Information
Crywolf has a minion!
the Red Bellied Woodpecker
the Red Bellied Woodpecker
Crywolf
Legacy Name: Crywolf
The
Marsh TelenineOwner:
MythologyAge: 4 years, 4 weeks
Born: April 5th, 2020
Adopted: 2 years, 2 months, 2 weeks ago
Adopted: February 17th, 2022
Statistics
- Level: 1
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 28
- Books Read: 28
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
Note: This story contains vague depictions of abuse and murder of a minor, if this will upset you please click away from this pet before reading further.
The wind rushes through the empty town like a slow, drawn out breath, sticky and humid in the most disgusting way possible. The fetid air lingers in corners unseen, the town a mouth full of rotten teeth, with shadows stretching further and wider than they have any business stretching. The buildings tremble in the breeze, quaking and shaking with memories long forgotten, with remembrances of laughter and joy, but where now only solitude and grief linger.
Down the dirt road, where the ground has cracked and the plants have withered, lies the cemetery. The Reverend used to say that all souls deserve redemption, his thick Irish accent twisting and turning the words, the fading images of green meadows and vast open cliffs coming to mind. Forgiveness, he would say, is not something we give. He would look over the small children looking up at him with rapt attention. Only Our Lord can forgive, dear children. We must seek redemption instead.
The children would nod and whisper between each other, and yet the Reverend’s son would only roll his eyes, so used to his father’s voice doling out advice like sweets, sticky and syrupy, dragging itself into their souls, and settling not unlike a meal eaten too fast. Redemption, he would scoff, for what?
The Reverend’s son was known for being a hellion, his father pitied and admired alike by the townsfolk. Where is your mother? They would ask, hands boldly hiding smiles filled with bared teeth, their words sinking in and cutting like blades honed by fire and blood. Your poor father, raising a child like you by himself? The Reverend would send him to school each day, a sharp rap over the back of his head accompanied by a barked instruction to be grateful for what he has, and to not go playing with the miners’ boys again.
But the child could not stay away from the gaping maw that was the mines, a hungry invitation by Mother Earth to come explore and delve deep into the secrets hidden by her smile. It wasn’t the miners nor their children that interested him, no. He wanted to know more of the darkness, the cloying scent of dirt and iron and longing that seeped into his very essence when he went down into those depths. Voices would whisper, softly, gently. Did you know that the shopkeeper’s wife had another son before? She keeps his bones hidden in her heart, and his heart hidden in her home.
Instead of going to school as the Reverend commanded, the child would run, fast and desperate, to the cool embrace of Mother Earth, searching for the truths she had freely to give. One by one, they spilled into his mind, bits and pieces of secrets that should not have been uncovered dripping, dripping. Stalagmites and stalactites of sadness, longing and harsh truths.
The baker does not care for his family as he should. He hits and beats into their soft flesh, tearing gasping cries for mercy from them.
Slowly, but surely, he filled up with these truths, like a dam waiting to burst. He would see the baker’s children, frightened and bruised, and something in him would heave, roiling and trying to break free. A deep seated rage, and a desire to rip and tear.
The farmer refused to help a starving family, even as they died of thirst and hunger on his porch while he swallowed and devoured his feast of meat and wine. He used them to fertilize his next crop, their desperation rotting him from the inside out.
The Reverend had said that Forgiveness was the Lord’s realm, but the child could not help feel that the Lord had already forsaken his wretched people. Everywhere he looked, all he could see was twisted and bent, empty shells of what once was. He returned to his Mother, the dark passages home to truth and bones.
The Reverend is not what he appears, child.
Just as the townspeople turned away from his harsh and unflinching gaze, the Reverend pulled back from his son. There was something in that holy gaze, in those calloused and scarred hands that recoiled from a son that had already seen and heard too much of a world spoiled sick by deeds and actions that were more fitting to hell.
Where is your mother, child?
The question laid bare in his mind, shifting and reforming with the season, drifting away with the stream, only to burst into thought with the next sandstorm. The child had long since given up on connecting with the people of the town, spilling their secrets to them one by one. The shopkeeper’s wife had fainted in fear, the baker had struck him with a rage that the child barely escaped, and the farmer had laughed in his face.
Your home is made of glass, and bones, and tears, and blood.
So the child watched the Reverend, watched him give his sermons of a fake god, and watched him dig graves as deep and wide as the moon. He watched him comfort the rotting and the dead, and watched him hold the bones so tenderly, you would think that his beloved lay amongst them. Flowers, gently handled, but carefully plucked.
He gently held her neck, cradled her face in his hands. He wanted an eternity she could not give. Careful, careful, child.
What is a mother? He had Mother, in all her resplendent glory of iron and eternity, but he had no mother.
Crack, crack, crack. He broke her, so lovingly and tenderly, plucking and corrupting what he should have never touched.
Father, he asked one day, what did you do to mother?
The Reverend, struck by horror and terror, struck by the sight of his son (no, not his son anymore) baring his teeth in a demand. Teeth that glistened with unshed blood and a promise that redemption laid in those deep, dark caverns below. But fear is an unflinching master, and so without hesitation, the Reverend, a holy man and devout apostle, struck down the child. Once again, he did what should not be done, and tore a life he should not have touched.
Silence was all the Reverend knew now. He tucked away those small bones, hid them in his heart, right next to his beloved. He dug more graves, burying himself and his hopes and wishes, digging ever closer to that promised forgiveness. He delved into those same mines that his son had walked, but there was nothing there for him. No voice, no reason.
No son.
helixThe wind rushes through the empty town like a slow, drawn out breath, sticky and humid in the most disgusting way possible. The fetid air lingers in corners unseen, the town a mouth full of rotten teeth, with shadows stretching further and wider than they have any business stretching. The buildings tremble in the breeze, quaking and shaking with memories long forgotten, with remembrances of laughter and joy, but where now only solitude and grief linger.
Down the dirt road, where the ground has cracked and the plants have withered, lies the cemetery. The Reverend used to say that all souls deserve redemption, his thick Irish accent twisting and turning the words, the fading images of green meadows and vast open cliffs coming to mind. Forgiveness, he would say, is not something we give. He would look over the small children looking up at him with rapt attention. Only Our Lord can forgive, dear children. We must seek redemption instead.
The children would nod and whisper between each other, and yet the Reverend’s son would only roll his eyes, so used to his father’s voice doling out advice like sweets, sticky and syrupy, dragging itself into their souls, and settling not unlike a meal eaten too fast. Redemption, he would scoff, for what?
The Reverend’s son was known for being a hellion, his father pitied and admired alike by the townsfolk. Where is your mother? They would ask, hands boldly hiding smiles filled with bared teeth, their words sinking in and cutting like blades honed by fire and blood. Your poor father, raising a child like you by himself? The Reverend would send him to school each day, a sharp rap over the back of his head accompanied by a barked instruction to be grateful for what he has, and to not go playing with the miners’ boys again.
But the child could not stay away from the gaping maw that was the mines, a hungry invitation by Mother Earth to come explore and delve deep into the secrets hidden by her smile. It wasn’t the miners nor their children that interested him, no. He wanted to know more of the darkness, the cloying scent of dirt and iron and longing that seeped into his very essence when he went down into those depths. Voices would whisper, softly, gently. Did you know that the shopkeeper’s wife had another son before? She keeps his bones hidden in her heart, and his heart hidden in her home.
Instead of going to school as the Reverend commanded, the child would run, fast and desperate, to the cool embrace of Mother Earth, searching for the truths she had freely to give. One by one, they spilled into his mind, bits and pieces of secrets that should not have been uncovered dripping, dripping. Stalagmites and stalactites of sadness, longing and harsh truths.
The baker does not care for his family as he should. He hits and beats into their soft flesh, tearing gasping cries for mercy from them.
Slowly, but surely, he filled up with these truths, like a dam waiting to burst. He would see the baker’s children, frightened and bruised, and something in him would heave, roiling and trying to break free. A deep seated rage, and a desire to rip and tear.
The farmer refused to help a starving family, even as they died of thirst and hunger on his porch while he swallowed and devoured his feast of meat and wine. He used them to fertilize his next crop, their desperation rotting him from the inside out.
The Reverend had said that Forgiveness was the Lord’s realm, but the child could not help feel that the Lord had already forsaken his wretched people. Everywhere he looked, all he could see was twisted and bent, empty shells of what once was. He returned to his Mother, the dark passages home to truth and bones.
The Reverend is not what he appears, child.
Just as the townspeople turned away from his harsh and unflinching gaze, the Reverend pulled back from his son. There was something in that holy gaze, in those calloused and scarred hands that recoiled from a son that had already seen and heard too much of a world spoiled sick by deeds and actions that were more fitting to hell.
Where is your mother, child?
The question laid bare in his mind, shifting and reforming with the season, drifting away with the stream, only to burst into thought with the next sandstorm. The child had long since given up on connecting with the people of the town, spilling their secrets to them one by one. The shopkeeper’s wife had fainted in fear, the baker had struck him with a rage that the child barely escaped, and the farmer had laughed in his face.
Your home is made of glass, and bones, and tears, and blood.
So the child watched the Reverend, watched him give his sermons of a fake god, and watched him dig graves as deep and wide as the moon. He watched him comfort the rotting and the dead, and watched him hold the bones so tenderly, you would think that his beloved lay amongst them. Flowers, gently handled, but carefully plucked.
He gently held her neck, cradled her face in his hands. He wanted an eternity she could not give. Careful, careful, child.
What is a mother? He had Mother, in all her resplendent glory of iron and eternity, but he had no mother.
Crack, crack, crack. He broke her, so lovingly and tenderly, plucking and corrupting what he should have never touched.
Father, he asked one day, what did you do to mother?
The Reverend, struck by horror and terror, struck by the sight of his son (no, not his son anymore) baring his teeth in a demand. Teeth that glistened with unshed blood and a promise that redemption laid in those deep, dark caverns below. But fear is an unflinching master, and so without hesitation, the Reverend, a holy man and devout apostle, struck down the child. Once again, he did what should not be done, and tore a life he should not have touched.
Silence was all the Reverend knew now. He tucked away those small bones, hid them in his heart, right next to his beloved. He dug more graves, burying himself and his hopes and wishes, digging ever closer to that promised forgiveness. He delved into those same mines that his son had walked, but there was nothing there for him. No voice, no reason.
No son.
Pet Treasure
Campfire Cooking
Guide to Canning
Quick Guide to Food Preservation
Ginger Cookies
Broken Heart Latte
Grandiose Antique Coffee Set
Fine Aged Rum
Charm of Shield-Breaking
Silver Bullet
Silver Bullet Shells
Haunted Ginger Biscuit
Timber Wolf Talisman
Bottled Harvest Moon
Harvested Moon
Harvest Moon
Field Guide to the Wolve
Hand-bound Nature Journal
Hand-Made Seed Sketch Journal
Horticulturist Diary and Daily Sketch Book
Horticulturists Tools
Home Brew Kit
Silver Ore
Iron Ore
Old Arrow Head
Petrified Field Book
Bundle of Old Maps
Safety Helmet with Headlamp
Displayed Autumn Handmade Quilt
Candlelit Lantern
Lantern