Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 15

She knows that her fate is sealed when he takes a moment then all but coos that she has the best of both worlds. It’s too much, just too much, she doesn’t want to have to deal with her story anymore! She doesn’t want to be the misshapen heroine who can only find love with the one hero who sees past her grotesque form and frees the princess underneath. She hates those stories, she doesn’t want to be in one of them! So she turns human again and orders him out of the room so she can cry herself to sleep. Not even that works until he fetches her a vase with that ugly earth, at least he put flowers into it, can he please, please really leave now?

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 14

Energy completely spent, Darcy retires back to her room, she is so done with all this silly world out there! Pretty is again relaxing in her arms, but she notices that he keeps glancing in the direction of Arthur’s room, finally asks and upon hearing that Arthur isn’t feeling so well, tells him to see to his friend right this instant.

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 13

The space is a grassy square. To his right rises the wall with the huge window that Gregory was thrown through, several stories high. Across, there is a big gap, then more wall still standing at the corner. The latticed window section is to his left, now. 

Torches burn on tall poles in the corners of the square. A lean-to has been built out of wood and tarps against the wall on the right. 

And the rest of the space is filled with tables full of saws and tongs and knives, and piles of bones, and plants that twitch and shift and rustle in a way plants have no business doing, thorn-studded vines like the ones on the monster trailing across the ground. There’s glass jars with dark lumps in them, and not that Arthur can properly see them, but he’s pretty sure those are organs. 

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 12

He whirls, and sees the wolf up and fighting with… someone, not something, the wolf’s fur looks dark and matted around its face and wolves don’t scream… 

Gregory roars, and when Arthur’s head shoots around again, Gregory is jumping off of the monster, backpaws sending it staggering, his claws and arms dark with whatever he’s dug out of it- his eyes fixed behind Arthur. 

His lips are pulled back in a snarl still, bridge of the nose wrinkled and eyes slitted, ears pinned firmly back, and his fangs are very large. 

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 11

In the gathering dusk, Darcy is starting to feel more like herself again and her night friends know that, too. While petting the owl Darcy does keep an eye out for the ruin. Villains, she’s hunting a villain? Why is she hunting him? Oh, right, she’s a dhampir, strong and fearsome, sure. Not that she doesn’t nearly feel it a bit. With the owl on her shoulder and the beautiful forest all around her, she feels like a heroine in one of her fairytales.

For a second her look goes to Gregory, bumbling hero yet to grow into himself to become worthy of courting her included. Strange, she always thought that would be her favourite part but somehow she wishes she was alone instead.

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 10

Still completely overwhelmed, Darcy does the one thing she knows, trust in her fairy tales. Which, after all, normally tell of the low-class man pining for the princess, so she stammers that sometimes people change their station. Realising how approving that sounds, she quickly adds that he needs better etiquette and she, of course, can’t have anything but traditional and appropriate courting and… that was too far already, he grabs onto it full-force, clearly deciding he’s the rightful hero of the story and the hero always gets the lady in the end, no matter how reluctant she might seem.

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 9

Chapter warning: graphic description of gore

“It’s a bad sight,” the man says when they’re standing in the root cellar of the farm. And, yeah, Arthur can already tell that- the shape on the table doesn’t make a human body, and the sheet that covers it is stained with rusty-brown spots. 

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 8

Arthur really wishes he could enjoy the first time riding a horse more, but the prospect of reaching the village and investigating whatever is going on has him far too nervous- Darcy really had no need to scold him, he feels plenty like an imposter all by himself. Well. He is an imposter. What does a poor kid from Whitechapel know about investigating anything? 

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 7

Darcy thought she’d have to force herself to eat the weird things but all it took was getting out of sight and the smell was overpowering. She doesn’t care about her manners or the lack of cutlery, she just has to stuff them into her mouth, they’re warm… she doesn’t want to know if that’s from an oven or from being otherwise fresh, it’s just, she can’t stop, one after the other, licks her fingers, licks the plate, more? But they’re gone, completely gone and finally she comes to her senses enough to realise what she did. The platter doesn’t clatter when she drops it into the grass, scrambles away from it to the other side of the stone bench, draws her knees up and holds herself as the tears start rolling, as the horror of the reality of what she is sets fully in.

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 6

Darcy doesn’t have anything to say to Llew when he dares to show his face again, and she thinks what’s written in the letter sounds gross but that has the boys if anything more eager to go look into it. And by boys she means Gregory, who runs off to play detective while Arthur decides he’ll do research, like a proper man would (not his declaration, but it’s what Darcy thinks). Wait, the heroine can help with that, can’t she?

At first she’s shy when she joins him at the table with some books but she’s so much more comfortable with only him around instead of everybody that soon enough it’s no longer awkward to actually talk to him. Talking to a man, she feels so daring! When his stomach growls in the middle of a sentence as the time moves past lunch, he looks instantly embarrassed but she, after a moment of staring, has a giggling fit before getting him to the kitchen. She’s been a horrible hostess! 

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