emc | (they/them) | +21 | 🇦🇺 | closeted whump enjoyer | writing blog that is mostly whump | open to ask, tag, and spam likes | this blog is sfw and politics-free | general art sideblog @very-kullah | My art and writing is NOT for use in AI databases. (You fuck around? You find out, assholes.)
The only thing worse to a belunae than a hunter is a hunter that plays with his catch.
Pete Spencer and best friends Liz Millen and Timmothey Paige are finishing their post-schooling courses at the Devonhurst Secondary Academy. One fateful night, Pete’s schoolyard tormentor takes things too far, and disaster befalls them. Timmothey and Liz band together to save their friend, but it takes everything and more, and sacrifices must be made: secrets never meant to be shared come to light. Will the three remain inseparable friends, or will it tear them apart?
House Master Johnstone is tasked with growing his own Hunter House; he will do anything to achieve his ambition. When his scheme falls apart, dangerous information is revealed, and everything he worked for is jeopardised. How far will he go to reclaim his prize, and repair his reputation?
Will the trio of friends survive the House Master’s wrath and scrape their lives back together, or will every possible witness be silenced?
Features: Mer whump, shitloads of angst
(WIP, 1st draft in progress, 2 pre-view chapters, and some additional snippets)
Shifting Phases Masterpost
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If you're having a bad writing day and want to delete everything, please read (i will rb this sometimes bc u never know who needs to hear it and it is very important, and I'll leave it in this post because I think it's impotant)
(the link broke nooo, i promise you will regret it, please don't delete your writing. move it deep into a folder tree if you must and start from scratch, but don't delete your hard work)
Unjust Punishment // Consequence by Too_Lazy_To_Name_Myself for SneakySteef
Going to Quanhai as the famed Master Ye's Magic Troupe, one would think that performing a magic trick wouldn't get them seized and publicly punished. Zhixin wouldn't have thought so, either, yet here he was
Work/Life Balance by Anonymous for Nixhydro
Drizzle has a new job, a new office and a new Boss but she soon finds out that she's still a target, no matter where she tries to run
Prends Soin by shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod for Biarritz
Prends soin: take care.
July 1944 in Normandy finds Vincent, a front-line medic, trying to keep his remaining ninety-two men in one piece while screaming artillery and near-constant attacks rip the company to shreds around him.
Mad Scientists Love a Good Monster Transformation by WisdomofToads
A scientist turns a man into a monster in a desperate attempt to give magic to ordinary people.
Alone by Too_Lazy_To_Name_Myself for actress4Him
Kamaria was alone. Ever since the fire, she's been alone, and she always will be.
Training by actress4Him for Too_Lazy_To_Name_Myself
This is not what she imagined her new life with her biological father would be like.
Ice Cream Party by actress4Him for TrophyxTissues
Liliana dreams that she's back in the government facility where she was held prisoner for three years.
Target: Unknown by Anonymous for alienthingbenny
During an attempted escape through the research wing, Lawrence is hit by a tranquilizer dart meant for something else. He insists he is fine.
He is not fine.
The Watchtower by orphan_account for WisdomofToads
Everything is silent, he realizes, there is not even a breath of wind or the song of a bird. Why would anyone build a watchtower in such a waste?
Morning After. by TrophyxTissues for ElliotsYellowRoses
Phil is tired.
Jealousy by Anonymous
Jamie has to leave this place that is no longer a home, yet as she ventures to the places that she calls home... She cannot shake off the angry eyes and the yelling ringing in her ears.
Art
More Than Bruises - 'Animatic' by Too_Lazy_To_Name_Myself for Jigglycrow
Paddy's told some things about his lad
To Move Away, and Yet... (Artwork) by remuskindofnimble for Autobot2001
Jamie has to leave this place that is no longer a home, yet as she ventures to the places that she calls home... She cannot shake off the angry eyes and the yelling ringing in her ears.
Mickey Miller by actress4Him for Jigglycrow
Portrait of a friend’s OC
Just Another Kill by TrophyxTissues for actress4Him
Kamaria, right after a successful kill. Made for the WLC 2026 Spring Gift Exchange.
bleeding by ksx_22 for QuietSuburbs
Art for the giftee's OC Matthew
Chained by ElliotsYellowRoses for Jackqueslack23
Sacrifice [art] by Betchadidntseethiscoming for BNTarwarn
Writing advice #?: Have your characters wash the dishes while they talk.
This is one of my favorite tricks, picked up from E.M. Forester and filtered through my own domestic-homebody lens. Forester says that you should never ever tell us how a character feels; instead, show us what those emotions are doing to a character’s posture and tone and expression. This makes “I felt sadness” into “my shoulders hunched and I sighed heavily, staring at the ground as my eyes filled with tears.” Those emotions-as-motions are called objective correlatives. Honestly, fic writers have gotten the memo on objective correlatives, but sometimes struggle with how to use them.
Objective correlatives can quickly become a) repetitive or b) melodramatic. On the repetitive end, long scenes of dialogue can quickly turn into “he sighed” and “she nodded” so many times that he starts to feel like a window fan and she like a bobblehead. On the melodramatic end, a debate about where to eat dinner can start to feel like an episode of Jerry Springer because “he shrieked” while “she clenched her fists” and they both “ground their teeth.” If you leave the objective correlatives out entirely, then you have what’s known as “floating” dialogue — we get the words themselves but no idea how they’re being said, and feel completely disconnected from the scene. If you try to get meaning across by telling us the characters’ thoughts instead, this quickly drifts into purple prose.
Instead, have them wash the dishes while they talk.
To be clear: it doesn’t have to be dishes. They could be folding laundry or sweeping the floor or cooking a meal or making a bed or changing a lightbulb. The point is to engage your characters in some meaningless, everyday household task that does not directly relate to the subject of the conversation.
This trick gives you a whole wealth of objective correlatives. If your character is angry, then the way they scrub a bowl will be very different from how they’ll be scrubbing while happy. If your character is taking a moment to think, then they might splash suds around for a few seconds. A character who is not that invested in the conversation will be looking at the sink not paying much attention. A character moderately invested will be looking at the speaker while continuing to scrub a pot. If the character is suddenly very invested in the conversation, you can convey this by having them set the pot down entirely and give their full attention to the speaker.
A demonstration:
1
“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.
“What?” Drizella continued dropping forks into the dishwasher.
2
“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.
Drizella paused midway through slotting a fork into the dishwasher. “What?”
3
“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.
Drizella laughed, not looking up from where she was arranging forks in the dishwasher. “What?”
4
“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.
The forks slipped out of Drizella’s hand and clattered onto the floor of the dishwasher. “What?”
5
“I’m leaving,” Anastasia said.
“What?” Drizella shoved several forks into the dishwasher with unnecessary force, not seeming to notice when several bounced back out of the silverware rack.
See how cheaply and easily we can get across Drizella’s five different emotions about Anastasia leaving, all by telling the reader how she’s doing the dishes? And all the while no heads were nodded, no teeth were clenched.
The reason I recommend having it be one of these boring domestic chores instead of, say, scaling a building or picking a lock, is that chores add a sense of realism and are low-stakes enough not to be distracting. If you add a concurrent task that’s high-stakes, then potentially your readers are going to be so focused on the question of whether your characters will pick the lock in time that they don’t catch the dialogue. But no one’s going to be on the edge of their seat wondering whether Drizella’s going to have enough clean forks for tomorrow.
And chores are a cheap-n-easy way to add a lot of realism to your story. So much of the appeal of contemporary superhero stories comes from Spider-Man having to wash his costume in a Queens laundromat or Green Arrow cheating at darts, because those details are fun and interesting and make a story feel “real.” Actually ask the question of what dishes or clothing or furniture your character owns and how often that stuff gets washed. That’s how you avoid reality-breaking continuity errors like stating in Chapter 3 that all of your character’s worldly possessions fit in a single backpack and in Chapter 7 having your character find a pair of pants he forgot he owns. You don’t have to tell the reader what dishes your character owns (please don’t; it’s already bad enough when Tolkien does it) but you should ideally know for yourself.
Anyway: objective correlatives are your friends. They get emotion across, but for low-energy scenes can become repetitive and for high-energy scenes can become melodramatic. The solution is to give your characters something relatively mundane to do while the conversation is going on, and domestic chores are not a bad starting place.
I actually first learned this lesson when doing improv. Always have your character doing something, but don’t make the scene about what your character is doing. Come in and start putting groceries away and confront your roommate about sleeping with your boyfriend while you’re putting the groceries away. Be working in a clothes store folding shirts and be reunited with your long-lost cousin while working. Etc etc.
And then much later (partially bc I started writing regularly years after I started doing improv but even then it took me way too long to figure it out) I realized this can be applied to writing, and it’s great. Anytime there’s a long dialogue scene and it feels flat, rewriting it so they’re doing something else - something that on the surface is totally unrelated to the conversation - is a sure-fire way to make it more dynamic and open up whole new avenues for conveying thoughts and feelings to the reader.
Of all the incidents that the squad could respond to, a regular rescue was not what Cole expected. Incidents among humans were usually the Ewrancorian Police Service’s responsibility, but tonight, the House Master seemed content to humour the young lady, and drag the house’s single squad along to play hero. Cole bit back a groan. He’d seen plenty of fights; hunter’s handguns made a regular appearance, and they were never loaded with ammunition capable of real harm to humans, even if those brandishing them threatened otherwise. This was probably just another scuffle. All the same, any break from patrolling was a welcome one; maybe he’d even get home early so he could comfort his daughter during the coming storm.
The House Master led the way down the path while Greene escorted the young lady home, and Elmer brought the van nearer. Two was more than enough to deal with a few unruly youths; the little bastards would likely flee the second they saw them, assuming the police were close behind. Cole exhaled a long, slow breath, drawing his rifle from the holster on his back. He’d just shut up and take what he was given.
Thick mist engulfed the park, making the spacious clearings and wide paths feel cramped and lonely. An eerie silence blanketed the gardens; any struggle must’ve long ended. As they crept toward the clearing, the whisper of the central fountain’s flow began to grow. The House Master gave the signal to slow, indicating they approached a target.
That was when Cole heard it; barely audible over the fountain, breathy sobs and laboured groans drifted through the mist. His stomach dropped. Maybe whoever attacked Liz and her friend really did have a loaded gun.
They fanned out upon entering the fountain’s surround, passing a bike, abandoned at the edge of the clearing. He barely made out the fountain’s silhouette, dark against the moon’s light, but as he approached, he found the source of the pitiful sounds; an indistinct shape splayed out at the base of the fountain.
Cole paused, straining to detect any signs the attackers still lingered. He lowered his rifle and crept forward, while the House Master went around. On the edge of the fountain, and on the cobblestone surrounding him, bright red blood gleamed, and in some places, mixed with water. Something wasn’t right. “Pete Spencer?” Cole asked.
The shape groaned again, mumbling indistinctly. “Wh—who told’ye… Who…” he slurred.
“Liz Millen did,” Cole said, stepping closer, “she said you were in trouble.”
Spencer, seemed to perk up, “Liz…? Is—sh-she… ‘lright…? Is she… she’s alr-right…”
“She’s fine, we escorted her home. She’s worried about you.”
The young man breathed a heavy, faltering sigh, and fell limp.
Cole frowned; that wasn’t a good sign. He moved closer, eyes finding and trailing Spencer’s body. Though obscured by shadow, fog, and a thick black, academy coat, there were no obvious wounds, but that didn’t mean there were none. Something was still off. Spencer’s body seemed far too long, as did whatever orange and black thing that poked out from under an oddly glimmering hand that clutched his head. Between Spencer’s delicate, bony fingers were thin membranes. This was no human. This was verludae. Cole bolted upright, setting his jaw and raising his rifle, cocking it and flicking off the safety. “Freeze, demon.”
Its breath hitched.
A shadowy figure that emerged from the fog far side of the fountain. He gave a dark chuckle. “Oh, the Powers shine on us tonight,” the House Master hummed gleefully. Cole didn’t need to see him to imagine the smirk his tone begat. “That girl clearly had no idea this was the object of her infatuation.”
The verludae made no real attempt to escape the hunters that circled it, only cradling its head and whimpering. When it looked up, its unfocused blue eyes skipped over them as if it were blind. It didn’t seem to realise the House Master stood directly above it. “Wh—where’s she—wh-where—th—they’ll shoot’er, they’ll, th-they c-can’t,” it mumbled before uncurling, revealing drenched clothes and hair, and a long, weeping cut along its forehead that smeared its face with glimmering blood. It groaned and propped itself up with one arm, “H—h-hav’ta… find her, make sure—she’s… al-alright…” It groped along the ground despite how it swayed. Perhaps it searched for the satchel just ahead of it, but before it could reach it, its hand slipped from under it, bringing it down with a thud.
What a pitiful sight.
On the ground, the verludae’s eyes drooped, seeming to fall asleep until the House Master knelt down, regarding it with a grin.
Its eyes flashed open. “Who’s—wh-who’s there?” it whimpered, “Liz? B-Burton? He’ll—h-he’ll kill me, he’ll kill me! Who’s there? Where—is he? Where are y-you? Please, I’m sorry, d-don’, d-d-don’, I—I can’t take any more, ’m’srry…! Please don’ tell them—please, please, please!”
“Neither,” the House Master cooed, raising the verludae’s chin with his gloved hand.
Cole saw the poor wretch struggle to focus on the House Master’s face. All at once, it became mad with terror, but it was far too weak and clumsy to do more than scramble back in a fruitless attempt to flee, crying, “No—! I—it’s not what—it l-looks like—I’m—no, no..! Don’—”
“Oh come now,” the House Master quipped as he rolled it over and pinned its shoulders, “quit making such a fuss. Don’t you want to hear about your little human girlfriend?”
“Pl—please! Don’ hurt her!” it started frantically. “She d—"
The House Master interrupted it, grabbing the verludae’s jaw and turning its head. It had clear blue eyes, a mop of dark hair, and a fair face with a long scar running up its left cheek from its jaw. By human standards, it wasn’t hard to see why the young lady was so taken with it. As the House Master moved it, it swayed with him, blinking hard, before falling to the side with a groan. There, it whimpered and squirmed, pushing at the hands on its face. The House Master continued, tugging an ear from its pinned position and running his fingers down the length before moving down and prying its lips back to reveal short but sharp fangs and jagged premolars. It jerked at the merest brush of its gills, drawing a frightened gasp.
“What’s a mer doing on the ground without its legs?” the House Master hummed as he worked down, opening and running fingers down one of the bright orange and white fins at the verludae’s hips. “Rare, for a verludae of your type. Tell me, why didn’t you shift and run while you had the chance?”
It whined, trying pitifully to pull away as the House Master moved down until the tip of its glittering, unblemished tail hung limply in his hands. From where Cole stood, he could see the verludae’s rigid, quivering body melt with relief when the House Master let its tail flop to the ground. He could hear the smile in the House Master’s voice when he said, “That stupid man will think twice about evicting our House now; he can’t refuse a specimen as perfect as this.”
“ELMER!” the House Master barked.
From the mist, tyres crunching over disturbed pebbles, a dark van appeared. A single figure sat behind the wheel; Greene hadn’t returned yet. Depending on how far he went, he was probably some distance away, but the verludae didn’t seem like it’d be any trouble for a while. It must’ve hit the fountain wall hard, because it grew increasingly dazed, mumbling about Miss Millen. Nevertheless, when the House Master stood and gave the order to cuff it, Cole obeyed, sliding a pair of black reinforced leather cuffs over its thin, scaley wrists and tightening them shut. Of all the belunae that Cole apprehended under that man’s command, this was the only one that didn’t resist or pull away, not even when the cuffs locked together. It really was an easy night.
The House Master strode to the van and spoke into his radio; “Greene. Status check.”
Greene’s voice crackled through the speaker immediately, “Miss Millen is with her family, I’m approaching the park now.”
“Hurry up,” the House Master snapped, reattaching the radio to his belt. “Elmer, get me the address of the Spencer household. Nelson, retrieve its belongings, and then you and Elmer can load it up. Wouldn’t want to leave a mess for the town workers, would we. And no darts. I need it lucid.”
Cole ground his teeth but nodded. He didn’t like where this was going. At least the verludae didn’t have much with it; just its bike, satchel, and clothes. Cole easily swung the satchel over his shoulder, despite the creature’s reaching protests, but when he stooped to scoop up its boots and jeans, the yellowish glimmer of something small caught his eye. It was a cartridge casing; spent. Cole frowned. The girl was right; the threat to her and the verludae was very real. As he sealed it carefully into a bag, he thought, a group of miscreant youths is going to have an appointment with the constables at the Devonhurst Police Station.
The verludae whimpered again, ears flattening at the click of the bike’s wheels as Cole wheeled it away. “Liz—sh-she’s—they t-took her, h-hurt… sh’was—was jus’ tryin’ta… tryin’ ta h—hel… ‘nd they…”
It made little sense. Cole tried to tune out that small, shaky voice, but… it seemed genuinely concerned. Cole’s cold expression softened a little. “Liz is unscathed,” he said. “One of us escorted her home safely.”
At that, the verludae sighed, rolling back onto its stomach, and dozed off.
“I expected more of a fight,” Elmer murmured, appearing at Cole’s side, “although it may panic when we lift it.”
Cole nodded. This was still a belunae, and belunae were never gentle when cornered. He and Elmer split up, pacing carefully to either end of the creature’s body. He approached its head and slipped his arms beneath its, and began to lift while Elmer wrapped their arms around the middle of its tail. It groaned, wincing when its head lolled with the sudden movement, then gasped after a delay.
“Wh—wh—what’re ye—” it stammered as Elmer lifted in time with Cole. “No—no, put me down—no…!”
It twisted and fought the cuffs, but it was so… weak. It was heavier than it appeared, but its struggles made neither hunter falter, and Elmer, clearly expecting to be slapped by its tail, gave Cole a puzzled look from behind their black mask; the tail hardly moved at all, even as the verludae’s frantic babble turned into terrified pleas.
It was probably nothing. Besides, Cole had more to worry about than another symptom of a nasty knock, like ensuring it didn’t worm free and fall. The House Master would be furious. Thankfully, Greene had just arrived at the van to open the doors while Cole climbed in and deposited his end on the floor before dragging it further in.
It was screaming now, a horrible, terrified sound; “No—! I—I haven’t—please! Le’me g-go! I—I haven’t d—done anythin’! P-please!”
Cole ignored it. He wouldn’t listen to it, he couldn’t. Verludae especially were prolific liars, and brilliant actors. For all he knew, it could’ve killed and eaten a human.
The lock securing the cuffs to a sturdy loop welded to the chassis clicked, and the rest of its body hit the cold, metal floor with a wet slap. Greene clambered in behind it and took the bench opposite Cole’s.
“…Are’ye g-gonna… gonna k—kill me…?” the verludae whimpered. It shivered violently.
Cole followed its frightened stare to the back doors to find the House Master there, merely humming a satisfied laugh.
“Elmer,” the House Master said, “take us to the demon’s nest. Let’s see if we can take another bounty.”
“Yes sir.”
The doors slammed shut, and the engine hummed to life. When the House Master claimed his place in the passenger seat, he was already on the phone, “DePetro,” he purred. “Make preparations; you have a new exhibition.”
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Today, the 27th, marks nine years since I started this project, so here's another chapter! There's been a slight name change since this has ballooned into three books; this first instalment is Full Moon Waning, and the series itself is called Shifting Phases.
Enjoy this direct continuation! One more chapter comes tomorrow :)
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CONTENT AND WARNINGS: Guns.
wc: ~3.0k
Liz's Perspective
Raging fury burned through Liz’s every vein, but there was nothing she could do, not when the muzzle of a loaded gun dug into the back of her skull. Her breath misted in hot, fast puffs. Her hands opened and closed, squeezing at her sides. Her heart raced and every muscle twitched; adrenaline still coursed through her body, electrifying every nerve. “Ye’re a fuckin’ coward, Colette,” she hissed, face twisting into a snarl.
“Consider this a favour, a gesture, if you will;” Colette said flippantly, “I’m stopping you from starting a fight you and your boyfriend can’t finish.”
Liz could hear the glee in that smarmy bitch’s voice. Her fists itched to connect with something, or someone. Preferably someone. Preferably Colette. But until that gun was gone, Liz couldn’t do a damned thing. Pete needed her. He wouldn’t stand up to Burton, not on his own; he would just take the beating, no complaints. He needed confidence… and numbers. There was no way he could win a fight against four, not even with Liz’s help.
The fuckers did that deliberately, Liz thought bitterly.
… Not that he would’ve tried.
Liz just couldn’t understand him—he let himself be beaten time and time again. The only difference earlier was her and Timmy’s presence, that was the only time he fought, but now he was alone again. She couldn’t let it happen. She’d fight for him, she’d make sure he never got hurt again.
Colette and Liz approached the edge of the gardens now, having walked back on the path that she and Pete had strolled just minutes before. Liz weighed her odds. They were alone, but with the gun still to her head, she stood no chance. Liz gritted her teeth as Colette fished around her coat pockets until she found her phone, and moved around, muzzle still trained on Liz’s skull until they stood eye-to-eye.
Laughs broke out back in the park, along with cries that could only have been Pete’s.
An opportunity was coming, Liz could sense it. Colette would surely leave soon, and that meant she’d turn her back; she was cocky enough. One punch to the back of the head was all it would take. As cowardly as it was, it was no more cowardly than pulling a gun when faced with loss.
As if she could hear Liz’s thoughts, Colette said, “Don’t interfere, Liz. I’m going to leave you here now. If you decide to play hero, I’ll shoot you both before you can throw a punch.”
Liz stared after her. She wanted to scream, chase after her, tear her limb from limb, but she couldn’t, she’d kill Pete. When she could no longer hear Colette jogging away, and the red faded from her vision, she let out a shaky breath she didn’t realise she was holding. The adrenaline faded, leaving her panting in the cold night air. She had to do something, but the dire threat was not one she was willing to contest; she wouldn’t—no—she couldn’t risk Pete’s life for a chance at saving him. No. Her hands trembled at her sides.
…She’d almost died a few minutes ago. That was… real.
What good was she to Pete if her brains were splattered across the cobblestone? She would only hurt him more by subjecting him to the sight and loss. Her imagination, excessively creative, conjured too many vivid scenarios. They needed help, real help.
The coppers…!
This stuff was their job, they’d help! If only she could just call the coppers…! Pete would surely be furious with her if she did, Burton might just kill him if he got arrested, but it didn’t matter—Pete would be alive to be mad at her, and that was all she cared about. They could manage from there. She decided, with trembling determination. …But the bitch had taken her phone.
Cries of pain and desperation still occasionally rose above laughter. Liz paced, wringing her hands, dragging one through her tangled curls, and cursed. She cursed. A lot. She spat every single word she knew. She had to call the police, but how?
She shook, and her muscles twitched, itching for action, leading her to jog down the path along the edge of the gardens, heels clacking against the pavement, red hair bouncing behind her in the wind. If she could just—
There!
On the distant corner was a phone booth, dimly lighting the mist that circled its base. Yes, perfect! I hope I have enough change. Liz ran faster, closing the distance until she yanked the door open and slammed to a stop against the booth’s wall. In the tight space, her panting echoed off the walls. Beyond the rattled glass, mist billowed and curled high into the air along the street where she’d run. The various items in her purse clacked and rustled as she plunged her hands into it, searching frantically for spare change. The phone only took half-credits—shet, where are they! She was sure she had more, she’d put some in her change purse that morning, but all she had left where three quarters and tenths. Credits clattered to the ground, all small and nickel, none the right value. Liz reached to the bottom of her bag and emptied everything onto the floor. She didn’t have the right change. Nothing would fit into the slot. Nothing would work.
Liz looked up to the phone again, searching for any other option; maybe she’d misread! But the label was clear about the required denomination, and there was no place to swipe a card.
“Shet!” she cried, “Shet!” Angry tears gathered in her eyes.
They must’ve thrown it in the fountain—she hadn’t noticed what she’d given Pete, or even what she’d had; it hadn’t mattered. Her cheeks coloured at the thought of her brashness. Swiftly, she gathered her belongings and swept out of the booth, running along the street. Maybe—
“Please,” she begged, matching her frantic pace to a man who hurried down the street, paper grocery bag in hand, “could ye lend me yer phone, or, or if that’s too much trouble, a quarter? I need the police! Please! My friend—he’s in trouble!”
“Sorry Miss, I don’t have change, and I have ta get goin’,” he said, and kept walking as Liz faltered to a stop.
There was someone else across the street, maybe they could spare her a minute. By the time she asked two, three more people, she realised they’d never listen, they didn’t care. In a fit of desperation and frustration, she yelled into the night, sobbing out curses and pleas for anyone to stop and help, anyone at all.
As if the Powers heard her plea, she spotted a dark van cutting slowly through the mist: hunters.
Slowly, Liz raised her arm. Surely, she thought as she waved and called, “Hey! Help, please!” They’ll stop and call the police fer me. They can’t refuse a call fer help.
And they didn’t.
The van pulled to the gutter short of where Liz stood, and she ran to meet them. A man stepped out. The beautiful mask adorning his face glimmered the same gold as the long hair that flowed behind him. A House Master. Compared to some other men, he was somewhat small, but his presence and gait, elegant yet purposeful, was anything but. One hunter exited behind him, but Liz spotted more silhouettes behind the darkly tinted windows. This other hunter’s mask was black with gold along the brows. He seemed dishevelled, a sharp contrast to the House Master, whom he closely followed.
“Please, House Master sir,” she begged the man in the golden mask, “My friend! They’re goin’ta shoot him—they’re hurtin’ ‘im! They chased after us, they have a gun! With bullets, and I—they threatened me—us—I can’t help! Please, I need the police, or a half-credit, if a call is too much hassle—they’re gonna kill him this time!”
In a blink, the House Master was at her side, steadying her with his calm, odd-coloured faze. A sweet smile tugged at his lips. “Steady, Miss, steady,” he said, voice velvety smooth. “Your friend, he is in trouble? We can still be of service until the police arrive, if haste is required. Even if there are no demons.”
“Yes…!” Liz nearly sobbed with relief. She couldn’t bear to appear so distraught in front of people; the tears could wait. “Yes, please, please help him!”
“What’s his name?”
“Spencer, Pete Spencer,” she said, trying to steady her voice, “he’s in the park, by the fountain there’re four of them, beatin’ on ‘im—”
“And yours?”
“Liz Millen.”
“Perfect, you’re doing well, Miss Millen. You seem shaken. I’ll have one of my hunters escort you home, and we’ll take care of the rest,” the House Master said. “Greene, you’re with the young lady. Elmer, move the van further up and meet me there. Nelson, with me.”
As the van pulled off and the House Master and Nelson began a brisk jog to the park, another hunter stepped out of the van; he must’ve been Greene. He wore the same mask as Nelson, and he was similarly broad and lean in appearance; though tidier. The thin black beard along his jawline was finely shaved, and he had long braids drawn back into a large bun, with some shorter strands woven with golden cuffs, framing his face. Behind the mask, his dark eyes glittered with a kindness that seemed absent from the other two. “Let’s get you home, Miss Millen,” he said.
It wasn’t long before they arrived on Liz’s street and walked down the path to her family townhouse. It wasn’t large, but it was enough, and even had a small garden occupied chiefly by a swing set that shone coldly in the moonlight. The silence between her and Mr Greene was more comfortable than she expected. She would have preferred to continue the silence to the front door, fearing her voice would warble and betray how rattled she really was, but she couldn’t forget her manners; Mr Greene and the other hunters had gone out of their way to help her. When she got to the gate, she paused. “Thank you,” she said earnestly, “fer stoppin’ I mean. I uh, can’t tell ye how much that means. Pete’s my good friend, and I—I just walked away. Thank you fer stoppin’ ta help him when I couldn’t.”
Mr Greene looked her over, eyeing her mussed hair, dirtied clothes, and stinging, bruised skin. He spoke in a deep, soft voice, “It sure doesn’t look like you walked away. I don’t think you let anything happen. You know, it’s not healthy to blame yourself for something out of your control. You did the right thing by coming to us for help. There’s no shame in it. I’m sure your friend would be heartbroken if you got shot.”
“Aye, but… I… I just don’t feel like I did enough. They really wanted ta hurt him this time, Mr Greene, I should’ve done more; he even thought we were bein’ followed and I just—I didn’t listen—”
“He’ll be glad you’re home safe, Miss Millen.”
Liz thought for a moment, dropping her gaze. Pete was kind and selfless… he always seemed to worry about her more than himself. “Ye’re right, he… he would be relieved. He’s always worryin’ about draggin’ me an’ Timmy inta his problems, but he’ll be alright now, and I’m alright. Thank you, Mr Greene.”
“It was no trouble, really,” he said. “This is the most rewarding part of my job. I just wish I could see this more; it’s easy to lose sight of what you’re fighting for. You have a good evening, Miss Millen.”
As quickly as Liz blinked, Mr Greene faded quietly into the mist.
Once Liz was through the door, the tension drained out of her body, taking with it the last of her energy. From the glimpse of herself she caught in the hall table’s mirror as she hung her coat, she looked like shit.
“Hey Lizzy,” Papa called from the kitchen. “I’m preppin’ at the moment, would ye mind helpin’ when ye’ve cleaned up?”
Oh, she did not feel like dealing with the kitchen. Of all the times, it had to be right then. “Yeah, I’ll be back soon,” she said, and trudged up the stairs.
Liz was covered in much more muck than she’d realised—even her clothes were filthy. Fuck. She was hoping to wear that coat again for a few more days at least before getting it cleaned. Under the grime, she was covered in bruises and grazes, from her jaw to her chest, arms, and knuckles. She didn’t even remember what gave her the bruises on her chest, just that they gradually darkened, and were tender to touch. She should ice them… But first, she’d shower… and almost fall asleep under the warm cascade of water.
~*~
Hours had passed since Liz arrived home, escorted by the kind Mr Greene. She’d helped cook dinner, clear up, and now she sat in the living room with her newest scrap journal. Already half filled, the previous pages bulged under her palm as she braced it and began scribbling small doodles shrouded in melancholic shadow. She’d use blues for that page, she decided, maybe purples, as well as her pen’s black ink. Though she tried to disguise it, her misery did not escape the notice of her father.
Papa asked, “Liz, is everythin’ alright? Ye haven’t been in high spirits all evenin’, and ye’re covered in bruises. Is everythin’ alright?”
“It’s… It’s Pete.”
“Mmhmm?”
“Burton’s gone ‘im twice today. The teachers punished Burton twice; once fer foolin’ around with the teacher’s bullets, and again fer pickin’ a fight with us. But while we were walkin’ over here after class, his pals cornered us at the park. I—I was gonna tell him, Pa, I did, but before he could say anythin’ himself, they were on us. I tried ta fight, but—but there were too many, one had the teacher’s gun and forced me away…! I called fer help, and some hunters came by, but… I hope they got there in time. Burton was furious with him. Looked like it was gonna be bad…” Liz said. Her voice wavered as the returning memories threatened to spill as tears. “I’m worried about him…”
Papa sighed, running blunt fingers over his prickly cheek. “That sounds like quite the predicament… but he’s a resilient young lad. I’m sure Burton won’t have an easy time—”
“But that’s the thing, Papa!” Lis started, “He never fights back, he always lets Burton have his way! I just don’t understand it…! If he just—just did somethin’, told someone, he wouldn’t have ta deal with this! He barely even says anythin’ ta me and Timmy, but we always know when Burton’s had ‘im; somewhere’s always tender, or we can see where he’s masked the bruises with cheap foundation. I just—I just wish he’d at least tell us. We’ll always have his back. He’s gotta know that, right?
Papa’s thick brow furrowed. Though Liz searched his features, his expression was unreadable; or perhaps she just couldn’t read the story each little line told.
“There… may be more to it, Lizzy,” he said slowly. “I don’t doubt you two will always be there fer him, but, sometimes there’s more happenin’ under the surface or behind closed door than meets the eye. I wouldn’t be so quick ta judge. Meet his shyness with kindness and patience, just like ye’ve been doin’, and I’m sure, eventually, he’ll grow comfortable enough ta confide in ye the barest details. And then when time passes, maybe more.”
Liz nodded slowly, eyes and fingers trailing the wrinkled edges of the journal pages.
“’Tis best not ta rush these things, ‘specially not trust. It may take years, but it’s important he has a pal with him all the way,” Papa continued, “Give him room, give him safety, and he’ll come ta ye. Ye just have ta be patient.”
“I—I will, Papa,” Liz said, determination rising in her chest.
It must’ve showed in her expression because Papa laughed and said with a warm smile, “Ye shouldn’t rush ta fight his battles fer ‘im either, lassie, even if ye can kick their arses and make ‘em sorry.” Papa’s smile was infectious.
“I’ll do my best.”
She closed her journal and stretched. Papa reached over to muss her hair as she stood and wished him a good night. On her way to wish her twin siblings Casey and Kaiah a good night too, she found them with their door ajar, still playing with their wooden soldier legion. “Goodnight,” Liz whispered, and chaos descended upon the room—the lights flicking off, and one diving into his bed, while the other dashed across the hall to her own room, flashing her a cheeky grin on the way.
Liz smirked, “I won’t tell mum.”
Finally, Liz made it to her room. It was dark, and she felt as though she could collapse onto her bed and sleep for a month, but as she again recalled the evening’s events, she figured she’d better give Timmy a heads up. Instinctively, she reached for her phone until she remembered that bitch Colette had stolen it. Liz groaned, cursing her up and down before sliding off the bed to fetch and open her laptop which nearly blinded her with its light.
Hey Timmy, she wrote, Burton cornered us in the park after class. The fucker brought all his pals. They beat him bad, I couldn’t do anything, they stole Miss Moore’s gun and ammo. I haven’t heard anything since. I need to sleep now, I’ll explain more when I see you tomorrow. Goodnight.
Despite her words, she kept her laptop open for a moment longer, waiting to see if Timmy came online. He didn’t, nor did he reply, but it was late and he had been working. Disappointing, but expected. She could tell him tomorrow morning when she saw him at the academy.
With a sigh, she closed her laptop and set it to the side before settling down to sleep.
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i need to see more loneliness in whump. not like being literally the only person around, but just... being on the outside of everything. whumpee has no idea how to function in a group setting, how to make meaningful relationships, how to care for other people, so they can't form relationships to learn how to do that.
they're so used to their own company that they forget it's normal to have contacts in their phone, to meet up with friends, to be invited to things.
they can't get close to people because they're scared of someone seeing the real them and deciding it's not worth the effort. and they don't want to tell the people they might actually be close to the truth because then they'll be forever treated differently, even if their friends say they won't.
whumpee isn't totally invisible, but if they're out of sight then they're out of mind. and somehow that feels worse than if nobody noticed them in the first place because people do see, but whumpee isn't enough for them to keep looking.
I was talking shop with an artist in the studio today and I shared this page from Andrew Loomis, which might be the single most valuable page I've ever encountered in a how-to-draw book. I can't BEGIN to say how many hours this "hanging figures on the horizon" technique has saved me.
(EDIT: Over on another site, someone said they didn’t understand how to read this pic, so maybe adding a second pic and some explanation will help?)
Let’s say I want to draw “Joe” standing further back. I need to know where to place him so he looks like he's the same height, even though he's further away. If I get it wrong, he’ll look giant or tiny.
I can do that by making sure that the horizon cuts thru Joe AT THE SAME HEIGHT, no matter how close or far away he is. In the original picture, it cuts thru the original Joe at the waist.
So let’s look at three different Joes.
A: Wrong. Horizon goes thru his knees. In this context, he’s a giant.
B: Correct. Horizon goes thru his waist, just like the original Joe!
C: Wrong. Horizon goes thru his head. In this context, he’s tiny.
