#( * you are a child of the cosmos // visage. )

[admirestars]

tag drop.

[thegodhorus]

tag dump ;

[crystal-whispers]

5. 7. 2024.

“Think with your heads, engage your minds”

says the Sunday school teacher,

unaware she’s also shaping

a skewed reality with each word;

like an artist disfiguring glass,

mimicking the forms of nature,

but making the shapes and colors

just a little made-up.

You go through life

convinced with arrogant ignorance

you’re above the world—

shielded by an unbreachable ideology,

a fortress, a cage of brittle sharp glass

keeping you safe and detached from society.

No one can enter, no one can change

the meticulous laws of the cosmos

you stitched within your glass jar,

connected by the fragile thread of certainty.

Then, as if by chance,

you face a mirror—

a warped, foggy reflection,

a mirage of your being.

Something feels wrong:

your face, your mind

missing some shards

like a young child’s puzzle

missing its crucial pieces.

You can accept, or blame the looking glass

for its blasphemous distortion,

for turning your visage into a funhouse of inaccuracies.

Yet the evidence is clear:

your life is but a lie,

your identity, your world

nothing more than a forgery of facts.

You realize you possess

a compromised compass—

polarized needle towards south,

a guide that pointed for far too long

the wrong way.

To truly think for yourself,

you now know,

you must leave the magnetic field,

step out of the carnival of lies,

accept the responsibility and possibility

of being wrong,

and follow your arrow north—

deconstructing the expectations, dreams, and ideas

that others so readily gifted you

as a slothful solution,

a balm for the horrors of reality.

[dd122004dd]

Their Mother 2

The mother of the Eldritch terrors wants to retireve them from the Spellmans clutches.

This is for @liliyhsblog who asked me for a part 2. I hope its as satisfying as part 1.

Warnings: Bloodshed, battles, tentacles, genocide, decapitation, murder, end of the world

~Previously~

“How stupid of you, to bring your only bargaining chip to the battlefield. One thing you seemed to have forgotten about Pandora’s box, is that it released all the plagues on the Earth.” Saying this, she opened the box, letting her children out once again, to destroy the Earth and consume it.

~

Watching the chaos unfold, the mother smiled with glee.

First from the box emerged darkness, her eldest daughter stood in all her shadowy glory. Her form was smokey, as if her powers could not decide on a final form. With hollowed out eyes and tiny obsidians embedded in her forehead, the eldest eldritch terror stood proud and tall. Glancing at her mother, she smiled till cracks appeared in her face. She turned towards the witches, quickly losing her smile.

Next came her son, the uninvited. He emerged from the box, disheveled with his untidy clothes and tangled hair. The mother tsked before waving her hand, immediately her son’s hair was returned to its former midnight glory, his hair was neatly braided like the Vikings of old. His sickle was sharpened and gleamed in the light while his clothes changed from tattered rags to armor, black leather armor that seemed easily penetrable yet worked as an impenetrable shield.

Glancing down at himself he smiled widely, giddy at his new attire. He smiled up at his mother, like he used to when he was still young. He nodded his head in gratitude and moved to embrace her but she stopped him. Reunions could wait for they were still in serious danger from the coven before them.

After him came her third son, the weird. They slithered out of the box, an octopus-like mass crawled to the mother then climbed up her body, perching itself on her shoulder.

Grinning widely at the Weird’s presence she gently ran her fingers over their head, restoring them to their original form. Feeling the familiar power running through their body the weird morphed into their original form which they had lost millennia ago. On first glance they looked deceptively human, an androgynous human yet on closer glance one would notice their hands shifted from tentacles to fingers and back. On their tongue were suckers, meant to pull in their victims.

Cracking their neck unnaturally the weird glared fiercely at the coven before putting on a menacingly charming smile. His pearly teeth and insidious expression made the Spellmans’ almost wretch.

After the weird, the imp of the perverse emerged. Cradling her child’s golden statue, the mother was enraged. What had the mortals done to her child? How could they turn him into a mere trinket to use as they wished? Sighing in anger she whispered, “Awaken,” the moment the word left her lips the imp started moving, as if it were waking up after a long slumber. Ruby eyes stared at the mother before a sharp grin formed on the little creature’s face. Slowly the imp unveiled its tiny wings and perched itself on the mother’s shoulder, caressing the large golden globe in its hands with its tongue, tempted to pervert reality in accordance with its will.

Next came the cosmic. The being was an intimate part of the cosmos, the unattainable and uncontainable force took a mortal visage. The cosmos was a pale, lean man dressed in a hanfu woven from the very fabric of the universe itself with spinning galaxies and nebulas almost alive on the fabric. His long black tresses trailed down his back. He was the picture of tranquility yet within his mind, chaos reigned.

The returned took the form of a corpse, mostly well-preserved but rotting in a few places. She was deathly beautiful yet she moved unnaturally, as if she was a mere puppet for a puppeteer. She was dressed like a bride, lace covered her arms and a veil covered her hair yet her dress was stained with blood and dirt, as if she recently crawled out of a grave.

The twin of the void emerged next. He was a tall man in a black suit and a hat. Mysterious and strange the man looked like a regular human with his black gloves yet he was anything but. He was created to be the yang to her yin. He was supposed to satiate her hunger, the one in charge of caring for her yet after millennia away from her he was remiss in his duties, leading to her growing impoverished. He was and is, the endless.

Lastly the void emerged. The void took the form of a gaunt little girl in a white dress with frayed hair, a far cry from the terrifying terror she used to be. Hunched over, she gripped her stomach as her hollow eyes stared at the Spellman coven. Licking her lips with her black tongue she stared at her potential meal, prepared to temporarily satiate her hunger with the young coven when her mother stopped her.

The mother looked at her children, disappointed in their current state. She tsked before giving them a little of her power to sustain themselves. Her once powerful creations were reduced to their impoverished states by the measly coven before them. Yet she knew not even their patron goddess Hecate would be able to defend the coven if she chose to intervene.

The coven, however were unwilling to submit to the intimidating terrors and had instead called upon their allies. Heaven, Hell and everything in between. Demons, ghouls and other creatures of all kinds accompanied the Spellmans in a quest for the survival of their universe. Seeing the eldritch terrors out of Panadora’s box Hilda stepped forward saying, “Well, now that you have your ‘children’ back why don’t you leave us alone?”

Chuckling darkly she answered, “Because I want to see your bodies scattered on this field in pieces, I want to feel your metallic blood flowing down my throat as I claim the debt owed to me.”

“What debt?”

“Your lives.”

As soon as the words fell from her lips the battle commenced. The witches fought well, reciting spells and moving elegantly against the attacks of the terrors yet it was not enough. Many witches fell, many were ripped apart and others ran in an tempt to save themselves yet it was all for naught.

The once green grass was a sticky amber, decorated with various body parts. The last of the Spellmans, Hilda and Zelda stood at the center of the field, looking at their surroundings with anguish, their coven was obliterated, the angels and demons torn to shreds. The head of their beloved niece was in the hands of the mother as she grinned maniacally at the pair.

“So much hassle for a little half-born, and yet, she died so easily. I’m disappointed,” she said with mock disappointment before tossing the blonde head at the pair.

Hilda shuddered as she fell to her knees, her grief consuming her as Zelda stood her ground, willing her tears away.

“Now, for a special punishment for you, you shall see your world get destroyed before you, too are consumed,” saying this, the pair were frozen in their places as the mother motioned for her children to finish what they had started.

First came the darkness and her everlasting cold, no one could escape their sins, their guilt, her torment.

Second came the uninvited, he ripped through the populace, feasting on their unwelcoming hearts as his powers grew.

Third came the weird, succumbing the Earth in water, crushing humanity’s cities and submerging them with the creatures of the depths that laid in wait for centuries.

Fourth came the Imp, he corrupted reality, twisting the very foundations of nature akin to a child playing with playdough. His creations were maddening, confusing, chaotic, refusing to settle. The very foundations of reality were cracking, crumbling as he continued.

Fifth came the Cosmic, he brought together the three realms, Heaven, Hell and Earth, they crashed in a symphony of pained screams that echoed through the vastness till everything went silent.

Sixth came the Returned, the dead arose to bear witness to the end, the deceased tormented those who remained, those who fought, those who had hope.

Seventh came the Endless, he brought with him an endless cycle of torment for the mortals, a cycle of eternity only breakable by one. He imbued his powers into the chaotic Earth, creating an unending paradox.

Eight came the Void, the last, the end of all things, she consumed the chaotic, fractured reality with much glee. Finally, she was satiated for the first time in millennia.

In the seven days it took the Christian God to create the world, it took eight days to destroy his creations, the very foundations of his fragile reality were shattered by the Eldritch terrors, it was almost poetic.

After her thirst for revenge was satiated, the Mother took her children with her, into a different dimension in order to grow their own powers once more so that they’d never be as weak as they were, ever again.

Under their mother, the terrors flourished, their powers of destruction grew equal to the Element’s powers of creation. The Universe was now more balanced than it had been in centuries.

[chaosprinceundivided]

The Layers of Godhood

Jaz'mahnn was silent a moment. He had stepped into a grove that cut between reality and the Realms of Chaos beyond. A few of his ignorant followers did not have the animal instinct and when they stepped at his heel, they were suddenly fine mists of gore that rippled from deep crimson to soft pink and purples. Their former existence turning into a perfume that made the rest of the mortals gasp, swoon and stink of intrigued fear.

The daemon slowly turned. He was not in the elven forest anymore. He was in the infinity of space. The canvas of the gods' boundlessness but whic-

"Ah."

A voice spoke from the beyond and within perception. Jaz'mahnn's ears perked and he swept in a graceful bow. His eyes casted to the unseen floor, he could hear the swishes of great tails swaying. The slow, bone-tapping, clicks of claws delicately moving. Something - Someone - loomed just at the edge of the swallowing darkness, outlined by the trillions of distant stars and celestial bodies. They swirled and shaped with two great eyes that mirrored the great howling maelstorm of terror incarnate. The swallowing scar of an primodial empire long devoured by a newborn god.

"Silverspine, what are you doing here?" The voice, a gentle conqueror's purr married with a underlying widow's knife-keen hiss, questioned in curiosity.

"Forgive me, My Most Beautiful of Orators. I seemed to have stepped within your talon's carving. Within the Elfish Forest of Laurelorn." The Exalted Keeper noted. There was a moment as One of Slaanesh's Favoured seemed to percieve the words spoken and place given. The Fox-King was here, but not. This was a yawning expression that happened to rest, a waiting threat within the forest elves' realm.

A constant beacon of temptation that corrupted in the most subtle ways, stoking the elves' already sinful pride into ways that brought a constant animosity to races that could have been their allies a long time ago. How it unintentionally fed the Fox, and the Dark Prince through him.

Finally, there was a tittering giggle of a child. Then it turned into a dark ripple that made the stars wink celestial tears. A great tongue, flickering of nine flayed scars with crystalline worlds swirling with the soulstuff of trillions of little victims to forever entertain their devourer till their senses of self were no more. This greater expression of their deprived divine spoke,

"I shall not take it, for there is none to apologize. You come onto me by mere accident and fortune favours thee. For I am aspiration manifest. Grant me the souls of the Lady's Favoured. Bring them onto me screaming and kicking. Fill my nostrils with burning wood that had lived since the cry of the first man. Allure my ears with the agonies of elves thought eternal, my Disciple."

The Fox purred and stars died.

"As you desire, Honoured Six."

"It is what They desire, can you sense them?" The Fox slowly reared and upon the brow of the cosmo, a great visage loomed with a mother's smile. And they felt the most blissful pain and agonizing love that sent Jaz'mahnn spiralling back into the Realm of Mortals. When they returned, the physical form they wore twitched with the taste of ichor drippling from their nostrils, and his hands wet with gore. Around them, some of their soft-skinned herd was brutalized so beautifully. Tethers of flesh hanging off clawtips. Intestines drapping from branches already turning into carapace. Trees forming moaning faces. The remaining marauders bowed low, praying at his feet with their shamans praising him for the vision provided. Even as they mutated from the beauty of Slaanesh.

The General looked at one of them and pointed. Through them, Slaanesh gave an abundance of power to the shaman. The shape of a feeble man growing, twisting and lengthening with a howl of agony and power.

Lourelorn shall burn, so decreed the Prince of Princes.

[nevermindtheweights]

Crates full of chocolate candies, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate cakes, chocolate pies, and barrels filled with chocolate ice cream, chocolate pudding, hot chocolate with marshmallows, and chocolate milk spontaneously manifested in the bedroom of Chang’e, and there was a note accompanying the confections.

“Hello, Lady Chang’e. I hope that you enjoy this gift as both a banquet and a token of diplomacy from the Comet Observatory. These tasty treats were procured from a galaxy far, far away from your own; a sweet, sweet galaxy with planets composed entirely out of cake, ice cream, and other delectable desserts. It is but one of many others that I would be delighted to show you, if you would like to. Warm regards from the Lady of the Shooting Stars, Princess Rosalina.”

The final accoutrement was a picture of a tall woman in a light blue dress, with long blonde hair that covered one of her brilliant blue eyes, a crown on her head, and a wand in her hand. Surrounding her were various round star-shaped creatures with solid black eyes, one of which the woman even cradled in her arm as if it were her own child.

The Moon was a realm that was often far beyond the means of most, even with the technical growth of the mortals on the Earth. Chang'e maintained her realm as she saw fit and thus there was a strong degree of technological growth. It was her divine realm and as goddess, she saw it created in her image. Alas, the moon as both object and realm of the divine was a lonesome one. Those below loved to look but never to visit, never to dream so far as to reach her home. Perhaps mortals these days saw more below than she ever did. That said, whenever stuff did reach her, it was often from the celestial heavens beyond than it did from the realm below.

The gift of rock and ice was more common than not. Even so those wandering gifts were from no-one but the universe in motion.

So, that all said, Chang'e was quite shocked by the sudden arrival of treats. Vast amounts, all too much for the elegant and lithe. One crate was too much and yet now her bedroom was filled with the bounty of a stockroom or a sweet shop. Once the confused faded, the Moon Goddess felt only slight annoyance at this development. Before focusing on the intent and why, she ordered some of her attending robotic rabbits to inspect and store the sudden crates and barrels.

While they handled that aspect of the work, the regal divinity took to the document that came with it all. The note had sat upon her silken bed. Eyes breezed through the words, reading as to see whom had disrupted her bedroom with such 'gifts'.

Any annoyance melted away as she read, her mind focused on one key fact revealed by the words. That this all was a gift, a gift from someone from the celestial heavens themself. A traveller of the stars, of the cosmos. A being who, within their own rights, was divine. A Cosmic Traveller... Could anything else be more enthralling than that? The idea along made Chang'e mouth hang open. She cared little for the treats now, the knowledge playing a much greater role in her awareness. Naturally, she would sample some of the food. Purely out of interest and respect but most would remain untouched for the time being while her attending robots stored, scanned and catalogued what had been offered to her.

Delights from worlds beyond her own, treats gathered from across the stars. Chang'e glanced towards her window, peaking only briefly at the distant stars that speckled the darkness beyond her pale moon. Someone out there had noticed here and saw fit to share, to engage.

How deeply enthralling!

The papers moved in her hands, taking out the picture that had been within the envelop as well. The visage of the cosmic traveller was pictured, holding what seemed to a star itself! Chang'e was surprised how human she appeared yet there was an otherworldly mystique to the woman, an aura that even the picture had managed to capture. There was beauty and grace, that was clear. Her form and gentle smile showed Chang'e a lot about her, the words and image painting the idea of this Rosalina. Rosa... Lina.... It sounded odd to think about, Chang'e didn't even know how to say it.

This woman was... was...--

Something certainly regal but also something so much more... Something... beyond.

Chang'e set the paper and picture aside, moving properly to her window, to gaze out at the stars. Thoughts swimming in her head, some questions, some remarks, some ideal pictures of the beyond, some of the blonde herself. Chang'e rested her head upon the windowsil and gazed out into the void of the cosmic space.

For once, it didn't feel lonely.

[agentnico]

Puss in Boots: The Last Wish (2022) Review

The film debuts a new DreamWorks Animation logo: the child in the moon sails the moon around the cosmos and encounters characters from various DreamWorks films. However I noted some major absences like no characters from Madagascar or Croods or even any of their Aardman fare. Yet folks from The Bad Guys and the bloomin’ Boss Baby are front and centre. I’m all about looking towards the future, but DreamWorks needs to take a page from Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and remember to appreciate and respect the past. Especially Madagascar - they’re silly but significant films of DreamWorks Animation legacy.

Plot: Puss in Boots discovers that his passion for adventure has taken its toll: he has burnt through eight of his nine lives. Puss sets out on an epic journey to find the mythical Last Wish and restore his nine lives.

Is it simply me or DreamWorks has been on fire recently? The Bad Guys wasn’t too bad but Croods 2... has anyone actually seen Croods 2? Me and the fiancée have recently watched it and gosh golly if it wasn’t one of the funniest animations I have seen in a long while. The energy, the joke rate and the colourful visages all made up for a great family adventure, and the movie also made me once again obsessed with the banger “I Think I Love You”. Croods 2 is great and if you haven’t seen it then do yourself a favour. Anyway, now we have a sequel to the 2011 Shrek spin-off Puss in Boots, which by the way the fact that that movie came out over a decade ago makes me really ponder and worry how quickly that time had past. Yet again I find myself leaning towards saying the useless observation - gosh golly. Regardless, the new sequel has now come out and you know what - it’s pretty good. In fact, it may even be better than the first one.

The first Puss in Boots always felt like a spin-off. I mean, it was literally a spin-off too, but it also felt like the younger more forgettable brother to the Shrek films. It was enjoyable and Antonio Banderas’ Zorro-inspired vocal performance of the titular character never gets old, however as a whole was a forgettable outing. However the decade long time to make the sequel seems to have paid off, as the writers and animators really spent the time to actually cook up a more unique and original title to the DreamWorks Animation collection. For one they take inspiration from the recent Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse by blending 2D and 3D animation to create a very slick comic book feel that, in the case of Puss in Boots: The Last Wish, really amplified the fairy-tale feel. As such the world is full of popping colours and the fight sequences are both exciting and bombastic, which is perfect for a family feature. I must say though that this fast paced animation style can at times be too jarring, as even my fiancée began getting a little headache from so much imagery being slapped into her lovely little face. But nevertheless it made for an exciting animation, and one that sticks out among the rest.

As for the narrative itself, as with most DreamWorks titles this film is filled with hilarity and stupidity, however it also handles surprisingly mature themes on mortality, childhood trauma, need for identity, companionship and the fear of trusting others. The mortality element especially is handled really well, as Puss is on his final of his nine lives, and he feels it. He’s afraid of death which causes him to have real panic attacks and truly question if he can still be the legend that he has been all the time. Granted his fear of death is very well founded, as in this film death itself is personified by the Big Bad Wolf, who truly is one of the most creepiest animated creations I’ve seen in a long while, from his slow motions to the red eyes to that whistle. My gosh that spine-chilling whistle. DreamWorks just casually bringing nightmares to every child around the world. So yes, Puss being afraid of Death/Big Bad Wolf is perfectly understandable, and again this is a great way to bring such a mature thematic to a younger audience. 

What I’ve also been enjoying about recent DreamWorks movies is their focus on having a big ensemble of characters, however managing to make each and every one of them stand out. Croods 2 did it really well, and The Last Wish also succeeds. Naturally the return of Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek as Puss and Kitty Softpaws is both wonderful and nostalgic seeing them two works together again, but it’s the new characters that really steal the show. Florence Pugh, Ray Winstone, Samson Kayo and Olivia Colman play Goldilocks and the Three Bears, and they all feel like these gangster geezer types that have just walked in from a Guy Ritchie flick, and their family dynamic and Goldilocks’ inner conflict of not being able to fit in became one of the more powerful side-plots of the whole movie. Also Olivia Colman has the most perfect maternal voice ever. Like every mother in the world would gain points from having Colman’s vocals. Then there’s John Mulaney as Jack Horner and for the life of me I cannot recall what fairy-tale/children’s rhyme he’s from, however Mulaney as always is on fire with the jokes due to his stand-up comedy background, and also visually they made Jack Horner looks like, dare I say it, Boris Johnson. Only with purple hair. The resemblance in uncanny and I’m having serious suspicions that it must have been intentional. I’ve also already spoken about Wagner Moura’s Big Bad Wolf - holy frijoles that was one big bad wolfie! And finally there’s Harvey Guillen’s Perrito. At first when this little dog character appeared, I was worried he’d be that type of cartoon over-the-top inclusion that would get annoying very quickly. Instead however he ends up being that voice of goodness, purity and innocence, and one that helps our main characters make the right decisions and as such he was both useful and super adorable. 

Look, I am as shocked as anyone at how good Puss in Boots: The Last Wish turned out to be. Easily better than its predecessor and in fact taking a run for the money at the better Shrek movies. By the way the film features quite a few delightful Easter Eggs from Shrek, and one especially will excite fans about the future of that franchise. As for Puss, this is a joyful animated romp with some poignant themes and fun characters, and distinguishes its titular cat as indeed a favourite fearless hero.

Overall score: 7/10

[grimmwulf-a]

unprompted . @nghtlghts asked: [ luz for belos ] "What do you have to say for yourself, huh?!" (set this whenever you feel like have fuuuuuun -normalguy cosmo)

Meet me by my nature, then fall by the same. Death will know your name.

Heat blisters like the very boiling seas under the façade of your skin, the sound of her voice grating. Oh this poor innocent child! Lost in the tides, lost in the sway of the moon and its frightful kin - you see fire - you feel the boiling turn to churning oceans in the ugly battered cage that passed for your chest. You think you’d try to save her again, but the idea rapidly twists to you keeping her head held firm under boiling waters, baptized in fire one final time.

Flames burn bright blue in the holes that pass for eyes in your twisted up flesh, glaring at her, glaring through her as if the action alone was enough to kill. You wished it was, if only to silence her without effort on your part. You were old after all, these bones unstable and gait unsteady whenever anyone might be looking. The thought would make you laugh if you weren't currently seething.

What did you have to say, huh? As you felt rage swirl in your throat, haziness blurring your thoughts to where hatred and remorse were no longer separate legible ideas, as the very meaning of words fell away in this place. Form slipping, sloughing away- you knew there was no hope of stealing hers, had known it since your escape- you knew when you were beat. Knew when you’d won your own personal games, knew when to step out of the war.

Skeletal grin born, visage that of the many slain beasts to your name - EMPEROR - once proud horns now shattered and bones brittle. There was no peace to be seen here, sickness having run its full course. You were smiling out of hatred. You were smiling at the image of her dying in your place. You were smiling because you won this silly little game as the first one going home.

“Thank you.”

You hoped she’d choke on it.

[royalcy-blog1]

tag dump.

[kingfell]

i saw a garlean and needed to add my wol to fight

[foundvalor-blog]

basic blog things. 

[mushroom-cartel--writing]

begrudging (love-)blindness

Summary: You are, to him, unquestionably, terrifyingly lovely.

Relationship(s): Gojo Satoru & Reader, Gojo Satoru/Reader

Note(s):

Here’s the link to read this on AO3! (You know the drill, extra tags, different notes, the format I intended, etc.)

Personally, I think this is hot garbage in terms of structure and pacing (it’s loosely all strung together is what I’m saying, but I just needed to get it off my chest before I wrote anything else. Yet... I guess I had fun? Yeah. I did!

There's spoilers from the manga mixed with headcanon.

I still hate spacing and formatting on Tumblr, it sucks. Please, please, please, this is for your own good, click the AO3 link, this fic is such an eyesore on this platform.

|||

There’s a tug at your chest, sending you hurtling backwards and into something hard. A wall. Tiles. Smooth.

The heavens and the earth view one another through a layer of haze of light at night.

There are thousands of people gathering, their footsteps thundering echoes in your ears. Their chatter is a constant hum in the air. It stinks of sweat.

(“The train will be arriving soon. Please stand behind the yellow line—”)

You sigh.

“Dammit, Satoru! A little warning would be nice,” you hiss to the man. You hear him whisper something back but his voice is swallowed up by the crowds and then he, too, is consumed.

You feel him wander farther away from you; not left with much choice, you follow him. And down, down, down you go.

You pause when there’s an invisible wall blocking your path of his own making. “Hey!!” you shout, starting to scream expletives at him from the top of his lungs and he doesn’t look back.

A few seconds pass. The people, these poor, clueless civilians who just want to go home for the night are like sardines in a can, their bodies pushing and shoving. For space. For air. Requiring neither, you phase through the wall and the remaining levels to catch up to him, the thoughts going through your head solely focused on figuring out why he has let you out. He wouldn’t do something like this without warning you beforehand.

Why now? What now?

You pull out from the shadowed cracks of the feeble curtain set up along the fifth floor underground, suddenly feeling a heaviness you hardly ever experience. You run a cursory swipe over his teeth; the blood in the air is fresh, there are more civilians down here than up above, more sardine-ing (their presence is fading away, the above platforms’ panicked din becomes extinguished, it’s ghastly quiet, a moment frozen in time), but no Satoru. Not physically.

He loves you, you know. (You don’t understand though… Why?)

It’s a burden, draining you of what vigour is left in your soul, barely just clinging on to this plane itself.

His love is a curse in itself, really.

"I don't want you to see me hurt," he had said often, back when you were children, oblivious to the power of those words until you got older.

What they meant.

What they did—to him and you.

Still as the wind, you stand together, hands brushing up against each other's, your fingers infected with poison where his is not; the calloused skin and scars shared between you weaving a tale for the ages that will never be told.

You’re both nineteen at heart but certainly not in spirit.

You lean against him, completely unseen, waiting for him to flick his finger back.

Waiting for him to obliterate the first person he thought he could trust outside.

He doesn’t. You disappear for another time, expectant.

His love is a burden and you're not sure where you would be without it.

If he hadn't looked your way, would you be the same person you are today?

It's frightening, these thoughts of yours, but he usually chases them off when he senses them bubbling to the surface. (You want him to be annoyed.) A casual grin and stance, a flick of his wrist, a rush of wind by your side, then the phantom pressure is gone, yes, gone, however—it's never banished completely. It never can be.

You don't remember the colour of his eyes but there's a memory of you claiming they looked like marbles, buried somewhere (somehow), in the back of your mind. Like the marbles you'd smash glass bottles to obtain, their fizzy contents only drained seconds beforehand; stubby, sticky, small fingers sorting through the shards, squashing ants in the process.

Those very same fingers, now, haven't changed a bit, save for the chipped nails and whatnot duress they’ve sustained throughout his life.

You use them to push the blindfold up to his forehead, taking in the surrounding sights.

Why now? The fact that you can feel them, his fingers and everything else—that’s a bad sign. A very bad sign.

You breathe, inflating the faux lungs.

Finally, you see it. The reason why you’re walking and talking and fully corporeal.

You gulp at the living corpse, its stitches wonky and fresh. Cerebrospinal fluid spills from its face in fat droplets and lands upon the clothes of a dead man. Disgusting.

“So I was right in the end,” you say, more for yourself than anyone else. “You’re not Suguru.”

(Satoru owes you a thousand yen. You told him to burn the body immediately. Or, you know, the usual. But what’d he do instead? He went and passed it off to a third party! Man, why’d that old hag have to kick the bucket so soon… If she was still around she’d probably kick Satoru’s dumb ass for trying to be decent.)

“How are you free?” Not-Suguru asks.

The real Suguru wouldn’t ask about your appearance. He would make a comment about how the temperature has dropped and burrow into his collar. He wouldn’t question things.

The real Suguru never acknowledged you, but he knew there was something in the corner of his eye that took the image of his friend and laughed alongside them when they pulled their antics during missions.

The real Suguru is gone.

Who the hell knows where Shouko is.

Yeah. A little warning would have been nice. Real fucking nice.

There’s a cube with a dozen eyes between the two of you, the crater on the ground betrays its unassuming weight. Satoru’s muted presence, a shrunken pearl of light, emanates from the cube.

Not-Suguru follows your line of sight to it.

Giving him an answer would be a waste of your time.

You can’t, they say.

Young master, please, don’t go there, implores the servants and guards.

The elders, his grandmother especially, tell him not to enter the storehouse tucked away in the garden behind an avenue of camellia trees because that’s something they’ll discuss when he’s older.

He doesn’t listen to them, the curiosity of a three-year-old child cannot be satisfied by mere words. (“Let this be known,” the gardener says in his defense, one cold summer’s day. It is raining outside. His grandmother shoots the only person in the compound that doesn’t treat him like a blind fool with a withering glare. He does not see them again until—)

What’s in the storehouse?

A library of cursed objects? Spiritual remnants, artefacts, texts, poisons, weapons?

Maybe the mummified corpse of an ancestor whom they keep around to ward off evil?

Perhaps a curse, frozen in time forevermore?

Maybe it’s nothing and the adults are all in on some kind of elaborate hoax, he figures. Mm, yeah. Sounds about right. No one else knows about the storehouse.

It’s old and earthen. Wild plants curl the walls to one side and splotches of moss grow on the tiled roof. Where the sun hits least is pristine. Clean. He wonders if that’s where the wards are placed, out of sight, out of mind.

Oh.

Standing in the entrance of the open door with bare feet, at the threshold of the aged structure, fulfilling his desire, he learns why they wanted him to remain ignorant.

It’s a child. (A human…? This whole situation is off.) A kid his age. He can’t tell whether or not they’re older or younger. They might be a bit taller, though.

No, he wants to shout, this can’t be it! He stomps his foot. That’s cliché! Boring, boring, boring! Again, he strikes the ground. Ugh, whatever—

A sigh escapes the emaciated figure sitting in the darkness, hunched over themself against the wall of the bare storehouse.

“Ah, my f̶̥̍r̵̝͐̏i̷̳end,” they start, softly. “M̶̹̦͒y̸͍̮̋̚ f̸͉̓̋r̴͇̦̕ǐ̴̦͇e̵̫͠n̷̢͉̅̓ḍ̸̅, my very dear, old friend. You have returned.

“My e̷̳̭̿y̶͈͂e̷͔̭̎͘s̴̭̄̊, have you come to give them back? Ask for several others?

“I have waited for you, as promised. Come. Closer. Please. I do not know how long has passed since I last gazed upon your visage. Do not be afraid.

“I no longer lust for flesh as fervently as before, I will not ask of y̸͖͔̒o̵̳̍u̵͍̘̓ ą̴͕̈́n̵̫̓d̸̛̳͛ y̵̻͑̎o̵̖̥͒͌ų̴͋̐r̵̦̩̓s a sacrifice to please me.”

Their voice is garbled, the resemblance to a broken radio off-pitch jarring his reaction time, a music box opened underwater gurgling, ghosts beat to the rhythm of the blood in his ears and titter buried mysteries.

In the corner of his eyes distant stars burn, galaxies explode to life and die repeatedly, the vast cosmos is shredded apart. Universes are swallowed whole. The plane he stands upon bends to the will of the one whose gifts he uses carelessly to play the role of a deity and dictate the balance of the world.

People have said [they] reflect the very heavens.

His faith wanes.

.

a trio of ragtag orphans,

escapees, survivors and starved,

on the verge of being

no better than beasts,

happen upon a traveller taking respite from the winding roads.

a foreigner no doubt

they guess from the strange hued garb;

rest, everyone around these parts,

they know comes not

easy to scum, scoundrels, sinners and

deceivers alike.

.

.

.

mad ones, rushing to death

—without protection i must add—

oh my darling children, you are!

consume my flesh,

defend those unseeing,

purge the blight

and you shall witness

my return before long, indeed?!

.

They do not move and neither does he.

What he assumes to be their head tilts ever so to the side, gauging him, this fool of a boy trespassing on their domain. This part of the garden, the little boy realises too late, is theirs.

This, the storehouse and now him.

(—the gardener finds him sprawled out on his back come dusk. They help him to his feet and dust him off, the sparkle in his eyes an unusual occurrence; they ask their precious young master what happened and he points them in the direction of the doors sealed shut.

“I took a peek inside,” he lies. Children are supposed to do that, right?

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing.” The gardener knows he’s a bad liar.

“Good. Now come.” They lead him away from the path of the camellias. “Lady Mitsue has been beside herself over you, mister.”

His grandmother hasn’t. She probably knows what he has done and will instruct him to feed the council what they want to hear. My son was too soft, she asserts before and after every meeting with those windbags.

You have to do better.

And his father is dead, so only time will tell who’s right.)

He starts having weird dreams (memories?) several days later.

Trying to ignore them doesn’t work.

Every waking moment is subject to gore.

He has to resist the urge to scratch his own eyes out while he trains.

In the world beneath his eyelids, there are shadowy figures claiming it best he is blinded and locked away and fed what no other soul could hope to consume without issue. And just as they force open his jaw—every night, every time—he wakes up.

Satoru doesn’t know what to make of it. Doesn’t know what to make of you.

One day, he dreams of years of living without sunlight causing you to screw your not-eyes shut and look away upon the opening of a door into your domain. When you recover, you turn to the door, the emotion of curiosity tugging for your attention out of the myriad of beings you’ve eaten.

Standing at the threshold, ethereal, desperate and short of breath, is a young man. In his arms is a woman, his wife, you presume. They’re stark shades of white, binary stars of a celestial system long dead.

You smile, recognising them in an instant. “Ah, my old friends, children of my children’s children a dozen times over, tell me, what is it you wish for?”

“My wife and our child,” says the man, “please, I beg of you, save them!”

Oh? A healing? It’s been quite some time since that was last requested of you.

You skitter to the pair’s side and shut the door gently behind them, ushering them further in.

You click your not-tongue at the woman’s state, wondering why no one thought to come to you earlier. If they did, the price they’d have to pay would be much less than what you’re about to tell the man. Humans are such prideful creatures, Satoru knows this, but he can’t help but feel tense as you instruct the man to lay the woman down and state your cost.

First, he opens his mouth. Then it shuts. Opens. Shuts. The man regards his dear wife with something Satoru has never seen before in the eyes of those around him.

His reply?

“I accept—”

A harsh smack to the head disrupts the memory; he looks up, unsurprised to meet his grandmother’s gaze, wrinkled eyes so very much like his own piercing his soul.

“Being distracted in the middle of a fight is unbecoming of you, boy,” she says. “What seems to be the matter?”

He can’t tell her.

He stays silent.

“Satoru.” She raises her hand, fingers crossed, indicating the void’s opening. “We Gojou pride ourselves on our ability to adapt. That is why, in fact, I say my son was too soft. He could not accept that he would lose my daughter-in-law and the child she carried in her womb to common illness. He could not accept that it was impossible to cheat death. He could not accept the position he was placed in. And for that, he died and of the aforementioned two, only you lived. Do you understand?”

No. He doesn’t want to understand.

What is adaptation if they’ve yet to rid themselves of and bow down to your constant presence? Is that not their most fatal flaw?

You eat them.

One life in exchange for another; you told his father it was the only way.

You were given the corpse of his mother a hundred days after his birth by the elders.

Every Gojou after death, you grind their bones between your teeth and their flesh rots at the bottom of your belly. Their soulful essence fights for dominance against the forces of the innumerable curses the clans feeds you—the hate, the sentiment, the sheer bursts of techniques and mighty powers clashing, click, click, click—you embody and absorb the aftermath of each childish scuffle, playing the bored jailer adjudicator. Corpses, tools, objects, energy and flesh. It’s how you’ve lived for so long without light or human thought to taint you: the jujutsu world’s dirty little secret, waste disposal.

You are, to him, unquestionably, terrifyingly lovely.

He loves you for that one reason.

A means to an end, forever.

(The boy, a few days shy of his fourth birthday and inauguration, does not know what love is. He thinks he does, having read the definition in a dictionary in order to familiarise you with modern speech, but love is not a word to be thrown around lightly the way he does.)

“I do,” he lies again, this time, to himself. “I understand everything.”

His sight is black.

He pushes back against the current, against instinct telling him to relinquish control and reaches forward for the dream that he was ripped from.

Your true form towers over his mother’s prone form, dripping ichor and the fluid of loose entrails all over. His father stays seated even when you lift an arm to draw blood, the man facing you without a trace of fear.

“I accept—but on the condition that my child receives your protection.”

“My p̶̹̽r̴̽ͅo̵̠͐ť̷̬e̶̺̊c̶̻̒t̷̙͑i̵̮̓o̶̱n̷̖͂?” Do they not teach the younger generations what that entails?

“Yes. My ancestors wrote that you were a benevolent being in a past life. That you were a kind-hearted human who accidentally drank poison before being found and buried alive, condemned and reviled, forcing you to become what you are now. Does that still not hold true?” His father’s face is hopeful.

It doesn’t. But who are you to tell him that? That ‘benevolent being’ never existed in the first place. You’ve always been this.

The vivisepulture part was true, but the beginning? Debatable. Your memories of ‘being human’ are foggy; you’re not sure if they’re real or someone else’s. Satoru’s is the clearest thus far because you abide within him. And he’s young, there’s little to garner.

What other nonsense has been made truth in the time you have withdrawn from the world?

He wants to go down that rabbit hole.

You grab the cube and run, warping reality in your wake.

You are many things.

Alive, you are first; secondly a parent, a teacher and a friend; cursed thrice times over; quarter something-something or rather by this point; and last, your hollowness complements the damned hallowed.

You are Gojou Satoru but not.

His skin peels off in delicate scales from the speed you’re going.

The first and last time you puppeteer his body, Satoru invokes his father’s contract with you for the second time in his life.

Like the first occurrence, it happens by accident.

(The first occurrence is a stain on your memory.

Mitsue looked her grandson in the eye and tasked him with a futile quest, one that would decide the future headship of their clan. You personally thought such practices outdated but you held his tongue and grit his teeth, faking laughter for the audience they had.

She reminded you too much of your youngest, both in the way she cobbled herself together and how she suspended time long enough to catch a glimpse of you hunched beside him, flickering in and out of her void domain with the ease of a toddler climbing free of their crib.

Beautiful and deadly.

He nearly died.)

He is unaware of the finer details, but where his consciousness ends at getting a scalpel to head, it rouses again with him standing before the man who has the blood of Satoru’s friends on his hands and left him to bleed out undecapitated.

On a high from escaping Izanami’s clutches, he sprouts math and whatever nonsense off the top of his head and ragdolls up, down, across and through the air.

He feels like a being higher than the gods. Doesn’t mean he is, though.

He’s barely in control.

Violent swashes of red and blue fill the sky. He sees beyond his opponent rising from the earth the heavens condemning his breaching unto their space.

“Hey, stranger, did you know purple was her favourite colour?”

“Whose?”

|

“Satoru.”

“Hm?”

“You are Satoru, right?”

“Yessssss?”

“You… you’ve got a bit of…” Suguru gestures vaguely around the lower half of his face.

“Oh.” You rub the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb and see it come back tinged pink. The drying drool on his sleeves is used to rub the rest of the blood away. “Thanks.”

“Have you found her?”

“Amanai? Her body?” Suguru flinches. Your gaze is drawn to the cultists clapping. “Yeah, I did. Sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?”

“I don’t know,” Satoru says. “I feel like killing these people. Should we?”

“Why?”

“I’m still h̸͓̟͐u̴̦͗n̴͇͈̅͛g̵͔̒̕ŗ̴͕͂͘y̸͚͍͘͘.” Two wasn’t even a snack.

“I’m angry that we failed too. But we can’t do anything now, it’s out of our hands.”

|

Several days later finds him back at the entrance of the storehouse, none the worse for wear.

In the shadow of the building grows a lone weed.

“It’s changed.”

“Of course it has.”

“Will I end up like them?”

“Yes.”

[valhallanrose]

15 for all and E for you :3c

Hell yeah

15) What do you most relate to the OC? What image do you think of when you think of your OC?

I know this probably wants me to be serious but there are images I have saved I want to share for them, so I’ll give that and some thoughts as to why I think that image relates to them. 

Zelda

I really like the ‘stepped out for a walk’ energy I’m getting off this one, which is a very Zelda thing. She’s not so granola she’ll be the menace in your local target walking barefoot and calling shoes ‘feet prisons’, but there is always that call back to nature for her, one where when the world gets too fast she knows that nature will always be constant. Hang her hat, set her basket or purse aside, and let her fingers run through the tall grass. Would throw a cattail on concrete to watch it explode into a cloud of fuzz and then be picking it out of her hair for the rest of the afternoon, though. 

Tamryn

There is something about this image that radiates such a sense of calm and peace to me. Tam loves the beach and he loves the water, loves the feel of water and sand against his skin (to a degree). But I think part of it is that for all his heartache he’s had in his life, he has the joy and the peace to do something as simple as wading in the shallows and searching for shells, or if he’s lucky, tiny sea creatures to cross his fingers as if they say hello.

Astoria

I suppose this is one of those things where you can tie Astoria back to me, but if you broke them down to a single feeling, it’s the very same one I get when I roam antique shops. The ones that are packed to a point of near tripping hazards because they feel so welcoming compared to the some of the tidy, pretentious ones I’ve been in before. It’s the gravitating towards boxes of photographs and postcards, yellowing with time, because you know they are someone’s and it’s the closest tangible proof of ghosts you’ll ever have. You thumb through them, not really looking for anything but always finding something, fragments of people long since gone and knowing that at least their visage lingers a little while longer. 

(A personal note: I own a postcard from Grand Rapids, Michigan, circa 1912 going off the postmark. From what I can read of the handwriting, it tells a loved one how big a young child (Maggie or Peggie, it’s hard to tell) has gotten since they’ve seen each other,  and how they so look forward to Christmastime together. I bought it, because it felt wrong to let that bit of simple love and joy get lost for no reason other than someone thought it had no value. I think I paid a quarter for it.)

Miriyam

Peaches - which ironically is an endearment Miriyam uses for partners - will always be a first choice. Peaches are harvested in summer, when the year is warmest and the sun brightest in my part of the world. I always think about Miriyam at a market and a little bit of sweat sticking her hair to her cheeks, and while she may be a little uncomfortable physically, she’s never been more relaxed. It’s something about the big blue sky and the idea of her laughing as she picks her way through buckets of peaches, telling you that she has to find the right ones, or sharing them while sitting in the grass together somewhere where you can both slow down. 

Matilda

It’s always the stars with Tilly. Her childhood home in Venterre had an unobstructed view of the sky, and her older sibling Clemente taught her how to make star charts and read the sky as if it were a book from one of their lessons. It’s the knowledge that we as humans are all made of stardust, in a way, and despite being part of the great cosmos once, we have come to be here - to be a part of this world, as unique as we are meant to be and unapologetically. I’ve said before that Matilda’s story is going to be about self-discovery, and in a way, it could be said that it’s about her finding her own place among a grand universe of stars.

Yuèqín

I think if I had to tie a feeling to Yuèqín, it’s a sense of yearning. Not romantic, in this context, but something in your soul you know you have never known but cannot shake the ache for regardless. Growing up she always heard these joyous, romantic stories of her father, and dreamed of a life in which she might have known him - the child who always felt out of place and dreamed of someone who knew what it was like to never feel at home in your own skin. At least, until she learned that there was still a chance, to satisfy that dreamer child so she may never have to dream again. It’s why she keeps going, even when it all seems hopeless, always reaching for a day when she at least has an answer. 

Temperance

Temperance is a big ‘dark luxury’ aesthetic person, as anyone who saw my house moodboards asks a couple posts ago. But I like to think of their unguarded side, the girlish (gnc) side of them in those great halls of their home that they haven’t quite filled with furniture and has the chance to twirl around an empty ballroom. Let them light some candles, let go a little, let them be someone they haven’t been in a very long time. 

E) Which OC do you think is most like you?

Oh god, this question is making my brain squick, lmao.

When I started writing my OCs, Zelda began as a self-insert way back when, and then I started fleshing her out to be her own creature, so she has not been for quite a while. I think Astoria is a pretty obvious contender for anyone who knows me because Scotland influence + history dweeb...also arguably kind of oblivious. The amusing choice is Miriyam: useless lesbian and generally enthused by cats.

[crazyclouds5281]

Unnamed Bloodborne Fic

Basically NG+, except the Hoonter is super confused.

This… Transformation, was not what he had expected. He’d been hoping for the Dream to end, to see the sun rise upon the gothic city of Yharnam. Instead, he became the very thing he swore to destroy.

“Are you cold?”

The Plain Doll approached, picking up his odd, worm-like body. She held him gently in her grasp, cradling him like a child- which, he supposed, he now was. An infant Great One, he knew instinctively. The arcane power of the Cosmos lay just beneath his skin. Out of reach, for the moment, but its very existence was telling. The consumption of the umbilical cords, grotesque as it was, had irrevocably changed him. For better or worse, only time would tell.

“Oh, Good Hunter,” the Doll crooned, her soft voice calming to the newborn Great One. Some rest would not be amiss, he decided. The fight with the Moon Presence had taken the last of his energy. Releasing his tenuous hold on consciousness, the Good Hunter drifted off to sleep, the hummed lullaby of the Plain Doll soothing something deep within his soul.

It’s been a long night.

----

He awoke to the ramblings of a wheelchair-bound man, who wore a large-brimmed hat that covered the top half of his face, while a greasy beard covered the bottom half.

“Oh, yes… Paleblood. Well, you’ve come to the right place. Yharnam is the home of blood ministration. You need only unravel its mystery. But… Where’s an outsider like you to begin? Easy; with a bit of Yharnam blood of your own.” The man tilted his head up, allowing a view of his eyes. Except, there were no eyes under the hat- merely a mass of scarred flesh. It would have been repulsive, if he wasn’t used to much more grisly sights. It triggered something, though. A sense of deja-vu, as if he’d seen this before…

“But first, you’ll need a contract.”

----

“Good. All signed and sealed.”

Awareness came back slowly. He didn’t remember falling asleep once more. Had he blacked out? He couldn’t remember signing anything, so what was this man talking about?

“Now, let’s begin the transfusion. Oh, don’t you worry. Whatever happens, you may think it all merely a bad dream.” The elderly man began laughing, and his vision blurred. Darkness took over.

----

He woke slowly, groggily. His head was spinning, and he allowed it to flop to the left. It was dark, but even with the lack of light, he could see the crimson pooling on the floor, a puddle of blood that was gradually growing. The wolf-like visage of a Scourge Beast stared at him, eyes glowing in the blackness as it emerged from the ichor. It took two steps forward, gnarled feet splashing loudly, and slowly reaching over with a clawed hand. Then, moments before its serrated digit could tear out his throat, it was suddenly set on fire.

Flailing wildly, the Scourge Beast roared in agony, before falling to the ground, dead. Its corpse disappeared right before his eyes- whether it turned to ash, or returned to whatever hellish pit it came from, he did not know. His attention was stolen by the tiny, deformed, humanoid creatures that pulled themselves over the side of his gurney. First one, on the left, and a second on the right, then a third at his feet. They crawled along his body, pulling themselves toward his head, which was once more getting foggy. He allowed his head to fall back, gaze on the ceiling, and found more of the little creatures hovering over his face. What were the Messengers doing here? His eyelids slid shut, and moments before he once more surrendered to unconsciousness, he heard a voice. A very familiar voice, which sent a thrill of serenity through his perplexed mind.

“Ahh, you’ve found yourself a Hunter.”

----

He woke again. This time, there was nothing waiting for him; no demented man in a wheelchair, no Beasts, no Messengers. Just a dark room, one he remembered quite well. After all, it was the very place where the Nightmare began.

Iosefka’s Clinic.

What was he doing here, though? He should have been in the Dream, under the care of the Plain Doll as he grew into his eldritch powers as a Great One. Unless… Did the Hunter’s Dream collapse? It wouldn’t be very surprising, considering he killed both the caretaker and the progenitor of the little subspace.

He forced himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He took a moment to just breathe, as blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy for a moment. He pushed on, standing up and swaying on his feet for a moment, then walked over to one of the two doors. He attempted to push it open, but it would not budge. Odd. He thought he’d opened all the doors in the Clinic.

Ignoring the oddity, he walked over to the other door, which was easily pushed open. A quick trip down the flight of stairs, and he was in a fairly empty room. A slam changed his course, and he went back the way he came, only to find that the door he came through was now locked. He grabbed the handles, rattling the hinges, but to no avail. Then, a voice on the other side of the barrier began to speak.

“Are you… Out on the Hunt?” She sounded familiar. “Then, I’m very sorry, but… I cannot open this door.” The feeling of deja-vu was getting stronger. “I am Iosefka.” His eyes widened, and he ignored the rest of her words. This was not possible.

Iosefka was dead.

An impostor? No, that didn’t sound right. Besides, what were the odds of there being another? He’d already killed the first poser, who’d been responsible for the death of the actual Iosefka. So, who was this woman that claimed to be the nurse?

“This is all I can offer you.” A vial was slipped through a hole in the glass. It carried a yellow-tinged liquid, and he knew instantly what it was; one of Iosefka’s refined blood vials. He gingerly took the glass in his gloved hand. This was all the proof he needed, that this was the real Iosefka. The impostor had never been able to reproduce the quality of blood required. Hadn’t even bothered, since she was too busy turning patients into monstrosities. And yet, if this was truly Iosefka…

How?

As far as he knew, she was not a Hunter of the Dream. Death was the end for the nurse, not another torturous beginning. Beyond confused, he stumbled back down the stairs, and then down another flight, staring at the yellow liquid the entire time.

How?

It was only the reflexes beaten into him by dozens of lifetimes in the Hunt that allowed him to avoid getting his head torn off. Instinct forced him to throw himself backwards, narrowly dodging the razor-sharp claws of a Scourge Beast. With a deft hand, he pocketed the vial, then grabbed the Rakuyo strapped to his hip. With a violent heave, he ripped the blade from its sheath, decapitating the lunging Beast in one swift move, before sliding it back in its scabbard. He released the breath he was holding, relaxing his muscles. The exchange hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, but the concentration required was immense. Every time he used this weapon, he was reminded how his victory over Lady Maria definitely had nothing to do with skill. Luck had carried him surprisingly far, its usefulness only surpassed by his refusal to stay dead (or inability, but he tried not to dwell on that too much, for the sake of his waning sanity).

With a sigh, he exited the bloody room, walked up a flight of stairs, and stepped out into the Clinic’s courtyard. A quick glance confirmed that the gate to the graveyard was locked, despite the trouble he’d gone through to open it. Almost as if something had reset all his progress…

It was a thought for another time, when he was back in the Dream.

Pushing open the larger gate, he walked out onto the cobbled streets of Yharnam. Up a slight incline, he turned left, quickly sidestepping the addled Huntsman hiding behind a carriage, who slammed an axe into the stone at his feet. His Rakuyo flashed, and the man’s hat slid off his head, revealing the inside of his skull. Flicking the blood off his blade, he sheathed it, then hurried over to a lever. Pulling it, a metal ladder dropped down, and he quickly ascended. There, in front of him, was his goal: a lamp. Clicking his fingers, the lamp ignited with an eerie glow, and Messengers sprouted from the ground, waving their hands lethargically. He paid them no mind, instead kneeling and focusing on the Hunter’s Mark, engraved within his mind. Mist encroached upon his vision, and he entered the Dreamlands.

----

A blink. That was all the time it took for him to cross between dimensions, and he was now standing in the place he viewed as a home. Or as a safe place to rest, at the very least. The house was no longer up in flames, and the mist was not oppressively heavy, weighing down on his very soul. The Plain Doll sat upon her perch, head bobbing up and down as she dozed. Seeing the subtle movement calmed some of his inner turmoil. He wasn’t sure he would be able to handle it if she, the one who supported him through the entirety of his hellish journey, was no longer around. Perhaps it was a bit strange to be so attached to a mere doll, but he could feel it, deep within his veins; she was much more than a construct of wood. More than what Gehrman made her.

Speaking of which...

He stalked up the steps, steeling himself. However, even his incredible strength of will, forged through countless experiences with the unholy Great Ones, could not stop the shock that jolted through him. Sitting there in his wheelchair, looking as nonchalant as ever, was the First Hunter.

“Ah-hah… You must be the new Hunter. Welcome, to the Hunter’s Dream. Or should I say, welcome back?”

[scaras-world]

it was an eminent tale between two divinities which is known to us all. a story when the god of the dead came to claim his bride who beguiled him at first sight when he was just passing by the mortal realm. it was a lovely love story. but, a god as supreme as the governor of the underworld—his heart, isn't rumoured to be stone cold? so how did a young lass managed to captivate him? nobody knows since well, for starters, no one dared to question their affection for one another in fear of incurring hades's wrath albeit, is winged cupid truly blind? 𝗻𝗮𝘆. it was all the work of magic and charms and spells and well, it was all done by our lovely dame, perse. curious, aren't you? why don't you keep on reading? let's move on with the story.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

proserpina, the most favoured daughter of demeter and the goddess of spring is seen as innocuous and amiable by many albeit few knew of her true colours as a mischievous wild child who sought for naught but boundless adventures and action in her "boorish" life, or so she calls it. albeit with her mother's overwhelming protection, she was caged. an incarcerated little bird whose only wish is to fly freely and unveil the mysteries of the most mysterious place on cosmos, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱.

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her heart gnaws at the thought of not being able to explore the land where the dead resides. albeit, she—proserpina knew herself that even if her mother, demeter does not limit her antics, venturing into the underworld is still impossible for her unless zeus helps her for the necropolis is a sacred place where no being, mortal nor immortal is allowed. if one dares, they are not to step out alive for the ruler of that dark world is rumoured to be cold-blooded and cruel. hades, he's one of the most feared gods besides poseidon and zeus. the man is supposedly her uncle albeit not even once did she saw him. 'maybe he really is an aloof divinity.' howbeit she is known for her intrepidity. which is why, despite risking the wrath of the almighty god of gehenna, persephone cracked her own plan.

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looking for her father first, persephone inquired about hades in a roundabout manner. she asked zeus to tell her his tales of valour until she managed to question him about the rumoured god. "𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗺 𝗵𝗶𝗺. 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲." zeus replied when she asked him about the man's weakness. and for persephone, love is naught but a child's play. with the enchanted osmanthus necklace that the nymphs gifted her in her coming-of-age, she is confident that hades will fall prey to her plot. they told her that it can charm any man or immortal without fail. afterall, zeus himself was a victim to the object. 𝗜𝘁'𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝘁𝗿𝘆.

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proserpina then waited for the fourth full moon of the month to come. the dame lie in wait for hades to pass by the lake of niche. according to zeus, the man would always travel above ground once a year to see if there is anomaly in the realm and after that, hades would coop himself in the land of dead and not come to the surface until the year ends. and this is the sole place that he would pass by. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

the lands surrounding the lake is devoid of life. the aura of the place is almost, sad. so being the kind deity she is, proserpina thought that she'd do the god of the dead a favor and grew some flowers in the vicinity. in the blink of an eye, the once barren land is now brimming with elegance and tantalizing floras. but, not for long. the zephyr who came to dance with her in the field of flowers fled in hastiness. the once wonderful place suddenly became engulfed with the scent of death as the flowers started to wither and die. 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲?

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as the brewing tempest of deathly aura stopped right infront of her, the black smoke take form of a man more beautiful than aphrodite herself. his delicate features along with his silken hair and melancholic orbs filled with naught but confusion enchanted her. the man infront of her then gaze at her, intensely and she returned it with fervor. 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗺 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴. persephone knew that this man is hades. she didn't expect his dashing visage but his aura speaks for himself. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

"𝘆𝗼𝘂," hades started whilst pointing his finger to the woman infront of him. "𝗺𝗲." she said, her voice sounded like a sweet melody, a music to his ears. he then noticed the annoying curse that keeps on trying to get under his skin the moment he step inside his territory. he already noticed for quite sometime now about the place filled with charmed incantations in order to lure someone crazy. he thought that the one who set the whole fracas must've been out of their minds for it is known to gods that this place is his and yet, they dared. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

but now, he's in dilemma. he thought that the culprit was some major god who's looking for a fight but now that he's infront of her, it turns out that the transgressor is just some minor goddess whose name is not even known to him. normally, he would either let them off the hook with just some light punishment especially when they look apologetic and scared albeit the little one infront of him right now is not even showing remorse rather, she almost looked expectant. what is she scheming? should he scare her for a bit? 𝗜 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗱𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁. 𝘀𝗵𝗲'𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗹𝗲𝗲 𝗶𝗳 𝗶 𝗷𝗼𝗸𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲.

"𝗜 𝗮𝗺, 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲," he uttered in a slightly louder voice in an attempt to intimidate the nameless deity infront of him albeit her answer came off as a surprise. "𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲!" the lass exclaimed, she sounded almost excited to him which is a first for him. 𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆.ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲.ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

he whispered to himself and left for the portal of the underworld which is placed on the boundaries of sparta and athens and just when he was about to enter the gates of what mortals dubbed as hell, an ebony haired lady step inside first before he could even enter. 𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗵𝗶𝗺. 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻.

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𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐬, 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐭

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝒄𝒐𝒔𝒎𝒐𝒔.

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the peaceful nights that hades used to have in the underworld is no more. the mighty god who governs the dead is now reduced into a guard of a dame whose silly antics caused disturbance in the underworld entirely. although her curiosity meant no harm to the beings who resides on his territory, most of them were hostile to gods who are unknown to them and hades cannot count the number of times that he had to save the distresssd dame. and despite the life threatening events that transpired, she still refuses to leave which puzzled him even more. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

"𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘂𝗹." she would always say those words whenever he's asking when she would leave. he find it quite, baffling. this place is the 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱. 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗮𝗺𝗻𝗲𝗱, 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘄? 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗻𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝗴𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀." he would always reply to her in hopes of enlightening her mind that the underworld is not as beautiful as she viewes it albeit, it was ineffective. "𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝘆, 𝗵𝘂𝗵. 𝗶𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗲𝘀, 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗲𝗹𝗱𝘀 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗲, 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀, 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 𝗶𝘀 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗻. 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗺𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗹𝗹." she told him gently and not long after, the barren rocks where both are resting became dusts and in the blink of an eye, the somber setting is blanketed with lush vegetation whilst treasures of above

ground started to blossom right infront of his eyes. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

"𝗳𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱," hades is lost in awe as he mindlessly muttered those words, eyes filled with pure confusion as he reached for the carnations delicately. his chest is pounding as emotions not known to him filled his very being. 𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶'𝗺 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘀?ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

"𝗵𝗼𝘄...?" he heard persephone ask herself as she stare at the field of flowers albeit, not for long. she shifted her gaze from the field to him as she took his hands clumsily but gently and started to dance around him happily. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐮𝐭, 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥.ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

albeit for hades, moments of happiness had always been fleeting and this time, it isn't different. for not long after, zeus descended to the underworld to take persephone above ground. mortals are dying due to demeter's sorrow of losing her most favoured child and persephone must come back. although he was quite hesitant to give her back to zeus, hades yielded. "𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗱𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗼, 𝘄𝗵𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲?" zeus asked, curious. hades was never one to speak about his desires. out of all the immortals, he is the most humane for not only is he selfless, hades is the most magnanimous of them all. he's the contrast of all divinities.

hades however just simply smiled as he replied, "𝘂𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝗶 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗰𝗲 𝗺𝘆𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗻𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗿𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝘁. 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲. 𝗰𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶 𝗮𝗺 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝗱𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁," he then left zeus and visited the garden of wondrous flowers and gazes at the spirits who are enjoying the company of the earthly fields. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

𝐞𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐮𝐦, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬

𝐞𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐮𝐦. 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑒

𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐞.

his quiet life came back to him faster than he expected. hades didn't see persephone and zeus off. not that he can't but he choose not to. he's afraid that he might do something unnecessary thus, he choose not to show his face. it had been four months since she left his realm. to say that everything became quiet again is an understatement. but, everything was supposedly this way in the first place.

he then lie down and closed his eyes in an attempt to catch some rest but his sleep was interrupted by a loud knocking on his door. 𝗻𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗵𝗶𝗺. 𝗻𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗲.

the moment he opened his door, a very familiar grin greeted him. "𝗵𝗼𝘄?" he accidentally voiced his own thoughts to the beaming persephone who is currently eating the fruits of the underworld. "𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸?" she answered his question with another question albeit he can figure out what she did by the looks of it. but,

"𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻," he said, pertaining to the rule of the underworld about eating its food rendering one unable to be free of the place. its like a chain that can only be broken by death. "𝗶 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁. 𝗮𝗹𝗯𝗲𝗶𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝘄. 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲, 𝗶 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲. 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗼 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸, 𝗶 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗱𝘀. 𝗰𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻'𝘁 𝗶?" she lamented for the most part albeit in the end, persephone puffed her chest out proudly as if expecting him to praise her. albeit what she did is not worthy of praise. it is a curse that cannot be undone. she is forever bounded to this gloomy place which brims of death.

noticing the frown in his face, persephone sighed and smiled lightly at the frustrated god, "𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗹𝗼𝗼��. 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝗶 𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗶 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲, 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘀, 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘂𝘀, 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗿—" hades cut her off before she could even list all the things that she love in this place. "𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘄?" he asked in hastiness as persephone repeated her words about cerberus but he asked even before cerberus and when she said the word you, hades's face turn beet red as he turn his head and walked away from her while muttering, "𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲." albeit persephone ran after him while she teasingly chirped beside him, "𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲. 𝗶 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵, 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆. 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗶 𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗺 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝘀𝗺𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗵𝘂𝘀 𝗻𝗲𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗯𝗲𝗶𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝗼𝗹 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗴𝗵 𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗼, 𝗶 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗺𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝘆 𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗹," she said shamelessly in a dramatic manner which made hades blush even more.

persephone just chuckled beside him upon seeing his reaction and asked, "do you think you can love me?" hades then halted and replied, "i think i can. although such profound emotion scares me, it's worth risking."ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

╱ 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕.

I've seen a prompt in the tumblr from the past but I cannot remember where but its has this "wild perse" concept. Thus, I've written my own version

[anathtsurugi]

From the Light Comes the Dark - A Lasat Creation Myth

Image Credit

The Awakening of the Ashla and the Splitting of the Bogan

-

 In the beginning, all was still.

 Love breathed within that still silence, but it had no form. If it could be told how long love slept, unformed within that stillness, such a telling would last for all of time. And so it was before time that love and life slept, cradled dreaming within that silent stillness.

 But as the dream continued, it only continued to grow more lovely, until the dreamer at long last began to understand that they dreamt, becoming aware of themselves within their cradle. And it was in that moment of understanding that the first note of being sounded within the stillness.

 The dreamer was the Ashla.

 Awakening to the beauty of the dream, the Ashla began to sing it into being. They sang of the vivid depths of the cosmos and the jewel bright glitter of the stars, each note of their song giving birth to a star. They sang whole worlds into being, all glimmering within the deep black of the Ashla's cradle.

 They sang land and sea and sky into being. They sang rivers and mountains and trees and fruit and flowers. All of it sprang to brilliant, dazzling life at the sound of the Ashla's voice. The dream had come awake in all its beauty and all of creation danced and sang together with the Ashla.

 The newborn, ancient creator was young and naive, knowing nothing but joy and precious innocence. Time was yet young and its passage not yet known. The Child who danced and sang in the new awakening did not yet understand time and change.

 The Ashla's first change came as they danced upon the surface of a starlit ocean, singing jubilantly to the rising moons.

 Why have you done this?

 For the first time in their existence, the Ashla ceased their dance, their music falling silent in confusion. They had not asked this...not of themself. Only...there was no one else. So they must have. But...how?

 "I do not understand."

 Do you not?

 Search as they might, the Ashla could not find the source of the question.

 "I have only...done what I know I must."

 And what do you know?

 "I know that the dream was beautiful. It was so beautiful I had to sing of it, and the song has become more beautiful than even the dream."

 Has it? Truly? Perhaps it were better that you had remained asleep...asleep and dreaming.

 Finally the Ashla looked down, down into the black and swirling depths of the ocean beneath, and at last saw the source of the questions.

 It was their own reflection.

 It was them...and yet not them. There was no joy in this cold image, only mistrust and hard accusation. The eyes that pierced from this strange visage were cold...so cold...and yet they burned with an emotion the Child did not understand.

 "Who are you?"

 "You."

 You.

 The first word the dark reflection uttered.

 You. The Dark You.

 Bog An.

 Bogan.

 "I...you...that cannot be."

 "Can it not? After all, was it not you who gave voice to all this? Is it not, in some way, a reflection of you?"

 "If you are me, how is it you can speak without my leave?"

 The Bogan laughed at this, leaning up close to the surface of the water, beckoning the Ashla closer.

 "The only voice I have is the one you give me," the Bogan whispered to them, and with that, the twisted figure reached up and pulled itself out of the water, rising to stand beside the Ashla as a completed thing. "You made me, Pretty Fool, as surely as you have made everything else," the Bogan hissed.

 The Ashla stepped back from their fellow being, and as they looked upon the Bogan in horror, they knew fear for the first time.

 "I...then I unmake you!"

 Again, the Bogan laughed, sneering. "If you had the power to unmake me, it would already be done. What is made cannot truly be unmade. It is your fear that shapes me, your own doubt and uncertainty, because I am the part of you that dares to question why you have done this."

 "Why have I done what?" the Ashla pressed, afraid, uncomprehending.

 "Sing. Bring this all about. Why did the dream have to end? It was so beautiful, and now it is gone forever. Why did things have to change at all? Everything could have remained blissfully asleep and dreaming and been just as happy, but then you had to go and make that lovely dream end. This is no awakening. It is only a nightmare to replace the dream. Perhaps this false dream of yours praises you, Ashla, but I do not. I hate you."

 The Ashla knew not what to say to this. Hate? An emotion so strongly opposed to everything they had ever felt, it had to be given such a harsh name? How had hate come from their own heart?

 "Why?" they whispered, broken, ready to collapse beneath that weight. But despite its professed hatred, the Bogan moved in to catch them as they fell, cradling them, as the stillness had once cradled them.

 "Because in spite of everything, dearest Ashla, you are all I have. My hate is what I am. And because of that, I cannot hope to destroy you. I can only twist what you love for hate of you," the dark creature insisted in the midst of the passionate embrace.

 The young creator offered little resistance, so undone by this being born of their own negative feelings. For that small pace of eternity, the Ashla would have gone quietly into that yawning chasm of hate without a fight. And in that moment, young Fool that it was, the Ashla also hated.

 "LEAVE ME!" the Ashla cried aloud, power and violence and hatred to match the Bogan's own bursting outward from its heart, casting back its foe. "You will not touch me again! I cast you out from my love for all of time, wretched creature! If hate is all you will ever know, you have no place in my song. GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

 Even though the Bogan cowered in fear before the Ashla's power, it could not help a small moment of insidious pride at the sight of such fury, such raw hatred.

 "You see?" the Bogan declared just before it fled. "You are not any different than I am."

 And only once the Bogan was gone did the Ashla begin to regret their actions, to understand what they and the Bogan actually were to each other.

 "I'm sorry," the poor Fool whispered in the shattered silence following the other being's departure. "I did not understand. I was frightened. But I do not hate you, Bogan. How can I hate you? You are part of me. No matter how dark and twisted you become, you are still a part of me. Whatever you do to me in the name of your pain, I will forgive you. For you said it best, Dear Heart, you are me, and I love you as I love myself."

 But the Bogan could not hear the Ashla's apology or their forgiveness, no matter how deeply felt. For the Bogan's heart was born hard and Foolish, incapable of knowing or accepting love. It was fear and hate that would divide the ages to come.

 Even so, it was in this moment of revelation that the Ashla felt the next change begin inside of her.

 In the face of the Bogan's violence and hatred, the Ashla had forgotten what it was that had once cradled her in her long dream. In her despair, she had remembered only darkness, endless darkness closing in around the edges of her lovely dream, but that had never been so. Holding her tightly during her long sleep, as she dreamt of the age to come, had been love. Whatever had happened since the Awakening, she had been born from love, and her only desire now was to give that love back.

 And so the Ashla called out to the love that was within all things. Everything she had sung and danced into being held a tiny sliver of the love that had once cradled her, and unlike hatred, even the tiniest spark of love is infinite. With the song of love sung between the Ashla and all of creation, that power flowed manifold into the reborn goddess and impregnated her, making her the first mother.

 This new life was made not of the Ashla's own singing, but of the combined efforts of herself and all she had sung into being. And as she felt that life grow inside of her, the Ashla knew joy once more. The larger she grew, the more radiant she became. Her song and dance were softer now, but no less joyous. And when she finally gave birth to a daughter, the cosmos sang with her.

 The Ashla named the baby at her breast Ashiryn – the Healing Dawn. And as she carried the little girl across the stars, often she would sing to her.

 "It is you, my precious child, you who are the beginning. Not I."

 The Ashla protected and cared for her daughter as best she could, but she knew better than any that not all of creation sang for Ashiryn. The Bogan still lurked along the vast edges of the cosmos, biding his time, awaiting the day when he might twist that which was most precious to the Ashla.

-

So...whatcha think? Wanna see some more stories?