MUTUALS N FRIENDS!! send in your michaels and I’ll translate them in my stile+assign them a Song that gives me their vibes!!! You can either submit them or dm me on Tumblr/discord!!
gotta love the fact that of the two lives of St Radegund, the one written by a nun is all about her good work for the community and the one written by a monk is torture porn.
this is from the Vita Radegundis of the nun Baudonivia:
(that attitude. i’d literally let radegund drive her horse over me.)
and this is from her Life by Fortunatus, who clearly had a problem (proceed with caution: very violent self-harm)
I was tagged by @akindofmagictoo and given the words tag,tour,train, and taper. Thank you!!
FromJust Jane:
TAG
The walls were eggshell white, the floor was tiled a pale grey, and a large claw-foot bathtub occupied an entire half of the room. A vast collection of soaps and other products dominated the shelves on one wall, glass bottles with elegant paper labels or tags attached by colourful ribbons. The half-circle windows had frosted glass that allowed lots of light to reach the room but maintained the privacy of those inside.
TOUR (cw blood + gore)
More light spilled down the passage and lit up the ground and the soldier himself. Jane recoiled.
Blood soaked the dirt beneath him and made a trail behind him where he’d seemingly dragged himself up the slope. One of his legs was a gory stump just a few finger lengths below his knee, dirt coating the exposed muscles and ligaments. A tourniquet had been tied above it but it was still leaking blood. His right arm appeared shattered beyond repair, with obvious breaks in multiple locations and mottled purple skin. Four long gashes ran across his abdomen, his tattered shirt saturated with even more blood, viscera protruding from the deep rends.
“How are you still alive?” she asked. Surely he would run out of blood eventually.
TRAIN
“We’ve all lived in army camps for the past fourteen years,” Nic said. “Things like social rank tend to matter less when everyone is miserable in the mud.”
“Speak for yourself. Fourteen years ago, I was only a year into my training at the College,” Pavia replied.
“How old were you when you shipped out?” Nic asked.
“Eighteen, same as you.”
He paused, ticking off his fingers as he counted. “You were thirteen when I left for Thesta?”
“Gods, I’m old,” Percy said.
TAPER
“How much of the map can you memorize?” she asked.
“Not enough of it.”
“Then we’d better hope there are more maps ahead of us, unless you’re carrying ink in your pocket.”
He patted his pockets and withdrew a thin black stick that tapered to a point at one end. It was about the length of her hand and had a series of glyphs carved into it. “Do you have anything to write on?”
I am so sorry for the description in ‘tour’ it is so gross.
I will leave this as an open tag with the same words I used! Due to the graphic nature of ‘tour’ I don’t wish to tag anyone who might not want to read that kind of thing.
Title: Bloody Shirt Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale Music:“Bloody Shirt (BASTILLE Remix)” by To Kill A King Rating:PG-13 Warnings:Blood/gore, bugs, body horror, horror in general Summary:Cecil wasn’t the first Night Vale radio host, after all. Notes: Thanks to Alex/maladyofthequotidian for encouraging me from the very beginning to make this and scribe for being the one to actually get me to finish it.
The Sacred Twenty Eight: The Noble and Most Ancient Houses of Nott and Rowle
Ergi, the Rowles called them And sneered, But the Notts only smiled And wove on in silence. They might be ergi, but they were seiðmenn And they would never be blót.
The common wizards and witches of Britain had their own version of a very muggle saying - out of the frying pan and into the fire. Theirs was a little… different. For it went like this:
Fleeing the Blacks only to cross the Notts.
The Blacks were dangerous, but nine times out of ten you knew precisely where you stood with them - they wore their hearts on their sleeves. If you insulted them, you could rest assured they would curse you, probably using some obscure dark curse no one had heard of and things would be well. Mostly.
But if you crossed a Nott, you’d never know it. They merely smiled and continued as though nothing were wrong at all. Excessively well-bred, always courteous - haute ton. But once you had left, they would return home, still smiling, and take down an ancient distaff and spindle; magical objects passed down from generation to generation for each Nott versed in the magical art of Seiðr.
Magical Britain laughed at divination and called it a fuzzy art with no magical grounding, for charlatans and their ilk, and the Notts agreed with them. Crystal balls, tea leaves, reading sticks - amateurs. The future was what people made it, what a talented seiðmenn orseiðkonurcould make it. The future was whatever the Notts chose to weave on their tapestries. Each thread, carefully placed, turning thought into reality, fiction into non-fiction, lies into truth.
None knew this better than the Rowles. They had learnt firsthand, many centuries ago, that mocking the Notts - these students of Odin - came with a price. A blood price that might have been honor to those who paid it but was a blood price nonetheless.
The Rowles might have been warrior-shamans; berserkers invulnerable in battle; but the might of the sword or even crude magical power could not withstand the implacable weaving and reweaving of reality and fate that the Notts took part in. Theirs was deeper magic, darker magic, terrifying magic and when the Rowles and Notts came to England with the first of the Vikings to rule Scotland, they brought rumours of what the Notts could do to people when crossed and people fearedthem.Fearedthese mild mannered men and women who refused to let this new religion called Christianity and its sociopolitical order sway them; who failed to conform to the new order’s strict regimentation of gender and male and female occupations; who smiled when people spurned them and smiled even wider when their mockers were slowly ruined piece by piece.
So not a murmur was heard when Proserpina Nott, aged 16, took up the family seat in the Wizengamot in 1734 though she was the youngest of the Notts and had not yet finished her schooling. The Ministry kept mum when Tiresias Nott refused to use their curriculum when teaching divination and instead taught his pupils trance magic and weaving: the beginnings of Seiðr. Wizengamot members cast their eyes downwards when Isembardus Nott stood up to make speeches, lest he see the judgement in their eyes when he painted his face and persisted in wearing pompadour wigs in public (it was 1854). People turned the the other way when Cantankerus Nott, pureblood fanatic extraordinaire, put half his fortune into muggle stocks and bonds. And no one dared say a word when Charles Nott stood a little too close to Antinous Lestrange at Ministry press conferences.
No. Only the foolish with a death wish ever crossed the path of a Nott. For they would have their revenge, these children of Guðrún, protégés of Odin and their revenge would be cold, dark and terror-filled as the houses of Hel.
