Twist of the Key

Ask Blog of Andrew Kreiss || Muse/RP Included [INBOX: 0/15] [RP: 0/6]

[mausoleum-letterbox]

Asks Open!

Again. Oops.

RULES

• Keep it minorly SFW. At the least.

• Andrew Kreiss / Gravekeeper Centric.

• Musings allowed, Magic Anons allowed, RPs allowed, go nuts.

• I'll pop in other characters occasionally maybe!

• Art not guaranteed each ask, but it'll pop up!

[mausoleum-letterbox]

FORGOT TO. REDO HIS REFERENCE.

7'3 [221 cm]

Adult [24+]

Turkish, Romani

"Devout Catholic"

AMAB, Closeted

CLOSEUP/VEILLESS under the cut!

[mausoleum-letterbox]

OH MY GOD I JUST REALIZED I HEARTED LIKE 20 OF YOUR POSTS WHILE MINDLESSLY SCROLLING, I’M NOT LIKE TRYING TO GET YOUR ATTENTION OR BE WEIRD OR ANYTHING I’M SO SORRY

YOURE SO FINE DUDE LOL

[mausoleum-letterbox]

Today, she wears beige and cream—spared, yet, from years of wear and tear.

Today, they're as new as the day she bought them, and February is a beautiful, frigid affair. Snow still sticks to the untrampled stones, not yet slush.

Pressed close to her hip, he holds to her hand—sticky child, with his fingers scrubbed free of grime. His own is barely just smaller, barely able to still be swallowed whole. His eyes watch the pendulum made by their movements ; a unit, together, a grandfather clock. It isn't until she speaks, voice muffled by the wind, voice muffled by his own distraction,

"Schavo," and he looks up.

He does not respond. His tongue is dry in his mouth, his cheeks whipped red in the blustery air. He won't respond, he thinks, in that childhood sort of stubbornness, until they're back in the cottage—tucked safely between the treeline and the shore.

Instead, he stares at her expectantly, wide eyes marveling at those that peer back. His are brown like newborn fawn, light and soft with all-seeing innocence.

Hers are tired. He doesn't yet know why.

At least her voice is lively, sing-song, in time with birds he'll grow to miss. "Schavo."

He's plenty far off from knowing how much he'll miss her, too.

Today, he turns nine, and he clings to the hem of her dress, letting her drag him about the market.

"What does my schavo wish to eat tonight?" She studies his face, dark eyes scrutinizing what pinkens in the cold. Studious, always, they betray the soft edges of her mouth. "Rabbit?" She nudges, like she's a youth all the same.

He blinks. He shrugs.

Another push, soft, her forearm or her hip. She's trying at humorous. "Maybe /hen,/ hm?"

He can feel his face contort, cold settled into browbone, creaking when he frowns. She laughs at his disgust, and he can feel the reverb burrow into his chest, leaving ache where it tunnels.

"This picky son of mine," she speaks to no one but herself—and him, who stands at her side, trembling with the weight of her judgement. A hand cards through his hair, the one not bound to carry bundles of fabric, and coils loose curls around her fingers. She'd only braided his hair this morning, and half-til-noon, it's already come undone.

He blinks back hot tears and focuses on her dress, on how he leaves marks that seep into the fabric. Sootlike, almost, as they cool with the air ; the ache in his chest drips into his gut and pools. Corrodes, then, into guilt.

"Oh, come, now," soft coo, when she realizes he's sniffling. She takes her hand from his hair, only to snake her arm around his head. Half-way hug, an embrace made all the more awkward by the way they stand by stall. "You needn't cry."

It's meant to be soft, he thinks—in the moment, relived, it's more of a chide. She presses her lips to the top of his head, but does not purse them ; settled, stitch-straight, against his crown.

She pulls away before he can bury himself in it.

"Do you want rabbit," she tries, again, as she shuffles them away from the weaver's stand, "or lamb? Sweet boy."

He blinks away what blurs her face, but fixes his eyes on the ground. He feels /brattish,/ like this, clinging to her, offering nothing.

/"Lamb,"/ He whispers, because nothing that comes from his mouth is anything but meek. Mousy boy, white as rat. "Please, dej," he adds, and buries his begging in her frock.

Again, she laughs, clucking softly as it trills. His face is hot with the shame of it.

He tries to wipe it off, the burning humiliation, tries to soften shame in the cotton on her hip.

She doesn't comfort him, this time. She turns, and he can feel cotton slip through his fingers, just as time will.

Stone-still, his little boots cemented to the road, he blocks plenty of traffic. His mother is swept away in the underbrush, or maybe she leaves with it. A dread bubbles as snot does, something he'll live day to day with, soon.

The folk that wash out all sight of her offer no kindness—glares spared, not glances, at the anchor sitting ashore. Everything blends together, people and faces, dresses and pants. Even his hiccuping, messy sobs are drowned out by the undercurrent, beat set not by the pound of his heart, but the gallop of their boots.

There's a hand in his, at some point, one that pulls him aside. The voice that must be connected to it chides a familiar word, as he struggles to shuffle in time.

"I'm sorry," he weeps, as she boxes around him, crouching to his height. Her lovely dress settles on the murky ground, and more apologies spill in time with the sway of dirtying hem. "I'm /sorry,/ dej, /I'm sorry,"/

His voice cracks, dropped porcelain, as she holds him in her arms.

/"Schavo,"/ she has to interrupt, as he presses his cheek into the crook of her neck. He seeks to hide in the warmth that she shields him with, but they both know she won't allow that. His shoulders are dwarfed by her hands. "My, Andrew, what has gotten into you?"

"I'm sorry." He's sniveling, pathetic child, as he presses the balls of his palms into his eyes. So that he might not see hers, so that he might only feel the softer side of her scorn.

This is not allowed ; she pulls his hands down, and watches, carefully, as his head lolls.

"My Andrew," her repetition is much more purposeful than his. "You were so excited to come with me, today." Her voice is sadder than it was ; he wishes he could say more than what breaks from his lips.

"I'm sorry, dej," her dress is dirty with snow, and now her shoes are painted in his tears.

She tuts, holds him, all angles and frail edges, close to her heart. "I know."

He knows he's mussing up her dress worse, even as she's fussing over his hair ; he leaves her apron stained and snotty, and she slicks his cowlicks down, toying with braids unbecoming.

"But what have you to be sorry for?" Her fingers seek to split them, undo, redo, by this stall. She doesn't, though, just lays her fingers against. "It's only supper, bakri, it isn't supposed to /scare/ you."

Just because she smiles—it doesn't wash his sour sadness away. She sighs, places palm against his cheek.

"I only want you to be happy today. It's such a /good/ day, too, all yours ; can't you do that, for this dej of yours?"

The shrug he gives is met with hardly-pitying snort. She rubs her thumb along what remains of baby fat. He grows thinner by the day, and they both know it.

"Oh, /please,/ sweet boy? Where's my happy schavo, who was so excited to come with me into town?

"Where's my sweet Selim, hm? The one who made his dej braid his hair?" She twists what remains of rowdy plaits, pushes bushy ends against his cheeks. When he laughs, a bit of shine returns to her eyes—or maybe he's blinking away what remains of his tears. He covers his eyes with his hands, again, to hide from ticklish onslaught.

"Could that son of mine gone off while I was talking to the weaver, hm? Run along to join the lambs, butting heads all the while?" Pointer taps against her chin, feigning daydream.

He snickers from beneath his fingers, peering out to see faux thought. Her smile seems more genuine, her eyes alight with a luster she loses much too often,

"No, no, my Selim is a good boy," her thumbs slip between the cracks against his face, yet she doesn't yank when she pries. "He's only hiding in plain sight!"

She scoops him up, giggling wild, and fixes him on the hip that doesn't hold bundle.

"There he is, my Selim—who doesn't have a thing to cry for, today! Too good a birthday to be ruined by some tears," a kiss to his temple, then to his cheek, until all that stings is the giddiness of grin, and his cheeks aren't stained salty any longer.

"Now, you help this mother of yours!" They're both brighter when she lowers him to his feet, and tucks tall wrappings into his hand. "You help me carry these, Andrew, and I'll carry our lamb."

And, after he nods a final time, eyes bright like the spring soon approaching, he's the one to drag her to the butcher's stall—

—

When he wakes with a startle, he finds his face is damp, his hair slick with sweat. His pillow is stained, already—

The sob that rips from his chest is violent, visceral ; the frame shakes as he does, too.

[smokescreenedforestry]

I didn't realize my old Andrew art on here was picking up traction again. I still draw him! Here's a dump

[shalfeiwreath]

Good night, sweet child

[mausoleum-letterbox]

it wasn't a threat, I'm blending you out of love xoxo

I'd prefer a first date ;

A marriage, even, before you grind me to paste.

A. Kreiss.

[mausoleum-letterbox]

I totally read that other anon’s message wrong and thought it said binder not blender :,3 (this anon needs sleep)

Rest easy, when you manage.

And I need not bind a thing, really.

Though, of course, in the Baron's odd requests ; I've been made to wear a corset.

Yours, and sleep soon,

A. Kreiss.

[mausoleum-letterbox]

Andrew, can I put you in a blender? yes or yes

I would prefer to stay a solid, living mass.

Really, really. An odd threat.

- A. Kreiss.

[mausoleum-letterbox]

grrrrr mijito rico

"..Well, no wonder he keeps this thing around."

[mausoleum-letterbox]

Mister Campbell, you really are a nuisance! Moreso than I am or was, even, to the Gravekeeper themself. It's a very hard thing to achieve, and yet I must congratulate you - here we are!

Paths converge in crinkled note and wax seal, though both the writer and the receiver know it's not supposed to be.

You're misplaced, here, at this letterbox, but I cannot fault you yet. The magpie will take what shines, even if it dulls with time and loses appeal.

Tell me, then - what is your reason for being here, hm? At this place, with your treasure ill-gotten, even though you'll have to return it soon. Hopefully. Hopefully, Mister Campbell, you will not torment Mister Kreiss for long with the loss.

Is it entertainment? Revenge? Pettiness? All three, or yet more? Your first order of business... Tell me why you'd do this.

~ Scornfully, C.A.

"Oh, Jesus Christ. No one told me he had annoying little penpals.

I didn't even know it was his until I opened it. He can have it back when he realizes it's gone, I'm not cruel.

There's no 'game.' He left it where others would find it, maybe he even planted it there.

Besides. Besides, you'd think a man so 'devoted' to making himself some miserable little mystery would be smarter than to leave his belongings out in the open. I've got some things I want to know, C.A., and this answers at least five of them.

I'm a man willing to barter. If he wants it so bad, he can come back and ask for it, or it'll stay in my hands.

Do I have to sign this?

I'm no more a magpie than you're a pompous prick who can't can it with the theatrics. I'm not your correspondant, but I haven't hurt your precious,

What'd you say his name was, again? Andrew?"

[mausoleum-letterbox]

"So."

The letterbox finds itself on an interior countertop, placed by heavy hands.

"This is what Kreiss dedicates his oh-so-precious time to, eh?"

Event Start :

The Prospector, Norton Campbell, now open for asks!

- Andrew will not be answering through this event.

14 questions to start, just to see how this plays out.

Follow Base Guidelines, but otherwise: go nuts.

[oletus-carousel]

❤️‍🔥 A romantic headcanon

"Love is a strange thing to me. I'm more likely to forge bonds with people out of necessity rather than want, need rather than entertainment... But I'm not unloveable, no. I love plenty, and I love harder than I have any cause to."

A small smile took its place on her face, gentle, nearly fond, as she thought of the person she loved most. They'd been taken away from her, as far as they remembered, but the memories lingered as fresh as any first encounter in the mind.

She wondered, then, where they were, but didn't think to mention such a thing. Maybe she'd gain the courage to open up later. For the time being, however, her distinct pendant was replaced with a heart locket. Fitting, but not unplanned. It remained locked.

"I like to give my... well. I would like to give my lover notes to wake up to. Some letters, stamped carefully with wax seals, some scrawled pieces of poetry on scrap, some origami... just anything to remember me by, really. Ink is easier to carry than some memories that fade, and it lingers for longer. I can also make sure all of the records are happy ones."

The woman shrugged. Her next words were softer, almost whispering.

"Some would ink it to skin."

[mausoleum-letterbox]

Andrew, Andrew... what a pleasant name it is. Rolls off the tongue just so, don't you think? A pleasant call, almost poetic, with no harsh notes. Softened as the freshly upturned soil.

I do find you soothing, Mister Kreiss, if you'd allow me that indulgence - just a moment longer to watch, nothing owed in return. God knows you have too much to give back already.

Others think you imposing - hateful, they are. I hope you can see your beauty, even if it only shines under the moonlight... I say this not as anything more, nothing unwanted, but as a friend. I don't expect you to remember me. Onto the matter at hand...

...

What do you see yourself in? What creature of ages past, of myth and legend - who can you compare yourself to, be it in a positive or negative light? Tell me, too, of your best friend. Should you have one, I would like to know of them. They're lucky to have your company, Mister Kreiss. As am I. I won't bother you more, though. Until next we meet.

~ Yours, Ever-Gratefully, C.A.

" C. A.,

I have many questions. Many. I have more questions for you than I have answers to yours, and though that might seem unfair;

Know it fear that drives, not malice.

How do you know me? Where do you watch from? I am a private man who keeps to his own, and I figure that distance a respected thing. I do not disclose name to many, so you had to get it somewhere; Who?

Was it the Prospector, with his malice held towards me, who tipped you off?

The Embalmer? God knows he holds nothing but contempt.

Was it Ms. Lester? I know that woman cannot keep a damned thing to herself. If it was her, tell her I'm not quite mad, but I am quite curious towards her choice of company.

Or was it DeRoss, himself? Bastard can't keep you tenants away from me.

Even in your flattery, I can only vy for true meaning; if you mean to threaten, I implore you:

Do it to my face. Hiding behind anonymous initial only proves to me you know what I do on these grounds; the living I make is born on the backs of the impish ignorant.

I have no companion you'd find interest in, unless you've already made acquaintance with dear Lester. Even so, you'll know my time with her is kept limited, for I do not appreciate having my own history appropriated, readapted to suit her rewritings. You'll, no doubt, know all about Wendy, and you'll, no doubt, know all about "her" stories. Ms. Lester is alike me and yet incredibly different, and the niceties I show her are formal alone. She steals from me the way any other of you all might, and her insistence that it only be coincidence is comical.

As for your mythological question, why? So you might find pittance in stories I harshly regret having shared with anyone? I'd be the Bride of Death, and you nor your company will ever know what that means. I do regret sharing any such nighttale within hearing range.

Maybe I am mad. Maybe you'll tell poor Lester of my rage, and I'll have a crying miss on my doorstep pleading her innocence. Tell her to save it for a nicer night, when the air starts to cool.

A. Kreiss."

[disease]

50 Q’s

1.) describe yourself through the eyes of a stranger? 2.) what is a quality you’d like to change about yourself? 3.) what is your worst potential fear for the future? 4.) which television series do you use as a form of escapism? 5.) share a secret about yourself? 6.) if you could choose any place in the world to visit, where would it be? why? 7.) what advice would you give your childhood self? 8.) describe how you envision your ideal life partner? 9.) what is your favorite environmental season? why? 10.) what’s one book you’d suggest every person should read? 11.) what is one song that’s able to bring you to tears? 12.) describe your best friend? 13.) what was the premise of your last dream? 14.) what’s your favorite warm beverage? 15.) name one musical album that greatly impacted your life? why? 16.) what’s your favorite form of flattery? 17.) what’s your favorite painting? and describe how it makes you feel? 18.) describe your personal style? 19.) what was the last concept that inspired you? 20.) who was your very first artistic inspiration? 21.) how long have you used tumblr for? how has your style changed over the years? 22.) what was your first cell phone? 23.) what is your favorite fruit flavor? 24.) whom would you resurrect from the afterlife? which 3 questions would you ask them? 25.) if you could choose only one meal to eat for the remainder of your life, which would you choose? 26.) which of the 7 deadly sins do you struggle with the most? and which the least? 27.) your latest obsession? and why? 28.) if you could domesticate any animal as your pet, which would you choose? 29.) what’s your least favorite smell? 30.) favorite mythological creature? and why? 31.) name a scene from a movie that makes you cringe? 32.) favorite piece of memorabilia you own? 33.) your personal favorite oddity about yourself? 34.) favorite concert/show you’ve attended? 35.) what’s one thing you would tell to the last person who betrayed you? 36.) your favorite mantra to live by? 37.) do you have any strange habits? 38.) what’s your favorite white-noise to fall asleep to? 39.) what is your favorite gemstone? why? 40.) how do you choose to cope when you’re upset? 41.) what are you currently trying to accomplish? 42.) what’s your favorite item you’ve purchased secondhand? 43.) describe your personality is only 3 words? 44.) how is your relationship with your parents? 45.) an instrument you aspire to learn how to play? 46.) relate yourself to one movie character? 47.) least favorite music genre? why? 48.) which animal would you be the most terrified to encounter? 49.) name a public figure you find to be overrated? why? 50.) what purpose do you get out of using tumblr?

[moonlight-race]

——

[ Inbox Open! ]

- Rules are the same as my other blogs 🫶

- Rp asks are perfectly fine and even encouraged! (OCs, canon, AUs, crossovers, etc. doesn’t really matter to me ^^)

- Will mostly contain text responses <3

- This blog is mainly based off a funky little AU based on Lily’s S tier essence! If you’re curious, I did make a little doc on it 🫶

- Please PLEASE specify which ask is for which muse 💕

——

Muse Info:

——

“Brave Eagle” || 🔫

- Name: “Martha Behamfil” || Martha

- Career: Bounty Hunter/Coordinator, Cavalry Captain (formerly)

- Gender: Female || She/They

Age: 20

Height: 5’10”

- Status: Outsider || Free to leave the mines whenever she pleases

- Birthday: April 3rd

—

“Fluorite” || 📣

- Name: Lilith “Lily” Barriere || Lily

- Alias/Nicknames: “Shooting Star” [Given by Orfeo], Flo

- Gender: Female || She/Her

- Age: 16

- Height: 5’3”

- Status: Resident || Trapped (within the mines)

- Birthday: August 31st

—

(Bonus: OG Lily is available for asks as well- however any asks for her will take place in the typical idv manor setting and NOT the au! 🫶)

[mausoleum-letterbox]

[[ A letter was dropped off in the middle of the night, and though its delivery seemed rushed, the careful handwriting within the enveloped proved otherwise. This had been made with care that the sender wouldn't usually have the time for. ]] Andrew! My dear friend, how have you been? I apologise if this letter reaches you late - chances are that I had forgotten to send it to you, and SP will probably have to give it to the postman in my stead to ensure its delivery. She ensures my mental clutter doesn't get in the way of the troupe.

Enclosed, you should find two tickets. You and a friend of your choosing are more than free to come visit, and I'll even throw in a "backstage pass" if the Lady of the Stage doesn't appear and scold me. She won't catch me if you 'burrow' and I 'fly' to the rafters, though! As we rehearsed.

If it goes wrong, I'll take the blame. Lord knows The Lady won't resist my charms for long! See you soon. [[ The letter has no signature, and is instead marked by a seal - stamped carefully with vibrant golden wax, holding down both the envelope as normal and a small gradating feather. This is evidence enough.

Something tells you you have no choice but to go, though there's always "forgetting". He wouldn't mind, right? ]]

"Sparrow,

May this letter find you as well as yours found me.

The job we spoke about, last time we spoke—years ago, now, surely—has become my daily routine. It pays better than I hoped for; if I knew when you'd be around, I could even spare pittance to attend.

Really. Really.

I'll be by. I'll bring flowers.

You don't need to award any sort of 'bonus,' really; just seeing you perform would be lovely. It is always good to hear from you.

Send S.P. my regards, if you'd be so kind. She must have her hands full, hm ?

I joke.

Is this Lady of the stage as talented as they claim? I've heard nothing but praises sung in her favor.

Suppose I'll have to see for myself, really. Not that I doubt your dame, no, only that I am not often a man in theatre.

I'll pull something nice together to wear.

Break a leg, if that is still a well-wish,

Andrew Kreiss."

[mausoleum-letterbox]

GGGGRRAAAAGHHHHHHHHH KISSES THE SILLY

"You'll come to find I don't like to be manhandled, thank-you.

Respectfully,

A. Kreiss."