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ruleandruinrpg · 7 years

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STASYA BELOV

TWENTY-ONE ❈ SQUALLER THE ORDER OF SUMMONERS (ETHEREALKI)

* this character is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns.

Their name was Stasya. It was the name they were given at the orphanage and it has been the one that shaped them. Stasya. The mere sound of it was soft and weightless upon the lips, gentle in the way it rolled off of the tongue. When it was used in admonishment by the teachers of the orphanage, there was always that gentle caress of love that seemed to make even the most severe scoldings more bearable. As it was hollered through the halls of the old building, the volume was diminished – slightly, slightly – by the dependency in the young voices that called out their name. Yet, despite the lacquer of life that surrounded them, what with the doting and devotion that shadowed their steps like the most loyal of familiars. The animals that mirrored the souls of witches of old. But they were no witch, were they? The looks of the other children told them otherwise, the way that those who they had only known of as family looked at them as if they were something ill-begotten. Something wrong, something feared, something meant to incite terror rather than the ardor that they had once known. Oh, how wretched they felt as cold, nimble fingers clasped around their wrist, drowning them in the gale of their own power. Oh, how they loathed the feel of the fine cloth as it was draped around their skinny shoulders – marking them as something other. As something to be crucified and burned and martyred with words and looks and prejudices. What a terrible thing it is, to be a martyr at such a young age for a cause you do not believe in.

But they did learn to believe, were taught the wonders of their blood, their bones, their blessing that they called a gift. Hate was invited to fester in their heart, to make its blackened fingers close around the fluttering, forgetful thing. In Stasya’s heart, however, there was no room for such a decrepit creature to call it hearth and home. Instead, light flourished there in the face of slander and damnation that they received at the hands of those who thought themselves above the light of Keramzin and their kind. Darkness and despair tried to grasp at them, but they managed to evade it like a sparrow from the claws of an eagle, a hawk, a bird of prey. It was for their light and levity that they were often noticed, but even more so by the power that played at the tips of their fingers. All they had to do was beckon a gale with their finger and it would howl a mighty tune, bringing with it a wrath and destruction that was not befitting of a creature that seemed so gentle. Sometimes even they forget the power that was woven into their bones and how it harkened to their call like a volcra to the smell of blood. What they remembered, however, was the blood that they left in their wake when all the other soldiers had either fallen or fallen to their knees to bask in the aftermath of the bloodshed. But then on a breeze they heard a sound that caused their heart to ache with such sorrow that they fell to their knees, to hold upon their scarlet stained lap a face that begged for a certain capacity of a gentleness, of a love, that they had not been aware they were capable of.

Impossibilities, however, were second nature to them – as was an innate need for the makings of martyrdom. It had been harmless, until it wasn’t. Love affairs of their world weren’t like the stories; when words trailed into oblivion and fate smiled kindly. Love affairs of their world were blood-red and torn at the edges like a telltale heart spilling cruor onto the battlefield, like the serrated edge of a knife. They were never vicious and thirsty like the others, but still they marched to war with their hair tied in ribbons of blue, still they quivered and summoned and felt the power blast through their bones and bring monstrous contraptions to the ground, wind and cold and a breeze so chilling that it could cut. They followed orders and quietly absorbed horror. And love was not part of a soldier’s regime – but still they fell, like a blackbird drawn to honey, like a dove speared from the heights. And when they fell, they brought the nightingale tumbling down with them. He was a human. A wretched one at that. For he had harkened for the pillaging of Stasya’s kind, those whom they considered kin and blood. Was the furs of war he wore not drenched in blood of those whom they had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with? Mere moments earlier there was not a doubt in their mind that he the wounds he suffered were recompense for the corpses that surrounded him. But, as the dark-haired Stasya held him in the cradle of their lap, they knew that hate could not find its way into their heart. And it never would.

Perhaps they should have despised one another, pummeled and slashed and resisted: but what was war but bringing of unpredictable destruction? Mortality is a fickle thing. Brevity was its lover, and momentary bliss the child that it bore. His wounds had healed quickly in the cells of the jail that they had brought him to, the wounds that the battle had ravaged on their heart quicker than that still. The moment that those two had shared upon a battlefield transcended the war-ravaged parts of their hearts that they were often told to listen to. In those weeks that they spent guarding him, interrogating him as kindly as they could, the warmth of the affection turned into the heat of unfettered love. Brief touches between the bars of a cage would do no longer and Fate had mercy upon them. That, or perhaps it cared to teach them that even a gentle creature like the dark-haired Stasya was not likely to escape the grasp of their cruelty. For, not but a week later, he was condemned. And, oh, how impossible it was for them to disguise their despair. How quickly the grave was dug, how unceremoniously was he taken from them. But mortality is also a delicate thing – the fluttering of a little bird’s heart in a womb, the knitting of the unthinkable in the dark. They wore their shame with pride – for if love was weakness, then they would gladly be stripped of their wings if only to afford their child a chance to fly.

CONNECTIONS

NEYSA RAI: Great is the comfort that may be taken in the kindness of a smile. In Neysa’s grin there seems to be an endless well of comfort that they can never get enough of. Stasya is never one to compare their own plight with that of others -- but in Neysa’s they steadfastly believe that there is no compare. The world has waged a war against the her, and Stasya is determined to raise their fist and bring the world to its knees in a tempest should anything ever happen to their beloved Neysa ever again. For whatever reason, fate seems keen on making martyrs of them all -- but such a journey is much more bearable when one has the hand of a friend to depend on. They may be martyrs, but they will give the stars a reckoning for their shared destinies yet.

KATYA ARISTOV: The way that she seems to offer friend and foe a knife in the place of a flower is beyond Stasya. How anyone could harness such a hatred within their hearts is a sickness they will never be able to understand. That is what they see Katya as -- a temperamental child ridden with a sickness. When they offer her the medicine, all she does is make a face of disgust and turn away. They know this because they have tried many times to relieve the burden upon her soul, but the tundra of Fjerda has better chances of being razed in fire than Katya does of having some semblance of humanity in her soul. Yet they show her no bitterness, are not willing to return the anger in kind. For gentle is their ways and gentleness is the only thing they wish upon Katya’s ravaged soul.

VASILY BARANOV: It is disconcerting, the way he watches them. They are not a bird to be studied, a spectacle to be put in an exhibition and viewed. Whether he stares at the child they carry or at them, they are not entirely sure -- but they do not take kindly to the fascination that he suffocates them with. Whatever he wants from them, they are not entirely sure they can give him -- whether it be solace or reconciliation or comfort. Though his reasons may be chaste and his motives pure, they know that a lifestyle like the kind that he has cultivated for himself is not something that is easily shaken off. It is not something that they want to be associated with, but if the gossip about the court members have taught them anything, it is this -- whether he presents himself as friend or foe, they will try to know him in the former but will always see him as the latter.

STASYA IS PORTRAYED BY BARBARA VALENTE & IS TAKEN BY MADDIE.

#lsrp #literate rp #bio rp #fantasy rp #grisha rp #closed #closednb #nb #a #ether #stasya #stasyabio

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arabiannights-stories · 6 years

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The Luck of Roaring Camp

There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It could not have been a fight, for in 1850 that was not novel enough to have called together the entire settlement. The ditches and claims were not only deserted, but "Tuttle's grocery" had contributed its gamblers, who, it will be remembered, calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over the bar in the front room. The whole camp was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of the clearing. Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but the name of a woman was frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the camp,--"Cherokee Sal."

Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was a coarse and, it is to be feared, a very sinful woman. But at that time she was the only woman in Roaring Camp, and was just then lying in sore extremity, when she most needed the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute, abandoned, and irreclaimable, she was yet suffering a martyrdom hard enough to bear even when veiled by sympathizing womanhood, but now terrible in her loneliness. The primal curse had come to her in that original isolation which must have made the punishment of the first transgression so dreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the expiation of her sin that, at a moment when she most lacked her sex's intuitive tenderness and care, she met only the half-contemptuous faces of her masculine associates. Yet a few of the spectators were, I think, touched by her sufferings. Sandy Tipton thought it was "rough on Sal," and, in the contemplation of her condition, for a moment rose superior to the fact that he had an ace and two bowers in his sleeve.

It will be seen also that the situation was novel. Deaths were by no means uncommon in Roaring Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People had been dismissed the camp effectively, finally, and with no possibility of return; but this was the first time that anybody had been introduced AB INITIO. Hence the excitement.

"You go in there, Stumpy," said a prominent citizen known as "Kentuck," addressing one of the loungers. "Go in there, and see what you kin do. You've had experience in them things."

Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Stumpy, in other climes, had been the putative head of two families; in fact, it was owing to some legal informality in these proceedings that Roaring Camp--a city of refuge--was indebted to his company. The crowd approved the choice, and Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority. The door closed on the extempore surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp sat down outside, smoked its pipe, and awaited the issue.

The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One or two of these were actual fugitives from justice, some were criminal, and all were reckless. Physically they exhibited no indication of their past lives and character. The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion of blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air and intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most courageous man was scarcely over five feet in height, with a soft voice and an embarrassed, timid manner. The term "roughs" applied to them was a distinction rather than a definition. Perhaps in the minor details of fingers, toes, ears, etc., the camp may have been deficient, but these slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate force. The strongest man had but three fingers on his right hand; the best shot had but one eye.

Such was the physical aspect of the men that were dispersed around the cabin. The camp lay in a triangular valley between two hills and a river. The only outlet was a steep trail over the summit of a hill that faced the cabin, now illuminated by the rising moon. The suffering woman might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she lay,--seen it winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above.

A fire of withered pine boughs added sociability to the gathering. By degrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp returned. Bets were freely offered and taken regarding the result. Three to five that "Sal would get through with it;" even that the child would survive; side bets as to the sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst of an excited discussion an exclamation came from those nearest the door, and the camp stopped to listen. Above the swaying and moaning of the pines, the swift rush of the river, and the crackling of the fire rose a sharp, querulous cry,--a cry unlike anything heard before in the camp. The pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and the fire to crackle. It seemed as if Nature had stopped to listen too.

The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was proposed to explode a barrel of gunpowder; but in consideration of the situation of the mother, better counsels prevailed, and only a few revolvers were discharged; for whether owing to the rude surgery of the camp, or some other reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. Within an hour she had climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stars, and so passed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame, forever. I do not think that the announcement disturbed them much, except in speculation as to the fate of the child. "Can he live now?" was asked of Stumpy. The answer was doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal's sex and maternal condition in the settlement was an ass. There was some conjecture as to fitness, but the experiment was tried. It was less problematical than the ancient treatment of Romulus and Remus, and apparently as successful.

When these details were completed, which exhausted another hour, the door was opened, and the anxious crowd of men, who had already formed themselves into a queue, entered in single file. Beside the low bunk or shelf, on which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined below the blankets, stood a pine table. On this a candle- box was placed, and within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last arrival at Roaring Camp. Beside the candle-box was placed a hat. Its use was soon indicated. "Gentlemen," said Stumpy, with a singular mixture of authority and EX OFFICIO complacency,-- "gentlemen will please pass in at the front door, round the table, and out at the back door. Them as wishes to contribute anything toward the orphan will find a hat handy." The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however, as he looked about him, and so unconsciously set an example to the next. In such communities good and bad actions are catching. As the procession filed in comments were audible,--criticisms addressed perhaps rather to Stumpy in the character of showman; "Is that him?" "Mighty small specimen;" "Has n't more 'n got the color;" "Ain't bigger nor a derringer." The contributions were as characteristic: A silver tobacco box; a doubloon; a navy revolver, silver mounted; a gold specimen; a very beautifully embroidered lady's handkerchief (from Oakhurst the gambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring (suggested by the pin, with the remark from the giver that he "saw that pin and went two diamonds better"); a slung-shot; a Bible (contributor not detected); a golden spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to say, were not the giver's); a pair of surgeon's shears; a lancet; a Bank of England note for 5 pounds; and about $200 in loose gold and silver coin. During these proceedings Stumpy maintained a silence as impassive as the dead on his left, a gravity as inscrutable as that of the newly born on his right. Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of the curious procession. As Kentuck bent over the candle-box half curiously, the child turned, and, in a spasm of pain, caught at his groping finger, and held it fast for a moment. Kentuck looked foolish and embarrassed. Something like a blush tried to assert itself in his weather-beaten cheek. "The damned little cuss!" he said, as he extricated his finger, with perhaps more tenderness and care than he might have been deemed capable of showing. He held that finger a little apart from its fellows as he went out, and examined it curiously. The examination provoked the same original remark in regard to the child. In fact, he seemed to enjoy repeating it. "He rastled with my finger," he remarked to Tipton, holding up the member, "the damned little cuss!"

It was four o'clock before the camp sought repose. A light burnt in the cabin where the watchers sat, for Stumpy did not go to bed that night. Nor did Kentuck. He drank quite freely, and related with great gusto his experience, invariably ending with his characteristic condemnation of the newcomer. It seemed to relieve him of any unjust implication of sentiment, and Kentuck had the weaknesses of the nobler sex. When everybody else had gone to bed, he walked down to the river and whistled reflectingly. Then he walked up the gulch past the cabin, still whistling with demonstrative unconcern. At a large redwood-tree he paused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. Halfway down to the river's bank he again paused, and then returned and knocked at the door. It was opened by Stumpy. "How goes it?" said Kentuck, looking past Stumpy toward the candle-box. "All serene!" replied Stumpy. "Anything up?" "Nothing." There was a pause--an embarrassing one--Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his finger, which he held up to Stumpy. "Rastled with it,--the damned little cuss," he said, and retired.

The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp afforded. After her body had been committed to the hillside, there was a formal meeting of the camp to discuss what should be done with her infant. A resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But an animated discussion in regard to the manner and feasibility of providing for its wants at once sprang up. It was remarkable that the argument partook of none of those fierce personalities with which discussions were usually conducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed that they should send the child to Red Dog,--a distance of forty miles,--where female attention could be procured. But the unlucky suggestion met with fierce and unanimous opposition. It was evident that no plan which entailed parting from their new acquisition would for a moment be entertained. "Besides," said Tom Ryder, "them fellows at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in somebody else on us." A disbelief in the honesty of other camps prevailed at Roaring Camp, as in other places.

The introduction of a female nurse in the camp also met with objection. It was argued that no decent woman could be prevailed to accept Roaring Camp as her home, and the speaker urged that "they didn't want any more of the other kind." This unkind allusion to the defunct mother, harsh as it may seem, was the first spasm of propriety,--the first symptom of the camp's regeneration. Stumpy advanced nothing. Perhaps he felt a certain delicacy in interfering with the selection of a possible successor in office. But when questioned, he averred stoutly that he and "Jinny"--the mammal before alluded to--could manage to rear the child. There was something original, independent, and heroic about the plan that pleased the camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain articles were sent for to Sacramento. "Mind," said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag of gold-dust into the expressman's hand, "the best that can be got,--lace, you know, and filigree-work and frills,--damn the cost!"

Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigorating climate of the mountain camp was compensation for material deficiencies. Nature took the foundling to her broader breast. In that rare atmosphere of the Sierra foothills,--that air pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal cordial at once bracing and exhilarating,--he may have found food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted ass's milk to lime and phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latter and good nursing. "Me and that ass," he would say, "has been father and mother to him! Don't you," he would add, apostrophizing the helpless bundle before him, "never go back on us."

By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving him a name became apparent. He had generally been known as "The Kid," "Stumpy's Boy," "The Coyote" (an allusion to his vocal powers), and even by Kentuck's endearing diminutive of "The damned little cuss." But these were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed under another influence. Gamblers and adventurers are generally superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared that the baby had brought "the luck" to Roaring Camp. It was certain that of late they had been successful. "Luck" was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy for greater convenience. No allusion was made to the mother, and the father was unknown. "It's better," said the philosophical Oakhurst, "to take a fresh deal all round. Call him Luck, and start him fair." A day was accordingly set apart for the christening. What was meant by this ceremony the reader may imagine who has already gathered some idea of the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of ceremonies was one "Boston," a noted wag, and the occasion seemed to promise the greatest facetiousness. This ingenious satirist had spent two days in preparing a burlesque of the Church service, with pointed local allusions. The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was to stand godfather. But after the procession had marched to the grove with music and banners, and the child had been deposited before a mock altar, Stumpy stepped before the expectant crowd. "It ain't my style to spoil fun, boys," said the little man, stoutly eyeing the faces around him," but it strikes me that this thing ain't exactly on the squar. It's playing it pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in fun on him that he ain't goin' to understand. And ef there's goin' to be any godfathers round, I'd like to see who's got any better rights than me." A silence followed Stumpy's speech. To the credit of all humorists be it said that the first man to acknowledge its justice was the satirist thus stopped of his fun. "But," said Stumpy, quickly following up his advantage, "we're here for a christening, and we'll have it. I proclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the United States and the State of California, so help me God." It was the first time that the name of the Deity had been otherwise uttered than profanely in the camp. The form of christening was perhaps even more ludicrous than the satirist had conceived; but strangely enough, nobody saw it and nobody laughed. "Tommy" was christened as seriously as he would have been under a Christian roof and cried and was comforted in as orthodox fashion.

And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring Camp. Almost imperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to "Tommy Luck"--or "The Luck," as he was more frequently called--first showed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean and whitewashed. Then it was boarded, clothed, and papered. The rose wood cradle, packed eighty miles by mule, had, in Stumpy's way of putting it, "sorter killed the rest of the furniture." So the rehabilitation of the cabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit of lounging in at Stumpy's to see "how 'The Luck' got on" seemed to appreciate the change, and in self-defense the rival establishment of "Tuttle's grocery" bestirred itself and imported a carpet and mirrors. The reflections of the latter on the appearance of Roaring Camp tended to produce stricter habits of personal cleanliness. Again Stumpy imposed a kind of quarantine upon those who aspired to the honor and privilege of holding The Luck. It was a cruel mortification to Kentuck--who, in the carelessness of a large nature and the habits of frontier life, had begun to regard all garments as a second cuticle, which, like a snake's, only sloughed off through decay--to be debarred this privilege from certain prudential reasons. Yet such was the subtle influence of innovation that he thereafter appeared regularly every afternoon in a clean shirt and face still shining from his ablutions. Nor were moral and social sanitary laws neglected. "Tommy," who was supposed to spend his whole existence in a persistent attempt to repose, must not be disturbed by noise. The shouting and yelling, which had gained the camp its infelicitous title, were not permitted within hearing distance of Stumpy's. The men conversed in whispers or smoked with Indian gravity. Profanity was tacitly given up in these sacred precincts, and throughout the camp a popular form of expletive, known as "D--n the luck!" and "Curse the luck!" was abandoned, as having a new personal bearing. Vocal music was not interdicted, being supposed to have a soothing, tranquilizing quality; and one song, sung by "Man-o'-War Jack," an English sailor from her Majesty's Australian colonies, was quite popular as a lullaby. It was a lugubrious recital of the exploits of "the Arethusa, Seventy-four," in a muffled minor, ending with a prolonged dying fall at the burden of each verse, "On b-oo-o-ard of the Arethusa." It was a fine sight to see Jack holding The Luck, rocking from side to side as if with the motion of a ship, and crooning forth this naval ditty. Either through the peculiar rocking of Jack or the length of his song,--it contained ninety stanzas, and was continued with conscientious deliberation to the bitter end,--the lullaby generally had the desired effect. At such times the men would lie at full length under the trees in the soft summer twilight, smoking their pipes and drinking in the melodious utterances. An indistinct idea that this was pastoral happiness pervaded the camp. "This 'ere kind o' think," said the Cockney Simmons, meditatively reclining on his elbow, "is 'evingly." It reminded him of Greenwich.

On the long summer days The Luck was usually carried to the gulch from whence the golden store of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a blanket spread over pine boughs, he would lie while the men were working in the ditches below. Latterly there was a rude attempt to decorate this bower with flowers and sweet-smelling shrubs, and generally some one would bring him a cluster of wild honeysuckles, azaleas, or the painted blossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened to the fact that there were beauty and significance in these trifles, which they had so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A flake of glittering mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright pebble from the bed of the creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared and strengthened, and were invariably pat aside for The Luck. It was wonderful how many treasures the woods and hillsides yielded that "would do for Tommy." Surrounded by playthings such as never child out of fairyland had before, it is to he hoped that Tommy was content. He appeared to be serenely happy, albeit there was an infantine gravity about him, a contemplative light in his round gray eyes, that sometimes worried Stumpy. He was always tractable and quiet, and it is recorded that once, having crept beyond his "corral,"--a hedge of tessellated pine boughs, which surrounded his bed,--he dropped over the bank on his head in the soft earth, and remained with his mottled legs in the air in that position for at least five minutes with unflinching gravity. He was extricated without a murmur. I hesitate to record the many other instances of his sagacity, which rest, unfortunately, upon the statements of prejudiced friends. Some of them were not without a tinge of superstition. "I crep' up the bank just now," said Kentuck one day, in a breathless state of excitement "and dern my skin if he was a-talking to a jay bird as was a-sittin' on his lap. There they was, just as free and sociable as anything you please, a- jawin' at each other just like two cherrybums." Howbeit, whether creeping over the pine boughs or lying lazily on his back blinking at the leaves above him, to him the birds sang, the squirrels chattered, and the flowers bloomed. Nature was his nurse and playfellow. For him she would let slip between the leaves golden shafts of sunlight that fell just within his grasp; she would send wandering breezes to visit him with the balm of bay and resinous gum; to him the tall redwoods nodded familiarly and sleepily, the bumblebees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a slumbrous accompaniment.

Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They were "flush times," and the luck was with them. The claims had yielded enormously. The camp was jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously on strangers. No encouragement was given to immigration, and, to make their seclusion more perfect, the land on either side of the mountain wall that surrounded the camp they duly preempted. This, and a reputation for singular proficiency with the revolver, kept the reserve of Roaring Camp inviolate. The expressman--their only connecting link with the surrounding world-- sometimes told wonderful stories of the camp. He would say, "They've a street up there in 'Roaring' that would lay over any street in Red Dog. They've got vines and flowers round their houses, and they wash themselves twice a day. But they're mighty rough on strangers, and they worship an Ingin baby."

With the prosperity of the camp came a desire for further improvement. It was proposed to build a hotel in the following spring, and to invite one or two decent families to reside there for the sake of The Luck, who might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice that this concession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely skeptical in regard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be accounted for by their affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But the resolve could not be carried into effect for three months, and the minority meekly yielded in the hope that something might turn up to prevent it. And it did.

The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in the foothills. The snow lay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river, and every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into a tumultuous watercourse that descended the hillsides, tearing down giant trees and scattering its drift and debris along the plain. Red Dog had been twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned. "Water put the gold into them gulches," said Stumpy. "It been here once and will be here again!" And that night the North Fork suddenly leaped over its banks and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring Camp.

In the confusion of rushing water, crashing trees, and crackling timber, and the darkness which seemed to flow with the water and blot out the fair valley, but little could be done to collect the scattered camp. When the morning broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-bank, was gone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky owner; but the pride, the hope, the joy, The Luck, of Roaring Camp had disappeared. They were returning with sad hearts when a shout from the bank recalled them.

It was a relief-boat from down the river. They had picked up, they said, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, about two miles below. Did anybody know them, and did they belong here?

It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, cruelly crushed and bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. As they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that the child was cold and pulseless. "He is dead," said one. Kentuck opened his eyes. "Dead?" he repeated feebly. "Yes, my man, and you are dying too." A smile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. "Dying!" he repeated; "he's a-taking me with him. Tell the boys I've got The Luck with me now;" and the strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy river that flows forever to the unknown sea.

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sherpagutz · 2 years

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About Me

Minors DNI (Any one under 18)

If you think it's ok to bully people over fiction please just block me and go get help. This isn't a safe space for you.

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I guess I've never made an intro post for here so here goes nothing.

About

Name: Ghost or Glyph is fine

Age: Adult (I'm over 25)

Pronouns: He/They

Orientation: Grey Aro Ace

Note: I'm a fictive in a system and I am alterhuman/Therian

I'm a trans disabled artist who sleeps on the most chaotic schedule ever known to those within the abyss. I have a bunch of cats and I really enjoy video games and creating Aus in my spare time.

My current main interests are Stray, Gravity Falls, Helluva Boss, DHMIS, Hazbin Hotel, Coding, video games, and making art.

I'm the creator of Levity Heights an Au that's really dear to me and based off of my kin past life stuff. It's essentially a more fleshed out expanded reverse falls with an enormous amount of twists.

I am also the host of a system and a fictive. Both of the systems in this body are fictive heavy.

I drink a lot of redbull and rockstar.

I'll add more to this later.

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Some Sites

My Carrd

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Warning: Multiple neurological disabilities make typing in chat a little difficult so I apologize for multiple typos.

#about me #pinned

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phantompsalms · 2 years

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The forest surrounding the mansion tended to be cursed. Hideous mutated creatures roamed as well as cryptids and other fae. Many people avoided entering such a dark ominous place lest they meet a terrible fate. I believe some of my favorite horrors included skull faced deer that a certain fool had a hand in creating. His presence alone froze the entire city and corrupted the forest.

#Levity Heights Timeline #Stanford Gleeful #FictionKin #Gravity Falls Kin

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phantompsalms · 2 years

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About

Name: Ghost or you can call me Stanford

Pronouns: He/They

Kin Type: Stanford Gleeful Main Source: Levity Heights (Expanded Reverse Falls)

Sources: Gravity Falls, Reverse Falls, Undertale

Timelines: Many

Notes: I’m also a system and the host of said system. I ID as Stanford Gleeful. I am a spiritual kin. I am not a coping link and I do not kin to cope. I also do not care for fandom drama. I am also an adult. You may interact with me if you’d like even if we don’t share sources but it helps if we do. Minors DNI A warning: Many of my timelines contain problematic content. Many of them are extremely dark. If this bothers you, you do not have to interact with me or my content. I will include content warnings under the cut. --------------------------

DNI and Warnings under the cut

DNI

Do not interact if you are any of the following.

Fanpol/Anti/fancop

Minor

Anti Kin

Sysmed/System policer

Terf/radfem

I will block you if you are.

---------------------------

Content Warnings

This blog may contain mentions of the following

Incest

Stancest

Horror

Gore

Adult Topics

You’ve been warned

#stanford gleeful kin #stanford gleeful fictive #fictive #fictionkin #stanford gleeful

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ruleandruinrpg · 7 years

Photo

STASYA BELOV

TWENTY-ONE ❈ SQUALLER THE ORDER OF SUMMONERS (ETHEREALKI)

*this character is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns

CONNECTIONS

STASYA IS PORTRAYED BY BARBARA VALENTE & IS TAKEN BY MADDIE.

#lsrpg #new rp #bio rp #rpg #literate rp #nb #ether #a #stasyabio #closed #closednb

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