Soup!🕯️

@fraughtbroth

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¿Es tu perfil?Reclámalo y fraughtbroth.dirty.social es tuyo.Reclamar perfil

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· 25d

This 8pm coffee will surely fix me and have no negative impact on me whatsoever.

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· 25d

Realization:

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· 25d

In Seattle, we have a local raccoon with short spine syndrome who's been kicking it around the city, and we have all collectively named him Jimothy. Here's Jimothy. We love Jimothy.

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· 26d

Please enjoy my very good portrait of D'Artagnan scowling at another man's penis.

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 11

I'm not on the pulse of how Elidibus is typically portrayed, but this is my vision of him, you must understand.

"It was foolish of you." The inflection was a little flat, distant in a way that made her spine want to slither out of her skin.

"You did this." Emperor Solus whispered.

"A distraction. Ill-suited to the cause. To explain would give insult."

The silence that followed reminded her of unmarked mounds just outside of the bloody battlefields she’d relegated to distant memory, that stagnant quiet always in the wake of violence.

"You desire consolation," The man said, as if he did not intend to give it.

"I desire solitude." Emperor Solus said.

"I dispatched him in the gentlest manner of which I am capable."

"That is of little comfort."

"You intend to wound me," A little laugh from the man, sounded a bit like the dry beat of a massive insect's wings. "Any attempt at mercy from me is a grand indulgence; you know it to be true."

"Whyever are you here, Elidibus?" Solus still cradled the body in his arms.

"To stay your course. You hurl yourself over and over into perpetual grieving, you are the eternal widow, and while it may amuse you to wail and tear at your hair to the beat of the dirge, it does little for the Ardor— and if I must kill him in every lifetime, you know I will do it."

Another silence, more sullen this time, before Emperor Solus pushed speech out of his mouth like a groan. "Do you take joy in it?"

"I am not so arrogant to believe there is anything in duty, save duty. Joy is for the listless.” Painful passing of eons in that pause. It had been moments. It had been centuries.

“There is a girl at the door,” The man in white said, “You know, and you do nothing. I assume the theater of this amuses you, else you would not force my hand so.”

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 9

🌱

Lungs inflated with frigid mountain air, naked hands plunged deep into the loam, the whole of him uncoils.

Scant, pale midday sun filtered through ashy cloud-cover gently warms his shoulders, and the breeze stirs fly-away curls escaped from the velvet ribbon tied at his nape; auspicious surrounds for a few hours spent in his beloved gardens, tending to the most delicate of them all; those that would become poisons.

He'd had the Datura transported from far off; its lily-white trumpet flowers are deceptively beautiful against his loam-crusted palm.

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 9

Using this as a reason to warm up.

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 9

Okay

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 7

Another writing sprint. 20 minutes, 491 words. #soupwrites A loyal housekeeper and once nursemaid reflects on her Lord's infancy and what has become of him in a rare moment of repose.

Nenna banks the fires for the night, one by one, the bright jingle of her chatelaine the only sound throughout the house as she bustles from hearth to hearth, sconce to sconce, glowing ember to glowing ember.

Her arithmetic has always been sharp, and she knows the bones of this house better than any other, so long and thoroughly has she walked its halls, changeable and vexing as they are; she mentally accounts for each of the thirty hearths in this House. Wasn't it she who'd lit them before dawn? So it is.

She turns a corner before the House has any whims to change its mind on the location of the parlour and skids to a halt on the ornate rug— a figure sits hunched in a chair before the merrily crackling hearth, its pale hand dangles limply over the arm of the chair, long, spidery fingers encircled with many jeweled rings that glint in the firelight.

The Little Lord's hand, sure enough, by the scourge of mottled scars across his knuckles and the Knight's ring on his Wedding finger, yes. By the lack of movement and the quiet, she knows him to be deep in sleep, as he often is in the quiet hours when he is visible, when the dead do not call to him so sweetly from the morgue below.

So as not to wake him, she muffles the steps of her booted heels and creeps to his side; her Little Needle's silent attendant in the quiet dark.

Nenna has known him since his cradle days, and never has a face looked so perturbed and restless in the arms of sleep as this one always has; his brow has been furrowed in slumber since before he cut his milk teeth, and 'tis no different this night, even as his head lulls to the side to rest on his shoulder and a tendril curl of auburn cascades across his mottled cheek.

His verdant green eyes are half-open under that scowl, and she clicks her tongue.

It's his remedies— those sour, foul tinctures laid dropper-by-draught upon his tongue at all hours, at first to relieve him from the pain of his condition, and then to relieve him of itself time and time again. It seems this one is not a sleep of exhaustion, but a sleep of the milk of poppies and Gods know what else.

He was a colicky thing at cradle; his mewling wails were like to wake the whole house. T'was Nenna and Nenna alone who could calm him, rocking him against her bosom with the aid of a thumb stuck in a bottle of whiskey for him to suckle. Was always slow to sleep, that one. Fussiest runt she'd ever taken to pap, if she could speak plain. Fussy little swaddle, grown into a fussy, temperamental man, but what was new anyhow?

She raises her hand, and gently pushes his lids closed with her fingers.

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 4

This is egregious

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 4

#soupsnaps Supine

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 4

Writing spring inspired by Hozier's "Too Sweet" open.spotify.com/track/76JKIs...

Dearest Sparrow's Heart,

When hence you rise to morning flight, to which repast do you bend your handsome beak?

This one dares to imagine a toothsome spread of sugar-dusted pastry, a cup of milk-boiled black tea in the proper fashion, a bit of black pudding for your stamina, had at daybreak as is prescribed, as is proper and right.

And what song is it? That lilting tune you would greet the rising sun with as you spread your wings and take to the welcome wind?

Truly, 'tis above me to imagine, however wistfully or with bitterest aspiration, your morning devotionals, for I am one who has made a pact with the Night.

Oh, what does one ordained and anointed by the Sun know of the enfolding moonlit dark? Of one who scarce utters a word before the tenth or one-and-tenth bell? Of one who takes his khet khaves black as velvet night and sweet as sin and bids it go cold on the embalming table?

Death's work is Night's work, after all.

There is nary any shame in this— my noble profession, as you call it, though it would be foolish of me to deny this small pang of longing caged like a dove in my chest for greeting pre-dawn light with such relish as you do. To sow rather than to reap. Hope alight in mouths and gullets, such joy is a baker's joy, to be had and shared and so universally loved.

This lonely undertaker fair withers with envy in the quiet hours of the morning while your handsome head lights your pillow!

Ho and hum; alas an alack.

This pall is mine and mine alone, it seems, and I am resolved to suffer it with dignity, though do forgive me my maudlin letters; your eyes on my words give me solace.

In the tuck of your heart, I am free to mourn that which is never mine.

Your turn, Sun King

- D

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 3

Bringing this infographic back, this is what's in D'Artagnan's pockets.

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 3

D'Artagnan's Communication Starter Pack

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 2

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jul 1

D'Artagnan

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jun 29

It's even tastier now that Daniel's an old man.

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jun 28

When I was 18, I drew this comic of an experience I had at a tea party with friends with the trackpad on my laptop.

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jun 25

Friend told me about his Grindr date and I drew what I imagined in my head

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jun 24

My hands are shaking.....

Soup!🕯️@fraughtbroth· Jun 24

Look, I don't play gotchas, I don't play them ever, but you give me a man like this and promise me central themes of death and a story touched by Lovecraftian mythos and I have no choice but to poke my lil snout in there and snuffle around, you dig?