#{ two hundred years of rust on the gate }

[alarici]

State of decay

Rated T, 950 words

-

In the years since the Kira case, with Near at the helm, and L and Watari long since buried in the plot beside the west wing, what was once called The Wammy’s House decays.

It takes seven years to fully dismantle the program. The youngest children need to find foster homes or new families or other, carefully vetted, well-funded programs to matriculate into. The older children are graduated and placed in the best universities around the world—set to become the everyday successes of tomorrow. Tsinghua, Juilliard, Cairo, LSE, UCLA, Tohoku, ETH Zurich, Oxford. The residual funds are allocated appropriately to make sure that everyone is well taken care of. Study funds and stipends, merit grants and insurance.

Personally, Near sees to the edge cases. Kids who, according to the headmasters and the instructors, never lived up to the promise of their aptitude testing—the weak, the attention deficit, the headcases. He speaks to each one—Do you want to live alone? Do you want to learn a skill and work? Do you want to go back to where they found you? What are your medical needs.

It’s dispassionate work that he takes on in his limited spare time. The dismantling of the program was not necessarily his idea, but he saw it to the end.

By 2024, L Lawliet has been dead for almost two decades. Enough time for a child to grow and have a child of their own. Near has no children—will never and can never—and finds this fact amusing.

At exactly 13:23 GMT on 21 October, 2024, Near celebrates a homecoming of sorts.

—

The grounds have been left to wither. The estate is unsellable—or, nobody wants to bother selling it to a Silicon valley expat or a London financier’s portfolio. After all, it was a school. Renovations would be required.

When Near is driven into town and left there—”I’ll get there from here, thank you,”—he overhears, in a quiet cafe, that the children think the mansion on the hill is haunted. “Halloween” is an American holiday that is not celebrated in England. The evening is foggy and limpid. The sky threatens an afternoon rain.

He arrives at the wrought iron gates at 15:13. He knows there is nothing for him, here. But he’s already been given this time to pay his respects. A holiday of sorts. Never in the past twenty years has he kneeled before graves. He expects he won’t today, either. There is nobody here to pay respects to. Mello is buried in an unmarked plot in a quiet district of Tokyo. The stake on the eastern edge of the property in Winchester—In Memoriam, Mihael Keehl—is growing moss. Near stops by this landmark, first. Many colleagues and coworkers, commanding officers and cadets, have died since Mello. Near has not kept track of many of their names.

Mello’s memorial has not been cared for. They stopped sending groundskeepers to the property in 2019. Near carries a book in one hand, his plastic cane in the other. He stares at the spike, leans on the arm brace, and considers the most respectful acknowledgment of this memorial. This isn’t what he came here to do. Mihael Keehl—no, Mello—has been dead for more than a decade. In that time, Near has solved more than five hundred cases. A-Kira. The Hong Kong murders. The Dubai trafficking ring. A few stray Death Notes.

In the years elapsed, the loss has simmered. Like soup, which Near has seen others make (his current boyfriend is fond of cutting the mirepoix into centimeter by centimeter cubes) the thought of Mello is turbid and wafts around him constantly. However, there is no room for the what if. There is only the course the universe bent, that day.

Near, in his own way, has paid his respect. Said his thank yous, if he owes any thanks. He bows, as far as he can manage, to the spiritless grave. He does not kneel.

In Tokyo, Mello’s bones are likely rusting, rotting in the temperate soil. Were he buried here, at 51° latitude, he may still have his skin, in death. But this is unimportant. He would not wish to be buried here.

Near bows, and says two prayers for the dead. He knows a Latin version as well as a Hebrew. To this day, he does not know if Mello died religious—died believing in any gods beyond those he had met and been scorned by.

“Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.”

“יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא.”

He adds a hymn Mello might have sung for his parents in the dialect he most likely spoke before his life as a successor began.

“Святой Юмо, Святой Куатле, Святой Колыдымо, мемнам серлаге.”

Near has been told not to pass judgment on the irrationality of faith, so he has learned the hymns. The grass grows tall around Mello’s stake.

One year, Near had gotten angry about it. Back when he was twenty one or twenty two—inconsequential—and awake for forty hours, Near had raged at a silent room over it, and never again. And the anger was not about the death, nor about Near’s inheritance, his duty. Not Mello’s mistakes nor his sacrifice. Likely, looking back with the hindsight and wisdom of a man ten years older, Near images he experienced as much grief as he was capable of, that night. There was no grave to stand over, and there was no body, in the small room in Cape Canaveral when Near was twenty one. No surviving images of him. No letters nor notebooks. The bout of rage, insanity, grief (he cautions to call it) was triggered by a smell (something sweet burning), of all things. And had subsided with the yellow dawn.

The frustration was likely at being left alone. Of his own inefficacy in his first trial, and the acknowledgement that a man like Mello had deserved to live to see more days. Had deserved better than a pine wood stake on a lonely corner of the grounds of the school where he was raised and an unmarked plot in Adachi City, Tokyo.

Next, Near walks slowly towards the house itself. A jackrabbit sprints across the lawn in front of him. A hawk circles to the north. 

[hyper-lynx]

Two Cats Attend the Blue Moon Ball

Chapter 1: Dusk

Featuring @wizblr-blue-moon-ball's Lurien and @flowers-the-sun-witch, along with Hemi and Liam of course. This is the first chapter of probably several that I will make for some of the prompts. Character appearances will vary and can be removed on request!

A calm wind blew over Wizard Island Island’s coastal region, bringing a mild warmth over the old stones and dozens of pointy-hatted towers dotting the landscape. The sky was overcast, but it was clear despite this that the sun was near the horizon. The shimmering line of the ocean adorned the horizon. Along a path of well-trodden cobbles, the air bent and tore, until, with a burst of chromatic power, two felines landed onto the earth. Hemi, wreathed in the gentle fabric of his deep indigo dress, felt the lukewarm air suddenly about his legs until the dress behaved itself. The emblem of the moon was dim in the low light, but still plainly visible. Shortly behind him, Liam practically flowed out of the rift. His gown had the general design of the lunar hibiscus -- pink and, in Hemi’s opinion, somewhat bulbous, but still quite elegant. He held the corners of the dress in a way that suggested he had experience landing from a dimensional vortex in such attire. Once both cats exited the distortion, reality was quick to mend itself.

“Aha, we’re-- um.” Hemi looked around, then let his head tilt. “Where’s--”

They stood at the long-forgotten gates to a property that was seemingly completely absent. There was not a trace of any building -- in its place, an immense crater marred the landscape. The only thing that remained was a tarnished silver archway and a few mana crystals that poked out from the ground at the edges of the place.

Liam gasped. “Did something--?”

“Impossible. If something this big was -- gone, I’d have heard about it. Besides, that gate… must have been abandoned for a hundred years.” Hemi closed his eyes and tried to visualize the route on the invitation he’d been given, but he was certain it led to this general area, and there shouldn’t be any other large estate in the vicinity. Were all his days of anticipation really --

“Oh--! Hemi, look!”

Hemi opened his eyes to the sight of what looked like an angelic being descending through the clouds. He plummeted rapidly and then came to a sudden stop in the air just beyond the gate, not displacing any air or showing any discomfort in the process. An elf with radiant wings, blue into yellow, clothed in shining white silks. Despite his short stature, the elf had a golden power behind his eyes that commanded respect. The emblem of the Blue Moon shone in iridescent stone, adorning his crown.

“Greetings! Hyperlynx Hemi, I presume?” The elf spoke with a quiet tone that nonetheless carried through the emptiness. “I see you’ve found our ‘back entrance’.”

“Oh--! Um, hello, sir--?” Hemi stammered in response as both cats approached the gate.

“Lurien is fine. In any case, I’ve arranged transport for you and your partner. Please proceed through the gate.”

Hemi tilted his head to the opposite side and gazed into the spiky, terrifying chasm just beyond the rusted passage. “Um-- I ah, don’t have any flight spell active…” He glanced at Liam, who shook his head silently.

“That’s fine, sir. I assure you there are accommodations for all creatures at the Blue Moon Ball.” He looked down at some kind of brass handheld timekeeping device. “Although, I would insist you move swiftly. The event will be starting momentarily.”

Hemi huffed softly and looked to Liam, who took the lead. Liam gathered his gown about his feet and cautiously stepped through the gate. He half expected the world to suddenly burst into light and color around him, but no such thing happened. Instead, his foot met with a soft resistance, an invisible surface. It felt a bit like walking across a mattress. Seeing the leopard defy gravity, Hemi followed suit.

“Impressive spell, but where is--” Hemi was cut off when the platform was suddenly thrust skyward. The earth fell away, and waves of amber light emanated from the invisible surface above them as it blocked the wind. Lucien cracked a soft smile -- the emblem across his chest shimmered softly as the three beings were brought up. Even the clouds broke around the barrier above them, until--!

The sun, from its place ever-lower on the horizon, lavished golden light across a wondrous skyscape. A great layer of clouds the size of mountains formed the base, speckled with tiny sections of floating stone -- likely pieces of distant floating islands that came in the wind across the sea. Beyond the shelf of clouds, the light glinted on the water. Above it all, though, a grand estate was situated. The main island consisted of an immense floating mansion. In a way, it was almost more like a town  -- the lower section was something of a hull, with docking ports for flying ships and tiered gardens protruding from openings in its sides. Atop, the mansion sprawled across a massive expanse of once-natural earth, with what must have been hundreds of rooms and halls. Near the center, the peak of a wizard’s tower wis visible, adorned with the same lunar emblem.

Lucien watched the two cats take it all in as he platform moved in a grand circuit through the air above the venue. “Sunset really is wonderful at this altitude, isn’t it?” He noted. The light cast off everything, and the shadow of the floating manor lengthened forever across the clouds. Hemi took a moment to glance down at Liam, whose eyes were literally wide with wonder. 

Their dutiful invisible chariot let them down in the plaza just before the main gates. It seemed nearly everyone else was already somewhere inside, since this courtyard was otherwise occupied only by a trio of gnomes who seemed to pay the cat-men no mind. Lucien directed their attention to a statue of a human woman, depicted 20 feet tall in marble stricken with veins of some shimmering blue mineral. Water flowed from small slots below the woman’s feet into small channels that fed this section of the gardens.

“This is the original owner of the manor, Mistress Areth Lunacai. It’s said she discovered the arcane properties of lunar sapphire, and therefore mastered the art of permanent levitation. In her time, her genius was not recognized, so she wrested her family’s estate into the skies, where it still remains.”

“Wow…” Liam looked up at her. Hemi, however, was already distracted by looking at the venue itself. As the light of dusk began to fade, Hemi crossed his arms over his chest.

“Lucien, sir?” He interjected. “Are we late for-- anything?”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “You accuse me of being late to my own ball?”

“Um--! Well, no, I--”

The host smiled. “No, it’s understandable. You are actually somewhat early. While most attendees have made their way to the main hall and its waiting rooms, the formal schedule will not commence for half an hour at minimum. Plenty of time, no?” Hemi nodded and looked to the side. He thanked the gods for the impenetrably thick fur that hid his now-red cheeks from view, then took a deep breath. There was no great rush. This was an event for fun, after all. The sleepless night before preparing… the weeks of anticipation… It all led to this night, where everything was arranged for him. He walked closer beside Liam.

Lurien turned over his shoulder, towards a figure in a blue dress who had appeared amidst the gardens. “Ah, I see a new guest has arrived. Excuse me.” Lucien bowed and began to gracefully stride towards the newcomer.

“Hey Hemi, do you want to go meet them? The person over there, I mean?”

Hemi looked to the newcomer, then back at the red wisps of frozen clouds high above. “I think I’ll watch the sunset for now. You go ahead -- we’re all going to the main hall anyway, right?”

Liam nodded and followed Lurien’s path through the gardens as quickly as he could without letting any dirt get on his outfit. By the time he arrived, the host was already leading the other person back up a scenic route along the terrain’s edge towards the fountain. Their long brown hair -- adorned with red flowers -- was tied into a set of four pigtails that dangled about elven ears and onto the shoulders of a truly cute blue dress, tied with a red belt bearing a once-live sunflower. They looked up at the approaching beastman with only momentary confusion. Lucien, without even looking in Liam’s direction, nodded. 

“I’ll allow you two a moment to become acquainted. There’s a matter I’ll need to attend to.” Lucien announced. A moment later, a great eagle flew dangerously close to the edge of the island and began circling the courtyard. Lucien sighed and, with a subtle movement of his wings, lifted off to redirect the bird’s rider.

“Oh gosh!” The witch put a hand against her mouth and giggled.

Liam shook his head. “Some people…” He turned his attention back to the immediate environs. “Well-- ah, greetings!” Liam gave a curtsy. “My name’s Liam.”

The witch returned the favor. “I’m Flowers, the Sun Witch. It’s nice to meet you! I like your dress.”

“Thank you~!” Liam twirled around a little. “Yours is very cute.”

The witch smiled, but didn’t reply verbally. The two watched for a moment as the now distant eagle followed Lucien -- from this range, a point of light -- towards the arcane beast stables on the lower levels. “I’ve not seen a dress of that style in a while. Lunar hibiscus, right?” Liam’s head tilted slightly. “How did you--”

“I don’t call myself ‘Flowers’ for no reason. The color’s pretty accurate, too. Though, those flowers are pretty rare on the island…”

“Ah, I’m not actually from here. I’m not even properly a wizard -- that title belongs to my partner. I’m his plus-one.”

“Oh!” Flowers looked along the rim of the floating landmass. “Is that him?” She pointed out Hemi, sitting alone on an outcropping, watching the redness leave the sky as night took over.

“Yeah…” Liam put his hand behind his head. “He’s a little shy. I’m sure he’ll warm up when things kick off.”

“Flowers nodded, then tapped her foot. “I hope the host is back soon… I hope everything’s alright with the bird situation.”

As if on cue, on a beam of light, Lucien appeared next to the two guests. “I apologize for the wait, Mx. Flowers. I hope you’ll forgive  my cutting your tour short for the moment, as the floor will open momentarily. I suggest you both make your way to the main hall and meet some more of the guests in the meantime.”

“Ah-! Of course, thank you.” Flowers began to walk down the garden path towards Hemi. Lucien, apparently satisfied, vanished into light.

“Um--” Liam trotted after her surprisingly quick gait. “The fastest path is to the right.”

“We need to collect your partner, don’t we?” The sun witch glanced back at him. “Besides, I need to compliment his dress, too.”

By the time they arrived, the sun had completely set, so Hemi was just staring off into the swirling expanse of the clouds below. His ears were somewhat askew-- when Liam approached, they swiveled to face him.

“Hey, we’re supposed to go inside soon.” Liam let a gentleness into his tone.

Hemi stretched and stood. He used a quick gesture to disconnect the dirt from his dress’ fabric, so it became fully clean in an instant. When he turned around, he started at the sight of the witch who accompanied Liam.

“Oh--! Um--” Hemi gave a clumsy bow. “Hello-- I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you.”

The witch extended her hand. “I’m Flowers. What’s your name?”

“...Hemi.” He said, and shook her hand with his paw. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well. I like your dress~!” She told him. Hemi’s ears flipped, but he smiled in response.

A latch sounded at the main door. “Ah, it seems it’s time to enter. Have a wonderful time, you two--!” Flowers curtseyed again, and was off.

Liam looked at Hemi with a soft grin..

“What? I was surprised…”

“Nothing, nothing.” He took Hemi’s hand. “Another adventure, right?”

“--Right.”

The two cats proceeded towards the gathering group of wizards and the great oaken doors. The blue moon shone bright overhead.

[valerienrhapsody]

Sup cuties

I have a story that I've been working on literally since highschool and was considering getting it conventionally published, but right now I just want her to be read and enjoyed more than anything. So below the cut find chapter 1 of By Nightfall, and I'll post further chapters under the same tags

thanks love ya byeee

Prologue

The monster house, as the locals liked to call it, was the last relic of a time when Jericho County had dreamed of being a center of booming agriculture for the state of California. Old Jonah Rayne built the place from the ground up with nothing but his bare hands and a sturdy hammer, or so he would say to anyone with an ear to listen. It was his one crowning achievement, he would boast; “The most perfect thing I could ever create, aside from the children, of course.” A home built with love and for love, and the start of what should have been a glorious legacy to carry his name through generations. 

After the Rayne family massacre, with none but a few distant relatives to claim the inheritance, the agricultural land was divided and sold at auction. The  living quarters intended to house the estate workers eventually sprouted into the quiet little town of Jericho, and the Rayne property was reduced to the last five acres sitting at the end of Richmond Avenue and the old family home that had once been so dear.

Years became decades, then centuries, in which that house succumbed to its steady decay, a shadow of its former beauty with a sagging foundation, more holes in the roof than swiss cheese, and a small jungle growing out of the front yard. After an incident involving a curious child and an unstable staircase, the house was finally condemned as a safety hazard. Of course, that did nothing to stop the kids around town from breaking in, daring each other to face the ghosts of a butchered family whose name had been long forgotten. It was always the same song and dance: a new layer of graffiti and trash, and then new boards to seal all the windows and doors, rinse and repeat. So went the cycle of the monster house.

It was a night at the end of a long, dry summer that Jesse arrived, the first Rayne in over two hundred years to step foot on the property. The wrought iron gates guarding the path screeched against years of built-up rust, and it gave him the eerie sensation of being screamed at. Go away, the house told him. Let the dead things here rest in peace.

Still, he pressed on, his steps crunching on the gravel pathway that was the only walkable area not swamped by weeds. He ripped at the vines and brambles blocking his way up the porch, and two steps up the structure found his foot crashing right through to the ground.

The boards covering the front door gave Jesse the most trouble, layers upon layers of planks haphazardly nailed across the frame and decorated with weather-beaten signs warning away intruders. He tore down what could be removed by hand, then came at it with a running start to beat the door down with his shoulder.

Dust flew everywhere, catching the moonbeams streaming in from the hole in the roof over the foyer. A draft ran through the darkened halls and empty rooms, rattling old piles of trash and empty drink cans, and from somewhere deep within, the house groaned its objection to the disturbance.

Jesse echoed the sentiment with a low groan of his own, swatting away the dust and cobwebs hanging in the air. He gave up his efforts with a resigned sigh as he took in the grimness of his surroundings.

“Home sweet home.”

Chapter 1: Last Friday Night

Dead leaves crunched underfoot as Evaine walked down the road toward home. It was a sign that fall was on the way, and with it came the first muggy, overcast day since summer ended. Patches of thick clouds traveled overhead, scattering the sunlight in uneven rays like curtains opening and closing over and over again. The heat warmed her enough to work up an uncomfortable sweat as she walked, but the breeze that affected the air so turbulently was just cold enough to bite at her cheeks and chill her toes. 

Fitting, she thought, as the gloomy sky mirrored her foul mood. A perfect little cherry on top of an already miserable day that was barely halfway through with her. Most days she could deal with the usual dull grind of high school life, the loneliness of having nobody to sit with at lunch, or the frustration of trying to make nice with people who made no effort to hide their disinterest. 

But today, oh boy. Today she had been asked to read her paper aloud in English, and the whole class kept on talking like she wasn’t even standing there, red-faced and stuttering in front of everybody. The teacher just had her sit back down before she was even finished so they could move onto the next presentation. Today Tanner Humphreys “borrowed” her favorite pen in math and straight up ignored her when she asked for it back at the end of class.

Today she had missed her bus home because her history teacher made her stay late to discuss why she was already failing barely two months into the semester. For almost twenty minutes he droned on about personal accountability and how colleges would certainly not be impressed by such a track record as hers, and wouldn’t she be so embarrassed if she wasn’t able to graduate with her senior class?

And so she had missed the bus, leaving her to walk home in this miserable weather while she stewed in her foul mood, and it was made all the worse by knowing that she had no one to blame but herself. Her fault for giving up on her grades, for trusting Tanner to give the pen back, for not speaking up during her presentation.

So lost in her own moping, Evaine was taken by surprise when she looked up and realized that she had walked all the way to the end of Richmond Avenue. Any other day she would have crossed the street to avoid being so close to the monster house; she didn't like the way its drooping porch looked like a downturned mouth set in a grimace and the boarded windows like eyes permanently sewn shut. That place had always given her a serious case of the heebie-jeebies ever since she was a child, and standing at the gates as a near adult was no different.

Evaine quickly tore her eyes away, as if staring too long would make the house aware of her presence, and turned to cross the street with a renewed pace. She knew there was a faster way home, just past the end of Richmond where the road turned into the dirt walking path through the Jericho woods. That way would lead right right up to her own backyard in half the time, but it would also take her so close to the monster house that she could see into those holes that the patchwork couldn’t quite cover, and then she would have to face the creeping feeling that if she could see inside, then maybe something inside could see her, too.

No, she would always choose the safe, reliable path of the sidewalk and the extra five minutes that it added to her route.

When she finally reached home, trudging across the lawn that was still yellow after such a dry season, she was met at the driveway by her mother’s car pulling in. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for her mom to come home early on Fridays, letting her attendant, Parker, close up shop so she and Evaine could catch a movie or get dinner together. What was out of the ordinary was Evaine making it home from school a good half hour later than the bus drop off time.

“Running late?” asked her mom as she stepped out of the car, bringing with her the smell of moist fertilizer that seemed to waft straight from her overalls. Evaine doubted that her mom had a single item of clothing left in her closet that wasn’t stained by dirt and leafy smears of green, but the “bringing your work home with you” jokes had gotten old a long time ago. 

Besides, it wouldn’t matter if she was wearing a burlap sack or a glittering ball gown; Mary Dawson was the most beautiful woman in the world, and it was so unfair to Evaine who felt like a toad in comparison. Her mom had the most lovely honey blonde hair that she usually kept pulled up in a working bun, but feathery little wisps always found their way back to her face. Evaine’s own hair was so red it could warn away predators, and an unruly mess of curls to boot. Her mom’s eyes were a soft blue, bracketed by little laugh lines that did nothing to detract from her natural glow, while Evaine’s were brown over much darker skin that still bore the freckles from summer. Her mother had the kind of warm smile that could turn anyone into a friend, and it lit up her face as she greeted her daughter.

“Yeah…I need you to sign something for me,” Evaine confessed, choosing to rip the bandaid off as soon as possible. Her eyes remained shamefully glued to the ground as she reached into her pants pocket where she had folded up the piece of paper from her history teacher.

Her mom accepted the paper with a bracing sigh, walking on toward the house as she read, her frown deepening with every word. Evaine unlocked and opened the front door for her, and they both stood in the foyer for a long moment of tense silence while her mom finished the scathing review of her academic progress.

“Well, it’s not exactly a glowing letter of praise,” her mom said, making a generous effort to not sound too disappointed. She set down her work bag and went to pull a pen from the entryway table. 

“I don’t know what to say…” Evaine mumbled, feeling even worse for the mild reaction, if that was even possible.

“Look, I’m not about to stand here and yell at you about how you’re better than this and there’s no excuse for laziness,” her mom said as she handed back the signed paper. “I had a hard time in high school, too. I was unfocused and too naïve to think about my future in any realistic way, and every time my parents yelled at me or tried to punish me for it, I just hated school more and more. So, I’m not going to do that to you. E, I know you’ve been having a hard time, and senior year is enough pressure as it is. All I want is for you to do your best to get through it, and just try.”

“I know, it just feels like this year is the hardest it’s ever been,” Evaine admitted, hating the sound of self-pity in her own voice. She folded her arms across her chest, willing the frustrated tears to stop stinging at the back of her eyes. “I mean, everyone else is talking about college and career paths right now, and I’m just sitting in class every day doing all this work that just feels so pointless and exhausting when I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with myself when it’s all over.”

“Hey, getting stuck in a bad attitude isn’t going to solve anything,” her mom said with a voice that was anything but berating. She pulled Evaine into her arms for one of those soul-mending hugs that never failed to chase the clouds away. “Listen, just get through this year whatever way you can. You know I’d prefer it if you got a diploma, but even I had to settle for a GED. Once school is over, you can come work with me at the shop and take general classes at the community college until you pick a career path. Believe it or not, senior year is not ‘do or die’ for your future. I think once you start to live your life outside of high school, you’ll find your way.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Evaine said, puffing out a breath against her mom’s shoulder, wishing she could be that hopeful for herself. For now, all she had was the gnawing guilt that made her feel worse for letting things get this bad. Needing a change of subject before her bad mood could drown her completely, she disentangled herself from her mom’s hug and forced a smile. “Were we going to do something tonight? Is that why you’re home early?”

“Actually, the ladies from the community garden are getting together for dinner,” her mom explained with an apologetic wince like she knew Evaine might’ve gotten her hopes up. “Do you want to order a pizza? Should I bring something back?”

“Nah, I’ll pick something up,” Evaine replied with a dismissive wave of her hand, refusing to let it show on her face that she indeed had gotten her hopes up. “If you’re going out, I think I’ll go to the library or walk around the plaza for a bit.”

“That’s the spirit! Get all dolled up, see what kind of trouble you can get into,” her mom encouraged with a playful wink, the kind that said she was only half joking. Her mom-humor was the contagious kind, and despite herself, Evaine began to feel a little better.

Her mom’s version of getting ready for a night out involved showering, blowing out and curling her hair, painting on a light layer of makeup, and donning the sleekest black dress in her closet that she held onto just for such occasions. In the same amount of time, Evaine paced back and forth from her closet to her laundry hamper, regretting the fact that she hadn’t bothered to pick up anything nice during her yearly school shopping trip. After spending way too long struggling to make a decision, she finally settled on a pair of jeans and one of her newer graphic tees. Just to feel more dressed up, she laced up her red sneakers instead of the black ones. Sneakers, because of course she would be walking for the rest of the night. In the muggy heat and icy wind. Again.

She went into her mother’s room to give herself a final look in their full-length mirror, feeling reasonably satisfied with her work. The shirt was smooth and unwrinkled, her jeans were worn in and soft, and her sneakers looked clean and well cared for. She had tied her hair back into a ponytail in anticipation of a breezy night, and gelled down as much of the frizz as she could manage. It wasn’t the same level of style as she’d seen the other girls at school wearing lately, but if tonight was the night to try her luck and maybe talk to somebody new, at least she wouldn’t be too self conscious.

It was a nice thought, but it lasted for only a moment before her mother came to stand beside her to use the mirror as well, fluffing out her sculpted curls and fixing her dress. Side by side, all Evaine could see was what set them apart from each other, and her heart sank with the familiar weight of disappointment. 

When she was a child, she used to ask her mom if she would grow up to look like her, like all these things that made her different were nothing more than growing pains to be overcome. Even after the truth had been explained to her, she would still daydream about waking up one day to find that she had magically blossomed into that version of herself she always wished she could become. If only she could be a little more like her mother, she would think in those critical moments, if only she could be prettier, more charming…then her life could really begin. People would look at her and pay attention when she talked, and they would call her up and invite her places on Friday nights just because they enjoyed her company, and she would be such a good friend to have.

It took a long time for her to understand what it meant to be adopted, and many more years after that to accept that the face she saw in the mirror was the only one she would ever have, that there would never be a fairytale moment to turn this pauper into a princess.

It was still muggy in the late afternoon as Evaine and her mother both set out for the evening, but at least the breeze had carried away the darkest of the clouds, freeing the sun to cast its long shadows across the front lawn. Her mom gave her a ride into town, thankfully saving her from having to walk the first half of her trip, and she was dropped off at the steps of Jericho Public Library. The two wished each other a fun night, and after a slew of reminders from her mom to be careful and to try to be home before dark, the two parted ways.

From her first steps through the library doors, Evaine could feel all the tension and stress of her day finally beginning to release its hold on her. Here, where the air smelled like paper and ink and those scented candles the librarian kept on her desk, where the only noise was the soft flutter of pages being turned and polite whispers being shared back and forth, here was where Evaine found joy more than any place in the world. Once she had tucked herself away in her comfortable little reading corner, things like the self conscious worries over her looks or of being friendless and lonely simply didn’t matter anymore. 

Her favorite spot in the building was the set of twin chairs by the window overlooking Jericho Plaza. They were a faded sea green with brass nail embellishments, mismatched with a little chestnut end table and vintage reading lamp between the two. From there, she would be able to watch all the lights come on at sundown, making the little town look like a fairy wonderland.

“How did I know I’d find you here?”

Evaine looked up from her book to find Alec, the assistant librarian, staring down at her. He was an older man of about forty, although she could have sworn he’d clung to thirty five at least three years in a row. He had dark and weathered skin which bore the marks of a lifetime of hard work, and a layer of gray peppered stubble all across his chin. His face was set in a permanent sort of scowl that belied the kind man underneath, and when he laughed he looked like a wrinkly bulldog. As per usual, his work boots and jeans were just a little wrinkled with bits of dust and paper scraps clinging to the fabric, and his flannel shirt was rolled up to the elbows where the edges of some faded tattoos could be seen. He was the everything man around here, just as likely to be found working on maintenance as hunting down late fees. 

“Hey, Alec,” Evaine greeted, bookmarking her spot in her latest selection so she could give him her full attention. “What’s up?”

“Your waitlisted request finally came in,” he announced, setting a new book in front of her. “Actually, it came in last week but Miss Evelyn hasn’t been shelving the returns since her cat’s been sick. I’m just getting around to it.”

“Thanks, I was wondering about that,” Evaine said, picking up the book with a grin. She looked around at the other books she had collected for the afternoon and realized she would have to sacrifice one if she was going to be able to carry them all home. Oh well; Friday night problems.

“What happened to movie night with your mom?” Alec asked, pulling up the reading chair just across from hers. From the chest pocket of his flannel shirt he pulled a little baggie of peanuts and began to pop them with loud, open-mouthed crunching. 

“It turned into ladies’ night with the gardening club,” Evaine explained with a shrug she hoped looked more careless than she felt. It would just be too pathetic to admit out loud that she was lonely because mommy had more friends than her. “I figured I’d just read for a bit and then go pick up some dinner. You have any big plans for the weekend?”

“I’m actually making the drive to Redwood City after closing. My cousin Maggie’s there for work, so we’re getting dinner.”

“That should be fun,” Evaine said politely, secretly disappointed that even Alec, the only person in town with fewer friends than her, had plans and someone to hang out with. “Hey, can your stop by Rosita’s Bakery on the way for me? Bring me one of those colossal cookies.”

“Chocolate chip or peanut butter?”

“Ew, peanut butter’s gross. Chocolate chip.”

“You better wash your mouth out with soap; don’t talk about my peanut butter like that,” he warned, wagging a finger at her until she started to laugh. “And stop that laughing. Don’t you know we’re in a library? Gonna get us arrested.”

Of course, that only made her laugh harder, and he shook his head to hide his own satisfied smirk. Evaine had always thought that Alec wasn’t like most people, never brushing her off or making her feel ignored. He treated her like she was a person, like someone who was worthy of his time and friendship.

From a few aisles down came the sound of a loud CRASH, the resulting tumble of books, and someone doing their best to whisper a slew of curse words. Alec grumbled to himself and began to stuff the peanuts back into his shirt pocket.

“Guess that’s my cue. See you later, kiddo.”

“Have fun at dinner,” she called after him as he half-ran toward the crash.

Evaine spent the next few hours reading and enjoying her own company right up until the library closed promptly at six. It wasn’t quite nighttime when she stepped back outside, but the clouds made it dark enough for all of the lights of the plaza to come on a little early. 

It seemed as if the whole town was out that evening, strolling among the shops and enjoying the relief after another hot day. Evaine took her time walking the plaza pathway as she debated her dinner options, moseying through shops with clothes she knew she would never buy and hobbies she wished she had the talent for. While it was nice to see everyone out and enjoying themselves, it never failed to leave her with a melancholy pang in her chest. Just for once it would be nice to have somebody to walk around with, talk about the latest school gossip, or get their opinion on whether they should eat tacos or pizza.

She could feel that bad mood from earlier threatening to rain down on her as her thoughts took a sour turn, so she made the quick decision to just grab dinner from the nearest restaurant and head home. It was one of her favorite burger joints, busier than normal with so many people out enjoying the first night of the weekend, so by the time she got her white paper sack of food it was only a few minutes away from full dark.

She hurried to start the trek home, sorely wishing she had left more books behind at the library as they were now weighing her down. The journey back usually took a good thirty minutes along the sidewalk path, and she made it almost ten before she started eating her fries right out of the bag. She humored herself as she walked with ideas for what she could do with her free time tomorrow; she’d been meaning to organize the junk drawer in her desk, or maybe she could watch a movie and do her nails, or more likely just binge read everything she had just checked out…

Nearly home, Evaine turned to cross the street, headed away from Richmond, when there came a sound from the roadside shrubbery that made her halt in her tracks. It was a rustling of the dry bush leaves followed by a mewling little whimper, a small, distressed sound, almost like that of a puppy to her ears. 

A stressed pang of sympathy in her heart made her turn toward the sound, seeking it out, as she could picture all too well the image of a sad little face, hiding itself from the big scary human towering over them. She imagined how it might have gotten lost or been abandoned, just crying out for its mother or for some food, or for a comforting touch…

“Hello?” she called in her most non-threatening voice, leaning down to make herself smaller and less intimidating. She beckoningly clicked her tongue a few times and held out her hand. 

The rustling scampered from one bush to another and around a corner, like it was frightened and trying to get away from her, but then there was a small snap like a breaking twig and a much sharper cry.

“What’s wrong?” she continued to coo, following the sound. If the poor thing was hurt, there was no way she could just leave it behind. She had to see if it was alright, see if there was a collar or tags, maybe even walk back into town to drop it off at the vet’s office. She reached into her bag of food and pulled out a fry as bait, holding it out toward the bush.

When she was met with nothing but silence, she could only frown at the spot where she’d heard it last.

“Hello?” she tried again, straining her ears to listen. Still there was nothing, no breathing like she would expect from a wounded animal, no rustling or movement to be seen. Even the breeze had come to a momentary standstill, making the quiet all the more pronounced.

It was only then that Evaine realized the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. She looked around and saw with a wash of dread how far off the path she had gone, carelessly following those cries for help. Down the road and around the corner she had gone, blind to anything but that sad little cry, and somehow wound up walking right through the opened gates of the monster house.

Startled by the sight of it looming ahead of her, she took a few quick steps back, looking all around to confirm that she was alone. She looked up at the house itself, saw that the front door which had been closed that afternoon was now an open void of darkness, and her heart leaped into her throat.

“No no no no!” she shook her head, taking a few more steps backward. The fear shot through her chest like a frozen knife, and a taste like acid bile rose in her throat. Whatever instincts she had to mind her safety were suddenly awake and screaming at her to turn and run.

A hand grasped her by the elbow and she yelped with surprise, whirling around. It was a man, standing where there had before been no one, his face cast in the darkness of dusk so that she couldn’t see who it was. She attempted to tear her arm away, but the grip that held her was too strong. 

“What are you doing here, kid?” he demanded in a harsh whisper, using his overwhelming size to crowd her vision, blocking her path for escape. 

“I—I didn’t mean to—” Evaine squeaked helplessly, her eyes wide as she desperately tried to see through the dark for any means of escape.

“Come on, you need to leave.” He started to drag her toward the gate, but he didn’t get more than two steps before he froze in his tracks, the hand on her arm tightening painfully. His head slowly turned to look down on her, and when he spoke there something gravelly and hateful in his voice. “Dammit…one of them. Say goodnight, freak.”

Before she could even inhale from the shock, his other hand smacked into her neck and locked on. With little effort on his part, he squeezed until Evaine’s panicked breathing was cut off, and pressure began to build in her head making her ears ring and her lips feel puffy. The muscles of her throat struggled to work against the imposing force clamping her airway shut while her hands flailed desperately to fend him off. She pounded with her fists, scratched at whatever skin she could reach, but nothing could deter the man beyond a small huff of irritation when she drew blood. 

Still she fought, thrashing against his grip, until her vision swam with a blackness that crept up from the corners of her eyes and the last of her strength was finally used up. Her hands fell away from where she had been trying to pry him off and her knees buckled from beneath her, leaving her whole body weight hanging there by her neck. 

The last thing she heard as the darkness took her was the slow, unburdened breaths of her murderer.

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

Seven Snippets/Writing Share Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @oh-no-another-idea and @willtheweaver! :D

Here are seven snippets from Totentanz:

1.

Karandren opened his eyes and promptly got punched in the face. "I said quick and painless!" Diarnlan yelled. "Do you call strychnine quick and painless?" "No poison's painless," Karandren objected. He dodged another punch. "Alright, so I confused it with cyanide. So sue me." Diarnlan punched him again.

2.

Experience had taught him he could make it to the teleportation platforms before the other students left their dorms. But he'd reckoned without two things: the sword's weight, and his fourteen-year-old self's height. When he was fully grown Karandren was over six foot tall and strong enough to carry an adult man's corpse from one end of his palace to the other. Right now, on the other hand, he was almost a full foot shorter and barely strong enough to pick up the sword, let alone carry it. He struggled towards the door, clutching it to his chest.

3.

Karandren stared incredulously at the array of chemicals in vials set on Diarnlan's dining room table. "Where did you get all these? And why haven't you told me about them before?" "I never had them before. I borrowed them from the village alchemist. And if you think I'd let you near explosives without a damn good reason, you've got another think coming. I've written down the instructions. Deviate from them by one iota and I won't have to kill you because you'll blow yourself up." Diarnlan gave him a disapproving glare, as if she fully expected him to ignore her and kill them both through sheer stupidity, before she turned and marched out of the room.

4.

Somehow Diarnlan had gathered a pile of scrap metal. Where she'd got it from, Karandren hadn't a clue, but he suspected some village blacksmith somewhere was confused by the sudden absence of metal waiting to be reforged. Everything was there: old pots, old horseshoes, an old garden gate, even an old weathervane so badly rusted it was impossible to tell if it had once depicted a chicken or a wagon. Karandren eyed them all dubiously. Not quite what he had used to make his previous dragon statues -- there was a marked lack of Miavainish religious statues -- but beggars couldn't be choosers. He set to work.

5.

Diarnlan straightened up and strode in, doing her best impression of Teivain-ríkhorn-hrair en route to stop a student blowing themselves up with a botched potion. If she looked like she had every right to be there -- and more importantly, had an urgent task to complete and wouldn't take kindly to being delayed -- no one was likely to stop her. Karandren trailed behind her. A few guards and cleaners milled around the castle's lower floors. None of them gave the pair a second glance. Through the arched doorway, up the spiral staircase, round and round the tower. Diarnlan tried to keep walking as fast as she had before. But eventually she had to concede to physical limitations. The tower was simply too high, and she was simply too tired. She stopped to catch her breath. Karandren caught up with her, puffing and panting. He gave her a look that suggested he would happily throw her off the tower's top if she didn't slow down.

6.

Was the priest's entire library full of nothing but pornography? She looked at the number of books and decided this was impossible. Not even the most dedicated pervert could collect over five hundred obscene works. Diarnlan went to the other side of the library, chose another book, and opened it warily. She slammed it shut again at once. Apparently she was wrong. A dedicated pervert could collect over five hundred obscene works. She calmly removed all of the books from their shelves. She piled them up in the middle of the room. Then she set fire to them with extreme prejudice.

7.

The being known as Vanadel was considered odd even by the low standards of the Óhreinnjǫrð. In the first place he was half-human, something unheard of in this city. In the second his magic was a strange mixture of eottin and human. In the third he was a scientist, the first scientist in the Óhreinnjǫrð. "Scientist", as far as the other beings could work out, was a synonym for "madman". He went around putting strange substances in food -- his own food, to do him justice -- and documenting the effects they had on him. Once he had woken an Old One asleep at the bottom of the World Tree. Instead of destroying all the realms, the Old One ran around to another universe to escape Vanadel. Then, of course, was his interest in the skrýszel battles. The other beings wouldn't have minded this so much if his interest wasn't in the mortals and not the skrýszel.

Open tag! :D

[yolowritter]

Plagg's past holder is...Not Great™

Hello there everyone, and welcome back to another post! This here is a little something I cooked up for Plagg in "A Case of Ladybug Luck". To give some context, I very much consider the Kwami to be Gods, and treat them like it. So when the story moved towards exploring them further, I decided to write a piece of Plagg with a past holder. Yes, Sullivan's name is a Dark Souls 3 reference. I'm a nerd, sue me. Actually don't, I can barely pay for my readers' therapy. Anyway, this can be read as a standalone, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to post! Enjoy!

Trigger Warnings: Emotional manipulation, extreme apathy, plague and disease, and mass-genocide. Abusing Cataclysm is very dangerous to others.

A man sits on an old throne, inside a forgotten, crumbling keep. The roof has long caved in on one side of the chamber, letting the rain and thunder slip through the many cracks. The halls of this castle are silent, without so much as the squeak of a mouse to interrupt the heavy breathing echoing in the wind. His face is covered by a cracked helmet, one adorned with the faceplate of a panther’s skull. And the rest of the body rests inside an ever-rusting suit of black plated armor, decorated at the knees and shoulders by silver claws. Those very arms extend to wrap around the body, as if in a tired, pointless gesture of protection. Pontiff Sullivan sits upon his dusty throne on an eerily quiet night, with only the occasional strike of thunder to shatter the silence.

Beyond what tired eyes can see lies the rest of the keep, a forgotten Lord’s castle than once stood tall and proud. Moss and tangled vines have begun growing on the exterior walls, most of the windows blown to pieces by howling winds, and not a single soul’s footprint to be found. Rather, all Plagg can see with his endless eyes are the harsh claw marks on the ground, another result of his master’s choice of adornment. On the bottom side of Sullivan’s boots lay the jagged claws of a fierce black panther, a terrifying beast whose presence haunts every speck of air the God of Destruction can perceive. By his rough estimate, Plagg guesses it must have been at least two decades since even a stay cat set foot inside this old keep, at the top of a small hill overlooking a small town. Even the massive greatsword laying against the throne’s arm has been gathering dust, slowly eroding with the passage of time.

His master does nothing but sit on this very spot, has not moved in what the Kwami thinks may be weeks or even longer. All ‘round the ancient castle lay dark scorch marks of pure Destruction, one of which is visible through a half-crumbled wall just a few halls away. The howling winds continue to tear the keep apart one stone brick at a time, and Plagg is left only with memories. He recalls the battlefield, those very fields just outside the main gate. Said former testament to human engineering now lies ajar, with worms slowly eating at the wood it’s mad of. But once, many years ago, it had been the sight of war. Sullivan, then a young and determined knight, had finally gathered whichever friends could be mustered to retake his ancestral home from the boy’s uncle. Plagg cannot remember for the life of him if they were actually ever related by blood. Yet…the Kwami cannot find reason for the detail to matter. No, instead his jumps to Sullivan’s bravery and courage, to the sheer presence of shining gold that almost three hundred men had rallied behind. A kind smile and encouraging words had appealed to morals and knightly conviction once, the same features now lay hidden behind a faceless mask.

That boy…is gone now. Plagg knows as much, but is still tethered to this shell of a man, a shattered reflection of valiance twisted into nothing more than self-righteous foolishness. That was why, in the pride of his old age, Sullivan had sent his servants and knights all away to far-off lands, back when a single sliver of goodness still nested in his heart. The breastplate’s tattered cape billows in the wind as the Pontiff finally stands, armor crafted by the magic of Plagg’s Miraculous creaking with every movement. The Kwami feels himself strain as much as the metal plates, having held Sullivan’s pitiful existence together for so long that he, a literal God, has begun to long for the separation that so defined his kin before first contact with humanity. Truly, even being formless once again would be preferable to this horrible stagnation that permeated the very concept of Destruction.

With great effort, a single step is taken, and then another…and another…and another, until eventually the aging Pontiff’s legs have carried them both across the deserted halls and up a staircase that’s barely stable enough to hold a single man’s weight. It’s then, overlooking the surrounding lands from high above, that Plagg finally sees it. His Destruction, the echoes left behind by that great Cataclysm which brought Sullivan and his comrades victory, a gain in which the Kwami had once gladly shared. It’s been so long since he’s observed the full scope of that battle, if only because no mortal should be able to do the same. And yet, the Pontiff takes deep, ragged breaths as he gazes to the black flickers lining the grass, almost as if marking the ground with timeless scorches. Plagg feels it too, the subtle way in which they tremble in warning. He’s already known of course what any deviation from the throne-watching entails, but now it’s fully confirmed.

In the town below, a single traveler rests at a tavern, coughing lightly as if to clear his throat. Not a soul suspects, fewer have even heard the rumors, but what is death if not the slow, methodical destruction of physical matter? What is impending doom, if not something Plagg can feel? The stormy night goes on, and a blinding flash of thunder splits the skies as Sullivan begins to raise his arms. Trembling old bones and half-shattered armor both creak in protest, much more resistance than the God of Destruction can bother mustering. Still, the Pontiff manages to raise his clawed gauntlets up to an opening in the crumbling watchtower’s stones, and murmurs the word under his breath.

Cataclysm. A notion that Plagg had once been proud to personify, when that very same power had turned a legion of bloodthirsty, half-mad men to dust right before Sullivan’s eyes. The Kwami had used it then in desperation, this flicker of divine power. To save his Holder, a brave man he’d grown far too attached to for anyone’s good. With golden hair to match the aura surrounding the young knight, and green eyes glimmering with brilliant rays of hope as banners were raised in victory…Plagg had failed to see the darkness skulking underneath. That same evil was now made manifest in wisping black smoke ‘round the old Pontiff’s clawed arms, with a pained grunt as viscous veins of inky puss flickered to life all across his body.

The once rosy tint of the boy’s cheeks had long been stolen, replaced with a pale, ghastly complexion fit only for the horror stories told about the many creatures which had great aversion from the sun. Plagg hadn’t bothered to learn what the folktales were calling them this century. The black energy crackled all through Sullivan’s body, sapping both his and the Kwami’s lifespans to bring forth the very power that even a God like him had grown to fear. Of course, Plagg had heard the justification countless times, so many that he had truly began to lose count faster than Sullivan lost his mind. Yet it mattered little, when the dark mist of Cataclysm spread throughout the air, carried by howling winds all the way to its unsuspecting victims.

A raspy cough nearly tears through the Pontiff’s lungs, and he desperately clutches a crumbling wall to stay upright. “It’s a mercy, Plagg. They are all sick, and I am the cure…” he speaks the words with a conviction the Kwami once admired, and falls silent once more. In the town below, the Plague has begun to spread, from the traveler to the innkeeper, and then to another. The swirling dark mists flood the air around the slumbering villagers, and Plagg feels each and every bright soul disintegrate into absolutely nothing, leaving naught but tiny specks of ash.

[demifiendrsa]

DOOM + DOOM II | Official Trailer

 DOOM + DOOM II, a combined re-release of the first two DOOM games and plenty of additional content, is available now for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series X|S, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Nintendo Switch, and PC via Steam, GOG, and Microsoft Store for $9.99. Users who already own DOOM or DOOM II will receive DOOM + DOOM II as a free upgrade.

About

Developed by id Software, and originally released in 1993, DOOM pioneered and popularized the first-person shooter, setting a standard for all first-person shooter games. The critically acclaimed sequel, DOOM II, followed in 1994. Now the definitive, newly enhanced versions of DOOM + DOOM II are available as a combined product.

Included Content

DOOM

DOOM II

TNT: Evilution

The Plutonia Experiment

Master Levels for DOOM II

No Rest for the Living

Sigil

Legacy of Rust (a new episode created in collaboration by id Software, Nightdive Studios and MachineGames)

A new Deathmatch map pack featuring 25 maps

Altogether, there are a total of 187 mission maps and 43 deathmatch maps in DOOM + DOOM II.

New Enhancements

Online, cross-platform deathmatch and cooperative play for up to 16 players.

Community-published mod support (PC) with an in-game mod browser.

Choose between the original midi DOOM and DOOM II soundtracks or the modern IDKFA versions by Andrew Hulshult (including brand-new DOOM II recordings).

Improved performance with multithreaded rendering supporting up to 4K resolution and 120 frames per second on PlayStation 5, Xbox Series X|S, and PC.

Now on the KEX engine.

BOOM source compatibility makes it possible for hundreds of community-created mods from the past 25 years to be published in-game.

Accessibility options, such as a modern font to improve legibility, high contrast mode, text-to-speech, speech-to-text multiplayer chat, and more.

Translated into eight new languages: Mexican Spanish, Brazilian Portuguese, Polish, Russian, Japanese, Korean, Traditional Chinese and Simplified Chinese.

Existing Enhancements

Upgraded visuals.

Modern controller support.

Weapon carousel for faster weapon switching.

Gyroscopic aiming on PlayStation 5, PlayStation 4, and Switch.

Improved mouse and keyboard controls.

Local split-screen deathmatch and cooperative for up to four players.

Featured community mods, including REKKR, Revolution!, Syringe, Double Impact, Arrival, and more! Expect an ever-expanding list of single player mods to be added by the community modders.

60 frames per second and native 16:9 support—up to 1080p.

Restored original in-game music using original hardware.

Quick Save / Load support.

DeHacked mod support.

About the Included Games

DOOM (1993) (Original Version) – The demons came and the marines died…except one. You are the last defense against Hell. Prepare for the most intense battle you’ve ever faced. Experience the complete, original version of the game released in 1993, now with all official content and Episode IV: Thy Flesh Consumed.

DOOM II (Original Version) – Hell has invaded Earth, and to save it, you must battle mightier demons with even more powerful weapons. This beloved sequel to the groundbreaking DOOM (1993) introduced players to the brutal Super Shotgun, the infamous Icon of Sin boss, and more intense FPS action.

TNT: Evilution – The UAC relocated their experiments to one of the moons of Jupiter. A spaceship, mistaken for a supply vessel, was granted access. But when it got close to the base, demons poured out. All your comrades were slaughtered or zombified. This time it’s not about survival. It’s about revenge.

The Plutonia Experiment – Every effort has been made by the nation’s top scientists to close the seven interdimensional Gates of Hell, but one portal remains open. Alone, you must infiltrate the ravaged base, defeat the demon Gatekeeper, and seal the last Hell portal before the undead take over the world.

Master Levels for DOOM II – This expansion includes twenty additional levels, all with the same hell-spawned horrors and action of the base game. Each level was created by independent designers and supervised by id Software.

Sigil – Created by id Software co-founder, John Romero, and released as an episode-sized mod consisting of 18 new maps, Sigil fits in between the timelines of DOOM (1993) and DOOM II. Baphomet, the gatekeeper of Hell, “glitched the final teleporter with his hidden sigil, whose eldritch power brings you to even darker shores of Hell. You fight through this stygian pocket of evil to confront the ultimate harbingers of Satan, then finally return to become Earth’s savior.”

Legacy of Rust – Created in collaboration by id Software, Nightdive Studios, and MachineGames, Legacy of Rust is the newest episode for DOOM, and the first official episode since DOOM II to feature new demons and weapons. This 16-map Episode is broken up into two eight-map sections: The Vulcan Abyss and Counterfeit Eden.

[satoshi-mochida]

DOOM + DOOM II announced for PS5, Xbox Series, PS4, Xbox One, Switch, and PC - Gematsu

id Software has announced DOOM + DOOM II, a combined re-release of the first two DOOM games and plenty of additional content. It is available now for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Switch, and PC via Steam, GOG, and Microsoft Store for $9.99. Users who already own DOOM or DOOM II will receive DOOM + DOOM II as a free upgrade.

Here is an overview of the collection, via its Steam page:

About

Developed by id Software, and originally released in 1993, DOOM pioneered and popularized the first-person shooter, setting a standard for all first-person shooter games. The critically acclaimed sequel, DOOM II, followed in 1994. Now the definitive, newly enhanced versions of DOOM + DOOM II are available as a combined product.

Included Content

DOOM

DOOM II

TNT: Evilution

The Plutonia Experiment

Master Levels for DOOM II

No Rest for the Living

Sigil

Legacy of Rust (a new episode created in collaboration by id Software, Nightdive Studios and MachineGames)

A new Deathmatch map pack featuring 25 maps

Altogether, there are a total of 187 mission maps and 43 deathmatch maps in DOOM + DOOM II.

Online, cross-platform deathmatch and cooperative play for up to 16 players.

Community-published mod support (PC) with an in-game mod browser.

Choose between the original midi DOOM and DOOM II soundtracks or the modern IDKFA versions by Andrew Hulshult (including brand-new DOOM II recordings).

Improved performance with multithreaded rendering supporting up to 4K resolution and 120 frames per second on PlayStation 5, Xbox Series X|S, and PC.

Now on the KEX engine.

BOOM source compatibility makes it possible for hundreds of community-created mods from the past 25 years to be published in-game.

Accessibility options, such as a modern font to improve legibility, high contrast mode, text-to-speech, speech-to-text multiplayer chat, and more.

Translated into eight new languages: Mexican Spanish, Brazilian Portuguese, Polish, Russian, Japanese, Korean, Traditional Chinese and Simplified Chinese.

Existing Enhancements

Upgraded visuals.

Modern controller support.

Weapon carousel for faster weapon switching.

Gyroscopic aiming on PlayStation 5, PlayStation 4, and Switch.

Improved mouse and keyboard controls.

Local split-screen deathmatch and cooperative for up to four players.

Featured community mods, including REKKR, Revolution!, Syringe, Double Impact, Arrival, and more! Expect an ever-expanding list of single player mods to be added by the community modders.

60 frames per second and native 16:9 support—up to 1080p.

Restored original in-game music using original hardware.

Quick Save / Load support.

DeHacked mod support.

About the Included Games

DOOM (1993) (Original Version) – The demons came and the marines died…except one. You are the last defense against Hell. Prepare for the most intense battle you’ve ever faced. Experience the complete, original version of the game released in 1993, now with all official content and Episode IV: Thy Flesh Consumed.

DOOM II (Original Version) – Hell has invaded Earth, and to save it, you must battle mightier demons with even more powerful weapons. This beloved sequel to the groundbreaking DOOM (1993) introduced players to the brutal Super Shotgun, the infamous Icon of Sin boss, and more intense FPS action.

TNT: Evilution – The UAC relocated their experiments to one of the moons of Jupiter. A spaceship, mistaken for a supply vessel, was granted access. But when it got close to the base, demons poured out. All your comrades were slaughtered or zombified. This time it’s not about survival. It’s about revenge.

The Plutonia Experiment – Every effort has been made by the nation’s top scientists to close the seven interdimensional Gates of Hell, but one portal remains open. Alone, you must infiltrate the ravaged base, defeat the demon Gatekeeper, and seal the last Hell portal before the undead take over the world.

Master Levels for DOOM II – This expansion includes twenty additional levels, all with the same hell-spawned horrors and action of the base game. Each level was created by independent designers and supervised by id Software.

Sigil – Created by id Software co-founder, John Romero, and released as an episode-sized mod consisting of 18 new maps, Sigil fits in between the timelines of DOOM (1993) and DOOM II. Baphomet, the gatekeeper of Hell, “glitched the final teleporter with his hidden sigil, whose eldritch power brings you to even darker shores of Hell. You fight through this stygian pocket of evil to confront the ultimate harbingers of Satan, then finally return to become Earth’s savior.”

Legacy of Rust – Created in collaboration by id Software, Nightdive Studios, and MachineGames, Legacy of Rust is the newest episode for DOOM, and the first official episode since DOOM II to feature new demons and weapons. This 16-map Episode is broken up into two eight-map sections: The Vulcan Abyss and Counterfeit Eden.

Watch the launch trailer below.

Launch Trailer

[nellherself]

In The Woods Somewhere

a short story by Nell Egan, not to be replicated without specific permission.

When I was a boy, my father, the very father that brought me here today, used to tell me all the time to go outside. “But it’s boring,” I’d say “I want to stay here and read my book.” Pouting with all the conviction of a shadow, strong on a summer's day. “Find an adventure!” He would tell me, gently shoving me out the door, “Write your own stories, go and live the book.” 

So, that day, I did.

I walked down the path from our little pebbledash house and down the lane towards the field, listening to the crickets cry and the gulls scream as I went. I walked across the stretch of dying grass, attempting to remain out of sight of the boys who lived across the lane playing games at the other end of the field; the boys who were mean to me at school and liked to football tackle each other to the ground unprompted. I walked down the canal path, imagining what it would be like to fall in the filthy water and promptly pushing myself as far away from the waters edge as physically possible. 

In the evenings, bats flew over those canals and sometimes I would go there with my father and watch them as they swooped gently over the water. This was at the time when my mother was quite ill though, so it had been a while since i’d been down there and walked along the path, a good long while since I’d done it alone. At that point in the summer the bats would have been birthing their pups, and if we’d been able to go down we would’ve seen them in dozens, on those warm summer nights, but the stress made my father too tired. 

I walked down that canal for almost a mile before meeting the main road on the other end from where I’d originally joined the path. I still walk down this path sometimes, and in my later years it was where me and my friends would walk to go into the village centre, but at that time I hated the main road, it terrified me. Even back then, cars shot down it with certainty, not slowing down for anything or anyone; two people had been killed that year already. It was July. 

Nevertheless, I flew across the road as fast as I could, squeezing my eyes shut as I reached the other side to breathe, as if I could only bear one thing in that moment. When I recovered, I looked before me, at the gate. The gate was black and rough, cool beneath my fingers. The iron was rusting in places and it howled as I pushed it open, sliding into the beyond through the gap it created. I had known where I was heading, it was a place I liked to go often, but in that afternoon light the cemetery looked ethereal and ancient, like something out of a pre-raphaelite painting. The angels jumped out at me, ashen wings outstretched and aggressive in some sort of unusually delicate way.  I walked through the graves reading the dates; 1861, 1955, 1901: old and young. I remember the trees in that place were huge; massive, towering giant sequoias all in neat rows, with their red wood trunks like flame and their leaves stretched across the sky like a covering, providing relief for the scorching July sun. I loved walking among those graves. It made me feel like I had hundreds of friends who were just happy to have a visitor and listen to me talk; I must’ve stayed there for hours upon hours. 

It was getting dark by the time I realised I should probably be heading home. I walked back down the way I had come among the graves, however this time I saw a man in a high-vis walking towards the pond on the other side. The gate was open. 

In all the times I had been in that place, I never once had that gate been open; never once did I see it open again. The gate led to a deep pond, the sign indicated that it was more then five hundred metres deep, but I found that difficult to believe. It was not a lake, it was simply a duck pond, for it to be so deep seemed impossible, but now I’m not so sure. 

I creeped down, hiding behind trees and creeping behind graves until I could see exactly what they were doing. From that angle, the pond was in clear view and the dusky light made it easy to make out the shadowy figures of the men who surrounded it. They appeared to be holding what looked like a big hook, to my childish mind like a pirate’s hand, but really it was like a big fishing hook on the end of a long piece of string. Thick cord, heavy: it looked like it would be rough beneath my hands were I the one holding it. I watched as they threw it into the sullen water, greeting the surface with a colossal splash as it did so and aggravating the algae on the water’s top; it wobbled back into place and settled once more. 

I watched as the three or four men repeated this, dragging it out each time with three or or four sets of hands and a mighty heave. The fifth time they did this, I remember the clear resistance of the rope and the unison of grunts from the men as they were flung back by the force of its upheaval. They shone a yellow light on the sizable catch and it was then that I saw what it was. A body, bloated with water and punctured in the cheek from where the hook had pierced, it’s watery tresses plastered to the side of it’s face. There was pondweed on it’s pale skin, skin that looked almost false like rubber, as though it had been sewn onto a mannequin or fashioned out of wax for a freak show. 

I watched as it rolled towards me, limp, eyes open making eye contact with me and I watched as it morphed into my father before my eyes, becoming more familiar with every passing second. 

I squealed then, and the men all turned towards the grave behind which I was cowered, muttering to one another. I don’t remember what I thought in that moment, I just remember that I ran. I ran as fast as I could on my childish, twigish legs, panting like a dog all the way back down the canal and across the field. The dangerous road no longer even a necessary consideration. I ran until I reached my home, knocking furiously on the door to our home, rapping until my knuckles were sore. My father opened the door. “Alright! Hold on I’m here!” As soon as I saw him I launched myself at him, laying my head on his chest to listen to his heartbeat and wrapping my arms around him to make sure that he was real, that he was there. He said my name in a gasping tone, like I’d knocked the air clean out of him with the force in which I had grabbed onto him, “Everything alright?” he followed, questioning the closeness between us. It was a dynamic we had never had; “Yes.” I said, breathlessly, and nothing more. 

I never told anyone what I had seen; what I had thought in that cemetery on that warm July evening.

I miss that now, that closeness. I had never felt as close to my father as I did in that moment and as I grew up, although I wished us to get closer again, we grew further and further apart until he was almost a stranger to me; a stranger I shared only a last name with and very little in common. I wish in his later years I had made more of an effort to get close to him once more. I’d like to think that, in hindsight, if I knew how much I’d regret it now I would have tried to mend our closeness and knit us back together, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.  

I didn’t step foot in that graveyard again until his funeral, these forty years later. We chose to have a closed coffin, me more so than my mother. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing that body again, it’s limp bloat, my pale faced father as a John Smith pulled from the murky water. It wasn’t hard to convince her; he hadn’t looked particularly well when he died.

I still think about that evening, I see it in my dreams; that face staring back at me, the yellow torch light cast across it. When we, the ten person procession that we were, walked under those sequoias it came back to me so vividly that I was winded and had to stop, bending at the waist and holding myself up haphazardly. My mother walked over to me and placed her hand gently on my shoulder thinking the pain was personal, a memory of my father. I suppose it was in a way, but not in the way she thought. 

I could see the duck pond from where we stood to bury him. I couldn’t help but think about the body the whole time, even while they lowered him into the ground I was thinking of that day. 

When we walked past again, on our way out leading to the main road, I noticed the gate was open.

[poohnotpiku]

The Library

Have you ever seen the greed in the eyes of a kid, on entering a candy store? Have you ever seen the wonder on the face of a chef, in the fresh fruits and vegetables aisle of a grocery store? Have you ever seen the determination on the face of an athlete, before the beginning of a competition? Have you ever seen the peace on the face of a priest, on entering the temple? These were some of the few examples to describe the look on her face and the rainbow of feelings gushing through her veins, when she entered the gates of The Library….

A Victorian-style dilapidated building, with whitewashed walls and solid iron gates, with rusting knobs and hinges, housed the Library. It wasn’t just any place but the centre of her universe. It was the sun to her earth, the earth to her moon. She loved this place beyond an extent, inexpressible in words. She has been frequenting this place since her childhood. Same old cracking wooden stairs connecting the two floors of the Library. Same old long glass windows, covering the entire rectangular area and allowing strained sunrays into the sanctorum. One could see the sparkling dust particles in the beam of sunrays as they landed on the wooden tables, sparkling the messages scribbled on them years ago. Same old tables and chairs, used by hundreds of students and booklovers over a hundred years now. Same old aisle with sturdy looking book shelves, housing books of today and of era long forgotten. Same old desk for the librarians, for their paperwork and to keep a watch on all, with sharp looking eyes. Same in so many aspects yet new to her every single time she visited.

She could see the people, sitting on the chairs. Some having piles of books in front of them for reference for some assignment, while some had just an old battered copy in their hands and seem to be totally engrossed and lost in their own worlds. She could see a nerdy looking girl enquiring the librarian about a book, which was of course either not available or restricted for access. She could see an old man, sitting on a corner table, with a game of chess spread out, playing against another old friend of his. She could see a mother reading out a poem to her kindergarten-level kid. She could see the past, the present and the future, all in one dusty frame.

She walked eagerly between the aisles, touching and feeling the books, hearing them telling her stories of the past. She felt herself being teleported from one era to another and to another and so on. She picked up a random book and leafed through it’s pages. She felt the fingers of the past, of the people who had turned these same pages like her. She could feel the twirled ends of the pages indicating years of being thumbed through. She could read between the lines, the stories of all those who had been reading those lines. She could see some notes scribbled away on the back cover by an enthusiastic reader. She could imagine the author of the book, writing away in a corner of a shady room, under a dimly lit lamp, unaware that years after he has died, his work will live long. She kept opening random books and feeling through them, as if She was looking for a secret message from the past.

She came out of the aisles, emotionally and physically exhausted. She knew she will return back again and continue her search for the unknown and the untold. This was the place, which felt like a home, away from home. This was the place, which never ceased to amaze her. This was the place, which gave her peace and helped her to refocus. This was her hideout, protecting her from the harshness of reality. This was Her Library….and Library of hundreds like her, in the past….

---

[feraltuxedo]

Oh look I made another cover... this one for my first and quite possibly only attempt at kid fic:

Fledging by FeralTuxedo M, 53381 words. Summary: Cool Dad was at the school gate again. Clambering out of his ridiculous sports car like a great big spider, all black denim and designer sunglasses. What a prat. He made his way towards the entrance, followed by his equally lanky son. All the mums' eyes were on him. Which was fine. At least they weren't staring at Aziraphale for a change. Cool Dad high-fived his son goodbye, because of course he did, then sauntered back to his car. Making it look so bloody easy. Aziraphale Fell is much too young to be looking after eleven-year old Pepper. He barely has his life together as it is, with his minimum-wage job and a half-baked dream of trading rare books for a living. And as if adopting a recently bereaved pre-teen isn’t enough, there are some rather more adult problems to navigate: playground politics, the shadows of his own childhood, and the growing question of how Crowley, the only other dad at the school gate, feels about him.

Excerpt below.

Aziraphale reached the street corner and looked up to cross. A sleek black two-seater stopped right in front of him. The window wound down, revealing a pair of sunglasses.

‘Hiya. Want a lift anywhere?’

Cool Dad pointed at the empty passenger seat.

‘Um,’ Aziraphale said.

Fantastic. Very articulate. Cool Dad leaned across the gear stick and pushed the passenger door open, making the decision for him. Automatically, Aziraphale got in the car. He regretted it almost immediately. Sitting this close to him, he noticed just how attractive the man was. Sharp cheekbones, long nose, wavy hair the colour of rust. Hot Dad as well as Cool Dad.

‘So?’ he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Where d’you need to go?’

Aziraphale tore his gaze away from the man and looked straight ahead onto the road.

‘Oh, yes. Into town, if that’s all right. The Asda car park, if you wouldn’t mind. Thank you so much, I really do appreciate it.’

Before he’d finished talking, the car accelerated. There was the unpleasant swoop of inertia in Aziraphale’s stomach. He dug his fingers into the expensive leather of the seat. The car glid along the road almost noiselessly.

‘You’re new here,’ said Cool Dad, incomprehensibly keen on making small talk. ‘Been seeing you all this week. Not trying to be creepy or anything, but you’re the only other bloke at the gate.’

‘Yes, I did notice that. You, me, and a hundred mums. Pepper’s new at the school. She’s in Year 7.’

Cool Dad whistled.

‘Your daughter’s the notorious Pepper Fell?’

‘Actually, she’s not my— wait, why notorious?’

He took a hand off the steering wheel to scratch his neck. His nails left faint red streaks along his jawline. Aziraphale forced his eyes back on the road. They had nearly reached the centre now.

‘Er, I probably shouldn’t tell on her if she’s not talked to you about it, but… yeah. You probably want to know what she’s been up to. It’s actually hilarious.’

The fact that five days into her new school career she was already known as the ‘notorious Pepper Fell’ was worrying indeed. For heaven’s sake. He was so out of his depth.

Cool Dad glanced sideways at him. ‘You free at all this morning? You look like you could do with a strong coffee and I’ve got the morning off, so...’

With compliments to my under-eye circles, thought Aziraphale. The to-do list was burning a hole in his pocket. Taking the day off had cost him already. He needed to get everything done today or he’d have to take another holiday next week, and Gabriel would hate that. He looked at Cool Dad next to him, shaded eyes flitting back and forth between the passenger seat and the road ahead. A small smile played around his lips. A smile or a smirk, hard to tell. And still, he’d been the only person so far this week to show him any kindness. To offer help. A ride and a coffee. And damn, Aziraphale deserved to sit in a café opposite a good-looking man after the week he’d had.

‘Yes,’ he said, stomach swooping again. Probably from the rather abrupt halt at the traffic light. ‘I’m free.’

[keicordelle]

The Sweet Sorrow of Old Memories

FFXIV | Lamitt & WoL | General | 2003 canon divergence, returning home, reminiscing

After a hundred years adrift, Lamitt finds herself back in Tomra, a silent observer to the Warrior of Darkness's journey. The familiar village stirs old memories, and, as it turns out, some feelings are universal. Be it a shard away or 100 years past, everyone misses their home.

Another anonymous commission featuring Yesuntei! I love the idea of Lamitt being her reflection in place of Ardbert, the two of them mirror each other quite well!

My ficlet commissions are open through kofi, and if you're interested in a longer piece like this, send me a message and we can talk!

-

The afternoon sun bathed the familiar landscape of Tomra in its golden radiance. Brighter, now that the omnipresent veil of the Light had been lifted. Gentler. It turned the cracked buildings and half-hewn rock into something almost beautiful. Dwarves bustled within the stone walls that marked the town's edge, heedless of the spectral figure that watched them.

It was a painfully familiar sight. How many years had it been since last Lamitt had lain eyes upon her home? She could imagine it was unchanged, that if she were to enter the rusted iron gates, she'd find her mother and her sister within, tinkering with some new mechanism or polishing a trusted pickaxe. Just like it had been before, so very long ago. Before everything had gone so very wrong.

And yet its differences showed through even from a distance: buildings layered in splotchy green tarnish, new mouths dug into the rock face, the tips of the horns on Ziggut's helm worn off. Time had been no kinder here than anywhere, and Lamitt felt its effects all too keenly this close to home. Her former home.

Yesuntei's tail swished nervously as she approached the gate. "Do you think they'll talk to us?"

"I don't see why not," came the gruff answer from beside her. Giott's shoulders lifted in a noncommittal shrug. "No guarantees they'll have anything useful to say, though."

Lamitt trailed after them as they made their way into the village proper, a silent, unnoticed companion. She would have held her breath as they crossed over the threshold, had she needed to breathe at all. Still, something like a chill passed over her as they stepped through the gate and into the village she'd abandoned so long ago. The village that had abandoned her.

[Read the rest on Ao3!]

[beesneedswords]

Is This Goodbye or Hello Again

Spawn Astarion ending 🪷

Gn reader, but name given Gidja (God of the Moon/ Aboriginal Origin).

Masterlist

Astarion sits on a small patch of dirt, a small stone in front of him reading Gidja Farore 1334-1787. He places a bundle of autumncrocus atop the stone. He presses his lips to the cold rock before getting up. As he steps away his eyes never leave the grey boulder in front of him. It had been months, almost a year, since their passing and he still feels angry. They could've lived together, forever, but they had to stop him from completing the ritual. Tears threaten to leave his eyes and he finally decides to turn away.

The two of them were able to build a sort of community for the other spawn with the help of the macynoid colony. Astarion and Gidja lived in the arcane tower, while others lived around them. They started a small potion business to make money for them all to survive, mostly so Gidja could eat.

"How could I become so reliant on someone after two hundred years?!" He screams, "I told myself never to get too close!" Astarion turns back to the stone, eyes filled with fury, "How did you sneak into my heart and make me love you?"

Astarion crumples to the ground in sobs. Hot tears run down his perfectly pale face. He buries his face in his hands, trying to control the mess he's become. His body shakes with the sorrows flowing through him. Astarion sits for minutes, maybe hours, trying to control his grief.

When he finally runs out of tears he stands and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Every day he visits them, more anger and despair enters his body. He wanted them to be buried next to his headstone in Baldur's Gate, but no one was able to help him. He also thinks that is a good thing, he is still able to visit them. The funeral was beautiful, just what they would've wanted. Any friends and family they had left. Halsin, really being the only one still alive, and just barely. Halsin attempted to help Astarion cope, but he couldn't do much.

The other spawn have taken notice of Astarion's unstable state, taking note of his mentions of going into the sun to join his love.

“I'll join you soon.” He whispers to the dormit stone.

He stumbles back and goes back to the arcane tower. He's finally finished his preparations to leave. Astarion told Petras about his plans, and his brother agreed to take care of all the others. He grabs the backpack from the stiff mattress he hasn't laid on in months and stuffs it full of blood jars and clothes. He pulls on his armor in case of trouble and grabs the swords he'd been holding onto for almost three hundred years.

Astarion leaves the tower and makes his way up through the Underdark. Saying his goodbyes to the macynoid. Once he reaches the end of their colony he sees Petras and Daylria. They both give him a sad smile, knowing his end goal.

“We brought this for you.” Daylria says holding out a ring. The ring was nothing special, a gold band and gem, but Astarion recognized it. They'd found a skeleton couple laying in bed together with two rings. One was buried with Gidja. Petras and Daylria had scratched a new date for him, only the year, but the year Gidja and Astarion met.

Petra closes his hand around Astarion's, around the ring, “We'd done the same to theirs. We've arranged for a Gurr to bury you when… you've passed.”

“No,” Astarion says angrily, ripping his hand away from his brother, “I want to be buried here with them.”

“Alright, alright.” Petras says, “We can arrange it.”

Astarion nods, his posture rigid. He makes his way back up and through the old Selune temple. Even after all this time it has still remained empty. When he finally emerges into the temple he relives the battles with the Absolute cultists. He sees all the goblin skeletons, garments now torn and weathered, and the weapons rusted and disintegrating. The massive statues have been chipped and rounded from the falling ceiling allowing rain in. Astarion weaves in and out of the unrecognizable rubble.

The moonlight flows through the holes in the roof. Astarion stops under one, basking in the only sunlight he can live in. He reaches the ruined doors and attempts to push them open, but the hinges are rusted shut. He tries for hours to open them, but he never does. He screams, the grief and anger finally overwhelming his body. He throws a sword across the small room.

Astarion turns to the room where they killed Gut, he sees the once white moonlight becoming a soft yellow. This is his chance. He runs to one of the spots, standing just outside it. He watches the sun rise through the rubble, waiting for the sun to be up high enough. He doesn't want to suffer anymore, he wants something quick.

Once the sun has finally reached it's peak above the temple, Astarion steps into the light. He thinks of the many years he had with Gidja. Their face, the way their skin felt, how they always made him smile. The sun burns and blisters his skin, but he can't feel the pain anymore. He throws his arms out to his sides. Astarion smiles, feeling his fingers begin to crust and fall apart. He closes his eyes ignoring the sensation on his body turning to dust.

“I will be with you now, my love.” He says just before his body crumples. Some of the ashes blow away in the wind, but his heart remains. Petras and Daylria take him, that night, back to their settlement. They hold a small funeral and bury him with Gidja, their hearts together for the rest of time.

[littlelesbinonny]

The Devil’s Den

Chapter 9: In Which Rusted Gates Open Up Pt. 1

You can read this also on Ao3 at:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46831621/chapters/117962293

Donna and Alcina went their separate ways.

There was an undeniable damper placed over Alcina, trapping whatever bliss she had left over from the night with you.

She could sense the wayward glances from many of the vampires she passed on her way through the underground city. The news of Charles' beheading of course spread like a wind-blown wildfire, and vampires were nearly worse than gossiping small towns folk. The bit about the 'human pet on the side' would likely be picking up much more steam now.

Vampires keeping humans as 'pets' wasn't so uncommon several hundred years ago, in fact it was nearly regular practice. But fighting and bickering and pissing matches usually turned things exceptionally ugly between vampires, the humans were always the recipients of the worst of it, and any vampire with some semblance of their humanity left intact ended up wounded beyond repair at their deaths.

Mother Miranda had put an end to human pets and lovers long ago. It was far too risky and they didn't survive well underground like the vampires did. And, she found it tacky and unbecoming of a vampire to be so weak.

Alcina shuddered at the memories that crawled back in about that fateful night. She could still feel Mother Miranda's blade in her side at times.

She scoffed. If only that had been the worst of the damage.

Regardless of her suffering, it didn't change who she was deep down. Not every spec of her humanity had been expunged.

Let them talk, let them plan, let them be conspiratorial.

She didn't care.

Should she be worried? It was good as anyone's guess at this point.

The threat was real. But so was she. Through her long reign as monarch, there had only been three to tests their limits with her. Charles was the latest, and the other two ended about the same way. Alcina wasn't to be trifled with. They knew this, vampires and lycans alike. But there would always be the menacing little funguses growing somewhere in the dark.

Putrid fucking imbeciles.

Humanity in tact or not, she did not lack brutality and vengeance.

Upon entering the front door, she could hear her daughters in the kitchen riled up about something. As she removed her jacket their loudness gave way to laughter, and then she heard that voice.

At the kitchen island was Bela, Cassandra, Daniela and Heisenberg.

Who was lighting something on fire on the marble countertop.

"What the hell are you doing, Heisenberg!" Alcina shouted, hands on her hips and a scowl to unravel even the tightest rope.

"Ah shit - uh - Alcina -" he garbled taking some left over matches out from between his teeth, "just showing the girls some fun science!"

The girls were immediately trying to cover up the very apparent mess that had been made; stuffing things in their pockets and handing more things behind their backs to Heisenberg as if their mother wouldn't see.

Her visage hadn't changed and Daniela piped up immediately.

"Uncle Karl was just showing us some cool new pyro techniques! We haven't broken or ruined anything! We uh, we weren't sure when you'd be home - we were going to have everything cleaned up!"

"Clearly. But really, in the house, Daniela?! Heisenberg if you blow up my manor I swear - "

"No, no! Nothing explosive, promise - it's all fire, no bang," Karl tried as he scooped a pile of some sandy looking material to one side, "doesn't even hurt the surface, see?"

"That is not helping your case," Alcina bit, "I have told you time and time again if you must play with your little experiments and weapons DO NOT DO IT IN MY HOME, and girls, you know better."

There were a bunch of muddled whispers and murmurs as the girls helped Karl clean up and pack his stuff. Alcina was already pouring herself a glass of blood wine and rubbing her forehead in perplexed amusement.

Karl cleared his throat and said a quick goodbye, tipping his hat to Alcina as he skirted his way out the door.

Everyone was now quiet. The girls were doing their best to hide their snickering but it did halt the moment Alcina turned her stern gaze their way.

"Why was that hairy overgrown trilobite in our home?"

"Sorry, Mother," Bela offered first, stuffing her smile, "he knows how much Dani and Cass love fire and brought over some materials that burn really pretty colors when lit on fire."

Alcina took another sip of wine and raised her brows, "Ah... and how did he come to this discovery?"

"Accident." The three answered together.

She nodded in unsurprised fashion and walked over to each daughter, kissed them on their foreheads, and left for the hall.

"I'm turning in for a while, girls," Alcina called disappearing further into the manor, "and Dani, don't you dare light more of that on fire - I know he gave you a handful before he left!"

Cassandra and Bela looked at each other with wide eyes before bursting into giggles. Dani frowned.

Alcina closed the door to her bedroom and undressed, wrapped herself up in a white silk robe, and took a seat at her vanity, staring at herself in the mirror.

She was feeling bitterly numb.

Donna had a way of keeping her grounded when she needed it. But she didn't want to feel grounded. She didn't want to be tethered to the earth. She wanted to be with you, wherever you were, wherever cause and effect might take you both. But, alas, perhaps this happiness wasn't hers to have.

Perhaps that was just Mother Miranda talking.

Alcina leaned forward on the vanity and buried her face in her palms, taking slow steady breaths, mulling over the reminder she was always in danger.

So much power. Power to do nearly anything in the world, and it came with a heavy price. No freedom.

Stupid.

So fucking stupid.

After she finished her wine Alcina drew a bath and fully submerged herself, lavishing in the warm embrace of the water, a glint of a thought wishing perhaps it was your arms instead.

NO.

She scolded herself, emerging to the surface with a short gasp for air.

Alcina ran her long fingers through her soaked hair and leaned back into the tub. Staring into nothingness, regulating her breathing as she wiped the running mascara from under her eyes.

Her hand slowly trekked to her side where she fingered the large, ugly scar there.

'I want to make sure you never forget this as long as you live, Alcina.'

Held up by one arm, weak, and at her mercy, Alcina screamed out as Miranda plunged the dagger just below her ribs. The searing pain and fire that tore through her from the blade made her insides shrivel and cake like dried mud. It was excruciating.

'This is only half a price to pay, Alcina! You should be grateful you're one of my favorites!'

Alcina swallowed the memory with a gulp and shut her eyes.

It still wasn't as painful as the loss of her.

She feared more debts.

She feared for you.

But more than anything, she feared life now without knowing you.

Was it worth it?

What danger was she intentionally placing you in front of to face?

~

The next day was... weird.

You weren't sure if it was the lack of sleep, but everything seemed to be different.

Noises were more intense. Lights were more intense. Colors, vibrations, smells, surfaces under your fingertips, you name it.

You didn't have a hangover though, could it have been the wine?

Lack of sleep, or wine.

Or, both?

Anyway, all you knew was that shit was just weird. You didn't sleep very long, give or take 4 hours, and you were up and out the door to grab some actual food for your apartment. Wine and pancakes were fine once a month for 'sustenance', but you couldn't live like that.

You did know, that beyond all the hyper sensations you were dealing with, you were happy. Content, even. And that was a big deal.

Sure, you could always make yourself comfortable; nestle in to any situation and create a semblance of peace, you were uncannily adaptable that way. Always had been. But you were actually happy. You had some vigor in your veins. It had been a long time since you'd felt that way, to be honest.

Yes, your lady vampire, Alcina, played a huge role in it.

You had hooked yourself up in the idea of her like one chain link to another. She was enthralling. A bewitching experience. It seemed like the more you thought of her the more alive you kept feeling.

Man, hyper fixations were a bitch.

But, whatever, right? If chasing dopamine and serotonin involved her, you'd chase till you were dead.

Besides, this was no one-sided prey versus predator. She was fully as involved as you were, whether she would show it or not, you could tell. What vampire in their right mind does what she was doing? And what human in their right mind played along?

You could be insane together, that was fine with you.

Then again, it got you thinking. What was she doing, exactly? What was the end game here? Was there one? Did there have to be one? What was in it for her? What was in it for you? How long was this whole thing going to last?

Jesus Christ could your mind shut up for half a minute.

When you made it back to your apartment you went into a cleaning tizzy; half from overactive nerves about everything, half from anxious excitement for her return tonight.

She would be back tonight, right?

Well, at least you'd have a clean apartment regardless.

There were moments as you were cleaning, so immersed in your thoughts, you could almost feel her hands on your face again. See her reflective grey-mirrored eyes shimmering in front of you; an ocean full of seafoam and starlight, silver feathers and pale golden rays. You could stare into those eyes for hours. Days. Fuck it, eternity.

You could nearly make out every line on her face, every crease and delicate wrinkle; the laugh lines, the crow's feet, the perfect paleness of her skin tone, the drastic contrast of her crimson lips... a spark erupted in your core as you imagined kissing those lips yet again and you had to stop wiping down the counter and pause.

"Holy shit..." you mumbled, dragging the back of your arm across your brow, the overwhelming sensation of heat flooding your stomach increasing before eventually giving way.

Holy shit, indeed.

Alcina beckoned forth unspoken things from your body you really could not describe accurately even if you tried. If a panic attack could be brutally arousing and pleasurable all in the same breath, that's the best way you could explain it. Like how your stomach drops out from under you when a roller coaster plunges several hundred feet. You think you're going to die for those brief moments, not knowing if your body will handle the overpowering adrenaline, and then - poof - back to earth, back to reality, you made it out alive.

And you were definitely shaking.

You took a big long drink of some icy water and decided a cool shower was very likely in order.

Rarely did you wish away your days, but today was a bitch of an exception. You. Were. Ready. For. Night fall.

You had spent more hours than you can ever recall getting ready.

Luckily you had plenty of time.

The apartment was spotless, cleaner than it'd ever been since occupying it. Candles of every color were everywhere; on shelves, on tables, the bookcases, and windowsills.

You chuckled. This place looked like a witch's coven getting ready for a sacrificing ceremony. But it was pretty, dammit!

Natural light, candlelight included, was your absolute favorite. If you never had to have an ugly ass overhead light on ever again in your life it'd be too soon. This is how you liked it. Easy on the eyes. Comfortable.

Finally pleased with everything you turned on some easy listening lofi, laid back on the couch, and waited.

Alcina stood outside at the bottom of your apartment complex. Hands in her long trench coat pockets, eying your windows on the 17th floor that were lit like the sunset. She smiled.

It was a little late, well passed 11, but she knew you were still awake.

Scaling the building with little effort she hopped her way off your balcony banister silently, noticing the glass door was already open.

She allowed herself in and shut it, walked through your room, down the short hallway, and found you lounging on the couch scrolling through your phone.

You looked beautiful. It made her teeth ache.

Alcina cleared her throat gently and leaned against the wall, folding her arms under her chest and tucking one ankle behind the other.

Your eyes shot in her direction and ate her up with a knowing smirk, excitement revving it's engine at her mere presence.

Yes! You knew she'd come.

Rising slowly and reaching to your side you grabbed her gloves and held them in the air, "Come back for these?" you asked as your smirk widened.

Her own also grew, "Perhaps."

Her reply was so confidently smooth it frazzled you. Lifting yourself off the couch you made your way towards her, stopping in the middle of the living room, gloves still in your hands.

"If I give them back will that null and void your visiting policy?"

Alcina nearly snorted. You were insufferably cute. And irresistible.

Two of her long strides brought her face to face with you. Peering down into your eyes she pursed her lips and leaned in very gently towards your ear; "That remains to be seen," she cooed, brushing her lips ever so slightly against your cheek as she pulled away.

Your whole being quaked.

There was another shot of that familiar adrenalin. Her scent left you lightheaded, not to mention the silkiness of her voice, the lips grazing your cheek.

Goddamn.

This one was going to hurt. She was going to hurt. You didn't know exactly what that meant. But that's all you knew.

The way she sauntered passed you and took claim of the chair once again had your jaw slacked and brain sputtering.

So rude. So good.

Alcina knew it.

She had taken off her trench coat and laid it across the back of the chair, revealing her form hugging high waisted pleated pants, black of course, and a gold silk, high collared button up blouse. The buttons were undone just enough at the top. Of course they were.

Of course they were.

Goddamn. She looked like an uptown millionaire lawyer ready to take down an entire courtroom.

I'm guilty! Throw me in the can! Your mind shouted.

You cleared your throat, more for yourself, and sat where you had the night before.

Alcina eyed you intently as you fidgeted like a fussy cat until you had found your desired resting position. She wanted to cup your face and adore you so much more closely.

"Ok, so..." you began, upsetting the silence, fingering her gloves that rest in the crook of your lap, "I have so many questions, may I ask?"

Silver hues glinted as her eyelids narrowed slightly, her smile widening as she tilted her chin up and mused on your question.

"Ask what you like. I will answer or I won't."

Well. Ok then.

Now where to start?

Feeling the gloves at your fingertips, you looked down quickly at then back to her, "On your gloves, what does the A. D. stand for?"

Oh dear. You wanted her full name. You didn't miss a thing, did you.

"It is my initials; Alcina Dimitrescu."

You couldn't have stopped the widening of your eyes if you tried. That was easily the most beautiful, eloquent name you'd ever heard in your life.

"That's... that's gorgeous. What nationality is that?"

Alcina's grin was fed by your delight, "Romanian."

"Are you from there or were you born here?" you pressed, the hunger for her story getting more and more famished.

A sigh left her lips. Surely you'd ask all these things eventually, clearly she couldn't stay away, so, off the deep end you were going.

"I was born there, yes."

She sure wasn't offering up much information without a fight, was she. You began to realize your approach with her would have to be just as cunning. Fine. You can play that game.

Perching your chin on your palm you ate her up with your eyes, "Tell me how you ended up here in New York, what brought you all the way over here?"

Hmph. Now you were asking the right questions. Fine, Alcina decided to give in.

"My career brought me here. I was an only child born to a business obsessed family; their focus and ambition was wine, and I, being the only child was solely expected to take on and over said business. I wanted nothing to do with it. I was drawn to music, the arts, anything that gave me attention, as I got none from my parents. Luckily, I was born with a gift of singing. I honed it, perfected it, and joined a jazz band at a young age..."

Her musings took her down a dreary walk of memory lane but she pushed the dampness aside and continued.

"I was fortunate enough to have a manager who cared more about my thriving than my parents and urged us on to bigger and better things, here in the United States."

What the hell. Well that definitely explained how absolutely captivating her humming was last night. You wanted to hear her sing so badly. Actually sing. Not humming. But you could come back to that, another thought had its hand raised and flailing in the front of the classroom.

"When... when was that?"

"1949."

Ope. There it is. You knew she was likely much older than she appeared, vampires being undying and all, but you didn't want to come right out and ask so blatantly. Was that rude in the vampire world? You didn't know.

"So... when, er, how did you..."

"Become what I am?"

You licked your lips after tentatively nodding. You legitimately couldn't help your curiosity, but you didn't want to overstep or be rude. How the hell does one navigate a Q and A with a vampire?

Alcina nodded in response, understanding your curiosity and eager mind.

"I inherited my families rare blood disease, porphyria cutanea tarda. It ailed me from a young age but it stayed manageable enough. It wasn't until I was in my 20's that it began producing severe setbacks. Treatment back in those days was primitive, minimal at best. Doctors didn't understand it the way they do now, so my ability to bounce back continued to decline. Unfortunately, my illness split up the band; we dissolved not 5 years in being here, and I became progressively sicker as the years went on. I had no one to take care of me and I became nearly bedridden in my final months."

Her eyes had dropped away from you and to the floor as she readied herself to relive the short recap of what she was now about to tell you, Alcina's melancholy doing its best to rear its ugly head.

"It was in 1958 when I was turned. A vampire, Mother Miranda, found me. I came to find much later she had been a fan of the band and heard me sing many times. After my disappearance from the stage she sought me out, only to find me very near my death. She offered me a new life, and I took it."

Your heart ached. Yes, this was a trial version of the story, but still. Alcina was alone, sick, dying, with no one in the world to turn to. You knew how that felt and it upset you greatly she had to endure it. But there was another solemness behind the words, something stinging about this Mother Miranda she spoke about. As if a way out of death had been offered, yet it seemed heavy, burdened with a different affliction, a price.

How could you respond?

"I'm - I'm really sorry, that you had to suffer alone."

Alcina returned her gaze to you. You were so genuine it almost hurt.

"It is not for you to apologize for."

There was a strong softness behind her eyes now, that hidden gem of her truth you'd barely caught a glimpse of last night, now more forthwith and presented to you. You didn't want the sadness to snuff out her story.

"How old are you now, then?"

A brief pause lingered as Alcina thought, a tilt of her head and then the reply, "108, as of last November."

Oh. Wow.

"A November baby, huh?"

"Yes, November 4th, 1914."

"Ooo, a Scorpio."

"Oh dear," Alcina huffed a laugh, "you do seem the type to be into astrology."

"Hey, don't knock it," you giggled back, "it's entertaining!"

You. Loved. Her. Laugh. You could listen to that all day long. It was perfect. The way her laugh lines deepened, excruciatingly beautiful, the turn of her lips, how the fuck was anyone this perfect?

A little more laugher later you scooted just a little closer to the arm of the couch and studied her, "What was it like, being turned?"

"Painful," her response came swiftly, yet surprisingly devoid of emotion, "it's a sensation I cannot describe. The aftermath, though, was very... rewarding."

"How do you mean?"

"It is a rebirth of your body. It dies, you, your body dies, and then when you reawaken everything feels new. It's almost as if you're relearning everything you once knew after forgetting. Only, the heightened sensations never go away; every sense within you is magnified tenfold," she halted briefly as she reminisced, "things are a familiar new, things you once considered intense now pale in comparison. It's exhilarating in the beginning, and then you must learn how to control it."

"Like hunger, right?"

She nodded slowly, remembering the visceral, devouring hunger she felt in her young vampire years. A spark flickered in her eyes, "Yes... especially the hunger."

You remember her bite all too well. You'd be lying if you said you didn't wish for it again; to feel her so close, helpless in her clutches, those fangs piercing your skin as her warm mouth drank you in.

You needed a segue quick.

"Do you..." your voice cracked a little, "do you like being a vampire?"

How on earth was Alcina supposed to answer that question? That was an hour long explanation at best. How does one explain the pros and cons to something of such magnitude? It had cost her so much, and yet her gains were nearly measurable.

"Yes. And no," Alcina replied with a new tone upon her voice, thoughts drenched more of what she lost, gave up, and had torn away from her more than her gifts, "that's an explanation I cannot give you."

Her voice finished as a whisper and you regarded her there in that moment. This was a true display of her depths, of the core of who she was, and you wanted to reach out, into her, pull it from the recesses of the dark and hold it close to you, next to your heart and heal whatever wounds you could.

There was never a doubt in your mind that the stories and movies depicting vampires held merit; how could a person who could not change manage in an existence that never stopped changing? Was it a gift or a curse? How does one play the middle ground?

Boldness gripped you.

"Alcina," you said, reaching out slowly to place your hand over hers that rest on the arm of the chair, "you don't have to explain anything, you don't even have to answer my questions, I just can't help but to want to know you... you owe me nothing."

You were an enigma yourself, indeed.

Alcina's whole body warmed at not only your touch, that soft, gentle, unique touch, but so much so at your words. Oh, you are pressing my limits, my pet, she thought. Your pureness was refreshing and wholly encompassing, she wanted to turn into you away from the world just as badly as you did her, it seemed.

Dare she?

[whitepolaris]

Camp Scott

Just off State Road 82, southeast of Locust Grove, a locked and rusted gate marks the threshold to a dark patch of woods that, though long neglected, has never been forgotten. It's the former site of Camp Scott, a several-hundred-acre forest that, for nearly fifty years, served as a summer campsite for young Girl Scouts looking to meet new friends and maybe share a few tips on how to read a compass or start a campfire.

Then, on a rain-soaked morning in 1977, camp counselors discovered the bodies of three of their scouts lying together beneath a large tree. The girls had been dragged for more than a hundred yards from their text, gagged and bound with electrical tape, sexually assaulted, and beaten to death. As law enforcement officers descended on the scene, the surviving campers were immediately evacuated and the camp sealed up.

More than thirty years later, remnants of Camp Scott still stand. Various buildings, though suffering from weather and age, remain almost completely intact. Screen fabric still clings to the former picnic area, now swallowed by weeds and saplings. A large swimming pool, now empty of anything but the occasional rainwater, reflects the sun with a blinding glare. Down a tangential path sits a large red barn, once a spot for preteen girls to play hide-and-seek.

Largest among Camp Scott's ruins is the main hall, its resilient brick shell standing out among the trees. Little remains there, save for corroded appliances, a rotten couch, and a couple of old wagons that years may have carried a scout or two on a midnight hayride. Although the walls show virtually no age, the building's doors have recently suffered enough decay to provide little resistance against the elements, exposing the hall's interior to the slow destructive forces of wind and rain. Smaller, yet more poignant, a wooden kiosk just yards away marks what was probably the camp's bulletin board, which once displayed the hand-typed leaflets announcing meal times and a list of the day's activities, a meeting place for scouts to convene each morning to plan their day and trade stories.

And this is how the campsite has remained for more than three decades, shut down since the day Lori Lee Farmer, age eight, Michele, age nine, and Doris Denise Milner, age ten, were found dead. A dark atmosphere yet looms over the site, an unsettling mood that has never been lifted by justice. To this day, the slayings remain mysteries.

Though one man was tried for the murders-a convicted rapist and escaped convict named Gene Leroy Hart-he was acquired of the crimes. Many believe he was indeed the girls' killer, but despite several increasingly sophisticated DNA tests over the years, nothing has ever been proven. Moreover, Hart died years ago of an apparent heart attack while completing a previous sentence, leaving us with unanswered questions. As far as anyone knows, the guilty party may still be out there. And so, the murders continue to weigh heavily on the slain girls' families and upon the residents of Mayes County.

As for the Camp Scott property itself, it now lies in private hands and is leased to both resident caretakers who enthusiastically guard against trespassers as well as to hunters who take advantage of the overgrowth in their search for game. So, although it appears Camp Scott will remain a tangible record of this disturbing tragedy for some time to come, it's a decidedly treacherous place for any would-be explorers looking to witness the scene for themselves.

[dsandrvk]

Wednesday, April 3 - Cuenca to Avila

We knew we had a challenging transfer between two train stations in Madrid, but it was closer than we would have liked. First, our train arriving from Cuenca was late, then there was construction between the train and Metro stations, which necessitated a long detour walk, and then when we arrived at the Metro, there was a long line waiting to use the ticket machines. It took at least 15 minutes for the queue to move along and let us buy ours. There were two assistants who were helping people use the machines - without them it would have taken twice as long. We rushed through the turnstile, found our platform and just missed a train. We had about nine stops between stations and we kept checking our watches. At Principe Pio metro station there was no signage directing us to the train station, although we could see it. We finally figured it out and got on our train with two minutes to spare. I don't want to do that again!

One of the reasons we made our train is that we didn't have to go through screening security here for a medium distance (non-high speed) train. In almost every station so far we have had to put all our bags through an X-ray scanner and get wanded. Nobody really seems to be paying attention to the scanner, but it is security theater and that's what counts.

The train station in Cuenca is quite new and is a large glass rectangle covered with rusted steel pierced panels. The effect inside is almost like being in a forest. It is way away from town, however, although the number 1 bus stopped 30 feet from our door and got us to the station efficiently.

Avila is mainly known for its wall - a beautiful complete enclosure of the old town - two and a half kilometers complete with 87 towers, nine main and two lesser gates, and 2500 merlons (the little pointy things on top). It is considered to be the best preserved wall of its kind in the world. The original wall was probably begun in the fifth century, but this incarnation dates to the Middle Ages. We plan to get a ticket to walk along the top tomorrow, as more than half of it has been restored on top, and many of the towers are accessible.

Our hotel is tucked into a corner of the wall, and is a restoration of a palacio. Our room is on a corner with great views over the city and wall, and exposed original ceiling trusses, although the room itself is extremely modern. We wandered around (as usual) and stumbled upon a little municipal museum - it was mostly a collection of things in an old church, but showed the diversity of its history. Part of the floor of the church is a Roman mosaic, there are lots of other Roman bits and pieces, some Arabic carvings, fancy ox-carts and this sign from an old eatery. Note much in the way of interpretation, either, but fascinating.

There are a number of buildings here, especially the cathedral, that can be considered "over the top". St. Theresa is from here, and churches, monasteries and convents all competed with one another for the faithful. Avila is in the autonomous region of Castile y Leon, and there are lions everywhere, usually doing something to a castle, like licking it.

Later in the afternoon we decided to walk to the west side of the town and see if we could find a viewpoint shown on the map. We walked in and outside of the walls, then down to a river and up the other side to a structure with four columns that had been built about one hundred years ago as a viewpoint. There were only two problems. First, it had clouded over significantly and there was only one brief moment of warm light on some of the walls. Second, there hadn't been a major road between the wall and the view when it was built with a constant stream of vans, busses, etc. We did find a different way back to the walled city, however, which crossed on an old Roman bridge next to a more modern bridge for vehicles. The Roman bridge aligned perfectly with the main western gate, too.

We got back to our room in time for a beautiful sunset out over the city. Tomorrow we have the whole day to explore and hike the wall. It is nice that our hotel is so close to everything here.

Notes on the first photos - one is a typical streetscape in Cuenca near our apartment, and I couldn't resist a shot of the little tourist train, also in Cuenca, that makes its way up impossibly steep streets.