behind the castle walls

I’m going to start 2017 with an apology to all of you… I’m sorry if I never made it to your requests or if I openly said no… I’m only human. I don’t have all of the answers. Shit. I barely understand why I function while depressed– a force of habit, a force of nature. I know that if you religiously read my poetry… you’re probably hurting somewhere that I’ve reached. Do you want to know the truth? I’m not really in love with anyone anymore. The core of my poetry… the driving force of my very being is love… I mean we’ve all been bad lovers, right? We all have to start somewhere. I just had to start with my broken heart and her broken heart. We wanted to be steel for one another– not realizing that we left our hearts to be guarded behind sand castle walls… these ocean tears fucking ripped through us… those veins that we pressed into the sun only answers to the moon… we experience heartache and love on different terms and levels… you don’t get a game over screen. You don’t get to save the good parts. You age. The feelings will fade. The love will simmer down. It’ll always hurt, but not as badly as the initial impact of the first kiss. My darlings. Anons. Followers. Invisible readers. Writers. Poets. Lovers. My ghosts. My past. My present. My future. We bleed into this life, while blending in with these emotions. It’s 2017. I still don’t have all of the answers. Maybe… I never did. My poetry attracts the broken, the damaged, the poisoned, the angered, the lonely, the depression, the drug addicts, the music lovers, the word lovers, the torn, the gone, the lost, the forever in my 20’s so fuck everything as long as you love me, I’ll be okay mentality, the this shit only hurts when 4 pm and 4 am kisses each other into I’ll sleep when the sun is out and lay awake while the moon dances on your eyes… I don’t have the answers… I don’t… but I’m learning how to love myself… and this will always be my first answer.

I belong in a gothic castle full of winding staircases, endless candlelit corridors, and the dead bodies of mysterious strangers hidden behind the walls; I belong in a gothic castle with elaborate skeleton keys to every room, a wardrobe full of satin and lace nightgowns, a canopy bed full of cobwebs; I belong in a gothic castle where a handsome, devilish stranger loves me, loves me not, loves me; I belong in a gothic castle

an empty gun

(so, uh. that letter in percy’s pocket, huh? sure did read kind of like a suicide note… sure hope someone in vox machina picks up on that… sure hope this severely traumatised early-twenties kid gets some explicit mental health support real soon…)

warnings for discussions of suicide, mild suicidal ideation, brief mentions of canonical torture, mental health issues


“So,” says Scanlan, when he finally finds Percy. He’s high up on the ramparts of Castle Whitestone, on the thin walkway that runs behind the crenellated wall, just… standing. Watching. His coat, still torn through with bullet holes and stained russet-red with dried blood, his blood, flaps faintly in the breeze. “I’m sure the others aren’t going to appreciate me telling you this, but we found that letter of yours.”

The air up this high is cold, far colder than it is on the ground, and the wind is something fierce. It bites at exposed skin, grabs and tugs at any loose items of clothing. Though Scanlan’s sheltered somewhat by the wall, waist-height for humans and head-height for gnomes, Percy’s hair is blown back against his scalp, the tails of his coat snapping audibly behind him. In the several long seconds it takes Percy to answer, Scanlan can’t help but wonder whether his words have been stolen away by the sound of the howling almost-gale.

“Letter?” asks Percy, eventually, absently, still staring that thousand-yard-stare out over the quiet streets of Whitestone and the misty forest beyond. He doesn’t seem entirely there, if Scanlan’s being honest – hasn’t since they brought him back. As though death has filed his edges down, numbed him. As though he’s missing something.

Keep reading

                                               Everyone thinks that I have it all 
                                   But it’s so empty living behind these castle walls                                                                                            If I should tumble, if I should fall
                           Would anyone here me screaming behind these castle walls?

Terms to Use When Talking About Castles

  • Allure - A wall walk; the passage behind the parapet of a castle wall
  • Bailey - The courtyard
  • Balista - an “engine” similar to a large crossbow capable of hurling missile type objects or large arrows
  • Barbican - a forward extension of a castle gateway; an outer defense of the castle; i.e. the double towers above a drawbridge
  • Buttery -  room which held alcoholic beverages
  • Cat - the assault tower
  • Catapult - stone throwing “engine”, uses torsion
  • Chemise - not to be confused with the article of clothing ; the inner wall enclosure of a castle
  • Corbel -  A stone or wood bracket that supports a projection from a wall such as a balcony or arch
  • Crenelation - a notched battlement that is made up of alternating openings and square sawed teeth (called crenels and melons respectively)
  • Curtain - a wall that encloses the courtyard
  • Donjon or Keep - the stronghold of a castle
  • Drawbridge - a wooden bridge leading to the gateway that is capable of being raised or lowered
  • Enceinte - an exterior enclosing wall of a fortified place
  • Escalade - the scaling of fortified walls by use of ladders during a military attack
  • Forebuilding -  a projection in front of a Donjon or Keep that contains the stairs to the main entrace
  • Garderobe - The restroom/bathroom/WC
  • Hall - Main living quarters of a medieval castle or house
  • Keep - See donjon
  • Machicolation - a projection on the outer walls in which missiles and other objects can be dropped on besiegers.
  • Mangonel - a type of catapult 
  • Merlon - part of the battlement, between crenels (see crenelation)
  • Meurtriere -   a slit in the battlement or outer wall to permit the firing of arrows or alternatively for observation on surrounding land
  • Motte -  a mound of earth on which the castle was built
  • Oriel - an upper floor bay window
  • Parapet - protective wall at the top of a fortification; the outer side of a wall- walk
  • Portcullis - Suspended bars of protection that can be lowered to protect the gait
  • Postern or sally-port - secondary gate or door
  • Ram - a battering ram
  • Sapping - the undermining of a wall during a siege
  • Screens -  wooden  doors at kitchen end of hall leading to passages protecting the Buttery, pantry, and kitchen
  • Solar -  originally describing an above ground room, alternatively a private area or sitting room
  • Springald -  a type of catapult employing tension
  • Trebuchet - war ‘’engine’ utilizing counterpoise
  • Ward - a courtyard or bailey

neverforgiiven  asked:

the girl was rather hesitant, but quietly leaned to rest her head upon the man's leg, curling up beside the man in a quiet plea for attention. natalia was far too tired from such a long day . . .

          there’s an imminent threat lingering over their heads—the beginnings of war seems apparent in the horizon. the kaleidoscope of oranges and reds that he once thought of as so beautiful appears as raging fire now; even the thought of smoke and ash being all that is left behind suffocates him. he finds the walls of the castle dull; the sympathetic looks from the servants to be irritating, and the talks of what to do should negotiations fall through to be just as infuriating.

           he wasn’t so naïve to think that everything would go as smoothly as they hoped, but being constantly reminded of how futile this all may be could do nothing to keep at bay the anger he so often kept well-controlled.

            he hadn’t seen her much since she said she would return home, and not because of something so foolish as being upset that their marriage arrangement was nullified, but because he feared if he stayed with her too long, he’d be inclined to convince her not to go. he wouldn’t be able to help himself from tying to protect her, or from admitting that, perhaps, he cared for her life more than the fates of both their countries combined.

            but that’d be stomping on her resolve if he tried to persuade her otherwise, that he knew. so he kept silent, acquiescing through gritted teeth and a forced smile. he didn’t know if he had the strength to keep doing that if he spent too much time with her.

            though he should have known he couldn’t do much to avoid her for too long. there was a place he had always went when the castle became too boring for him, or too depressing—a place he favored. a special spot on an incline, far off from the garden. from here, he could see the ocean.

            he tenses ever-so-slightly when he hears her footsteps, but makes no attempt to move, allowing her to sit beside him and rest her head upon his leg. she says nothing, but she doesn’t have to, because within that simple gesture he understands.

             she must’ve been in meetings all today, discussing her trip back home.

             you shouldn’t go.

              ❝hey,❞ he keeps his voice to a whisper. his hand finds the top of her head, and graceful fingers thread gently through the strands of her hair. her exhaustion is palpable and contagious, but he doesn’t speak on it, pushing down any other thoughts with a smile. ❝we used to come out here when we were younger, didn’t we?❞ mischievous children escaping the watchful eyes of their retainers and finding excitement playing tag in the garden, then he’d take her here, where he knew they wouldn’t be found. he’d point to the ocean and say he has friends down at the port, and one of these days, he’d leave to sail the seas, and that she could go too.

             for a second, he wondered, why not now? they could get away, then. but that’d be selfish, wouldn’t it?

              i’m worried about you.

             will we ever be able to sit here once again?

             ❝ah, but you probably don’t want to hear me talk. i wish i had brought my flute, i could play us some music.❞ he lets out a sigh; his hand leaves her hair, traveling down to find her hand, and slowly intertwining his fingers with her own before giving a soft squeeze to her hand—if it’s for her or more for himself, he doesn’t know. he’s not even sure if she’s still awake, but still he says one last thing, ❝you should try to get some rest.❞

             usually, he’d carry her back to her room if she fell asleep, but he thought it’d be best, this time, if they’d just stayed here for as long as he could get away with it.


Apartment A-5.

The lights indoors appeared to be on from what Medouco could tell.  Well, in that case, apparently she had roommates.  Despite the knowledge that her eyes no longer turned people into stone, a welcoming gift from the scientists she assumed, Medouco still felt nervous by the possibility of meeting new people.  With being kept indoors behind castle walls consistently, she supposed other people outside of her situation could imagine why such a thing would be difficult for her.  But…  Did she even want to connect that deeply with other people in this strange city that swallowed her up?  Did Medouco have any aspirations to reveal those things about herself, when the top priority on her mind was to help her boss get back to Pitch Black?  It was hard to say, really.

Idly, Medouco wondered if making new friends was even particularly possible for the likes of her, a traditional, straight-forward, old housekeeper with serpents for hair.  Amidst contemplating such strange things for a being such as herself to even be pondering, Medouco raised her hand to knock on the apartment door.  Three knocks.  One from her quivering raised fist and the other two from a pair of her curious snakes smacking their heads against the wooden door, evidently eager to get inside.