Budget problems aside (imo wasted on one too many dragon shots but ok) having Ghost at Winterfell with Sansa would perhaps create a few problems…narrative wise for D&D and the plots they love…
1. They apparently deleted a scene in which Jon tells Ghost to look out for Sansa. It would be extremely sweet but also kind of telling to have Sansa swagger around Winterfell with literally Jon’s “ghost” by her side. If they were trying to “tone down” on the Jonsa vibes and force make people “see” Jonerys then even a single Ghost(Jon)xSansa scene would nicely crap all over that plan. It’s already very telling to show Jon assaulting Ramsay like a mad wolf and snapping and snarling at LF as if he actually ‘were’ Ghost…
2. Arya couldn’t get within a mile of Sansa with her current attitude. Whether Arya is only pretending to threaten Sansa to trick LF or serious about it, Ghost would bite her on the arse if she came at Sansa with a dagger, casually bragging that she could cut her face off. If Nymeria did not follow the NoOne!Arya then Ghost would certainly not like her spewing threats and shit at the woman he was ordered to protect for his master. The entire Sansa-is-surrounded-by-enemies- now-that-Brienne-has-left plot element would not work (not that it makes particular sense to begin with) because Ghost would rip anyones throat out if they came near her (again, just like Jon himself)
3. Jon’s identity as King in the North is somehow tied to Ghost. When one of the Lord’s declared “He is the White Wolf. The King in the North.” that was Jon’s being accepted as a Stark, a “Wolf” and the leader of all the Northern Houses. Ghost symbolises this moment. He symbolises Jon’s “Starkness” (what made him ‘equal’ to all the other Starklings despite being a bastard) and also his being “snow” white, his being a bastard, which is also part of his identity. One reason why Ghost is absent — and even if not shown (bc budget for dragons), never even talked about – is that Jon is heading for a major identity crisis (all the living Starks are, but that’s another post) and the “loss” of Ghost that we viewers perceive is also somehow mirroring the loss of Jon’s identity as a Stark, a Snow, a Northerner and KitN. Ghost’s master is Jon Snow, the King in the North. Jon (or Aegon, if the rumours are true) Targaryen doesn’t have a direwolf, he probably has a pet dragon named Rhaegal…*rolls eyes*
Guess we’ll see. But with all the dragon overload I just want one scene at least with this beautiful creature…
The moment an unknown voice echoed through the dark, a glowing aura wrapped itself around the shadow, pulling it away from the two unconscious pokemon. Covered in a similar aura herself, a strange guardevoir became visible. With one arm streched out towards the shadow, her strange formed pupils locked on them with a dead-serious stare. The few words that left her mouth seemed simple and calm, yet full of strength and mordlust.
“I finally found you…”
“Nuhehehehehehehehehe still alive!? Gooooooood!! You want your revenge riiiight?!? Come and kill me if you caaaan!!!”
“…?!? Tara!! What happened?!”
As the Feraligatr pened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was his wounded Umbreon friend, just lying on the ground without moving. Her body was covered in dirt, wounds blood; just what had happened?? The last thing he could remember was..
“N-No..!! It can’t be! Please tell me this is not true…” Frightened, Imgars’ gaze moved around, just to see the so familiar glowing red eyes of that shadow glaring at him.
“Oooohhhh you woke up my dear puppet? Uhehehehe well then~ join me in this battle!”
…Don’t drag them into this.
THIS IS OUR BATTLE!!”
And with this the Guardevoir made a swift movement with her arm, the aura around her hand drew a glowing line in the air.
And before the shadow could reach Imgars body, both the purple feraligatr and his friend Tara disappeared from the scene - leaving the shadows dirty laughter echo through the tower as the fight went on.
The air outside was cold as it had already gotten night. Near the forrests Tara came from this day, a flash of light appeared. As it vanished, two silhouettes were left on the ground. The Guardevoid obviously used some kind of Teleport to get these two outside.
As Imgar looked around in shock he then caught a glimpse of Tara and rushed towards her body. Hugging her carefully, tears formed in his eyes.
“Tara…Tara answer me!! Please, open your eyes!!”
“Don’t do this to me…”
Tara and Imgar survived what happened in the Lavandia Tower and are now somewhere outside near Lavandia? Tara seems to be in a bad shape, covered in wounds and still unconscious, as the unharmed Feraligatr holds her in her arms.
Five of these skull masks will be available in the shop tomorrow at noon EST, along with four simple sheet-ghost costumes made from vintage handkerchiefs. All sized for your mandrakes, of course, or any other beasts of that size - mothmen, mushroomfolk, imps, etc
why are we always trying to breathe life into dead things? why does nothing stay buried? it’s noon, and ghosts are only haunting us because we let them, because we made a place for them here, in our home, in our heavy hearts
Oscar the ghost mandrake, for Mabs Drawlloween Club today. Mostly he floats around the apartment, uttering beautiful gregorian chants. Mildly unsettling at night. ✖ In the shop tomorrow, 10/21 at noon!
It’s been a week full of researching and multiple calls to and from the Winchester boys. I was more than happy to call Sam’s call at almost noon saying that they had finally ganked the ghosted that was killing people in a small town right outside of Los Alamos, Nevada. Sam and Dean had been gone for almost 2 weeks and I was more than thankful for them to be finally coming home. I do have to admit, it has been a bit lonely in the bunker.
I planned to stay up and welcome them home and knew there was some time before they got back so I decided to go into town and get a few cases of beer for them and a few other things that we needed. When I got back I put everything away and once everything was put where they needed to be it was only 9 o’clock. I knew that there was a few more hours until Sam and Dean got back. Last time I talked to Dean he said it would be around midnight before they ever reached town. So knowing that I went to take a quick shower.
A girl dies in the
second floor bathroom, locks eyes with the basilisk and only has time to manage
a bloodcurdling scream – She isn’t
saved and she isn’t mourned, but black is draped throughout the castle and
knots of teary eyed girls who’d said maybe a word to her in passing hold
tissues to their noses in class and a funeral is held beneath the weighty
boughs of the trees on a sweltering summer day.
The world doesn’t
change. There is no grand reconfiguration of the star’s alignment or the tilt
of the axis or the bones of their skeletons and Draco –
It’s noon, and
ghosts are swarming in the autumn damp walls of the castle, all voices and no
bodies, all clinging to Draco’s skin.
And he’s running.
Down the hallway and towards the bathroom, tugging at the tie tight like a
noose around his neck because he’s shot down an albatross and nothing has
seemed to go right since.
There’s a mark on
his arm. A task on his shoulders. A reflection in the mirror that he can’t
quite bear to look at, not when there’s blood on his hands that no one else can
see yet – a prophecy and a foretelling and a waking nightmare.
He stops in the
second floor bathroom, shoes sloshing against puddles mottling the tile floor. A
faucet is leaking in time to his heartbeats. Thump. Drip. Thump. Drip. Sobs
that are torn at the edges and hanging in tatters around Draco’s ribs. He’s
sixteen and he’s a ghost that can’t quite escape the things that are haunting
“Are you all right?”
a voice – honeyed and soft – echoes against the chipped wall tiles.
Draco whirls around.
Claps an instinctive hand over his forearm and stares at the girl, at the
voice, at the ghost.
She doesn’t look
twelve, no, not at all like the last time he’d seen her; all gap toothed smiles
and bouncing pigtails. He’d never said a word to her. She’s sixteen, now, wide
bright eyes and an inquisitive smile and hands that fluttered like wings as she
stepped closer. She’s insubstantial, wispy, a pearlescent memory that’s managed
to make itself real.
“I’m-” he shakes his
head, is unsure of just what to say.
“Not fine, clearly,”
the girl informs him. Folds her fingers over her hips. She’s still wearing the
school uniform. “I know you,” she says, then steps closer. Till he can see the
flickering film of her body and – oh why
do people insist on breathing life into dead things?
And Draco does the
only thing he can think to do –
Draco Malfoy is a ghost town
It’s a coin to pass the river Styx
They can’t quite see through the
stones on their eyes
It’s a week before
Draco goes back again, before he’s mustered up enough courage to do precisely
what he wants to. And what he wants –
beneath his fingerprints. Secrets lurk in his eyes. There are so many things he
wants to say only his molars are super glued together and he can’t, he can’t,
And he’s not quite
sure why he feels the need to return to that bathroom and talk to that girl –
ghost – only knows that she’s lurked in the fuzzy corners of his dreams and
coiled herself tight around his lungs.
It’s nearly midnight
the next time he goes back to the bathroom. Shadows are dancing against the
walls and gossamer has festooned itself across the window panes. The skin
around Draco’s bones is inordinately tight as he peers into the dim puddles and
empty stalls, calls out, tentatively and wavering, “Hello? Anybody there?”
There’s a moment of
static silence. A dripping faucet. Winds that shudder as they grip the stall
And then –
“You’re back,” she
says, curling in like a summer wind. Strawberry stains like blood oaths against
her fingers and vines tangling around her ankles. “I didn’t think I’d see you
Draco smiles. Takes
a moment to scrutinize the way that he can almost ache her into realism, forget
for a moment that she’s dead. “I should really be the one saying that, don’t
She giggles. A wind
chime sound that echoes in his ears and plucks at his heart strings. He doesn’t
remember her giggling while alive, doesn’t remember much, actually. “It’s not
as though ghosts are unusual around
here.” He thinks he can detect the peach ripe tinge of an accent. “And besides,
you’re the one who ran away the other day.”
“I know,” he says,
collar brushing against his jaw, starch stiff.
“You’re the one who
was in here crying the other day,” she says, softer this time.
He thinks he might
have taken offense, had it been anyone else. But it’s her and for some reason –
one he can’t quite dig up out of his gut – she’s a better option than sullen
Blaise and smothering Pansy, indifferent Theo and dull Crabbe. And the word
stuffed parchments that he quietly rips up and tosses into the fire don’t seem
to help, anymore.
“Which, of course
begs the question, why are you here?”
He doesn’t know
quite how to answer.
It becomes a habit.
The nicotine stab of addiction in his lungs and the alcohol swirl of need
against his teeth.
He visits the
bathroom numerous times a week, sneaks out of the common room when the grandfather
clock has struck midnight or in the suffocating haze of late afternoon, finds
himself telling her things he’d resolved to keep under lock and key.
He rolls up his
sleeve the day before term ends, feels guilt pool bitter sweet/ bitter sour in
his mouth as he thinks about Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley and the list of
victims that was supposed to have been only one.
And Y/N only blinks
at him. Crosses her legs and offers a smile that wilts at the corners.
Her toenails are
still painted a shimmering green.
“We all make
mistakes,” she says, soft as a lullaby. Draco’s never been more awake. “It’s
never too late to make things better.”
He wishes that he
could hold her hand.
He reads Hamlet over
Christmas break in the damask curtained dark of the library and traces his
fingers over the wailing hymn, rosary clutched words of Ophelia; thinks about ghosts
and haunted houses and things that can never quite be bleached out of your
She tells him who
killed her the day he comes back to school. Light is popping like soap bubbles
against the wall as he watches lazy wisps of light imbue the end of his wand,
murmurs incantations while trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his ears.
Because Tom Riddle
had set the basilisk on her, was the beginning and the end of everything.
Because he can’t
quite untangle himself from the spider web stick of the mess that he’s made.
“I think I made a
mistake,” he tells her. Hands shaking and jaw aching and magic trembling in his
Her fingers linger
over his. “I can help you,” she says.