#;WHAT SURVIVED MAY NOT BE KIND BUT IT'S ME. (visage)

[bravest]

twitch  tags.

the  child  not  embraced  by  the  village  will  burn  it  down  to  feel  its  warmth .   /   twitch  musings

what  survived  may  not  be  kind .  but  it’s  me .   /   twitch  about

what  doesn’t  kill  me  better  run .   /   twitch  ic

humans  are  the  real  monsters .   /   twitch  answers

she  gently  places  a  small  mushroom  into  your  hand .   /   twitch  open

when  they  catch  me  they  will  kill  me .  but  first  they  must  catch  me .   /   twitch  aes

feral  freak .   /   twitch  visage

[ariiadnes]

╭ ⿻ ･ SPINE BREAKER

YOU CLAIM THE SAINT , BUT IT'S THE SINNERS YOU NEED.

-ˋ ♡ ◞ ada wong. resident evil 4 remake. quote cr : the rigs. repost.

there is a betrayal and loyalty that lies in wait : a siren, an alluring, and something entirely human beneath it all. you do not understand ada, know her heart to be ruthless and kind all at once. it is a mess of oppositions, oxymorons, and unease and suspicion, yet there is a strange comfort in the knowing of her existence, even if it may be through superficial means.

you feel something : a presence, distinct, a shift in the air, a foreshadowing of what's to come, and there is something that jolts through your body, alerts you of an incoming danger. suddenly close, then gone. fleeting.

cool metal against your skin. you recognize this sensation all too well. your breath hitches, but you force yourself to forget fear. a smile falls upon your lips ; you tilt your head up, almost lazily, raise both of your hands in seemingly polite surrender.

"your hands aren't shaking this time. you're getting better at this."

"thank you, lovely ada. i'm trying."

your eyes meet. your jaw clenches, and she notices this. you're on edge, right where she wants you. her visage is unreadable, almost cold, but the lightest of smiles graces her lips, amusement in brown eyes. the blade no longer meets flesh, but one wrong move and it could lead to your end.

"lovely?" she tilts her head, plays up that feign curiosity. "cute nickname."

"a generous one, really." your hands fall to your sides. you don't plan to hurt her, just as she doesn't plan to hurt you. "you can put down the knife, you know. there are better ways to announce yourself. like saying hi, for example."

"meet and greet isn't my style." steel against delicate skin. pressure. she leans forward ever so slightly, that familiar smirk blossoming on red hues. it's almost too close for comfort yet not enough-- the way her lips are only inches from yours. and she stays there, waits. she's thinking. watching. "you'll get used to it."

you hold your breath instinctively, but she notes the way you swallow hard, divert your gaze. you're neither relieved nor resentful at this little reunion, and in truth, you've hit a wall in the mission, found yourself at a loss. she always knows more than she lets on. she could help you-- if she wanted to.

the pressure eases. the air shifts once more, twists from a taunting to something almost somber. she puts the knife down once you force your gaze back onto her, turns on her heel and starts to walk. with a delicate lift of the hand, she gestures you to follow, doesn't even bother to see if you'll chase after her.

she knows you will. you always do.

"you're coming with me." the words are flat, but a sense of command lingers. "need to borrow you real quick. don't worry," she begins offhandedly, looking over her shoulder with an all too amused countenance, "i'll bring you back to leon. he'll learn how to survive a few minutes without you."

you almost choke on your saliva. you clear your throat, albeit a little more dramatically than intended as if to disregard your shock at the last few sentences. oh, you really missed her and didn't miss her. you stay in place, weigh your options. you could make a breakthrough in this operation, find out additional information from her, or you could continue to go in circles, endless, and end up in this hellhole for longer than either one of you would like.

you close your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose, swallow the fragments of remaining pride and frustration. god, you hate it here. you do. but you choose to follow her anyway, steps slow and heavy, pretend you don't see the way she smiles once you get moving.

( you need her just as much as she needs you, and you both know this. )

[imtrashraccoon]

I know it’s a little late for spooky month stuff but I don’t care so maybe the dragon au of the dark fortress…..like when they first got cursed from the sorcerer? I don’t know…it’s like super early right now.

Never too late, friend! :3

Bit of a warning, but this one is a bit dark. There are no happy endings here although I wouldn't say it's too graphic.

Part 1 & Part 2

It was a miserable night when they came.

For the first time in months, Lord Donovan had pulled his henchmen and armies back into his own territory to rest and recover their mana reserves. No one actually knew that though, as very few people ever escaped the carnage he was known for. The worst storm in decades had descended on the once flourishing Kingdom of Shiftingtails, now the heart of corruption and where the Dark Fortress had emerged from the very earth.

So imagine with me, the surprise that the dark lord must've felt when he received word that a mysterious stranger had appeared at the gate. He allowed them to enter, if to find out what kind of fool would come to him in this weather. Maybe they could provide some form of meager entertainment?

The person brought before him wasn't anything like he'd been expecting. They were dressed in non-descript clothing, walked with a limp, and had to rely on a staff in order to keep their balance. Their ethnicity wasn't easily discerned and their eyes were white with blindness, yet they showed no difficulty navigating through the fortress. Lord Donovan couldn't even determine if they possessed any significant well of mana or not. Still, he allowed the stranger into his court to hear what they had to say.

His henchmen were present of course. Why should they miss out on the fun? While the dark lord was perfectly capable of defending himself, it was good to have a little extra muscle for appearances sake. And if the stranger did try anything, he wouldn't need to get his hands dirty when his men would all too gladly jump at the chance to draw blood.

The stranger's voice was rough with age and Lord Donovan found himself wondering if they'd gone senile long ago. Still, they weren't afraid to condemn the evil he'd done, the hundreds he'd personally killed, and the countless others he'd scarred for life in more ways than one. He'd heard it all before of course, but what the stranger said next, chilled him to the bone.

"If only Sir Finn could have seen what you've become..."

With a snarl, Lord Donovan nearly leaped to his feet but managed to restrain himself from tearing the stranger apart. His mind was clouded with rage. How dare they carelessly mention that name?!

"WHO ARE YOU?!" the dark lord bellowed, not bothering with his usual faux politeness anymore.

"I am the past and your ilk has no future," the stranger answered.

Lord Donovan became aware of two things in that moment. His henchmen were growing restless; especially Dirk, who had started fiddling with his dagger, but Reven and Maul were also poised to attack if he gave the word. Unfortunately, they would stand no chance if he did because he now knew who the mysterious stranger was.

As soon as the realization occurred to him, the stranger's form seemed to shift beyond his eyes. Their clothing changed to enchanted robes adorned in ancient arcane patterns and their very visage morphed into one he'd never expected to see again. Their eyes remained clouded and their simple staff transformed into an ornately carved stave. Apparently, the Great Seer had survived all these years later and they had chosen to confront him now of all times.

"You are the one with no future. Return to the earth like the kingdom you once served," Lord Donovan growled through gritted teeth.

The Seer let out a heavy sigh and leaned against their stave as they surveyed the dark lord once more. "You have no authority, not anymore. Nature condemns your crimes and demands punishment." They stretched out their hand, pointing right at him before continuing. "May you no longer hide amongst the innocent for they will see you and your thugs as the beasts you are..."

Thinking quickly, Lord Donovan channeled what mana he had into a counterspell, but Reven seemed to have a similar realization and he summoned a skull blaster in an effort to disrupt the Great Seer's curse. He meant well, but the dark lord knew if that blaster fired, none of them would survive thanks to the powerful reflect enchants on the Seer's robes.

He immediately lashed out at his henchmen with his tendrils, not to harm but to get them away from the epicenter. If he was lucky, they would be spared and he would take the brunt of the curse in their stead. Unfortunately, his mind was faster than his his body and before he could follow through, the curse was cast.

The pain was instantaneous and only through sheer force of will, Donovan remained standing, although his henchmen could not. It brought him back to that horrible day all those years ago when the corruption first took hold of his body, only it was worse than even that. He felt his very bones creaking, as if something was trying to tear him apart from the inside and break free. He couldn't stay upright and within seconds, collapsed to the tiled floor.

At some point he became aware of a persistent tapping, like an angry woodpecker drilling through his skull. When he opened his one good eye socket, he realized it was merely the footsteps of the Great Seer as they crossed the floor towards him. Their brows were pinched together in a look that he had swore never to see again: pity. They watched him for a moment before kneeling down in front of him.

"I wish there had been another way," they murmured. "But just as dead branches must be removed from a tree, so must evil be purged before life can return."

Donovan spat at the Seer's feet.

"You have a chance to break the curse. In three years, if you do not receive a token of true love, all of you will remain as beasts."

The Great Seer left the way they had come but this time there was no one to accompany them through the dark halls. The storm raged on throughout the night and into the next day, but in the Dark Fortress, a different turmoil was brewing. One of rage and confusion. One that would cause even greater devastation to the surrounding kingdoms and claim the lives of all who tried to resist it.

[gold-rhine]

For the sub!Venti fic, may I ask what was your thought process on this section?

“After, he curls against you, lets you clean and hold him. He created his own body, so he can control it, make it resistant to weakness like this, but he likes it, feeling raw and tender after being used, he always liked bringing others joy, at least for a few moments, be it from his songs or his body. And when you whisper sweet praises for him, stroke his hair and back, hold him close, and just for now, it feels like even as he truly is, weak and sinful, not living up to the visage of the Nameless Bard, he can be good enough.”

okay disclaimer i am not a venti scholar, i didn't do character study for him like i usually do for my fics, this quote is from more casual compilation where i did only couple paragraphs per character so i'm open to discussion or corrections

ok that said, what i think is impossible to not mention in like psychosexual context about venti is that he's wearing nameless' bard body, but unlike NPC in his quest, he doesn't try to act like him most of the time. like, that fake adventurer was trying to ACT like his dead friend full time to spread his name, to make sure he's known as the greatest adventurer. venti doesn't do that, he acts almost in opposite from the idealistic, driven, inspirational nameless bard we see in flashbacks and stories. UNLESS he's acting as Barbatos, which we see him do with said adventurer in one scene where he reveals his godhood to bring the dead friend's soul to rest. his demeanor shifts drastically into the benevolent, inspirational and poised.

adding this to the general theme of his quest, the fake adventurer feeling inferior to his dead friend and also guilty that he survived when "greater" adventurer died, it reads to me that when he's acting as Barbatos, venti is performing what he thinks Nameless Bard would have done, he's making sure Bard's legacy lives on in this image of god of freedom, inspiration for the freedom fighters, giver of hope for the hopeless, etc. and the rest of the time he's distancing himself from being seen as Barbatos, living as venti the bard, local drunk goofball, as if on purpose exaggerating the difference.

so all the great deeds he's done, all the good and influential, is done and remembered from the visage of the Nameless Bard, while venti is just kind of goofing around, trying to keep himself entertained, in a drunk haze or actual slumber, until the next time comes when he needs to embody the ideal of the Bard again. like, he's channeling what the Bard would do, so doesn't feel like it should be credited to himself, does it make sense?

so in that quote i was trying to hint at the kinds of coping mechanisms that he would do to deal in living in this duality of being a shapeshifter wearing a body of a ghost who he believes should have been the one to become a god of freedom

[willow-the-druid]

We made our way to the Grove, where a team of adventurers had led goblins to the gate. We successfully faught them off, although there was a casualty. Once inside, I met the leader of the tieflings, Zevlor. He told me the druids of this Grove were preparing to seal it off from outsiders and kick out all the refugees from Elturel. I said I would speak with Kagha, their archdruid, and see if I can't change her mind.

Once inside, I explored and chatted with the refugees inside. I convinced the young wizard, Rolan, and his siblings to stay in the Grove in case danger arrived. I talked with Dammon the blacksmith and upgraded some of the team's equipment. And then I met Wyll.

Wyll is a warlock who was training some of the tiefling children to defend themselves. Our tadpoles connected, and I got a glimpse of a fiery devil Wyll had been chasing through Avernus. The two of them boarded the nautiloid and got infected while we were tearing through the Hells. He says that he needs to hunt her down before she terrorizes the whole of the Sword Coast. I decided we could help each other- track down this devil and look for a cure together.

After making it to the inner circle of the Grove, I learned that Kagha was keeping a tiefling child, Arabella, for stealing their Idol of Silvanus. I understand the importance of protecting the Oak Father's visage, but imprisoning a child? What kind of monster would do such a things?

Reaching the druids' chambers, I interevened before Kagha set her snake to bite Arabella. I had to remind her of the Oak Father's teaching; she seems a bit lost. As I spoke with more of the druid's, I learned that their master- Halsin- had gone missing. I said that I would go looking for him. It's not right to leave a fellow druid stranded, even if those in his Grove are misguided.

I explored a bit more of the druid chambers, and found a locked chest. Astarion cracked it open, and we found notes to Kagha mentioning something hidden in the swamp down south. We should try to investigate what's really going on.

Along the walls of the druid chambers are huge murals depicting the events of druids and Harpers banding together to take down a group of Dark Justiciars, Shar worshippers. Shadowheart seemed to take intrigue in them.

I explored more of the Grove, meeting Alfria the bard and saving a young boy from a group of harpies. I've grown up with stories that deemed tieflings as chaotic beasts with no sense of humanity. I used to think myself the same. But these refugees... they just want to survive. Is that really so criminal that these druids would cast them out, even with goblins and gnolls around? In a weird way, it reminds me of home.

We camped out for the night and made our plan to move forward. We're heading west, to the temple ruins where Halsin went missing. We may head north, to the last known location of the devil Wyll is hunting. And perhaps we'll even travel to that swamp and find what Kagha is hiding. So much to do...

[teecupangel]

Typical Desmond goes back in time after touching the eye but he turns into a ghost, kinda cool if he can change forms

I’m not sure what you mean by change form. Like… he can turn into ghost animals or he can turn into different dead people?

Or is this like he has a nearly transparent form that’s wearing his old clothes then he has his ‘dead form’ which is a ghostly visage of how his corpse looked after he died?

It could work regardless of which you pick, I guess?

You know what would be fun?

If we were going for the Ghost film ghost rules.

Only one person could see Desmond and that person isn’t his ancestor. So this means he has to coordinate and get the trust of another person to help his ancestor.

Possible Candidates:

Altaïr

Let’s be honest, the first person we thought of was Malik XD and it would be fun because Malik could believe that Desmond may or may not have been Altaïr’s dead twin brother and Malik ‘hates’ Altaïr but Desmond is sweet and nice and it’s clear he’s trying to do the right thing so… Malik has to suffer thru helping Altaïr for Desmond.

It would be fun if it was Kadar though. Like, Desmond does some kind of ghost thingie and that keeps Kadar alive, maybe they’re sharing the same life (kinda like Lydia and Captain from GBF), and since this is a Kadar who had died because of Altaïr’s rash decisions, Desmond needs to try and repair Kadar’s broken trust for Altaïr among other things.

Okay, hear me out. Adha is also a possible recipient. Hell, we don’t know what the fuck the Chalice thing was meant to be anyway so what if the whole Chalice thing was because Adha was the perfect ‘vessel’ for Desmond to connect to. Desmond doesn’t know who Adha is, not really, Altaïr’s memories about her that Desmond received were vague af so he’s flying blind and Adha thinks he’s some djinn with clairvoyance skills. She agrees to help because it was clear he was trying to help Altaïr and… Desmond is totally unsure how all of these would play out since he was helping Adha survive her inevitable death as well.

If you want to fuck with Desmond, Abbas is right there. Desmond would definitely have a hard time getting the cooperation of the person who hates Altaïr the most XD

Ezio

Petruccio would be the best ‘candidate’ of all of Ezio’s siblings. His fragile body could be connected to why he’s able to see and talk to Desmond (and just imagine the angst when Desmond believes that Petruccio could see him because he already has one foot in the grave). This idea would give us Desmond acting as an older brother and character development for Petruccio.

Wanna make it fun? Lucrezia Borgia would be a fun candidate. Make Desmond the only person who sees Lucrezia as something more than what her family wishes her to be which leads to her running away from the Borgias and becoming an Assassin under Desmond. Desmond did not plan for any of it. He was just trying to get Lucrezia to see reason and help him get in contact with Ezio XD

Ratonhnhaké:ton

Of course, Kaniehtí:io is on the top of the candidate list because we all want her to survive. We could even make Desmond appear to her after Ratonhnhaké:ton is conceived and he could act more like a friend and sorta ghostly parent to Ratonhnhaké:ton. Kaniehtí:io would still probably push Haytham away even if Desmond tries to stop her, asking him if he really thinks that Haytham, as he is right now, could change and let go of the darkness in his eyes. Desmond is unable to answer her because, as much as he wants to give Ratonhnhaké:ton a happier life, he personally doesn’t believe Haytham could change. He’s loyal to the Templar cause and Desmond shares Kaniehtí:io’s fear that letting Haytham stay would ‘corrupt’ Ratonhnhaké:ton.

Kanen'tó:kon would be a fun candidate and, with Desmond being there as his ‘ghostly advisor’, Desmond has a chance to stop the tragedy that would force Ratonhnhaké:ton to kill Kanen'tó:kon in self-defense. Also, depending on how young Desmond connects with Kanen'tó:kon, this might end with Kanen'tó:kon also becoming an Assassin.

[1ddiscourseoftheday]

🐒25 Dec '22🚴‍♀️🦴

Twas the night before christmas Louis' birthday when suddenly I recalled- I sat bolt up in shock- I'd forgotten a promise to yall! It was a christmas day, you see, back in 2018, that Simon Cowell dramatically demonstrated exactly how brilliant he is when thinking things up all on his own rather than taking credit for a woman's ideas- he would be starting a new band he said, of CGI monkeys!! One of them would be modelled after Harry Styles! Sadly someone slapped him out of whatever drugged stupor led to telling the press about that brainstorm, and we never heard about it again... except from me, who had made a vow to Never Forget and to bring it up every xmas forever and ever (because I can only assume Simon would hate that.) He still hasn't learned though, just this year he hyped up an AI deepfake of himself made with that very same technology- he really just so transparently wants a band without any pesky rebellious humans in it, yikes. The fact is, the man is a clown all year every year, so may I present… a 2022 review!

Sadly, the year's biggest Cowell news was but a hoax- he did not in fact die, yet. However, he did lose a tooth, get COVID, and fall off his electric bike and end up in the hospital AGAIN, proving that ill wishes (mine) can come true to some extent! And not to worry, there's still hope for next year- apparently he still bikes around without a helmet daily. A recent TV appearance had his fans (??! sounds fake but okay) "distracted by his incredibly smooth visage"- allegedly his botox and other modifications got to the point that his son was "in hysterics" at the site of him, a clever turn of phrase that implies tears but could also mean he was laughing his ass off- me too kid, me too. Although The Sun continue to print only flattering and respectful articles- almost as if they had some kind of relationship or agreement with him?! wow this is Brand New Information- the Daily Mail definitely got the brief that tis the season for making fun of Cowell, and have been running an endless series of articles about his "many faces through the years" and "melting mug". They were denied the opportunity with his most recent TV appearance however, as he did that interview with a shadow strategically cast across himself like a low tech witness protection gambit. Perhaps, I thought, some of the issue was with the confusing and scary sounding 25 pound face masks he was reportedly doing, but it turned out that was merely an audio based misunderstanding- it was sponcon for a £25 face mask, boring.

He continues to talk up his son in interviews, bragging that the kid is a great talent spotter and he "leans on him" for opinions (that I can believe) but if you're skeptical that Simon would actually let himself be upstaged, you're quite right! Consider: he also had some things to say about what his cancelled show The X Factor would look like if it came back. The tabs report that he "is adamant that the judges should be industry insiders such as A&R people rather than artists because they are better judges of talent and less jealous of bright young artists.” Sounds like SOMEONE is jealous all right but it's not an artist judge! I think we all remember who stole the show and the hearts of multiple nations- not to mention those of scores of allegedly straight men- on the last season of TXF while spotting and nurturing the talent who went on to win it all, all while making fun of Simon at every opportunity: yes indeed, it was bright young artist and Guest Judge Louis Tomlinson! Gosh who could have seen THAT coming? Possibly the actual visionary of TXF, Nicole Scherzinger, another guest judge who upstaged Simon- most recently when footage of her forming 1D was finally released on the 10th anniversary. She said she was surprised it had survived, that she assumed he had "burned it" (to bolster his decade long lie that it was he who had had the world-changing idea.) But no, she says, in fact it was "the way that my mind grapes were working" which is, um, a very weird way of putting that, but it WORKED OUT GREAT so who am I to quibble with the way her grapejuice flows.

Meanwhile just when you thought we were free of NFT type annoyances Zayn invited us to join the metaverse, no thank you, but get that cash babe and a happy holidays to you and to all our boys: to Liam, acting like he has to make up for the few months off the radar by posting an equivalent amount of insta stories before the end of the year, to Niall, taking a break from taking over tiktok to tease about how busy he'll be next year, to Harry, dousing himself in freezing water in the UK while pap pics of him in LA were dropped, and to Louis, 31 (!!) now and hopefully with some wonderful plans over his long awaited break before another jam packed year of winning. And to all out there, a very let me be your good night and all the love!

[regensia]

To choose a gilded cage of comfort over the potential dangers of earnest freedom was something Mogami would never agree with. Knowing the cruel reality of the world and how others only sought to serve themselves, would take and take and take from anyone who offered even just a little, would be the first step to the independence the young woman sorely needed. He had experienced it firsthand, the way people took advantage of acts of kindness in their own selfishness. And not that he so immediately turned selfish, a trait that followed only after he had amassed incredible power through absorbing so much negativity and joining the very dead he had taken in. Selfishness ensured survival because there was nothing actually good in helping others and letting them use you besides a temporary sense of moral superiority that would be quashed by another's cruelty in no time at all.

She would learn.

So Mogami rattled that cage, rattled the thoughts within the young woman's mind – and clearly there was an effect, hands clamped over her ears, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks.

She would learn.

Nunnally was regaining composure regardless, stating such a stubbornly naive sentiment that the ghost found it downright baffling, brows briefly raised. So she chose her cage. Once more did a frown tug at the lips of the normal visage he had chosen, the early 20-something that had been so popular on his little television show of decades past.

❝ You think what I'm sharing with you is opinion. ❞

A regular person would no doubt become offended, begin to rage, and seek to argue. But the calmness he spoke with was as still as the crushing, cold water at the bottom of the ocean. Lifeless.

❝ It's simply reality. ❞

How disappointing.

❝ To think you would rather be used until you may reach the end of your usefulness. Married off for political or financial connections, at most, discarded as a pawn. You can't look at me and say you're content with that. ❞

She would learn.

❝ You're only fooling yourself with that lie. ❞

“If you frame your question in a way you just did, you’re right. It isn’t.” – she nodded as she admitted he was right. But Nunnally was still convinced it was a wrong question and it didn’t apply to her situation – “But shouldn’t a daughter follow her father’s wishes and be obedient? What if she’s clearly forbidden something? Should she put her wishes first, or her father’s? The need of the family as a whole?” – she was asking these questions Mogami, but she knew the answer. Her answer. There wasn’t a different one for her.

“But where would we end up if we always prioritize ourselves? Where would we end up as individuals and as a society? There are those who give orders and those who follow them, is that not the true of who we are?”

But no matter how much she’d like to deny it, she knew Mogami was right. Or at least there was some truth in his words.

“Maybe I do have that right. Maybe I shouldn’t let myself being restricted from learning it. But what if he’s protecting me from something that will be even more painful than not knowing. My father…he has never hurt me. He was always there for me. Why would I repay him with my disobedience?” – it was visibly painful for her. She was torn between two wishes she had. To know and to remain faithful to the only person who loved her (as she believed). Nunnally covered her ears and started to shake her head frantically. She didn’t want to hear Mogami’s words anymore. And it got even worse when he closed the distance between them: –

“Stop…please stop…” – he seemed like an evil voice in hear head urging her to choose. Wrongly. To forget what she was. What her duties were.

“Stop…! Stop…stop…” – she suddenly faced him – “I am happy where I am now…” – well, she wasn’t; at least not entirely, but she was scared that if she rejected what she had now…it might become only worse.

“My father…he…” – she choked on her own tears – “He was the only person who ever wanted me…”

“I remember…how my life looked like before him…and I don’t want to go back there…”

“…ever…ever…ever…” – no, she wasn’t to risk that.

“…and even if all of them were shaped, what’s wrong with that…”

“If you can still think on your own… I can think on my own. And make my own decisions. Even if you don’t approve them.”

She was starting to get composed again.  

“After all why do you think the opinions you are trying me to embrace are better than the ones that were already taught to me?”

[sekhisadventures]

Anger Incarnate

Valdrakken, a Private Room Above the Roasted Ram

Nelen stared at Shalandrae as he sat on his bed, his notes taken the day he saw the face in the leygraph next to him. He’d immediately arranged for a meeting with her when she contacted him regarding what she had encountered with Sekhi, Galdia, and the draenei woman Aziguni in the plains, and the mage’s expression was a mixture of shock and horror.

“… five dragons, and only ONE of them survived?” he asked again, checking the notes he had from the leygraph readings one more time as he did. The readings of magical energy were immense, powerful enough to do far more than just five dragon’s worth of damage… and with how easily this creature had done it...

Shalandrae nodded as she leaned against the far wall, the door firmly closed. “Yes. Five dragons in one blast of its breath. It was like a gigantic cannon of lightning. I almost got blinded when that thing fired it off.” she replied.

Nelen slowly lowered his hands, then glanced at the chair in the corner. Seated there was Sekhi, who Shalandrae insisted on bringing. She had heard Raszageth’s song after all…

“Sekhi, I understand if you don’t want to tell me… but… what did you hear?” he asked, as gently as he could. Sekhi had been sitting there quietly, idly turning her flute in her hands. The fact that the normally chatty and friendly vulpera was being quiet had not gone unnoticed by the mage.

Sekhi flinched visibly at the question, then took a breath and steeled herself. “I don’t remember most of it…” she began, “They’re angry… really really angry. They hate… everything. It was so loud I couldn’t even think.” she shuddered at that, then fell silent as Shalandrae knelt next to her seat and gently put a hand on the vulpera’s shoulder.

“Whatever it sounded like it was powerful enough to affect Sekhi physically too. She started throwing off lightning when the proto-drake flew over us, strong enough to hurt me just from trying to touch her.” she nodded.

Nelen sighed, “Gordrinn’s bloody fangs… what the fel kind of creature was that thing?” he muttered, “If Dissonantia encounters it and manages to take control of it somehow…” he frowned deeply, remembering Jaie’s account of the black dragon she had forced into servitude as her mount.

“I don’t think so.” replied Shalandrae, “If Dissonantia has any sanity left she’ll stay well away from it.”

Nelen snorted, “That’s a big bloody ‘if,’ Shalandrae…” he muttered.

As he did however a knock came on the door. Sekhi jumped in her seat, letting out a startled yip as her ears perked up, then she looked surprised. “I know that song…” she said softly.

From behind the door came a woman’s voice, speaking common but in a way that suggested she had only learned how very recently. “Um… it is Laura Brightflame. May I enter? I encountered Galdia in the city below and she told me of what had occurred…”

The druid and mage looked at Sekhi, who nodded in confirmation. She remembered the sound of Laura’s song from their previous encounters.

“Come in, its unlocked.” called Nelen.

The door opened and Laura walked in, the dracthyr in her visage form appearing as an elven woman with slight draconic features, her long blue and pink hair hanging down her back over her white robes. “Pardon my intrusion, after Galdia told me of your encounter with Raszageth I felt I should come speak with you.”

The three looked at her, then at each other, then Shalandrae said, ���Raszageth? Wait… do you mean that giant proto-drake?!” she asked. She had heard the wounded drake speak a name like that, but his voice had been faint from his injury and she wasn’t sure if he meant the proto-drake or it’s master…

Laura nodded softly, closing the door behind her. “I have already asked this of Galdia, but… please, I must ask that you do not speak of this matter to others.” she said.

At this, the mage stood up. “Laura, I can’t in good conscience do that.” he frowned, “I understand if you feel this is a matter for dragons, but if this ‘Raszageth’ is powerful enough to kill four dragons and almost kill a fifth like that then they pose a threat to both the Alliance and the Horde. I have to pass word along to our leadership regarding this matter.”

Laura shook her head, “They already know.” she explained, “When the dracthyr first arrived in Orgrimmar, our scalecommander Cinderthresh met in private with the Horde Council and those who flew with Azurathel to Stormwind City said likewise of him and the ruler there. Both the leaders of your Alliance and Horde made the same request upon hearing of the Incarnates: ‘tell no one, lest fear and panic take our people.’”

Shalandrae frowned, “We had a hunch about that. If Nelen’s leygraph picked up something like that, then there’s no way that Khadgar and the Kirin Tor could have missed it. They’d have sent their own people to inform Baine and Turalyon immediately after sensing something like Raszageth.”

Nelen’s expression darkened however, “… Laura… you said ‘Incarnates.’ Plural. Do you mean to tell me there’s MORE monsters like this?!” he asked in shock. Shalandrae grimaced as Sekhi went rigid, the small vulpera shamaness trembling at the thought of hearing another song as angry and powerful as the storm eater’s.

Laura took a deep breath, then nodded. “I… have gotten some of my memories back since your friend Sekhi assisted me. Slowly, in small pieces…” she replied, “You see…”

The Forbidden Reach, 20,000 years ago

Laurelgosa soared through the air, her eyes alight with a golden glow as she flapped her wings, carrying a spear in her talons as she and the rest of her wyern flew towards their Primalist foes. Above her came Raszageth, the Incarnate roaring in delight at the havoc she was causing.

She saw Cinderthresh, her Scalecommander, land between Raszageth’s shoulders, then stab her spear down and cry out over the rumble of thunder, “For the Vigil! For Neltharion!”

She dove, and her wingmates dove with her, tearing into Raszageth’s wings. With a howl of fury the Incarnate lost control of her flight and began to plummet, hitting the ground with tremendous force.

Laurelgosa went flying, as did several others… and slowly she staggered to her feet in time to see a blast of lightning arc down from the heavens and slam into the ground near the Aspect of Earth! The bolt narrowly missed hitting him entire, but the Earthwarder couldn't get his arm out of the way fast enough, the blast shattering a shining metal gauntlet he wore there into pieces!

She moved to defend him at first, but then a wave of vertigo hit her! Her temples throbbing as she dropped her weapon.

She moaned in agony as nausea rolled in her gut, stumbling into one of her wingmates, the mumbling an apology and stumbling back into another, then looking around as if she’d forgotten where she even was.

“What… what is this?” she managed to gasp out.

All around her were similar expressions of confusion and fear.

“Where are we? The last thing I remember was Neltharion gathering us…”

“Whats going on? Is it raining?”

“Look above! That’s Raszageth! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”

“She’s coming this way! RUN!”

And then the world turned white...

Dracthyr flew everywhere, some of them not all in one piece, as Laurelgosa screamed and fell back as quick as her legs could carry her, looking around frantically for guidance… then she saw her friend Jakostrasz and…

The Roasted Ram, Valdrakken, Present Day

Laura shook her head, “… and then was what I told you of the day Sekhi helped me. Jakostrasz tried to tell me what had happened to us, but Raszageth killed him before he could. Everything else is fragmented. Neltharion did something, Raszageth was defeated and imprisoned… and…” she shook her head, “We were imprisoned as well, but I do not remember how or why.” she sighed.

Nelen nodded, “Hm… that gauntlet you mentioned him wearing sounds like titan technology. It must’ve been affecting you and the other dracthyr somehow, but having it destroyed like that caused it’s effect to break violently.”

Shalandrae nodded, “But… what was it? It couldn’t have just been a fancy glove.”

Laura shook her head, “Jakrostrasz seemed to know, but any dracthyr I have asked about the device either do not remember it or cannot recall what it did. I remember… a feeling of unity, of contentment… and when the gauntlet was destroyed it all broke, as if made of glass.”

Sekhi whined, looking at her sympathetically, “You miss it.” she nodded, hearing Laura’s song.

Laura nodded, looking at the floor, “I do… it felt good, perfect, and yet… Jakrostrasz seemed eager to escape it. I just cannot remember why…” she frowned.

Nelen scratched his beard thoughtfully, “If Neltharion was using it… well… no, this was the old Neltharion, not the one we knew. Who knows what he was like twenty thousand years ago? It could have been something good…”

Laura looked at Nelen and nodded, “I wish to believe this, but Jakrostrasz… I do not remember details of our relationship, but I feel as though I would have trusted his judgement. If he believed that the relic should have been destroyed he would have had reason to do so.”

Nelen nodded, then waved it away, “A mystery for another time. You said you remembered something about these ‘Incarnates?’” he asked her.

Laura nodded, “Yes. There were four, in all. Raszageth is the youngest. She calls herself the Storm-eater and is the weakest of them.” she explained.

Nelen stared at her, then slowly he sat down on the bed and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with a grimace. “So… let me make sure I heard you correctly. This Raszageth lured five drakes into chasing her, killed four of them outright with a bolt of pure lightning that was powerful enough to nearly reduce two of them to charcoal, and if not for Shalandrae and Sekhi healing her other victim would have claimed five… and she’s the weakest of these Incarnates?!” he asked, the hairs on the back of his hands becoming thicker and darker as his control began to slip.

Laura winced at his reaction but nodded. “Yes, however the other three are still imprisoned! Raszageth is the only one that is free currently!” she quickly added.

Nelen took a slow, deep breath, putting his hands firmly on his knees. His ears seemed to be pointier now, and his fingernails were longer and sharper… “A moment, please…” he growled, a literal growl, as he forced his breath in and out, very slowly.

Sekhi whimpered a bit as Shalandrae wondered if she may need to do her little ritual to help him, but after a long tense moment his fingernails slowly shrank back down and his ears rounded out, the mage taking one final breath and letting it out slowly. “Apologies, I’m alright now.” he sighed.

Laura looked surprised at him, “W-was that a visage? Are you also like us?” she asked. She had gone to the Horde with Cinderthresh, she hadn’t encountered a worgen before now… at least, as far as she knew.

“Not exactly…” replied Nelen, “Give me a bit to calm down and I’ll explain it downstairs over a drink.” he nodded, “But yeah… I can see why Turalyon wouldn’t want anyone to know about this. The readings I got on my leygraph suggested a power equal at least to the aspects before they helped us take out Deathwing.” he nodded.

Laura looked uncomfortable at the mention of that name but nodded in agreement. “My people were already being looked at with suspicion when we arrived in Orgrimmar for our association with Neltharion. Baine feared that if the nature of the leaders of the Primalist rebellion were to become known that suspicion would turn to outright panic and that we dracthyr may be in danger.”

Shalandrae nodded, “Yeah, heard some similar grumbling at the Golden Keg. That one idiot Margie Redmann was really shooting her mouth off the night after we got back from Blackwald Forest…” she huffed.

Nelen looked up at her, raising his eyebrow, “Margie… wasn’t she that loon who said that the void elves should be rounded up and put into camps so they didn’t steal our dreams or some nonsense like that?” he sighed, shaking his head. “Tell me one of us did something about that…”

“Well, Dareley tried to talk her down… but she just looked right past him.” she sighed, then grinned, “So Zhan-min used a little shamanistic trick on her drink. I dunno what he turned it into, but she took one sip and ran out of the bar like she was going to be sick. Didn’t see her again the rest of that night.”

Nelen snorted, shaking his head, “HAH! I’ll have to thank him next time I see him. Why Thaegra doesn’t ban her I’ll never know.”

Shalandrae just shrugged, though Sekhi noticed that Laura was suppressing a giggle herself. The dracthyr cleared her throat and continued, “But yes, while Raszageth’s goal is most assuredly to free the other incarnates, she has yet to accomplish this. Alexstraza and the other leaders of the Dragonflights are working to regain their aspectral power so that they can prevent this or, failing that, at least fight them as equals.” she explained.

“Mmm… but then we have another problem. We only have two of the original aspects left, her and Nozdormu. I mean, I respect Kalec and I hear Ysera’s daughter is doing her best to live up to her legacy but…” he sighed, “Yeah, its not easy going for either of them… and I heard about that mess with Wrathion and his… brother?” he tried.

Shalandrae nodded, “Yeah…” she looked at Laura, “We’re not going to tell the populace at large, but we will tell our allies.” she told her bluntly. “If nothing else, they need to know to be ready incase Raszageth appears again, if only so they know to run away.”

Laura let out a relieved sigh, then nodded, “I understand. I cannot ask for more.” she replied with a small smile.

Nelen frowned, “Still, first Dissonantia and now this… can we just have one expedition that doesn’t put our lives in danger?” he sighed.

Meanwhile, in the Twisting Nether…

Dissonantia glared into her cauldron as she watched the scene again. She had been flying over the plains when she’d seen that lightning-infused proto-drake blast five other dragons to pieces. She would have gone down to harvest them for bits but had managed to spot the adventurers and centaurs from above and had thought better of it.

Still, something that powerful on the Dragon Isles gave the witch pause. She had been negotiating for help with Granthox for a while now, but it was time for the Annihilan pit lord to, as she sometimes said, ‘shite or get off th’ feckin’ chamber pot.’

Dissonantia stalked to her summoning circle, then crushed a soul shard over it and channeled her power into it. A moment later the pit lord’s face appeared over the circle, glaring at her.

“Well?” was all Granthox said.

“Aye, time fer dickerin’ over price is long past Granthox. I need powerful allies ‘n I needs ‘em now.” she growled, “Yer assistance fer the secret o’ Anima. Take it or leave it boyo.”

The pit lord studied her face for a long moment, then nodded as a hole in reality opened under his image, a squat mo’arg forge demon ambling through it. “Give the plans to my servant, and you will have your aid after I confirm they are genuine.” he replied.

Dissonantia gestured, and Az’arad joined her at her side as Cenoon walked up holding a set of blueprints, handing them to the smaller demon. It held them greedily in it’s claws with a grin, then quickly scuttled back through the portal.

Granthox’s image glanced to his side, then he grinned widely. “Ah, my engineers confirm these plans will work and can be built. Very well then, Dissonantia. Stand aside…”

The worgen grinned as she gestured for her demons to step back, the portal widening. She was eager for this. The Annihilan were feared throughout all realities as some of the most powerful demons in existence, just one of them had been enough to corrupt the entire orcish race in the days before the Dark Portal opened… and now she would have one at her side…

… then her grin faltered as the portal stopped growing, far too small for a pit lord to enter her sanctum. “Wot?” she grunted.

From the portal came a tall night elf with swirling green tattoos, small horns jutting up from her forehead, and blazing green flames where her eyes should be, and Dissonantia snarled in rage. “A BLOODY ILLIDARI! WEZ BEEN DOUBLE-CROSSED! AZZY! TAKE HER FECKIN’ HEAD OFF!”

The Wrathguard roared and immediately pulled his axe out, charging down the newcomer with murder in his eyes as Cenoon flexed his hands, a thin dueling sword appearing in his grasp as he braced himself for battle… but the newcomer just laughed and held up her arms as a pair of fel-infused knuckle dusters appeared on her hands.

“Hah! Now this is a welcoming party! Lets wrestle big guy!” she cackled, charging Az’arad head on and slamming her fist into the haft of his axe, then her other hand into his shoulder, wreathing it in felfire as she did.

The Wrathguard stumbled backwards, his eyes wide in shock. Fist weapons were not something Illidari were known for, and this one wasn’t striking with murderous intent. Rather, she seemed to be… playing? He lashed out with his foot, sending her flying backwards!

She stumbled to a halt and smirked, then raised her hands as her weapons burst into green fire. “Oof! Okay, you get that one! Now lemme show you what I can do!” she smirked, jumping into the air and diving towards Az’arad!

Dissonantia snarled and lashed out with a blast of shadow, sending her off course as she landed roughly on the ground, rolling to a halt near the cauldron.

“HEY! C’MON LADY! I CALL FOUL!” she shouted, rolling onto her back, then leaping up onto her feet and dusting herself off. “Whats the matter? Granthox said you’d prolly want me to show off a bit when I got here!” she huffed at her, putting her hands on her hips.

Dissonantia stared at her, then looked at Granthox’s image as the pit lord smirked at her.

“Wot. The actual feck. Is this?” she demanded.

“My ‘assistance’ Dissonantia.” he replied, “What? Did you think I would be helping you personally?” he chuckled, “That is no Illidari. She is a self-made felsworn who is quite eager to expand her knowledge of demonology. I felt you two would get along quite well…” he snorted, then added under his breath, “… and maybe we can finally get some peace around here…”

“Wait, wot wuz that last bit?” growled the worgen as she turned towards the portal.

“Nothing at all, our deal is concluded. Goodbye.” replied Granthox as the connection was severed and the portal closed.

Dissonantia snarled in fury as she tried to force the connection to reopen, if only so she could scream at him, but she couldn’t re-establish it. Granthox had what he wanted from her and, apparently, had done the magic equivalent of ‘blocking her number.’ “THAT SNEAKY LITTLE SHITE!” she spat, turning to face the kal’dorei woman. If nothing else a fel-infused soul might make some powerful anima…

But the woman wasn’t paying attention to her. Rather she was examining the head hanging next to her throne. “DAMN! I didn’t really believe Granthox but he was telling the truth! You really did kill Aartox and take his sanctum! I’d recognize that scar on his forehead anywhere!” she grinned, pointing at a mark above the eredar’s left eyebrow, the severed-but-still-living demon head looking rather annoyed and embarrassed by it.

Dissonantia had been prepared to rip her soul away, then paused at her words, “… er… wot?” she asked.

“Yeah! I fought him before! I mean he got away, but when Granthox was still with the Legion I was his felsworn! We were part of a group that Kil’jadeen had hunting down renegades and we tracked him down trying to steal something on Rancora, but he got away before I could punch his skull in!” she laughed, turning to face Dissonantia, “Oh man you HAVE to tell me how you did that! He almost melted one of my legs off when we fought!”

Dissonantia cocked her head in a confounded way, glancing to Az’arad who looked just as puzzled as she did, then to Cenoon who shrugged at her.

“Er… Azzy kept ‘im busy ‘n I rifled through his shite, then found a Dreadlord’s ol’ spellbook ‘n covered ‘im in hives that ‘ad demon-bugs in ‘em. Then when ‘e focused on me Azzy cut his head off?” she tried.

“Oooo! I think I know that one!” she replied, looking around and ducking over to the bookcase, shoving things aside until she pulled out a grimoire with a still-living eye set into the cover. “HAH! I thought so! The Black Book of Ral’guth! I did some work for him back when the Legion was still around and he LOVED using that trick on people! He was really pissed when Aartox went rogue after he loaned him the book. He used to volunteer to go after rumors about him reappearing just so he could try to get it back!”

Dissonantia was extremely confused. She was used to people admonishing her for using fel magic (like Dareley and Shalandrae) or trying their best to ignore it (like Nelen had before she betrayed them) or just avoiding her (like Sekhi) but… she’d never seen someone… there was no other term for it, geek out over it.

Dissonantia looked her over as the night elf flipped through the book, then she grinned. She was a good fighter, very few people could actually push Az’arad back, and instead of trying to kill her she was reading one of her grimoires and babbling about how neat it was?

Granthox had helped her after all! This felsworn was exactly what every would be villaness would need, a very useful and very stupid henchman!

Dissonantia walked forward, her muzzle spread in a toothy grin, “Aye, ol’ Aartox really hated it when I got ‘im wiv that ‘un… so what sorta tricks do yez know?” she asked.

“Oh plenty! I’ve got lots of stuff I picked up before Sargeras went down and Granthox said I’m to help you however you need. Whatever you want, just say the word!” she grinned toothily at her.

Dissonantia bit back a snort, all anger against the pit lord forgotten, as behind her Cenoon turned away and raised his wings to hide how much his shoulders were shaking from suppressed laughter.

“Roight! Well then! Yez seem like yer gonna make a fine addition to our lil’ coven. Welcome ta Unlimited Sin… er…” she paused, making a beckoning gesture with her claws.

The night elf paused, then chuckled, “Ah right, shoulda said when I got here, but I saw your Wrathguard and just had to lock horns yanno?” she grinned back. “Gremori Autumnleaves, atcher service!”

Next Story

Previous Story

[silentbreaks]

me, actually angry: why is she so Baby(TM)?

[deathsofglitter]

Hi! I'm a huge fan of all of your work, but as a Byakuya Togami enjoyer, I absolutely adore all of your art featuring him. Because he occupies so much of my brain space, I always like to ask people- what draws you to him? What are your thoughts on him, and are these thoughts different than the ones you had about him when his character was first introduced? I apologize if these questions are too vague to really answer in a tumblr ask. Thank you for sharing your work here; it always makes my day.

(the very first pictures i ever drew of him..)

while he stood out to me from the very beginning, i honestly had no idea I would really grow to be so fascinated and enamored with byakuya as a character— I liked him as soon as I saw him, but I think the moment that completely solidified him in my mind as a character was..

i think.. even with the moments and tropes that are definitely worth a bit of criticism in chapter 2, i was pretty blown away by the depth of his depravity and madness stringing up chihiro, fucking with mondo, and completely engineering his perfect plan to string makoto along with him the entire time— and then to use toko to reveal jack, after creating nothing more than a half-assed and miserable copy of her master work. he’s a fanatic and even no better than a serial killer fanboy, he’s instrumental in the themes of gender, sexuality, masculinity, and shame in the chapter itself. the trifecta of him, chihiro, and mondo is a triangle of obsession, impulsivity, and insecurity — jack and makoto the end results of this creation at the hands of these people, byakuya, no better than jack himself— I may even say he has an obsession and fixation on makoto no better than toko has to him— the ultimate irony of their relationship in this second triad.

i really thought him to be an irredeemable person, which drew me to him as a villain more than anything.. but the implications of his behavior and him as a character mess me up so unbelievably, and the fact that you as a protagonist— and makoto as a character— are more or less implied to be the one person who has ever shown him compassion, gotten him to open up about his extraordinary circumstances.. and the fact that he immediately snaps, pushing and pulling in his grapple with a need for understanding and human connection after experiencing a life comfortably soulless and devoid of it.

he is a depraved and damaged person, who boasts endlessly about killing others, threatening to weed out the weak, and is thrown into a situation not unlike his own childhood in a remarkable competition to survive— and yet he doesn’t hurt a soul, he is more bark and verbal abuse than bite, he tampers with something already dead, he says it’s for his own gain, but I believe in my heart that he is not the kind of person that seeks to cause any further violence. is he not a narrative mirror to genocide jack herself? a violent and damaged thing purely due to circumstance— created through neglect and hatred, and living to cause that same pain.

the last line blew me away the second I finished this free time event— I feel it says all that it needs to say about who he is, truly, at the core beneath the pompous and aggressive visage. his life is but a tragic one— again, of survival, death, and inferiority. if he was a scared person, at one point, he has surely buried that fear deep into a place it can never be found. he was not ensured a single thing from the day he was born— he had been nobody, he is, ultimately, nobody, and cannot accept the reality of his own humanity when he has been so profoundly dehumanized for the entirety of his existence.

“it should have been you,” and it wasn’t, and he continues to be alive, and he has to be alive, and despite everything he has done, he is still the last person to fight for Makoto’s life against kyoko’s betrayal in chapter 5, he still becomes a person willing to sacrifice himself for the good of komaru naegi and takes the action of saving her knowing that it will put him at risk— despite his nature, and the will of every force in his life turning him into the cruel thing he was… he is not beyond learning how to be a human being, for the first time in his life.

i think, in the end, what draws me to him so much is the fact that he is not irredeemable— that he is as much the product of circumstances as anyone and anyone else— absurd and extraordinary ones, if anything. and that maybe he can learn to be a person beyond the chains his lineage has strangled him with. that he is not as ensured to be horrible as anyone else is ensured to be good from the moment that they are born— that perhaps he did not deserve what made him into what he was, and beneath everything, there is still someone who is capable of compassion.

[reginrokkr]

But what if in a few decades down the river of time, something causes the remnants of defilement yet to dissolve completely in the fountain of all waters flare again? As if reacting to his sliver of doubt, images that don't match with the scenery before him play within sapphire irises. People who seek to manifest Elynas back to life again, a fight within a dimension he cannot describe as another thing but the beast's interior— far from one would expect if they were to imagine directly a monster's bowels. Not to his surprise, truth be said, for Rhinedottir's creations proved to be magnificent in their own right and bizarre all the same.

Dáinsleif snaps out of his brief reverie in time to offer gratitude in ways that a noble man would as a result of a successful cooperation. Tokens of gratitude that to the other's misfortune, would go to waste if projected to his person. These exact thoughts manifest through a gentle shake of his head first, not without feeling gratitude for his sentiment, regardless. ◜I am undeserving of your kindness.◞ Since when did the Dragon show compassion to him, when it all started as reasonable skepticism and lingering doubts that what he said to initiate their cooperation would play out that way? ◜But if it helps, know that the trust you deposited on me that I do not seek to be hostile to your very existence and that I would commit to my part of the cooperation is more than enough.◞

Sovereign's next words leave Twilight Sword at a loss that reflects in quivering star-shaped pupils. Is that the impression he's gotten of him? That he's some savior confronting the threats that jeopardize this world's safety? For a moment, Dáinsleif finds the necessity to pause and reflect, to rouse from his shocked stance that hardly betrays his visage if not for his eyes and a slight arch of fair eyebrows, deep in thought as he is. ◜...◞ And so celestial azures drop from the dragon. If he felt he's undeserving for the kindness extended to him for his assistance in Fontaine, now he feels even more for giving off an image that doesn't correspond to himself.

For he's naught but a sinner. A man tasked to protect his people in a kingdom that is no more. A failure forced to live on for gods know how long with the weight of guilt for surviving where he should've passed.

◜As you correctly guessed, it was no coincidence that I appeared at the most opportune of times to help solve Fontaine's crisis. Nevertheless... I am afraid you got the wrong impression of me. What I did until now, with Fontaine as the last place touched by the Cataclysm that erupted from Khaenri'ah first, was righting the wrongs of the people I was supposed to protect so that those who chose to live under the protection of the Seven don't have to face their wrath, to go through in some manner or form the same as my people did unjustly. Now that mission is complete, so I...◞

I don't know what to do.

Light brows knit in a frown as albescent lashes flutter to a close, covered with starlit bangs. Dáinsleif's face turns slightly away from the dragon to conceal himself. ◜I have nothing left to do but go away. For want as I may, I cannot pass away— no matter how undeserving to keep living I am; no homeland to return.◞ A pause. ◜Unlike most people of this world, I am untouched by fate too. So if I have no other choice but live with this curse that plagues me and keep moving forward, perhaps... I should search for my destiny.◞

If those Khaenri'ahns who boasted about being pure-blooded and untainted by fate like him were to listen to him now, they would revel in his misery. In actuality, he can almost hear their laughter ring in his ears— while many more, now cursed to be hilichurls, might be offended for throwing away what they'd call a blessing he has.

Tired of sinking in his own misery and aware that he shouldn't drag someone whose interest is far from watching this petty scene, Dáinsleif straightens himself as his eyes open to take once more in the beautiful and sorrowful scenario before him. In due time, even the core of all waters in this world shall be purified again. He can take as much. ◜Not without giving you one last word of advice, Hydro Dragon: come years to pass, maybe decades, there will be those who will seek to bring Elynas back to life. If you understand the repercussions of such event, I suggest you exercise caution and interfere at the earliest sign of danger you encounter.◞

Ultimately does Bough Keeper pivot with the intention to leave. A few steps in, he finds it in his heart to stop and glance at the dragon one last time. ◜Thank you. For bringing me to safety and protecting me.◞

May we never cross paths again— it will be for the best.

The dragon sovereign blinks slowly upon hearing a voice rise behind him, thoughts gently pulled back from the depths to which they had come to simmer. A very light turn of his head is the only indication he gives of acknowledging his guest, attentive to the grogginess in his voice. He sounds worn, exhausted, but otherwise, on a safe road to recovery from their ordeal. Good. Sacrifices are needed to save what can be saved from the black tide, but the safekeeping of Fontaine is a duty that befalls him. Even though what this duty entails remains... elusive and fuzzy at best -- Neuvillette has no plan of watching another fall because of his own shortcomings.

"We did." He confirms, low and quiet while the Bough Keeper rises from his bedrest. He waits, patiently, listening to the shuffle of his steps as he joins him before the windows, and turns his gaze back to the cloudy skies outside. Indeed, they did make it. Neuvillette can feel the waters of Fontaine and the soil they seep into breathe again, healed from a sickness that had just begun to take root and fortunately been uprooted at the right time before it had been too late. Neuvillette, attentive, watches, present in every one of those sapphire droplets raining from the skies, dissolving into every inch of land, appeasing every wounded living things fallen victim to the darkness. This feat, he would not have been able to accomplish on his own.

This awareness makes him equal parts grateful for his companion's assistance, and resentful to the heavens above. It is only because they amputated him, that he had needed assistance to rescue the world they had stolen, usurped, defiled. What a mockery - what a ridiculous farce.

The Bough Keeper speaks again, and Neuvillette at last fully turns his gaze to him (is this joy and relief, faint and distant as they are, that he beholds upon masked features?). "Yes, indeed. But there is no reason to worry. Though the land may take time to heal, I can guarantee you that the corruption will not be spreading any further. With your assistance, we have ensured this at the very least - and my own power will be sufficient in containing it, before it will dissolve entirely." A promise, from one keeper to another. He has, at the very least, earned that privilege of him.

"The nation of Fontaine owes you a great debt - although I do feel, based on our short cooperation, that you will deny and refuse all and any necessity of such." Few are the people bound by honour that he has met in his short dive into human society - as though the whole concept belonged to the world of yore only. A hint of satisfaction, and curiosity, glimmers in the depths of his eyes; as if content to have been perhaps proven wrong. "Still, if there is anything I may, in turn, offer to assist you or otherwise thank you for your help, know that this door remains open."

The dragon marks a short pause, thoughtful, before he decides to lift the lid of his contained curiosity. Now that the worst of the crisis is over, now that he can feel, in the deepest recesses of his soul, Fontaine healing and recovering, what necessity is there to push it back? "You appeared at the most opportune of times, and it is clear to me that you know more of this world's inner workings than most do." He says, pondering. "You are a man on a mission, that much is clear. Is that how your steps led you to Fontaine and to Elynas? And what is the next step, now that this threat has been dealt with?"

[seraphiism]

ARE REQUESTS OPEN CAN I REQUEST THIS FOR Draken I will literally gobble up anything you write omg 🦃 🦃 🦃

' and i want that-- to prove that the most ordinary thing about human beings is not violence or greed but love and care. to prove to whom, i wonder. myself, maybe. ' ( sally rooney )

(Also feel free to just ignore if reqs aren’t open yet LOLLL) Ily regardless 💕

𓆩 ღ 𓆪 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐄

( & i want that -- to prove that the most ordinary thing about human beings is not violence or greed, but love and care ; to prove to whom, i wonder. myself, maybe. )

chara : ryuguji ken fandom : tokyo revengers quote cr : sally rooney a/n : prompt post ( x ). ts!draken. reader is shorter than draken.

"please tell me the other guy looks worse."

draken grimaces when your thumb grazes over the scratch on his cheek. it's shallow and it's nothing, but to you, it's still something, and in that moment, he realizes that perhaps the pain runs deeper than either of you realize.

"ken?"

his name falls from your lips into calm waters, holy and hesitant in the tides. your fingers tremble against his skin, but you don't want him to notice, so you pull away. your hand rests on your lap, aching, and suddenly he feels too far.

"'course he does. much worse."

"yeah?"

draken sighs, exhaustion apparent on his visage. he remains silent, overwhelmed with a gnawing guilt that rips at the seams of a surviving heart. he is not worth this, he reminds himself; he has never been worth the anxiety that settles on your chest whenever you see his injuries. he swallows hard, makes a conscious effort to hide the sorrow woven into his features as he rests his forehead on your shoulder.

"yeah."

it is silent. you lean into him, wrap your arms around his figure in the knowing that he is with you, safe and sound, even if he may carry the aftermath of the battles and burdens he faces. you hear him mumble a soft-spoken apology, quiet and somber in its nature, and you tell him it's alright. it'll always be alright, you think.

his past is an ugly one, his upbringing nothing of ideal. draken finds himself to be horrid, made of violence and hideous beings. but he tries to be good, he tries so hard -- but there's always something there, something that tells him that it doesn't matter. his efforts don't matter, the care and effort he puts forth into taking care of others doesn't matter.

it doesn't matter. it doesn't mean anything if the heart is blue and black with decay.

you lean back, place a hand against his chest until he is sitting upright once more. he looks at you in question, wonders why you push him away, but there's a tranquility in the smile you wear, and maybe that's why he isn't afraid of what you'll say next.

your fingers, still shaking, ghost over his tattoo. you recall the origin of it, remembering how you gasped when he told you how old he was when he got it. stubborn back then, stubborn now.

"thank you."

"hm? for what?"

"you were standing up for me, weren't you? i heard what they said about me." your fingers slide down his temple, hand cupping his cheek as you study the cut again. shallow, superficial, sentimental, and deep where the pain lies. "you didn't have to do anything, but you did. so thank you."

& there is something that lingers in that blackened heart of his -- and it's always been there, embedded in the nature of his soul : a kindness and love always meant to be found and shared. he can feel it and hear it with each beat, and what a heavy reminder it serves.

"ken," there it is again -- the shiver that runs through his body whenever you say his name, "you're a good person, you know? i hope you remember that."

"right back at you." he mumbles, fighting the urge to hide his face in the comfort of your chest. "thanks."

"welcome." the bright smile still settles on the curl of your lips, but it turns into one of slight amusement, he notices. "can you lean down and kiss me now?"

he groans. what is he going to do with you? he could fight and take the world head on, but he'll never win against you.

( but that's a loss he'll happily take, draken thinks, and he'll surrender himself to you and this love you share, hold it until his hands know seldom of violence. )

[lestwritewhilewaitingforajobcall]

The Spark That Split the Seas - Poseidon x Reader x Thor

(A/N)

Hey guys I’m back! I’ve been grinding hard for a new character that I’d gotten in this game, Genshin Impact, so I’m sorry for the absence! Anyways, as always, I want to thank you all for the support on my past two stories and on my account, I truly appreciate every one of you! On a story-related note, since I’d mentioned on my previous post that I had a lot of Poseidon x Reader x Thor fics written in my drafts, I decided to post one so you guys could also join me in the feels! Any feedback would be appreciated! This was originally shorter than the final story you’re seeing now, as I’d first only written their dialogues, but as usual, I excitedly itched into making a story out of it!

This is for entertainment only. Record of Ragnarok belongs to Shinya Umemura, Takumi Fukui and Ajichika. I also do not own you, the reader.

The Spark That Split the Seas

Poseidon x Reader x Thor

For more than all the millennia the gods and other species alike had known the lonely kingdom of Atlantis, never once did the crashing waves gave way to the chirping of the largest Albatrosses until now. Otherworldly flying creatures joined with the familiar exclusively earthly ones in enjoying the ebb and flow of the ocean, albeit this time, the hungry ocean appeared more satiated and seemed to follow a regular pattern ‘from sudden crash to a long calm, to crash again then back to another lengthy calm;’ life in the sea rejoiced in this odd occurrence.

Beautiful yellow sun rays poured through the stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope pattern on the large interiors of the kingdom ruled by the god of the seas, and catching the reflection of his nonchalant visage. The long, elegant dining table filled with every kind of seafood delectable imaginable also fell victim to the light, along with a figure that sat down opposite, whose invitation was clear.

Hidden from this heavenly atmosphere were the prying eyes of a little messenger bird who stood unobtrusively behind one of the tall pillars near the far end of the room, halting his slide just in time to witness this miracle:

The living bearer of the most fearsome title, the ruler of both this grandiose palace of the most precious gems and coral and all the oceans and waters, the almighty Poseidon, though against all reason and self-proved authority whatsoever, against the epics of Greek poets, was indulged, seemingly willingly, in the pleasure of having another’s company. In the shadows, Hermes’ red eyes shot wide open in shock.

Poseidon, the ever abrupt and rude god who had deemed most beings to be below him, received a guest, a still breathing one at that.

What in the gods’ name?

In a tone of haughty contempt, a grunt escaped from Poseidon’s lips. Finishing chewing the last bite of delicious food in your mouth, you nodded your head in earnest agreement with his point. Your next words were uttered with the firmness of an old sage who had all the answers, your beliefs shaped by the countless lifetimes you had lived.

“Existing is painful.” Your shoulders bobbed with your chuckle.

Although Poseidon felt a small measure of relief−a feeling that by habit had always been easy to brush-off with a condescending thought, his face betrayed nothing as his stoic features remained still. “If you agree, then why not allow me to kill you this instant?” As if to emphasize his strength, the crashing sound of dreadful combat between waves and rocks rang in the air, and you almost wished that a low rumble of thunder accompanied it, finding beauty in its loud peals, and additionally giving a volume of inspiration to Michelangelo below.

Despite your gaze being unrequited, you were sure you had the god’s attention. Since arriving here, Poseidon noted that your expression had always been smoothed into a calm, smiling one. “If you had intended to kill me, we would not be having this conversation right now.”

Poseidon sat rigid and silent.

“It’s a comfortingly tragic drama, my circle of life. I may not have been lucky to acquire a life as long as that of the gods, but I have definitely lived more times than you have.” Your words were so nonchalant, for a second there Poseidon thought you were kidding.

“That is for the simple fact that you mortals are weak, pathetic.” Lips as pink as young petunias touched the clear edge of the wine glass as Poseidon’s eyes closed, content to give over to listen.

“Yes, we are.” You paused. “But because of this frailty, we learned to adapt, evolve.”

“There is no need for evolution if you are perfect from the moment of conception. Hence why gods such as I, will always be above you.”

“You’re correct. Humans will never become gods after all,” Again, Poseidon found himself absorbing your words like a sponge. At the same time, he experienced an occasional sharp prick at the edge of his emotions, as if signaling him to pull back. “The same as gods will never become like humans.”

“Extremely foolish of you to think that trash is worthy of the shiniest Orichalcum. Your race has been created by us, for us, and will therefore always be inferior.”

“Humans are inferior in all aspects, this, is a fact. It is hence no accident that there is a history of rebellion and consequently, a false notion of superiority. But to be able to look beyond this, is to understand that we never truly intended to surpass animals nor the gods themselves. The nature of our desire: everything was meant for either survival or man’s search for meaning.

“We are by nature flawed and inconsistent creatures. And as you have no doubt seen for yourself as well, despite reaching all our goals, achieving our wildest dreams, we have never reached a position where satisfaction is achieved.” Keenness made your words sound almost heroic. There was a twinkle in your eye and a lilt in your voice, and Poseidon found that now he had a much clearer picture of your reputation for an irrepressible desire to see what is beyond your reach as you questioned: “If I may ask, as I have seen the gods share this sentiment of looking for meaning, do you feel an inkling of the same?”

When Poseidon had put the wine glass down, he hesitated a moment, his supposedly closed mind wavering between doubt and certainty. He would never come to understand this, nor admit to feeling this dissonance, but at last, he shook his head at his consideration, trying to reduce the unpleasantness he felt by the same way he had always used to get out of extremely rare difficulties.

“Do not disrespect me, mortal.” He knew himself that it was an empty threat.

“Those were never my intentions.” You bowed with great respect, but there was at the same time apparent in your manner the consciousness that while Poseidon would never in any way confirm your statement, he did not necessarily refute it. Your heart rose in gratitude as you regarded him with a look of affection, believing in your intellectual companionship.

“Lord Poseidon, as the fearsome god of the seas, what is the meaning of life for you?” The god surveyed your reflection in one of the golden plates, and maybe it was because he had acted in a charitable way towards you, but he saw brightness, a refreshing difference, as if there were no heavy shackles to weigh you down.

“My husband has always been in search of a worthy opponent. What about you?”

It was like a pin came dangerously close to the rational bubble of Poseidon’s beliefs. But then your words penetrated his mind, and he berated himself for almost falling prey, yet…

“Perfection.” Poseidon blurted out loud, full of self-indulgence, but uncomfortable with the thought of pity reeking from his pores, a role that was clearly uncharacteristic of him.

Tilting your head, your brows meshed inquisitively upon hearing this. “This presents the conundrum; you are already perfect, as should all the gods. Since you have explained, gods have always been pristine, perfect, the moment you all were born.

“So, if you have already achieved the meaning and purpose of your life, what is there left to live for?” There was something entrancing in your guileless form, and Poseidon was displeased that another should feel such an interest in your wise, unguarded character. “And if gods have already reached perfection, why is there an endeavor still for the dross of earth?”

For the first time in Poseidon’s life, he was receptive of contraries. Not one single time, had he ever been in the position where he listened, much more considered the act of interpretation. What he said goes, but for some frustrating reason, he was coming to terms of mutual respect; whenever he was sitting opposite you, chin in hand, the more he caught the flame.

Quickly, he stopped that train of thought and he seamed his mouth, stoic. Only his eyes betrayed a spark of defiance. “Stop asking ridiculous questions.”

Again, you bowed. “I apologize if I have overstepped such boundaries.”

“You better be.” With a look of eager inquiry, Poseidon asked, “Why are you not afraid of me? Is it because you are confident Thor would protect you?” One thing that distressed him was that the more he was alone with you, the more he saw your hands, always ungloved, noticed the wedding-ring on your finger. That closed circle excluded him, his face registering the insult. “As expected from a repulsive weakling,”

“No. I know he would be there for me whenever I should need him, and also the times when I don’t.” You said still a smile on your mouth.

Although you were unaware of the eagle eyes that were watching your every move, you had the instinct. You did not need all the information, and you had nothing to hide. Your shoulders were loose, back wasn’t ramrod straight and you exuded a carefree attitude. “The sole reason why my fears have dissipated is because perhaps, I enjoy your conversation.”

To say this whole exchange took Hermes by surprise would be an understatement. After the initial expression of shock, he laughed lowly.

You continued, “I have already accepted your beliefs. No one is entitled to those except yourself.

“If I were to die from imparting what my beliefs are, that is simply fate, a tragedy, but nonetheless, fate. Of course, I would try my best to avoid disappearing from this lifetime, seeing as I have made a promise with my husband, to continue to fight for my life, shall needed, until the very end.” Poseidon’s grip tightened the slightest bit.

“I believe that despite our obvious differences, we are simply two being who each have our own unique experiences that shape our views and beliefs. For hundreds of millennia, I’d seen calamity from all angles; mainly conflicts over a universal truth,

“But so long as there are questions, there will never be one solid concrete truth. And I’m okay with that.” You concluded.

Compliments never rolled off Poseidon’s tongue easily, since in his view they were nothing but hollow words. But this time, he could hardly slip a word in bad taste. He thought it pleasant to hear you, but it could not distract him from the uninvited presence in his throne room.

“You’re a heretic.” His usual strong voice beckoned your attention, discerning the sternness on the table of his expression to be forced. No matter, you had just enough of a last glimpse to see his face looking younger in repose.

“I have been labeled as such.” You noticed the unique rhythm of the crashing waves seemed to have settled along the sand grains, and you admitted it was so beautiful and timeless.

“You’re dismissed.” Poseidon believed in being straightforward with affairs. Since the conversation has ended, the final interchange of words was not likely to be a substantive one. Though this was his original reason, the face at the forefront of his mind right now was not yours but Hermes’.

You stood up and curtsied to show your gratitude. “Very well. It was splendid to be in your company this afternoon.”

Blue eyes followed you as you began walking away, and he watched you until you went out of sight when you began to ascend the Skíðblaðnir, a ship so completely reserved only for you by the Kingdom of the Norse. Then Poseidon’s ears turned toward the messenger’s direction.

Hermes quickly dashed to Poseidon and knelt to greet him with such a great respect akin to the expectations all elderly gods have always expected of their younger ones.

“We gods are perfect beings from the very start; therefore, we do not plot schemes nor engage in disagreements.” The implication registered with a jolt, and Hermes felt his mouth open as the real reason for your invitation became clear. He fought the urge to look at where Adamas had died brutally as a lowlife, not failing to recognize that this was the exact opposite of that faded history.

Finding quiet when Hermes immediately left, the god of the seas stared at his dominion, taking deep breaths of the air, not feeling the normal icy sting carried by the ocean. Over again he dwelt upon in his conversations with you, interested to find out if the Norse god of thunder had been able to sustain a similar type of conversation.

The very first quiver of interest sparked through Poseidon and though he did not recognize it nor perceived it, he understood the most important things, the only ones he ever needed to:

You did not seek validation nor attention. You had no fear of death, neither of the hardships of life.

Your depths of wisdom were unparalleled throughout the realms, which he would comment on its wasted potential, however, he knew Hermes already understood that part of it.

And the god of messenger did, as the word got around slowly but surely:

“There would always be those who dare to brave the ocean’s roar, but there was only one who withstood it.”

[mwolf0epsilon]

The Grim Reaper Wears Furs

Summary: Fox's newly found inquisitive nature leads him to ask a question that really is none of his business.

[THIS STORY IS NOW ON AO3]

---

"Why a loth-cat?" The question slips out without much thought. It's been a slow kind of day, slower than Fox is used to, but ultimately not unpleasant. He's been watching the clouds rolling by while resting in his hammock. The datapad he'd been reading long since forgotten.

"Why not?" The Ferryman asks as they perch up on the roof. Sprawled like the cat they usually look like, appreciating the sunlight and calm breeze.

In truth, Fox doesn't know why he's asking. It's really none of his business what the grim reaper chooses to look like.

But he's had these encounters on and off with the Ferryman of Epifania, and a clever Fox he may be but curiosity was a driving force that had slowly been settling upon his weary bones as of late.

In his not so old age he'd become oddly nosy it seemed. The oddities of surviving a war.

"It just seems strange to me that a cat would be a form something of your... Caliber... Would choose to look like most of the time..." It's a tentative excuse but not quite the answer for why he's asking at all. Ah well, he's sure whatever he'll get will sate his piqued interest. Or worsen the thirst.

"Hm, well... They're clever animals. Attuned to the Force like their counterparts, the wolves of Lothal..." Sharp tipped claws tap a borrowed fuzzy chin. Had they not solid black eyes Fox was sure the Ferryman would be crossed-eyed in dizzying thought. "Some go so far to call them secondary spiritual guides. An appropriate disguise..."

"Uh-huh..." He hums, noting the reasons down and setting them in their own neat little mental boxes. Force Osik then. A fitting disguise indeed.

"They are also... Approachable. Friendly looking. Not something to be afraid of..." For a second, their dual tone sounds saddened. Lonesome even. "Those who look upon the face of a smiling cat do not feel reason to fear... At least not at first. But I've taken more guises than just that of a cat, surely you must know this by now?"

Fox does. He's made peace that whenever the Ferryman shows up to check up on his progress, he'll be talking to a long dead vod. The voice and certain aspects of their appearance is never quite right, but the Ferryman does them more justice in remembering them than the (Republic) Empire ever did.

No one cared for clones.

For some reason, this powerful being did.

"I've worn many appearances of multiple animals and people, some friendly and some not so friendly." The Ferryman muses. "A loth-cat with a stubby tail, a spotted massiff with intelligent demeanor, a loth-wolf with void-like eyes and angry bared teeth, a child that never got to grow up, an elderly sentient that saw too much, visages of pure terror or shapes of simple hopes..."

The broken clone listens quietly, curiously, and wonders how it must be like to be so much and yet prefer so little. Contemplates things he's likely never going to fully understand. Mostly it seems like a tragedy of an existence.

"Sometimes I try to remember what I used to look like... But I can never see who that person was. Cannot remember them." They sound lost, the Ferryman of the Dead sounds lost. "They've been forgotten. Only the old name remains, and even that is not the name I was born with I'm sure..."

They remembered others but not themselves. Not the person that they'd been originally born as. A tragedy indeed.

"For what it's worth... I like you better as a cat." He opts to respond. The startled laugh he gets in return lightens the mood.

Not long after, Fox finds himself back to staring at the clouds while a stubby-tailed loth-cat lays curled up on top of his stomach. Purring away without a care in the galaxy.

There's no need to complicate things any further. He's taking it slow for today. Just as he promised he'd try.

[sylverstorms]

Donna x Elena ----From Winter to Spring

This is a commission written for the lovely @saltwatereulogies and I cannot thank you enough for all your support! I hope you enjoy the story :)

She doesn’t know how she escaped that nightmarish inferno. How she still draws breath. Why her body keeps running despite its condition and despite the fact that she has lost everything.

The village is gone. Everyone she knew is either dead or a monster. She watched her own father growl like a beast and cleave a woman in half, then soon after wail out her name and succumb to the flames swallowing up the building. There is nothing left. There is nothing left for her.

Why? Elena wonders. A trail of blood marks her path through the snow, towards the unknown. Why still fight?

It will be easier to surrender to the agonizing burns, to the open gashes and wood splinters stuck in her skin. It will be far, far simpler to stop pressuring her rattling lungs to provide oxygen and fall into the snow, instead. It looks… peaceful. Soft. Pure.

It will welcome her to a quiet death, she thinks, so she may join her friends and her father.

Her father. The man who had never reached his hand out to help her when she fell –either on the fields or when she tripped over hardships— yet had always been there in his own stubborn, strict way, telling her to pick herself up.

“I didn’t raise no quitter.”

Ah, is that why.

Perhaps part of her feels it owes it to him to try. She did miraculously survive the fiery wreckage she’d initially thought would be her grave. But… the odds just aren’t with her.

Elena is only human. She’s lost too much blood, been through too much punishment. Her vision is growing blurrier by the second, her legs more sluggish. When she steps on grass instead of snow, she believes her mind is now playing tricks on her, too.

Something smells sweet, like wildflowers.

That is the last thing Elena is aware of, before she drops to her knees and blacks out.

-

-

When she blinks her eyes open, she is… confused.

She never thought heaven nor hell would have a wooden ceiling. She wouldn’t have guessed pain follows one into the afterlife, either, yet there she is, prone and throbbing with every weak breath on a bed too comfortable to be her own.

Unless…

Unless she’s not dead. Unless, against all odds, she survived a second time only to suffer some more. Elena wants to cry. What cruel game is the universe playing with her? The luck she never had in life is suddenly gracing her in extreme bursts now that she doesn’twant it.

“She’s awakeeee!” an overly excited voice exclaims somewhere around the room. Elena is too dizzy to tell.

“Shh.” A second presence makes itself known, calming the first.

“Who…” Who are you, Elena tries to say, but the words never make it past her dry throat.

Heels tap against the floor, until a black-clad figure comes to peer down at her. Elena expected to see the face of her savior, yet all she sees is a ghost, its visage hidden behind a mourning veil. The image is jarring; it sends her heartbeat skyrocketing, which doesn’t help her condition.

Oh, Lord, Oh, Lord what… Elena wants to tell herself she’s dreaming. It isn’t real, none of this is real—

Until a doll jumps into the edge of her bed and says something she doesn’t hear over the sound of her hoarse scream.

The ghost flinches backwards as the world turns dark once more.

-

-

The second time she opens her eyes, hours or days later, the pain has subsided somewhat.

Elena can feel her body, at least. All the wounded parts are carefully wrapped in gauzes and all her burns are covered by a soothing salve. Her lungs no longer hiss when she inhales, so long as she does so slowly, evenly.

That, of course, is not so easy to do when she turns to her left and sees the ghost sitting there, an open book in her lap. The veil is still on, obscuring her features, but Elena takes note of her fingers as they cradle the spine of the tome, long and pale, manicured black.

Appearances aside, there is a certain calm about her that doesn’t feel threatening.

“I… I’m not hallucinating, am I?” she whispers, not trusting her voice to go any higher.

The mystery woman tenses as though her voice has startled her. “…No.” she eventually replies. Her voice is quiet, like the rest of her.

“Did… you save me…?” A single nod is all she gets in return. Her company doesn’t seem very comfortable speaking, but Elena has questions that she needs answered. “Where am I?”

“The Beneviento estate.”

Elena would gasp if she could. I made it that far? And this woman… is she really Donna Beneviento? Her father told her all she needed to know about the four Lords residing at the outskirts of the village. He had also told her to avoid them at all costs.

“Um. I’m Elena—” A cough cuts her off. The sudden motion causes every injury across her body to burn.

“…I know.”

She is too much pain, in that moment, to ask how Donna knows.

-

-

In the following days, Elena comes to accept a few things that would have normally made her question her sanity;

The doll is alive. Her name is Angie and she is Donna’s friend. Donna is the adopted daughter of Mother Miranda, who, upon the former’s request, has given her permission for Elena to remain in the mansion. When she asked what would have happened had she denied, the doll only sing-songed that she doesn’t really want to know.

It still plagues her mind, probably because she has far too much time to think and this is the only thing she can focus on, lest she starts crying over and over again.

When Donna comes to change her bandages, it is a relief.

The woman sits at the edge of her bed, at the absolute maximum distance. Elena slowly brings her body to a semi-reclining position to assist. Angie hops on the bed and pulls the covers to the side… and that is when they arrive to a standstill. Donna doesn’t move, Elena doesn’t know what to do.

“Um. May I?” the veiled woman motions with her –admittedly very elegant— hands. It’s… endearing, how she approaches the subject of touching her.

Elena nods and tries to be a good patient for her. Tries being the key word. When she’s not fighting for her life, she is not nearly as brave in the face of pain. Her teeth are gritted as Donna’s cool hands unwrap the gauzes at her right arm, her eyes closed, breath held.

“…Am I hurting you?” Donna asks, quiet as ever.

“No.” Elena forces herself to exhale. “No, you’re… very gentle.”

Donna nods and continues with the same measured movements. Elena doesn’t want to look at her wounds, afraid of what she’ll find there, so she turns to the veiled visage of her companion. She wishes she could see her face. Wonders what she may look like, what flaw she’s trying to hide.

Until a bandage catches on a particularly bad burn and Elena cries out.

Her whole body jumps—

Donna’s hands fly to her shoulders, keeping her steady with surprising strength, yet she steps away the very next second as though she’s been scorched.

Elena bites her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. There you go, making her uncomfortable…

Angie takes over for a while, also quite precise. Elena peeks down to realize she isn’t in as terrible a condition as she may have imagined. Scars will be left, no doubt, but she will probably heal well enough.

Then the last difficult spot comes up. She knows it when Angie warns: “You need to stay still here.”

“No, no wait!” Elena pleads. “I—I can’t.” I can’t, I can’t deal with this again, not again—

But Donna sits back next to her and her mere presence calms her down. “You are very strong, Elena. This is the last one.” she says.

“Hold me down.” Elena requests.

Donna doesn’t seem to like the idea. Still, she slowly brings her hand back over the uninjured part of Elena’s shoulder. “It’ll be alright.” she whispers.

“On three.” Angie says. “One… Two…”

She pulls the bandage on two and Elena would jump high enough to burst through the ceiling if it wasn’t for Donna. When the agony subsidies she realizes she’s sobbing helplessly, clutching at the dollmaker’s sleeves for dear life.

“Shh, I’m sorry, it’s over now. It’s over.” Donna’s slender fingers comb through her unruly hair.

The brunette closes her eyes and lets her head drop back down into her pillow, but she doesn’t let go of the dollmaker right away. She smells like the flowers outside her house,she thinks.

She feels like a safe space, steady, in a world that’s broken and tilted for Elena.

-

-

Gradually, Donna talks to her more. Gradually, Elena tests her body’s limits until she is strong enough to walk around the house on her own.

Angie is with her, most of the time, but she knows it’s less a security measure and more one for her safety. Her mental connection to Donna is something Elena cannot grasp nor understand, but she tries to.

The first time she manages to get to the living room, Elena stops and stares at the painting of Donna adorning the wall opposite her.

“…is that her?” she asks Angie.

“Of course!” the doll replies excitedly. “I am so proud of that one, the artist did a great job! Mistress Donna looks splendid, but it is me who steals the show!”

Elena can’t look away from the canvas. Why is she so familiar…? “Is that what she looks like?”

“Well, excluding a scar she wishes to hide. Kind of like my face. We match.” Angie answers, giving her version of a grin.

For the rest of the day, Elena sneaks glances at Donna, then the painting. It isn’t proper, she knows, but she’s curious. And… surely, no scar is enough to justify hiding that cute face from the world?

-

-

Weeks pass. Elena has healed well and she owes it all to Donna.

The two of them have grown closer in the time the former’s injuries have forced them together, close enough to have tea in the mornings and brief chats over common interests throughout the day.

When the weather grows a tad warmer, Elena asks the dollmaker to take a stroll with her outside. She sees the decorated graves, of course, but she knows better than to ask. She doesn’t want their time to be poisoned by grief. The scars of losing loved ones run deep, she knows this too well and they never really heal.

The two of them are basking in comfortable silence for a while, until a thought that feels impossible not to be voiced strikes Elena.

“Donna.” she speaks.

“Hm?”

“When I first woke up and I told you my name… you said ‘I know’.”

“…yes.”

“I’m sure we’ve never met before…?” Elena stops and turns to face her companion. Donna mirrors her.

“How certain are you?” she asks. Upon Elena’s obvious confusion, she elaborates; “As a child, I used to visit the village with my father. In one of those visits, some of the kids made fun of my scar. A boy, especially, was saying some very mean things.”

Elena starts to recall one such incident in the blurry images of her childhood.

“You stopped him.” Donna says. Pauses. “…with a punch to the face.”

Elena raises a hand to her mouth, but a quick laugh escapes her anyway. “I did?” A nod. “No way.”

“You did.”

“It couldn’t have been a strong one, though.” Elena giggles.

“I don’t know. Rumor has it he still hasn’t gotten up, to this day…” The little exhale of a chuckle that escapes Donna makes something in Elena bloom and flutter.

She wants nothing more in that moment than to lift the damned veil and see the face of the gentlest, kindest woman she’s ever met.

-

-

The winter eventually gives way to spring. The earth heals from the wounds of the cold like Elena has, under Donna’s care.

She no longer has doubts about what she feels, what she wants. It is only a matter of overcoming her fears and nervousness. Only a matter of finding the right timing and the appropriate setting.

Elena has rehearsed the words she needs to say many times in her dreams and thoughts, yet she finds herself tongue-tied and completely lost on what to do in reality. She has asked Donna to walk with her, taken her to where the waterfall calms into a river… and now struggles to summon her voice.

“What is it, Elena?” Donna, ever the sweetheart, asks. “You know you can tell me anything… right?”

“What if…” she hesitantly begins. “What if I can’t tell you? …can I show you, instead?”

“Of course.”

Elena takes a deep breath and chastises herself to woman up. One little step brings her into Donna’s personal space. Her hand raises to the edge of the veil, blue eyes searching for a sign she should stop. The dollmaker is tense, but she hasn’t made a move to back away, nor lower Elena’s hand.

She trusts her.

And that’s all Elena needs to finally, finally remove the barrier separating them for months. The cute girl she defended as a child is a beautiful woman now, looking back at her with gentle, dark eyes. The jagged scar running down the right side of her face does nothing to retract from that beauty.

“You don’t need that.” she breathes. “You never did.”

Donna glances to the side, a hint of color spreading over her pale cheeks. Elena chases her chin with her fingers, then slowly inches closer, making sure the dollmaker has ample time to decide if she wants this, too.

When their lips meet, color blooms behind her shut eyelids, within her chest. Donna’s mouth is as soft and sweet as her personality, Elena discovers. It is a short, chaste kiss but it is also a promise for many more to come.

It is the gratitude Elena will eternally hold for Donna, who found her at the ending of her life and nursed her back to this,

A new beginning.