#jackory

[frie-ice]

This crossover ship between Gregory Sackvillebagg of The Little Vampire 3D and Jack Frost of Rise of the Guardians was created by @candycat17, after seeing their edits on the two I got inspired to make a collage on Jagory.

Jagory has also been called Jackory.

[lafflanes]

And now, for Jillian Vermillion's next trick...

long overdue redraw of this!

version w/o overlays under the cut

[lafflanes]

wow jillian thats a cool saw you got right there!

(version without overlays under the cut)

[isroryshaw-blog]

The Wolves Will Roam On. || Self-Para

Crisp winter air nipped at his flesh and hung from his lobes like an ornament. His warm breath crystallised as he expelled it, the contrast of temperature and the smoke that clouded it buffeted from chapped lips. It turned over and over itself as it rose into the winter sky. Grey on white, both just as condensed. Misty hazel-grey eyes followed its rise and watched from a detached perspective as the very oxygen they breathed pulled the smoke apart, disintegrating it in its purity.

"This is it, El Patchio. Standin' on the edge, waitin' to see where fate guides us." Rory's eyes slid from the sky above them to fall his companion. No, more than that. His blood brother. Jack was the other half of his soul, the dance to his rhythm, the punch to his joke. They were in this together. They always had been and they always would be. Shoulder to shoulder running on the rooftops of this wasteland they'd made their own; god's unwanted children living life to its fullest. They took the platter that had been roughly handed to them and they savoured every bite. "They'll call us insane, ol'boy," Jack stated, ruffling the front of Rory's hair before gazing meaningfully off into the distance.

A smirk tugged at Rory's features as his eyes scanned over Jack's elfish ones and he nodded, letting out a long sigh he didn't realise he'd been holding in. "I think that people like us, Pyro, people that know we could destroy ourselves but choose not to, I think we're the sane ones." He glanced back down at the roof of the building under his feet and at the city beneath them. The dusty haired teen cast off his finished fag butt to the pavement far below with a flick of his tobacco stained fingers. "We're the sane ones, Jackie boy. 'Cause we believe in our own power."

It was their power to be free of torment and to live without restrictions. To live without the hindrance of the little social constructions that were long dead and infected and that plagued all the people fighting below them. They believed in their own power to leave a Falling City and have no regrets. This city was no refuge. It was a cage. A cattle pen that the Undead stalked the fences of. For Jack and Rory it had been a stop in the road, a stepping stone to greater things, and now it was their time to move on.

The boys were travellers. Gypsies on the road without a home because each other were all the comfort they needed.

The things you own end up owning you - his Granny's words. They were words that had stuck with him and were sketched across his heart. He and Jack, they weren't owned by anything but the skin on their bones and they certainly wouldn't be owned by a City doomed to Fall. The only force that could restrict them was death and they were good acquaintances. Death and Rory had flirted on occasion. Witty lines thrown back and forth as Rory bartered his way out of his grip to dance back to Jack's side time and time again.

The lad's would take to the long road that weaved across the wasteland they called Earth. They'd take to it and see where it led them. There was no destination in mind. The dead would not stop them - the boys were faster - and they were going to see as many corners of their wasteland as they could. Maybe they'd even find a pot of gold at the end of it; dusty and rusted in its apocalyptic cauldron, but gold nonetheless.

Rory noted movement to his side and it was Pyro stubbing out his cigarette to then hold out a hand to him. "Together, laddie?" A twinkle in his eye. The sweet glint of adventure. Jack's chemical burn scar was exposed to the day light like a trophy of their freedom. They had hit the bottom and now they could truly fly like their wings had never been clipped. They'd sunk so deep together that the height of the building in which they stood on was nothing but a small dip.

A reciprocating grin etched onto Rory's cheeky countenance and he took his hand, their burn scars proudly adorning the backs in unison. They could do anything.

"Together, mate," Rory confirmed. With that the two jumped. They slid through the air. Two trapeze artists long rehearsed, two parkour athletes long trained. Seemingly last minute they released each other's grip to catch their lives on a lower building. The synchronised tuck and roll onto the flat roof adding mud and dust to their already dishevelled appearances.

Everything comes from dirt. It's dirt that defined them and from which all things grow; and grow they did. Rolling onto their feet they ran.

Two wolf boys with the breeze in their unruly locks and the elements battering shamelessly at their well weathered skin ran from Fall City; the mark of dirt upon their skin.

[isroryshaw-blog]

Wolf Pack 2.0 Headcanons

Motto #1: If you can’t face the wolves, don’t go into the forest. Motto #2: Carpe that diem, bitches. #YOLO

A notorious group of tearaway boys originating in Hackney, London - a shit hole, worse than even Essex which is a literal shit hole - to relocate Los Angeles, the City of Angels.

Jack: "Mate, we're goin' Los Angeles, the City Of Angels"

Rory: "We're ain't goin' no city, bro. We're goin' to Heaven."

Jack: “You’re preachin’ to the choir, brother.”

Rory: “Innit.”

Known for their rambunctious behavior, the #lads give off the vibe of being loud, reckless and out of control. Engaging in rituals such as ululation, chanting, fire dancing, top banter and Cheeky Nando’s the tribe inhabit one of the city’s only standing Cathedral. Cathedral, mate, ain’t no petty church. During celebrations, dressing in the hides of animals is custom for the gang, as is war paint. Music is often created around the campfires in the Cathedral by drums made by Yamaha. They are mostly nocturnal, coming alive at night, and prefer to navigate by the rooftops rather than the streets - parkour, motherfuckers. The pack isn’t just a group of lost boys, it’s a brotherhood. The boys are not known by their birth-name, but by a nickname or pseudonym worthy of banter. Punishment within the tribe is human sacrifice to the gods.

The Wolf Pack refer to their jeep hidden outside the City as ‘the Den.’ Sometimes it is nicknamed ‘Denny’s’.

The Cathedral is known to them as ‘Big Wayne’.

Initiation is done by chemical burn from lye, used in soap production, because Jack and Rory make dynamite out of soap. The chemical burn is the most intense pain you can ever experience, victims are literally begging for mercy. The reason for this? The Wolf Pack believe in carpe diem, and it’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything (Chuck Palahniuk). Basically you can’t #yolo until you’ve hit rock bottom. Once you’ve hit bottom you know whatever happens it can’t get worse than that. Then you can truly live fearlessly and do whatever you like which is very important to the Pack - they love their freedom and ability to express themselves.

The Wolf Pack are incredibly musical. Most, if not all, of them can play an instrument of a wide range. Examples are pan flutes, thumb pianos, bongo drums, rain shakers, treebone xylophones, jimbe drums, maracas, steel pans, whistle, the triangle.

Coloured (brown, white, orange, black) paint made from a mixture of mud and water based dyes is used on the faces or to paint symbols on the body during celebrations. On celebrations the Pack only wear their trousers and fur on their back - click here for inspiration :). Every full moon the Pack have a festival where they dance around the campfire playing their instruments and ululating and wearing their tribal paint and furs being all badass and crazy and having fun. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaay.

The smoking of marijuana is common. Why not be spiritually high while high on life?

Each member of the Pack has a tattoo of a wolf’s head on the left side of their chest above their heart. This wolf head can be individual to the person but in essence they are all similar and run with the wolves.

When a pack member dies they mourn the death by gathering around a fire, cutting out a lock of their own hair and throwing it into the flames. They sing haunting songs as the locks of hair burn and the smoke rises into the sky.

Sir Toby Belch (the German Shepherd dog) is their mascot.

[pyromanijack-blog]

Children of The Wild Ones;           ( Jackory)

            The jaded sun was sinking to it’s slumber below the rooftops, a sheen of indigo draped across the sky as nightfall fell on Fall City. Rain, with heavy feet and gleeful stomps, beat down on the troublemaker’s back as he hurried home, a bottle off drain cleaner under one arm, and a crow-bar clutched in the other. His red military jacket, however, did much to keep the cold out, the material worn and darned, patched like a quilt across the elbows, the veteran medals still pinned to the front despite the lad having never fought a war, unless he regarded the spiritual war of his own philosophy. 

              The old petrol garage had been left unlocked when he had raided it moments previous, meaning that Jack hadn’t had to smash his way in. Part of him had been disappointed, yet the rascal of a boy had still managed to salvage the items he sought and escape before the ardent moon had fully risen. This was young Jackie’s favourite time, for night was when wolves came out to play. His breath heaved as at last as his footsteps sounded against the stone steps of the abandoned church, the haunting sound of the organ playing from within it’s crumbling walls -- Rory was home.

            Jack’s impish smirk only brightened as he heaved his weight against the hefty oak door, a shiver running down his spine at the bitter cold of the chapel. Unruly, damp locks lay plastered to his forehead with rainwater, moonlight glinting off the stray tufts, the jovial whistle of Colonel Bogey March sounding from his pursed lips as he began to parade the aisle of broken benches. Ruins littered the floors. A strip of graffiti down one of the few remaining pillars read ‘God is dead’. Shattered panes in the stained glass window above spilled faint shimmers of the light of the moon across the tiles in narrow beams. It was a haunting place, yet hauntingly beautiful, which was what had endeared Jack and Rory to it as a base camp. They were attracted to the unconventionally beautiful, the diamonds in the rough, the artistic anarchy of life. The abandoned church -- once beautiful, once worshipped, now little more than a seeding ground for squatters and rogue plants -- ticked all of those boxes, a homeground for God’s unwanted children.

              The goat had already been caught, killed, and bagged for it’s freshness earlier that day. It was dirty work, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and Jack would be killing a hell of a lot more than one goat if he wanted to escape the apocalypse alive. Everyone had blood on their hands and skeletons in their closet when they lived under Death’s watchful eye. Calloused hands clasped around the bagged meat, spilling it’s fatty contents into the tabernacle, his nose wincing at the smell as he slung the lye down on the altar along side a bottle of fertilizer, a tub of saltpepper, and sawdust. It was an odd assortment of items -- the most unconventional of communions for the altar to witness -- but then Jack’s line of work was no ordinary business. 

              The flick of a match and flash of a grin saw the billowing smoke a flame rise up on the wick of the candle beneath the tabernacle, heating the sacred box up, the breast of the sacrificial goat simmering inside. Still the ominous sound of the organ continued -- had Jack believed in ghost stories, he may have started to wonder if it was Rory at all, or a ghoul that struck the keys. There were rumours of the church’s haunting, after all. Hell was empty, and all the devils were here. “Honey, where is my super suit?” The pyromaniac called up to the choir pit above him, his nose pinched between his fingers to extinguish the smell of the meat from his nostrils, the other hand resting lackadaisically against his hip. Then, in his best impression of the Queen’s English, the troublemaker hollered up at the balcony, “I say! Magaret, my darling, get that cute little arse of yours down these stairs and give us a good old romping before the children get home! Tally ho!”

[docwhal]

Theses are my best references for Jackory!  In the second he is wearing a button up but thats not normal.  He wears a tee shirt :D

do-you-want-a-second-opinion , if you have any questions, feel free to ask!! :D

jack is a nerd.  a nervous meem

[roryshaw-blog]

Moodboard for Jackory