#meadowsweets

MBMBAM MEME / for ismark kolyanovich ( @meadowsweets )

strahd let the thin veneer of courtesy slip, and in one swift motion grabbed the man by the throat and pushed him against the wall. the tapestry silenced any crash from kolyanovich's armor but one could feel strahd's vehemence send a tremor through the castle walls.

❝ you want me dead...? oh, sir kolyanovich— wait, would it be lord now that you are to inherit your father's estate? ❞ he punctuated the question by digging a claw into the man's neck, just hard enough to hurt, to feel the other's pulse beneath his finger, but not to draw blood. ❝ and who will you take with you in your bloodthirst? have you heard of the tale of berez? i'm sure your fearmongering father has told you of it. ❞

strahd felt the heat of his anger rising and thought it better to let the younger man go. too much stick, not enough carrot, though strahd was not known for offering the latter, but with tatyana so close... strahd took a sharp inhale. in retracting his hand a sharp claw inadvertently broke tender flesh and a drop of hot blood escaped kolyanovich's skin and the scent of iron filled the vampire's nostrils. it took a moment for his mind to command his body to wipe the residue blood off on a handkerchief. strahd took a step back, and gave the man a nod.

❝ i'm hardly a rat, ismark kolyanovich. i have died before. i do not recall rodents having that ability. hmm, the best of luck in planning my demise, then. perhaps you will have time to think on it while we serve dessert. ❞

“ It is hard to find a friend when in a nest of vipers. ”

She understands. The cleric has few friends herself, not trusting those within Vallaki and fearful of the ones beyond. To survive in the valley you must build a wall to protect your heart and secrets, but Florence is… thankful for Ireena and Ismark’s company. They are different.

“ I do think good people call the valley home, but they are few and far between. I hope you are able to find them, and call them ‘ friend. ’ ”

It’s a wish she understands. The cause might be different, but peel a layer or two and the desperation is the same. “ We’re trapped by obligations, it seems. ” She lies on the pew with hands resting on her stomach and one leg dangling off the side. She continues to study the decaying ceiling while speaking.

“ I hate what they’ve made me. I never wanted it. I want to be. . . no one, if I’m to be honest. ” It would be peaceful. There would be no fighting, no healing, no sacrificing. There would be her, and a simple life.

Florence sits up. “ I’m going to the tavern. I think a drink or two might help me forget my burdens for the night. Do you want to come ? ”

The warriors are mirror images of discomfort. If it weren’t for the setting, then Florence’s would stem from the attire. The tailcoat is too fine for someone like them. Steel and leather, scratched and dented armor and patched cloaks – that is the clothing of choice. It is a formal event, though.

( And no matter how much they might want to throw subtle, petty insults via clothing at the castle’s lord, now is not the time. )

Dinner was torturous. This is no different. A forced socialization before they are released to their own devices. Florence has taken care to avoid ( to the best of their ability ) the court, and has made their way to Ismark’s side. “ I hate this, ” the cleric whispers. “ How much longer must be do this ? ”

the  weather  is  dry  and  the  sun  is  hot.  but  amanda  doesn’t  let  that  hinder  her  as  she  sits  in  the  back  garden,  quietly  humming  a  nursery  rhyme  her  mother  once  sang  to  her.

green  and  brown  foliage  frolics  in  the  wind,  combating  the  harshness  of  the  desert.  it  has  taken  the  human  woman  many  years  to  cultivate  this  small  plot  of  land,  but  she  had.  by  God,  she  had.  a  little  bit  of  earth.  a  little  bit  of  greenery.  a  little  bit  of  her  old  home.

the  steps  of  vulcans  are  silent.  a  trait  amanda’s  clumsy  human  feet  had  yet  to  learn.  but  she  smiles  when  she  recognizes  the  soft  gait  of  spock.  she  often  wonders  if  he  steps  loudly  than  necessary  to  alert  her  to  his  presence.

“good  afternoon,  spock.”  deft  fingers  still  in  their  knitting  as  the  woman  looks  up  at  her  son  with  a  wide  grin.  “would  you  care  to  join  me  for  a  drink?”  her  head  tilts  to  the  tray  of  iced  tea  sitting  on  a  square  table.  “and  perhaps  you  can  tell  me about  your  day.”

@meadowsweets​ sent: “It was the weirdest dream I’ve ever had. I’d like a word with my sub-conscious’s manager.” from scout of course

     “Christ, yeah that sounds like a real doozey.” He lets out an easy laugh as he sinks down on the couch beside her, pressing a fresh mug of coffee into her hand. 

     It’s only three in the afternoon, but honestly who needs a normal or healthy sleep schedule when you’ve got shitty coffee and mediocre company in the form of a lanky drug addict? It’s not uncommon for them to hang out together in their own fucked-up insomniac’s club— while their reasons for becoming nocturnal and only sleeping in random spurts throughout the middle of the day differ entirely, one thing will never change: Klaus will always be there for her when she wakes up. (Better yet, he knows his way around her apartment by now and carries no hesitation as he presses the button extra-hard on the coffee machine, plucking their mugs from the little drying towel he’d left them on last night. It’s a strange sort of domestic bliss). 

     He’s always been fascinated with Scout’s particular abilities. Though he’s well aware it’s no walk in the park, he always thought it’d be hilarious to walk in on the kinds of dreams where his brothers are in their underwear in public. He wonders how many of those Scout has wandered in on, but from what he can grasp from her recounting, it seems that public nudity is tame for her subconscious.