Bockstensmanen, a medieval person who happened to die in a bog which preserved his clothes (and more), clothes like hella comfy??
Like seriously. Comfy and warm wool clothes!
(yes this are pictures of his actual outfit, not reconstructed clothing. They were very well preserved in all except colour. The bog gave everything that yellow shade, i suspect)
It goes around the entire body! So perhaps not quite a mantel but.
A got a little hood with a fashionedble long thingy at the end
Warm that too! There is no openings for wind or anything, so like. Just pull hood over head, get warm!
Warm socks! Gotta keep em feets warm (and just like in english, the swedish words for trousers, byxor, is in plural in its normal form, just because the medieval version of trousers consisted of two separate peices like here.
Somewhere, there should be something for hos upper legs but idk were that one is)
Anyway! I do think one can tell that keeping warm was an important part of the logic behind bockstensmannens clothing. Not odd that, when he lived in Scandinavia and all…
When we already at it, with listning his entire outfit. Here his this shoes
Reconstruction in how he might have looked like in life. The musuem points out, that his skull was very smashed when found, werehas it might be a bit so so with this dolls facial similiarity with bockstensmannen in life. And his hair colour we know not, the bog will colour most hair red with enough time.
But that hairstyle! That he really had! Bockstensmannen wore like Peak Fluffy Medieval Hair Fashion in life
The entire doll wearing bockstensmannens reconstructed clothing
I cant fault Mr. Darcy for going to parties and not talking to anyone, because that’s exactly what I do at parties. Following around the one person I know, and insulting everyone else while I’m at it, either intentionally or not? Sounds like a blast
warnings for self loathing, sort of dissociation (i didn’t have it in mind while writing but i figure it could come across in that way) self-aimed and accidentally inflicted violence, and a pretty graphic description of the wound caused from that aforementioned violence
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The mirror is cracked.
Nott doesn’t mind. If anything, she prefers it. That thin scar trailing down the middle is an excuse not to stare at it directly, a barrier between her eyes and the eyes of the creature behind it. It’s damaged goods, is what it is. And Nott doesn’t waste her time with things like that.
Instead, she looks at the mirror’s outline. Its frame. It appears to be golden, although Nott isn’t sure if it’s genuine or not. She debates licking it to find out (gold always has a certain tinge to it, quite tasty in small amounts but bad if overdone) but figures that might be too obvious. And besides, Caleb is already so busy distracting the shopkeeper for her– she doesn’t want to put any additional stress on him to come up with an excuse for why his little halfling friend is putting her tongue on the products.
The man already seems suspicious as to what kind of halfling she is. After all, what kind of halfling wraps herself up in bandages and robes instead of walking freely? What kind of halfling speaks with that traitorous lilt to her words that only creatures of the night have? What kind of halfling’s lips don’t move in tune with the words she speaks?
She reaches out and slowly feels the frame. It’s surprisingly warm. Like many hands have touched it before, some all too recently– one look at the price tag and she can see why. Then again, it’s a lovely mirror, she supposes. Despite the thin, spider-like crack. She makes the mistake of glancing over at it, no particular reason in mind, and glances back hurriedly again as her eyes meet the startling yellow ones of the creature in the mirror.
She wonders if she can get Caleb to put a charm on her eyes. Change their color. She’s always been fond of light blue.
“Nott, how is the window shopping going?”
Nott nearly jumps two feet in the air. “Oh, uh, uhh–” Steeling her voice to stay light and pleasant, she squeaks out, “Lovely, Caleb!”
Even from here, she can hear his sigh and begrudging return to whatever trivial conversation he’s having with the shopkeeper as the real meaning behind her words sinks in. It’s going okay, currently thinking about what to steal. Distract him a bit longer, won’t you? Thanks!
A twinge of guilt twists through her, and she bites her lip. Not hard. Not purposely hard, anyway. But there’s a sharp pain as the familiar taste of pennies fills her mouth anyway.
Her teeth are too sharp. How many times is it she’s wanted to laugh with complete abandonment? Kiss Caleb on the forehead as he lies asleep? She couldn’t bear it if she hurt him.
Swallowing roughly, she goes to look away, find something else (something smaller, easier, cheaper) to steal, but finds that her eyes are still locked on that stupid golden mirror’s frame instead. What is it that’s keeping her from moving on to a new aisle? This is nothing special. It’s just a mirror. Probably not even real gold.
Reaching over on whim, she goes to move the mirror so it faces elsewhere, tries to snap herself out of this sudden trance she’s snapped herself into, but then her fingers falter and the mirror slips and she takes a step back and–
She’s facing it. Her. The creature.
She’s facing it head-on, and it’s too late to look away. She’s already taking it all in, soaking up what she sees like a sponge soaking up water. Except the water is acid and the acid is burning her, burning her inside and out.
Oh.
So this is what she looks like the last few months. Years. Forever.
Nott’s caught glimpses of this face before, in windows and puddles and yes, even a few mirrors before, but never like this. Never so confrontationally. Never in such a large and clean and fancy mirror. Never on purpose. Even though the purposefulness of this situation could be called into question as well.
Its eyes– her eyes, are the color of melting butter and liquid gold. They are the eyes of a cat, blinking slowly in disgusted bewilderment before widening threefold as understanding sets in. They’re pretty, Nott supposes absently, or as pretty as eyes like that can get, but their pupils are nothing more than two violent slashes in their midsts. As thin and offputting as the crack in the mirror that tears the creature in two.
Its skin– her skin, why won’t this sink in– is a sickly, mottled green. Not dark like Fjord’s, but not light like an elf or wood spirit’s either. It’s kind of like the shade seasick people turn when on a long trip overseas, or that Caleb might sport after eating one of Jester’s long expired treats. The shade associated with revulsion and disgust. How appropriate. On the arms, slim white scars bare the signs of struggles their owner has faced, enemies it, she, has opposed. Hatred she’s allowedherself to be the brunt of, if by her own hand.
The mask thankfully hides what Nott already knows to be a mess of abnormally jagged teeth jutting out from a too-large bloodstained mouth, but she can still spot specks of green from where it’s been chipped and nicked by the forces of time. Cracks in an otherwise perfect foundation.
She reaches up, as if in a dream, to touch the pretty porcelain lips. The creature in the mirror does the same.
“Nott,” Caleb calls again, (distantly, she thinks, as if they’re in completely different worlds instead of only a few steps apart,) “are you done?”
This time, she doesn’t answer.
The red lips feel cold against her thumb. Cold, but beautiful. Everything is in its resolute, porcelain place. Nott licks her own lips. They feel chapped. The taste of pennies still lingers on her tongue.
She stares some more at the cracked figure across from her. The cracked figure that she’s expected to believe reflects her. The cracked figure that shows her, in broad daylight, all the things people hate about her. The cracked figure that she’s worked so hard to try and escape, but for nothing. All she has to prove for her efforts are a pair of too large robes, and a pretty mask showing a future that will never be hers.
Nott thinks about this for a moment.
And then she reels back, and punches the mirror straight in the fucking center.
“AH– FUCK!!”
Caleb instantly whips around. At the sound of shattered glass, the shopkeeper is quick to follow.
Nott staggers back, instantly jolted out of whatever trance she was in earlier as her fist flares up with pain. Not the usual type, either. This kind of pain is red-hot and angry, coiling through her hand and arm like a snake looking for a vein to bite. She yelps (screams, rather,) and realizes all too late that the shopkeeper is screaming as well.
“My mirror!” he wails. “My beautiful, beautiful mirror! What have you done, you green little beast?!”
Nott goes to choke out an answer, even just a “I dunno”, but the words die on her lips as a scream makes its way there first. Caleb is already rushing over, a look of shock on his face as he scoops her up, away from the broken glass, and examines her hand wordlessly.
“What happened here?” he asks quietly, urgently, and even over the shopkeeper’s wails he manages to make himself perfectly heard in her ears. “Nott, are you okay? No, do not look at that. Look at me. Are you okay?”
Nott ignores him and instantly looks at her hand.
On one hand, it’s not as bad as she’d thought. On the other, it’s worse. Bits of glass are embedded in her skin like stars, all sorts of shapes and sizes, and blood trickles from the wound steadily. Caleb’s eyes sweep it up and down worriedly before mumbling a Zemnian oath under his breath.
“I’m… Jester can patch me up, right?” Nott asks feebly. Hopefully. Each word feels like a rock in her throat.
“Perhaps,” Caleb says. He doesn’t ask her what happened again.
“Excuse me,” the shopkeeper blusters, hurrying over and pushing both of them aside to try and survey the damage, “but you’ll have to reimburse me for this! This mirror was worth its weight in gold! It had over twenty three callers for it!”
“Getting my little friend the help she needs is a little more of a priority right now,” Caleb says softly, and Nott feels another twinge of guilt, “but I assure you we will be back to pay for the damage we’ve caused.”
“It was already cracked,” Nott offers. “Your mirror, I mean.”
The shopkeeper’s face turns purple, and he looks like Nott bleeding out is far from a problem to him right now. “Oh, was it now? Tell me, will that excuse hold up in court?”
“There is no need to get the authorities involved,” Caleb interjects, shooting Nott a Look. She shrinks back and tries not to think about the fire coursing through her bones. “We broke it. We will pay for it.”
The shopkeeper sniffs. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the Crown’s Guard on both of you.”
“Yes. Thank you. You are really very kind.”
“That’ll be two hundred gold. Doubled ‘cause of damages.”
Caleb’s breath hitches a bit, and Nott winces. Neither of them have that kind of money. None of the party does. Guilt fastens itself around her heart, so heavy she can almost ignore the pure anguish in her hand.
“Ah,” Caleb says, and Nott knows that tone. It’s the ‘time for plan B’ tone he uses when he knows that they’re both screwed. “That is fine. That is very fine. Will you allow me to go and get help for my little friend first? She has a rare condition, you see, and if she does not get help in the next ten minutes her blood will certainly–”
“I don’t care,” the shopkeeper spits. “I just want my gold.”
“That is very kind of you.” Caleb is already half-way out the door, dragging her behind him as gently as he can by her uninjured hand. Nott already knows that the minute he steps out fully, he has no intention of ever returning. “We will be right back.”
“Yeah,” Nott squeaks. “Definitely! Coming back is exactly what we’re gonna do now! Sorry about your mirror!”
The shopkeeper, thankfully, doesn’t acknowledge her. He’s gone to the back of the store. Probably to look for a broom or something to clean the remnants of what would have otherwise brought him a fortune.
Nott spares a final glance at it all even as she’s being pulled away. The perfect golden frame is not nearly as perfect anymore. If anything it just looks out of place, surrounding jagged bloody shards that look almost like teeth. Her teeth. The teeth that it couldn’t show her before, now splayed out after ruin. What a fucking irony.
Caleb’s hand tightens in hers as he pulls her down the street. She already knows what will come next. He’ll stop her at a corner, try a small charm on her, wrap the wound up with a piece of cloth and then bustle her over to Jester who’ll take care of the rest, hopefully. The matter of why she lashed out and ruined their stay in town will be swept under the rug. He’ll allow her motives to be left forgotten.
And she loves him for it.
“Do not do something like that again, okay?” he whispers.
She nods. Ever the promise breaker. “I won’t, I swear. I don’t know what came over me, Caleb. I’m sorry.”
He squeezes her hand again, satisfied. But even through his warmth, and the concern and affection radiating off him in waves, Nott can’t help but think of those cold, perfect ruby red lips she saw in the mirror.
That tantalizing snippet from a life she’ll never have.
No, she thinks fiercely.Her fist burns in agreement. I will have it. I will.
brazilian 21-year-old on a quest for the so-called "responsible adult" state.
cis female, she/her, aro-ace.
estp/ravenclaw/choleric/lover of personality tests and arbitrary categories. werewolf fan.
art blog's url is irregularinertia. rroleplays often.
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