willbeshot replied to your post: My grandson is an edgy little shit. Please excuse...
is it still cool if I shoot him
kay.
@hagshand-blog / hagshand-blog.tumblr.com
willbeshot replied to your post: My grandson is an edgy little shit. Please excuse...
is it still cool if I shoot him
kay.
My grandson is an edgy little shit. Please excuse him.
Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me either way.
Meg Foster for Mater Motley 2k18
Kill @devilsmorals for your grandmother.
“Somehow I feel I’m not supposed to leave this place… Oh Harry, I’m so scared… I’m cold.”
MOTTLEDMATER > HAGSHAND
Granny’s working overtime :/
our urls dont match any more grandma, i'm finally FREE :)
I mean... I could change mine to hagshand/s
monstrauma replied to your post: Grandma is here
everyone but me
you poor dear. Have some children tear tea and bone biscuits.
Grandma is here
Movement V, Dream Of A Witches Sabbath by Hector Berlioz
WHAT THE MIDNIGHT SKIES bore him tonight was not the usual. Busily picking through book after book in his personal library, Carrion then heard the familiar flap of wings. Any bird he welcomed to his home, be it harmless or nightmarish, curious to see what his worshippers might have brought him in its beak.
The Midnight Prince walked over, and shoo’d it away as it left the letter. The scent alone was more than enough. The soft texture of the leathered skin was unmistakable. This letter was sent to him from his grandmother.
It irked him to hold it, and he read each word with a growing disdain.
Adorned with a dark coat and many a skinned animal, the Prince walks the bridges, ‘cross the way to the Thirteenth Tower. He grumbled all the while, even as he walked the spiralling steps, ascending higher and higher, past untouched rooms and into the stench of death.
He knocks at the door.
“I’m here, Grandmother.”
“ Enter. ”
The voice that speaks from behind the ornate- if not dull- marble doors is one that sends a chill in the air. Everywhere and nowhere. The voice belonging to that which DWELLS with a quiet air of oppression beyond the Prince’s shadow.
With a thunderous creak do the doors grind open-- a FOUL air of decay rushing to assault Carrion’s senses just as soon as the space parted. Her realm was dark. Were it not for the faintest of blue candle-light it would be the perfect image of the sort of realm the old witch strove to create.
Absolute Midnight.
@gallowsgrove
A letter would arrive on the Prince’s windowsill by crow. The parchment grey, leathery-- and the ink upon which it was written seeming more to have been CUT into it in the hag’s wicked cursive than written atop it.
‘ I would request your presence in my tower. There is something that I feel we must discuss.
-M ’
An idea... you all team up to kill christopher so as to never hear him whine again.
Knits a sweater that says ‘My Grandson the Edgelord’ on the back.
HE STAYS QUIET, FEARFUL as he is pressed against the creature’s chest. It is as SUFFOCATING as one would think: the stench of mud and fetid flesh filled his nostrils. Carrion’s breath hitches, eyes widening. He nearly feels himself sink into the wretched mixture, held so tightly in an embrace that he finally wished he’d be set free of.
“Let go—-” The Prince feels the thing’s sloppy hands move, sliding atop his skin as he quivered in horror. “Let me go. Please.”
His hollow face is against a grimy patch of stitched human skin. It feels terribly cold.
The Nightmares that circled around his thin neck rose and snarled, ready to defend their Master. They hissed like the acidic strike of a match, growing only more enraged, more grotesque. One dove inside, drooling fangs slick and ready to bite, only to be caught wriggling in the mud.
“LET ME GO.”
“ I was stitched for this. ” The creature gargled in a voice (rather painstakingly crafted) to resemble his dearly deceased Princess. “ Stitched and packed FULL of mud. Do you like my voice? I’ve never had one before.” It’s grips is IRON CLAD on the prince. Seams buckle, they edge their way out of place and mingle with the hair. She’s been crafted to TORMENT, to show the futility of companionship to an squalling little CHILD.
Cold and rubbery and coarse. It’s skin is yellow and it REEKS of the wet earth that hardens behind it’s skin and seeps from it’s patchwork pore. “She told me to hold the Prince...” Hair falls out of it’s face, a toothy and DEEP maw stares back at him. No eyes, no other features.
WERE THOSE WORMS? CRAWLING DEEP DOWN IN THE DARK, IN HER STOMACH? WORMS AND MAGGOTS INTERMINGLE IN A FEAST OF FLESH AND MUD AND BILE! OH, THE STITCHLING CARE BARELY CONTAIN HERSELF! Her stitches quiver and tighten, her stomach and it’s contents ready to DROP.