#wolfcarved

[mxdam-a]

what does your character metaphorically represent to you? what is their symbolic value as it pertains to you as a writer? [she's not an oc but w/e, i like dis]

this probably crosses the line into the allegory question as much as anything tbh… but margarethe for me is definitely a representation of the unexamined life, specifically that led by women in certain claustrophobic spaces within patriarchy. i mean unexamined both in the internal (she does not examine it) and external (other people don’t care to examine it) way. she is not given the tools by her culture/society to understand herself and her culture/society is not interested in understanding her. both viewpoints seek to pin her into extremely narrow roles devoid of nuance (Wife/Mother/Antagonist) when really those parts can’t contain her. if she’s symbolic of anything she’s symbolic of the pain and the danger generated by trapping women into traumatizing positions of subjection and otherness, even those that are seemingly privileged.

detailed writer prompts. :: @wolfcarved.

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synthmama replied to your post: Seven Minutes. ;)

what the fuck you two

i’m just as shocked as you are. -- could’ve sworn she’d go with paper.

[fragilevanity]

@wolfcarved // Idek what this is.

❛--- All the better to eat ❜ Regina purrs, quoting an old fabled tale told many a times to her during her youth. She had pressed her ears outward, widened her eyes and bared small teeth to those wearing red thereafter, enamoured was she with the idea of a wolf being so STRONG. She herself had built everything in her kingdom around the idea of being a wolf; someone strong enough to devour sheep and make ridiculous riddles whilst doing it.

Pressing herself against the body of the very same myth, Regina manages to trap the girl against the cold stone wall and her lustrous heat that rolls off her in waves. This isn’t so much about wanting to feel something--- oh no, she has many, many men and women ready to lick her boots at her say so--- this is about power and a heady level of control that has her drag crimson painted lips along a cheek, hands dancing along thin cloth, unable to decide where to settle.

❛ Is that the way it goes? Or have I been fed lies my entire life? ❜

[indxstress-a]

                                 IN THIS NEW ERA IT HAD BECOME THAT MUCH   harder  to  tell  the  men  from  the  MONSTERS.      (   Particularly  on  the  occasions  when  they  were  both.   )        A  smile  then,  for  this  woman-monster  she’s  come  a-seeking  as  she  slides  in  at  the  bar.         ❝  My, what big teeth you have. ❞

@wolfcarved | ♥’d —— STARTER CALL

[gospelgraved-a-blog]

The Twice Haunted Wood

ONCE UPON A TIME... (with @wolfcarved )

There was a small dark-haired woman who lived by the village cemetery. Lived -- past tense. For after the HARVEST, it was her name drawn by the clergy. The wood on the edge of the village consumed one woman every few years, ranging from small children to middle-aged mothers. 

For there was a great evil in the shape of a wolf that hunted and ate, and if provided for protected their small home from far worse horrors. What they might be Clarke never guessed. 

ALL THE SAME, that night after the festival she said her few goodbyes and walked alone into the wood. Unarmed, uncloaked. Sent off to die. 

She had no intention of dying. And had long suspected it was her name next on the list. For the last woman taken had been her mother. So half a mile into the wood, just out of sight, she turned off the path and gathered the supplies she’d hidden in an old hollow oak. A warm cloak, food, a bow for hunting. Her herbs and bandages. Her great aunt’s sextant.

And naturally, a book to record her thoughts and music in. 

She wasn’t above CHEATING. 

Clarke sang softly to herself as she forged ahead through brambles and ferns, watching for the rising north star so she might begin to calculate a path to the town on the other side of the wood. 

Only... after only an hour or two the temperature dropped. Fog began to roll heavily across the ground. The cry of wolves -- so distant from her cottage -- seemed much closer now. 

“Well this is unfortunate,” she said. Remarkably calm. Clarke drew her bow with her heart pounding in her throat. There was no sense in trying to outrun a wolf. No sense in taking one on with a bow either. But she wasn’t about to curl up and die. 

“So help me I will not DIE on my first night!”

[brokenragdoll]

continued from here with @wolfcarved.

WELL, THERE’S A QUESTION. She supposes everyone comes here looking for something. To lose themselves; to find themselves; enjoy or destroy themselves — Sally seems to have the answer to every desire. Her face glows, a bright lamp, expectant: anticipates some kind of confession. No one comes here because they are happy.

Elle supposes she’s no exception.

❛ What do you offer? ❜ She’s coy, or she tries to be. This place unsettles her; DEATH rattles in the stairwells and broods in the rafters. She recognises something  too familiar in the shallow graves of Sally’s eyes. ❛ I find myself pining for a good conversation. They’re so hard to come by. ❜ She is lonely. But that is less glamorous; less palatable. Harder to say with a smile.

a good conversation —- now that she could do. tendrils of smoke escaped her mouth, and sally swiveled on the bar stool to stare at the woman’s lips. wide-eyed, a yellowed filter captured between her teeth as she tapped her nails on the counter; counting seconds, searching for the right words to say. it wasn’t often that people approached her so willingly, the track marks she wore like a second skin a clear warning for guests to look the other way. loneliness awaited her at night, and the rag-doll didn’t try to hide the liquored up smile that touched at her mouth next.

❝ and what do you say we should talk about, hm? art, women —- ❞ her glance remained focused, silver teardrops falling from her black matted lashes once she blinked them away. ❝ —- murder? ❞ a deep, stifled chuckle followed the addict’s favorite word. her eyes flicked away from hers, searching for the bottle sitting by an empty glass. ❝ trust me, honey. you don’t wanna do this with me. ❞

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          ●▬▬▬▬๑۩  WOLFCARVED  ۩๑▬▬▬▬▬●

   ♫   there were two lofty ships          from old england came                       blow high, blow low                                      and so sail we                                            one was the prince of luther                                            the other prince of wales                                            all a-cruisin' down the coast

                                           OF HIGH BARBARY!     ♫

     the man-o-war bobs lazily against the tide behind the the segugio, & the rallying cry of the pirate crew as they celebrate their recent spoil of war echoes over the deceptively calm waters.    torches light the deck, coupled with the PALE GLOW of the moon as it hangs low in the sky but the men are in high spirits, with full bellies & full tankards.    it’s a fine day to capture a ship for it’s worth, but vermillion-hued irises flicker to the floating debris that remains of the man-o-war’s sister ship.   A SHAME to lose her to davy jones’ locker, but the hellhound feels the dark satisfaction of having been the cause of her early demise.

         it wouldn’t be long before ren joined them in the jubilee, but for now she sits in quiet triumph.   rum bottle in hand, she tips the rest of it back & then tosses the empty container over the side,   “ we’ll be making port come sunrise to get the vessel repaired. “  she speaks now to her stowaway -- or had ylva become part of the crew in her long months aboard ren’s ship?    it’s the first they’ve seen of land since liberia.    “ you will get off my ship & afford your own passage home, lass.   ARE WE CLEAR? “   her ANIMOSITY has lessened since their initial meeting, but the woman, or more the hellhound that inhabited her, did not sit kindly in the face of another similar to himself. 

@wolfcarved