Errant Autumn @errantautumn - Tumblr Blog

Little green thing, you, the lines on your palm running as roots– you understand what it means to be part of the earth, in all its playful, steady wonder. Tiller of gardens, warden of weeds; you decide what will wonders spring will make and what shall be left to the teeth of slavering frost. do not forget to find a place for the bitter amongst the sweet; the thorn has as much right to the thistle as the bloom.

#;; the sweetest bitter drink {about}

ghostspouse

#;; thoughts bend toward home {that which appeals}

/Look at you being all alive!

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here

#Anonymous #;; whispers below the earth {ooc}

intothewildsea‌:

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep in his arms, but as soon as her eyes slipped shut she fell into unconsciousness. Her sleep was dreamless. It wasn’t until later, when the scent of burning wood filled her nose, that she blearily awoke from her slumber.

It took a moment for her gaze to focus. She was in a room, on something soft, and she was cold. Her clothes stuck to her uncomfortably. She heard noise, the crackling of wood, and footsteps. Perhaps she should have been frightened, but mostly she was exhausted.

Niamh sat up and stood from the bed. Her legs trembled, but she didn’t fall, and with a few steps she’d padded over to the fireplace. Wide, dark eyes didn’t leave the stranger as she sat down on the floor, closer to the warmth of the flames. She wanted to say thank you, but wasn’t sure how to speak it in his tongue…she could say it in her own, but the words would not come. They caught in her throat.

Instead she turned her attention back to herself. She peeled off the ruined dress, then carefully untucked her sealskin from the threadbare chemise, setting it on the floor beside her. To him, it would look like a small cloak – though she was weak, she could at least glamour her skin to hide what it was. Without the uncomfortable dress she felt a bit better, though her hands stung horribly from the burned skin rubbing against the fabric.

She spread out her hands, palms facing upwards, and looked at them. They weren’t healing well, no thanks to Niamh’s inexperience with treating wounds, and that worried her. If she lost her hands, well…what good was a seal with no front flippers?

As soon as she started peeling off her soaked dress, Celyddon averted his eyes. She’d woken up a lot quicker than he expected; he hadn’t planned on being in the room, necessarily. He’d bought the room for her, intending to bed down with Enid in the stables. Alone with a strange woman in a room was more than he was comfortable with---and more than he was sure she was comfortable with.

The rustle of wet cloth stopped, leaving only the sound of the crackling fire to fill the silence. He let out a soft breath.

“Fe gaf rywbeth i chi i'w fwyta,” he said. She didn’t reply, but he wasn’t really expecting one.

As he stood to leave and carry out his task, he heard a quiet hitch to her breath, something he almost didn’t noticed, it was so quiet. Before he thought better of it, he glanced back at her, concern writ plainly across his face, and saw her, clad only in a thin and soaked chemise, just staring at her palms. He couldn’t help it; he let his gaze fall to match hers.

Even in the flickering, dim light, he could see her hands were wounded. What had happened to her? Surely those men who were harassing her hadn’t done this. If they’d been the source of her wounds, Celyddon didn’t think they would have cornered her on the open road like they had. She must have gotten them before running into those Englishmen.

He kept his hands open and low, palms down and fingers spread to try and convey he meant her no harm. When she warily looked up at him, he turned one palm over and dragged fingertips along it, miming rubbing in a salve. He had some basic healing supplies in his saddlebags that would probably help if she allowed him to look at her wounds.

#intothewildsea #;; beneath the apple tree wide awake {historical fantasy verse: medieval}

darkearthsuggestions

Spill, raindrops, between my now and thens, and remind me from where I've come. Let me taste the past in the dew, and let my laughter trickle through in lighting-budded streams. I am better now, clouds– let me try again. Let me sing to the fields; let me be relief; you will find that in the forest, even this storm howls sweet.

#;; the sweetest bitter drink {about}

intothewildsea‌:

The appearance of a third man caused more terror to well in her chest. Defending herself against two would be difficult enough, but three? Her heart sank like a stone. She’d just escaped death, only to be face with it once more.

Then something happened she hadn’t expected. The third stranger pulled his sword from its scabbard and attacked the men who were hounding her. She staggered back and ducked away, afraid of being hit in the crossfire, and nearly lost her footing in the slick mud. The word was beginning to spin around her, a resounding ache throbbing in her temples.

An arm wrapped around her waist. She was yanked from the ground and suddenly found herself on a horse, gripped secure in her apparent savior’s grasp. The sound of her heartbeat thrummed loudly in her ears. Her breaths were shaken and labored, eyes wet with tears.

Instinct told her that she should fight. That she should push away from that man and flee. Yet exhaustion, hunger, and dehydration were thick in her bones and she could find no strength to pull away. She had crumpled against his chest and her hands weakly clung to his oilskin cloak, the raw and bleeding burns stinging as she did so. Against her better judgement she felt her eyes flutter closed.

At least she had the comfort of her sealskin from where she’d tucked it beneath her clothes.

It surprised him when the woman went slack against him. She must have been utterly exhausted to not struggle against him at all. Perhaps, he thought with no small amount of rancor, those bloody Englishmen had chased her for a while.

Well, he wasn’t like them; he was a Welshman, and he would make sure she saw safety before he continued on his way.

Sure now that the men weren’t following, he slowed Enid to a walk. It was dangerous to keep her up at a run in the mud of the road, and a trot would be far too jarring for his unconscious companion and him both in the same saddle. Fortunately, it wasn’t long until buildings came into sight, unfolding to a small village. Even more fortunately, there was an inn with a few available rooms. Celyddon paid for one out of his dwindling purse, as well as a dry stall for his horse. He took Enid to her stall first, setting the young woman down out of the saddle for the moment on a pile of hay while he took off Enid’s tack and gave her a quick brushing.

“Byddaf yn ôl yn fuan," he said, giving Enid a few fond pats.

The woman was still unconscious, her face not quite peaceful, but not exactly troubled, either; mostly, she looked tired. Celyddon’s mouth drew into a firm line as he studied her for a moment. Even in sleep, she clutched at her abdomen, as if to protect something precious. Carefully, he gathered her up and carried her back to the inn, ignoring the strange looks some of the patrons gave him as he carried the sleeping woman back to the room he’d rented.

Once he’d situated her on the bed, he knew she’d need to take off the wet clothes, else run the risk of sickness, but didn’t feel comfortable stripping them off her himself. He’d stoke a fire in the hearth first, he decided, setting himself to the task. Then he could make the choice to wake her, or leave her to the dry warmth of the room.

#intothewildsea #;; beneath the apple tree wide awake {historical fantasy verse: medieval}#{after a hundred years i reawaken}

translucentmind

Under the Oak Tree // Siana Park

#;; the sweetest bitter drink {about}#;; thoughts bend toward home {that which appeals}

Psychological Archetype

The Sage

The Sage archetype seeks the truths that will set us free. If the Sage has overcome the temptation of dogma, this can result in wisdom and the ability to see the world and others objectively. The Sage is a seeker of truth and enlightenment and journeys far in search of the next golden nugget of knowledge. The danger for the Sage is the deep seated fear that their hard-won wisdom is built on the sands of falsehood. However, the Sage has hope that through honesty, they will learn to see life with clarity.

Shadow Side: The judge. This will manifest itself in your life as the tendency to be cold, rational, heartless, dogmatic, even pompous – evaluating others in an unfair or insensitive manner.

Life Goal: Truth, understanding Fear: Deception, illusion Response to Problem: Study it, understand it, transcend it Life Task: Attain wisdom Personal Gifts: Wisdom, non-attachment, knowledge, skepticism Personal Pitfalls: Being overly critical, pomposity, impracticality, lacking of feeling/empathy

tagged by @intothewildsea a hundred years ago tagging....... anyone who wants to do this and hasn’t yet?

#;; the sweetest bitter drink {about}#;; whispers below the earth {ooc}

sabbacc108

Details from illuminated manuscripts. Getty Museum, 2018

#;; thoughts bend toward home {that which appeals}

intothewildsea‌:

@errantautumn

The rain had poured mercilessly for hours, ‘til she had reached a main road, when it slowed to a stop at last. The clouds remained dark, blanketing the sky, hiding all remnants of sunshine. Her feet and the bottom of her gown were caked in mud, the coarse fabric of her clothes sticking uncomfortably to her skin. Despite the rain, remnants of blood remained streaked down her chin and throat, lips stained with acrid copper.

She had hoped that there would be no people on the road. Trekking along warily, skittish like a rabbit, Niamh was unsure of what she should do. She was starving, cold, injured – but who could she seek for help? Humans couldn’t be trusted. Not anymore. Not after what Niall had done to her.

While lost in her thoughts two men came ‘round the bend of the road on horses. They spotted her before she could hide in the trees and had ridden up to her, one on each side, circling her. Niamh bared her teeth at them. That did nothing to deter them.

They spoke and she did not understand. They were laughing, laughing at her, and she didn’t understand but knew that men were cruel. On their horses they had an advantage, along with Niamh being weak and exhausted, but she would try to fight them. She would try.

All around Celyddon, the patter of rain hitting the leaves created a soft rhythm that soothed him as he rode. His armor was wrapped up securely in an oilskin sack so it wouldn’t get soaked and risk rusting, and a second oilskin draped from his shoulders, keeping the worst of the rain off his clothing. Beneath him, his horse, Enid, shook herself occasionally, sending water spraying in all directions whenever she did so. Fondly, he smiled and reached out to pat her soaking neck.

“Byddwn allan o'r glaw yn ddigon--," he began, but stopped short, the sound of laughter not too far away catching his attention.

Alert now, Celyddon sat up straight in the saddle and nudged his horse onward with his knees. All around him, the forest remained much the same as he scanned to each side of himself, with the source of the laughter still hidden.

It must be coming from up ahead, he decided. There was a larger thoroughfare that his little forest path connected with, so signs of other people must mean he was nearing it. Whomever laughed was probably another traveler on this rainy day.

What he saw when he finally did reach the crossroads, however, he was unprepared for. Two men atop horses much like his own had trapped some poor girl between them, and were jeering down at her. It was clear as day to Celyddon that she was terrified. Mouth set into a firm line, Celyddon urged Enid over to them.

“Oi,” he called, drawing the men’s attention to him for a moment. "Gadael ei fod yn.”

"Ey," one of the men called back in return. “Why don’t you mind your own business, Taffy?” He spat in Celyddon’s direction.

Would that they hadn’t been English, that they would have just continued riding on in the rain while it had lasted, instead of stopping to harass whomever this woman was. It left Celyddon little choice.

With a swift, practiced kick to Enid’s belly surging her forward, Celyddon drew his sword from its scabbard on the saddle and slashed with the same momentum in a backhanded swipe. Like him, the English men were not wearing any armor from the rain, so his blade cut through the cloth of their gambesons with ease. He quickly passed the first man from the sudden speed of Enid’s steps, and switched his grip on his sword so that he was holding the blade. Without even changing his expression, he swung toward the other man, who was still trying to scramble for his own weapon, and whacked him soundly across the face. Blood spattered from his hit, though whether from the man’s nose or mouth, Celyddon couldn’t say, nor did he much care.

While the two were still recouping from the sudden, swift attack, he turned Enid sharply, and headed for the woman. As he rode, he leaned down and grabbed her around the waist with his free arm, tugging her bodily and unceremoniously into the saddle with him. Before she could fight her way off, before the two men could catch up, Celyddon wrapped his arm tightly around her and kicked his heels sharply into Enid’s underbelly, sending her directly into a run down the muddy road.

At least it wasn’t raining anymore, he thought mildly as the wind whipped around him and his unwitting passenger. With a little luck, he’d ride fast enough to escape those English knights so they wouldn’t bother this woman again. He held no illusions that she’d fight back against him, but he hoped she’d see enough sense to let him slow his horse down before trying to do so.

#intothewildsea #;; beneath the apple tree wide awake {historical fantasy verse: medieval}#{sorry this took me a while to respond to #and that it got so long!#beginnings always seem to be longer replies}#{I hope this is okay!}

sharanga

#;; the sweetest bitter drink {about}

coldalbion

“Magnificent Autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds. He comes not like a hermit, clad in grey. But he comes like a warrior, with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent…. The wind…. wafts to us the odour of forest leaves, that hang wilted on the dripping branches, or drop into the stream. Their gorgeous tints are gone, as if the autumnal rains had washed them out. Orange, yellow, and scarlet, all are changed to one melancholy russet hue…. There is a melancholy and continual roar in the tops of the tall pines…. It is the funeral anthem of the dying year.”

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (via pagewoman)

#;; thoughts bend toward home {that which appeals}