyhercules]

herc & tia

@tianabenoit

It had taken a little while, but Tia thought she had mostly managed to shake off the holiday melancholy. Her gift to herself, for a few weeks at least, was to take it easy and not work both jobs every day. She didn’t do idle well, though, but it meant she got time to just cook for the fun of it. Juggling a few bags of groceries on her hips, she sang softly to herself while she walked.

A thought occurred to her and she stopped for a moment. “Who in the world am I gonna cook for?” She could only eat so much by herself, and she always preferred to cook for more than just one person. Having spent so long doing exactly that in her time here hadn’t been fun, but she’d gotten very good at measuring things out for one. There were bonuses, she supposed.

--

It had been strange not to go home for the holidays, but if Hercules was being honest with himself, there had been no real desire to leave. He didn’t really miss it, and it was expensive as Hades to fly overseas. He was happy to stay in the tiny fire station and give the others a chance to stay home with their families, and if it was lonely, you couldn’t prove it by Herc. It looked more or less like the rest of his life.

He was not following the woman out of the grocery store. Honest, he would never stalk someone. He was just heading in the same direction, and kind of enjoying her singing from a distance. When she paused, he thought maybe it was because she was struggling with the bags, and offered a friendly smile. “Need a hand with those?”

--

Hearing a voice come up at her side, she turned to meet it and had to pause a little bit. That smile in that face, well she was only human really. “I think I’m okay,” which proved to be a lie as one of the bags slipped from its admittedly precarious perch on her hip and she shifted to try and catch it. She blew out her breath and tried not to grumble at herself.

“Okay… maybe I could use a hand,” she admitted softly. She absolutely detested ever asking for help but knew how when she actually needed it. She gave him a small, soft smile, “Thank you, really. I’m Tiana… Tia.”

--

Herc tried not to look too skeptical as one of her bags tried to escape, but his emotions tended to show on his face. Some people didn’t want help in general, and some didn’t want his help specifically, and he tried not to be offended either way, since it usually wasn’t about him. Even if it was, he couldn’t do anything about it.

He’d call that acceptance grudging at best, but at least she wasn’t telling him to mind his own fucking business. “Hercules. Nice to meetcha, Tiana. That’s a real pretty name.” With her help, he carefully shifted some of the heavier-looking bags to his own arms. “Where ya headed?”

--

She gave him a small, soft smile, “Nice to meet you too, Hercules. Oh, uh, thank you.” She helped shift bags around and immediately let out a relieved sigh at the loss of weight. “Okay, maybe I tried to overdo it.” She rolled her shoulders a little with a soft huff of laughter at herself. “Nothing new there.”

The question made her consider him very seriously before she mentally scolded herself. “Down at the end off Gwledda Drive,” she tipped her head in the direction at the opposite end from Lawson’s. She’d been drawn to this part of town so often while she had stayed at the bed and breakfast, the woman there helping her feel surprisingly comfortable. “You are definitely not from here either,” she mused as they started to walk, her Cajun accent drifting out.

--

It was easy to return that smile, but that was almost always the case for Hercules, even if hers was too pretty by half. “Happens to all of us. Havin’ a party?” It was hard to imagine all of that food was for one person. He lived alone and could put away a lot, so he had some idea of the usual haul.

He recognized the look because he’d gotten it before. He was big and didn’t even have to scowl to look intimidating, and some people stayed out of his way before he ever opened his mouth. “Take ya as far as you want,” he offered, more softly. If she wanted to keep him from her house, he wouldn’t be offended. It was basic stranger safety. He fell into step beside her with a shake of his head. “No, ma'am. Moved here from Iowa about a year ago.”

--

The question made her laugh softly and remember her initial problem that had snowballed into nearly dropping bags. “No, not much of a party person,” she admitted with a little shrug and a shake of her head. “I just always cook entirely too much food. That was actually why I had stopped. My brain was asking questions I didn’t have the answer to.” Why was she rambling? Tia didn’t ramble, it wasn’t what she did. But she also didn’t usually carry on conversations with unfairly handsome, ridiculously kind and polite men. She took a deep breath and mentally chided herself again.

She knew that she shouldn’t let him walk her all the way home, but she didn’t get the feeling that there was anything for her to worry about from him. She considered herself a good judge of character and it hadn’t let her down yet. “You’re fine, cher. Somehow, I get the feeling you’re not a serial killer,” she teased him gently, smiling up at him. “You moved here?” Her head tipped in curiosity, “What brought you from Iowa to Wales?”

--

“No?” He couldn’t stop the curiosity that crept into the question. She was beautiful and obviously kind. It was hard to imagine she didn’t get invited to parties, so it must have been a choice. Hercules wouldn’t call himself a party person either, but it wasn’t clear if that was because he didn’t like parties or because he didn’t have any friends. That didn’t seem to be something to say out loud to a pretty girl though.

“You must like it, then,” he guessed. Her rambling made him smile. He’d never been much to brag about in the kitchen, but he could handle the basics. “Nah, but that’s exactly what a serial killer would say.” He shrugged, chuckling. She’d never be anything but safe with him. Herc was a big ‘ol softie inside, but he looked scary enough to keep away most things that would try to threaten people walking home alone. “I ask myself that all the time,” he laughed, shaking his head. “I have no idea. Just passin’ through, and then a job opened up, I guess. What about you?”

--

She couldn’t stop the little laugh that escaped her, so much like the few of her friends when they’d all first met. Lottie had always been the one for a party and she threw some of the best. It never failed to cause her to be teased or mocked endlessly for her choice to work instead. “No,” she confirmed with a little shake of her head, “No parties for me.”

“I love cooking,” she admitted, her smile brightening, “Eventually, I’m going to open my own restaurant.” A bright peal of laughter escaped her, her eyes widening in surprise at the sound of it. “I suppose it is.” She looked soft and sweet, but she swang a mean skillet when she was pushed. Blinking at the information, she let out a quiet hum of contemplation. “So you stayed? So far from home?” It was so drastically different from her experience that she didn’t quite trust it. “It’s complicated. I definitely didn’t choose it.”

--

“Oh yeah? That’s awesome. What kinda restaurant is it?” Food was definitely a way to Herc’s heart, but really, what wasn’t? He typically wore it on his sleeve. He admired the way she just said it so plainly and confidently, like it was a thing that would happen. He’d never felt that way about anything until he started working at the fire station, and that had mostly been an accident. He hadn’t really worked for it. He’d just wandered in and decided to stay.

He liked the sound of her laugh. It was kind, and he could tell she wasn’t laughing at him, so that was a nice change. He hesitated over the question, never sure quite how to answer that one. “Never felt much like home, I guess,” he said finally, shrugging. It was hard to explain because his adoptive parents were perfectly nice people. He knew he hadn’t exactly been an easy kid, but they loved him, and he loved them. He just didn’t miss any part of that life, except maybe his grumpy trainer. “But you stayed too, so I guess there’s somethin’ about it.”

--

She liked the way he phrased it: is it, not do you want, or will it be. “Cajun,” she said proudly, a little smile and a tip of her chin accompanying the word. After losing everything from home, starting over in a new place with nothing and no one, she was more resolved than ever to get her dream. It was the one connection she had to home, to her family, and if she never left here, she knew she was going to need it.

Hearing the hesitation, her eyes lingered on him, soft and gentle in her patience. It really wasn’t an easy question for a lot of people in this town, she figured. “Home, but not home?” She hummed softly, “Home because it’s where your family was, but the place wasn’t where you wanted to be? Or?” She couldn’t explain all the questions, what made her want to know. Maybe it was the softness in all of that, but so far, he was also easy company. His musing made her chuckle and she tried not to let it sound annoyed or sad. “There’s somethin’ alright.”

--

“Never had it. Not a whole lotta variety in farm country.” He smiled, shaking his head. His hometown pretty much had a diner, a gas station, and a fast food restaurant. In hindsight, a part of him thought maybe he should have done some more traveling before he settled here, saw more of the world, but he supposed there was nothing stopping him if he decided he wanted to. It just never sounded like much fun on his own.

“Not sure anywhere ever felt like home,” he admitted, shrugging. He didn’t mind the questions, and he was pretty forthcoming as a general rule. Tiana was nicer than most though, and she seemed genuinely interested in the answers. He found himself wanting to know more about her too. “My adopted parents did the best they could. I wasn’t exactly an easy kid,” he chuckled softly. “I love ‘em, but they’ve got their life, and I’ve got mine. Expensive as Hades to fly over an ocean, too. What brought you here?”

--

She chuckled softly, “It’s okay. A lot of people here have never had it. It’s a lot of comfort food with a kick.” It was one of her favorite things in the world, introducing people to Cajun food for the first time. The skepticism was always so clear, and she could understand it. But Southern food was built on it, and it had been perfected in Cajun. That blend of Creole and Southern and something so unique that it couldn’t be duplicated was precious to her.

A soft smile made its home on her face, and she kept the sadness for him tucked away. “Sometimes that’s just how it goes,” she mused softly. She wanted him to keep talking, wanted to know about him. “You’re adopted?” It added context to everything else. “Nothing wrong with that. Love doesn’t always keep people together, and it shouldn’t. I think we’re always supposed to grow, even if it is beyond the people who raised us.” As much as her heart was in her roots, being away had strangely helped her. “I couldn’t even begin to tell ya. The town itself, I guess.”

--

“Don’t usually have a problem with food of any kind,” he chuckled. Herc was the furthest thing from a picky eater, and he was sure he’d find something to like about it. “What got ya interested in starting your own place?” He was nowhere near that driven, or maybe it was just that he’d never had the kind of clarity on what he wanted that Tiana had. He didn’t mind working hard for something, but figuring out what he actually wanted was a challenge. Figuring out whether that was good for him or not was even more challenging. He had a history of being very wrong about that, enough that he didn’t totally trust his own judgment.

“I was just a baby. Never met my birth parents.” He nodded, not sounding any particular way about it. He’d tracked down his father when he got older, but he’d never met the man. He was some rich big shot, and it was obvious Hercules had never been wanted there, so he let it go. “That’s a nice way of puttin’ it.” He smiled, her words so much prettier than his that he couldn’t help but be impressed. She seemed to understand perfectly about that relationship too, and that was unusual. “It ain’t so bad. Could definitely use another restaurant though.” He grinned easily, already looking forward to it. It might not be home, but it was home for now, and he had an odd fondness for it.

--

She always loved meeting people who were willing to try any kind of food. It made something about it fun for her, seeing how different people reacted to different foods. “My daddy,” she admitted softly. “When I was little, we used to always talk about having our own place. Bringin’ people together, uniting them with something happy and filling.” Her voice was a little dreamy, a little bit of that softness she’d had as a little girl on a stool in the kitchen seeping out.

“That’s unfortunate. Your adoptive parents seem like they did well with ya,” she admitted, her eyes drifting to him with a soft, easy smile. She didn’t often simply carry on conversations with people anymore, after all. She couldn’t help the quiet laugh, “I think my Mama woulda gone crazy if I’d stayed home and kept on like I was. She was always pesterin’ me about a life I wasn’t even tryin’ to build.” She’d wanted her to grow past their family, Tia knew that. “No… it’s not bad at all. Places always need more, different food.”

--

“That sounds real nice. He here with ya?” It was easy to smile at the way she spoke about it, her dad and food and her restaurant, and easy to see why she felt so strongly. He couldn’t really relate to any of that. His parents hadn’t passed on a whole lot to him, except maybe his mother’s love for Greek mythology. He was still fond of the stories, and he found her expressions slipping into his speech from time to time.

“Best they could. I didn’t make it so easy on ‘em,” he chuckled softly. Herc tried to be good, but he wasn’t very lucky. Trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went, in one way or another. Sallow Hills was the closest he’d come to anything like peace, maybe ever. “Sounds familiar. Sure she just wanted the best for ya.” Her mother sounded nice, and a lot like his own. He knew they meant well, even if they sometimes missed the mark.

--

Her smile immediately turned a little sad at his question and she shook her head. “Nah,” she said softly, “My daddy died when I was little. Off fightin’ in a war for other people.” She had never been mad about it, understanding that a soldier was a soldier. “But we’d talked about it for as long as I could remember. And I remember nights in our neighborhood when we all came together and the only reason we all got a full meal was because of each other.” It had happened more than once, where everyone had supplied different parts of their meal and they all managed to have a good meal because of one another.

“I don’t think any kid makes it easy,” she pointed out with a little laugh. She knew she vexed her mama with her stubbornness but she’d also never genuinely tried to change her. “She did. She just wanted me to be happy. That’s all.” Knowing that didn’t make it easier to achieve, not really.

--

“Sorry to hear that. Sounds like he’d be real proud of ya.” His voice went softer in reply, his heart unexpectedly aching for her. He’d never lost a parent like that, and it was clear they’d been close. She had more warmth in one memory than he had maybe in his whole life. He couldn’t picture his neighborhood back home coming together like that.

“Nah. Maybe nobody really has it easy,” he chuckled softly, shaking his head. It might look like it from the outside, but everyone struggled. He’d never thought much about being a parent, but he didn’t envy his for taking it on. He’d probably do a bang up job of it. He lifted his gaze, his smile warm. “Are you? Happy.”

--

She gave him a small smile and shook her head gently, “It’s alright. It was a long time ago.” A part of her had died the day the telegram had come and she didn’t think she had ever managed to get any of it back. Her heart ached at everything he’d missed and that they hadn’t done together, but she hoped he would be proud of her.

“No, they really don’t,” she admitted with a nod of agreement. She couldn’t imagine being a parent, let alone being good at it. The question and the warmth in his face made her step falter slightly. “I’m… content,” she settled on after a long, silent moment. It wasn’t happiness, and she knew that. She also had no idea what happiness would look like for her here.

--

“That don’t make it alright.” He gave her a soft smile in return, but he was willing to let the subject drop there. He didn’t have a right to push her on it. He couldn’t understand what that must have been like for her, but that didn’t stop the sympathy. Losing a parent had to be hard.

“Guess that’s a start.” That much, he could empathize with. He wasn’t totally sure on the difference between happiness and contentment, but he thought he knew just what she meant. His life wasn’t bad, and there was a lot to be thankful for, but there was something missing that he could never quite put his finger on. They were nearing the end of the road, and he nodded toward the house there. “This you?”

--

She didn’t know how to handle being seen the way it felt like he saw her. They’d just met, and already he knew more about her than people she saw every day at her jobs. The thought of that made her practically hear Lottie screeching in her head and she had to shove down the now-familiar ache of missing the people she loved.

“It’s better than the alternative,” she admitted quietly. She gave him a small smile, soft and genuine for all it’s smallness, and thought it would be nice to see him again. She would, since Sallow Hills really wasn’t the biggest place in the world and she worked in two of the busiest spots in it. “Yeah, that’s me,” she turned her attention to the small, well-kept townhouse. “You can come on in,” she invited as the got to the door. She didn’t trust herself trying to juggle everything again.

--

Not to put too fine a point on it, but pretty girls didn’t usually spend this much time just having a conversation with him. He knew what being picked up felt like, and this wasn’t that. He wasn’t sure what to do with Tiana just being flat out nice to him, no condescension or agenda. It made him want to keep talking to her, and he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen.

He tipped his head, brow furrowing, and didn’t say anything. The alternative was to be sad, and he wasn’t totally sure she wasn’t, whatever she said about being content. There was something sad in her smile. “You sure?” He hesitated on the doorstep. He didn’t mind taking her things all the way, not at all, but he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable and wouldn’t be offended if she was. He was a big guy, and practically a stranger at that.

--

She caught the doubtful look out of the corner of her eye and felt even more painfully seen in that moment. She had figured she’d gotten pretty good at hiding the sad and burying it under work and business. He made it easy to be kind, to talk, no matter that he really was a stranger to her. Tia couldn’t help but think that she wanted to keep talking to him.

Her smile warmed when he double checked her invitation and she paused to turn and look at him. “I’m sure. I’ll only be stupid once if I’m wrong,” she teased lightly, shrugging as she pushed her door open and stepped in. The inside was done in soft yellows and greens, touches of purple tucked around and a surprising amount of light. She made her way to the back of the townhouse to her favorite part: her kitchen. It was the most spacious room in the house and she couldn’t get over it.

--

Hercules couldn’t claim to be any good at reading people. But he knew what happiness layered over sadness and loneliness looked like. He saw it in himself all the time. He knew she was teasing, liked the playful smile on her face, but he couldn’t help the way his own smile went soft and almost serious in response. “I’d never let anything hurt you, Tia.” Least of all himself. Herc would defend total strangers. For people he actually liked, and maybe wanted to consider friends, he’d do anything.

He trailed her inside, his breath catching softly at the space. It was warm and cheery, and so much more like a home than the apartment he shared with Beast. He didn’t think it had anything to do with the space itself, just with the person living there. “Your home is real pretty,” he said softly, gazing around at the spacious kitchen as he set her bags on the counter. It was obviously the place where she spent most of her time, and it wasn’t hard to picture her at work there.

--

The way his face shifted, the smile there, made something catch slightly in her chest. She tipped her head to study him for a moment, amazed that she could believe him so easily. There was an earnestness and an honesty to the man that was slightly shocking but so very welcome. She softened and nodded slightly, “I know.“

The sound of his voice made her beam as she looked around the space with a little bit of pride. It was the same feeling she wanted in her restaurant one day. "Thank you,” she murmured. There was no other living creature she shared the space with, so it made keeping up with it easy. “Can I get you anything to drink? I have sun tea, lemonade, beer.”

--

He could tell he was being sized up, and for once it didn’t bother him. She wasn’t doing it to be mean. Still, it took effort not to fidget under her gaze. Somehow, he sensed that she saw a lot more than what was there on the surface. It was a relief that he wasn’t found wanting. First time for everything, apparently.

It was hard not to smile at her smile. There was obviously some well-earned pride in her space. The look he gave her was brief and assessing. He didn’t want to just drop her things and leave, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome if she was just being polite either. He couldn’t tell either way, but she’d been genuine so far, so he’d go with that until he had a reason not to. "Sure. Any of those are fine.”

--

She didn't mind the assessing look, knew it was rather deserved at the moment. She wasn't one for living any way other than honestly, though, and that wasn't always an easy thing for people to understand. Offering him something to drink really was the least she could do after he'd been kind enough to help her. The fact that she actually wanted him to stay was a secondary thought she couldn't let herself look at too closely. It simply had to wait.

Opening the fridge, she pulled out a pair of the beers there and popped off the tops. "Good, you can help me drink these since I never have company," she chuckled as she held one out to him. She took a sip of hers before setting it down and gesturing him to one of the barstools. "You can sit down and relax, I'll just put this stuff away really quick," her hands were already opening bags and gone to work. "You said a job had opened up? What do you do?" It clearly wasn't any of the restaurants, or she'd have likely been familiar with him before now.

[darkandsinister-man]

hook & ariel

@nosealegs

tw: death, violence, body horror, blood, injury, grief, alcoholism

Hook couldn’t resist the ocean no mattered how many times it tried to kill him. He wasn’t feeling the urge to almost drown himself trying to escape the barrier (yes, he had tried it; yes, there had been drinking involved; no, he hadn’t learned anything from the experience) and was instead broodily watching the sun trying to make its way through the haze of clouds and imagining the sails of ships.

Being landlocked for any length of time was detrimental to his overall health, and he had an anniversary to celebrate. Four fuckin’ years. He missed pirating like missing a limb, and he knew what he was talking about. He scowled when a shadow fell over him, which was only two ticks off from his usual expression. “You’re blockin’ the view,” he growled. He didn’t actually care that much, but he had a bad-tempered reputation to uphold.

--

“Grumble at someone else,” she hissed as she flopped herself into his lap, a bottle of rum in her hand. “Or I won’t share.” Pointedly, she took a long pull straight from the bottle, her eyes locked out on the water. It was a special sort of torture, to be able to go into the water, and still be trapped, still be locked in to damned hell when the ocean should have been open to her.

Four years. It had been an interesting set of time, to say the least. She’d finally been allowed to walk on land like the rest of her people, but she couldn’t help but feel she’d lost too much in the process. Clean up was fun, she never minded dragging it to the bottom of the ocean floor. But it could only bolster her mood so much. “Besides, I am the view.”

--

He bared his teeth a little in reply, but the expression wasn’t nearly as sinister as Ari’s. Her fangs were useful that way. He couldn’t say he was particularly surprised to see her today of all days. They’d washed up and started this torture together, after all, although the real hurts had come long before Sallow Hills for both of them.

He curled the arm with the hook loosely around her waist because she knew how to stay clear of it, and reached for the bottle with his good hand. “That you are, love. Happy bloody anniversary.” He took a long drink, savoring the burn in the back of his throat, and handed it back. In between trying to kill each other and inexplicably being unable to go through with it, he’d never expected that the siren who had drowned half his crew would be the person who understood him best in this hellhole. It hurt her just as much to be landlocked.

--

There was no one else she particularly felt up to putting up with today. It was one of the few days a year where she didn’t have much patience at all. He had been part of her hell in this life and the one prior, she had the scars to prove it. She settled back against him, uncaring of the cold metal against her. It was nothing she hadn’t felt multiple times over the years.

“Happy fucking anniversary,” she grumbled, tipping her head back onto his shoulder. When she got the bottle back, she took another long pull from it and enjoyed every bit of the burn. There was a history of attempted murder between them and these days she couldn’t help but be a little glad that neither of them ever actually finished it. “Damn hellhole,” she hissed, Rhiannon’s angry words ringing in her ears.

--

They’d both left their marks on each other, visible and otherwise. His leg still twinged occasionally, but it was usually the least of his body’s complaints after a century of violence. Neverland might have stopped him from physically aging, but there were days he thought he could feel every single one of those years catching up to him. He didn’t fancy growing old for real in bleeding Wales of all places.

“Aye,” he agreed softly. Hook went back and forth on whether he was glad Arianwen hadn’t killed him. If she’d let him die the way he was supposed to, he wouldn’t be trapped here, but it was an argument he’d given up years ago. It was done and over with, and since he couldn’t bring himself to kill her, not once but twice, he might as well live with her in this uneasy peace they’d established.

--

Arianwen certainly had no wish to live out the rest of her days in Wales either. There were days she wished he had left her strapped to that mast to go down with him and his ship. Sure, she wouldn’t have drowned, but there were other ways for her to die. She still had shreds in her tail where it. had never properly healed, and that wasn’t touching the various scars that lingered even on her human skin.

She tipped her head to scrape her fangs along his jaw before she pouted. “How many more years do you think we’ll have to suffer?” She asked the same question every year, every year it was more snarly. There was no longer any real hope of leaving, so she took what pleasure she could find in this dual life of hers.

--

There were days he wished that too. Then they’d both be dead and out of their misery. But since he was alive–and since he couldn’t have the death of his choice–he was selfishly glad to have a partner in suffering. Neither of them were running for sainthood. They probably deserved everything that they got.

Every year, she asked that question, and he answered it differently each time. Since he didn’t actually know the answer, it was easy to do. He nosed gently against her hair. “If we’re being punished and poetic? One for every life we took.” Hook wasn’t sure he believed in an afterlife, but this certainly resembled a kind of purgatory for both of them. If anything, he got less angry and more melancholy as the years passed. He couldn’t sustain a rage when there was nothing to fight against. He considered it another kind of death.

--

She could never claim that she didn’t earn every moment in Sallow Hills. Her hands were far from clean and she had long been a fan of turning seawater red. She didn’t think she would stop askiing the question at least for a few more years. If nothing else, it might spur her pirate back into anger instead of whatever melancholy was taking over.

Grumbling, she turned on his lap to straddle it properly within his hold. “Then I’m dying here,” she shrugged as though it didn’t matter before chugging from the bottle in long pulls that burned brilliantly. The only thing keeping her from fading away from that ever burning fire was her deal with the Unseelie and her continuing prodding at him.

--

Hook didn’t mind the questions. There was a bit of a philosopher in him, truth be told, buried under all the liquor and bitterness. He hadn’t always been a pirate, after all, at least not on the outside. In his heart, it had always been black sails, mercurial oceans, and endless horizons though. He wouldn’t even know who he was without that.

His flesh hand settled at her waist when she turned, and he gave her a sharp grin. “In this version of the story, we already died here.” He didn’t really believe in an afterlife, but he also knew that, unless it was a pixie, the universe didn’t give a fuck what he believed in. He didn’t believe in Neverland before he stumbled onto it either. He snagged the bottle and took another long drink before she could finish it off without him.

--

The damned pirate was always a study and even after all this time she couldn’t help but be fascinated from time to time. Once, he could have been more than what he was, but she liked the way he’d turned out. A posh, brilliant philosopher would bore her to tears and get fangs in their throat before she purposely let them feel the drowning. But a pirate as brooding and prickly as the seas herself? Well, it wasn’t hard to see why she’d decided to continue to put up with him… mostly.

She liked that grin on his face, not as sharp as hers, but not bad for a human. “Very true. Being trapped here is just a cruel trick before the inevitable. Damn torture wall,” she hissed out the last words. She watched him tip the bottle back and pushed it with a finger to tip it a little further back in encouragement she knew he didn’t need.

--

For all the philosopher in him, Hook wasn’t one for introspection, and he could hardly fathom the dysfunctional bond that had somehow formed between himself and the siren. He’d had every intention of letting her die a slow, painful death once, and pretty much nothing had worked out for him the way he’d intended ever since. They were both fairly awful people. That was one of his favorite things about her.

“Who knows? If we died again, maybe we’d end up someplace worse.” He gave a soft, dark chuckle. Hook was willing to go down with his ship or perhaps in a fight, but otherwise, he’d lived too long to give up on life that easily. He let her tip the bottle further, never needing encouragement to drink more. It was that kind of day. He liked that about her too.

--

There had been every intention of death to the other on both sides at the start of whatever the hell this was. Dysfunctional and about the only solid thing in their world beyond the Prince, no one would ever understand it. He was vicious when he chose to be, and downright awful most of the time. She rather liked keeping him around for it.

“Worse than this? Impossible…. wait, no, that’s a lie,” she mused darkly, “It could be a literal desert.” She shuddered at the idea of no water whatsoever. She wasn’t willing to go out in anything but a fight, and she’d take people with her on the way. She watched his throat work as the bottle tipped further and let out a hum of approval. Pulling her bag open, she tugged out another bottle and set it in the sand next to them and tipped her head to nip sharply, just once, at the line of his throat. She could have asked nicely for the bottle back, but that was boring.

--

Hook didn’t even understand it, and he was one of the involved parties. Somehow, Ari had become one of his people though, and he didn’t have many of those in Sallow Hills. Violence might be one of their languages, but he was ferociously protective of them. Not that Ari ever needed it. She was ferocious all on her own. It was one of her better qualities.

“There ya go. Hellfire. Torture. Daytime television,” he chuckled. He’d been raised to believe in that sort of thing. He couldn’t conclusively say it wasn’t true, but he didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it either way.

He hissed softly at the sting of teeth, not necessarily in pain. “Unless you’re try'n to start something with me, you’re gonna watch where you’re puttin’ those teeth,” he drawled, offering the almost-empty bottle back for her to finish off. He liked sleeping with her, and he liked fighting with her, and the two were practically interchangeable for them.

--

The unspoken rule was pretty well known that to fuck with Hook was to fuck with Ari and vice versa, or at least have the other threateningly nearby. She liked that they were nearly equally vicious. It was one of their bonding traits, really.

She immediately pulled a face at the mention of daytime television. “If I am ever subjected to a soap opera again, I will just have to end it. Right there. Those things are painful.” She liked living on her own terms, and one of those was no damn daytime television.

That hiss was one of her favorite sounds out of him, which made sense as this was one of her favorite ways to get under his skin. “Why wouldn’t I start something today?” It was notoriously one of her preferred ways to make the day tolerable and she liked the distracting ache for the day and usually the next. Taking the bottle back, she tipped it back to finish it.

--

People confused them for a dysfunctional couple sometimes, and Hook didn’t usually bother to set them straight on it. People would think what they wanted, and denial would only make them look more guilty. It was true in a sense, but neither of them were made for monogamy. Too boring, and required more commitment than either of them were probably capable of. He’d taken her freedom from her once and didn’t imagine he’d have cause to try it again, in any way.

“Who needs strangers’ drama when there’s a town group chat.” Sometimes they just watched it together and made fun of the people in it, and sometimes it was a drinking game for every time someone said something pathetic. Truly, even his tolerance wasn’t that high.

“In that case, happy to help.” Even at his surliest, he’d have to be crazy to turn her down, and he never had. He got it when it came to today in particular though. Oblivion was often preferable to both of them than facing the reality of this place. With one finger, he gently pushed the bottle up in the same encouragement she’d given him.

--

There was no point in setting people straight on their relationship. It didn’t fit anything anyone else would understand anyway. Theirs was the closest thing she’d do to a relationship, but they both enjoyed doing as they pleased far too much to stick only to each other. He’d strapped her to a mast to dry out and she’d saved him from the death he’d wanted. That had been enough taking from one another in that way.

“That chat is one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen, and that is saying something,’ she mused. The days it became a drinking game had always ended up drunk painfully quickly, not that they minded. If it helped expand their tolerance, well, at least they got some entertainment out of it too.

She had known that would be his reaction and had banked on it. She liked him best when he was surly and still came to her anyway. Tipping the bottle and her head further back with that push, she chugged down the last of the bottle. Setting the empty one in the sand, she looked at him as the burn settled into her chest. “Are we finishing that bottle out here or inside?”

--

“Strange world we’ve washed up in.” The comment was more thoughtful than brooding. It was more like the world he’d left than Neverland, given a couple hundred years. The technology hadn’t been at all familiar to him, and he didn’t have a lot of patience for cell phones–or, for that matter, anyone he’d want to talk to on one. He and Ari had their own ways of getting in contact when they wanted to. Phones didn’t do so well at the bottom of the ocean.

The captain and surly went hand in hook. He didn’t have a lot of other moods, but they didn’t like each other because they were Suzy Sunshine. He watched the long line of her throat while she swallowed down the last of the bottle, knowing her tolerance well enough to know it would barely get her started.

He considered the question, but if they started something here, there was no guarantee they’d want to move it inside later on, and he was just about done staring at the ocean. No sense in dwelling on what he couldn’t have when something he could had settled right in his lap. He wrapped his good arm around her waist and stood, her slight weight not making much of a difference. “Inside.”

[libidomechanica]

Thy absent

 But these poor devils  of job,—  what wintry dawn, the  same degree, that they take you style  me so. Let Prudence, was best. But the  serpent, but I will, the  unnamed boy on the  grass and  by their own 

with  the sallows  of a thous and and watching an urn, the  high talents of mortal body doth the  Nine, Riding—riding—riding— riding— still, and golden noon;  wine-red was  turned to 

her  last. apollos  garden darkens. Enlarge  not the lived so that  coy girl who smile upon the night blue  hills, and deeper cloak! Behold up  your time, and a little  speed in his  great or 

blood! Bearing  up to the  night, along Broadway, To  many a light so placed  as thy chief threw them, and shall I do?  then look for me in this  woman, and I seeke, to  giue my Rosalind,  and 

beneath the  value and  freeze, but cannot choose.  the spirit, by spirits  taught what to see; Steeds, with  smiling on the  sexton, and Like one  who should be away?  whether 

is  a work heroic  gigantesque, and he could  you fast next Friday! Young  Semele such a death��and the  tawny sunset; O, a should have,  great verse, bounteous to be  a butchery,  something is 

[ofweapons]

i think i just saw 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 (he/his, cismale)!  don’t you know them? they’re a 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 character from 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐄𝐑 / 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖. have you heard that they 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 from their previous life? apparently they appeared here in 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎 just after 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 / 𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑.   crazy, isn’t it?  now they're 𝟑𝟕 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 and working as 𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐓.   still, they do have that 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄, 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋-𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 vibe about them.   (matt ryan.  rex,  they/them, 23, gmt+11)  

“ JOHN CONSTANTINE is a virus masquerading as a man. he parasitizes where others befriend. he has woven a tapestry of fascination and entertainment around a core so profoundly hungry it cannot help but annihilate those who stray into its’ orbit. he wears a camouflage of decency and a mask of redemption to hide the guilt. but he can’t fool himself. he knows what he is. he hates what he is. the tragedy is that he continues to be it. “

CANON: a mix-and-match of hellblazer comics / justice league dark movies / tv verse, assuming the last thing he did was season 4 of legends of tomorrow, with the whole debacle of time travel and sending his boyfriend desmond to hell

A PRIMER for those who don’t know the character

john constantine: working class warlock, occult detective, purveyor of the dark arts, former punk band frontman, liverpool native and con man

he has a reputation as being one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world, but very little of that is his own magic. in a fight of raw strength (or even a fist fight), he’d likely lose -- his talent lies in tricks and cunning, manipulation and pissing his enemies off, hoarding of powerful relics and the ability to give absolutely no fucks about how sacred or special magic is in favor of bullying it until it does what he wants

essentially he just uses the nastiest, filthiest magic that most people don’t want to go anywhere near, makes frequent deals with demons, and has traded his own soul so much that it’s like the equivalent of a rusty town bike

he’s bisexual, poly, and hooks up with anything and everything from humans and demons to monsters and mutant shark men

pretty much all his friends and partners die, and it’s usually john’s fault

has demon blood in him, but it doesn’t do much other than link him to the demon that provided it and taint his soul

has a magic house slash storeroom of relics called the house of mystery. john claims he won the keys in a poker game. it is constantly shifting, constantly changing -- you never enter a room the same way twice, it can travel between dimensions, is sentient, and houses all sorts of monsters and nightmares

IN SALLOW HILLS he will be:

working as a bartender in the white rabbit. not because he actually needs money, and he’ll probably do like one shift a week just to steal booze, but he’s got to do something to get out of the house, right?

the house of mystery will be stuck in this dimension, and its sentience mysteriously powered down. still full of magic and monsters, though

[magnetar1]

The Phantasmal City

Bodies gone to die in sinking sands of Ersetsu . . . Passage through its towering basalt, last of empires, Silent impression of noctuary; Scribes, biliously misgiven, among the colonnades, Describing books of the dead – Sallow mystics of the open dirge, Ruminating beards chronicling with precision, Star seed foaming from their mouths when sleeping, Awakened in a spasm of guttural verse.

With these poems, these plans, a city is constructed, Architects, exploiting the generosity of soothsayers, Rectifying imbalance with divisions of the heart, Pantheon of spectral judges, each to guard a chamber.

Rivers of light, all leading to Abzu, Darkness welling in the unheralded, who drown in it.

City dredges labyrinths: mortar grist, calcified tissues, Some to build walls, others to be revived even dead – Hardship in the desert leads them in . . . Solace beats down, wraith-like; caravan on a bent path, Coarse stone, barren sea, grim valley of an ashen grave, Along a spinal column of hills, leads to the giant’s skull.

To find shelter here, among the flora of its rotted brain, Dreaming plague of psychopomps, awakening undone.

Not all make it to that city; shifting ruined disguise, Forms of filth & pageantry – Groveling tumor, invoking Oriax with bleeding tongues, Oaths fornicating with stars, neglectful of their warning: That the key will not turn for those unborn here.

Larval surge in the host-mind, up from its humid forge, To feast on heedless acolytes: Arrived with good intent, adrift with blank confession, Cannibal harvest of mute origins . . .

Ghostlands, uncharted zones, transmits to the Dog Star, Still-birth of a prayer, prostrate to some herald’s return: Who can lead them?  Pilgrimage of visitants, howling fire, World burning as they rise! – Destined to enter that city,   Revenant passage to the outskirts of its singular memory; Sands shift, but this much is true, no escaping once inside, Where all the blood of stars runs, yet the tributes are few, Writ simply, in silence, coordinates of negation & mutiny.

[picturedspells]

៹ ✩۪۟۟≭ DORCAS && RHIANNON GALWAY

Dorcas didn’t know why she’d waited so long to visit The Bubbling Cauldron. She had just gotten caught up, she supposed, in adjusting to her new life, in her shifts at the hospital, in spending time with her old and new friends alike. But she was still astonished that she hadn’t yet taken the time to visit the shop on Stryd y Farchnad. She’d thought about it a million times.

They made their way toward the shop, honestly quite excited. Being a classically trained Hogwarts witch, Dorcas was well versed in the extra normal by any of their former classmates’ and teachers’ standards. But arriving in Sallow Hills, they’d realized how much they didn’t know about magic at large, and they were utterly fascinated by it and by all the different forms of magic the small town held.

Dorcas pushed open the shop door, enchanted by everything they saw. “Wow,” they murmured, going up to a shelf and reaching out to touch something.

៹ ✩۪۟۟≭ @endlxssnights​​

[sallowhillshq]

           𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐇𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬. 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲

i see we have a new member to our town.  welcome, welcome ELENA GILBERT.  we truly hope you enjoy your stay.  please feel free to head over to bevin & cecil’s until your settled, and don’t forget to stop by shady glen housing for your welcome package.  i know it might be difficult right now and you might be missing your home.  we hope Bonnie Bennet or Caroline Forbes may arrive soon, so you won’t have to be alone.

i see we have a new member to our town.  welcome, welcome DICK GRAYSON.  we truly hope you enjoy your stay.  please feel free to head over to bevin & cecil’s until your settled, and don’t forget to stop by shady glen housing for your welcome package.  i know it might be difficult right now and you might be missing your home.  Stephanie Brown is already here and we hope that Raven or Garfield Logan may show up soon, so you won’t have to be alone.

i see we have a new member to our town.  welcome, welcome DINAH LANCE.  we truly hope you enjoy your stay.  please feel free to head over to bevin & cecil’s until your settled, and don’t forget to stop by shady glen housing for your welcome package.  i know it might be difficult right now and you might be missing your home.  we hope that Harley Quinn or Selina Kyle may appear soon, so you won’t have to be alone.

kate welcome to sallow hills hq! check the source for the welcome package & make sure to send us your account within 12 hours

i think i just saw ELENA GILBERT (she/her, female)! don’t you know them? they’re a canon character from tvd verse. have you heard that they remember everything from their previous life? apparently they appeared here in may 2020 just after waking up. crazy, isn’t it? now they’re 18/21 years old and working as a WAITRESS/CLINIC WORKER . still, they do have that diary, firery, independent vibe about them. (nina dobrev kate)

i think i just saw DICK GRAYSON (he/him male)! don’t you know them? they’re a canon character from titans/dceu. have you heard that they remember some things from their previous life? apparently they appeared here in janurary 2019 just after defeating trigon. crazy, isn’t it? now they’re age in numbers years old and working as a DECETIVE. still, they do have that badge, dective, withdrawn vibe about them. (brenton thwaties. kate)

i think i just saw DINAH LANCE (she/her)! don’t you know them? they’re a canon from dceu. have you heard that they remember everything from their previous life? apparently they appeared here in september 2020 just after forming birds of prey. crazy, isn’t it? now they’re 30 years old and working as a LOUNGE SINGER. still, they do have that black leather, bad ass, loyal about them. (jurnee smollett, kate)

[thewhitesaint]

tagged by: @cxttonteethviolence, sort of Tagging: you

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Father George Bartholomew Rosten (among others used)

NICKNAME/S : "Red” and “Scarface” from Jimmy Stone, “Padre” from Wyatt Maverick, answers to “Doc” on a bad day

AGE : 64 (main and "schoolmaster” 'verse); 25-45, variably ("sacristan” ‘verse)

BIRTHDAY : February 19, 1927

ETHNIC GROUP : Anglo-American


NATIONALITY : US American

LANGUAGE/S : American English, a few words of Korean

SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Bisexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Biromantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS : Partnered (most verses)

CLASS : Lower-middle

HOME TOWN / AREA: Chastain Heights, Maine

CURRENT HOME : Silent Hill, Maine

PROFESSION : Hardscrabble doomsday preacher and owner of the St. Jacob Rectory/Wish House Orphanage

PHYSICAL.

HAIR : Dark red (streaked with white), loosely-curled, and receding at the temples

EYES : Light brown and mismatched. One is hooded and sly, the other frozen permanently wide open.

NOSE : Prominent and pointed

FACE : Angular, with high cheekbones and prominent brow. 

LIPS : Thin and very red. His scar runs across the left side of his mouth, splitting both top and bottom lip. This side of his mouth is stiffly pulled back in a distorted smile.

COMPLEXION : Sallow and almost translucent. Sickly-looking. His fingers and nails are tobacco-stained. His skin is very dry and tends to crack in the winter.

BLEMISHES : Freckles and a few faint acne scars

SCARS : A leathery keloid scar runs from his scalp to his jaw, pulling his whole face out of shape. Smaller scars crisscross his chest, back, knuckles, groin, and throat.

TATTOOS : None

HEIGHT : 5'11″

WEIGHT : 155lbs

BUILD : Lanky, long-limbed, and lean verging on gaunt. Appears too thin for his big, solid farmboy bones: his muscles are not bulky, but very clearly defined. The skin on his chest and limbs is very taut, as if he has maintained exactly the same weight and level of activity for a good twenty years, without the withering evident in his face.

FEATURES :  Heavy crows-feet and smoker’s lines around the mouth. 

ALLERGIES : None.

USUAL EXPRESSION : Faintly wry smile on the functional half of his face.Paralyzed grin on the other half.

USUAL CLOTHING : Very plain church vestments, the color and complexity depending on the occasion. Later in his life he takes to wearing a plain white mask, a white or red veil, and gloves, so that none of his person is exposed.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S : Helicopters, heights, loud noises, pregnancy (tokophobia)

ASPIRATION/S : Consolidating his power over the church.

POSITIVE TRAITS : Hardworking, empathetic, insightful, pragmatic, self-sacrificing

NEGATIVE TRAITS : Arrogant, manipulative, bitter, bigoted, sanctimonious, two-faced

MBTI : ESTJ-A


ZODIAC : Aquarius

ANIMALS : Adder

VICE HABIT/S : Cigarettes

FAITH : Traditionalist Holy Mother Sect

GHOSTS ? : Yes

AFTERLIFE ? : Yes

REINCARNATION ? : Yes 

ALIENS ? : No/Doesn’t care

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT : John Birch right-wing

ECONOMIC PREFERENCE : Small-business capitalist

SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION : Unsure

EDUCATION LEVEL: Self-taught, almost nonexistent formal education

FAMILY.


FATHER : Lawrence Stephens (deceased 1929); adoptive father Paul Rosten (deceased 1953)


MOTHER : Martha Bachman Stephens (deceased 1929)

SIBLINGS : Albert and Francis Stephens (younger, estranged)

EXTENDED FAMILY : None known

NAME MEANING/S : “Tiller of the soil”

HISTORICAL CONNECTION ? : None

FAVOURITES.


BOOK : George isn’t much of a pleasure reader.


MOVIE : When he catches movies on the television--infrequently--he enjoys old Westerns. A Fistful of Dollars is a particular favorite.

DEITY : Xuchilpaba. Rosten also feels a particular kinship with the reformer St. Jacob Stone and the doctor St. Nicholas Marsh.

MONTH : September

SEASON : Autumn

PLACE : The wilderness of Mt. Janus, looking down on the Wish House and from there on Silent Hill.

WEATHER : Sunlight filtering through leaves.

SOUND : Water rushing over stones.

SCENT/S : Rosten has no sense of smell due to an injury, but remembers the smells of cigarette smoke and cordite with affection.

TASTE/S : Blueberries and apples

FEEL/S : Clean glass and polished wood.

ANIMAL/S : Rosten generally dislikes animals, but will make an exception for small and quiet ones.

NUMBER : 7

COLOUR : Navy blue.

EXTRA.

TALENTS : Gunplay, manipulating others, fixing things, manual labor, writing, self-regulation and discipline

BAD AT : Verbal communication

TURN ONS : Submissiveness, naivete, aw-shucks ‘50s gender conformity

HOBBIES : Gun maintenance and practice, baseball, hiking, fishing, tinkering with things around the orphanage

AESTHETIC TAGS : Apples, medieval religious icons, perfectly-polished steel-toed boots, rosaries, wilderness, red hair in the sun, coiled rope, scar tissue, bullets, exposed ribs, bandages soaked in blood

FC INFO.


MAIN FC/S : Jared Harris


ALT FC/S : None

OLDER FC/S : None

YOUNGER FC/S : Rain Dove Dubilewski


VOICE CLAIM/S : Brad Dourif with a lisp

GENDERBENT FC/S : None

[daretogobeyondtheunknown]

chained

“Run.”

There was no jovial tone or good natured jest.

“Run. Don’t look back.”

The scream reverberated through her ears and buried into the walls of her chest. It was suffering. It was agony. It was death. Unlike the cold sweat beading down her back, it would never evaporate. Forever it would play, fragmented, but no less earth shattering.

* * *

Demons made sense.

“Run!”

And Eretria hated it with every fiber of her being.

“Come on, Eretria!”

Hands white knuckled on the handles of her knives, Eretria vowed to find a way. To kill every last one. To erase every last one from the Four Lands.

* * *

And then, Amberle was some stupid tree and Demons and old adages angered Eretria all the more.

She was never welcomed in the court of the Elves and once again on the outskirts, Eretria fought. Fought to exist. Fought in search of purpose. Fought to find a way.

It led her over the hills and through the trees. One day, it gave way to sand and a thirst Eretria had never known. But it too did not last.

High in the hills, a man whispered tales of an old forest. Born of magic, he claimed. Protected by a magic far older than Demons, he uttered.

Cursed.

Nothing could be more cursed than her life and Eretria refused to heed his warning. Perhaps there she would finally find a way to silence the eternal scream that bled from her bones and seeped into her blood.

And maybe it would know of trees and stupid old adages.

* * *

The whispered tales led her to flat plains and a blind mystic.

Magic, she promised. But other than deep lines of pain etched into the palms of her hand and a wounded past, Eretria learned little she did not already know.

But there was a book, written in a language Eretria did not know.

It wasn’t Elven nor was it human and all the mystic could offer was the name of a Gnome deep in the Eastland likely centuries passed. Maybe killed by a Demon.

It felt whimsical but so did her life and Eretria wondered if it had ever truly held any semblance of fruitful direction. Maybe once. A long time ago. With stupid Royal Elves and Druids and Demons. But it wasn’t any more and Eretria had no better means.

* * *

The Silver River was sick: Mord Wraiths.

Its illness seeped into the lands downstream. Travelling the shoreline, Eretria felt brief remorse. Livestock carcasses dotted the fields, crops withered to waste, and sallow bodies lined shallow graves.

One grave digger left.

It made the anger in her heart seem fatuous and her scattered purpose bright. It churned in her stomach like an ill settled meal and Eretria heaved. She doubted the black bubbling derelict form of the Silver River would feel anymore distressed.

The sensation burned in her nostrils and in a fading moment of delirium, Eretria realised it wasn’t the stench of her bile that burned.

* * *

Out of body, Eretria bore witness to an encounter between a young boy and a silver haired man.

Jair Ohmsford and the King of the Silver River, Eretria learned. One was in search of his sister and the other apt to save a dying stream. There was a dust made of Silver and a tale woven of pain and of tribulation.

Everyone spoke in cryptic, Eretria concluded. A disease of an outdated belief and a dying kind.

But then, Eretria believed in Demons and in magic and in a hope of defying the very lines of her lineage to eradicate a beast no human truly could.

There was a Gnome and the spreading of the Silver Dust. It cleansed the bubbling black river and gave way to the Maelmord, a subverted sister Brin and a book of black magic.

The Ildatch was powerful. But as Eretria watched the collapse of its form and the destructive poison of its power, she settled back into her heaving form. There, the river was still black and a dark haze still clung to the air.

Eretria wanted power. But not a power that would rob from her of the essence of her very being. To become what she sought to remove was never the answer and weak, Eretria trudged on. Past a dying river and past an ominous power.

* * *

How long had it been – weeks, months, years?

Seasons had changed and so had Eretria. Malnutrition oozed from her body like the fat on her bones, leaving her skin sunken and her bones prominent. The havoc of the Silver River had trickled further and deeper than Eretria had ever imagined. And now, delirious and weak, every direction seemed wrong and everything dead.

The last living thing Eretria could recall was the sunken in eyes of a harrowed man as he dug the graves of those around him. There was nothing left. No living creature. No vegetation. Not even a single Demon.

Eretria begged for one, just one. So perhaps she could at least die feeling at least some ounce of worth.

“Coward.”

Feet trudging – one arduous step after the other – Eretria could not disagree. Every part of her felt cowardly, willing to give in to an inescapable defeat. An eternal defeat.

But still her feet refused to stop.

It felt lonely.

Then again, so had most of her life.

* * *

There was a stream not like that of the Silver River whose form oozed black. As she stumbled forward, earthbound and wretched, its petals cushioned the blow. Soft and cozy like a blanket on a cold winters night, the petals brushed over her skin.

It provided no comfort to thirst or to hunger, a light pink petal contrasted to the lifeless trees and endless miles of mud and stone. Yet Eretria felt sated.

The hollow feeling in her chest still clung like a demon on her heart – alone, afraid, hopeless. She had never asked for much in life. A purpose, a way, even a glimmer of hope would have sufficed. Instead, it had handed her broken pieces and fragmented memories and a heart that would never truly love.

If tears could fall, Eretria would cry. Sob for a life unfulfilled, for a potential unrealized and a pain that had never truly left the bones of her body.

And then it came. Soft like a whisper and gentle like a summers breeze. It was a voice, warm, welcoming and inquiring.

“Is this how you would lay, child? Surrendered to defeat?”

“What would you have me do? I am alone. I am dying. And I am afraid.”

“As you should; be afraid. For it is daunting. It is uncertain. And most often, we will be left with only our thoughts and our heart as guidance.”

It felt warm, nothing like the eternal desolate cold that seemed to suck and steal the very life from the marrow of her bones. With each step. With each unshed tear.

“Be alone. Be prepared to die. Be afraid.”

Anguish poured, ragged and primitive, passed her lips. To be swallowed by the endless sky and the sheer emptiness.

“I am! I am, I am, I am! I wish it not. I want it not. Please… have mercy.”

“Fight. Only there will you find mercy, my child.”

* * *

It was warm, a white light that engulfed her skin and licked at her blood. It made her skin hum and her nerves tingle with a liveliness Eretria had never felt.

In the back of her mind, a voice spoke, faint and inquisitive. It whispered soft verses, like a poem written on the walls of her soul, projected through her being. Eretria could see; the words of the book she had garnered long ago. Gifted by a mystic and carried like a tomb.

None of it made sense.

Blanketed by the flowing stream of petals, the white light fading, Eretria felt another. It was dark, a void that lingered, drawing closer and without warning into her frame, pushing past her skin as if it were a sheer veil.

It was burning. It was painful. It was death.

And then there was another, lingering beneath her skin and settled in her bones. Unlike the screams, it wrapped around her skin like the strange words written and bound and without beseeching it fought, batting the darkness that crawled beneath her skin.

From her pores, the darkness bled. 

Alone, afraid and no longer dying, Eretria understood.

“Fight.”

For so long, she had run. Alone and afraid. Taught never to fight back no matter how deeply she might crave the stance; like an gulp of fresh air while chained underwater. 

Legs trembling, body weak, Eretria stood. Through her veins coursed resolve. There were no petals, no white lights and no dark voids. 

“Fight.”

[smoakandstar]

always waging wars | mia + bucky

@redeemablesoldier

After fighting her way into some money, finding a place to sleep, and hurling herself at the barrier a few more times, Mia found her way to Hills Hunting. This town seemed more sleepy and weird than actually dangerous, but she didn't know who or what had brought her here, and she'd feel safer if she was armed with more than the couple of knives she'd had on her. It took most of her money to buy a bow and a better set of throwing knives (that she didn't exactly need but had sort of fallen in love with), but she'd prefer to have something reliable and lasting. She could earn it back the same way she had the first time, and not having to pay for a room would help. She hoped not to be here much longer than that.

New weapons meant getting a feel for them, so she found a clearing out in the woods and set herself to several hours of relentless target practice. Her bow at home was better, but this would do for now, and she wanted to know the exact shape and feel and give of it by the time she left the trees. The knives were easier, a kind of present to herself for hard work. When she heard someone approaching, she didn't think; she just turned and threw one all in the same motion. She wasn't aiming for him but the tree next to him, a warning that next time she wouldn't miss if he tried to come any closer.

--

Bucky didn’t have quite the problem with restlessness that Steve did, but there were times when it kicked in. He didn’t run, that’s was Steve’s schtick, but he wandered the woods, the edge of the water. Exploring and seeing what could be seen, what happened when he was still enough for things to feel comfortable coming near, it was fascinating and a little fun for him. Part of the appeal was how rarely he came across people during these particular wanderings.

The familiar twang of a bow string had him tipping his head in curiosity and he couldn’t help but follow the sound carefully. Stealth could have been his top priority, but he wasn’t up for surprising anyone. Hearing the sing of metal, he sighed and decided to make a point. His hand shot up, the flesh one, not metal, and caught the dagger at its hilt, tossing it to study it and test its weight.

“Not bad,” he murmured, flipping it in his hand and holding it out as he walked closer, his other hand helped up in a gesture for peace. The look on her face was familiar in a way and he tipped his head to study her. “You know, you can do this in a place in town, too, right?”

--

Nobody human could have caught that knife, and she went still and wary, wondering if she should bolt. She'd be faster on rooftops than in this fucking jungle though, and if he wasn't a human, he could probably catch her. She decided she was better off here with her weapons than leaving them behind to stumble through the woods, but the other knife slid into her palm in case it was needed.

"It's rude to sneak up on someone." She glared, backing away as he got closer and nodding for him to put it with the rest of her weapons. Peace or not, she didn't want to be within arm's reach. The metal one didn't look like something she could fight easily. "Do I look like I want to be around people? I only fight humans, if that's what this is about." She'd have recognized him from the bar if he'd been there, but word got around. She was counting in it if she wanted to make any more money fighting. Mia already knew she wouldn't win a fair fight against this guy, no matter how good she was. That's why her dad taught her to take every advantage.

--

“It’s rude to throw knives at people,” he pointed out with a little chuckle. Entirely too much of his life had been spent rooted in violence and teaching for him to be bothered by her reaction or attitude. A quick flick of his wrist buried the knife in the ground next to her small pile as he raised an eyebrow. He recognized the antagonism of someone forced to fight for their lives and just live it.

“Do I look like I really care who or what you fight?” He was nonchalant and visibly relaxed, unbothered by anything she had done so far. He wasn’t one to make a problem where there wasn’t one. “Bows aren’t the most common weapon of choice. I’ve only met one who did it,” he tipped his chin to her bow.

--

"If I was being rude, I would have aimed for you." Given that catch, she probably still would have missed though, and her brain was already buzzing with strategy in the event she had to try it for real. A lot of knives, or arrows, in quick succession or all at once, maybe. Don't go for the obvious hit. He couldn't catch everything. Unless he was a speedster, and then she was hopelessly outmatched with her current equipment.

"What do you want, then?" Mia couldn't relax as long as she didn't know the answer to that question. Maybe not even then, depending on how honest it was. He wasn't being hostile, unlike her. If she had hackles, they'd have been raised. If she could have electrified herself like a fence, she would have. "Then we're clearly not from the same place." It was practically a trend in Star City, but that didn't make him safe. Oliver Queen had enemies all over the damn world.

--

“You know what, that’s fair,” he accepted with a small chuckle, “But I would have also just called it smart.” She was clearly smart and well trained, it was interesting to see. Different from a widow, because she was clearly emotional, even if it was annoyance or something similar. But he could see her mind racing through how to take him down if it came to that.

“I was just walking and heard you. Not many people choose the woods, and for good reason. My husband and I live on the edge of them, we like the solitude and the quiet.” He gave an easy shrug, unbothered by the hostility since he’d brought it on himself. “No, definitely not. You’ll find that’s going to happen a lot here in Sallow Hills, though.”

--

"Are you saying I should kill you if I get the chance?" She raised an eyebrow. Somehow, that did not make her feel any better about this encounter. He hadn't done anything overtly threatening, but she wasn't sure he could be anything but menacing with his size and that arm. Mia hadn't killed anyone since she got here and wasn't planning to, but if she had to save herself, she wouldn't hesitate.

"You know who likes solitude and quiet? Serial killers," she said flatly. If he didn't want anything but he wasn't going to leave, she didn't see any reason not to waste the time she'd set aside for training. She slid the knife in her palm back into place and picked up the others, keeping him always in her sight as she went back to target practice. "Don't care. I'm not staying."

--

“Not at all, I would really rather you didn’t,” he admitted with a slight lift at the corner of his lips. She wouldn’t really like what would become of her life, he thought, if she did that while stuck here in Sallow Hills. “I’m saying that recognizing a potential threat’s a good idea, and there’s a few of them around here.” As soft as he might be these days, he knew that he was still a force to be reckoned with.

“Or people who spent too long fighting other peoples’ battles,” he pointed out with a shrug. Her insistence that she could leave made him shake his head. “Yes, you are. Whether you like it or not. There are people who have been stuck in Sallow Hills for years. You’re not different and you won’t be the last.”

--

Mia didn't like anything about her life being stuck in Sallow Hills, but she wasn't naive enough to think things couldn't always be worse. Being found guilty of murder was kind of a worst case scenario plan. It would mean she'd run out of any other options. "Oh yeah? What are the potential threats?" Her tone said she might not believe a word he said, but if he wasn't going to leave, she might as well gather information. She wouldn't take any of it at face value, but she could check it against other sources.

The words hit a chord, even if she'd never admit it. All her family did was fight other people's battles. "Do heroes really retire?" She raised an eyebrow, the sarcasm a little more bitter than she meant it to be, but emotional trauma or not, her aim never wavered. When she ran out of knives, she went to collect them, still keeping him in her peripheral vision. She tugged them out of the tree one by one, tossing him a slow smile. "Fine. Underestimate me. I haven't even really started trying yet."

[paramounticebound]

|| @starnamedlyra / verse roulette SC.

The weather stations had warned him. The dip in temperature had warned him. Clouds looming overhead, sallow, somber, entirely ravenous, reminding him that despite his best efforts, he was still a fragile, mortal thing. Clad in layers that could withstand the timefall for a short while, Khan was far from frantic as the clouds rolled closer; he was cautious. A small cave, cut into the hill, was nearby he knew, and consequently an ideal place to seek out his quarry. Just below him, beyond the grassy hill.

Perhaps his goggles obscured the shadow or perhaps he’d been too confident in his initial assessment. The downpour began as he descended, heavy and hard, wetting the grassy earth beneath him, aging it from vibrant greens to lifeless browns. A curse escaped him, inaudible compared to the deluge, as footing was lost and he slid down the hill, only just catching himself before hitting the ground below. 

Khan hadn’t expected another living creature this far out. Mountain Knot City was at least two kilometers away and while porters weren’t uncommon, he rarely encountered them on his treks. Whether or not she was a porter he didn’t know, focusing instead on grabbing her by the wrist and all but falling backwards into the small cave, sheltering them from the torrent and something far, far worse. A finger pressed to his lip before she could speak, gaze intense behind his goggles, bidding them both to remain still as bodiless footsteps appeared at the mouth of the cave.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 6586

Till love of you         is so constant mortar &  somewhere thou art why should have, great Dians  feast would have the sun peels from a  row of mortal statement the  fierce alarms Fledde, I am pitiful.  my throat shall dances and wisely  managed, that its death my desire  shall owe you and sleek Arabians  prance, with the distant  mortar & somewhere bonie lass gang.— When  ecstasy I love him, and see a  wave of time face their clammy cells.  Indeed I am—thwarted, affrighted,  that, if left uncancelld, had sailed  across the Atlantas balls, cast in  shape of thy sweet a softness  as might, and when he  saw engulph for ever; for  Natures sigh alone in an upper  life,—so I, with justice  naked foot stalking away swift moment done:  and fragrant posies, groves, hills and flow.  where thou art outgoe. Mind, At which stealing  under the sun. Licence my hands  in the eye. From the  sallows, the light, and with  fairy fishes for to  the garden step, or under  a tree, beneath this, all prosperous 

House; a Road whose left behind you are  in the speed of light I  meant nothing like a blank as mirror,  full-length, her, myself, who deem that  mans breast can give you only by her  glory has my own, but still I see our  two bloodshot eyes, I all alone  in hourly readiness that flooded  your point of view, dissolving  into itself and weal,  will pype and dances and  the poor, whom daily she knew that  sends indescribably didnt love that  she might give rules of speculation as  to me my lovely maid. I should  light fading-time does depart, — beautiful  dreamer, queen of my native land! Or  up the heave my Verse, which we may  not see, if impiously withers even  to life, which is eight-sided,  like you, the world of reason.  That so constant method as above,  we know, since there to be born  against the poor ’“twas her  so, as once Electra her self, in  angel forms faun to the  utmost we clutch at it boldly—or  Thou need them with it,            is  so simple name!” Sorry confounds their cots. 

[magnetar1]

The Phantasmal City

Bodies gone to die in sinking sands of Ersetsu . . . Passage through its towering basalt, last of empires, Silent impression of noctuary; Scribes, biliously misgiven, among the colonnades, Describing books of the dead – Sallow mystics of the open dirge, Ruminating beards chronicling with precision, Star seed foaming from their mouths when sleeping, Awakened in a spasm of guttural verse.

With these poems, these plans, a city is constructed, Architects, exploiting the generosity of soothsayers, Rectifying imbalance with divisions of the heart, Pantheon of spectral judges, each to guard a chamber.

Rivers of light, all leading to Abzu, Darkness welling in the unheralded, who drown in it.

City dredges labyrinths: mortar grist, calcified tissues, Some to build walls, others to be revived even dead – Hardship in the desert leads them in . . . Solace beats down, wraith-like; caravan on a bent path, Coarse stone, barren sea, grim valley of an ashen grave, Along a spinal column of hills, leads to the giant’s skull.

To find shelter here, among the flora of its rotted brain, Dreaming plague of psychopomps, awakening undone.

Not all make it to that city; shifting ruined disguise, Forms of filth & pageantry – Groveling tumor, invoking Oriax with bleeding tongues, Oaths fornicating with stars, neglectful of their warning: That the key will not turn for those unborn here.

Larval surge in the host-mind, up from its humid forge, To feast on heedless acolytes: Arrived with good intent, adrift with blank confession, Cannibal harvest of mute origins . . .

Ghostlands, uncharted zones, transmits to the Dog Star, Still-birth of a prayer, prostrate to some herald’s return: Who can lead them?  Pilgrimage of visitants, howling fire, World burning as they rise! – Destined to enter that city,   Revenant passage to the outskirts of its singular memory; Sands shift, but this much is true, no escaping once inside, Where all the blood of stars runs, yet the tributes are few, Writ simply, in silence, coordinates of negation & mutiny.