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[pale-noel]

Title: awakening Fandom: ilya serina project Genre: edgy shit Content Tags: kharos; lusmos; bael; pantheon of the garden gods Summary: The gods wake up. Someone sets in the lullaby. Author's Notes: Old, no longer relevant ficlet. Still nice prose, though.

The multiverse was created, and one by one, the Gods woke up.

Lusmos felt his wings spread wide, and suddenly, he began to cry. Immaterial. Beyond comprehension. He was magic, he was energy. He did not truly have wings, for there was no mortal to see him. Even if there was, they would burn out beside his true form.

Kharos awoke from slumber, energy torn asunder, but held nigh by his power. The rifts around him collapsed and formed, blessed by destruction and chaos. He too spread his wings, nothing more than a twisted sense of energy forming together.

Baelynn amassed from the centre of the circle. If she were light, she would be violet. Soft, but incomprehensible. She did not cry.

One by one, the Gods were created from the gardens of creation. One by one, they formed.

Baelynn lead them, creation and destruction in her wake. She took not shape nor size, an amalgamation of energy, magic, and matter.

And so the lullaby began to play. Lusmos closed what eyes he might have had, if coporeal. He fell to his slumber. Kharos felt the same wave of sleep wash over him, the notes singing to him.

Yet the Gods wandered their path of creation and destruction, and none suspected their song.

The lullaby would imprison the demigods to never wake.

[pale-noel]

Title: reunion Fandom: aqw Genre: fluff / comfort; minor depictions of alcohol, self-harm, and coarse language Content Tags: thermos lombardi; lachlen vorhis; peter jennings; skyguard academy; backstory; thermos being a little bitch; skyguard saga; i stand with ike saga Summary: Thermos explains himself to Lachlen once she’s hunted him down. She decides to take matters into her own hands. It goes as well as anyone would expect from her. Author's Notes: Old Straturday fic that I still enjoy. I think Goose drew a comic based on this fic, but I don’t really remember.

“So you’re Thermos, huh,” Lachlen Vorhis remarked. “Your brothers don’t mention you.” “Of course they wouldn’t,” Thermos Lombardi answered. “It’s all Stratos, Tropos, Atmos. Won’t ever tell you about me or Exos or Lithos or even Terra. That’s where the problem is, girl- they figure they can forget more than what they should. One of my old classmates will talk about me if asked, though. Not sure if she’s alive.” “I dunno… So how’d you leave?”

——

“Me? Got expelled, second year.” Thermos passed her on his way to the furnace, an armful of white-hot charcoal in his arms. Lachlen obediently got out of his way. “Was joyriding. Skipped class a lot. Spent it mostly on the Ruby’s Wake in the engine room. I’ll admit I shouldn’t have, but it was the only place I ever felt safe.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “I-I mean, the Academy’s always been safe.” Thermos laughed, almost brutally. “Then you weren’t in my year. Last time I checked, out of fifty-eight students, twelve survive to this day. Exos threw himself off the edge of the Academy last day of first year, because he was tormented and beaten up every day to the point he didn’t believe he was worth anything. He killed Lithos that summer by accident and ran away. Haven’t seen him since. Think he’s dead.” Thermos paused. “My family didn’t much welcome me in the first place. By November first year, they let me do my first practical, and I ended up on the Ruby’s Wake. Old ship, but a good one. The engineer’s ancient. Spent most of my time with him by the end of it. Most people, see, they never paid attention to me. I had average grades and never really did anything. I wasn’t Stratos and his ability to do anything. I wasn’t Tropos and his ability to outrun anything and then beat it up. I was easily forgotten. See, Jenny, he didn’t forget me. He’d ask every now and then why I wasn’t in class; but he didn’t pursue the issue when I didn’t want to say.” Thermos finished dumping the charcoal in the furnace, and sighed. “Jenny made me feel like someone actually gave a damn. I gave him a lot more attitude than he deserved, but I like to think he appreciated the company. He was there, you know? Last person still alive from the Ruby Bloom. Last person alive to remember Ike.” Lachlen nodded. “I’ve heard a bit about Captain Mattix. They don’t teach anything about him.” “They wouldn’t,” Thermos spat. “A black mark on their history. They’d rather forget him. Jenny won’t let them. And I won’t, either, if I have to. Some things deserve to be forgotten. But Ike’s something we have to learn from. They pulled the same damn shit with Stratos. Didn’t even remember that he’s the only loyal one out of all five of his brothers, and we’re all fucking identical except for me.” He cast sunset-red eyes in her direction, and brushed hair out of his eye. “I think Jenny reamed them out for that, if Ranisson’s to be believed. It doesn’t matter. The Skyguard’s not so forgiving, and they don’t learn. Place ain’t safe at all. That’s why Exos ran off with Drakath to go create somewhere safe.” “And what about you?” she asked again. “Where’s your safe place?” “It used to be the engine room of the Ruby’s Wake,” he answered, truthfully. “Used to be?” Lachlen jumped up on a counter to sit. “I don’t have a safe place anymore. The Skyguard kicked me out. Even if they let me come back, I don’t think I’d be able to look Jenny in the eye and apologize for getting expelled. I don’t think I’d be able to handle the disappointment there.” Lachlen paused. “He mentioned you,” she said finally. “He said it’s been quiet for the first time in almost fifty years since you left. I think that was his way of saying he missed you. He mentioned your dad, too. Atmos was apparently what got him through Ike’s death.” “I don’t give a damn about my father,” Thermos replied shortly. “He picked favourites and it was never me. And then he went and died, and left us with that bitch of a mother-” “Ike went and died too,” she quipped. Lachlen figured pissing him off would be the exact same as pissing Mr. Jennings off. “He’s no different.” “He’s damn well different!” A jet of fire blasted inches fron Lachlen’s head. “Ike was a fucking hero in every sense of the word. Atmos was nothing. He meant nothing, and he never will.” Thermos strode over to a cabinet. He pulled out what seemed to be a hidden drawer, and grabbed a bottle of malt liquor. He took a swig and slammed it on the counter, heading back to the furnace. Lachlen could have sworn she’d seen a bottle like that before. “Thermos, you need to go back,” Lachlen said. “Your home ain’t- it ain’t here. Thermos, you belong on the Ruby’s Wake, you’ve said that yourself. You have to go back. I’ll vouch for you, and I’m sure Stratos will too.” “Oh, slay me, now she’s going off about this,” he muttered. Thermos turned to her. “Stratos won’t do a damned thing. He’ll play the blind fool, and you know why?” “Why?” she demanded. She knew he was hotheaded, but she hadn’t expected him to be so stubborn. “He ever tell you how he got those face scars?” he asked. She shook her head. “I gave them to him. He tried to bring me back, and had Faye not intervened, I would have killed him. Stratos doesn’t want me back, and I don’t blame him.” Lachlen turned and walked away. She had to get him back, somehow. Muddled half-formed plans went through her mind. If he won���t come back, she’d have to force him to. Getting him on a ship and keeping him from destroying it on their way to the Hoverbase would be difficult. An idea came to her. She’d have to drug him.

Dragging him onto the airship was hard enough. Thermos was bigger than Lachlen and a lot more muscular. She tossed him into the nearest room, figuring she’d know when he woke up. Lachlen stuffed her hand in her pocket to make sure she had his classgem on her. She’d remembered to grab enough malt liquor to keep him happy; though she still wasn’t sure where she remembered it from. Starting the airship was even worse than getting him on board. She didn’t have a key, and she didn’t know how. Lachlen had seen Stratos jump-start a ship without keys before, but she couldn’t quite remember how he did it. You’re an engineer, think about it! she told herself. She ran through how the ignition worked, and a lightbulb could almost be seen above her head. Lachlen knelt down and reached for the mass of cords and wires underneath the wheel. A certain one just needed a little bit of electicity, if she could find it. Lachlen found the cord and muttered a quick spell. She heard the engine start and grinned. Now she just had to try and drive it all the way to the Hoverbase without encountering any pirates. She had no crew but Thermos, and she intended on keeping him under as long as possible without killing him. Easier said than done.

But easily done, as she soon found out. Lachlen pulled into the Hoverbase with no problems at all. She could have sworn she had seen the Stormcatcher itself, but it had been more interested in following the Black Lily, which had been hunting down the Chaotic Fleet. Several very pissed-off-looking officers awaited her as she dragged Thermos off board the ship. “Miss Vorhis,” one started. Lachlen ignored him in favour of lugging Thermos’ body around to the Ruby’s Wake, which just so happened to be parked on the other side of the base. The officers followed her, and she ignored them.

Lachlen climbed up to the engine room of the Ruby’s Wake. The door was peacefully closed, and she could hear the whirr of the engine from where she stood. Lachlen turned the handle and pushed the door open. From there, she very unceremoniously dumped Thermos (who had begun to wake up from being carried around in almost negative forty Celsius weather) into the room and slammed the door behind her. She heard only one shocked yell from inside the room, and smiled. Her job was done. “Holy shit, lookit you!”

[pale-noel]

Something about Drakath Slugwrath makes you trust him. It could be the way he walks; a graceful sweep with elbows and shoulders relaxed, wings folded neatly on his shoulder blades, hands behind his back. It could be the way he talks; a deep, soothing voice that sounds like honey and sometimes rolls its Rs. Something about him makes you trust him. Maybe it’s his compassion, the way he will listen to your story and sympathize, and offer advice if you need it. Maybe it’s the smile that seems so warm, so comforting. Maybe it’s the quiet, violet-coloured desire to stay, to please him. Maybe it’s the voice, or perhaps instinct, that tells you to trust him.

Something about Drakath Slugwrath makes you trust him. Don’t listen to the voices.

[pale-noel]

Title: bloodshed requiem Fandom: ilya serina project Genre: exposition, drama. pg13 if you ignore he’s annihilating half a realm with magic Content Tags: terrance redface; naitofiara (hoshi akari); lautlos requiem; ilya katayona; kharos redface Summary: Terrance talks about the Lautlos and why being the Messiah of Destruction is fun and cool to a talking cat. Author's Notes: This isn’t very long. Also very old. One of his early motivations for doing what he does, though there’s more to him than just this.

“Some things, darling… Some things you never understand ‘til you’re in their shoes. Hoshi, you’re a faithful little feline, but you won’t understand it. I didn’t understand it until it happened to me.” “…” “When I left the Aethel, the magic I had left went out. It was like I died, the flame in me just sort of… went out. Comin’ home, well, it was like being reborn. I surrendered myself to Kharos not because Prius wanted to me, but because I wanted to come home. I wanted my life back, and you wouldn’t get that.” “Hoshi, the taste of destruction… Feels so good. I’ve made this place a desolate, burned, ash-filled wasteland.” “And I love it. Take a moment, and just listen.” “…” “You can’t hear anything at all but the wind. But if you listen, listen really hard, you’ll hear the winds. All of them. There’s a song there, a requiem. And Lusmos will be here soon, and in his path of creation he’ll destroy everything I’ve built. His aubade always drowns out my requiem. So I’ll move on, and I’ll destroy something else.”

“Terrance… You do it only to hear that song?”

“It’s one of the main perks, but not the only one. The requiem of destruction is just the winds singing. It heralds me. Destruction will give room for life and light, so we deal in death and darkness. As we must. Come now, Hoshi Akari. There is far left yet to clear out.”

[pale-noel]

Title: Liquid Sorrow, Liquid Strength Fandom: AQW; Wishmaker AU Timeline: Previous Genre: English assignment. T rated for some blood and death mention Content Tags: skyguard saga; exos lombardi; street magic; solarpunk; prophecy of atmosphere; chaos faction Summary: “Is everyone capable of being strong?” “strength and weakness is a binary fuck your binary” Author's Notes: Written for my English 11 final. Previous version is simply the unedited form. AU is my solarpunk Wishmaker AU, where everything is modern and their elemental Atmosphere powers take on a different form, inspired by the digital comic The Corner-Witch. 

 This is a story of one; a story of five. This is a story to question and to shatter, a story long forgotten in the melodic rains on a dark Tuesday night, in a world that could perhaps be and almost was. So:

 The rain crashes down, less a tender pitpat and more like rocks against thin glass. It soaks those walking home from work and at least attempts to muffle the unfaltering city lights. Yet the metro continues undeterred, sheltering its passengers from the rain without thanks nor sound at all. The people within shake with the train on occasion, but see no reason to speak.

 They know each other. Or perhaps, they do not. This world is graced with strong mortals and street gods, lovingly crafted histories and small magicks. How else does the pale-haired girl sing to her fly-trap companion in such a whisper, as it curls around a branch like a tamed snake? How does the enby-folk across from her cast gentle neon lights across the raindrops of their window, lighting the world with more colours than dark lightning?

 These people take the same train home every day, and I could describe them all if I wanted to. However, they are not all important- only one should we focus on for now.

.

 He stands still near the door, knuckles faintly pale from being clenched so tight around the pole that holds him steady, like it is all that ties him to this world. A cloak hides his face, and for good reason: his skin may be tanned and his hair a surprising shade of azure, but his face is marred with violet rot, dragonscales where flesh should be under open sores half-bandaged if only to save face. A purple eye stares blind on his forehead, looking around like it searches for something. His name is Exos, and while his face drips tainted liquid like violet tears; his power is not corruption.

 So he stands mostly still, tethered to the pole with his other hand in his pocket, his last finger tapping to a beat of a song he barely pays attention to, muffled by the static of the radio. He waits for the sixth stop until the end, and soon enough the bell chimes and announces that very thing. The train rumbles to a stop and he steps across the neon-yellow line. His hand abandons the pole, knuckles turning faintly red upon release.

 A scream resounds. Sharper than shattered crystal glass and yet the boy, barely an adult, ignores it. So do the others crossing the line with him. All it means to him now is that it is half past six: a curse that comes with power, and as such, only he can hear it.

 “Shut it,” he mumbles, unwilling to listen to it today. His voice is hoarse not from lack of use but from hours of restless chattering, screeching to be heard and unwilling to relent. Now, he stays mostly silent, resting for another day of half-spoken songs.

 Even if he were late, the scream would sound precisely at half past six. It is a good marker of time, he thinks, and nothing more. Exos steps off the platform and onto the streets that might take him home. Or, as close to home as the ground could take him.

.

 He passes an alleyway. One for air, the singer who screamed in anguish as Exos ran far, far from the confines of the sky. There is a shuffling of movement, and he raises a hand in mute greeting to it, the eye on his forehead sensing a surge of power. The movement takes shelter under an awning, the flickering lights lighting its face. Their faces, really. They are demigods of fire and shadow, long since forgotten and unsure if they were content with their current state.

 The scent of fresh bread appears on the breeze, not so sudden as gradually appearing. He follows it, and soon leaves the bakery with a small loaf stained violet from the taint on his hands. So turns into a second alleyway, for this one is of rushing, flowing water; the navigator who runs and never tires.

 A light flickers on behnd him and he smiles to himself, a dangerous slant of a thing, twisted and tainted without the strength to refuse. He picks up the pace, and the puddles below him between the cobblestones ripple, as if to acknowledge him.

 Faster than rain, though it splashes his face without end. Faster than the river, though it flows parallel to him. But never faster than sound for the scream that splits the sky sounds as the clocktowers strike seven.

 Exos counts the corners, one two three four left. The light of fire follows, and he need not be a pyromancer like his younger brother once was to know what it means. He curses his power and lifts the hem of his cloak, grazing the water. It brushes the tops of the murky, sleek cobbletones, and soaks him to the core. He turns to the right.

 The water rises to his ankles, and the flame is gaining on him. He discards the cloak, sending it westbound as the flow carries it downstream. He turns upstream and runs, a useless moment’s wish that the cloak coveres his tracks. He will find it again later. For now, he runs from the light.

.

 Sometimes, one must wonder. Is there strength in the water, whittling the earth down to a crumbling dust? The answer hangs in the air. Is there strength in the rain of solemn tears, masking the past with sorrow? The answer lies so suddenly lost. They say there is no strength in running away. But surely there must be strength in swallowing pride, of picking your battles.

 Somehow, Exos finds there is strength in avoiding the screams of dead blood. The light goes out, drowned by the storm and tasteless corruption. He reaches his destination and slams the door behind him, standing uselessly on a mat and dripping a faint, translucent violet.

 The dreamcatcher made by the shadow god rattles on the back of the door, woven in jewels and beads and spun spider silk. Exos clears his throat, and hopes for little corruption.

.

 “I can grant every wish but my own. Therefore it shall not be the wish of my mind nor soul, but the wish of a decaying body: may the light die sooner, plaguing not my sleep nor return home, the wish of a decaying corpse. Somehow-” he takes a breath- “still breathing.”

.

 No shimmer fills the air, no magic warms the room. Exos sighs, in mild resent and distaste.

 Perhaps tomorrow, he guesses, the rain might wash away the blood on his hands. Maybe then he’ll outrun the past and his murdered siblings, no evil blood but all their own in their still hearts.

 Exos collapses in sudden exhaustion, and does not move until morning.

[pale-noel]

Title: moonright #1 Fandom: evillious chronciles; original sin story Genre: fluff of some kind, also shippy Content Tags: moonright; camping; grim the end; seth twiright; adam moonlit; grown men whining about their existence; birthday present; dick jokes Summary: Adam and Seth must get used to being in Grim the End, only days after its creation as a vessel of sin. Author's Notes: birthday present for @ziz-san; reuploaded to this blog unedited. 1400 words, might redo at some point.

“I told you, we don’t need to have an entire forest in this stupid key.” Seth raised his arms and gestured to virtually everything around him on the word ‘entire’, his expression as grumpy as a child pretending to be upset over the wrong type of dinner.

“And I didn’t say an entire forest. Just some forest,” Adam attempted to clarify. Seth ignored him, but he continued anyway. “You might enjoy spending all your time in your weird lab making more children that try to mutilate me but I need to spend at least some time outside a building.”

Seth rolled his eyes. “You’re not leaving this key,” he said; then paused. “No, more like I doubt you could.” He tapped at nothing in particular, but a small blue light pulsed from the invisible spot he touched. “You just had to raise them like fools.”

“Were your ghoul children any better?” Adam countered, a scar on his hand tingling in almost a reply.

“Shut it.” Seth turned on his heel and stalked off, the wall in front of him melting into a doorway, returning to a wall once he had exited through it.

Adam stared at the wall. Buildings didn’t do that. At least, they shouldn’t do that.

“I live. In a key. Because I am dead.” Saying the words didn’t make his situation seem any more real or less like some strange hallucination. He focused on the wall again, wondering if he was actually capable of making it adapt to his will like it did for Seth. The wall pulsed the same bright radioactive blue, then shifted into a window with a bit of a wobble.

On the other side of the wall appeared to be a small living space. Seth lay there facedown on a leather couch, silently screaming into the armrest.

Adam huffed in annoyance at his roommate’s utter drama, and released his grip on the window. It melted back into a wall.

It had been two days since they’d gotten stuck in the key. His foster children, who he was no longer certain if they were human at all, had already stuck the key in someone’s mailbox, deep into Apocalypse territory. How they had gotten there was a mystery - the key did not always let them see into the material world - but it had not yet been found by anyone.

For a split second, he wondered if it was possible to get hungry. He hadn’t actually eaten anything since before his death, and truth be told, he wasn’t exactly sure if they even had a kitchen.

Adam scrunched up his face, trying to turn the wall into a door. A splatter-shaped, ever-changing hole seemed to be the best he could do, so he stepped through it and hoped he didn’t get stuck.

He opened his mouth to ask Seth if they had a kitchen, but the moment he was in earshot, all he could hear was muffled screeching. He waited a few moments. The screeching didn’t stop.

“Seth.”

Screeching.

“Seth.”

The aforementioned man lifted his head, all the grace of a pouty child on his face. He didn’t stop screeching, but it was now less muffled. Adam didn’t exactly know how to deal with that, but there was an armchair beside him, so he took the small pillow, aimed, and tossed it in Seth’s direction. As planned, Seth suddenly had a mouth full of pillow, and momentarily stopped screaming.

“Do we have a kitchen.” It was not a question.

Seth removed the pillow. “Go make one.”

“I’m going to go make a forest,” Adam announced, “and I am going to hunt wildlife and cook it over a fire and roast some s’mores-”

Seth cut him off. “What are s’mores?”

Adam stopped dead, horror filling his body to almost the same degree from when he had seen the Leviantan Senate for the first time. Seth stared at him. Adam choked out, “You don’t know what s’mores are?”

“Uhhh… No?” Seth looked puzzled, and slowly the horror went away. Adam huffed and stepped over to him, lifting him up over his shoulder effortlessly and willing the walls to take him outside.

“We are having a campfire. You are going to enjoy it.” Seth let out a plaintive whine of vague distaste. Adam ignored him.

A few hours later, when Seth had been persuaded to make it look like nighttime in the key and had graciously sat somewhat still on a rock long enough for Adam to chop some wood and make a fire, Adam managed to will into existence some forks and hot dogs.

Overall, he was pleased with his progress. Seth gave him a dirty look, but his eyes had never left Adam for about four hours. When would Adam notice that? Not for a couple hundred years, probably. But neither was to know that.

Seth sat on the rock, legs planted firmly on the ground with the campfire fork in his hands. He stared into the fire, not even bothering to fix it when his hot dog caught fire.

“Seth, no, that’s not how you cook-” Adam protested, reaching over from his own rock to pull Seth’s meal out of the fire and attempt to stop the flames.

He was left with a very burnt hot dog, and a Seth whose last fuck had flown away several hours ago.

“Do you know how to cook with a fire?” Adam gave a moment’s wish that the answer would be yes. The wish was useless.

“Do I look like someone who functions without proper research technology?” came the answer, and Adam wasn’t sure if he even had the right to be surprised.

“You’re going to learn,” he declared, and forced Seth’s rock to elongate itself so there was room for two. Seth stared at him in vague distaste. Adam at least tried to be oblivious of that.

A full half hour and three more burnt hot dogs later, Seth had finally gotten the hang of cooking. Once Adam had compared it to heating some chemical substance or other, his roommate had done a decent job. And then immediately tried to grab the end of the fork and swore - quite loudly - at the heat.

Adam tried not to laugh, and got the fork swung at him in response. He ducked, and it missed him by inches.

“Now you get to eat it. See, isn’t that a good reward?” He smiled, trying to be friendly. Seth pointed at the hot dog.

“This is your dick.” Adam watched, suddenly aware of Seth’s nature as an HER and not sure what to expect. Seth made a very lewd face, put half the hot dog in his mouth, and bit down, ripping it in two in one motion.

And then he smiled ever so smugly at the horrified expression on Adam’s face.

Once they had finished eating the hot dogs - Adam had returned to a rock on the other side of the fire - he pulled out a bag of marshmallows. “So, s’mores. You roast the marshmallow like with the hot dog until it’s golden brown all the way around. Then you take some graham crackers and put a piece of chocolate on one. Then you put your marshmallow on the other cracker, and make a sandwich. There you go. S’mores.”

“That does not sound in the least bit healthy,” Seth answered somewhat flatly.

“Neither was the thing you did to that hot dog.”

“Your face made it worth it.”

“The taste will make it worth it.” Adam tossed the bag of marshmallows towards his roommate, hitting him square in the chest. “Go roast your marshmallow. And please don’t set it on fire this time.”

Surprisingly, Seth made a proper s’more on his first try, despite shaking half the marshmallow into the woods in surprise at how liquid it was under its skin. Adam watched his face carefully to try and see his reaction to the taste.

Seth looked like he just swallowed lava, but forced himself to keep a neutral face. Adam mirrored it. “Is it good?”

“It’s food.” Seth gave him a very careful neutral expression, almost as if hesitant to have any sort of emotion that wasn’t some form of Malice-driven arrogance.

Adam attempted to make a pouting face. Seth sighed. “Pass the marshmallows, woodcutter boy,” he said.

It was Adam’s turn to wear a smug face, and he offered the one he just cooked from his fork. Seth didn’t hesitate before taking it.

[pale-noel]

This is the first post on this blog and it will forever remain so.

a canon url is a position of power