Went on a walk
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@thornwyck
Went on a walk
By, Vasile Marian,
The Incest Diary, Anonymous.
calculate layer primal direction (nsfw) rustic celebrate weapon
i wanted to consolidate all of my writings for this week into something easily referenced, more for me than anyone else, but also a little bit for others. if you enjoyed my writing on one character but perhaps missed that i was also posting on another, here you can see all seven neatly presented!
three special thanks. the first is to @kharrisdawndancer for reminding me of this in the first place. i participated a bit (lightly) many years ago but this was the first time i set the personal challenge of completing it to its end. i would have missed the opportunity!
the second is to @manaheart for doing it right alongside the entire time and being a very indulgent partner in crime.
the third is a general one to anyone who took the time to read my writing. i think it is common to feel a sort of impostor syndrome when it comes to writing and i don't think myself above it, but i also am trying to just write for the fun of it now instead of feeling like i have anything to prove.
if you found either of the lads compelling, i am open for interaction, but neither of them are quite suited for 'passing acquaintance' exchanges owing to both their general natures. and mine. i do love roleplay within the framework of a pre-existing relationship as foundation, though! or new ones of a long-term, plot-oriented variety. see y'all next time!
Tintoretto c. 1599-1602
Penitent MagdaleneÂ
Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (2006)
"Rustic"
Emily hated the concept of âdestinyâ: that certain events were inescapable matters of prophecy, that she was fated to meet the people she did, and be left by them in turn. She liked to tell herself that it was horseshit, that her mother was a lying whore, but every now and then, something would happen that was hard to swallow. Basil Thornwyck was hard to swallow.Â
The man was touched by the hand of something primeval and impossibly dark. It was as if some intangible part of him had been hollowed out by it, and it was unclear to her how well he understood it. He was cunning in the way ravens were, his survival assured not by force, but by adaptation. He was utterly inscrutable - to her, and certainly to the people he surrounded himself with. How exhausting that must have been, how lonely.
When he came looking for her, she should have known it wouldnât be for a simple job. He was in search of something incredibly rare and almost as dangerous, something found only in the one place her heart wasnât prepared to go. She should have said no. Instead, she found herself in Kalimdor for the first time in years, in the marsh where she briefly knew peace, knew love. Oh, if only sheâd known it was love. That was another thing she liked to tell herself: that if only she knew, she wouldnât have done what she did, wouldnât have been her motherâs daughter, for once in her godsdamned life.
Basil sent her here, and she found that her garden had been reclaimed by the marsh. Earthen pots had tipped and broken, and the beds were thick with weeds and choked by creeping vines. Her chicken coop was empty, the shack she once called âhomeâ - Inryâs home - clearly long abandoned. When she looked inside, she found it had been left in such a state that she suspected heâd meant to come back. When Basil sent her here, she touched nothing, took nothing, as if preserving the scene meant preserving clues as to what happened.
Now, she was here of her own volition, to make sense of what she saw. Sheâd wanted to drag him here with her, make him draw everything exactly as it was so she couldnât forget any details - but the rational part of her knew it would be a waste of the favor he owed her. Anything she found here wasnât going to point to Inry.
She dragged her fingertips along the back of the wooden chair where heâd sit across from her at breakfast and sheâd steal bacon from his plate. Her eyes studied the surface of the table, where heâd set out a plate for himself one day and never come back to fill it. âWhere did you go?â She whispered, her voice trembling in the quiet. It was shady inside, but about as humid as outside, and without them there to maintain it, the previously manageable scents of damp and dust had taken over.Â
Like a ghost tethered to the place she died, Emily drifted listlessly to the bedroom, tested her weight on the bed with her hands. The frame hadnât rotted. The bedding didnât look moldy, either, but she didnât dare crawl inside it. Instead, she flopped on her back and stared at the ceiling. âYâknow what scares me the most, darlinâ?â She told the darkness, her voice drier than she thought itâd be in such heavy air. âThereâs nothinâ I wouldnât give up to have you back. Magic, my curse, sex,â she laughed bitterly. âSex seems so unimportant now.â
Sex was what got her here, sort of. Heâd rejected her a few times, and in her youth, it felt like a rejection of her and everything she was: a witch, a Worgen, too much, not enough, wrong. It wounded her so deeply, put so much distance between them she didnât know how to make up - so she got it somewhere else, from someone more like her. That was what Mary always said she needed: another wolf. It was only in the bittersweet clarity of hindsight that Emily realized that Inry had been wolf enough. She was the problem: too emotional, too stupid, too impulsive, too needy, too cowardly to talk to him, to work through it with him the way she reckoned partners were supposed to handle their shit. She still didnât know much about that; she hadnât let herself try again with anyone else, and she liked to tell herself she never would.Â
If there was a destiny she wanted to believe in, it was that they were right for each other the whole time, and one day, theyâd find their way back to each other again. Theyâd come back here, rebuild this place, and finally know a kind of peace that could last: just them and the critters in the marsh, as far away from kings as they could get. Of course, she wasnât delusional. Thatâs why Basil wasnât here filling his sketchbook for her benefit, why she hadnât looked for Inry before and wouldnât start looking now.Â
Certain events were inescapable matters of prophecy. She was fated to meet the people she did, and be left by them in turn.
@daily-writing-challenge @thornwyck @aspen-bowers
Roberto Ferri (b. 1978) - âHecateâ
oil on canvas, 2018
v. rustic
Emily had told him in Stormwind that a girl had been found dead. He had, by then, finished a painting: a young woman in a blue dress, hands composed, eyes closed. He had painted it as a man notes down a name he expects to forget. He slept badly and dreamed better, which was the wrong order for a man trying to live.
No one had asked him to go to Westfall. The wish arranged itself without announcing its reasons. He packed a small bag and took a mail-coach west. It made its customary quarrels with the road and at last chose to lose one outside a holding called Garnerâs Fold. The driver, cheerful despite the road, declared a halt. âThereâs a smithy down the road,â he said, pointing with the whip. âTell him the axleâs sulking.â Basil had the sense to lift his bag from the coach before he left it, and the driver, relieved of responsibility, promised him a seat back to Stormwind in the morning, if not the morning after.
Garnerâs Fold consisted of a yard, a forge, and the minimum of houses necessary to prevent the forge from wandering away. The smith was of that type who never looks surprised to be needed. He said he would come. Given both the hour and the circumstance, Basil thought it best to retire. One of the houses served as an inn, as such houses often doâbeds honest, beer correct, and conversation kept to the small change of weather and cattle. He ate, as one does in such places, what was brought, and went up when the hearth below had decided to go out. He lay down and expected not to sleep. He slept.
At some dark hour, he woke. The house had that particular stillness of buildings you do not know well: all the noises are correct and therefore suspicious. He lay listening for the sound that had woken him up and could not isolate it. He was not alarmed, for it was not his habit, but he experienced the peculiar embarrassment of a man who has been watched making a small mistake and cannot tell who has watched him.
The inclination presented itself thenâpolite, persistent. He dressed without striking a light. The corridor had been scrubbed recently and held the thin, soapy smell of diligence. On the stair he paused, not to listen, but to become the sort of man who goes out of doors at night without an errand. It seemed he was already that man.
Outside the yard, the land went spare in every direction. The moon could not be bothered; what light there was came from the general agreement of the stars that it would be a waste to withhold it entirely.
He did not choose paths so much as accept them, as paths in that sort of country did not so much lead as decline to hinder. He went on with the air of a man who has been given proper directions and trusts them because he cannot remember having asked.
Presently he found that he had come to a place he could not have named if asked. A house stood a little off from the faint track. The door gave when he tried it, not in welcome, but because it seemed staying shut had ceased to be worth the effort.
The rooms on the lower floor conducted themselves as deserted rooms doâwithout imagination.
At the top, three doors. He opened the first and was shown the customary scene: a bed-shape printed in boards by years of weight, a rectangle on the wall where a picture had protected the wallpaper from the sun. The second door stuck. The third knew him.
Behind it was a small room that had been emptied of furniture and of the signs furniture leaves behind. The boards bore the discreet shine of oil. There was a smell he recognized and disliked recognizing: a clean, tight smell of ship-stores. The window was the window he had painted: old, its glass wavering, bellied in one corner in a way which turned a moonlit strip of road into a slow river. He knew where the light would touch when the day leaned; he could have set his palm on the wall and found the cool place that had been her shadow. He didnât. His hands felt suddenly awkward in front of him. He slid them into his pockets because there was nowhere else decent to put them.
He wanted, very much, to ask: Who cleaned this? Who took away the dust and left the quiet? He imagined a woman with her scarf tight against scents she would rather not carry home. He imagined a priest finding something respectable to do with his hands. He imagined a guard with a bucket. He experiencedâcoollyâthe unpleasant justice of having been anticipated. The dream had not borrowed this place. This place had been pleased to use his dream.
He told himself he had not been here. He said it aloud to the floor: âI have not been here.â
He returned to the inn by a way that would not let him remember the way back.
In the morning he paid what was asked and thanked the smith by name though he had not been given it. The coach took him up just as promised. Stormwind received him with its usual lack of interest, which was a comfort. In his studio the painting waited, as paintings do, with the patience of things that do not know what they resemble. The blue was blue. The hands were as he had made them. The light lay obediently where it had been told.
He set his bag down in its place. He washed his hands longer than was needed. He told himself, carefully and without heat, that the matter was concluded: he had gone, as far as was reasonable, to satisfy a curiosity no one had demanded of him. He was content to allow that something had placed him where it preferred, and that he had stood there as long as was polite.
He did not propose to ask what else might be required.
@daily-writing-challenge @emily-barker
Algeria, 1939. Therese Riviere
Mermay Sketches by Russell Jones
Red Letter No. 8 by Jen Mazza
Bottega Veneta spring 2025
William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905), Lost Pleiad. 1884.