circlingravens
circling ravens
blue • she/her • minor • w h u m p • please feel free to send asks!!
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Needless to say, I am HORRIFIED.
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What if when we were born we were each assigned a Wikipedia page like a social security number would that be fucked up or what
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDU_Txk06tM
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made this, feel free to use it
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Kestrel, Wick
TW: Implied abuse, blood mention, choking mention
Taglist: @killtheprotagonist
"Good morning, Leigh. Next time you come home injured, please give me some kind of warning, because finding a trail of blood leading to the bathroom was the scariest experience of my life.”
She didn't turn around but he heard the grin in her voice. "You need more experiences Wick."
She could snap his body in half with just a look and a quiet word and he was already in enough pain today. He didn't need to be anymore than he already was. Her back was turned to him, her shirt pulled down to her waist.
"No thank you." He sank into the chair with a deep breath and leaned his head back, closing his eyes, "I have all the experiences I can handle."
He knew they were there, knew she'd fought in wars and battles long before she'd reached his gates, but the scars - the lines making jagged grooves and edges on her skin - littering her back and arms and shoulders always managed to surprise him.
He looked away. Turned his gaze back on her, narrowed eyes looking her over, his head tilting when they landed on the bruises sprawling across her skin.
Those were new. Mottled purples and navies pressed against her stomach, outlining her ribs and shoulders.
"You're an idiot," he said quietly.
She turned around again and grinned, showing him the bruise covering her swollen nose.
"Good morning to you too, My Lord Prince."
"What happened?" He asked. He wanted to grab her, wanted to hug her and take away every one of those bruises but ye held himself back. That's not what she wanted. She'd kick his ass if he tried. "Another fight?"
"I was defending your honor." She smirked, ruffling his hair. "My little damsel in distress."
He rolled his eyes. Swatted her hands away as they ruffled through his hair. The touch stings - like tiny little pinpricks in his scalp. Even his skin had decided to be sensitive today. "How noble. If I'm distressed, dumbass, it's because you insist on doing stupid shit. What was it this time, Leigh?"
She shrugged, swiftly pulling on her shirt and buttoning it up but her shoulder cracked in a way he's too familiar with and his eyes narrowed further watching as her face paled and the freckles on her nose stood out even more. Her hand trembled. It hovered over her neck before she winced and swallowed again and buttoned that up as well.
Wick frowned, softening as he forced himself to his feet with a shudder, listening to the echo of his joints popping in and out of place, clicking and crackling their protests. He lowered his voice and frowned when she met his eyes and swallowed. "Who got close enough to choke you?"
She stilled. Stiffened. Her hand fluttered over her throat, fluttered over his. Something flickered in her eyes, a fear, a nervousness, she'd never shown around him before. Someone had power, had control over his Shield, someone that wasn't him.
"You're too good a fighter to let anyone get this close to you." He dropped his hand, backed away. "Answer me, Commander."
She grinned again, leaning against the sink, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Oh, you're so serious, Christopher," she grinned, leaning against the sink. "If you must know, I blacked out, so I don't know."
"You're a bad liar, Leigh." He let it go. She wouldn't tell him. She never told him. "Make sure to have Minha check you out."
Her grin was more relaxed this time, cheekier, as she saluted and picked up his crutches.
"Yes sir. After the tourney."
#reblog#whump#chronic pain tw#chronic illness tw#touch aversion#implied abuse#ohhhhh my god i love them#aaaaaaaa#both of them#vibes all the way#for-the-love-of-angst
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12 Days of Whumpmas - Day 7
Fandom/universe: Generic Whumpee
Warnings: homeless whumpee, death mention, fear of hypothermia
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There was supposed to be a Christmas party tonight. Christmas Eve. The whole team was gonna get together, gather at headquarters where there’s a blue and silver tree set up, twinkling with white lights, and relax for once. Laugh and talk and eat tons of warm, delicious food. Whumpee can’t exactly cook anything, but the team had let them get away with volunteering to bring the chips and drinks.
But it’s been cancelled. Snow is coming, and Leader was worried about people getting trapped at the party, unable to get home. It’s the first snow of the season, and it’s supposed to be a big one. Headquarters is locked up tight now until next week - Whumpee checked earlier, just to be sure.
That’s okay. They were looking forward to the evening, but they understand. The last thing they want is for their teammates to miss out on spending Christmas with their loved ones.
Wandering into the park, they find themselves staring up at the giant tree the city set up, draped with gold and silver ribbons. The star on top shines like a beacon out into the growing darkness, so bright that Whumpee imagines they can feel a modicum of warmth coming from it.
The illusion is shattered when the wind cuts straight through their thin shirt. Shivering, they shuffle over to a nearby bench so that they can set down their grocery bags and wrap their arms around themself. Their phone vibrates in their pocket. Pulling it out with fingers that are unfortunately not yet numb enough to stop hurting, they check the screen.
Leader to group
Sorry again we had to miss out on the party tonight. I’m glad to know you’re all safe and warm at home, though!
A small, sad smile plays on Whumpee’s lips. Home. Such a simple little word. They don’t blame the rest of the team for taking it for granted. They had, too, once.
Rummaging in the bags, they pick a package of chips and pop it open with only a slight struggle against their stiff muscles. It’s not exactly the turkey and mashed potatoes they’d been expecting to eat tonight, but it’s food, and they spent a good chunk of the money they’d managed to save up on the chips and soda. They’re not going to let them go to waste.
Another shiver racks their body, and they pull their feet up onto the bench so that their legs can block the wind from their torso. It helps, a little. Tonight is going to be the coldest they’ve had so far this year. The possibility of actually not making it through the night is a cloud that looms over their head, but they refuse to acknowledge it. If they pretend the chance doesn’t exist, then they can pretend they aren’t scared, deep down.
A single snowflake twirls from the sky and lands on their knee, quickly melting away to nothing. For a moment they stare transfixed at the spot, then tear their focus away to look up at the sky. More snow is falling. Tiny snowflakes dance on the wind, reflecting the lights of the Christmas tree.
It’s mesmerizing.
It’s beautiful.
Despite the way their muscles are seizing up and their bare skin stings and their muscles ache from quivering, they smile. Their fingers fumble for their phone one more time, slowly and painstakingly typing out a message.
Whumpee to group
Hey guys, look. It’s snowing. :)
#homelessness tw#hypothermia tw#death mention tw#environmental whump#reblog#oh i really like this#very sad i am feeling but ahh#wonder when the team will notice?#what reactions will be?#mmgh have thoughts this is good#:((
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Taglist: @silverdarlin, @quirkykayleetam
Started adding a taglist! Please message me if you'd like to be added!
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They were outnumbered two to one, at best. It wasn’t that the force of Shifters was particularly large-- simply that there were so few of the elves. Despite Kien’s experience with battle and bloodshed, he couldn’t help the chokehold of panic that settled over him. Afterall-- he was injured, and had never seen any of the others fight. Despite the few blows he’d exchanged with the General during their brief sparring exchange, he had no idea how well-versed they were. Even if they could all fight well (Mora’s casual grace suggested she could handle herself, and all of them were definitely practiced in their reaction to the flock of birds), they likely had a fighting pattern with each other, and Kien’s presence would simply get in the way.
Even still, he drew his sword, jaw clenching. He knew how to fight, and he could work through the pain. Even if he’d passed out before, he refused to acknowledge that possibility now. There was no other choice. It was fight, or die, and his own spite towards this entire situation refused to let him die.
It was the first of the arrows that perhaps saved him from exerting himself to the point of sweet, blissful unconsciousness. For now. As the whistling sound filled the air (a notch had been cut into the arrowhead to cause a fiercer hum), instinct deep within snapped.
A single, hissed word slipped from the Prince’s lips, and those odd, electric eyes filmed over with gold.
The arrow fell from the air, clattering onto the cold, hard ground below, as though it’d met a solid wall. In the same moment, blood began to drop from the elf’s nose.
The other elves in the small group twisted to eye Kien, for a moment, before Valen whispered, “Blood magic.” For a second, both groups were still, before the General muttered, “Told you.” Mora swore softly, and, with that, she leapt, fire flaring bright into both hands.
Though her movement had been met by the entire gathered forces erupting into fighting, Kien’s gaze remained with her, for a moment. Yes, she certainly knew how to fight-- both fistfuls of fire had been tossed towards intended targets, and she now wielded duel knives, slipping close, slipping a knife between the ribs, and away again before her opponent could react.
His attention was forcibly snatched away by a deep chuckle from behind him. He spun, sword coming up into an easy guard, eyes already touched once more by the color that warned for his magic.
The shifter who’d laughed simply grinned at the Prince, all pointed teeth and overly sharp fangs.
“Well, well,” they purred, an ear twitching as amusement crept across their face. “I didn’t expect to find royalty out here, and you, no less-” their words were cut off by a snarl as Kien threw himself forward, disregarding all intelligent thought of avoiding further injury or fighting from a distance with magic. No-- he was as good as dead either way, because if the other elves heard, the King would kill him just the same.
So it was fear that drove the gentle Prince, and the first of his blows thrust out with the full power and intention to kill. Normally, his first few strikes would be warnings-- a display of the power he could wield, but intended to disable, not end. But no, he couldn’t afford to let this shifter talk, so he attacked without mercy.
His blade met only air, and a flurry of feathers caught his attention from his peripheral vision.
“Too slow,” the shifter teased, a chiding smile on their face. “Honestly, Prince, I expected better from you! Aren’t you the golden child? The chosen one?” Their voice was singsong, eyes alight with a cold mirth.
Even fearful, angry, Kien was no fool. But still, he struck again. The same feathery flurry of action, but Kien’s blade had already twisted to meet it, and cold steel slashed across a physical form. Again-- he was no fool, he wouldn’t have tried the same thing twice.
A squawk of surprise, and pain, but the shifter had taken their true form again, and was still grinning, despite the bloody slash across their upper arm. “Well, well, it seems His Highness-” they paused, blinking down at their opponent.
Their kneeling opponent. Kien had collapsed, the twisting motion of his second blow having been too much. One would’ve thought he’d have figured it out by now, but no. He’d fallen forward, on to both knees, both hands on the ground, one still enclosed around the hilt of his sword.
“Disappointing,” the shifter drawled after the moment of surprise had passed. Soft steps thudded on the ground as they advanced, and long, cold fingers curled under his chin, nudging Kien’s head forcibly upwards. He’d not yet fallen unconscious, but it was clear the Prince’s mind was far off, somewhere to escape from that pain, from the glazed look in his eyes.
Metal flashed at the shifter’s side as they drew a dagger from some hidden sheath, clicking their tongue.
“Well, that was easier than I expected. Really, I’m quite sad,” they pouted, staring down at the fallen prince. “Very well. Bye-bye-”
They froze, mouth agape, and their head slowly lowered, the hand under Kien’s chin coming up to their stomach, where a long spearhead protruded. With a silent ‘o’, they stumbled a pace to the side, dagger falling forgotten to lay besides Kien’s sword.
“Don’t,” Leon snarled, his normally gentle face contorted in anger. “Your group’s taken enough from us.”
A wet cough was the only answer he received from the shifter, whose hands both pressed below the weapon still skewering them. Their lips pursed together, as if to whistle, but only a wet gurgle could be heard. Leon paled, jaw tensing, but turned away, fists curling as he stood in front of Kien’s collapsed form. His weapon was gone, but he was ready to fight bare-handed to defend the young elf if needed.
As the shifter slowly sank to the ground, the sounds of the surrounding clash dulled. The other shifters had backed away from their fights, despite having more or less surrounded the elves. As one, they shifted, mostly back into the same flock they’d come as, but one taking on the shape of a small wyvern. With a hoarse croak that belonged more to a crow than the fierce creature whose appearance they’d borrowed, they took to the air, curling up, then landing near to form of the shifter who Leon had impaled.
The elves made no move to interfere, given it seemed the enemy was, miraculously, leaving. Even as the wyvern scooped up the injured shifter with its back talons, spear and all, and took off, they did not stop it.
A rough, disbelieving laugh was the first sound that broke the new silence. From Valen, of course, who trod over to Leon, patting him heavily on the shoulder.
“Congrats, healer, you just saved every single one of us from certain death.” Various murmurs of ascent came from the others, who slowly lowered their weapons, all covered in blood-- both their own, and their enemies. Left on the ground were four utterly still bodies. And Kien, who they all noticed again at once. By now, he’d slipped from wakefulness. Back to unconsciousness, which seemed to be his most predominant state these days. Leon sank to his knees besides the Price, reaching out with gentle fingers to feel for a pulse.
“Sleeping beauty, much?” The joke fell flat, colored by concern. “Is… he alive?” When Leon affirmed he was, Valen nodded sagely, as if he’d known. “Good. I need him to bet on. Even if he’s not a thief.” He said no more, though, simply folding his arms.
Silence reigned once more, for a long minute, before Leon murmured, “So, who wants to help me carry him to the medical tent?” And with that, a quiet, “Again,” was added from everyone simultaneously, and shoulders relaxed all around. This fight was over, and despite the injuries sustained, none of those bodies were elven. Even their new soldier had survived.
#kien#my writing#whump#impaled#stabbed#cw war#magic#nosebleed#the ganggg#the general#valen#mora#leon#reneth#please read the shifter's voice as double trouble's from she ra :)
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Whumpers! Do you like it when they're evil? Do you like it when they think they're doing something good? Do you like it when they're just doing their job? Do you like it when they're just having fun?
Evil, evil, all the way. I hop happily with pretty much any evil character, mMGH.
I think there's potential for very interesting plot when they're just doing their job, so that'll probably be a close second.
Having fun and thinking they're doing good is also super interesting for me to read, though I'm not sure if I could ever extensively write that.
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For anyone you’d like: What is your character's trigger point? What makes them angry, sad or makes them go off?
Answering for Kien!
I think it depends on the stage of his life! During the time where the King is still alive, he's very careful to never express negative emotions relating to him, because he's frankly a bit worried of what will happen.
Once the King is gone, however, anyone that reminds him of the King, whether it be by cruel word or action, he will not put up with. Though he's not a 'loud angry' type, the point where he might yell is if he sees someone being unnecessarily cruel/manipulative/just a cold bastard in general.
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Reblog if I'm allowed to send you in character asks even if we have never talked before.
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you are dangerous
I am very dangerous, anon. You cannot fathom the things I have done.
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Writing Masterpost: Links
Just going to be titled by character name, for now, because I have no titles :)
Kien:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/16FSK4oNygFAtHn3iX0hqad2gQkhpXtLfqMq66FhoJfs/edit
Maeve: https://docs.google.com/document/d/175J-b8UamVIXZBW860tQVIsVc7Qws3-3wOrEq9Cizho/edit
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today I have aged
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Honest War
For @whumptober2021 Day 13: Burns
CW: War whump, mustard gas burns, burned skin, vampire, drugging of sorts, whumper pov, sadistic whumper, cold whumper
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October 4th, 1918 - Argonne Forest, France
When Auri Saathoff was young, there was no such thing as mustard gas.
Wars had been more honest, then.
They remember with nostalgic fondness the sight of men charging on foot or on horses, the sounds of catapults from some small distance perhaps giving a whistle of wind before they slammed into fortress walls. The deafening roar of shouting men, houses in villages aflame while women, children, and the elderly did their best to run for hte hills.
That was an honest war, where men must face each other, where they must face the truth of these sad singular deaths. Or at least it had been more honest, in any case.
Really, there is no such thing as honest war, and the closest you get is a duel. This whole thing would have been best handled that way, Auri thinks sometimes. That would be honest.
This, though…
This is not a war, they think as they carefully step over and around bodies both dead and dying. This is a charnel house, men fed into a line like cattle to the slaughter, cut off in their prime for a few hundred yards of wasteland shredded to emptiness before the battle every truly reaches it.
There was a forest here three weeks ago.
Now… it is a corpse, a huge wound on the body of the earth, and they are still fighting. As if it matters. As if it ever mattered.
Shells burst and shriek overhead, a deafening roar that will shake their nerves apart if they allow it. Instead, they focus on their mission, on the next step, and then the step after that, and after that. Barely audible in the fractions of moments between the artillery are the cries of men dying in droves, choking on mustard gas that burns and blisters every inch of exposed skin inside and out.
A shell flies overhead like a terrible great bird, burying itself in the ground, crushing a man who might have survived otherwise beneath it. The ground gives a shiver, as if it would spit the shell back out if it could.
This is a mortal wound, this war, written across the land. The trenches bleed water from the earth like blood, filling up with those suffering a far worse damnation than Auri themself ever will. Men scream, and they shoot each other, they die.
They die and they die and they die.
For nothing.
Because some wealthy man with medals he hasn’t truly earned told them to, a hundred, a thousand miles away.
The deaths Auri gives, at least, give nourishment to a stronger creature, as nature intends.
Keep reading
#whump#ww1#burns#war#vampire#reblog#ashintheairlikesnow#cw guns#poison gas#holy cow holy cOW i love this so so much wow#love and hate this funky vampire at the same time#they are wonderful and horrible#wowwow
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Give Way
For @whumptober2021 day five: betrayal / misunderstanding
CW: War whump language barrier, brief WWI-appropriate xenophobic language, death threats, referenced vampirism
Follows directly after this piece. Special thanks to @boxboysandotherwhump for helping me with the German here.
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1918, the Western Front of World War One
Shouts filter through the air from somewhere nearby, still distant enough that Tristan can’t tell if they’ve been seen or not, but close enough that he’s sure there are three or four different voices, speaking to each other.
“Please-”
Johann hisses, and the vampire boy’s mouth snaps shut again.
He swallows, feels the slight prick of the metal against the place his pulse would be if he had one, and fixes his gaze on something just off to the left of Johann’s eyes. It’ll look like he’s looking right at him, or close enough.
Nerves and the need to move spark and dance under Tristan’s skin like buzzing electric lights. It takes everything in him to stand so perfectly still.
Johann’s eyes have narrowed until only a bit of the dark brown color of them is visible. “Hast du sie alarmiert? Aber wie ist das- Ist das überhaupt möglich?”
Tristan just stares at him, none of the words mean a thing except that he’s pretty sure that ‘du’ means ‘you’. “I, I, I have no idea what, what you’re, um, saying to to to to-to me.”
“Scheisse,” The German mutters. “Idiotischer Amy.”
Tristan wrinkles his nose. “I, I think you’re, um, insulting me, aren’t-… aren’t you?”
“Got the scent!” A voice yells, and it’s familiar, but Tristan can’t place it. “Something over here!”
“Ich sollte dich umbringen und rennen,” The German says, looking over his shoulder, but something seems to be keeping him from moving. Then his eyes drop, and the vampire realizes it’s because he doesn’t want to leave the body of his friend.
“He’s, he’s dead either way,” Tristan says softly, knowing that the man can’t understand him and probably wouldn’t listen even if he could. “You should-… shouldn’t stay.” He shakes his head a little, trying to look pleading, to look soft and scared and harmless.
Except that this man just saw him with his teeth buried to the gums in the veins of his dying friend, the body of whom is still just beneath them. Tristan could nudge the corpse with his boot without moving an inch.
The bayonet breaks the skin as the German pushes it just a little further, and Tristan feels a droplet of cooled dead blood roll slowly down the side of his throat, to soak into the lapel of his uniform. It smells just a bit like the dead man did.
He closes his eyes.
“Halt! Fass ihn nicht an!”
Keep reading
#reblog#whump#ashintheairlikesnow#vampire#i have several emotions that i cannot name but mainly scream#how dare??#i have the primal urge to kick auri in the shins?#grrr#anger#stinky stinky vampire#i hate him but also what a well written character wow#thank you google translate i speak about six words of german and that's it
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Ich Bin Johann Albach
For @whumptober2021 Days 4 and 17: Do You Trust Me / Dread. Also, special thanks to @boxboysandotherwhump for helping me with the German here!
CW: War whump, Side character death and referenced war deaths, vampire whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker, use of venom as opiate, taken captive
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1918, the Western Front of World War I
The gray-green fog rolls through No Man’s Land, thick and soupy, the breeze blowing inexorably towards the trenches where the soldiers huddle, gas masks on, praying that the masks will be enough. Living medics and dog handlers curl around their canine partners, who wear their own gas masks, whining softly at the tension they feel from the men around them, unable to pant.
The silence weighs heavier than the artillery barrage had an hour before, it feels louder than the gunfire just after the shells stopped falling. The men wait, their own breathing audible through the mask, their blood rushing in their ears, for the gas to dissipate.
While they wait, the undead army does their own darker work.
In the fog, these phantoms move with purpose. A hint of the white armbands they wear might show through here and there, but they are little more than shadows. Some of them have the cross marking them as medics, others have a simple square to mark them as supply and logistics. Every single one, though, has the glaringly obvious, bold V.
They find men who are choking, drowning in their own lungs, and decide who will live and who will die here, in the field of battle. Those whose lungs have a certain thick rattle are dispatched quickly, with mercy - those whose lungs may recover are carried off the field. They give the men water, take their deathbed words to send back to those who love them and have been waiting for them to come home.
Tristan moves quickly, just another vampire in the pack of those enlisted by force, offered a chance at being seen as something akin to human if they serve honorably until the war is done.
The gas is slowly settling around him, the wind blowing it away, and the fog thins. He doesn’t have to breathe and so the poison can’t get inside him to do its damage. Mostly it just stings his tongue, makes it feel slightly numbed. He can see the skeletal stumps of trees, and steps carefully over bodies of those who have already gone still.
It feels like an awful waste of what was vibrant, beautiful life.
“Survivor!” An undead medic calls, their voice filtering thinly, barely audible. Tristan pauses, listens until he hears a second voice call a confirmation and knows someone is coming to help. Then he turns and keeps moving.
The quiet is soothing, after the noise that rattles the vampire boy apart. His hands are still shaking as he checks body after body for a pulse and finds none. The roar of the shells still rings in his ears, and the methodical nature of his work is all that keeps him, he thinks, from simply shaking to pieces.
He loses track of where he is in the battlefield after a while, so intent on checking the dead that he stops noticing which side of the battle the corpses he touches are on. It begins to rain, soaking into his wool uniform slowly, making it heavy and awkward. His hair sticks to the nape of his neck and against his forehead, and he has to shake it out of his eyes, over and over again.
Thank God, he thinks, for the rain - it washes the last of the gas away, and No Man’s Land clears into the strange unearthly hellscape he’s used to. He’s checking yet another dead man when he hears a scraping sound that makes him jump.
He looks up, blinking rapidly against the raindrops, and then goes very, very still.
He’s on the German side of the battlefield, and there’s a German soldier in a gas mask looking right at him, rifle raised.
Keep reading
#reblog#ashintheairlikesnow#whump#vampire whump#aaaaaaaa#aaAAAAAH#i sob#mgmhg#your writing is soso good tho
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Send one of my whumpees a description of what you would do to them if you could
#reblog#funky#not that many of my characters are on this blog at all but shh#kien and maeve exist here it's fine
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