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There is a specific and terrifying difference between “never were” monsters and “are not anymore” monsters

“The thing that was not a deer” implies a creature which mimics a deer but imperfectly and the details which are wrong are what makes it terrifying

“The thing that was not a deer anymore” on the other hand implies a thing that USED to be a deer before it was somehow mutated, possessed, parasitically controlled or reanimated improperly and what makes THAT terrifying is the details that are still right and recognizable poking out of all the wrong and horrible malformations.

What if the forgotten gods have forgotten themselves? If they have taken on the forms of our beings and wander among us searching for something they just can’t recall? What if when they were forgotten they forgot themselves and fell away from their bodies to become spirits drifting aimlessly? Perhaps they made the rest of the world forget too, they fell into the silent reaches after sound and light have faded and steer others away from them. Perhaps we’ve all been forgotten as they were and now we truly are alone. Or perhaps they guide others to this forgotten place to make them join in their fate, driving them to madness and pain, a place where reason and time are gone and all that once was and is now destroyed lives? Perhaps even the forgotten can forget

THIS IS IMPORTANT

I love winding trails that seem to go on forever and bends blocked by trees so you can't see the other side and places just covered in moss.

I love the smell of mornings after rain and the smell of autumn.

I love seeing birds of prey flying about and perched above the ground and trying to guess what species they are.

I love the silence of a forest. Even when I'm with other people and they're talking it barely affects the stillness.

I love walking along rivers and streams. And climbing paths made by other hikers to get close. I love finding mushrooms and getting so turned around on the trail that it takes forever to find your way back.

I love driving through mountains and watching as the landscape gets smaller and smaller.

I love the little things about hiking and being outside that make me happy.

𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐧

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬

𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞

𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬

𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝟐𝟑 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬

— cosmo sheldrake, “the moss”

Three years ago, you found an injured werewolf on the edge of your wards. You took them in, helped them regain their strength, and allowed them to stay for a while in return for some work around the place. They had been incredibly grateful, and mentioned how much of a relief it was to find a safe place for a “monster” such as themselves, when so many would deny them care or outright kill them. The comment stuck with you, and even after they left, you couldn’t make it leave your mind. 

Over time, you changed and strengthened your wards turning them into something meant to guide, protect, and offer safety. It didn’t take long for the welcoming magic to draw in a few others as they strayed through your forest, your house now a beacon for those in need, rather than a shielded little bubble of solitude, as it had been for years.

Now, your home is always alive with warmth peace and laughter, the wards and rather blunt rule board above the door and fireplace, ensuring that those who take refuge, know not to start trouble. The few that have tried, are either violently ejected from the premises, thanks to your ever strengthening wards, or removed by other patrons themselves. 

Not only is your home a safe space, but it is now also a functioning bar, with food and drink, and even rooms available for those who need to hide and nurse their wounds a while. Supernatural or human, all are welcome to seek refuge. Its strange watching so many walks of life shed their worries at the door and bond with others within the once lonely walls. 

Whilst your slowly growing little sanctuary is not very well known yet, the rumours of a safe space are now spreading to others in need. Now, one of the biggest and baddest names in the supernatural world has caught wind of your sanctuary, and decides to see if this is nothing more than another trap, made to prey on those who dwell in the dark, or truly a sanctuary, however unlikely that may be. 

in the many years over which the pevensies became mythologized, one important thing was forgotten - when they first came to narnia, they were children

decay sounds more gentle than rot. when something decays, it is gently taken apart in it's comfortable eternal slumber. when something rots, it's violently taken apart with agony. in this essay i will