#rooks

Simplified bird #140 - Rook

Marchirp! Day 4, corvids! HEY ITS MY NAME! i chose a rook because they are suuuper underrated in the corvid fandom hehe!

A Corvidae Feathursday

Here are some more wood-engraved birds -- both black and white and hand-colored --by British author and wood engraver Eric Fitch Daglish (1892-1966) from his 1948 publication Birds of the British Isles, published in London by J. M. Dent & Sons in 1948 in a limited edition of 1500 copies. Today we display all the corvids from this volume, from top to bottom:

Common Raven (Corvus corax)

Western Jackdaw (Coloeus monedula)

Red-billed Chough (pronounced "chuf"; Pyrrhocorax pyrrhocorax)

Spotted Nutcracker (Nucifraga caryocatactes) 

Eurasian Magpie (Pica pica)

Rook (Corvus frugilegus)

 Carrion Crow (Corvus corone)

 Eurasian Jay (Garrulus glandarius)

Read more about this book plus view a hand-colored engraving of a Hoopoe here.

PARLIAMENT OF ROOKS #5 is out today!

From ABLAZE !

Be sure to grab a copy at your local comicbook shop or online retailers! Hope you all enjoy it! It's been a real labour of love over the last 5 years and I still can't believe it is now a thing.

ft. Darius (finely crafted by artisan  @steinntroll give them a follow!)

Jacob Frye x reader

Codextember day 3-Weapon

Rating: G / gender neutral

Summary: Jacob has a thing for the newest member of the London assassin brotherhood. His way of flirting with them is by sparring. He may, or may not be jealous of their double hidden blades as well.

A/n: still late as usual with this Codextober stuff, but here ya go. Also tried to edit this so it could be as gender neutral as possible! Sorry for any mistakes, I’m still new to this.❤️

The stale air in the Rook's training room was thick with the scent of old leather, sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of dried blood.

Jacob Frye leaned against an old wooden pillar, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched them. (Y/n). The newest addition to their London Brotherhood was a whirlwind of lethal grace, a storm in a deceptively small package.

What truly captivated him, and what sent a green-eyed flicker of envy through his otherwise confident demeanor, were the twin bracers on their forearms. Two hidden blades.

While his own single blade was a trusted, deadly extension of his deadly body, (Y/n)’s duality was a pure symphony of destruction.

They had moved like a viper, one blade feinting while the other struck, a constant, overlapping threat that was as beautiful as it was terrifying. He admired (Y/n)’s skill, yes, but damn it, he was jealous.

He pushed off the pillar, his boots making soft thuds on the old floorboards.

"You know, (Y/n), love," he began, his voice a low, casual drawl, "All that dancing about with dummies is well and good, but they don't hit back."

He watched (Y/n) finished their hit, plunging both blades into the straw-stuffed torso of a practice dummy before turning to him, rolling their eyes at his antics.

A single, perfect eyebrow arched over an amused, dark eye. "Is that an offer, Mr. Frye? Or are you just tired of being wall decoration?"

"An offer," he confirmed, confidently striding towards the small makeshift sparring ring, keeping his cool. "A bit of a proper tussle. Keep you on your toes."

What he meant was, I want to feel the energy crackle between us again. I need an excuse to get close to you.

A slow, seductive smile spread across (y/n)’s lips, and Jacob's heart gave a traitorous lurch. "I would be delighted to keep you on your toes, Jacob."

They slid into the ring, their confident movements fluid and utterly self-assured. The look in (Y/n)’s eyes made it clear that they knew exactly what this was about, and (Y/n) was more than willing to play his game.

Stay cool, Frye, he told himself, his pulse thrumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a feeling he had never felt before. He shrugged off his heavy leather coat, tossed it to the side, before placing his beloved top hat atop it. He rolled his shoulders, the strong muscles in his back shifting under his white shirt. He then undid the buttons, a calculated move, and pulled the shirt off, tossing it aside. He made sure to give them a good show. The humid air of the room felt good on his skin.

(Y/n)'s eyes roamed shamelessly over his bare torso, a glint of appreciation in their depths.

"Getting serious, are we?" (Y/n) purred, still admiring the man in front of them.

"Or just trying to distract me?"

"A smart man can do two things at once, love," he shot back, dropping into a brawler's stance.

They circled each other, a predator's dance. The first move was (y/n)’s, a lightning-fast lunge. The shing of their blades extending was music to his ears. He met (Y/n)’s advance, his own hidden blade snapping out, parrying her right-hand strike. The clang of steel on steel echoed in the room. But he wasn't prepared for their left blade, which slipped under his guard and sliced a shallow, stinging line across his ribs.

He grunted, more in surprise than pain, and jumped back. "Clever love."

"I have my moments," (Y/n) teased, a wicked grin on their face.

The air grew heavy, charged with more than just the promise of violence. Every block, every parry, brought them closer. His larger frame was an advantage in raw power, but (y/n)’s speed and two-pronged attack kept him constantly on the defensive.

Sweat beaded on his brow, trickling down his temples. He could smell the faint, floral scent of (y/n)’s perfume mixed with their own exertion, an intoxicating combination that fogged his senses and temporarily distracted him. He saw the fire in (y/n)’s eyes, the flush on her cheeks, and knew they felt it too. This wasn't just sparring; it was a conversation, a raw, physical flirtation.

Driven by a surge of adrenaline and a desperate need to impress (y/n), to show them his own brand of deadly prowess, Jacob confidently put everything into a single, powerful block. He lunged forward, aiming to catch both of (y/n)’s blades on his bracer and use his brute strength to disarm them.

Suddenly there was a sickening CRACK of stressed metal.

They both froze. (Y/n) looked down at their left arm. The blade, caught at an awkward angle by the sheer, overwhelming force of Jacob's attack, had snapped near the mechanism. A piece of the metal fell to the mat with a dull clink.

A beat of silence hung heavy between them. Jacob’s bravado vanished, replaced by a pang of guilt. "(Y/n), I—"

(y/n) didn't let him finish. Their eyes, narrowed and burning with renewed determination, snapped back to his. They didn't retreat, didn't complain. (y/n) simply shifted their stance, adapting instantly, (y/n)’s one remaining hidden blade held tight and ready. They weren’t backing down.

That, more than anything else, set his blood on fire, he loved it.

The fight resumed, but the dynamic had shifted. It was more fierce, more desperate.

He was driven by a mix of guilt and arousal; (y/n) was fueled by a fierce, unyielding pride. It became less about technique and more about will.

He finally saw an opening, sidestepped (y/n)’s lunge, and wrapped an arm around their waist, using his weight to tackle (y/n) to the ground.

They both landed with a thud on the padded mats, Jacob's larger body pinning (y/n)’s much smaller one. He was on top of her, his muscular forearms on either side of (Y/n)’s head, with their arms pinned above their head by him.

For a moment, all they did was breathe, their chests heaving together in sync, chest to chest, their sweat-slicked skin radiating heat. (y/n)’s hair was splayed around their head, their lips were parted, and her eyes were wide and wild with adrenaline and arousal.

"Looks like I win, love." he murmured into her ear, his voice husky. The proximity was dizzying. Neither wanted it to end.

(y/n)’s breath hitched. "This time, Frye," (Y/n) whispered, their gaze dropping to his lips. "You got lucky."

"Luck has nothing to do with it, love," he countered, leaning in closer until their noses were touching.

"We both know I'd win every time." He was teasing, pushing, wanting to see (y/n)’s reaction.

"But perhaps," he continued, his tone softening, "we could settle it over dinner. A proper date. No sparring, no broken equipment…or bones."

A slow smile touched (y/n)’s lips. (Y/n) relaxed slightly beneath him.

"I'll consider it," (y/n) said, their voice a low purr. "On one condition."

"Name it."

"You must have my blade fixed by dinner time."

He chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Done, I know just the man."

He pushed himself up, offering (Y/n) his large hand. (y/n) took it, their fingers warm and small in his.

As he pulled (y/n) to their feet, he couldn't resist asking.

"Where did you learn to fight like that? With two blades. It's… remarkable, I haven’t seen anything like it."

(y/n) took a moment, dusting off their trousers before turning their attention to the broken bracer on her arm.

"My grandfather taught me. Before he passed."

"He must have been some man," Jacob admitted, picking up the broken shard of steel.

"What was his name?"

(Y/n) took the piece from him, her expression unreadable.

"Shay. Shay Patrick Cormac."

That name had been snagged in Jacob's memory. It was familiar, dredged up from old files, from hushed stories told by his father, and possibly Evie. It was a name tied to the Colonial Brotherhood, and to betrayal. A Templar.

"Shay Cormac," Jacob repeated slowly, his curiosity peeked.

"Sounds… familiar."

(y/n)’s soft gentle, and some what sad, smile was now full of secrets.

"He was an interesting man. Much like you, in some ways," they said, their voice laced with sadness and intrigue.

"Perhaps, over dinner, I'll tell you all about him."

That was all it took. The mystery of them, the pull he felt, and now this tangled thread from the past—he was completely hooked. All his earlier cockiness returned, fueled by pure, unadulterated fascination.

"Right then," he said excitedly, his voice firm and confident.

"Tonight. I'll pick you up at eight." He didn't ask; he told them.

He stepped into (y/n)’s space, cupped their cheek gently with his large, calloused hand, and tilted (Y/n)’s chin up.

Before (y/n) could respond, he pressed his lips to theirs. It was a firm, possessive kiss, a promise of the heat that had just passed between them and the heat yet to come.

He pulled back, leaving them slightly breathless, a faint blush colouring (y/n)’s cheeks. He turned to leave, grabbing his coat and hat.

"Jacob," (y/n) called out, their voice regaining its teasing edge.

"You're forgetting your shirt."

He glanced back over his shoulder cheekily, a roguish grin spreading across his face.

"Keep it, love," he said, his eyes glinting with admiration.