croak & croak goes the crow

highly selective & private fandomless oc.  

[fishermcn]

Oh, to be cast adrift on the surface of a raging sea,

To feel Her writhe and shiver 'neath your timbers in trembling wrath,

To recognize the face of a goddess in the moments before She devours you,

To know She stalks your every waterlogged dream and hates every beat of your faulty heart.

private & selective fandomless oc. penned by lee. rules. || about. || verses.

[hawksblooded]

"👀"

THE DOOR CREAKS OPEN after a single heavy knock. Alizebeth doesn’t speak a word, doesn’t look up at her uninvited guest. His broad shadow is cast on her worktable, over her shoulder, one she would know anywhere, in a heartbeat - the shadow she grew up in. “Leaving so soon?” Stenvarr asks. She can hear the satisfied smile on his face, faint as it may be. Surprisingly quiet-stepped, he walks up to his once-student, takes inventory of the various supplies she’s organizing; he notes a small assortment of specialty bolts, her satchel of herbs and other medical supplies, oils for her blade and crossbow, a jar of beeswax. “Harpy season,” he adds before picking up a small pile of contracts and reports she’s collected for her trip. It doesn’t take him very long to find the connecting thread. “Ah, sirens.” His expression changes as he keeps leafing through the reports. It appears the flocks are steadily creeping north along the Elandälish coast. Not entirely unusual, if not for the fact that there are so many reports - too many, in fact. It’s near a month from Valgrandt to the eastern coastline. She’s not the type to go on that kind of trip over little more than pests.

Alizebeth leans unto the cluttered worktable and closes her eyes when she hears her mentor pull himself a chair. He knows she won’t say anything if he doesn’t insist, and she knows he will definitely insist. The older hunter clicks his tongue. He doesn’t need to talk to ask for the whole story. “I’m following someone,” she answers his silent query. “I didn’t see any bounties.” “Not a mark. Someone I worked with once.” He pokes at the paperwork. “Looks like you’re covering the whole of the Agaven Coast over them.”  No living soul knows her better than the man who raised her in his image. It’s natural he’d latch onto something like this, so far removed from her habits, like a hound would a bone. Any attempts to avoid this conversation would be pointless. Her mentor was always an exceedingly inquisitive man, and the teeth of his curiosity sink deep. Alizebeth takes a deep breath. “Long story.” “Got a few years left before I keel over.”

Her travel pack thumps loudly as she hauls it onto the old wooden table. She nods towards the bundle of reports, telling him he should give them a once-over. “No,” he says, grinning under his thick beard. “You explain.” When she looks up at Stenvarr, he’s exactly as she expects: one hand on the armrest, an elbow resting on his knee, leaned in conspiratorially with that sparkle in his one good eye that shines whenever he feels he has something to learn.  “They’re all the same. Strange storms on the coast, endless rain, floods, then the dead. Heard that tale a few times before he found me.” One after the other, vials of various oils and concoctions are slotted into a small bandolier in what is clearly a highly specific arrangement. “Not the usual drowned. Worse than any I’ve seen.” Stenvarr’s excitement quickly fades, his expression growing severe. He’s trained her, yes, but she may well know more about that particular breed of horrors than any other Hawksblood, and he has no qualms with deferring to her authority on the subject. A prideful hunter is a dead hunter. Coming from her, the words have immense weight. “Explain.” “More clever than they should be. Looked like the storms followed them, not the other way around. Didn’t make sense.” She pauses just long enough to recall that evening, the smell of wet leather and moldy wood, the pitter patter of a rain that wouldn’t cease. “Knew there had to be an answer. He had it.”

“Something leads them,” she continues, her answers coming in pieces between careful evaluation and calculating of her rations. “Daughter of the Queen Below, he calls it. It controls them, to some degree. Brings the rains along, keeps them strong.” “Never heard of a melusine bringing corpses around,” Stenvarr comments with some skepticism. “Me neither. Thought it was bullshit,” his student concurs. “Changed my mind quick.” “Don’t get involved with fey.”  She’s too busy to notice the older hunter lower his head, run a hand through his beard pensively. It isn’t a question of principles, Saints know the fey bring their share of trouble everywhere, seelie or unseelie, but rather one of concern. He knows how she is when it comes to the dead, how she’s made it her life’s work to eliminate them, no matter the cost. Even her stonelike stoicism isn’t enough to hide the intensity of that wish, not from him. He’s watched her stoke it, year after year, tragedy after tragedy. Where the dead are, Alizebeth goes. Of course she’d want to know the truth. If she were any less careful, any less clever, her fervor in this duty would border on zeal - or it would have, past tense, because if she were any less careful or clever she’d be dead too.  Surely, then, she remembered what he taught her - never deal with creatures not of this world. “I taught you better,” Stenvarr says, challenging her silence. “It wasn’t a melusine.” “Said who?”  “He did,” Alizebeth states matter-of-factly. 

Something’s not right, the old hunter thinks. Clever dead, summoned storms, a sea-witch that isn’t any kind of sea-witch anyone knows - except that man who found her and somehow had all the answers? It would be more than suspicious, if it weren’t near unbelievable. Still, Alizebeth isn’t a woman who lies, and her confidence was always measured, well-earned. If she says the drowned were different, something else, something new, then he’s certain it was. In that at least, he believes her. That stranger’s claims are another story. “You don’t trust that easily.” “Old enemies of his. Biology, weaknesses, origins, warning signs… He was very precise. Grim. Focused,” she says, tapping the lid of that jar of beeswax he’d handed her back then, still quite full. “Told me what he knew. Gave me this to plug my ears and stay safe from the singing. Made sure I was ready for what we went up against. That was the only reason we managed to drive it back.” The jar disappears somewhere in one of the pack’s thousand pockets. “Not forever, though.”  Stenvarr suddenly straightens up.  “...Did you say ’we’?” She hums. The metallic ringing of bolts being wrapped together leads them both to raise their voices somewhat. “I thought my hearing was on its way out,” he mumbles into his mustache. “You swore you’d never hunt with anyone else again after you lobbed that kid’s arm off.” “This was different.” After such a fantastical tale, this is what truly surprises him. Stenvarr’s good eye tries to peer at her expression as Alizebeth’s movements slow, still entirely. He sees her usual self, genuine and uninhibited, her brow furrowed in thought. The newfound silence, though brief, seems heavy. “...I didn’t have to think about him.”

It’s a simple statement, spoken which such bare honesty, but her hesitation betrayed the weight of the words. To anyone else, they may have been completely inconsequential, but any warrior worth their salt would know better: in the chaos of battle, there are few resources more precious than attention; every sense is stretched to its limit, and any moment’s distraction can spell death. Awareness of one’s allies is just as crucial as that of one’s enemies, and even those who have trained all their lives together can prove unpredictable. To be able to think only of your foe, you must trust with your life that your partner’s instincts, their mind, their body can fall naturally in line with your own. That is an extraordinary gift, rare, intimate in the way few bonds can claim to be. He smiles as he watches his student sling her travel pack over her shoulder and make for the door. Yes, it’s the kind of bond you’d cross half a continent for.

For all her meticulousness, it doesn’t take Alizebeth very long to leave the Order headquarters behind once her preparations are done. Soon enough she’s heading out of the stables with a borrowed steed, the saddlebags heavy with her journey’s supplies. She’s fastening her greatsword at the gelding’s side when Stenvarr comes out of the mess hall, Mara in tow. The wolfhound whines as he ruffles the coarse fur on her head one last time. “What’s the plan?” She doesn’t look back at him as she answers, tugging at the straps and belts holding up her gear to make sure all is well secured. “Find the Daughter. Stop her for good.” Stenvarr shakes his head. She makes it all sound so simple, when there’s very obviously something off about this whole affair, about that stranger. He knows his protégée well, though, too well to think he could ever change her mind. Her tone is determined. She won’t let go of what she feels is her duty.  This isn’t just about the drowned dead or the witch, though. “...You’re hoping to find him.” “He’s trying to put an end to it.” One hand at the pommel, Alizebeth places a foot in the stirrup and hauls herself onto the saddle. “I don’t care why. Only that it’s done.”

The lightest pressure of her heel in the steed’s side spurs it forward. Just as it picks up the pace, Alizebeth hears her mentor’s voice call out one last time. “Wait! Your man, what’s his name?” She turns to him, impassive even as she answers.

“I don’t know.”

[fishermcn]

// bit of a status update below the cut

heya folks, i'm sorry for the quiet on here these last few months! a lot changed in a relatively short amount of time, not in the least me moving into a new apartment and becoming an uncle (i'm an uncle! me! joyous days ^^) within the span of a single week. i'll be working a good chunk more overtime than i have been in the past, so as much as i'd like to promise i'll be around more frequently i'm afraid we'll just have to see where things go by the day

all said - i pray your holidays were filled with joy and mirth, and that the start of the year has been as promising as you all rightly deserve! feel free to im me on here, or if we're mutuals shoot me a message; i'll try to be more active across all fronts so we can at least chat

[of-forossa]

// i'll be gone for the week with the holidays. i pray your own celebrations and time with your families is swell ^^

[fishermcn]

.

[reclaimeth]

little low effort promo for my 90th post & my post - revamp era !

please ♡︎ if you are interested in interacting with private & canon - personal portrayals of sorceress sellen and / or fia , deathbed companion from elden ring ! or ⟳ this if you'd like to spread the good word hehe :)

... CARRD + INTEREST TRACKER + CALLS

[of-forossa-archived]

send ❝ at last, the bitter end ❞ to see how my muse would kill yours.

alternatively, send ❝ the dagger reversed, death claims you ❞ for your muse to kill mine.

[fishermcn]

// the real reason i can't let sam become a full-blooded, dream-bound hunter: he'd never stop bothering gehrman about the ins and outs of trick weapon crafting

[fishermcn]

I want lore about his little hat, mainly. Give me hat lore, Lee

@sunmad // tales from the isle now downed and drowned // accepting.

// i'm throwing this in because i daresay you've waited more than long enough XD

sam's terrible no good hat was originally his mentor's, who essentially dropped it onto sam as a way of making sure any of the worst fishermen knew he was his apprentice. it kept him from getting kicked around as much, and to a degree it does make him feel somewhat calmer even now... though he'd consider feeling that way about it more than a bit foolish now that he's grown.

it had the added benefit of keeping of the constant rain off of his head back at home, and despite looking rather crummy it's decently warm against the cold.

[fishermcn]

lore drop! ⸻ °｡ wanted and given affection

@necremant // tales from the isle now downed and drowned // accepting.

// whew, all righty...

what sam wants when it comes to affection is based strongly on the mood and desires of his partner. there's a big fixation on his part in ensuring his partner is sated, that their needs are met. the best way i could define him in this regard is that he'll essentially met his partner on their level, match their intensity and their energy. that and a lot of kissing, honestly. and touching. getting to a point where he's not only comfortable being touched by you but wanting to touch you in return is... a lot for him.

on the giving side, his love language can involve a good bit of touch and words of affection just between himself and his partner. he's not big on open displays of affection, but behind closed doors he isn't afraid to show someone what they mean to him by holding them close.

[fishermcn]

Lore Drop! ; rotten-pest (mayhaps more about his mentor)

@rotten-pest // tales from the isle now downed and drowned // accepting.

// this is me wracking my brain asking myself where my mentor lore is lmao

i'll make this a two parter to cover all my bases, starting with his original verse.

in nerendread, sam's mentor was an old, cantankerous bastard that went by hatch. being the closest thing the fishermen had to a scholar, his role in the guild involved maintaining what records they fishermen had on their supernatural foes, as well as tending to the bee hives they kept in the keep. when the fishermen all but snatched him up for their ranks, it was hatch who saw sam's quiet as more than weakness and took him under his wing. while reading and writing remained well and out of his reach, sam's talent for tinkering and eventually bomb and trap making wouldn't have been realized without hatch sitting him down at an old workbench for hours on end working through the guts of broken things.

in elden ring, sam was reared up under the redmanes at their castle in caelid. while his frailty kept him from ever becoming a knight proper, it didn't prevent him from learning the redmane's fiery techniques from his father and castellan jerren. hours spent repairing crossbows led to learning the exact portions for redmane firepots, which in turn led to repairing the flame-breathing turrets and eventually even tinkering with the ballistae used to defend the walls of the keep. even after parting ways with them some years past, sam keeps close tabs on the redmane knights should they (or rather his father and jerren) require anything of him.

[fishermcn]

Lore Drop!!

@izar-tarazed // tales from the isle now downed and drowned // accepting.

// er sam typically uses his spirit calling bell to summon depraved perfumer carmaan, what with the two of them both sharing the same trade and thus using their deadly perfumes in conjuction. that said, carmaan isn't the strongest spirit ash sam has on his person - that would be rollo, the first omenkiller.

a "gift" from his "patron", sam refrains from calling rollo for a number of different reasons. the least of which being that the physical tax on his person to do so can be significant compared to carmaan, leaving him winded. more than that though, the first omenkiller unnerves him in a way that's hard to describe; as if there is something dead about rollo that has nothing to do with being a spirit.

when he does summon rollo, it's a sign that a situation has spiraled out of his control that'll require raw power to sort out. rollo provides it in spades, his omen-horn cleavers tearing apart man and monster apart with horrific ease before returning to rest as if he'd been pulling weeds from a garden.

[fishermcn]

lore drop! ⸻ °｡ hobbies, interests, and pass-times

@necremant // tales from the isle now downed and drowned // accepting.

// when you've spent most of your life having to fight sea-born terrors, downtime isn't easy to find. sam has always enjoyed tinkering, so even when doing it in the service of fighting for his life there's a calm to the work. whether it be honing even deadlier traps or more potent explosives, he's always found a semblance of peace and control in the process of creation; in understanding how things come together and come apart.

when not tinkering, sam enjoys a fair bit of smoking (in spite of his awful breathing issues) and wandering the places he finds himself holed up in. sometimes in search for easy marks, sometimes to get a lay of the land, and sometimes just to get a closer eye on a building that tickled the part of his brain that wonders how it came together.

[fishermcn]

Lore Drop!!!

// Yes, plz tell me more about the man with the tired eyes and stained hands 👀

@schattenmagier // tales from the isle now downed and drowned // accepting.

// the fishermen, facing enemies who could damn them with a whisper or slay them outright with a song, most often used beeswax to deafen themselves. as such the bee hives kept in their only permanent locale (a half-sunken fort known as the fells) were incredibly valuable and handled only by those who knew their way around them.

along with the tinkering and trap building that would eventually define him, sam was similarly trained in beekeeping after being recruited. he knows how to harvest beeswax and honey, as well as how best to maintain them against pests and damage from the constant terrible weather. while not terribly fond of the beekeeper garb he's forced to don, the actual act of working through the honeycombs and splitting hives to work towards an entirely new one is one he finds a degree of peace in.

since fleeing nerendread, sam hasn't had much of a chance to engage in that line of work. if he finds himself lingering in a region for long enough though, he'll see about setting up a few hives in cahoots with any beekeepers in the area to keep up on his own beeswax supply.

[fishermcn]

lore drop immediately!!!

@sunmad // tales from the isle now downed and drowned // accepting.

// all right, so i've talked a bit about how bloodborne sam has a few different folks he works with for his criminal endeavors. beckham is his rifleman and spotter, keeping an eye on things from afar during deals or scavenging efforts, but there's another member of the team i haven't had a chance to talk about - mason the brick troll.

mason is... not very bright. very strong, very big, but not blessed in terms of brainpower. sam found him being used as manual labor around the canal, with mason getting regularly dressed down and derided by the shipping overseer for his lack of wits. seeing such a big lug weep and blubber time and again while skulking about the area proved to be too much, and after the overseer had a little accident sam recruited him.

mason is the only person for whom sam has infinite patience for, even if it's answering the same questions and reexplaining things time and again. at the end of at least a few days every week, mason will ask sam to help him with his numbers; namely counting out the coin he's earned to take back to his older mother. and if sam slips a few in there every so often, well, that just means they're able to count a little higher today.

[its-just-a-meme]

LORE DROP!

Send Lore Drop! And I will talk about lore or a head canon regarding my muse.

Feel free to specify with a question or details if you would like to hear about something specific!

[fishermcn]

// been keeping an eye on the nightreign dlc and whew. very normal about the undertaker '>_>