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sprout-fics · 1 year

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Woodsmoke (Joel Miller x F! Reader x Joe 'Bear' Graves)

Chapter One: Kindling

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Masterlist

Rating: Mature (Rating will change) Word Count: 6.6k Warnings: Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault (Non-explicit) Tags: Character Study, Angst (Literally so much angst), AU- Canon divergence, Sheep Farmer Joel Miller, Patrolman Joe 'Bear' Graves, Domesticity, PTSD, Night Terror, Love confessions, Rejection, Mutual Pining A/N: So this started off as me wanting to write PWP with Joel and Bear, and then it became smut with context, and now we're here at a three part chracter study that also includes porn, thank you for witnessing my descent into madness. Also a huge shoutout to @soapskneebrace @guyfieriii and @writeforfandoms for listening to my absolutely unhinged raving and ranting about this series. I don't know how I could have done this without you all

Summary:

When spring comes, it melts away the frost, blooms lilac and pink in the hills, and in your heart as well. Like the slow, steady drip of thawing glacier, the interior of your soul at last becomes revealed to you once more. Vivid and bright like forsythia, like jonquils and the first flowers of spring, it unfurls its delicate petals, turns towards the sun.

It's Joel, your heart reveals to you with a tender whisper. Joel, with his steadying and unflinching gaze, his brown eyes the same color of your coffee, his hands that speak of experience, of raw ability. It's Joel, who knocks on your door as you get ready for bed and murmurs a quiet goodnight, his eyes always resting on yours with words he doesn't speak. Joel, with his deep voice like raw timber, his presence a towering, gnarled oak tree that refuses to be felled.

You think you love him.

You don't think you can have him.

How it starts, you don't know. How it begins, however is with you.

With you, with the first time you see the sheep ranch nestled at the very edge of Jackson’s territory, at a distance. Atop the hill that descends into the valley below, your eyes trace across the grey and white bits of fluff that dot the hilly pasture. The cold autumn wind rakes through your hair, bites against your cheeks, freezes against your chapped lips. The reins in your hand feel like steel, tough, clutched tightly in your nervous, anxious grip.

Beside you, Tommy eyes you as you take in the sight before you. A few pastures. A barn, a chicken house, a garden, and atop the other side of the valley- a house. Quaint, quiet, a watchtower of the farm below.

Tommy breathes through his nose, his mare shifting with a little chuff that seems to match her rider's contemplation. He's been quiet for most of the journey, offering only small conversation in response to your quiet inquiries about your destination.

"He's a loner." Tommy tells you, and his eyes are soft, a little broken when he speaks of his brother, the man who would be your employer. There's bitterness there that you recognize, even if you don't really understand.

"He's not...mean." He goes on, even though he hesitates over his elaboration. "He just prefers the quiet is all."

You nod, voice silent. It took months for you to learn how to speak again, and even now the simple act feels too heavy, too awkward.

It had been the better part of a year since you'd arrived at Jackson

It had been Tommy who had found you, out on patrol with the other riders, stumbling upon your form half-buried by snow, curled into the ground. Starving, confused, injured, scared, waiting to die so the earth would swallow you whole. Yet instead of letting you succumb to frost, Tommy had taken you back, allowed the doctors in Jackson to nurse you back to health.

In body, at least. Maybe not in soul.

Tommy leads the way down the steep slope ahead of you, leaning back in his saddle as his mare picks along the barest hint of a path down towards the ranch. You follow him, feeling your breath fog across your face, a warm puff before it dissipates into steam. All the while you steal glances away from the trail ahead of you and towards the livestock dotting the hillside, the grass turning an ashen green as the season inexorably change once more.

Tommy leads you not to the house atop the hill, but rather to a cabin at the bottom of the valley. It's braced against the edge of a tree line that trickles into the dip between the hills, and if you listen above the wind you think you hear a brook there. Yet your attention is drawn to the cabin itself, with its wood walls and stone chimney, from which woodsmoke pours forth. You can smell it, the scent obscured by the raw, frigid taste of oncoming frost. It lingers across your tongue even as Tommy dismounts, ascends the steps, fist raised to knock on the door.

It opens before he gets the chance.

The man that answers the door looks older, worn. Greys dot his temples, his short beard. There's lines across his face that speak less of age and more of grief, a time spent witnessing horrors you yourself have not yet seen. Yet his eyes glint with a keen awareness, a clarity bred by experience. Wary. Ready.

He stands occupying the broad space of the doorway, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, grease caught across his knuckles. There's a furrow in his brow, as if he's annoyed by the interruption to whatever project he has occupied himself with. Yet when his eyes take in Tommy his face relaxes into something vaguely resembling a smile, and he manages to smear the majority of grease away from his palm before clasping it to his brother's.

"Tommy." Is all he says in greeting, but there's a warmth there, a familiarity that briefly has your heart threaten to crack, wishing selfishly someone would regard you that way too.

"Joel." Tommy replies, his tone light, pleased before he turns to reveal you, standing a ways away with the horses. "Brought you a visitor. Meet your new farmhand."

You shift a little where you stand, not making any motion to venture closer, instead offering a timid 'Hello' that seems to be swallowed by the wind.

Joel regards you silently, continuing to wipe his hands on his rag, eyes taking you in silently, cataloguing the uneasiness in your stance, your darting eyes, tense shoulders. yet he doesn't remark on it, doesn't offer so much as a greeting, instead seeming to mull your very presence over in his mind. Contemplating, considering.

"It's cold." Is all he says after moments that seem like hours. "Fire's warm."

With that he turns inside in a silent gesture for you to follow, offering little else in the strangest introduction you've yet to encounter. Absent of expectations or forced niceties, his words saying all that need to be said, and yet somehow containing multitudes.

It is, you come to learn, very much like him.

----

Joel puts you to work immediately, and you quickly learn just how desperately he needed another pair of hands on the ranch.

Your chores begins before dawn most days, the cold of the misty mornings clinging to your skin as you warm yourself by the stove as it crackles to life under Joel's care. You dress by the scant sunlight that seeps over the hilly horizon, step outside into the dewy air and watch your breath fog up and away into the dove grey sky.

The day starts with collecting eggs from the hen house, feeding the chickens, ensuring no creatures have made it past the wire fencing that protects them from predators lurking in the woods. Breakfast is simple fare, quick, not meant to be lingered upon before the work of the day begins in earnest.

There's few words spoken between you and Joel as the sun rises. You understand quickly he's not typically one for conversation unless prompted. He doesn't mince words, prefers to say what needs to be said and then to follow through with whatever he's spoken. It's a gruff, curt personality that might grind with a more extroverted, conversational person. For you, with your quiet, contemplative demeanor, it suits you well. You, like Joel, prefer to speak through actions rather than words, let your hands occupy your thoughts and chase away the memories that linger there.

So you do just that, involving yourself in the momentum that carries the weight away. You toss down hay from the hayloft, herd the sheep out of the barn in the morning, mend the fences, pull weeds from the garden. You sweep the kitchen as Joel cleans the dinner dishes, you chop firewood for the crackling hearth, gather kindling at the edge of the forest but never venture beyond the tree line as Joel tells you.

Joel gives you space for the first few weeks. Yet he isn't without attention. You find that he's quick to notice when you need something, even if you're hesitant to ask for it. It's as if he sees you in a way you aren't familiar with, discerning your hesitation and inward reflection like an extension of himself. His responses come less in the form of words and more in the form of offerings. An extra blanket for your bed. Another pair of socks. Fixing the shades in your bedroom so the light doesn't seep in, refilling the kerosene in your bedside lamp. It's simple but meaningful gestures, absent of words that somehow fills the unfamiliar space between you two.

"It's okay." They seem to whisper to you, as you lay wide-eyed, awake in your bed at night. "You can stay. I don't mind. You can ask. Take your time."

You never speak to Joel of the circumstances that have led you here, not even when you slowly begin to find your voice again, when words between you two become easier, less forced. Yet Joel somehow seems to know what's happened to you anyways, and you can't help but wonder if he was able to see it from the very start.

There's glimpses you see in him, his eyes becoming distant at times, as if staring into the past. It's as if he's lived your life before you, can see the scenes of his own regret play out in shadowy phantoms across his vision. You feel it in yourself, in the way memories cling to you as night like parasitic fungi, creeping with slow, sinister growth along your veins, old wounds that have yet to heal.

If Joel hears you whimper and cry in your sleep, he doesn't say. Yet in the mornings, after the nightmares have ended but still occupy your shadow, he's gentler. Softer. Extra milk in your coffee, his voice less gruff, allowing you extra time before the mornings begin so you can shed the last of your sorrows.

Slowly, with time, they're chased away by daylight.

You bury the remnants of them with motion, purpose. Joel made it clear from the start you weren't there to freeload.

"Two rules." He told you the first night you were alone, the washed dinner plates stacked to dry, the hearth crackling warmly and filling the silence.

"The first." He begins, and you can hear the age in his voice. Gritty, choked on memories like charcoal. "Is that you do what I say, when I say it, understand?"

His eyes meet yours, and you stare into them, losing yourself for a moment in his brown, keen-eyed stare. You wonder if there was a softness there once, find yourself trying to imagine what it must have looked like.

"This is to keep us safe." He explains, hands clasped together on the aged, wooden table, fingers grazing over worn knuckles. "Just because Jackson runs patrols doesn't mean it's entirely safe out here. I'm your employer, you're my responsibility now, so you listen to me when I tell you to do something, clear?"

You nod in silence, eyes shifting away from him to your mug of weak tea that's long since cooled.

"Clear." You reply, voice soft, a little distant.

Joel nods out of the corner of your eyes, as if to himself. Then his voice raises again.

"The second." He continues, voice maintaining that gruff, even tone. There's a hint of an accent there you try to place but come up empty-handed. Yet it softens, is joined by an indiscernible sigh, a shift of his shoulders that eases into the cracks of your soul. "Is that if you ever need something, all you need to do is ask."

You look at him then, eyes blinking, lips parting, trying to place the strange, sudden wash of feeling that murmurs between your ribs. Joel's stare remains unchanged, but the gentleness of his statement lingers, suspended between you both. An entreaty, an offering.

Slowly, something within you rouses, long laying dormant within the recesses of your grief. A gentle glimpse of color before it's gone again.

"Clear." You tell him, and this time your voice softens too, for the first time allowing yourself to open, unfold within his unwavering, focused gaze.

----

It's quiet, that first year. Joel is closed off, distant in a way that's not entirely unfamiliar to you. You can see the scars on him, even the ones he refuses the bare. It's hard not to see, with the way that his history is written across his eyes.

You don't ask why he can hardly hear from one ear, why he only ever sleeps on his right side. You don't ask about how he knows about how to pour the foundation for a new shed meant to store food for the winter. You don't ask about how he survived this long, why he wants the quiet solitude of the Wyoming steppes compared to the bustle of Jackson.

You don't ask the question everyone seems to ask people like the two of you.

What happened to you? What made you like this?

In turn, Joel doesn't ask you of your own past, of the mistakes and fatal flaws that led to that moment of solemn, fateful near death, your would-be grave a shimmering, white tomb of frost. Nor do you offer them. There's no changing the past now, and even though the screams of the damned still torment you in the witching hours of night, they're just that- ghosts.

They can't hurt you anymore.

Though you don't speak of your past, you do speak. Slowly at first, then with more ease. Joel seems surprised at first, even though the change is gradual. More than once you see him pause what he's doing, turn to you, blinking as he processes your remark about chores, the weather, what to eat for dinner. Utilitarian conversation that seems to mirror his own words.

He, like you, doesn't speak much, doesn't feel pressed to fill the silence. He's more than happy to simply coexist, his hands working alongside yours, his voice directing you with his steadying, unwavering presence. Like a lantern in the mist, the glow of him feels hazy, distant, and yet somehow still there, a signal as you wander in search of yourself.

You watch him, sometimes, over the edges of the worn paperbacks you read in the evening as the fire glows low. The orange flames catch across his face, reveal there the shadows of the things he doesn't say. He stares into the flames like they yield answers he doesn't have. There's a striking gravity there in his gaze, one that pulls you inwards, down into him, causes color to flutter in your heart. Sorrowful, unsummoned, and yet somehow alive.

You gather him in bits and pieces, like sifting for gold along a streambank. The sediment washes away, and what's left there is glimmering dust that catches and glints in the sunlight.

He has a daughter, that you already knew. Ellie is her name. You think you met her once back in Jackson on a misty grey morning where you paced the perimeter in solitude, basking in the absence of others. She'd muttered a brief greeting to you as she blew warmth into her hands, sidling past you towards the direction of the school. Bright eyed, brown haired, dimpled. She looks nothing like him.

Then again, you suppose you're all orphans of the apocalypse.

You meet her once more several weeks into your new residency, ferried there by Tommy. She peeks over his shoulder from where she sits behind him in the saddle, her face faltering when she sees you helping Joel mend the fence of the western pasture.

It's the first time you see Joel nervous, his hands fidgeting, seeking purchase on something that isn't there. You don't understand, eyes darting from him to the girl he's fostered, taught to survive in a cruel world. Yet then he clears his throat, introduces you to her with slow, halting words and you think you see it, the way he seems to look for Ellie's approval.

Ellie regards you warily at first, and like Joel her eyes seem to see more than she lets on, glinting at you as she takes several, heavy moments to judge you by your presence alone.

"Hi." She says at last, and her smile is soft, yet still somehow sincere. "I'm Ellie."

You almost miss Joel's sigh beside you, breathed into the coming winter wind.

His relief is well-placed. Ellie seems to take a shine to you. You happily listen to her ramble about her schooling in Jackson, about her distaste for her teachers, to her pleads for Joel to just homeschool her because "who needs school anyways?" You let her tell you terrible puns from a journal where she's scrawled the jokes with slanted, rushed handwriting. You follow her as she insists you accompany her to survey the ewes, climbing in the hayloft and attempting to hang from the rafters.

You don't notice the way Joel's eyes soften as you smile.

It's only on the third day of Ellie's visit, the morning of her departure, where she turns to you as Tommy and Joel talk next to the horses. Her arms wrap around your middle, head pressed to your chest, the embrace lasting for all of a moment before she pulls away again.

"Thank you." She tells you, eyes gazing up at you, clear and unwavering in a way you've come to recognize. "For taking care of him."

You freeze, eyes wide, lips parted, trying to process what she's just said. Yet you don't get the chance, because suddenly she's striding towards Tommy with a holler of "Let's get this show on the road!" and you're left alone, caught within the imbalance of her words.

No, you think. It was the other way around. You, you were the one who was taken care of, so you could be saved from yourself.

By him.

Things become different after that. It's as if Ellie's presence, her fondness of you has lifted an unknown weight from Joel's shoulders. Where before you could see cracks in him, now you can see the sunlight that dares to seep through, past the heartache and the grief he carries within.

Slowly, you too begin to change.

You're not sure what does it, whether it was Ellie, Joel, or the thaw of spring that relents the boundaries of your heart, unfolds them like snowdrops, born anew.

It's your voice that fills the silence now. Soft, soothing, still somehow endearingly shy yet undeniably kind. You turn your face to the wind, listen to the sound, try and discern the whispers it speaks to you. As the mountains turn green and lush, so too does your smile, a gentle thing that catches the sunlight and imbues it into your soul.

Joel smiles more too. You're not sure why, but you see it sometimes. When you appear from the hayloft with straw caught in your hair, when you hum a forgotten tune over the sink as you do dishes, when he sees you bolt after the lamb that escapes through the fencing, he smiles.

It always catches you a bit off guard, the way his mouth puckers, tugs the corner of his lips. Yet there's something in his stare that feels strangely like familiarity, of warmth, and you find yourself longing after it. You wish somehow you could trace that too into your soul, allow it to fill the cracks there like a balm, erase all the old wounds that linger with a bitter, sour aftertaste.

Joel remains at a distance from you, even though he seems more relaxed now. There's things he doesn't say, things he refuses to let you see. His words, though perhaps provided more often, remain enigmatic. Short, clipped, you come to realize he says what he means, but means far more than he can say.

Yet there's times when Joel is closer somehow, outstretching a hand to keep you from stumbling over a pit in the pasture, helping you down from the hayloft when the ladder breaks, crouching with you over a newborn lamb as it takes its first breath. There's something different in him in those moments. His eyes shine a little brighter, the draw of his face changes, his voice gets firm in a way that's less of a reprimand and more of concern. You can tell, the way he looks out for you without words.

Things get easier after that first year. Joel lets you gently shoo him from the kitchen when you've had enough of his poorly seasoned cooking to last a lifetime. He lets you wander further from the farm when you have the time, venturing into the woods to check the snares he's set. He comes with you when you hike to the top of the valley in search of wild spring onions, makes no complaint about his tender muscles. He tends to you when you come down with pneumonia, and in your listless, sickened state you think you hear him murmur the words "It's going to be okay."

Slowly, you unravel him. He smiles more often, albeit rarely. You get him to groan at terrible jokes and convince him to trade for art supplies and books for you. He listens to you when you suggest sheepdogs, and then forgives you when the mutt runs off into the woods within the first week to never return.

In the evenings, he sits closer, makes you a mug of tea without asking. He pushes the mug into your hands with little fanfare, and you learn it's through gestures that he says what he means the most.

"I want you here." The steam of the mug whispers to you silently. "Things are...easier with you here."

Yet there's unspoken words that remains between you despite that. You see it in the way he averts his eyes too quickly when you dry off from the bath, the way he watches you when you smile into the summer sunlight. You see it when you strip your jacket during the blazing heat of summer and he coughs suddenly, feigns breathlessness. You see it in his smile when you hold a tiny, baby chick in your hands, eyes glimmering with something akin to hope.

You see it when he warns you to get inside as a courier lets his eyes roam over you in a way that makes your skin crawl.

It's a messenger from another outlying settlement, one you've never seen before. Young, brawny, his smile a little too wide as he greets you from atop his horse, dismounts before you can stammer a greeting and extends his hand to you.

You freeze. There's something about his eyes, the way they don't meet your own, the way they seem to fixate on other parts of you. It summons a vile reminder of things that once were, and you feel your breath catch between your ribs, too shallow, too cold-

"Get inside." Joel tells you, and his calloused hand tightens on your shoulder just a fraction, not enough for anyone but the both of you to notice. The deep, gruff rumble of his voice in your ear conveys all the meaning you mean to hear. Familiar, it whispers to you: Danger. Threat. Listen to me. I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe. Don't ignore me.

"Now." Joel growls, and he pulls away enough to give you a look that lasts a millisecond, too short to go noticed by the courier.

You nod at him, but the prickle of peril still skims across your flesh, nipping in a shallow bite. Tasting, teasing, a parting augury that leaves you shivering as you turn in the direction of the cabin.

The courier's eyes never leave you, not even as his conversation with Joel continues, his voice a lazy drawl compared to Joel's clipped, brusque replies. Your skin crawls, and you feel his stare rake over you with a slimy, lasting touch. Putrid, unwanted, vile. Your hands shake.

You cast a glance behind you once you reach the porch steps, and blink when you find Joel crowding closer to the younger man, fists curled at his side. There's a look that passes over the courier's face then, brow knotted and lips turning into a displeased sneer.

For a moment you turn, ready to go back and intervene in the building confrontation. Yet then you see Joel's shoulders rise as he speaks and the courier's face drops, goes ashen and slack at whatever it is Joel has just said to him. The threat, though you can't hear it, hangs heavy suspended between them. You can see it, the way the younger man looks at Joel with a brief, vulnerable expression of fear.

He swallows, shuffles for a moment before tipping his hat at you in a brief but abashed farewell. Then he's getting on his horse, trembling hands grabbing the reins and turning back towards the hill from whence he came.

"What did you say to him?" You ask Joel when he eventually paces over towards the porch, his shoulders still taut, frown creased across his face. He peels off his work gloves, stuffs them hastily in his back pocket as he brushes past you. You think he won't give you an answer, leave you wondering as to what words he spoke to the man who dared to look at you the way he did.

Joel pauses with his hand on the door handle, still facing away from you. He stays there for a moment, and you watch as the rage eases from his shoulders.

"I told him." He says, voice low, reeking of an imminent tempest, a fury he keeps simmered down low, deep inside himself, ready to boil at a moment's notice.

"I told him if he ever looked at you again I'd pop his goddamn kneecap off."

The door stays ajar behind him, and you're left alone, the autumn wind breathing cold across your nape.

Yet warmth blooms within you, a familiar yet distorted dissension to the icy threat of Joel's words. Rather than settle in your bones with a lurid freeze, Joel's warning instead summons an affection like the proximity of a hearth, ensconced within the promise of his protection.

"I've got you." The heat in your chest murmurs in conjunction with his voice. "I'll keep you safe. Don't think I won't."

You follow him, tracing his back with your gaze, and thinking somehow that you might follow him anywhere if he asked you.

---

The months drag on. Winter is harsh that year, the snow falling gracefully yet accumulating with sinister depth. The fire never stops, and it's on more than one night that you and Joel both abandon your bedrooms and sleep in the main room, closer to the woodstove so the freeze doesn't come for you in sleep. It's on those nights that you awake with an extra blanket draped over you, that Joel walks a little stiffly the next morning, grumbles about the cold irritating his joints.

The blanket smells like him.

It's on one of those nights, where the wind howls and sleet batters at the windows that you shiver under your covers, and the nightmares come creeping past your defenses. Like frost, they grow across the planes of your thoughts, extending, fissuring out and reminding you of that time, of an unearthly, blank, white grave. You sink into it, watch through snowflake covered lashes as the world shimmers with pristine, powdery glimmer, even as your heartbeat slows, your vision fades.

It's on one of those nights that there's hands that seize you in your sleep and you struggle against them with a whimper of "No, please, not again-"

"Hey."

It's Joel's voice that breaks through the ice, hauls you from the depths of exposure and into wakefulness once more.

"It's me." He says when you feebly push at him, mind still trying to discern its own direction, tears burning the corner of your eyes. "It's me. I've got you."

Your vision, wavering and watery, meets his gaze. Brown eyed, brow knotted, hands on either side of your face as he wills you to see, to hear him. You can only cling to him, eyes wide, unseeing, mind a cacophony of screams and sickening, bloody impacts until there's only a cavern of blank, snowy silence that rings between your ears.

"It's over." Joel tells you, voice deep, a grinding whisper tinted with an emotion you can't place. His eyes have a look you haven't seen before, and it takes you a moment to place it.

Fear.

"You're here." He murmurs, keeping your eyes facing forward, into his own. "Safe."

The dying embers of the woodstove flicker across your glassy eyes, and the vision fades, resumes into the now with Joel's thumb stroking across your cold, wet cheek. You shiver into his grip as the nightmares fades, a ghost of a past that's long since transpired, but leaves scars echoing endlessly within the prison of your mind.

Neither of you fall asleep again that night, words unspoken into the silence but presences merging, blending together in the darkness until daylight at last breaks over the horizon.

If Joel is different at that night, you can't tell. He keeps his short, gruff way about you, offers what he needs to, busies his hands with the work to be done. He doesn't remark upon the truth he saw in your eyes and words that night, simply absorbs that truth into himself and keeps moving in the way all survivors do. You find yourself wishing you could do the same, could burrow the hurt down deep so it sleeps, hibernates there until spring, whenever that may come.

Yet when a rake falls loudly in the barn, when a gunshot rings out in the woods from a neighboring hunter, when you hear a coyote scream at night, he's there. Wordlessly, his eyes slide over to your tensed, ashen expression and his voice becomes soft, a reassurance of security, of protection.

"It's just the wind." He tells you when a gale lashes at the windows, clatters against the panes. His hands don't cease as they prod the fire, but his eyes turn to you- looking, waiting, expectant. It's only when you nod that he returns his focus elsewhere, ensures the unease in your bones has settled.

It's in that way that you know. Regardless of whether Joel speaks it or not, somewhere along the way he's decided you're one of his own. Someone to reassure, to protect, to keep safe, even from the doubts of the past.

This is where you're meant to stay, you realize. Here, with him.

It's a realization that feels like relief, hopeful like the lambs that bounce through the meadows and the hatchlings that nest in the eaves of the porch. It feels like a rebirth, like a renewal of yourself as you at last realize the true extent of your feelings.

You think you love him.

You think, in another life, you could have been his.

You aren't so bold as to offer him advances, the emotions in your chest too fragile, too fleeting. Yet you do ease around him in a way you haven't before. Sitting next to him on the couch, daring to cover his hand with yours as he reaches for something in the cabinet, stepping closer to point out a hole he missed in the chicken wiring, your breath ghosting over his nape.

He doesn't miss these gestures, you know he doesn't. Joel is too aware to not see them, has too many years struggling to survive in a cruel world to not notice this gentle easiness of yours. Yet he never makes mention of it, never takes the chance to step closer, to narrow the strange distance between you. You don't understand it, can't comprehend why he insists on not venturing nearer to you. It remains one of the things you'll never know about him, why he looks at you with such tenderness and yet refuses to let you come closer.

"I'm too old for this." He groans as you both lay panting in the pasture after wrangling the flock's ram back into the field after his daring escape. "I need to retire."

You huff, something akin to a laugh, staring up at the summer cumulus clouds that roll white and puffy across and egg-shell blue sky.

"I'll stay here, even if you do." You tell him honestly, smiling, feeling for once like you can see into the future ahead of you. You turn to look at him, hair mussed, eyes bright but warm. "I don't want to be anywhere else."

He looks at you then, and the color in your heart wilts to sepia at the emotion that flickers across his face.

Guilt.

It stabs at you, like a blade in the dark, the razor-sharp edge glinting from a campfire. Your face falls, your stomach drops, and distantly, you think you can hear the sound of your heart cracking at the edges.

He doesn't want you.

There's a deep, lurking, sinister shadow that wonders if anyone ever will.

You try not to dwell on it, even as it slowly consumes you as the days drag on. Doubt festers in your veins, like spores sticking to the edges of your skin, your distant, unfocused eyes.

You lay awake at night, days later, deciding to step outside into the summer air to breath, release your demons into the night sky.

It's only then that you see the orange glow on the horizon, wake Joel with your rising, panic shouts.

Joel stumbles out of his room, eyes quickly clearing of drowsiness as he too looks towards the sight before you.

"Get dressed." He tells you, sleep still clogging his voice. "It's the Johnsons. Something's caught fire."

You follow his command wordlessly, and it's within ten minutes that the two of you are riding over the lip of the valley, speeding in direction of the next farm over.

You arrive too late.

The barn is a single flame against the night sky as you arrive, and the farm's two owners hold each other not far away. Contents of their house are strewn about them. The smell of smoke and blood thickens at the back of your throat.

"Raiders." The wife tells you, voice less of a wail and more of a shattered, trembling whisper. It's all that needs to be said.

You and Joel see to them, spend the day helping them gather the remainders of the farm. You don't arrive back at the cabin until sundown, skin chalky with ash, hands chaffed, form slumped with fatigue. Yet it's not even two steps into the door before Joel turns to you, eyes severe, steely, holding back a fury spawned by fear.

"I'm leaving." Is all he says. "In the morning. Gotta tell Tommy about what's happened."

You feel a low murmur of terror gurgle in your stomach at the idea of being left alone when danger lurks beyond the edges of the valley, at the idea of him going by himself.

"Let me come with you." You try, but he shakes his head.

"No." Is all he gives you. "I need you to stay here. Guard the farm. I'll lock everything up before I go."

Then his eyes soften, and he breathes a sigh as he looks at you, sees the anxiety rising in your gaze.

"I won't be long." He murmurs then, voice dipping. "Just keep that shotgun safe, like I showed you. I'll be back soon."

You know you can't argue with him, stubborn as he is. Besides, he's right. Someone needs to stay. Someone needs to make the journey. One of you has to go. You both know it's him.

So, you watch him, the next morning, watching from the porch as he ascends the edge of the valley, tracing his back until he's nothing more than a speck that vanishes over the rise.

True to his word, Joel arrives back the next afternoon, and on his tail is an entire company of riders. Spooked as you are, you at first think they're raiders, forcing him to lead them back to the farm. You stand on the porch with a shotgun, hands trembling until Joel at last dismounts, approaches you like he would a wild, scared animal.

"It's alright." He murmurs, and makes you lower the weapon as the rest of the group stands at a safe distance. His hands are cold, yet familiar as they touch you, ground you from your own rapid heartbeat.

"Security." He tells you simply as you eye the group warily. They regard you respectfully, eyes shifting from you to Joel and then back again, tall atop their horses, murmuring to each other in low voices.

There's around five of them, hard in the eyes, fit, strong. They're all younger than Joel by a number of years. Their weapons lay across their laps or on their saddles. You can tell at a single glance that they're soldiers by training. You know the look. You've seen the same expression in the eyes of FEDRA soldiers. Focused, disciplined, rife with a cold, calculating instinct.

Your eyes flick from them to Joel, and at last you relax, shoulders dropping all of an inch, letting him take the shotgun from you.

It's only then that they begin to dismount, talking amongst themselves and offering you linger, skeptical glances, as if encountering traces of a predator in the woods. Yet there's one of the group that hands his reins to the man beside him, approaches you both with slow, measured steps.

He's the once you noticed first, with his towering stature and set jaw. A short beard and thick brows frame his face, shoulders tight with coiled strength. There's an air to him that seems more acute, more potent than the rest of his men. Somehow, it warns of danger.

He removes his hat as he nears the two of you, holds it over his heart in a humble greeting.

"Ma'am." He offers with a nod.

"This is Joe Graves." Joel tells you, one hand still cupping your elbow. Steadying, grounding.

"You can call me 'Bear'." He adds and gives you a smile that pierces through the remnants of frenetic, panicked anxiety. "They boys and I all have callsigns.

"Hello." You offer at last politely, voice a little quiet, guarded. Bear only nods at you, seems to take your hesitancy in stride, his smile not faltering. It's warm, understanding, and it's as if he senses the unsteadiness in you, waits patiently for you to right yourself.

Your chest flutters.

"The boys and I are going to take good care of your farm." He tells you, voice measured but easy. "If you ever need anything from us, don't hesitate to ask."

You blink at him, feel his words siphon away the fear, the uncertainty that dwells between your ribs.

"Thank you...Bear." You tell him, voice muted but betraying your gratitude, your slow unwinding tension at his tone with you. Entreating, patient, void of expectations.

There's something that glimmers in his eyes then, and you catch it for only a moment. A spark, a hope, an interest you can't yet decipher. It feels like it coats you in a smattering of glimmer dust, leaving behind a warm, hazy glow that catches in your stare.

You know that look.

"Don't worry." It says. "Take your time. There's no rush. I won't come closer unless you want me to. I'll stay right here until you're ready."

Like the bloom of springtime, color once again unfurls in your heart.

#TLOU #Joel miller #the last of us #joe bear graves #Joel miller x reader #Joe bear graves x reader #reader insert #fic: woodsmoke #AHHHHHH ITS FINISHED

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brightgnosis · 8 months

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I'm still incredibly ambivalent about taking over the Farm. There's just so much work to be done, and I don't know if it'll ever truly actually be livable; like what if they're never even able to put it back on the foundation properly and we do so much work for nothing?

Plus, it's so far out there. I mean, yeah, I grew up in the country. But this'll be the furthest out that I'll've ever lived if we take it over. And the prospect of being so far out your roads aren't even named anymore is so daunting to me; at least my childhood road still had a name, and I could still walk into town if I wanted to, you know?

Not having a Tornado Shelter, too, is also terrifying. Like, I know the house up the hill has one. But I'm incredibly uncomfortable not even having so much as a Root Cellar on our own property. Especially with my PTSD, and with being so far from any actual civilization out there.

ETA: I'm also scared that, knowing how my Mother in Law is, and how attached she really is to the farm ... Once we begin repairs and we start making design decisions about how things go, in an effort to make it ours, she'll either meddle in them in her obnoxious, neurotic kind of way- or she'll get mopey and act like a child about it when she doesn't like something we choose. Because she does still see the Farm as "her baby" and really wishes she could move back out there. And I really don't want to play tug-o-war with her over whether or not the house is truly ours. I had enough of that kind of control over my own house with my parents holding our last house over our head with a "well we gave it to you therefore you can't kick us out of it".

And then there's the potential that the Mountain Lion's still out there, too. Which I'm fine with; I don't want to harm it. It has as much right to exist out there as we do ... But how do you coexist with something like that in a way that gives both of you the right amount of space and protects both of you? Coyotes I'm used to. A Mountain Lion's a different beast entirely. I have no idea how to interact with them.

But at the same time, I've come to realize that I also can't say I'm not excited about it, either? Especially just being in close proximity to all the land. Like, we're inheriting the 50 acres with or without the House, either way. But with the house, if we can get it fixed up, would be so nice, so that we don't have to keep driving out there. I could actually do all of the projects we've been considering over the years, but which we've never been able to because the commute is just too much on top of everything else.

Just ... The prospect of having enough land to plant the Orchard. To have both my Rose Garden and my Peony Garden (and being one step closer to earning my proper Rosarian title as a result). To really dig into the soil and have the space to fight tooth and nail to get better at Vegetables and break our stalemate finally. To have my different Herb gardens instead of trying to shove it all into the same tiny space ... Potentially having a Moon Garden ... Not to mention all of the Lilacs and Forsythia, St. John's Wort, and even some of my own Bridal Wreath Spirea that I could plant finally.

The way I could also take walks out into the pasture and have so many more opportunities for Native Identification that I just can't get here, too. Being in proximity to Locust trees again, finally (my babies). The opportunity to restore some of the acreage back into- and then manage- a proper TallGrass Prairie, even, like what should be out there! Finally being more able to manage all the Bradford Bastards in the pastures, too, that desperately need to go (as well as the Cedars). Being able to fix the Pond, stabilize the creek bed, and take care of the Ravine, too ... There's so much, ecologically, in regards to restoration work and rewilding, and being able to put my old work as a Civilian Conservationist back to work.

Also won't lie. My Husband definitely did also kind of use me finally getting to have my Flock as a way to get me out there, too. He even agreed to Guineas and a Goat, though he hates them. I don't know if I'd actually get a Goat. But I'd really look forward to having my Ducks, and my Geese, Guineas and Quail, and even some Pheasants back. And being out that far I could even participate in the Prairie Chicken rebreeding project I want to participate in to help with Rehabilitation, and I'd be so happy about it.

Not to mention the house, if it's possible to fix it up, is small and it's only one story; it's a fairly classic single story farmhouse from the mid to late 1800's in terms of size. Which is exactly the size I wanted when we moved again ... I didn't want to move into anything that was too big for me to upkeep with my Disabilities- especially since they've gotten worse since the last time we lived on our own, because of Covid. And if we do decide that we need more space, we can always convert the Garage into another section, since there's like 3 Barns on the property and we don't actually need the Garage.

Eta: Also, just having a proper pantry again- but specifically a walk-in pantry that I can divide up between food and my Herbs? And being able to convert the Kitchen back into at least a semi-unattached Kitchen- because I've always wanted an unattached Kitchen? Plus it has this absolutely giant screened in porch where I could have all my more sensitive potted plants. And I could sit and be far more comfortable out of the heat, away from the mosquitoes. And have a porch swing back again like I did in my childhood- which I've missed more than anything in every house I've lived in since?

Idk, the more I think about it, yeah. I'm still absolutely terrified about the prospect. And there are so many concerns, and hoops to jump through, and all that. But it's also actually exactly what we've been looking for for a while now; when we go down the list of everything we want in a home, when we discuss where we're going to move next, and what we're looking for in our forever home if we could find it and ever actually had the chance ... Like ... This is it, give or take a couple things here or there- like a fireplace (it has a wood stove), and a shelter or basement (it has neither).

Idk. Just kind of brain dumping thoughts about it.

#ReTaming The Farm #Domestic Witch #Domestic Witchcraft #Cottage Witch #Cottage Witchcraft #Hearth Witch #Hearth Witchcraft #Kitchen Witch #Kitchen Witchcraft #Green Witch #Green Witchcraft #Oklahoma #Personal #2023

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butterflyheartau · 8 months

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~Feather Court Territory + Camp~

Feather Court lives in a grassy, hilly field to the west. Their camp is protected by the hills. There is a large cliff at the west edge of their territory. There is a large tree in the southern part of their territory which they use in their ceremony. From a distance, it’s easy to see the ferns surrounding their camp but hard to tell it’s a camp at all.

Their camp is surrounded by ferns. It is situated in what used to be a Twoleg garden. The dens are underneath forsythia bushes. If you enter the camp and turn clockwise starting at the entry tunnel, you will see in order: the tunnel to the dirtplace/backup escape tunnel, the quarantine den, the Duxs’ den, the nursery, the elders’ den, the apprentices’ den, the warriors’ den, the Monarch’s den, the tunnel to the training area, and the fresh-kill pile. There is a gorse bush in the center-right of the camp that has been cultivated by the Court and wrapped in ferns. This is where the meetings are held.

#butterfly heart #warrior cats #warriors #warriors au #butterfly heart territory post #warrior cats au

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topshelf2112-blog · 11 months

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Things that are saving my life today

The first of the redbud & forsythia

Carpets of web-wonder mist rising from the hills

Henry stealing fabric softener sheets

The delicious sound of high winds

A pileated woodpecker

Forsythia bushes decked with Easter eggs

Chatting with Taylor

Being reminded to trust

#things that are saving my life today #this is an older one #beautiful appalachia

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elminx · 2 years

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Forsythia Experiments

For the past couple of weeks, my town and the surrounding area have been glowing with the bold yellow of the forsythia bush. As a lifelong New Englander, I grew up with forsythia as one of the first real signs of spring but it wasn't until last spring that I realized that its flowers could be eaten. I've been on a mission to eat them every since.

Eating a wild plant is always a safety game - you want to choose one that is removed from any major roadways, that has not been sprayed with chemicals, and that is not in a polluted area where industrial waste or other byproducts may have seeped into the soil. I was able to source a couple of safe plants (my parent's yard but they live far away, and two friends who live marginally closer) and it has just been a waiting game until they came into bloom again.

Little did I know that Forsythia had some lessons in store for me.

As I sat out to wait for forsythia to bloom once more, I decided to do some base research on their magical properties. None of my standard witch books mentioned forsythia - not even the famed green encyclopedia (you know the one). I finally stumbled upon Witch of the Wood's post on the folk magic of forsythia on Patheos which at least gave me a direction in which to go in.

There forsythia is listed as associated with the number four (which makes sense to me as it has four petals) and my mind was off to the races. Four is a number of form and structure - something built out of four parts is built to last. The flower's yellow color indicates grandness, happiness, and achievement. It is about building your life one metaphorical brick at a time. It's about having a solid foundation - four is a number that makes things real.

I decided that I was going to make a forsythia jelly. I made a dandelion jelly around May Day last year that we all devoured and I was eager to see how it might compare to forsythia.

It was such a good idea.

The thing is - I've made a lot of jams and jellies over my lifetime - mostly made out of berries and rosehips. That's easysauce but I didn't know that it was easysauce because I'd never tried to set something that didn't have any pectin in it.

The first time, the intent was totally there. The four of us wandered out to Dora's forsythia bush at dusk on a cool evening. It was Good Friday - we had cod baking inside. ` It was a good day to pick some flowers. A good day to be outside with friends just covered in flower petals. (That's my favorite thing in existence, being covered in flower petals)

The next day, I was distracted by Gray and my partner wanting to play board games and didn't check to see that my jelly was set. It's okay, we have a bunch of really nice forsythia syrup that just can't be used for cocktails because it turns into the consistency of boba tea when you add it to alcohol. That's unfortunate but we've been finding other uses for it.

But I was determined but I decided to go to my other friend's house to pick more forsythia and try again. We went up that Monday night but up where they live in the hills, the temperate dropped as soon as the sun went behind the mountain. It was cold - not at all the right headspace to pick flowers. My partner and I stayed for as long as we could to pick enough flowers but it was a minimally pleasant experience.

The next day, I was super careful. I read the package and followed their directions exactly even though they seemed to contradict the one successful flower jelly that I'd made in the past. And the jelly wouldn't set.

At that point, I was frustrated.

I knew that I'd done it wrong by being inattentive the first time but I had followed the fucking directions to the letter the second time. (I shouldn't have and I knew it but sometimes you have to make a decision just to do something and I'd chosen the wrong option)

I should have just followed my recipe for dandelion jelly because it had worked.

That following Sunday, we went back up to the farm to pick dandelions for the third time. It was the kind of day where you need three types of layers of clothing every 10 minutes as the sun drifted in and out of the cloud cover. We got yelled at by the very pregnant Nubian goats because we weren't going over to see them. My partner and I set out to pick a third time and without being asked, my friend started picking right along with us. The three of us picked while we talked to my two other friends, got yelled at by some crows, the sun was shining, and it was perfect.

For the first time, I could smell the subtle scent of the flowers as they picked them. On the first two occasions, it had taken force to remove the petals but as the sunlight warmed the bush, it seemed to release them into my hand at the slightest touch. I slowly worked my way down the bush and away from my friends but when I looked back, new blossoms had opened to replace those that I had removed.

I could have given up for forsythia. Seven pints of syrup that cannot be used in cocktails is a lot. But rather than bowing to my failure, I decided that I needed to do it one more time. If only for science.

My kitchen notebook has almost as many failures as successes. We write it down both to keep from repeating mistakes and to learn from them.

I knew before I had even made the tea that this time, I was going to make jelly. I could feel the flowers inside of the jar. We understood each other.

My house is a number 4. My partner and I are both 8's and we like the structure that 4 energy provides us with. You need four sides to make a pyramid. You need to lay every brick to stand the test of time. You can't give up just because you half-assed it and expect to get what you want out of life.

You need to work for it.

You'd think that as a double Taurus I'd be better at remembering that.

Touché, Forsythia, I see you now.

#witchblr #words #mine #plants #forsythia #flowers #flowering trees #spring flowers #wild harvesting #wild edibles #forsythia jelly

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accidentalajumma · 2 years

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These wild roses smell gorgeous. Actually the hills are currently totally covered in all sorts of white blossoms that smell amazing.

Seems like March in Korea is dominated by yellow flowers like forsythia and cornelian cherry blossom, April is for pink flowers (cherry blossom, peach blossom, plum blossom, azaleas), and May is for all the highly scented god-knows-what-they-all-are white flowers.

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wutbju · 8 months

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So the October 1967 Greenville News insert had a large article about the landscaping on campus. Here’s the text. What strikes you about this write-up?

Looking out across the beautiful verdant campus of Bob Jones University, one can hardly imagine the time when this ground was nothing but a large plot of red clay hills and dunes. Tall, graceful shade trees, flowering and fruit » smaller trees, and colorful shrubbery flowers of all kinds now dot the grounds. Linking these and the symmetrical modern buildings in panoramic view are vast expanses of lush green lawns.

When one first sees the neat, clean appearance of the campus, he finds it hard to believe that more than 4,000 students and faculty members walk back and forth across it every day. The 15 or 20 students on the grounds crew believe it though, for they are the ones who daily work keep it that way.

Each is assigned a section of the campus,, and everything down to the last little piece of paper or trash is picked up and everything is swept clean. "Cleanliness is next to godliness" is a proverb they live by. And this is a familiar maxim to the students, too.

One student sweeper acquired a special reward for his diligence in cleaning gutters. He found a $100 bill one day which became his - after a reasonable length of time had passed with no claimers.

The grounds crew has been particularly thankful for a new refuse removal system that was installed on the campus recently. This system, called "Gar-bax." features special refuse holders placed in strategic spots around the campus. Containing disposable paper bags, they eliminate the necessity of transferring refuse; for the bags can just be lifted out of the holders, sealed and discarded.

Bob Jones University has been featured in the nationally distributed "Gerbaxnews"--the trade publication of the International Paper Co.--for its effective use of this system.

The lawns at BJU have been greener this summer thanks to a huge new grass cutter, Jacobsen F-10, purchased last March. Mowing in 15-foot swaths, it shears the grass clean and fine.

Dick Murr, manager of grounds at BJU, said that "a section that used to take 3½ hours to cut now only takes 35 minutes.

The grounds crew also has four rotary riding mowers, eight small power mowers for trim-out work, and a six-foot Toro professional mower.

FRUIT TREES

Trees and shrubbery that bloom and have fruits at various times of the year have been placed in various parts of the campus. Large pine trees, some with seven-foot bolls and 12 feet in diameter, have been moved to more advantageous places where their effect might be more picturesque.

Forsythia, hydrangea and various types of spire dress the campus in the spring. Also, peach, plum, apple, pear, fig, apricot, cherry, wisteria and pink and white dogwood vie with one another to make the campus beautiful and fragrant-a place that students leaving at the end of the school year will never forget. When the peaches and plums mature, they add succulent taste treats to the dining common menu. The apples, harvested in the fall, give the new home economic classes plenty of practical experience in making jelly.

This past March, 1,000 azalea plants that were donated to the university were set out in beds; and all of the plants bloomed. The Greenville Garden Club counts in its beautification of Greenville competition the number of new azaleas and dogwood trees that are added to the BJU campus each year. Mrs. Bob Jones Sr. and Mrs. Bob Jones Jr. are both members of the club.

ROSE GARDEN

The rose garden planted near the dining common last winter and spring provided fragrant beauty during the summer. Red crape myrtle and orange pyracanthra add the bright touch of color to the campus in the late summer, as well as the red apples of the flowering crab trees. The maroon-leaved barberry bushes lining the drive between the Administration Build. ing and highway provide a neat contrast to the green lawns.

In the fall and winter, pyracantha, Mandela and holly trees and bushes of many varieties have their limbs bough gracefully under the weight of their vivid fruit. Holly lines the walkways to the dining common and fills the three large flag basins in front of it.

Boxwood, abelia, wax leaf ligustrum, and various evergreens keep the campus verdant and attractive through all the seasons of the year. Oaks, pines and other shade trees keep it cool and restful appearing. Many of the trees and shrubs have been donated by residents of Greenville.

Of special interest at BJU are the Bible land trees set out in front of the Fine Arts Building. These include thorn, hackberry, salix, acacia, olive, spikenard, and rose of Sharon.

Flower beds are rotated to provide beautiful, colorful effects during the various seasons. In the early spring, pastel-colored crocuses, showy narcissus, and yellow and white daffodils appear, followed later by multi-colored tulips and pansies. These give place in the summer to geraniums, petunias, cockscombs, and cannas of all hues.

WORDS IN FLOWERS

Mums and Joseph's coat take predominance in the fall. Using Joseph's coat with its multi-colored leaves, it has been the custom in the fall to spell out in the beds in front of the alumni building such phrases as "God is Love" and "Jesus Saves."

In the garden area of the university are glads, dahlias, zinnias and asters. John Ludwig, superintendent of buildings and grounds, uses these to form lovely bouquets of flowers for the church services held at BJU, as well as for the Information Desk. He also provides the dining common with some of these flowers to dress up the tables.

A number of cymbidium orchid plants were recently donated to the school, and these are kept in the university's large greenhouse. These will begin producing 7,000 blooms, which will be sold in the school bookstore to young men for their special dates.

The geraniums and Joseph's coat are also kept in the greenhouse when not in use. Azalea plants and camellias are kept there until late March, when they are set out for Bible Conference time in the center divider near the entrance to the campus. If a rather bad frost is predicted at this time, these plants are all dug up and taken in for the night, to be set out again the next morning!

A lake shows forth its mirror-like surface behind the maintenance building. White rocks--rip-rip from the Campbell Limestone Co.--have been placed around the lake. An island in the lake was developed in June; and now crape myrtle, dogwood, Japanese maple and a little white walk of wash river rock grace it. Eventually, a bridge will reach out to the island from the mainland.

Weeping willow trees are going to be planted along one side of the lake near the dam, and also near the dining common.

Where rain drains come into the lake, waterfalls will be built out of white rock. And flower beds will be made in various spots around the lake.

On the far side of the lake are picnic grounds with fire-places, tables, and tall pines. These are used by student and faculty groups for outings.

Dads and boys find the fishing pretty good at the lake. Mr. Murr said that one of his assistants caught in one evening on an artificial worm four lovely 15-inch bass. Bamboo growths are around and near the lake, and these make one think of fishing poles.

The grounds crew feed the lawns twice a year. They also landscape new homes that are built for faculty and staff members, and they take care of the grounds around the homes. All told, they have the care of about 140 acres at BJU. Les Ollila, an ex-logger from Michigan who became a student, has given the trees on the campus some much-needed pruning during the past year. He had gained tree trimming and surgery experience with tree surgeons in his home state before coming to BJU.

That lake? That would become “Omega Lake” back campus. By the time this archivist was a student, it was a campus joke, not this idyllic vision.

#Bob Jones University #1967 #Greenville News #YeahTHATGreenville #Advertisement #Anniversary #Dick Murr #Landscaping #Les Ollila #Omega Lake

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thorgans-guide-to-thedas · 2 years

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Cumberland

Trade empire, home to the College of Magi, and one of the largest cities in Thedas. Feel free to use this resource, or to take parts of it your inspiration in your DA RPG campaign!

You can find detailed map and district descriptions under the cut.

1. Tournament Grounds: This area is located at the bottom of the valley, and is a testing grounds for all matter of abilities, whether it be agility, combat, magic, or crafting. This is also the location of the Grand Tourney, and the setting in the Autumn Falls DA RPG campaign.

2. Citadel: This is the home of many of the Cumberland politicians, dignitaries, and members of Council. This area is heavily guarded and may require special permission or invitations in order to enter the area.

3. The Dragon’s Den: The dwarven trade empire. This area of the city exists both above and below ground, with several points of entry to the underground district that lies buried beneath the mountains. The buildings in this area are all made out of dense stone, and in the distinct style and intricate design of dwarven architecture. This district is also home to the renowned Diamond Lass Inn.

4. Dura Bazaar: A lavish above-ground market with items and goods from all across Thedas. The shops are well-kept and line every street for blocks along the harbor. You can find almost everything here from durable equipment, to exquisite clothing and adornments.

5. Veneration Crossing: A massive bridge that crosses the River Cumber, with immense statues on either side. The statues show of a warrior with a raised weapon on one side of the bridge facing an angry dragon on the other. This bridge commemorates all the great Nevarran dragon hunters.

6: Markham Wharf: Named after the Van Markham Kings that settled much of Nevarra into the country it is today. This is a bustling port that greets ships from as far away as Rivain.

7. Manuma Hill: The religious district of Cumberland, housing the Andrastian Chantry temple, and their schools and libraries. This district is located in a highly elevated place alongside the mountains surrounding Cumberland.

8. Forsythia Ancestral Estate: A still active estate run by members of the Forsythia family, and a location available if pursued in campaign options.

9. College of Magi: A large collective of intricate buildings home to the pursuit, study, and practice of magic. Some key buildings of interest include the Red Auditorium, and the Sun Dome, which its large, golden-tiled dome can be seen from the other side of the harbor.

10. The Northern Wall: This gate leads out of Cumberland and into the twisting passage of the Bronze Highlands.

11. The Iron Mile (hidden behind the legend): This is the worker-hub of Cumberland, where many of the working-class and poverty-stricken live. This district extends up and into the mountains, and is also home to a couple different mining operations. Many of the labor surrounds the manufacturing of precious metals, hence the name Iron Mile.

12. South Vale (hidden behind the legend): A small community that houses many of the workers who do not live inside of Cumberland - somewhat of a shanty-town.

#dragon age rpg #da ttrpg #tabletop resources #nevarra #da rpg #cumberland #maps #city map #world of thedas #thorgans guide to thedas

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violettesiren · 8 days

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Some love best long, leafy lanes, thick Overhead, and dewy grass bedecked with strawberries; Others, roses, like lovers climbing To the windows of sweet girls… But give me instead, O April, Sloping hills spotted with dandelions, And orchards laden With pale, blossoming beauty; Red maple buds against the wide sky, Tawny and grey leaflets throbbing into life, The sudden green of the willow, A patch of emerald wheat, Forsythias in a blaze of glory, And strong winds blowing white clouds Athwart great gaps of blue.

A Plea by Sally Bruce Kinsolving

#sally bruce kinsolving

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forsythiahill · 1 month

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Flower vase of the week -- WEEK 2. Daffodils and Heleborus.

#heleborus #flowers #daffodils #spring #gardening #forsythia hill #gardens #nature #bulbs #spring bulbs

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dalelans · 1 month

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Hope is what makes the first flowers of spring bloom in a cold snap: the yellow narcissus, forsythia, and celadine. The little purple phlox that blooms from dark green foliage, in deep shade on the north-facing wall of the house. The sun comes up orange, rises a bit over the hills, and beams white hope. Lillian purees grocery bags into a pulp, mixes them with flower petals, and presses them into the rough and pretty paper of hope.

Eugene

#poetry #flowers

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tankasocietyofamerica · 11 months

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wild forsythia

beautiful and unashamed

beckoning

to be touched

just one brief tryst

David Lee Hill, TSA member’s anthology 2021

#tanka #tanka poetry #short poem #poetry #short poetry #poem #tanka society of america

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goddessgardener · 1 year

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An Eastern Europe Blooming Journey

by Cynthia Brian

“Every spring is the only spring, a perpetual astonishment.” Ellis Peters

My legs feel like jelly and my back is breaking. And the pain is not from gardening. It is from walking an average of ten miles per day on cobblestone streets, up steep hills, down into the woods of national parks, and climbing medieval stairs to fortresses and castles throughout my springtime journey to the former Eastern Bloc countries of Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, the Czech Republic, as well as Croatia and Serbia. Besides learning more about the history, culture, customs, people, and food, I was on a quest to identify the botanical specimens that we have in common.

The original weather reports indicated mild temperatures, but a cold front suddenly appeared broadcasting freezing winds, rain, snowfall, and overcast grey days. Locals blamed the meteorologic conditions on climate change and global warming. Yet Mother Nature earnestly wanted to birth spring in a magical awakening from its winter slumber. The rich soil of these European countries provides a foundation for a variety of plants and trees, many of which are familiar to Californians.

Each country has a special association with a specific flower. During the Ottoman conquest, tulips were brought to these countries and tulips were blooming profusely in every land. Hungary claims the tulip as its national flower.

Home to diverse wildflowers, including the Pasque flower, a harbinger of spring, Croatia calls the Dalmatian iris its own. The bright orange crown imperial flower was a specimen unknown to me.

The national symbol of Serbia is the plum tree, which was in full bloom throughout the country. Their national drink, Šljivovica, is made from plums.

In Romania a wild climbing rose called Rosa Canina is utilized for both health and drinking and the purple Carpathian crocus is the first sign of spring.

Bulgaria is the world’s leading producer of rose oil used in perfumes and cosmetic products. The roses were not yet in bloom, but the bushes were filled with buds. I was compelled to purchase rose oil which is supposedly excellent for skin revitalization.

The Czech Republic is home to a variety of spring- blooming flowers including crocus, tulips, and roses, and is known for its spectacular display of cherry blossom trees which create a stunning pink canopy over the cities and countryside.

Blooming tulip magnolia trees were in glorious abundance, adding beauty to the already spectacular architecture.

Bright yellow forsythia, called golden bells, was flowering throughout the region, along roads, in parks, and in forests. Forsythia is stoloniferous, which means when a branch meets the soil it takes root to start another bush.

Part of the Brassicaceae mustard and cabbage family, rapeseed/canola farms were ubiquitous as a prosperous and financially lucrative crop. The rapeseed oil is used for diesel fuel and other industrial processes and the edible variety produces canola oil. Many people have allergies to the flowers and don’t welcome the blanket of yellow blooms.

Living walls of exotic plants, many of which we use as houseplants, were featured in several hotels and restaurants in Hungary, Bulgaria, and the Czech Republic. Apple, pear, and plum trees were in full blush throughout my sojourn, perfuming the chilly air.

I was surprised to see “lawns” consisting of dandelions, which were very attractive with their edible greens.

Pansies in a variety of colors and patterns dotted the landscapes. Another specimen for which I was unfamiliar was the butter yellow puff balls of the Kerria Japanese rose in Croatia.

Also unknown to me and quite intriguing was the Lunaria, called annual Honesty, dotting the hillsides in the Djerdap National Park in Serbia.

The Czech Republic enjoyed the most dramatic displays of horticultural bliss. The parks and squares were filled with blossoming European crabapples, tulip magnolias, and colorful tulips, as well as curated window boxes of colorful hyacinths, primroses, forget-me-nots, and other flowering bulbs.

My spring sojourn through Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Romania, Bulgaria, and the Czech Republic has been a time of great beauty, wonder, and education. From delicate wildflowers to bold and bright flowering trees, these countries offered a stunning array of blooms, despite the wintery weather.

It is with appreciation that I return to my gorgeous garden in full bloom albeit overgrown with weeds. May is a busy time in the garden, but with a little effort, we can keep our plants healthy and thriving. Follow these tips for gardening chores, and you'll be well on your way to a beautiful landscape. With all the garden work ahead of me, I anticipate jelly legs and an aching back!

Spring is a perpetual astonishment and worth the pain.

Cynthia Brian’s Goddess Gardener May Gardening Guide

As the temperatures rise, our plants need more care and attention, so let's get to work.

ü WATER early in the morning as the weather warms to prevent evaporation.

ü WEED constantly before weeds take over the garden. Remove the entire root system of weeds before sowing the seeds you want to grow.

ü PLANT warm-season vegetables including tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, eggplant, zucchini, and whatever edibles your family enjoys eating.

ü FERTILIZE your actively growing plants with a balanced fertilizer and follow the instructions carefully. Over-fertilizing can damage your plants, so don't be tempted to add more than recommended.

ü IMPROVE the biodiversity of your soil ecosystem through mulching and composting. Spring and fall are the ideal times to increase organic matter and humus content. Adding compost to your garden reduces the need for chemical fertilizers, and allows the soil to hold water well which means less watering.

ü PICK up the last of the spent camellia blossoms from your garden to protect your plant for next season.

ü SWEEP debris from driveways, walkways, steps, and porches to freshen up for spring.

ü BRIGHTEN your curb appeal or plant window boxes with colorful annuals and perennials including petunias, zinnias, cleome, salvia, dahlias, snapdragons, primrose, bulbs, impatiens, and bachelor buttons.

ü PREVENT pests. Keep an eye out for aphids, whiteflies, and other common garden pests. You can use organic pest control methods like neem oil or insecticidal soap to keep them under control.

ü EMPTY standing water from pots, tires, neglected ponds, pools, or any place where mosquito larvae will breed. With all the rain we’ve had this year, mosquitoes could spread the West Nile virus and other diseases.

ü CLEAR debris from your home and garden perimeter. Dried limbs, leaves, and weeds need to be removed. Fire season is upon us.

Digging Deep with Goddess Gardener, Cynthia Brian https://www.lamorindaweekly.com/archive/issue1705/Digging-Deep-with-Goddess-Gardener-Cynthia-Brian-Spring-sojourn.html

Raised in the vineyards of Napa County, Cynthia Brian is a New York Times best-selling author, actor, radio personality, speaker, media and writing coach as well as the Founder and Executive Director of Be the Star You Are!® 501 c3. Tune into Cynthia’s StarStyle® Radio Broadcast at www.StarStyleRadio.com. Her newest children’s picture book, No Barnyard Bullies, from the series, Stella Bella’s Barnyard Adventures is available now at https://www.CynthiaBrian.com/online-store. Hire Cynthia for writing projects, garden consults, and inspirational lectures. [email protected] For more information contact:

https://www.CynthiaBrian.com

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bethestaryouareradio · 1 year

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Spring Sojourn: a Garden Journey through Eastern Europe

by Cynthia Brian “Every spring is the only spring, a perpetual astonishment.” Ellis Peters