❝ mother nature is red in TOOTH and CLAW, demolishing every beautiful thing she has ever created . . . the earth is expertly designed to take back what she gives. ❞
#𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄. a private & fandomless & original death entity character, MARGOT TINE. deity of decomposition . personification of rot . queen of the scavengers . based in the genres of forensic crime fiction , appalachian gothic , and environmental folk horror . as buried by 𝐒𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄 ( she / her, PST, 30 ).
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𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒— this blog will contain graphic and often untagged depictions of: detailed violence, gore, mutilation, cannibalism, body horror, supernatural horror, decomposition & death imagery, occult imagery, death-existentialism topics, post-mortem procedures, forensic procedures, and ethical topics specific to death and homicide. i try to tag the more extreme items on this list, but if this isn't your cup of tea, please steer clear.
this blog also contains less-graphic and/or tagged depictions of: child abuse and neglect, substance abuse, and drunk driving accidents. the latter two are due more so to lore regarding Margot's brother, Midas, an NPC mentioned frequently. if incorporating these topics in a reply, i'll ask permission first. otherwise, these topics will be largely limited to lore posting / ic drabbles.
i want to stress that this is NOT a true crime writing blog. any cases Margot mentions, describes, or works on in character will always be completely fictional depictions of forensic crime procedure, behavioral analysis, and homicide evidence. her investigations are not meant to be connected to nor inspired by real-life cases, past or present day. any suspects or profiling subjects she name-drops are fictional.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏 — this blog is for mutuals 21+ only. i will softblock if i do not plan to follow back, and unfollow if i am not followed back. i clean my mutuals list liberally, often, and for reasons not personal. i prefer a small circle online.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟐 — blog is low activity and ran primarily via queue. multi-verse, OC friendly, and practices very basic formatting with very little ( if any ) icon use. format how you please, but if i cannot read your formatting i will not be writing with you.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟑 — callouts will not be reblogged here. that said, i do pay attention to word of who is a legitimate danger. do not barge into my messages to warn me of other writers at random. i am a grown woman and capable of looking out for myself. talk to me if you have an issue with me.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟒 — normal rp etiquette applies : no god-modding or meta-gaming ; plot with me if your muse plans to try harming Margot ; you don’t have to match my reply length, i just need something to work with ; softblock or hardblock if you want to unfollow, whichever you prefer. i tend to avoid combat threads à la Margot vs. other muses unless heavily plotted.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟓 — blog is selectively multi-ship with all ships in their own verses. both ic chemistry and frequent ooc communication is a must. i will not ship Margot with any muses under 35 years of age. she prefers 40+.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟔 — any in character smut writing is reserved for shipping partners only. nsfw prompts will most often result in mini drabbles and not full threads. i don't anticipate an abundance of smut writing, and usually prefer fade to blacks. any nsfw or suggestive content will be on the sideblog.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟕 — i do not wish to interact with any blogs featuring canon or OC muses from harry potter. no exceptions.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟖 — i will block anyone writing graphic depictions of incest or childhood SA/ underage nsfw content. i know how to curate my space and keep myself separate from subjects i don't want to engage with. i do not write any detailed non-con/ sexual assault, as it's not my cup of tea and i have no interest to explore it. broaching it as part of another character's backstory and such is fine.
𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟗 — Margot's story, lifetime, and lore draws inspiration from various media, including ( but not limited to ) nbc's hannibal, david fincher's mindhunter, steve shell and cam collins's old gods of appalachia, and vince gilligan's breaking bad universe. i am not officially associated with these pieces of media, and claim no rights to them.
headcanon generator — put ✔ if it fits and ✘ if it doesn't.
Margot enjoys doing taxes. ✔ ( i wouldn't say she's ecstatic about it, but she likes working with numbers ).
Margot can play the piano. ✘ ( not beyond simple scale work for tuning, so i'm counting it as a no. she primarily plays banjo, some fiddle, and is more adept to string instruments as a rule ).
Margot doesn't own a single pair of matching socks. ✘ ( mismatched socks bother her, actually ).
Margot has been to prison. ✔ ( a very short stint of custody for something she was ultimately exonerated for, despite definitely doing it. did play part in her decision to finally retire from the FBI and work only on a private consulting basis. i'll expand more on this one day. otherwise she's visited many in the past for purposes of interviews, case information, and forensic behavioral profiling ).
Margot is an extrovert. ✘ ( lmao i think the Everything about her answers that ).
Margot is not good with social cues. ✘ ( disclaimer that she's not great with them naturally, but she's made a whole career and lifestyle of studying people like bugs. for various reasons. so she can pick up on them easily now ).
Margot can kill you in an instant, but wont. ✔ ( she's generally chill upon approach, she just looks intimidating. you gotta actually do something to make her want to kill you. raging beef on sight isn't a thing for her. she's too old, she doesn't care enough ).
Margot watched the sonic movie. ✘ ( i don't think she even knows what sonic is ).
Margot is a middle child. ✘ ( nope, oldest. of both her immediate family and the Tines as a whole ).
Margot could easily survive The Hunger Games. ✔ ( survival in dire circumstance may as well be her middle name. she prides herself on being much like a cockroach ).
tagged by: @gcdlight (thank you girl!!)
tagging: @sinsuerte @shokwav @motheredearth @heartevaded and whoever hasn't done it yet!
in lieu of making weekly “sorry I’ll be here next week” posts (apologies) I’m gonna take an official small “hiatus” of sorts for the month of July and use it to catch up / queue everything/ declutter in full so I feel less stressed here! I will be closing my inbox but still be lurking and cheering all you lovely folks on.
sorry for the continued wait, in order for this blog to be a place of joy again I do think I just need to buckle down, finish everything I’ve kept in my drafts and inbox, and get out ahead. I may drop some more threads and if that’s the case, do not fear, I’m more than happy to try again once I’m Back For Real.
I’m aiming to have queue posting resume in full by August 8th. feel free to hmu for my discord 💖.
update July 10, 2026: carrd is also being taken down for the duration of the hiatus and getting a much needed update!
Margot will never ask you if you’d love her if she was a worm because you have no say in the matter. if you choose to love her you will bear witness to her rapid-decomposing into a pile of worms at her whims more often than you may initially realize.
margot wears reading glasses paired with a silver chain, equal parts functional and decorative. it boasts an alternating kebab of metal moth charms and pit viper vertebra. they're always dangling around her neck during the work day.
margot's held a medical and surgery license for a long time now, but she's been practicing mountain folk medicine and recession remedies a lot longer. crushed jewel weed for poison ivy, stewed onion poultice for sinus inflammation, steeping willow bark and ginseng root will soothe a muscle ache. vick's vapor rub is the answer to chest colds. windex or toothpaste will help a minor skin blemish. in true stubborn old woman fashion, she'd rather do any of this than see a doctor for her chronic joint pain, despite being one. the fear of opioid addiction runs deep around here.
her human form body is visibly aged and weather-beaten. margot has crows feet around her eyes and small hand wrinkles typical of a 50-something woman. her fingerpads and top ridges of her palms are lightly callused. her frown lines are visible between her brows, accumulating from centuries of repetitive focus work and hobbies alike, all requiring her to squint for a close look. streaks of grey pepper her black hair. patches of cellulite and small stretch marks accumulate around her lower belly and upper thighs. her freckles are all the more visible in the summer, she forgoes sunscreen more often than not.
margot hardly uses tongs or a spatula while cooking. she'd rather reach right into a popping-hot pan and flip food with her hands. casey once tried to copy her and immediately burned himself, a tale old as time.
she verbally "oofs" or sighs any time she settles down in a chair. if you listen close, her knees might creak.
Shoutout to characters that are both genuinely deeply kind and also genuinely terrifying and willing to spill buckets worth of blood to get something done. And neither of these are an act, they're just both very true.
i think one of the more interesting facets of Margot that I want to keep expanding on is her relationship with the entirety of Ash Hollow and how they perceive her vs. what she knows to be “the objective truth”. the bulk of the neighbors understand her to be something more than human and know her by the deeds they witness. Margot went off to that fancy medical school ages ago and still came back to her mountain roots. she didn't leave a town without a doctor in the dust, tending to sprains and colds and midwife duties when she's not tending to the dead. she comes to their final moments with offerings of a last meal. she keeps the gravestones clean and the flowers tended year round, no extra charge. her hands work miracles, and fatal mining disfigurements are nothing more than a bruise or a scratch in her care. she'll always make that open casket happen, if that's what you want. children talk of a stag that roams the woods, weaving tunnels with the trees that lead right back to their front porch lights. they swear the deer spoke and had the gravedigger's voice.
Margot knows better — she's their usher into the mouth of a coal pit leviathan. she tends to the cattle and keeps their lives comfortable up to the slaughter. she makes sure the final blow doesn't hurt, bolt guns for fingertips. one touch and they're gone and ready to be dinner.
𝓪𝓷𝓿𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓭; an independent and selective portrayal of 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓮 from hazbin hotel. canon compliant with own headcanons and backstory.
written by kat. 21+ only. please read the rules before interacting, thank you!
@rottine says: ❝ i don’t pay much attention to rumors. ❞ // hiiiiiiiii from the rdr1 prompts in your tag <3
"You should," He presses a feline smile, coy humor pitting the two ends of his lips. He slips beside her in good company, their shoulders a breath's width apart. Cole taps out a cigarette from a dent box, scissors it between two fingers. With a twist of his wrist, the stick fulcrums free and loiters into the space between them. An unspoken offering. "Sometimes you can catch a good seed of truth in a tall tale."
Few things on this good green earth charm Margot faster than a shared cigarette. She accepts by the stub, painted fingers plucking it free from his own. Her mouth slants, a premature smile and eyes shining like a jackal. Cole knows her a little too well.
"Sometimes." Margot savors only a short drag. He's gracious enough to share, after all. She places the cigarette back between his fingers, smoke seeping out her mouth. "Sometimes it's just a load of shit."
Charleston calls them both out for work this week- Margot dropping off her coroner's report for the latest state tragedy, Cole scouring the wanted posters for his next paycheck. The bounty boards are a hair shy of barren. Perched on a bench outside the city police office, they chatter like the pigeons and play catch-up. No real flock of their own to hear them crow all about it, otherwise.
Margot watches the last of the nicotine fade into the hot summer sky. Both the same shade of rust. "What rumors are you chasing these days? Anything fruitful?" Anything she should know about?
Since Archmage Strixvaria’s departure, trespassing in the halls leading to her private study produced in the intruder a feeling of unease. Were one to disregard this magical warning and proceed, additional, more severe symptoms developed: nausea, wavering vision, difficulty breathing. While awaiting the new Minister of Arcane Magics’ arrival, Magra elected to stand beyond the posted guards, just within the deterrent effect’s radius. Perversely, there was almost a comfort in it; Sylvana’s warding enchantments felt like her.
Magra’s neck and shoulders were tense beneath the weight of the fur-lined cloak she wore. It and the chill in the air it staved off served as reminders of why this was necessary.
Not one for brooding, Magra was glad when her reverie was interrupted by the guardsmen behind her greeting and admitting Minister Tine. She turned to face her. “Minister Tine,” she greeted. Said together, the words felt unfamiliar, still. “I am grateful for your assistance. Both in this and in the Board of Ministers meeting.”
As it often was, Magra’s gaze was drawn from Minister Tine’s face down to the tattoos peeking out from the neckline of her robes and the hems of her sleeves– ‘peeking’ quite literally in the case of the eye on her left hand. She returned her attention to Minister Tines actual eyes, pale and penetrating. She asked, “Are you prepared? I will approach first, if you have no objections.”
An interesting first month of hire — meeting students, shadowing panel tasks, getting acquainted with the other staff. All while the ringleader remains elusive and the academy fabric begins to fray. Now, Margot's boots click down the hall tiles, and the air bloats sick with each step. Every turn of a corner brings her closer to the school's unraveling epicenter. To Sylvana's abandoned office.
Finally, she spots Magra, standing gargoyle-still at the threshold of the academy's bowels. The walls rumble and stink of such. Were not for her stomach of coal and corrosion and hardened steel, she's sure she'd fall ill.
"Of course. Hope I can be of use." Minister Tine. The name rings in her ears like a bell. Margot, more simply, rolls her robe's sleeves up the elbow to reveal a tapestry of flora and fauna and flickering eyes. Light seeps into the tattoos, following the river-path of ink and flowing silver. A magic molten mercury.
Magra, her stand-in employer, asks if she can make the first move. When Margot looks up at her towering company, all the eyes on her skin gaze with her. "It's your show to run, Minister Sulicont. I'm just the assistant here."
Something roils hot and rotten beyond the padlocked door. Margot's insides snarl back a warning, eager to burst free from the ribs and spit acid. The thing smells dead, and right pissed it's even alive again at all. "Any insight on what she's got guarding the place?"
unless you count the tattoos, margot has no scars of her own on her body. any small scars or birthmarks that appear are remnants of other flesh used to frankenstein herself together every time she pops back up out the grave. how'd she get that scar? she doesn't know. this patch was from the veteran in the neighboring plot.
her tattoo ink has been infused with her own blood so that the art is directly connected to her magic, and does indeed remain over the course of said cycles. this is as much about preserving her art as it is preserving her sense of self. because even though she always Looks like herself, how many times can the earth replace parts of her until she no longer is her original self? a regular ship of theseus dilemma. well, now there's at least a very obvious consistency.
unrelated to the other two — margot is not a dom nor a sub but a secret third thing (aka just happy to be there. she doesn't refer to, understand, or care to label her sexual desires in bdsm lingo).
Nicholas woke without a start and his stairway whines like a dying animal.
The door whimpers open. His porch light shouts hallelujah and melts Margot in chili curry X-rays, exposing her with her box of popsicles. At almost-midnight, he stews on this contradiction: someone is dying eminently and won’t make it to morning. Also, Margot had time to check into a petrol station.
Margot’s nose, he knows, can fortune tell death. He gets dressed, grabs his attaché, and turns the key.
“Will you tell me who,” he doesn’t ask.
Bog frogs croak. His pectoral cross reflects streetlamps, throwing sugar laser beams into her eyes. Soon, they will walk up to the old two-story home with the poorly watered tulips up front, and Nicholas will be face-to-face, maybe, with her puffy-eyed, middle-aged children. The mailbox is pregnant with bills.
She’s asking him, and not Price, and he wonders if it’s a woman in his parish. Nicholas makes it up the porch.
“Margot,” he says to her, “would you like to stay.”
Their shadows descend on a house at the end of the road, lit only by streetlamp. It's as old as the town itself, the first to greet those heading north on the two-lane highway that makes up main strip. A sign before the picket fence, long rusted from many a midnight rain, reads: Welcome to Ash Hollow. Population 438.
Come the morning, it will be 437.
Margot offers her explanation against a backdrop of withering rose bushes and brittle grass. Miss Marigold Fischer is finally getting called home. She's outlasted wars, economic depressions, cancer diagnoses, one son crushed by shale collapse. Old age is embracing her with its cold hands, the water around her heart spreading to her lungs and making it harder and harder to breathe. Her two remaining daughters have been occupied with the usual end of life care— doctor's appointments, grocery runs for Ensure shakes, sponge baths. No one's had the energy to tend the yard.
Nicholas asks if she'd like to stay. The moths plink against the porch light. The boards creak beneath their weight.
"Why do you think I brought these?" She gives the bag of gas-station popsicles a shake. A long-running joke in town, Marigold always losing track of church potlucks and bringing off-brand push-pops in lieu of baking. She gave up pretending to forget altogether last year, the first warning sign.
Her last meal of choice, and her favorite dessert. Something she admitted to Mother Death just last month at Teague's parish welcome. She'd said it hush in her ear, like it was her most scandalous, pearl-clutching secret. Part of saying goodbye is appreciating the humor, too. Margot's learned this well. "She'll insist we have one with her."
They don't have to knock. Her eldest, Eileen, answers the door bleary-eyed and trod down by a long night. "Thank y'all for coming. Hospice left some morphine. She's, uh—... Well she's comfortable as we can make her. Just..."
"Tired?"
"Yeah. Right word for it."
Margot's nod is short and sympathetic. She gestures towards the open door, into the light of the hallway. "Holy Men first."
