PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@walkpathe
WALKPATHE. private and selective multi muse blog, housing characters from various media. with a focus on: ghosts of the past, legacy, family, the price of magic, history as a vicious cycle. set on medium to low activity. managed by mile, she/her, 25+
AES SIDEBLOG. MEMES (always accepting). PINTEREST. walking with: yharnum, musecraft, zeitkeist, maskend, tymptir, skrimslis.
rules & muses list under the cut
ACCEPTING: GRACE CENTRIC STARTER CALL FEAT. @walkpathe & SAGA
GRACE CROUCHES BESIDE THE OTHER AGENT, a hand outstretched to shake her by the shoulder. it is not every day that you find a colleague crumpled in the woods . . . it is certainly not every day that they send grace to find her. she is most comfortable behind a desk but apparently even she has to occasionally stretch her legs. she is lenient to protest——— & now she is spending her evening in a forest of ominous dimensions, so how her argument may have ended is anyone's guess. "hey, miss anderson?" mild urgency in her voice as grace gives her another shake, briefly ponders if there is reason enough to slap her. all vital signs are there: breathing, pulse, her eyelids flutter when she gently blows on them. so perhaps . . . ? "i am going to slap you now so——— last chance to wake up on your own?"
consciousness comes back to her slow. a distant voice, just floating at the edges of her perception, gentle, not at all like those guttural screams— dread pushes her finally awake, chest heaving, eyes searching for something to fight back but finding only @4shcroft hovering above her.
what the hell? saga thinks, still dazed, still trying to piece together what happened in the last few minutes. what knocked her out in the middle of a forest crawling with nightmarish things.
'' i'm good, but we should get the hell out of here, '' she says, practical as ever.
she knows grace, sort of. knows of her, it's more like it. and she is surprised to find her out here, so much so there would be a lively comment at the tip of her tongue, if only danger wasn't lurking about, too close for saga's comfort and natural good humor.
'' damn it— do you see my gun? ''
hello!! i've been gone so long i'm not even sure where to start again but... I guess i'll send you guys some memes?? who wants them?
watching a 50 min scenepack on youtube because i miss my beloved s/aga an/derson but don't have the time to play a/w2 again right now
‘you’ve got to be shitting me.’ + kara to erik ..
he breathes harshly through his nose, each exhale rattling his chest. more due to lingering fury than any real physical exertion. a tavern brawl, and a very undignified one, split knuckles and a bruise on his cheek — he was careless, his form less than acceptable, his temper lashing out like a child throwing a fucking tantrum.
he should know better. they've taught him better. kara has every right to be disappointed, angry. and maybe even ashamed. erik sniffles once, feeling blood somewhere in his nose, wet and uncomfortable. he holds himself rigid, too stiff, still taut as a tightrope.
'' they started it, '' he mutters, scowling. but of course it isn't strictly true and he trains his gaze towards the uneven cobblestones, slick with rain; the insults came first, slurs not at all unfamiliar to witchers everywhere, but erik had swung first, with vicious punches and kicks, never with his blade.
he lifts his head again, jaw set. he suddenly looks very young, a fierce indignation burning in his golden eyes.
'' i don't care what they say about me. but you— they were saying such— it's not right. i had to do something. ''
‘i’ve been waiting for you.’ / @strmfury to davos
a soft exhale loosens from his chest at the sight of his king before him. he could scarcely believe it when men led him here, some part of him fearing it might be a cruel jest, or a trick of his weary mind, but davos would recognize that voice anywhere; it lands clear and true, although more gravely than he remembers.
the north has not been kind to stannis, he can see it plainly. yet he is alive and whole — and of sound mind as well, it would seem. davos dared not ask for more, on the journey back from skagos. he has never been a very pious man, but he had prayed for swiftness all the same. for strong winds and merciful waves. some days, it had been closer to begging than praying.
let me go back to him. let me reach him before it's too late.
'' your grace. '' lips cracked, throat dry, davos still forces his mouth open to speak. it feels like a lifetime since he has said the words, but they are no less true. '' i— '' came as soon as i could, he almost says. yes, that he did. it would be no lie. but he doubts stannis wants to hear something so pointless from him.
'' i am yours to command. ''
twice back from the dead and he still is. his man, undoubtedly so. he does not wish to wonder if it will ever change.
‘i’m not gonna leave your side.’ + iorweth for mousesack u-u
he looks over at iorweth and smiles, despite the early and unexpected chill seeping into his bones, causing them to ache. the elf looks firm and resolute in the pale morning light, like he would on the eve of a battle, perhaps. so of course emíl shifts, gladly dispelling some of that very sweet blanket warmth to cradle iorweth's cheek in the palm of his hand.
'' there is no need to worry, my dear, '' he speaks not with the false reassurance of those who wish to spare their loved ones, but only in the way of someone who is familiar with his body.
the pain will fade, like it always does. as certain as the sun rising each day. it is nothing to despair over. but emíl also knows how iorweth could benefit from doing something about it, or lending a helping hand in doing so.
'' ginger and willow bark tea helps. could you heat the water? i will be with you very soon. ''
Addam of Hull soon proved to have sea salt in his blood. HOUSE OF THE DRAGON COUNTDOWN TO SEASON 3 day 7 ➝ dragonseeds
i was pondering who to possibly add when i remembered my boy ad/dam ve/laryon!!!
‘haven’t you had enough?’ / maekar to lyonel
'' enough? '' lyonel seethes, spine straight although his injured leg faintly trembles with the effort. he should endeavor to rest his healing body, or so the maester told him (receiving no kind word from the lord paramount), yet lyonel can scarcely bear to heed the advice. not when bruises linger on his face, storm dark, still aching fiercely whenever he moves his head or face an inch, courtesy of the very man now in front of him.
oh, maekar would no doubt prefer him holed up somewhere in the keep — or better yet, back to storm's end. his luck must truly be rotten, alas, for pain only worsens lyonel's temper, already prone to be spiteful and full of thorns when roused.
'' i will decide when i've had enough, after you almost crushed my head with your fucking mace. or did you forget, o' dragon lord? ''
if only he stood closer, lyonel would stab an accusing finger at maekar's chest. as it is, he keeps his hand wrapped around his antlered cane, rigid, knuckles white.
his feet carry him of his own accord, moving on autopilot while his brain is occupied with far more important things. once restrained to his office within the research sector, now he paces this room within a place that is not really a place, a dream and a nightmare all at once. casper darling has never been known for relaxing, having lived a large majority of his life particularly high strung. one does this when one spends long enough performing, whether to conceal the curves of one’s form or to corral the troops working with unknown paranatural items. this attitude melds into paranoia the longer it’s left to fester… and well, he’s been trapped here with his thoughts a very long time.
out of sync with his rhythmic movements, he pauses and looks to thomas, an unusual softness to being called. he doesn’t understand the term exactly (finnish is not one of the languages in his repertoire) but the shape is familiar enough. darling sighs, again, and plops into the chair. his coat is gone and the hem of his shirt is stuck out under his sweater; an uncommonly frayed look for one who is usually so curated. lifting his glasses onto the crown of his head, darling presses his palms into his eye sockets. ❛ it’s… it’s the house. ❜ he languishes, gesturing at zane with his hands still turned up. the oldest house, for there is no other house to darling. his place of sanctuary inside her maw of concrete and reinforced doors. ❛ before i left, something— i had the feeling something bad was going to happen. that we had left ourselves exposed. ❜ hedron’s guiding hand, like an angel come to save them. he had no clue if the threat ever came or if the bureau survived it. no clue if he’d done anything to help. there’s almost a tinge of melancholy as he says, ❛ oh, i just… i hope zac— that trench believed me. or at least trusted me enough. ❜
tom listens with his chin cradled in the palm of his hand, attentive and delighted by darling's every little movement. he takes in the sight, awfully curious, barely even blinking lest he loses a precious second; he likes darling better like this, a little disheveled, not so neat as the scientist usually presents himself.
for a moment, confusion snaps across vivid blue eyes and he worries he might have missed the thread already, too preoccupied with tracking darling's mannerisms, but the recovery is swift — he hums softly, gives a tiny nod. the house, of course. there's only one of those darling speaks about, and it lays somewhere neither of them can reach now. outside. on what might be another plane of existence altogether.
'' you worry that brilliant head of yours too much, '' he tells him this, breezy as ever, without reprimand or true complaint in mind. yet, he isn't dismissive. his attention catches on a name, one he isn't sure he has heard before — not in a substantial way, in any case — and his eyebrows lift just a little. harmlessly inquisitive.
'' trench, mh? tell me more. ''
hello!! i've been gone so long i'm not even sure where to start again but... I guess i'll send you guys some memes?? who wants them?
hello!! i've been gone so long i'm not even sure where to start again but... I guess i'll send you guys some memes?? who wants them?
in the silent trek, sarkan takes head point & leads. for a creature wreathed in heat, he is a cold shoulder manifest as he refuses to speak, even more so when solya chirps behind him. as the falcon supposed too, the great dragon was above the spreading rot of this forest and these hills, yet to leave it was a possibility he had never considered in truth. perhaps they would think it odd : what did he owe, as an out-lander, to their survival? he shakes his head free of the thought. he would not allow that alien strangeness to shake his resolve.
his claws would sink in deeper the way his hands had caught solya’s throat. possessive, but not without a stern disapproval for demise.
❛ one could say the same about my dalliance with you, but here we find ourselves. ❜ he stopped past the bank of a river. here, the ash had receded, the black spread halting. they were in greener pastures now & from this proximity he could make out the white flag that was his tower. his eyes moved back to solya; both of them dishevelled and stained. his eyes were stern, a pair of coal, but tired by emotion around their corners. ❛ i lost my only friend to those woods once. would that you spare me a second failure. ❜
with only the trees as witness, solya allows his feet to drag a little under the chain of exhaustion, but his face is still contemptuous as he shakes his head, rueful and bitter, at sarkan's words. he doesn't understand why sarkan — powerful and clever @yharnum — would persist in this endeavor, even at great cost to himself, when he could have everything he could possibly want at the tips of fingers.
kralia is fickle. surely, solya believes, old mishaps can be buried with enough smooth talking. yet, he won't ask him back outright. pride coils too snugly at his throat for such a feat — if only things had ended differently between them, maybe he could learn to swallow it down, but as is, well... there is no chance of it.
'' you fool, '' solya halts, eyes fixed to sarkan's back like he would very much like to tear his coat to shreds. he is tired, horribly rumpled and aching, so he can't manage his usual affected carelessness, not even a haughty rise of his shoulders. his knuckles are white, his lips missing the trademark sly curve. '' what are you trying to prove? should we build you a statue when you martyr yourself for nothing? ''
for all the merriment and abundance that is gifted to this plot of land and its people, for all the light it harbours, she is quiet and removed from its brightness. it is a cycle she remembers for as long as she has been here. she holds it like a cold comfort, a repetition that awaits at the foot of his eventual departure. as time passes, more elves disappear, gone across the sea to a home that beckoned them. time makes his hair greyer each year, one strand more every time she looks at him; & it makes her eyes more burdened with nenya’s infliction — that of loneliness, a distance she keeps even now.
until he finds her, and calls to her. stood by the glass-like railings that oversaw the grown woods, she turns her head towards him, unsmiling. it is an odd tone to wear with a lady of her standing, or perhaps, odd to anyone who did not know the history they shared, that she recognised the familiarity in each word he spoke.
but she does not go to him, or sit. ❛ have they now? ❜ her eyes start towards the singing folk, piercing & seeing through; their thoughts filter out in murmurs, bouts of happiness mingled with the weakness in one’s ribs that they knew to be sorrow at at the loss of beloved alandil. galadriel casts her eyes to the undaunted view of the woods then, when she could not quite bear to look at him. her fingers fiddle with her knuckles in distant thought, before she speaks as memory bids her.
❛ they should sing of the lonely mountain instead. you battled orcs fast as an elf, with the willpower of kings. ❜
the lady of lórien remains distant, her eyes obscured from him. as if sorrow is already casting its long shadow over them, causing hearts to grow heavier. yet lan lives still, walks among her people with sure feet and the proud bearing of a lord. an eldar he is not, but the might of his people has not yet diminished; the men of numenor live long. although, he supposes, even that might appear but a meek flame to one such as @yharnum.
'' i remember the lonely mountain as well. you shone with a flame so bright no orc could stand near it and live. '' lan reminisces, truthful, a smile grazing the sterness of his mouth. he drinks, then, a silent toast to the perils they have faced and overcome, blades singing in tune to the other. he does not mourn those times, only looks back upon them with honor beating fiercely in his heart.
'' this is not the last you will see of me. '' as binding as any vow, he tells her this. a friend of the elves to the last, lan will make sure his children know of galadriel and her people. and the children of his children as well.
‘you don’t need to worry about me.’ / quentyn to arianne
the dornish sun is unrelenting, but arianne welcomes its warm kiss on her skin, bearing her arms and shoulders to it. she frowns, looking at her brother for the first time since they have stepped foot on the partially shaded terrace; the shape of a young man's jaw, the slope of his nose. foreign, almost. quentyn is but the faded memory of a boy in her mind — save for the curls, those she remembers. a dark nest of hair she might have ruffled once, arianne cannot be sure. the thought pains her in some distant way, a thorn scratching at her through fabric.
she suspects the reason why he is saying this and she buries a scornful laugh in her throat. a better sister would be kind, thankful. a better sister would hug him. she does not.
'' no? '' the lilt of her voice is mirthful, with a hint of taunting to it that is more play than anything else. despite everything, it seems, it is still her elder sister duty to make fun of him like this. '' has my little brother grown so much that i should not worry for him? ''
arianne knows this is off the mark, yet she does not wish to speak about what she believes he is attempting to bring to her attention. it is easier, this way.
prompt
Manhandling symbol starters
Send one for your muse to…
★ - drag my muse by the arm ⁂ - grab my muse by the front of their shirt, possibly shoving them back ✱ - take my muse by the hips to carefully move them out of their way ➜ - smack my muse upside the head ⌧ - grip my muse by the back of the neck © - put a hand on my muse’s back to steer them somewhere ✂ - point sternly at a chair and tell my muse to sit down ✉ - push my muse back down when they try to get out of bed (perhaps involving illness, injury, or sleep deprivation) ☛ - press a finger to my muse’s lips to shut them up ♚ - put a hand on my muse’s knee while sitting next to them, to discourage them from standing up ♧ - slap my muse’s hand away from something they shouldn’t touch ♦ - grab my muse’s hair and yank ♤ - slam a door shut before my muse can leave the room ♞ - physically pick my muse up and carry them ♭ - grip my muse’s jaw to make them look yours in the eye ♨ - rub my muse down with a sponge/wet cloth ☀ - pin my muse with their arms behind their back ☠ - slam my muse into a wall ☾ - wrestle/pin my muse to the ground
Add as much or as little context as you’d like!
