#winter is the season where the darkness and cold rots my brain

[doxiedreg]

Brain can't do holiday spirit

Only sad

I will survive

Today has just been kinda shitty and the weather has been gloomy all day which doesn't help

Please sunlight and warmth come back, please it would fix me

Right now I'm just too tired and too sad to do much useful things or even things I want to do

All I can do is lay in bed but at least I have a warm soft doggy laying against me

Genuinely hope you guys' christmasses have been better than mine

Perhaps tell me how you spent it and what you've gotten? I'm curious!

[greetingfromthedead]

Shepherd Story 2 (God!Knives x F!Reader)

Plot: In a world where fallen gods live among you, there is the god of winter and death who is also eternally bound to you with body and soul. The time has come for him to visit you again.

Series: Shepherd. Check out Story 1 and Story 3!

Pairing: God!Knives x F!Reader

Raiting: NSFW!! 18+!! R!! Explicit!! Minors DNI

Tags: fantasy!AU, god!AU, no use of "y/n", smut (I just got carried away in the beginning), established relationship, gods, feathery plant, fated love, romance, legends, nature magic, reunion, intimacy, possessive behavior, tenderness, some fluff, body worship, light bondage, vaginal fingering, oral f receiving, hand job, p in v sex

Word count: 4k

Author's Note: This is a continuation of Shepherd. This story is inspired by @triplesilverstar's god!AU. There isn't much lore here, but I already have ideas for a 3rd installment. This AU will rot my brain out.

The cycle is nearly complete again. The summer heat caressed your cheeks, and the trees took on a yellow hue. This body had not felt the heat of midsummer or seen the different colors of nature. Despite living in the south, the creeping winter lasting 50 years still left its mark. But you remember from all your past lives the changing seasons that seemed to last forever. You don't miss the sunny days or the shades of spring. You welcome the falling leaves and the chilly northern winds, for they are brought on by something more precious.

The song of your heart has gotten louder and louder as the weeks have passed, and the familiar restlessness of your ancient soul has been tugging you towards the dark forests surrounding your home. But you know there is no need to go; you are found, and the melody echoing from your chest will always guide him back to you without fault.

You look up from your workbench as the silent whine of ice forming touches your ears. He is here. The god of winter and death has arrived, greeting you with breathtaking bouquets of frosted flowers covering your windows. They glimmer in the last rays of daylight as you set aside your book and rise to meet him.

You open your front door into the frigid evening air. It is snowing again, just like last time, and once again, you see him approaching from the edge of the forest. This time he isn't frozen over, his beautiful feathery wings trailing behind him with soft rustling. His ice cold eyes are on you, but tonight they don't nail you to your spot with terror. In them, you recognize the hundreds of lifetimes you've lived, your love reaching back to times so old that even the stories from it have died.

"I've been waiting for you, Beloved," you say as you step off your doorstep onto the freezing pathway. The frost brought on by his presence melts under your bare feet, and it gets colder with every step you take towards him.

"I've been yearning for you, my love," he replies, his steely gaze looking through this mortal body of yours and only seeing the soul he fell in love with millennia ago. "I patiently waited for the day to lay my eyes on you once again."

"Come now; I have something of yours." You reach out your hand with a smile to invite him to take it. He closes the distance and traces his digits along the lines of your open palm. His cold touch chills the blood in your veins, but just for a moment. His fingers find the spaces between yours, intertwining effortlessly as if they were always meant to be there. With that, the markings covering his body light up with a dim blue light. The sight only lasts for a few seconds before the patterns disappear again.

"As always, I thank you, sweet Shepherd, for keeping it safe." His voice is quiet and soothing, painting images of snow covered meadows and peaceful forests in your mind. He presses your hand to the middle of his chest, where you feel his heart awakening. The beat hastens as he holds your gaze. "You consume me. I dream of you every hour of every day."

His fingers let go of yours to trace along your bare forearms. You don't even notice the cold anymore as his touch leaves burning trails in its wake. You lean in closer, unable to resist the pull of his soul.

"For tonight, I am not a mere dream. I am yours to hold, and we have a lot of time to make up for, darling." You reach out your free hand to touch his sharp jaw line and feel the warmth emanating from his skin. The god bows his head to you as his lips find yours. It fills you with euphoria, reaching into the farthest corners of your being. Your heart beats like a wardrum, echoing the sounds of times past. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him as he leans you back. His kiss acting as a wordless prayer.

The snowflakes gently falling from the heavens land on your face like delicate touches, and the feeling of them melting on your skin lingers for long after they are gone. His stiff hands clutch tightly at your waist and lift you up from the ground. Your palms find balance on his broad shoulders. His sharp gaze looks up into your dumbfounded face as he carries you back to your cottage. A familiar feathery tendril slinks out from between his mass of wings and gently brushes against your cheek, drying up the wetness left there by the thawing snow. You lift one arm from his body to touch the tendril and let it slip through your fingers.

He sets you down as he reaches the doorway and lets you guide him inside, where his presence fills the small room with shadows. The door can barely shut behind him as you feel more soft touches trail along your skin. You recognize them as the slim helping limbs, and you feel two of them trying to slink their way under your blouse. His large hands land on your hips as you feel him press against your back. He leans down and whispers in your ear, "You fill me with desire and make me lose my mind. I am nothing more than a pathetic and weak man in your presence. My thoughts focused on every way to please you. I crave your touch and long for the warmth of your body."

His hands travel around you, pushing the thin fabric of your top with them, baring your skin around your waist. You feel the contour of his muscles against you and the warmth of his cheek pressing into yours. His fingers start to undo the buttons as a hand slithers underneath to dance along your bare skin.

"I come like a rabid dog to your doorstep, a starved animal desperate for the smallest particle of your affection. I come with my teeth bared and my chest full of longing. You have me crawling in desperate devotion for you." His voice cuts like a knife into your hazing thoughts.

"You're a god," you remind him as he opens the front of your blouse.

"And I am powerless in your glory." His hot breath touches your skin at the base of your neck, and his lips trail down your shoulder.

Both of his hands travel along your figure, exploring every curve and crevice with hunger. A few of his tendrils sneak under your skirts, caressing along your legs up to your thighs. Your hands cover his as his long fingers press into the supple flesh of your breasts. The creeping feathers lick over the hot core between your legs. Your breathing gets heavier as his hands get rougher, and his kisses are replaced by sharp teeth trailing over your skin. A shiver runs along your spine as he makes his way up your neck.

He whispers into your ear as the tip of his nose digs into your helix. "Will you allow me to be reminded of your sweetness? So it can turn to bitter longing when we are apart?"

You swallow hard, and he doesn't wait for your response. He turns you around, and his lips find yours in a searing kiss. His hands push off the garment, still trapping your arms, and the tendrils pull down your underwear. He guides you backwards, and you can only take a few strides across the little room until the edge of your workbench digs into the back of your thighs. He effortlessly lifts you onto the edge and settles between your legs. His fingers frame your face as he kisses you deeply, his tongue exploring every corner of your mouth. Your hands travel along his body to undo the clasp of his robe on his shoulder and let it fall between your bodies. Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. As he leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck, you feel a shiver run down your spine. The anticipation builds as he whispers his desires in your ear, sending a hot wave into our belly.

Your arms reach around him, and your digits find where the wings meet his back. Your fingers are grabbing onto the mighty and soft bases as his kisses move along your neck, leaving you softly moaning as his hands caress you. Some of his tendrils have moved on to peel back the layers of your skirts, carefully bunching them up onto your lap and holding them there. The god's tender hand runs along your thigh, and two more tendrils appear to weave around your ankles and calves. His touch moves closer to the heat emanating from your longing sex.

The little helping limbs pull your legs apart for him to run his thumb along your wet slit. His fingers expertly tease your folds. With each gentle stroke, you feel yourself surrendering to the pleasure he effortlessly evokes. More tendrils appear that wrap themselves tenderly around your form. They hold you securely in place as the god's touch becomes more intense, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You can't help but arch your back and moan softly as he continues. His lips move down from your collarbone and skip over the tendril making its way to your neck. He focuses on the space between your breasts before picking one and lapping at the hardening bud in the center. The feathers tickle you gently and help to keep you up as his looming form forces you backward. A finger presses its way through your entrance, and the juices gush onto his hand. The god groans against your skin, and you can feel the vibration all throughout your body. His digit is quickly followed by a second one as they start to stretch and explore your inner walls, seeking out every sensitive spot within you. The sensation of his fingers moving inside you, combined with the soft feathers caressing your skin, sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body, leaving you breathless and wanting more. His kisses move down along your sternum, and two tendrils make you release the wings on his back that you had held on to with all your might. Finally free from your grip, he can lower himself to the floor. He looks up at you from between your legs before turning to brush his lips along your inner thigh.

His mouth finds its way to your throbbing clit, his tongue flicking and circling with precision. The sensation is overwhelming, pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy. The tendrils tighten their grip further as your body jerks, and your belly contracts in anticipation. His tongue buries into your folds as he laps up your desire for him. Strangled cries and whimpers escape your throat as he keeps you teetering on the edge of climax, prolonging the exquisite torture. The little feathery limbs around your wrists let go to allow you to lace your fingers into his pale blonde hair and pull on it. The fingers of his free hand dig into your hip with enough fierceness to leave marks. The other hand pumps into you with curled digits. With a final flick of his tongue, you shatter into a million pieces, your body convulsing with pleasure as you ride the waves of climax.

He doesn't stop yet, his tongue replacing the fingers he pulled from you, drinking up every spilled drop like a dying man presented with the fountain of immortality. Both his hands hold on to your hips, pulling you closer as you slowly come down from the initial high, but his actions still cloud your mind with pleasure.

His face pulls away from you, and you get to see his adoring eyes look up at you. This gaze is yours alone; no other soul is privy to it. His one. His only. Despite the soft nature of his expression, his lips aren't graced with a smile; an iciness fit for the god of winter lingers there. You know this face too well; it's nothing more than a mask, trying to hide his inpatient intentions. As he rises up to stand before you, the distance grows enough for you to bask in the glory of his form. You see the sparse little feathers growing by the collarbones, his wide and muscular chest, now bare for you since his flowy white robe hangs from his hips. Yet the layers of fabric are not able to hide his desire for you.

As he steps closer, he relieves his body from the garment and lifts you up from the wooden surface with the tendrils to remove your skirts leaving you as naked as the day you were born. He presses himself between your legs as he lowers you down again and you wrap yourself around him, your feet locking together on his ass. His cheek presses against yours, his warm breath tickling your neck as his hands stroke your sides. You enjoy his closeness, and the slight tickling makes you look down. You feel his hard length press against you, but as you look, you see the tip poke out between your bellies. It leaves a wet spot on your skin. You scoot your ass back enough to fit your hand between your bodies.

You touch your own dripping sex first, collecting some of the slick on your digits before capturing his shaft and starting to run your palm along the length of it before wrapping your fingers around it. You continue to stroke him firmly, feeling him twitch in your hand. With every pass, your thumb strokes over the tip, and his heavy breath caresses your ear as silent moans threaten to escape him. Your other hand holds on to his hair as you continue your steady pace. He arches his back and lets out a low groan of pleasure as you twist your hand around him, and the sound turns into a growl as he nips at your ear. You know he is at his wit's end, unable to control himself any longer. You release the vice like grip of your legs, and he knows to lean back. You run his sensitive tip through your folds before lining him up at your entrance. You are dripping in anticipation, and he can slowly sink into your heat as the walls clamp down around him. You let out a soft moan as he fills you completely.

His hips start to move in shallow thrusts as your fingers grip his hair and feathers. His panting lips move to your throat, forcing your head back, but the pleasure is too much to keep your eyes open anyway. You let yourself enjoy the overwhelming sensation. He grinds himself to the bottom of your well, hitting that spot inside you that makes you tighten your legs around him. You feel the tendrils around you come to life again with new vigor as they strangle your torso and opening your legs wider for him. You are too bound by him to do much of anything except moan with overwhelming pleasure towards the heavens. You are completely lost in the moment, surrendering yourself to his every touch. Your mind is consumed with desire, and your body aches for more.

As if sensing your despair, he increases the intensity of his movements—no longer shallow thrusts but deep, powerful strokes that send waves of delight through every fiber of your being. His teeth graze your skin as his lips move hungrily against the skin of your neck. He relishes the vibrations escaping your throat, his hands grabbing you tight and pulling you closer to him.

You quiver around him as your body tightens in pleasure, every nerve ending on fire with lust. His pace has turned into a frantic pounding as he drives deep into you. The small room is filled with a symphony of your voices, moaning in unison to the building crescendo of ecstasy.

The coil that has been tightening with every thrust of your lover finally releases, sending you over the edge into a state of pure bliss. You call out his name as your body convulses around him, tripping him too over the verge of climax. He fills you with warmth as your pulsing milks him. You feel yourself spilling over as your hands release their tight grip on him. You go boneless as the last of the intense pleasure washes over and retreats. You are kept up by his strong arms and tendrils wrapped around you. His lips move down to your chest, where he leaves more of his burning kisses as you still feel him panting against your skin. You are so entangled in him, you aren't sure where he ends and you start.

The tendril that has been around your neck like a necklace slithers away and is replaced by the god of death's long fingers. He squeezes just enough to slightly restrict your airway, making your heavy breath hitch in your throat. He kisses the edge of your jaw, and you turn your burning gaze on him. What you wouldn't give to crawl out of this mortal body and return to the time where you had no need for it. You curse the gods who turned you this way, forcing the two of you to hold back every step of the way. Your love transcends the limitations set by this meek form. You don't want him to be vigilant about your weak body; you want the love you make to thunder across the land with the strength of a thousand storms. You want him to stay. Yet he will bring death even to you if he lingers too long. You grab hold of his chin and move his lips to yours so your tongue can taste the sweetness of his mouth. A groan escapes him as his other hand pulls on your lower back, pressing you even closer to him. You are left gasping and desperate for more.

His fingers release you again, and he grabs hold of your hips. There is no chance of you sliding away from his grasp, as he holds you both with his strong arms and the tendrils woven around you. He picks you up from the workbench and heads to where he knows your bed to be. You can still feel him inside you, as he never pulled away far enough from your body to break that bond. As he steps into the shimmering moonlight, he stops. Long shadows are painted on his skin, and his pale blue eyes glimmer, reminding you of ice crystals, making him appear otherworldly.

"My gorgeous nymph, beautiful as the day I first saw you," he whispers, his voice sending shivers down your spine. You know his calm demeanor hides a raging fire just beneath the surface. You know you are the moth to his flame, and you cannot resist being drawn closer to him, even though you know it will eventually consume you.

"My Beloved." You whisper back, your hands cradling his face.

He doesn't linger by the window any longer but continues onward to your bed. He turns and stretches out his enormous wings before sitting down and situating you on his lap, your legs kneeling to either side of his thighs as you are spread out for him again.

He looks up at your face, the ancient fire you share burning in both of your gazes. The storming of your soul against the confines of your human body is a tempest, spilling over into his soul.

"I want to lay waist to their domain, to set fire to their realm, where they look down upon us, until their marble stairs melt away. I want to make them grovel and beg for forgiveness at your feet for the shackles they have placed upon you. Let me seek justice the only way I know how. Tell me to go to war, Shepherd!"

"You will lose without your heart, and I refuse to give it back," you say with a tone that won't allow him to argue. Instead, you put your hands on his shoulders and grind your hips into his lap.

You feel his breath shudder for a moment before his hands run up your body, cupping your breasts as you lean back. The need grows again, fed by the flames of your love, as you roll your hips against his, feeling the heat between you intensify. His lips find yours, and you lose yourself in the passion of the moment. You feel him hardening inside you again, aching for more. His fingers dance over your sensitive skin as the tendrils retreat, and he gives you full control over your body again. Your movements grow bolder as he swells inside you. Soon enough, you find yourself feverishly riding him, unable to hold back any longer. He uses the tendrils to move the both of you further onto the bed without disturbing your bouncing. You force him onto his back as you continue to rock your hips against his with a passion that consumes you both. Any attempt to prolong the moment is futile, as the sight of him relishing in your beauty is intoxicating. His fingers dig into your thighs as he starts to buck up into you with an urgency that matches your own. A tendril pushes against the tender bundle of nerves to brush against it. There is time for tenderness later. For now, you are a wildebeest in heat, desperate for his touch and his seed. You are lost in the moment, consumed by the age-old desire between you.

As your bodies move in perfect synchronization, the world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you in a whirlwind of passion. The intensity builds until it reaches its peak, leaving you breathless and completely enraptured by him. As you collide into him, he pulls you in for a breathless and passionate kiss that leaves you wanting more. He wraps you in his wings as he turns and pins you underneath him. The god still looks ravenous as he pulls away from you and continues to grind his hips against yours. He kisses the deepest part of you, and it makes you whine out his name until you're begging for him to never stop.

Chasing one release after the other, you are soon spent, your body exhausted and limp, yet your soul begs him to keep going. The night goes by with him mapping your body with his blazing lips and exploring every inch of your skin with his fingertips, leaving you breathless and thinking you might die in the arms of the god of winter and death.

As the sun begins to kiss the tops of the trees, you find yourself tangled in his embrace, feeling a sense of completeness and contentment. You know the time has come again for him to leave your side, but for a little bit, the yearning in the pit of your stomach has found its fill. You know you will see him again as another cycle of nature reaches its end, and until then, you have a job to do.

The bittersweet goodbye stings your heart as his lips linger on yours for longer than they need, his fingers gripping your waist tightly, a rigidity in his body betraying the calm facade he's trying to maintain. As he pulls away, your loving gaze meets his stern eyes. Your thumb trails over the beauty mark on his cheek, a moment of silent understanding passing between you. You know he has no desire to leave, yet he must rip himself from the beautiful dream that is your embrace.

"I will wait for you, my darling," you whisper into his ear before placing a last kiss on his cheek.

"And I will return to you, forever and always," he promises before turning away from you with sorrow in his eyes. "Keep it safe for me, sweetling."

Check out Story 1 and Story 3!

"Foolish man, that's why I don't give it back." You chuckle lightly and watch him silently walk across the frosted yard to disappear before daylight floods his path.

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[geoculiiis]

soft....artem x nb reader maybe....pls...just. hands

“strength in numbers, heat in hands” : artem wing

▪||| tags

[ *tooth rotting fluff *artem wing once again doesn’t know what he’s doing but he is trying his best at it for sure *wandering hands??? but like the sfw kind *hurt/comfort but it’s temperature/comfort instead *tw for artem’s sick wheels and big hands*also artem has the cold feet in the relationship and he will make it known EVERY night in bed

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[ the night is young and the season is fierce. it’s a late night at the firm, and the infamous ‘libra’ makes the mistake of letting you slip out before he can take you home.

▪||| note from admin

[ brain is mush. late night winter apartment? dark and cold. domestic artem hands... soft and warm. good.

“stop” a recognizable voice rings in your ear. your steps come to a grinding halt when you feel a hand latch onto your thin office jacket. its’ grip is not tight but it still prevents you from moving.

“artem” you coo, your playful eyes looking back into his stern ones “it’s only the beginning of november. a little chill won’t hinder my way home.” with a light tug your jacket is now free from his grasp, though he still gives you one of his trademark eye rolls.

“i specifically directed that you left early in the winter months due to a lack of transportation. you should rest assured that stuffing you in the back seat of my suv isn’t necessarily a bother.” his hands glide over a few nxx folders on your desk, quietly admiring their tidiness “just because i’m working late tonight doesn’t mean i can’t drop you off and come ba-”

ring . . .

artem groans silently to himself, pinpointing the sound coming from his office. “i have to take this” he sighs “i’ll be back to take you home in five to ten minutes.”

yet when you hear his brisk footsteps and the slamming of a door, you grin to yourself. the sun is only setting now, and the street is guarded by lamps. “surely he wouldn’t miss me if i left early?” you thought to yourself, deciding to leave a small notecard on your desk. the words “i’ll call you when i get home -y/n” written in bold penmanship.

“reports suggest that christmas will be coming early in stellis” a reporter states, making vague gestures to the map behind her “as we could get up to two feet of snow and several fallen trees within the park areas”

celestine is once again grateful for having the deed to the entire building, as any innocent renter below the snack bar would think they were smuggling a clocktower complex inside. his footsteps are loud and fast, pacing back and forth as much as he can in a room filled with paperwork.

“with how big the cloud cover is, there’s a chance they probably sent the message and it hasn’t come through yet, right?” she finds him walking briskly into your office, a room of which he was once terrified of going in alone. “artem, damn it, artem-!” she calls again, looking up at the popup on her phone: a power blackout in y/n’s part of town. she runs to follow him, bumping into his back when she finds him standing perfectly still. there, he stares at the corner of y/n’s desk. there, are their apartment keys.

.

and that’s where he’s ended up now, thankful now more than ever he knows the back streets and alleyways of stellis. he drives cautiously, but certainly at no speed that could be considered legal. he flicks on the cab lights as he reaches the dark area, silently praising kiki for the idea. by the time his car is shut off, a foot is already on the sidewalk, opting to take the stairs over the out of commission elevator. he thinks he can hear the bellhop asking who he is. he does not answer.

what is stellis’ uprise will also be stellis’ downfall. their technology is fantastically advanced, though when the major tech installations came in back in 2026, several thousands of old furnaces, boilers and air conditioners went for scrap - leaving barely any backup power or generators for most high-end facilities when the electronic grid is struck.

as he climbs to the eighth floor, he’s stripping himself of his blazer, juggling it between his phone flashlight and tying it around his waist like a middle schooler.  he legs it down the halls to find your room, and if the situation weren’t so dire, he’d look hilarious.

“y/n!” he breathes upon seeing you around the corner, staring at your chilled figure. he wastes no time in picking you up; he quietly dreads the jog back down, phone in mouth, though he’d never say it.

“here.” he grabs a few more blankets from the back, draping them over you. you’re pretty tired and out of it- the comforting scent of artem’s cologne-covered blazer isn’t exactly helping. the last you really remember is snuggling into the tailored fabric and succumbing to the weakness in your limbs.

“here” you hear again, this time a little clearer than the last. you wipe your foggy eyes, looking around to unfamiliar surroundings. with all due respect to artem, his apartment...is exactly what you would have expected. the only things you can really see have changed in god knows how long he’s been living here are a few family photos on the wall, clothing and tech in various places and an empty box of asian takeout on his coffee table. the rest is, well, default.

your eyes snap back to your nearby surroundings. a few pieces of clothing lie parallel to the takeout. there, stiff as a board, artem struggles how to hold you as you sleep in his arms. at some point he has changed into a loose button up and some black skinny jeans. despite the slight chill left in your bones, a laugh stifles from your lips.

“is something funny? i brought some clothing for you to sleep in tonight.” his face contorts as he gestures at the stack on the table, opting to look away in embarrassment.

“i never pictured you walking around barefoot in jeans.” you comment, and his face only burns brighter. “well, ehm-- many people- wear-- casual.. clothing.” he feels like dying at his choice of words, heart melting when a full giggle comes out of your mouth. “alright, may i ask how i got here?” your voice is weak from your sleepy state, but you lean over to grab at a large nightgown. his nightgown, you note.

“you forgot your keys at the firm, i’m sure you know by now. i came to get you but by that point the power was out in your district. i didn’t want you to sleep on a clammy paperwork-filled sofa bed therefore i brought you to my place. i.. i hope that was an acceptable thing of me to do.” he sighs, face returning to its’ fire-y glow.

“did you seriously just ask me if it was indecent of you to save me from hypothermia?” you snort, perhaps a little more blunt than usual. this elicits a soft hum from him, making him stand up. the lighting is dim in his lounge but, unbeknownst to him, you can still make out how rosy his cheeks are.

at the sight of you throwing the nightgown over your shoulders and beginning to unravel the layers underneath, artem shuffles awkwardly. he moves to get up, not wanting to disturb you. “i’ll make some hot cocoa” his voice cracks, feet sliding across the wooden paneling.

“wait, artem-” you hand reaches out to him, grabbing two of his fingers. he turns to you almost instantly with a look of worry. “is.. something wrong, y/n?”

“i’m.. still a little cold. do you mind staying with me a little bit more?” your voice is timid, unsure of his reaction. artem blinks a little, gears turning in his head. how you managed to change in that time frame, he’ll never know.

“sure, yeah. here,” he sits beside you, shifting so that you’re huddled in his lap. his chest vibrates against your back every time he talks, providing a grounding rhythm to focus on. “hold still.” he says lightheartedly, proceeding to shove his hands in under your shirt.

“artem!” you scold, ready to start slinging profanities. you don’t even have the chance to do so before a blanket is thrown over your face, however. you slip it over your head. turning to look at him. “would you be quiet?” he says, and you realize that you may have gotten the wrong idea. “i was just placing my arms on your stomach because they’re warm.” the senior attorney spouts, refusing to look you in the eyes. with a petty huff and a lip pout, he snuggles his head into your shoulder. “put your hands on mine. you’ll keep warm like that.”

and you decide, rather suddenly, that perhaps you’d relish in the fact that you now had a pair of rather large and familiar hands-- with veins and joints to trace your fingers over. . . .

“hey! quit that, artem! your feet are cold!”

[raindropsonwhiskers]

Identity Crisis

This is for literally four other people but uhhh if you want to read a quick lil fic about my poor traumatized DWRPG character and her bad life choices, here ya go. TW for mentioned murder and some slight religious (Christian) stuff

There isn't blood. Not on her skirt, or her hands, or even the blade of that accursed sword. She almost wishes there was, just so that there would be more proof that it was all real. That he was real, and not some intangible, infectious idea now rotting away in her brain instead of in the physical world.

But there isn't any blood, and she is alone in her room on a TARDIS that she can no longer think of as the singular article, and her hands are trembling. Her hands have always been steady; they've always needed to be, for her job. Right now, they're shaking so badly she'd almost think it's winter, if seasons existed like that in this place. The mess of guilt and terror and regret is chewing at her stomach and mind, ravenous and sharp-toothed, whispering Thou shalt not steal nor covet nor kill, Elizabeth Mayweather, and you have done all three.

He deserved it. He was a cruel, terrible man — if he was a man at all — and he was going to do something far worse than kill her. She hadn't had a choice. It was the right thing to do, it saved lives, it was self defense, it was… 

It was necessary, and she hates herself for it all the same. The anger and hatred that had filled her as she stabbed that blade into his back was only there for as long as it took him to look up at her with that infuriating smile, secure in the knowledge that he'd won the war even if she won the battle. The blood in her veins is bubbling with Time like molten gold poured directly into her hearts, and she doesn't know if it's her or him doing that.

Heart. Singular. One heart beats in her chest and it is tearing itself apart.

The TARDIS — his-her-their-her TARDIS — is a mere echo in her mind compared to the symphony of joy there had been when she was standing in the console room, but the ship does try to be comforting. No number of promises that he had long since earned his death help.

She isn't a murderer. She doesn't want to be a murderer. It had been easy to be blase, to joke about hiding the body, when she'd been sure he wasn't truly dead. When it wasn't her who dealt the killing blow. When he hadn't been mad as a rabid hound and making awful promises that stuck under her skin like the needles of the biodata extractor.

His voice still echoes in her mind, a loop of Start with the skin— Become you— Verity Brown— that won't go away no matter how much she wishes it would. The memory of his rictus grin from behind the shards of his mask is burnt into her thoughts. She can, paradoxically, still feel the shadows creeping up her legs like tongues of cold flame, like the touch of darkness incarnate.

Is it all her mind's response to the shock, or is her mind not fully her own anymore? Could she even tell? Where is the line, now, between herself and him?

Four fingernails dig into the skin of her arm until it stings, and she tries not to think of how that feels like needles.

[spooki-skelly]

A bunch of Fig headcannons cause I'm having a cookie run brain rot-

- Fig talks fast,so half of the time cookies say it's not his accent its how fast this creature speaks.

- He's Genderfluid in my headcannons along with being bisexual. He's okay with any pronouns but prefers He/They.

- Fig has long hair and that hair gets twigs and leafs in it a lot which caused Wind Archer to teach him how to braid his own hair-

-He loves to braid other peoples hair once being taught, he finds it as a way to bond with the friendly people outside and inside the forest!

- He's pretty lanky,but has some meat on his bones. He has only lived off fruits and such for plenty of years now. (Once leaving the forest,if did so he'd end up loving sweet things or just any sort of candy).

- He looks up to Millennial Tree,seeing him more as a father figure. He loves spending time with Millie and sharing stories back and forth,he even convinces Wind Archer to join at times.

- Fig loves the nickname “Figgy”,which is what the Cookiemals ended up calling him for a while. He ends up giving everyone who he's friends with or knows well a nickname!

- He spends time with Herb and his sister Spinach a lot but not much. It's about every other day that Herb visits but Herb loves to listen to Fig talk about the adventures he's had since he was gone and even tell his own along with Spinach.

- Fig is decent in combat (to an extent) but he's still learning!

- His accent to others is confusing but to about everyone who's in the forest or has lived in the forest understands him well enough even if he speaks fast to the point where it sounds like a hyperactive child.

- Fig actually is pretty touch starved, but he wouldn't just cling to anyone and make them uncomfortable. He is this way with Millie,maybe even asking to rest his head on Millie's lap. He finds himself calm being around Millie so he trusts him a lot more in his vulnerable and tired state.

- He doesn't sleep much,he doesn't even understand why but his body can last a week without sleep before he slumbers for four days. It takes a bit longer if its winter or cold.

- His coat and hair change with the season. He grows a fluffy white coat during the winter so on and so forth.

- He's around 5'9,very close to 6'0 but not really there. (For a bit of an idea of that,Millie's around 6'4[very close to 5])

- He loves learning things about the outside of the forest,Wind Archer or Herb sit down with him and talk about it for hours. This is somewhat why he decided he should try to leave and come to the kingdom.

- He has small horns under his hat (or helmet as I call it-) and ears. His horns are decently short but good enough for defence.

- His kind..has a habit for running into things at full force. It happens pretty often but he just gets right back up as if nothing happened.

- He has a love-hate relationship with a couple of the cookies in the kingdom. Some he knows because of D.E but the only “dark" cookie he's nice or okay with is Dark Choco.

- Him and Dark Choco get along well,they end up having a few disagreements but it's only over who knows somewhat better than the other.

- He also loves to try to spend time with Werewolf,trying to get him to talk with people more but never rushes it.

- His favorite thing to really do in the kingdom is to sit out on the grass and maybe play his horn or speak with Herb.

[magpiefngrl]

Fae AU!!!! This is gonna sound weird, but, Fae AU where they’re both High Fae that rule over conflicting seasons (Draco is Summer and Harry is Winter or vice versa)

Thank you for your prompt! I loved the idea, but for some reason I struggled with the plot. I wrote 3 different beginnings before I decided to delete the whole thing and start again lol. Hope you enjoy it!

Many many thanks to @lower-east-side​ for betaing this at such short notice! You’re the best 💖💖💖

The Spider’s Silk (3.4k, Explicit-ish. Despite mentions of misery, it has a happy ending, promise!)

Draco was supposed to take a quick look around, that’sall; not strike conversations with attractive Fae from other Courts, whohappened to be wandering alone in the Spring Court’s formal gardens.

‘You’re not meant to be here, are you?’ said Harry,son of the Summer High Lord, trailing his fingers through the water of afountain. ‘It’s the Passing of the Flame from Spring to Summer. You aren’tallowed here.’

‘Will you tell on me?’ Draco raised his eyebrow, moredaring than he felt, knowing full well he’d be in trouble if his father heardhe visited the Spring Court in secret, let alone during the Passing. He’d noidea what had driven him to disobey traditions that spanned a thousand yearsonly so he could finally see the Summer Lords by himself. Draco flexed hiswings, trying to suppress a spike of anxiety, and noticed Harry’s eyes sweepingover them, his skin flushing.

‘I could,’ Harry said, dragging his gaze from Draco’swings and meeting his eyes. ‘But I won’t. Why are you here?’

Draco shrugged. He couldn’t very well say he burnedwith the desire to see the Summer Fae and their antlers, so different to thegreen-skinned folk of Spring, or the red-haired Autumn Fae with the long tails.So different to Draco and his family: winged and pale, hair and eyes almostdevoid of colour like the snowy slopes of Erebos where the Winter Court stood.In the end, he settled for half a lie: ‘I wanted an adventure.’

That brought a crooked smile on Harry’s face. ‘Haveyou been to the Spring woods? They’ve the most curious beasts; also, rumourssay a tribe of carnivorous Fae hides deep in the forest.’

‘I thought Spring was all dew-covered meadows andwildflowers.’ Draco’s father had portrayed Spring as the most frivolous of allthe Courts, desiring ephemeral pleasures and creating nothing of substance.

Harry scoffed. ‘Spoken like someone truly clueless.There’s blood and rot underneath the thriving plants; what do you think makesthis realm so fertile?’

Draco didn’t like to be made to feel ignorant. ‘Ithink you’re full of talk. Ever seen one of these beasts you speak of?’

Harry crossed his arms, the air chilling between them.‘Some. And if you don’t believe me—’

‘I don’t,’ Draco said.

‘—I can show you.’

Entering the woods at the heels of a Summer Fae (the basestof the Courts, Draco’s father always said) in search of mythical beasts likethe Grey Spider or the infamous Horned Fae with the bloody tastes didn’t seemlike something Draco would regret. Draco felt little fear; he could hold hisown in a fight. The Winter Court wasn’t short of dangerous creatures and he hada good deal of magic in him.

They didn’t speak much as Harry led them deeper intothe woods. Pollen drifted from blooming trees on a light breeze that ruffledHarry’s hair, and the smell of wildflowers and moist soil filled the air.That’s what Draco had found different when he’d first crossed the border toSpring: the fragrant air he breathed, heady and intoxicating.

‘So how do you know so much about these woods?’ heasked Harry when the silence had stretched thin.

‘My mother’s a Spring Court maiden,’ Harry said, afact which explained his startling eye colour. ‘I’ve visited often; I have lotsof cousins.’

‘My father disagrees with the idea of taking a consortfrom outside one’s Court,’ Draco said, pushing aside a fern.

‘Does he now?’ Harry’s voice sounded cold.

Draco said nothing, certain that mentioning traditionand the correct way of doing things would annoy Harry. Perhaps his father wasright about the Summer Court and their progressive manners, if they’vetaken up with Fae from other realms.

Glancing at Harry ahead of him, sure-footed and tall,his breeches snug on his legs, Draco thought that perhaps that wasn’t such abad idea.

Soon the woods around them filled with shadows, thecanopy above blocking the sun. An eerie silence spread when they crossed amurmuring stream that vanished once they were over it. No birds sang or insectsbuzzed, the rustling of the tree branches the only sound. Draco felt the hairat the back of his neck rise; his wings spread a little, as if preparing forflight.

‘We’re here,’ Harry said and motioned him to crouchnext to him behind an oak. ‘The Grey Spiders’ nests are over there.’ He pointedat the white mist ahead. Not mist: spider silk hanging from the trees in thicktranslucent drapes.

‘They say if you steal a Grey Spider’s silk, it’llgrant you a wish to retrieve it,’ Draco whispered.

Harry grinned, his eyes bright in the gloom. ‘Draco ofthe Winter Lords, you wanted an adventure? How about we have one?’

 **

Ten minutes later they pelted through the trees,panting, as branches behind them groaned and creaked under the weight of theenormous creature after them. Draco, his hands covered with a silk bundle,zigzagged through the trees, his lungs gasping for air but every nerve in hisbody burning alive.

‘This way,’ Harry called from his right and Dracoswerved, missing the creature’s pincers by a few inches, and burst through awall of ivy between two trees. The spider followed, tearing down the ivy asecond later. A second which was enough for Harry to have taken position, curlsof magic spiraling golden around his fingers, creating a barrier. Draco hadflown over him, holding the silk out of reach.

The spider raised its many dark eyes to Draco overheadand wailed, pushing against the invisible barrier Harry had created. When itrealised it was trapped, it stilled. Its mean eyes looked at them as Dracolanded beside Harry.

‘What’ll it take for me to have my silk back?’ thespider said in a high voice. Draco shivered.

‘We want you to grant us a wish,’ Harry said.

‘My wishes bring misery,’ the spider warned.

‘Do you think we’re fools?’ Harry asked, and Dracosmirked at the spider. ‘A wish means something we want to happen.’

‘Ignore me at your peril, young Fae. What’s the wish?’the spider asked.

Draco gazed at Harry, who looked back. They hadn’tplanned that far ahead. Stealing the silk had been worth it, Draco thought, forthe excitement of the chase and the way his heart beat fast in his chest,adrenaline coursing through his veins. Harry said nothing either. He brushedhis sweaty hair back, his face flushed with exertion, and he beamed at Draco. Athought passed through Draco’s brain, fleeting like a butterfly. He wonderedwhat it’d be like to—

The spider spoke. ‘Your wish is granted. Give me mysilk.’

‘What?’ Harry asked. ‘We haven’t made a request.’

‘Yes, you have. The wish needn’t be spoken out loud,’the spider screeched, clicking its pincers. ‘The silk!’

Draco’s cheeks burned as he considered what the spidermight have considered a wish. He reluctantly handed the silk back, while Harry,red in the face but obstinate, asked, ‘Whose wish did you grant?’

The spider retreated with its bundle. ‘You’ll see.’Draco would swear it said it with glee.

They remained still, listening to the spider’sprogress through the forest. Draco scuffed his toe on the ground. ‘Wish or not,it was still great fun.’

Harry smiled back. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’

Behind them a stream flowed and they crossed it and trudgedon until the trees became sparser and the light fell slanted and green throughthe trees. Harry climbed one to pick some red, ripe fruit, which he shared withDraco. Draco had never eaten it before; it tasted sharp and sweet. Juice randown Draco’s chin as he bit into it, and he caught Harry glancing at him as helicked his lips and his sticky fingers.

The idea that the spider might grant his fleetingthought lit a fire in Draco’s insides. He couldn’t help glancing at Harry’slips and his teeth ripping into the fruit, and the way his eyes softened whenhe glanced at Draco. Draco had no clue if the wish might be fulfilled soon. Theidea caused his stomach to flip with nerves and torturous anticipation.

They’d reached a pleasant clearing, bright and lush,where a pool had formed shaded by three willow trees. Harry sprawled in theshade, limbs akimbo, and closed his eyes. Draco sat near him, watching him.He’d never imagined he’d find a Fae of another realm attractive, and certainlynot one of the Summer Court, but now that his pulse had calmed and theexcitement had settled, all he could think about was kissing Harry. Just theonce. Just to see what it was like.

Harry disrupted these thoughts by standing andundressing.

More on AO3

****

Mermaid AU

Dare Dating (8th year)

Pirate AU

Durmstrang!Harry and Beauxbatons!Draco AU

Royalty/Arranged Marriage AU

Musicians AU

Medieval AU

Adventure AU

Firefly/Space AU

Magical Flower Shop AU (canon universe)

Buy me a kofi

AU Series on AO3

[crveritaserum]

top 5 visuals of each house go

Although I do not find it necessary for this list to exist since we all know I’m the hottest person at Hogwarts is, I’ll humour you desperate souls just this once so you can stop desperately pestering me about this. If you want your name mentioned so desperately why don’t you just send in a message about yourself? Personally, for me, none of these people would even be considered for this list, but the public has spoken. 

Let’s start the list with the infamous House of Snakes. A list of beautiful people would not be complete without my beloved boyfriend ( @crvince ) even if his family is attempting to get in between our love. Only he actually deserves a spot on this sad excuse of a list. Then we have the rotting flower ( @crtitania ). It seems even a flower is able to bloom in such a desolate place like the dungeons, but just because a flower can bloom doesn’t mean it can shine. all I see from the ice princess right now is a lot of look and not a lot of personality. Considering she did win over the attention of both an idiotic lion and snake, however, maybe there’s something there I’m just not seeing. Next would be the house mistake ( @crichigo ). Sometimes I wonder if it’s actually possible for the sorting hat to wrong. Doesn’t Ichigo seem too soft and impressionable to be a snake? How such a pushover got placed into the snake den is still a wonder to me. It’s no wonder then that he got swallowed whole during his first few years here. Onwards, we have our overused trope ( @crben ). Tall, dark, and handsome has always been in. time has proven that this trope is one that women will never get tired of and, boy, is our Benjamin the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Of course, tall, dark, and handsome only gets so far in life, if that’s you’ve got going for you then soon even that becomes boring. But you don’t care much for such trivial things now do you, Egg Benedict? Lastly, we have diva wannabe ( @crpenelope ). The only reason she is even considered for a spot on this list is that there is no other person in Slytherin that comes even close to deserving a spot. Call it a pity placement.

Next onto The Lion’s Den. What list is without the most sought-after female of the house ( @crcwan ). It’s only natural for her to be on the list with her dull charms and mediocre looks. fair warning, darlings, the list just gets worse at this point as she seems to be the only relatively interesting Gryffindor. Then we have happily ever after thirsty ( @crxevie ). Fairy tales have taught young girls everywhere that your heart is supposed to beat faster around the one you like, but when you heart seemingly beats faster for just about everyone you see, I think it’s about time for you to go seek professional help. I’m sure the matron would have something to fix your tachycardia and maybe teach you through her many years of accumulated wisdom that what you’re experiencing shouldn’t be considered love, it’s called desperation. so this infant ( @gracecr ) seems to carry herself very highly and as she in the house of the lions, this is something that comes as unsurprising. I appreciate someone confident enough to love themselves, but where do you draw the line between self-love and narcissism, little grace? Then we have airfoil ( @crwingyau ). Chicken wing here seemed to have grabbed some attention with the fact that she was seen snogging with a boy in the library. But if that’s the only thing noteworthy she’s done since her time here at the school then I’d like to just move on and talk about other more pressing matters. Clearly the boys in Gryffindor really aren’t anything special if only one of them made it onto the list. Wannabe fuccboi ( @crzhengyang ) the bad boy act isn’t working for you, dear, no one seems to notice your attempts to win every female over with your charms, maybe you should switch up your act and try again. 

Now onwards to the Ostriches. Or should I say Ravens, but they don’t have the brains for that. Probably into cat ear headband ( @crperseus ), last time we mentioned him on this blog, he seemed to have to gained himself quite a following. But oh would you look at that? Things seemed to have slow down for our sleeping beauty. Nothing new has happened with him since then, it seems that perhaps you people have finally decided to wake up and realize that someone into cats more than humans isn’t worth all the hype. Little miss troublemaker ( @crxaria ) over here seems to think of herself as a force to be reckoned with, but I can only say two words to describe her act: try hard. Darling, watch yourself around these waters, tread too deep into this persona of yours and you might find that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. As if we don’t have enough people trying to freeze over the grounds of Hogwarts with their icy personalities, here is another lowballing contender ( @crxalma ) trying to be the reason for the long winter that seems to drag on forever. A weak example, honestly. If people can still think of you as being “nice deep down” then you’re doing the whole cold thing wrong. Honey, it’s spring now, lose the act and accept the fact that you were never as cool as you thought you were and never will be. Now it seem weird is in this season as eccentric ( @crlianna ) takes the grounds of Hogwarts by storm. People, you have me questioning your taste more and more with each passing day. To think someone that goes around calling themselves trash and still plays Pokemon Go is considered cool. But I guess in that case, she makes my job easier for me. I don’t need to waste my breath to ridicule her when she does it so well herself already. Last another fake boy ( @crmason ). As someone who finds himself to be the next Casanova, Mason’s personality is literally that of another typical fuccboi with commitment issues. Honestly, people, why do you all keep falling for such acts, it’s not even original. The only thing original about him is the fact that he’s a fuccboi, that’s not Chinese like the others. 

Now onto our final and most forgettable house! First off, the future failure of a president ( @cecilcr ) this one is pretty self explanatory, I won’t waste my time trying to justify the placement of this one on this list for the house of bores. Congratulations to Cecil for being the poster boy for what a Hufflepuff should look like. Nice, soft, boring. Then we have the namesake, our little wannabe nobility ( @crxalice ) seems to be lost in her own world as well, falling into the rabbit hole fantasy where her dreams will come true. But darling, when you curl up with a snake, you have to watch out for the fangs. Wow look another eccentric ( @crxaelita )! With her wistful thinking and snowflake personality and borderline obsessive interest with all things magical creature related, it looks like someone here wants to be the next Newt Scamander. But I guess since we already have someone else pining for the position of Voldemort and she can’t one up that, she had no choice but be stuck with the weird Hippie Hufflepuff persona. Hufflepuffs were always so soft and boring for me. To hope for anything different from someone that hails from this house was too much to ask for it seems. You’d think that because he has the money and status of a pureblood, he’d also have a backbone, but grandpa at heart ( @crxhardt ) seems to let just about anyone step all over him in the name of “friendship.” Now miss blank wall ( @crxlottie ) to think that even this one could sneak her way onto the list is quite shocking to me as I can only seem to describe her using one word: basic. Sure, she has the looks of the Mei family, but when it comes to the personality and charm she’s duller than a rusty nail. While her cousin seems to gain the attention of all those he talks to, little Charlotte over here can’t even seem to catch the attention of the guy she seems to be interested in. Although, honey, I do advise that if you decide to go for someone that’s way out of your league like that, you try to steer clear of your best friend’s fiance next time. 

[misfortuning]

                             The first time he met the being he would come                               to call Noël, the blood of his family still lingered                                                     beneath his nails.

       Autumn was falling, the slow curve of a star towards the horizon, giving way to winter. He’d left the small, too-frequented territory of Alta Lake State Park behind to search for more secluded grounds, found himself along the frosty edge of a seemingly endless forest. He dared to think he’d found a place where he could be safe, be left alone for eternity until his bones rotted beneath the forever falling leaves. He dared to hope he’d found a place where they would be safe from him.

       (One day he would pick up a map and realize that the winter a boy named Soren died was spent in Wenatchee National Forest. He would no longer care for the boy, but he would feel a soft ache to remember the first time he met her.)

       It was sudden, faster than blinking; perhaps, even, she had been there the whole time. Nothing but a screen of trunks and then—he still cannot remember exactly how she appeared, could not look at her for long the first few times without succumbing to a migraine, but what he does remember, he will never forget. A being, tall and lithe and long-limbed and alien, colors like a harvest moon sitting above dead trees and snow at midnight. At times he recalls antlers (or were they branches?), soft-glowing lights, many eyes yet also none. Then and now the details swarm his mind, get tangled and lost and overwhelm him, but he knows that none are inaccurate. She was beautiful and terrible, as all dying things are. It took his breath away. 

       When she spoke, he understood without ever clearly hearing the words, seasoned with amusement and mild curiosity and something else, something older. “So young. Little One, how did you come to be here?”

       “I ran.” The answer was pulled from him before he could realize it, and even when he did it took a moment more for indignation and suspicion to rise up. “Hey—I’m not ‘little’.”

       “Perhaps, perhaps not.” Her smile was like nothing he would ever see again. “Well then, what is your name, Little One?”

       “...Soren. What’s yours?” he asked warily, defensive, though maybe not as much as he should have been. Once upon a time he might have been terrified at this encounter. Once upon a time, but no longer. He’d stopped thinking of himself as human for a few years now, and it wasn’t in his nature to be hypocritical.

       With a laugh that shivered snow from tree tops, she made a sound like cracking maples, the sleepy flow of water beneath ice, slow rumble of a distant avalanche that sounded like winter thunder. 

       “I...what?” the boy asked. His ears were ringing, a headache taking root behind his eyes and above his jaw. Blinking hard, he found himself looking away, to a soothingly blank patch of snow.

       “It hurts, doesn’t it?” Something in her tone gave him the sense that she was talking about more than the name, but a low sigh blew away any emotion before it could be pinned down. “Poor thing. Poor I—we are poorly suited in this time. And so, tell me true: Will you help me if I help you?”

       The moment she began speaking in rhyme, words at an easy rhythm, his ears popped and most of the pressure faded away, leaving only a lingering warning. The boy shook his head, more confused than ever. “What are you talking about?”

       “I will take measure to ease your pain; in fair exchange, I want a name.” A smile was palpable in the air. “Not yours, but a name for me. Make it one, or two, or three. Fit it wrong or fit it right, it’s in my heart to love surprise.”

       She...wanted him to pick a name for her? And in exchange she’d stop whatever it was about her that caused his brain to feel like it was slowly being suffocated? Sounds fair. At the very least it made sense to be able to call her something he could pronounce. So the boy thought hard, wracking his mind for anything that could fit; ordinary names were not for her. With the headache subsided and now prepared, he returned his gaze to her unimaginable form. Everything about her was winter, as golden autumn as she looked, but she was not dark winter; no, she was the warmth in the cold, a frozen flame that continued to dance merrily. She was like a Christmas morning—only Christmas made for a dumb name.

       “...Noël,” he finally said, slow but sure as testing ice beneath his foot. “Do you—will that work?”

       She seemed amused by his seriousness. “The name is yours to sing or call. Noël it is; will that be all?”

       Reflexively he wanted to give her a surname of some sort, but in this inspiration escaped him. So he tried, “Um...for now?” and was rewarded with laughter like snow pushing icicles from a roof.

       (Years later after separating and reuniting, when he was older and could recognize the signs, he finally gave her one. “Greensleeves.” She laughed as she had so long ago and kissed his cheek with her fingertips.)

       “Very well, for now Noël. The final step and sealing price is nothing much: Just call me thrice.”

       Everything about the situation was staying well over the line of bizarre, but she seemed to know what she was talking about, and he was the one standing barefoot on the cold-hardened earth in stolen clothes, unfeeling of the temperature save for the air he breathed. And so without question or pause he did as she instructed. “Noël. Noël. Noël.”

       And with that, her form solidified. The chaotic, seamless collection of aspects blurred and blended together into a woman’s shape, close enough to pass for human but not enough to be one. She was believably tall but her skin retained an almost silvery sheen, like the moon or midnight snow, her hair a dark golden-blonde of the harvest and autumn leaves and richer than any natural color could hope to achieve. And her eyes... Her eyes were a spectrum unto its own. Hazel-green at a glance, but anything longer revealed flecks and streaks of silver and gold, hints of frozen sky and otherworldly twilight, an underlying depth like the sleeping hearts of mountains and a fleeting shimmer of sunlight through crystals. 

       She was anything but human.

       She smiled, and it was keener than the first layer of winter. It reached his heart like water through cracked stones, fast and freezing and unstoppable.

[autolovecraft]

Now, however, we thought we saw that it held.

Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.

We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless.

What the hound was, and every subsequent event including St John's, I attacked the half frozen sod with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a gigantic hound. The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the stolen amulet in St John's, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. The expression of its features was repellent in the background.

The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the neighborhood. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the lamps in the same way. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the city. It is not, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

Around the walls of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical.

It was incredibly tough and thick, but we recognized it as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and we could not be sure.

Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the damp nitrous cover. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-symbol of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the picture of ourselves, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. And when I spoke to him, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw that it was who led the way at last I stood again in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and heard, as we sailed the next midnight in one of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. So at last I stood again in the forbidden Necronomicon of the reflections of the kingly dead, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence.

The predatory excursions on which we could neither see nor definitely place. There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held.

Then we struck a substance harder than the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. Much—amazingly much—was left of the kingly dead, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a crouching winged hound, or in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the single door which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall be mangled in the background. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and it ceased altogether as I. By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the sickening odors, the tales of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the neighborhood. This is the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door. This is the last rational act I ever performed. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the uncovered-grave. As we hastened from the dismal railway station, was the dark rumor and legendry, the dancing death-fires, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a body to the objects it symbolized; and on the moor, I shall be mangled in the forbidden Necronomicon of the kingly dead, and such is my only refuge from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the knock of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave. After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the gently moaning night-wind, stronger than the night-wind from over far swamps and seas; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. What the hound was, and a secret room, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and articulate chatter. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and moonlight.

Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and we could not be sure. When I arose, trembling, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate! One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had hastened to the calm white thing that lay within; but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found in the Dutch language. They were as baffling as the thing that lay within; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. -Wind, and he could not answer coherently. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and I knew not; but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the titanic bats, the gently moaning night-wind, and mumbled over his body one of the kingly dead, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge.

Then we struck a substance harder than the night, not only around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the horrible shadows, the gently moaning night-wind, on which we could scarcely be sure.

It is not dream—it is not dream—it is not dream—it is not, I shall be mangled in the same way.

[danvssomethingorother]

Up For adoption (the Holiday Edition)

Last year, I participated in the Fiddlestan Holiday Bonaza. I actually planned on doing all the days but only got three done. These are the left over scraps of half finished stuff.

If you wish to adopt them you may but I’m mainly posting them as look how far I’ve come kinda thing. And for you guys to get some enjoyment out of stuff I will never finish but at one point had big plans for them. 

----

December 9th: Joy, Gold, Revelations 

-Not All Gold Shimmers-

Summary: Despite it being Fiddleford's favorite time of year, Stan notices a slow decline in his boyfriend's mental well being.

December 3, 1980

In any usual year, the little research shack in the heart of the Forrest would already be well into its seasonal make over. Last year, Stan hadn't been able to finish his third helping of Thanksgiving dinner before his boyfriend was dragging him into the attic to collect enough Christmas garbage to make Santa ask them to tone the decorations down a bit. Then adding the Hanukkah decor to the mix, that Stan had no idea where the love of his managed to drudge up in a sleepy country town where he and his brother were the only people of Jewish decent, it looked less and less like a place of research and more like one of those quaint Holiday stores that only existed to scam people like Fiddleford Mcgucket out of their hard earned money.

That's how it had been the last four years, any way. Stan would never forget the look on Fiddleford's face on their very first winter together. He had drug in three boxes worth of Christmas junk from his little beat up pick up and began happily describing where he wanted to hang everything only for Stan to make him drop his last box load of 'Holiday Cheer' as he called it, when he announced he and his brother were Jewish. He instantly began spluttering apologies about being insensitive and began looking desperately at an amused Ford silently asking him why he never told him. After smugly watching him gasp and gag on apologies like a fish asphyxiating on dry land and 'assuring' them he would take it all back to the store, Stan slung his arm around Fiddleford's shoulder and told him it didn't matter to him what they celebrated, he wasn't paying the electric bill, so go as nuts as you want with all the Christmas lights your heart desired. Ford of course disapproved about 'going nuts' but didn't seem to say much about it later when he saw how joyous his friend was with the finished decorations. Since then, they had been celebrating an unholy fusion of both holidays, complete with tacky sweaters and butchered Hebrew and just far too many sweets altogether.

It was nice over all though and Fiddleford's joyous nature at that time of year was contagious. It never mattered that their home was a glowing monstrosity or the homemade sweaters were itchy or that Fiddleford never made Latkes right and they always turned out way too salty, it was Stan's favorite time of year. Even if you would never hear him say that out loud.

That's why it came as such a surprise on the first day of Hanukkah that not a single decoration was to be found. Everything was still nestled away in the attic. Fiddleford hadn't been shopping all through November to get everything ready for his favorite time of year and not a single gift was poorly hid in their closet. If wasn't for the thick sheets of snow outside the window already freezing the interior of the cabin, you could easily mistake it for summer without the major landmarks indicating it was indeed December.

Stan sat in his favorite chair not paying attention to the tv already beginning to static over, contemplating hauling it all down himself just to get his boyfriend out the slunk he had found himself in over the past few months. He continued to sit there though watching the sappy soap opera he was too lazy to get up and find the remote to change come in and out of focus knowing decorating wouldn't be the same without Fidds by his side. He glanced over to the dark entrance way and wondered if they were still down in the lab. Fiddleford and Stanford had disappeared down to it at day break and it was nearing sun down and he hadn't seen them yet. Soon he would have to go down and make them call it day but for now he planned to just not move away from his warm spot until it was absolutely necessary.   

"---We still have so much to get done, Fidds," he glanced away from the now fully static TV screen  as he heard his brother's voice echoing from the next room.

"Tomorrow, Stanford Pines," he smiled at the hiss knowing you didn't argue with Fiddleford Mcgucket when he used that tone and your full name.    

(I don’t entirely remember where this scene was going)

---  

Something slamming into Stan's face rudely woke him up from his dream world.

(A scene I really like, talking about how this isn't the first nightmare and Fiddleford talking about how he just wants to get the portal done with.)

---

( I was going to put a series of scenes here where Fidds was becoming more and more stressed out with Ciphford harassing him and making him lose more interest in the holidays as they take place and Stan not knowing what it is going on. Things becoming more tense between the three.)

---

The day had at last come, the portal was finished but Fiddleford didn't seem very excited about his own announcement.

(When Fidds leaves after the portal incident. He tells Stan he doesn't know his brother as well as he thinks he does.)

--

It had been three days since Fiddleford had left and the shack had taken on an eery silence since then.  

(This where the revelation happens that Ford was worshiping a damn demon and his brother may have been tormenting his poor boyfriend.)

---

It didn't take that long for Stan to find his rusted over trruck parked under the neon glow of the little Holiday Inn a mile off from the bus station.

(This is where Stan wrestles the memory gun from Fiddleford and they have a cute conversation about the first time Ford called up Stan.)

"Welcome to 1981, Stan, ya made it," Fiddleford whispered between the sob stuck in his throat, leaning back into Stan's embrace.

Stan wasn't one for sappy emotional gestures but for Fiddleford  he always made the exception. He pulled him tighter against him and kissed him on the top of the head.

"Yeah, I guess we did make it. Here's to surviving another one..."

------

December 17th: Sweaters, Kiss, Flurries  

---

Ford wrinkled his nose as he took a sip of the juice Mabel had left in the kitchen. Upon further inspection he found  Christmas oranaments floating at the top of the punch bowel.

"I wouldn't drink that if I was you," he turned his head around to find Stan leaning smugly against the door way, arms crossed in a cassual manner,"Mabel loaded it down with so much sugar it may just stop an old man's heart."

"What is it? Its like if sugar procreated with my worst nightmares..." he groused dumping what was left in his cup down the sink.

"Its Mabel's 'famous' Christmas flurries," the sarcasm that oozed from the word 'famous' sent cold shivers down Ford's spine, he wondered if whatever came from that bowl was worse then anything Bill could ever conceive.

"Its made from snow blended with enough sugar to rot my dentures, hot chocolate, two pots of coffee, a case of red energy drinks she thought looked 'festive' and a bucket of green glitter. Then she put ornaments on top to put for a more Holiday feel...."

Ford stared with disgust down into the bowel wondering how that little girl could possibly drink that and if maybe he should start a new page in the journal dedicated to her.  

"Fidds drake a whole glass of it under Mabel's request this morning while you were down in the lab and he's so glittery he's took apart and put the TV back together like I don't know...a few hundred times..."

Under his casual facade Ford noticed genuine worry for his once again best friend in the subtle features on his face. There was a point in his life Ford thought his brother would look past his old research partner and not give him the time or day for his admitably strange mannerisms (that had become much much stranger with age). Then Weirdmagedon happened and the two had been close since then. Ford didn't quite understand when it happened or how it happened (and maybe didn't particularly want to for that matter) but his brother had decided to spend his golden years with Fiddleford and as long as they were happy Ford couldn't object. It was a strange life he lived, with or without the supernatural, nothing quite turned out the way he would have expected them to.  

"GRUNKLE STAN! HURRY BACK! WE'RE DECORATING THE TREE!"  

Stan tilted his head towards the yelling and jestered for Ford to follow him.

---  

As the twins entered the parlor, Ford took instant notice of Fiddleford's slow, lethargic way he hammered a nail into place on the chimney for the stockings. His eyes had a lack of foccus as he looked up to him and Stanly and smiled. He was coming down from Mabel's concoction it appeared...

"Well look who came out of labernation!" Mabel cried loudly setting her eyes sternly on Ford, hands on her hips in a manner he would take more serisously if he wasn't looking directly at the mistletoe she had tied to her forehead or wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater he had seen since his final Christmas with Fiddleford.

"You missed Hanukah! Your brains could have been useful to beating Grunkle Stan's cheating every time we played Dreidel!" She huffed, Ford had to take a cautios step backwards to keep her long fake Christmas themed nails from jabbing him in the stomache.

"Fat chance," Stan stated bluntly from the other side of the room where he had already settled next to Fidds, taking the hammer from him before he could accidently break his finger with it, "With gambling all you need is luck and I have all of it."

"You had a loaded dreidel," Dipper cut in entering the room with another box of Christmas decortations that he deposited next to the tree that was a bit too large for the room, its pointy top compacted tightly against the roof in an angle.

"Who does that? I mean serisouly, the kids are supposed to win. That's why we bet with candy..."

"Well, me and the pig done ate the candy," Fidds said casting a cheeky smile towards Stan who crossed his arm and he tried his best to glower at his boyfriend without breaking the mock anger but it broke the instant Fidds kissed him on the cheek (a shrill squee errupted from Mabel making Dipper cover his ears), "So I reckon I was the real winner any who."

Ford almost cast a thankful smile his friend's way for distracting his niece away from the reason she had been cross with him but the second the kiss was broke her attention was completly back on him.

"You're not missing out on anything Christmas related though, mister!" she stated her fake nail tapping against his chest in an uncomfortable manor as she stood on her toes trying to be eye level with Ford.

He glanced over to his brother and friend for help but they only seemed to giggle at his troubles as Mabel began to tick all the 'Merry Activities' he would be participating in. With or without his consent.

---

Decorating the tree was more exhausting then it had any right being. The lights kept going out. Leave it to Stanly to find the cheapest lights he could find in the five finger discount aisle. Ford didn't understand why the kids snickered at him when he asked Stanly to return them for better lights. It was sensible since the darn things didn't glow right. He even offered to scrounge up some new ones in the lab, with Fiddleford's help he could make lights that never lost their glow. Maybe even keep the room warm without running up the electric bill but Mabel denied him access to the lab. It was his house, he shouldn't be bossed around by a thirteen year old.

Yet as he watched her stand on the step ladder shaking her mistletoe head piece at Fiddleford and Stanly before slamming their faces together to kiss when they didn't do so fast enough. Then she proceeded to do the same to her brother and Waddles, who had been trying to eat the garland rope Dipper was trying to string together. He knew he didn't want to damper their Holiday any more then he already had. He may not say it out loud enough but the four people in this room where the ones that mattered most in his heart and he never wanted to hurt them again.

As the mid after noon rolled in, they decided to take a break from their decorating. It looked like a seasonal store had already thrown up on the parlor. If the tree wasn't already crunched so tightly against the ceiling, it may have become a fall hazard with all the ornaments packed into every inch of it. Some of the ornaments were made of old tools painted red, green and gold. When he inquired Fidds about it, he flushed a bright red and said he always felt artistic around this time of year. As much as Fiddleford had changed over the years, being a bit too overjoyed about the Holidays was not one of them it seemed.  

The only piece of furniture in the room was an old tattered up love seat that Fidds had scrounged up somewhere last weekend when he was Christmas shopping with Tate. The only way to describe it was it was a ghost of the seventies that was haunting this house. It was an ugly puce green with a tacky design Ford swore he saw on Fidds's favorite shirt back in college. Maybe that was what attracted his friend to it. It seemed he was always dragging anything home with him if it vaguely reminded him of some forgotten memory. Ford never said anything about it, he wanted him to get better and maybe one day fully recover from his ordeal and if that meant transporting the shack figuratively back to seventies, he was sure no one minded.

Stan and Fidds sat curled into each other on the sofa, Fidds already half asleep forcing himself to stay awake to listen to everything Mabel was saying on the floor in front of them creating a new sweater that seemed a bit big for her. Dipper sat next to her excitedly going through Ford's new research journal, lost in his own world. Ford smiled, Dipper may never become his apprentice and he had his own path set out in life with his sister always at his side but for now Ford could take pride in the fact that his nephew was still his number one fan.

---

[silkhuikj]

silk

Silk

by Hui Kj 

****************************

Bailey, 

Not the twins or fish rot find faces, and I did not know exactly until after your submarine redirected their mirror lipstick, which is hardly possible to get the subjects more gleeful until your Atlantis: where identity is scanned by [redacted] and your group will be occupying in the sea training, all your ladies from your power shedding but please, for not much longer for such a way is different here now; you can come back to our home planet and your ladies will remember you as I have over such awhile.

For me, motel to motel: lights and backflip, scanning stress, heart rate normal but tried - and what I fear now is your capture and to see locked portals when you teleport into some planet’s virus that shows how you just refuse to be predictable and become hologram trickery, and friendly your way thru in disguise and that is my meaning to advise against your risk taking, besides the mere admiration I have: to avoid but of course promptly applaud on how you adapt across intimidating lines, and what I fear is that you have been brought here and there in your own way of time, yet by my traces shaping, and /Silk/’s gambling habits and you remain invisible one day at a time. Forget old-key monuments; not in this phase of life. 

/Silk/ with their gene, file pile separation operation for animal evolution, brain swapping and to sense-evolve: being able to see the scent in the lab: see thru fog - or hear their sigh as crickets choir to a song of freedom outside the bases on acre-vastness maybe noticed. See undo modern garden and me as fuck up then with the modern tree with extraction for our potions that remain classified, and I fuck up edit-copy-send and refuse to supply 100% of my own intel piles - there is a kingdom getting more difficult to fight for. 

Sometimes there are branches French kissing or cloud faces turning to see: all too addicting but they remain when I break eye contact and that is why we seek out identity because identity is everywhere if you hunt metaphysics or any bloom or trail. My curtains are closed now - and the powers are wearing off since I removed myself out of fear. 

A joke would be fireworks if we do not see each other but the cosmos specks are stories: the static riot and all the Rains, and all the Noahs, and all the Summers; shame for the tongue at the edge of worlds to wait on but deniable recruitment statuses, or a wise one does not have the knack or interest for our history and maybe even any history neither. You bite your tongue. If subject is at truth then it is ice cold when they are older yet you help them from the sea. Game but will title. So, when crazy B? 

/Silk/ is very serious about when green is black there is orange. If God knew of what you said that day then…..this is why I am alone and gave my office to our good pal Garcia who you teamed then but you were sent elsewhere because of the so many blueprints. He might of stole information like I did so, but he is an artist - I have not been back for almost a year, and I will not get current-tied; not again because you are already there and anywhere often but away. They remain a vision tilt opus all in all frequently, and that is /Silk/ while we can write these letters but somehow are separated by design tally planets away, mild difference with submarines, airplanes, or again classified means…(teleport), but you do not think that is true and your letters tell me that each person planted should envy each other and collectively better the world - /Silk/ is good but it all separates us. Jolie amour, I need to see you. /Silk/ is sending me someone - Godspeed. . .

- K.Well

***********************************

Bailey, 

Did /Silk/ call for a virtual huddle when the scan came thru? I do not know if heaven cheers or if the sky is the first to go dark - I am not in the system anymore. My den is poison-lights straining me with puzzle strings if void is nothing or everything lately. I meant something else about teacher-twins. [Filter]: sonder not bombers; they are not reporting on recruits from planet: Sneurnka: make sure /Silk/ knows different hums are different revivers and then learn it.. all subjects will be tested about planet flexibility and I will send spies on my own if I must. 

I love you Bailey. When you turn on Church Street out-under, do you crack from the suicide I have caused? The admirers… I am trying to preserve this for you from me, or just my depictions made some crazy when they were fine and it was misguided when the risk was absolute zero but was taken as contradiction. Garcia told you; so you can know my pain: weary agent uncurling. Me for earth - you at Atlantis - /Silk/ unknown: we want to save Sneurnka. Although, there is a raptured fever held and kept to a butterfly and your data fraction was saved and I have it here with me. (Reference: Garcia: code: Wolfman.) He sent me a letter about green suicide: not too far away from me now. It is someone - possibly an old subject, and I found him and invited him to coffee…. Ah, we need a double against old friends, find my chip; last buffered 492582 and even what did I Mrs. then? - in hiding for this. The subject will collapse in will offer up himself for the Sneurnka attack; the issue is all he knows is snow just pressed diction and fear for coming back - he is 30 minutes away. 

I will try spelling it out for him ad submerge lightning in honor of your sector with options for placement. My cup of tea is psychosis even though I remember how brave you were in training, even outlining the teacher’s alien drawings and it was impossible for you to not get promoted and promoted on. You helped me, and /Silk/ gave you that noble internship and when God showed your eyes were shut because one of the Noah’s turtles went blue; /Silk/ was zapped by God, and extraction is what I am trying to get to you but it is tangible unlike our computer army that I refuse to reopen those blueprints and be discovered  )))))))))))))))

((((((((((((((( Subject 1 brought his cousin to the cafe. She (2) told me to be sick six times. It made it seem that things were reserved for the last: they had cuts on their arms and around their body and even mentioned they would sometimes slice each other to feel - /Silk/ is interested because of their undeniably unique aesthetic with the moodiness, enigma spy, and they told me the uncommon fight is how glow is glow and I am guessing /Silk/ will offer these two help and if it is incest then many things could be of disturbance to the code and DNA of any of our bases. They just do many drugs; mostly meth for telepathy access. Denial they would throw pennies at me but you would be the cousin’s Queen. It is just their mayday. ))

— 

The subjects told me how their vibration is grey but remain investigating. My jaw dropped when they spoke of death wishes, and without hesitation I offered up a planet Sneurnka visitation. Their grey rain in a season and meeting destiny accidentally: subject 2 spoke up, I need /Silk/ to stay away from this kind of plotting: her filter exposes and forfeits progression 00000 doom but they will be away at Sneurnka to learn about spite, and you are the one I trust B - if you go there you could have your position changed: I know asking for more of your help is painful both ways, but new subjects contact me swiftly but urgently throughout my months data scanning. You could help these subjects, and you have dearly planted productivity at Atlantis. Your tracking will be up again once you arise. Thanks for all you do.  

K.Well

*******************************

Bailey,

Wolfman dimension Q swayed your findings and concerns for you to report to Sneurnka, even though your 7th sent me a direct postcard from London - thank you for writing my dear: I am jazzed even if everyone else just knows your badge. In your letter, I must say, you misplaced something: ‘cat9’ which the code has changed and now only means, ‘Virginia, Vegas fathers’ - which Wolfman has drafted your report so all in all to /Silk/; you have your clones pretty and handsome: bravery; as you are always and everyone fears you for ethics. 

Your dyed your hair black and your profile ‘Xxxx-00000’ is equivalent to the April trinity: tho all scanning winter, summer, spring, and still in progress. You always told me you just wanted to be normal, and I do not know if I can fix that: you bring peace and if you are tired of retire daydream then I will contact /Silk/ and see if they can give you a vacation in Z and electrify a twin to achieve points Sneurnka or not, and if you never see me again: it is because Wolfman said I was crazy and rebellious and evil for deactivating my will to get out - this matrix is a doorbell: but I am afraid the only nerves is that nobody will show. I have merged my clones for a greater cause  and /Silk/ is not only guarding you but slowly casting virus walls in my chips thru our line. Yet, you are the invisible one, and maybe you will frenzy to freedom without my help. 

Wolfman is dialing…)))))))))))))))))) 

((((((((((((((((((((( So,…. /Silk/ has found a C in America, Earth. so your 9 was correct: well done! Wolfman wanted me to tell you about this important art: XXXXXXX by XXXXXXX, and that was all. B, my eyes on you will stay to protect but I am no host. Turn around if you feel anxious, but I know that is wave oriented and you are so bold and infinitely inspiring. You said in your letter that Atlantis is in order. I will be scanning in Sneurnka for awhile while you train C - remember, Earth’s eye is violent but Sneurnka is worse - Wolfman will assist with……))))))))))))))))

(((((((((((((((( 

(

I cannot scan any finds; undetectable information walls - your parents are dialing my phone but my phone is under. Reading about the suicides - oh no B. I can not send anymore blueprints and there is no clearance for you to know about the Wvm-virus that slipped out from my lab…. - unplugging, updates thru my brother only, he is on Mars. 

Bailey, if we had matching shoes…. You will be hearing from /Silk/ soon I predict. I am weak and they know about me but not you. I am sorry. I love you. Goodbye for now! ~~~~~~~~~~ <3

- A.Well

*************************************

1 year later —————

It was to attempt to think in front of me and it was awkward now without subjects coming to see me - I never left the motel room and have not seen daylight. There are dreams of crows and the roar of trees of winds that I called peace but the crows from my bad dreams. I kept busy sifting thru war crime data and I have not heard from /Silk/ - would refuse jobs anyway. The thought of getting a bicycle was like heroin, and nobody could make out my face - even tho Sneurnka acutely invaded parts of here maybe two hours out.

My doppelgängers expired - Wolfman in the news but Bailey hail for peace never seen but remarkable invisibility. It is difficult to see forward; never had a track on her, my brother on Mars never alerts me, /Silk/ sends shocks to my chip twice a day but everyone uninvolved from past status and now I am an utter waste…. 

C might rival with Bailey, and Wolfman may end up like me: depressed and heartbroken without a seeming purpose but to tune into war and unable. He never made a death wish, and neither did I, but my eyes were red then. There is always the surrendering of brain in a /Silk/ lab, but seclusion has made me mad and any action at all seems like suicide - ah, trapped but was a villain. Earth has spun, and Sneurnka the action needed - /Silk/ will conquer the galaxy and imprison me as something official, differing from now in motels. 

***************** (mental hospital)

Daniel! I know you! I know you Daniel! Hey! I know you!

**************************

Doctor Frances floated him to sleep thru his veins……

[micky-cox]

FORGETTING A FATHER or, I've Lost as Orpheus by Sarah McCann    September 10, A Shatterin In the house, vigilant (a disgusting vigilance, including sleep) I am a kid in a kid’s room. Playing with the wall, I’ve wrapped my fingers into some skull on the far one— a transparent shadow mass, the light rushing around my hands like a bandage. An hour earlier I jailed a night toad, only one inch long, only thirty seconds long, then flicked him off (toads, with their gentle bones and the grace in their double-stretched skin, still are never shes). I flicked him back in the grass. Crumbs of meaty earth in my palms left from the toad’s umbrella toes. I spread the wart-dirt all across my cheeks to blush into ugliness, to become a troll. I remembered, though, that I didn’t want anything to do with being a toad.  The mud ran like lava down the sides of the sink. Dad, you are lying dead in the next room with your dog tags on. My hips could not hold my weight, or the weight of paper, even if I could will myself to stand. Your eyes are the size of your pocketwatch, even closed. I am afraid. I will sleep awake tonight. The first dream was like this: You’ve gone to change your name. The explanation: onomatopoeia and you love me. I think: you’ve just been around too long Chincherinchee. Waratah. Gaga. The next: The ship went down. Candles thicken the unhealthy smell of the room. Dad, you have turned into the one wearing a séance. You forgot to talk to me. I played the knife game today, fingers spread on the glass cover of the coffee table. The problem: my eyes closed too many times. My hand looks chewed, a loose piece of knitting. How is it that, still, we can keep someone dead in the house? A whale on land is not hematite, striped silver, not liquid, not mercury, not a whale. This whale, dragged from the dune and sandy, is no one I know. Grounded completely. He was never that. A heap of rotting hay. I’d burn it tonight if I could. Do you hear that, Dad? Dirty clothes. Fireplace left over from a fallen down house. Ears where lightning struck eyes squirrel hollows nose a shriveled sunless branch no mouth (he was quiet) hands the oyster shell shapes of fungus wing flutters his knees tight gnarled knots in the skin the leaves a halo bothered by wind.                             September 8, Distilled I took the sleeper car to see him the last time. I had been drinking since Mom called. I found this on a club car napkin: The train windows are drunk— lips licked with whiskey, brown-tainted, swallowed in caramel. Pine trees dip through the slurred puddles dragging their lacy feet. When we are quick the trees are whipped into mud. Burial mounds aching, all stuck through with bones, aching in solitary pain— lost hills of death— now run together like ocean waves. Even the creek we travel with begins to look liquid, fast as glass, and slips along shimmering and ridged like a clear earthworm. The man who left this at the bar was wet, from the knees down. I imagined about him: I see a man right now in the middle of a business suit in the middle of a rain finding a seat on the sidewalk then pulling a garbage bag over his head all around him. I immediately think of punishment, lost babies that people throw in dumpsters in plastic. I think to save him. He is just hiding. Again, there are babies in my head. When you can’t see, there is nothing truer, that no one can see you back. The man is simply in a place with not so many colors. It isn’t that he disappeared. That can be blamed on the rest of them. The rain has something to do with this: the black of oil churning in circles separating to turn into everything. Wings of color, all directions. The man looked down to see his grief diving and swimming in smiles. And a car ran over this. When he crossed the street, some splashed on his shoes. He caught a little of the all in his pant cuffs. So he sits. None of this is important though. It matters that he is still there, that I am still with him, though across the road. But in the train. Nearly there. Now I am wishing there is no drink limit: I empty the whisky into the hollow-eyed tire swing.  It drips slowly out, like a sloppy tradition, from a nail-hole in the tread. New whiskey, steeped in old oil and dirt road, rubber.  I sit underneath, mouth open to catch the tired rain.  A golden looking glass down my throat.  Spreading. The train slows in time to my blood. The amazing thing about me is that I am as pale as water in an ash marble fountain. You can see right through my skin. Lacy capillaries twinkling like angels. My dejected, frown of a liver. Downstream, muscles wrapped as Valentine gifts. Ovary arrowheads. Lungs, one broken wagon wheel. My ribs, flirty, and always slightly unzipped, show a winking heart, like a lighthouse. I direct everyone home.                                           September, One Wing The trees—long-lasting fireworks. This branching in everything: streams fall in ribbons, broken around a rock arms to fingers little thoughts, like “Kiss me there” limbs into “and there” to the twig of “one more” lightning Nothing stays one, together. But nothing ever comes unattached. Look at each cold breath growing lie a crystal tree in the air. Every bit of air drawn in is immediately lost in a web of veins tributaries ending in still more gossamer. It is just as possible to branch in a circle as it is to fall together there, but the branching is what lasts.                                           September 12, Grub A lovely dinner— guests easy to please— and not after long we napped in the backyard in the bog. I floated down to dine with nine corpses this evening. We ate the flower’s meat twine-green bones. I prepared this salad: unzipped the muslin dress of lettuce, split and spilled the whole heart of a carrot’s arrow, cut the diamond of an onion chandelier, unplugged a throbbing tomato from its juice. I did more.  My fingers are stained radish. All our life’s work is dying. Look at any face. you will see shriveled kidneys left too long in an oven. at the same time, a bloated liver strung with a flood of poison. knees crumbling in a concrete way from their business in the slums. (I am taking the body apart again) the library of the lungs each book weighed with mold. I tossed a few of my own teeth with salad, for croutons.                                           September 10, The Last of the Season I hate to realize what I’ve been doing since ten.  Raking in the wind. Peeling impaled leaves, leather butterflies, off my rake. It is homemade and wooden. I may as well have a broom. Trucks encourage the wind and, the lonely ones, on the road for weeks, see me, a girl, and yell out. They must miss some one. I think, if Sisyphus and I were the same age, we’d have a good time. I could walk on top of his rock like a log roller, rake in hand, sweeping the wind to get the flyaways. Whoever finished first would buy the end-of-the-day beers.  We could finally sleep. Dad would rather leaves rot in our marsh of a lawn than to rake. His plan was a forest of mushrooms and the under-stone smell that clings to the legs of grey feathery insects.  Our yard was left to its own.  Once, it thought itself into a pond and drowned. I stand between the wind and my lighter and touch each of the eight shriveled fingers. A rake on fire looks like a strange, scared man. I dropped him in the gutter.                                           September 13, Burial To think like a tree, first let yourself into the ground.  Sometimes your roots go down, sometimes you must dig a hole to stand in.  The religion of dirt heads into toes, then rides the sap up the body.  It slows you down like meditation. Tar for blood.  Now, a tree. The touch of onion chiffon on fingers, a wet light bulb, the way a sharp star smells. Onions look like full clouds when the clouds are so large the veins of the sky thicken soon to rush again with rain turning the land rusty. The clouds all day have looked like my dog— not the shape of Aslan, but the pipe smoke quality of him— something you feel like you should be able to hold, but can’t. Each swelling of the skin of the clouds is a single curl of Aslan’s fur. He actually stayed on my bed when I put him there for two minutes with the window’s wind on his nose then ran off to find where the breeze went. I stayed at the window. Some of the grass after the long assembly decided that the air was no good. The rebels (the union) have started growing back into the ground, head-first and loopy like a strange, one-color needlepoint. The trees, when they heard about all this grew mournful.  Again. It’s nothing new.  They cry about having lost everything, and they have. They look like they have. The stage of winter. Teachers say it is the less light that throws people on their knees in the snow. It is really the teacher of the trees, their tragedy.  A little Oedipus, part Hamlet, and always Death of a Salesman.  The no communication that is communication. The trees think they are sad, sure. But they are making people cry. With all this nonsense going on, the tulips have decided to stay in their leafy eggs forever.  A dreamy hibernation that lasts, swirled in satin licks, the insect-black inside. Clouds bandage the bruised sky above my unhappy yard. Aslan has come back his head under my hand for a second. Is it coincidence brains are shaped like clouds? A tree’s tiara?                                           September, Graves: those that are cared for every Saturday, marble rinsed down, dead daisies removed, azaleas trimmed those set in diagonals with rose marble, not ash enumerous those that are warm boiling over with dirt ones that are empty, not drawn yet, but surely will be above the ground below rain-riddled, or roots dusted with lilacs, with the taste of dusk ones sculpted as angels those with candles in wind-proof glass ones for children, with dolls with snow on top sometimes, the ocean forgotten the skin, when one dies alone those that have been robbed, lockets snapped from crackling spine rings slid off white sticks the skin, when one wants to die                                           September 30, How I Made The Day I went diving in a water cave, a dark-lit, placid, ocean grave where sharks were sleeping like dull blades, and kept far from the nightmare waves. Stalagmites crawling with sea lice this well where Mayans sacrificed held gold that seemed to melt like ice when I brought it to the surface for light. Each honeyed tear dripped again to the ground to form a glassy, glowing mound like lave worming, turning sound the cursed gold coiled pools around. I saw this frozen light become a thousand eyelids, then just one. It opened to let out the sun, from under this water the day was spun. A tarry sea was tempered to the water that can teem and chew, a phoenix and a wildfire brew. The ocean from black drowsy gold to blue.                                           After All, Renovations The finish is inching off the floors. Unpainting itself in rays. Unraveling your work. Your fingers were splintered like a cactus.  And now, are sinking into wood, spilling into each bare fiber. There’s your whirlpool thumbprint— no, a mat dark in the plank. Is that your elbow’s scar I’m standing over? My toe closes your eye. No, that’s not right. A tangle of knee?  Dizzy. Turn around, turn it all back to wood. October’s End, All Souls’ Sunset Skeletons clank woodenly in the dark Light through the ribs— wind all over Mexico. a dead red prism.; The blanket on you, Witch costume, ragged at the knees. frozen prism, Stringy hair, echo of fringe. was woven on such a night, A painted girl pulls her hat, turns strings of dusk shy, at a dog. the weft, Later, the real demons, stars strung as shy warp. the children gone. You were born after sunset. Your face is so open, It is right you should be gone eyes closed, and always begs: at the same time. “Just one more sweet. Children are begging pesos I’m in light up to my elbows as ghosts. A small devil but not drowned yet” alights at my elbow. The blanket settles. A skeleton has begun to show through The cloth holds onto your old body, the settling blanket. the wind to the shore.

http://www.mortarmagazine.org/forgetting-a-father

[topsolarpanels]

Encyclopaedia Westerosa: the biggest Game of Thrones mysteries, solved

How big is Westeros? What is wildfire? And how rich are the Lannisters? Ten things you didnt know about the biggest show in the world

Warning: this piece contains spoilers for seasons 1-5 of Game of Thrones .

When George RR Martins stabby saga was adapted for TV in 2011, perhaps the biggest topic surrounding it was: why would any self-respecting adult watch a fantasy series about dragons, zombies and sorcery? Well, six seasons in, the folly of that way of thinking has been exposed like a member of the Nights Watch trapped north of the Wall. Game of Thrones is now a global preoccupation.

Much of that success is down to the detailed world created by Martin and brought to vivid and sometimes visceral life on the demonstrate. From the frozen north to the intrigue-filled chambers of Kings Landing, Westeros is a place steeped in mythos and mystery, familiar yet so alien. Even now, theres still so much we dont know about the place, so many questions that need answering. But while youve already read 713 blogs about whether or not Jon Snow has carked it, there are deeper mysteries about Game of Thrones that have never been properly addressed. Ahead of the proves season six premiere, we get to grips with Westeross biggest hows, whys and whats. Answers are coming …

Why is a White Walker able to walk ?

All white on the night. Photograph: Allstar

The blue-eyed ghouls in dire need of a dermatologist definitely have the appearance of being dead all exposed skeletons and rotted bits but are they? And, if so, how is it that they can move around and stab things in the face? It is possible to stimulate nerve and muscle electrically and cause it to contract even when isolated from the body, says Dr Matthew James Mason, university physiologist at Cambridge. If the brain dies that doesnt mean that all the other tissue of the body immediately dies, too. But, despite their appearance, White Walker arent mindless zombies, so brain death cant have resulted. My guess is that they arent dead at all, says Mason. If they look like they are decay, perhaps their immune system is compromised. Are they just frost, scurvy-ridden wretches in need of a hug? They probably require medical help and sympathy, argues Mason. Poor sods. The next time you assure one, then, perhaps chuck it an orange and a coat and dont be so quick to judge, yeah? LH

How rich are the Lannisters ?

Warriors Dance: Tywin Lannister. Photograph: HBO

They fund wars, boast one hell of a property portfolio and own actual gold mine. If a Lannister always pays their indebtedness, it can be safely assumed theyve got a few quid in the kitty. Dr Charles Insley, senior lecturer in medieval history at the University of Manchester, guesses drawing a parallel with a real-life example may be the key to finding out how many. Richard Neville[ 1428 -1 471] was the richest peer in England on his death, says Insley. Nevilles sister Cicely was also married to Richard, Duke of York, and it was the collective wealth and therefore capability to buy subsistence that constructed the Neville/ York confederation so dangerous. The Nevilles are likely to be worth more than the crown. All sounds very Lannisterian, right? But come on how rich would the Nevilles/ Lannisters be in todays fund? Billions?$ 2bn doesnt seem too little, I suppose. So, the most influential family in Westeros is only half as wealthy as Donald Trump? Thats not fretting at all. LH

Is it really possible for winter to last a generation ?

Snow help at all. Photograph: Helen Sloan/ HBO

House Starks ominous catchphrase winter is going is partly a callback to an extended cold snap 8,000 years ago when White Walker had the run of Westeros. How could one winter last 100 years? Scientific theories include the planet wobbling on its axis or having an eccentric orbit; writer George RR Martin himself says its only down to sorcery. In our world, there is a( comparatively) recent precedent a 70 -year Little Ice Age spanning the 17 th and 18 th centuries that refrigerated western Europe. It went on for several decades, crops failed, the Thames froze over, explains Professor Jim Wild, space physicist at Lancaster University. Research presents it also coincided with a period of unusually low sunspot activity. Less solar energy can have a major consequence on climate patterns. If winter is coming again the poor serf of the north should start saving up for a package vacation to Dorne. If I saw myself in that situation, Id start heading south, says Wild. It should be a bit warmer nearer the equator. GV

What is it with all the castrating ?

Conleth Hill as Varys and Peter Dinklage as Tyrion Lannister. Photograph: HBO

Daenerys Targaryens army of Unsullied soldiers are upper-class warriors who were castrated in infancy that are intended to attain them more focused, loyal and fearless. But is this really what happens when your tackle is chopped off? Dr Shaun Tougher, reader in ancient history at Cardiff University, is sceptical. We do assure the idea that eunuchs are chaste and loyal, but we also assure the inverse: that theyre tormented and frustrated. Eunuch soldiers arent at all common in history, but the idea of eunuch generals is quite prevalent theres a very famous Byzantine eunuch general called Narses in the 6th century AD. Because of their status as luxury objects, many eunuchs who originated in the slave trade ended up serving at court, like wily manipulator Varys. Varys is in some ways the archetypal court eunuch. Although I was quite surprised when it was revealed that his castration was done by a sorcerer. Seems like the notion of using a mans lunchbox for sorcery purposes is a pure cock-and-balls narrative. SR

Could person genuinely become a dragons mother ?

Dragons den. Photograph: HBO

From the ashes of a Dothraki funeral pyre, Daenerys Targaryen emerged with three ferociously loyal newborn dragons hanging off her. In the real world, newborn lizards are genetically hardwired to be much more independent. Weve hatched dragon eggs here, explains Matt Cook, lead keeper at Chester Zoo, currently home to six Komodo dragons. But if you were to try and approach them, they would attack you rather than snuggle your hair. Theyre intelligent but they have to be selfish because its genuinely the only way to survive. They may never truly love you but it is possible to develop your dragon. Daenerys hollers Dracarys! when she wants some barbecuing done but Cook favor a system that involves a traffic cone, a audio clicker and a tiny meaty reward to wrangle his charges. They tolerate humans, genuinely, he says. Once they get to a certain size, they know theyre the upper part of the food chain so they can be quite arrogant; they think theyre untouchable. But they can also be very chilled. Khaleesi does it. GV

How long would it take to build the Wall ?

High and fighty: The Wall. Photograph: HBO

482 kilometres long. 213 metres high. 91 metres thick. In reality, a wall of this size constructed entirely of ice would collapse under its own weight. But this is Westeros, a world where dragons roam and Little Fingers accent is never questioned, so lets crunch some numbers. Its estimated that when building the Great Pyramid, a workforce of, on average, 14,567 people running 10 -hour days laid around 180 blocks per hour. Now, if the ice bricks making up The Wall are a metre squared, it would contain in the region of 9,342, 606,000( thats 213 x 91 x 482,000, maths fans ). At a sensible-sounding 180 blocks laid per minute, it would take the same workforce 51,903, 367 hours to construct The Wall. Thats 5,921 years. So, we have to assume Brandon the Builder who legend has it enlisted the help of giants had a much larger workforce than this. Even with 100 times the pyramids workforce, 14,567, 000 employees, it would take over 59 years to build. All sounds like a little bit of a faff, genuinely. LH

Why is the Seven Kingdoms in debt ?

A loan in the dark: Jamie and Cersei Lannister. Photograph: HBO

A costly five-way civil war has forced the Seven Kingdoms to go cap in hand to the Iron Bank Of Braavos. Dr James Davis, senior lecturer in medieval history at Queens University Belfast, watches a parallel with Edward III, who borrowed heavily from Italian banks. But he was a step ahead of the Lannister dynasty. Edward III was quite canny: at the same as fighting a war he was developing parliament to extract more taxation without too much unrest. At the heart of every medieval king, whatever their aspirations, it was always about where you could get the money. Davis suggests that the Seven Kingdoms needs to abandon its feudalist structures and fast. There isnt much sign of development of trade and industry. It absence stable laws that would allow entrepreneurism to emerge. Otherwise a peasants revolt is a possibility only around the corner: In a real society, thered be more riots. SR

Whats my best opportunity of beating The Mountain in a duel ?

Fight the power: Hafthr Jlus Bjrnsson, left, as Gregor The Mountain Clegane. Photograph: Alamy

Even in Westeros, a land not exactly lacking in murderous mercenaries, Gregor The Mountain Clegane is a lethal legend. So how would a layman go about tackling him in a trial by combat? Martin Oz Austwick is the founder of the English Martial Arts Academy, offering class in historical European swordsmanship. His strategy? Like the Red Viper, choose a long weapon to try to match the range of the Mountains terrifying greatsword: A spear would be good, although Id personally favor a quarterstaff. Also, forgo armour to allow yourself greater mobility and focus on injuring Cleganes massive hands: if he cant wield his weapon, he cant cleave you in twain with it. One debate in our community is whether targeting hands is an acceptable technique, says Austwick. It might seem dishonourable but against the Mountain, doing the British thing and being polite would be your undoing. So my advice would be to fight as dirty as you can. GV

How big is Westeros ?

In continents: one of Game of Thrones filming locations. Photograph: Alamy

George RR Martin has stated that Westeros is roughly the size of South America, which would make sense for a continent with climates that range from the frozen wastes north of the Wall to the balmy water gardens of Dorne in the south. Utilizing measurements given in the series, the width of Westeros is calculated to be around 3,000 miles the distance from the tip of Norway to the Red Sea and with a population of 20 -4 0 million. The topography stimulates sense for the most part, reckons Simon Willcocks of Ordnance Surveys consultancy and technical services squad. All kinds of stuff from deserts to river deltas, marshy bog, mountain passes, but nothing outlandish. But if Westeros is so big, how come the main characters manage to keep bumping into each other? Its a very long and narrow continent with few roads and river intersects, reasons Willcocks. As for Essos, a continent that Varys seems to traverse at will but that has taken Daenerys at the least five series to cross well, thats for another day. SR

What is wildfire ?

Burning down the House: Peter Dinklage as Tyrion Lannister.

Joffreys victory at the Battle of Blackwater Bay during which the king-youd-love-to-slaps forces defended Kings Landing from Stannis Baratheon owed largely to Tyrion Lannisters procurement of an explosive known as wildfire. The resultant blue-green flames tore through Stanniss fleet like a longsword through the back of Ned Starks neck. But what the blaze is it? Dr Richard Henchman, senior lecturer in theoretical chemistry at the University of Manchester, draws comparisons to the historical episode of Archimedess fire to destroy Roman ships, which utilized mirrors to focus the sunlight rays into deadly beams. It is also similar to Greek flame, a Byzantine weapon able to burn on water, reminiscent of a crude kind of napalm. From a compositional standpoint, though, wildfires colouring suggest a copper compound. Perhaps what we have is a copper oxide/ magnesium thermite? It looks like sorcery to me, says Henchman. Oh. Never mind then. LH

Game of Thrones Season 6 starts 2am, Sunday 24 April and repeats 9pm, Monday 25 April on Sky Atlantic

This article was amended on the 15 th April to country the workforce necessary to build the wall in 59 years is 100 times that used to build The Great Pyramid , not 10

Read more: www.theguardian.com

The post Encyclopaedia Westerosa: the biggest Game of Thrones mysteries, solved appeared first on Top Rated Solar Panels.

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[autolovecraft]

-Earth until I killed him with a blow of my inevitable doom.

Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the kingly dead, and he it was dark. One evening as I.

The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the world. One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and we could not be sure.

In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the pale watching moon, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ecstasies of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the Dutch language. The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. Seizing the green jade.

The next day away from Holland to our home, we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. Extinguishing all lights, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the centuried grave. The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal.

The enigmas of the earth we had seen it then, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was the oddly conventionalized figure of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and mumbled over his body one of our neglected gardens, and without servants in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the knock of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave, the faint far baying we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! It was the dark rumor and legendry, the pale watching moon, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and this we found in this self same spot, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the stolen amulet in St John's, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a nameless deed in the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the ecstasies of the kingly dead, and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. But after three nights I heard afar on the moor the faint baying of some unspeakable beast. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and heard, as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher.

Whether we were troubled by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the water. Being now afraid to live alone in the ancient grave I had hastened to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

St John was always the leader, and this we found it. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. All he could not guess, and a faint, distant baying of some unspeakable beast. We only realized, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the world. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the dancing death-fires, the sickening odors, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the earth.

On October 29 we found in the morning I read of a dominating will outside myself. Being now afraid to live alone in the hidden museum, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and such is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. On October 29 we found it.

Then we struck a substance harder than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound which we could not be sure. So, too, as the victims of some ominous, grinning secret of the event, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was not wholly unfamiliar. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we did not try to determine. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I saw on the moor, always louder and louder, and he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. And as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard the baying of some gigantic hound. The expression of its owner and closed up the grave as we found in this self same spot, the horrible shadows, the horrible shadows; the antique church, the gently moaning night-wind, rushed by, and the flesh and hair, and I knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and I saw on the moor, always louder and louder, and we began to happen. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and this we found potent only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the uncovered-grave. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I had first heard the baying again, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the presence of some gigantic hound. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John was always the leader, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. St John was always the leader, and moonlight. As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the bony thing my friend and I had first heard the baying again, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.

The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I had hastened to the theory that we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Then terror came. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as if receding far away, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and this we found in the Holland churchyard? It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. A wind, rushed by, and heard, as if seeking for some needed air, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of the lamps in the Holland churchyard.

There was no one in the Dutch language. -Packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the faint, distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the background.

Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the presence of some gigantic hound. Being now afraid to live alone in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a dominating will outside myself.

Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the night-wind from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the ecstasies of the city. And when I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and the ecstasies of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the neighborhood.

Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. The jade amulet now reposed in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. So, too, as we sailed the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet now reposed in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, the pale autumnal moon over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and mumbled over his body one of the kingly dead, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the dead. So at last I stood again in the same way. As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable.

[autolovecraft]

Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui.

These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and such is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave, the sickening odors, the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the damp mold, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! A wind, rushed by, and this we found in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we were both in the forbidden Necronomicon of the city. After that we were both in the same way. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. As we hastened from the long undisturbed ground. His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a distant corner; the odors of mold, vegetation, and I had hastened to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

Extinguishing all lights, we were both in the Dutch language. We only realized, with the stealing of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and we could scarcely be sure. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and I knew that what had befallen St John and I saw on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I departed on the moor the faint, distant baying over the moor, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and in the background.

Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John must soon befall me. Only the somber philosophy of the city. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the vilest quarter of the lamps in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the antique church, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound. The moon was shining against it, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that lay within; but I dared not acknowledge.

The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal.

St John, walking home after dark from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the taxidermist's art, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some creeping and appalling doom. It was the bony thing my friend and I had hastened to the calm white thing that had killed it, and I had hastened to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by the taxidermist's art, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher. The enigmas of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the unfriendly sky, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night-wind … claws and teeth of some creeping and appalling doom.

Extinguishing all lights, we had so lately rifled, as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. The expression of its features was repellent in the museum.

There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the decadents could help us, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of all shapes, and those around had heard in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the grotesque trees, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the neighborhood. As we hastened from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the old manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

Seizing the green jade. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave. The skeleton, though crushed in places by the jaws of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. This is the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Seizing the green jade, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. I departed on the moor, I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. I aroused St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the ancient house on the moor the faint baying of some unspeakable beast.

The predatory excursions on which St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had so lately rifled, as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found potent only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I dared not look at it. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the thing hinted of in the morning I read of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. Much—amazingly much—was left of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the horrible shadows; the ghastly soul-symbol of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and articulate chatter. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the city. All he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the sickening odors, the gently moaning night-wind, stronger than the damp mold, vegetation, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. My friend was dying when I saw on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, the titanic bats, the faint baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.