#[Just in case you know; if any demons come asking for your soul for payment...give me a call]

[wishluc]

Hey! Writing tip here! When you need something to act as a segway from point A to point B, skip over it. Fixating on a gap will disrupt your writing flow and make it harder to move on.

Instead, just put in some brackets saying something like [And now a Thing happens] which you can replace with the actual story later. There's a decent chance you'll come up with it on your own while writing the next part. And if you don't? You're still pushing the plot forward.

As for tips for figuring out what that segway should be, I recommend making a list or two.

First, make a list of the characters involved and what their motivations/goals are, as well as what they don't want to happen, it doesn't have to be anything fancy, just a few bullet points will do (Remember: These are just notes, not the actual story! They don't have to look pretty). Seeing how these characters conflict with one another (and with the story) will create a sort of skeleton outline for how things could go.

After that, you can use those motivators to make another list of potential things that could happen to move things along. Make something go well for one character and poorly for another. Make things seem to go well and then spiral out of control. Do the reverse. Focus on writing down as many possibilities as you can, don't think too hard on it. Then, you can go over them, take the ones you like, and expand on them.

Of course, if you come across an idea that you really like before any of these steps are completed, you don't need to finish. In fact, you probably shouldn't, since working out potential ideas when you already have one you're happy with will just feel like a chore.

Hope this helps!

-🧵

Oh my god. Anon I don't deserve you :((( This was really super helpful. I've decided to try typing out potential ideas/things to involve ìn the writing before I start so I have a general guideline, and I will definitely try the skipping over it part! It felt incomplete to just have a piece missing like. a pie with a random chunk taken out? But this is only a draft so it doesn't matter @.@ or so I tell myself. Again thank you so so much for taking the time to send me such a detailed method :( Am forever indebted to you...

[elsewhereuniversity]

Why You Should Wear Boots after Picking a Major You Didn’t Want

A university is a place where dreams are thrown away.

Such is the case far too often. It remains Real even between the railroad, highway and train tracks. Even there, people interrogate themselves: ‘This is your dream, but is it realistic? How much is the starting salary? Look at your classmates, elegantly breezing over what you clawed through, tooth and nail. Look at your competitors––’

So many choose to drown their dreams themselves… even though, at Elsewhere University, the dead do not rest quietly. The Wild Hunt is proof of that. Yes, that Wild Hunt, which rides across campus when the fog rolls in. We all know the versions in which they hunt for students unlucky (or unbelieving) enough to be outside when the hounds begin baying. Stay inside, stay quiet, and you’ll be all the better for it, if they ignore you.

What about the other versions, though? What about the versions in which it is best to open your windows and howl back? There are tales like that, too––

Sometimes, those brave enough to shout along with the Wild Hunt will be rewarded with a share of prey or gold. Those kind enough to repair a lost hunter’s sled soon discover this to be the right choice, for upon closer inspection, the hounds are not just hounds. Their bones are laden heavy with wrath.

And sometimes, villagers tell tales of a cloaked rider on a white horse. Horseshoes spark against the night breeze. He will ask you to play an impossible game of tug-of-war. If you are wise, you will tie the other end of the rope to a sturdy oak. The leader of the Hunt likes clever little things. He might even drop a reward in your boot.

Perhaps this is why you see students wearing boots for a while after they declare their majors. Even Magenta (who got her name from always wearing high-heeled loafers of that particular shade) and Ma-Boi-Blanche (who has 17 pairs of white sneakers) wore boots back then. Rumor has it, according to a friend of a roommate of a Forbidden Major, that this footwear will help you abandon your misery.

When the Wild Hunt rides as a group, they come to condemn. The RAs are not wrong in telling you to run for safety when the fog descends.

On the other hand, when the leader of the Hunt appears alone, he comes to test. In this more benign (but not safe, never safe) form, 4% meet a bedraggled man, 2% a king of old, 3% a specimen of demon (the Christian subspecies), 6% a harlequin, and 5% a sledder with a thick Mecklenburg accent.

84% of those who have survived the encounter say that the leader of the Hunt wears a cloak and a wide hat that partially hides his eyes (one of which is duller than the other). He gallops in on a splendid white horse.

95% of those who survived the encounter were wearing boots (one of them was wearing spatterdashes over court shoes, but eh, close enough).

100% of the survivors say that you must be ready to be tested. Be kind, clever, daring. If you are all that––and wary, wise, lucky too––the leader of the Hunt will let you go and stuff something in your boot. A post-it, on which is written the major that they chose, yet hated with every fibre of their being.

Now, put the boot back on and walk. It may be a bit awkward to walk around, what with the paper writhing under your feet, but do so anyway. Every student who has tried it reports that when they got back to their dorms, the paper had vanished from beneath their soles. In its place, they had gained a floating sensation, grafted in their bones.

By the end of the year, Ma-Boi-Blanche and Professor Redd were chattering away like old friends. The Professor had to admit that his student wasn’t very good at dissections, but there was an unmistakable passion for anatomy in his eyes, and he would improve soon. (Very soon, especially with Professor Redd’s talent of acquiring practice bodies, his jaunty hat growing redder with every new specimen.)

On the other side of campus, the law majors learned to listen for the click-clack of high-heeled loafers. Woe betide the unlucky people who faced off against Magenta, who suddenly threw herself into mock trials with gusto. Her opponents gained a Pavlovian fear response to seeing any shade of pink.

This did not go ignored. The Involved went up to the two, in order to warn them.

“The Gentry do not offer things for free,” they said. “And intelligence isn’t cheap. What in Morganwode did you pay?”

To which the ones who met the Huntsman merely laughed, because they weren’t any smarter. The only difference was that now, they were interested in the subjects they found so odious before.

In the old tales, a satisfied rider of the Wild Hunt will reward a human with meat. The person will walk back home in the dark, one shoe on and one shoe off, the boot growing heavier with every step. Once home, they will see that the raw, bloody meat has transformed into gold.

There are a few who still receive this, not always in the payment of gold, but in blessings. (Childe House’s oldest RA is one of them, which explains why the once-every-305-days evacuation has a 100% success rate, even when half a dozen residents don’t understand what a “mandatory house meeting” or a “fire drill” is.)

  Which begs the question: why does the leader of the Hunt help so many?

Rewards are meant to be given to the exceptional few. Yet the unhappy are not part of these few. Given the number of students with newfound rapture in their eyes, one does not need to be exceptionally kind, clever, or daring to transfer their passions. Just wary, wise, and lucky are enough.

When asked, the leader of the Wild Hunt proclaimed that such a spell is child’s play. We’ve already provided the ingredients: two subjects and a passion. The price is low because all he needs to do is to sever the interest from one subject, then attach it to another. Simple work, he said. He would never think of charging so much for something he could do before breakfast. It is not befitting a warrior. Think of it as a favour from a father to his children, he said, then laughs as if there is a joke here that no one else understands.

There are more people who understand than he might think, for the more competent members of the Forbidden Major have another theory. Anyone with passing knowledge of folklore would be able to recognize this person at a glance, they say (quietly, and never to the Huntsman’s face). He is the amalgamation of ghost, fae and old god.

The first rider of the Wild Hunt might be, depending on the amount of fertilizer on the campus lawn and the moon phase, the oldest warrior poet. There are less battlefields for him to watch over now, but still he is song and madness. Still, he is overcome with fury when he sees yet another soldier buckle before the fight has begun.

This child would have made a fine skald. That child could have become a brilliant shield-maiden. This one had the makings of a king, yet they chose to push these futures away, he said through clenched teeth. These children began to think there was nothing left. They started to look at the pond and that single eighth-floor window which could open all the way.

This is not a battlefield, but… to give up before the horn sounds, under his watch?

Unforgivable, he said, with an unblinking smile, all teeth and lone glittering eye. To despair is to slander my hundred names.

So the leader of the Hunt casts a few spells here, a little trickery there, and coaxes the bright frenzy back in their eyes, or so the Forbidden Majors whisper. The price is only low because of who and why he is. He helps them so they can die more valiantly, another day.

  Think of it as a favour from a father to his children, he says, then laughs as if there is a joke here that no one else understands. This is despite the fact that half the Forbidden Majors and a fifth of the Literature Majors know who he is.

(Not that they would reveal that, ever. The all-father’s wrath is a terrible thing.)

  Addendum:

Statistics unavailable for those who encountered the Wild Hunt’s leader alone, while not wearing boots. Mythological references, as well as the Sword-House valet’s intuition, imply it is better not to know.

[Author’s Note]

I did not intend “Why You Should Wear Boots after Picking a Major You Didn’t Want” to be so long. Do pardon me.

There is much debate over the identity of the Wild Hunt’s leader. My personal favourite theory is that the leader is Odin, or some variant of him, which this submission is based on. Still, I couldn’t resist hinting at the others:

“Bedraggled man” = multiple stories, in which the Hunt’s leader is any hunter who preferred hunting to going to church, or else slandered a certain god

“King of old” = Arawn

“Harlequin” = in Vitalis’ Ecclesiastical History Vol. 2 (1140), Hellequin/Herlequin is the herald of a Wild- Hunt-esque procession of tortured souls. There is also King Herla.

“Sledder with a thick Mecklenburg accent” = Frau Gauden

-Louis

[a-is-for-abel]

“It’s a very odd sensation, standing over your own grave.” prompt from @givethispromptatry

Crows barked, throaty and dry, from their perch high in the gnarled branches of the tree at the head of the cemetery. The letters etched into the granite before him shined and the heavy mist settled over his shoulders, oppressive and thick.

He counted the crows in the tree, a rhyme coming to mind as the black winged birds called into the fog. "One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral… Four-- Four for..."

A funeral… His brow furrowed. The name on the gravestone drew him back in and he eyed the letters. Bells from the steeple of a church coughed in the distance.

"It's a very odd sensation, standing over your own grave." He turned to see a man leaned against a tall gravestone, a lit cigarette in his fingers. "But you seem to be taking it rather well."

The man flicked a lick of hellish embers off the end and took a long drag. Smoke trailed from his lips and curled over his salt-flat empty eyes. "Say, you haven't died before have you? That'd make this a bit awkward-- See, I don't really do the whole doing someone else's do-over. Those contracts tend to get a little messy, if you know what I mean."

Dressed sharply in a suit jacket and trousers to match, the man didn't stand out quite that oddly against the backdrop of a graveyard. However, with no procession, he was out of place without the rest of the mourners to stand shoulder to shoulder with.

It was even harder not to notice the way he stood a little too tall, a little too pale, and a little too thin...

And the eyes--

He couldn't remember having ever seen eyes like that. Though, he also really couldn't remember how he had gotten here either.

The man frowned, cigarette dangled from his lips. "You're not very talkative are you. That's gonna make this a little hard if you don't at least start asking some questions."

"Who are you?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"Ah, there it is-- Everyone always starts with that one. Never a 'where am I, how'd I get here', it's always the who are you?" The man shrugged. "I got a lot of names, kid. Just make one up, it'll probably be better that way."

Paul. It was the first name that came to mind, risen like the valleys of weathered hands and deep-set wrinkles the name brought with it.

"Paul?" The man hissed, eyes scrunching as he flicked the cigarette onto the ground and ground it out with the toe of his dress shoe. "Wow, you're real bad at this. Look, I'll settle for something like, uh-- How's Paal sound? Good? Great."

Even as Paal dismissed it, he tried to latch onto the name Paul and the hands that came with it. Somehow, he knew those hands had shown him how to hold a chisel and carve with the grain and not against it. That they had smoothed down his hair and lain flat against the crown of his skull as the other drew a new line against the door jamb, and he had childishly smiled at the inch gap that had grown between it and the old one below.

"Well, now that we got names out of the way--" Paal reached into his coat and pulled free a scroll. "Let's get down to business."

The parchment unfurled with a dry cough, ink dripped over the page and rearranged itself into letters that shimmered, ruddy and wet.

"So, for starters, my contracts are pretty straightforward. I don't do all that funny business the others do." Paal pointed to the second line. "The overall payment is going to be your eternal soul, of course. The only exception I'll make here is if you can name something of equal value and I also deem said thing of equal value. Now, don't get all excited. Not a lot of things add up to a human soul. Unless you'll be trading someone's else's soul as your payment. Simple math and all of that."

His eternal soul? He looked at the cross atop the gravestone and wine-dipped stained glass and the pulpit of a church flitted to the forefront along with it.

"We on the same page here? You look a little lost?" Paal asked, tilting his head.

"Sorry, I just--" He furrowed his brow. "Am I dead?"

Paal pointed to the grave. "Is that your body in there?"

"I--" He looked at his hands. "I think so."

"I wouldn't say I'm a genius myself, but I think we can both put two and two together here."

He grit his teeth. "Right…"

"Fantastic-- Now, onto the good stuff." Paal pointed further down the parchment. "So, in exchange for said eternal soul, I grant you a few things. First off, you get to get up on your own two feet and walk out of that grave. A pretty good deal, right?"

"Deals go two ways."

"See, now you're catching on--" Paal pointed at him and then tapped the next line on the scroll. "Alright, so it's pretty damn expensive to bring a soul back to life. Maker's got an idea in mind and tampering with that's always gonna cost you a little extra."

"Do you mean money? I don't exactly..." He held his hands out, the empty state of his pockets hopefully obvious.

Paal laughed. "Money? What the hell am I going to do with money? No, no, no-- I need a favor."

"A favor?" He asked, eyes narrowing.

"Yeah! A favor. something pretty simple, actually. But to get that body back and with all your precious little memories intact, you gotta do something to pay for that. More than just signing off your soul, that is."

"And who exactly am I paying back?"

Paal grimaced. "You're asking questions you really don't want the answers to, kid."

"Fine." He rubbed at his jaw. "What's the favor then?"

"Bounty hunting. Or collecting, I guess?" Paal gestured vaguely. "Whatever-- Basically, a few folks deferred on their contracts and I need to collect on their souls a little early."

"How early is early?" he asked, squinting.

"Well, I'd say I'm a pretty generous dealer. I give you about how much worldly time you should've had-- Had things not gone absolutely shit for you." Paal held up a finger. "So, in this case, I'd be collecting these souls well before they croak from becoming all ripe and old like they normally would've."

"So, I get my life back..." He chewed the inside of his cheek and glanced at the cross on the gravestone. "Is that it?"

"Is that it?'" Paal mocked and then grinned. "Look at you, already driving a hard bargain."

"You wouldn't have come to me if my soul wasn't worth something."

"Did you come to that astonishing conclusion all by yourself?" Paal said flatly.

He glanced over the demon.

Or devil... Or whatever hellish equivalent he was supposed to be. The lack of the classic horns or even a tail made it hard to pin any kind of fiendish charm to him. Besides the eyes and the pallor of someone who's never seen the light of day, he looked rather ordinary...

And his memories, few and far between-- muddled even-- like he was reliving them from underwater-- As unreliable as those memories were, he still remembered sitting upon a pew in a sun-washed room, a pastor at the head of the church, attesting how the devil would always wager in ways that would seem fair and just, but never were.

"What else do I get?"

"Greedy, aren't you? Fine." Paal rolled up the scroll part way and pointed at a line halfway down. "You can't die. At least while you're contracted under me to collect souls. If you call on me and I deem the request reasonable enough I can and will help you. Think of it like, uh-- Praying to a guardian angel. Except I'm absolutely nothing like that and I'll actually show up."

"And collecting on these contracts? What does that entail?"

"Killing them, for starters." Paal said simply. "I can't exactly grab their souls when they're still kicking around like that. And a lot of them have found ways to sort of, eh-- protect themselves from me. But you're just a bag of bones, maybe a little bit juiced up when I'm done with you, but you'll be human enough."

He didn't feel like picking that last aside apart too much. "So, you want me to kill for you?"

"Yes."

"How exactly?"

Paal flicked his hand and the scroll snapped out of sight with a thwick. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled free a revolver. Six-shot, shined, scarred with engravings up and down the muzzle and wrapped around the barrel. Handle a bone-white ivory, pale and unblemished.

Paal held it out to him. "With this."

Dropped into his palms with little fanfare, he cradled it, as if a newborn lamb. He glanced up from the gunmetal shine after a beat. "I can't shoot."

"Oh, you won't have to. You just have to aim." Paal formed his fingers into a mock-gun and pointed it at his forehead before mouthing ‘pow'. "It does all the hard work for you. Unless you're into that kind of thing, then by all means I'll take the training wheels off of it and let you do the trigger pulling."

"No…" he swallowed, careful to keep the muzzle pointed away from himself. "Training wheels is fine."

"Fantastic. Do we have a deal then? All of this--" Paal gestured to the whole of him. "--for the meager, one time price of doing a simple chore for me."

He stared flatly.

"And your eternal soul after you've lived a long and happy life, but that's just semantics," Paal laughed, waving him off.

He tilted the gun in his palms and glanced down at his pockets. It wouldn't exactly fit very well… "Is there a holster?"

"Oh, right--" Paal patted his chest and fished around in his suit jacket before drawing out a belt. "Here. It's a bit used, but at least it's already worn in, right?"

Mottled stains scattered the edges of the leather belt and where intricate markings had been stamped and tooled into the holster itself.

"Thanks…" he said, pinching it between two fingers while trying to find a good way to hold the pistol with his other hand.

"Woah, don't sound too grateful there, champ," Paal said. "You'd think I wasn't about to do you the biggest favor of your life."

He paused in his inspection of the holster and gave Paal the flattest look he could muster.

"Get it?" Paal's grin dropped. "Not a funny guy then… Noted."

Finally, managing to holster the gun he slipped the belt around his waist and fumbled with the buckle before fastening it. "How exactly do we seal the deal?"

"Eager, are we?" Paal held out his hand. "Just shake my hand and that's it. None of that writ in blood nonsense."

He wrinkled his nose.

Paal flexed his fingers and held his hand out further. "Look, if you really need me to draw up a traditional contract and give you a copy, I can do that too, but it's dreadfully boring and I do enough paperwork as it is. I mean, what do you have to lose, honestly? You're already dead. I'm just offering you a second chance… and a little bit of revenge."

"Revenge?"

"No one ends up dead in a ditch with a pack of dogs eating their face without being fucked over somewhere along the road."

"I don't…" He knitted his brow. "It's hard to remember."

"Oh, it'll be like that for a bit. It gets better once we get everything settled. Trust me though, you've got quite the bone to pick with someone back up there. And I for one would love to see how it all pans out."

"This is a form of entertainment for you," he said flatly, eyeing the still outstretched hand.

"What's the harm in mixing business and pleasure?" Paal smirked. "Plus it'll be fun to see what you do."

"Can you not bring back the memories now?"

Paal tutted. "That's quite expensive, and we haven't made a deal yet."

"How do I know I even want to go back then?"

"Does it even matter who you were before if you get a re-do?"

He looked at the name on the gravestone. "Won't they recognize me?"

"Oh, no-- Uh, see, you're not going back into your original body." Paal grimaced. "I can only repair so much and those dogs really did a number on you."

"Great…"

"Don't worry though, I got a good one picked out for you. Close enough to be uncanny even. Just some little differences, barely noticeable."

He grimaced.

"Don't you humans love taking leaps of faith? What's with all the hemming and hawing? What happened to all that stupid recklessness?"

"Not all of us are stupid."

Paal groaned. "I would get stuck with the biggest coward this side of the Mississippi."

'Look, it's lil' yellow-bellied Bern!'

'Just take it from him. He's not gonna do shit-- He'd flinch at a fly if it looked at him wrong.'

'Pa said he's soft. That his own daddy made him like that.'

He blinked, flinching and scrunching up his eyes at the sudden, sharp jab that needled at his skull. "I'm not a coward."

"Then take my hand."

His head pounded, and if he really was dead he wondered why he could still feel that out of everything. If the sweat pricked along the back of his neck was more memory than actual sensation, or if the way his tongue had grown heavy in his jaw was all made up too. He eyed Paal's hand and the discolored fingernails, the sheet white skin, the odd scarring along the knuckles and on the palms.

'Leave and don't you ever come back here. And if I ever see you again, you'll be begging the devil to take your soul from me first.'

He grit his teeth, fingers curling into fists.

The voice bit across his cheek like knuckles, like blood on his tongue and smattered across his hands. It curled like snake oil and melted wax, like the dust settled over the rafters of an ever empty church and like floorboards stained with drying flecks of rust.

He reached for Paal's hand and Paal grabbed his wrist instead, wrapped his fingers around him and squeezed, hard enough he twisted with the motion. Paal didn't budge, no matter how he pried at him, and the hand burned-- Burned the way laying your palm across a sheet of ice stung and wormed its way deeper and deeper the longer you left it there.

He stumbled as Paal released him, clutching at his wrist and hissing. "What the hell?"

"Part of the contract. It'll fade in a second."

The burning stopped and when he let go of his wrist, a coiling band of white took its place. Sat snugly, flat and lined with black, was an ivory snake wrapped three times about his wrist. The head of the serpent rested along the heel of his thumb, eyes a nearly translucent blue. It faded, still standing out against his skin, more like an impossibly pale tattoo and less like the actual snake it was a moment ago. His arm ached dully with it, like he had come in from a long frigid day, and his fingers cramped as the feeling returned to the very tips of him.

"Oh, right-- You'll be needing bullets." Paal grabbed his hand and dropped a freezing piece of metal into it.

More followed as Paal fished around in his suit jacket for them. At the fourth one Paal paused. "What was that little rhyme you were doing before I arrived? I rather enjoy that one. The ending is always my favorite."

He watched where the bullets settled in his palm. The casings a blood-red ebony and the bullet itself the shade of bone.

"And four for birth…" Paal dropped another bullet. "Five for heaven..." Another. "And six for hell," Paal said with a smirk, manually curling his hand around the bullets and patting it. "Now keep track of those, they're not exactly easy to make."

He didn't tell Paal that he didn't finish the poem, that there was still one more line that needed to be said to complete it. Instead, he pocketed the bullets.

"Walk with me a sec--" Paal grabbed his shoulder and nudged him forward.

They meandered along the lines of graves, passing headstones that varied in shape and size, some cared for, with flowers and candles and even worn sepia photos left at their feet. Others were less fortunate. Grown over, dulled, and abandoned.

They stopped before one with a less modest headstone. A large stone cross jutted up from the top and an angel carved above the name of the soul that was laid to rest below their feet.

"You know, I really do think this is the start of a great partnership..."

He raised a brow.

"Marcus J. Bern--" He flinched at the name, not expecting it to fall from Paal's mouth so casually. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

He hesitated, shoulders drawing up, hand coming to rest on the gun at his hip. "Uh, you too…?"

Paal smiled, like he found that amusing. And he hadn't noticed how sharp his teeth looked until he was staring the oversized canines dead in the face.

"Now--" Paal said, placing his hands on his shoulders, dusting them off before squeezing lightly. "This might hurt a bit."

"What--"

Paal shoved him.

He fell and fell and the earth swallowed him whole.

Dirt and silt and death surrounded him. Impossibly endless and vast, the grave didn't catch him as it should have. And the chill that bit at his limbs gnawed feverishly, right down to the core of him until he felt a yell clog up with the hallowed ground packed against his tongue. Further and further he descended, gut flipping and twisting with him, until he thought this would be his new forever. That Paal had lied to him, and he would simply be doomed to free fall for the rest of eternity, until all returned to dust as it had once emerged and longer still.

Light broke up the darkness overhead and he reached for it, arm outstretched. The white snake coiled around his wrist writhed and burned at the first touch of it and dripping with pale ichor, his veins stood out a ghastly silver against him. A venom coursed through him as it wound further and further down, closer and closer to where his heart had thrummed to life and kicked against his ribs in a fevered fit. He clutched at his chest as the ground-- as something-- hurtled towards him.

Breath slammed into him with a rattling gasp and his eyes shot open.

Blinded, he blinked and squinted against the grace of a new day, trembling and shaking where he had woken upon the dirt. The cross of the gravestone cast a merciful shadow over him and he could see the tangled fingers of the tree beyond it.

Raucous caws chorused above him. A murder of crows dotted the grey sky overhead, having flighted from their perches high in the dead limbed oak.

One, two, three, four, five, six--

"And seven for the devil, his own self..." he muttered, hand falling to his hip and the gun now holstered there.

[fishoutofcamelot]

I saw your r recent contribution to the post about hard vs soft magic systems and I agree wholeheartedly. You also mentioned having a bunch of worldbuilding and stuff about the magic system, and I was wondering if you'd be willing to share some?

(For reference, this is the post in question)

Certainly! While the worldbuilding/magicbuilding hellscape i was describing in the notes is actually in regards to an original-content wip I've been working on, i also have a LOT of headcanons regarding the BBCM magic system too! (Do not ask about my wip's magic system, because i won't be able to shut up about it)

WARNING: long post ahead and mobile won't let me include a cutoff/read-more line. If you're not interested, get ready to scroll down like your life depends on it (and it does).

So! First things first. Here's what we know about the BBCM magic system:

Magic requires spells, most of the time. This seems like a no-brainer, but still an important distinction. There are a lot of magic systems that don't require vocalized spells - Avatar: the Last Airbender, Fullmetal Alchemist, and Ninjago, to name a few. Spells are rather common for wizard/witch/medieval fantasies, and are typically used to control and channel the intent of the magic. This suggests that the magic of BBCM is some kind of force or energy that needs spoken commands to control.

Spells are repurposed words from Old English, aka the language of the Old Religion. (Let's ignore the obvious anachronistic nightmare of the fact that Old English is exactly the same language they would've been speaking in this time period.)

The use of a spell causes someone's eyes to flare gold, plus that fancy wooshing sound effect that Arthur miraculously never hears. This suggests that magic somehow changes your physiology, although it could be also just be a side effect of channeling.

However, magic doesn't always require a spell. Though never fully explained, it appears to be something only innate magic users are capable of - Merlin, Morgana, Mordred. It is something less controllable than spellwork, typically governed by moments of strong emotion rather than logical intent.

The show consistently flip-flops between the idea that magic is something you're born with, and that Merlin is rare for being born with magic. It's never clarified just how someone acquires magic. Gaius asks Merlin where he studied, suggesting that it's something you can learn, while Balinor claims that you either have it or you don't. Though not confirmed fact, i suspect it's similar to how it works in the show Supernatural. There, some witches are natural-born, while others are taught (and some get their powers from spooky demon deals).

It has a life-for-a-life policy. Basically like the Law of Equivalent Exchange from Fullmetal Alchemist, a life cannot be created without another one being sacrificed first. This rule only canonically applies to creating life/the Cup of Life, and any other possible applications aren't addressed.

This rule apparently doesn't apply to animals, as Merlin brought a dog statue to life without killing anyone (that we know of), and Valiant's shield had three live snakes in it. However, it's possible that lives were taken as payment in the process of animation without Merlin's knowledge, but it never happens on screen so we don't know. So either a) animals don't have souls to exchange in the life-for-a-life policy, b) they do but it happens off-screen, or c) those animated animals aren't actually alive.

The Cup of Life infuriates me from a magicbuilding perspective. Ignoring the obvious question of how it came into the druids' possession, its existence isn't clearly defined. Does it require the fancy rain ritual that Nimueh gave it, or was she just extra? Why does drinking from it give you life, while bleeding into it makes you undead and also mindlessly obedient to the sorcerer who made you as such? Were there life-for-a-life consequences for creating an immortal army? Wtf happened on the Isle of the Blessed to allow Merlin to "master life and death", and what does that even mean? All valid questions that never get answered.

Spells sometimes need need a 'source'. Think the staff from "The Tears of Uther Pendragon" and Morgana from "The Fires of Idirsholas." It is unclear what makes these spells different/special.

There is a power hierarchy. Some spells are too powerful for some practitioners to cast, although the reason for this is unclear. Does it drain you of energy/life force? Do you exhaust/overwork your magic muscles? Do you get a little pop-up that says 404 Magic Not Found? Unclear.

Magic is something that can be trained and improved. For example, Morgana gradually became more powerful over time. Merlin naturally had a lot of power straight off the jump and just had to discipline it, but he's a ~special~ case so he doesn't count.

There are some subsets of magic that are definitively born traits. Morgana is a Seer, possessing this capability even before her magic manifested. Likewise, Merlin is a dragonlord, which he inherited from Balinor. Although Balinor did mention that it wasn't a sure thing he would have the ability until he faced a dragon, so there may be some variation in whether or not someone lucks out in the Magic Gene Pool. This may suggest that natural-born magic is hereditary, as both Morgana and her sister Morgause had it. Vivienne and Gorlois both probably didn't have it, otherwise you'd hear Uther bellyaching about it, which raises the question of where they got it? A grandparent, perhaps? Maybe they both carried a recessive magic gene or something...

Unless you're Merlin, magic can be taken away by the Gean Canagh. It's not explained how this is possible, though, as it's never explained how you acquire magic in the first place. But Merlin never lost his magic because he's "magic itself" which if you ask me is just a deus ex machina wrapped inside a headache wrapped inside a heaping load of chosen one bullcrap. But it's canonical lore, so we have to consider it.

Despite my previous complaints, i actually find the idea of Merlin being "magic itself" rather intriguing. Is he a creature of magic, like a dragon or a questing beast? Is his body made of magic, like how a statue might be made of clay? Does it run through his veins like blood? If this is the case, then why didn't he suffer more severe ramifications for losing his magic? Why didn't it kill him? How did it restrict his magic in the first place? Placebo effect? The fanon explanation is that he's "the living embodiment of magic" but that makes my bullcrap richter scale shoot off the charts because that makes NO sense whatsoever. "Son of the earth, sea, and sky?" What does that MEAN?

There is a vivid link between magic and the Old Religion, which has its own beliefs and rituals and deities. Primarily, the Triple Goddess. The Triple Goddess is actually an existing deity in Neopaganism and Wicca. This also suggests the existence of the Horned God, another entity from neopagan lore and her masculine consort/counterpart, but that is never confirmed.

WHO. OR. WHAT. IS. THE. FREAKING. DOCHRAID. She's described as a creature of magic, which suggests that humans/humanoids can be creatures of magic, fueling my theory that 'Emrys' isn't human.

Destiny exists. It is unclear who creates/writes destiny, who controls it, who or what is privy to knowing about it, and what that means for the concept of free will.

The crystal cave is a thing, i guess. It's the heart of magic, is haunted by Taliesin, and is filled with prophetic crystals. I actually skipped the episodes that involve this stuff because i disliked them, so i don't know much about the Crystal Cave. Apparently ghosts can manifest there tho???

The veil is a thing too. It is unclear how some spirits can retain their human figure and mentality, like Balinor and Uther, but others become dorocha. I imagine its also like Supernatural - being a ghost for long enough will drive you insane, and though it takes a while all spirits eventually turn into dorocha.

Creatures of magic exist. These are normal creatures who have magic imbued into them somehow.

Okay, i think that's everything we know. It seems like a lot, but keep in mind that all of those rules are VERY nebulous. But that at least gives us a jumping-off point!

So here's my working theory/headcanon.

Magic comes from a connection to the spiritual energies of the Triple Goddess. Kinda like a third eye, and for the sake of simplicity that's what we'll call it. The druids have adapted a way of life that revolves around faith and magic, likely in an attempt to cultivate and one day attain this Third Eye. Like Gaius, who trained with the High Priestesses, you can study and practice and discipline yourself into acquiring it.

Magic is a cosmic force owned by the Triple Goddess, accessible to anyone with the Third Eye link. Imagine the Triple Goddess as a milkshake and the so-called Third Eye as a straw. The studying and training that people dedicate their whole lives to is basically just looking for/building a straw.

However, some people are just naturally born with a straw in hand, but require practice and study to be able to properly use it. Or like Morgana, it takes a few years for them to even find it/activate it.

Spellcasting is essentially just sucking through the straw, and the vocalized spells gives that Magic Milkshake some purpose/intent/shape.

The bigger the spell, the more Magic Milkshake is required. Some people have bigger/wider straws than others, so magic comes easier for them. But with enough training and practice anyone can widen their straw/strengthen their straw-sucking muscles to cast with the big leagues.

The Gean Canagh devours your straw/Third Eye. Perhaps you have to rebuild a new spiritual connection from scratch, or perhaps it permanently severs any and all connection to the Triple Goddess. Like getting excommunicated from the Church, only worse.

The Crystal Cave was/is the Triple Goddess's home, but she's out of town on a business trip atm so she left the spirit of her most loyal follower, Taliesin, to look after the place. It's super powerful and has all those cool crystals because it's hella steeped in her magic juices.

While most magic users get a standard-issue straw, others get Fancy Premium Membership Straws. Normal joe shmoes like Gilli have plastic straws, while a Seer like Morgana has a metal one or something (can you tell this metaphor is starting to get out of hand?). Those Premium Straws are only hereditary in nature. So there's a Seer Straw, or a Dragonlord Straw, or a Disir Straw, but it's also not a sure thing you'll even inherit it at all. It's all luck of the straw draw.

Creatures of magic aren't just animals that possess straws, though. They've been made/produced using magic rituals and processes and spells. Like Nimueh's afanc, nathairs, wraiths, shades, etc. So probably like a thousand years ago, some especially powerful shmuck came by and invented dragons. Which leads me to an important question: WHO THE HELL THOUGHT THE DOCHRAID WAS A GOOD IDEA.

Im reluctant to say these creatures were invented by the Triple Goddess, though, for reasons I'll get to in a moment.

So this still leaves the whole Cup of Life, life-for-a-life policy thing to be explained. I do believe that the policy is universally applicable to the creation of souls, and i do believe that animals have souls too. But individuals get their souls exchanged for those of equal value. So every soul has a certain weight to it, and you need to exchange souls of equal weight to create one. So when Merlin brought the dog to life, some random dog somewhere dropped dead against his knowledge.

Creating undead armies involves killing them and then resurrecting them. That's what 'undead' means. Zombies. So yes, to raise an immortal zombie army, Morgause's spell probably caused a bunch of people around the world to mysteriously drop dead.

Which leaves two last things to explain: destiny and Merlin.

Destiny is, i think, a combined effort between human choice and supernatural predeterminism. That is, for the most part humans make their own choices, but there are occasions where the Triple Goddess has to step in and do some course correction. Uther starting the Purge was free will, but Arthur and Merlin's destiny was an act of divine damage control. The Triple Goddess sets destiny into motion and informs a chosen few about it.

Okay SO. That leaves Merlin. And this is the bit im kinda excited about.

The Triple Goddess is a reservoir of power, a cosmic force of spiritual energy intrinsicallu linked to the fabric of the universe. People can spiritually reach out and tune into/channel her supernatural frequencies. But as a milkshake cannot suck itself through a straw, the Triple Goddess likewise cannot cast a spell. She can influence destiny, but she can't physically cast any magic on her own. That's why she didn't create the creatures of magic.

So a few years ago, Uther hecked up big time. And people of magic, the Triple Goddess's followers and acolytes and straw connections, were dying in droves. I can imagine that all those Third Eye tethers snapping en masse was painful for her to go through. She relies on the tethers to remain connected to the real world, and if all the tethers snap then she will be cut off from Earth altogether. And Earth requires magic to continue existing/thriving, so that's kind of a no-no.

So, the Triple Goddess knew that the only way to save the world was through divine intervention. Thus began the destiny of the Once and Future King and Emrys. She knew humanity is bigoted so there was bound to eventually be a repeat of Uther, so she made OaFK resurrectable, so they could keep him on the bench in case anyone ever needs him again.

Where does Merlin/Emrys fall into things?

Well. The Triple Goddess knew that saving her people and the world would require an immense magical undertaking, something no ordinary magic user would be able to pull off. But she has the power, if only she could use it. But a human can. So the Triple Goddess decided to be reborn into the body of a dragonlord's son. Merlin. Emrys. Magic itself.

Of course, this whole Being Born As A Human Thing is tricky, and as anyone familiar with reincarnation knows, you don't usually recall your past lives. So she became Merlin, unaware that he was ever the Triple Goddess. (Although she did add a clause saying she'd be destined to remember her past life eventually, which got hecked up for reasons ill explain later)

That's why so many creatures of magic/magic users recognize Merlin by his presence, why thr druids carry such reverence for him. Whereas the sidhe and other individuals don't recognize him, because they are blinded by heresy. They may have a spiritual connection to the Triple Goddess, but do not use her magic as she intended, and she's too busy wearing jaunty scarves to excommunicate them herself.

Why get the Once and Future King involved when she could just save everyone herself? Well, the Triple Goddess prefers to let the humans keep their agency and save themselves, and would rather remain in the role of protector/helper. Its just her nature.

But if that's the case, then why did Arthur's destiny fail? It's simple: Kilgharrah.

Remember what i said about the Horned God, counterpart to the Triple Goddess? Yeah, that's Kilgharrah. Like the Triple Goddess, he's another power reservoir, but he's jealous because people worship her and not him. He is against everything she does and actively seeks the destruction of the Triple Goddess's magic/influence for Jealous Evil Reasons. To stop him, the Triple Goddess enlisted some of her followers to bind him into the body of a dragon (perhaps this is how dragons were created) so he would never be able to do that. Years later, the Purge happened and "Kilgharrah" got locked away, further cut off from his power.

When Merlin walked in, unaware that he used to be the Triple Goddess, Kilgharrah seized his chance at revenge and manipulated Merlin into setting him free. Then, once free, he decided to lay claim to the power vacuum left by the Triple Goddess's quasi-absence. He began controlling destiny in whatever limited capacities he could, using magic of his own to permanently bury Merlin's knowledge of his past life. Then he ensured that Arthur would die and the Triple Goddess's magic would never return. But since he doesn't have FULL control over destiny (his powers are still limited by his dragon form, after all), he couldn't rewrite the bit where Arthur gets benched in Avalon. He's probably conspiring with the sidhe to ensure Arthur stays trapped there forever, or else he would've come back a long time ago.

As for how the Gean Canagh took Merlin's magic...well, yes, it devoured his Third Eye straw, but those are created by a strong spiritual connection to the Triple Goddess. And since he's literally the big TG himself, all he had to do was find himself again (by returning to his old home, the Crystal Cave) to recreate a new one.

Over the last 1500 years, Kilgharrah/the Horned God has been steadily accruing followers and worshippers in the hopes that one will become strong enough to release TG's bonds on him. Then he can kill her once and for all and claim full dominion over the universe, with the sidhe to support him.

I imagine that's how Arthur's resurrection would happen - Arthur and the rest of the dead Round Table are in Avalon when they learn about the treachery and plot to kill Merlin/take over the world, and spend the next few hundred years fighting their way out of Avalon.

Okay, I think that just about covers it. God, that was long. Any questions?

[29-pieces]

Whumptober day 23 - Good Omens

Day 23: Sleep Deprivation Fandom/setting: Good Omens - pre-Apocalypse, shortly after Crowley wakes up from the century he decided to snooze through Read on AO3 Read on FF.net

~*~

The pain was more than he could stand, a coursing, biting, stinging, agonizing pain. Crowley slumped forward in the chair he was bound to, wrists tugging desperately at ropes that had been secured by a duke of Hell and therefore weren't going to come loose no matter how much he struggled. Blood dripped from a dozen different cuts across his face, chest, and limbs... he'd lost so much of it already, it was a wonder his body didn't discorporate...

A dagger flashed, taking another slice out of his cheek. Crowley cried out with pain and it was too much, it was all too much, the relentless torment. As the blood flowed, his vision started going grey at the edges, then darker grey, then black... Somewhere in the distance, a nasty voice was saying nasty things, but Crowley lost all sense of it as he dipped at last into blessed, merciful, beautiful unconsciousness.

ZAP!

Crowley heard himself screaming as the electric current tore through every muscle in his body, the heat burning his throat where the collar made contact with skin. Jolted back awake, he straightened in the chair and panted, trying to breathe through the sobs.

"Ah-ah," Hastur said, crouching down in front of Crowley and patting his cheek. "Best stay awake if you don't want that to happen again." He grinned, though, jagged teeth showing that he very much wanted that to happen again.

Crowley trembled as the electric current slowly dissipated, then looked up at his tormentor.

"Come on, fellas," he wheezed plaintively, watching Hastur stand and start to stalk around him, while Ligur lounged nearby with a grin. "I got it, okay? I learned my lesson, we- we don't have to keep doing this-"

"Beelzebub thinks otherwise," Ligur reminded him. "Hastur and I got the whole year off just to keep this up and make sure the lesson sinks in. It's only been... what's it been, Hastur?"

"A week," Hastur replied. The toad on top of his head croaked delightedly. "So get used to pain for a while, Crowley. You got fifty-one more to go."

"Can't- can't we talk about this? I swear I'll do better-"

"A century, Crowley. A century of temptations and spreading evil and potential souls for our side, gone to waste."

Crowley leaned away from the dagger hovering over one of his snake eyes, still shaking. "I already said I was sorry-"

"You're here to do a job, not sleep."

"I told you, I was recovering, my angel nemesis had-"

"You got a boo-boo and decided to have a nice lie-in? For a hundred years? And thought that was going to go over well?" Hastur tsk-ed. "And you claim to be so clever. Well, you had your nice little century long nap, so do you know what you'll be doing for the next century?" Hastur pressed the dagger into Crowley's cheek, letting the snake demon's blood drip down the blade as he flashed his teeth again. "Not sleeping."

"Your new little collar will see to that," Ligur tittered. "Every time you fall asleep..." He punched a fist into his palm. "Zap!"

"For a hundred years." Hastur pulled the dagger away, then plunged it hilt-deep into Crowley's abdomen.

Crowley had spent the first two days trying not to give them any satisfaction, but that had quickly gone out the window under Hastur's skillful hands: he threw his head back and screamed. This, of course, only ignited the bloodlust in Hastur's eyes. The toad croaked again as Hastur withdrew the dagger and then stabbed it in once more several inches away. Crowley choked on blood, feeling the hot liquid dribbling from his mouth. The edges of his vision were going dark again, the pain too much to tolerate even as he frantically tried to stay awake to avoid the jolt of electricity that would be following soon.

He couldn't stop... he was slipping...

...

...

ZAP!

Crowley screamed again and sobbed, writhing in his chair as he rode through yet another wave of the electricity. A year of this?! Hastur wasn't going to get bored and leave him alone, Crowley was really going to spend the entire year tied to this chair in unending torment. They'd already warned him they had pre-filed the paperwork to fast-track his recorporation in case he died, which meant there was no mercy coming. Hot tears slid down Crowley's face, hating that it had only taken a week for them to break him of any pride.

"Let's start again," Hastur beamed. "Ligur, you want a turn?"

Crowley shrank back as much as he could in the chair, but of course he was helpless...

The door to the shack burst in suddenly, blown off its hinges. Crowley had just enough time to see a blinding ring of heavenly light, his befuddled mind whispering "angel", before a concussive whomp knocked him senseless.

...ZAP!

Crowley shrieked as the electric current ran right over the pathways it had just burned through his muscles before he'd had the slightest chance to heal, only multiplying the pain. He writhed and shook, his own body no longer under his control, while somewhere beside him he heard a horrified, frantic voice calling his name. Then he was pitching forward, wrists free of their bonds, straight into something soft and sturdy.

"Crowley, oh Crowley, my poor boy, what in Heaven's name have they done to you? What- what is that thing?"

Hands at his throat, ripping the shock collar off his neck, and Crowley trembled with relief.

"Angel," he whispered hoarsely. Weakly, he smiled up at his savior, meeting Aziraphale's stricken eyes. "Good timing..."

"Why are they hurting you?" the angel cried. "I haven't seen you in... must be a hundred years, at least..." He blanched, then gasped, "You haven't been here that whole time?"

Crowley shook his head in reassurance, rubbing his shredded wrists painfully. "Week," he murmured. "They- they weren't happy with me..." He looked around Aziraphale to see Hastur and Ligur unconscious on the floor. Pity they didn't have a demonic shock collar to wake them, he thought resentfully.

The angel rumbled with displeasure, then quietly offered, "Let me heal you."

He reached for Crowley, but the demon pulled away. "Best not," he said mournfully. "Be hard enough to find a convincing lie for Beelzebub what happened here... an angel bursts in and the one demon who's already down for the count is rescued and healed?"

Aziraphale slumped but nodded, then tensed. "I- I suppose I should... kill them," he said doubtfully. "I came investigating because of all the demonic energy coming from this place..."

As much as the idea genuinely appealed to Crowley, he shook his head with regret. "Can't do that, either," he decided. "Be even more suspicious, wouldn't it? That you killed two dukes but I escaped."

This did bring a conundrum, the more he thought about it. Even if he did "miraculously escape" the angel, he hadn't finished his punishment from Beelzebub. Crowley trembled with the idea of enduring the remainder of the year like this, and another 99 without the ability to sleep. He couldn't do it. But... Crowley's mind began to race as the beginnings of a plan came together. He looked up at Aziraphale and grimly smiled. ~*~

Aziraphale tried not to pace, but really his nerves were shot. Crowley had sworn he would come back up as soon as he'd checked in with Beelzebub, but until he did so, the angel had no way of knowing if Crowley's clever tongue was going to be enough this time. It sounded like he'd been in dreadful trouble, now he was walking straight back into Hell? Then again, what else could he do short of running away and being hunted forever? Aziraphale wrung his hands, already toying with the idea of how he might justify to Heaven that he simply had to go and rescue a demon from Hell...

The door opened and Aziraphale spun around, then nearly sagged with relief to see Crowley trudging in, clearly exhausted and still covered in horrible wounds, but still very much alive.

"It worked?" he asked anxiously, hurrying to meet his friend.

Crowley nodded, managing a smile. "Beelzebub bought it," he said with a shrug. "I just said that collar woke me up after you knocked us all out, and that you decided to brutally torture me for information-"

Aziraphale squeaked in dismay, even though he knew of course this had always been part of the plan, and that of course he hadn't actually done so. But, just, the thought...

Ignoring him, Crowley went on, "And I had to use all my wiles to trick you into believing false information, that Hastur and Ligur were considering turning traitor. So of course you spared their lives, not wanting to kill potential future informants."

"And Beelzebub believed that?" Aziraphale couldn't help but repeat incredulously.

Crowley shrugged. "S'not like Hastur or Ligur can dispute it, being unconscious for the whole thing and all. Told them you'd decided to let me go afterward as payment for the 'information', then I brought the dukes down to safety. Saved their miserable lives, I did. Two dukes, and I out-wiled a principality to boot. Beelzebub commuted the rest of my sentence for it."

Aziraphale shook his head, watching the snake demon with pure admiration. "I must say, you have quite the clever mind, my dear. Now then... I understand you can't be sleeping a whole century through again, but mightn't it be prudent to rest for a little while and let your body heal from that horrid Hastur? You... you can stay here at my place, if you like," he added, feeling a touch of heat on his cheeks. He hurried to add, "I mean, no demon is going to think of checking up on you here, especially now that I'm the, er... brutally torturing principality. You might even let me have a look at those wounds now?"

Crowley glanced down and raised a noncommittal shoulder. "Er... yeah, alright," he said. "Not sure I could even get back home, to be honest. So exhausted..."

"Then it's settled," Aziraphale decided decisively. "You make yourself at home, I'm going to put some water on to boil. You're safe here, Crowley."

The demon nodded, a wan smile crossing his face. "Erm... you know..."

He trailed off, but he didn't need to finish. Aziraphale smiled back, then hurried to fetch the water.

You're welcome, he silently replied.

[katehuntington]

Title: Changes - part two Word count: ±3000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part two: Four years after the demon attack, a young woman is playing a cat and mouse game with another supernatural creature. Only this time around, she’s the hunter. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks.  Music: About A Girl - Nirvana Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. @coffee-obsessed-writer​, @soupornatural​ & @mrswhozeewhatsis​, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​ & @winchest09​ who are deciphering the recent version; thank you for helping me with this story and for taking it to a higher level. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

     Rochester, Minnesota      November 24th, 2005

     Rain falls during a chilly night in November. Thunder rumbles in the distance, as heavy showers dim flashes of lightning that jump from one cloud to the other. Several miles outside of the city in the wide-open spaces, the world seems deserted. The atmosphere is threatening as nature shows her power. Straight roads cross the farmlands, not a living soul using them. No one is on their way home or driving away from it. Then again, in this weather, who would want to be out on the road? 

     In the distance, a light appears and steadily approaches. A bright shimmer reflects in the water on the asphalt, the sound of an engine building as the vehicle gets closer. It’s not an ordinary engine, not even close to the sound that modern cars produce these days. Actually, it’s not even a car.      A black Harley Davidson cuts through the night, roaring like a lion. The classic motorbike leaves a spray in its wake, the water catapulted from the back tire. The polished paint job shines proudly, catching even the smallest glint of light. Raindrops try to cling to waxed metal, failing miserably. It’s obvious the owner of this beauty takes good care of her. It’s the type of bike you would expect an old rocker to ride. The kind that listens to Metallica and is a member of a biker gang. A tough guy with a beard and big sideburns, who rides from roadhouse to roadhouse, consuming nothing but steak and beer. Nevertheless, this lucky Harley is ridden by a young woman. 

     The rider seems to be in a hurry; despite the slippery roads; she’s speeding down 75th street NW at ninety miles an hour. This woman and her Harley have reason to haste. The biker tries to focus on the road ahead, yet glances in her side mirror frequently, checking if she’s being followed. The sharp pain in her abdomen keeps her awake. She mutters to herself, biting down the pain. How could you be so fucking stupid? It’s your job to know what you’re dealing with, and yet you were caught off guard!

     The suburb of Rochester appears in the south; she’s almost there. The rider bends over her bike, clamping one arm around her waist and applying pressure.       “Fucking hell,” she curses.      She refuses to look down at her injury and keeps herself together. Hopefully, it’s not too bad, she doesn’t have time to get stuck in the ER. It’s during moments like these she regrets falling in love with her ‘94 Harley Davidson Road King, because a faster bike like a modern Kawasaki sports bike would be much more convenient right now. 

     She follows the road, which is shadowed by trees on both sides, until she passes through a small town, called Douglas. Again, she checks her mirrors, but there’s nothing on her tail. In front of her, several cars and trucks are driving up route 52. A sigh of relief escapes her mouth; back in the civilized world.       After turning right just before the highway, she speeds up again on the road running parallel to it. Finally, the motel appears in the distance, a building with a large neon number ‘6’ on the roof. The female biker parks her Harley in front of the motel and turns the ignition. Not nearly as graceful as usual, she gets off her bike and heads toward the entrance of the motel. With her right hand on her bleeding wound, she stumbles across the parking lot as she takes off her helmet. 

     A flash of lightning cracks the sky and reflects on the cars parked in front. For a split second, she thinks she sees a shadow standing in the rain. Quickly, she turns towards it, but it’s gone, yet her hand goes for the gun tucked behind her waistband, instinctively. On high alert, she scans her surroundings, her intuition telling her she’s not alone. Is she getting paranoid? He wouldn’t come out here and follow her by car, would he? That would be insane, he’d be too exposed.      Her hand slips from the grip of the weapon and she makes a run for it. After hastily entering the motel, she closes the door behind her. It’s warm in the lobby, country music playing in the background, a huge contrast to the chilling weather outside. Standing in the bleak light instead of mysterious shadows makes her feel a bit more at ease. 

     The old man behind the counter looks up from his paper, peaking over his reading glasses. An empty soda bottle decorates his desk along with some paper wrappers which once held a Wendy’s cheeseburger. She stares at the wrappers for a moment. Fuck, she would kill for a burger right now.      “You’re behind on your payment, Mrs. Johnson,” the old man remarks.      She throws a Mastercard on the desk while closing her coat around her body, hiding her injury and keeping the hand she used to staunch the bleeding firmly against her side. The motel manager thankfully doesn’t seem to pick up on anything out of the ordinary and takes the card without thanking her.      “I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you the extra night, too. It’s way past check out.”      “No worries, book two more. I’ll be sticking around for a few more days,” she returns.      “Business taking longer than expected, huh?” he assumes, while working the computer.      “Something like that, yeah,” she answers shortly, not willing to elaborate.      “Those two nights were the last slots. It’s busy this weekend.” The man behind the desk hits the enter button. “You’re in luck.”      She frowns at the comment. Right, luck. Looks like luck got me fucking shot. Thankfully he doesn’t have any further questions, she’s not in the mood for a chit-chat with the fossil. 

     The restless woman scans the parking lot outside for the third time, slightly out of breath, her face tense. Every once in awhile the motel manager glances over his screen, observing his client. Her black leather biker jacket is soaked through, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Brown hair falls down her shoulders, the tips escaped her helmet drenched from the rain. Her dark eyes seem worried, makeup slightly faded. A young woman, who - according to the information he got from her when she checked in - married early, apparently. How old could she be? Twenty four, twenty-five, maybe? She doesn’t really seem like the marrying type, and he has seen many folks come and go. The poor girl looks pale, too, as if she’s ill or carrying a heavy weight upon her shoulders. A lot of shady business has happened in his motel, so he knows the signs. Maybe it’s drug related, maybe she’s fleeing from an abusive relationship. Who knows? He doesn’t bother to ask anymore. It would put him out of business if he would. Besides, she doesn’t seem like the person anyone would want to mess with. He does make a mental note to keep an eye on her and make sure his motel doesn’t turn into a crime scene.      “Here ya go.” He hands her back her credit card. “You know the way.”

     The mystery woman nods, picks up her helmet from the desk, and turns down the hallway. While entering room number 82, she takes off her jacket together with her tartan wind scarf and strides to the bathroom. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, her gaze drops to her abdomen, where a bloodstain has darkened her grey shirt. She lifts it up, the fabric sticking to the punctured skin. Fuck, that feels anything but pleasant. She reveals the bullet wound underneath, several inches to the left of her belly button.      “Shit, shit, shit.”       Carefully she takes off her shirt, her breasts only covered with a bra. Still staring at her reflection, she ponders on her next move. Maybe paying a visit to the hospital isn’t such a bad idea after all. That bullet could have ripped through a number of organs. The small intestine, descending colon, she remembers clearly from the books and lectures. The inferior mesenteric artery branches out there too.    ��  “Would’ve been more blood if it was an artery,” she mutters to no one but her own lonesome mind.

     The fact that the bullet bounced off the wall before it hit her, could mean that it didn’t sink too deep into her skin. She decides to give it a try and fish it out herself; if she can’t solve the problem, a doctor’s visit is always an option.      The young woman grabs a clean towel and wipes away the crimson around the wound as she moves back to the bedroom. She takes a small briefcase from under the bed, putting it down on the table in the corner of the room. A sigh falls from her lips when she sits down on the chair, then opens the lid, revealing a wide range of surgical instruments and medical supplies. Gauze, suture thread, sterilizers, tape, syringes, catheters, and several small bottles with different substances ranging from morphine to epinephrine; enough gear to do minor surgery.      She swallows apprehensively; this is going to get nasty.      “Hell, I’m not doing this alone.”      Next to her bed, a bottle of whiskey beckons her. With a moan, the injured woman gets up, grabs the Johnny Walker and the glass next to it. She turns on the radio on the cabinet, twisting the volume button all the way, and walks back to the table, halting to face the mirror inside the briefcase. Filling up the glass with alcohol, she grabs gloves, forceps, and other supplies she is going to need. In the background, the first tones of About A Girl by Nirvana comes through the small speaker. With the bottle of Johnny’s Black Label on standby, she clears her throat while putting on the blue latex gloves. Here goes nothing. 

     There is a sharp increase in pain as the forceps slowly enter her body. With her eyes focused on the reflection in the mirror, her jaws clamp together as she tries to reach the bullet. She groans, fighting the intense agony that almost seizes her attempt, struggling to contain herself and steady her breathing. Not wanting to draw any attention is the only thing preventing her from screaming at the top of her lungs. Finally, the forceps touch something solid. With tears burning in her eyes, she succeeds in getting a hold of it, then carefully pulls back and drops the bullet into the glass. Quickly, she grabs the whiskey and takes large swigs, wincing at the afterburn.      “Fuck, that hurts,” she hisses, placing the bottle back on the table with a loud bang.

     The worst part is done, but it’s not quite finished yet. Shaky hands reach for the disinfectant, but unfortunately, the bottle of chlorhexidine is empty. Stupid, she should have stocked up immediately after she used it all last time. Oh well, whiskey will have to do then. And so she takes the Jack and pours the last bit of whiskey over the wound. The alcohol needs only a second before taking effect. But when the stinging pain does come, she’s unable to tone down the growl leaving her throat. But you know what really pisses her off? Now she’s out of whiskey, too. 

     Frustrated, the young woman clenches her fist, waiting for the pain to fade until it’s bearable. After several minutes, she has finally calmed down enough to proceed. She takes the thread and stitch scissors and finishes the job. The pain from the stitching needle piercing her skin isn’t too bad; it almost feels like a tickle compared to the forceps. After ripping a sterile wound pad out of its package with her teeth and soaking it in betadine, she places it over the wound and tapes it to her skin. All done. Unfortunately, she will live to see another day.

     With a sigh, she strolls over to the bathroom while pulling her latex gloves off her hands. Again, the woman - who basically just performed surgery on herself - looks in the mirror.      “Well hello, gorgeous,” she mutters sarcastically, registering the bags under her eyes, the run-down mascara and messy hair.       She looks like a train wreck and that’s an understatement. But considering recent events, she's lucky to still be standing. After opening the faucet, she bends over the sink. The water feels refreshing on her skin as she washes her face. With her hands on the edge of the sink, she closes her eyes. Time for a moment to stop, debrief, and take a breath.

     The fucking night she had. 

     What the hell happened out there? Where did this go wrong? She found a pattern, located the next victim. At least, she thought she did.       Burdened, the brunette turns around and slowly walks back to the main room. The interior of the motel is rather boring, but the bed is comfortable enough and there’s a television. Normally she insists on more luxurious hotels, but with two big events happening in the city, this was all she could find. 

     By the bed, she halts. A puzzle of newspaper articles, pictures, books, and blueprints lay spread out over the mattress as some sort of mind map. An outsider would think this so-called Mrs. Johnson might be a special agent. That, or a psychotic killer, but neither is true. In fact, her name isn’t even Mrs. Johnson. 

     Biting her lip, she narrows her brown eyes and tries to find some sort of link, an explanation for what happened tonight. Terry Cliffer, the guy she expected to be the next target, turned out to be the bad guy. The bastard who shot her certainly looked an awful lot like Cliffer. Somehow the suspect was on to her and made a change of plans, but what was the trigger?      She picks up two articles, both from the local paper, the Post-Bulletin. One is about a murderer with an ironclad alibi, the other a tiny report of a strange robbery. Both incidents took place during the same night, both suspects were caught on surveillance cameras, both claimed to be elsewhere at the time of the crime, and neither fit the profile of a killer or a thief. Two separate mysteries for the local police, one crystal clear case for a hunter. Until now, that is.

      She mutters unintelligibly, annoyed with the fact that she’s one step behind. There’s another question poking at her subconscious, maybe one of even bigger importance: how the hell did it shift so fast? She picks up a book from her bed and rereads the passage she labeled ‘Shapeshifting’.      ‘Shapeshifting is a common theme in mythology and folklore. In its broadest sense, it is a metamorphosis (change in the physical form or shape) of a person. Shapeshifting involves physical changes such as alterations of age, gender, race,  general appearance, or changes between human and animal form.’      Still standing up, she leafs through the book, trying to find what she’s looking for.      “Forms of shapeshifting, powers, punitive changes, needed items, yadda yadda yadda. Damn it, where is it!?” 

     Throwing the book back on the bed, she sits down, wincing, and pulls her MacBook closer on the table. Focused, she fires up the hard drive and opens her archives. After a bit of searching, the screen finally shows the information she’s been looking for.      “Shifting process: The shifting process takes several hours, but can be hastened by the shapeshifter itself, by tearing off its own flesh - Oh, that’s just gross.” She shivers, disgusted, staring and rereading the passage just to be sure.      It might be gross, but this is what’s happening. Something disturbed the monster she’s hunting, but did she mess up this job or did someone else blow her cover? 

     She has to go back to the roots of this case for everything to make sense. At least three people are connected to each other. Three people who don’t work together, who don’t live close by, but there’s one thing they have in common: they’ve all been seen at 110th Ave NW just outside Rochester this month. Traffic cams confirmed this, so the shifter must be hiding somewhere along that road. But where?      She opens a satellite picture of the area on her Apple computer and observes the houses alongside the road. The estates are spread out and have long driveways. It would take months to figure out where the shifter’s den is, and the creature will be long gone by then. Yesterday, she thought she had a lead. She discovered the thing uses the sewer system to travel. More than fifty percent of the houses out there aren’t connected to the sewer system, but have their own septic tanks, so she could scratch those off the list. Only nine of the remaining houses are empty. The problem is, she already checked those homes and ended up with nothing.

     “C’mon, what does your gut tell you?” she mumbles to herself.      One house, deep in the forest, captures her eye. It’s not connected to the sewer system, but on the last drive by, she saw a ‘for sale’ sign by the side of the road. Good chance it’s empty. It wouldn’t make any sense for the shapeshifter to hide out in the woods, miles from the sewer, but she has a feeling something’s going on in that place. Her intuition is the only thing she’s going on, since there are no leads left to investigate. Why is a voice in the back of her mind telling her to go there when it makes absolutely no sense?      “This is fucking insane,” she states out loud as she gets up to put on a new top.      Insane, maybe. But she is not going to sit on her ass and watch this monster get away with more abductions. What concerns her, is the people of which it stole their identities, are now missing. They could be dead for all she knows, but they could also be held some place, and in that case, every second counts. This stops tonight; she has been hunting this fucker for way too long. Determined, she gathers her stuff and leaves the room, heading back to the hunting fields.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter three here!

[hank-mcdankblade]

I Know A Bottom When I See One Princess (Part 1)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary 

Chapter 1: You and Dean have been pals for as long as you can remember, practically raised together. Are things still the same as you remembered when you reconnect with him after a couple years apart? Well there is one thing you see differently and you’re about to call him out on it.

Chapter 2:  After you flirt back with Dean you start to rethink all of your life choices. Why did you flirt back instead of making fun of him? God it would be so much easier if you were just a genderless blob. Hopefully the new supernatural case a friend of your mom’s gives you will distract you from all this romance mumbo jumbo.

Chapter 3: You and Dean both start to realize your feelings are not what you both originally anticipated them to be. If only you two could actually talk like adults instead of bantering like childish 8 year olds. The case picks up when you see a certain someone’s name over every case, a certain boomer’s name.

Chapter 4: You and Dean do some sleuthing into Chrissy’s apparent death. After learning the truth your trip to Wendy’s/Jack in the Box gets interrupted by Chief douchebag. Rick takes the three of you on a nice drive to the mountains to introduce you to his daughter.

Word Count: 2,393

Warnings: Touch of heavy flirting? Many swears

 ______________________________________________________________________

       Sounds of clinking glasses and chatter bounced off of the wooden walls of the bar and created a small echo. The tables and counters were moderately filled with folks who had only been there once and patrons who looked like they were completely at home. The latter of the two were the people who only knew of the bar by the nickname they had given it decades ago. It was easy to tell the two crowds apart from each other. Pictures of smiling people littered the walls along with other knick-knacks like license plates and light up neon signs. All in all the place felt very cozy, comforting almost. As odd as it was this place felt like a safe haven, welcoming every customer in as if they were related to the owner by blood.

        If someone told you that every inch of the floor was mopped with liquor, you would absolutely believe them. Nothing against it, if anything it tied together the atmosphere of the establishment. Your eyes flitted to every corner savoring the looks you could get. The weight on your shoulders was starting to roll off and sink to the floor making it easier to breath deeply. 

        “Hey.”

        The moments were melting together to create one color, smooth like silk.

        “Dude.”

        If they rented out the back you would pay top dollar for that, man this place was calming. It was calming like a god damn koi fish pond.

        “(Y/N)!” Your attention was grabbed by your partner in crime, none other Dean fucking Winchester. If there was anyone you could count on to get a drink with or do hooligan shit with, it was him. He was looking at you in that special way that let you know that he’d been talking for the past five minutes and you didn’t hear a word of it. Although in your defense, the two of you had been up for the past couple of days with no sleep so he could sue you.

        “Sorry what?” You turned your head towards him with a brow quirked, your lips barely resting against the mouth of a bottle. Dean smiled looking to the ground.

        “You’re being spacey, you thinkin’ about my pretty face again? It tends to have that effect on women.” He winked at you with a certain glimmer in his eye. Dean would claim he was subtle, but as they say the eyes are the windows to the soul. And through his windows you could see clear as day that he was vying for your special attention.

        You mirrored his smile and responded. “Ya caught me, I was just thinking about how I’m gonna to propose to you.”

        “I will take nothing less than ten cows as a dowry.” The banter between you two had always been like this, light and breezy with Dean being a smug little shit head and you dishing out just as much sarcasm as him. Although ever since you two reconnected and started hunting together again something about the playful banter shifted. Dean would take moments to look at you more, he was always right next to you leaving barely any space between your bodies, and whenever he had an opportunity to touch you he would take it. When you were kids, sure he would flirt with you but that was back when you were stupid kids and didn’t know what you were doing. The first time he tried a pick up line on you he stuttered so hard it barely came out as a sentence. But Dean was an adult now, a man, and he knew exactly what he was doing when he gave you the up down look every so often.

        “Someone thinks highly of themselves.” You didn’t mind the attention, but you did find his big macho man act hilarious. For years you saw him strut around proudly showing his feathers to the hens nearby, but you knew deep down that this was all an act. You knew what truly laid beneath the mask of a dominant man who topped every woman he’d been with. It was impossible to not see it. Dean’s eyes lingered on your neck whenever you put your hair up. And on multiple occasions you saw his jaw clench in moments when you had to assert yourself.

        This boy was a bottom, and a sub nonetheless, and no amount of puffing his chest out was going to hide that fact. You went along with the harmless flirting trying your best not to show your cards just yet.

        “Are you saying that to hurt my ego or because you don’t have the dowry? Cause I’m sure we could find another form of payment.” There it was again, that look that Dean wore so well just begging for you to come closer to him. His tongue wetted his lips as his eyes drifted off to your lips. Your mouth twitched upwards, tongue poking out slightly to stop yourself from laughing. 

        “I’m not selling you any of my organs, I already did that once and let me tell you waking up in a tub full of ice is not my kind of Saturday morning.” You thought that maybe with a joke you could evade his advances and diffuse the situation, but Dean’s smirk didn’t let up. You really didn’t want to call him out just yet, maybe let him have his fun a little more, but he was coming close to breaking your will power. Dean leaned closer to you, if possible. It was close enough that you could feel the fabric of his shirt and smell his cologne. His heart was beating frantically, you didn’t have to be the Slayer to figure that out since you could practically see it jumping out from his chest.

        “You know that’s not what I mean sweetheart.” Dean’s voice came out rough and low. It was quiet like his words were a secret to keep between just the two of you. A secret that would be sealed with a kiss. 

        Another twitch of your lips had you done for. The giddy feeling in your stomach was bubbling up into your throat, forcing laughter to break through. You turned your head away from him with a hand over your lips to muffle your giggles. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! This act is just too funny!” You couldn’t help but smile brightly at Dean’s confused face, probably having no idea why you were laughing at him. He took a step back sitting more in his bar stool chair carefully watching you, possibly as a defense mechanism.

        “What act?” He asked, voice coming out gravelly. Dean’s eyebrow twitched, his eyes unreadable at the moment no doubt from watching his partner giggle like an idiot in her chair. You leaned against the table with your elbows on top looking like the most smug piece of shit.

        “This whole top dom act you got goin’ on, it’s cute.” You shrugged taking another sip from your drink. Your lips curled into a devilish smile at Dean. His face was on fire, cheeks blazing red. You knew you had him squirming in his seat and you were loving every moment of it.

        “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Dean’s words came out quick. He was being defensive, not sure how to respond but you knew from his outburst that there really was some truth to your accusation. You pushed the exact right button to drive him up a wall. Really it was adorable how riled up the hunter was about his threatened title.

        “Oh really?” You hopped off your stool and put a foot on the bottom bar of Dean’s chair, putting a knee in between his legs. Your hands rested on his thighs, making sure to give a gentle squeeze to them jolting them awake. He quickly glanced down and back up at you, refusing to break eye contact to prove to you what he knew he was. 

        “Baby boy, I see the way you tense up whenever I’m a little rough with you. Or the way your eyes follow my hands when I clean my knives. And you can pout all you want, but I know what you are.” Your face stalked closer to his, Dean was losing his grip on the situation quickly but refused to back down just yet. The less space between you two there was, the more Dean was aware of the tingle beginning to grow in the back of his neck and down his spine. He was internally battling what he really wanted, and what he thought he wanted. For all of his life Dean was this big bad hunter who could kill anything, drink as much as he pleased, and sleep with any woman of his choosing. But in front of you he felt a switch flip. Now he was the vulnerable one. Looking into your predatory eyes made him feel anxious but turned on. He was no longer the alpha, the strong man, or the best hunter out there, because in front of him was you. The Slayer, a woman gifted with superhuman abilities from the essence, soul, and heart of a demon in order to fight against the forces of evil. (Courtesy of the Shadow Men)

        Fuck, no. He was not a bottom. There was no fucking way. He was Dean motherfucking Winchester, an unbeatable hunter with an attitude. But fuck did he melt when you trailed a finger under his jaw, tilting chin upwards to meet your gaze. Dean lost sight of your dark eyes as your cheek softly touched his. “I know a bottom when I see one princess.” Your lips against his ear and breath on his neck was making him more aware of his body, and more precisely where he wanted you next. Dean swallowed thickly desperately trying to ignore the way his knees wobbled slightly, or the surging heat that started where your hands met his thighs and traveled inwards only to get more intense. The craving to just feel your naked skin on his was unbearable. His skin felt like it was on fire.

        But there was also a pin of fear poking Dean’s heart that knew full well if you wanted to completely dominate him you could, and strangely enough it was hot as fuck. You could use him in any way you wanted and there was nothing he would be able to do about it. It was a cliché fantasy, but damn did it get him revved up. Dean’s seen you lift cars and fight five demons at once, surely he wouldn’t be much of a fight to you. God why did this make him needy? Why did knowing that you could overpower him turn him on so much? All he could think about was you riding him into oblivion, your hips coming down on him hard enough to rock the mattress.

        Fuck you, he was not a bottom.

        As quickly as it came, your touch left him as you sat back down in your chair. You looked pleased with yourself. “I am not- you are- I don’t even.” He wiped a hand over his face as he tried to sputter together a sentence to throw back at you. Dean sighed before trying to speak again, putting his game face on with stoic eyes and slight smirk. “This isn’t an act, if you wanna see a top dominant man I’ll gladly show you sweetheart.” Dean took a moment to compose himself as you laughed at him again, trying to quickly compose a witty come back or smooth line in order to conceal his new change of heart when his eyes caught something. 

        “Alright if I’m such a bottom then how come I have that fine girl over there checking me out?” Dean countered with a smirk. You glanced over to wear his eyes guided your direction. The girl couldn’t have been much older than you. You guessed that she was here with her friends judging from the crowd around that section of the bar. Once you met her eyes you shook your head looking down at your drink with a smile and then back at your partner. Dean’s eyes narrowed at you. “Why so smug?”

        “Cause she’s not lookin’ at you princess.” Dean’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. There was no other place her eyes could be, she was looking straight at him. 

        “Bullshit.” 

        “Oh yeah?” You challenge setting your drink down. “Watch this.” Dean’s eyes switched from looking at you and the girl from across the bar wondering what the hell you were getting at. You looked over to the mystery girl and put on your predatory eyes, stalking her from afar letting her know that if you wanted to you could mark her right now. You knew she could see you staring at her. The sudden spotlight made her shoulders shift. Her fingertips fidgeted with the hem of her top as a way to cope. When she knew she could no longer fight back against your gaze she lifted her head to meet your eyes. They couldn’t get any darker. Your eyes looked her up and down, ending your interaction with a wink. The unknown woman blinked her doe eyes and quickly looked away again, a heavy blush noticeable on her cheeks. 

        “Told ya sweetheart, I’ve got top energy.” You looked over to Dean who sat in his chair dumbfounded. His lips were pulled thin, brows creased, and eyes choosing to focus on a part of the wall that did not look like you. Did the world suddenly flip upside down? How did you suddenly became a player and Dean Winchester lose his mojo all in one night? Dean blinked a couple times trying to piece everything together before clearing his throat.

        “Well I think I’ve enough of this dive bar for one night, see ya.” Dean stood up from his chair making his way to the entrance of the bar. The farther away he was from you and his feelings the better.

        “Wait Dean come back! Don’t be mad!” You rolled your eyes with a light smile following after him. With this new found angle, you had a lot of material with which to tease him. Something told you that this was just the beginning of a whole new chapter.

[out-of-this-town]

The will to protect

Inuyasha AU, InuKag, romance & adventure

Before dying, Kikyo ties Inuyasha’s life to her little sister, Kagome, in order to ensure her safety.

Inuyasha is not too pleased about getting dragged into this mess and demands that Kagome undo the spell. Unfortunately for him, she has no idea how to do that. As danger draws near, Inuyasha has to find the willingness to keep Kagome out of harm’s way as Kagome tries to find a way to release Inuyasha from the spell.

Chapter 3  (ao3) (ff)

“Tell me again what happened and what she said. Leave nothing out.” Inuyasha let out a suffering groan at Kaede’s request. 

“I’ve already told you all I know,” he snapped.

“And you’ll tell me again if you want the spell to be lifted.” Kaede seemed unfazed by the growling half-demon in her hut. When she had first seen Kagome and her guest, all she’d done was raise her eyebrow before inviting them in and setting the tea water to boil. A frown had formed on her aged face when the old woman had heard of Kikyo’s fate but all she’d done was squeeze Kagome’s hand, knowing that the girl would not wish to speak of the matter in front of Inuyasha. 

Inuyasha glared at Kaede from his spot leaning against the wall before starting his explanation again. “Naraku had been crossing through my territory for weeks at that point, but he'd managed to avoid me, so when I caught his stench again, I started to track him down. When i found him, he had already wounded Kikyo and she was bleeding on the ground. Naraku was missing his arm and was bleeding all over the place. He was way too injured to fight me, so he took off. I was gonna go after him when Kikyo started talking.”

Inuyasha’s eyes darted towards Kagome before he continued. “Got curios to what she wanted, and I thought, since he was so injured, that it’d be easy to track down Naraku even if he got a little head start. Went over, she grabbed my arm and started babbling about how her sister was in danger and that Naraku would go after Kagome. Then she started the spell.”

“What were the exact words?” Kaede inquired, closing her one remaining eye and sipping her tea.

“Uh...something about tying my heart, body and soul to the blood she shared... There was also some bit about giving her energy as payment for an everlasting bond... Blah blah blah making a sacrifice... Then she drew some symbols on my arm with her blood, though they disappeared as soon as she drew them.” Inuyasha nodded, clearly pleased with his explanation.

“Do ye have an odd understanding of what ‘exact words’ means?” Kaede sounded a little annoyed now, and Kagome had to hide her amused smile behind her tea as Inuyasha sputtered, offended.

“Well, excuse me if I don’t remember all the rambles of an incoherent, dying lady from over a week ago!”

“If ye wish to be released from this, ye had better start remembering. Trying to undo this using the wrong method could harm not only ye, but also Kagome.” Kaede aimed a hard look towards Inuyasha. 

“It wasn’t like I was paying attention. I had no idea what the hell was happening until she explained it afterwards and told me to find Kagome!”

“Ye would think, that one would pay attention to the last words spoken to them by a dying priestess as she draws on ye using her life’s blood.” Now the two were glaring at each other. 

Kagome cleared her throat, hoping to break the tension. “So, Kaede, do you have any idea what kind of spell was used? It doesn’t sound familiar to me.”

Slowly, Kaede moved her gaze on Kagome. “No. This is not a spell that I have taught her, it does not sound like one an ordinary priestess would know.” Kaede sipped her tea and gathered her thoughts. “It sound’s like, in order to link ye and Inuyasha, she used herself as the bridge, the blood shared between Kikyo and Kagome working as the connection. That is strong blood magic and I have no knowledge of the workings of it.”

“Where the fuck does a priestess go to learn blood magic? And why? Aren’t priestesses known for despising all types of witchcraft.” 

“Kikyo did a lot of traveling, she could have learned it from anywhere.” Kagome looked at Kaede, praying that she would have an answer. “Maybe she was hoping to find a way to defeat Naraku using witchcraft?”

Kaede frowned as she pondered on Kagome’s words.

“What the hell is it with you people and Naraku? You had no problem believing that he was the one to kill Kikyo, she was worried about him killin’ you, and apparently, she was willing to learn blood magic in order to use it to fight him... I’m going to go on a limb here and guess that you’re real familiar with him.” Inuyasha eyed Kagome with curiosity. 

Kagome looked over to Kaede, who raised an eyebrow at her, clearly intending to leave the explaining to the young priestess. It wasn’t something she wanted to do, but Inuyasha was now involved so he had the right to know.

Taking a deep breath, Kagome started the unpleasant tale. “He showed up around eight years ago, I was nine and Kikyo was twelve. We were playing by the river when he appeared from the woods. We had just started our priestess training, but his evil aura was so strong that we knew he was dangerous even when he looked like a harmless human. He tried to lure us into leaving with him and grew very angry when we refused. I think he was going to just grab us when some of the village men noticed and scared him off. He is strong now, but back then he didn’t dare try fighting off four humans.

“Since that day, we started feeling his presence around the edge of the village. He never approached any of the other children, just me and Kikyo. We weren’t allowed to be without adult company in case he tried to snatch us. Eventually he grew bold enough to try and take me from the village, killing three men in the process.” Kagome could feel her jaw trembling at her memory. Never would she forget watching those three men trying their best to keep her safe and getting ripped apart for their efforts. She still had nightmares about it.

Kaede continued the story, seeing how distressed Kagome had become. “I was there in time to scare him away, before he could take off with Kagome. We often tried tacking him down to kill him, even hired demon slayers to help, but he is a master of hiding. Never once did I come across him if he didn’t want me to.”

Kaede leaned forward to pour more tea into Kagome’s cup, hoping that the herbs of the drink would calm the girl. “Eventually, I started to feel his powers growing too strong for me to defeat on my own, and saw it best to put up a barrier to protect us until the girl’s were powerful enough to help me take him out for good.” The old woman gazed at the fading sunlight coming through the window. “Putting up a barrier strong enough to keep him out proved to be a difficult task, my body never fully recovered from the strain of it and I had to retire from my priestess duties. Kikyo took my place when she was fifteen.”

“Barrier?” Inuyasha sat up straight, alarmed. “What barrier? I had no trouble entering the village.” He looked them over, now suspicious of the two and their capabilities as priestesses.

“You wouldn’t. It is only to keep away Naraku. Setting up one that stays up over the course of multiple years and harms all youkai would have been impossible, my energy would not have held out for something like that,” Kaede scoffed. “Even now, the barrier needs constant attention and upkeep or it will fall.”

“Naraku has continued to be a problem despite the barrier. Sometimes his presence can be felt testing the strength of our protections, and a handful of times a year he will slaughter someone leaving or coming to the village. He’ll dump their bodies at the edge of the barrier with his mark carved into them, just to remind us that he’s still around and waiting.” Kagome glared at the firepit like it was responsible of the horrors they’d endured over the years. “Kikyo has fought him a few times, wounding him badly enough that any other demon would have perished, but somehow, Naraku always manages to survive and escape.”

“Any idea what he wants? I mean, he seems to be putting in a lot of effort to get to you.”

Kagome shrugged at Inuyashas question. If only they knew, maybe figuring out how to stop him would be easier.

“Well, what the fuck now? I ain’t planning on hanging around this place until you keel over and take me with you!” Inuyasha sounded agitated as he stood up, starting to pace the length of the small hut. Kagome chewed her lip, feeling helpless. She wanted to release him from Kikyo’s spell, but she had no idea how to go about it.

“Maybe ye should visit Mushin’s temple. They have extensive collection of texts that could offer knowledge on this matter,” Kaede hummed. “If Miroku happens to be there, he might also be of use. He does a great deal of traveling and might have come across this spell before.”

Kagome groaned at the thought of the lecherous monk. “Oh, I’m sure he’s angered enough witches to have plenty of knowledge on their curses.”

“You think he could help?” Inuyasha asked curiously as he stopped his pacing, ears standing to attention.

“He is the only one I can think of who might know something and agree to help a half-demon.” Kaede nodded.

“Then what are we waiting for? Kagome ain’t getting any younger and I ain’t dying when old-age takes her.”

“Hey!” Kagome started, a little offended. “I’m only seventeen. I’ve still got at least ten years before you can start staying stuff like that.” 

“Keh, could’ve fooled me.” The half-demon crossed his arms and smirked at her. Oh that bastard, was all Kagome could think as she narrowed her eyes at him.

“You had better be careful with what you say to me, or I won’t help you.” She gave him a smile of her own. “Then you’d have no choice but to try and enjoy your last decade alive.”

[plutoandpolaris]

Walk the Line Chapter 1: The Price I Pay

Summary: Jackie has been missing for almost as long as Schneep had, and Marvin is beginning to get desperate. He turns to unsavory means to find answers and in the process, finds that the truth is much worse than anything they could have imagined.

Warnings: blood, strong language (minor) injury.

-

Marvin’s dreams had never been wrong.

They’d never been clear or easy to understand either, but from the day of his creation his dreams had always come true in one way or another.

Darkness. A sky black as pitch, overlooking a steep stone cliff. The rock is a dark, muddy red, dotted with trees so white they resemble skeletal hands reaching from the earth. A lone figure stands on the cliff side, his clothes torn and dappled with stains as red as the world around him.

Scars and wounds dapple his stark white skin, his eyes hollow and cold.

“Stay away,” he whispers hoarsely, the sound a booming metronome in Marvin’s ears. “Leave me.”

“Jackie?!” Marvin calls, sprinting desperately to close the distance.

His brother doesn't look at him, instead gazing past him in a glassy thousand yard stare. Marvin reaches him then, gripping his shoulders, eyes pleading. He doesn't respond.

“What has he done to you?!”

Once again, no answer. Marvin envelops his brother in a crushing hug, only to realize that, to his horror, Jackie is dissolving. His skin turns an ashy black, dissipating into black smoke blown over the ravine by the warm wind.

Marvin curls into himself, dropping to his knees as the last vestiges of ash and smoke blow from his fingers.

Jackie is gone.

Every day, the dreams continued. Many were identical, some with slight differences that nevertheless ended in the same result.

But recently, the dream had changed again.

The cliff side was now empty.

And so Marvin continued his near manic search for Jackie, for the titular cliff that had plagued his nightmares for months. His brothers thought he'd gone completely insane, but there was nothing they could do. Marvin was far past the point of listening to reason.

He'd scoured every map and travel site he could get his hands on, searching for somewhere, anywhere, that matched the cliff in his dreams. Nothing.

He even got the point of bothering professional geographers about it, but he was constantly faced with the same answer. There's no place on earth with trees like that. With a sky as crisp and smooth as black marble.

It's fantasy.

However, as it turned out, fantasy is Marvin’s specialty.

He’d given up searching for this place on earth and turned to his second option: Anti had taken Jackie to some kind of parallel dimension, as was the case with Henrik’s abduction nearly a year before. But still, nothing. He'd personally scanned every single alternate dimension in his records, everything turning up empty. His brothers began to bring up the possibility that the cliff doesn't exist, that it was just a dream, but he wouldn't hear it.

It had to be out there.

It had to be.

And that was how he found himself in Dark’s office.

“Truth be told, you are the last person I’d expect to ask me for help.”

Dark leaned back in his chair, hands folded, slight amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I’m out of options,” Marvin muttered, rummaging through his bag for his notes, documentation of every single cliff dream he’d had since Jackie went missing. He could vaguely hear Dark muttering under his breath. “The fool who goes knocking on the devil’s door usually is.”

Marvin placed the folder on the table, spreading out the papers in order.

“Anti has taken Jackie, and I know for a fact that wherever he’s taken him has been showing up in my dreams. I need to know where it is, and an attainable method of getting me there that won't kill me.”

Marvin’s tone is sharp, calm with a roiling undertone of rage. Not at Dark, but more at himself for the level he’s stooped to. But still, he knows he has to keep his request concise and without room for interpretation, because if you give a demon an inch they’ll take a mile.

Dark’s eyes dart over the papers, a small flicker of surprise surfacing on his face before being immediately buried.

“Those are the terms?”

“Yes.”

Dark’s aura flares for a moment, the light casting multicolored shadows on the walls.

“Usually these sorts of deals are sealed in blood, but considering the unique circumstances, I’m taking this on your word.”

He leans in, eyes filling with darkness, aura thrashing wildly in the darkness.

“But trust me, I will know if you try to weasel your way out of this. I always know.”

Marvin nods hastedly as Dark settles back into his chair, the darkness in his eyes receding just as quickly as it had arrived.

“But I’m sure you’d never go back on a deal, would you Marvin?”

Marvin shakes his head and Dark nods, looking over the papers once again.

“So what’s the price? My mortal soul? My limbs? My sanity?”

A smile tugs at Dark’s eyes, but his face remains stoic.

“No. While you're close, I have no use for anything of yours.”

Dark stood, pulling a covered jar off of the shelf on the far wall, placing it on the desk before him. He pulled the covering off, revealing a small glowing light about the size of a fingernail. It seemed to pulse with energy, although dimly.

A human soul, but not a whole one.

“What a need from you is a small portion of Sean Mcloughlin’s soul, exactly one percent. I'm sure that number means something to you.”

One percent. Each and every one of Jack’s egos contain exactly one percent of his soul. It's the engine, the source that gave them all life. Dark was asking for the equivalent of one of their lives.

A life for a life.

Horror washed over him, slowly then all at once. He’d been prepared to give up his own life, which he would have willingly done for any one of his brothers, but this? Taking a piece of his creator’s soul by force? Sure, it wouldn't kill him. Not even close. He’d lost five pieces to create all of them, and some others had lost much more. Marvin’s not even sure how Mark still survives with that many pieces of his soul missing.

But the very act of taking it without his permission is what made it so horrible.

What made it a worthy price for what Marvin was asking for.

Dark was testing him. Testing how much he’d be willing to sacrifice for the sake of his brothers.

Marvin only hoped that Jack would be able to forgive him.

“Done.”

Dark pressed a small piece of parchment into his hands, folded into a neat little square.

“Contained on this parchment is the spell you will need to extract the soul fragment. I'd be careful to read it correctly, lest you cause Mcloughlin unnecessary harm.”

Marvin unfolded the paper carefully, eyes darting over the swooping cursive print. A standard Latin incantation, at least at first glance.

Dark noticed his distracted gaze, sliding a small jar across the table to knock him out of his stupor. The glass was carved with symbols, most likely daemotic.

“Use this to keep the soul shard contained. I expect the payment on my desk by 7:00 pm tonight. Don’t be late.”

-

I can't do it.

Marvin stood over Jack’s bedside, gaze locked onto his ashen, comatose face. This was a violation of the utmost degree, a crime that no one in their right mind would ever forgive him for.

But if I don't, we might never see Jackie ever again.

His hands trembled as they held the parchment, throat closing as the dark letters began to blur.

I can't.

But I have to.

And so the magician began to read. The words were easy enough, he'd read and studied enough Latin to know the words, but the weight of the them almost made him stumble.

As he read the area around Jack’s bedside began to glow a sickening black, the smoke writhing like a living, breathing creature.

It sat poised over Jack’s chest, pausing for a moment, before diving in with enough force to cause the bed springs to creak and the walls to shudder.

Most magic Marvin dealt with was methodical and slow, taking a practiced hand and lots of patience. This magic was no such thing.

It was angry, quick and violent, striking fast and with no warning, so maddened that Marvin could barely keep a hold on it.

The smoke had pulled back up from Jack’s chest, holding with it a volleyball sized sphere of light.

However, even when the dark magic dissipated, the soul still pulsed deeply with darkness. The color was wrong, tinged a deep, bloody red around the edges, black smoke nestled deep within.

A realization hit Marvin so hard he nearly lost his concentration.

Corruption. The final stages of Night Sickness.

But there's no external signs. His skin isn't blackened, he hasn't been coughing up blood or showing signs of a decreased heart rate. How do you corrupt someone this completely with no external symptoms?

Marvin could faintly see five grooves in the surface of the soul, holes, about the size of a fingernail each, one for him and each of his brothers. Another piece began to break off, slowly, pulling against the seething corruption trying to keep the soul intact.

Eventually it failed, the small piece breaking off with a sound like the cracking of broken glass. Discomfort and terror pooled in the pit of Marvin’s stomach as the implications of his actions began to set in again, but he cast them aside, guiding the soul shard into the container Dark had given him. It settled at the bottom, glowing faintly.

How something with no face could seem to be glowering at him, Marvin had no idea.

Without anything keeping it afloat, Jack’s soul began to dissipate, seeping back into him until the ethereal light that bathed the small hospital room faded back into darkness.

The deed was done.

-

The walk to deliver his payment was a long and slow one, the warmth of the jar an unpleasant reminder of what he’d done.

The soul shard itself was still slightly red tinged and corrupted, settling down at the bottom of the jar rather than floating around like the one Dark had shown him. It seemed so pitiful there, drifting listlessly like a wounded animal.

Dark seemed almost surprised when the jar was placed on his desk, but he quickly cast the sudden shock aside. He opened the jar, peering inside at the soul with a slight air of disgust.

“It seems the little parasite really does corrupt everything he touches.”

After a few more seconds of contemplation Dark sighed, replacing the lid and placing the jar under his desk.

“You've fulfilled your end of the bargain, so I suppose I must fulfill mine. I've done some research, and I know where Anti’s taken your brother.”

Dark turned, pulling a huge paper scroll from the top of the bookshelf behind him. It reeked of age and dust, filling the entire desk as it was unrolled.

A map. A very old one too, written in Daemotic, the historic language of demonkind. While Marvin was familiar with speaking the language, reading it was another story. The characters were alien and strange, pulsing with a power more ancient than any mortal could comprehend.

“Anti’s gotten bolder, it seems. Suicidally bold. He's taken Jackie to Iéfernann, what you'd call Hell or the Underworld.”

“What?!”

Iéfernann? Sure, Marvin had heard of it, it was mentioned many times in his magic books, although there it was usually referred to as the ‘Land Beneath the Curve.’ Humans weren't even supposed to be able to go there, and those that did barely survived more than a few days. It's a land of nightmares, the source of all demonic magic.

“Did I misspeak? Anti has indeed taken him to Hell, if your dreams are to be believed. The cliffs you described are very common, so I have no way of finding the exact ones depicted, but I can tell you that your brother is most likely a dead man.”

Dark lifted his eyes from the map for a moment, settling back into his seat.

“I’ll give you some advice for free: give it up. He's done for.”

Done for? Marvin refused to believe it, even as a settling feeling of dread began to pool in his chest.

Jackie's too strong to go down that easily.

“You're forgetting one part of our deal, demon. How do I get there?”

The look of confusion on Dark’s face was the most emotion Marvin had seen from him all day.

“So the rumors are true, you all really do have a death wish.” Dark sighed, turning in his office chair to grab for another of the trinkets from his bookshelf, setting it down on the desk. “So be it then.”

“What you have before you is an Ostium, your ticket to a painful death.”

It was a sphere about the side of a baseball, clear as glass with a complicated spider web-like metal structure inside. In the center was a second sphere, smaller, that glittered like porcelain in the office’s dim light.

“I haven't calibrated this in centuries, so there's no way of knowing where it'll spit you out. But it's the only way to traverse beneath the curve. Carved into the cover is the incantation you'll need to activate it.”

Marvin turned the sphere over in his palm, studying the daemotic phrases carved into the clear marble coating.

“Don't let anyone get ahold of this, you hear me? There's a reason ostiums are the only way to travel between realms. I’m not even certain how Anti got ahold of one.” Dark’s eyes narrowed as he studied the sphere in Marvin’s hands.

“There are demons in Iéfernann who would do anything to have an ostium. Demons who have spent their entire immortal lives searching for one. They will stop at nothing to get it from you if they know you possess it.”

Holding the heavy charm in his hands, a seed of doubt began to burrow itself into Marvin’s mind. How the hell was he going to explain this to his brothers?

-

Truth be told, they didn't take it well.

“Are you completely out of your mind?!”

Schneeplestien was pacing the living room, brows deeply furrowed in frustration.

JJ and Chase sat on the couch, and while they hadn’t voiced any opinion yet, the look on their faces made it clear that they shared Schneep’s sentiments.

“No, I am not! I’ve spent months trying to find Jackie and I’ve finally done it!”

Marvin stood behind the couch, watching Schneep as his pacing became more and more erratic. Eventually the other man stopped, his eyes darkened by an exhaustion so palpable that even Marvin could feel it.

“Marvin, I know you want to find Jackie. We all do. But there is no such thing as Hell or the underworld or whatever you want to call it. We should be looking for Jackie practically instead of chasing fantasy stories.”

JJ nodded his acknowledgment, but Chase stayed silent, his gaze fixed somewhere out the window.

“Everything in our world is fantasy, Schneep. We’re fantasy. We’re beings created from imagination and powered by soul magic for fuck’s sake, what’s more fantasy than that?” Marvin pulled the ostium from his pocket, running clammy fingers over the intricate carvings.

“We have to try. We’re nothing without Jackie, he was the glue that held us together. We can’t continue on like this.”

Chase nodded, watching the ostium with new invested interest. “I’m with Marv on this one. Anti’s a demon, who’s the say there isn’t a hell? If there isn’t, where’d Anti come from? D’you think he just popped out of the ground like a zombie or something? One thing’s for sure, he’s not like us.”

Chase was right. Marvin had tried many times to manipulate Anti’s soul shard under the assumption he was like them, a part of Jack. But he had learned very quickly that this was impossible. Anti had no soul. He was another being, formed from powers they had no way of understanding.

“But-“ Schneep groaned in frustration, sitting down in the armchair with more force than was strictly necessary. “Do you realize how dangerous this is? We can barely handle one demon, Marvin. How in heaven and earth do you expect to handle whatever’s down there? You say we can’t go on without Jackie, but I can assure you that we cannot live without you either.” Schneep’s words stopped Marvin short. Of course he’d thought of the dangers. Going to rescue Jackie would involve walking right into enemy territory. So far it had been Anti playing on their turf, but now they were walking into his. But he couldn’t back down now.

We have to try.” Marvin reiterates, voice firm. He had made up his mind.

There was a long pause, the silence deafening, before Chase spoke.

“Well you're sure as hell not going alone. Schneep has to take care of Jack and Jamie’s too inexperienced. You’ll have to take me.”

Marvin opened his mouth to argue but soon realized he was right. Schneep had medical experience yes, but he was needed at home, and Marvin wouldn’t send little Jamie into a mission this dangerous even if he was the last man on earth. Chase was the only option.

“But-“, JJ raised his hands to speak, both noticeably trembling. “What if neither of you return? What will we do then?”

Try as he might, Marvin didn’t have an answer.

-

Its finally here guys, took me long enough. I have a lot of plans for this series, it just might take me awhile. I hope you all will join me for the journey.

[Taglist]

@egopocalypse @shadowsonthemoon @epicfangirl01 @kitnkas @mijako98 @anothermarkiplierfan @iris-the-asparagus @bunchofdoodlesinspace @the-chemist @a-septic-writer-of-art @cutewarmachine @senseless-septic-shambles

If you want to be added or taken off, just let me know.

[monstersandmaw]

Hello! Thank you for opening requests. If it's okay i'd like to request a lonesome male fae with a non binary chubby reader, sfw if it's possible thank you very much.

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Oh gosh, I’ve sat on this request for months. Like, months. But I knew I was going to do it for you, and had it all planned out (on paper and in writing and everything!) and then I discovered that it’s your birthday today, so I had to do it. Happy birthday, my beautiful demon-muse-friend!! 

The setting for this is the day of my orc girl, Bronwyn, and her female reader’s wedding, but they don’t feature. Instead, the fae who is officiating their marriage is the subject of this little tale. It’s sfw, and features a reader who’s gender isn’t mentioned. I hope you like it!!

_____________________

As you traipsed into the little town, exhausted, and utterlyfed up, you saw little triangular pennants hanging over the main street in awide loop, fluttering in kaleidoscope colours in the breeze. It drew a smilefrom your lips, despite your mood. You’d been walking for days, you had almostnothing left, and yet someone here was happy, and having a party.

The noise of merriment and song rose from the back garden ofone of the buildings, and as you neared it, you realised it was the villageinn. The sign of the White Lady inn swung in the breeze, showing you adelicately painted rendition of the waterfall that you’d passed a few milesback, which had the same name. Not wanting to enter the pub if the celebrationsfor someone else’s happy day were in full swing, you looked around and saw ahuge water trough with broad, stone edging, sitting just beside the inn. Takingyourself over there, you cupped your hands and drank deeply of the clear, freshwater. It was cold, but it felt so good. Your own waterskin was empty, and yourfood rations were running out.

As you sank gratefully down onto the edge of the fountainand took a moment to rest your feet and enjoy the strains of music floating upfrom the party going on just out of sight behind the building, a movementcaught your eye, and you saw a figure standing in the archway to the passagewhich led along the side of the inn. He was clearly coming from thecelebrations, but he looked somehow utterly lonely.

After a moment, he noticed you too, and began to approachyou slowly, giving you plenty of time to get up and leave if you didn’t wanthis company, his hands hanging loose at his sides in a non-threatening, gentlepose.

Gods, but he was beautiful. He was tall, and perhaps a bitsevere looking, with long dark hair, and bright eyes, and he wore a long, darkblue, almost ceremonial robe, trimmed with silver and embroidered with patternsof the summer constellations. As he drew nearer to you, he looked almostsurprised by his own actions, but he smiled at you, and asked you who you were.Unthinkingly, you simply told him your name, and said you’d come a long waythat day.

“So I see,” he said kindly in his quiet, rich baritone. Ithad a sad harmonic to it somehow, which you couldn’t quite identify, but whichyou seemed to feel in the very depths of your soul. “And what are you doing outhere alone?” he asked. “The inn may be full of wedding guests, but there’salways room for one more, I’m sure. Mama Gilla wouldn’t hear of someone goinghungry in her town…”

You had to smile at that, but it faded quickly. “No moneyfor food or a bed,” you shrugged. “I suppose I’ll sleep between the trees againtonight…” you said. “It’s not so bad at this time of year.”

He frowned, his strong, handsome brows knitting together inconsternation, and his slender hand went to his pocket. He drew out a glintinggold coin, and your eyes went wide with surprise. Before you could sayanything, he said, “I will offer you this coin in return for a single smile.”

“What?” you asked stupidly.

He chuckled, a lovely, whickering sound, like a contentedhorse. “I’ve seen plenty of smiles today, but they were all for someone else.None were truly for me.”

“That’s a heavy price to pay for just a smile,” youcountered, staring at the coin.

“It’s my demand. I’ll set the price.”

You looked at him a long time. “You’re fae, aren’t you?” youasked eventually, and he nodded once. “What are you doing here?”

“Officiating at a friend’s wedding, believe it or not,” hesaid. “There’s an ancient belief in these parts that to be married by a faebinds you to each other on a deeper level.”

You cocked your head to one side. “That’s not the case?” youasked curiously.

He laughed again, adjusting his weight slightly on hisslender legs. His long blue robe lifted in the breeze which whispered along theroad, and you felt your heart skip a beat as his long, dark hair was liftedfrom his slim shoulders to reveal his chiselled jawline and high cheekbones inthe shifting sunlight of the late afternoon. He seemed completely unaware ofhis good looks as he shook his head. “No, I don’t think my presence makes theirpromises any deeper,” he said.

Unthinkingly, you smiled broadly at his comment, and he heldout the coin to you. “There,” he said. “Perfect. Thank you.”

“That’s it?” you said, fingers faltering just beforeaccepting the gold coin. It would buy you bed and board from here to the nextkingdom, probably.

“I swear on my true name that the only price I ask in returnfor this gold coin is a smile from you, traveller,” he said formally.

“I feel bad accepting it though,” you murmured, and he setthe coin down on the edge of the fountain. As you reached to pick it up, yourfocus left the fae, and when you glanced back up, he was nowhere to be seen.Disappointment sank deeply into you, and you turned the coin over in yourfingers. It was still warm.

You stayed in the inn that night, and Mama Gilla, the goblinwho owned the inn, was only too happy to change it into coppers and silvers foryou, which would be more practical for the road anyway.

At dawn, you set off while all the wedding guests were stillasleep, and a chorus of chirruping forest birds filled your ears as you trampedalong the road, well rested and full of delicious food, heading away from thecity far behind you and out into the world beyond.

Then, as you rounded a corner, you saw another travellerwalking the road ahead of you.

His back was towards you, but the slope of his shoulders wassomewhat familiar, as was the long dark hair now tied back in a neat ponytail,and he walked with an easy grace in the same direction as you. In his righthand he carried a sturdy yet elegant walking staff, and on his back was a smallpack. As if sensing your approach, he halted, and turned back to look at you.

You smiled broadly as you approached, but it soon faded to aworried frown as you saw him shaking his head, looking serious. “What’s wrong?”you asked as you caught up with the fae from the day before.

“You give me another of your beautiful smiles, and I have nomore gold to offer you in payment,” he said.

“What’s your name?” you asked in return. “Or at least, whatcan I call you?”

“Kiridai,” he said immediately, and you knew instinctivelythat that was his true name. “Is that the price you ask for your smile?”

“No,” you laughed, “Of course not. I just wanted to knowyour name. There’s no price this time. My smile is my gift,” you said, but hedidn’t seem happy with that either. “Now what?” you asked.

“A gift should be met with another gift, else the onereceiving is in the giver’s power,” he said gravely.

You rolled your eyes playfully, sensing that he was a very serious fae, but not a dangerous one. “Only by fae rules,” you scoffed. “Besides, wouldit be so terrible to be in my power?” you asked playfully.

Kiridai actually snarled at that. “What can I give you?” hedemanded.

“You don’t deal with people very often, do you?” youlaughed, and he seemed taken aback at that, but not displeased. “I’m surprisedthey asked you to officiate a wedding!”

His shoulders slumped and his head bowed sadly.

“Fine,” you laughed, giving in. “If you insist, I would lovefor you to walk with me and show me your favourite thing about this forest,”you said.

Kiridai seemed pleased with that as your price, and youwalked with him along the road for perhaps a mile before he turned off the pathand took a narrow deer track through the beech trees. He paused briefly tocheck that he had set a good pace for you, and when he discovered that you hadkept up with him, he smiled bashfully over his shoulder, his eyes glittering,and he said, “Almost there.”

At the top of a short incline, he halted beside a littlerocky cliff. Water trickled from the rock into a natural pool, which, despitethe gentle flow of water, was still as glass. Sitting on the surface of themirrored pond were delicate, wild water-roses, the like of which you had neverseen in your whole life. Each one was as large as your hand, pale andbeautiful, and you soon found your feet faltering and your eyes widening at thesight of them.

Their delicate fragrance filled the glen, and he ushered youforwards toward them with a graceful wave of his arm. “This,” he said, “Is myfavourite place in the whole world.”

“I can see why,” you breathed, inhaling the scent of rosesand hearing the soft, glittering tinkle of water.

Glancing back at him, you saw him watching you with adelighted expression on his handsome face. “I’m glad you like it too,” he saidearnestly.

“Thank you,” you croaked. “It’s beautiful.”

“I could bring you nowhere else,” he said. “A beautiful soullike you is worthy of being in such a beautiful place.”

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Happy birthday, friend. Thank you for your endless support and ideas which keep me inspired on a nearly-daily basis. You deserve every happiness in the world. 

Just to add, requests are not currently open, this was a special one-off for a lovely friend. Sorry folks! Don’t send me requests after you see this…

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[mcmedianoche]

“La Oscuridad Te Espera” (Chapter 2) - Sombra/McCree

McCree gently lifts Sombra’s chin with his metal-fire hand and takes his cigar back with the other, his deep honey-brown eyes roving all over her face and well-fit leather clothing. He stops at her white-gold irises and sighs, “Sure is a shame I don’t flirt with demons.”

“Sure is lucky that I’m not a demon,” Sombra replies, her heart suddenly thumping in her chest at his touch.

“So. Your employer’s workin’ with mine.” McCree is first to break the heavy silence between them on their short journey to Shimada Castle. The road has not yet cleared, but Sombra walks in plain sight; she has already vetted this crowd, and the only locals remaining are the sort who either won’t find her alarming or wouldn’t say anything even if they did. There are always a few on these cases. Demons aren’t the only beings who enjoy the shadows.

This is her second night here, but her first approaching the castle. She knows that the demons infesting the estate will sense another living being the moment they step on the property, and a being with her particular energy would draw too much attention before she’s ready. They have to be smart about this.

“Aw, look at you, playing detective,” she replies in as bored a voice as she can. This question has plagued her since they left the tavern, but McCree doesn’t need to know that. She’ll let him supply what he knows.

“Both of us, here, hired to do this now? Splittin’ the targets? That’s awful convenient, don’t you think?”

“I would call it ‘efficient.’” The split targets are the key. The banshee has a lot of enemies, but even so, she’s good at removing her emotions from a situation, if she has any left. When a pragmatic solution exists, she will take it, unless there’s room to entertain her morbid curiosity.

McCree lights a fresh cigar. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course not.”

His brow flattens as he gives her an exasperated look, cigar smoke puffing ominously around his face in the moonlight. Sombra just presses her lips together to keep from snickering.

“Well then, ya cocky little shit--”

“Ah, mira --” she says, stopping in her tracks to point at herself. “Gorgeous, cocky little shit, remember?”

McCree’s lips tighten around his cigar, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

Sombra lets herself laugh out loud this time, plucking the cigar from his mouth to take a puff of her own. “Sending us here at the same time guarantees that we’ll get this done with no loose ends, and since they didn’t pit us against each other with the same target, we know it’s not a trap. Easy in, easy out.” She sucks on the cigar again and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “You’re taking this very seriously.”

McCree’s smile cracks in full, with nothing to hide behind. He gently lifts Sombra’s chin with his metal-fire hand and takes his cigar back with the other, his deep honey-brown eyes roving all over her face and well-fit leather clothing. He stops at her white-gold irises and sighs, “Sure is a shame I don’t flirt with demons.”

“Sure is lucky that I’m not a demon,” Sombra replies, her heart suddenly thumping in her chest at his touch. The prosthetic is somehow soothingly cool on the metal parts and pleasantly hot with the fire, setting off a strange tingle in her skin. This isn’t a mortal creation.

She takes advantage of his stunned silence to place her hand over his and press her cheek further into his touch, chasing that tingle. “Who made this?”

“My boss. I’d already been hunting demons, but it helps with work, sort of focuses whatever sensitivity I have to magic. And I needed a new arm, besides,” he answers, his attention zeroing in on the way her warm skin and eyes glow brighter against his hand. He grazes a metal thumb across her bottom lip and down her chin, propriety forgotten in this moment of discovery. “What are you?”

It takes all of her considerable self-control not to move. She knows the sweet, welcoming flavor of this magic, or at least, has felt something similar before. Now she knows why he’s here. “The Witch of the Wilds sent you, didn’t she?”

McCree nods.

“She sent you here to kill Hanzo,” Sombra continues, the pieces finally slotting together in her head, “because he’s hurting her precious Genji. She brought that demon back to life because she loved him too much to let him go. But… Moira sent me here to kill him. What, is Mercy putting him out of his misery?”

McCree’s eyes darken at that. “You work for the banshee? The Witch of the Wind? There’s always some kinda catch with her, Sombra. What were her exact words? What did she ask you to do?”

Sombra said it herself: Genji was a charmer. But demons are charmers, too. It hadn’t occurred to her that they wouldn’t be one in the same. Demons play the long game, some born as human-looking beings, living human-looking lives, amassing human family and friends, building a pool of human energy, until they bloom into their true selves, powerful and deadly, and devour everyone around them. But something about this isn't right. She hates this feeling, knowing a crucial detail has slipped through her fingers. “Moira collects demon souls for her magic. She wants the oni. Removing a demon’s soul from their body is the same as killing them… unless…”

“...unless that body wasn’t theirs to begin with.”

Sombra’s stomach sinks. She knows what McCree is about to say. Damn it, she really should have demanded higher payment.

He shakes his head, looking as disgruntled as she feels. “Shit. This ain’t a hunt, Sombra. It’s an exorcism.”

*

Shimada Castle forms an imposing silhouette at the edge of Hanamura. The few businesses just outside its outer wall have been empty for some time now. The mortals who toy with darkness a little farther from the property maintain a safe distance; it is true that those who go near this place are lost. Sombra knows that some have tried, have scaled the gate at the front entrance on a dare, or were simply curious, but the oni inside -- or, the possessed Shimada -- simply killed them and ate their souls.

“A demon infesting the body of a trained assassin. Fan-fuckin’-tastic,” McCree mutters, staring up at the front gate.

“Two. I thought Ichika had been fooled when she said they both used to be mortals. What are the odds Hanzo is a true oni?”

He grumbles, annoyed. “The oni couldn’t have picked the local sushi master or something?”

Sombra snickers and puts a silver claw under his chin, scratching gently. “Aw, are you scared? Pobrecito. I’ll protect you.”

McCree looks like he’s about to swat her away, but thinks better of it, taking hold of her gloved hand instead. “You never answered my question.”

“Well, obviously, the oni wanted someone with power and influence. A sushi master would have brought in lots of people, but--”

He takes her glove off. Tendrils of purple energy stretch from Sombra’s fingertips, then disappear into the air. McCree flexes his metal-fire hand around her wrist, staring down at it curiously before he looks into her glowing eyes again. “I felt that. You know which question I’m talking about.”

Sombra considers that question for a moment. She certainly won’t have time to discuss it once they’re inside the Shimada gates. Exorcisms are messy and there is no way around that, but if they both survive the encounter,  then they’ll go their separate ways when the job is done.

The thought disturbs her, and she isn’t sure why.

Sombra looks at her bare hand, and at McCree’s hand around her wrist, then stretches her fingers.

McCree’s mouth drops open as his hand mimics hers, opening with splayed fingers as if it’s going to wave. He tries to move it himself and can’t. Nerves deepen the lines of his face at this sudden lack of control, but comprehension softens them again. “You’re a witch.”

Sombra says nothing.

“But… your eyes. Is that from black magic? Mercy’s not like this.”

“Mercy is a hypocrite,” Sombra snorts, rolling her eyes. “There’s no such thing as black magic or white magic. Magic is magic. The only thing that separates her approach from mine, or from Moira’s, is fear. Magic takes all forms and comes from all kinds of places.”

“Like from demons, for example?”

Sombra stares into his eyes, white-gold meeting honey, and intertwines their stretched fingers. As it did before, the contact sparks something warm and inviting under her skin. She focuses on him, trying to communicate her magic and everything that it is to whatever’s inside him that makes him so sensitive to that energy.

“Does that feel demonic to you, McCree?”

He shakes his head and squeezes her hand. “That feels amazing.”

“That’s power. Mercy will tell you her specialty is life magic, but what she fails to mention is that life magic and death magic go hand in hand. They can’t exist separately. People are cowards, and nobody wants to hear the words ‘death magic’ when it comes time to ask for it. But we’re here because another witch, a necromancer , got caught in her feelings playing with life and death and it backfired.”

She hasn’t influenced McCree to keep hold of her hand, but he’s doing it.

“Feelings ain’t as dangerous as you make them out to be.”

Sombra laughs in disbelief. “Everything I just said, and that’s all you got from it? You’re so sentimental.”

McCree shrugs. “And you’re defensive. It’s like you said. Only thing that separates people is fear.”

For one brief, terrifying moment, something surges between them, tipping the fiery surface of McCree’s hand from enticingly warm to just this side of too hot against Sombra’s skin. She sucks in a breath and lets go.

“Ugh. Mercy’s magic is so… affectionate. It’s coming off you like perfume that’s too sweet..“

A slow smile spreads across McCree’s face. “Oh, that’s what you’re feeling. Mercy’s magic.”

“Of course.” Sombra snatches her glove back from him and puts it on. “It makes me sick.”

“Hmm. Does it, now.”

“Si,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t be stupid.”

McCree raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. “I’ll try,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “But if you’re so smart, you might wanna figure out why I feel the exact same thing comin’ from you , darlin.’”

He has the audacity to wink at her.

Sombra fights down an instinctive retort -- and that tumbling in her gut -- and watches him walk towards the gate. She doesn’t even know what she would have said to that, which is yet another feeling she hates.

McCree looks up at the castle and pulls his crossbow from its holster on his back. “This won’t be easy,” he sighs. “A little extra firepower goes a long way, so, if it makes you feel any better, I’m happy to have you by my side. For this job.”

“For this job,” she echoes softly, taking a deep breath as she readies her gun and tries to push his words from her mind. This is no time to be weak. She needs to focus.

“Now, whip out whatever spells you got up your sleeve. We got work to do.” He looks back at her and jerks his head at the dragons carved into the gate. “I’m ready if you are.”

[djinmer4]

First Impressions (Evil Wizard AU)

“I don’t think there’s anything else to do,” reported Doug Ramsay.  “We’ve exhausted all our leads.”

Logan shifted uncomfortably behind his desk.  “I think I’ve got one more contact who might know something useful for you.  Not sure if letting you talk to him is the best idea.”

“Wolverine,” Brian Braddock, leader of Excalibur, took up the thread of the argument.  “We know the Hellfire Club is also after this artifact, and they’ve got a lot more resources than we do.  This isn’t a case of we can hope someone else gets it first.  If we don’t find and destroy it, they’ll get it and will use it.  If you know anything, anything at all we’ll take it.”

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“First thing you should know, the guy’s a necromancer.”

“Like Jude?”

“No.  Jude may be a necromancer, but he specializes in calming the restless dead, fulfilling last requests and generally protecting people from vengeful spirits.  Jude’s a good guy.  The guy I’m sending you to, this is the guy could give lessons to all the evil wizards and sorcerous overlords and dark archmages that you’ve ever heard of.”

The first clue that they were in the right place was that the circus they found was nearly dead silent.  Most encampments of this size were a hive of activity.  People would be shouting orders, animals would be sounding off in displeasure, things would topple over and crash.  This place, none of that occurred.  The animals made no noise and stood stock still to be handled.  People didn’t speak to each other, and every move they made slid past each other as if choreographed.  Nothing fell out of place or was put down too hard or off-balance.  “Well this is creepy,” said Doug.  “I thought Logan said this guy had a few living minions mixed with the corpses.”

“He sometimes has human minions,” corrected Brian.  “But not always, and when he’s out in the woods like this, I guess he doesn’t feel the need to pretend.”

A voice called out from one of the dark wagons.  “Are you the people Logan wanted me to talk to?  Bitte komm rein.”

The rest of Excalibur looked to Doug.  “Er, he said, come in.”

“Second, this guy looks like a demon.  Think like Nocturne and Salamander, but much worse.  Don’t freak out too much when you see him, or he’ll get offended.”

The man in the wagon certainly lived up to his reputation.  He had blue skin, waist-length white hair, and beard, and was covered in scarification patterns. His eyes were completely gold, with no pupil or iris to be seen.  His hands were malformed, with only two fingers and a thumb on each.  He had pointed ears that peeked through his hair, pointed fangs that flashed when he smiled at each of them, and a pointed tail that he used to pour tea for all of them.

The sorcerer half disappeared in the gloom of the wagon.  Behind him, gold eyes reflected the light and shifted about, indicating many somethings watching them in the dark.  The low light made it difficult to see anything around them, and the members of Excalibur huddled together, afraid of bumping into anything.

“So Logan told me you’re searching for an artifact of doom of some sort?”

“That’s right,” Brian once again took the lead on the conversation.  “Logan said you might be able to help us retrieve it or at least know it’s location.”

“That might be possible.  Do you know what the name of the artifact is?”

“The name is another thing we’re missing.  But we do have a description of what it is and what it does.”  The blond gestured to Kitty, and she reached over to pass a copy of the description to the sorcerer.

“Third, this guy is very expensive.�� You might not be able to afford his help.”

“He seems pretty mercenary in that case.  What happens if you can’t afford it, does he take your soul?”

“Nah, he’s upfront about it.  No payment, no information, help or goods.”

“What does he do if people are asking for help with a plague or a war?”

“He’s not all bad.  If someone asks for help because of a natural disaster or a plague, he’ll actually work for free.  Everything else though, you pay through the nose.”

“Even a war against a tyrant or trying to find an artifact for safekeeping?”

“Yeah.  He’s said he’s seen too many revolutions become worse than the old regimes when they win and too many well-intentioned heroes become monsters to have any faith in people.”

“Geez, how old is this guy to be that bitter?”

“Oh yes, I made this one.  Xian ran off with it years ago, not that it did him any good.”  The sorcerer turned the paper over and conjured a quill to write with.  “Before we go any further, here’s how much it will cost you.”  He wrote out a list on the back then handed the sheet over to Brian.  The head of Excalibur checked it over and went dead white.

“The good news is, the guy’s a lech.  Since you do have several pretty women as part of Excalibur-”

“I’m not whoring my people out just to get some information!”

“Hey bub, you’re the one who said he’s desperate.  And it’s not like the guy will rape anyone, he just wants something pretty to look at.  Tell him you’re not interested and he’ll back off.  But he might be willing to reduce the price for a date.”

Brian swallowed then passed the price list to the rest of Excalibur.  When Kitty received it she could see why the blond had panicked.  They definitely could not afford this.

“I’m open for negotiation.”

“Well we don’t need the name, and we’re planning to get it ourselves so we don’t need your help either.  As for the location . . . I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take a partial payment and receive the rest later?”

“I only accept credit if I know the party well or will be going with them on their mission.  Otherwise, it’s too much work to chase them down.”  The blue man turned towards the other members of Excalibur.

Rachel frowned at him.  “Isn’t it a little rude to start hitting on people when you haven’t even given your name?”

One hand waved in a desultory fashion.  “I’ve had so many names over the eons, it hardly matters to me what you use.  Kemmler, Captain Bluetail, Darkholme, take your pick.”

“Who’s Kemmler?”

“Wasn’t Captain Bluetail a hero?”

“I’ve heard of Darkholme.  He was a master assassin several decades ago.”

“You know what, you can just call me Kurt.  No one’s used that name in a while.”

“Kurt,” Kitty tested it out.  “You sure you don’t want something like Numair Salmalin?  Or Elminster?”

The sorcerer smiled and leaned forward to rest his chin on his hands.  “Kurt’s short and easy to remember  And what are the names of the lovely ladies here?.”

Brian cleared his throat.  “Fine, Kurt, if anyone’s actually interested . . . “

To the surprise of no one except Cerise, gold eyes turned to Meggan first.  She bristled.  “I’m Meggan and I’m engaged.”

“Whoever you’re engaged to is a lucky man, fraulein.”

“That would be me.”  Brian quickly took Meggan’s hand and frowned at him.  Kurt just smiled and turned to Rachel next.  She looked him up and down, then sneered.  “Rachel.  And I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong parts to attract my interest.”

“But fraulein I have extra ones!”  His tail waved to attract attention.  He turned to the last member of their party.  “And what’s your name, fraulein?”

“Cerise, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Brian reminded her.

The Shi’ar refugee just shrugged.  “Why not?  This sounds like the type of thing you humans do for fun.  I might as well try it out once.”

“Wunderbar,” Kurt grabbed the paper and scribbled a new number beside the middle line.  When Brian looked at it, he gave a sigh of relief.  “Now, are you in a hurry or shall we take the evening off?”

“We’re in a hurry,” Brian insisted.  While Kurt gave the details of where and how to gain the artifact, Doug leaned over to whisper in Kitty’s ear.  “Jeez, so what are we, chopped liver?  He didn’t even ask for our names!”

[ixiethepixiewrites]

SkyTalia Chapter 2/??

Chapter 2: A Face to a Name

Rating: T (maybe M later)

Warnings: Not many for this chapter

Summary: Son of some of the most prominent nobles in Solitude, Alfred soon finds himself stranded in the Reach. A mysterious and seemingly lonely hunter lends him a hand.

Chapter Summary:  Alfred had just used a simple spell to heal his leg, but his saviour doesn't take too kindly to magic users.

A/N: :’D I’ll try to make them longer next time, but I’m very busy rn. I’m moving in 9 days AHHHHHH

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Dagger at his neck, Alfred could feel the regret seep into every crevice of his mind. The kindly stranger was breathing heavy behind him, almost as if he were in some kind of panic. Using magic so openly had been a bad idea, though Alfred should have expected that. No matter how many times he used this gods forsaken skill, something bad happened. Hopefully he could talk his way out of this.

“W-Woah there! I didn't mean to frighten you, it just hurt so damn much-" He was cut off as his back hit the rocky cavern wall.

Venomous green eyes bore into his very soul with a look of such scathing hatred, it honestly almost made Alfred soil himself with fear. Now that Alfred could get a better look at them, he noticed that the scars on this man's face were not only bear claws, but also faded frost burn scars across his right cheek and onto his neck.

Nervously, Alfred held his hands up. They were visibly shaking now, and he prayed to all the divines that this would not be his end. After a few tense moments of silence, the dagger was sheathed, but a strong arm kept him pinned to the wall.

“If I had known you were a mage-" The man began to speak, but Alfred quickly cut him off.

“I'm not! I'm not a mage! I-I only know a bit of basic healing magic!” He shouted in a panic, too scared to stop. “My nanny would teach Mattie and I all about restoration and alchemy and only one destructive spell of fire because she wanted us to be safe and if we ever needed healing or defense then we would have it but my mom found out and had her sent away and oh please in the name of Talos and the Eight, please don't kill me!”

Confusion was the first emotion Alfred recognized on the stranger's face. He could practically see the words being picked apart within the mind of this lone hunter. Well, Alfred assumed the man was a hunter. His leather armor and the pelts strapped to his belt gave a few clues, as well as a bow and dagger being the weapons of choice for him. Not to mention he lived alone out here. All were telltale signs of a poacher or hunter.

“Could you, uh, let me down?” Alfred asked weakly, trying his best to smile, even a little.

“If you're well enough to walk, then you can leave. Now get out.”

“Wait, what? But it's dark out now, can't I at least--"

“No. I don't want anything more to do with magic users of any kind, or anyone for that matter. Get. Out.”

Alfred stumbled as he was released from that tight grip, though he didn't dare leave the cave yet. He had to at least stall and try to convince this man that he could stay the night. Hopefully he could even get an escort to the nearest city, though he doubted that very much.

“Please just... just let me stay for tonight? I don't even know which direction to go from here and what if more Forsworn come? I couldn't defend myself against a toddler if I wanted to!”

He felt desperation leak into his voice, but there were no other options for him now. Going outside this cave on his own would almost certainly be suicide! Not to mention he'd used all of his magic energy on that healing spell. The wound had been large enough that it simply sucked away all of his magicka as it healed.

Tension filled the stale air of the cavern, and it almost became unbearable before a heavy sigh broke the silence.

“One night.”

Alfred could feel hope rise in his chest. “Oh Gods above bless you! I don't even think I could walk very far alone anyway... I didn't quite get it healed all the way through, but it was enough to stop any bleeding. I wish I knew--"

“If you keep talking, I will cut your tongue out and leave your for dead in the woods.” A sharp glare and those words had Alfred shutting up instantly.

For about five minutes anyway. He had always been a talker, especially when he was nervous or upset. Parents being dead and left for the wolves definitely fit under the upset category, and his nerves still hadn't quite settled from the threats before.

“So...” Alfred began as he took a seat by the fire, “You got a name? It's kinda hard to just keep referring to you as ‘Scary Hunter’ in my head.”

He got no reply at first. Then after about the tenth time asking, that very same dagger from before was being held up to Alfred's mouth.

“If I give you a name, will you stop talking?”

“I'd say that's fair.” Alfred gave a little nod of affirmation, eagerly awaiting the name of his terrifying saviour.

After another silence, Alfred was about to speak again, but he was cut off by the very name he'd waited to hear.

“Arthur.” Green eyes watched the fire, expression unreadable. “My name is Arthur. Now go to sleep and stop talking to me.”

Well, that was a start. Alfred watched as Arthur stoked the fire, even more questions popping into his mind. Sadly, he'd agreed to be quiet, so instead of asking anything else, he tried to get comfortable enough to sleep on the rocks.

There was always tomorrow.

When tomorrow did come, Alfred was slow to rise. The entirety of his sleep had been plagued by nightmares of the attack, leaving him mentally drained by morning. Those nightmares must have been heard by Arthur, because there was food waiting for him as he sat up, and even a dried bear pelt had been placed over him at some point in the night. Maybe this guy wasn't so bad, or maybe Alfred had just sounded super pathetic.

After eating what had been left for him, Alfred went to the entrance of the cave, where Arthur was using a stone to sharpen his tools. He was greeted with a glance and a grunt, Arthur not really being one for conversation once again. That was fine, Alfred could hold both ends on his own.

“Thanks, uh, for the fur and food. You’ve been real kind to me, and I wanna repay you but...” Alfred fiddled with his torn clothing. “I wanted to ask of you could help me out one last time.”

Arthur set down the rock, not even looking at Alfred as he answered. “No.”

“B-But I didn't even tell you what it was!”

“I don't care. I said no.”

“Please? My only family lives on the other side of Skyrim, and I have no way to get to him! Not alone!” Alfred wanted to kneel and beg, but he tried bargaining instead. “I could get you a new bow! Or, um... I could give you my inheritance!”

Arthur didn't even spare him a glance. “I live just fine out here, I don't need your money. However...”

That word had Alfred perking up, some hope rising in his chest. Was there something he could give Arthur? He would do almost anything!

“A new bow does sound tempting... if you could get a Daedric bow.” The smirk on Arthur's lips made it seem like he was teasing Alfred for fun.

“Deal.”

It was worth it already, just to see that smirk vanish in favor of surprise. Alfred knew he could afford it, though finding one on the market was the real challenge. Maybe his brother would know where to find one. In any case, he was willing to buy it from the damn thieves guild if it meant he would have an escort.

Arthur eyed Alfred suspiciously, most likely wondering if he was lying, and to be fair, that was one hell of a promised payment.

“You're serious?” Arthur stood and held the dagger in Alfred's face as a threat. “If I take you to your family, you will get me one?”

“I swear it to Talos.” Alfred replied easily, a smile growing on his face. “I'll get you one soon after you take me to Winterhold.”

“Winterhold..? Bloody hell, that really is the other side of the map... and full of mages.” Alfred watched Arthur debate with himself.

“Hey, they aren't so bad over there... at least they have rules. I think.” He wasn't entirely sure, but Matthew would definitely make some if there weren't many.

Eventually, Alfred heard a resigned sigh leave Arthur's lips, and he knew he had won the man over. Hopefully things would keep looking up like this for him. He needed some good luck, especially after he'd felt abandoned by the very gods he believed in.

“Alright, you're just lucky I need to travel to that end of Skyrim anyway. I'll take you. That bow had better be in my hands fast, too.” Arthur stomped out of the cavern. “Gather whatever you feel you may need, we leave at dawn tomorrow.”

With that, Arthur vanished into the woods, likely going to hunt for their dinner. Alfred was left at the cave, though he felt fairly safe in the area. Taking that advice to heart, he strayed outside just a but to look for ingredients that would help them on their journey.

Hopefully his troubles were over for now.

Index of lore

Daedric: Something made by/belonging to Daedra.

Daedra: The malevolent opposites of the Gods, there are 17 Daedric Princes, genderless beings that reside in the realm of Oblivion. (they can take on either a male, female, animal, demonic, or even a mix of all forms when they show themselves to mortals) The Princes rule over the hoards of lesser Daedra and enjoy meddling in the affairs of mortals for their amusement.

[tigerrobot]

Not sure what I ex-Spectre-d

Magic wasn't Latin. Nor vice-versa. The only reason Latin is used so often is because the last civilization that knew how to use magic, also spoke Latin. The thing about magic wasn’t the simple act of tracing some runes, or speaking some words. It was how you did those things.

Latin was generally maintained when casting because new-age magic-users had no idea what they were doing. Most of them stumbled into it, finding a book. The majority of the time, they’d read the words, nothing would happen, and they’d move along. Curious about it, maybe even believing it was real, but never knowing how to step into it.

Then there are those that accidentally get it right. Those are the worst. They think they’ve found some long lost art and are now master’s of the universe, bending matter to their will. They, inevitably, end up over their heads.

Those of us with training, we can feel the imperfections in the magical fields. When someone is stumbling their way through powerful spells, it sends out ripples. You can follow those right back to the source of the magic. Sometimes, I get there first. Sometimes, I don’t.

The pentagram on the floor was drawn in what had to be pig’s blood. Or cow or whatever. It certainly wasn’t human, at least this kid hadn’t fucked up that much. Two things about this bothered me. One, it wasn’t the pentagram that provided the power, it was the circle encompassing it. And two, blood was almost never necessary in the casting of spells. All it had served to do in this case was lure something here that shouldn’t have come.

The wannabe mage was floating about 3 feet off the ground, his arms limp at his sides, his head tilted back and up, his eyes dull. I couldn’t tell from the doorway if he was already dead or just well on his way to it. The spectre holding him hadn’t noticed me yet. I took a couple steps into the room and traced one of the runes tattooed on my left forearm, speaking clearly and loudly the name of the spell as I did. A wave of energy burst out from my mouth, pushing the spectre back and causing the body to waver and lower slightly. With a smile, I continued toward the centre of the room.

“Good morning, Frank. What in the world are you doing here and with that boy’s sweet soul so close to your mouth?” Frank wasn’t the spectre’s name, but I had met it before and it stuck, mostly because it pissed off spirits when you refused to acknowledge who they were.

His voice was raspy, like the last gasp of a dying person. No matter how many times I heard it, it always sent a chill up my spine. “Pen, how nice of you to drop by. I was beginning to think you didn’t care anymore. Care for a sip?” The floating body dipped toward me, in a mock gesture of offering.

“Frank, why are you here? I thought we had an understanding. You leave people alone, and I leave you alone.” Spectres ate the souls of the living. Generally, they preferred the soul of any creature of the race they had been in their former life. Human, Elf, Giant, Faery. They could consume animal spirits but it was like living on a diet of nothing but unflavoured tofu. Once in awhile, a spectre would get an irresistible whiff of a person and they just followed their ethereal nose.

“This boy, as you called him, was playing with powers beyond his understanding, Pen! If I let him keep going he could have ripped a hole in the fabric of reality. I know you wouldn’t want to deal with the things from the other-side. I thought I’d do you a favour. He was going to die anyway, and it’s not fair to ask me to do something for free, so I was just going to take him as payment and be on my merry way.” Normally spectres were of a singular mind. Apparently I had been rubbing off on Frank though, because he liked to talk more now. I couldn’t exactly disagree with what he was doing but just because he was right doesn’t mean I can let him start killing people.

“Aw, that’s sweet. Thanks for thinking of me, Frank. But this has gone far enough. He doesn’t have enough life in him to finish the spell and I’m here anyway. We’re safe. You can let him go.” Frank’s eyes, or at least the holes in the vague, blue shape of a man, flared red. I interrupted his only real meal in probably 2 years. I was worried about this before I walked in but that just made me more ready.

“Sorry, Pen. A guy needs to eat…” With a shriek, he lunged through the air, the body of the fledgeling mage dropping the last 2 feet and falling to the floor with a thud. I’d deal with him later.

Fighting a spectre isn’t like battling something physical, such as a vampire or a demon. The form of a spectre is a negative energy aura. Living creatures are filled with, and live on, positive energy. When the two meet, a normalization process begins to occur. This brings the spectre closer to living and the living thing closer to being dead. Not ideal for those of us who like being not dead.

Snapping my fingers on both hands activated the pair of negative runes I had tattooed onto my thumbs. Dull purple-ish shields of energy flew up in front of me and Frank slammed into them, hissing his displeasure of being rebuked so forcefully. Before he could get his proverbial footing, I was moving forward. The shields kept him floating backward as I worked through the next spell.

There were two ways to deal with a spectre; allow them to absorb enough positive energy that they become semi-corporeal and then give them a final death, or trap them in a negative energy cage and watch them dissipate as all of the negative energy tries to get away from each other. Believe it or not, the first one is the more humane of the two.

Since the fool who had started this mess couldn’t offer any help, I touched a hand to my chest, just below the collarbone, and pulled out a sliver of my own life. Humans are amazingly resilient and I could recoup this in other ways so I wasn’t overly worried. I allowed the energy to flow over my right arm, encasing it like a gauntlet, before dropping the pair of shields. Frank saw an opportunity to feed on undefended positive energy and surged forward.

Always a bit dramatic, I threw a punch that forced my protected hand into the gaping maw that signified the mouth of Frank. With a screech, he ripped the energy from me, greedily sucking it down. I had only fractions of a second to capitalize but being this close it was nearly impossible to miss the small part of the spectre that started to change colour from blue to a more life-like pink. The fingers of my right hand dragged down the length of my forearm, from elbow to wrist, tracing a long series of runes that lit up with blazing fury as I did. With my left palm facing Frank, as my fingers finished tracing the spell, a bolt of flame burst from my wrist, the fire along my forearm immediately sputtering out.

So entranced by the intoxicating flavour of human life-force, Frank didn’t even move as the searing bolt engulfed the newly living piece of him. He simply looked at me and smiled, licked his lips, and dispersed.

Most dead things were happy once the time came to move on. They were just as afraid of “what comes next?” as the living are but, just like the living, they are pretty accepting when it comes. Frank had been a decent spectre since I met him but it isn’t my job to make friends. To call this a job at all is a bit of a stretch, given that I don’t actually get paid for it. I mean, Batman at least owned a company to keep the money coming in.

I went to the boy and ran a quick scanning spell to see how badly injured he might be. For me to call him a boy was probably unfair. He looked about 20, which was older than me, but this guy was clearly thinking way too highly of himself. Very childish behaviour to go set out and try to summon Cthulu or some other dark entity from the other-side. It’s unlikely he would have posed a real threat to the city but he definitely would have gotten himself killed one way or another.

His ankle was broken from the short fall, so I straightened him out and wrapped it up. A tap of a rune on the back of my right-hand had the area swept of the blood (a simple cleaning spell kept my Mom off my back, even if she didn’t know I used magic to clean my room), and I left. He’d wake up sometime soon and use his cell phone to call his daddy to come pick him up. I hated trust-fund kids almost as much as I hate vampires. Entitled, pompous, think they are better than everyone…

It was almost 2 a.m. and I had a chemistry test tomorrow that I hadn’t studied for. I figured chemistry was close to potion making so I’d probably be fine. That said, I had to get home anyway. Mom would be up in 4 hours, which meant I’d be expected to be up in 5. Ugh, I can’t wait to get my own place after high school.

[thysparrowsdrew]

new version of ch 2 first scene. i think this is going to be more or less the final version aside from line edits, but we’ll see

In the parking lot of Marvin’s Diner, three spaces away from an empty car that scripture calls the most important object in the universe, Margarita rests her head against the steering wheel and tries to breathe. She can’t feel Castiel’s grace inside the building, but Benjamin can. The second-hand sensation is like battery acid under her tongue. In the morgue, they didn’t have a choice: Castiel came to them. Now, the choice is theirs: open the door or not, get out of the car or not, walk into the diner or not.

Or not means betraying the duty Benjamin still has to Mirabel. Or not means allowing Josephine’s killer to walk free. It’s a clear choice to make, but a harder one to execute.

/When we’re inside,/ she asks, /do you want me to speak for us?/

/Please./

Margarita counts down from five, like a doctor preparing to pop a dislocated joint back into place. On two, she gets out of the car, locks it behind her, and strides towards the diner. She pulls open the door without allowing a moment of hesitation -- the tinny jingle of a bell scrapes against already-raw nerves -- and she steps inside, and the choice is done.

The Winchesters and Castiel have taken a corner booth in the back of the diner. Sam sits alone on one bench; Dean and Castiel sit across from him, glaring at each other so intensely that the diner is lucky to still have windows. When Castiel first rebelled against Heaven, the rumor -- though neither Benjamin nor Margarita believed it -- was that he was trying to claim the Michael Sword for his own use. After Armageddon was averted, the rumor changed: Castiel had indeed laid a claim on Dean Winchester, but as something other than a vessel.

In the second month of the civil war, after seeing how Castiel rebuked a soldier for insulting Dean, Margarita decided that the rumor might not be wholly true, but it wasn’t wholly false, either. After the first time Castiel vanished mid-battle to fly to Dean’s side, Benjamin drew the same conclusion.

“--cosmic consequences,” Dean is saying. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but--”

“Sister Margarita,” Sam greets her, more loudly than necessary. He gives her a look that says thank you for the rescue and scoots over to make room. “Uh,” he adds, faltering, “I am talking to you, right?”

“We can both hear you, but we know it can be confusing to humans when we switch back and forth. I’ll be the one talking.” Individually, neither of those statements is a lie.

The table puts two and a half feet of distance between her and Castiel. It isn’t enough for Benjamin: the battery-acid taste stays in Margarita’s mouth. A menu lying on the table offers an excuse not to look at the angel across from her, and she takes it, scanning through a seemingly-endless list of sandwiches. For the first time since they entered the diner, Benjamin speaks up: /Dedication to the art of sandwiches is your species’ second-greatest virtue./

It’s a setup to a joke -- his way of trying to convince her not to worry about him -- and she plays along.  /What’s the first? Our capacity for love?/

/Your first-greatest virtue is also your dedication to the art of sandwiches./

Margarita’s lips twitch in amusement. She remembers: the last time they were here, they had a patty melt that Benjamin insisted was the best he’d ever had. She doubts she’ll be able to taste much of anything right now, but she offers: /I can order for you, if you want--/

/No. I... don’t think I would enjoy food now./

She ends up ordering a salad instead, just to have something to occupy her hands.

As the resident experts in solving supernatural crime, the Winchesters take charge of the discussion, reviewing the facts of the case. There isn’t much to go on. Did Mirabel have any enemies? None living. Were there any witnesses to the attack? Same answer as previous. Have there been any other attacks that might be linked? Mirabel is the first angel to die in Arizona in two years.

“So what now?” asks Dean, around his last mouthful of hamburger. The disgusted look his brother shoots him is either unseen or ignored. He was the Michael Sword, destined to bring about the end of days, and Margarita is watching him rudely stuff his face at a diner in Phoenix on a Tuesday afternoon. “We got no leads and no witnesses.”

/I was hoping to avoid this,/ says Benjamin.

/So was I./ “We have one witness,” says Margarita, reluctantly. Asking for help from a woman who already lost everything in the service of Heaven -- a woman whose death was nothing more than collateral damage -- a woman whom they failed to restore to life -- is a terrible thing. It’s also the only option they have. “Mirabel’s vessel.”

“Didn’t we rule that out at the morgue?” asks Dean. “She’s dead, and she ain’t coming back.”

“No, but with the right equipment, we can make a long-distance call.”

“What equipment?” asks Sam.

Castiel answers: “Myrrh, sage, holy oil, the blood of an angel, and the name of the person to be contacted. That last one might be the most challenging.”

“I spoke to her once.” Margarita sees Josephine in Aswan, legs twisted like a child’s ill-loved doll, weeping at the news that more than a century had passed since Mirabel took her; she sees Josephine in the morgue, still and pale. “I spoke to her once. Her name was Josephine Albright.”

Sam nods. “Sounds like we have everything we need except sage.”

“There’s some in our car,” says Margarita. “And chalk for the sigils.”

“All right.” Dean claps his hands together, slaps some dollar bills on the counter, and stands. “Ghost interview. Let’s go.”

“Mirabel’s vessel isn’t a ghost; she’s--” Castiel catches himself, irritation flickering across his face.

A wave of grief nearly knocks Margarita over. Hundreds of memories flicker across her consciousness, none her own, all reflections of this moment. One bubbles most clearly to the surface: a chance meeting in Heaven, in the century between Castiel being given command of his own flight and the breaking of the first Seal. Benjamin saying about another angel, Está hecho un ají, and Castiel starting to say, Zachariah isn’t a vegetable--

“Sister Margarita?” asks Sam, and Margarita realizes her eyes were staring. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she lies. She leaves payment and her barely-touched salad on the table, and she follows Dean out of the diner.

/I’m sorry,/ says Benjamin, coming back to himself.

/You don’t need to be./

In the parking lot, Margarita draws the necessary sigils on the hood of her car. Without giving Benjamin a chance to offer, Castiel fills a bowl with his blood: empty one moment, full the next, no blade necessary. Margarita wonders if it’s his way of acknowledging that Benjamin has bled enough for him already. She sets the bowl inside the sigils and adds five drops of holy oil, then the sage, then the myrrh.

“Only angels can use this spell,” Castiel tells Sam and Dean, “so she won’t be able to hear you.“ He speaks the incantation, and the blood begins to bubble. After a few seconds, he says, “Hello, Josephine.”

“Even when I’m dead, angels don’t allow me to rest.” A heavy sigh. “Who are you?”

“Castiel. I’m here with Benjamin.”

“From Mirabel’s flight. I remember you two. What do you want?”

“To find the angel who killed you. Do you remember what happened?”

“I remember she came to me in a dream and asked me to let her in. Her name was Mirabel, and she killed me when she took me away from my family.” A pause. “I’ll tell you who killed her, but I want something first. I want to see my daughters. My real daughters, not these memories.”

Castiel, not welcome in Heaven at the moment, turns to Margarita with a silent question in his eyes. She answers with a small shake of her head. The memory of Aswan had haunted her and Benjamin both; they’d looked into Josephine’s family after that, planning to bring whatever news  they found to Mirabel, and through her, hopefully, to Josephine. After they learned the younger daughter’s fate, that plan changed. Benjamin speaks: “I can arrange for you to see Jane, but Charity... I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Charity is beyond Heaven’s reach.”

Josephine’s soul doesn’t have lungs, but her breath hitches. “No. You’re lying to me. She was a good girl. A devout girl. How could she...” Josephine doesn’t finish the question.

Gently, Benjamin says, “When she was twenty-two years old, she struck a deal with a crossroads demon.”

“She sold her soul? No. No, my Charity would never--” Josephine makes a low, wounded noise. “This happened because I wasn’t there for her. Mirabel damned my daughter. I gave her everything, and she damned my daughter.”

“I’m truly sorry, Josephine. You have my deepest condolences. I--”

“Is she a demon now?”

“She was. Now she’s at rest.”

“She was killed?”

“Yes. I’m--”

“Sorry?” Josephine laughs unhappily. “Not yet you aren’t, but you will be. Both of you. Justice already came for half the flight; it won’t be long before she crosses off the rest of her list.”

The blood stops bubbling.

A chill runs through Margarita, more Benjamin’s than her own. An image flickers behind her eyes: the morgue, the table, her own body under a sheet. Half the flight is dead. It’s only by the grace of a coin toss that Benjamin wasn’t already targeted. /You could have been killed to get to me,/ says Benjamin. /It could have been you on that--/

/I’m alive. We’re alive. We’ll find her, stop her, and go home. We broke our two-hundred and ninety day streak of beating Rampage every night, didn’t we? We’ll start again from zero. We’ll beat our old record./

Three members of the flight are dead. Mirabel is one of them, and Benjamin and Castiel aren’t. That leaves Ishim, Kadmiel, and Jehoel. “Castiel,” says Margarita, “when was the last time you spoke to--”

The look on Castiel’s face stops Margarita cold. The last time she saw him in this body, he was a granite-eyed whirlwind of flashing silver, cutting down soldier after soldier (vessel after vessel) to keep the relics of Saint Demetrios out of the hands of Raphael’s army. The fight left sixteen pairs of wings burned into the red carpet of the Patriarchal Cathedral in Bucharest. Castiel, God’s Chosen, was responsible for eight. (God’s Chosen, but not God.) (Be obedient, children--)

Castiel once waged war against an archangel, once named himself God, and he’s staring into the bowl of blood like Josephine’s words flayed him raw. It’s too human. Margarita’s skin crawls with the wrongness of it.

Sam puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas,” he says, quietly, “Claire has Jody. That won’t happen to her.” It isn’t hard to put the pieces together: the man whose face Castiel is wearing had a daughter, and her name was Claire. As soon as Margarita learns that fact, she wishes she hadn’t.

Castiel keeps staring.

Benjamin falls into a habit from six years ago. Like he did hundreds of times in the war against Raphael, he speaks a sharp Enochian word that makes Castiel’s eyes snap to him. The language of Heaven’s soldiers conveys in one word a sentiment that takes English two sentences: We’re in danger, sir! Snap out of it.

It’s a word spoken to, and only spoken to, a commanding officer.

It hangs in the air like a sword, and Benjamin doesn’t give it time to drop. “We aren’t safe here,” he continues. On the outside, he’s nothing but sharp professionalism; inside his and Margarita’s shared mind, nauseated regret rolls off of him in waves. “We’re being hunted. We need to get somewhere warded.”

[deadpoet117]

A Fairly Normal Day

This is a fic I wrote a while ago based on a writing prompt. Enjoy!

It was a fairly normal day, well, as normal as it could be in my line of work. Magic shops get all sorts of customers; the intelligent, the stupid, the belligerent, the wondering, the wandering, the help I'm out of my depth, and everything in between. In a way, a magic shop is like a bar, at least in terms of the clientele. I was reading Mation's Magic & Wizardry: What You Need to Know. What a load of rubbish. Yes, Mation had a few good pebbles of wisdom and knowledge, but it was mostly nonsense. It was your typical pseudo-self-help book written for a cheap buck. I don't have anything against self help books mind you. In fact, I enjoy Horatio Al-Azeer's Your Newfound Power. As a young boy with budding magic, it was just what I needed, Guidance of do's and do not's, but also encouraging to finding your own path, a rather balanced blend in all honesty. The book taught me about magical responsibility almost as much as my parents did. Never underestimate a good book. Of course, when you use magic, there are a lot of books involved.

         That was when the classic chime of the bell hit my ears. It was just a little too loud, and I never liked it, but mom always loved it so I kept it up. Oh the things we do for our mothers. The prospect customer weaved through several isles. Nothing too special, just the standard mystical whatnots. Her plastic grocery sack swung about, making me a bit nervous. Plenty of people have come in here assuming that everything was sturdy as iron. After a while, she huffed. I couldn't tell if it was frustration or defeat. I had my nose in my ludicrous book when she came up to the counter. The audacity! A customer expecting help? At a store! I simply hoped she wouldn't be one of those whiners, they were the worst.

"Excuse me, could you help me?" her tone was soft, almost unsure. I was pleasantly surprised. "I can't really find what I'm looking for is all..." so she was after a specialty product, this should be good.

I nodded attentively. "Depends on what you're looking for" the cover of my book met the wood of the counter with a tap, "some things are harder to come by than others, and then there's pricing..." she simply plopped her bag in front of me. Unlike my book, the sack made a thud. I was always afraid of what people might bring in their bags and their sacks and their purses.

"I uh... m-my friend told me how it all works, so I brought some stuff in" my my, an irregular that actually knows the ropes, at least in theory. My curiosity as to her source would have to wait. "I need" she paused as she scrambled to dig a small note from her pocket. The handwriting must have been nigh illegible judging from how hard she was squinting. "um... ichor?" ok, maybe she didn't quite know what she was doing, "not sure what kind. L-let's see..." a stutter and a pause, don't get many double whammies, "a still beating heart--er, human--a phoenix feather, and a seer's eye?"

"That's gonna be quite the order, do you think you can cover it?" an eyebrow cocked as I spoke, albeit involuntarily.

"Y-yeah" from the bag she produced quite a few items, I wondered if it might be bigger on the inside. Those were rare, and the only people who knew how to create such objects died out long ago in eons past. A heart (not beating), a severed hand (goody), and a small leather pouch covered in some sort of dust or powder. I looked at her expectantly, I wasn't entirely sure what she expected here. "Well, there's a severed hand, I was told those kinds of things can have all sorts of uses" she wasn't wrong "the pouch there is human skin and bone dust, and the last is obviously a heart. I was told that you could reanimate it, whatever that means".

         Aha! I enjoy being a shop keeper, but I wish I could do services like these more often, they're so active and fun. Then it sunk in--did a murderous psycho wander into my shop? Was I next?

She shook her head, "whatever you may be thinking, I didn't kill anyone, I work at the morgue, so these were fairly easy to come by."

         Ah yes, a pre-grave grave robber, nothing odd there. I told her to wait, going through the turnstile behind me (my mother had it installed, she was odd) into the back rooms. Enchantments, enchanted items, enchanted pets, potions, then the ichor section, wonderful. You'd be surprised how much ichor--in short, life force--one could find. God blood, God essence (yes, those are two different things), wizard blood, witch blood, blood of an ancient, immortal saliva (don't ask), and so on. I wasn't really sure if what she had on hand (so to speak) could cover the ichor, so I inquired what she intended to do with these ingredients. Necromancy. I had a feeling that was it, but I wasn't certain. I'm not against necromancy by any means, I partake myself, but it can get real messy real quick. I remember the time I tried raising my dead dog in our old attic. We couldn't go up for three days. Darwin is fine though, for the most part. I think he's a little more cynical than he used to be, but he's still the same dog I grew up with. Relatively speaking.

         The lich blood was right towards the top, with the other important and rarer ichors. For good reason too, lich blood can be especially powerful on account of the fact that plenty of them could be considered undead demigods. Liches, being undead, are a good source for necromantic powers and the like, and their ichor is generally safe once separated from the 'donor' (I've gone on one too many expeditions). Furthermore, she was resurrecting a human, though not indefinitely. That helped. You don't need as much ichor for a short term summon. Just a small vial of lich blood, no larger than your average pinky. Liches also usually start out as humans, so it was more compatible than the blood of a troll, for example. The phoenix feather was easier to come by. Our resident Charlotte rebirthed often, and she was more than happy to give me feathers in exchange for feasting on the rats I provide, or any that pop up in the shop. Most shops aren't as lucky as this one, having a phoenix for a family friend. Usually you'd have to climb some mountain or embark into some marsh in some gods forsaken bush. It didn't hurt that she was lovely company.

         Then came the seer's eye. I never truly want to know where they come from. They're indistinguishable from your average eyes on the surface, however, they hold all sorts of crazy power. Seer's have incredible abilities, seeing potential futures being amongst the most famous. They have other powers though, and many ties to many different magics. The uses are far and many, though the eyes themselves are understandably hard to get your hands on.

         Stepping back through the turnstile to my rather patient customer, I placed my end of the deal down. "The lich blood and seer's eye here is a bit more expensive than what you have, but I'm sure we can arrange something". Her brows furrowed into a mix of concern and frustration, like she had forgotten something. A light bulb sparked, and she reached into the bag once again, plopping down a liver, a particularly juicy one at that. "A wolf liver! Fantastic, I have someone who's been waiting for one of these. That should do it"

"And... and the heart?"

"Oh! Yes, that's free of charge, really nothing to it" I said, whipping out a ceremonial obsidian plate. I went to work, placing the heart, also fairly juicy, onto said plate. Then I went back once more and retrieved phoenix ash, again courtesy of Charlotte. I reached for the Imp oil on the same shelf. The Imps and I have an arrangement, a rather productive one. Again, don't ask.

         It was a simple ritual; sprinkle the ash on the desired body part--in this case a human heart--douse it in Imp oil, then simply set alight. The customer before me looked rather perplexed that I used a lighter, as if I were supposed to simply snap my fingers and send sparks flying. In truth, I was lazy and didn't particularly feel like getting my own magical energies tied up in a necromantic ritual I had no direct part in. I didn't even want to ask who she was digging up. It's rather rude, and besides, I have a reputation to uphold. It was only a few moments before the flames died away, revealing a now beating, unsinged heart. No smoke either, Imps are clever like that. The look of amazement was payment enough for this little service. Her eyes were bulging, her hand reaching out in caution. I couldn't blame her, it was an organ that shouldn't be functioning, and yet there it was, beating away with no blood to pump. It was almost sad in a way, not to mention the fact that it used to be in some dude's chest. Or a woman's, I didn't care to ask about that either. Gathering what she offered--the hand, bone dust, and wolf liver--I scooted them towards me as I spoke to her once again.

"So, I figure I should warn you. A general don't go promising your soul sort of deal. If a demon tries to say you have to give up your soul for this, something along the lines of 'a soul for a soul' kind of bullshit, don't buy it. That's just their way of trying to con you. Trust me, I had a friend once, Genève, she... well, I did say once." The poor woman stood there bugged eyed as I went on "Also, be aware that the dead can sometimes rise with different characteristics, mainly personality. Depending on the ritual, as well as its intended purpose and duration, the dead may or may not be rotting if they haven't fully decayed out of their fleshy matter."

"It's... it's my grandma" a sob story, those aren't uncommon "she was an utter crone, and didn't want to give up the inheritance she had promised. I don't want it for myself, but my family could use it, and there are a few places that we need to give back to, to make amends with" well, I didn't see that plot twist coming.

"I have to admit, I'm a bit surprised. Usually people want to resurrect something they cared about, not for an interrogation." The woman paused after my comment, her eyes darting the floor as if it held the proper response.

"I don't want her to suffer, that's petty and cruel. I just want what's owed, both to my family and to others" she finished up the thought as I placed her ingredients in a little hexed wooden box. That in and of itself is pricey, but it is very much a necessity. Lich blood is brimming with magical energy and should someone get a hold of blood not intended for them, or for nefarious purposes altogether, it could be disastrous. That I warned her of as well.

"It's not much my business what you do either way. This is" I nodded, referring to the general confines of the shop "but it's admirable what you're at least trying to do. Whether or not the 'crone' is cooperative I can't insure. A final note before you leave; upon agreeing to this trade, I am absolved of any and all responsibility and accountability for anything that may or may not happen involving the items of said trade." Again, she stared at me bug eyed. It was an interesting look to be sure.

"Does that mean that you own my soul or something?"

I smirked a bit, leaning over the counter "No, it's more like a sticky note on your essence... that is, unless you want to trade your soul for something, say, a magic amulet that makes you charismatic? Could come in handy for all sorts of things. Perhaps the under garments of a Godking? You'll gain all sorts of wicked abilities"

She politely raised her hands to decline "N-no, I think I'm good" and with that I bided her well and she went on her merry way.

              It was a few hours before another patron came in, this time a man in a slick suit and hair so combed and gelled it could hold up an entire building. He too wandered about the shop, perusing the shelves and wares of my trade. I like that word, perusing, I should use it more often. Anyhow, just as the woman that came before him, he looked a bit lost and frustrated. Understandable, this was far from his natural habitat in the jungles of concrete and steel. Perhaps an overused phrase, but it's still accurate. Eventually he gave up or his pride gave in, and he almost seemed to lumber up to the counter, head tilted low. He mumbled something, but I couldn't make it out in the slightest. "Excuse me, sir, you're going to have to speak up". Again, another mumble, but this time a bit more coherent. "Something about a... potion?"

He nodded his head, only lifting it up for his eyes to meet the wood top of the counter before him. "Yes, a uh... a love potion", another pauser, but I wasn't a stranger to that specific request.

         A love potion, bah. Terrible things really. I don't think people understand the moral ramifications. You force someone to love you against their will, essentially turn them into slaves, and make you their life's purpose. That's just wrong to me on so many levels, and I told him as such.

"Sir, I'm sorry to say, but I don't deal in such things on moral grounds" once those words had left my lips, his eyes finally met mine, not in anger but in sorrow. Absolute, unadulterated, dreadful sorrow.

"But I need it, I really do" he had no idea how many people claimed that coming into my shop, "I need to get her back" once again, my eyebrow cocked up. It does that.

"Her? Lost lover? A woman with amnesia who forgot you entirely and is now starting to move onto another man?" he gazed at me in confusion, I imagine based on my oddly specific example, "I wish I could help you, truly, but love potions are just plain immoral. Magical slavery, forcing a person to do something that they did not choose to do. In fact, they're outlawed in plenty of places for that very reason" he looked at me in a bit of shock, but I assured him he wouldn't get in trouble for simply inquiring.

"But my wife" it was all buts with this guy it seemed, "I need to get her back, she's the love of my life..." I sighed in response, clasping the bridge of my nose between my fingers. This was going to be yet another difficult one.

"I'm sure you're meaning well here, but this isn't the path you should follow" the man looked about on the verge of sobbing. Fantastic, "Tell me what happened..."

         So he told me. His wife, or soon to be ex-wife, basically dumped him for another man (not from amnesia). He wasn't as rich or anything, but he was a good looking Cuban. You always have to watch out for the good-looking Cubans (nearly had one charm my socks off only to find out he wanted me for magical experiments. No thank you). He wasn't entirely certain as to why she left, and I wasn't in a position to tell him. This was genuine though. He wasn't some kid trying to get their crush to acknowledge their existence, some crazy stalker in need of professional help beyond my expertise, this was a man trying to keep his life from shattering around him. That wouldn't change my position, but perhaps I could give him a gentle nudge.

"Jim, it's Jim right?" the man nodded his head which was now cradled in his hands "This isn't some problem you can sweep away with magic or potions or some such shit" his face looked up once more, now shocked at my shattering his hopes "We, as humans, need to stand on our own two feet. Of course, we will always need help, but magic is a nifty tool, nothing more... well, it's quite a bit more than that, but you catch my point". The man now stood upright, still a bit dazed, "And honestly? If I were you I wouldn't even try to get her back. She obviously doesn't care enough to try to talk with you, from what I can tell. Hell, she moved out without telling you. Although, to be fair, she didn't steal anything, but that's not the point either. Go out there, stand on your own two feet. Party hard if you have to, hire a stripper or three, or maybe just sit around reading dusty books on philosophy. Above all else, keep moving forward, no matter how slow that may be"

         Jim reached forward, pulling me into a firm embrace, my hand awkwardly patting his back. Hugs are always appreciated, but at least warn me first. It is especially uncomfortable when you, a stranger, start weeping into the shoulder of another stranger. A few moments later he pulled away, sniffling as he wiped his nose and eyes.

"Thanks... whoever you are, thank you!" he marched out of the shop with a newfound pride and determination, and I remained with a wet shoulder.