https://blood-and-bone.silhouette-forums.com/ Tue, 20 Oct 2026 11:36:46 +0000 MyBB https://blood-and-bone.silhouette-forums.com/showthread.php?tid=770 Fri, 15 Oct 2021 15:41:55 +0000 Kaede Winchester]]> https://blood-and-bone.silhouette-forums.com/showthread.php?tid=770

TW: Incest

The Crown Prince was rarely found in the chapel. Sure, he made his dutiful appearances like the rest of his family to please to ever attentive Church of the Holy Flame. But he never felt that guiding faith, not like his uncle, or even his father, who would devote some part of their hope, their futures, to an uncontrollable, unseen force. Prince Kaede always found the notion silly- if he could not see it, study it, learn from it, then how could he put so much of his livelihood in its hands?

It was not until his father had told them, in the privacy of the King's personal study, a room surprisingly cramped in the grandiose sprawl of the Royal Palace, that Kaede had been promised to marriage. He had apparently been betrothed ever since he reached the age of 12, to the princess of a neighboring kingdom whom relations had been, as the King described it, "tentative". Princess Cirhi, a figure renowned for kindness and beauty (then again, what princess was renowned if not for their charity and comely features?). He had recalled seeing her at kingdom-wide balls and banquets, had even held a conversation with her once or twice in his life. She was a classical beauty to be sure- large, clear doe eyes with pupils the color of sun-struck honey and long, thick waves of hair that curtained a diminutive waist. The only reason Kaede had not known of the betrothal was its intentionally clandestine nature and not even the subjects themselves were allowed to know of it.

It was courtly games, political deception at its finest. At first, Kaede had been infuriated with his father's secrecy. He had thought him to be a man of honesty, magnanimous for his direct and just nature. Intrigue and gossip, that was for the court spymaster to deal with. To know that it was the King himself to have orchestrated it- that drove Kaede from the study, and he had not since spoken to his father.

He had not slept that night- for anger turned heart-wrenching sadness at the thought of what his twin, Kaleb, might react to the reveal, which Kaede intentionally kept quiet to himself. When dawn broached the horizon, purpling the sprawl of the city beneath the castle-palace, Kaede was found on his knees before the church's principal guardian, hands clasped together and head bowed in solemn prayer. All the control he thought he had over his life was now being brought to question.

Tag : Kaleb Winchester

]]>

TW: Incest

The Crown Prince was rarely found in the chapel. Sure, he made his dutiful appearances like the rest of his family to please to ever attentive Church of the Holy Flame. But he never felt that guiding faith, not like his uncle, or even his father, who would devote some part of their hope, their futures, to an uncontrollable, unseen force. Prince Kaede always found the notion silly- if he could not see it, study it, learn from it, then how could he put so much of his livelihood in its hands?

It was not until his father had told them, in the privacy of the King's personal study, a room surprisingly cramped in the grandiose sprawl of the Royal Palace, that Kaede had been promised to marriage. He had apparently been betrothed ever since he reached the age of 12, to the princess of a neighboring kingdom whom relations had been, as the King described it, "tentative". Princess Cirhi, a figure renowned for kindness and beauty (then again, what princess was renowned if not for their charity and comely features?). He had recalled seeing her at kingdom-wide balls and banquets, had even held a conversation with her once or twice in his life. She was a classical beauty to be sure- large, clear doe eyes with pupils the color of sun-struck honey and long, thick waves of hair that curtained a diminutive waist. The only reason Kaede had not known of the betrothal was its intentionally clandestine nature and not even the subjects themselves were allowed to know of it.

It was courtly games, political deception at its finest. At first, Kaede had been infuriated with his father's secrecy. He had thought him to be a man of honesty, magnanimous for his direct and just nature. Intrigue and gossip, that was for the court spymaster to deal with. To know that it was the King himself to have orchestrated it- that drove Kaede from the study, and he had not since spoken to his father.

He had not slept that night- for anger turned heart-wrenching sadness at the thought of what his twin, Kaleb, might react to the reveal, which Kaede intentionally kept quiet to himself. When dawn broached the horizon, purpling the sprawl of the city beneath the castle-palace, Kaede was found on his knees before the church's principal guardian, hands clasped together and head bowed in solemn prayer. All the control he thought he had over his life was now being brought to question.

Tag : Kaleb Winchester

]]> https://blood-and-bone.silhouette-forums.com/showthread.php?tid=696 Sat, 25 Sep 2021 05:03:43 +0000 Aspen O'Hara]]> https://blood-and-bone.silhouette-forums.com/showthread.php?tid=696

2091

Medical supplies always went missing. It was a fortunate part of the military hospital that saw her mother wandering down the halls with the aura of any seasoned sergeant when word came that a platoon was inbound with injured. Nurses who were forgetful and didn’t list stock correctly, or medics who were in a rush and didn’t abide by the strict standards of the medical staff. No one questioned it when she was just a child, a hand tucked in the pocket of her mother’s scrubs while they made their rounds. As a teenager, she’d held her breath as she’d slipped a jar of antibiotics into her sleeve and ducked out in the middle of the night to slip it through the gap of a fence. Heart hammering the entire time as she helped another teenager, just like her, with a sickly child of her own already. That’s how it’d started - her heart guiding her hand that afternoon as it would do for many days, weeks, months, and years to come. A teenager made mother, with a child of her own, had been the start of Aspen’s slippery slope.

Through the slums, that act of kindness had spread until the Eclipse had fallen into step with her one evening. By sixteen, she was smuggling what she could out to them. Never enough to draw unnecessary attention, and distributed by various means. A stroll through Stronghold, a mugging, dumping of ‘rubbish’, an embrace with a dear friend while tucking contraband beneath their shirt. She didn’t tell a soul. The weight that rested on her shoulders was one of duty, not guilt.

And that duty was to humanity, not the military.

It was 2091, and at age 24, Aspen had done well for herself thus far in the military - granted a spot in the Nest Elimination task force while having one or two medals for her sharp shooting. Despite the success, it did little to curb her relentless need to assist those downtrodden by the very regime she seemed loyal to. By now, several assisted her. Nurses and surgeons, soldiers and patrol officers - each sharing their reasons to assist Aspen O’Hara in her ventures.

Gaze cast to the moonless sky above, Aspen waited for the nurse to slip out and hand her a laundry bag - the checkered cloth seeming insignificant. “Don’t mix the whites with the colours this time, huh?” Aspen’s grin was white in the darkness as the nurse clucked at her, informing her not to jostle the fragile bottles within. Away from the building, Aspen stepped with a confident swagger to her stride. The few who patrolled nodded to her, and on one occasion, Aspen even stopped to chat to a soldier before continuing on into the night. She’d learnt years ago it was better to be out in the open, than skulking in the shadows. To look as you belonged.

Until she was near enough to the perimeter to be out of the main patrol’s radius - where lights were fewer, and Aspen’s steps became quieter as she slipped through the shadows cast by building and the hideous skyscraper now at her back. The chirp of a sparrow brushed over her tongue, answered by the hoot of an owl. To the edge of the perimeter, Aspen stepped. The fence buckled as she rolled the cut edges aside, the bag tucked beneath where it was quickly grasped and drawn further into the darkness on the other side.

“Next new moon, same spot.” Aspen whisper was breathy, hidden beneath the wind that swept through.

The fence was rolled back into place and Aspen stood just as she felt rather than heard the approach of another. Aspen whirled, feet planted, back straight, expression alert but carefully blank as she saluted the man’s approach. “Sir.”

It was an instinctual reaction; her spine held painfully ramrod straight as she looked ahead. A soldier out on patrol, perhaps. One who left her post. The explanation of her position out here rallied into a suitable tale within her mind.

It was only when she recognised the man as North Sigurd that she realised her formal salute was misplaced, and therefore, her undoing. Never, had she saluted him. Her salute was as good as being caught red-handed.

Tag North Sigurd

]]>

2091

Medical supplies always went missing. It was a fortunate part of the military hospital that saw her mother wandering down the halls with the aura of any seasoned sergeant when word came that a platoon was inbound with injured. Nurses who were forgetful and didn’t list stock correctly, or medics who were in a rush and didn’t abide by the strict standards of the medical staff. No one questioned it when she was just a child, a hand tucked in the pocket of her mother’s scrubs while they made their rounds. As a teenager, she’d held her breath as she’d slipped a jar of antibiotics into her sleeve and ducked out in the middle of the night to slip it through the gap of a fence. Heart hammering the entire time as she helped another teenager, just like her, with a sickly child of her own already. That’s how it’d started - her heart guiding her hand that afternoon as it would do for many days, weeks, months, and years to come. A teenager made mother, with a child of her own, had been the start of Aspen’s slippery slope.

Through the slums, that act of kindness had spread until the Eclipse had fallen into step with her one evening. By sixteen, she was smuggling what she could out to them. Never enough to draw unnecessary attention, and distributed by various means. A stroll through Stronghold, a mugging, dumping of ‘rubbish’, an embrace with a dear friend while tucking contraband beneath their shirt. She didn’t tell a soul. The weight that rested on her shoulders was one of duty, not guilt.

And that duty was to humanity, not the military.

It was 2091, and at age 24, Aspen had done well for herself thus far in the military - granted a spot in the Nest Elimination task force while having one or two medals for her sharp shooting. Despite the success, it did little to curb her relentless need to assist those downtrodden by the very regime she seemed loyal to. By now, several assisted her. Nurses and surgeons, soldiers and patrol officers - each sharing their reasons to assist Aspen O’Hara in her ventures.

Gaze cast to the moonless sky above, Aspen waited for the nurse to slip out and hand her a laundry bag - the checkered cloth seeming insignificant. “Don’t mix the whites with the colours this time, huh?” Aspen’s grin was white in the darkness as the nurse clucked at her, informing her not to jostle the fragile bottles within. Away from the building, Aspen stepped with a confident swagger to her stride. The few who patrolled nodded to her, and on one occasion, Aspen even stopped to chat to a soldier before continuing on into the night. She’d learnt years ago it was better to be out in the open, than skulking in the shadows. To look as you belonged.

Until she was near enough to the perimeter to be out of the main patrol’s radius - where lights were fewer, and Aspen’s steps became quieter as she slipped through the shadows cast by building and the hideous skyscraper now at her back. The chirp of a sparrow brushed over her tongue, answered by the hoot of an owl. To the edge of the perimeter, Aspen stepped. The fence buckled as she rolled the cut edges aside, the bag tucked beneath where it was quickly grasped and drawn further into the darkness on the other side.

“Next new moon, same spot.” Aspen whisper was breathy, hidden beneath the wind that swept through.

The fence was rolled back into place and Aspen stood just as she felt rather than heard the approach of another. Aspen whirled, feet planted, back straight, expression alert but carefully blank as she saluted the man’s approach. “Sir.”

It was an instinctual reaction; her spine held painfully ramrod straight as she looked ahead. A soldier out on patrol, perhaps. One who left her post. The explanation of her position out here rallied into a suitable tale within her mind.

It was only when she recognised the man as North Sigurd that she realised her formal salute was misplaced, and therefore, her undoing. Never, had she saluted him. Her salute was as good as being caught red-handed.

Tag North Sigurd

]]> https://blood-and-bone.silhouette-forums.com/showthread.php?tid=253 Fri, 07 May 2021 19:21:18 +0000 Étienne Blanchard]]> https://blood-and-bone.silhouette-forums.com/showthread.php?tid=253

It feels weird to be back, knowing this was going to be his last year at Hogwarts. Étienne had been the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for a number of years now — watching as students blossomed from naive, annoying preteens to mature, knowledgeable young adults — and in a way, he was going to miss that. It didn't come off in his actions of course, being a teacher that many kids disliked or even feared for his cold temperament, but now that it was coming to a close... He realized just how intertwined Hogwarts was in his life. In an obnoxious way, really.

The man huffs out a grunt as he drops the stack of books and papers down on top of his office desk, cold grey-blue eyes staring at the stack of paperwork he had to do — they hadn't even started classes yet, what was this? — before he turns his gaze out the window. His office overlooks a good portion of the castle's grounds, which are currently empty. Soon they'll be filled again with students mulling about.

Strange to leave — yet a part of him is happy about it.

There are too many memories attached to the place, and not all of them good. He frowns, turning his gaze back to his paperwork as he finally sits down at his desk. It was in these halls that he finally realized what it was like to grow attached to someone else. Bright blue eyes, dark wavy hair — a smart ass mouth that matched his detached demeanor. A part of him aches at the memories of the young, arrogant student, but he brushes it off immediately. He doesn't allow himself to wallow in happier memories.

Instead he remembers of the last time they had spoke. The harsh, angry words that had passed between them — spiteful, full of venom. The ache at being accused of using his identity as a half-veela to sway the other man's heart. Never before in his life had he ever hated who he was, but in that very moment, he couldn't help but hate the veela blood that swam in his veins. That fight had scarred him deeper that he let on, and if it was even possible, Étienne had closed himself off from everyone else even further than before. It had changed him, and when he had received a job offer at the Ministry of Magic just a few months earlier, he had accepted — starting after his last year at Hogwarts — knowing he needed to shed himself of the memories that still continued to haunt him.

Étienne doesn't even realize he's crushing paper in a fist until he blinks himself back to reality, and with a soft curse under his breath he smooths the paper out again with a quick spell.

Tag Gabriel De La Croix

]]>

It feels weird to be back, knowing this was going to be his last year at Hogwarts. Étienne had been the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for a number of years now — watching as students blossomed from naive, annoying preteens to mature, knowledgeable young adults — and in a way, he was going to miss that. It didn't come off in his actions of course, being a teacher that many kids disliked or even feared for his cold temperament, but now that it was coming to a close... He realized just how intertwined Hogwarts was in his life. In an obnoxious way, really.

The man huffs out a grunt as he drops the stack of books and papers down on top of his office desk, cold grey-blue eyes staring at the stack of paperwork he had to do — they hadn't even started classes yet, what was this? — before he turns his gaze out the window. His office overlooks a good portion of the castle's grounds, which are currently empty. Soon they'll be filled again with students mulling about.

Strange to leave — yet a part of him is happy about it.

There are too many memories attached to the place, and not all of them good. He frowns, turning his gaze back to his paperwork as he finally sits down at his desk. It was in these halls that he finally realized what it was like to grow attached to someone else. Bright blue eyes, dark wavy hair — a smart ass mouth that matched his detached demeanor. A part of him aches at the memories of the young, arrogant student, but he brushes it off immediately. He doesn't allow himself to wallow in happier memories.

Instead he remembers of the last time they had spoke. The harsh, angry words that had passed between them — spiteful, full of venom. The ache at being accused of using his identity as a half-veela to sway the other man's heart. Never before in his life had he ever hated who he was, but in that very moment, he couldn't help but hate the veela blood that swam in his veins. That fight had scarred him deeper that he let on, and if it was even possible, Étienne had closed himself off from everyone else even further than before. It had changed him, and when he had received a job offer at the Ministry of Magic just a few months earlier, he had accepted — starting after his last year at Hogwarts — knowing he needed to shed himself of the memories that still continued to haunt him.

Étienne doesn't even realize he's crushing paper in a fist until he blinks himself back to reality, and with a soft curse under his breath he smooths the paper out again with a quick spell.

Tag Gabriel De La Croix

]]> https://blood-and-bone.silhouette-forums.com/showthread.php?tid=233 Mon, 03 May 2021 19:01:21 +0000 Jessie Michels]]> https://blood-and-bone.silhouette-forums.com/showthread.php?tid=233
Correction--

Not like.

Jessie ducked out of the mess hall, having to navigate past many rooms, and many, many doors on his search for a space without a soul, and without light.

Perhaps that which turned the lights off here--- on those long, long hallways was the reality of the world being backwards, built in a way that remembered the past from decades ago, yet resolutely founded in some attempt of a tomorrow that sounded as real as the air we breathed in, as the ugly, and often hidden sun.

As--

But not all the hallways were dark.

In fact, were he wise he may have opted for those well-lit, strewn about with a number of uniformed cunts. They all had names. Titles. He was intended to remember them all.

He did.

Fuck them anyway.

Were he smart, however, as an idea suggested it’d be right to whisk off with his yield where everyone could notice his arms-- his arms, within which he clutched something that more and more appeared to be an object that did not belong; a result of theft, such should be revealed when he cradled it even harder, when this sudden, and yet invisible exit he had made from the busy evening mess hall introduced him down the very parts of the base indeed shrouded in darkness, indeed lined with doors on either side--

Indeed long, and dragging, appearing to wind on and on as if this build here had been intended to lose those uninitiated; as if the maze-like quality in here should be a hope of the architects to rein people back, a subtle, and psychological manner of achieving obedience by making this all but a trap.

Except to him it wasn’t a trap.

Except to him-- rushing wickedly, and yet without any stupid, and horrible noise, this was all liminal space; this was all home-- unhappy, and unwanted home as of several years ago, but still a home; one which he’d never write as So, rather make things tiny, and near invisible; a home that he disregarded for some warmth, that he claimed to have none thereof; that he disliked, and loathed and yet called his own, known through and through until these halls, eventually, and wherever he ducked between moments should face another reveal--

Of planning--

Of purpose.

Of having sat down at some point and thought this all through.

So that he could get away with taking from a superior.

When Jessie’s complicated, and long-winded journey purposefully lost him in the thinnest, narrowest, most hidden little nooks and crannies, or corridors of this place, still he didn’t stop; it was the evening, and his shoes hung down his chest, tapping softly against him as he scampered. He knew purpose. He had an aim. Evil, some would say, but maybe the only thing evil ‘bout him was how he would fight to get There.

There.

Until several minutes later, it couldn’t even be possible he’d been in the mess hall at all-- when he’d not been supposed to; when the higher ups had been enjoying dinner; when their meals, much kinder on account of the power they yielded, appeared to contain flavors and meats that never made it to the grub that the lowest rank shoved down.

When he took off with something that perhaps would get a cook, or two in trouble--

When he had planned doing that for days before:

When he had scouted--

Scoured and watched.

Attended primly and finely in every manner instances and interactions which familiarized him with escape routes, and utilized that which he was here for.

They had recovered him years ago.

He was meant to do things he already didn’t want to.

He would nineteen, soon.

And Christmas approached.

Jessie was alone, and silent when he finally managed to slip out the barracks, still a nelipot in his ceaseless skitter forward. Crossing the short distance to another building kept stocked up with supplies was only wise, mostly when he knew there to be several hiding spots in which to tuck himself, his purloined artifact warm.

As he did run-- and as he continued to, acting much like someone who'd never grow tired, he reminded himself he was so, so far away from any patrol, that he was behind, and between the buildings, that his only companion could be the buzzing of the bugs, occasional; or the glow of the moon, obvious; or the heartbeat--

His wild.

Wicked heartbeat as Jessie did come to a halt.

As he looked behind himself--

Saw the building off which he had taken something intended for strong, big men--

Well, fuck strong, big men.

Fuck them.

In the proverbial way.

And so he smiled-- cheeky, toothy, young--

Arrogant.

And then, ducking under a single oak tree planted in here, he crouched, sat, spread his legs out, still a true nelipot, and with sweat clinging to his face, as well as his form, he panted, and panted, still clutching desperately, victoriously his fucking yield.

A bottle of alcohol.

Looking up at the sky that he saw little of, fuck (do not) the tree crown, Jessie smiled.]]>
Correction--

Not like.

Jessie ducked out of the mess hall, having to navigate past many rooms, and many, many doors on his search for a space without a soul, and without light.

Perhaps that which turned the lights off here--- on those long, long hallways was the reality of the world being backwards, built in a way that remembered the past from decades ago, yet resolutely founded in some attempt of a tomorrow that sounded as real as the air we breathed in, as the ugly, and often hidden sun.

As--

But not all the hallways were dark.

In fact, were he wise he may have opted for those well-lit, strewn about with a number of uniformed cunts. They all had names. Titles. He was intended to remember them all.

He did.

Fuck them anyway.

Were he smart, however, as an idea suggested it’d be right to whisk off with his yield where everyone could notice his arms-- his arms, within which he clutched something that more and more appeared to be an object that did not belong; a result of theft, such should be revealed when he cradled it even harder, when this sudden, and yet invisible exit he had made from the busy evening mess hall introduced him down the very parts of the base indeed shrouded in darkness, indeed lined with doors on either side--

Indeed long, and dragging, appearing to wind on and on as if this build here had been intended to lose those uninitiated; as if the maze-like quality in here should be a hope of the architects to rein people back, a subtle, and psychological manner of achieving obedience by making this all but a trap.

Except to him it wasn’t a trap.

Except to him-- rushing wickedly, and yet without any stupid, and horrible noise, this was all liminal space; this was all home-- unhappy, and unwanted home as of several years ago, but still a home; one which he’d never write as So, rather make things tiny, and near invisible; a home that he disregarded for some warmth, that he claimed to have none thereof; that he disliked, and loathed and yet called his own, known through and through until these halls, eventually, and wherever he ducked between moments should face another reveal--

Of planning--

Of purpose.

Of having sat down at some point and thought this all through.

So that he could get away with taking from a superior.

When Jessie’s complicated, and long-winded journey purposefully lost him in the thinnest, narrowest, most hidden little nooks and crannies, or corridors of this place, still he didn’t stop; it was the evening, and his shoes hung down his chest, tapping softly against him as he scampered. He knew purpose. He had an aim. Evil, some would say, but maybe the only thing evil ‘bout him was how he would fight to get There.

There.

Until several minutes later, it couldn’t even be possible he’d been in the mess hall at all-- when he’d not been supposed to; when the higher ups had been enjoying dinner; when their meals, much kinder on account of the power they yielded, appeared to contain flavors and meats that never made it to the grub that the lowest rank shoved down.

When he took off with something that perhaps would get a cook, or two in trouble--

When he had planned doing that for days before:

When he had scouted--

Scoured and watched.

Attended primly and finely in every manner instances and interactions which familiarized him with escape routes, and utilized that which he was here for.

They had recovered him years ago.

He was meant to do things he already didn’t want to.

He would nineteen, soon.

And Christmas approached.

Jessie was alone, and silent when he finally managed to slip out the barracks, still a nelipot in his ceaseless skitter forward. Crossing the short distance to another building kept stocked up with supplies was only wise, mostly when he knew there to be several hiding spots in which to tuck himself, his purloined artifact warm.

As he did run-- and as he continued to, acting much like someone who'd never grow tired, he reminded himself he was so, so far away from any patrol, that he was behind, and between the buildings, that his only companion could be the buzzing of the bugs, occasional; or the glow of the moon, obvious; or the heartbeat--

His wild.

Wicked heartbeat as Jessie did come to a halt.

As he looked behind himself--

Saw the building off which he had taken something intended for strong, big men--

Well, fuck strong, big men.

Fuck them.

In the proverbial way.

And so he smiled-- cheeky, toothy, young--

Arrogant.

And then, ducking under a single oak tree planted in here, he crouched, sat, spread his legs out, still a true nelipot, and with sweat clinging to his face, as well as his form, he panted, and panted, still clutching desperately, victoriously his fucking yield.

A bottle of alcohol.

Looking up at the sky that he saw little of, fuck (do not) the tree crown, Jessie smiled.]]>