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vermilionskiinmorning · 5 years ago

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𝕺𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝕷𝖔𝖞𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖞||TLK Fic|| FinanxOC||Two

AN: Welcome to part two! Just a note, I’ve decided I am going to be using a combination of the show and the book plot for the storyline here. Also this will be a longer chapter than normal. I didn’t feel there was a natural stopping point any sooner lol. So ya’ll get some fluffy Finan/Tove at the end!

Taglist: let me know if you wanted to be tagged for updates!

||Masterlist||

Summary: Tove chose to surrender rather than be killed, after Sigfried was defeated at Beamfleot, giving herself up to the mercy of the Saxons. Thanks to Finan’s intervention, her life is indeed spared and she is brought into Uhtred’s service. With the sting of defeat fresh on her tongue and her new life fighting for the Saxons secured; Tove is left wondering what tricks the Gods have in store for her next.

Words:3039

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In the end, it turned out Tove had been correct about there being no reactionary attack against their main force. A few smoke pillars rose to smudge the sky in the distance, indicating some surviving Danes had been raiding in their retreat toward the sea. But if any followed them, they stayed far enough away not to be observed by the Saxon scouts. As they drew closer to Winchester, it seemed everyone began to relax.

On the third day, the vast city walls came into view from behind a hill and Tove was momentarily struck by the place. Though it's bustling nature was not unlike her home in Denmark, Winchester had tall stone walls which she was told were remnants of an old people called the Romans. There were several other glaring differences between this city and her home walls aside. The most notable, though not unexpected, being the number of Christian priests who scurried about the streets as they passed through the gate.

In Denmark, Tove did not stand out in a crowd, but she quickly realized she did in Winchester. Tove’s war gear was not nearly as splendid as the Lord Uhtred and nothing compared to that of their King. Still, her leather armor, furs, mail coat, trousers, and weapons drew eyes. People stared at her. Not everyone stared, though; some made a concerted effort not to catch her eye, but those who did either stared out of fear or apparent disgust. All the eyes made Tove feel deeply uncomfortable, causing her to stick close to those few she did know; mostly Sihtric and Finan.

“They stare as if they have never seen a shield maiden before,” Tove hissed softly to Sihtric as they reached the stables.

“I doubt they have lass.”

It was not Sihtric who had replied, but Finan. She turned to face him as he dismounted his horse. A slight frown marred Tove’s delicate features.

“They’re common folk,” Finan went on. “War rarely reaches this far into the heart of Wessex. There are still many people here who have never properly even seen a Dane -much less a shieldmaiden.”

“He is right,” Sihtric added. “Do not let them bother you, though.”

She frowned. “I am unused to be stared at.”

Finan quirked an incredulous eyebrow at her words. His eyes flicked over the fitted leather and down her long legs. Finan found that difficult to believe; Tove was not a homely looking woman. He likely would have said as much if it were not for Sihtric’s elbow swiftly striking his side as he opened his mouth to speak. The gesture caused Tove’s eyebrow to arch slightly, but she was easily soothed when Sihtric spoke again.

“Do not let them bother you,” said Sihtric with a reassuring smile. “Come, let us go to the palace.”

Alfred’s palace was imposing. The time and craftsmanship that must have gone into constructing the vast stone building was a daunting thought. More often than not, her people chose to build with planks and logs, which could still be impressive, but it was nothing like what she saw there. The great stone etchings and many-colored paintings caught Tove’s attention more than anything else as she was led down corridors toward the King’s hall.

Once inside, her attention was drawn to the figure standing before what she thought to be a rather plain chair for a king at the far end of the hall. Immediately she knew this unassuming man must be Alfred. Up close, his figure was no more impressive than she had first deemed him to be, but as his sharp, intelligent eyes focused upon her, Tove saw how this otherwise non-remarkable man commanded such power.

“I’m told you are called Tove Ødgersdottier?” Alfred asked.

Instantly Tove’s eyes flicked to Uhtred, who was closest of their group to the King. Uhtred inclined his head slightly. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of understanding; she was to answer any questions asked of her then, before focusing back on the King.

“I am…Lord King.”

Alfred hummed in response and fell silent for a moment before speaking again. “And you serve the Lord Uhtred now?”

“I do.”

Grey eyes flicked to Uhtred again for some indication of where this questioning was going. There was no answer to be found in her Lord’s face, though and it frustrated her. He appeared to either not know or was simply not inclined to share anything if he did.

“But formerly, you served a Jarl called Njal…and this Jarl was bound to the now-deceased Erik Thurgilson?”

“Yes, my Lord Njal is also slain at Beamfleot,” Tove said. “ Lord Uhtred sees fit to spare me of this fate.”

“So, it seems he did,” said Alfred turning his gaze to Uhtred for the first time. There was something in the look exchanged between the King and her Lord that she did not understand it. “That will be all.”

They were dismissed, all except the Lord Uhtred who gestured that she should follow the others. Tove could not help but glance over her shoulder as they left the hall. Uhtred stood straight-backed as he waited for the room to be cleared while Alfred looked contemplative if not ill at ease. Out in the corridor, she pulled Sihtric aside for an explanation of the tension they had just experienced in Alfred’s hall.

“What was that all about?” Tove asked in Danish.

Sihtric cast a glance around as if checking whether he would be overheard. Ridiculous really, by her estimation, she doubted many people in Winchester spoke Danish.

“You have heard that the Lord Odda disobeyed the King’s orders? And that our Lord was convinced by him that he was doing the King’s bidding in moving against Beamfleot?”

Tove nodded.

“We were not. It was our intent to rescue the Lady Aethelfled.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly. Though, she knew Sigfried had been concerned about Erik and the Lady. It had never occurred to her that Erik may have outside assistance -let alone help of Saxons- for that was unmistakably what was being implied.

“Does the King know this?” Tove asked.

Sihtric shrugged, though he looked somewhat nervous. “Can’t say. He may suspect our story is not the full truth, but what proof does he have?”

None, she supposed, because, by her measure of Alfred, it seemed likely that if the King had any proof, then the lot of them would be locked in a cell alongside the Lord Odda. Despite her disagreement with the principle of punishing one who brought you victory, Tove did admire one thing about Alfred. It appeared he could, in fact, be ruthless when need be as she heard the Lord Odda was a close friend of the King.

At the conclusion of their conversation, Sihtric suggested meeting the others at the popular alehouse called Two Cranes. Despite Winchester's size, the walk was short as the place was not far and the three of them reached it before full dark had set in. Usually, she was not one to tire from travel, but Tove was somewhat worn from the road due to her injuries, and so was thankful for the shortness of the journey.

Upon their arrival, Sihtric and a few others in their party went directly to the bar to order drinks and food. Meanwhile, Tove and Finan found their group a few tables along one side of the tavern’s crowded main room. Finally, able to rest Tove exhaled a sigh as she propped her feet onto the stool beside her own. Finan sat across the table from her with an amused smirk playing at his lips.

“Have ya something to say, Irishman?” Tove quipped.

“Who me?” Finan asked, making a show of looking around to see whom else she could be talking to. “I’ve nothing to say to the mighty shieldmaiden.”

Tove scoffed. ”If Hel came to take ya, you’d sweet-talk her into makin’ ya king in her realm.”

Finan chortled heartily at that, to which Tove could not help but smile slightly herself.

“You flatter me, lass,” Finan said when his laughter died down. “Though, I was only meanin t’ ask if ya were feelin alright after the journey.”

“I am no fragile Saxon maid,” said Tove firmly, but at Finan’s earnest tone, she softened slightly. “I…would thank you for your concern, though.”

“Aye tis no trouble,” Finan said. “And after the way, I saw ya fight on the field I don'na ever think I could mistake ya as one who was fragile. After all…it was my shield ya took in the chest.”

Tove’s eyebrow arched slightly at that.

“Ya looked like a she-devil come to carry me t’ the devil’s gates.” continued Finan with an appreciative grin on his lips. “Couldn’ have been more shocked when ya yielded t’ be honest.”

“That man was Njal.” Tove reminded him in a somewhat solemn tone.

Tove had not been close to Njal, though; he was a decent man. Had she not thought him so, she never would have sworn herself to him, but Njal was fair, just, and generous. Beside that fact, he was a well-accomplished warrior. She had liked him well enough.

“Ahhh…sorry bou’ that lass,” Finan said with a shrug. “He was a hell of a fighter.”

“He was,” Tove agreed, and she was smiling then. “He died well. I will see him in the mead halls of Valhalla.”

Finan only nodded. Whatever he might have said was cut off by the arrival of their comrades with food and drink. They both took their shares thankfully, and everyone dug in. There was much talk and joking around their table as everyone unwound from the journey.

An hour or so into their small feast, Uhtred joined them with an intriguing piece of news. They were all to leave Winchester in three days’ time, but not for Cookham as the men had automatically assumed. Tove, too found herself somewhat perplexed as she had been told Cookham was the steading Lord Uhtred owned in Wessex. Instead, they would be traveling to Lunden, where Lord Uhtred was to be put in charge of the protection and fortification of that city. Word was being sent on to all the household warrior’s families to meet them there. Those who were not part of the household troops would be allowed to return to Cookham to protect that burh if they so choose.

A few drinks after the announcement and some logistics discussion, Uhtred declared he was off to bed for the night. Some of the other men also began to trickle off to their rooms, not long after their Lord. Eventually, it dwindled down to just Finan, Osferth, and Tove at their table.

“Isn’ it past your bedtime, baby monk?” Finan joked.

“Bedtime? Honestly, Finan,” said Osferth with an exasperated look.

Finan looked over to Tove and shrugged as if he thought it was a perfectly reasonable question. She gave a jovial chuckle, but as she did, there was a sudden stab of pain through her side. Tove’s fingers flew to her side unbidden, as her nose crinkled from the sudden discomfort. Both men, who had been laughing with her, immediately stopped to look on with concern.

“Are you alright, Lady?” Osferth asked, brow creased with worry.

“Tis nothing,” she asserted, though the argument was weak as her forehead was still creased in pain. “Just healing pain.”

“Nah lass ya’ve gone pale. Shall I fetch a healer?” Finan’s eyes were on her hand, which laid tenderly against the spot where her ribs were bound.

“No!” Tove snapped.

The two men exchanged looks.

“At least let me help ya t’ your room?” Finan asked.

“Unless you’d prefer, we wake Lord Uhtred?” Osferth put in as if he could sense her imminent refusal.

Tove frowned but relented silently with a small nod. Finan came around to her side of the table and stooped to gently place an arm around her lower back. Helping her to her feet, Finan took much of her weight as though she were little more than feather and began leading Tove up to her assigned quarters. She could not help but grumble slightly as Finan helped her along, but he took it in stride.

“Ya don’na have t’ be a shieldmaiden all the time,” he commented lowly as they reached her room.

Pulling away from him to lean on the door frame, Tove gave Finan a dirty look. She could not help it. The sudden onslaught of pain left the fowl taste of weakness in her mouth. He did not seem to understand; if she was to travel to Lunden, she had to be okay. Otherwise, she would be left behind in this unfriendly city until she was healed enough to do so.

“Will ya at least let me take a look at it?”

There was a long beat of silence between them, during which Tove scrutinized him. Finan’s expression was soft, somewhat concerned, and open. She could see no malintent. Though, after all they had done for her at this point, she felt slightly guilty even looking for it. Finally, she exhaled a labored sigh and nodded in affirmation.

Before Tove could maneuver to open the door herself, Finan had already moved forward to do so though he did step back and allow her inside first. Once inside, Tove plopped herself on the end of the bed. Pausing a moment, she let out another labored breath as she looked up at Finan with an eyebrow raised.

“Do you intend to help me out of this, or shall I struggle on my own?” She gestured vaguely to the leather armor and mail she still wore.

“Well, since ya be askin’ so nicely!” Finan threw her a wink.

Tove snorted.

He seated himself on the bed beside her but did not move to help immediately. Rolling her eyes, Tove pulled the laces to loosen one side of the armor but forewent the other. With its buckles in the back, she need only loosen one side to be able to slip out of it once those were undone, but the pain in her side stopped her from reaching them. After a second of hesitation, Finan shuffled around to get the buckles at the back of her chest piece. In mere seconds they were all swiftly undone. She could not help but snicker softly. The leather slid easily off her shoulders then, and she shrugged it off the rest of the way, tossing it onto the dusty floor.

“It seems they do not lie about your many skills,” Tove teased, inhaling a more resonant and easier breath.

“I’d love to hear what it is they say about me, but perhaps another time?”

“Perhaps,” Tove responded with a slight smirk.

“Now…about that coat…”

“I will have to raise my arms. If you could lift it off?”

Finan nodded. Though she winced, Tove managed to hold her arms above her head long enough for the Irishman to slip the coat over her head. It dragged her linen tunic up some with it as it came off, and Finan saw a brief flash of her bare midriff before the tunic fell back into place. He dropped the mail coat onto the floor beside her chest armor with a slight thud.

He was silent as Tove seemed to take a moment. Her face was again contorted in pain. Breathing was shallow but steady as she calmed herself. When she opened her grey eyes, she found Finan staring intently into them. A strange feeling of calm washed over her, and though she still felt the pain, it was dulled somehow.

Finan was the one who had caused this pain, but he was also the one who had spared her. Yes, Lord Uhtred may have made the final call and have her oath but had Finan not accepted her yield, she would have been dead. He had trusted the truth of her words even in the heat of battle, even not knowing her, and she was being a brat.

“Thank you,” said Tove softly in Danish.

Though his eyebrow rose, Finan said nothing. He did take it as a signal to continue. Sitting again beside her, Finan urged her to lean back onto her elbows, and Tove went along without complaint. He pulled the tunic up on one side until he could see the bandages that had been wound around her injured ribs. A slight frown settled on his lips as he tenderly brushed his fingers along the dressing. She flinched away from the contact.

“When were these last changed?” he asked.

His fingers probed softly at the bandage. Having seen a fair number of injuries in his time, Finan thought he had an idea what the problem was. There was no evidence of blood on the bandage, an exceptionally good sign. He was not surprised as she had worn armor, and it was his shield that hit her, not his sword.

“This morning?” She guessed.

“You’ll have t’ tell me which good fer nothin’ healer done it. Cause I’d wager they wrapped ya too tight,” Finan grumbled. “I’ll need ya t’ sit up.”

She heaved herself back up without question. Tove only hesitated a moment before lifting her tunic to just below her breasts to show the whole of the bandage to Finan. Gentle were his hands as they unwound the wrapping smoothly and efficiently. Once it was removed, there was an instant wave of relief from the pain. Against her will, Tove exhaled a low sigh and flopped back onto the bed, eyes instantly falling shut.

“Well…I don’ think I’ve ever made a lass faint simply by undressin her before,” Finan laughed.

Cracking one eye open, Tove reached out and smacked him hard on the leg.

“Shut up, you cocky bastard,” she snapped in Danish.

Her exclamation, though he did not know what she had said, only made Finan laugh harder. They shared a moment of laughter, which eventually died down. As it did, Finan turned his eyes back to her side.

“I’d leave that unbound tonight, an we’ll fetch ya someone who knows what they’re doin’ in the morning. Yeah?”

She nodded.

#finan fic #tlk fic #the last kingdom fic #finan the agile #finan #the last kingdom #OOL fic

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Choice ― III.ii. The Children of the Made-God

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

That's the problem; the world would rather judge them than seek to understand them. Their love was never about sacrifice. It has always been about survival.

[READ IT ON AO3]

The sun peeks through plumes of thicker smoke hot at his back. Hot as the gluttonous flames that devour the manor; ravenous and with enough awareness of mind to lick their plates clean.

All this heat and yet he is cold. A glacier unrelenting. Chipped away from the mainland and forced out to a sea of lava. Bubbling, boiling, blistering.

Broken.

He is the warrior but she has always been the stronger of Valdemaras’ children. She was born in carnage and supplication to a higher death; with the torn flesh of her enemies between bared teeth as they grew long and unyielding — he was born in the ecstasy of understanding, of being known and knowing in return and of finding a singular answer to all of the questions he never knew he needed to ask.

No one else knows this. No one but the one who brought them into this world so different, so unique… but with the same blood pumping rabid through their hearts.

No one else knows this. No one.

“Let me go!”

“You’re hysterical! Cease this madness!”

“Isseya I will burn you myself let. me. go!”

“I cannot lose you, too!”

The animal of howling anguish he has become — Cynbel stops to turn to her, only able to think of the words that dared poison his lips even if only for a moment. The thought never there, never — never.

But the fire continues to exist. Cares not whether their eyes of desperate mourning are upon it and continues on. A load-bearing column wavers and falls; kicks up a fresh cloud of glowing embers and smoke up to the sky and sends the husk of wall nearby with it.

He looks back in time for the embers to dig into his eyes like little claws. But the tears that come aren’t by their touch. Not at all.

“HH—He…” Words — what fucking useless things. Irrelevant, fucking impossible. They’re never full enough, strong enough… never just enough.

They would waste their lives for his. Oh they would. Their God’s first and final gift and they would soak the ground with it so wet so nothing could burn there ever again. Would build a temple befitting his honor towering so high in the sky it alone would block out the sun.

“I don’t…” she splutters wet with tears, they’re falling at a rate so fast he can’t wipe them fast enough, “Cyn—h-he can’t be—I…”

Imagine a world without him?

Neither can he.

Nothing could have survived such a blaze. That much is certain.

Though there are some that have never put much stock in certainty. The figure that emerges from the crumbling half-ruins of the front threshold being one of them.

They rally her name in a bolstering cry. “Sayeed! General Sayeed!” As though she is their savior. For some of them she perhaps is; the picture of the old goddess Hel wreathed in ruinous wreckage.

She is their savior, he thinks — and is made vengeful for it.

Something writhes in her arms but her grip is one of ages. Well-fed ages, too. She approaches and all gather to meet her. Some in praise, some in awe. Cynbel and Isseya — they are caught in a limbo of their own making and only follow because there is nothing else left.

Kamilah tosses her burden onto the grass gracelessly. The face that looks back up at the enclave of vampires is bloody and bruised; a gaping hole reeking of burning flesh where one eye was supposed to be.

The servant boy from the dinner cowers in fright. Because that is all mortals are good for in the end. Blood… and fear.

A boot comes down upon the child’s throat and everyone revels in the creak of youthful bones before they snap.

“All you have risked in their name… and they abandon you to die in their chaos.” Never in his life has Cynbel been glad to take in the towering sight of the Godmaker, nor is he now. But feeling anger is better than feeling a void.

Gaius’ burned features heal with every word hissed through clenched teeth. Angry, wrathful. “Your loyalty would have been far better rewarded had you made the smart decision not to cross me. But here we are.”

All around them — the faces of strangers. Of a Godmaker and Bloodqueen but none of them him.

Bravery is only brave without the fear that wracks through the feeble mortal. Ready to be ripped limb from limb for the barest scraps of blood and marrow by a starving pack of wolves. But to spit in the face of the Godmaker… that’s just stupidity.

And with Evil’s boot on his throat he intends for his last words to be damnable, perhaps. “Demons from Hell! Let God’s light and holy fire cast you away!”

So much hatred in such a small vessel.

Not that it was ever in doubt this was an attack orchestrated by the Order. But something so large scale…

There are jeers from all around to kill the whelp. To do things Cynbel has done, would do again if it brought him back to them… Distantly he notices a dark-figured silence in the form of Ambrose, watching not the satisfaction that curls in the smirk on the Godmaker’s lips but the way the creature seals his fate. The way he tries to squirm for freedom.

Snap. Technically he brings about his own demise. Writhes so hard in some deluded dream of freedom that all the Godmaker has to do is press down his littlest toe. The look that passes between King and Queen isn’t missed — yet still he reaches out and smooths the soot out of her furrowed brow.

The sight of it feels like dying.

“Where is he?”

Nothing but silence and the crackling of leftover fire. Cynbel swears he can hear his words echoing off the trees.

Augustine lets out a snorting breath. They know him too well — know something passes in his bright eyes hidden by blood-slicked hair before he pushes it back. “I don’t have time for your whining.”

“Make time!”

Not a step forward, then there’s a hand on his chest. Forceful and sure, but younger.

Kamilah’s eyes are long past burning. The storm gathers inside her, ready to douse the inferno. “Cynbel,” she hisses, “do not. You’re a fool if you even think you could.”

He bats her hand away. “Don’t you dare, girl, don’t you dare!”

But he’s too weak. Both of them are; it takes little effort for the Bloodqueen to force what’s left of the Trinity on their knees. Blood trickles from the corner of Isseya’s mouth — she would rather bleed out than cry out.

With her back turned from her Maker and King, Kamilah looks down at the pair of them with warning. Don’t do this, not here. But fuck — what else can they lose? What is it to be whole and lose the entirety of it?

That kind of love…

He shouts through Kamilah’s raised arm and meets the Godmaker’s eyes even from this place of weakness.

“Where is Valdemaras?!”

“You dare demand of me…”

“Bullshit—I refuse to believe you and your bitch —” he spits at her feet for good measure and the act earns him five deep wounds to the face, wounds that will heal in time but he almost wishes they would not, “— were the only survivors!”

He’s a spectacle of his own making. Both of them looked upon with younger eyes; ignorant. Ones who couldn’t possibly fathom the depth of their years, of the emotions threatening to tear him apart until he, too, is ash. They don’t know what we’ve done to get this far. They never will.

Except for perhaps Kamilah though she, too, is made less kind.

“They attacked at dawn. Knew the depths of the compound… of everything.” She speaks soft and all the while his blood drips from her fingertips. “Without warning there was… there was nothing that could be done.”

“Not that you would try.” Isseya hisses. They fumble blind in the growing light for one another’s hands.

Two thousand years up in smoke.

Gaius takes his sweet time approaching them. Revels in their grief, no doubt. All his parading about caring for his people yet they have always seen themselves as different, haven’t they?

He grabs Cynbel’s chin and forces him to look upward. It feels as though even the flames still around them. Not that it stops the Golden Son from trying again; even if it is in vain.

“How did you survive… and he…”

Because I am stronger. Because I am smarter. Because I am better. The Godmaker could say all of these things and more. Could behead them for their insolence and none, not even Sayeed, would raise a hand to stop him.

Cynbel braces himself for the onslaught… that never comes.

Gaius releases him, lets his hand fall down and because the Trinity know better they won’t call the look in his eyes remorseful so much as mockery.

“The man who stands upon your slumbering bedside with shackles does not intend to kill you. No, that is the man who holds the torch.”

He sees the grieving lovers, the words so ready to spill from their tongues, and stops them with a simple gesture. A finger over his own lips, a “ssshh…” that does not ask for silence but demands it. “Your lover, my ill-minded progeny — he refused my every attempt to feed him this night. ‘Not without them,’ he said—the fool. No doubt he was as starved as yourselves, as weak.

“Hunger can make easy prey of even the proudest of predators… as you well know.”

Isseya squeezes his hand. Were he to look over he’s sure he would see the same look reflected back at him.

Instead she’s fixated on Augustine. “The Order isn’t the type to take prisoners.” Prisoners are worth keeping. The Order would see them all burned.

It dawns on Cynbel, then. Spine rigid and eyes sweeping across the lawn, the road leading back to the heart of town and further; to the trees and their singed cover that would do them no good when the breeze decided to toy with their lives.

The Order would see them all burned… yet does not. They flee—cowards—back to where they think they are safe.

This revelation of Cynbel’s is something the Godmaker already knows.

“They took him.” Cynbel breathes.

Gaius nods. “Likely, else you must not have thought very much of him all these years—that you would survive and he would not. Valdemaras… he is as crafty as he is defiant.”

“You know where.”

“I have an inkling. Close enough for them to take advantage of such a window of opportunity.”

There are still so many questions. The ebb and flow of emotions on his weakened state has Cynbel in a fit, has him doubting every word he speaks, every one he hears. He is gone. The Devil wears so many faces…

And that his darling girl, his beloved Isseya chooses then to hold him tighter can’t be anything less than a sign.

Enough to bring Cynbel from his knees. To pull Isseya up beside him and hold her tight lest she, too, disappear from him on the fading smoke.

Gaius laughs at the sight of them. “I never understood his fascination with you two. But I’ll give him this — he knows how to make them loyal.”

All it takes is one glance to Sayeed behind him, the look in her eyes strange and foreign on her expression usually so calm and sure, for Cynbel to bite his tongue.

“Tell us,” only his darling could ever make a plea sound so strong, “please, Godmaker. We’ve done all that you asked —”

“And you will continue to do so. But I am… fond of Valdemaras. He should prove useful in the days to come.”

The Godmaker surveys them as a farmer might his stock. His next words almost an afterthought; “All of you should.”

It is an undertaking for them and them alone, the Trinity understands that. And though every moment spent breathing is one breath that may be their lover’s last to rush into it would be suicide. And he’ll be damned before he lets his death be at the hands of some worthless Order bastard playing soldier.

Charlottesville has finished burning. But the screams of her people last well into the night. They don’t stop for the setting sun or the moon and her stars. In fact they only get worse.

He drinks for strength and nothing more — unable to take enjoyment even in the way the young man’s body slumps to the ground, twitches like a fish out of a pond, and is still.

He’s barely had the time to wipe the remains of his meal from his chin when two pairs of boots come into his field of vision. Looks up just in time for Sayeed to toss a sheave of paper at his lap. He just barely catches it without letting the contents spill onto the blood-soaked dirt.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more foolish.”

Cynbel barks a laugh and directs his sneer to the pages rather than the woman herself. “Just you wait, little lotus. You’ve not seen the depths of my stupidity…”

The eyes that finally meet hers are red of hellfire, of blood and fury.

“Especially when it comes to my Lord and Light.”

Ambrose beside her looks as if to say something but thinks better of it and resigns himself to watching. They are an unusual pair, Cynbel knows. But how else does one describe two thousand years of finding middle ground on opposite sides?

Unusual is about the only word that could even breach the depth of them.

He sighs and holds up the folder, ash smearing over his skin at burned edges. “What is this?”

“A peace offering.”

“Peace, in times of war?” The weight on Cynbel’s heart is immediately lessened at the sound of Isseya’s voice — she approaches around the stocky build of their unwelcome voyeur and clings to her lover just as ardently. “Cut the shit.”

Kamilah’s teeth grind in her jaw.

“On this rare occasion, Trinity, you and I desire the same thing. With the safe return of your Maker you will, I hope, follow in the pattern you always have at the slightest sign of trouble.”

They raise eyebrows at her and Kamilah continues, convicted; “You will leave.”

“Virginia, oh yes.”

“No,” Kamilah shakes her head, “not just Virginia. In your hands you hold all that my King has gathered on the Order’s operations… I trust I don’t have to warn you they are likely to be more armed than the reports give.”

Isseya takes the papers and shuffles through them. Names of scouts, soldiers tabbed in Sayeed’s careful script along the edges. Cynbel stops at one marked ‘RAINES’ and pulls it free from the stack with one word holding him spellbound.

Shackles.

“The Godmaker mentioned shackles — did he mean this?”

There’s a grim moment where she almost looks as though she will not answer. “Perhaps,” she says finally.

The sketch is rudimentary but the notes around it are neat and tidy. It’s been ages since he’s actually read anything; something Cynbel hadn’t realized until just then.

What? He’s always been better with tongues than words.

But is Sayeed really only going to give them half of a gesture? Apparently his face is transparent; the sight of it deepens the furrow in the woman’s brow.

“I will tell you the rest.”

Isseya waves her off. “Yes yes, we know how this goes. ‘In exchange for,’ and all that. What do you want?”

“Your word.”

She asks for one but those two press down on their already so fucking heavy shoulders. Make the Trinity—a word that means three… are they even still such when only two remain?

Her lips on his neck don’t ease either of their burdens but, as always, her touch is enough. It isn’t hunger that makes him weak enough to grasp onto some—any—part of her… but sometimes weakness is just weakness.

“Your word,” Kamilah continues, “that you will tuck your tails and run the moment you are reunited.”

Which — he’s very much in favor for. But that isn’t Cynbel’s decision to make. “It was the Godmaker who sent for us. Who made us stay to fight his battles for him, payment for…”

He can’t seem to say the words. Lucky the Bloodqueen understands.

“And anyway — he will hunt us down if we break our word now.” Isseya raises a good point, yet Cynbel keeps his selfish protest inside his chest. If we break our word now everything will have meant nothing.

“Leave Gaius to me.”

“Mmm.”

“Enough of this. You want to leave and you are being given a free chance to do so. Why not take it?”

“Nothing with the Godmaker is ever free.”

Rather than continue to argue her rather her rather strange case Kamilah just extends a hand. Notices his reluctance only in that the last time they shook on anything Cynbel had been left with one less hand to hold. Ah, Columbia. Good times. Better than these.

But it’s always Valdas who makes these choices; who has a right to decide for the three of them. He is their God, their Maker, their guide. Who ferried them from one world into the next and… and he just isn’t that man. Could never be — he could never be…

And thanks to their beloved Valdemaras. For bringing Isseya into his life then so she could be here for him now. A decision made together to assuage the guilt.

Cynbel and Kamilah shake on it. He tries to contain his look of surprise when he pulls back the same number of fingers he’d offered.

He’ll hold up his end of the bargain. So she holds up hers.

“It wasn’t supposed to get this far. There wasn’t supposed to be a war.” And she’s right. He still remembers Valdas’ honeyed words that got him to agree to this shit in the first place. All of them resting on one thing.

This would be simple. It would be fun. It would take no time at all.

“And for a while things were in our favor. We had decades of resources, we had information, we even had the numbers. But they were like…” she shudders an exhale, “they were like dominoes. First the numbers fell. A fluke — luck to keep a cosmic balance. Turning to bolster our own worked in the beginning. But with each line branching off into the next the blood became… diluted.

“It was a risk worth taking. Until it wasn’t. Put a dozen soldiers in the ground and only two of them would wake up sound of mind. There was a small outbreak—an uncontrolled and unsanctioned Turning…”

Kamilah trails off, the stoic figure beside her takes up the mantle with astonishing gravitas. “My men and I put down just over twenty Ferals across Indiana. Countless more casualties in our wake, then the humans started blamin’ each other for the killin’s. We had to let it rest or the Order’s doctrine would become all but gospel.”

“Unless the next part of your story has anything to do with either one of you taking up blacksmithing, perhaps we should be moving on.” While Isseya glowers at the pair they’ve already lost Cynbel. His focus is back on the page in hand — trying to catch the whispers of a memory dredged up by a sigil traced at the corner.

Kamilah’s nostrils flare. Ambrose chooses to keep the peace. “Well — see — at the beginnin’ of the year it was quiet, a little too quiet. Found out then about a little excavation the Order had goin’ ‘round near old Salem.”

“Hypocritical bastard.”

Cynbel launches the folder carelessly and the papers within begin to scatter on the dead evening air. Isseya, knocked back by his outburst, looks ready to snap his neck for the trouble. But when she realizes it isn’t a tantrum, that true distress wracks through him violently, she just… holds on.

“What’s with you, beloved…?”

“A series of cursed objects were made for the trials that took place there. One man by the name of Corwin, the leader of the hunters and a member of the Order — we discovered this much later, too late perhaps. He led the witch hunts and needled out from the masses those with a true affinity for the craft.

“Corwin promised that should the witches create for him a series of tools and weapons for the Order’s crusade then they would be spared.”

She doesn’t have to say the rest. The implications are clear enough.

Isseya can’t help her disgust. “They preach of cleansing humanity in one breath and further themselves with witchcraft in another. Actually — can’t fathom why I’m even surprised.”

But despite what they now know their minds haven’t changed. Kamilah sees this and knows it to be true.

The surprised one between them is the New Blood, Ambrose. He looks between the vampires and though he’s come to understand the language of their silent gazes he can’t seem to believe his eyes.

“You still intend to go after your Maker?”

Foolish for him to even ask.

There’s a new rigidity to the man’s spine as he inhales — looks at Kamilah with all the respect of a soldier to his general. “Then allow me to accompany them — allow me to bring my men to fight at their backs.”

“We have no use for cannon fodder.”

Even Kamilah tries to stifle some aged amusement; a knowing the youngest among them does not yet covet. “Your intentions are noble, Ambrose, but you and your men are best served here. Should the Order attack again —”

“Will their mission not ensure there won’t be another attack?” And though he raises a fair point Cynbel still can’t believe his eyes when Sayeed actually considers his proposal.

His darling’s growls rumble deep in Cynbel’s bones. “Your pity will earn you no honor.”

“‘Tis not pity, milady,” dark eyes level on those of the Trinity open, honest; a strangeness neither of them are familiar with outside of their own covenant, “but another life lost to the Order — especially one so highly praised between Old Blood like yourselves — is another victory I will not abide. ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing.’”

Isseya’s doubt and disregard claw at him, make his new skin still pinkish in its rawness itch uncomfortably. Wordlessly Cynbel reaches back and cards his fingers through her hair. Comfort found as much as it is given.

“Better to have cannon fodder than to be confronted without it, my beloved.”

He seals her protests with his lips; swallows them down greedy and reminds her with every twist of his tongue that they do this for something far more important than they. They do this for Him.

But he has the decency to wait until he feels the yield of her under his fingertips. Pressed-together foreheads and meals not shared but tasted against the familiarity of two thousand years.

Cynbel regards Ambrose… and nods.

Though her ‘peace offering’ has found its way across the packed earthen floor and in a few cases fluttering out glasses windows, Sayeed seems contented with the outcome. She rests a hand on Ambrose’s shoulder and finds the gesture returned. “On your own head be it.”

But, truly, no threat seems to deter him. “May the light of the First guide us.” So focused on his own altruism, he misses the recoiling shudder of the Trinity.

Kamilah takes her leave of them — one last look to Cynbel like fresh ink on a contract. She has upheld her end… and will ensure he does the same.

“Be ready come midnight, the absent will be left behind.” Already Cynbel allows the tension to ease out of him at Isseya’s touch. The way she clings to him — not desperately but with just as much intention in the matter.

“Of course.”

Cynbel makes sure to wait until the man is several strides gone before calling back. “Oh, and — Ambrose, was it?” Balancing the scales of power even now to make the man turn back to them. “Leave your First shit among your belongings here. Salvation does not come in those who pray on bended knee even as the sword comes down upon their necks. The only person who can give you precious salvation is you.”

An entire sermon goes unspoken across Ambrose’s hard-worn frown. “It was merely a prayer to faith.”

“We are of a different faith.”

“Which would that be?”

He doesn’t deign to answer. Dismisses the man instead by turning bodily from him and allowing himself to fully embrace her — to try and touch her as though she is not all he has left in the world. He can feel her struggling with the same mindset with every kiss, every caress.

As He delivered them from their mortal confines they, too, will deliver Him from the hands of the Order. And if they are too late…

No gods, martyrs, saints will keep them safe. Not the Order, not the Godmaker, not even Sayeed. And dear Ambrose will learn the hard way that his precious First will never come. No matter how hard he screams at the end.

The Order will expect retaliation to come when their enemies are safest. So they plan their strike for midday.

Three of the twelve men that make up Ambrose’s brigade back out before they can say another word. They look to their leader for permission but he stays silent — and fools that they are the men take silence as permission.

Cynbel and Isseya watch as, with an almost imperceptible nod, three of their brothers-in-arms take aim and fire on the mens’ backs at thirty paces. Thirty, he knows, because he counts each step they take before they are beheaded with their own sabers.

It makes the Golden Son look at the New Blood with different eyes. A sight Ambrose must notice even if he doesn’t look away from the ritual of execution. “There’s no place in my men for cowards,” is his only explanation. It’s more than enough.

One of the few humans left in town—who takes that he has not yet been devoured as a sign that some night he might join their ranks, the fool—agrees to drive their caravan. The winds taste of an early winter and have blown away the smoke up high in favor of a bleak, almost colorless day.

Isseya leans over and whispers in his ear; “Does the world really look like that, or is it that no beauty is worth finding without Him?” Whispered as though she’s afraid saying it will make her day-mares come true. He doesn’t answer with words — throws an arm over her shoulders and pulls her in tight so that she may feel the tremors that wrack him still.

So that she may know her fear is not a sole burden to bear.

If they had the tools, the resources, the time to prepare they would. This is not something they undertake lightly — this life that means more to them than their own shouldn’t be left up to chance. But they don’t. No time to scout, no time to strategize.

A thought that has Cynbel wheezing a laugh while hunched over the woefully barren map of where the Order might have based their operations.

The pair of boots at the edges of his vision shuffle, unwittingly drawing his attention up to Ambrose’s carefully-masked confusion.

“Indeed even in this slop I know my beauty is striking — but if it hasn’t yet dawned on you, New Blood, I am spoken for.”

Ambrose’s gall is quickly smothered at the sight of Cynbel’s lips; barely tugging at the edges. The only smile he will ever grace again, says that fear the Trinity shares, but he ignores it.

“Such a terrible tragedy, I’m sure. But you’re not exactly my type.”

“Men?” He scoffs. “Give it a century or two.”

“No, not men.”

He doesn’t respond until Cynbel meets his gaze fully. Impressive man… he’ll give credit where (and when) it is due. “Then…?”

“Self-servin’ and more than a tad off your rocker.”

Point the second for the New Blood. Fascinating. And not entirely wrong.

Cynbel goes back to his map. Ambrose leans back against the rattling caravan beam and closes his eyes.

“I was thinking of the risks involved here. And what he would say if he could see me here lamenting over a plan.” Outside they can hear the pacing a mile off — Cynbel would know the sounds of Isseya’s waif-play anywhere. Whatever it takes to get them food before they strike.

“I should be grateful for the opportunity to forgo the rigidities of war. All this officers and commanders and following orders horse-shit. I should be reveling in the chance to do this my way.”

“An’ what way would that be?”

“The way of the hunter. Knowing only what will ensure your survival. Passion in the kill… in the feed.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very informed way to go into battle.”

Perish the thought. “Battle used to be an intimate thing. Death must come by the might of your own hand or not at all. And my hands have caused so much death.” Cynbel’s damnable voice cracks against his permission. “Yet he always treated them with such care; such reverence. As though I was made of glass.”

He doesn’t know if the other man stays silent on purpose or not — but he appreciates it nonetheless. Under normal circumstances he would only allow Isseya to see him so vulnerable. Surely she will forgive him this trespass, for these are not normal circumstances.

The smell of fresh blood is much closer when the new blood finally speaks again.

“This Maker of yours must be somethin’ special to inspire that kind’a loyalty.” And it’s a testament to how far this war has made them fall, isn’t it.

He could hold courts, give lectures, preach to the craven masses over the divine beauty of his lover and God. He has done, actually. A long time ago and an ocean away… Why is it now that words fail him?

Must be the hunger.

“You never knew your Maker, did you Ambrose?” asks Cynbel, but such a statement is telling — he already knows the answer.

“No, I didn’t. Can’t even put a face to ‘em.”

“Such a shame.”

“Why’s that?”

His fingers drift absently to his shoulder. To where Isseya usually rests like a perch — to the skin under his touch where his devotion was burned into him with fire and brimstone.

“A shame that you will never know the fulfillment that comes with that bond. I mean no offense —” he smirks at Ambrose’s immediately skeptical furrowed brow, “— I know, I’m just as surprised as you. But I would say such to any of our kind orphaned from the start. Isseya, my darling, she was blessed to have our Divinity and myself as guides. Before her — I know with certainty I would not have survived this long had the hand that pulled me into life not been the same one that felled me.

“Look to Augustine and Sayeed. I may wish to smear the Godmaker’s ashes across the known world but even I will not deny the strength of their connection. It has kept them alive for all this time at the very least. The sigils our Makers give us bind our minds to our bodies, yes, but they also serve a higher purpose.”

Fascinating then; the way something close to captivation changes so quickly. Not even hidden — no trace of it left on the suddenly worn, suddenly tired lines that tell but a drop of Ambrose’s vast story.

“Call ‘em what they are, Old Blood. They’re brands. And no way was I spendin’ my new life the way I spent my old one.”

It’s enough to pique Cynbel’s interest further.

“You weren’t marked after you Turned?”

“No.”

“How long ago?”

“Goin’ on twenty five years,” he raises his chin with much-deserved pride, “I’d like to think I’m proof a good, strong will is enough to do it. To keep you sane.”

In the Golden Son’s chest stirs an unfamiliar emotion — the only comparison he can muster being that of the sight of his lovers victorious. Respect, perhaps?

“I…” he doesn’t need preternatural hearing to catch Isseya’s growls of ill-content approaching the caravan; how easily he could let his words die—let the feeling die with it… and how strange that he does not.

“I cannot say I would have shown the same strength.”

Not a moment later one of the woven flaps is pushed aside to reveal Isseya in the closest thing she will ever allow to be called shambles; hair usually so carefully tucked away hanging in inky strings in front of her eyes or plastered in sweat on her brow, the hunt burning outward from her soul in crimson eyes and the fresh kill on her breath.

She sits beside Cynbel and immediately Ambrose and the map are things forgotten in her presence. He pulls the cap from her and makes careful work of combing her hair with his nails. She appreciates the gesture, says so in her half-smile, but they both know there is so little time for these moments.

After all, they may very well have only those moments left if they are too late.

“Go,” she pushes him back by the chest; urges her lover to stand and take his turn, “the pickings were scarce — you’re lucky I was able to stop myself.” Then, because she knows he will ask, she holds up a hand to stop their company before Ambrose can even open his mouth.

“Better to share than to have nothing.”

“You learn to take what you can get in times like these.”

She hums. “Indeed… they’ll be along shortly. New Blood could hardly keep up.”

The lovers reach out together. Take hands together and lock eyes together. Find comfort in one another together.

Cynbel turns and departs the caravan alone.

Augustine’s scouts were only half-right. Much like the Shadow King and his occupied town of human-chattel to ensure things were kept neat and tidy—or seemingly so—to the governors at the capital, the Order too has kept up appearances of some form or another.

It’s a small farming community — much like the outskirts of Charlottesville in barns dotted on the midday horizon. The one closest to the tree line is burned down, Cynbel notes. The trial run for their surprise attack no doubt.

And perhaps a more skeptical man would assume the children that run over the roads to the love of their mother’s skirts were no mere innocents — that they, too, were a part of the Order of the Dawn’s grand scheme to rid America of their kind. That every hobbling crone and well-bred young man is there because they choose to be; because they believe in the cause.

But Cynbel knows them too well to give in to paranoia.

One of Ambrose’s men, one who played executioner on his blood brother, makes the mistake of questioning that knowledge.

“I come from a town like this myself,” he says, “I know how deep the roots of faith go in these kinds’a places. Maybe… I mean maybe you’re rushin’ into this.”

Isseya’s hand twitches just shy of her lover’s. He holds her back only in that he will demand understanding of the fool before she strikes.

He leans in close and whispers low — for a moment Ambrose looks as if to pull the young man back; suspicion for the Trinity and their intentions clear even in the caravan’s shadow.

But the look passes, gone as quickly as it came.

He could grow to like this one.

“Are you suggesting that their faith is stronger?”

The creature pales; begins to understand what he’s done — and that he only has himself to blame. “No—no I —”

“Correct.” Not even at their full strength and his beloved is still faster, still better. Rounds upon him with the same hands that forced pagans to weep blood, to behold their God until it killed them. “What have they, Cynbel, numbers?”

She smirks up at him and for a moment all this suffering is undone. They are back in the halls of Versailles, the temples of Jaipur, the battlefields of the Old Days.

“Perhaps,” he nods to answer.

Her nails dig through the thick wool of the vampire’s uniform. Blood begins to bloom through the dark grey fabric. “What have they, Cynbel, weapons?”

“Perhaps,” he repeats.

“What have they, Cynbel, conviction?” If the fool were to scream all would be lost — their position discovered and their plan ruined before it could even begin. Though he might find screaming properly a difficult task as he watches in horror—not Cynbel, no, his eyes shine nothing short of worshipful—while Isseya swallows the meat of his tongue.

Let not her pretty face deceive… Isseya of the Veneti is the creature that judges all souls at the end.

Isseya smiles bloodstained, vicious; victorious.

“Let them turn to their God — we were here first. The Made-God Valdemaras with dominion over death-into-rebirth had altars drowned in the blood of his supplicants.”

Cynbel raises his chin with pride. Pride at their Divinity, pride at her ferocity. “Blood we spilled — his progeny, his lovers.”

She takes his ear next. Fleshy and red but Cynbel swears he can hear the crunch when her teeth come together.

The remaining battalion witness in silent horror. This is how his Priestess should always be revered.

“We don’t need numbers — for each body is an army unto itself. Strong, swift, one mouth gorging on an army’s feast.” His other ear she takes too — spits it to the wagon base at his boots. “We don’t need weapons — we are the weapons!”

Don’t play with your food, Valdas used to tell her under harvest moons and cloudless skies with the entire universe laid bare as their bodies. He would guide her; show her to feed with grace. And when his back was turned Isseya would continue to tear and mutilate with those bright eyes staring right at Cynbel. Daring him to keep her secret. Something only they could share.

He did. He has… all this time.

Going for the throat is the end of the game for their kind; same as the heart. The moment her righteous hand plunges through the front of him, palm open as a red flower blossoming, he has only moments until… poof.

“As for conviction…” The priestess’ voice softens. She watches her fingers drip blood as if in a trance… as if she doesn’t quite know the hand belongs to her. “We have two thousand years’ worth of conviction. Fuck their Almighty, and fuck your First Vampire. I choose to believe in a God who walks beside me. Who will answer when I call.”

The cloud of ash that follows her words plumes against the floorboards. Sticks to her wet hand and turns that beautiful flower into the gore that it truly is. Isseya holds them all under her thrall as she brings two fingers to her lips and sucks the fallen from them. But she only has eyes for Cynbel.

Valdas must be alive, he’s sure of it. Hell could not stand to suffer her wrath if it were otherwise.

“Anyone else hesitant?” Cynbel asks when he finally recovers himself. And all around him come varied degrees of submissiveness. Well… all but from Ambrose — but he will take the compliance in inaction.

Had they the time he would praise her, exalt her even. But there will be time for that later. There must be.

The smart thing to do would have been to wait until the night. But fortune lies with them as clouds gather overhead — not enough to blacken the sun but enough to burn, not kill.

Their driver gets them as close as he can. Cynbel pays him a broken neck as thanks.

He demands a handful of Ambrose’s men to go first. They look to their leader for guidance but he has remained uncharacteristically silent. But they have seen the lengths the Trinity will go to now and make the smart decision not to earn their ire.

Ambrose moves as if to join them. Cynbel darts a hand out against his chest — holds him back for reasons his mind has yet to even tell his body.

Luckily Isseya knows his body better than any. “Noble for an officer to join his underlings in battle. But there is no need for it here.” The blade she draws is, like her mistress, stained with the blood of their enemies.

“They’re my men. How can I expect them to go where I would not lead?”

“Cannon fodder goes first.” There’s a glee to her words that leaves Ambrose paling even as the rest pour out to spread their wrath. He glares at Cynbel with eyes of red wrath. The Golden Son backhands him for good measure.

“You’re sending them out there without any artillery!”

The Trinity exchange amused looks. Cynbel reaches out — cares little for how the other man flinches at even the possibility of his touch — and pats his cheek like a scolded babe.

“Have you ever seen what really happens to us in the sunlight?”

“Come, come!” Isseya cackles, delighted, and rushes out in a blur of motion to witness carnage on both sides.

Admittedly he’s a little disappointed the first one combusts before they clear the caravan. But just as he shoves Ambrose into the day—following close behind—a second catches flame right before their very eyes. Cannon fodder, indeed.

If the soldier has any thoughts of arguing they’re dashed as soon as he sees the satisfaction in Cynbel’s eyes. “You insisted,” he reminds Ambrose, and of course he had taken advantage of the only weapons available to him.

His satisfaction is short-lived as the sun takes its hold on him. Smoke hissing along his skin, a thousand daggers as he turns his head up to bask in the glory of it.

Panic has taken hold of the disposable soldiers. The thing about catching fire is it fucking hurts and tends to inspire irrational acts. Why else would they have kept it from them? They scatter across the wooden cabins on every side and run as blurs of burning flesh to the fields of wheat and cotton around. An endlessly burning sea.

See how it feels. This is but a day in the century of suffering he will inflict upon each and every soul. There are no innocents here.

“Rrragh!” A man comes running out from around a burning cabin with a gardening scythe above his head and a death wish written all over his fearful face. Cynbel spares him little effort; grasps his scrawny face in a single wide palm and twists it backwards so he doesn’t have to look at it.

Two burning vampires fall upon a woman before her crossbow can take proper aim. All these years later and the Order still sticks to the classics. It’s almost nostalgic.

Then her hand is in his — fascinating, really, the numbing quality of a lover’s touch. She cannot take his pain away, as he cannot take hers. But together it is easier to endure. That’s love though, isn’t it.

Every place the Order has hidden has one constant; the one thing Cynbel was sure of even when all else remained uncertain.

The church is a tiny thing, but well-maintained. Where every else building was falling to disrepair this chapel smells of fresh paint; the garden lining the entrance well-cared for and loved.

How terribly predictable the faithful were.

The lovers rest their free hands on either door; turn to look at one another in the light and she, too, holds back tears in her eyes. Tears of loss, of love, of the pain that is no longer content to prick at them and now seeks to peel their flesh from their bones.

They rip the doors from their hinges and enter.

The bulk of the Order’s soldiers stand before them. Weapons drawn, faces grim, determined; resolute. Back in the old days armor was worn in place of silly cloth uniforms — but Cynbel will admit he rather enjoys that the fools haven’t found a suitable replacement for helmets. He enjoys watching their faces while they scream.

His gaze sweeps across the enemy fierce and takes in the now-familiar symbol that rests like a false guardian over their breasts. The embroidered fleur-de-lis as persistent as those who wear it. But beside the golden threads he comes to recognize with no small amount of surprise the patchwork they create as a united front. A quilt of officers, commanders; those who have taken it upon themselves to stitch a count of their kills on arms and collars. The Order’s finest all gathered in one place.

Yet they must be, too, the Order’s most foolish. For they face their enemy as one and turn their backs to the true evil they hold captive at the pulpit.

The very sight of Valdas again is a relief that cannot be put into words. His head hangs weak, gaping wounds across his bared flesh trying desperately to close themselves — but he’s too drained. He’s just left there, bound in a wooden chair with rusted shackles, looking like his skin is alive and breathing.

The relief passes and the void left is quickly filled with rage, ferocity. Isseya’s hand clenches his hard enough to break bone and may very well do so but nothing so simple as his own agony would stop them now.

“See,” barks one with a collar littered in crimson thread, “told you some’d be fools enough to come!”

Around them come murmurs of agreement, the clicking of wooden bolts being pulled back into place on crossbow springs, sabers drawn and the smell of gunpowder freshly packed.

Cynbel inhales it deeply. Doesn’t scent nearly enough fear in the air but give it time… give it time.

“The only fools I see are the mortals who court death so readily.”

Valdas’ head snaps up at the sound of Isseya’s voice; seeks them across the room with the fire that claimed him trapped in his eyes. “You should not be here,” he growls — struggles against the shackles that bind him to a simple wooden chair seemingly in vain.

But his lovers know better — know their Lord and Light does nothing without divine intention. The smell of his burning flesh assaults Cynbel’s nose but the more they know in these few precious moments of stillness the better.

“What, not having any fun?” Cynbel calls with a half-hearted chuckle; knows he will pay for it later — when they are far from this place.

“You know I have always preferred to inflict the pain, beloved.”

When Isseya steps forward the Order spurs into action with raised weapons and fingers poised on triggers. “Patience is a virtue, Valdas.”

His laugh is weak, more a wheezing exhale than anything else, but it’s enough for them. “Not one of mine…”

Outside their attack rages on but in here the stillness is almost fateful. It clings to the human’s necks in sweat and growing agitation and keeps the Trinity divided. But it is so very brittle. So easily broken.

All it takes is finding the weakest link — a trembling figure near his back, a brave lamb who thinks to prove herself worthy. Her shuffled footsteps are deafening.

She fires her pistol before Cynbel can even turn his head. And lodges itself wetly in the belly of an Order member across the room.

And really he should be considered gracious that he gives the lamb the chance to see her mistake, to watch the man cry out and clutch his bleeding side as he falls to his knees — they are in a church after all. She should know the risks that come with crossing them; crossing him.

“Now look what you’ve done…” Cynbel’s hands fall on her shoulders and hold her still just long enough; to watch the tears horror that pales into sour fear on her face that he sacrifices seeing for the thrill of the hunt.

He snaps her neck and all hell breaks loose.

It is the violence Cynbel has been denied since the beginning. Long years of agony tasting of carnage and destruction but not given the chance to really revel in his actions — not before they were called to move onward. The humans are on the precipice of their own war, said to him once, but it must come in its own time.

He feels the sting of a bolt in the meat of his arm; cries out a raging behemoth and swipes the offender’s head clean from his shoulders.

Across the aisle Isseya rips her blade across a man’s belly and opens him from the inside out. His organs made a bloody procession for which she steps on.

Blood splatters the walls, the pews. The certainty of seeing their God driving the lovers forward in the destruction of this gathering of butchers. They don’t know the meaning of the word — but they will now.

In his mind’s eye Cynbel remembers the map on Augustine’s wall and undoes the threads of it in every movement. Battles unwon in every man torn limb from limb, the tides of war changed as they grow stronger with every feed. They carve themselves a path to their Maker and, with it, rip the victory the Order had so foolishly thought they could claim from their feeble and mortal hands.

It’s a kind of bloodlust he hadn’t felt in over a thousand years. Beautiful, bright; blinding.

Just enough for him to miss the half-faceless man who charges towards the altar with a war cry on his missing lips and a splintered railing of wood clutched in his fist.

“DIE! FOR THE OR—!”

The Children of the Made-God would have been too late. A knowledge they carry like a burden; a stain on their souls for what short time they would have remained in the world of the living together… before they sought to join him in whatever comes after death.

Cynbel drops the heart wrenched from a general’s chest. Doesn’t even look as it beats it’s last inches from the owner’s face. Isseya, too, with her mouth shoved into a wayward throat pulls back and in doing so shreds it to ribbons. The bloody mask she wears twisted wretched beyond compare. Her terror, his desperation.

They witness — as they have done everything since the moment Valdas left their side — together that the human falls to his knees; silenced by his own hand.

No, not his.

Valdas licks at the blood speckled fresh on his starving lips. The clarity is gives him is immediate; the color rushing to his cheeks. He looks to meet the eyes of his lovers but instead finds them fixated on something — someone — at his back.

His anger was the only thing holding the Golden Son on two feet; a fact he comes to terms with as his knees buckle and he collapses on all fours. There’s a wailing echoing ghastly from rafter to rafter overhead and he realizes quickly the voice is his own but it isn’t enough to make him stop.

And it is with the same uncertainty as before that Ambrose looks upon the Order’s congregation and slaughter. His blistering skin is made new in the church’s shadow, so little blood staining his coat that it could only have come from the dead soldier at their feet.

There’s nothing else Valdas can do but take in his lovers and their weakness. The ache it brings to his heart only matched by the physical pain that comes when unfamiliar hands grasp at the manacles that hold him victim.

Ambrose grunts with the effort but finally wrenches one free; holds his wounded palms close to his chest but it is more than enough.

At once they are upon him. Cynbel at his ankles and Isseya on his other hand, both of them weathering the pain because they cannot imagine doing otherwise.

When he is finally freed Valdas stands over them. Wavering, but alive. Made whole in the mere presence of one another.

Then there’s a soft thud and the noise forces open eyes Cynbel hadn’t realized he closed. No longer above them, Valdas too rests on his knees to look at them not on high… but as an equal.

Isseya reaches out first. Touches the edges of a gaping wound on Valdas’ cheekbone with trembling reverence. It’s a movement he mirrors on her, then upon them both. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Unable to find—or manage—the words that may not yet exist.

His gaze says enough.

I thought I’d lost you.

What is he supposed to say to that? Cynbel finds himself looking to Isseya for answers but she’s just as lost. Just as vulnerable and a breath, a touch away from crumbling to dust.

Two thousand years. One hundred and thirty seven fights. Eight months altogether spent apart and too many acts of love to count. Five excruciating times he nearly lost them — now six.

And in a rare first Cynbel looks into the eyes of what is by all accounts a complete stranger and whispers “Thank you.”

#bloodbound #playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #kamilah sayeed #gaius augustine #oc: cynbel #oc: isseya #oc: valdas #oc: ambrose #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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thisweekingundamwing · 6 years ago

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This Week in Gundam Wing 2-8 June 2019

Here’s this week’s roundup!

Remember to give your content creators some love! And join in on the events at the bottom!

(Also remember, that if you don’t send in your own creations, I’m probably not going to see them, and they won’t make it in here.)

~Mod Hel

Fanfiction/Snippets/AU Ideas:

@doctormegalomania

Eldritch Holiday (Creature of the Night) (Ch. 23) https://archiveofourown.org/works/17802668/chapters/45395572

Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner, Chang Wufei/Original Female Character(s)

Horror, Body Horror, Occult, Comedy, Eventual Romance, Post-Break Up

There’s something wrong with Happiness. Duo doesn’t know what, and he’s determined to find out. The rest of the Gundam Pilots tag along to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.

Fanart/Gunpla/Photo Manips:

dolphinegg

https://www.reddit.com/r/Gunpla/comments/bw06mi/working_on_my_birthday_gift_narrative_gundam_bc/

Gunpla

@gundayum

https://gundayum.tumblr.com/post/185366874576/i-cant-seem-to-tag-who-this-is-for-but-here

Duo & Heero

@lemontrash

https://lemontrash.tumblr.com/post/185450952864/got-some-things-to-do-in-the-garden-today

WuFei Chang

https://lemontrash.tumblr.com/post/185432716559/discord-scribbles-80s-rock-band-au-needs

WuFei, Duo, Trowa, Quatre, & Heero

https://lemontrash.tumblr.com/post/185401987389

Duobat

@looklingart

https://looklingart.tumblr.com/post/185351573294/lifeaftermeteor-i-believe-i-owed-you-a-duo

Duo Maxwell

Fandom Discourse:

@gundayum

https://gundayum.tumblr.com/post/185299340116/seitou-gundayum-seitou-im-100-behind

Pride discord

@seitou

@lemontrash

https://lemontrash.tumblr.com/post/185381354834/gundayum-lemontrash-gundayum

Some wonderful ‘plot’ bunnies!

@gundayum

Quotes:

@incorrectgundamwingquotes

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185349968384/while-undercover-duo-dont-make-any-jokes

Duo & Heero

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185354326147/in-the-groupchat-wufei-where-the-hell-are-you

WuFei, Duo, & Trowa

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185376553223/duo-taco-cat-backwards-is-still-taco-cat-yknow

Duo, OZ Interrogator, & Heero

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185285058093/duo-who-do-i-shoot-heero-him-heero-clone-no

Duo, Heero, & Heero Clone

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185262789570/i-hate-when-flies-rub-their-hands-together-wtf

Hilde

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185443503000/duo-hey-fei-were-friends-now-right-wufei-fuck

Duo & WuFei

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185360401908/duo-to-heero-im-leaving-see-ya-ro-heero

Duo & Heero

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185456968191/heero-trying-to-flirt-do-you-come-here-often

Heero & Relena

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185465105044/incorrectgundamwingquotes-heero-hey-say

Heero, Duo, WuFei, & Trowa

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185465024519/on-the-lunar-base-colonel-une-to-the-captured

Une & Heero

https://incorrectgundamwingquotes.tumblr.com/post/185465192704/lemontrash-incorrectgundamwingquotes-wufei

WuFei, Trowa, & Quatre

MoodBoard/Aesthetics:

@noirangetrois

https://noirangetrois.tumblr.com/post/185361464427/kingcheddarxvii-theories-of-adam-ekberg-i

The best Pineapple aesthetic.

Calendar Events:

@acworldbuildingzine

Rhythm Generation https://acworldbuildingzine.tumblr.com/post/184653827558/emails-have-been-sent-if-you-signed-up-by-may

Emails have been sent out!

@gundam-wing-bingo

Gundam Wingo is a go!

Come sign up for a card here: https://gundam-wing-bingo.tumblr.com/post/185466400076/gundam-wing-bingo

@gwcocktailfriday

Cocktail Fridays!

Post responses on Friday, during Happy Hour between 3 & 5 pm in your own timezone.

Here’s the prompt for Friday, June 14th! https://gwcocktailfriday.tumblr.com/post/185450918908/cocktail-friday-post-responses-on-friday-june

For those going to Pillowfort, find us here.

If anyone has ideas for prompts, PLEASE send them in! Our ask box is always open.

In Need of Summer Prompts

@seasons-of-gundamwing

Summer of Zechs 2019 https://seasons-of-gundamwing.tumblr.com/post/185300480931/summer-of-zechs-2019

Will be taking place July 7th - 20th!

Prompts:

Images: https://seasons-of-gundamwing.tumblr.com/post/185301190971/summer-of-zechs-2019-promptsthemes

Others: https://seasons-of-gundamwing.tumblr.com/post/185301477691/summer-of-zechs-2019-promptsthemes-2

Final Prompt Tie Breaker Poll: https://seasons-of-gundamwing.tumblr.com/post/185301563801/tie-breaker

There’s only 3 votes cast so far, be sure to get yours in!

Here’s the Pillowfort discussion.

@thisweekingundamevents

Gundam Wing Unorthodox Undercover Work Mini Bang

Sign-ups will open in July! So keep a lookout!

#Gundam Wing #This Week in Gundam Wing #Weekly Roundup #2-8 June 2019 #long post

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wickednerdery · 6 years ago

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Title: FrostBitten: Blood Runs Cold Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Marvel Pairing/character: Loki x Reader x Jotun!OC Rating: Explicit Summary: “It’s time.” Notes: This is the official finale (not including epilogue to come) of my series/multi-chapter fic - Masterlist Here. Ulfr is a Frost Giant, more clearly so than Loki, and “played” by Lee Pace. The whole thing in general is dark, this piece (which covers the same time as the last one, then continues on from it) is mostly just violent. For that and length it gets a “Read More”.

He knows Loki’s “invite” is the first step back down the spiral to Hel. Loki gets this he’ll keep pressing and pressing until it’s as bad, worse than, it was before. Ulfr can either stop him now or let it all go to shit for himself, you, the baby, and everyone else in Loki’s path. So, really, he doesn’t have a choice. It’s now or never.

The split is quick, easy for him, this time; as one steps out to follow you into whatever trap Loki’s laid, the other slips off to contact Dr Strange.

Over the months Strange grew increasingly wary of Ulfr. Not for fear of his mind, his control, but in his abilities. In once raw power now honed without the limits of morals or consideration for others. When they meet now, Strange keeps his distance, his guard up, and rarely lets the other get too close...even in the mirror dimension.

“It’s time.” Ulfr declares.

“Why’s that?”

“You wanna stand around debating or stop Loki before he does any more damage?” He smiles. “We don’t have time for both.”

"We can’t afford to act without consideration...like before.” When Ulfr set their plans back by months in touching The Tesseract. “And, if you can’t...”

Ulfr’s mirage fades and Strange tenses. Where is he? What sort of trap is this...and whose is it? Loki’s or Ulfr’s? The sorcerer spins; Ulfr grabs and slams hard enough the wall refracts in multiple directions preventing additional injuries. The doctor’s vision blurs, head spins, as the other hits like a sledgehammer, doubling him over, before he can recover enough to fire Ulfr back and throw up shields. The Frost Giant fades away again...And Strange sees his folly. He didn’t intend to fight, only distract. No more Sling Ring and while the Eye of Agamotto remains, its falsehood is sensed. One doesn’t have to contend with protective spells if he’s switching rather than stealing...

“Fuck,” Strange groans out.

Loki spins in his rise, firing from the scepter as he does, only for the blast to shatter door-frame and ice-wall. He tries again and again Ulfr throws up arm to block the blast, then breaks and bends shield into blades that he casts in Loki’s direction. One clips the end of cape, another dings shin-guard, as Loki throws up his own magic shield. He grins. “Do you truly think you can defeat your king, a god?”

“Yeah, I do,” Ulfr grins back before light flies in his direction. It cracks across his shoulder like a hot whip, one whose burn burrows under skin, muscle, and into bone. He hisses, growls, as ice soothes wound, patches up torn armor, and grows into spikes across the Frost Giant’s form.

Both men charge, allowing rage, frustration, and testosterone to fill them, fuel them, to mad battle...

You’re in the living room, but...not. The place is blurred, your breath echoes, and while you can hear both men they sound miles and miles away. You’re fully dressed, armored in something akin to a sleek version of an Iron Man suit, but utterly bewildered as to where, exactly, you are.

There’s a crash as Loki flies through the wall, landing a few feet from you in an enraged heap. Red streaks down his face from hairline to chin and he flicks blood from his hair to glare about with blackened eyes, but he looks through rather than at you. Grunting up on his feet his scepter fires through the hole his body made, lighting up the bedroom in red. He’s blue, lined...full Jotun. Just like Ulfr who steps through the hole, pink-tinged armor reforming as fast as it melts. “I am your king!”

“I don’t care,” Ulfr states, taking wide strides in approach to a scrambling Loki. With a flick of his wrist he sets Loki’s insides on fire and the man begins to seize and twist, gasp for air through burning throat. “You killed your king, your father...My family...You’re a traitor....Murderer of your own kind!” His voice begins to shake in pure rage, loathing...then pain as the magic he uses causes his own Jotun skin to crack and bleed. “NÍÐINGR!!”

“Ulfr, no!” You give a scream, it echoes back without reaching either man’s ears. “Stop!!” It isn’t that you want either to win; you don’t want either of them to lose. They can be terrible, terrifying, but that they could kill each other horrified you. That they might leave you and your child, their child, alone in whatever this world has become shakes tears from your eyes.

Loki times it perfectly, the blade appearing just as Ulfr goes for the kill. It slips in red hot, severing the roots of tree, and Ulfr howls in agony. Muscles tense, fight the intrusion, as the god’s wrist twists, yanks, and more flesh opens to the shock of the gutted. Loki chuckles darkly as hand once ready to strangle hits the floor to keep the Frost Giant from collapsing outright.

Ice armor melts, Seiðr spills with blood, as Ulfr fights to heal over everything else. The heat of Loki’s cursed knife spreads, burns the core of him, even after it leaves his body. Fiery poison pumps through veins, boiling blood both within and spilling across the floor. He’s been a fool, indulgent in vengeance, and now he’s lost as Loki stabs again, pushing him off with the blade itself.

“Loki!” You scream as the pocket universe Ulfr tucked you in melts with your armor. “STOP!! STOP YOU’RE KILLING HIM!!” You rush forward, then stop short as the god’s eyes flare up at you.

All semblance of humanity is gone. “Yes...well that is the point.” The maniacal look leaves in a gasp as ice impales his chest. He looks down, sees Ulfr’s blood-caked grin, before going to grab the Eye of Agamotto for himself. He’ll heal later, but first the stone. The moment his hand touches the pendant Ulfr’s hands latch over his.

“STOP!!!” You beg as the two enter an impenetrable battle of wills; as they grab, hit, and stab each other in the struggle to get the upper hand before their death. “Fuck....” Your mind races for a distraction, anything to get them apart and away from that stupid necklace. Then you hit on it and wail as if in pain. “THE BABY!!!“

It gets their attention...sort of. They look to you, but both men keep hands on jewelry and, in seeing nothing wrong, Loki only laughs before yanking hard. He gains control of the Eye, but loses balance in the process and tips back. Hand releases the gold chain in instinctive favor of staying upright and the pendant crashes against the wall.

Desperate to end this, in hopes they can be saved both physically and mentally, you dash forward before either’s collected themselves. The gold chain is knotted, gilded cage cracked and broken, and a short ways off is the glowing green stone that’s slipped out. You reach down to pick up it...

“NO!!” They both roar.

The second you touch it agony seizes your entire being...an incomprehensible, raw, burn of energy that makes you wail like a flaming animal. It pulls you apart on a molecular level, body and mind and soul. Through blinding light both men rush forward. Ulfr’s body wraps around you, grabs the stone to funnel energy into himself, and Loki follows after, but you know this is it. This is the end...

“Think of before...” you hear their voices mix in your mind more than ear. Weak, desperate, pleading, dying with you.

The stone flames itself into your palms as you try to focus on the life you had before all this. Before Ulfr, before Loki, before New York and your world fell to the bitter cold of their conquering...

This is, in fact, not the end. There will be at least one epilogue showing what’s happened to these three after. My ability to write fight scenes sucks so sorry if it was confusing, but I couldn’t find an easier way to write it, lol! Also Dr Strange is fine, it’ll just take him a bit to get out of the mirror dimension and back to his current time and place, LMAO!! (That I finished this tonight is a holiday miracle and I really hope you all enjoy it, LMAO!!)

Side Note: Níðingr means “villain, vile person” in Old Norse.

(Top gif made from two found on Google, bottom found on Google - ignore the surroundings, focus on “Ulfr” and their hands, lol!)

Tagged: @succumb-to-your-king @chibiyanai @wadeyouwitch @creedslove @lady-crowned-with-stars @moonfaery @annievvv7 @ladyfluff @holykryptonitekitten @lokilvrr @janebrownnie @lokis-little-kitten @alexakeyloveloki @theangelsfightwithdevils @the-blue-tiefling @lokis-lady-death @dangertoozmanykids101 @prometheasmother @vethrvolnir @wintertink @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes @drakonwild @starscreamloki @judas-bby @hiddles-rose @the-lady-witchitery @galaxies-inside-my-head @jackheart180 @lukeevansandjdmobession @endlessstairway @lanabanana-86 @tom-fucking-hiddleston-1981 @lovekrystina @madoka73 @lokikingofasgardslover713 @partiallyinthecloset @ultrarebelheart @gravitational-anomaly @manip-loki @my-world-of-imagines …Think that’s everyone!

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lenoirlivre · 8 years ago

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A little about me and this blog.

Certainly, I do not expect everyone to agree with everything said here. As a matter of fact this blog is merely a way for me to transmit and record the knowledge I already possess and will acquire through research regarding the Occult subject, but not only that, it is also a way of reaching out to fellow people who might have a better understanding of certain parts if not the whole of the subject.

Now, who am I? My name shall not be revealed concerning my safety and privacy, though if you wish to address to me you can use the name LeNoir or the initials LN . I’m a 18 year old guy with a very curious mind and an affinity to things considered Occult or Supernatural. I consider myself a Solitary -Eclectic witch/warlock for te reasons that I’m still too young to join a coven (and i do not know if any exist near me) and because I am drawn to lots and different magical practices respectively. But enough about me.

What is a Witch?

Well, to begin, many people use the word “Witch” to describe someone evil and malevolent who worships the Devil and causes misfortunes with spells and curses. Non of that is true I can say and be sure of it. Although, people who worship the Devil will call themselves Witches and some witches (very rarely) have the potential to cause troubles with curses. But again, that is very rare, as witches only wish to bring good things in their’s and other’s lives, and it is known amongst witches that whatever you give to the universe, the universe gives back at the same rate.

For me, the word “Witch” defines someone who practices witchcraft which broadly means the practice of and belief in magical skills/abilities that are able to be exercised by individuals and certain social groups. If you learn about, and practice various rituals and perform certain aspects of the craft, you are considered a Witch. Though you do not have to necessarily perform any of the Rituals and the Practices to be a Witch. If you feel that you are a magical person and you can feel that you are connected to the universe and everything around you and that you have the power to influence some of it’s aspects with your will, than you are a Witch.

What can a Witch do?

Everything :) . Divination, Psychometry, Lithomancy, Palmistry, Scrying, Hexing, spells and curses are some of the most popular practices of witchcraft. Witches can do everything they want, intention and will power matters the most. Sure, moon phases, seasons, months, days and hours, planetary positions as well as affinities and understanding are important but a Witch always knows that mind rules over matter and will power is the key to everything.

Types of witches

Yes, there are certain types of witches and it all depends only on affinities and what someone may feel closer to or have a better understanding of it and they are referred to as “paths”. Now, you don’t have to necessarily put yourself under a tag but finding your affinities will definitely help you with your studies and practices.

Solitary - Practicing by ones’ self; not included in a group.

Secular - Non-religious / Not connecting with deity(s).

Eclectic - An individual’s practice that has bits and pieces pulled from different magickal and/or spiritual practices, respectfully.

(Theistic) Satanic - Witchcraft that is often centered around honoring and/or working with satan in spellwork and prayer.

Atheist /Laveyan Satanic - Witchcraft worked with the idea that satan is a concept, rather than a real person or entity (loosely put; it’s a very detailed concept). Also known as Satanic witches who fit the secular description.

Hereditary/Blood - Including oneself in the practice of witchcraft on the grounds of having been born into a family who also practices. Knowledge and practice may also be passed down through generations, and honor old ways of magick.

Traditional - One who practices witchcraft by honoring and using old and ‘traditional’ ways of magick; this type of witch might be one to practice modern methods of magick, but they might also stick to traditional concepts or techniques.

Christian - Witchcraft that is performed to honor / or is performed in conjunction with the Christian God as the primary and only deity.

Hellenic - A form of non-witchcraft practice in which the practicer follows Greek ideals/culture and honors the Greek pantheon.

Celtic - Magickal practice that is based from the Celtic culture, including its’ mythology, deities, old ways, and (occasionally) language / symbols. May also describe those who only worship Celtic gods.

Science - A form of magick in which both metaphysical ideas and scientific facts/theories are mixed in together by the individual practicer.

Types of Witchcraft

I took the information from another blog Rainy-Day-Witchcraft and assigned them in categories.

Keep in mind that each term’s explaination is the basic description of that type of witchcraft/magick; each individual witch might be a certain type but define it differently, as their practice may be different from the next Witch.

Spiritual :

Dream - (A possible variation of Hedge) Mindful and internal magickal practice mainly based from interpreting dreams and/or engaging in lucid dreaming. Those who intensify as this may “de-code�� symbols and messages in the dream world similar to how one would use a divination technique.

Hedge - Also known as an astral title, a type of magick that is oriented around more spiritual work; astral travel/projection, lucid dreaming, spirit-work, healing, and out-of-body experiences are all practices included in this magick.

Faery/Fey - Magick for those who communicate and work with the fey during spells and rituals. Usually, those who work with the fey may also leave offerings regularly, as thanks for the assistance of a faery in their spellwork.

Spirit Working - A practice in which the person will perform spellwork in conjunction with or with the help of any manner of spirit. This includes Ouija, (sometimes) demon spirits, spiritual contact, etc.

Draconian - Refers to type of magick for those who call upon or work with dragons and dragon imagery in their practice; whether it be through astral matters or in spells and rituals.

Death/Necromancy - A practice that may combine Bone, Animal, Spirit work, occasionally also Blood. Using spirits to empower one self, hoarding bones, using graveyards, graves, the spirits of them, as well as the dirt (or even plants) that are found in them. May also honor the dead and/or gods who work with the dead.

Chaos/Chaotic - A type of magick utilizing new, non-traditional, and unorthodox methods. It is a new and highly individualistic practice, while still drawing from other common forms of magick.

Animal - (A variant of Green) Magick that is strongly tied to the animal kingdom, which includes a deep appreciation for all animals, and most often: usage of animal materials in spellwork. An animal witch will most likely be one who loves animals, a person who animals are immediently “drawn” to, and those who appreciate the natural world. Some animal witches might also use bones, wings, feathers, fur, skin, scales, (etc). from deceased animals in their magick, if they choose to do so.

Sigil - A witchcraft working majorly with sigils, and the intent that can be put into them to active their power.

Grey - A neutral witch, who practices magick that neither benefits or harms others. Grey magick may also both harm and benefit at the same time, balancing and neutralizing.

Lunar - One who works magick with / honors the moon and it’s energy and phases. This type of witch is also one to favor casting magick during the night hours rather than during the day.

Astronomy/Space - (A wider variant of lunar) Those who practice magick and correlate their beliefs in conjunction with the planets and stars! These witches may focus their magick with the properties of each planet, regularly read a horoscope or study astrology, and have a love of the stars and the night.

Energy - Those who prefer to do magick through energy exercises and manipulation rather than with many physical tools or materials; using the enhanced power of the mind and the body’s natural energies to bring about a magickal result or feeling. (Also may include aura work).

Heathenry - a practice in which the individual follows, works with, and/or worships the Norse deities.

Lokean - Someone who works with/worships Loki and/or any of his relations (Hel, Jormugandr, Sigyn, Angrboda, etc) ; does not exclude other deities.

Odinism - A faith that works mostly with Odin, Thor, Freyjr, Freyja, Frigga, and Heimdall.

Asatru - Literally “Faith in the [Old] Gods” it is a more specific branch of Heathenry that worships the major Nordic pantheon, minus Loki, Fenrir, or other “adversary” gods.

Gaulish - A practice that involves worshipping Gaulish gods.

Kemetic - Worshipping and working with Egyptian deities.

Elemental :

Green - Utilizing greenery/plants/herbs/flowers in herbal and natural magick, such as creating blends of different plants or using primarily herbs in spellwork.

Sea - A type of magick derived from materials and abstract ideas involving the ocean and oceanic world. Sea/Ocean magick can be worked using seashells and bones, sea weed, beach sand, driftwood, ocean water, etc. and a sea witch might draw their energy from that of the sea!

Storm/Weather - Magick that is worked by combining one’s energy with the energy of the weather, and most commonly rain. Weather witches will do things like collect rain/snow water, absorb the energy of a lightning storm, “whistle up” or manipulate wind, predict the weather, etc.

Garden - While having a garden and/or working in any type of garden; magick that is mostly (if not all) herbal and botanical-related! Garden witches take pride and find it calming or invigorating to work the earth, harvest that which they have planted, and are closely related to Green type.

Elemental - Magick that is worked by honoring/acknowledging the 4 or all 5 elements: Water, Earth, Air, Fire, and Spirit. Commonly an Elementalist will dedicate different areas of their altars to each element, call upon them during spells and rituals, and use symbols to represent each.

Water - Specifically centered on the element of Water; water scrying, collecting sea/storm/snow/river/spring water, swimming/bath spells and other water-related actives, creating and using symbols associated with water.

Earth - Specifically centered on the element of Earth; grounding exercises, rock/soil collecting, strong appreciation of the natural world, creating and using symbols associated with earth.

Air - Specifically centered on the element of Air; working with wind, using air-related tools (such as the wand), creating and using symbols associated with air.

Fire - Specifically centered on the element of Fire; Using anything fire-related (bonfires, candles, burning objects) in most spellwork, creating and using symbols associated with fire.

Flora - Much like a Green or Garden witch, those who work majorily with floral materials and flowers in their practice and in their spellwork! Their grimoire may be heavily associated with flowers rather than herbs, and likewise, one might use flower properties in spell or craft work.

Seasonal - Witches who utilize and draw energy from the specific times of year for their magick, sort of how a person might have a strong love or connection to a certain time of year! This can also be spread out into Winter, Autumn, Spring and Summer witches.

“Poison Path” - Working with plants, herbs, other items that may be poisonous, deadly, cause hallucinogenic effects, or affect the mind or body in some way. (sometimes aphrodisiacs are included).

Desert - Using and utilizing the desert environment. Lots of work with hardier plants such as Cacti or Tumbleweeds. Use of the moon, desert earth, fire, rare water (especially rainwater), wind, local plants and herbs, as well as animals/creatures of the desert such as snakes, spiders, scorpions, and so on.

Swamp/Bog - Heavy use of water and moisture, rich we soil/mud, sometimes incorporates the use of bones, animals, and insects, especially the local plants of the Swamp.

Material :

Cottage / Hearth - (A slight variation from kitchen) Magick that is weaved, worked, or embued into mundane tasks around the house or for loved ones. Cottage/Hearth magick may be worked into daily tasks such as cleaning, cooking, or any hobbies.

Kitchen - Magick that is worked specifically through “kitchen craft” such as herbal mixtures, brewing, baking, and cooking, and honors many aspects of the natural world: including herbs, crystals, fey, and the elements.

Tea - Those who drink tea, make tea, use tea-leaf divination, or enjoy blending herbal remedies! A variant of Kitchen/Cottage witch.

Embroidery / Sewing / Knit - One who embues magick into household “stitching” or “string” hobbies such as embroidery, sewing, knitting, stringing, and knotting ~ Basically, one who identifies with using knot or chord magick in many different skills.

Paper - Magick that is worked with, essentially, paper! Burning paper written with sigils, chants, symbols or spells, creating magickal offerings, items, or sachels from paper, etc.

Music - Magick that is worked with music, musical chimes, or rhythm! Humming/singing, clapping, singing chants during spells, playing instruments (even simple ones, like the triangle or bells), or even just simply playing music during spellwork, magick, or during energy exercises are a few common things a music witch might fancy.

Art/Craft - Witchcraft that can be worked through arts and crafts, simply put! One may embue macgick in creative activities such as painting, drawing, building, cutting, creating, etc.

Bone - Witches who commonly collect, clean, and use animal bones in their magickal practice, and for things like altar decoration or magick-infused charms/jewelry. Materials used by those who identify as Bone witches are usually collected peacefully or after the being has passed on naturally!

Crystal - Magick that is worked commonly with stones and crystals, such as during spellwork or for crystal healing techniques. This may also include chakra balance, crystal meditation… anything that uses crystals, really! A crystal witch may also have an extensive knowledge of stones, including how to identify them and using their properties.

Literary - Those who practice magick through books and literature; a literary witch may do thing such as using book divination, often study witchcraft/magick even after the “beginner” phase of learning, etc. Also a term used to describe witches in stories, books, or movies.

Other :

Pop Culture - Uses pop culture as a main focus or inspiration for the craft. Using lyrics or movie lines in spells, worshipping and honoring pop culture icons or idols, use of fandom, and more. It is a very wide practice. Examples may include drawing from Harry Potter spells or using invented sigils from shows like Supernatural.

Urban Primative/City - For those who live or prefer the urban/city lifestyle; magick that can be worked without the seemingly “traditional” ways of witchcraft.

Like i said, I do not expect everyone to agree with me. I’m open to submissions and suggestions. There will be future posts in which I will attempt to explain everything in a deeper sense and add more information. Message me anytime if you wish to contact me. Also, please follow this amazing blog Rainy-Day-Witchcraft it contains a lot of very important informations and spells and generally everything regarding witchcraft. -LN

#witchcraft #witch #witches #witch types #about me #magick #masterpost

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