THE FISH KING

Indie Salvatore Moreau • Semi-selective • Multi-ship • Crossover & OC friendly

[wretchedwaters]

[wretchedwaters]

WHAT CRYSTAL ARE YOU?

Rose Quartz

You have a strong heart and a warmth which spills forth almost effortlessly. No one knows how hard it is for you to feel so much. No one knows how difficult it is to keep your heart open no matter how often it is broken. You're a romantic. It doesn't have to be sexual in nature. You appreciate connections of all kinds. But sometimes you feel like few people truly know you. There's more than meets the eye. When was the last time you allowed yourself to be angry? When was the last time you let your darkness show through. Let people know what lies beyond the glitter and polish.

Tagged by: @traumaqueenie

Tagging: Anybody who feels like it :^)

[sacrificialmaiid]

wretchedwaters​:

His heart sank into the pit of his stomach at the request. The Lady of the castle was well aware of his difficulty with such tasks as reading and writing. The mist that Mother’s Gift had put upon his mind had never truly cleared.. It made words so difficult to grasp for. Sometimes they swam like fish in his head, wriggling away as he reached for them, leaving his mouth stammering and his pen hovering aimlessly.

And he could only assume, by this request, that he was being punished for some apparent indiscretion. And the maid- the poor girl, was simply placed in the center of this miserable affair, an eye to bear witness to his grotesque form, a hand to deliver the Lady’s demands.

She certainly had no power here- and she would doubtlessly take the punishment if he refused to do as he was asked. His only choice was clear.

“Of-.. Of course. I will do that.” Hesitantly, he backed away from the door, allowing it to open further as he gestured gently inside.

“You may come in if you like.. Out of the wind.”

The maid’s heart warms almost as quickly as it breaks at Moreau’s nervous offer – she’s certain that very few of his station would extend the same courtesy towards her. She’s treated with disdain even by her peers – they know. Everyone knows. She wonders if Lord Moreau, too, can smell her shame plastered beneath layers of expensive perfume, tobacco, and corpse-stench. Milena is sure that her mistress can, and she’s certain that it brings her great satisfaction. After this encounter, the Countess will certainly be able to smell the stagnant water of Moreau’s territory, and Milena is sure that she’ll be forced straight into a hot bath. 

“Oh… yes. Of course. Thank you, my Lord,” the girl murmurs quickly, scooting past him with what she hopes is at least a slightly reassuring smile. 

It takes her a moment to find her footing on the slippery, water-swollen, wooden floor of Moreau’s home and she’s mindful not to go skidding across it in her neat little heeled shoes. Still, she only takes a few steps inside - just enough to take the cold out of her bones - before she comes to a stop, hands subtly trying to rub the chill out of her upper arms.. Before her employment at the castle, she might have been tempted to stare or try to take a peek at her surroundings, but now she knows better. She hesitates for a moment before speaking again. 

“Please do take all the time you need to write your response, my Lord. I’m in no hurry - the Lady won’t be expecting me back immediately.”

[wretchedwaters]

     He had half expected a polite refusal. After all it seemed that most would prefer to wait, ankle deep in the snow, over entering the Lord’s decrepit home. But in she came, and he tenderly shut the door behind her, latching it to keep the biting wind from squeezing through the opportunity of a door left carelessly ajar.

     It was dim inside, lit only by clusters of half melted candles, and quite sparsely furnished. A desk without a chair sat flush to the wall, and a pile of crates, some broken beyond repair, lay in the dark corner behind the grindstone, adjacent to a mossy stonebrick stairwell leading down.

     It didn’t seem that the Lord of the Lake spent the majority of his time here, as what little furniture there was to be seen was not particularly of the home and comfort variety.. But it still appeared well used. Dirty tools leaned against the wall beside the door, and various bundles of herbs had been hung about to dry. Their earthy scent, fresher than the damp floorboards, cut through the ambient smell in a way not entirely unpleasant.

     And Moreau, the sole inhabitant of this humble domain, busied himself nervously by opening the letter and making his way to the desk to begin shuffling quietly through the contents of its drawers as he attempted to parse the dense text.

     The blush of life had left his pallid skin long ago, but the blackened blood still in his veins traveled up to heat his ears in embarrassment as time dragged on. But finally he produced a water stained parchment from the desk and put ink to the paper in what could only be described as chicken scratch.

     This, too, was a slow process, and more than once he paused to stare blankly at the page, a single drop of ink falling from his pen to blot the empty space between his words as it hovered just above. But despite his apparent difficulty, he eventually finished the letter and signed the bottom:

     S. MOREAU

     “I-.. I am sorry for hav-having you wait.. And with no place to sit. I don’t.. I- I don’t have many- many guests.” He stammered his apologies as he turned to bring her the letter, fanning it gingerly to dry the ink. When he was sure it wouldn’t smudge his already untidy handwriting, Moreau folded the letter and held it out to the waiting maid.

[wretchedwaters]

WHAT SOFT ROMANCE CLICHE ARE YOU?

The Almost Kiss

You're unsure about things, always hesitating. Why is that? Maybe there's something to lose for you, but maybe (just maybe) the risk is worth it. You're the moment when the main characters lean in, lips parted and almost touching. But it's not the actual kiss everyone loves, it's the anticipation. When they look into each other's eyes before their lids flutter close. And there's a lot of frustration when things are interrupted. Trust me though, you're a lot more memorable than the actual kiss. You're nervous, but at the end of the day all you want is to be loved.

Tagged by: @traumaqueenie

Tagging: You!

[mountain-spirits-deactivated202]

same spot during golden hour and blue hour, maine

[lucylied]

Shall we escape?

[sacrificialmaiid]

wretchedwaters​:

//CONT. @sacrificialmaiid

The Lord is a piteous creature, very nearly cowering before nothing more than a maid as his thin, webbed fingers found their way up to fidget worrisomely at the corners of his shadowy hood- as if he would like nothing more than to pull it over his face and disappear. And in fact, he would like nothing more than to vanish promptly from sight.. But he could scarcely shut the door now and prove himself lacking of manners as well as appearances.

He could think of nothing he had done to warrant it, but Moreau felt for certain that he was being punished. Why else would the Lady send one of her beautiful young maids to the stoop of his decrepit hovel, and so pointedly send one that had no choice but to gaze upon his unlovely form as she performed the unenviable task of speaking to him..

But it wasn’t the girl’s fault. She was simply a maid, after all, surely under duress in her own right, whilst serving the Lady Dimitrescu. And her own discomfort was readily evident, if not in her face, then the tremble of her hand as she presented him with the letter she was sent to deliver. An ache settled in his chest, an unwholesome mixture of guilt, dismay and shame. Many people had recoiled from the grotesque form of his warped body- never did it become an easier lump to take.

“I..” He swallowed thickly, his features miserable and his voice sullen. “I understand..”

With only the most delicate, tentative touch did he reach out to retrieve the letter in one webbed hand, bowing his head in gratitude. “Th-.. Thank you.”

Milena knows of her Lady’s distaste for her fellow lords, and whilst her rage stems primarily from sharing title with Heisenberg, she also knows that it is Salvatore Moreau who seems to evoke the deepest sense of physical disgust in the Lady Dimitrescu – he is, after all, everything that she would find unpalatable in another being. She would never say as much, of course, and it has been drilled into Milena relentlessly that the lords are all to be respected and feared by her, regardless of her mistress’ own personal feelings towards them. 

But this one, whilst his appearance is shocking enough to frighten, and his movements are halting and unpredictable, seems… Well. It’s hard to put a name to, but Milena is so very rarely thanked for her servitude, and it catches her off-guard. It seems so long since she was spoken to with any sort of respect at all. 

As the letter is collected from her, she ducks her head dutifully, and wraps her winter coat (crafted from much finer and thicker material than those worn by the other maids, and even at that only the senior members of staff were valued enough to have them at all – she had sold herself, body and soul, for this – speaking of her fortunate position in the household) all the more tightly around herself, the air damp and frigid enough to settle into her very bones. 

“I apologise, my Lord,” she reiterates. “It is truly not my intention to make you uncomfortable. My impairment is my own to deal with, but it can cause me a little difficulty here and there.” She pauses, and takes a breath, her eyes flickering towards the letter and nerves twisting her throat. “My mistress has asked me to return with your response in writing, if… if you wouldn’t mind.” 

[wretchedwaters]

His heart sank into the pit of his stomach at the request. The Lady of the castle was well aware of his difficulty with such tasks as reading and writing. The mist that Mother’s Gift had put upon his mind had never truly cleared.. It made words so difficult to grasp for. Sometimes they swam like fish in his head, wriggling away as he reached for them, leaving his mouth stammering and his pen hovering aimlessly.

And he could only assume, by this request, that he was being punished for some apparent indiscretion. And the maid- the poor girl, was simply placed in the center of this miserable affair, an eye to bear witness to his grotesque form, a hand to deliver the Lady’s demands.

She certainly had no power here- and she would doubtlessly take the punishment if he refused to do as he was asked. His only choice was clear.

“Of-.. Of course. I will do that.” Hesitantly, he backed away from the door, allowing it to open further as he gestured gently inside.

“You may come in if you like.. Out of the wind.”

[wretchedwaters]

//CONT. @atrappedwolfwill

The startled Lord cowered away, dolefully bowing his head several times as Emily brushed past him. It was only by the good graces of blessed fortune that he managed to avoid ejecting acidic bile all over the floor, though a bit still leaked out the corner of his mouth and the ensuing cramp found him wincing through his profuse apologies.

“I-.. I thought I might find The Duke..” He began in a feeble attempt to explain himself- however he trailed off from his thoughts, curiosity slowly winning out over all else as she set to work at the strange device. He knew he shouldn’t pester her with his inane questions, especially not now, but the curious devil on his shoulder made its home instead between his teeth and his thoughts escaped anyway.

“What.. What is that?”

[wretchedwaters]

//CONT. @fcrrokinetic

Moreau did not appear convinced, but made no further protest as he timidly pulled back the blanket and stiffly took a seat on the edge of the bed.

“I.. I mustn’t do that.. I will not.” He immediately responded to Karl’s concern, less offended than mortified at the very thought of performing such an obscene indiscretion, much less at someone else’s expense. Though his unworthy body had become something truly grotesque upon receiving Mother’s gift, he could, if nothing else, take solace in maintaining his civility where possible.

“If I--” He gargled momentarily on his words as his addled mind trawled for a more judicious term than puke. “--feel ill, I’ll.. I’ll go somewhere else.”

[wretchedwaters]

STARTER. @atrappedwolfwill

The early morning was always fiercely cold, regardless of the time of year. And in preparation to leave behind the warmth of his home, Moreau tied his shawl around his shoulders and wrapped a woolen scarf over his head. He pulled up his hood as he stepped outside, his breath hitting the freezing air in a puff of white.

After his disastrous encounter with Emily, he hadn’t left the seclusion of his home for days. Even if she cared to see him again after that, he couldn’t face her again so soon- he could hardly face his own blasphemous thoughts. But he couldn’t hide forever, not when there was work to be done.

However upon resuming his routines, Emily never reappeared. As days began to pass, Moreau began to worry that his disgraceful outburst had put an end to their tentative peace. And he could hardly blame her, not when he had never deserved the effort in the first place. She would be right to leave- reaching out to him had only ever been a charitable bid for alliance, and perhaps that charity had finally run dry.

After clearing the snow from his stoop and tossing a generous helping of scratch grains for his chickens to forage, Moreau sullenly made his way up to the sluice gate station, where he hoped that he might find the Duke.

But upon opening the door, he realized that someone else had taken up some manner of residence in the control shack. Bizarre gadgetry, the likes of which he had never laid eyes on, lay unaccompanied around the interior- and immediately he was sure it could be none other than his.. Uninvited visitors. And oh but his skin did still crawl at the thought of being secretly watched..

His sense told him he should leave with great haste. He had never spoken to any of Emily’s fellows, nor did he dare to imagine their opinions of his unwholesome being. And he was hardly on lovely terms with Emily herself.

However- his curiosity tugged at him like a devil on his shoulder, and though fear sat heavy in his gut like a swallowed stone, he allowed the door to close behind him. Creeping further into the shack, a cursory glance confirmed that the strange equipment was indeed unattended.

It seemed wrong- surely neither Emily nor her fellows would leave their tools behind. Had something happened to them? There were many dangers in the village and the forest around it. Or perhaps someone had noticed him coming and fled, leaving their equipment behind.

So deep was he in thought that he didn’t notice the door opening behind him.

[dimitresca]

SALVATORE MOREAU, SECOND RATE WITCH DOCTOR, FIRST RATE DISAPPOINTMENT.​

The Lady’s presence was akin to the merciless crash of waves upon sand, never once allowing reprieve. Under her wrathful eye, all he could do was weather the storm until it passed. Clearly, she was affronted just to be here, to require his aid for anything. But he knew it went beyond petty pride.

The Lady had always detested him with every ounce of her being. And he could scarcely find reason to object. She, the eldest, Miranda’s most powerful daughter who had been the first to drink of the chalice from which the Black God’s gifts poured.. Made to share her seat of power with a weak man of lesser nobility whose inadequate body, when touched by the God, became nothing short of grotesque.

And his crooked form cowered beneath her threats, his gut wrenching in response to such abject fear, but he managed to avoid fulfilling her obvious concerns over the pristine fabric of her dress.. He swallowed hard, trying not to wince in pain, and sullenly crept back from the stairs to stand instead at a polite distance when it seemed she was finished speaking. 

It was difficult to imagine that the Lady would trust him, of all people, with such a dire secret.. And even more difficult to believe she had ever at any point considered him anything alike to a friend. But regardless, he had never known her to make empty threats.. Toward her enemies or her friends. Whatever she wished to speak of must be of the utmost importance.

“I won’t tell, not- not a soul, I promise you..”

A moment of silence filled like a lung, waiting only to explode into screams again. The raging had done her good - she felt a little steadier, a little more in control. She shook her head free of the rage, unthinking as to the many emotions that she’d already displayed (hesitation, sadness, loss, anger, anger, anger–) and like that, the grey pallor of her skin was smoothened. It was unhinged, really, the speeds at which she could change pace of hot rage to cold negotiation. “Good lad. Fine, then. I’ll make this brief, Moreau, as it becomes evidently more clear to me that you live as pondweed does, and I would be loathe to interrupt what little you have to live for.” If she wasn’t so physically repulsed by him, she might have become a little violent, might have popped her boot toe into the back of his knee and rested her heel atop his neck, or his heart, or soft gut. But standing, back rigid, teeth ground, hands clasped, and working hard to maintain the illusion of calmness, she remained.  “Salvatore Moreau, I -” She hesitated, balking under the pressure she had put on herself to announce her most intimate vulnerability. Was it that she felt ashamed of her form? She had transformed like Moreau, albeit more pleasingly. No.  Was it decency, finally, finally rearing its head and tearing apart her heart and throwing down both torn pieces to say enough of the murder, enough of the blood drinking, enough of the terror! God, no.  Alcina Dimitrescu - Lady Dimitrescu - cleared her throat, made her falter look natural. “For some months now - years, actually, but it has been worse in months past - I have been…”  LONELY.  Bone-crushingly, inescapably, horribly, maddeningly, food-repulsively, alcohol-indulgently, mood-ruinously, depression-inducingly LONELY.  TO THE CORE OF HER.  “… I have been in want of child.” She paused. For a moment, she forgot that it was Moreau she spoke to, and not Heisenberg. She left a gap after the sentence specifically so that she would not be interrupted in her next with cruel laughter, and so that she might reorient herself to violent ends. When no laughter came in the fraction second, she proceeded. “I thought of purchasing one, but that came to no good!  All children on earth are too easily fractured, having lost their toughness since labour rights in the industrial revolution spoiled them so. I need a child like me. A little monstrous thing.”  Lungs emptied themselves on the wickedness of unions and the stupidity of men. But this time, another - ironically pregnant - pause grew. Without all emotion, and standing inhumanly still, eyes trained ahead of her and staring into Moreau, through him, through his ramshackle hut, and straight into the earth beneath, Alcina said: “Yet I find myself unable, by any means, to conceive. My body can no longer carry, because the Cadou would reject an outside body, believing it to be a threat. My age prior to the Cadou, even, could only have complicated matters - … in any case. I try to make children out of the experiments we take for Mother Miranda. All to no avail. So,” she was getting nervous. “Knowing your head is filled with bunk and rot and two-bit peasant magic of doddery old hen-wives, I came here to ask if it - if any of it - might …”  She could just about throw up vile acid herself.  “… help me.” 

[wretchedwaters]

It seemed they had at least this in common. Such fundamental desires unfulfilled, incapable of coming to fruition even for all the money and power in the world.. In the end, some things simply required a more ethereal touch.

If he took notice of her discomfort, he wisely gave no indication of it, silently allowing the Lady to orient her thoughts in peace. It was only when it seemed that she was quite finished that he dared to speak.

“I-.. I will do everything I can..” And though he had admitted to nothing, Moreau was not as trained nor as capable of altering exterior perception of how he felt inside. His mournful voice betrayed that the Lady was not alone in her desire for the simplest pleasures of companionship. For a family of one’s own- people to love, and be loved by. Dreams that felt impossibly far away, now.

“No one should ha-.. Have to be alone..”

[wretchedwaters]

⌛for a sleep headcanon

TALK ABOUT YOUR MUSE

Send ⌛for a sleep headcanon.

Moreau often sleeps on his side, with a pillow between his arms and knees and a heavy quilt over him. He feels most comfortable and secure this way.

While he doesn’t often suffer proper insomnia, he does occasionally have some difficulty getting proper sleep due to physical pain, and when this becomes a problem he will drown it with alcohol.

He also suffers from occasional nightmares, and while they aren’t overly common, they can be truly horrific, and the resulting upset can stick with him for days. Often when he awakens from a bad dream, he will pray to Miranda and perform rituals to send away any further nightmares. Whether or not it does anything material doesn’t really matter, it helps him feel better about going back to sleep.

[wretchedwaters]

send 🍬 for a family headcanon

TALK ABOUT YOUR MUSE

Send 🍬 for a family headcanon.

Moreau was not blessed with kind and loving parents. Though everything he ever did was in the interest of attempting to please them, it always seemed that nothing was ever good enough. And nothing would ever be good enough- no matter how perfectly he came up to the standards they set for him, they still would never have been satisfied.

Moreau deeply internalized this mistreatment, coming eventually to the conclusion that there must be something inherently wrong with him. With his self esteem thoroughly decimated by his parents, it was all too easy for Miranda to pull him in, a safe haven of acceptance- or so it would appear to a man who has never known it.

[wretchedwaters]

💩💩💩

TALK ABOUT YOUR MUSE

Send 💩 for a ridiculous headcanon

Moreau is not above eating raw vegetables straight from the garden. If you know, you know.

[wretchedwaters]

💣

TALK ABOUT YOUR MUSE

Send 💣 for a stress headcanon.

Moreau was under intense stress during the events of RE8. He was very not okay with what had happened to the villagers by Miranda’s hand, nor was he prepared to face the reality of how deeply his morality clashed with that of his most beloved deity. By the time Ethan confronted him, he was having a full blown manic breakdown.

[wretchedwaters]

"Merry Christmas, Lord Moreau." The Duke gives Moreau a velvety red gift box containing a simple but striking silver chain bracelet with a small charm shaped like a mermaid, just like the Moreau family crest. "The bracelet is from a jeweler in Switzerland, but I made the charm myself. I thought it would look nice with the ones you already have."

The gift is received with nearly religious reverence, and upon opening the box, the Lord’s eyes fill with tears.

With gentle hands he closes the box again, hardly able to bear looking at something so precious. And made just for him, no less. He makes a token attempt to compose himself, brushing away his tears and inhaling deeply before opening the box again.

Only with the utmost care does he delicately take the bracelet from its cushioned bed and put it on his wrist, with the rest of his infinitely more humble jewelry.

“It’s.. It’s beautiful.”

[wretchedwaters]

//CONT. @sacrificialmaiid

The Lord is a piteous creature, very nearly cowering before nothing more than a maid as his thin, webbed fingers found their way up to fidget worrisomely at the corners of his shadowy hood- as if he would like nothing more than to pull it over his face and disappear. And in fact, he would like nothing more than to vanish promptly from sight.. But he could scarcely shut the door now and prove himself lacking of manners as well as appearances.

He could think of nothing he had done to warrant it, but Moreau felt for certain that he was being punished. Why else would the Lady send one of her beautiful young maids to the stoop of his decrepit hovel, and so pointedly send one that had no choice but to gaze upon his unlovely form as she performed the unenviable task of speaking to him..

But it wasn’t the girl’s fault. She was simply a maid, after all, surely under duress in her own right, whilst serving the Lady Dimitrescu. And her own discomfort was readily evident, if not in her face, then the tremble of her hand as she presented him with the letter she was sent to deliver. An ache settled in his chest, an unwholesome mixture of guilt, dismay and shame. Many people had recoiled from the grotesque form of his warped body- never did it become an easier lump to take.

“I..” He swallowed thickly, his features miserable and his voice sullen. “I understand..”

With only the most delicate, tentative touch did he reach out to retrieve the letter in one webbed hand, bowing his head in gratitude. “Th-.. Thank you.”