#demuresdoe

The Mystic Grill was busy, with only a few seats left at the bar, so Elijah settled down at the counter and let his gaze wander to the TV in the corner. Another dead body, drained of blood, dismembered. It was wild what was happening here. That was one reason why he was here. But he was still keeping to the shadows, away from the vampires, werewolves, and witches who were up to no good here. They might not even be aware of it.

His boots trudge through half-frozen terrain, accompanied by the pattering of his pack of dogs’ feet following him through the maze of overgrown scrubs and plants that decorate the cabin’s perimeter. He hadn’t the heart to cut the wild flowers, always so pretty, and often a gift for the vase that decorated the kitchen table. Today, he’s brought home fish he has caught, his feet hitting the porch, and he slides off the boots before going fully in. He drops the string of fish in the sink before cleaning up some. And finally, he starts the coffee pot.

INBOX PROMPTS ╱ 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

His nose wrinkles almost immediately and the barrel of his shotgun doesn't lower an inch. River's gaze swam with a hesitation he loathed to admit. The farm lay buried deep in the wilderness, far removed from the nearest town, and he could not begin to guess where she had been heading before. But now that she has stumbled here, seen the humming electricity powered by the generator, the modest harvest coming soon, and the lack of the dead ─ he is reluctant to just let her leave there with that knowledge. Who knows who she might tell or if there are others? She might be a scout. The idea pops up as quickly as it goes. She wouldn't have been the first.

River scoffs lightly, swallowing his bile. "You always wander into nowhere like this?" he asked, sharpened by aggravation, though the words felt more like an accusation than a question. "Are you alone? Is anyone else coming?" his gaze flickers to the tree lines briefly as if trying to access some far out there, unseen threat. / @demuresdoe

Quite a few wounded had arrived at the fort during those days, seeking shelter or finding their final resting place here. Cullen no longer knew how many there were when he visited the infirmary that had been set up outside. Tents, tarpaulins, furs, stretchers. It wasn't perfect, and the cold wasn't exactly kind to the people, but it helped prevent epidemics from spreading quickly. Some of those lying here belonged to the army, which was why he was here in the first place, to see how they were doing and if he could help a little. (Because he didn't have enough to do already.)

KAYCE LOOKED DOWN AND SIGHED, his fingers fiddled with the tab on his soda can. He rocked the piece of aluminum back and forth until it broke off.      ❝   Yeah,   ❞      he scoffed,      ❝   the last time it was like this I left the ranch and didn’t talk to him for years.   ❞      He flipped the tab over and over with calloused fingers. He needed something to ground himself.

biblically  ,  and  canonically  ,       arthur  morgan  was  not  a  religious  man  .  he  beleived  more  in  the  way  the  clouds  looked  in  morning  and  evening  ,  the  shepheards  delight  and  the  shepherds  warning  .  but  there  was  one  thing  that  arthur  morgan  knew  ,  it  was  that  if  the  large  chance  he  was  wrong  ;  he  would  burn  in  hell  for  eternity  for  it  .

                                           𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒄𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔                  @demuresdoe : i've read them all. 

"  verses  ?  "       there  was  a  breif  pause  to  scan  the  recluse  parts  of  his  memory  ,  bessie  once  had  forced  him  to  listen  to  a  sermon  or  two  of  herself  ,  meanwhile  dutch  critisised  and  parted  the  sea  of  truths  and  doubts  between  parables  like  he  did  with  every  piece  of  writing  .        "  in  one  in  ,  out  the  other  .  "        as  far  as  he  knew   god  pissed  and  therefore  it  rained  ,  and  that  was  something  from  hosea  .

&. 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬.

the   words   land   softly   as  they   ripple   through   garrett   —   like   a   small   stone   dropped   in   still   water.   he   blinks   and   the   world   comes   back   in   pieces  :   the   leg   of   a   chair   ,   the   static   hum   of   a   tv   ,   copper   hair.

"   yeah   ,   "   he   says.   the   lie   feels   practiced   ,   worn   smooth   from   use.   "   just   thinking.   "   and   then   there   is   a   pause   ,   a   moment   that   feels   like   they   are   waiting   for   him   to   say   something   —   maybe   to   explain   ,   or   to   simply   continue   the   conversation.   but   garrett   is   drawing   a   blank   (   he's   still   shaking   the   remaining   fog   from   his   brain   ).   he   knows   he   should   say   something   harmless.   talk   about   the   weather.   work.   something   with   edges   that   don't   cut.

but   his   mind   is   still   half-stuck   in   the   quiet   place   it   drifts   to   —   the   gray   between   memory   and   absence.   garrett   can’t   tell   them   that   sometimes   he   forgets   he's   sitting   there   at   all   ,   that   his   body   feels   like   a   coat   he   borrowed   from   someone   else.

he   gives   a   small   smile   instead   ,   the   kind   that   never   quite   reaches   the   eyes   (   the   kind   that   reassures   without   promising   anything   ).   there's   no   further   elaboration   on   what   he   has   been   thinking   about   and   garrett lets   the   background   sounds   of   ordinary   life   fold   around   them   for   a   moment.   the   gray   is   still   at   the   edge   of   his   vision   ,   wanting   and   waiting   to   pull   him   back   under.   and   for   a   moment   ,   he   allows   it   to   creep   back   as   a   thought   flickers   —   the   briefest   pulse   of   another   world   ,   a   place   somewhere   else   (   a   house   that   wasn't   a   home   )   ,   the   smell   of   iron   and   pine   ,   his   brother’s   voice   telling   him   to   look   closer.   but   garrett   blinks   and   it’s   gone.

he   never   knows   how   long   he's   gone   for   when   moments   like   this   happen   ,   but   judging   by   how   everything   still   looks   and   feels   the   same   ,   garrett   assumes   it   hasn't   hasn't   been   too   long.   still   feeling   like   the   world   is   spinning   from   the   slip   ,   he   folds   his   hands   together   to   keep   them   still.   the   pulse   of   life   around   them   fills   the   air   like   a   breath   —   soft   ,   constant   ,   faintly   alive.   he   listens   without   meaning   to   ,   matching   its   rhythm   until   he   feels   his   pulse   slow   to   meet   it.