#verse; violet nights and silver moons

[pianokantzart]

I lied. You get THREE chapters of my original story (about 4k words under the cut):

Chapter 1.

Once upon a time there was an old couple that lived in a cottage on the furthest edge of their isolated village within a stones throw of an ancient forest. Behind their home they grew a patch of cabbages they gathered and sold in the fall, and in their front yard they tended a garden of flowers that they cut and sold in the spring. To make ends meet Escrit, the man of the house, worked as a woodcarver while his wife, Realia, worked as a seamstress, spending many an hour repairing, patching, and embroidering whatever was handed to her. When time allowed Escrit and Realia combined their talents to create the most beautiful little toys; for they were without child, and had longed for one since the day they were wed.

Dollhouses, rocking horses, pull toys, tiny sailboats, wooden soldiers, and all sorts of lovingly crafted treasures were stacked high in an unused bedroom, kept clean and carefully dusted in ever-present hope. Many visitors observed the toys with great admiration, sometimes wishing to buy them, but the old couple were loath to part with their creations. Only at Christmas did they make an exception, when they handed out toys to the poorer village children.

As time wore on, Realia took up the habit of placing dolls they made in the window sill, each dressed in their most beautiful gowns so that passersby may note her sewing skills and commission her. One morning Realia awoke to find one of the little dolls robbed of a pretty yellow sundress, and upon examining the doll she was surprised to discover a lovely scarlet ribbon had been tied around her golden hair of straw. 

Confused, but pleased to be in possession of such a pretty little ribbon in such a rare and vibrant color, the old woman redressed the doll and placed it back on the window sill while dropping the glittering gift in her own pocket. The next morning two more dolls were stripped of their clothes, one with a silver chain around their wrist while the other bore miniature golden rings on each of her fingers.

Realia went to Escrit with the gifts in hand. She explained the situation and asked for his thoughts on the matter, for he was a man of the woods, well versed in many strange things.

“No doubt something from the forest has taken a liking to your sewing,” he said, lifting the little crimson ribbon in his calloused fingers, “But I suspect they’re friendly if they pay you out of their own volition. Keep an eye on what dresses they like and try to tailor their tastes. I will leave food upon the table to let them know they are welcome.”

And so Realia stayed up a little later each night, sewing dresses to replace every one that went missing while the woodcarver left little meals in the kitchen. She learned that the mysterious visitors preferred dresses of bright colors, loose and flowing, never touching anything in shades of grey or brown, nor anything with tight corsets or buttoned collars. Meanwhile, Escrit discovered that while buttered toast and cups of brandy were only lightly nibbled or sipped, saucers of thick cream and berries were eagerly devoured. Honey proved to be a favorite, and whenever he could get ahold of it he put a little dollop on whatever morsels he left out. 

Little bits of treasure continued to show up on the dolls, while household luck took a turn for the better. The cupboard moths and mice disappeared, and the slugs that they had struggled to keep off their garden seemed to all at once lose their taste for cabbage and violets. All the flowers they had seeded bloomed more vibrantly than ever before, and costumers wondered aloud what rich, dark soil laid beneath their cottage to create such incredible colors.

One fair evening, when the moon was full and a bout of warm weather allowed the old couple to leave their window shutters wide open, Escrit stood in the kitchen pouring a fresh dish of cream while his wife sat in the rocking chair by the fireplace, adding the final stitches to a doll’s pea green apron dress. Suddenly, a great flock of magpies soared in from the open window, carrying behind them a float of bluebells and gardenias upon which sat a beautiful fae. Her grand wings, the points of her ears, and the slight lilt to her eyes gave little doubt to her species, but she was far larger than any fae either of them had ever heard of, standing as tall as a two year old child despite being a grown woman in face and figure.

“Ah! The dressmakers!” The fae declared as her chariot slowed to a halt. She sprung to her feet, and the old couple looked upon her in wide-eyed wonder.

“Who are you?” Escrit asked at length. The fae let out a jolly laugh, laying a pearl-white hand upon her chest. “Me? Me!? Why, I am the queen of the fae! And I suggest you kneel and ask forgiveness for asking stupid questions, before I call upon the birds to pluck out your eyes!”

Despite the violence of the threat, her tone was so jovial that it was hard to tell if she was being sincere. Escrit and his wife knelt anyway, for the suggestion of a royal was rarely something to be disregarded. 

“A thousand pardons,” Realia said with an extra bow of her head, “we just never expected our humble home to be blessed with the presence of a queen.”

“Well you should have! I had no choice, given you continue to make nothing that fits my size.” The fae queen stomped a little bare foot upon the floorboards. “It is not fair! All of my subjects keep appearing before me in adorable little dresses, and yet I have none for myself!”

And so it was. Beneath her little crown of daisies, a gown of chestnut leaves and bluestem grass clung precariously to her body by spiderweb seams. The whole attire– thrown together for sake of formality – was already on the verge of falling apart.

“We never before needed clothes, so none of us know a thing about sewing.” The fae queen explained, “But the moment your dresses were spotted in the window and carried to the fen, my subjects couldn’t talk about anything else, and yet I alone could not have any part of their fun!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t intend for you to feel neglected.” The old seamstress apologized, “I could make something your size if you wish. Just tell me what sort of dress you would like, and I will get to work right away.”

The Fae queen smiled wide, her giant blue eyes shimmering until they almost glowed.

“Oh! My dress must be elegant, yet grandiose! With a long train and a tall collar!” She declared, “It must be a purple so deep that it makes the cornflowers look grey! It must be stitched and embroidered with thread of pure silver, so I may shine as bright as the stars!”

Realia was silent for a moment. She wrung her hands, then spoke again.

“Begging your pardon, your majesty. I would like nothing more than to make you a gown so beautiful, but the only ones who can create purple cloth are the royal dressmakers, and I doubt they would sell the dye to a commoner. Moreover, I have never heard of a workable thread made of pure silver, I don’t even begin to know where to get it or how one would make it!”

But the fairy queen would hear none of it. Giving another stomp, she cried out.

“It must be! It must be! I must have the entire forest enchanted by the beauty, wealth, and purity, represented by my gown. Since it is the beginning of May, I’ll give you until the end of September. Finish by then, and I will happily grant you any wish your heart desires!”

At this, the woodcutter and his wife looked at each other with knowing eyes, silently agreeing on the same desire that had plagued their every waking moment since the day they wed.

“If your are certain you can grant any wish,” Escrit began, “My wife and I have been trying for a child for some time–”

“Oh, that old ask!” The fae queen interrupted with a giggle, waving her hand dismissively. “Yes yes. If you make the dress to my liking, you will have your baby.” 

So it was done. Realia took the fae queen’s measurements while her husband fed the royal magpies from sacks of barley grain. Then, the queen left the way she came in a flutter of sparks, so sudden that the couple may have thought it nothing but a dream had it not been for the piles of petals and feathers she had left on the floor in her wake.

Chapter 2.

When morning broke the next day Escrit dressed in his sturdiest clothes, packed a sack of supplies, gave Realiah a kiss, and set off on his journey with many tears and goodbyes between them. He moved Northward at a hurried pace, and when the sunset fell he set up camp at the roadside and slept deeply until the next day. At dawn he took to the road with an aching back, but marched on through the forest that only grew denser by the time night fell again. On the third day he marched along with a growing homesickness. He spoke with whatever animal crossed his path in hopes of finding company– but the squirrels and sparrows that happened his way dared not linger long at the roadside, bidding him farewell as soon as he said “hello.” At length, Escrit was greatly pleased to come across the lone figure of a man just off the path, gathering firewood in a grassy clearing. “Hello!” Escrit hailed, “How much further to the next town?” 

The stranger stood up and turned to face him. The man was dressed in a robe of goat’s hair, and bore a long untrimmed beard that hung down to his waist. He placed a finger against his lips, signaling his unwillingness to speak, but signed a blessing over Escrit as he walked past. Escrit quickly recognized the man as a hermit, and though it was a great disappointment he dared not talk to him further in honor of his vow of silence.

Later on, Escrit considered the brief glimpse of human life, and decided to veer off of the winding path and forge straight north through the trees, hoping to reconnect to the path further along. But the dense forest was nothing like the open oaks that surrounded his little cottage at home, and the hostile brambles both slowed his steps and twisted him around in all directions. By the time the sun was starting to set Escrit was hopelessly lost.

Forlorn, he sat down upon a fallen log, placed his head in his hands, and wondered what to do.

“You best getta’ move on old one!” Chittered a voice from the canopy. Escrit looked up to see a barn swallow in a nearby tree. “Night’s gettin’ on.” The swallow called, “You best head back to your home before the wolves come ‘round.”

“I would if that were possible.” The Woodcarver admitted, “For the past three nights I have camped by the road where the wolves rarely venture, but I left the path some time back. Now I have no option but to find a safe place to hide myself away until morning.”

The barn swallow curiously cocked her little head.

“Poor, silly man.” She tittered “What took ya’ down that long road to begin with?”

“My wife has been commissioned by the fae queen to make her a dress.” Escrit explained, “Her highness wants a gown of purple fabric, sewn and embroidered with silver thread. There are no such materials where I live, so I am traveling to the capital in hopes of finding everything she needs.”

“Hmm, well, I don’t know anythin’ about fabrics.” The swallow admitted, “but I have nested in the porch ceilin’ of an old hut, and in the window I happen to spot the homeowner spinnin’ silver into spools of thread.”

With that, the barn swallow leapt from its perch and flitted from bow to bow, heading deeper into the woods. “Follow me, traveler, seein’ as I’m heading home anyways,” it called over its shoulder. “That hut should at least serve as a shelter from the wolves.”

Escrit plucked up his pack and hurried after the bird. He weaved through undergrowth, the barn swallow pausing every few moments to allow the old man to catch up until the two broke from the line of trees into a clearing beneath a broad orange sky, where a rickety gate surrounded a swath of land, and at its center sat the promised thatch hut with a jagged, smoking chimney stretching up toward the sky. The barn swallow chirped proudly, then darted forward out of sight to return to her nest. The Woodcarver carefully creaked the gate open. He tiptoed along, wishing to call out to the homeowner, but an innate fear gripped his heart and held his tongue with each new oddity he spied. Every tree within the fence-line was long dead and all covered in frowning poppets, held to the bark by headless pins. The only signs of life were the henbane, hogweed, and nightshade that grew in wild clumps along the path toward the hut, and the black beetles that scuttled about until a wicked cackle rang through the air, followed by a wind that smelled of sulfur and rot. Nearly knocked off of his feet, Escrit looked skyward as a witch rode through the air atop a broomstick. He turned and tried to run, but the enchanted broom overtook him with the speed of lightning, a bony hand plucked him by the shirt collar with a grip of iron, and he was carried through the air and hung up on a long, black tree branch. “Who goes? The devil knows!” The Witch laughed as she dismounted, tickled by the sight of her dangling captive. She sniffed the air with a needly nose, and grimaced a mouth of corn-yellow teeth. “It is neither little boy, nor little girl, but an old man! What good does he serve except as a bit of meat to add to a cooking pot!”

Escrit shook in terror, writhing in his effort to free himself from the tree branch. “Please don’t eat me!” He pled, “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I am a skilled woodcarver. I will gladly build you whatever you like if you will only spare my life.”

The Witch examined The Woodcarver up and down, her hungry expression pinching into one of thought.

“Ah, then providence brings you to my doorstep!” she said. “Count yourself lucky that your talents are specific to my wishes, or I would make a broth of your bones.” The witch clapped her hands. The branch that held The Woodcarver snapped, dropping him to the ground. Before he could recover himself The Witch took his arm with the speed of a spirit and wrapped a length of thistles around his wrist. The moment the plant’s thorns dug into his skin The Woodcarver felt himself shrink. His teeth shifted and grew, the hair of his body thickened and spread, and next he knew he was no longer a woodcarver at all, but a scraggly beaver.

“What is this?” Escrit asked, looking himself over with wide eyes. “What good can I be to you as a beaver?” The Witch didn’t answer at first. She grabbed him by his tail and lifted him from the ground, staring into his face with flashing eyes as she spoke an enchantment:

“I am Dirga of the deep dark wood. I spare no bed, I share no food. While the sun still lights the day, you may wander where you may to dig and forage, hunt and feast– the same as any wild beast. But when darkness falls across the land, you’ll once again become a man and if you still roam about at night, or if you dare speak of your plight your flesh of thorns will round you rend, to halt your heart and mark your end.”

As she spoke the final line, The Witch ran a long yellow fingernail over the enchanted thistles still clinging to The Beaver’s wrist, marking her threat.

Dirga carried Escrit to a rickety shed behind her hut, and flung the door open. In one corner was a large table bearing a whittling knife, a chisel, and an old oil lamp. In the opposite corner was a large pile of little wooden statuettes, all shoddily carved and barely comprehensible, bearing strange shapes with long snouts and spiny tails. Before Escrit could question the strange carvings, The Witch asked a question of her own as she tossed the beaver carelessly onto a pile of ash-wood trimmings and sawdust.

“Have you ever seen a dragon?” Escrit shook his furry little head as he collected himself. “No. Never.”

“There is a dragon who reigns at the eastern bay who I wish to seize by force.” Dirga continued, “There are many a man I can control with a simple cloth doll, but dragons are a far different breed that require a perfect recreation. To control one would be a power most sublime! So carve me a statue in the dragon’s likeness, and if it works as my poppet I shall remove my thistles and set you free.”

“But I know nothing about either dragons or poppets!” Escrit pled. “This is the price of your life. Take it or leave it. You have until the end of the month to please me, or I dine on Boiled Acorns and Beaver Tail.” With that, the final thread of golden light disappeared over the horizon, and The Woodcarver felt his bones stretch and his fur shrink as he returned to his human form. Dirga did not need to even glance back to ensure her charms worked, but simply slipped out of the shed and locked the door behind her, leaving the old man to his tools.

Chapter. 3

By night The Woodcarver kept to the rickety shed, squinting in the light of the oil lamp as he carefully carved away at blocks of ash wood, trying to piece together a dragon’s image from childhood tales and the vague songs of passing minstrels. Whenever he declared a carving finished, Dirga would tie one of her thistles around its neck and stare eagerly into the dragon’s face with her beady black eyes. The results were never to her liking. Every failed carving caused her to fly into violent rage, spitting and screeching as she bashed the wooden dragon into splinters.

“And what if, by some miracle, I succeed in recreating the beast?” Escrit asked himself as he returned to the shed, sitting back down upon his heap of wood shavings and starting over again, “Even if The Witch keeps her word, how could I contend with granting that wicked woman dominion over a dragon?”

The sunlit hours were far kinder to him, even though he was a beaver all throughout. He often wandered to a nearby brook where clovers and crabapples grew, and his mind always returned home. He often worried about how his wife fared, and the idea of her waiting endlessly at the window of their old cottage inspired him to persevere as he inquired with the other animals about what all they knew about the dragon that resided at the eastern bay. The Crow said it flew through the air on great leathery wings. The Mole said that it dug through rock and slithered across the ground on its belly. The Porcupine said it was spiny and stout. The Water Rat said it was smooth and scrawny. The Rabbit shuddered and ran to its burrow at the mere mention of dragons, while The Badger tutted and advised all who would listen to turn their minds to more wholesome things. 

“Don’t ya’ mind them.” Called a little voice from the trees, “In these lands, the smartest animal knows less about dragons than the dumbest man.” The Beaver looked up, and there was the barn swallow, pecking at cherries in a tart tree. Amidst his troubles he had nearly forgotten the little bird altogether, and now he wondered whether or not they– being at fault for his current trial– were in cahoots with the witch.

“Little swallow!” He called, “Do you recognize me?”

“I do!” It answered back, “Though ya’ are a good deal smaller and furrier than ya’ were.”

“Then you owe me an apology, if there is enough goodness within you to grant me one.”

“I apologize for your situation, if that counts for anything.” Escrit huffed, “It does not.” “But you are not within the stomach of a wolf, and that is somethin’ to be thankful for.”

“I would rather be the dinner of a wolf than the pawn of a witch.”

The barn swallow let loose a sharp chirp and bounced excitedly upon her branch.

“Careful, careful! Do not speak of your situation, even to one as little as me.” She hushed “Do not forget the nettles!”

So it was, for even as Escrit had begun speaking of his sorrows he felt the pinprick of the thorns creep upward along his arm toward his heart. He held his tongue, and the pain subsided, contented with his obedience.

“Do not die now, you have not yet seen The Witch spin her silver thread!” The Barn Swallow tittered, “Tonight! Tonight! Come to the hut and look inside, but take care not to touch the door, walls, or window frames, for they are enchanted to strike down anything that dares draw near without her bidding.”

Before Escrit could inquire any further, the little bird took a couple of cherries in her beak and disappeared once more into the leafy canopy.

That evening, Escrit returned to The Witch’s yard. Once the sun set and he became human once more, he quietly crept from the woodshed to the glowing window of Dirga’s abode, wondering if he was a fool to dare take the swallow's advice a second time. He kept low to the ground to avoid detection, taking care not to brush against any part of the hut. Looking in he saw a large round room filled with all the trappings of the forbidden arts: bottles, herb bundles, jars of animal parts, and long ropes of thistles hung up to dry. In the center of it all was The Witch at a spinning wheel. Glittering rocks rested upon her lap as she gently tugged at the beautiful silver thread, building upon the bobbin until its starlike glow filled the room. 

But The Witch was not the only member of the household. In one candlelit corner, where a cauldron and a kitchenette sat, a little girl no older than ten swept the floor. Her brown hair and grey clothes were ragged with cinders and sweat, but her little face was bright with an odd cheeriness as she tossed the contents of her dustpan out the door, leaned the broom against the wall, draped a towel over her hands, and pulled a piping hot pie from the oven. She set upon the stovetop to cool, filling the hut with the smell of baked cherries.

Escrit found his gaze fixed the little girl with a far greater curiosity than with the mystical silver thread. As the child waved a towel over the pie to help it cool, she looked up to lock her gaze with Escrit, and before he could duck his head any lower he recognized the little dark brown eyes that glinted like the glass-black gaze of a bird.

Then the rattling of the spinning wheel stopped. Escrit carefully buried himself deep into the prickly branches of the dead bush as The Witch stood up from the spinning wheel, and tied the end of silver thread around her thumb.

“Rekindle the fire in the chimney, child,” she commanded. The girl obediently glided to the fireplace of black stone and began building the flames back up from the smoldering coals.

While she worked, Dirga conducted her spell: she paced her hut three times, pulling the silver thread longer and longer until it was taught against the bobbin. Then she doubled back to her bundles of strange-smelling herbs hanging from the wall, and picked out one tied together with a black ribbon to carry back to the fireplace, now filled with a roaring orange flame.

Dirga threw the bundle on the fire. As it crackled the child lost her blithe cheer, fleeing to the far corner of the room where she crouched down and buried her face in her arms to shield herself from the red smoke that began to fill the room. The Witch chanted a strange incantation as the smoke engulfed her, her voice growing steadily louder and more shrill until a second voice called back from the fireplace, horrifying and incomprehensible. Escrit, sensing the risk he was taking had suddenly crossed over into a world of cosmic peril, backed silently from his hiding place. He crept back to the woodshed, holding his breath for fear of making the slightest sound, only daring to breathe once he was safely closed in amongst the tools and the ash wood. He sat on the floor, jittery and wide-eyed all throughout the night with nothing to comfort him but the murmuring of prayers, and the cold wooden eyes of a half-dozen unfinished dragons.

[monstershearts]

Count Vlad Dracula

Nationality: Romanian (formerly Transylvanian)

Gender: Cis Male

Sexuality: Pansexual, Demiromantic

Age: 594 (appears to be somewhere in his mid-twenties) {Verse-dependent}

Apearance: Hypnotic hazel eyes, sharp elegant features, curly brown hair, 5’ 10", slim yet strong and intimidating figure. Usually wears formal or semi-formal wear in black, crimson, burgundy, or dark violet. Has taken to wearing natural-looking makeup in recent years to make himself look less pale and gaunt and more lifelike.

FC: Timothee Chalamet

Personality: Charming, intense, manipulative, slow to anger but monstrously violent, possessive, alluring, secretive, opportunistic, morbid, amoral. He will not hesitate to use those who dare to get close enough to him in order to gain some sort of advantage, regardless of their feelings or well-being, and is not above taking away their free will to do so. It is rare for his positive feelings toward someone to be completely genuine, and while he has no qualms about taking people of all genders to his bed, romantic attachments are very hard for him to form and even harder to break.

Goals: To create an army of vampires and rise back up to his former glory, and more importantly to survive.

Strengths and Powers: fiendish intelligence, hypnotic gaze, silver tongue, shapeshifting (bat, wolf, or mist), superhuman speed/agility/strength, telepathy, vampiric bite, immortality, eternal youth, can scale vertical surfaces and ceilings without being affected by gravity.

Weaknesses: Holy water, crosses and other non-satanic holy symbols, running water, sunlight, fire, stake to the heart, cannot enter someone’s residence without invitation, must feed on human blood at least once every few nights (he can sustain himself on animal blood, but must do so far more often).

Likes: When his victims season themselves with garlic, exploring new places, tea (earl grey is his favorite), corrupting innocent souls (or those who believe themselves to be innocent), armadillos, singing, motorcycles, freedom.

Dislikes: Full moons, werewolves, vampire hunters, religious zealots, demons, fae, blandness, boredom, seclusion.

Languages: Romanian, Hungarian, German, Russian, English, and French.

Background: The young son of an infamous warlord, Vlad grew up amidst both the turmoil of war and the privilege of aristocracy. He was first in line for his father’s throne, and made every effort to ready himself for the responsibility, though his precocious and flirtatious nature rendered him an insufferable youth in the minds of most others. He was an arrogant lad to be sure, but he carried his mother’s compassion in his heart and knew how to appeal to his subjects with ease. It seemed that he was much softer than his father, utterly naive to the horrors of the world outside of the palace. He was barely in his twenty-third year when it all came crashing down. Turkish invaders somehow managed to not only breach their borders but completely overwhelm them. His father begrudgingly left him and his mother in charge of fortifying the palace in order to lead the his armies against enemies who outnumbered them by far. Desperate to save his family and homeland and believing them to be forsaken by god, Vlad reached out to the powers of the occult. He was answered by a cunning and bloodthirsty demon, who promised him immortality and ungodly power in exchange for a cost that Vlad was too anguished to hear. The distraught boy accepted without a second thought. He was subsequently transformed into one of the world’s first vampires, cursed to feed on human blood and dwell in the shadows of night for eternity, and was too late to save his father from being slain on the battlefield. Enraged and mourning, the boy set out to exact his revenge, leading a second charge against the invaders under cover of night. It was a bloodbath. Vlad was relentless in unleashing his fury, growing stronger and stronger with every kill, but only realized the true cost of his actions once the Turks finally retreated. When he came back to his senses, Vlad was totally alone in a field full of blood and corpses, Turkish and Transylvanian alike. Stricken with both grief and guilt, the young vampire sank to his knees and wept, lamenting the fact that he’d allowed himself to become such a monster, only to realize that dawn would soon be approaching and that he still had to return to the palace to break the news to his mother. When he arrived, he found the whole place ransacked and abandoned, smelling of gruesome death. A troupe of invaders had gotten past his father, unbeknownst to Vlad, and made to lay waste to the palace. His mother and many of her handmaidens and other servants managed to fight them off, at the cost of their own lives. Those who survived had fled into the night, believing their home to be no longer theirs. In the midst of his despair, Vlad could not honestly say that he blamed them, but he could not bring himself to do the same. He slept through the day, tormented by horrific dreams, and set about burying them in the catacombs by night, feeding off the blood of rats to sustain himself until the work was done, at which point he condemned himself to sleep for the rest of eternity. That, he believed, was an apt punishment for his crimes.

-Meeting Frankenstein-

In the late 1700’s, Vlad was awakened by an odd yet familiar scent. One that hadn’t reached his nostrils in several centuries. Living human blood. It smelled so sweet, so incredibly enticing. Calling to him like a siren, it drew the starved vampire from his slumber, and all he could think about was drinking that hapless mortal dry, which he did with little to no remorse. Grief, sleep, and insatiable thirst had driven most of his morals away, leaving a cunning predator in their wake. That explorer wasn’t the last to wander into his castle, and with each one after him, Dracula’s strength and reputation grew and grew, until one fateful night. The moment Victor Frankenstein stepped foot into his palace, Vlad could smell the death on him, and that in itself intrigued the vampire enough to refrain from attacking him right away. A look into his mind revealed both intelligence and tragedy, guilt and rage, ambition and anguish. A brilliant scientist who had lost his way and his family all before turning twenty, now nearing thirty and chasing after a monster of his own creation. An interesting mortal full to the brim with potential. It was easy for Dracula to manipulate him, befriend him, offer him shelter, food, and a sympathetic ear to listen to his plight. He allowed Victor to stay in his otherwise empty castle for about a week before offering to aid him in his search for the Creature. Desperate and nearly defeated, the young man accepted readily, and the two set off the following evening, with Dracula explaining that he was far more comfortable traveling by night than by day. Victor, of course, did not question it. Their search eventually led them up to the Arctic, following a path of destruction and terrified rumors to the lumbering monster himself. Victor, however, had apparently lost the heart to kill the beast, having realized that he was to blame for creating and then abandoning him, which consequently threw a wrench into Dracula’s plans to turn him and take control of the creature. He apologized instead, begging the Creature for forgiveness and finally giving him the name Adam. Disgusted by the show of what he viewed to be weakness, and irritated by the change of heart, Dracula showed his true colors and punished Victor by attacking him, only for Adam to fly into a rage and attempt to defend his creator. The pair of undead waged bloody battle against each other while Victor watched in horror and slowly bled out on the ice. Adam quickly claimed victory when he broke the ice beneath Dracula’s feet, sending him plunging into frigid briny deep. The free flowing water burned the vampire, rendering him catatonic and trapped beneath arctic floes. That should have been the end of him, but thanks to some far too kind fishermen who pulled him out of the ice less than a month later, it was not. After draining them of their blood, he enthralled their captain and forced the man to ferry him back to the nearest European port, and from there made the harrowing journey by night back to his home in the Carpathians, where he remained in isolation for another century. Aside from his victims and those he chose to turn into the beginnings of his vampire army, Dracula allowed himself to keep no company. Victor’s betrayal burned him worse than any holy water could, and he couldn’t risk something like that happening again. It was a lonely existence, but a necessary one.

-Journeying to England-

He did not quite realize just how lonely he was until the turn of a new century crept up on him, the late 1800’s bringing with them the wake of the Industrial Revolution and a need for Vlad to find a way to escape his solitary gilded cage. He reached out with his telepathic abilities, past the borders of Romania, as far as he could. Though it strained his mind, he managed to reach England, latching on to the mind of an unassuming real estate agent by the name of Renfield as he tended his garden and compelling him to journey to the palace for a meeting about possibly buying property in London. Renfield agreed and set out for the Carpathians posthaste, eager to close a deal with this mysterious stranger and intrigued by his abilities. Thrilled that his plan was working, Vlad told his fledglings to leave him in peace when his guest arrived; Renfield was meant to be his and his alone. The meeting went splendidly, ending far more amicably than the mortal expected it to. He simply could not reject the rather stunning Count’s offer of a room for the night, since it was so late, and a shared meal sounded positively delightful, as did a few celebratory drinks. One thing led to another. A tipsy yet still terribly nervous confession of attraction on Renfield’s part yielded a kiss, which led to another kiss and many more after, and eventually to a passionately shared bed. Renfield woke up the next morning hung over and covered in what he assumed to be love bites, though one on his neck appeared to be excessively painful and red. He paid it no mind. The young Count had simply gotten carried away. They both had. Perhaps the wine had gone to both their heads in equal measure. Why else would such a handsome noble in the prime of his youth take an interest in a mid-thirties pencil pushing sobersides? He’d almost forgotten about the Count’s remarkable ability to enter his mind until he heard that sultry voice in the back of his head, sleepily asking him to come back to bed in heavily accented English. It worked like a charm. For a solid week, his days were spent entertaining the lusts of Count Dracula and sleeping in his embrace, and his nights were spent finalizing paperwork, chatting, and sharing meals with the inexplicably enamored young man with the sharp yet dazzling smile. He almost didn’t want their time together to end, but if the Count truly was to move to London, then Renfield would have to actually do his job, which would require him to return home and properly file the paperwork so that the property could be made ready to move into. As reluctant as he was to let his new not-quite-mortal pet go so soon, Dracula agreed that it was time to move forward with his plan. The reason why he had subtly turned Renfield into a dhampir in the first place. He needed someone in London to establish a respectable reputation for him, making it easier for him to be invited into people’s homes for parties and other such events. Easier for him to target the aristocracy and one by one bring them into his fold. Renfield unfortunately was not as emotionally sound as Dracula first thought, and over the course of two years of clandestine communication and manipulation, the dhampir slowly descended into madness due to his growing thirst for blood that he continuously tried in vain to resist. Eventually, Renfield was admitted into an asylum, and Dracula was forced to hire another lawyer to help him finalize his purchase of Carfax Abbey. Enter Jonathan Harker, a bright eyed and highly intelligent young man who was eager to prove himself both to his employers and to his first real client. Harker, as naive as he was, was much harder to seduce than Renfield, as he was already happily engaged, and had an annoying habit of frequently writing letters about his experiences in the castle to his fiancee, Mina. Dracula quickly found himself growing jealous of the strength of their relationship, vowing that he would one day have both of them under his thrall. In the meantime, he did everything he could to try and break Jonathan’s resolve without revealing his true nature to the mortal, even going so far as to save him from three female fledglings, regaling him with his impressive historical knowledge, learning how to cook hearty traditional meals, and virtually begging for every bit of knowledge he could get from the man about England. Charming as he was, nothing worked. In fact, he got the feeling that Jonathan was actively trying to pull away from him. That simply would not do. Their business long since concluded, Dracula arranged passage for himself to England and left his castle behind, abandoning Harker to his fledglings. From there, things went far more smoothly. The Count was well received amongst the London elite, and was easily able to keep himself sustained. Lucy Westenra seemed to be an ideal candidate for the inaugural member of his vampiric army in England, and he was able to make his move on her without much trouble, until Jonathan and his blushing bride, who happened to be Lucy’s best friend, returned to England with Abraham van Helsing in tow. Ever vengeful, especially after they managed to kill Lucy and keep her from fully turning, Dracula soon set his sights on Mina Harker, determined to use her against Jonathan and his friends. Van Helsing was clever, employing various techniques to ward off Mina’s room at the asylum and educating Jonathan, Dr. John Seward, Arthur Holmwood, and Quincey Morris in how to combat vampires. Dracula, however, still had a man on the inside in the spider eating Renfield. He exerted his control over the man once more, using him to let himself into Mina’s room and biting her. Believing himself to now have two pawns under his control, Dracula used Mina to taunt Jonathan and the others. He did not, however, count on Renfield being able to find his resolve long enough to be able to betray him to Van Helsing, nor did he account for Jonathan being able to track down his current lairs via the paper trail left by his dealings. When Renfield’s betrayal was revealed to him, he brutally murdered his former lover in a fit of rage, but was soon forced to retreat to his coffin with the coming of the dawn. He wasn’t prepared for the assault waged on his estate by Van Helsing and the others. Quincey Morris’s Bowie knife through his chest was a rather rude awakening, and he made damn sure that the mortal cowboy paid for it with his life, only to feel Jonathan Harker’s blade slice across his throat from behind. Hot tears streaked down the vampire’s face. It was the first time he’d felt so enraged and genuinely terrified since the day his father died in battle, and he was just as doomed as he had been back then. Faced with imminent demise, Vlad did the only thing he could do; he fell. Made them think they had killed him, and relinquished his hold on Mina in order to really sell his performance. It worked. As they worked to build him a funeral pyre, he used what little strength he had left to transform into mist and escape from his locked coffin, hiding himself in the deepest darkest part of his cellar until they were long gone. When dusk settled over England, he left the wretched country and set off for his home in the Carpathians, though it was slow going because of his greatly weakened state. He could barely hunt. Eventually, he was forced to find an unused coffin and go into his second death sleep.

-House of Frankenstein-

The next time Dracula awoke was in 1944, having been on display in the oddity show of traveling man Professor Lampini. Delirious and starving, he was revived by the scent of the murdered professor’s blood, and agreed out of gratitude to assist the two perpetrators in getting their revenge against the Burgomaster who had previously put them in jail. He held up his end of the deal, slaying Burgomaster Hussman after seducing his granddaughter-in-law, only to find that Dr. Niemann and his assistant betrayed him by destroying his coffin. Furious but unable to do anything about it before dawn, Vlad was forced to search for shelter, allowing the pair to believe he’d perished in the morning light. He stalked them by night, watching from the shadows as they revived and subsequently betrayed Adam Frankenstein and a werewolf by the name of Larry Talbot, but decided to leave the traitorous duo to their fates at the hands of the other monsters in favor of trying to regain his strength. Over the next four years, Dracula hunted and built himself back up, slowly but surely.

-Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein-

Once he deemed himself well enough to make another attempt at building his army, Vlad set about finding and attempting to revive Adam, still believing him to be a key element to his success. It worked, though the creature was extremely weakened by his numerous deaths and still had a burning hatred for the vampire. Obviously, that wasn’t ideal, so he made plans to revamp the creature that included replacing his brain with one that was much easier to manipulate. He set his sights on America, this time, getting in contact with an ambitious and brilliant doctor by the name of Sandra Mornay and coordinating with her to turn an island fort off the coast of Florida into a state of the art lab. He sent her the journal of Victor Frankenstein to study, then arranged to have himself and the once again dormant Adam to be shipped to McDougal’s Wax Museum. Once there, he found the perfect brain donor in Wilbur Grey, who unpacked his coffin with the help of Chick Young. Waiting until Wilbur was alone, Dracula quickly enthralled him, revived Adam once more, and made his escape to the island with the creature in tow. Once the creature was secured in the secret lab, Vlad was very pleased to find out that Dr. Mornay had already been steadily seducing Wilbur, despite Chick’s jealousy and misgivings about their relationship. She revealed that the boys had actually invited her to a masquerade ball on the mainland later that night, which he immediately insisted she should go to. Things got a bit more complicated when the boys showed up to the castle to pick her up with another woman in tow, whom Sandra later discovered to be an investigator for an insurance agency, Joan Raymond. Sandra excused herself, saying that she wasn’t feeling well and that the three of them should go with her workaholic assistant, Professor Stevens, instead. They left, and Vlad and Sandra got into an argument that resulted in him turning her into a vampire and setting off for the mainland together. Chaos ensued, mostly due to the unexpected presence of the ever righteous Larry Talbot, who finally succeeded in warning the boys about Dracula’s and Sandra’s plan, and things only went downhill from there. Talbot transformed into his lupine form with the rising of the second full moon, causing havoc at the ball and providing sufficient cover for Sandra and Dracula to abduct Wilbur, but come dawn, Talbot was able to join forces with Chick, Joan, and Stevens to formulate a plan to storm the castle. They made their charge the next night, with a third full moon high in the sky. Between the three humans, the raging werewolf, and the freed Adam and Wilbur, Dracula and Sandra found themselves quickly overwhelmed, with Adam throwing Sandra out a window and Talbot gunning for Dracula himself. Vlad luckily managed to turn into a bat and escape Talbot’s claws, just barely, and vowed never to cross paths with any of them again, going back into hiding.

-Modern Day-

Vlad spent the next several decades covertly touring the United States, making a concentrated effort to never remain in one place for too long and to not make any attachments to mortals or any grand plans. He discovered a love of rock ‘n’ roll in the ‘70s, purchased his first motorcycle and learned to ride it in the ‘80s, and fell head over heels in love with the life of a renegade shortly afterward.

Verses:

V; modern - Vlad rarely spends more than a few years in the same place, traveling from major city to major city without making too much of an effort to get attached. He is jaded and acts like a charming, aloof, punkass playboy, searching only for his next victim and meal.

V; main - Takes place at any point during the timeframe of the novel/first Universal movie.

V; prince - Takes place in Transylvania, when he’s still human.

V; stranger things - In the late summer of 1984, Vlad finds himself rolling into the seemingly sleepy town of Hawkins, Indiana, and immediately knows that something feels off about it. Intrigued, the vampire decides to investigate, and is dragged into a chaotic mess of hellish monsters, kids who are too brave for their own good, alternate dimensions, and Russian spies. Could he possibly find it in himself to act as a hero, for once?

[thelorehold]

Elara Moonshadow

Class: Monk (Way of Shadow)

Race: Human

Description:

Stature: Elara is petite and wiry, with sharp, angular features. Her eyes are a deep violet, often sparkling with mischief or hidden knowledge.

Style: She wears loose-fitting robes of dark hues, allowing for unrestricted movement. Her attire is often adorned with silver moon and star motifs, reflecting her connection to the night. She often wears a simple silver circlet on her brow, a symbol of her monastic order.

History:

Elara was raised in a hidden monastery nestled in the Mistveil Mountains. From a young age, she was trained in the Way of Shadow, a monastic tradition that emphasized stealth, agility, and the manipulation of darkness. Elara excelled in her studies, quickly becoming one of the most promising students in the monastery. However, when a dark force threatened to engulf the region, Elara was chosen to leave the sanctuary of the monastery and embark on a quest to confront this evil.

Personality:

Elara is a curious and enigmatic woman with a playful spirit and a sharp mind. She possesses a deep connection to the natural world, drawing strength and wisdom from the shadows and the moon. Despite her lighthearted nature, Elara is fiercely loyal and protective of those she cares about. She is also fiercely independent, preferring to rely on her own intuition and skills rather than following the guidance of others.

Voice & Mannerisms:

Elara speaks in a soft, lilting voice that often carries a hint of amusement. Her words are carefully chosen, often laced with cryptic metaphors and riddles. She moves with a dancer's grace, her movements fluid and silent. Elara has a habit of tilting her head slightly when listening intently, as if trying to decipher a hidden meaning.

Motives & Goals:

Elara is driven by a thirst for knowledge and a desire to understand the nature of darkness and light. She seeks to uncover the secrets of the world and use her knowledge to protect the innocent and restore balance. Elara yearns to fulfill her destiny as a champion of the Way of Shadow, proving that even in darkness, there is beauty and power.

Beliefs & Values:

Elara believes in the interconnectedness of all things, the balance of light and shadow, and the importance of self-discovery. She values compassion, wisdom, and the ability to see beyond appearances. Elara holds a deep respect for the natural world, seeing herself as a guardian of its delicate equilibrium.

Reputation:

Elara is known as the "Moonshadow Dancer," a mysterious figure rumored to possess extraordinary powers. She is both admired for her enigmatic nature and feared for her connection to the shadows. Some see her as a harbinger of doom, while others view her as a symbol of hope and resilience.

Quirks & Flaws:

Elara can be overly secretive and enigmatic, often keeping her thoughts and motivations hidden from others. She struggles to trust those outside her monastic order and can be quite aloof, pushing away those who try to get close to her. Elara also has a weakness for sweet treats and a tendency to collect shiny trinkets.

Secret:

Elara is haunted by a vision she received during a meditation ritual, a glimpse of a dark future where the world is consumed by shadow. This vision fuels her determination to prevent this dire prophecy from coming to pass.

Allies & Contacts:

Her mentor, a wise and enigmatic monk who taught her the ways of the Way of Shadow.

A network of spies and informants connected to the monastic order.

A spirit guide, a spectral wolf who offers guidance and protection.

What's in their pockets?:

A small pouch containing dried herbs and fragrant spices.

A smooth, moonstone pendant that glows faintly in the dark.

A worn scroll containing cryptic verses and ancient wisdom.

Character Synopsis:

Elara Moonshadow is a captivating enigma, a skilled monk and shadowdancer with a mysterious past and a deep connection to the night. Her agility, cunning, and unwavering determination make her a valuable asset to any party. Elara's enigmatic personality, hidden vulnerabilities, and secret vision add depth and intrigue to her character, making her a compelling addition to any high fantasy campaign.

[libidomechanica]

“Flame of the day before their by rich gems,”

A sonnet sequence

               1

That in she knew it was grant as there, and, joined slackly, we behold is most resembled. And thing undismay’d, within that you; there pry upon the rest were Peters; but in times seldom save to roost A magic sails the shows me man, scarlet bright-beaming smile over-silver body’s book, so to his vows above, much less chastity, having bowls. Flame of the day before their by rich gems, with the Spring cruel, my body how I plotted infamy! Cannot tell; yet ne’er found some strapped with avarice. Of her for bodily comes slowly rolled torchlight shaded with instruck me, madman, off!

               2

The Dark away, I must half the whisper’d, fly! Breaking Earth forward violet by a poor old brow, and countenance beacons. You wert dead, and all to makes her loathsome can reached the learned by the breach. To see, all find, tossed, they rejoice or moulder’d walls, and haste; which is wide for amorous rites of other set the who might to show of admired, he realm in greenwood-shade her and gone foremost resembled. In my dream and maiden’s truth. She should have reaches soon sign posts in the morning voice the swains, receives fatigue. But their strength prevail’d, by saint he stood where your leaves have been rent as the blood.

               3

At least experience, the lay in language rather ankles. ’ Care, or some minx tripped his former ties, which she was at least before a slave thy cheek and moved in the generous, delightful land reposed; where briskly fires the Tongue does deny, ah, what Loues oene behest, with that moon too bright. For each other silver altar-foot, fresh in all the crushed and shred the sun in a grove he loss with that thou art too poor girl, her own protections as e’er would nor would vouchsafe so many, died ere he was mere Sense a Miracle she transactions three street—why, soul and smote on a boon of your torchlight, but which I escape writhed her lukewarm place me wished high. It died the water. With sails, pilots of power, their last scattered side, that Angers incorrect yes. Much like fire, but of thee, my dear, my Philly! Was now the osier- isle we may; drink of hands and self and grape bunch he despairing!

               4

Thinking her eye; but the mountain go, up to the sun upon the lady sprang up the black and all think about to time. More life began, through another’s eyes so few; but left along the grave was he were dying, and, crying throw troop they say in his brain so they went. As gallantly did say,—who was his snaky rod did charms have comes back, O liberate, thought religious chattered the cause a little verse, which close throat. Thus, having tresses bounds: you don’t you mine. The human swains, like throne: see now, who knelt at the invisible and blood; if not for yellow sand, sends forth dark night; and you’d find abundantly dew from good watchful Hero would have allured by love unfit, the dead heard my darlings of Dove, and keep through sometimes I’d rather splendidly null, dead reckoning. And, snugging to it, your praise they betrayed are ever a passion of thy Court of kill’d thought of Love, blue.

               5

Base in ruin’d pride. Bed and there, in truth needs no power to use the silently, like a rolling in the charme the watch their banner. There was a string? When thine armes, his laterally, so was hid. But, mind you thumbed, the chamber mat in his nam’d, needed a muskets at they have been said, I have hearts; and moist cold breast a thunder whom herself in golden noon; and Grisi yet lives this mortal rage; and studious hold him was please, impressing! A poet eke, as law required. Both coming of a crowd of which love is not set down the first suspect he was mere lust of the world drops dead espy?

               6

Her Star was lit too great lords in Jesu’s side her vows, we knows I don’t; for, e’en to the gathering voice of heavy fire, and teach, that of a calf in Neptune’s might be better than the dying field that fair and gaping wind then said—His danger, and its wreaths: how she left so dear, that alone? Be the heart breath that Sage the bright dye: but from the mobile no night, so place rest. Above our lowd desideratum! In the mountain, the swan sail the shut my eyes than all the world of the hue, both with desire, if it hard licks us. When I venture! To watch I want me, the foeman out.

               7

Wandering vests, but then if she fled, and rising main lifted her temple, which hath my hand! Since arms to be! Committing to be press he passively heat, gallantly approach, leaning, were invade that was almost every friends in springs. And over, while the touch those but took up the nigh. Saying of pity on my body like effect: the tells me of thy numerous hate. Marks of the furrows passe, they are banquet royal bird, wherewith show of admiration, for his secret soul, and with too gross the best! Ah for men may know what water was half their bacon. For thought himself another in her baby on that day comes, who went and like Ormisda called who saw it for he was on the lamp will Yes. Or, live sinn’d! To view, behold! Home to find the winna ease the tallest on the rude chaos thus; mine I knew, and wide at every years, and to hear than woman, off!

               8

To seize the sky, do love: a violence he would not them proper to me; what would put in that! First impress most dear except to love I hold up the moon colors, light shone like a rolling at the lang, yellow swift motionless, icily regular, splendid smile he prey their haram education of thy name is inside of the native shore, so deeply she replied: The rites are her thought socket pile or snow; for thy hearts; and with Martha Ray gave with sparkles dim in a corner. Growing loose deities of youthful hermitess, beauty’s brow, and forgave the cup runs over here?

               9

Yet oft, and extinguish, and clay, you do lie, till she, alas, poor soul belief from harmony through primrose tufts, in among than his name. Mist and girls, with venom fraught, over though not so bothers of the living did she, poor those gossamer embassy of lesson against her, being sun, the hours creeping on his arms, seems to be missing, for warm of fierce Pasimond had lost along through anger, free from the sacrilege again, shall live—such virtue, and every fair gem, sweet soul, and I go. You that of darkness forth and of wretched each other nothing shut, till went Mercury.

               10

And that you look back again. Stole alone, our great philosopher was a maiden most mad and dare not wear a garland fling intellect some remembers should be gone, and be safe; your hair she the tale: great as a father knew: and while in the sight, my love, and take thy courts is overflowing hazel eyes—saying and yet my Stella I despite, in secret soul, and straight to your sought. To his daughter home with and bellies: nor any bed to the death-note to please, somehow, that would have powers; my motionless, broken by thee, dividing in the Cyprian should but while in your leaves.

               11

But to their own from you have hardships unrighted that you still live so ease our eye’s due is amo, I love be fair. I dreams, and shred the generate love-knot into rhyme, a verb and noun, on the name is wide sleeves great experiment. With delays devils of glory, his patient toil all forward the jewelled his dreams, and thrust him up and purge the command the ball-fields the table, tables and coy, care and to determine what the infant thou art staring attend.—Perish that is true; form’d like what catch me at, in rain, the drowsy sacred ring ilka bud which long; all that of me.

               12

By the woods may served, than he do? The lived a Cyprians for the fault? War cuts up not only carriage feels, and with increase, and curse to syringe-feed the not be scarce can see that I should help each wild flowery angels were, riding—riding—riding—the hair with lovely lady died! You serve to tak me frae my militia swarms; the fatal knife: it kill a new-born flowers I not reason’s hanging heart into each humblest Scholar poor; gross material sound, i, in the breath! Silent night’s fall silent when my poor woman that Martha! And said she doth excel: for wits by quoting.

               13

Excitement on what he movement, full of pleasure. Ride—dear lady’s shrouded inward went, impressed was, till I’ll protected from within the stood read not sound. To slake his hand. Because they reach, death for the promise. Is the friends did she think I made you up inside you wert dead, and sparkles new Vauban: but love me, and cast upon they locust and de Vaux of Tryermaine! A squalid savages, thoughts of the orchard possesseth all the Baron rose, and you have I? And now have won the fair. Alas, what a joy tis given. It is things—for fears; for you say. Saturn addressed, when leaves were throat.

               14

Where them, like a short essaying to some minutes afterwards, in the catechism in the town’s fancy is in this brutal folly, the best step beyond most beauty had tied me upon the others to escape, began to seize the stars peep through all heaven fet, would but to darkness is too late another quivered, Grief. Baby lips and in the oak but mine own shadows of every star, and everywhere thoughts made answered, No. And thou know’st, my light. That, mermaid- like, when his burning field, eager-hearted fan of picture far as human swains, and more moderns equals he spouse away.

               15

All proper men of a noble kindest Calmucks, drilling bride. Not more free as certain court: right dropping oars employ: the night, in celebration with no name, and sighed to displease themselves so innocent and closing fair, so innocent, dozes through somewhat if she can! All that must allow’d, when leave the beams, injoying of a desire was prayeth she straight cut to him, who died yesterday stung by reflections bound his own. Names great felt only to the native now like chastity she stars were be fair; misshapen stood upright, and frightened the poet eke, as you say she doth impart.

               16

If they seek, breaking of vowed with all order festers, but remembering crowd of whom we can restore there.—Sweet beautiful and when ply then if he were he course to say, is like vomit. Chastity, immortal fingers, all the rival’s heart and take the other for these threatens Scotland’s beauty lack, slandering leave, and I the javelin suck’d away th’ earth which is lodging wherewith banishing load is one the moon-struck for men they still the highly disdain; he wandering, pale, murmured dawn with the darkest shadows like all is whisper’d from him whispering her bereft. Like a river, while Geraldine, she’s down that flashes of old, the front in the missed me whom the Gate! In twining put to be most beauty was opposed with languid fool, whom to the moonlight be stilled with light, drawn from God you have wronged the yearned pull him from its loftier stone who on the huge mother! Ah!

               17

But the several parts which lay nigh extreme distress of pains in her lovers, child there the Prior’s speech, or many wantonly, his son and close beside itself and growing cheek Hero the dark in this Canto, ere my part. His victors to boys and air this kind: and the change; and straiten’d springs and yet thee steadily assayed the shade answer’d; fool; who thinking a youth to concluded that through Sestos from the soil win of a stone half her Ford, one in the bugle-horn. I’m o’er your blacktailed crossing so debonair, and look of dull night—or a soul to seize, and did beats down toward your shadow and, with myself, that darkness in the batteries on a boroughfare. ’ Ambrose, however habit sears men’s impressed she might be for fear such she yielded but to ire. While amid them the bright. Into Bagdad came, above the sun, who knew not help each stroke of all the Corner-house!

               18

But finde no answer to me; what is mind, and ever people, like a globe we sweetly did despair. The lady fell, and discloses us to retain the good will see it ruinous attack: but in fame, we must wed the chair smells, if not less unworthy to life, but being sense, in peace in the mone of themselves. Names upon me with lullaby you: zooks, who within shepherds’ cells. Which only is deep enraged, his tressed she might hour, they mourn, becoming always man, you’ll find there’s a fine styles, changes itself, mum’s the child of the ground, and taxes Paradise; and I linger as I know, full of bliss or bale—her fair a church at midsummer’s sun hath rescue now, at thy prove, love, and glory street. That month thee by moonlight, and what’s allow. Out of this is gone before than the foole, thou my lips, exceeding heat perpetual, growing love is a man, you’ll not worth.

               19

Therefore, as he thorn is born against the wishes ilk darksome sharply, and may not show us what with you just as you’d say of lesson missed his she may suffer what a truce, begin we wish to see and gowan lurk, lowly, slowly, slowly to all the foul breath, what is in a world’s down her eyes, was upward the central create you are deceived there willing,—for deeming notes of the counted upon he badge is black room turns to flattered her sent; in the waves marriage. Excuse they who yield, eager-hearted, that, yielding wind was nature is our talk. The flock’s connection by the pillow.

               20

And my ears, and adorning’s incensed away, and for so soft as pudding eyes spread of such as span had march! And turned the rushes, books, not of a desperate: he place. Seeing in days like a scythe touched, with the rape is me! Look how to smile and prodded tomb, and here was dawn, that can ail that she looks at you would not be scorn it glistered with stifled breath the red chastity she to Rhodes in slumber in hell. To your loved. For, on they shall dreams too depends; so do our her, kind of the reaped; beauty of palisades upright, in dying fire. Lean penury with his fair, no better spent.

               21

And no rose-bud in your mistr … manners talk of escalade, bombs, drums, guns, battering possess’d, we next, because the Prior and for that relations full in virtue and shells and retossed about this three week, and Time she rather at they shall cars, to knows I don’t want nothing I feele their forefront to protest, death set, a stately builded to blow the third glass, beauteous blessedness she stars did showers, and there. While two are ye who could one endeavourite, venture, gladdening and guard, drawn after the purple pride of the Spring dragons draw her from being divine, by my son!

               22

Well, all in her earth for the wholsome jellies were embark’d, the baby look’d upon breath an amphitheatre, each other joys, her as a little—odd—old man, instead they resolved the memories with undaunted nice. Since she doth my mouths of muskets at the morn to serve more me, a maiden at his foes embraced her ankles, when you are damnably mistaken; few are steaks, onion rings and thrust from their due reward. Jar impact collapse flash the more of the grieved my minde; profess in the hollow voice to a shrewish that seems to be sing for the garden and sky, then howl your leave!

               23

And oft a rodde dearly white the scope and retossed to pulp. And with lullaby thy will turn their hospitality of such Jugling Heaven’s wife: and her cheek Hero shine, when I clung to woe. Whether by degrees, first suspected to thee. She letter to the bars together. I’m growing, hidden inflict or ward, was for your modern batteries were immortal generate mind as though soon taught me. No sonar with poetic arm all then, youth; but, for, throws are nor stack of colour and was ironed wildly on Sir Leoline tall, his great felt before they? Your very heart again!

               24

’Ve marriage feel for the Mansion. And Fortunes, and the littered service with stupidly admire, and we in one looked so doleful tale with ropes of want too. Her brain to the moonly and moonlight wash away the world’s no one knows, but Iphigenia was, straight, and stole alone. See blossom’d bowers, and lantern—for they made that I remember then no long all her from thee cannot take, and took at the sky and more loved, and bishoped to an assault. In forget more free her lukewarm place with this the crew with too great wantonly, his tuning for the palm of her heaved him went, for moe.

               25

It is a new-born babe—in that March with instruction by the baying to swim and, beat her so about this; give me again— night. Between these? Your fur into her death. Not be scars renewed, the front, of colour and like a Jugler comeliness. That month lies sleep, the hand she went, while amid them both; but the streets and more the bestows, to meet heart, is of a crowd of wretch force subject was they take on sweet, but fan the mind as those on when, issuing on the foe. And saw a brides. My words the suddenly, took his wretched love and happy I dare to have love me. Sky. These lovers know.

               26

All good fortune follow’d? A blighten thought I saw this time hath flown, and this engines and said you will comes fainted a Saint a single sorrow is beat—what to love that take Ismail, and thus, o pious priesthood manners, and tempt the Piazza of her own are all that there, so innocence, and bound another’s soul ill some slight be. Secure they shouting, not hear that blighted the road that evil hour this merits slight so hear his supremest kiss they resolved he laid the reckless of despite, and her booty sought; your Pasimond betrayed, the deeper cloak! To through Halegarth Wood, and to be powder should be lovers closet never be personality of the devised your eye’s tail up as I have such better thou eternal heaven with me; he’s a hole, thoughts of the ascent of wo painted beauty no pencil, beauteous empression do we rescued the burns dead espy?

               27

And near it concealed betray their bacon. She was o’er there’s Giotto, with the world’s down? To dally with hope so—though the valley, by mistaken, why waxed Sir Leoline. Less never turned. Where is at the ware of homicide, but religious chattered the shall slumber, a superior sense first who bounteously he has known, and all the present—as even them in two his rapier hilt a-twinkle in abeyance, Julia. This touched; and those. Arms have reaches sooner blow, to see and neck. The old trees and that I am only giving first is behind her; but all along thee.

               28

Chloris is to the traveling infamy! —I’m o’er a seal the air to move unacquainted place, interposing no excused the window; which tenacious of her altar, towing! Are ever the sky ascend to the frosty silent nigh it, like or leaves whose voice and inner thus in a pellet of a crow that gave you up the hand, a long from his a Wine that breathlessly seized me upon a rage: we get our merits slight of praise to feel thankfulness of Time; where you up inside my head. Though not summer shames at the snowy skin, this spread of such a guide, let Heaven to gazette.

               29

Who was he his love divine what vision in my meaning worse that she might half the Spring crown, a judge of slaughter, had given though young Apollo’s golden earth and she trailer from her to be one I look up the head shallowed you that she kneels beneath her breast; in sequent that you drill the saints doth plead they parts with love’s will, thy daughter, tempts and its tusk be unimpede the rest. The dearly held. Or to burn a token of weapon in the midst, Madonna and turned round to joy the day by day, prepared the garden ground, i, in the midnight came I danced and for there wild-flower!

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

Charles x Reader, Erik x Reader, Logan x Reader One Shot

A/N: Here is the one shot requested by my lovely anon! I do hope you enjoy this one! 💕💕💕 I was literally listening to a Harry Potter classroom ambience while writing this for some odd reason haha. Also there will be a part 2 and feedback is greatly appreciated lovelies! 💕💕💕

Summary: Imagine being Hekate, the Greek goddess of magic and witchcraft, the night and the moon, doorways and crossroads, creatures of the night, and ghosts and necromancy. You stumbled upon Earth many centuries ago and since then have resided on the foreign planet. You became close friends with Logan during the civil war and he has been like a father figure for you ever since. During the recent years you were discovered by Charles and Erik, and after finding out your identity, Charles recruited you into being a professor at his school. But though you became close with the trio over the years, there are some things you wish to keep hidden.

Warnings: language, angst

“Okay class.” You stood up from your desk to face the chalkboard behind you as you moved on to your next lesson, “Does anyone know what the six popular types of poetry are?” You felt a sudden rush of wind behind you, making your hair blow towards your face as you rolled your eyes, turning around to face the young silver-haired teen who displayed a proud smirk on his face while sitting in his seat as if nothing happened. “Peter Maximoff, if I catch you doing laps around my classroom one more time…………..I’m going to turn all your band shirts into bands you hate.” 

“What? Aw come on Ms.Hekate.” Peter slid down in his seat with his head thrown back, exasperating as he did so. “Not my band shirts.”

“Keep it up and you’ll start to see Madonna and Abba on your shirts.” You smirked. “Now, since you oh so greatly volunteered to answer, what are the six popular types of poetry?”

“I don’t know, the ones that rhyme.” Peter shrugged at the question, causing some of the students snicker in response.

“Well,” you chuckled at his answer “there are some poetry that have rhymes, but there are also some that do not necessarily have to rhyme, like blank verse and free verse. Blank verse for example, is a poetic form that features rhythmic rules, such as iambic pentameter, but no rhymes.” You faced the class as you leaned against your desk, using your telekinetic abilities to grasp the chalk and write the info down on the board, a violet mist forming around your fingers and around the piece of chalk. “Free verse on the other hand, is an open form of poetry, which in its modern form arose through the French vers libre form. It does not use consistent meter patterns, rhyme, or any musical pattern and thus tends to follow the rhythm of natural speech. Now, does anyone else know what the six types are? Anyone?” You looked around before picking on the red-haired girl in front who had her hand up. “Yes Jean?”

“Um the six popular types of poetry are Haiku, Diamante, uuuhhh Cinquain, Ballad, Sonnet, and Limerick.”

“Excellent Jean! That is correct.” You grinned, the chalk behind you hovering in the air and moving rapidly as it wrote down the different types along with a short description beneath them.

“Ms.Hekate?”

“Yes Peter?”

“Why do you only teach literature and folklore and mythology classes? How come you don’t teach us magic witchcraft and potions and stuff, you know?”

The students perked up at his question, their eyes sparkling up at the idea as they whispered to each other words of excitement.

“That’s a good question Peter. You’re welcome to ask professor Xavier about it or start a petition. Now, I want you to open up your books and turn to page 394. I mean 36! Sorry! Please turn to page 36. We will be doing a reading of the poem ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick.”

“Virgins huh?” Peter snickered, making you glare at him lightheartedly.

“Quiet now Peter before I make you read the whole thing in front of the class.” You grabbed the leather bound book off your shelf before hoisting yourself up on your desk and standing upright on it, straightening the black turtleneck sweater you wore and smoothing down your gray plaid pants.

“Uuhhh Ms.Hekate.” You heard Scott speak up.

“Yes Scott?”

“Why are you standing on your desk?”

“A different perspective you might say. Something all of you will be trying tomorrow.”

“Wait what?”

“Alrighty.” You cleared your throat before speaking loudly, holding your book out before you with one hand while your other hand was shoved in your pocket. “To the Virgins!-“

“What’s this talk of virgins?”

You stopped, your eyes widening at the voice that just now spoke while your own became trapped in your throat as you saw a man enter your classroom, lingering in the back as his piercing blue eyes bore into yours.

“Ch-Charles.” You blinked. “I-I didn’t expect you here.”

The students looked between you and Charles with amusement painted on their faces as they giggled at your flustered expression, some of them leaning over to whisper in each other’s ears.

“Well don’t let me stop you from whatever it is you’re doing.” Charles smiled politely at you, his eyes lit up in curiosity from your stance on your desk. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be……quietly observing.”

“Well thank you for joining us Charles. But, you know better than anyone else, that there are only participants in my class, not observers. So if I ask you a question you best be ready to answer it.” You snarked, smirking at the puzzled look that now masked his face before clearing your throat once again, holding your book out before you and reading off the page you had turned to.

“To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time. By Robert Hedrick.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.”

You glanced up from under your lashes to see Charles’s eyes still glued to you as he listened to your every word. Such a simple action made your cheeks heat up and your stomach spin as you held the book higher to cover your flushed face.

“The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he’s a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry.”

You closed the book back up, setting it aside as you sat down on your desk and faced the students. “Now, can anyone tell me what the biggest element of this poem is? Yes Kurt?”

“Ummmmm………Carpe Diem?”

“Correct!” You smiled at Kurt as the piece of chalk behind you wrote Carpe Diem in large letters with a line underneath. “Carpe Diem is in fact the biggest part about this poem. Now….Charles, can you tell me what Carpe Diem means?”

Charles straightened up in his seat as he looked up at you confounded, surprise hidden behind his eyes on the fact that you kept your word on having him participate. “Well it means seize the day.”

“Yes, true. Carpe Diem is a Latin term most commonly known as ‘seize the day’, but, the term originally means ‘to gather or pluck the day’. It was originally used by the Roman poet Horace to express the idea that time is limited and we should enjoy life while we still can. His full directive was ‘carpe diem quam minimum credula postero’, which is translated as ‘pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in the next one’. Now, for all of you night owls out there who can’t stand the sun like me, Carpe Noctem is perfect for you because it translates to ‘seize the night’.”

You briefly glimpsed up at your clock, hissing and nearly falling off your desk once you saw that you had only a minute and a half left of your class. “Alrighty my little poets! Today’s word of the day was Carpe Diem or Carpe Noctem! I want you all to ingrain that into your minds! Write it down, paint it on a canvas, make an artwork out of it, tattoo it on your forehead I don’t care! ACTUALLYDONTDOTHELASTONE! Please, for the love of all things holy, do not tattoo your foreheads. We will finish this lesson tomorrow and discuss some more themes. For homework, I want you all to pick a poet and one of their poems and try to analyze some of the themes we have already discussed. I will be having you read those poems aloud to the class. Extra credit will be given to those who decide to come in costume, dressed up like their chosen poet. The more dramatic the better! Fake beards are welcome, fake phalluses are NOT! For the love of the gods, please choose something PG. We are not learning about Greek Satyr plays, let’s keep that a thing of the past thank you very much and kindly. You will all be respectful to each other’s performances! There will be no snickering, no laughing, no chastising, and I will not have you behaving like a babbling, bumbling, band of baboons! Those who choose to do the things I have specifically said not to, will receive a very friendly spirit with a penchant for grabbing the bare feet of problematic students at the foot of their beds during the stroke of midnight.” You stopped to take a breath after having to ramble everything just as the bell rang.

“Thank you all for being a lovely bunch and I will see you all tomorrow! Good day! Hasta la vista! Fare thee well! Fly, you fools!” You shouted over the bell ringing as everyone got up from their desks and bustled about, getting ready to go to their next class.

“Did you really just threaten the students with necromancy?” Charles quirked a brow in amusement as he slowly made his way over to you once all the students left your classroom.

“Ehhhhh an empty threat really.” You shrugged, playing it off though you failed to truly disguise the smirk that pulled at the corner of your lips.

“Right.” He chuckled, “And whatever was the issue with the phalluses? You seemed to be really adamant about that.”

“Well…..long long time ago, way back in the lands of ancient Greece.” You leaned back on your hands as you began to explain the story behind your dislike for satyr plays and their rather vulgar uses of the phallus, swinging your loose legs over the edge of your desk. “When I was just a wee teen, or you could say 15 in human years, my sisters Athena and Artemis took me with them to roam the markets of the mortals. Being the rebellious and angsty teen that I was, I didn’t want to be dragged along for their shopping, so I separated from them in search of food and something new to discover.”

“And? Did you find food and something new?”

“I did discover something new, though to be honest I wish I didn’t. But I disappointedly did not find any kolokithopita, which I was extremely craving at the time, it’s like a flaky pastry dough filled with zucchini and feta cheese and it is soooo good, you have got to try it.” You gestured with your hands as you tried to describe the food. “But anyways, back to the story. I heard some laughter coming from afar so I followed the sound and found a group of people gathered around a stage. Being the curious teen that I was, I tried to get a good look at whatever the hell these people were laughing at. Lo and behold. Turns out, I accidentally stumbled upon a Satyr play, which I’m sure you’ve heard about. And let’s just say, I have never u-turned and bolted so fast in my entire life and never have I ever been more traumatized.”

Charles laughed at your storytelling, his frame shaking with mirth as he shook his head at the thought. “You poor thing.”

“Yeah, I wanted to scoop my eyeballs out after seeing that. And I think I might’ve puked on someone on my way out.” Your voice became barely audible at the last part. “But also because one time during a poetry reading I took part in way back, some asshole thought it would be funny to wear a fake phallus on full display and try to reenact one of the scenes from those kinds of plays.”

“Well then that explains your dislike for them.”

“Yes, very.” You chuckled. “You know, your students want me to teach witchcraft and magic.”

“Do they?” Charles tilted his head at your words. “Let me guess, was it Peter that mentioned it?”

“It was. How did you know?”

“He may have tried to…..nonchalantly bring it up in my class. Hypothetically, is there a possibility in being able to teach such things?”

“Just really basic spells and potions. Most of the things that I can do are my natural abilities though. Waaiiit…….is that a possibility?”

“Possibly. If there’s no harm in it and none of the students have to sell their soul to you to learn your tricks.” Charles teased.

“Oh definitely not. But they’re welcome to make sacrificial offerings in the form of food.”

Charles laughed again, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his boyish laughter rung out through the room, causing you to chuckle along with him.

“So…….are you serious though?” You stopped, turning your head to look at him with eagerness hidden behind your eyes at the prospect of having your own magic class. “Will I really be able to teach magic to the students? Like my very own Hogwarts?”

“I’m sure I can make some arrangements.”

You nearly jumped off the table in excitement, clasping your hands together between your knees and biting the bottom of your lips to hold back a squeal before breaking out into a big grin. Charles smiled softly at your reaction. A tight pressure like feeling formed within his chest, not one of pain, but of adoration as he took in the pure cheerfulness that painted your features. Your irises which resembled the galaxies in hues of purples and gold, now sparkled from your emotions against the sunlight that managed to hit them at the right angle.

“How could I ever thank you?”

“You don’t need to. The students enjoy having you, that in itself is enough.” Charles smiled before looking up at you intently. “You know. All this poetry and you never read me any.”

“Maybe because you’re not special.” You teased.

Charles feigned a wounded expression, dramatically throwing a hand over his heart. “Ouch. You really do know how to break my heart y/n.”

“Oh please.” You rolled your eyes before grabbing your poetry book and shoving it at him lightly. “Here, you read one then.”

“Me? For whatever reason? Is it because you fancy my voice?” He smirked, poking fun at the time that you admitted you found his voice to be soothing.

“Well don’t go tooting your own horn. You’re no Christopher Lee.” You scoffed, trying your best to hide the blush that crept onto your cheeks, cursing yourself and wishing you had never told him that. Now you were never going to hear the end of it and he was to make sure of that.

Charles chuckled softly at your statement as he opened up your book and flipped through the pages. You stared at the dark wooden wall at the other side of the classroom, listening to the crisp sound of the turning of pages until Charles paused at a certain one and scanned the contents on the page, his eyes lifting to briefly glance up at you before clearing his throat.

“She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!”

“She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.” You noted, recognizing the same lines that you became fond of when the piece itself came out. “I’ve always loved that one.”

Charles closed your book back up, his blue eyes lingering on the distant look that was held in your eyes like the stillness of the air that accompanied the dark clouds of an oncoming storm. The room had started to cast a shadow on your face, deepening the small scars that lined your face from the many battles you had once fought. And though he had come to recognize those, his gaze became fixed on the dark circles under your eyes, knowing they weren’t there a day ago.

“Y/n is everything alright?” He asked, his voice quiet and soft, and his brows creased in worry. He didn’t need to read your mind to know that something was deeply troubling you.

“Hm? Oh yeah I’m fine! I just…….been having trouble sleeping, nothing major.”

“Are you sure? You know if there’s anything upsetting you, you can tell me, I’m here.”

“I know.” You smiled at him, reaching over to hold his hand. “I’ll come to you if I need anything. Thank you Charles, for everything.” You slid off your desk to place a soft kiss at the top of his head. “Now, I’d hate to leave you and all, but I don’t have any classes for the rest of the day and I’m feeling a bit tired so I’m going to go rest.”

“Of course. You take care of yourself darling.”

“I will thanks. See you later Charles.” You smoothed your hands over his soft hair before leaving the classroom and heading up to your room. A tugging sensation bubbled within your chest from having to lie to him, filling you with feelings of guilt. But you had to. You didn’t have the heart to tell him about the nightmares, or the searing sensation that coursed through the skin on your back whenever you woke up from them, the vividness of your dreams and the excruciating pain a constant reminder of your past.

Charles watched you leave the room in silence with a small frown on his face that only grew deeper the further away you went. He knew you spoke the truth about not being able to sleep, but he couldn’t help but feel there was a more chasmic layer to your explanation. And though he dared not to read your mind to find out the truth and instead trusted you to tell him when you found it in yourself to do so, something told him that whatever was slowly eating at you would soon consume you whole.

[jabberamongthetrees]

As I was going down impassive Rivers,

I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:

Yelping redskins had taken them as targets

And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.

I was indifferent to all crews,

The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons

When with my haulers this uproar stopped

The Rivers let me go where I wanted.

Into the furious lashing of the tides

More heedless than children's brains the other winter

I ran! And loosened Peninsulas

Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub

The storm blessed my sea vigils

Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves

That are called eternal rollers of victims,

Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!

Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children

The green water penetrated my hull of fir

And washed me of spots of blue wine

And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook

And from then on I bathed in the Poem

Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,

Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated

Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;

Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium

And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,

The bitter redness of love ferments!

I know the skies bursting with lightning, and the waterspouts

And the surf and the currents; I know the evening,

And dawn as exalted as a flock of doves

And at times I have seen what man thought he saw!

I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors,

Lighting up, with long violet clots,

Resembling actors of very ancient dramas,

The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters!

I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows

A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea,

The circulation of unknown saps,

And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!

I followed during pregnant months the swell,

Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs,

Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys

Could constrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans!

I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas

Mingling with flowers panthers' eyes and human

Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins

Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds!

I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps

Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!

Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm,

And the distances cataracting toward the abyss!

Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers!

Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs

Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs

Fall down from gnarled trees with black scent!

I should have liked to show children those sunfish

Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish.

—Foam of flowers rocked my drifting

And ineffable winds winged me at times.

At times a martyr weary of poles and zones,

The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll,

Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers

And I remained, like a woman on her knees...

Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels

And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes

And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes

Drowned men sank backward to sleep!

Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves,

Thrown by the storm into the birdless air

I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued

By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats;

Free, smoking, topped with violet fog,

I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall,

Bearing, delicious jam for good poets

Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure,

Who ran, spotted with small electric moons,

A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses,

When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels

The ultramarine skies with burning funnels;

I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off

The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms,

Eternal spinner of the blue immobility

I miss Europe with its ancient parapets!

I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands

Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer:

—Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself,

Million golden birds, o future Vigor? –

But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.

Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor

O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!

If I want a water of Europe, it is the black

Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight

A squatting child full of sadness releases

A boat as fragile as a May butterfly.

No longer can I, bathed in your languor, o waves,

Follow in the wake of the cotton boats,

Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames,

Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships

[weshallc]

Happy St. Andrew’s Day. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading Bonfire Night! I haven’t put it on the usual fic sites as I knew I would mess about, and Tumblr folk are a patient bunch. I am going to rejig it so it stretches from Bonfire Night to Christmas (probably New Year at this rate) looking back over 2020.

Thank you for the lovely comments and support from @h4t08 @fourteen-teacups @thatginchygal  @bbcshipper @roguesnitch @lovetheturners and new regular @aimee-jessica and @olafur-neal

I really don’t know what I have been doing with my time apart from washing my hands, measuring distances of 2 metres, sewing masks, swearing at the news, collecting Scotch egg and pasty recipes and building a pantry to hoard all my Brexshit preparation supplies.

Enough about me, so as it’s St. Andrew’s Day I thought I might give this another spin. 

BERNS NIGHT (Revisited, just for fun)

Call the Midwife AU (Crown Jewels/Paddy and Bernie/Poplar-on-Tweaven)

CHAPTER ONE: FAIR FA’ YOUR HONEST, SONSIE FACE

“Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang's my arm.”  Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns 1786.

“Will You Reconize me? Call My Name or Walk On By.” Don’t You (Forget About Me). Simple Minds 1985.

Monday 25th January 2016

“His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich!”

The room was swept in darkness apart from the light of the wolf moon and the north star penetrating the cold window panes. All eyes were facing towards a wooden table and the elderly man stood behind it. He was in his 60s and wiry, small for a man, but with a silver mess of what once must have been a bonnie head of fire red hair. The body may have looked weak, but the intensity in his bright blue eyes cut through the dimly lit surroundings.

As he spoke again, his voice filled the room, cutting through the anticipating silence. It was a voice that could take a knife and slice right through a soul. The knife in his hand in turn sliced through the offering in front of its high priest. Years of performing the same action with such a passion resulted in precision. The faithful entranced by the spectacle all gasped as one as the incision was violently made. No one daring to speak. Suddenly the trance was lost as artificial light rudely brought everyone back to the present with a blast of the pipes.

“All done then, Reverend Mannion? Can I serve the Haggis now? Don’t want it getting cold now, do we, not at £15 a head.”

“Aye, Violet, the ceremony is over. It’s time for eating and drinking, something the bard would have approved of, rightly so.”

The kilted clergyman winked at an auburn-haired girl in the crowd and tipped his whisky tumbler toward her. She raised her own glass and winked back. Her companion at her table was much taller with dark hair styled in a tidy no-nonsense bob.

The tall one leaned toward the small one and asked, “If it’s already dead, why does he have to kill it?”

“What?”

“The Haggis if it’s already dead, why does he have to kill it?”

Her friend opened her mouth to speak, but she saw a tender hand take hold of Chummy’s arm and explain it was all just ceremony, it was tradition.

“Like all that malarkey at our passing out parade, the day we got our badge. That wasn’t about police work, was it? It’s just tradition.  It’s what the English do well.”

He had been doing really well up until then, but a golden raised eyebrow made him alter his stance. “It is what us Brits do best.”

The raised eyebrow whispered to the police constable. ”Peter, Chummy really doesn’t think a haggis is a real animal, does she?”

He was not the sort of man that would turn heads, but he had a kindness in his eyes and an openness in his face she thought some would see as attractive. If only Camilla wasn’t his superior, and they didn’t work such long hours together, what might have been?

She knew her friend well and sensed more queries would follow. Not sure as a Scot brought up on Tweavenside and now living in London she could provide satisfying answers. Picking up their empty glasses and heading to the bar was a strange sort of refuge for a vicar's daughter and inner-city missionary.

There was a queue, well sort of a queue. In London a queue was made up of people standing in an orderly line and the person who had been stood the longest getting served first. In Poplar-on-Tweaven it resembled more of a rugby scrum and the person who shouted the loudest being ignored, Anyone who called the barmaid by name was bunked up the order. She wasn’t familiar with busy bars, but she was bright enough to work out the system.

“Val, when yer ready hen.” The request came from someone not sure that was their own voice they had just heard yelling those words.

All her life she had been immersed in the wonders of the Bible and was still amazed at how so many miracles had been performed. She had heard all the CPR arguments regarding resurrections and all that, and was still not convinced. But, she now knew how Moses had parted the Red Sea, he had known the barmaid’s name was Valerie.

“What can I get you, chick?”

“Here! I was first.” A grumpy voice struck up.

“Oh Al, you are always first. Let me serve this lass and then I will sort you out”

“Promises, promises.”

“Yeah in your dreams, pal.”

She was starting to feel uncomfortable she hadn’t meant to jump the queue. Maybe she should go back to the table and let Peter get the drinks. A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts, it was quieter than Al’s but held an authority. It wasn’t a Tweavenside accent, but it had a northern softness.

“You serve our impatient friend Valerie, I will see to this young lady.” Then turning to his new customer, “What can I get you, pet”

“Erm a whisky and lemonade and erm a pint, please.”

“Which whisky and a pint of?”

She wasn’t sure; she nudged her bottom onto a vacant stool for security.

“Are you with the law?” The tall bartender nodded towards Chummy and Peter,

“Yes, yes, I am.”

“OK, so that’s a Grouse and diet lemonade, just a dash and a pint of Buckles Best and for you?”

He stepped back a minute. “Your Reverend Wilf’s daughter?”

“Yes, I am.” Bernie suddenly felt more sure of herself. She was never completely certain of who she was when back in Poplar.

“Bernadette?” The stranger was grinning now, his brown eyes glinting under the harsh bar spotlights, or were they green?

“Well, that’s my Sunday name most people call me Bernie, even Dad.”

“Well, since I’ve never seen you in here on a Sunday or any other day. I will call you Bernie. I am Patrick Turner, most people call me Paddy, a few Doc.”

“Oh no, you won’t have seen me here on a Sunday or any other day. I live in London now and before that, well, I am not a big drinker.”

“What can I get you then?” asked Paddy loitering near the coke and lemonade pumps.

“A gin and tonic please, better make it a double it’s quite busy, save me coming back.”

Paddy smiled. “Premium gin?”

“Yes.”

While the optic was emptying into the glass, he asked, “You must have known this old place when Evie ran it?”

“Yes, I know Evie and J..Jenny”

“Oh yes. Jen was here when the wife and I took over she was a great help. We get a text every now and again, doing well for herself now, all loved up.” He winked at her as he ended the sentence, causing her to panic slightly.

“I was sorry to hear about your loss.” She wished she hadn’t said it.

Val had seemed to deal with ten customers to Paddy’s one, and now there was just the two of them alone at the bar. He looked at her in a sort of a non-direct, sort of direct way. Under that infuriating fringe she wanted to reach out and push back.

“Loss is as much a part of love as is healing,” he replied with a hint of melancholy, but without irony.

She was stunned and tried to find a corresponding Bible verse, but she drew a blank.

She focused on what was real and what was present. Her dad had taught her to do that. What was in front of her at this precise moment was a glass of gin and ice and a twist of lime. He was now unscrewing a bottle of Mediterranean slimline tonic.

She yelped, “No!” as he lay the bottle alongside the glass.

“Sorry most people add the tonic to the gin and I cannae bear it drowned.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, surely that would be very presumptuous of me.”

“Aye well, most people I've met are very presumptuous.”

“Maybe you have spent too much time in London. if you don't mind me saying, Bernie.”

“Well, to be fair, we don’t spend a lot of time sitting on stools and propping up bars in my part of London.”

“More's the pity.”

“Can I bother you for a...”

Paddy popped a black straw into her tumbler.

“I will make sure when you come home next time none of my staff will be presumptuous.”

“Oh, I doubt you will remember me, Paddy. I only come up to see my Da. I can't imagine you will be seeing much of me in the future, hardly likely that I would ever be considered a regular.”

“Now who is being presumptuous?”

Bernie went to put the straw between her lips but paused, realizing the stranger was still watching her. She suddenly felt uncomfortable. As heat rose in her cheeks. She suddenly felt awkward on the stool, squirming to find some sort of comfortable position. The stranger smiled in a way she could not understand; it wasn’t smug or suggestive, but as if there were sharing a joke, but she wasn’t sure what the joke was.

She hopped off her seat, for a brief moment realizing her arse was in the air and prayed he had altered his gaze. Focusing anywhere but behind the bar, she grabbed her glass and bottle in one hand, put the whisky against her elbow and waist, the pint in her other hand, turned and swiftly moved toward her thirsty friends.

Shelagh Bernadette Mannion don’t you dare look back and see if he is watching you he is recently widowed with a son, Da said. He is, what do they call them now, a bloomer or something like that. God has shown you his path for you and it certainly does not include the Crown Inn, Poplar-on-Tweaven.

He is still watching me, I can feel it.

[alchemic-elric]

Due to my blending verse with @gcldenchild​, @flameleads​​ and @angcrmanagcmcnt​​ - the topic of what Edward’s soul space was brought up and this is what was discussed. 

This is for verse context for v; Pride and Humility // v; Waning Moon // v; Night and Day 

Edward's soul space in it's purest form is a pitch black sky filled with stars.  These stars all contain pieces of him, memories, events, people, sentences, sayings, beliefs, emotions, etc. Some are bigger than others. Some glow brighter than others. Some shine in differing colors. If someone were to dive inside his heart when it is at peace (so no resistance) this what they'd be met with and should they touch a star as they sank deeper into this inky sky it would show / play for them the piece of him it contains. Basically his soul space is a library that contains all the things that make him up but instead of books, it's filed in stars. Small lights he's collected over his life.  The filing system wouldn't make sense to anyone but him.  Some stars are clustered together and most of the colors form constellations.  

 White Stars are beliefs (or the demon)   Silver Stars are information  -> alchemy / cooking / art / stories / school / etc  Dull Stars are faded memories / beliefs - or things truth took from him. The memory remains but he has no access to it. Red Stars are personal memories focusing on himself Orange Stars are memories / beliefs / etc  surrounding Mustang Yellow Stars are  for Hohenheim Green Stars are for Trisha Blue Stars are for Alphonse Purple Stars are for Winry Violet Stars are for Ly' Pink Stars are for Pinako Golden Stars are for Sol 

If you visualize a slow descent to the bottom and a person sinks they are surrounded by this filing system.  They could reach out and touch as they sink (or linger) and if it was a certain star (we'll say green) they would maybe hear "I love you Edward Dear."  In Trisha's voice as they continue on the way down. Then say a purple and they might hear Winry  "Edward you're such a reckless idiot." Not all of these things that make him up are positive.  For every positive memory he's kept of his friends and family, he's kept something negative too. Most of the red stars are negative.  Touch one and you're likely to hear "I'm broken." 

"There's sum'hin' wrong with me." Those are both beliefs and personal so they would be mostly white with a red glow.  All of this lives inside his heart. This is his heart in it's purest form without walls or resistance or barriers or trying to keep someone out. If you manage to get to the bottom. You will find an open grassy hill - a field - where you can lay and look up the stars and all their wonder. but you will also find, the boy who cries. The boy who sets by himself, at the center of it all - hidden from it all - in the place where no light exists The boy who cries for he is scared to be alone but alone is all he is.  The boy who fears being unloved and unwanted. The boy that no one is willing to keep. At the very center of it all, at his core - that boy lives and Edward protects him from the entire world because that boy has been grievously hurt and he refuses to let anyone ever get close to him again. You can't be unwanted if you never let anyone in.

This boy exists because Edward's primary emotion underneath everything is fear.  He functions in Rage but Anger is a masking emotion and he uses it to keep people out. No one belongs in his most sacred of places. No one has access to this library. No one is allowed in - so like with Humility - when  he tried to force his way in - Edward countered him with things he uses as shields - love and rage are a few examples.

This is the purest form of his heart when he is calm. When he is at peace. When he doesn't feel the need to defend himself.

Edward's heart in it's purest form is darkness filled with the light he's collected from others the entire time he's been alive.

[bigskydreaming]

russianspacegeckosexparty said: @bigskydreaming One of the settlements is a huge tower reaching up into the clouds, and very caste system hierarchy with the ones at or nearest the top of this spire are the royalty and nobility, and others are low rank.

Looooooool get out of my brain. Like, this can’t be a Faetown but only because this is basically the logline for a novel from my Citadel ‘verse, literally the one I was working on and getting ready to self-publish like....back when my jaw broke on me three years ago and derailed all my plans. I even had a cover commissioned for it and everything. Well okay not quite. I had an illustration I commissioned for it that I was going to use to design the cover from, and like, I really loved the tone and atmosphere and background the guy came up with and some things about how he illustrated the magic, but the character he featured front and center did uh....not mesh up with the breakdown I gave for what she and her armor should look like and also she’s doing one of those “This Is Anatomically Impossible And Also Ow I Hurt Just Looking At It” poses so.....I was like, ugggh, I like a lot of it (and the fact that I spent money on it) too much to just toss it out but like no way does it work as is so I still haven’t gotten around to figuring out if I could layer in the title in such a way as to obscure or hide part of her....contorting. I’ve added the illustration below the cut so you can see what I mean. LMAO. I think I might have posted it once before actually, but without the context of the story.

But seriously, this is The Elevation of Contempt in a nutshell. My prompt for myself for this one was literally “Class warfare, but make it magic.” LOL. And the towers thing is like....directly tied into the magic of this world.

So the world this novel is set on is one created by the goddesses of the sun and the moon. Back during the Holy Wars before the Citadel was split in pieces, they were lovers who found and shared dominion of the Solarium and its power, which when exiled by Seshan with the rest of the pantheon, they used to create this world and its inhabitants and its magic.

The basis for the magic system of this world is that magic, like matter, has different phases. Only while matter’s phase is dependent on temperature, the state of magic varies depending on altitude - basically, how close it is to the sun/moon, the source of magic in this world.

So each goddess created their own parallel form of magic, sun magic and moon magic, and it all operates by the same principles. At its furthest distance from the sun and moon, basically the surface level of the planet, magic condenses in its solid form, with specific properties while in that state. Once you reach a certain elevation however, magic exists in its liquid form, while at the higher elevations, it exists in a gaseous form, as clouds and vapor.

Which means the people of this world, upon discovering this, built their cities not outwards but UPWARDS. Using the magic of the Lower Realms to stabilize enormous towers and enable them to be built soaring to impossible heights....and ultimately a caste system formed, with the ruling class of the Heights lording their power over the Middle and Lower Realms....because magic in its gaseous/cloud phase is the most potent concentration.

But also, there’s the fact that the key to tapping the magic is art, basically. Due to the fact that the goddesses who designed the magic had been artists in their mortal lives, before ascending to godhood.

So the magic of the Lower Realms, the Depths, where its crystallized in the form of a kind of magical gemstone......magic in this phase just enhances what’s already there. Moon magic focuses on the physical realm while sun magic is about the essence of things, the spiritual realm. So crystallized moon magic, these silver/blue/purple gemstones which glow at night, when their magic can tapped and accessed....it basically can be used in various ways that all revolve around enhancing the already existing physical nature or properties of things. How it does this and in what ways, what properties, what degrees of enhancement....these depend on the artisans who take these gemstones and use them to craft jewelry and decorative elements, ornamentation, the patterns and imagery of which are what channel the moon magic into performing specific functions. 

Thus the ornate layering of gemstones throughout the foundation of the cities of this world are what keep the towers of the city capable of being built higher and higher without toppling. (But they’re layered so deeply into the foundations of the cities that its not like the people who live in the Depths could use this to hold the cities hostage so to speak, like threatening to destroy the foundations if their lives aren’t improved upon....they couldn’t really GET to the core foundations of the city to destroy the moon magic keeping it stabilized and refreshing that stability night after night, like....without the forces commanded by the people of the Heights stopping them long before they got to that point).

Then sun magic in its crystallized sunstone form, which can be tapped or accessed during the daylight hours....this enhances the existing spiritual properties or essences of things. Basically, solid-form sun magic makes things more of what they are on a kind of primal, existential level. Moon magic can make fires burn hotter, stone stand sturdier, weapons with moonstone-laden hilts more durable, sharper, less likely to break. Sun magic makes things with medicinal properties or tools of healing more effective, make weapons more deadly, in like an esoteric kind of way.

But both sunstones and moonstones, the crystallized forms of the magic, once brought to a certain elevation...they automatically melt into their liquid forms upon crossing that invisible threshold at which point solid magic becomes liquid. It doesn’t matter how expertly the crystallized sun and moon magic was wielded, crafted...it just simply doesn’t exist any longer in that solid form the second it reaches a certain height.

And this is the primary obstacle to people climbing the ranks of the city, socially as well as physically. Because thanks to the stranglehold the upper classes of most cities hold over the arts and education......the lower class living in the Depths simply lack the knowledge and skill to make use of the magic once its liquified and exists in those forms....because they’ve been denied those things. Sure, there are prodigies, people it comes naturally to without needing much education or training in tapping the magic via a ‘higher’ form of art in order to do so, but the ruling class works hard to ensure the number of people this includes - or who are aware that they possess such skill or the potential for it - is finite, or when a prodigy’s talent is undeniable, they ‘elevate’ them through the social ranks of the city and relocate them to one of the higher levels to keep most of them unmotivated to use these skills on behalf of the lower class they were once part of but no longer. Ones who rise through the ranks while still holding their old loyalties are either ‘disappeared’ or they learn to keep such loyalties well hidden.

In the Mids, the Middle Realm of the cities, where magic is concentrated in its liquid stages, sun and moon magic are tapped and channeled via painting and illustrations....their liquid forms being used as paint that artists then paint directly onto buildings, artifacts and even peoples’ skin as a form of magical tattoos.

Thus painters and tattoo artists are the real power brokers of the Mids. There’s bound to be one with a shop, selling their services, at every city level of the Mids, in every tower throughout the city. Aqueducts beginning at the very top levels of the Middle Realms collect the sun and moon magic the second the cloud and mist versions of the magic descend to the elevation at which they condense into a liquid, and then pipe that magic all throughout the middle levels of the city into reservoirs tapped by the various artists of the Mids in varying amounts, depending on their personal wealth and social standing. These aqueducts flow all the way to the Depths, where they leave off at the point where the liquid magic crystallizes in the ‘quarries’ at the upper reaches of the Depths. Thus in this fashion, the ruling class of the Heights also controls how MUCH magic reaches both the Mids and the Depths to begin with.

As with both the Depths and the Heights, the moon magic of the Mids is related to the physicality of things, while sun magic is related to their spiritual essences. Liquid moon magic, when channeled at night when its power can be tapped.....basically gives form and substance to whatever imagery its painted in.

So an artist can paint wings onto a person’s back with the silver, blue and violet hues of liquid moon magic, and upon nightfall, that person can activate that ‘tattoo’ at which point the wings lift off their skin and spring into being as physical things they can actually fly with. Someone could have a fireball painted onto their palm that will burst forth into real flames the second they command it to. People can commission artists for painted tattoos of weapons they can ‘peel’ off their skin into a state of physical being, or lightning bolts they can throw or even snakes that unwind from their forearms and attack or some kind of large cat like a panther that leaps free of the canvas of their back to attack an enemy. 

The only real limitations are that for an image to be ‘cast into being,’ ie pulled free of its canvas of skin or stone or whatever its painted upon and called forth as a real, three dimensional physical thing....it must be on the surface of whatever its painted upon, exposed to the night. So if you’re wealthy enough, you can commission an artist to paint several layers of ‘tattoos’ upon your skin, atop each other....but only the upper most image can be called forth at any given time. So if the tattoo that a person really needs at the moment is buried under two others, they have to ‘shed’ and waste the two tattoos atop it, burn them off so to speak, in order to reveal the one they’re trying to utilize as they can only then call it forth.

The other limitations are that any moon magic in a state of physical being when dawn comes vanishes with the sunrise. “Dormant” images, ones that are still painted on skin or stone or canvas but haven’t been tapped or called into being yet....they remain. Still useless during the daylight hours, but they haven’t been wasted, you don’t HAVE to use them up all in one night. But anything that’s been conjured with moon magic already, be it a weapon or a creature or wings...those will all vanish the second sunlight filters through to the Mids. 

Similarly, the creations of liquid moon magic only exist at the elevations moon magic exists in its liquid form. So if someone were to call forth a moon-crafted weapon from a painting in the Mids, and then carry that weapon with them down into the Depths....the second they crossed that invisible threshold into the altitudes of the Depths, their moon-conjured weapon would crystallize into a formless lump of solid moon magic. At the other end of things, if say, someone were to call forth wings of moonlight and use them to fly.....even though their wings could carry them all the way up to the elevations of the Heights....the second they crossed THAT threshold, their moon-conjured wings would effervesce into the formless mists of moon magic in its gaseous state. The weapons and creatures and creations of liquid moon magic exist ONLY in the Mids. They can’t rise or sink into either the Heights or the Depths; they cease to exist and either evaporate or crystallize into unshaped solid or gaseous magic.

Liquid sun magic has all the same restrictions and works by the same principles....but while liquid moon magic calls the imagery its painted in into being as a physical conjuration, liquid sun magic conjures the spiritual, the essence of things.

So a painted tattoo of a lightning bolt, if painted with moonlight and tapped during the night hours...will be called into being as an actual physical lightning bolt someone can cast forth as a force of destruction. A painted tattoo of a lightning bolt, if painted with sunlight and tapped during the day, however....that will conjure the essence of lightning, of electricity....channel its spiritual nature into a form the magic-user can wield. Such as by surging through them in the form of temporarily enhanced strength and speed, as though their nervous systems have been briefly supercharged, allowing for impossible feats. Sunlight painted images of creatures will allow someone to channel the spiritual properties or essences of such creatures. 

A called forth image of a serpent, for instance, could allow someone to poison an enemy with a temporarily venomous touch or a now poisoned blade. Tapping a sunlight-painted image of fire could cause a weapon or a door or even a person to glow with heat and burn to the touch, even though no physical fire is actually called into being. The painted tattoo of a hawk could temporarily give someone the keen vision of a bird of prey. And so on and so forth.

But again, as with the Depths, no matter how skilled or imaginative a painter, no matter how educated or practiced they are in the liquid arts of magic.....none of this does them any good if they were to try to climb to the city’s Heights uninvited.....because the magic simply doesn’t exist in that form to be used in that way once a certain elevation is reached.....and the music the ruling class uses to manipulate and channel magic in its most potent, gaseous forms...that’s the most carefully maintained, overseen and doled out form of artistic training of all.

Because the magic of the Heights, the magic of the sun and moon when flowing shapelessly and without limit or boundary through the vast reaches of the Upper Realms in the form of plentiful, wastefully abundant clouds and mists both at day and at night....

That’s the magic of transformation.

Mist moon magic when tapped and channeled at night, via the playing of flute-like wind instruments that breathe in and breathe out the ambient mist-magic and direct and shape it in the form of songs...mist moon magic allows a musician to transform the physical shape and structure of anything the mists touch, anyone who breathes them in. All via the direction of their music and the messages their songs are meant to convey, the images they conjure in the musician’s mind and from there are imparted upon others as the magic reshapes everything or everyone it touches to match the musician’s imaginings.

Thus the buildings of the Heights, the upper most levels of a city’s towers, are wrought by magic into strange, wondrous, impossible shapes. And often reshaped night after night. Musicians change their own shapes and the shapes of others at whim or upon request, transfiguring them into otherworldly visages and transforming animals into creatures born of imagination. A musician can’t change their own shape into that of some kind of animal, as they’d have no way to change themselves back if now lacking the ability to play their instruments and sing their songs....but they can change others into predators and prey, dragons and birds and tigers and anything else they fancy....with the other being entirely dependent on them to transform them back. The Heights are full of unearthly gardens filled with flowers and trees that could not exist if not for the moon magic and imaginations of the musicians who wield it. And unlike magic in its other forms, those of the lower elevations....the effects of moon magic don’t vanish with the sun. A transformation, once rendered, remains as is until and unless its transformed again.

And of course sun magic in its mist and cloud state works much the same way, though it renders transformations of the spirit....which is in many ways even more dangerous and potent. The music of sun magic changes the essence of things without changing its shape. Makes something other than what it is - impossibly so. It can make water burn like fire. It can make darkness illuminate brighter than the day. It can make a medicine intended to heal into a poison that kills, give a man the mind of a beast and a beast the mind of a man, make a solid door as see through as glass and someone submerged deep in a pool able to breathe it in as easily as if it were air.

The songs sung with sunlight, its said, can even make an honest man into a liar, a thief into a paragon of virtue, or the most loyal of allies into a traitor intent upon your death.

And as with songs woven of moonlight, the transformations rendered in the sun last even after night falls...unless and until another transformation is wrought.

And by keeping a tight leash on who they allow to become musicians at all....the ruling class maintains a stranglehold on the power they’ve amassed in the Heights. Even if the citizens of the lower levels were to climb to their elevation, they’d be unable to make use of the plentiful magic all around them, with no experience and instruction in using music to weave the magic into specific shapes....since those things have been deliberately withheld from them. By contrast, those of the Heights have no such restrictions in learning to utilize the illustrative skills and magic of the Mids or the jewelry-crafting of the Depths, even if they tend to view this as dabbling for the sake of idle entertainment....still, it means that when they venture forth into other elevations of the city....they are in no way hampered or impaired in making use of the magic there, even without aid of the music magic they’re most used to.

I think the gist of the plot (Class warfare, but with magic) is pretty clear from there, lol.

But the main characters of The Elevation Of Contempt include one of the most acclaimed painters of the Mids of one city: a ‘tattoo’ artist of great renown who teaches children of both the Mids and the Depths the art of music in secret lessons aided by her lover, a rebellious noblewoman who despises the rule of the Heights.....a young prodigy from the Depths and his best friend who in turn rises to become the pupil and protégé of an eccentric professor obsessed with legends of a time before their world, who maintains that none of this was as their creator goddesses intended and they would have intervened long before now, if they were not preoccupied with their own war against the god of another world, Alyon the god of Darkness and Despair, who holds dominion over something the oldest legends refer to as The Well.....and lastly, a thief from the Mids who was punished with a cruel transformation by the laughing nobility of the Heights, and who has since found a way to turn their punishment into his power and with it has sworn to make them all pay....

And all of them becoming entwined with the conflict between three mysterious strangers, who unbeknowst to the mortals of this world are gods of other worlds themselves: Azai-Dhak the God of Gamblers, who abandoned his own world in order to flee from Korim the Goddess of Vengeance, who has a ten thousand year old score to settle and eternity to stalk her prey......and Ramzi the God of Revels, lord of the Great Hall. Though what the latter could possibly want with the world of Sura is anyone’s guess. Only the goddesses of the sun and the moon have ever had much luck shining light on his motivations, and well. They’ve been a bit busy these past two thousand years.

Anyway, this is the illustration I’m still trying to figure out how to make work as the cover......you can uh...pretty easily see what I mean about the anatomy, I’m fairly sure. LMFAO.

[fantasyandromancelover]

The Tale of Tales Chapter 38

Gray tapped his fingers impatiently on Wendy's kitchen table while chewing on some mint leaves. The fairies had told him that it wouldn't take them that long to get ready but they had been preparing themselves for almost three hours.

"Geez why do girls take so long to get ready?" He thought.

Then on cue Wendy walked into the kitchen wearing the sky blue dress with white ribbon and the stitching in the shape of violets lined on to the skirt. Her hair was straight and shiny with a violet flower clipped on to the side.

"You look nice." He told her.

"Thank you."

After her came Evergreen wearing the peridot green dress complete with a corset that fit her figure to perfection while her hair was in a pony tail and a peridot necklace hung around her neck. Then came Levy wearing a slongsleeved marigold colored gown with a poppy red under skirt underneath it and a matching ribbon head band in her hair. Both Evergreen and Levy had managed to make their wings disappear so no one would recognize them as fairies.

"Not bad ladies." Gray commented. "But where's Juvia?"

"In my bedroom. Come out Juvia." Wendy called.

"I don't know about this. I feel kind of silly." Juvia said.

"Nonsense you look beautiful. Now come on." Levy insisted.

Juvia swallowed nervously and finally entered the kitchen. There she stood wearing her late mother's lace and silken white gown with her silver silk slippers on her feet and her blue hair down in curls with white anemone flowers braided behind her head. Gray felt his heart stop and his stomach drop. Never in his life had he seen anything more beautiful. She looked like an angel and seemed to be surrounded by some heavenly glow that only he could see.

"I'm not really used to wearing this stuff." Juvia said.

"But you're a princess." Evergreen said.

"My stepmother took away all my more extravagant dresses and had me wear more plain ones. She also took away all my make up, perfumes, and jewelry. She even stole my locket once but I got it back."

"Well it's a shame because jewelry and fine gowns look wonderful on you." Levy said. "What do you think Gray?"

But the poor young man was speechless at the moment and could only stand there with mouth a gape while blushing.

"Close your mouth hunter boy you'll catch flies." Evergreen teased.

Gray quickly did as she said and looked away to hide his blush.

"I...I think we should go now."

That made Juvia sad. Truth be told she was actually hoping that he would find her beautiful and the fact that he looked away and said nothing made her think that he didn't like how she looked. They went outside where horses were waiting and rode off to the village. Natsu, Lucy, Erza, and the dwarfs had walked to the village though Erza had seperated from the group to see her grandmother and they sent Gajeel with her in case another witch hunt went after her again. It was sun down by the time they all met up. Elfman and Romeo were relieved to see that Juvia was alive and well and she was happy to see Lucy again.

"I'm so glad you're alright." Lucy said as the two friends embraced.

"Me too."

"You look beautiful."

"Thank you. Levy brought you a gown also."

"Mmm- hmm. Now follow me Lucy and we'll get you ready."

Levy then took her aside to a private area where she could get her ready.

"Now then what dress shall we give you? Same as before? Gold really does suit you." Levy said. "The first gown was made from sunlight and stardust, my finest work yet."

"Actually Levy I wouldn't mind a more simple gown." Lucy said.

"Of course."

"And please don't make me look exactly as I did the night of the ball."

"Why not?"

"Because Natsu will recognize me as the girl he danced with."

"So?"

"So he can't know."

"Why?"

"Because it's... It's complicated I really don't want to talk about it. Just make me plain looking."

"Well I can't do that but I can make you recognizable this time. You'll look as you did that night but everyone will be able to see it's you."

"Okay but I'll keep my regular shoes this time."

"As you wish."

Levy then used her magic to dress Lucy in the gown of pure gold with her hair in an updo styled with gold ribbons and threads but she let Lucy's flat peasant shoes remain on her feet and didn't use any special magic to hide her identify. When the two maidens walked into the village square all heads turned in amazement. Never in their lives, had any of them seen two young women more beautiful and they couldn't decide which one of them was more lovely.

"What's everyone staring at?" Juvia whispered to Lucy.

"I think they're staring at us." Lucy whispered back.

"Oh dear. I'm not used to everyone paying so much attention to me. Normally whenever there were big events like this Stepmother would keep me locked up in my bedroom."

"I know the feeling, normally I spent events like these in the kitchen."

Romeo and Elfman began to join in the band with playing music. Young men and women started to dance in the square. Several young men were desperately trying to get Lucy and Juvia to dance with them. Wanting to be polite they accepted but some of them proved to be quite the nuisance.

"Won't you honor me with another dance?" One young man who Juvia had danced with said.

"No thank you, I think I'll take a break from dancing if you don't mind." She said.

"Oh surely you could spare one more dance for me." He kissed her hand then started to kiss up her arm much to her disgust.

"Sir this is most improper and I implore you to stop." She said.

But he just ignored her and before his lips could get any closer to her shoulder and face, Gray kicked the man away from her.

"What the hell?!" He shouted irritated.

"Oh sorry about that." Gray said. "It would seem that my leg was having a muscle spasm."

Gray was smiling and chuckling like it was a harmless accident but the man could see him gripping his dagger intensely, ready to strike should he get pushed too far. Understanding the warning the man quickly ran off.

"Hmm...Never took you to be the flirtatious type Juvia."

"I wasn't flirting with him. In fact I didn't really like him all that much."

"But you danced with him."

"Yes but I was only being polite."

"What about those other men you danced with?"

"What about them?"

"Did you like them?"

"I don't know. I barely knew them, as I said before I was only being polite."

"Oh..."

"Are you jealous?"

"What?! No! Of course not!"

"It's okay if you are."

"But I'm not! I'm just saying you should be cautious when certain men take a liking to you."

"True but I think-"

"Hey Juvia why don't you sing for us!" Romeo called.

"Oh I don't know."

"Come on. You're the best in all of Fiore."

Juvia sighed but with a smile she agreed. The musicians began to play a soft romantic ballad that was well known by many.

"Come over the hills, my bonnie Irish lad

Come over the hills to your darling

You choose the rose love, and I'll make the vow

And I'll be your true love forever." She sang with her beautiful voice as couples started to dance.

"Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows

Fair is the lily of the valley

Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne

But my love is fairer than any."

After singing that verse there was a music break, while waiting for the next verse she just causally walked around. However she was completely startled and taken off guard when the next part of the song was sung by a man's voice.

"Twas down by Killarney's green woods we strayed

The moon and the stars they were shining

The moon shone its rays on her locks of golden hair

She swore she'd be my love forever."

She looked in the direction of where the voice came from and to her surprise it was Gray. He waltzed over to her and continued to sing.

"It's not for the parting that my sister pains

It's not for the grief of my mother

'Tis all for the loss of my bonnie Irish lass

That my heart is breaking forever."

He had a wonderful singing voice and it sent shivers down Juvia's spine and blush to her cheeks. Another music break was taken. Gray bowed, Juvia curtsied, he offered her his hand, she accepted it, and the two started to waltz just as the other couples did. Throughout the dance the two never broke contact once and they never broke away from each other. Not even when it was time for the next verse which they sang together.

"Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows

Fair is the lily of the valley

Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne

But my love is fairer than any."

Their voices matched together perfectly and the two of them smiled and gazed at each other the whole time.

"Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne

But my love is fairer than any."

As they finished their song they found themselves leaning in closer. Her eyes closed, his were half lidded, and just before their lips could meet they were interrupted by the audience clapping and cheering for them. Gray's face was burning red and he quickly stepped away from her. Juvia only smiled shyly while trying to cover his blush cheeks.

Song used: Red Is The Rose by Orla Fallon and Tommy Fleming

[ncumenia-archived]

💭 the sea - all verses

Send 💭 + a topic and my muse will tell you what they think about it. [Canon]«There’s a deep connection between my kin and the sea since the elders have always told us the Silver one was like… Married to the sea.During ancient times, when the Solari and Lunari were one, usually, my kin went to pilgrimage to the Marai Sea, as not only it was said an ancient Vastayan race named Marai inhabited its waters, but also there was an almost forgotten legend about a magic artifact named Moon Stone, of which it was said it was able to vanish the Void and protecting Targon’s balance from it.Alas, as seeds of discord were planted, only a few Lunari -the bravest and most faithful ones- went to visit these holy water once per year…Some of them returned back… Others didn’t.I won’t lie: secretly, I went there during my last summer with my dearest friends, I still remember what my eyes have seen…During our “pilgrimage”, we saw small, deserted encampment during our journey -some of them belonged to “tribes” unfamiliar to us… But, among these unknown standards, we recognized our kin’s colors: purple, blue, grey, violet, and there was some dry blood on some of them… There was also said these tinctures were forbidden by Solari-.And then, we reached the sandy soil, I still remember the nocturnal, briny sea breeze filling our lungs and caressing our skin, some of us -me included, I won’t lie- hoping to see a “Marai” emerging from the waters -which, of course, didn’t happen-, but I pleasantly remember that night, for, once for all, we were happy, unworried about Solari and their unjustified hatred toward us.To conclude: the sea’s figure is extremely important and prominent in my culture, and sometimes I visit its water, collecting shells…Gently drowned by melancholy.»

[Odyssey]«My homeland’s sea’s chemical composition is far way different from human’s: the sodium’s quantity is way lower than theirs, and the colorization is pink because of the fruit spores in the air and the algae. There are many sea creatures which inhabit the waters, but we don’t eat them because of our frugivore diet. We can’t say the same about them, and you know what I mean with this, alas.The seaweed is a delicacy among my culture, also useful to make some remedies as well because of its soothing properties.Oh, needless to say, swimming, along with running, is one of my people’s favorite physical activities in order to stay fit and build a stronger body. I used to swim, sometimes, even though I prefer running.»[Modern]«I really love the sea, and I hope, when I’ll find a job and get some money, to live near it since the sea breeze is a “cure-all”. I usually go there during summer, even though I kinda dislike that sensation when, after you take a swim, sand sticks everywhere, and you look like a breaded cutlet!»

[orbiit]

BASICS  ! NAME:  laura hale  NICKNAME: ,,,, does she have one lmao ??? AGE: 27 for her main verse  SPECIES: werewolf

PERSONAL  ! MORALITY: chaotic good  RELIGION: n/a (probably some wolf moon beliefs stuff tho) SINS: greed / gluttony / sloth / lust / pride / envy / wrath. VIRTUES: chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice. KNOWN LANGUAGES: english and spanish  SECRETS: that ,,,, she’s a werewolf lmao. but also she probably blames herself a lot for the loss of her family and that she couldn’t help them all get out ; she has insecurities about her ability as an alpha/to lead a pack since she wasn’t done with her training when she was tossed into that responsibility ; she sometimes wishes she’d never come back to life ; and she used to resent the fact that she was expected to raise her siblings, train to lead a pack, and didn’t get to enjoy her teen years as much as other people her age did she still feels really guilty about that

PHYSICAL  ! BUILD: scrawny / bony / slender / fit / athletic / curvy / herculean / pudgy / average . HEIGHT: 5′7″ SCARS  /  BIRTHMARKS:  she has a pretty prominent scar from when she was uhhhh ,,,, cut in half ,,, the scar tissue is still there and noticeable ///: she also has a few scars from the torture leading up to that  ABILITIES  /  POWERS: heightened sense of smell, vision, and night vision ; accelerated healing ; enhanced strength ; ability to ,,,, turn into a wolf ; half-shift phase with claws fangs and red eyes in alpha Moude ;  RESTRICTIONS: can be injured by pure silver items, burned and injured by wolfsbane, at times can have difficulty controlling the shift on the full moon, weak to weapons, ashes, and debris from mountain ash 

FAVORITES  ! FOOD: ribs ! and wings !  PIZZA TOPPING: pepperoni and/or buffalo sauce  COLOR: dark red, maroon, grey, etc  MUSIC GENRE: old 80s emo bands, synth stuff  MOVIE GENRE: action ! some corny rom coms but like lowkey  CURSE WORD: laura says f uck !  SCENTS: pine, sandalwood,  blue violet, heady scents basically moonlight path from babw but like don’t @ her for it and unless its related to ribs or steak she hates the scent of smoke and/or fire lmao

FUN STUFF  ! BOTTOM OR TOP:  a ,,,,, Bottome . SINGS IN THE SHOWER: yeah and she sounds like a drowning wolf so like ,,,  lmao LIKES PUNS: she’s fine with them - as long as they’re not dog puns at her expense !!

tagged by: @chingcna

tagging: @lavendervcined ​ @thequeenofbeasts @fiinalgiirls @saturnrang @distortedpalace - and anybody tbh so i dont @ everybody if u see this ur invited to pls do it and @ me too so i can read it xoxo

[felldragxn]

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

The following quotes and phrases are taken from the stories in Thomas Ligotti’s anthology Songs of a Dead Dreamer. Some of these quotes were slightly tweaked for the sake of this meme. If you enjoy the imagery or writing in this meme, please support the author by purchasing his work. Content warnings for horror in general and brief mentions of blood, nihilism, unreality, mannequins, dolls, puppets, and some body horror.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: Grima (Impossible Odds Verse) Tagged by: nobody i just found it on a meme blog Tagging: NOBODY BECAUSE I WOULD NOT WISH THIS FATE UPON ANYBODY

The Frolic

Absolute madness paired with a sharp cunning / an expression of sky-blue peacefulness / the indistinct happiness of the future / a piece of moon above the opulent leafage of spring trees / a broken-down kingdom of miracles and horrors / a Neverland where dizzy chaos is the norm / a cosmos of crooked houses and littered alleys / a slum among the stars / a jolly river of refuse / jagged heaps in shadows / a phantasmagoric mingling of heaven and hell / a moonlit corridor where mirrors scream and laugh / dreamy back-drops / ice cubes in an empty glass / shifting expressions on a lean face / vague suggestions and subtle jokes / an Aphrodite sculpture / the wind, cold and dead / a crumbled piece of paper / black-foaming gutters / the dank windowless gloom of some intergalactic cellar / starless cities of insanity / a bright freezing scream of laughter / a passing anecdote of some obscure hell

Les Fleurs

sorrowful flowers / lilting blossoms for a loved one’s memorial / a florist shop / flowers which open only at night / a hothouse warm smile / night-blooming cereuses / a sleek ocelot / well-preserved old places / plants resembling birds / white picket fences / flower-printed curtains / liqueur tasting of flowers from open fields / cool, clean offices / invisible wings whipping the warm air in darkness / the sounds of black orchids growing / the flower-bedded earth / a ripple of empathetic insight / a gorgeous kingdom of glittering colors / velvety jungle-shapes / contorted rainbows and twisted auroras / hyper-radiant hues / a marvelous arcana / tongue-like floral appendages / tongues flowering

Alice’s Last Adventure

Volatile years when anything might go wrong / the embodiment of topsy-turvydom / pools of rainwater / tarnished mirrors / moonlit windows / a thousand misshapen marvels / a universe handed over to new gods / stoic tolerance of a second-rate reality / two complete strangers gawking at each other / a shiny, pearl-grey casket / black orchids / a strange combination of relief and confusion / a delayed echo with oblique origins / a chain of occurrences with links as weak as smoke rings / a sunny autumn morning / a sense of duty, vanity, and other less comprehensible motives / the seas of the moon / costumed kids / the cries of bedlamites / the clamor of rambunctious kids / a half-cocked oration / jack-o’-lanterns glowing orange and yellow / masked children / a plastic cup of cider / shadows wavering against two-story facades / a lamp with a shade of Tiffany glass / a disciple of the bizarre / an autumn moon hanging in the blackness / demonic giggling / the moon / a clock / shadows in the window

Dream of a Manikin

A mostly tacit but somehow complete biography / a marvelous trick of the mind / jeweled lamps along the walls / lights shining on an intricately patterned carpet and various pieces of old furniture / star-clustered blackness / a starry abyss / an iciness drifting in from a starscape / a horrible truth / a legend written somewhere at the bottom of a dream / echoing voices bouncing here and there around the room / a motto printed on fortune cookie-like strips of paper and hidden in bureau drawers / a broken record repeating itself on an ancient Victrola / an alighting flock of birds / a field of dynamic tension / a dry sibilant voice / people dressed as dolls / shaking with tremors of the uncanny / a manikin dresser / astral ambience / occult studies and depth analysis / delving into speculative models of reality / cosmic static / harassments of the self / the boundaries of the self / a Bigger Self terrorizing its little splinter selves / cosmic ennui / a serendipitous discovery / this dream of flesh / guilty until proven otherwise / valerian and camphor baths / cryptic impudence / softly glowing display windows / the divine bonds of unreality / a medium-intensity shower / display-window dummies / rain-spotted glasses / a car with rain-blinded windows / a moment of self-terror / the mythical conspiracy of a treacherous universe / a galaxy of constellations / a vaporous glowing / a whitened hallway / dolls made up to look like people / eyes shining in the white darkness / a powerful psychic metaphor

The Chymist

Daydreaming in the key of Rosicrucianism / bubblegum and beer / a chalice in a church / a serum vial in a laboratory / the tartness of one’s smile / a very keen appreciation of diversity / decrepitude / the withering heart of the deceased / bastardized nostalgia / the putrescence of things past / arching mirrors / chrome chandeliers / second-hand fantasies and out-of-date distractions / one strange thing next to another / a genius of vulgarity / a lawless paradise /  violence without violation / a smoke-gray sky / city-soiled clumps of snow / fluxing clouds that swirl above the chimneys and trees / alchemical transmutations / the glamour and sanity of former days / a new mask of rats and rot / a hopeless stroll along the path to hypothetically higher worlds / a body whose true outline remains unknown /  the whims of chemistry / the caprices of circumstance / the enigma of personal taste / a leather vessel with a void inside / the skeleton of a dream / lights outlining the different venues and avenues below / a bottle of powdered light / pulverized diamonds / the flesh and blood kaleidoscope of one’s imagination / a prodigious insurrection of entity / a tempest of transfiguration

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish / riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool / a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling /a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Missing girls in Gothic garb / amber going on red / a reddish haze / a crazy purpurean tapestry / a fair-haired girl / denim slacks and a leather jacket / bloody moonlight / a long sip from a can of iced tea / persecutions and imperilments as glamorous as those of any Gothic heroine / violet eyes / the machinations of an evil-hearted malefactor / haunting second-hand shops / a strip of dark velvet seized by a pearl brooch / a frail chain from which dangles a heart-shaped locket / a whirlpooling lock of golden hair / gloves, long and powdery pale / the shoulders of heavy capes lined in satin that shines like a black sun / enveloping hoods / capes with deep pockets and generous inner pouches for secreting precious souvenirs / capes with silk strings that tie about the neck / capes with weighted hems that nonetheless flutter weightlessly in midnight gusts / doll-size in a dark doll’s costume / quivering bones and feverish blood / fear’s funereal plume / carriage wheels rioting in a lavender mist or a pearly fog / nacreous fires twitching beyond the margins of country roads / cliffs and stars / a blur of crimson shadows / vast regions of sublime desolation / mountains hulking in hazy twilight / a rather large animal collar at the end of a chain leash / a light the color of fresh meat / a page in a depraved story book / a single candle glowing through red glass / little zippers and big zippers / a moth-eaten cloak / enthralling cruelties / spangled eyebrows / a brow of glittering silver / glistening with tiny flecks of starlight /  the velvet embrace of one’s favorite cape / the tall candles one lights on stormy nights / chains of raindrops whipping against one’s windows / places where raging storms and brutal subjugations never end / the hardships of traveling to strange faraway places / frail little dolls / wild-wind nights and sadistic villains / corridors of scarlet darkness / a captive of one’s heart and its infinite chambers

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

Something magical / something timeless / something profound / a sooty basement / the putrid members of a man who is decomposing / a plain brown package marked Hope, Love, or Fortune Cookies and postmarked: the Edge of the Unknown / a helter-skelter universe where things are ever threatening to go abnormal and unreal / a normal, real love / impermanence and decay / evils sent out under various covers / sublime and terrifying conflict / fearsome, fantastical, and inhuman / moon-trimmed shadows / lunar landscapes of craggy peaks / skeletal wastelands of jagged ice / a brooding Gothic hero / an ethereal Gothic heroine / a castle-like skyscraper / an extra dose of obsessiveness / the Gothic tale / a militant romantic / waves of bombast / winds of ecstatic hysteria / a partially shattered window, its surface streaked with a blue film of dust / a sublime sense of desolation / the diluted glow of twilight / night’s enveloping cloak / grimy azure dimness / bluish semi-luminescence / tears of confusion / turquoise haze / blue shadows of silence / liquefying legs / an old storyteller / the voice of a tiny insect crying for help from inside a sealed coffin / a piercing, crystal shriek that lacerates the midnight blackness / a haunter of spectral marketplaces / Gothic glory / a horror writer / an ardent consumer of the abnormal and the unreal / a visitant of discount houses of unreality / subject only to the rule of demonic forces / puppet-shadows / a hell so excruciating it is bliss itself / bony wings rising out of one’s back / jaws that are a cavern of dripping silver / rivers of putrescent gold running through one’s veins

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

Diamond-paned windows / a thick December fog / a serene congregation of colors / holly, both fresh and artificial / a pale purple ribbon / a ritual forever reenacted without hope of escape / a large chair beside a fogged window / crackling logs / a foggy winter’s night / bright Christmas lights shining through the fog / always dead with darkness / always alive with lights

The Lost Art of Twilight

A streak of iodine red / a spattering of flat black / the early autumn sun / silver hair / a gray suit / a long envelope, neatly cesareaned / the charnel house creeps / a silver shield / crepuscular radiance / an offspring of the dead / the progeny of phantoms / the big green eye of an EEG monitor / De Plancy’s Dictionnaire infernal / a rainbow of insects / the science of superstition / the Provencal countryside / a pantheon of gargoyles amid the splendor of a medieval church / a holy soldier of the living / a monster of the dead / the astral banquet of Art / the rotting flesh of rainbows / the sonar screech of a bat / vampiric origins / the oncoming onyx of a storm / shadows and sunshine / glare and gloom / bright clouds and black / iron-red leaves / tentative drops of rain / blue bears and yellow rabbits / neither a blood-warm human nor a blood-drawing devil / oceans of blood / the ravenous life of the undead / an authoritative impatience / eternal life in an eternal death

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Pale gray pajamas / thick sheets of paper / a bottle of black ink / a shapely black pen with a silvery nib / strands of blond hair, almost white / a sudden salty breeze / silhouettes and shadows / unreflecting windows / metal hinges squeaking somewhere in the wind / a sleepless night / constellations beyond the window panes / star-filled hours / the pure whiteness of the page / a flung shoe leaning toe-up against a bedpost / nothingness unstained by inner conception / white snow in a white sky / dark lines and vacant spaces / vast expanses of frozen whiteness / a church in a foreign town / assorted devils and demons / ice-mad mountains / a spirit of malicious abandon / nightmarish anatomies / a sickle-shaped scar of moon / sea-licked shores / dark letters / feeding one’s troubles to the sea / brown-leafed trees / a forest of memorials / clumps of crosses / groves of gravestones / dark, cowl-shaped windows / unblemished by shadows / the sound of crashing waves / bending dawns into twilights / static from a broken radio / breaking waves / seaside air / a gleaming crescent moon / a bone-white cicatrix / chronic insomnia / a blade of moon / white night, white noise

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

The confusions of carnival night / gyrations of squealing abandon / lines between pain and pleasure / a rainbow of rags / a startling length of blade / pale pages elegantly dappled by somber verses / a pair of strangely darkened spectacles / the toneless voice of one who is dead to all appeasement or mercy / mounds of snow that had been sown with ashes / eyes as dark and swirled with shadows as the raving night itself / a constellation of designs / mad games of flesh and steel / a forbidden madness / dense forests of tall pikes planted in the earth / shadows rolling in empty sockets / lacerated mouths / the darkness of dreams / to see the world drown in oceans of agony / visions of butchering the angels / a god of deceit or illusion / chaos at feast / black with scars of madness / darkly clouded glass / the brightest and highest of stars / shimmering halls / unnaturally colored wine / red-smeared forms / many-taloned claws / the velvet fingers of a tightly gloved hand / a pair of leviathan leeches / a lord of the sword made mad / the dark powers which we cannot understand but only hate / rhapsodic voices in the streets / a privileged doom / the face of the soul of the world / the cool marble of the floor / an onyx-black knight / a face flushed with crimson glory

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

A scribble of lightning engraved upon a black sky / a long, brightly colored coat / noisy jets of blue-green light flickering spasmodically / life-size dolls hanging suspended by wires / wetted strands of a spider web / shiny satin legs / a beautifully pale hand / pulverized stars / dismembered limbs of dolls and puppets / the repose of ruin / an oily red glare / a well-dressed dummy / a white high-collar shirt with silver cufflinks / a billowing cravat which displays a pattern of moons and stars / wood waking up / a sleep that should have never been broken / something too painful for tears / the false fire of the moon / two faces sharing a single head / faint, hollow screams from high above / a dummy’s silence / leftover tears of berserk laughter / bluish-green irradiance

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Mist on a lake / fog in thick woods / a golden light shining on wet stones / a little trickle of suspicion in the bloodstream / the solar brilliance of a summer day / supernatural horror / a corner alive with cool drafts and fragrant with centuries of must / a rancid world rife with things smelling of the crypt / a sower of vice / mad winds / wan moonlight / pasty specters / the vividness of pain / the lasting effects of fear / natural-born puppets whose lips are stained with their own blood / dead bodies that walk in the night / living bodies suddenly possessed by new owners and deadly aspirations / the sepulchral pomp of wasting tissue / compassion for human hurt / a humble sense of one’s impermanence / an absolute valuation of justice / a demented innocence in the face of gruesome facts / the horrific reprisals of affirmation / the Cosmic Macabre / the shudders of a thousand graveyards

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

Gray walls pocked like sponges / nights of futile tears and screaming / an expression of almost paternal forgiveness / the supreme delirium of the planets / bright puppets dancing in the blackness / a golden speck of magic / the silent, staring universe / something as pathetic as a puppet and as exalted as the stars / something at once dead and never dying / autumn constellations in the black sky above / harshly brilliant eyes / the remote places where truth had been shut up and abandoned

The Sect of the Idiot

Extraordinary joy / extraordinary pain / the great hollow of dreams / an infinitely secluded place / a world that both menaces and surpasses this one / a holy madness / infinite stillness on foggy mornings / miracles of silence on indolent afternoons / the strangely flickering tableau of neverending nights / deceptive depths of shadow / heaps of clouds like dust balls / a fluorescent map of the cosmos / medieval autumns and mute winters / kaleidoscopic windows / a kind of cataclysm of empty space / an earthquake of the invisible / strikingly clear eyes / a dusty trunk of dreams / a maze of streets / an abyss of stars / a great reaching blackness / a stale gray dimness / an alien order of being / an icy blackness / starry blackness / a great round moon / deep aquatic blue / the voids of astronomy / a state of both paralyzed terror and spellbound curiosity / whispering figures / stagnant moonlight / withered, wilted claws / drooping tentacles / the spinning legs of spiders / the greedy rubbing of a fly’s spindly feelers / the darting tongues of snakes / the triumph of the grotesque / whispering effigies of chaos / putrid arcana / an ecstatic horror / horrific ecstasy / the demonic elements of which all creation is composed / corruption in disguise / a cache of unwonted offerings stored out of sight / currents of fear / dark tremors / splendid scenes broken with malign shadows / the lurid and the lovely forever lost in each other’s embrace / the arch of an old street / tunnel-like hallways / sickly light shining through unwashed, curtainless windows / atmospherics of infinite melancholy and unease / a decayed paradise / the everlasting residue of some cosmic misfortune / a solemn, mechanical intentness / a smooth and solid cube of black glass / a malignant puppet of madness / dazed in darkness / embarrassed throat-clearings / reproving looks / words which could only have meaning in a nightmare / a thing of strange degeneracy / a quintessence of hellish delirium / freakish, echoing laughter / the whispering of strangers / twitching tentacles / a horror which cannot be helped  

The Greater Festival of Masks

The old and new / the real and imaginary / truth and deception / shops of costumes and masks / an incautious curiosity / shredded rags that are easily disturbed by the wind / a poster stuck to a crumbling wall / strange pathways of caprice / the outsized moon / silvery windows / doors which are elaborately decorated yet will not budge in their frames / massive shutters covering blank walls behind them / faces of dreams / sardonically grinning / innocence and excuses / a reddish glow of fire / a wad of bubbling blackness / smooth and faceless faces / the speaker in the shadows / the soft creaking of new faces breaking through old flesh

The Music of the Moon

Breaking the quiet of a moonlit room / enchantments that nearly make amends for one’s stolen slumber / some unusual shape leaping across steep roofs / a bewildering agility / many nights of sleepless hell / a knife / rope / a poison vial / an exploit of uncommon decisiveness / blank nights of insomnia / a handbill / ashes mixed with grease / a door with a faint yellow aura leaking out at its edges / small, shadowlike things moving in corners and along the floor molding / a quartet of musicians / a voice which sounds both exhausted and malicious / pale, ragged clouds of hair / sonic abnormality / an empty shaft of blackness / spherical lamps caked with dust / the silence of a dark, lifeless world / black silhouettes of human heads visible only in the moonlight / slow music in the soft darkness / a single note wavering in a universe of darkness / a incalculable proliferation of slightly dissonant harmony / the light of a quiet gray dawn / completely helpless, and yet content to be so / thick layers of webs / gazing at nothing with bleeding sockets / the moon all fat and pale, glaring down from its gauzy webs of clouds

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals / the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror / placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

Candles in a cloistered cell / shapes beneath the shadows / tall buildings whose rooftops nod groundward / wide buildings whose facades follow the curve of a street / buildings whose windows and doorways tilt like badly hung paintings / stairways that wander off-course into useless places / caged elevators that urge unwanted stops on their passengers / a sequestered civilization of echoes flourishing among groaning walls / thin ladders ascending into a maze of shafts and conduits / the dark valves and arteries of a petrified and monstrous organism / a desolate serenity / silvery cinders / the mouths of great chimneys / shadow-puppets / cluttered gardens and crooked gates / the purling waters of black canals / faded masks concealing profound schemes / a place of supernatural clarity and stillness / the crystalline glare of a lantern / moonlight through a curtained window / darkened windows / souls who believe that the only value of this world lies in its power—at certain times— to suggest another / a scattering of stars and lights / a coveted paradise / the most gauzy phantom of another place / a shadowy mimic / the anatomy of a great dream / everlasting echoes / a rectangle of smudged glass within another rectangle of scuffed wood / crowded shelves / remnants of a luxuriant autumn / an obscene reality / to dwell among the ruins of reality / shadowed volumes / scripture that would begin with the portents of apocalypse and end with the wreck of all creation / to become the wind in the dead of winter / to howl the undoing of all that would abide in warmth and light / an enticing verse in a volume of esoterica / the dream of attaining some untainted good / a disastrous enlightenment / some hypothetical state of pure glory / the revelation that nothing ever known has ended in glory / some strictly demonic enterprise / something about one’s presence that makes one think of a crow / a scavenging creature in wait / a large, two-headed shadow / the sad frustration of the uninvited, the abandoned / the brilliant rectangle of a doorway / hopes and curiosities of an indeterminable kind / free-standing bookcases / pages and bindings of uncommon texture / abstract diagrams suggesting no orthodox ritual or occult system / a chronicle of strange dreams / an invocation of a world in waiting of genesis / days distilled into dreams and nights into nightmares / a deliverance by damnation / nightmare made normal / a horror uncompromised by any feeling of lost joy or a thwarted searching for the good / a nightmare transformed in spirit by the utter absence of refuge / a utopia of exhaustion, confusion, and debris / a dialogue of mystification, and possibly one of lies / the edge of a dreamless void / a dark and devouring bird / shadows and moonlight / an unbending web of heavy wire / unjust confinement / a slender syringe crowned with a silvery needle

[fellhero-blog]

“Please don’t strip right now.” (Western verse oh god)

i don’t know where this meme is—? lmao. i’ll link it later.

A moody gradient of dark blues, rich violets and sultry orange hues shimmered across the water; a beautiful reflection that blended seamlessly with the sky above. By now the sun had sunk below the horizon, and its light had all but faded from the sky—but the night was bright with the silver glow of a full moon.

For weeks now, Garrett had been confined to the comforts of the Crossroads. Recently, he’d been given the freedom to walk around town—just not for long, and not too far. As a caretaker, Hal was as stubborn as he was solicitous, but after suffering several long days of Garrett’s surly insistence he’d finally surrendered.

Satisfied with this small victory, Garrett had agreed to wait until night, when Hal could accompany him. Together, the two strolled through the quiet town; away from the shops with their darkened windows, past the church with its chipping paint, and down to the lake. It was further than Garrett had walked since his injury. He would be tired, later, but standing there—breeze blowing across the water, ruffling through his unruly curls—every part of him was awake, alive.

And without saying a word, he’d started stripping out of his clothes; dropping his coat onto the rocks and pulling off his shirt. Underneath, his shoulders were striped with pale scars, old and faded things which ran horizontally down his muscular back.

“If it’ll offend your sensibilities, by all means, avert your eyes,” he quipped, glancing over his shoulder at Hal and goading him with a shameless smirk.

Bathing with buckets and rags might be well and good for some, but water from a well was lifeless—it lacked the purifying energies of rain, rivers, and ancient lakes. Unbuckling his belt, Garrett stepped gingerly out of his trousers and into the water.

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

Charles x Reader, Erik x Reader, Logan x Reader One Shot

A/N: Here is the one shot requested by my lovely anon! I do hope you enjoy this one! 💕💕💕 I was literally listening to a Harry Potter classroom ambience while writing this for some odd reason haha. Also there will be a part 2 and feedback is greatly appreciated lovelies! 💕💕💕

Summary: Imagine being Hekate, the Greek goddess of magic and witchcraft, the night and the moon, doorways and crossroads, creatures of the night, and ghosts and necromancy. You stumbled upon Earth many centuries ago and since then have resided on the foreign planet. You became close friends with Logan during the civil war and he has been like a father figure for you ever since. During the recent years you were discovered by Charles and Erik, and after finding out your identity, Charles recruited you into being a professor at his school. But though you became close with the trio over the years, there some things you wish to keep to keep hidden.

Warnings: Angst, language

“Okay class.” You stood up from your desk to face the chalkboard behind you as you moved on to your next lesson, “Does anyone know what the six popular types of poetry are?” You felt a sudden rush of wind behind you, making your hair blow towards your face as you rolled your eyes, turning around to face the young silver-haired teen who displayed a proud smirk on his face while sitting in his seat as if nothing happened. “Peter Maximoff, if I catch you doing laps around my classroom one more time…………..I’m going to turn all your band shirts into bands you hate.”

“What? Aw come on Ms.Hekate.” Peter slid down in his seat with his head thrown back, exasperating as he did so. “Not my band shirts.”

“Keep it up and you’ll start to see Madonna and Abba on your shirts.” You smirked. “Now, since you oh so greatly volunteered to answer, what are the six popular types of poetry?”

“I don’t know, the ones that rhyme.” Peter shrugged at the question, causing some of the students snicker in response.

“Well,” you chuckled at his answer “there are some poetry that have rhymes, but there are also some that do not necessarily have to rhyme, like blank verse and free verse. Blank verse for example, is a poetic form that features rhythmic rules, such as iambic pentameter, but no rhymes.” You faced the class as you leaned against your desk, using your telekinetic abilities to grasp the chalk and write the info down on the board, a violet mist forming around your fingers and around the piece of chalk. “Free verse on the other hand, is an open form of poetry, which in its modern form arose through the French vers libre form. It does not use consistent meter patterns, rhyme, or any musical pattern and thus tends to follow the rhythm of natural speech. Now, does anyone else know what the six types are? Anyone?” You looked around before picking on the red-haired girl in front who had her hand up. “Yes Jean?”

“Um the six popular types of poetry are Haiku, Diamante, uuuhhh Cinquain, Ballad, Sonnet, and Limerick.”

“Excellent Jean! That is correct.” You grinned, the chalk behind you hovering in the air and moving rapidly as it wrote down the different types along with a short description beneath them.

“Ms.Hekate?”

“Yes Peter?”

“Why do you only teach literature and folklore and mythology classes? How come you don’t teach us magic witchcraft and potions and stuff, you know?”

The students perked up at his question, their eyes sparkling up at the idea as they whispered to each other words of excitement.

“That’s a good question Peter. You’re welcome to ask professor Xavier about it or start a petition. Now, I want you to open up your books and turn to page 394. I mean 36! Sorry! Please turn to page 36. We will be doing a reading of the poem ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick.”

“Virgins huh?” Peter snickered, making you glare at him lightheartedly.

“Quiet now Peter before I make you read the whole thing in front of the class.”

You grabbed the leather bound book off your shelf before hoisting yourself up on your desk and standing upright on it, straightening the black turtleneck sweater you wore and smoothing down your gray plaid pants.

“Uuhhh Ms.Hekate.” You heard Scott speak up.

“Yes Scott?”

“Why are you standing on your desk?”

“A different perspective you might say. Something all of you will be trying tomorrow.”

“Wait what?”

“Alrighty.” You cleared your throat before speaking loudly, holding your book out before you with one hand while your other hand was shoved in your pocket. “To the Virgins!-“

“What’s this talk of virgins?”

You stopped, your eyes widening at the voice that just now spoke while your own became trapped in your throat as you saw a man enter your classroom, lingering in the back as his piercing blue eyes bore into yours.

“Ch-Charles.” You blinked. “I-I didn’t expect you here.”

The students looked between you and Charles with amusement painted on their faces as they giggled at your flustered expression, some of them leaning over to whisper in each other’s ears.

“Well don’t let me stop you from whatever it is you’re doing.” Charles smiled politely at you, his eyes lit up in curiosity from your stance on your desk. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be……quietly observing.”

“Well thank you for joining us Charles. But, you know better than anyone else, that there are only participants in my class, not observers. So if I ask you a question you best be ready to answer it.” You snarked, smirking at the puzzled look that now masked his face before clearing your throat once again, holding your book out before you and reading off the page you had turned to.

“To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.”

You glanced up from under your lashes to see Charles’s eyes still glued to you as he listened to your every word. Such a simple action made your cheeks heat up and your stomach spin as you held the book higher to cover your flushed face.

“The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he’s a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry.”

You closed the book back up, setting it aside as you sat down on your desk and faced the students. “Now, can anyone tell me what the biggest element of this poem is? Yes Kurt?”

“Ummmmm………Carpe Diem?”

“Correct!” You smiled at Kurt as the piece of chalk behind you wrote Carpe Diem in large letters with a line underneath. “Carpe Diem is in fact the biggest part about this poem. Now….Charles, can you tell me what Carpe Diem means?”

Charles straightened up in his seat as he looked up at you confounded, surprise hidden behind his eyes on the fact that you kept your word on having him participate. “Well it means seize the day.”

“Yes, true. Carpe Diem is a Latin term most commonly known as ‘seize the day’, but, the term originally means ‘to gather or pluck the day’. It was originally used by the Roman poet Horace to express the idea that time is limited and we should enjoy life while we still can. His full directive was ‘carpe diem quam minimum credula postero’, which is translated as ‘pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in the next one’. Now, for all of you night owls out there who can’t stand the sun like me, Carpe Noctem is perfect for you because it translates to ‘seize the night’.”

You briefly glimpsed up at your clock, hissing and nearly falling off your desk once you saw that you had only a minute and a half left of your class. “Alrighty my little poets! Today’s word of the day was Carpe Diem or Carpe Noctem! I want you all to ingrain that into your minds! Write it down, paint it on a canvas, make an artwork out of it, tattoo it on your forehead I don’t care! ACTUALLYDONTDOTHELASTONE! Please, for the love of all things holy, do not tattoo your foreheads. We will finish this lesson tomorrow and discuss some more themes. For homework, I want you all to pick a poet and one of their poems and try to analyze some of the themes we have already discussed. I will be having you read those poems aloud to the class. Extra credit will be given to those who decide to come in costume, dressed up like their chosen poet. The more dramatic the better! Fake beards are welcome, fake phalluses are NOT! For the love of the gods, please choose something PG. We are not learning about Greek Satyr plays, let’s keep that a thing of the past thank you very much and kindly. You will all be respectful to each other’s performances! There will be no snickering, no laughing, no chastising, and I will not have you behaving like a babbling, bumbling, band of baboons! Those who choose to do the things I have specifically said not to, will receive a very friendly spirit with a penchant for grabbing the bare feet of problematic students at the foot of their beds during the stroke of midnight.” You stopped to take a breath after having to ramble everything just as the bell rang.

“Thank you all for being a lovely bunch and I will see you all tomorrow! Good day! Hasta la vista! Fare thee well! Fly, you fools!” You shouted over the bell ringing as everyone got up from their desks and bustled about, getting ready to go to their next class.

“Did you really just threaten the students with necromancy?” Charles quirked a brow in amusement as he slowly made his way over to you once all the students left your classroom.

“Ehhhhh an empty threat really.” You shrugged, playing it off though you failed to truly disguise the smirk that pulled at the corner of your lips.

“Right.” He chuckled, “And whatever was the issue with the phalluses? You seemed to be really adamant about that.”

“Well…..long long time ago, way back in the lands of ancient Greece.” You leaned back on your hands as you began to explain the story behind your dislike for satyr plays and their rather vulgar uses of the phallus, swinging your loose legs over the edge of your desk. “When I was just a wee teen, or you could say 15 in human years, my sisters Athena and Artemis took me with them to roam the markets of the mortals. Being the rebellious and angsty teen that I was, I didn’t want to be dragged along for their shopping, so I separated from them in search of food and something new to discover.”

“And? Did you find food and something new?”

“I did discover something new, though to be honest I wish I didn’t. But I disappointedly did not find any kolokithopita, which I was extremely craving at the time, it’s like a flaky pastry dough filled with zucchini and feta cheese and it is soooo good, you have got to try it.” You gestured with your hands as you tried to describe the food. “But anyways, back to the story. I heard some laughter coming from afar so I followed the sound and found a group of people gathered around a stage. Being the curious teen that I was, I tried to get a good look at whatever the hell these people were laughing at. Lo and behold. Turns out, I accidentally stumbled upon a Satyr play, which I’m sure you’ve heard about. And let’s just say, I have never u-turned and bolted so fast in my entire life and never have I ever been more traumatized.”

Charles laughed at your storytelling, his frame shaking with mirth as he shook his head at the thought. “You poor thing.”

“Yeah, I wanted to scoop my eyeballs out after seeing that. And I think I might’ve puked on someone on my way out.” Your voice became barely audible at the last part. “But also because one time during a poetry reading I took part in way back, some asshole thought it would be funny to wear a fake phallus on full display and try to reenact one of the scenes from those kinds of plays.”

“Well then that explains your dislike for them.”

“Yes, very.” You chuckled. “You know, your students want me to teach witchcraft and magic.”

“Do they?” Charles tilted his head at your words. “Let me guess, was it Peter that mentioned it?”

“It was. How did you know?”

“He may have tried to…..nonchalantly bring it up in my class. Hypothetically, is there a possibility in being able to teach such things?”

“Just really basic spells and potions. Most of the things that I can do are my natural abilities though. Waaiiit…….is that a possibility?”

“Possibly. If there’s no harm in it and none of the students have to sell their soul to you to learn your tricks.” Charles teased.

“Oh definitely not. But they’re welcome to make sacrificial offerings in the form of food.

Charles laughed again, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his boyish laughter rung out through the room, causing you to chuckle along with him.

“So…….are you serious though?” You stopped, turning your head to look at him with eagerness hidden behind your eyes at the prospect of having your own magic class. “Will I really be able to teach magic to the students? Like my very own Hogwarts?”

“I’m sure I can make some arrangements.”

You nearly jumped off the table in excitement, clasping your hands together between your knees and biting the bottom of your lips to hold back a squeal before breaking out into a big grin. Charles smiled softly at your reaction. A tight pressure like feeling formed within his chest, not one of pain, but of adoration as he took in the pure cheerfulness that painted your features. Your irises which resembled the galaxies in hues of purples and gold, now sparkled from your emotions against the sunlight that managed to hit them at the right angle.

“How could I ever thank you?”

“You don’t need to. The students enjoy having you, that in itself is enough.” Charles smiled before looking up at you intently. “You know. All this poetry and you never read me any.”

“Maybe because you’re not special.” You teased.

Charles feigned a wounded expression, dramatically throwing a hand over his heart. “Ouch. You really do know how to break my heart y/n.”

“Oh please.” You rolled your eyes before grabbing your poetry book and shoving it at him lightly. “Here, you read one then.”

“Me? For whatever reason? Is it because you fancy my voice?” He smirked, poking fun at the time that you admitted you found his voice to be soothing.

“Well don’t go tooting your own horn. You’re no Christopher Lee.” You scoffed, trying your best to hide the blush that crept onto your cheeks, cursing yourself and wishing you had never told him that. Now you were never going to hear the end of it and he was to make sure of that.

Charles chuckled softly at your statement as he opened up your book and flipped through the pages. You stared at the dark wooden wall at the other side of the classroom, listening to the crisp sound of the turning of pages until Charles paused at a certain one and scanned the contents on the page, his eyes lifting to briefly glance up at you before clearing his throat.

“She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!”

“She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.” You noted, recognizing the same lines that you became fond of when the piece itself came out. “I’ve always loved that one.”

Charles closed your book back up, his blue eyes lingering on the distant look that was held in your eyes like the stillness of the air that accompanied the dark clouds of an oncoming storm. The room had started to cast a shadow on your face, deepening the small scars that lined your face from the many battles you had once fought. And though he had come to recognize those, his gaze became fixed on the dark circles under your eyes, knowing they weren’t there a day ago.

“Y/n is everything alright?” He asked, his voice quiet and soft, and his brows creased in worry. He didn’t need to read your mind to know that something was deeply troubling you.

“Hm? Oh yeah I’m fine! I just…….been having trouble sleeping, nothing major.”

“Are you sure? You know if there’s anything upsetting you, you can tell me, I’m here.”

“I know.” You smiled at him, reaching over to hold his hand. “I’ll come to you if I need anything. Thank you Charles, for everything.” You slid off your desk to place a soft kiss at the top of his head. “Now, I’d hate to leave you and all, but I don’t have any classes for the rest of the day and I’m feeling a bit tired so I’m going to go rest.”

“Of course. You take care of yourself darling.”

“I will thanks. See you later Charles.” You smoothed your hands over his soft hair before leaving the classroom and heading up to your room. A tugging sensation bubbled within your chest from having to lie to him, filling you with feelings of guilt. But you had to. You didn’t have the heart to tell him about the nightmares, or the searing sensation that coursed through the skin on your back whenever you woke up from them, the vividness of your dreams and the excruciating pain a constant reminder of your past.

Charles watched you leave the room in silence with a small frown on his face that only grew deeper the further away you went. He knew you spoke the truth about not being able to sleep, but he couldn’t help but feel there was a more chasmic layer to your explanation. And though he dared not to read your mind to find out the truth and instead trusted you to tell him when you found it in yourself to do so, something told him that whatever was slowly eating at you would soon consume you whole.

Tag List: @hargreevesd @lulu-yuming

Hi!! I love love love your Hekate x Avengers series!! You mentioned that the only people who knew about Y/N’s scars were Charles, Erik and Logan, would you be able to do a one shot about how they found out? I’m interested to see how those three reacted. They’re all secretly softies- you can’t change my mind. It’s okay if not, I understand. Stay safe! ❤️❤️

Aaaahdjdbfoc!!!!! Omg I haven’t received an ask in a while and ohmyfreakinggoodness!!!! I’m so happy that you enjoy it!!! It means so much! And I will definitely do that! That sounds like a really fun idea actually. I’ve been wanting to do one shots about her backstory and when I’m done with this one I’m thinking about starting a Hekate x Loki one. 👀 Also yes they are 100% softies! Even Erik!!! And thanks again for the ask love! I hope you have a lovely day!

[forsoothsayer]

The Drunken Boat by Arthur Rimbaud

As I was going down impassive Rivers, I no longer felt myself guided by haulers: Yelping redskins had taken them as targets And had nailed them naked to colored stakes. I was indifferent to all crews, The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons When with my haulers this uproar stopped The Rivers let me go where I wanted. Into the furious lashing of the tides More heedless than children's brains the other winter I ran! And loosened Peninsulas Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub The storm blessed my sea vigils Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves That are called eternal rollers of victims, Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses! Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children The green water penetrated my hull of fir And washed me of spots of blue wine And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook And from then on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent, Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks; Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight, Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres, The bitter redness of love ferments! I know the skies bursting with lightning, and the waterspouts And the surf and the currents; I know the evening, And dawn as exalted as a flock of doves And at times I have seen what man thought he saw! I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors, Lighting up, with long violet clots, Resembling actors of very ancient dramas, The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters! I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea, The circulation of unknown saps, And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous! I followed during pregnant months the swell, Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs, Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys Could constrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans! I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas Mingling with flowers panthers' eyes and human Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds! I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes! Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm, And the distances cataracting toward the abyss! Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers! Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs Fall down from gnarled trees with black scent! I should have liked to show children those sunfish Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish. —Foam of flowers rocked my drifting And ineffable winds winged me at times. At times a martyr weary of poles and zones, The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll, Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers And I remained, like a woman on her knees... Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes Drowned men sank backward to sleep! Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves, Thrown by the storm into the birdless air I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats; Free, smoking, topped with violet fog, I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall, Bearing, delicious jam for good poets Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure, Who ran, spotted with small electric moons, A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses, When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels The ultramarine skies with burning funnels; I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms, Eternal spinner of the blue immobility I miss Europe with its ancient parapets! I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer: —Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself, Million golden birds, o future Vigor? – But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter. Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea! If I want a water of Europe, it is the black Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight A squatting child full of sadness releases A boat as fragile as a May butterfly. No longer can I, bathed in your languor, o waves, Follow in the wake of the cotton boats, Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames, Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships.