⭐️find my oc art/lore blog here :)🌙 ⭐️find my writing blog here >:0🌙 rebekah /23/ fruity 🌙she/her🪐 ⭐️rebekah's the name, i do not know the game🌙 ⭐️inconveniently fond of shitty dad jokes🌙
Well hi there! Welcome to my main blog, where all my interests collide in a chaotic clusterfuck. Here I cross-reblog from my two side-blogs, post anything that doesn’t fit either, and reblog posts that make me giggle etc. Feel free to take a look around, and if you’re interested in seeing more of my creative works, take a look at the tags and my side blogs!
But first, in regards to the title of my blog: what is 'making merry?'
Well, Merriam-Webster defines it as:
Well, true enough for the first half, a lot of this is infact for my own amusement. You know what else amuses me? the diference in definition between this and 'merrymaking':
You heard it here first, folks: gay shit lies ahead.
Continue below for: About Me, My Interests, Fun Facts, and Tags:
Click here to read what I've written for my Caelum characters
Click here to read what I've written for Greener Pastures
About Me:
My name is Rebekah, but occasionally online I also go by Disaster (my go-to gamertag, and the name of my sideblog for my sona characters hehe), Merry (for my main blog), or Eirys (for my main sona)! I’m a young adult, queer, and use she/her pronouns.
I have two side-blogs for my creative projects. The first is @d1sa5t3r, home to all things Disas-Trio—my term for my trio of sona characters. I fear one of my favorite hobbies is making lore for characters who aren’t supposed to have it, but its a lot of fun and I have poor impulse control. Eirys, my main persona, is especially getting a spotlight over there these days, so if you’re curious about her, that’s where to look!
My other side blog is @onto-greenerpastures, dedicated to a story I’ve been chipping away at since middleschool (I am now a young adult, so do with that info what you will). I have recently picked it up again in earnest and have come up with a lot of revitalizing ideas that might just save it from its roots in preteen cringe. Hopefully.
This is a safe space for those who need it, and an unsafe space for those people need safe spaces from! If you have to ask, I would take it as a sign.
My Interests:
Hobbies: Mostly creative—writing, art, music, crochet, common-place journaling. I also like video games. Some of my favorites include Terraria, Minecraft, Stardew Valley, The Legend of Zelda BOTW/TOTK, and Pokemon!
Books: Brandon Sanderson’s Cosmere books (Tress is my first and favorite but I love ‘em all), Tasmyn Muir’s The Locked Tomb series, and Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series to name a few!
TV: I don’t watch a lot of TV, but I still have some favorites lol. Stranger Things, Blue Eye Samurai, Ouran Highschool Host Club, and Noragami are some of my favorites!
Fun Facts:
I have hypophantasia—like aphantasia, except I see almost nothing—I like to describe it as seeing things like those green spots you get when you look at the sun, except only in my mental ‘peripherary’ vision—and the second I ‘look’ right at it, it goes away
I also don’t have an internal monologue (god really nerfed me fr /j). So combined with the aphantasia, my brain really is a white noise filter I have to turn into ideas and words. I think that’s why I’m as creative as I am, to balance it out. Its also why I’m so glad I started commonplace-journaling—it helps a lot with turning white noise into literally anything else lol
I don’t do music too often other than singing, which I mostly do for my own amusement/to soothe myself via vagus nerve. However, I played Trombone in middle-and-highschool, and I have two ukuleles
Tags:
Click here for my tag masterlist!
Considering the length of this post as is and the length of the already existing Tags post, I'm going to link it instead of just moving it here
Not shaving and not wearing make up are literally nonbehaviors. They’re a complete lack of action. But doing nothing is considered masculine because women are not allowed to just be. this goes double for trans women.
"Grace Ryland is Rocky's dog" is such a funny fucking dynamic when you think about it
Eridians are further behind than humans technologically right? They dont have computers, relativity, quantum mechanics, etc. In fact, Eridians probably dont even know about the Big Bang because their atmosphere would filter out most of the cosmic microwave background radiation we use to detect it. On a human timeline, theyre anywhere between like early-mid 20th century. Rocky's basically a cosmonaut.
So the human civilization is pretty advanced from Rocky's perspective. Rationally he understands this. On a conceptual level he knows this to be true.
But at the same time... imagine youre one of the first ever cosmonauts to make it into space. Then you meet a 10 year old alien dog who cant do 2+2 without pulling out its calculator. It forgets everything constantly and has to keep notes everywhere, like it basically lives in Memento (2000). Also if it doesnt nap constantly it gets even stupider. And you somehow has to reconcile this with the fact that this dog has a better understanding of physics than your entire civilization does. Like the dog knows how the universe started.
for Flash Fiction Friday 4/25/26, from @flashfictionfridayofficial
Title: wolf in sheep's clothing (im doing this so last minute i may rename it later hdjasflhsadl
Universe: Caelum: Thornsweet
Synopsis: Eirys reflects on the places her decisions have taken her.
Word Count: 988
Authors Note: started this like 30 minutes the morning of the deadline dhfjkafhlasd there may be errors, tried to edit as i go but as i type there are six minutes to spare! set before blackberries and sugar, but during everybody talks. our two favorite idiots meet.
enjoy
[Continue below the cut, or click here for more of my writing!]
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 𓏲𝄢 ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
Frances stalked up to the window, grip tightening on her sword, legs aching. She hadn’t pulled stunts like these since early in her ca—first career. The later years of her knighthood, decorated as she came to be, were spent at guard posts and parades. Go figure that the more competent you proved yourself to be, the less of a chance you were given to prove it.
There was some credit to all of the rumors, seeing that the cottage was in much better shape than the last time Frances had seen it as a little girl. The shattered and grimy windows were replaced and spotless, a few fixed with stained glass in the shapes of weeds and dancing beasts. The snarls of wild berry bushes had been trimmed down as well. And, of course, there was movement in the cottage.
Her breath caught and her movement stilled as she watched, waited. The view was limited—this was one of the clear-paned windows, and the lack of light it got was apparently reason enough to allow for a bookshelf to be placed before it. But through tomes and scrolls and paperbacks, Frances could just make out the upper body of a woman, turned almost fully away.
She had half an eye to notice that the interior of the cottage had been cleaned up and furnished as well, but the woman sitting at a bench before a worktable snared her gaze like a rabbit in a trap. Long pale hair curled over her shoulders, reaching past the point Frances could make out from here, iridescent in the light of one of the stained glass windows. She could just make out the curve of a smooth pale cheek past some sort of hair ornament that covered up her ears, and the very edges of long white lashes before the shelves covered up the top of her head. The woman was in something loose and filmy—house clothes no one was meant to see. Frances blushed, shamed.
Okay. She’d gone about this the wrong way. Maybe she should go for a more direct approach instead. Knock on the front door—pray that the woman put a robe on or she’d never be able to maintain eye contact. Ask her if she’d heard anything herself about a White Lady, for surely pale colored hair alone couldn’t make her she. Warn her to be careful.
And, fine, maybe if the mood felt right, invite her for a few drinks. Frances had invited far lesser women to join her for a night for weaker reasons. And though she regretted having to pull out her light armor for nothing in the brutal summer heat, at least it flattered her.
So, Frances snuck back away to approach the cottage properly. She could see now that the porch had been furnished with rocking chairs and potted plants. The door had a knocker of a vaguely disturbing grinning face, but most knockers were disturbing. She knocked.
She waited with trepidation. No call came from inside the cottage, but Frances could hear the sound of her approaching, more percussive than bare feet. Maybe she wore heels with her filmy night dresses—and Frances was going to stop thinking about that before she got ahead of herself.
The door opened, and Frances quickly experienced emotional whiplash. Fading embarrassment at her wandering thoughts (man, she needed to get laid). Relief that the woman had in fact found a robe to put on, short as it was. And then dawning horror at her grave mistake.
Piercing through a set of short, curly bangs were a set of spiraling horns, pale gold and sturdy. That hair ornament Frances had thought she’d seen was one of a pair of long, furred ears, like a farm animal’s ear except that it faded into a dark violet at each tip. What Frances couldn’t see past the bookshelf further down was the beginning of a long, tapered tail, tufted at the end with more curling white hair. And there were no heels befitting her earlier imaginings, for there was no way to don heels over those cloven hooves, furred over with more violet fur that lightened all the way up her satyr’s legs.
And when she finally made her way back to the woman’s face, because it turned out eye contact would be hard to keep after all, she found the finishing details to seal the deal. A sheep like nose, pink nostriled and white furred, no mistake. Lambent yellow eyes, like a hawk’s, strangely slitted like a four-pointed star. And when the woman grinned, watching Frances analyze her, it revealed sharper teeth than she’d been expecting, other features be damned.
“Oh, delightful!” the woman cried, leaning against the doorway. One clawed hand, that Frances had mistaken for long nails and amber polish, came up to rest at her hip. “You came back. I was a little worried, honestly.”
Frances swallowed. “Came back?”
The woman threw her head back as she laughed, causing her hair to shift. Her tail flicked behind her, and Frances saw then that not only was the iridescence just there, windows or not, it seemed to come off in wisps at the ends as she moved, like a cloud evaporating. “Well you were here only moments earlier, no? I didn’t see you, of course, I didn’t want to give it away. But I was so hoping you’d come to say hello. I get so few visitors these days.”
Frances fucked up. She really fucked up. For there was no chance this was not the White Lady of the Woods, terror of Thornsweet. Depositor of bugs in cradles, planter of poisonous plants where children played, snatcher of windowsill pastries.
This was no damsel. This was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
She should demand the reason for her terrorizing. She should chase her out.
Instead, she croaked, “You keep stealing my goods from my windowsill.”
Synopsis: Alarik Crow aims to take down a greedy Cleric and his subordinates with his scrappy crew, but things take a turn for the worst.
Warnings: Blood and injury
Canonical Status: My current idea for Alarik's 'inciting incident', you could say :)
〘――――――――――――――――――――――――――――〙
The Cleric hit the floor with a grunt, and an iron blade slotted nicely to the woman's neck. She froze, her eyes filled her fear, one of them swollen and black as she looked up at the man with a boot to her chest to hold her down.
Alarik glared down at her, but part of him couldn't help but smile. The Head Archivist was pinned by Ave, one of Alarik's most loyal crew members, a yard away. He already had a bleeding wound in his side, and was whimpering from the pain.
Various auxils and guards to both of the leaders laid unconscious, injured, or dead and decaying by the rest of Alarik's men, a force of twenty-seven. Blood splattered against the stone tiled floor, ruining the colored rock and its mosaic of the kon for The Black. The evening sun cast its last light over them from behind, through the large, stained glass window at one side of the room. Crows cawed outside, perched on the various outcroppings of the Cleric Tower.
Phrim, another of his best, walked over with a bloodied spear in hand. "What now, Rik?" he asked.
"Now," Alarik said lightly, not breaking his gaze from the Cleric, "we negotiate."
"Negotiate?!" the Cleric sputtered. "You have killed our guard! Your very protectors--"
"And the very ones who upheld your dastardly rule upon our town," Alarik interrupted. He pressed his longsword further against her neck, and she stiffened. He leaned forward, lips in a tight smile. "Your so called 'needed funds' for your irrelevant research have made the townspeople quite angry, as you can probably imagine."
The Cleric barked a laugh. "And you are their spokesman?" she demanded, incredulous. "A simpleton whose station was a gift?"
Alarik's eyes narrowed, his smile tighter now. "A gift? That of being sent out every night to fight the monsters of The Black? To nearly die by their claws?"
"Do not speak Its name, you heathen!" she hissed, glowering at him. "We built this town from nothing. You should be grateful to its existence. We gave you a home, rather than deciding to cast you and your few desenters to The Great Abyss for judgement!"
"Few?" Alarik laughed, then swept an arm out towards the rest of his men. All hand-picked, convinced to the evils of the Cleric and Archivist taking nearly everything they'd had. "Look at them! Does this look like a few to you?"
Alarik glared down at her. "We are all tired of your plots to lay lavish in our whits and shards. We are all done with you."
Alarik would have expected fear from that statement. He had already had his men split off earlier during their earlier raid of the tower, to destroy the Cleric's bed and sever her tether to the town. If he killed her now, she'd be cast to The Black, then to somewhere else random across all of Dridon.
But there was no fear. Instead, she grinned, then laughed.
Dread started to creep into Alarik's chest, but he shook it off. "What?" he demanded, and the awful feeling of missing something sent a shudder down his spine.
"Oh, you fool!" the Cleric grinned up at him, something less than sane in her green eyes. Alarik, despite himself, stepped back, only to see Ave lurch suddenly.
There was an arrow in her arm.
Alarik spun around, leveling his sword, only to come face to face with the last of his three right-hands. A man with his brown hair cut short, one hazel eye closed as he leveled a crossbow at Alarik's chest.
Evar. Alarik nearly dropped his blade.
"Step away from the Cleric, Alarik," Evar said. Every other man and woman on Alarik's band now faced towards Alarik, Ave, and Phrim. Weapons aimed and at the ready.
Ave was groaning in pain, clutching at the arrow in her arm and staggering back to her feet. The Head Archivist she'd had pinned was shifting away, still uselessly clutching at his side. Alarik glanced around, then to Evar.
"You traitor," he whispered. "You protect them? After all they've done to you?" His grip tightened on his sword. "You lie to me?"
Evar, to his credit, looked guilty as he responded. "They promised to change," he said. "But they can only do that if they're alive, Alarik."
Alarik felt cold. "You didn't sever her tether, did you?"
Evar just lifted the crossbow higher. "Step away from the Cleric."
Ave grit her teeth and tore out the arrow in her arm, quickly lifting her hand to summon food to regenerate. Evar swiveled the crossbow back towards her, and in that moment Alarik burst forward, lunging with a burning anger to kill the traitors in their midst.
ok I know I seem insane for watching project hail mary for the fourth time in 10 days but I got to watch it with the directors commentary tonight and it’s incredible how much thought and love went into this film by EVERYONE. the directors, ryan gosling himself, the sound department, costumes, set production, cameras. everyone has so much pride and the story is so beloved by all. anyway here are some of my favorite things from the commentary
no one knew how to pronounce eridani (air-id-ah-ni or air-re-deni) so they just literally never said it in the film
the “good luck” at the beginning is supposed to have been written by the astronauts on the ISS who delivered ryland to the hail mary
the mop ryland was dancing with was called moppy ringwald
when ryland calls stratt after successfully breeding astrophage and he says “carl and I made a baby,” that was ryan gosling calling sandra hüller on her day off and she had no idea that’s what he was going to say. that “what” was her genuine first reaction
the scientist whom ryland called a stagnating waste of carbon was the bearded guy sitting next to him and stratt in the initial phm meeting
the idea of the soundtrack being so hopeful was supposed to be like there were two different planets cheering him on
when ryland is sitting on the beach in that don’t-go-crazy room and sees a figure walking towards him, that’s him on erid at the end. he’s seeing himself
among the markings on rocky were the petrova line mission patch, his rank, family crest, and wedding band
rocky always stamped his claw on the ground twice for a question
they wanted to make it so that eridani could have different tones. so it could be a given series of keys for one word and then you could change the frequencies for happy, sad, scared, etc.
after rocky wakes up and asks ryland if they caught the taumeoba and ryland shakes his head no and then yes, the directors went “what an odd thing to do”
ryan gosling wrapped all the gifts that ryland gave to rocky himself
the entire reason that exchange panel was put on rocky’s ball was so that ryland could pass him the little beanie earth
the movie starts with an upside down shot of ryland waking up. the epilogue starts with a right-side up shot of ryland waking up. he also makes his bed and brushes his teeth to show how time has passed LOL
their headcanon for explaining the rocky nature of the beach is that the eridians tried to emulate sand but got the scale of the grains wrong
rocky had them create a beach, and wave machine for the beach, and a tree for ryland so that he felt closer to home, but rocky was all he needed for that
some concept sketches of eirys trying to disguise herself as human--probably during a ball/gathering event held in frances' town? idk but it was fun to try and hearken back to iry's visual jester roots and i like wtv the fuck i was doing with the bottom of the longer dress lol
for Flash Fiction Friday 3/13/26, from @flashfictionfridayofficial
Prompt: Rumor Mill
Title: everybody talks
Universe: Caelum: Thornsweet
Synopsis: The rumors Frances hears about the White Lady of the Woods as a youth, a woman come home, and a woman in over her head.
Content Warnings: suggestion of spice
Words: 881
Authors notes: The final rumor and scene is inspired by a thought I had at work--I make bagels for a breakfast place, and am oft coated in mundane arrangements of flour. I thought Frances deserved better UuU
This is the first time I've played around with such snappy timeline changes, so I hope the pacing is both not too jarring but also clear when it changes. This was fun to write!!
[Continue below the cut, or click here for more of my writing!]
Nineteen years ago
Frances Clearwater remembered hearing the adults whisper about the White Lady of the Woods when she was a little girl.
“I hear she’s half monster, half woman,” hummed her Uncle over after-dinner drinks, when Frances and her baby brother, Fergus, were meant to be asleep. “Like a siren of the woods, made by the Gods to lure the lustful to their deaths.”
“Those horns and that tail are awfully frightful!” hissed the neighbor the next day, babe on her hip as she and Frances’ mother strung up their laundry to dry together. Francis was watching her brother as he tried to catch the worms twisting in the mud of the garden. “And those teeth! I don’t know how you let your children run amok through those woods, Minerva, I can’t even bear to imagine one of my wee ones coming across that beast!”
“The White Lady fled the woods long before you were born,” Frances’ mother promised her when she insisted she didn’t want to go out to play. “She was too fearsome to simply have gone unnoticed all these years. Me and my siblings were all over those woods growing up, and we never found anything more frightful than bear tracks.” Her mother’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “We even found the White Lady’s abandoned cottage out there, though I was too scared to go inside then. My siblings swore there wasn’t much to see, though.”
You could find her cottage in the woods—Frances had actually found it months ago, before realizing who it must have belonged to. It bore broken windows and dusty floors, and not much else. That didn’t stop her and Fergus from gorging on the wild berries growing outside before she towed her little brother back home under the sunset, faces stained red with juice.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 𓏲𝄢 ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
One year ago
The rumors were vague and violent when Frances Clearwater finally returned to the village she grew up in, to find that the White Lady seemed to have made her own homecoming.
“The White Lady is a devil, miss,” the tavern-keep murmured to her as she nursed a weak mug of ale. “Claws for hands and hooves for feet, I tell you. She may speak sweet words, but she’s far from human.”
“She’s got glowing yellow eyes,” grunted the hunter sitting beside her at the bar. “She scares off my prey with her cackling and traipsing through the woods in the moonlight.
“And she steals from us at night!” complained one of the waitresses as she returned to the bar for food and drink to serve. “Why, just last week, I left a loaf of bread on the sill to cool. I forgot to move it before going to bed, and I found it gone!”
Frances was pretty sure that last one was true—she’d left her fair share of pastries on her own windowsill over night as she tried to re-teach herself her childhood craft to take over the family business, and often found a few missing. She’d assumed it was animals, honestly, though that had made taking only some of the sweets a bit strange.
She mulled it over, past and present, swirling the dregs of her drink. She was pretty sure she still remembered where the old cottage was from her childhood, and she had much more cause to be brave now than she did then. Maybe it wasn’t time to retire her sword just yet.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 𓏲𝄢 ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
Present day
The rumors nowadays tended to be much more embarrassing for Frances, and she had to try a lot harder to overhear them.
“The Clearwater kid, the one that came home from serving the King to take over her parents’ bakery?” one mother whispered to another in the market, while Frances was out shopping for ingredients. “I hear she sleeps out in the cottage with the White Lady more nights than not these days. From beast slayer to beast tamer, hm?”
“The White Lady is nicer than I thought she’d be,” commented the fruit seller across the path to his neighbor. “She follows Miss Clearwater like a tamed dog. It’s kind of sweet.”
“I was buying bread from Miss Frances the other day,” hummed the turncoat tavern-keep to his husband as they passed her on their own shopping trip. “She came out from the back covered in flour. Shaped like hand prints. On her—”
Frances hurried off, cheeks flaming. She remembered that day, a haze of delicate pleasure interrupted by a sudden shift into her I am a baker I must sell baked things mindset when the bell above the door chimed. Only to sink into mortification upon her return to her White Lady, realizing far too late that she was coated in possessive flour prints.
“Eirys!” she had hissed. “You couldn’t have warned me? They’re going to talk!”
The White Lady had only looked her up and down with her lambent golden eyes, tail swaying slow behind her where she leaned against the counter they had been—where Frances made her pastries, by the Gods above—flashing sharp teeth in a slow smile that sparked something hot inside of her.
“Frances, darling,” her White Lady said, “They already do, and you know it. Now are we going to finish what you started, or not?”
I'm currently re-reading (/listening? it's the audiobook lol) to Oathbringer, book 3 of Brandon Sanderson's Stormlight Archive. I got into the Cosmere *checks reciepts*--oh my god 3 years ago. Huh. How time flies. Anyways I've been re-reading my way back through it all for the last six months or so and it's been very fun :D
Last Song:
Second Rate Town - Acoustic, by Good Kid, an acoustic version of thier song First Rate Town
Last Film:
If documentaries count, I was watching Nat Geo's Planet of the Birds the other day for my WIP. If not, I rewatched Les Misérables with my mom last week
Last Game:
Stardew Valley. Also--ew, Clint?? (Sandy's a baddie though she gets a pass)
Last Series:
The Rookie. Yes yes ik cop shows tend to be propaganda but the chemistry between Lucy and Tim makes me feel alive
Coffee or Tea:
I love boba tea 😋 I had a sakura rose milk tea with tapioca the other day and i have been dreaming about her, she was divine TAT
Currently Working On:
My Greener Pastures outline--for real and on purpose this time!
I've also been working on a Mental Health crochet blanket (like a temperature blanket except the data was from my head instead of from the sky) that was meant for 2024,,,, since 2024 lol. I believe I'm on September for that year now?
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
Now for the tags! I actually have some new moots so thats thrilling, though of course please dont feel pressured to participate! (especially the few of you i know irl ik these are lowkey cringe lmao)
(also some of you follow me on side-blogs but not technically this one and idk the rules for that since that side blog can't follow anyone--whatever its fine im gonna stop stressing out about it asdjfakfljdskafl)
i want to ramble about greener pastures magic but i simply have not laid the ground work to go off about it without giving far too much exposition. and yet i have not broken it down and spoken about the ground work because i either haven't finished fleshing it out or i keep coming up with new shit
ok first of all true colors is literally my favorite life is strange game. ever. love alex. second, i made my background on google slides and it’s a bunch of album covers + random pics from magazines of artists/bands i like ^^ NO PHONES
Rules: search for lines in your WIP that correspond to the prompts given
I decided to go Greener Pastures for this, and was able to pull lines from the oneshots I've written. Before that though--even though I have no one to tag--here's some prompts of my own:
a line where a character is heartbroken
a line where a character moves out of their comfort zone
a line where a character is honest
a line where a character realizes something important
continue below the cut for my responses to Trader's lines:
a line where a character is afraid:
She surged forward anyway, scanning desperately. For a place to hide? A conveniently discarded length of pipe? Another shriek from the monster as it approached behind her. She turned, screaming herself—in frustration, in fear. Tears welled in her eyes, but fell too soon, unobscuring her vision as her hunter ambled into the courtyard behind her.
from honey instead of coffee
a line where a character does something they'd rather not:
“May I have this dance?” Carter asked, extending a slender-fingered hand, and damn Sabel to the Bird Cage, she was too old for butterflies. But she was meant to be playing unaffected and aloof, and the unaffected and aloof didn’t run away from terrifying opportunities at proximity. So Sabel took Carter’s hand, her shorter and sturdier fingers contrasting the shape of Carter’s as much as Sabel’s darker skin contrasted Carter’s light. “You may,” Sabel replied.
from wait for me (i forgot how much i love this oneshot oh my god)
a line where a character justifies an action (to themselves or others):
He couldn’t voice the thought, so he bawled instead. He couldn’t even feel embarrassed about it. All he felt was heartbreak.
“There was nothing you could have done,” Edence said once Tuck had sobered, pulling away and wiping at his face. His expression was solemn, but firm. “You couldn’t have known.” Shouldn't he have?
from blood and bone, ash and stone
a line where a character is surprised:
[Meya] took a sip and hummed her delight, before joining the others in making Carter feel self conscious. “Carter! I didn’t know you were an artist!”
“I… haven’t had much time for it recently,” she muttered, which was true.
from the fence is a metaphor
open tags! i'd love to see anyones responses to the prompts i came up with as i was scanning my oneshots for material ^^
The thing about the Locked Tomb series is that everyone will tell you to read it but no one will warn you about the horrors. And you would think the horrors are all the description of flesh wounds and bones and death but it's actually the horrors of love.
