#cosmicuncanny

Ivakir never thought of herself as a hero, but such thoughts always slipped into her mind. Being a hero meant that you always could get an extra mug of beer, an extra basket of eggs, an extra jug of milk. However, Ivakir sometimes forgot that witches were never heroes. Love and respect was easy to win. Spare a couple of people from disease or curses - you immediately have a house near the village, a cow, everyone greets you and bow when you pass by, calling you “Madam Witch”. But as soon as you make only a small mistake, people quickly lost their memory and forgot what you have done for them.

It all started when peasants suddenly stopped to greet her. Ivakir immediately realized that something was wrong. Then they began to spit on her doorstep. Then someone threw a stone at her window. It was a signal that it was time to leave, but Ivakir hoped that there would be another job that would make her a hero again. But the peasants never could boast of much patience - they immediately dragged the young woman to the bonfire.

“… And these men, who looked more like bears and pigs than men I must say, came into my house. With pitchforks! On me, who had only a tiny stick in hands! I should run, I thought. But how, you ask me? They surrounded the hut and what I could do there? And now these ungrateful pigs are going to burn me for everything I have done for them!”

News travels quickly, even to podunk little countryside villages like Trampoli. It helps that Raguna has contacts living back in Kardia who keep in touch with him, and whose location along a merchant road leads to lots of bits coming to their ears. But it’s also due to the gossip of the mail girl delivering parcels to various other towns and villages in Norad.

Usually this gossip is of little consequence- interesting developments of new products or new people coming and going with tales of their own. Then there were things that could even rival the giant floating Whale Island in the skies over Trampoli should they prove true. Anette delivers one such tale to Raguna one morning when she catches him tending to the monsters that were working his field.

A forest is dying. And nobody seems to know why.

For the Earthmate the image it provoked in his mind was not a pleasant one. Thoughts going to what sort of influence would be necessary to cause a forest to just... die? It wasn’t being burned. It wasn’t being cut down. There had been no additional word of agents from the now collapsed Sechs Empire up to any shady business. It wasn’t immediately his business, but that incessant sense of duty would not let him stand by idly when it was only a day’s travel to the south.

Needless to say the next day finds him south of Kardia, with materials and equipment packed and ready for an exploratory voyage into the woods. Further talk with the locals in the nearby town of Glido lent more . . . unsettling tales. Some taller than others but some that were undeniable. Like people disappearing. Noises from inside and shadows cast at night from unidentifiable points of light. Once Raguna was finally at the edge of the decay recollection of the various warnings cause him several moments of hesitation. 

Blue eyes lid for a moment as air sucks into his lungs. Sure enough, as he feared, the presence and flow of Rune was almost nonexistent. The feeling of being drawn in likely had something to do with this as well. Energy pulling away towards whatever may be causing this.

         Her skill at the piano had always been a crowd-pleaser. There was really no better way to simultaneously make oneself the center of attention and to appear as though she was light at heart, enjoying the festivities. It allowed her to draw potential suitors in, painting the perfect portrait of grace and beauty alongside her talent. It was easier to forgive her lack of natural charisma and her colder exterior if people knew she was pretty and possessed such a gift. It also lent itself as a reliable ice breaker as it was; men had time to think of some line while she played, and if not, she could always ask if they were fond of music. Men did so love to talk about themselves, especially when they thought they had a rapt audience.

         There was a heartbeat of silence at the end of the song before an inevitable punctuation of applause. Lucille stood and smiled, inclining her head in false modesty. There was a man near the piano bench and she smiled at him, waiting for him to deliver whatever introductions he had no doubt rehearsed in his head. "I hope my playing wasn't too out of practice."

lights, camera… || [ open ] || @cosmicuncanny

What gets Wylan about this more than anything, is not the fact that Ser is a non-anthropoid alien creature, that’s not all that discomforting truth be told. What gets him during moments like these is that Ser is so quiet and unpresent beforehand. Intentions aren’t announced, physically or verbally. There aren’t creeping footsteps or small takes of breath that can be picked out of the din. It’s just one moment you’re walking...

hugs? hugs || [ open ] || @cosmicuncanny

✢ – An awkward hug

It’s not that hugs are typically announced, there are very few people who will announce their intent to hug someone else. But most people who hug other people are standing up and are somewhere of a similar height. They are not amorphous black masses with eyes, either, which Ser very much is. So when Ser “hugs” against Wylan’s foot for the briefest of moments Wylan thinks that, first, his foot is stuck in the mud and, second, he is being eaten.

This is something Wylan has encountered before, someone attempting to eat him, and that situation was incredibly unpleasant to handle. This is only marginally better for the half second it transpires.

“Uh.” Wylan responds, having jerked his foot a single time, now looking down at the grouping of eyes looking up at him. His mouth hangs open as he ponders something else to say, maybe yell or shout, but given what Ser is capable of he’s opting for- something else.

the memories like to mock and taunt; his dreams are their favorite haunt // not accepting.

🎈- A memory about a time they were safe and relaxed

Wind’s fierce today, howling across the choppy waters. Rain batters the hull relentlessly, anyone caught outside lucky to get away with only soaked clothes for their troubles and foolishness.

Below deck, sparingly lit by lantern light, he whittles away with his knife a wooden something without clear form. Rough but dexterous hands run over what once was a mere block with purpose, discarded scraps and shavings littering the floor, and there’s a sigh that isn’t his as he goes on and on and on…

“What’ll it be this time?” She asks, lean arms slipping round his neck and bony chin poking into his shoulder just in that way she knows he hates. Knows he hates being watched while he does this too, and he doesn’t need to see her face to know the grin that’ll greet him if he were to look her way. “I liked the pig.”

“Was a cat,” he grouses. She bumps her head into his, mouth bared into a snicker against his neck. He pays her no more mind with words but does lean into the fingers running through his tangled hair, toying with the blonde strands as though delighting in what she doesn’t have herself. 

@cosmicuncanny​ // a bird ill met by dawn or dusk // not accepting.

He freezes in his tracks at the unexpected question, hands still plunged into the chilly river and gaze kept towards its rippling surface. He’d been kneeling at the edge of a near abandoned dock, one far enough from the town that he’d believed himself safe from any prying eyes that the too crowded tavern and too well watched alleyways held in abundance for strangers such as himself.

A vigilance kept not without good reason, perhaps, but a pain considering the line of work he thought to pursue even without fellow strangers butting in.

Speaking of which… “Mind your business.” He grits out irritably, shaking the cold water from off his hands before rising slowly to his feet, shoulders hunched and back bowed with the force of an untimely cough a moment after. The lantern by his feet cuts through the fog curling over the dock, illuminating the viscous, still dripping stains that have dyed his tattered clothes near black from his narrow arms to his thin chest.

Its flickering flame even reaches far enough to outline some odd shape at the dock’s end, wrapped and tangled as it is in a thick net… but he steps forwards in a way that blocks it from view, the hand falling down to the knife at his waist a clear, if unspoken warning.