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achaotichuman · 10 months ago

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The Mother's Least Favourite Son

Out of spite, I have written this. Hope you guys like broken mating bond Lucien angst.

@lorcanisdabest here is the Lucien angst you oh so wanted~

Trigger warning- Suicide.

Lucien stumbled through the dark. Tripping over something thrown carelessly across the cobblestone ground, an arm shot out to grab the nearest wall to stabilise himself. Skin scraping against the cold wet stone, it burned as it pulled away, blood beginning to prick the surface.

Why?

Why did it have to-

He lurched forward, and a crate at his feet caused him to fall to the ground. Dirty water splashed across his face, ruining his formerly perfect clothing. His trousers now wet and stained. His pristine Night black jacket now half covered with mud.

Fuck-

It lurched in his chest again. Screaming like a torture victim locked in a cage. Bleeding from the inside.

Golden threads that were cut and exposed like raw nerves. His heart beat faster than it ever had in his life. His hair fell around his face. Rain dripped down from above, beginning to race faster and faster to the surface of the earth, until it hurtled down upon him.

The stars were no longer visible. The alleyway, and the darkness it provided was his only comfort or protection.

A sob ripped from deep within the back of his throat. Each pitter of rain that fell upon him he felt starkly. Like needles were pouring down on him.

Why?

What did he do wrong?

Fuck-

He asked for an answer, did he not?

He wanted to know what she wanted.

Break it, or accept it.

He offered his heart on a platter.

Like his heart would ever be enough.

He fell back against the wall behind him. Eyes tilted to the sky.

What the fuck did he do to deserve this?

The sky held no answers, nothing spoke back to him. As his skin burned, flesh bubbling under the surface.

The thunderclouds rolling in the sky tormented him. Laughing as it was split with lightning. Turning the sky to flashing works of silver. Velaris was laughing around him. The Court his mate belonged to pointed and ridiculed the outcast that thought it could crawl in and find comfort.

No home Court. No mate.

The Mother’s least favourite son. The Cauldron’s hated creation.

Her eyes had held no remorse. No care. She hadn’t even put down her knife, as she cut vegetables on the wooden board. She looked up to him. Those soft brown iris had never looked harder.

“Please, just an answer.”

The Inner Circle stood around him. Feyre flanking Elain’s left, and Nesta on her right. Rhysand picked a piece of lint from his jacket, eyes laughing even as his mouth was firmly straight. Cassian however looked fully and utterly amused at the situation. Azriel stood behind Elain, eyes dead on Lucien. Waiting like a trap to be sprung.

“Then here’s your answer.” Elain whispered into the space between them.

Then it broke.

And Lucien screamed.

Cassian practically dragged him out. His legs unable to hold him up for long periods of time. They let him fall to the ground. Rain starting. There was no sympathy in his eyes, not even a hint of pity. Just laughing amusement as the door slammed shut.

Even from out there, in the cold of the night with the door separating the Fox from the inside, he could hear the cheering and the celebrations.

Chest heaving, skin too tight, fire burning and burning and burning.

Through a window he saw the form of Azriel, shadowsinger, wrap his arms around his rejected mate.

Lucien had run.

Run and fell across the floor, scraping his arms before he ran again.

Another wretched cry was torn from his throat, as he screamed to the sky, “Why? Why fucking me?”

What did I do wrong?

Hated son.

Exiled. Outcasted.

Were mates not supposed to love each other more than sun or moonlight?

Were they not supposed to rather give themselves up then each other?

Where were the stories? Where were the tales? Why did he not get that?

Fucking why?

The cold rain dripped from strands of his hair, down his face, and disappeared down his neck. His body began to shiver, wishing, begging, to draw up fire to warm himself. He let his body shudder and quake, barely feeling the cold pressing in under the weight of the bond now floating out in nothing.

Darkness edged in, spreading from some place in his chest through the rest of his body. Until he felt hollow, unseeing. Lucien could barely hear anything at all.

A sharp pain shot through his side, and he looked up to see a male with green hair and purple skin. Wide eyes, all black, glaring down at him.

“Beat it kid, no loitering around here.” He snarled.

“Sorry, I’m, I’m sorry.” Lucien said quickly, voice quivering.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” The male said, as Lucien got to his stumbling feet. As the Fox made for the mouth of the alleyway, he heard him mutter, “Stupid kids.”

Stupid kid.

Stupid kid indeed.

Lucien left the alleyway. The rain pounded down harder, the thrum resembled the beating of drums. Lightning forked, and thunder cracked the sky. A familiar song, a dance that had followed him since the day Jesminda had been slaughtered in front of him.

He had spent his days running from the song. The beating that would never cease, howling through the night, hurtling towards him.

Death did not come silently.

It came with war horns, riding into battle like screaming a cry. Music played in its wake. A tune no one had heard but everyone knew.

Lucien closed his eyes, as his heart fell into sync with the beat. His voice a gentle hum as thunder whipped again. As that song raised its tune.

He stuck his hands in his pockets. He looked ahead. And he winnowed.

The view of Velaris gave way to dark foliage. Oranges and reds covered one side of the earth, and the other was filled with spidering dark greens and untrained brambles.

The border of Spring and Autumn.

The rain had not stopped. The storm had spread through Prythian as if waiting for him.

It poured down upon him, until he was practically drowning on land. The ground of Autumn was practically unrecognisable as such, as the dried leaves were turned to muddy decay by the rain.

Lucien fell back and stared up at the sky.

A familiar tune.

It had been waiting for him.

The Mother’s least favourite son.

He closed his eyes.

He hoped he wouldn’t ever open them again.

***

Three years passed and it never got better.

It got worse.

So, so much worse.

Waking up and seeing the ceiling was agony. Most days he stopped bothering trying to get out of bed. Eating had become a rare occasion, so much so that Jurian and Vassa couldn’t hide their excitement when he took so much as a half bite out of his food.

He didn’t know if Prythian remembered him; he hadn’t set foot in any of the Courts since the day Tamlin found him at the border. That was at least what he was told when he woke up. Something about the rotting High lord bringing him to the Band of Exile’s manor before disappearing back to Spring.

Lucien didn’t care. All his thoughts were drowned out by mate, mate, mate, mate.

He couldn’t think of anyone, of anything else, other than her brown eyes, and curls, and red stained cheeks and lips.

There was nothing else to him, nothing anymore.

He stopped hoping she would return to him. As the darkness, the hollowness caved in. Pillars of marble in his mind turning to dust, whatever he used to know becoming nothing in the face of the broken bond.

The last time he spoke, he didn’t know. The last time he went outside, he didn’t know.

His skin was pasty, grey. His eyes deep with purple. Every bone on display, with his prosthetic eye sinking back into his socket, falling back from the shift in weight.

His body was decaying.

He stared at the ceiling.

It wasn’t worth it.

This would go on.

And on.

And on, and on, and on.

Prythian had forgotten him. His mate had rejected him. His last two friends, the last he could consider friends, were tied up with each other.

He wasn’t worth his mate’s love. He wasn’t worth being remembered.

“Might as well get it over with.” Lucien whispered to the ceiling, the first words he had vocalised in so long.

For the first time in what may have been a week or more, he dragged himself from the bed he had practically become attached to. Limbs heavy, eyes fluttering, pain struck him from all sides and he wanted to fall back down and rot.

But Jurian or Vassa would eventually convince him to a meal or something to keep him going if he stayed on the bed.

So he walked.

He walked to a dresser, where beside it laid a bag. It had all sort of provisions and things needed should he have been stranded somewhere in Prythian. He kept it packed ever since he was thrown out of Autumn.

Mother’s least favourite son. Cauldron’s hated creation.

Inside one of the back pockets was a long spiral of coarse rope. Rough against his weary hands as he pulled it out, a sudden disruption to the soft sheets Lucien was used to holding these days.

Mother’s least favourite son. Cauldron’s hated creation.

The curtain rod was sturdy and could hold a fair amount of weight, not that it mattered very much as he was practically just skin and bones. It took little to stand atop a chair by the window and put the rope over the rod. Part of Lucien wished Eris had never taught him to tie knots, if only so he didn’t know what to do now.

Mother’s least favourite son. Cauldron’s hated creation.

It was rough around his neck. He felt nothing. He didn’t want to feel anything.

It was sunny outside. The flowers were in bloom. He saw Elain in the sunshine. In the flowers below him. He saw home in the ground, in the trees in the distance. He remembered the feelings of Autumn leaves under his hands. And he remembered the smell of pollen from Spring. He remembered the chill of Night’s air.

He remembered her soft skin when he put his jackets over her arms after she came out of the Cauldron.

Lucien let go of all memory as he let himself swing from the curtain rod.

He hoped he wouldn’t remember in the Mother’s land of milk and honey.

Mother’s least favourite son.

Cauldron’s hated creation.

#acotar #lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra #lucien vanserra deserves better #elucien #elain archeron #elriel but not graphically described #tw elriel #acotar au #acotar headcannons

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inarretable · 10 months ago

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Desecration lay before them, crumbling remains of a once fertile land, rendered barren by the parasitic pull of the rapacious void —a hunger that does not sleep. Karitza can feel it in the air, in her bones, the perpetual presence of a permeating darkness. ❛ Let's get the thing and leave, ❜ she growls to @thirdsght hastily as heavy boots strike ashen earth. ❛ I don't want to be here longer than needed. ❜

starter call ✦

#you said adventures in the unknown regions...#thirdsght #⭒✧ — tales of the wretched » threads #⭒✧ — 𝐯. arc three » diving into the wreckage

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hyejinkim · 2 months ago

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Rise of the Unconventional Heroine: The Fictional Odyssey of a Transmigrated author in an Otome Game World.

Chapter 1.1

Story description:

An amateur author finds herself trapped in a story world she created, inspired by an adult otome game designed as a guilty pleasure for women. In this world, she unexpectedly transmigrates into the body of a secondary female character, one who, while neutral, is doomed to a fate of immense suffering. With unwavering determination, she resolves to change her grim destiny and secure a peaceful existence, even if it means resorting to murder and forming alliances with the captured targets who have, inexplicably, taken an interest in her. Her frustration is compounded by the real heroine of the game, who wrongly believes she is trying to steal the capture targets from her. As she navigates this cruel narrative, she is forced to sacrifice her own humanity and empathy to survive.

Genre: Transmigration, fantasy, horror thriller, survival game, Isekai.

Warning: None (for now)

Author note : English is not my native language, and I also use a translator to translate it into English. Please excuse me if there may be some words that are difficult to understand, because honestly I have difficulty translating them. The story will be updated when I'm not busy.

Chapter : 1.1

'Oh, wretched soul, your presence is akin to a tangled twist in an unfinished tale. Yet, perhaps you hold the power to unravel the threads that have been left behind, or perchance, you too shall be ensnared in the shadows of the unknown.'

tak tak tak...

Within the frigid, eerie confines of a room of modest dimensions, a solitary wall clock emitted a constant, rhythmic sound, its echoing ticks reverberating through the silent space. This narrow chamber, barely spacious enough to accommodate even the spartan furnishings, bore the resemblance of a prison cell, ensnarling you in its oppressive embrace. As you lay motionless on the coarse and insufficiently warm bed, your gaze locked on the bland ceiling above, your past life emerged as vividly as ever in your weary mind, its memories fresh and haunting.

Over countless days to week, a pattern had taken root in your daily routine. You would wake, partake of a meagre meal, then attend to the mundane tasks within the orphanage, only to retreat once more into the solitude of your bedroom. Here, you would lock yourself in, seeking refuge in the company of only the rough bed and the thoughts that haunted you. The habit of seclusion, born from the realization that you were trapped in a foreign world, had become an all too familiar coping mechanism.

As the hours dragged on, your eyes remained fixed on the dull ceiling, the sterile environment offering little comfort or distraction. Despite your exhaustion, sleep evaded you, leaving you to languish in the silence of the room, where the only sounds were the ceaseless ticking of the clock and the occasional creak of the aged bed frame. The routine had become a monotonous cycle, a self-imposed confine, and yet, escape seemed elusive.

With a sigh of resignation, you shut your heavy eyelids, wrestling with the conflict within you. Your survival instinct screamed to escape, to flee the prison-like confine that held you captive, but your heart bristled with nagging objection. Deep inside, you clutched onto the faint hope that this was nothing more than a horrid nightmare, and perhaps you were merely comatose, ensnared by the lingering memory of the hit-and-run accident that had brought you to this foreign world. You prayed fervently for such a truth, refusing to accept the reality before your eyes.

Yet reality remained relentless, refusing to yield. The surrounding world, albeit two-dimensional and foreign, held a disturbing resemblance to a mirror of the physical realm you once knew. It was as though you had been thrust into a bizarre, flattened parallel world, its rules and laws deviating from your familiar understanding of reality. Confusion, fear, and uncertainty coursed through your veins, as you struggled to make sense of your changed existence.

The questions gnawed at you with increasing insistence, and the unknown loomed like a menacing shadow over your mind. Where were you now, in this strange two-dimensional world? More pressingly, how was your real body faring in the three-dimensional world you had left behind? Was it lying dormant in a hospital, kept alive by machines, while your mind roamed in this enigmatic reality?.

The weight of the uncertainty pressed upon you, causing you to draw in a deep breath to quell the rising sense of dread. The silence of the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock, seemed to intensify the solitude that surrounded you. Your mind, tormented by countless unanswered questions, struggled to reconcile the reality of your new existence with your past life and the accident that had led to your predicament. How were you to escape this foreign world, and what fate awaited you?

The misfortune that befell you, more inexplicable and unfathomable than any other, left you bereft of any answers or certainty. The conditions and surroundings you now found yourself in were alien and uncomfortable, almost as though you had been transported into a realm straight out of fiction.

Your memories turned to the first moments of your awakening in a new form, taking the place of a petite girl, most likely around 6 or 7 years old. This girl's frame was so slender that her bones protruded through her skin, while the clothes she wore were faded and patched, bearing the signs of being handed down repeatedly.

The initial moment of consciousness brought confusion and a strange sense of disorientation, for you had found yourself in a different form, inhabiting the body of a little girl. In your desperate effort to escape this world that you initially thought to be a dream, you became increasingly frustrated and frantic, resorting to extreme measures in a bid to find an escape. You recalled vividly how you had tried every possible way, endangering your own life in the bargain, believing that such an extreme act would allow you to either return to your world or wake from the coma you thought you were in.

Yet, each effort, each failed attempt, only reaffirmed the harsh truth: this was no dream, but cold, hard reality. A profound sense of despair and depression gripped you, as you fiercely resisted accepting this cruel reality. The anguish of being trapped in a strange world, a world that should not even exist, weighed heavily on your mind and soul.

The unfamiliar surroundings, unlike anything you had ever experienced, only heightened your sense of isolation and helplessness. Every moment in this foreign realm felt like an assault on your senses and perspective, leaving you stranded in a labyrinth of despair. A nagging question emerged from the depths of your consciousness: was this really your life now, or was there still a way back to your own world or to wake up from the coma you had longed for?

Despite your current predicament, you couldn't ignore the stark differences you noticed about the little girl whose body you now inhabited. This child stood out from the other children in the orphanage, possessing a distinct trait that set her apart from the rest. Upon inhabiting her petite frame, you discovered that she possessed no heartbeat, the absence of which filled you with terror.

As one day, overwhelmed by shock and fear, you nearly revealed this secret to an outsider who happened to stumble upon you. Panicked, you fled the orphanage, torn between disbelief and dread.

How could it be possible for the little girl to walk and breathe without a functioning heart? This contradiction sent shivers down your spine, making you question the very nature of her existence. The absence of a heartbeat seemed to defy the laws of life as you knew them.

You also discovered that the girl, contrary to human norms, did not require food, but rather, to your great distress, relied on blood. The mere thought of consuming blood as sustenance made you nauseous. While the orphanage staff appeared blissfully unaware of this unusual fact, a select few discreetly provided you with bowls of blood, seemingly sourced from an animal, though the exact source was unknown to you. This revelation only served to deepen your sense of unease and confusion. You questioned how such a transformation could occur, leaving you trapped in a body that required blood as sustenance.

The idea of consuming blood as sustenance went against every human instinct you possessed, but you were left with no choice. Your mind was in turmoil, trying to understand the nature of this girl and her bizarre dietary needs. The few individuals who knew about your condition seemed to be keeping a closely guarded secret. You wondered why this knowledge was being kept hidden from the other staff members.

Your thoughts swirled in confusion and frustration, unable to understand the enigma that surrounded this little girl whose body you now inhabited. Six weeks had passed, yet you were still left in the dark about the circumstances that had led to this inexplicable transformation.

As your mind raced with unanswered questions, your train of thought was suddenly interrupted. The sound of something being dragged across the floor echoed through your room, catching your attention and rousing you from your contemplations. Alertly, you sat up in your bed, pulling the blanket up to your waist for protection.

Your gaze fixed on the closed door, the knowledge that it was securely locked from inside brought a small sense of relief. Only the orphanage guards possessed the keys to each room, so you knew that no one else could enter without their knowledge.

Despite the safety net you had created, you couldn't shake the growing feeling of suspicion in your heart. Whoever was wandering around outside the children's rooms at this late hour was clearly up to something.

Your grip on the blanket tightened, its warmth and security a meager comfort against the ominous sounds outside the room. Your mind filled with anxious thoughts, imagining the worst-case scenarios. Who could it be, and what were their motives at this late hour? A guard on duty, or something more sinister?

Anxiety gnawed at you, fueled by a nagging feeling that something was amiss. From the moment you entered this world, possessing this little girl's body, you sensed that this orphanage harbored secrets beyond the norm.

You recalled the watchful gazes of the orphanage staff, their distance and secretive glances, as if you were a subject of study and caution.. As lately, you could feel the presence of a shadowy figure, seemingly watching your every move. Yet, whenever you looked carefully, there was nothing there, leaving you with a chill and a paranoid feeling.

Thoughts whirled through your mind, plagued by unease. Staying here only heightened your sense of danger.

'What is truly happening here? What dark secrets surround this girl to warrant such behavior and fear?'

The air in your room felt heavy with tension, and the dragging sound outside the door grew louder. Anxiety gripped your heart, and your mind raced with the possibilities of what lay beyond the door. Was it an innocent guard performing their nightly duty, or was it something sinister and menacing?

As you remained fixated on the closed door, your thoughts flickered back to the strange incidents that had occurred since you arrived here. The unsettling presence of the shadowy figure that seemed to follow you, always lurking just out of sight – it all fueled your sense of dread.

The silence outside your door was deafening, the absence of any sound adding to your unease and heightening your alertness. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, a mix of fear and uncertainty gripping your heart.

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain composure despite the terrifying thoughts swirling in your mind. Whatever was on the other side of that door, you refused to give it the satisfaction of seeing you crumble in helpless fear.

Time seemed to stretch as hours passed in suffocating silence. Slowly, your guard began to lower, your focus drifting.

Unaware of the danger lurking just beyond your door, the silence had lulled you into false complacency. Your attention wavered, your focus slipping as the stillness outside became almost meditative.

With each passing moment, your guard lowered further, your concentration fading like a candle in the wind. You became less aware, less alert, trapped in a lull that made you vulnerable to the lurking threat.

The silence, once a source of discomfort, had now wrapped you in a deceptive veil, shielding you from the dangerous truth waiting to pounce on the other side of the door.

The silence outside your door seemed to stretch on indefinitely, slowly lulling you into a false sense of security. Your alertness began to wane, and you found yourself becoming slightly less vigilant.

You assumed that the unknown entity lurking outside was no longer a threat, a mere illusion of your tired mind. But little did you know, letting your guard down would be your fatal error...

'Oh, how foolish can you be.'

To be continue...

#Transmigration #fantasy #horror thriller #survival game #Isekai.#side characters #villainess like heroine

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the-chipped-cup-awards · 10 months ago

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2024 Nominees Part 2

Here we continue to celebrate our wonderful writers and artist and share the next list of nominees under the cut

Best Dark Castle

Spy by @peacehopeandrats

Tea by @peacehopeandrats

Marble by @peacehopeandrats

Pages of Reverie by @chippedcupwrites

Shades of Blue by @ReyloAreHairGoals

His Little Wife by @Lady_Janes_Fics

The Weakness Inside Him by @Tickletorso

Best Storybrooke

Golden Thread by @enchantedflower

Symmetrical Simulations by @peacehopeandrats

War In Pieces by @peacehopeandrats

The Meeting by @peacehopeandrats

Leaving Storybrooke by @peacehopeandrats

Best Missing Years

Leaving Storybrooke by @peacehopeandrats

The Tent Of Infinite Adventure by @peacehopeandrats

Balloon by @peacehopeandrats

Unconventional by @Peacehopeandrats

Sacred Promise by @ace_cf_cups

The Storybrooke Whisky Appreciation Society by @threepwoodmarley

Best Wish!Verse

Once There Was A Wish by @peacehopeandrats

Deception by @eirian_houpe

Special Categories

Best Golden Lace

One Lover, Many Dreams by @peacehopeandrats

War In Pieces by @peacehopeandrats

Wax by @peacehopeandrats

The Storybrooke Whisky Appreciation Society by @ThreepwoodMarley

Weakness by @ThreepwoodMarley

Best Woven Beauty

Gift by Peacehopeandrats

Undefined Desires, by @worryinglyinnocent

Best Background Swanfire

To Have and to Hold - @ThatRavenclawBitch

Fragments of the Past, Glimpses of Tomorrow, by @wierdogal

Best Afterlife fic

Granted by @peacehopeandrats

Belle's Promise by @bellerina98

Awakening by @eirian_houpe

Best Drama

Time’s Curse by @eirian_houpe

Love Me Before The Last Petal Falls by deliriumsdelight7

Ad Luceum by @reolf

Best Supernatural/Sci-fi/horror

No Light Over London by @lotus0kid

The Cunning by @mareyshelley

Mortuus Loqueris Ad by @Jackabelle73

Best Comedy

The Third Wheel by @tickletorso

Lacey and the Tramp by @chippedcupwrites

Best AU (Original)

Wretched Beginnings by @poorobscureplainandlittle

Wild by @Peacehopeandrats

Two Could by @eirian_houpe

Secret of the Seas by @eirian_houpe

Scattered by @eirian_houpe

Best AU (Based on Once Upon a Time)

Tales of Gold by @JurisLadyAnna

A Knack for Losing Everything by @AntiKryptonite

Best AU (Based on Other Media)

Rumbelle’s ‘The Princess Bride’ by @Trash_000

Modern Wonders by @eirian_houpe

The Black Swan by @DeliriumsDelight7

Time’s Curse by @eirian_houpe

Best Creature

The Finfolk’s Bride by @chippedcupwrites

The Cunning by @mareyshelley

Fallen by @eirian_houpe

Before the Storm by @reolf

Best Unexpected Twist

Contract by @Kelyon

His Little Wife by @Lady_Janes_Fics

The Price by eirian_houpe

Best Bobby Squared

The Gold Motel by mrgoldsdearie

A Blade For Belfrey by eirian_houpe

Best Trope

Love Me Before The Last Petal Falls by @DeliriumsDelight7

Wounds and Scars by @Peacehopeandrats

Beauty Compelled by @eirian_houpe

Premonition by @ace_cf_cups

Before the Storm by @reolf

Best English Language

To Nurse by @Charon53

His Ray of Light by @ace_cf_cups

Events

Best Rumbelle Secret Santa

Wrapping Up Her Christmas Gift by @Kelyon

Gluttony, a RSS Fic by @thestraggletag

The Sweetest Dream by @threepwoodmarley

Christmas Secrets by @peacehopeandrats

If You Will Be My Queen by @eirian_houpe

Make Me Feel Alive Again by @cartoonjessie

Finding the Fun by @tickletorso

They Said it Was a Party by @of-princes-and-savages

There Can Only Ever Be by @notalwayslate

Mysterious by @reolf

Portrait of the Heart by @chippedcupwrites

Rumbelle Secret Santa by @99goosebumps

Already There by @Jackabelle73

Best Fluffapalooza Fic

The Tea Shop by @peacehopeandrats

Dragon Day by @importantgalaxyrimaway

Content Rumbelle #1 through #8 by @Jackabelle73

Best Fluffapalooza Art

Kiss Me Again, It's Working by @milaeryn

Rumbelle (Something There) by @personinthepalace

Best Monthly Rumbelling

Encounter - Rumplerose (AO3)

The Landlord and the Princess - Rumplerose (AO3)

Honorable - Rumplerose (AO3)

Character Awards

Best Belle

The Not So Dark One by @CharlotteAshmore

Lady of the Lake by @rumplestiltskinsbulge

Beauty Enlightened by @eirian_houpe

Ingredients by @peacehopeandrats

Delivery by @peacehopeandratsThe Oldest Door by @peacehopeandrats

Best Dark One!Belle

Rags to Riches by @alphashley14

Fallen by @eirian_houpe

And onward to part 3!

#cca 2024 #the chipped cup awards #get your votes in!

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dathomirdumpsterfire · 21 days ago

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~~Chapter 7: Welcome to Dathomir~~

Read live one chapter ahead on Ao3! Link at the bottom. This is the sequel to Desertification, so read that first if you're new to the series. Updates Tuesdays! Comment to be added to tag list. :3

Maul sits hunched over a tome from Mother Talzin’s library, breathing the scent of dust and old leather as words swim in front of his eyes. On the opposite page, a painting of two witches blurs as an oil-slick fractal blooms across his tired vision. The witches dance beneath inconsistent, wriggling lines that morph slowly into the impression of a many-legged arthropod.

The sith presses the heels of his hands to his failing eyes, growling faintly as he demands they continue to work.

For over a month he has not slept more than two hours at a stretch. His legs tingle, ache, and go numb in turns. Full supply crates stand empty, depleted as he burns through calories double-time. Regardless, hunger claws at his belly as he reads. As ever, he turns to the force, fueling himself with rage as he searches for some record of what could be hunting him. A clue, a tale, a rumor, a scrap.

The comm on his desk chirps with a new message. He ignores it. Attending meetings on holocall is a waste of time and risks embarrassing collapses, so Vos is contacting him at random hours with reports he barely retains. Planning his next move, planning anything, is an exercise in wrangling concentration for long enough to come to a point. Meals and habits are interrupted. Thoughts are interrupted. Everything is interrupted.

Clinging threads hunt him through the force, day and night.

Still, progress has been made, inch by miserable inch. The nature of his enemy continues to elude him, but his research has not been entirely fruitless. The nightsisters’ unique mastery of the force yet survives in their writings, and Maul has found himself improving very quickly at two things: the obfuscation of his force presence, and the use of a nightmagick cantrip which makes the user harder to perceive. Neither work as well as the sanctum’s wards, but together they have stymied his enemies’ attempts to hook their spell into his bones.

With two other practitioners, he would have been able to perform the same mistwalking ritual the sisters once used for assassinations. If only securing the help of other witches was not unfeasible in the wake of Sidious' massacre. If only the temple’s library held some tale of this strange affliction. If only its ghosts responded to his presence as though to a witch rather than a mere nightbrother.

If only, if only, if only.

Maul digs claws further between his horns and growls in disgust at his own thoughts. Pointless, pathetic speculation in the face of his failure to find answers.

Or more accurately, his failure to go get answers. The knowledge he seeks is somewhere out there, away from Dathomir.

His ability to withstand the attacks without sheltering in the sanctum is growing, but it remains an inevitability that without the wards’ aid he will, eventually, be overcome. Weeks, a month… perhaps two.

The hunters will persist— chasing him from sleep, interrupting his plans, dogging his every step. He can draw on the dark side to sustain his body beyond exhaustion, will do so without hesitation, but resisting the threads’ pull requires concentration. Closing his teeth on the power of the dark side is to be bitten and held in turn, to lose himself in its churning depths. Eventually his mind will unravel, drawn out on a riptide. In that one moment he would lapse, and the threads would have him.

He cannot risk leaving Dathomir without direction.

With no other options immediately available to him, Maul is left waiting on the mercy of Dryden Vos, stewing in the certainty that the wretched man is going to savor each and every moment of this miserable showcase like another one of his priceless Nubian wines.

Vos at least arrives swiftly after being summoned, sauntering down the ramp from First Light wearing incongruous white silk belted at the waist and a large silver pendant cut into the unmistakable crest of the Crimson Dawn. An AL-T model astromech trundles behind him, bearing a case upon the serving tray installed in place of its dome.

The near-human looks around as he descends, pale eyes greedily eating up his first look at the temple’s facade. But even his obsession with force nexus -of which Dathomir is a unique example- and ancient history -which the entire complex is a monument to- do not distract the man from giving Maul an unwelcome and thorough once over.

He knows how he looks. The inspection is unnecessary.

“My lord.”

White teeth flash in a honeyed smile and Vos bows smoothly at the waist, hand-to-heart with the other arm swept out to the side. It shows off a half cape lined in shimmering ivory, and the custom petar knives sheathed at his hip.

Maul gives him a narrow look.

The crime lord’s expression turns toward affected concern as he straightens.

“My, what circumstances the galaxy brings us.” The man’s outstretched hand comes to rest on Maul’s upper arm, steel blue eyes flickering down and up a second time.

Irritation burns in the sith’s chest.

“You look…“ Vos dithers long enough to bite a knuckle, then shrugs expansively, frowning. “Well, terrible, honestly. Are you eating?”

Fingers alight on Maul’s collarbone, then catch under his jaw, daring to tilt his chin up as Vos makes a show of examining his face with light, doting touches, his gaze far too sharp. “... Sleeping?”

Snarling, Maul grabs the man’s wrist and squeezes until he feels bones grind.

The scrutiny ends. Vos’ face goes flat as he meets the sith’s glare, exaggerated expressions and loose movements exchanged for focused stillness in a second. Good. Maul has little interest in playing at the moment.

Dryden’s markings flush a shade darker as he leans closer, brows lifting. His voice drops into a murmur despite their lack of an audience. Unless one counted the droid. “Tell me there’s been some good news since last we spoke?”

There is none, of course. Maul closes half the distance to Vos’ darkening face and lets his voice lower to a tense drawl.

“What have you brought me?” he asks slowly.

A muscle in Dryden’s cheek tics at the question, irritation and impatience swirling in his weak force presence. A blink, and it is all shuffled from view as the man disengages, showing his teeth in a smile. Maul does not so much as blink, but he does release fragile wristbones from his crushing grip.

Vos turns without a word to the gleaming white and gold astromech droid, finally letting go of Maul’s arm, and keys open the case it is holding. The seal breaks with a hiss, and he withdraws two books, flimsiplast and bound. One is simple and blue, the other is covered in what looks like nautolan skin.

"My lord, I am afraid that these are the only relevant texts in my immediate collection… but as promised I have assets hunting through a more robust selection for further options."

Maul accepts the meager offering and gives the books a cursory examination, ready to investigate any line of inquiry -no matter how thin- that might get him some fucking sleep.

Vos lingers at his side, but physically leans toward the carved redstone of the temple behind him. Manicured fingers idly trace the jagged markings at his throat. The lines begin to flush again, from pale pink to darker mauve.

It makes the desired compensation for this man’s help -hand delivered- abundantly clear.

"A start," Maul comments about the books, turning for the entrance. "Follow. We shall discuss these, and what else you might offer me, over tea."

"I would kill for some tea. Honestly, what a day," says the blonde, moving to walk with him, astromech in tow. A historian’s gaze explores the fallen remains of titanic Paecian architecture, the broken artistry laying scattered on either side of the entry it once guarded.

"Mnh," the sith replies. They both know it is not about tea.

Maul leads them through the central cavern and into a series of winding corridors cut into the stone beyond, all the way to the northern edge of the mountain.

The cramped tunnels open to a series of gouges in the cliff side. It looks like something unreasonably large had taken a swipe out of the rock, or that the mountain had withstood a glancing volley from a ship’s laser cannons long ago. It is here, in a bid to escape the reek of tibanna soot and decaying battle droids, that Maul has made his home. For however many years it had been just a peculiar set of overlooks. Now, the view of the northern swamp across the horizon remains, but the elements are held back by transparisteel.

He takes Vos directly into the open cavern that is his living room, a broad circular depression in its middle. The walls here are a work in progress, only partially smoothed. What was once a scattering of boulders are now various pieces of furniture arranged around a magnificent, man-sized hearth where burns a woodless green ichor fire. These were his idle projects, his distractions, carved when Maul wanted to think while his hands were kept busy.

The other man does not hide his curiosity any longer, although his face is a study in polite, inscrutable interest. His eyes linger most on Maul's decor. Cloth hangings and useful pottery he had recovered from the abandoned nightbrother village. Tapestries of fine weave from the nightsister's dwellings. A growing collection of trinkets gathered during his travels, and gifts from various sources, mostly given in tribute to Crimson Dawn and diverted his way by Vos.

Or perhaps it was Vos’ secretary who thought of him, given how the man in question pauses to examine a verne spine, coiled and bejeweled, like he had never seen it before. Some things are his own additions, lifted from sith temples or taken as trophies after an assassination.

The result is art both fine and rustic. Treasures and trinkets that range from sentimental to priceless. Hints of his tastes from living on Coruscant for so long, set right alongside banners for dead Night Clan bloodlines.

Seeing the figurehead of the Dawn in the middle of it -all bespoke white shimmersilk and silver accents- is odd in a way he cannot begin to define.

Maul shakes off the useless feeling and gestures Vos toward the sitting area. The man heads down into it with a nod, gracefully taking a seat."Wait here," he orders evenly, "I will return."

He can feel it, again. The build up before the threads come.

Dryden collects a datapad from the droid and gets comfortable, looking entirely too agreeable. “As you wish, my lord.”

Maul withdraws to the kitchen, setting the books down on the rock that is going to, eventually, be a dinner table. The sith takes a moment to cross the room and add water to his battered kettle, flipping it on to heat. It fails to start. He flips the switch twice more before the mechanism hums to life. Then, he goes to sit down while it boils, hands clasped on the rough stone slab before him.

There, he waits for it…

The whisper of claws and gossamer string come searching, winding, looking for him-

Maul uses the little twist of will he had worked out which empowers the cantrip. The edges of his hands grow blurry, fingers becoming like claws of smoke. He reels in his energy, his self, his senses, until the average force user would tell you that he simply does not exist. Not a gap in the world -like a droid- nor a living thing.

Nothing there.

Still the threads wind around him, this cloying sensation of being petted and cherished and-

The kettle begins to scream.

The sith hisses. Hiding, hiding, hiding-

Finally it goes.

There is a shake to his limbs as the smokiness fades, but Maul regains his feet without pause. A meager flush of victory runs through him. The war wages on, but this latest battle has been won, and won more skillfully than before. Every centimeter of progress gives him the will to carve out another.

The afflicted nightbrother inhales deeply once upright, refocusing as the tremors settle.

Maul finishes making tea, then returns to the social call with a tray. He brings two steaming cups and a bowl of nuts, none of which should be harmful to a near-human. Probably.

"My lord, I have a question."

Maul sets his burden on the roughly cut caf table, and offers Vos a glazed black mug, detailed with poisonous flowers.

The man takes it delicately, blue gaze intent on Maul’s face. The sith meets that look, recognizing hunger in any form it takes.

"What is it?" he asks, getting his own drink and drifting away to take a seat on a distant section of couch.

With a slow, delighted grin beginning to stretch his features, Dryden points at a wall hanging made of embossed metallic slats that sits by the door. "That, unless I am entirely mistaken, is over seventeen thousand years old. At minimum. A mirialan poem, from their third 'iron renaissance'?"

A glimmer of collector's lust sparkles in Vos' eyes. Hungry indeed, for history it seems. "An accurate assessment. It is."

The other man rises, drink in hand as he approaches the metal scroll, beginning to recite its words in their original language.

"As an imperfect actor on this stage,

Who with fear is put beside their part

Or some fierce thing replete with rage,

Whose strength's abundance outdoes them

So I, in my fear, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love's rite

And in this way my own strength decays"

Vos holds himself like he is trying desperately not to touch the thing. "What a little treasure you have here. The speaker… overcome by their own depth of emotion… they fail to express themselves to their love, and their confidence is then lost? Perhaps their position as a suitor entirely?"

Maul hums, "I would argue it is their self control, not the depth of their passion, that leads to their failure, whichever it might be."

The crime lord sighs, and takes a drink of his tea, lingering there. "Wonderful. If you have other such pieces I would be so interested in seeing them."

Maul considers it a moment. Letting Vos loose among his collection of artifacts has its drawbacks, but it would serve as plentiful distraction. The sith stands, takes a long pull on his own drink, then abandons the rest in favor of a handful of nuts. "Follow."

"Don’t mind if I do," Vos smiles, joining Maul as he leads the way down a set of stairs to the level below.

He brings them down to his treasury amid the unfinished stone walls, and gestures at the clutter. At the sea of clutter.

Vos’ takes an audible breath, lets it out in a little sigh and a barely-there huff of… something unclear. His faint force signature roils with many emotions at once, all of them intent.

Those jagged markings are going off again, flushing bloody as he starts forward into the room.

Maul puts up a hand to stop him, and the man walks right into it. Blue eyes- their whites gone pink in a pale mirror of a sith’s stare- snap sharply to his face, openly hostile for the barest moment before a veneer of affected warmth slides back into place.

It is Maul’s turn to lean in.

"Be wary,” he lilts. Glaring down people a head taller than him is an art and he has perfected it. “A third of these items might kill you at a touch, and no few are… seductive in their draw."

Vos grins at him and dares to take Maul’s hand off his chest, bowing to kiss the knuckles. "You spoil me, my lord."

Maul thinks putting up with him is the greater benevolence, but keeps that to himself. "Mnh."

The blonde starts exploring with the caution of a man who specializes in the forgotten and forbidden. Maul is content to munch on nuts and leave him to it, watching only to ensure that Vos is not ensnared by something desperate to escape its prison; or a bauble meant to test a fully realized sith and not someone with a mere iota of force training.

It is almost peaceful until the threads come cresting back in a rush, syrupy strings and insubstantial claws. New. The syrupy quality is new. Maul folds under the onslaught, stumbling back into the doorframe with teeth bared.

It sticks, it clings, it wants -

Maul roars at the searching threads, shoving them all away, away! They peel off and slither back, trying to find their way in to bind him. There is no time for the cantrip, he holds these at bay with rage alone.

He comes back out of his internal world damp with sweat and panting, hunched down on his knees. Green mist leaks from his mouth and nose, and the air smells of burnt things.

Vos is standing before him, very still. "My lord, are you… well?” the other man asks, eyes bright and lips slightly parted as though witnessing something riveting.

Maul rises, chest vibrating as a growl of frustration pours out of him, at the threads and the softly-spoken question alike.

A blonde head tilts, birdlike. "Perhaps… you should rest? I could not feel that as you do, merely a faint, mm… vertigo? But it did look…” the man finally inhales and blinks, body language relaxing out of a predator’s stillness into something almost normal, “…rather exhausting to overcome."

Another lingering once-over and pale brows turn up in an expression that does not match any aspect of how Dryden Vos feels in the living force.

Maul grinds his teeth and stands to his full height, forcing his voice steady, "I will go review the texts you have brought. Do as you will."

He turns to go, and hears Vos follow at his back.

taglist: @savageopressbignaturals

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inarretable · 6 months ago

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Beneath the sheath of weathered ore, blood stains her hands, bone deep, etched into the fabric of her being. Souls of mothers, sons, monsters and men. Devoured by the dark side's rapacious wrath. The knight wonders if this girl can truly understand the gravity of her own presumption. Zhaboka balanced masterfully between gloved hands, she circles the jedi slowly. Crimson eyes study her opponent from behind the onyx vizer of the horned helm. ❛ Perhaps I am not the only one, ❜ she muses, zabraki accent sharpened by the mechanical din of the helmet's vent. The knight lingers, absorbing the tremor within the air as their auras collide.

❛ War has left its mark upon us all. You above most, so I have heard. ❜ Karitza calls across the narrowing space, the winding wind carrying the solemnity her words. Astounded by her adversary's youth, the zabrak recalls a dark haired boy laughing and smiling with the other students in her charge. A relic of a bygone era. ❛ If you have come to save my mortal soul, I am afraid you are a little too late. ❜ A flicker of mirth hums beneath the grating sarcasm as the bladed staff careens.

" i see through the cracks, @inarretable. you're haunted. "

@inebranlabl / sc.

#Rey is right :')#raehs #⭒✧ — tales of the wretched » threads #⭒✧ — transmission error » verse tbt

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books-to-add-to-your-tbr · 2 months ago

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Title: A Thousand Nights

Author: E.K. Johnston

Series or standalone: series

Publication year: 2015

Genres: fiction, fantasy, retelling, romance, mythology

Blurb: Lo-Melkhiin killed three hundred girls before he came to her village, looking for a wife. When she sees the dust cloud on the horizon, she knows he has arrived. She knows he will want the loveliest girl: her sister. She vows she will not let her be next...and so, she is taken in her sister's place, and she believes death will soon follow. Lo-Melkhiin's court is a dangerous place filled with pretty things: intricate statues with wretched eyes, exquisite threads to weave the most beautiful garments. She sees everything as if for the last time...but the first sun rises and sets, and she is not dead. Night after night, Lo-Melkhiin comes to her and listens to the stories she tells, and day after day, she is awakened by the sunrise. Exploring the palace, she begins to unlock years of fear that have tormented and silenced a kingdom. Lo-Melkhiin was not always a cruel ruler; something went wrong. Far away, in their village, her sister is mourning. Through her pain, she calls upon the desert winds, conjuring a subtle unseen magic, and something besides death stirs the air. Back at the palace, the words she speaks to Lo-Melkhiin every night are given a strange life of their own. Little things, at first: a dress from home, a vision of her sister. With each tale she spins, her power grows. Soon, she dreams of bigger, more terrible magic: power enough to save a king, if she can put an end to the rule of a monster.

#a thousand nights #the garden of three hundred flowers #spindle #ek johnston #e k johnston #series #2015 #fiction #fantasy #retelling #romance #mythology

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that-edgy-gal · 1 year ago

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Working on my bbeg monolouge for the game in DMing and thought I'd throw the draft up here. For context he's a lich who bound his sound to the concept of time in order to try to claim the place of models to stop time forever for trauma reasons.

Once upon a time there was a boy. The son of a watchmaker he was, and he spent many of the long days after school helping his father build and fix watches for the wealthy men of a magical floating city. He grew to match and quickly outpace his father at his own trade as the focus the work required of him allowed him to push away all thoughts of his life and his place in the world. For despite living in a magical city and doing wonderful work, neither he nor his father had the fortune of being born with heaps of gold to their names, or in fact much of anything at all.

The boy knew they were poor, and he longed to be wealthy, to dress well and fit in with the other boys at his school, so he worked. He worked from sun down to sun up, trading with his father, who worked all day. He spent his time bent over his desk with only a few dimly shining candles to light the machinery that came together beneath his hands. He spent longer and longer working until his eyes grew weak, his back sore and hunched, and his fingers calloused and cut from working with the tiny, blade sharp gears.

It did not suprise him when he first grew ill. Turning gaunt and pale as whatever he had caught in the long hours of the night ravaged his weak body. His father was driven near mania by the threat that he may lose the last person he had in the world. So he called in a healer. He was not someone who the poor boy and his father would have been able to afford the services of, but for that he was the servant of a god of law and order, and he was pleased by the timepieces that the father and son made. He offered a trade. He would do what he could, and in exchange, he would take all of the clocks that remained in the small shop to his temple to offer them to his god. The father quickly accepted and shook hands with the man. Then, the renowned priest of law and order entered the boys' room and gave the boy a single simple prayer. He turned to the father and said that that was all that could be done. That it was not the place of mortals to control how things might be. The father was furious and told the priest the deal was off.

But he was a priest of law and order, and the deal had been made. His servants came and emptied the shop, leaving nothing behind, not even a single spring. The father was publicly and slowly killed as an example of why one much always bow to the word of the law and the boy never got well. But he did live. He lived and learned and scraped by when it seemed the entire city was turned against him. He smelled the rot in its depths, and he saw its downfall coming and fled. He watched the lives of all those who had ever wronged him ended as the wretched city that hated him as much as he hated it was thrown to the ground by the gods who's servents had taken everything from him.

He watched from his tower buried beneath wards and enchantments as the world ended and sprang up once again. He watched from his tower as the world he had grown up in was forgotten except for fairy tales and ruins. Eventually, he gathered the courage to venture into the world. He went to a school where the highest achievers barely reached the level of parlor tricks he had seen as a child and became a professor there. He fell in love. And just when he thought he could be happy. Just when he thought he could enjoy his time. The child he longed to have nearly killed his true love. He saved them, barely. But he couldn't leave them. And as more and more time passed, he knew that the moment he ended their stasis, both his wife and child would die. So he never left. He stayed and studied and learned. He told his mind from his body and used his soul as thread to bind it to the one thing that had always been the source of his misery. That he'd never had enough of.

It took a few thousand years for him to even consider going any further. But what he wanted to try had been attempted before and even successfully done once. So he called upon the most powerful arcanists of the day, filled their minds with promises of power, and played to their greed until they gave him what he needed. Then, he began the process of becoming a God.

He failed a few times. That was to be expected, of course, but due to what he had bound himself to, a failure simply meant that he had to wait a few short centuries rather than the destruction of the entire multiverse. Eventually. Inevitably. He succeeded. He tore a god from the sky and stitched himself into its place, tying the stings of everything to his fingers until all of time was spread out before him like a tapestry. And he could finally put it all to rest. No more pain. No more loss. Just one. Eternal moment.

Then he freezes time and gets surprised by players having mcguffins that let them not be frozen and they fight etc etc.

#writing #my writing #sad clock boy

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palespawn · 5 months ago

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fraygo's flophouse was becoming a frequent haunt, he was realising much too late. arousing the innkeeper's suspicion was to be expected, however, recklessly abandoning the tell-tale signs of wandering eyes and meticulous patron intake was definitely a step in the wrong direction. he still bore the marks of his last blunder, foolish of him to hold onto the hope of manumission. that thread was thinning with each passing year. poor, weak, wretched little thing.

the man he approached now was only one of many: a handsome illusion of dreams and ambition. it felt a cruelty still, after all these years, to rob innocents or idiots, or innocent idiots, of their freedom purely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. it felt selfish to hold onto that paper thin thread of hope that if he accumulated enough for his master, his own freedom would be rewarded to him. that @fjaorhamr could possibly be his last. he had to be selfish, no one else would be for him.

doubtful. stupid. foolish, astarion.

“ i much prefer blingdenstone's blush, if i may be so bold. there's something particularly ... pleasurable in the intimation of cherry. it's exquisite, ” astarion rests his arm along the bartop, glancing from the bottles of wine and liqueur on show to the mark before him. his roguish smile is practiced and perfect to match the rest of him. “ ... or am i projecting? ha, apologies. i'm sure a handsome thing like you is just full of surprises. ”

#fjaorhamr #𝒾𝒾. not yet corpses‚ still we rot.#are u ready to rumble

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hookaroo · 1 year ago

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Laden of the Torn (9 of 25)

AO3 link Catch up on tumblr: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Tagging @priscilla9993 @cocohook38 <3 Chapter 9 warning: Discussions of death & the fear of losing loved ones

***

9 months ago…

Stashed among the countless books and scrolls that made up the tower’s extensive library, one folded piece of parchment contained a hand-sketched map of Neverland.

Not the real thing, of course: Killian had burned that wretched rag stained with far too much blood, filth, and despair the moment he’d managed to finally free himself of that cursed place. Its successor--a much-censored, overly positive version created more from imagination than memory--served as a visual backdrop to the fanciful tales he would concoct whenever Alice asked of his history there. She knew vaguely of the island’s dangers, and the tribe of feral children posing the greatest of its threats, but this map and its accompanying adventure stories painted more a vision of a tropical paradise than the jungles of Hell that it truly was.

Alice sat perusing that map now, idly outlining wave shapes in a blue far more bright and beautiful than any the moonlit, eternal night could ever produce. Nearby, Killian was attempting to mend a beloved doll that had fallen victim to an excessively enthusiastic game of Alice’s own creation. The seams had been stitched so many times through the years that it seemed to be composed more of leftover threads of all types than the fabric of its origin. Alice still played with it though, and any source of comfort was worth preserving for as long as possible.

“Papa?” Alice began.

“Mmhmm?” Killian replied, mentally preparing for a trip to Fantasy-Neverland that hopefully wouldn’t include a detour through Memory-Neverland on the way out.

“Do you think that Captain Smee would ever return to Neverland, if he could find the way there again?”

Killian hid a smirk and pulled on a carefully placed thread to tighten the knot. “I very much doubt it, Starfish. Captain Smee has always been… rather a timid man at heart. I think he prefers to stick to the familiar tides of this land, and keep the wilds of Neverland safely tucked away in memory.”

“But… didn’t you once say that the reason he snuck aboard the Jolly Roger in the first place was to steal a magic bean so that he could trade it for immortality?”

Raising an eyebrow, Killian looked up in surprise. “You have a very good memory, love.”

“And you told me that no living thing in Neverland ever grows old.”

“True…”

“So if he truly wants to live forever, all he needs to do is to go back! I hope he does. Then when we get out of this tower, maybe you and I could go there too, Papa!”

She could not know the icy terror that gripped his soul at the thought, nor of the visions that sometimes haunted his hours both waking and sleeping… his exact worst nightmare, innocently longed for in such a casual manner. Heart suddenly pounding, Killian swallowed the sickening dread constricting his throat and presented as calm a demeanor as he could muster.

“Aren’t you forgetting one not-so-small detail?”

“Am I?”

“Surely I must have mentioned a certain horrid little boy who makes Neverland his home. An eternity in his domain is hardly the paradise you’re imagining it to be.”

“Oh.” Alice looked crestfallen, and though Killian always hated disappointing her, he could not stop the wave of relief from coursing through him when it seemed she had accepted his objection. Adding one final stitch to the doll’s ragged seam, he was quick to assure her,

“There are dozens of other beautiful places I’ll take you one day, Alice, where we’ll have adventures much more exciting than we could ever find on that godsforsaken refuse heap. Remember? The Sea of Glass, and Rainbow Falls, and the purple cliffs where the goats climb right up the vertical rock faces…”

He trailed off when he heard a miserable sniffle from his little girl. She was staring down at the tabletop, obviously not seeing the map laid out before her as she quietly wiped away tears. Hastily, he severed the thread and laid it aside, then moved to kneel at her side. He placed the doll in her lap and reached up to stroke the hair back from her face.

“Alice? What is it, love?

She sniffed again, met his eyes briefly, then looked away.

There were periods of time when her circumstances got the better of her, and understandably so. Killian had always done his best to console her, but it would never truly be all right until he could free her from this damned tower. And the more she grew up, the heavier the burden was for both of them.

“I’m sorry, Starfish; it must be frustrating to hear of wondrous places without the ability to see them yet. But I promise you will someday; you’ve just got to keep--”

“You’re going to die one day, aren’t you?”

The tiny voice took Killian by surprise, and he fell silent. This wasn’t at all where he had thought the conversation was heading. It made sense in hindsight, though. She wasn’t asking about Neverland for the adventures, or for immortality for Smee… it was all about Killian’s mortality.

“Oh, Alice…” He pulled her into his chest, wrapping her tightly in his arms. Gently, he murmured, “I don’t want you to be worrying about that, love. Not for a long, long time. You have enough to think about.”

Alice squeezed him back, shaking with sobs and saying,

“I don’t want you to die, Papa, not ever! I love you so much I think I would die too!” She pulled away and scrubbed at her face, continuing in one long, hysterical breath. “I couldn’t bear to live without you--I don’t care about Pan; if we went to Neverland, then we could be together forever!”

Killian watched her for a beat, unconsciously stroking her hair as his heart broke. He understood exactly how she felt; he would give anything to ensure he’d never be separated from her, as well. But there was an additional element to her anticipatory grief. Once he was gone, if she were still trapped here, she would be completely alone, probably for the rest of her life. It was too horrible to even imagine. And here he was, pretending like he didn’t constantly think about what would become of her if something should happen to him.

Tenderly, Killian covered her hands with his, willing her to feel how overwhelmingly powerful his love was for her.

“It isn’t easy,” he admitted quietly, “thinking about losing someone you care for. I feel much the same way about you. And sadly, part of what makes life so special is its brevity. But you can’t let that overshadow or take away from the time that you do have with your loved ones.”

He reached up to wipe a tear from her cheek, feeling his own eyes brimming. “I hold on to a piece of everyone I’ve loved: my mother, my brother… Milah… after each loss, there were days when I felt like I couldn’t go on. But you know what? I’m so very glad I did. Because that brought me to the greatest joy in my life.”

Killian waited until Alice tentatively met his gaze, and he confirmed her unasked question with a watery, adoring grin. She could not resist a shaky half-smile in response. Killian embraced her again, planted a soft kiss on the top of her head, then rested back into his crouch, watching her compose herself. After one final hand across her eyes, Alice mumbled,

“Thank you, Papa.”

“I love you, Alice.”

He got slowly to his feet, stifling any outward sign that his joints were not quite as young as they used to be, then added,

“Try to stop worrying, love. I plan to be around for quite a long time yet.”

***

Less than a month later,

“I plan to be around…” echoed through his head as ten paces were marked and two bullets flew.

“Quite a long time yet…” rang in his ears as he collided with the tower wall, a new and deadly pain coursing through the center of his chest.

“A long time…” mocked him as melancholy rain drenched him, body and spirit, and evil laughter gave way to devastated wailing from on high.

“A long time…” continued to destroy him now with its meaningless, endless promise, as hope and resources dwindled.

What a fool he had been.

***

Present Day…

Killian woke with an ache in his throat and chest: a common occurrence these days. Apparently, despite his resolution to make use of the alone time, he had fallen asleep instead. He rubbed his eyes and scoured the clearing for any sign of Blackbeard, but the other man had not yet returned.

He should conserve his strength, try and rest some more and prepare for whatever ordeals lay ahead. But there was only one thing that could begin to soothe the pain of the familiar nightmare-flashback he’d just experienced, and he knew he owed it to Alice to make the attempt as well. This was the longest he’d gone without connecting ever since he’d acquired the mirror, and the worry would be eating her alive. So, despite the danger and the various pains afflicting him, Killian finished freeing himself from the ropes and forced himself up to retrieve Blackbeard’s unattended satchel.

No hook, of course; no weapons of any kind, or even any food. Killian was immensely relieved to find his black rook near the bottom, which he stashed in an inside pocket closest his heart. But Blackbeard had taken everything else of value, leaving only a few first aid supplies and other odds and ends… one of which was Killian’s mirror, blessedly intact despite its careless treatment. With mild surprise, he noted that the ceremonial cloth once containing bread remnants now protected the mirror’s glass face, somehow counted amongst his possessions recovered from the quarry transport guards. Maybe the rumors of its mystical powers were indeed true… and he was finally about to put it all to the test.

After stashing the dusty cloth back into the satchel, Killian grasped the mirror’s handle and drew a few calming breaths.

“Alice?” he called quietly. “Are you there, love?”

Her likeness materialized almost immediately, as if she’d been expecting him to call.

“Papa!” she cried in tremulous delight. “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried!”

The cursed tingle in his heart told him all he needed to know. That sickening mold residue, another failure of a lead--this one costing him dearly, its total sum yet to be determined. Killian tried not to let his disappointment show as he gave her a reassuring smile.

“I’m okay, but I haven’t got long. I just wanted to make sure--”

A distant oath sounded from somewhere beyond the twist in the canyon, and Killian froze for an instant. Then, hastily, he hissed,

“I’m sorry, Starfish; I need to go, but I’ll try again as soon as I’m able.”

“Hook? Who is that you’re talking to?”

Killian still could not see Blackbeard, but that villain had to be close. He lunged for the satchel and, over Alice’s muffled protests, he thrust the mirror back into its hiding place just as his red-clad captor sauntered into view.

Then he remembered what the sorcerer had told him about the enchantment: both parties had to agree to the connection being severed. And, judging by the continuing prickle beneath his breastbone and the quiet sounds emanating from the satchel, Alice had not been willing to let her father go so quickly.

“What the devil are you up to?” sneered Blackbeard. He tossed the waterskins carelessly on the ground and stumbled over to menace Killian.

“It’s nothing, mate; only searching for a bit of food is all. I’m completely famished.”

Blackbeard snorted. “Well, that makes a change. No more heaving your guts out, then?”

He cocked his head, listening, and Killian answered quickly and too loudly.

“It looks as if you were at least successful at locating water? If you want me to make it to the genie monkeys, you’ll have to be a bit more generous than you're accustomed to--”

“Shhh!” hissed Blackbeard, holding up a hand. Without pause, Killian said,

“What are you listening to? I don’t hear anything, and we should probably get a move on if we’re to make any progress before sundown--”

It didn’t work. Blackbeard lunged for the satchel, and though Killian made a feeble attempt to keep it from him, the bigger man easily tore it from his grasp. Killian clambered to his feet, desperate to stop what he knew was coming.

Blackbeard immediately zeroed in on the noise-making mirror, and he let the satchel and the rest of its contents fall to the ground.

“Papa?” squeaked Alice, and Blackbeard leered.

“What’s this? That the child you abandoned?”

Killian took a step forward, hand outstretched, feeling like he was moving through mud. “Blackbeard… please…”

“Oops.”

Blackbeard laughed loudly. The mirror “slipped” from his fingers. Killian dove for it. Alice’s frightened image flipped around and around in midair. The ball and chain hampered Killian’s lunge. His fingertips just brushed glass before it shattered on the razor stones. Alice’s voice cut abruptly to silence.

Breathing heavily, Killian sat on his knees and stared at the remnants of his only link with his daughter. Even if he managed to escape and find his way back to the sorcerer who had arranged the enchantment, he could not afford to pay the exorbitant price a second time, not without considerable effort… or risking additional imprisonment by doing something illicit. “Blackbeard… you… bastard!”

Unconcerned, Blackbeard chided,

“You may want to be careful throwing that term around, considering…”

Killian seethed, still watching the shimmering halo of glass shards as if they could somehow reassemble themselves on their own. “That was her only connection to the outside world!”

“And whose fault is that, really? I’m not the one who trapped her there, nor the father foolish enough to go and get his heart cursed so she’s left with no one. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve managed to live with the guilt for this long.”

Blackbeard bent down and scooped the few scattered supplies back into his satchel, then flung the strap over his shoulder. “Taking you to the monkeys is a kindness. They’ll quickly put you out of your misery.”

None-too-gently, he draped one of the waterskins over his captive’s shoulder and dragged him to his feet. Then he reached for the mirror’s empty frame. Killian glared daggers at him as he turned it over once in his hand.

“Glue in a bit of cheap, ordinary glass and it will fetch a copper or two,” said Blackbeard. He stuffed the frame in with the rest of his belongings, then hauled up the remaining skin of water and took a large swig. Noting the hatred in Killian’s stare, he rolled his eyes and waved at the waterskin Killian was holding, encouraging him to drink.

“The girl has my sympathies,” he remarked mildly. “But not my allegiance. And a broken mirror won’t matter in the slightest once you become the monkeys’ main course.”

In truth, Killian was nearly as angry at himself for being so reckless as he was at Blackbeard for callously destroying the enchanted mirror. But even so, the wanton cruelty of the act filled him with loathing.

“You will regret making an enemy of me,” he snarled. Blackbeard only scoffed.

“Empty threats. Never heard those before.” He once again pointed to Killian’s water. “Now drink up. We’ve a long way to go before nightfall.”

#ouat fanfiction #laden of the torn #wish hook #alice jones #knightrook #ouat blackbeard #angst #mirror magic #cw: death #or at least thinking about death #existentialism #?#not sure how to tag this #fear of losing loved ones #blackbeard being a bastard

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lycanlovingvampyre · 2 years ago

Text

MAG 128 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: putting up a new fence.

BASIRA: "Jon. Don’t turn on the light. Go get Melanie, quickly." Get Melanie? For what? She’s not Buffy the Vampire Slayer anymore.

BREEKON: "That’s right. Just wanted to – to drop off a package." That pause after “Just wanted to”. He's so unsure of what he's doing...

JON: (with compulsion) "Why are you here?" BREEKON: "Dunno." (pause) "‘S not right, on my own. Not right. No point in doing it on my own." Breekon & Hope... Still a better love story than Twilight... (I like how TMA makes us feel for people and monsters who did terrible things. But in the end I guess we're all just human?)

BREEKON: "Make me." [AND ALL AT ONCE THERE’S A STRANGE SOUND, MUSICAL YET HOLLOW, AND IT SEEMS TO BE BUILDING TO –] JON: "Stop." Seriously this "strange sound, musical yet hollow" and then Jon putting a stop to it is actually really badass. How's that for recording enemies into submission!

BREEKON: "What are you – stop it. Stop it!" [WHEN THE ARCHIVIST SPEAKS, IT HAS AN ECHO TO IT, REMINISCENT OF THE HOLLOWNESS FROM EARLIER:] JON: "No." Yes Jon, show 'em you're not everyone’s punching bag anymore!

I btw also always thought Breekon just couldn't stand the gaze of Jon anymore and fled the Archives, perhaps tossing over a table or a chair in his way and slamming some doors (Does this count as door motif? Oh, when we're on the subject of slamming doors! There is a video of Sam Sam the music man breaking down the TMA main theme and he said those smashing sounds at the end of the theme are supposed to be slamming a door! Just because it's such a stereotypical thing for the horror genre - see MAG 85 Upon the Stair "And please don't slam the door". Such a fitting coincidence! But I already said in one of those Relisten posts, coincidences like this happened a lot more often than people probably think, it's a blessing for artists!) Ok, lost the thread a bit there. I think the image of the telekinesis comes from the fact, that we don't really hear any footsteps? (And I think, people wanted to give Jon a bit more badassary probably? He's demonstrating it so well already in this scene, why not go a bit further xD I generally like it, but I think it doesn't really fit into canon, he'd be too op.) Thing about footsteps in TMA is it's a bit inconsistent until S5? This has bothered me in a few instances before, like the end of MAG 21, when Martin storms into Jon's office. We only hear the door and the squelching of the worms. No out of breath sound aaand no footsteps. There was another one when I thought it's really missing footsteps, god I can't remember what it was... What I'm saying is, I wouldn't really get hung up on (the lack of) footsteps here.

"We started in a plague." / "It wasn’t the plague they feared; it wasn’t the death that waited in our wagon. It was us. Two strangers rolling towards them, unstoppable and uncertain, wearing faces they would only half-remember, bringing a fate they would beg their god to forget." Hm, wearing faces they would only half-remember... Strangers at the time of the plague I’d think more of those masks plague doctors wore - being literally unable to see their faces.

"Poor wretches who emerged from Millbank, with tales of Australia and its cruelties on their lips, bundled into the cramped and creaking ship that would drag them away from everything they loved. And towards everything they feared. That was the first time we saw what would become this place: The Eye’s Pedestal." Hold on, wait! Is that another reference that Millbank Prison was a place of power for the Eye? The Robert Small was a convict ship and (Western) Australia was a penal colony of the British Empire..

"We were conductors on a train, prim suits and scowls, a relentless beast of iron and steam that never seemed to get you exactly where you wanted to be unless there was something dreadful waiting for you. We punched tickets, ignored questions, and threw off those who looked like they were having too fine a time of it." Lol, is that a dig at public transports? xD

"We carried and lifted and helped the circus move towards its next destination, the next doomed town." Makes me think that they probably would have made superb roadies!

"Sometimes we joined the show, lifting weights and things that looked like animals. Sometimes we lifted members of the audience. Sometimes we even put them down again." First of all, lol, that last sentence. Second, throwback to MAG 24 - the two strong-men!

"And so we took the casket, a hungry thing of the earth, a crushing, choking tomb that will not let you die because it is too much what it is for death to find you there" “Too much what it is for death to find you there”... Saying the End has no grasp within the coffin. And not just the End because Daisy also lost her connection to the Hunt in the coffin. Eye + Web being the only ones with a chance to make it out.

"It was one like us that found it, a thing of shifting names and deja-vu. A fool, that believed because it found the coffin in chains, it would be an easy thing to control, to bargain with." Confirmation that MAG 2's "John" was a capital-S Stranger.

"She took him from me, made us a me." Still a better love story than Twilight!!!

"And she doesn’t get to die for that. She gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever." There are fates worse than death-trope.

"I have never known hate before. I have never known loss. But now they are with me always, and I desire nothing but to share them with you." Still a better-

JON: (voice shaky) "Statement.. ends." [HE COLLAPSES.] Since Melanie makes fun of Jon in MAG 189 about him collapsing again I have the headcanon that Melanie came across collapsed Jon, was like "Alright then" and just left again. (Maybe she went to tell Basira.)

BASIRA: (inhale, set) "Right. Keep it safe; I’ll be gone a few days. I have some leads I need to follow up." Oh, that (whatever that was exactly) was what Elias was proposing to Basira at the end of the previous episode, not his actual plans about the coffin. Alright, gotcha, I'm on track again!

@a-mag-a-day

#a-mag-a-day #mag 128 #tma #tma spoilers

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iamterra · 9 months ago

Text

Umbra's Personal Violin

It’s another dark episode for the Nightmare. His world, to him, is all black and white. His own reflection is empty. Devoid of color. If anything, he sees himself as black as ink. Perhaps as spilt too.

He’s leaking mentally. He can’t seem to focus and it feels suffocating. As if standing in the middle of a burning room. Mind foggy with the smoke and choking out all sensibility. He could scream but he knew it would all be in vain. It wouldn’t even grant him any remote sense of relief to get some of the pent up emotions out.

So he pulls out a knife instead. The tip of the blade grazed his milky flesh, cutting a clean line that soon bubbles up with dark liquid. It should hurt but his mind is in such disarray he can’t seem to feel anything. Perhaps that makes these types of mood swings more dangerous.

He is willing to end it all. Hell, he wants to. Tragically, he is unable. Instead he run the blade horizontally. Carving under the flesh and pulling it back. In such a simple motion, he exposes his tendons in a way surgeons would be envious of.

He isn’t thinking clearly. Not in the ;east bit but it wouldn’t matter to him even if he could. He is beyond reason in this state of madness. He just wants to feel something. Anything. Pain would be a welcome treat when his mind is so alive with flame that all rationality is burning.

He needs help. But to ask for it is something he can and will not do. He wants to suffer in a way because socity has told him for so long that he deserves it. While he would norally decline that and fight it, well, when someone claims something for so long, one can not help but question it. Maybe, just maybe, they are right. Perhaps not in the way they think but in another.

He is far from a decent person. He knows it. He always played his cards in such a way to be the monster and try to gain the upper hand but right now, all he sees is blood of the enemy. His own.

Carving higher, the Nightmare frees more flesh from his forearm. Letting it hang to one side and off in a bloody strip only to stare at his work.

It’s simple. It is just a large rectangle that is barely hanging on by a thread on one end. Knowing he can finish it cleanly, Umbra instead drops the knife to opt for ripping the last strands off to toss the flesh off in the same direction of the offensive blade.

With a sharp inhale, he then gets a spectacular idea. Something that would never work in the world of the awaken but in his, he knows how to manipulate it and make the impossible possible. Umbra moves to find his violin bow and grabs it in his off hand. A soft sob held back in a chicking sob as he raised it up and rested it on his other arm.

He pauses only for a moment in thought.

Nobody is around to stop him. Even if they were, would they care he is tearing himself apart?

The answer is unknown.

So he draws his bow along his arm. A low and mournful sound emitting from his tendons. He speaks in a tune of misery that resonates with his soul. It is beautiful- if only because he understands it so deeply. The wretched sound of misery begging for just a tiny glimpse of hope.

He moved his arm further away from himself as if it were holding a violin. The bow running along his tendons, pulling out inhuman sounds that just resonated absolute tragedy to anyone who could hear it. A melody that anyone who has experienced loss could recognize and begin to feel their own eyes mist up with tears.

It isn’t painless. The bow is lacerating his muscles the more he plays on but he can not seem to help himself. He needs this outlet. Even if it is spilling more blood down his arms and across his bow.

The haunting music of his very being seems to flow freely now as he goes on. Echoing through the castle. It is bitter sweet but mostly bitter as it knows there is no true end to this god awful tale.

His jaw is clenched tightly as tears well up in the corner of his eyes. It’s not from the physical pain so much as the emotional. He can’t stop and yet the tears refuse to fall and grant him any proper relief.

This goes on for some time. The castle is alive while the inhabitant feels anything but.

Eventually he slows down. The final draw of his bow lowering with one last miserable note that fades into the otherwise still air.

He feels alone. Perhaps he is alone in his suffering. He surely thinks so even if he knows from lessons he bestows onto others that tell otherwise.

“...Again,” he whispers. After all, he knows his life is doomed to be a repeating disaster. What is one more encore of a tragic tale that nobody will ever care to hear?

So he raises his bow and draws it over his wrists again. Fingers moving to play the various notes his soul wishes to pour out.

Just one last song.

#Umbra #Overwatch #Junkenstein #My Junkenstein OC #Nobody is gonna read this lol #This is just when he gets beyond sad he vents and created a new way to play the “violin”#Depession #Self harm #Mutilation

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