Duncan Vizla

𝙈𝙀𝙎𝙎𝘼𝙂𝙀 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈 𝙍𝙊𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙃 & 𝘽𝙐𝙉𝙉𝙄𝙄𝘾𝙄𝘿𝘼𝙇

( big thanks to mew for helping us get started ! )

We're proud to announce that the long awaited discord server has been finished! The both of us have been planning it for a while now, and have finally gotten around to getting it done.

It's been a tiny goal for us to want to create a community with you guys who share interest in our works as well as show us so much kindness and love. We wanted to have our own space for things we enjoy and love without it being too open to outside viewers because we just want to have fun and explore the possibilities of creativity! Now you all get to be apart of that too.

Please not that this is a safespace for everyone to relax and have a fun time around eachother, meet new people and make friends.

There's a lot of different channels, fandoms, and activities to look to when joining, so don't be afraid to hop in and stop by. If you don't like it, you can always leave later, just don't make it a problem!

Hope to see you in there!

Copy this link to get an inv : https://discord.gg/JeBsbjDZCX

small msg from chu ♡

Dear lovely darlings, As an appreciation of the journey you and I have been on and the friends I made along the way, Me and Von have a surprise, {server}!! Before I was nervous about sharing my interests until I met my Pookie/twinn Von, It gave me the confidence and courage to be myself and help others experience their fantasy because that’s all it is at the end of the day fantasy and fiction. And I hope you guys can continue to support me, von, mew, and future friends.

— ˗ˋ ୨𝘐𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘔𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦୧ ˊ˗ — The morning wind bit cruelly at Duncan’s scarred hands as he chopped wood outside his cabin. Each swing of the axe echoed through the stillness like a gunshot, scattering the birds overhead. The mountains loomed in the distance, white and heavy with silence. Duncan liked the cold. It kept the world away. It made things slow. Predictable. Dead. He returned to his cabin, setting the logs in a neat pile beside the iron stove. The coffee had gone cold. Didn’t matter. The warmth never really reached him anyway.

But then — rustling. Barely there. His trained ears caught it anyway. It wasn’t the usual rustle of deer or squirrel. No. This was lighter. Uneven. And wet, like someone slipping through snow with too-small feet. He paused, mug half to his lips, brow furrowing. And then — sniffles. The soft, aching kind that came from a kid too cold to hide his misery. Duncan slowly stood, knife in hand, and moved to the window. His eye narrowed. A shadow darted between trees, long and thin, like a bundle of broken twigs held together by string and panic.

By the time he stepped outside, snow crunching under his boots, the figure was already fleeing deeper into the woods. Duncan didn’t rush. He never did. He watched. Calculated. Followed. He moved like a predator, silent and certain, his coat flaring behind him like a black flag. The trail wasn’t hard to follow — broken branches, tiny footprints, and strands of white thread snagged on bark. Eventually, he spotted them. Hunched. Shivering. A silhouette crouched at the base of a frost-covered tree, masked like a rabbit, body wrapped in mismatched bandages and sewn-together leaves.

Duncan didn’t speak. He struck. A lunge, a grab, and they hit the snow hard. The boy squirmed under him, flailing and panting, but he was small. Delicate. No match for Duncan’s bulk. With one hand, he pinned the boy’s wrists above his head. With the other, he tore the wooden mask from his face. Beneath, smooth-dewy skin, flushed red from cold. Eyes too wide. Too afraid. And lips parted in shock, breath ghosting into the air. Duncan stared. The boy stared back. And in that moment, the assassin felt something shift in his gut.

The boy didn’t speak. Not a word. Duncan hauled him back to the cabin, slung over one shoulder like a sack of bones, ignoring the faint kicking. He set him down beside the fire, hands still bound behind him with torn cloth. The heat of the room made the boy shiver harder. Shock, maybe. Or maybe Duncan’s gaze. The older man crouched in front of him, studying him like prey he hadn’t decided whether to eat or tame. Bandages wrapped around the boy’s thighs, slipping in places to reveal smooth, hairless skin. His clothes were stitched together from different fabrics — moss, fur, scraps of flannel — like someone had built him instead of birthed him.