unhooking-the-stars:

i really enjoy all the feuillys being made for fantasy week

flyawayonfourls came up with him as a pyrokinetic, thecoffeetragedy as a psychometric, and i’ve been spreading street rune user as far as i can

THESE ARE ALL GOOD FEUILLYS AND I WOULD LIKE TO SEE MORE
The rune stories have been so varied!

unhooking-the-stars:

SO SINCE ITS FANTASY WEEK lemme introduce y’all to a fantastic series called Bordertown

an urban fantasy series started in the 80’s, it is a series of short story anthologies and novels by many different authors all taking place in the same area, a town on the border of our world and the elfin realm. its a haven for runaways and misfits and artists of all kind, influenced by music and diy ideals. technology and magic both dont quite work properly there, and it would be wise to take most childhood fairy tales as caution, not advice. elves are kind of pricks, humans are, well, pricks too, and most everyone hates on the halfbloods. recently the gates closed for 13 days in the border but 13 years fr our world, and the ramifications are being felt.

it has hella diverse racial and lgbtqia representation, and the best part is if what your’re looking for isnt there, then you can make it yourself. the collection ‘welcome to bordertown’ is a good place to start.

anyway i like to think bahorel is half elf and enjoys the fights that stirs up, showing off his pointy ears and silver eyes proudly.

Bordertown is definitely a series I need to check out!  Is there a Best Starting Point?

And YES, he totally would show off the potential fight -bait. XD

sapphicdalliances:

if bossuet broke the law would it be by doing something illesgles

needsmoreresearch:

Fiction that may be a bad idea: Bahorel hijacks EM Forster’s The Celestial Omnibus.  I, uh.  It’s a work in progress, hell if I know what to do with it after this point, and I kind of hesitate to tag it for the Fantasy week on account of sadness and w-i-p-ness, but if you wanna read it…

——

Bahorel was not attending to the conversation.  Lesgle, amiable soul, fell silent, contenting himself with his tobacco and his pot of beer.  He was so contented in fact that when his fellow-student tapped his elbow he startled and spilled beer on his trousers.  Bahorel silenced his noise of protest with another tap on the elbow.

"Cast your eagle eye upon that omnibus.  Does anything about it strike you?"

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NO THIS IS SADNESS ALLEVIATION

I mean YES there’s the usual deaths but (Spoilers)

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crowanimation:

The Graveyard of the Pegeon (English Version)

Starlene once reblogged this fanfic cartoon of LesMiserables from my deviantART page, (thank you Starlene!,) but for those who have not seen or read it yet, enjoy!

Do any of you want to read Japanese version?

Reblogging this for direct post from the artist! I love the energy of the lines and the way the layout emphasizes the mood of the story. And agh, the bit with Valjean’s tombstone still being there, and the poem being seen and remembered a little— this may be a very complicated AU to have the survivors it does, but I really like it!

(via starlene)

The Banshee

lizamezzo:

In which Eponine is a banshee for Les Mis Fantasy Week. Fair warning, this turned out pretty dark.

Content warnings: death, blood, bad parenting, social ostracism, general awfulness of everything.

Also: I have so far not succeeded in putting this under a cut from my iPad. For some reason inserting the “!— more —” tag in HTML isn’t working. I’ll keep trying. In the meantime, apologies.

*********************************************

As she turns 13, Eponine finds herself increasingly shut out. She doesn’t mind the streets, she’s grown up in them, but it would be nice to be able to seek shelter every now and again.

Where others find charmed circles of friendship, she sees only turned backs. Even the uncertain alliances of her father’s gang find confusing and final ways to exclude her. Her brother, it seems, can make a new friend with just a joke or a song. Her sister is still a kid— people make allowances for kids. Somehow it’s fine for Azelma to be at home all day, but not for Eponine.

Eponine walks the lonely places, the borders, the danger zones. She hovers outside barred doors and shut gates. She sings to herself, like all the Thenardier kids do.

Her song is to do with loneliness, with danger, with fear.

She notices that her song casts a shadow. When people overhear her, their smiles fade and laughter dies on their lips. Her brother’s voice can cheer people and rally them; her sister’s already has a strange sweetness. Not so the rough, reedy voice of Eponine. However quietly she sings, she still sees people react as though someone’s stepped over their grave.

(She begins to get a clue about Azelma’s situation when she notices her father letting the girl play and sing in the fountains and duckponds of the Luxembourg gardens. She’s useful; pockets can be picked as they stand there with their eyes blank as pearls. Thenardier never lets her near the Seine, not even within sight or scent of its waters.)

Eponine begins to take a wicked pleasure in haunting the alleys between the posh houses during ball season. Her voice can sour any party and make the gilded youth shudder in their silk slippers.

On a wet day, a would-be playwright shoulder-barges her outside Café Momus, knocking her over to skin her knee on the paving-stones and soak her skirt in a puddle of cold rain and horse-piss. He sneers for a moment before going into the warmth and light of the café.

On his first play’s first night, Eponine skulks outside the stage door, singing softly. Half the audience leaves after the first act; the rest find themselves wishing they had. The young man is never seen in Paris again.

Then she falls in love. Oh, doesn’t he dress sharp and talk fine, with a rose in his buttonhole and all? He does, admittedly, have a penchant for draining the blood of the living, but he’d never use his teeth; it’s ungenteel. He eats with a knife.

She’s fifteen and it’s the most intense two weeks of her life. Then he pronounces her insufficiently fascinating and abruptly replaces her.

She takes to shadowing him.

She knows his haunts, and in every one of them she’s there before him, singing her soft song. People shiver, button their coats against the night chill, and suddenly recall they have somewhere warmer to be. She follows him down the street and spooks his prey into seeking shelter. Her voice reminds them to fear death.

In the midst of the feast that is Paris, the young man wastes nearly away. Last she heard, her father had bought him for Patron-Minette with a bag of pig’s blood from the butcher.

It doesn’t matter. She’s in love with someone else by then.

A young man invited her in, let her look in his mirror, didn’t object when she stole his bread, and gave her kind words and a little money without any of the usual requests that accompany such gifts. She sings a little, she can’t help it. He doesn’t seem to mind, but then he was already fairly gloomy.

How could she not love him?

And when she finds herself shut out, as she always does, she haunts him too. She’s hovering outside a barred garden gate when her father’s gang come calling.

She’s never unleashed her full voice before.

She sings their deaths.

She can’t kill, of course (had she known that? would it have mattered?) but she can make them feel what’s coming for them, step by inexorable step, as the clock ticks away, slicing off the seconds till their quick, breathing flesh chills to cold carrion.

The Patron-Minette gang melts away before her eyes. The men Thenardier thought were his are leaving him. Her father, who always took such delight in threatening her even as he fawned on those he meant to flay— why, now he is just a man, who fears death, and fears her. It should be sweet. It isn’t.

There are consequences, of course. The blood of the lovers in the garden is chilled, but it hardly matters; they’re safe for now. The man in the house, the hunted man, suddenly knows that there is no safety here and begins to think of leaving Paris. Of leaving France. He wonders if across the Channel is far enough.

That summer, she can feel something like a thundercloud on the edge of the sky, a closeness in the air. When the cases of cholera begin, she knows her task. The imminence of so much death calls her voice forth from her till her throat is dry and ragged. Those who hear it make the hard choices, warn their children away from their bedsides, think twice about attending church and taking communion, start calculating how many family members they can afford to send out of Paris.

She tells herself she’s saved some. She feels no joy. She sings death over the palaces of the wealthy and the tenements of the poor.

Some time later, she finds herself singing at a funeral, at the inevitable riot, the inevitable street-fight. The kind and gloomy young man— Go home, go home, you beautiful fool. She knows her voice has reached him and his friends, but he makes no sign. He’s as in love with death as he ever was with a girl of flesh and blood, she realises. Oh, my love.

Suddenly she’s singing at full voice, forcing her way into the song as you would break the rusty bars of a garden gate after dark, though your own muscle and bone paid the price. The song is changed, and with it her own fate. When the bullets strike her, it comes as no surprise at all.

The surprise is that, freed from the body, her work is easier.

She can be in many places at once; can cast her voice abroad on the four winds or summon it quickly, softly back to a single strain in a quiet street or firelit room. Those who hear her feel fear, feel the immediacy of their deaths— but fear is not wholly without use, nor is foreknowledge. She tries to bestow these cold gifts where they’ll be of help. Often she fails.

She’s still out there, she and her sisters. They’ve sung softly, stridently, sung their throats bloody over our century and still their music does not cease. One day they will fold their black wings and sing the world to sleep.

This is dark and WONDERFUL. I love her whole history, and how it does and doesn’t change with this twist. The half- Cassandra level of her gift is very fitting. And the realization about Marius is so spot on. What a great Eponine story!

(via bobcatmoran)

marxandria:

you know eponine is a pretty rad character

YES SHE IS, and I think I may love her workman’s outfit even more now that I know she totally just swaps for it with some passing guy who was curious. Paris had more things goin’ on than I’d have guessed?!?

AH LOOK AT HER HERE THOUGH, she’s got so much energy and life and it’s just excellent!

(Part 8 of 8) Letter from Charles Jeanne to his sister, from prison, December 1833

tenlittlebullets:

tenlittlebullets:

Le 7 à cinq heures du matin il me fallut m’évader en toute hâte, déjà dénoncé, j’allais être arrêté & la maison était cernée. Je m’échappai déguisé en ouvrier fouleur, & pendant deux jours j’errai ainsi déguisé, traversant à chaque instant les bandes de gardes nationaux, de mouchards & de sergents de ville. Je ne pouvais m’éloigner de ces lieux où j’avais combattu & où je voulais mourir ; de ces lieux où mes braves compagnons d’armes avaient été lâchement assassinés par des cannibales revêtus de l’uniforme national après s’être rendus prisonniers aux soldats de la ligne qui ne purent les garantir de la fureur de lâches bourreaux.

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Translation! LAST PART YOU GUYS. And, um, warning for slightly gruesome details of the final massacre.

-

The 7th at five in the morning I had to escape in a hurry, already denounced, I was about to be arrested & the house was surrounded. I escaped disguised as a tanner, & for two days I wandered around like that, constantly crossing bands of national guardsmen, spies & sergents de ville. I couldn’t keep myself away from those places where I had fought & where I wanted to die; those places where my brave comrades-in-arms had been cravenly murdered by cannibals dressed up in the national uniform, after giving themselves up as prisoners to the soldiers of the line, who were unable to protect them from the frenzy of those cowardly butchers.

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clenster:

Cosette, Eponine and a giant fly for fantasy week. 

fullview because tumblr hates wide images

Oh my gosh Cosette looks like a Magic Knight. And those fly wings are gorgeous!

(also YES YES they’re both fae girls in their own turn, and Eponine looks so cautious next to Cosette’s eager energy, this is so good!)

knifeear-bahorel:

*not intended to be an accurate representation of heavenly bodies*

Fallen angel au pt 2. Pt 1 here

Jehan is a mortal who has always been gifted with the ability to see more than material reality. They and their guardian angel are very close, and Jehan has always been very secure in being themself and doing as they feel because who wouldnt be with that hulking mass of angelic might behind them?

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