#tearborn

[genetiicism]

tearborn

Without a word, Jack cocked his shotgun and quickly finished the two men that were running towards the woman from behind, a couple of thumps sounded as their bodies hit the floor. “You’re welcome.”

[sanctamater]

                             “So, MISTER DEWITT, is there a woman in your life?”                                                     “There was... SHE DIED.”                                                                     “How?”                                                                “Giving birth.”                                                          “You have a CHILD?”                                                                       “No.”

[wouldyoukindlybekind]

I'd like to shout out tearborn if that's okay? I think she's such a good addition to the fandom and it makes me glad that she's stuck with it as long as she has. I know she cares about Elizabeth and doing the character justice, as well as just overall being a really kind person that I'm glad to call a friend. She's worth the follow, and I just believe that she's a very fair person that definitely deserves all the credit she gets plus more.

[sanctamater]

A burst of laughter and giggling filled the room, as did the pitter-patter of tiny feet. The girl's bright blue eyes searched wildly for her dear mother, soon coming to greet her with the widest of smiles. Dashing to the woman, Anna wrapped her tiny hands around Amelia's legs, and pressed her face against them.

  Ghosts were commonplace in the DeWitt household. Phantom laughter in the ballroom, the clink of crystal glasses and silhouettes of those who decorated halls only in portraits. The Missus DeWitt was certainly the spirit held in the highest regard; always flitting in and out, always seen rounding corners and spoken of in whispers. Many thought the former Whore of New York to be FRIGID; a mess of bones and taught skin that had had all the love scraped out of her until she had become HOLLOW: a place that fostered winter until her very heart ceased to beat. Though the world had stretched her thin (a canvas made for cruel brush; a woman who cracked iron between her teeth until she forged herself in the smith’s flames), there existed a few small rays of light; blessings that made ink-stained hands tremble and rusted smile grace visage with agonizing movements. Looking back upon her own poor choices, ne’er had she thought marriage to be in her future, yet she had walked down the aisle in a gown of WHITE; a wreathe of dried flowers in her hair and radiant beam upon lips. Motherhood only seemed to be a natural step forwards, and little Anna had come along one hot summer’s day with much grief. Little Anna with her mother’s pretty blue eyes, little Anna who had been named for the late Missus Todd, who had passed ten years prior. Never had a more perfect child been given to any union; the little dear hardly ever cried!  So enamoured of the little girl was her mother, that the Missus DeWitt had sworn to keep her daughter safe in ways her own mother had not been able to. No wolves would pick her apart, no men would take, and take, and TAKE until she had nothing left to give! Both parents had known much sorrow in their lives; it weighed upon shoulders as though it were the world, threatening to buckle under the sheer mass of BURDEN. Mister DeWitt did not tell war stories, Missus DeWitt did not speak of her men. If one truly loved another, tales of darkened nights and crawling shadows were not pried from jaw; nor were they bestowed upon a child who knew nothing of how cruel the world was. They might shield her from matters, but to tell the girl life was a SONG would be cruelty in itself. When she was older and questioned the world, they would answer with truth ringing in their speech; no more or less.  Despite sporadic presence in the house (Always coming and going with the chiming of clock; papers in hand and scowl present), the Missus DeWitt loved little Anna; a girl who rather seemed to be after her heart. Armed with a ZEAL for life, an untameable wildness that lurked in mischievous grin, the thud of feet clad in patent leather as she tore through the halls; hair knotted and linen stained with grass. Unlike her mother, she was not content to sit in factory by desk; choosing to pester the poor Missus DeWitt with an endless stream of questions (Mama, mama, what’s that? Mama, where’d ya get that? Mama, what’re they makin’?) as impish face was pressed to glass. Such a precocious child made frigid glare and deep scowl difficult to maintain in front of potential clients. Missus DeWitt was not known for gentle smile or warm expression (it was rumoured the woman’s left hook was something else!); nor was she known for tenderness. Clients were to be intimidated; for a woman such as her faced much scrutiny! Not even her husband could break that stance before other LIONS OF INDUSTRY, but Anna could.                                                     Only Anna, always Anna.  It had not been her intention to become too busy to set foot in the home for hours of play with dearest daughter, yet it seemed as though Missus DeWitt was only able glimpse the girl who smelt of sunshine at dinners or when she lay in bed, tucked in by father’s calloused hands.   Mercifully, she had come home early; mountains of files and their papers stacked most precariously in arms. Obscuring vision, she had hoped to enter study quietly and set files down before husband and child came to greet her; yet at the triumphant thumping of tiny feet, she froze. For briefest of moments did she hope for a servant to approach; yet footfalls were light and bright laughter resounded, heralding Anna’s approach as she careened towards her mother with no intent of stopping. The collision was quick; a shriek coming from the frazzled tycoon as she jolted backwards; the mere force of the girl who was far stronger than she appeared to be threatening to send dearest mother flying. Instead, the stack of papers wobbled, fell out of arms as the Missus DeWitt was sent reeling. Like snow did papers and folders fall, surrounding mother and child in what ought to have been a most serene painting in a blizzard of sheets.  Surveying the mess, Missus DeWitt found herself frozen; jaw slack and mouth hanging open. Papers had fallen to the floor, landed on chairs; and oblivious to it all was little Anna, who had pressed face into absent mother’s skirts. A proper woman might have admonished the girl for causing such a mess (One that would take hours to sort through!); the Missus DeWitt was neither prim nor lax; a rather happy medium that leaned towards the latter at times.   Wobbling, she stooped; careworn smile upon lips as she kissed her daughter’s pretty little head. Flowers, sweets; she was such a dear thing. Carefully did she disentangle legs from embrace, instead wrapping arms around the girl so that she might be pulled to breast.  “Did you miss me?” She murmured, nose pressed to the crown of Anna’s head. There came a nod from dearest daughter; now gathered in arms as the Missus DeWitt stood, thoughts far beyond the mess she would clean up later. “I know I missed you.” A kiss was planted to freckled cheek, light and fleeting as she manoeuvred through sea of files. “What did you do today, dove? Did you drive your papa mad? I bet you did, clever girl.”                                       After all, did she not take after her mother?

[nottxbe-blog]

↕

peacable​ said: ↕ — a memory that may or may not have happened !tearborn​ said:↕

     They find him in the gardens in a bramble of thorns and ivy. Though he’s one hundred yards from the castle, he wasn’t hard to find — just follow the trail he carved into the wood, tile and snow with his ten greats grandfather’s sword dragging at his side. (The queen won’t be happy to hear he’s marred the floors she just had refurbished and repolished, but all things can be replaced; even chestnut and opal’d marble.)

     To be fair, they don’t actually find him until they see a wedge of blood in the snow, pressed into the impression of the prince’s handprint. They pull back the dying vegetation and, lo, there he is: all scratched up and freezing cold, his head tilted back towards the sky and uninjured but nearly frostbitten hand locked around the hilt of the near ancient arming sword. When he was young — younger than he is now — he was proneto sleeplessness and witching hour explorations, but none quite so destructive. At least when he was young, no blood was spilt. In his bleeding hand he clutches a rosary, which comes to his colourless lips several times in succession. A few feet off lays the carcass of a snow hare, bright red and hacked to pieces.

     They had heard rumour their prince, Denmark’s pride and joy, had gone mad, but hearing and seeing it are two entirely different things. He wipes blood across his mouth, all at once begins to weep. It’s a haunting sound like desperation and broken glass. He hurls the rosary to the ground and presses the heel of his palm to his right temple, spits through hiccups and sobs, “You’ll see me damned to see you saved?” The staff exchange identical looks of surprise and distress — it seems no one knows how they ought to deal with this.

     So they get him to his feet and bring him back indoors, wrestle the weapon from his hand and bandage the quarter inch deep wound, confining him to his quarters for the rest of the night. He sounds like human misery, all that yowling and scratching at his bedroom’s door. The sword is cleaned of both his and the hare’s blood and set back in the shield he drew it from. The books wrought from their shelves in the library are tucked carefully in their appropriate places. He pounds on his door and moans, “please, please, let me out” and the staff go on, rubbing walnuts into scratches and pretending they don’t hear.

[mahkittens]

tearborn:

    It was true that Elizabeth struggled to keep up with Cohen’s outlandish expectations, but she certainly didn’t need any of his minions breathing down her neck as well. Silas did a rather poor job at attempting to rattle her chains in her mind, though deep down she knew there was no way she could let herself lose her position here. So the woman would just have to deal with it.

 “Oh, bite me you troll.”

Cigarette smoke escapes through his nostrils with a low, humorless chuckle. Boy, what he’d give to singe the smug look right off her pretty painted face. The urge nags a little more with every incessant click of her pointed heels against the shoppe floor. They remind him just how feminine she is, or how unsavory she oughta have been to Cohen’s tastes. 

“C’mon now, songbird,” He tsks as he flicks his ashes to the ground,  “That ain’t very lady like.”

[bogisms-blog]

tearborn liked for a starter

“Well now...” Purred the monster that slunk out of the darkness onto all hands and feet. His body was a gelatinous ooze that shifted along the ceiling as he made his way to the young woman who had made a point to prick the interest of the Bogeyman.

      “What sort of lamb are you?”           He purred as he focused to the woman.           She was certainly an odd one, wasn’t she?

              “Hardly seems the place for a beauty                like yourself.”

[saintlevine]

tearborn

 ok. it's time to know the truth. who's your...

ok but who’s second

“Tasha Denu”