#morrigan.

[kitt-azer]

you got married and didn’t even invite me?

— @morloveslili 🍷

Hello, Mor. I checked the invited, I did invite you. I got married and you didn’t even show up?

[courtfallen]

seer morrigan : you see a darkened cave with two figures, red eyes piercing into your soul and bidding you to run, and the promise of danger to come

𝔱𝔴𝔬 𝔭𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔬𝔫 streak towards you, sundering your view of the dusk court's wildwood, and strike like flung arrows — one at the center of your forehead where your third eye blinks open, one at the center of your chest where your heart wrenches. as with all your nightmarish visions, you are transported elsewhere whether you like it or not, dragged and deposited onto foreign shores. you are a ghost, a suspended soul dangling above a scene unfolding. only this time, the red-eyed souls that haunt the cave below look through the trappings of their world and into you. they see you.

their wordless message echoes around you, wings of broken birds, crooked rills, death rattles —

// d a n g e r . . . danger! ... R U N .

you are panting when you wake, your heart thundering. wavering hands grip at your chest where fear spreads like an eldritch poison. ink pluming in a well. you feel broken apart, eyes all around you, whispers trailing into the recesses of your mind.

. . . there's no where to run.

[courtfallen]

— closed starter for @vivianvaldemar // 𝖋𝖚𝖑𝖑 𝖈𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖑𝖊! ( vivian & morrigan — dawn, along the oceanside. )

𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰, it was decidedly incomplete. forged anew with gold lining the cracks of the fractured mortal she had been — gold when she preferred the grit of earth, the lichens on the sill, moss and fern at the edges of her world. she had been unmade, and reborn as something she did not recognize, something graceful, undying. but she clung to the edges of that eternal casket into which they'd forced her, a mouth full of loam and curses, and it had crossed to the other shore with her. that feral, clawing energy of her first becoming. no matter the centuries fate planned to put between her and that bloody origin, she would never let go of it.

the ocean is cold and calling to her, and so she walks at first light, leather boots caked in wet sand. she had once moved so soundless through the world, desperate to survive, but there is a new presence in her now. a beast waking, shaking its hackles, and sprawling out under the morning sun — aching to be seen. on this white shore, she does not expect the black figure looming alongside the seafoam. the thread that had been pulling her along suddenly snaps taut.

her blood is my blood.

the words echo in her mind, and her approach is quicker now. when she's a stone's throw away from the woman, she stops, eyes searching, heart thrumming.

❝ i know you, ❞ somehow. a slave to her own truth, the words topple out and skitter across the glistening sand. the seer's intuition is a searing thing, a blade she wields without knowing how. ❝ i have seen you in dreams, even before i could really see. ❞

[courtfallen]

— closed starter for @lichtundschattens // 𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝖔𝖚𝖙! ( viego & morrigan — an overgrown balcony in a dusty wing of the dusk court palace. high gloaming. )

𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔰, flesh-rot and bone, earth-sink and hollows, down she goes — the seer feels the flutters at the peripheral of her vision first, then all she sees tunnels out before her, a long, unending corridor, and sharp bells ring continuous in her ears. these are the symptoms, the sign-posts, for her visions. her soul is tethered to her corporeal cage as she seeks distance from the world, a pocket in her surroundings where she can drift, float, detach, undetected. by the time the world has been obliterated by the rush that overcomes her, she's fallen to her knees on the cold, biting stone of the forgotten balcony — the dying vines that surround it and strangle the balustrade create the perfect frame for her: stars twinkling, a waxing moon, hues of bruise-purple and mycena-orange. she's alone, safe, thicketed away where no one might see.

she leaves her body on this little ledge of a great, ivory monstrosity ( and, for once, she's happy to leave ) — and high above, she sees the silvery shapes of dragons gliding through a sea of grey clouds. but what comes next is perilous d e s c e n t. she feels it, a churning pull from the center of her formless self, drawing her downward to the abyss of a spiraling gyre. the voices that come are shredded shrieks; they know the name of terror, the cloak of death, and the songs of devils. one by one, she's greeted by these entities — calm, inviting hosts, but forces of ancient, terrible nature. the ones that twist and wrench until the belly of the cauldron cracks and life spills out. a silvery tincture, a lifestream, a rill of broken dreams.

from it, she must drink to survive. she is handed a chalice filled to the brim, coaxed to throw her head back, and guzzle down its contents. she tastes iron and ash, pomegranate and rutabega, and from inside, it burns her away, memories and scars and all, until there is nothing left. she's screaming, still, somehow. and she hears it — hears the sound of her own voice ripping through the veil from all sides. from the nebulous smoke that surrounds her, a path erupts. a spiraling staircase ascends, steps of smooth bone and sparking carapace — but it spirals out forever. how long must she follow until she's free?

another's voice syncopates musically with her ragged scream. it's beautiful, and strange, but somehow familiar, dancing out there past the shrouds of her madness.

and she knows she's not alone.

[courtfallen]

𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔞𝔫 𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔞 𝔳𝔞𝔩𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔯 // intro.

‘ amber midthunder, cisfemale, she/her, 26 / 34 , cauldron made high fae / seer ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems MORRIGAN LITHA VALDEMAR has been teleported to the dusk court, the OWNER OF THE POULTICE & PELT  from AUTUMN COURT is said to be INGENUITIVE and is said to describe themselves with THE CLATTER OF DRY BRANCHES IN THE WIND, THE SWEET SMELL OF ROT AND FERTILE EARTH, SEARING VISIONS AND HAUNTED EYES THAT SEE THROUGH THE FABRIC OF SPACE & TIME, FOREVER SCARS REFUSING TO HEAL IN THE CAULDRON’S WOMB and with all of this in mind their SPITEFUL nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time.

general details;

ꜰᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: morrigan litha valdemar ɴɪᴄᴋɴᴀᴍᴇ(ꜱ): gnosis ( by the cauldron ), mor, litha ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ: morrigan (fem) meaning ‘a woman forming from a murder of crows’ / litha meaning ‘summer’ ᴀɢᴇ: 26 / 34 ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ: jul 08 (cancer sun, aries moon, capricorn rising) ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ: mortal realm, just below the wall ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴇꜱ: cauldron-made high fae & seer ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ: cisfemale ᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴꜱ: she/her ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: demisexual (likely to prefer women) ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: demiromantic (likely to prefer women) ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ: unattached ᴏᴄᴄᴜᴘᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: owner of poultice & pelt, a cottage shop where she lives and sells her wares. she focuses on dried fruit and jerky, leatherworking, pelts, poultices and poisons, as well as mushrooms and plants she forages with medicinal (or more sinister) purposes. ᴇᴅᴜᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: unorthodox education in a naturalistic setting / exiled from her broke family at a young age — she learned survival techniques, leatherworking, hunting, and foraging, and made her living as a rumored hedgewitch before she was stolen away and cauldron-made.

physical appearance, etc.;

ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄᴄᴇɴᴛ: bright tone that carries, though edged with rasp after a long day ꜰᴀᴄᴇᴄʟᴀɪᴍ: amber midthunder. ʜᴀɪʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: dark ash brown, almost black. worn long and knife-cut at the ends, sometimes piled atop her head in a mass of matts and plaits. ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ: dark brown, almost black. ᴇʏᴇꜱɪɢʜᴛ: fae-perfect. ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛ: 5’7” ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ: 135lbs ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ: lean & mischievously muscled like a doe. ᴛᴀᴛᴛᴏᴏꜱ: red dots under her eyes and a red crescent moon on her forehead. red tribal tattoos & some scarification across her body. ᴄʟᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ: often wears comfortable linen robes that allow for easy movement as well as well-made but worn leathers. often appears disheveled, smudged with earth and woad. ᴅɪꜱᴛɪɴɢᴜɪꜱʜɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀɪꜱᴛɪᴄꜱ: tattoos. ꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ: sage & earth.

personality;

ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛꜱ: resourceful, clever, energetic, perceptive, independent, affectionate, sensitive, nurturing ɴᴇɢᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪᴛꜱ: impatient, spiteful, trickster-vibes, spontaneous, wiley, challenging, haunted, elusive, cagey, a bit morbid ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ: stargazing, hunting, foraging, riddles, dreaming, building fires, cooking, archery, knives, plants and animals, intelligent and clever individuals she can learn from, leatherworking, crafting, brewing ᴅɪꜱʟɪᴋᴇꜱ: boring situations, being indoors, low energy, unbased arrogance, having to change herself for others, being tricked or condescended to ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ: losing her freedoms, being suffocated ᴍᴏʀᴀʟ ᴀʟɪɢɴᴍᴇɴᴛ: somewhere between chaotic neutral and lawful evil? if possible ??? ᴇʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ: earth ʙᴇᴠᴇʀᴀɢᴇ: herbals teas, ciders ꜰᴏᴏᴅ: berries and jerky, rabbit stew, root vegetables

headcanons and/or backstory; — tw:

— you were born in the dirt, to a broken family, cursed by its ties to the trickster faes that hunt the mortal realm for prey. a thousand ravens sweeping plague your mind, cloud your skies, hound your sleep. your family cannot contain you, understand you, and you do not fit into their neat, black coffins that border the edges of their empty lives. so when your legs are able, you run, exile yourself. are borne anew under a mother-moon that bathes you in cool blue, purifies you in nature.

— your short little life is a brave one, defined by the dire need to survive. hunting comes naturally to you, for you are clever and know how to spin a web, build a trap. and the woods that go beyond the wall call to you — there are magical things there, things the mortal realm wants but prove too weak in spirit to obtain. so you forage beyond the wall. you are called hedgewitch for the poultices and poisons you make, for the hides you cure, the pelts you thread together with jute and determination. you live among nature, sheltered by a cottage bored into the belly of a great, fallen tree. they know the trail of broken twigs and the star of curling smoke to follow when they need to find you, when only your know-how keeps their bellies fed, their hides clothed, and their ailments at bay.

— when you grow older, your arrogance draws you deeper into the autumn court. it's your aim to trap a fae, to make a bargain to cure the sickness growing in the woodlands you call home, to gain the power necessary to blight your enemies and empower your allies. to become the witch of legend you long to be. but your boldness is no match for a the wit of centuries-old fae, a creature of the ancient earth. you put up a strong fight, but into the cauldron you go.

— inside, the darkness and power is suffocating, but you breathe it into your lungs with every scream and it settles, deeper, dragging you with it. for a moment, you are at peace with this new, nebulous existence, but it is torn apart as cruelly as it is given. so, you wish to be a witch? then so you shall be — cursed with visions, bound by the strings of fate, immortalized, changed, reborn, sundered. you are called gnosis by the cauldron's voiceless whispers.

— the universe is hostile, this is a truth you know, and it is that spirit that possesses you, now. some might call you evil, but you simply embody the essence of nature, as you always have. it serves a purpose beyond understanding. it is hostile and cruel, blooming and resurgent. lapping at the edges of your new becoming are the thorns of spite that you dragged with you — the hatred for the loss of your self and the transfiguration wrought upon you. you serve a mother who never once touched your fevered brow with a cool cloth, who never once sang your to sleep — and yet you hear her singing through the reeds, cooing, shaping you, undoing you.

— you tend your shop, plot your revenge, and try to own this new existence, but the thorns that hold you snag too often, drag you back to the mortal woman you used to be. will you ever be free from the visions that haunt your dreams and waking hours? what calling is this? what new beginning? that lost little witch is gone forever now.

[xbornhungry]

Ellis & Morrigan vibes

[miju-khan]

Miju spends more time at the graveyard than he'd care to admit. He is, as consequence, quite familiar with its comings and goings. The shift patterns of the staff, for example. "Cutting it a little fine, aren't you?" he asks as the gravedigger makes his way in. Cutting it fine, or even late. Miju barely looks up from his sketchbook, where he has filled a page with small, detailed drawings of an old man. He didn't need to comment; Miju just likes to tease, and he's noticed this gravedigger is extremely teasable. @morriganxshaw

[billie-brogan]

"Are you gonna finish that? Thanks." This is how breakfast usually goes in their little shared home. Billie prepares the breakfast, she puts more on Morrigan's plate than his little fairy appetite is ever going to manage, and then she steals some for herself. Only easily measurable foods, though: a slice of bread, which she's already noted down in her notebook because she planned this all along. "Soo, spotted any talent yet? Or is everyone in the grave digging industry, like... dead?"

She's Morrigan's biggest cheerleader, and she's totally rooting for him to find a cute Ozzie boyfriend here. Fresh starts and all! It's just a pity he got assigned to a job with so many corpses. @morriganxshaw