A Thistle Among Roses.

[southrnweed]

BITE-SIZED CHARACTER SUMMARY FOR BLOG-GLANCERS

🌿 A semi-selective, semi-private INDIE OC blog for my Southern rat of a character: Thistle. Read my info before interacting. Chill vibes, not going to be breaking my back over aesthetics.

🌿 18+ content present. 21+ to interact, 25+ preferred. Playing with themes of Southern Gothic and supernatural but genre adaptable. Please see interaction guide & verses for more info. Written by: Arachno (they/them).

🌿 Potential triggering themes include but aren't limited to: smoking && drug use, childhood neglect, sibling death, violence. Thistle swears like a sailor so if high amounts of profanity aren't your jam, be aware of that as well. Heavy dog motifs so I wouldn't recommend following if you have a dog trigger, Please see my extended disclaimer on my info page. This is a dead dove blog.

( INFO ) ( TAGS ) ( INTERACTION GUIDE )

( MEMES ) ( WISHLIST )

( INTEREST TRACKER ) ( SHIP INTEREST TRACKER ) ( PERM. INBOX CALL )

( nsfw sideblog ) ( musings sideblog ) ( P*nterest Board ) ( T*kTok Aes Collection )

( how to RP with guest muse: Jesse Calhoun ) ( Jesse Calhoun musing sideblog )

[1introvertedsage]

[southrnweed]

It wasn't that Thistle didn't know the usual saying: 'No good deed went unpunished' and it wasn't as though he wasn't aware it was normal to keep your head down and mind your own fucking business.

The Southerner knew all of that-— he just ignored it. Didn't adhere to those set norms. It wasn't a matter of ego when he acknowledged that the only way things ever changed for the better was when there were idiots like him walking around noticing shit and doing shit about it. Keeping your head down was easy. It was safe. It was comforting. Thistle had never really been comfortable in any of those states.

So he sees a young woman sat on a curb messing around with a dead phone outside a shithole of a bar and, yeah, of course he falters in his trek back to his truck and makes the impulsive choice to butt in and not mind his business.

He stood there for just a moment before his approach, mulling over how to best go about it. Vibes only took you so far and he knew what he looked like. Dude in a baseball cap and a DIY'd sleeveless camo top and jeans? He'd say all he was missing was a red flag but he supposed he himself looked like one. Honesty, he decided. That was always the best line of action. And if she said no? She said no. As much as Thistle hated to admit it, you couldn't just force someone to take help they didn't wanna take.

So he caught his keys on his hand and clipped them back to his beltloop, turned on his heel, and marched up to the curb to ask about her ride. The phone was dead, evident by the unresponsive screen. And what was more? She was drunk. Thistle had assumed considering the location and all, but there was the confirmation there in a hastily gulped drink and a swaying posture as she rose to remove her heels.

A mention of a brother tugs something at him, some string attached to what feels like his very bones and he shakes his head in a jerking motion as if trying to shake off a chill. Yeah, Thistle. Siblings were a thing. People had siblings. Could you be fucking normal for just a single encounter?

❝ Thistle. Like um... th'plant. Flower. Whatever. ❞ He drawled in greeting as he took her proffered hand. He jabbed the thumb on his free hand over his shoulder.

❝ Don't wanna sound like a creep or nothin', Amour, but I was just headin' out. You want a ride...? Wouldn't be no trouble. And I swear I'm sober as a judge. My feet hurt thinkin' about you walkin' however long you're thinking of walkin'. Don't seem right to let a lady resort to that. ❞

[southrnweed]

every mutual I trick into going into The P*ssenger thinking Kyle's character is gonna be a tortured sweetie sunshine because they've only experienced him as Thistle's faceclaim... I fear I gain five years of life. fdkgjnkdfg

[southrnweed]

[aurora-rph]

Ghost Hunting Themed Starter Sentences

Give me the flashlight. You can't even hold it steady.

You’re standing awfully close for someone who claims they aren’t scared.

You brought salt, right?

Dude, did you get that on camera?!

Suddenly I understand why this property was so cheap.

You look pretty cute when you’re pretending not to be scared.

We should leave. Right now.

Remind me why I agreed to this?

Is it just me or is it really cold?

Wait, if you're over there, then who…?

Oh sure, let’s investigate the creepy murder house. Great idea.

It just whispered my name. You heard that, right?

Whatever you do, do not drop the flashlight.

When did you lock the door?

This floor plan doesn’t make sense.

I'm too scared to move.

Do you think I can get a restraining order against a ghost?

If I die here, delete my search history.

Please tell me this is a prank.

If we get eaten by a demon, I'm blaming you!

Did your reflection just move?

This is how people die in the movies.

Keep recording. Keep recording!

Those don't look like our footprints…

Fine, you can hide behind me.

C'mon, you can't really believe ghosts are real.

Just remember, I can run faster then you.

If you scream, I’m leaving you behind.

Since when did this house have a basement.

If you wanted an excuse to cling to me, you could’ve just asked.

I think it wants us to leave.

Did it move, I'm sure I saw it move!

I'm only holding your hand so you don't get scared.

If that door closes on its own, I’m running.

Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.

That wasn’t here before.

Something touched me!

I swear I heard something!

Don’t look behind you.

I thought you said nobody lived here.

It was just the wind.

Wait, are we trespassing?

I keep feeling like someone is watching us.

Did you just hear someone laughing?

If I die, I'm coming back to haunt you.

Stop joking around, this isn’t funny anymore.

We shouldn’t have come here.

Is there…something behind me?

Did you seriously bring a Ouija board?

[saseplayground]

Suspicion from others holds no weight to Nove, not offense or surprise. It was Malachi's idea to introduce the phrase it's my thing to his brief repertoire; he seemed to think it was funny, and maybe it was when he said it, but Nove doesn't get the joke and probably doesn't say it right. Still, it's ended up sticking.

Thistle seems reluctant to leave, which in turn reinforces the impression that he is indeed looking for whatever trouble is making people disappear. His concession to go makes Nove believe it's not simple thrill chasing. He's trying to stop it. Because he cares. And agreeing to postpone his hunt is most likely an effort to...protect Nove.

It reminds Nove of before he failed.

For the first time his gaze strays from Thistle, falling into step behind him, a familiar twist and pull in his chest. Restlessness longs to reshape his bones, burst through his skin. He does not let it for fear that he will return to the mountains. San had said that healing, in this sense, is not the end of pain; it's being able to move forward despite it. Time can help, but you need more than that.

It's important that you learn how to trust yourself.

Thistle asks a lot of questions. It's a good distraction, though it takes some time to formulate answers.

"It...helps. Getting away from..." People. The city, which he will never truly feel at ease in. (Seeing the way Lilli looks at him sometimes, Hugo with his cane and pupil-less eyes and the shard of wood that is tied to nothing, now.) "...I didn't mean to freak you out."

If there is any offense that could be felt from his comments, it misses by miles. "I went to the lake."

Usually swimming in the lake is enough. Far enough away, enough to trick his body into some level of reprieve, but not this time. He hadn't even touched the water before turning back into the forest and aiming for its heart. Finding Thistle. Walking behind him, Nove becomes aware that the scent of strawberries is wafting from his hair. He wants to ask something, but it is not a thing that he can shape with words. He tries anyway.

"...Why are you...looking for this...spooky...whatever."

[southrnweed]

The thing about questions was that asking them usually meant you were opening yourself up to them in turn. If he was going to stand there and ask Nove what the hell he'd been doing this far into the woods, it only served to make sense the same might be asked of Thistle.

Thistle stepped over an uneven patch of forest floor. His boot crunched over leaves, sticks, and rotted log pieces alike. The hunter barely missed a beat in his own reply: ❝ Who said I was lookin' for anything? Just happened to be out here is all. ❞ Unless he'd already run his mouth and had said just that. The man ran through their conversation thus far again, brows knit as he continued to try and backtrack his way out of the woods.

There wasn't much reason to lie, he figured. A sigh wracked through him and he tossed a hand up vaguely as if to drive home that it wasn't that big of a deal. ❝ It's for the channel. Sort of. A little bit. ❞ Not at all actually, but what was he meant to say? Oh, yeah! He was totally out here chasing down some unseen horror in the woods that was snatching folks up! Right, because that would make him seem totally normal and sane...

❝ Maybe it's just my thing too. ❞ The woods were not looking familiar at all and Thistle stopped as if to attempt to right himself. He looked this way and that, hands at his hips. A harshly whispered, ❝ Shit. ❞ fell from the tip of his tongue. This was fine. They'd get out of here, no problem. Thistle just needed to keep a straight head on his shoulders.

❝ I'm glad you've got a place to come to and all but... have you really not heard a peep about what's been goin' on 'round here? ❞ It seemed ridiculous to imagine Nove hearing about the disappearances and choosing to hike into the woods anyway.

[thesoldiersminute]

Kyle Gallner as Oliver Carolina Caroline (2025) dir. Adam Rehmeier

[southrnweed]

new polyphia since like 2022. Thistle is !!!!

[giaunt]

These woods were lonely, precisely as Ingvar preferred, for safety's sake. Fear of him could be a horrible thing indeed for both the human who felt it and for him, object of it. It made men act irrationally, desperate to save their own skins he'd no intention of taking from them in the first place. All the same, the loneliness of this place made it all the more surprising in the rare case someone should pass through. Despite this, he'd been seen; the silence shattered as speech breached the thick fog.

The giant never knew what to do in this unfortunate situation when it occurred. Neither possible course of action prevented him from being seen. Remain still, and he was, as the humans said, a sitting duck, just waiting for the human to spot him. His height rivaled the younger trees; it would be not a matter of if, but when, he was noticed looming there among them. Leave, and the loud sounds and tremors of his footfalls would undoubtedly alert the human to the presence of something large, draw the eyes, and make him known.

Ingvar, it seemed, had chosen incorrectly today by attempting the former. At first, in fact, he didn't even realize the question was directed at him. But there was no one else around. No one at all. And once he did realize it, there was hesitation — too much hesitation — to speak. The human (oh, please don't let him be a hunter) could surely see it, even at a distance: there was panic in those great green eyes. Perhaps if he'd only stay quiet, his racing thoughts reasoned, then maybe he'd be believed a trick of the mind, false, and he'd be left alone, and—

No. He couldn't do that. It would only make things worse when the truth came.

His boots remained firmly planted where they were on the damp earth, and lips parted, lower one quivering, and yet no response came at first. Wisps of condensation, smokesque and sporadic, slipped from his beard as his warm breaths hitched in a startled gasp. Words failed him, as though all of his English had packed up and bolted as quickly as it could the moment he'd realized with dread that the human was speaking to him, and therefore keenly aware of his presence there not one-hundred of his tiny strides away. He swallowed thickly, heart in his throat and pounding, pounding, pounding. Speech coming in response to him was immensely preferable to screaming, shouting, crying, or any combination hitherto, it was true; nevertheless, this was little consolation for the giant's nerves. Curse his stature...!!

"I— I am... not knowing how it is to be being false," responded he at long last. The voice bounded the considerable space between them with no effort whatever thanks to its depth rivaling an abyss, yet it was meek, and far quieter than a voice from such a massive body should have been — deliberately so. He would very much prefer to keep the words spoken to him, and vice versa, complete, and a thunderous voice, he'd no doubt, would very quickly ensure that should become impossible. "There-fore... I... I am... real."

[southrnweed]

It was a long enough pause that Thistle's mind had begun to... explore the possibilities. What did he know about giants? Was this a giant? Well, really he knew nothing for sure-— assuming he was seeing what he was seeing and was NOT hallucinating somehow. But what did media have to offer? Also not much. A man-eater or a gentle giant were on the table and he wasn't so naïve as to just declare those the only camps available. Thistle had encountered enough bump in the night creatures with banal hobbies or jobs that it'd quelled any real commitment to making assumptions based on scary movies or fairytale books.

Thistle took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled the plume. He wasn't calm by any means but he also wasn't so scared shitless that he felt inclined to flee or fight; he was perfectly content to stay planted right where he was. He shook a hand out as if to expel his nerves, clenched and unclenched it a few times. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

❝ Fair point. I reckon I don't know much about bein' false neither. ❞ Was he being loud enough? Too loud? Was he too close? Too far? ❝ Well, shit. ❞ This was quiet, a mumbled curse under his breath. He licked his lips and cleared his throat.

❝ This uh... your land? I didn't mean to intrude or spook you or nothin'. Weren't uh... weren't lookin' for you. Just kinda a chance encounter. Cross my heart. ❞ Words over actions was a good enough indicator to Thistle that the stranger was docile. Or, at least, wasn't going to be the aggressor without provocation.

❝ I can leave. Don't wanna cause a fuss. ❞ He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder without looking back.

It was wild to think what was just around. Hell, if plain old woods were hiding the likes of giants he shuddered to think what was in the ocean or something like the rainforests.

❝ Name's Thistle. Ah, hell. Wait-— y'ain't one of them forest dwellers you're not 'sposed to give your name out to, right? I mean too little too late if you are but-— dangit. ❞

[saseplayground]

what are YOU doing at the devil's sacrament @southrnweed

He has been restless for a long time now. Knows why, and San told him that knowing is good because it gives him something to work with, a basis for action. She also said there is usually more than one way to go about doing something.

Surrounding himself with nature, getting as far as he can from any sign of civilization, helps—but his senses, sharp as they are, still feel the lack. Small sounds prick at the edges of his hearing and he must turn his head to listen more closely, scents mingle and smear and require more focus to discern this from that. The sound first, muted gulping of water, followed by a faint smell that he has encountered before. Reminds him somewhat of Lilli at first with a lingering of cigarette smoke and strawberries, but the rest is a more masculine jumble nestled in woodsy notes. He recalls a name in Malachi's voice.

Thistle?

Nove sees him first, eyes sharp through the dense thicket of greenery. Thinks about going on his way unnoticed, but after a moment rustles intentionally. Curious. When he first saw him, Thistle had fit right in to the civilized setting of Micky Smith's. At home in society in ways Nove was forever out of place. But now, seeing him here in the wilderness, hand ready on his knife, he's just as at home. Accepted.

There's a long-drawn silence as Thistle's questions hang between them. Nove, as should be expected by now, simply looks at him, and despite a lack of discernible expression there's a certain air to his silence. The implication is clear: Then what are you doing here?

"...It's my thing," he finally says, that same quiet tone and rusty edge to his words.

The information of disappearances is new to him, but being vanished is not his immediate concern. His manner of looking at Thistle changes slightly. Consideration. Malachi had said something about ghosts before, and Thistle had answered with whatever's spooky. Is he the kind of person that goes looking for trouble? Whatever the motive, it stands to reason that they are both at similar risk here—depending on the cause behind the disappearances, perhaps Thistle more so. The solution is obvious.

"We should go." It's a suggestion, no urgent inflection, but Nove makes no move to lead the way. He came across the decrepit trails by accident having been roaming through the untouched depths of the forest, and while he could backtrack well enough, he doesn't think leading Thistle deeper into the wilderness will be the fastest exit. Probably safer if Thistle takes them back the way he got here.

(Truthfully, Nove does not feel concern for his own safety, but he will not do anything to risk leaving Lilli again. It's why he is managing the restlessness as best he can on two legs instead of four.)

[southrnweed]

A familiar face had drew his hand away from his knife, had set his shoulders sinking into a more comfortable and at ease posture. Sure, he didn't know-know the guy, but he at least knew he wasn't some hulking beast who resided here that was dragging folks out here never to be seen again.

Okay, well... he at least knew the guy didn't reside out here. Everything else, he'd learned to not assume.

❝ It's your thing. Right. ❞ There was hesitance there, perhaps even a healthy dose of suspicion. The two stood there, the suggestion to leave hanging between them. Was he meant to lead? Thistle looked past Nove with a somewhat torn and troubled expression. Then, resolved, he sighed and dipped his head in a nod.

❝ Yeah, you're right. It'll be sundown soon. ❞ A civilian run-in meant no more hunting, no more detective work. Their well-being sort of took priority over everything else. ❝ C'mon then. ❞ He nodded in a beckoning gesture and turned, scrutinized the expanse of woods he'd come from and simply began to walk.

❝ Your thing just... showin' up in the deep-woods to freak folks out? On top of starin' at 'em? Where'd you even come in from? You seem a lil' underprepared for a hike is all. Y'know. No offense or nothin' meant. ❞

[southrnweed]

i like how thistle's musing sideblog goes from 'grief study. growing around grief. grief grief grief' 'trauma. etc' to shit like 'can i hunt u like a dog' and 'here's thistle's biceps i guess' and 'here is a picture of a tree'

[cav-core]

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.

[syring3]

I am in a really weird point in my life if U can't tell

[southrnweed]

a forest trail choked with fog before sunrise. (-Ingvar, if this is ok for me to send! Please feel free to delete it it is not)

There was something beautiful about nature in the crisp, early hours of the morning. It was peaceful and unsettling all at the same time. Liminal, he thought. A fog-ridden trail just before the sun began to touch at the horizon felt otherworldly and removed from the present reality.

Thistle bit down on his cigarette, pressed it between his lips as he hoisted himself up over a pair of fallen trees that had embraced there in the middle of the path. Once his feet touched down on the other side, he plucked it free and exhaled his plume of smoke.

He didn't often find himself in the heart of nature outside of work, but it wasn't completely beyond him. He was in fact capable of being sucked into the great outdoors just for the leisure of it all and not just because he was stomping after some monster or fuckass human monster parading around as one.

Truthfully, he hadn't a fucking idea where he was. But that was normal. When he let nature have at him, he tended to just let it sweep him along where it would and it typically spat him back out when he was either no longer welcomed or he had otherwise had his fill of it. It was just one of those quirky happenings that surrounded him that he neither acknowledged or put much thought into. But usually Thistle simply began to walk and ended up where the woods wanted him to be.

It was somewhere that hadn't seen the touch of modern man, that was for sure. No real discernable trails that would imply frequent footfalls of hikers, no markings or any real evidence of man at all. But it was peaceful enough and Thistle was more than happy to leave it just as it was.

The fog was thick, so much to the point that it made the trees even in the near distance look like shadowed shapes as if someone had stamped them there with ink. The moisture clung to his skin and chilled him in the early hours of the day. Thistle rounded a bend and stopped, his reaction delayed to the point he simply... stood there.

Something large. Something humanoid. Shrouded in fog but undoubtedly NOT a tree. The Southerner squinted, sniffed in a non committal way, and made a glance for his cigarette between his fingers as if trying to discern if he had somehow grabbed up something else, something a bit more wacky in substance. He drew in a breath and sighed, an action that screamed: 'Whelp. Alright. This is happening, I guess.'

❝ You real or nah? ❞ No one ever said Thistle was always the brightest flower in the field, but no one could say he didn't consider all angles, no one could ever say he wasn't a good problem-solver who attacked a situation immediately; he didn't often freeze, for better or worse. Whether this figure was hostile or not, it was there and there was a very small chance Thistle himself hadn't been noticed already. Seemed most logical to at least attempt the docile route if only to see if the option was at all on the table.

➛ RANDOM SETTINGS

[southrnweed]

a hiking trail where the signs stop making sense. (nove)

Thistle adjusted his pack, a clear sign that he hadn't come unprepared. Granted? He probably could have just hiked into the woods with a single granola bar and a dream and have made it out just fine.

At some point the trail had ended. Or, well, whatever present and active trail had. There were subtle signs that this had been a traversed trail at some point before it'd been closed off long enough for nature to begin to retake it. One of these less than subtle instances were the wooden signs that were stuck in the ground or nailed to a tree every so often.

They were nonsensical at this point. Faded and eroded, rotted or mossed over or brother and left to return to the forest floor. Thistle had stopped pausing at them at this point to squint and pretend he'd glean any useful information from them.

The Southerner had settled on a stump and produced his water bottle to draw a few hearty guzzles from. He had a map there in his pack but likely wouldn't bother consulting it. What he was looking for? It wasn't on any map.

Thistle wasn't exactly at ease in the woods, but he wasn't overly wound tight. The woods were as alive as anything else and you just had to watch yourself in them. He wasn't the superstitious type (ironic considering his occupation), but he was a bit of believer when it came to the forest and the general consensus to not fuck about in it in ways you weren't meant to.

A rustle nearby caught his focus and he hastily closed his water bottle and returned it to the pack, left it there and stood with his hand moving for the hunting blade there at his belt. When it was a familiar face that greeted him from the brush, he gave evident pause. Confusion graced his features first. Thistle searched for a name. Clove? No, but close. N...o-—

❝ Nove? The fuck are you doin' out here? ❞ He couldn't recall much about the guy or if he'd even gotten much about him in the first place. He was from the food joint he'd wandered into. With Malachi, right? Were they friends? Siblings? Hell, he couldn't remember right now.

The confusion shifted to concern, his brows furrowing. ❝ Are you-— hey, man. Y'really shouldn't be out here. S'where people have been vanishing to...❞

➛ RANDOM SETTINGS

[southrnweed]

The HC Where I give Thistle Plot Armor.

In general he is a silly character that seems to keep surviving the horrors despite not always wanting to. I will be upping the ante though and declaring that.... the woods just like him.

Thistle in his ADHD glory, knows little bits here and there because of fleeting interest and short-lived hobbies. So he knows how to shoot guns, he knows the bare bones of surviving in the forest, camping, etc. But he's not an expert by any means. He was never a wildlife hunter, he never went out of his way to be that deep into nature. And yet? He rarely gets lost in forests even if he had never been there before. He always just ends up finding the way out or finding what he was looking for. For as average of a woodsman as he is, he always seems to get by just fine on luck and good fortune alone.

I'm making it one of his passive Witchy traits that nature is just kind of more gentle with him because of his natural connection to it.