#* verse: half sick of shadows

[needcurse]

{ * ALT. VERSE; ULLA MOROZOVA ✳ . . . songstress of os alta, the sister of the shadow, a woman who once belonged to the waves

INTRODUCTION,

once a sildroher from the furthest reaches of fjerda. ulla morozova was the abandoned child of baghra left to live out her life beneath the waves in the depths of the isenvee. she was a gifted songcaster but not well loved in the undersea court as she was seen a strange and foreign creature given her ashen appearance. she only begins to gain the favor of the royal family when she begins to write spells alongside the favored court singer, signy. through their friendship ulla is able to join the chorus and royal family on land to walk amongst the humans.

it is in this castle by the sea that ulla meets her brother, aleksandr who reveals to her the truth behind her lineage. ulla is half-human and her health and appearance greatly improve after splitting her tail to walk on land. aleksandr entreats with her and asks his sister to join him in his game of kings and queens. at first, ulla has no interest in the treatment of grisha on land as she had lived amongst the ocean-folk for the whole of her life. although, the longer she strays from the sea the more her shadow summoning abilities become prevalent. she needs a tutor and she agrees to join her brother on his travels. she never returns to the sea with signy and the others and thus she endures the trauma and destruction her fire enchantment brought upon the royal family.

SETTLING IN OS ALTA,

year pass and the two siblings have established their positions amongst the royal family.    it is rumored that shadow summoners are always born as a set of twins,    this is a ruse both aleksandr and ulla given into.    they have decades between them but their youthful faces and like appearances suggest they lend themselves to this narrative.    all the more favor to make both seem mythical as it is common knowledge that they are the ancestors of the supposed "black heretic".    during the time,    like her bother,    ulla takes on a pseudonym and is called ursula after the saint of waves.    little does the public her and the saint are one in the same.    

during the events of the original trilogy,    while aleksandr is the leader of the second army ulla takes upon herself to establish a foothold for grisha in religion.    she is a song leader at the palace chapel and she works closely with the apparat both in and out of services.    she plays the role of the pious witch in repentance speaking often of the fold and how the time of "sun" will be upon them soon.    she often tells the story of her namesake and how she was a woman of faith punished for her belief in the saints.    although,    it is not her preaching that gains favor amongst the masses.    her song can convince even the most vehement non-believers of her cause.    

by all intents and purposes she is not viewed as soldier.    she is more widely recognized as,    the dark jewel,    in the queen's retinue.    she is a symbol of faith as well as a prized asset to the royal family.    she is frequently seen at banquets wielding a harp and the deep,    richness of her voice.    she may not be part of the army but her song has swayed many a politician into complacency and the sky seems to shift whenever a melody leaves her lips.    more omen than weapon but no less of a threat for it.  

PERSONS OF INTEREST,

» the apparat: by the nature of their work these two work quite closely together.    their alliance can be described as tenuous at best.    both are playing the same game and they use religion as a means to gain influence in the capital.    they portray an image of a unite front but more often that not the two at odds with one another but cannot make a direction move opposite given the optics of a open quarrel.   

» the darkling ( @greeksmyth ): twins are often seen as parts of a matching set,    yet despite ulla and aleksandr's like appearances they occupy different political spheres in the capital.    their quarters are adjacent to one another though and they take meals together away from the other summoners more often than not.    ulla is overall less of a mysterious figure than her brother as her occupation as a musician sweetens people to her presence more than that of general.    this a frequent fact she lauds over her brother and they bicker often about as brothers and sisters do.   

» baghra: ulla and baghra scarcely have a relationship.    despite the years ulla has never forgiven her mother for abandoning her.    it was aleksandr alone that swayed her to come to ravka in the end.    she visits baghra's hut infrequently and they speak as strangers do.    no one would believe the old woman and the songstress were related given how sour they are in one another's presence.    because of this,    it was aleksandr who trained ulla when she was beginning to summon shadows.   

[ofmaddogs]

-- THE MOUNTAIN MAGIC WAS THE ONLY EXCUSE SHE HAD FOR IT. The mines shifted and twisted oddly as Beth climbed free. Jack wasn't behind her anymore. The walls glittered with red streaks of mineral.

At least she still had her flamethrower. Six shots left. She had buzzed her hair, easier to keep clean in the old cabin. A warm beanie from some Mad Dog she'd never met. Scars on her neck, a pouch of mistletoe and yew hung around her sweater.

Someone was there in the shadows. Near where the mines met the cliffside-- where Jack had hauled her up. Where she'd--

She'd survived. Torn in half but alive.

Moonlight filtered through the opening. Was it two bodies or just one? Hard to tell who was alive, her magic-birthed night vision seemed to waver. Beth's orange eyes glowed in the shadows, above the blue pilot light on her flamethrower.

"Hello?" She called in a hoarse whisper. "I'm here to help you."

// @pastfled beth saving beth ? :333333c

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

To Dream of Home | D. Targaryen

▹ Pairing: Daenerys Targaryen x Stark!Reader

▹ Genre: Fluff with mentioned Angst

▹ Words: ~2.5k

▹ Summary: A storm at Dragonstone brings you and Daenerys together and allows for confessions of love to slip.

▹ Note: I am very gay, that is all. My love for the Targaryen's has returned and y'all are gonna be sick of me.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

A storm raged on the island of Dragonstone. 

Charcoal skies were dappled with thick silver-black clouds that brought the heavy rains that shook the keep. Roaring thunder and electric blue lightning. Treacherous seas and a storm that could rival the vengeance of a god. The inhabitants of Dragonstone seemed acclimated to the severe weather.

You, however, were used to winter winds and thick snowfall. Not devastating rain and earth rattling thunder. Sleep eluded you which led you to where you were now. Locked away in a small room near your chambers, you made a makeshift altar upon your arrival to Dragonstone with your half-brother Jon.

“You spend an awful amount of time here.” 

The voice cut through the silence, an intrusion of your time of peace. Kneeled before the makeshift altar you’d created, a half dozen flickering candles illuminated the center of your face and carved shadows on the contours of it. Wordlessly, you finished the final verses of your prayer before lifting your lowered head and turning to face the intruder. 

At the doorway, not daring to cross into the room without permission, was Daenerys. Her hesitance to intrude was strange, seeing as Dragonstone was her keep you were a guest in.

Her hair was loose, waves cascading over her shoulder and down her back. The curls and creases left by her braids were the only reminders they’d been there. She wore dressing robes in hues of blue, embroidered flowers and designs following the curve of her body. She was beautiful in an ethereal kind of way. It was the type of beauty you half expected to be a facade, that one day you would wake to find Daenerys had only ever existed in your mind. 

“I find the prayer soothing,” you responded, slowly standing. Your legs were sore from kneeling on the hard stone too long. There was a crick in your neck that tinged painfully if you turned your head too far left or too far right. Yet you did your best to keep a grimace from your expression. The last thing you needed was Daenerys thinking it was her presence you found unpleasant and not the needling pain in your body. 

“Do you pray often?�� She shifted her head, causing tendrils of silvery hair to move from over her shoulder to rest along her back. Violet eyes stared at you curiously, lips pursed in an almost grin. She hardly seemed to smile, the oppressive halls of Dragonstone mimicking the impending war for the Iron Throne. 

“I do, yet I do not believe the gods are listening,” you muttered the last part quietly, followed by a deep breath. 

You glanced towards the candles and the altar, recounting every moment you’d spent kneeling before ones just like it. The years had been unkind, the horrors only growing worse as the years passed. It had shaped you into the woman you were today, hardened by deaths you never should’ve witnessed. Yet there was a part of the ten-year-old girl that still lived within you, that believed the gods were listening and that if you prayed hard enough, they would grant your wishes. 

“I never did much praying as a child, my brother didn’t see the point.” Her eyes moved past you, staring at the makeshift altar. Lit by the dim light of the room, you could see a hint of melancholy that tinged her violet eyes blue. Your gaze lowered to the ground at the mention of her brother, her upbringing so different than yours had been.

Northerners were as harsh and cold as the winter winds they grew up in, but beneath all the cold, austere facades your family was as warm as the hearth in the great hall. You’d grown up with a family who loved and cared for you. Whispers of Viserys’ anger reached even the North, his grief twisted into madness. 

Both parties may have passed, but at least you had your family's love to hold onto during the darkest nights. Daenerys had no such thing. Nothing but the hope of reclaiming her family’s stolen valor as a light in the night. 

“If you want, we could pray together.” Her attention returned to you. “It may help you sleep through the storm.”

Daenerys pondered your offer for a moment before accepting with a single nod. She crossed the threshold into the room, her gown following her like a cloak. You returned to the kneeling position you were in before, Daenerys taking her place beside you. 

“Some people believe there are specific words you have to use, that then have to be said in a specific order or the gods won’t care. But I don’t believe that, I allow my feelings to guide my prayers. Perhaps that’s why the gods aren’t answering me, but I feel better that way.” 

Daenerys nodded, watching you with such attentive eyes you had to look away in fear of the flush that would appear on your face. “Do you say them out loud?”

“Sometimes, but mostly I just mentally recite them. It feels like it's my own secret that way.” There was a hint of coyness in your voice that made a smile appear on the corners of Daenerys’ lips. 

Silence fell over the room, only the roar of thunder and the patter of rain to be heard. The candles continued to burn, the wax melting and staining the stone flooring. There was a single window in the room, a flash of lightning filling it with pale blue light. Subconsciously, your eyes moved to Daenerys’ side profile. 

Her eyes were shut and her lips slightly parted. She looked so soft and innocent, and you wondered if this was who she could’ve stayed if not for the rebellion that harshened her worldview. What would she have become if she didn’t have to fight tooth and nail every moment of her life just to survive? The quiet of the room and the soft curves of her face allowed you to imagine just how different she may be in a different lifetime. 

Your eyes had lingered on her too long, you knew, but you couldn’t look away. Your heartbeat had sped up, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. She’d always made you feel giddy like a child, but now that there was no chaos to distract you. It was easier to hone in on the feelings she elicited from you. And perhaps you shouldn’t entertain them, but a small sliver of hope kept you holding on. 

The weight of your gaze must’ve been heavy because Daenerys lifted her closed eyes from the floor and met your gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but you could’ve sworn her eyes flickered to your lips before meeting your eyes. 

“What did you pray for?” The words fell from your tongue before you could consider how invasive they could be. But she didn’t seem offended, a small blossoming on her face as another streak of lightning filled the room. It made her skin glow, making her look even more otherworldly. 

“I prayed for home.”

Her answer sent a pang of sadness that was surely reflected in your eyes. She brought dragons back to the world and freed the slaves of Slaver’s Bay while uniting the Dothraki under one banner and making them cross the sea for the first time ever. So many fantastical acts were done because of her, it was easy to forget behind it all was just a scared girl. She could make herself of steel and ice, but underneath it all would always be flesh. 

“I pray for home as well,” you uttered. 

She raised a brow, non-verbally asking you to elaborate. Her expression was so attentive, like a sponge ready to soak up whatever information you may present to her.

How could you possibly ever deny her?

“I very much wish to return to the North. The short days and long nights, the air that was sharp with a bitter chill. Grey skies and white grounds. Snowflakes that fell into my mouth as Theon and Robb chased me to the edge of the woods. The sky was bleak and void of color, but the hearths in the Great Hall made light dance in the keep, mead keeping everyone warm and merry.”

The smile on your face was tinged with melancholia, the grief making your body lock up and freeze. Those days were long gone, and you could never return to them. That didn’t stop you from wishing for it, however.

To hope that one day you might wake up and find this had all been a terrible dream. Your mother and father were still alive, Robb was preparing to become Lord of Winterfell; Arya and Sansa would continue to bicker and Jon would join the Night’s Watch to make something of himself. Everything would be right and war wouldn’t cast a shadow far darker than that of the worst winter storms. 

But those were the wishes of a naive child, the life you were in is the life you’re stuck with. But perhaps in another lifetime, you got to live out every fantasy and forgotten dream.

“That sounds beautiful.”

Daenerys’ voice pulled you from your reminiscing, your eyes wandering back to hers.

“It was.” 

“And yet you left Winterfell to come here with your brother?” 

You swallowed thickly. Winterfell had become a bittersweet place. Walking the Great Hall felt as if you were in a haunted house. The ghosts of past memories lingered in every corner, the echoes of laughter you’d never hear again filling your head. The relief being home had brought you had been short-lived, the weight of the betrayal of Theon and the Bolton’s tainting it. 

Winterfell wasn’t home anymore. 

“I--” you stuttered, unsure of just how to put your feelings into words. How do you tell someone that your home doesn’t feel like home anymore? How do you explain everything you had fought for felt empty in the end? It didn’t lift your pain or mend the scars of the past years. Instead, it ripped over the scabs and left you bleeding in the snow. 

“I don’t know if Winterfell is my home anymore.”

Daenerys hummed, nodding her head. Her expression was solemn and in her eyes, you saw understanding. She knew all too well the conflicting sentiment of fighting for something you may not want in the end. 

“When I was a girl, Viserys and I lived in a house in Braavos with a red door and lemon tree outside my window. It was the closest thing to home I’d had.” 

Subtly, you scooted closer to Daenerys, eager to unravel more of her elusive past. She hardly spoke of her life with Viserys, most of the memories too painful to reminisce on. And maybe, just maybe, her vulnerability was a sign that your feelings weren’t so unrequited. 

“What was it like?” You prod for her to speak more on her time in Braavos, enraptured by the glimmer in her eyes. 

“It was a beautiful house and so large, at least it seemed large at the time. There was even a room with a wooden beam with animal faces carved in it. I had my own room and a window to peer outside. I’d sit there for hours, watching the sunrise and the sunset.”

Her hand rested on the floor, and tentatively, you reached over and placed your hand over hers. You half expected her to brush you off, but instead, she leaned closer to you. Shoulder to shoulder, you could smell the floral oils her hair had been washed with. 

“What happened to it?” 

She sighed, eyes wandering back to the altar. “Our patron passed and the servants sent us away. But even after all these years, I still long to return. To escape to the innocence of my youth.”

A beat of silence passed, Daenerys longing words hanging in the air. 

“We could always return.”

Daenerys turned, meeting your gaze. Inches separated your face from hers, and this close up, you could see the faint freckles that created constellations on her skin. 

“And if it’s no longer standing?” 

Your heart stuttered as you hesitated on your next words. It was now or never, the time to lay your cards on the table and learn if your hope was delusional. 

“We could build a new one with a lemon tree just outside the bedroom. I’m not much of a widdler, but I could try to carve new animal faces in the wooden beams in all the rooms.”

For a moment Daenerys doesn’t speak, doesn’t even seem to breathe. Her eyes are locked with yours, wide and unblinking. Nerves begin to create a thousand cuts in your mind, perhaps you’d been too forward in your confession. 

“And you would stay with me?”

She wanted to hear you say it, to verbalize you’d never leave her side, not willingly. 

“I’m not much for the heat, but I could learn to love it to never leave your side.”

She exhaled a small puff of air, a smile lighting up her face. The apples of her cheeks were rounded and rosy, violet eyes twinkling like the stars in the sky. The sudden impulse to run your fingers through her hair came over you. And you acted on it, gently carding your fingers through the silver-gold strands of hair. 

“Then perhaps we meet in the middle and build our house with the red door in a more temperate climate.” 

She leaned closer, the tips of your noses brushing. 

“We could make our home on the mountainside? It would leave plenty of room for the dragons,” you suggested. Daenerys smiled, the whisper of a laugh leaving her mouth. The sound was the sweetest melody you’d ever heard. You’d never wanted to stop hearing it. 

“And direwolves?” 

“Maybe one or two.” 

You cut off whatever Daenerys may have replied with, placing your lips against hers. The kiss was gentle as if to seal the promise you’d made. She smiled into it, her hands weaving themselves around your neck. You pulled her closer, practically pulling her into your lap; you’d wanted her as close as possible. To bask in the warmth radiating from her body and the softness of her skin under your fingertips. 

Perhaps things would’ve been different in another lifetime, where Daenerys got to be the princess she should’ve been and you the daughter of a very much alive Ned Stark. But perhaps in those lifetimes you and Daenerys would never be more than passing acquaintances. She'd be the princess of the kingdom and you the lady-daughter of the Warden of the North. 

This lifetime felt like trying to sail through a storm and Daenerys was the lighthouse guiding you to the shore. The death and loss had been painful, but it all led you to this moment with Daenerys. It nearly made the events of the past years worth it.

"Let's win this war so we can build our silly little house," you muttered against her lips, eliciting another laugh from Daenerys before she placed her lips on yours again.

You would give Daenerys her house with the red door and the lemon tree outside, no matter the cost.   

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. ﹙ the malefic sorcerer. ﹚:  alessio agresta arias 9948e .𖹭 ݁

. . . half-psychotic, sick, hypnotic !! 🍒 : “ it's still me. please, look into my eyes. see this love for you. I'd never hurt y — that. . . was a mistake. please believe me, I need you. I need you with every fibre of my being, heart and mind. so stay. . . or I'll make you,  ”

꒰ verse ꒱ 9948e

꒰ species ꒱ wild magic sorcerer

꒰ ethnicity ꒱ italian-spaniard

꒰ age ꒱ 27

꒰ gender ꒱ male

꒰ mbti ꒱ intj

꒰ alias ꒱  the viridian sorcerer, the scorned, the emerald hex, the witch, the blight’s favourite

꒰ story ꒱ 

born a powerful sorcerer, alessio has experienced an array of magic fatigue and a series of voices within his head. after all, when a child of such power is born, what creature - demon or spirt - would not want to get their hands on it?

one voice in particular seemed to be the loudest, and throughout his life, alessio attempts to suppresses the urges. supress the destructive magic trying to leak out of him. turning to music and embracing the life of a poet - a rockstar - even if it was for but a time. 

the need to be in control of himself is all that he ever knew, but when tragedy strikes and the one person who was his everything is lost to death; it seemed to have been the final nail in the coffin. the music is lost

snapping at last, alessio now leans into his magic. listening to that one, never-ending voice. delving into his destructive magic and allowing its cahos to flow through his veins. a soul of melochony, a soul of shatter.

 

꒰ appearance ꒱

viridian eyes that were once emerald. typically wears dark eye shadow and eyeliner. eyes go solid viridian during particular spells without pupils or sclera

dark, slightly messy and wavy medium-length hair

fair olive skin tone that might appear quite pale. androgynous and sharp features

stands at 6’3” ( 190cm ) with a slender, slightly frail body type

has dark runes and patterns running up his forearms to his elbows as a result of some magic

gothic style that can range from elegant and dark academia to vintage goth. lots of poet shirts and corsets. does not mind dressing feminine-like either

nails are usually painted black, he has silver rings and bracelets

in general wears a lot of thin silver and black jewellery, such as necklaces, chokers, earrings and so on

often wears black lipstick, labret lip piercing that is silver with a little viridian gem

silver septum and navel piercing and horizontal snake eye piercings

standard ear lobe piercings with a stacked helix piercings on his right

 

꒰ personality ꒱

quiet and reserved, an observer by nature. seems cold at first especially with his typically monotone features and dry voice. would often spend his days reading, filling up his sketchbook or composing music

seemingly chronically tired. has a dry humour and is quite sarcastic

serene and calm. not one to show his emotions through physical expression

poetic whenever he does speak. often speaks in short sentences

became something entirely whenever he was on stage, a bold and passionate lead singer who sent the crowd wild

once a kind and gentle soul despite his aloofness. deep down, is a very shattered and mentally drained individual

soon morphed into something that was quite the opposite. despite keeping his serene nature, a newfound maliciousness rose after the loss of his beloved

becomes callous and uncaring of whatever sacrifices that he may have to commit

can come off as still quite serene but now holds no regard for the things he does or the people that he hurts, as long as he succeeds in his mission

can come off as very obsessive and insensitive

deep down does feel guilty over what he has done but does not know how to stop. especially with all the voices in his head and his desperation to see his lover again

 

꒰ with a lover ꒱

former alessio would have been very gentle with a lover. affectionate beyond measure and always eager to be around you, should that be something that you are okay with.

was not the verbal type, but pours all of his love and affection into physical touch and gestures, always trying to show you that he loves you, despite his on and off distant attitude.

it involved a lot of hand holding, torso hugs and sometimes just pulling you into his lap.

you would also become one of his muses, and while he might be timid to show you; he does draw you in any way that he can, adoring the process every time

another activity he would have enjoyed was simply having your head rest upon him while he strummed away at his guitar or read his latest book with you. good morning and goodnight messages, walks in the park and late night stargazing.

however, after alessio’s fall, he would grow to be quite possessive over you.

he cannot lose another lover, he cannot let you slip away from him.

he affectionate side of him would still shine through, however, he would become hyperaware of what you are doing and where you might be.

the witch would try his hardest to remain his usual self around you. . . if you behave and do as he says, that is.

keeping you locked away from the world, fussing over you way more than he usually would. . . you understand, don’t you? and if not, well, he has his ways

 

꒰ strengths ꒱

witchcraft: possesses the ability to manipulate various forms of magic and cast a wide variety of spells. has a vast knowledge of mystical spells and incantations invoking names and aspects of various extra-dimensional objects, beings and sources of power.

chaos magic: ability to manipulate the powerful magic known as chaos magic, a dark magic, which allows him to alter reality and control various forms of mystical energy.

energy projection: the ability to turn his magical energy into tools, objects, weapons, and other items to suit his needs. he can use these projections for other purposes as well, such as create powerful energy blasts and forcefields.

illusions: the ability to cast and create illusions.

reality warping: an ability that he is not in full control of — he can create a mini pocket dimension in which he creates a miniature reality unaffected by the world around it.

 

꒰ weaknesses ꒱

d’akar: an anti-magic material that can greatly weaken him if he comes into contact with it.

overexertion: while he is quite powerful, overexertion of his powers can result in the magic having a physical backlash on his body.

voices: has voices in his head that may at times make him act erratic or are result to dark thoughts in his head.

mental instability: he has poor mental health greatly affects his powers and makes them erratic. in severe breakdowns, he loses complete control of his powers. he also hallucinates quite a bit

perception limit: he cannot cast spells on beings and objects if they are not in his direct view.

 

꒰ relationships ꒱

zhào jìngyí: boyfriend, deceased

rishen aryielus: guardian angel 

yùe mèng yáo: motherly figure

zhào hàoyú: ex best friend

zhào xīyáng: younger brother figure

zhào haitāo: younger brother figure

zhào yizé: younger brother figure

zhào yŭ xī: younger sibling figure

zhào mùchén: enemy

valerio agresta: father, deceased

elena arias perez: mother, deceased

lorenzo agresta arias: younger brother

 

꒰ extra ꒱

he plays the guitar

he was a lead singer in a band

he is extremely powerful on the magic scale, however, he does not know exactly what he is capable of

fluent in spanish ( castilian ), fluent in italian

his main medium of art is painting

he has a white cat named luna ( scottish fold )

he was the lead singer of his band

has a habit of stopping in his tracks to pick wildflowers

[angelmichelangelo]

brothers

chapter three

verse: human au/2k12/idw rating: t word count: 3.6k

read on ao3!

x

Mikey really does not like working with Xever. In all of his defenses, there wasn’t really a great deal of people Mikey worked with that were overly nice or fun to be around, with the exception of Angel of course, he oftentimes found himself paired up with the kinds of people that were his exact polar opposite. 

He greets him with a stiff nod of his head at the warehouse; as good as a hello or good morning than he’s ever gonna get. As they wait around outside for Hun to appear, he feels Xever’s eyes rake down his body – still dressed in Raph’s clothes from the day before, he’s sure he’s rocked up to work looking in a far worse state than he did right now. “Nice sweater,” Xever jeers, lip curling. “You going to church after this?” Mikey manages a meek, forced smile to appear at his lips. “Ha,” is all he says, fighting off the impending headache given to him from the night before. “Good one.” His phone chimes and when he looks down, there’s two new texts, one from Raph and a second one from Alopex. He’d texted Angel on his way out but it was probably going to be another long, few hours until she woke again to respond. The one from Raph simply reads, 

talk when you get home. Whilst the other one from Alopex says,

love you alongside a string of orange colored emojis trailing behind it; no doubt Raph and her had held a conversation about his whereabouts over breakfast this morning, making his stomach drop about fifty feet down. He’s back to thinking about Leo’s stupid guest bathroom again when Hun finally appears. He strolls up to them, pausing to drink in the state of Mikey’s face when he grins. “How’s your head?” He asks, jamming the keys into the door without breaking eye contact. Mikey knows if he wants something, he’s going to have to ham it up, so he smiles sultry at him, curling his lip and says with a shrug of his shoulder, “Dunno. You tell me.” Xever calls him a crude name under his breath as the pair follow their boss into the building. It wasn’t much, just a deliberate front for Hun to work out his business from without causing too much of a fuss with the authorities sniffing around. The back room housed a little makeshift greenhouse, where their boss would be tended lovingly to his crop whilst his minions ran about the city and did his dirty work. A little bit of green was far from the worst of what was to come out of Hun’s empire, and Mikey was pretty front and center to such things. His gut curls at the thought, the benzo’s from last night having slowly slunk away out of his system, there’s an itch starting to crawl beneath his skin he’s so desperate to claw at. 

“Gotta guy down on fifth,” Hun starts to explain, flicking a thumb over his phone, attention entirely on his screen rather than the two workers standing before him - this was just another Wednesday to him. “Wants a tester so give him the quart bag but nothing else. Don’t be fucking buffaloed by these assholes.” Xever nods stiffly and Mikey just hums in acknowledgement as to what they had to do. Dealing and selling was a far lot easier than having to get payments off people, he’d come to realize very quickly. More times than none he’d walked away from a job with bruised, bloody knuckles and a sick feeling in his chest that refused to go away for days on end until he reminded himself that the people he was ragging on were just as bad as Xever or Hun themselves. It didn’t stop the feeling from creeping back into his system of a night though, plaguing his subconscious like a dark shadow. “Half hour tops. I want you both back here after,” Hun says. He looks to Mikey, eyes flashing darkly. Half an hour, Mikey thinks to himself and he holds the eye contact fiercely. Then you can get what you want… for a price.

[chaotic-goodsir]

Prequel to this because I can't stop thinking about the Kal-Always-Had-The-Fog-Verse. Thank you so much to everyone who liked/reblogged/said nice things in the tags for the previous part!

(CWs for language, violence and injury.)

_

A fist collides with Kal’s jaw, and then he’s on the ground, ears ringing.

‘That’s what you get, witch! Your kind have no place in the Blazing World, let alone in the palace.’

‘Fuck you,’ Kal answers, spitting blood onto the grass. The world spins. Miral leers down at him, triumphant, as though it was Miral himself who dealt the blow and not one of the sullen-faced bodyguards standing just behind him. As if the son of some low-ranking palace minister is important enough to deserve an honour guard. Kal would love to punch the smirk off the smug bastard’s face, if only he could get to his feet without feeling sick.

‘Don’t think we don’t know why you’ve been hanging around the Prince, witch.’ Miral seems to like that word. If he thinks he can hurt Kal with it, he’s wrong. It’s embarrassingly uncreative.

‘What does-‘ Kal coughs. More blood hits the grass, staining it silver. It glitters in the sunlight. ‘-what does Dak have to do with this?’

‘How dare you!’ Miral aims a kick at Kal’s side. Kal just about manages to roll away, and the miss only winds Miral up even more. ‘You don’t deserve to address his highness by name. You don’t deserve to be anywhere near him.’

‘Oh, and you do? Is that what you think?’ Rage burns through Kal, despite the pain in his jaw and the nausea brought on by moving.  ‘Got a little crush on his highness, have you? I guess it must really hurt that he’d rather spend time with someone like me.’

Miral glares. He lifts a hand to usher one of his lackeys forward.

‘Tiir, show this freak of nature exactly what we think of witches.’

The one called Tiir seems to grow even taller as he steps towards Kal, looming over him like 6ft 2 of solid marble in his white college uniform. There’s something of an apology in his eyes, too quickly hidden for Miral to notice. Kal wonders how much Miral’s parents pay the guy to pretend to be their son’s friend.

He could try to back away, could cower and beg like the weakling Miral thinks he is, but he’d rather die than give this asshole the satisfaction of an easy win. Fog is already curling around his wrists – it takes focus to hide it, and he’s not exactly in any state to concentrate right now. Self-defence is as natural as breathing.

Tiir grabs the neck of his shirt with one bulky fist and hauls him to his feet. Kal spares a second to spit blood into Tiir’s face before he lets anger and pain overwhelm him, and the world becomes a grey-tinged blur.

Fog catches Tiir by the ankles. He falls with a yelp and a satisfying thud. Another limb of it sends the second lackey flying. A dark spiral of shadow advances on Miral like a serpent, and Kal is vaguely aware of someone laughing, high and manic and vengeful, as it coils around the minister’s son and lifts him into the air.

Miral howls insults as he struggles against the fog, eyes burning white with Radiance. A wall of light hits Kal in the chest, throwing him backwards. There’s a distant, sickening crack as his left side collides with the ground. The damaged arm disintegrates into fog, and he staggers to his feet again, lashing out towards where Miral is now kneeling in the grass, eyes still blazing.

A second pulse of Radiance crashes into the fog before it can hit its target. A wall erupts between them, a miniature thunderstorm of thick cloud and crackling light.

‘Fucking witch!’ Miral screams over the roar of magic. ‘I’ll kill you!’

Kal tries to scream something back, but half of his face and most of his arm and shoulder are gone now, along with the pain that he is not looking forward to dealing with later. He concentrates on pushing back the Radiance instead, watches the fog that used to be – that is – a part of him twist and roil with fury. It closes in around Miral, steady any unstoppable, and then the crackling Radiance dies all at once, cut off at the source. Miral turns on his heel to run. His bodyguards scramble to their feet and follow, like the obedient little dogs they are.

Only when the three of them are white specks in the distance does Kal let himself stagger back, drawing in the fog again. It hurts, but ways, it was worth it. Behind him, someone is running across the grass, yelling his name in that all-too familiar anxious tone. He just about stays standing long enough for Dakkar to catch him when his legs finally give way.

‘What took you so long, Dak?’ Kal says, grinning. His own voice sounds a million miles away. ‘You missed all the fun.’

[kinetic-elaboration]

March 22: Octavia & Clarke, Cunning/Rough

Octavia & Clarke, Modern AU, from the same 'verse as Make a Lot of Money and Feel Dead Inside

~1350 words, written in about 50 minutes

For the prompt "cunning and its antonyms: simple, ignorant, blunt, rough" from my July Break Bingo 2023 card.

cw for references to sexual assault

*

They start high school with reputations, all because of a prank they'd pulled the summer before. Clarke called it a revenge plot; Octavia, getting even.

Now everybody knows Clarke to be smart, but dangerous—cunning, the kind of girl who will convince you to let down your guard around her, even when you know better, excavate your secrets and use them against you, sharp and cold beneath a mystifying surface. Octavia, her best friend, her shadow, is the rough-and-tumble sort, a hazard to one's health in a different sort of way. She gets into a scuffle out back of the school at the end of the first week of classes, which cements the whole thing. She's tough, rough, and simple, a girl unafraid of bruises, jutting out her chin to show the raw bleed where the skin's scraped off.

The origin of the legends spools back to the Fourth of July party at Dax's place in the long, hot, humid, languid interim between eighth and ninth grade. Clarke was invited because of her beauty, Octavia on the strength of her older brother's connections and because Clarke was going, and they came packaged together as a set. Octavia still had the tomboy look of her early adolescence, long and rangy and lean, proportions she hadn't yet grown into; half her wardrobe was old hand-me-down's from Bellamy. She thought she looked like something in the right light, thought maybe that might matter, to the right boy. Not many looked at her when Clarke was right next to her, round-faced and blue-eyed; she'd started wearing low-cut shirts that showed her cleavage, sundresses that made Bellamy go protective-chaperone on her if he saw, made his face get all red and embarrassed, and cut off shorts, tan lines from tank tops striping her shoulders.

At the party, all the boys looked at her.

Except for one, who caught Octavia's eye over the top of his Solo cup and didn't let go, didn't blink. Someone was waving around sparklers in the background. The air smelled of cut grass and some distant neighbor's grill smoke, pulsed with bass beats from Dax's stereo.

The boy introduced himself as Atom. They sat around for a while on the back-porch steps, the concrete cold and rough against Octavia's legs and the backs of her thighs, talked bullshit until after a while he was resting his hand on her knee. He didn't mention either Clarke or Bell. She didn't have much to say, too distracted by an awareness of his body heat, an overpowering scent of body spray, his goddamn hand.

They made out for a while in the backseat of Dax's father's car, which was parked in the driveway, so she could see the late-sunset fading through the windows and the twilight building. Through the crack in them she could smell the smoke still, lingering on the humid air, hear the same sort of chirps and buzzing that she'd hear from out in the swamp in her own backyard, back home. Such thoughts distracted her often: how distant she felt from his hands pawing at her. When he touched where she didn't want, she kicked him, weakly, right above the shin because it was where she could reach.

But he was on top of her and didn't seem overly concerned.

That was a spiral moment. She thought of it that way later, that topsy-turvy vertigo that comes from control slipping, the sick-slipping sense that anything could happen, and none of it would be hers.

She got a knee in, scrambled out backwards through the unlocked door, fell right on her ass in the gravel. Scraped up heels of her palms, the cut of a small, sharp rock. He hadn't gotten far, but the damage was the fear itself and it was done.

Telling Clarke about it in the fort, waving her fingers through sifting beams of pale sun that came through the holes in the walls, she kept so calm that her own voice unsettled her. No big deal. But it sucked. Let's send Bellamy after him—maybe he'll kill him.

"He might," Clarke answered seriously. And: "We've got to fix this one ourselves."

Dax was going to be a sophomore. He didn't have a car or a license but he knew how to drive because his cousin had taught him when he was twelve. So yeah, he’d take Clarke out on a ride down some deep-rutted back road until they found a good spot to watch the stars. It was his pleasure. He didn't know any constellations but that was all right. She pointed out a few to him, instead.

The cool thing about Clarke was that she was just shy enough to be cute, in a play-acting way that all guys basically believed, confident enough to let them know what she wanted and how she expected to get it. She wanted to know what he wanted. His daydreams, his fantasies. Her soft voice in his ear, teasing, cajoling—baby, babe—what do you really WANT? The sick-secret stuff. You're safe with me.

Octavia had hiked her way out ahead of them, was crouched in the long grass listening to the sounds of face-sucking and drawing pictures in the dirt with her stub nails, thinking about how great an actress Clarke was—fuck (a deep-forbidden word, still new on her tongue)—fuck, she really knew what she was doing.

And the tape recorder in her purse, next to them on the flatbed, picked up all of it. Confessions you could make a mix CD out of. Stuff he should have known better than to tell anyone—stuff Octavia would never tell if she was him—stuff she’d definitely never tell Clarke, if she was him, Clarke who had already distributed all of her love, or at the very least all of her loyalty, and would never gather up the crumbs of it for him.

After a while, the sounds tapered off. The familiar insect-riot grew louder in its wake. She flicked her gaze across the tall, thin stalks of burned-yellow grass, to the dark interstices, the hint of the rusty blue flatbed on the road. She could see it by its own headlights. The back, where Clarke was, dark as it was quiet.

Then she heard the click of the tape player, scratchy in the July night, like the trigger of a haunting. A sound where it should not be. Her ears were so attuned to it, waiting for it; but afterwards, she could only hear the cadences of Atom's recorded voice, not the content of the whispered, breathy words. She tuned it out to static. All static.

Sharp staccato yelling followed, empty threats and a couple of other new words, sharp-edged profanity she hasn't added to her vocabulary yet, and at last she saw a shadow-figure jump down from truck. She turned on her flashlight, finally, stood and pointed it at him, so he was caught in the beam like a deer. When he tried to rush her, she beat him to it. In her spare hand, she gripped Bellamy's knife with the blade snapped out.

He didn’t know she had it and he'd never approve.

Atom stopped up short, kicking up dust as he slid, halted: a cloud of it in the high beams. Over his shoulder, Octavia could see Clarke's silhouette, standing eerily still and watching them and waiting.

"You're fucking crazy," Atom spat out at her. But she had a knife almost to his throat so there was a tremor to the words, and she found the whole thing, that terrible blood-pounding moment, so wonderfully thrilling, so sharp and real, that she almost laughed like the deranged villain he must have thought that she was. She almost threw the knife away. She almost stabbed him. She almost ran, sprinting, yelling, cackling, like some sort of malevolent spirit in the night.

In the end, she just scared him. And Clarke never replayed the audio. Eventually she even unspools the tape and crushes it beneath her heel. But still their reputations precede them, for the rest of their days stuck in the deep-sucking mud of Arcadia Falls, and in some ways even after, because this is how they know each other and themselves.

[medicus-mortem]

Fae Hearted // Folk Horror Verse

Lore:

In an age forgotten, a bargain was forged between the fair folk and the inhabitants of a small hamlet by the name of Flevance. The myths say a great sickness ravaged the people, and they asked the faeries for help, hoping their magics would save them.

They asked the dryads that danced among the trees, but the mischievous creatures only laughed, chittering that the fate of a few mortals was no concern of the ageless elms. They asked the selkies that sunned themselves on the stony shores, but the reclusive creatures merely bared their fangs and slipped back into the waves. How could they care for the plight of those who walk on land? They sought the faeries of the Seelie court, those good elves that were known for their love and compassion. The high fae took one look at the sickly mortals and recoiled, finding their wasting bodies and discoloured skin loathsome. They shooed the mortals away, believing their end inevitable.

Hearing of the mortal’s suffering the fae of the Unseelie court, those of darkness and corruption, those hated by beings of light, came to the people of Flevance. They offered a hand in friendship, providing the mortals with what knowledge they could give. A magic not known for its gentle touch was offered to the people, and they took it. They accepted this gift, merging the power of the dark elves with their own knowledge and will to survive. They took the magic of corruption and shadow and turned into a tool of healing. The people of Flevance survived, and on the day the last of their sick became healthy, a bargain was sealed.

The Faeries of the Unseelie court would continue to gift the mortals with their magic as long as the mortals would love and accept them.

The mortals kept their side of this bargain and more. They welcomed the Unseelie into their homes and hearths. Many grew to love the fair folk that came to live in Flevance, even marrying them. It wasn’t long before the people of Flevance were both mortal and fae in equal measure. Their town flourished, becoming a small city known for its healing arts and the humans with fair folk features. For an age longer than memory Flevance remained, strong and in harmony with its Unseelie friends. But no peace can last, not when intolerance, envy, and fear still live so comfortably in mortal hearts.

A time of tragedy came to Flevance a decade and a half ago. Neighbouring towns and settlements looked upon the magic of Flevance with disgust, fearing its unusual origins. They feared the Unseelie who walked with the people with such ease. They were disgusted by the half-breeds that were loved and accepted by their families. And they were envious, desiring the wealth and power for their own. That desire came to Flevance with fire and blood. The city being torn by hatred and greed. Mortal, Fair Folk, and hybrid were put to sword, put to the pyre. A unity shattered, a bargain broken and through no fault of the Unseelie or the people of Flevance.

None survived the onslaught but one. A child of ten with death on his hands and Death at his shoulder. A life that should have ended with all the others, if not for the last blessing or perhaps curse, his parents left him. A mark to ward away Death, to keep skeletal hands from his throat. So survives Trafalgar Law, the last child of Flevance. The ghost of a ruined haven he refuses to leave. Forever haunting and hunting any who wish to steal anymore from his home, and from him.

Description: Law is half human, half faerie. As such, he has traits of both. His fae traits are very prominent, so it’s hard to tell how much of him is human. One trait that is common of all the people of Flevance is their golden eyes, which he, of course, has. Law also has blue skin; a trait dark elves tend to have. His shade is a grey tinted ultramarine. His hair is black, and he keeps the same style of hair and beard as in canon. His tattoos are markings he was born with and are seen as prophetic. They contain the story of his life to come. He just doesn’t know how to interpret them. He has long, pointed ears and a set of sharp teeth. His more human side comes out in his lifespan being shorter than a full faerie and the fact that he can grow facial hair.

[ruinouss]

SENSES & OTHER SPECIFIC HEADCANONS.

MUSE: Faye Caddel

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE?

Whatever shampoo/conditioner she's using. Faye doesn't like having an overpowering smell but her shampoo is typically like a lemon-sage odor. It's a fresh smell to her. Her natural smell is probably pretty subtle as well as she doesn't really sweat unless she's doing a lot of work/fighting in extreme heat but I imagine it's probably kind of earthy.

WHAT DO YOUR MUSE’S HANDS FEEL LIKE?

Soft. She uses lotion when she can and tries to take care of her them to the best of her abilities. Thankfully, most of her work doesn’t require a lot of work that may make them rough.

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY EAT IN A DAY?

This bitch food motivated as fuck and has a bottomless pit for a stomach. When traveling, she'll do what she can to make actual meals but obviously that's not always an option and so she'll make do with what she can. But you can bet she aims to at least have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Faye will 95% of the time have some kind of snacks on her for when she gets particularly hungry. And since she's not a picky eater in the slightest she doesn't have an issue in finding food so long as options are given to her. Some of the things she's willing to try can be questionable though but that's part of the fun.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE A GOOD SINGING VOICE?

Yes! I've kind of imagined she sings similarly to Lzzy Hale from Halestorm. Singing is one of her passions so she's got a pretty strong voice and is definitely more of a rock girl. I'd say she'd have a slightly wider range but not much.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE ANY BAD HABITS OR NERVOUS TICS?  

What're you talking about? She is a bad habit, lol. In all seriousness though, yeah she's got a couple. One of her biggest has to be her recklessness/impulsiveness. She likes living life a bit more dangerously because it helps her feel alive but this can get her and others in trouble. For the most part, she can find a way out of the trouble she gets herself into but it's still not a healthy way to live. Speaking of healthiness, she usually only smokes or drinks sparingly when alone or in just social settings but will use both as a coping mechanism for stress. During extremes of any stress she'll definitely go overboard.

Faye will also bottle up her emotions to a point of becoming explosive and she'll go from 0 to 100 in the blink of an eye. When she becomes overstimulated like this she'll try her best not to unleash it on anyone she cares for but she will become almost erratic. Often times she'll just leave without a word and find some place she can just let it all out which can be her just screaming (if she can find a seclude place) or just going balls to the walls destructive and go until she's hoarse from screaming or is too tired to move. (Her only “healthy” way to cope is when she disappears is she’ll just run as hard as she can until her legs give.)

When she's nervous she does the typical stuff such as pacing, talking faster than usual, and picking at her nails. She'll also start biting the inside of her cheek or lip until she's tasted blood. Her hands sometimes also start to clench and unclench or picking at the inside of her pockets if she's trying to hide them.

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY LOOK LIKE/WEAR?

This is a bit verse-dependent, but she tends to layer up. She'll always have some undershirt/tanktop with a jacket or another shirt/vest/etc over it, as well as tight-fitting pants and boots. Depending on the verse she’ll also have a utility pouch she wears on her left hip. And since green is her favorite color there’s a 90% chance she’ll have some article of clothing on her thats green.

In most of her verses her hair is naturally red but the bottom half is dyed almost black. The red part is slightly shorter than the rest and pulled back in a messy bun. Faye doesn’t really wear makeup except eyeliner and eye shadow. Occasionally she’ll wear lipstick but thats usual reserved for jobs that require her to dress up. Finally, unless she’s wrapping up with a job she makes sure she’s very clean and presentable.

IS YOUR MUSE AFFECTIONATE? HOW MUCH? HOW SO?

Extremely. However, she remains pretty reserved with new people and people who don't enjoy physical affection/touch. For people in those categories, the most she'll do is a pat on the back or shoulder and even then she may be hesitant and it was likely out of reflex. Now, for friends and/or lovers she has a lot of love to give and loves hard. Even as a child, she was big on physical contact despite neither of her parents really engaging in it and her lack of affection throughout her life bled into her adult life. She's more than happy to display affections like hugging, hanging on, and even kissing in a platonic way but she of course tries to gauge her companions to see if they're for it or not. The last thing she wants to do is make someone uncomfortable.

As for her lovers, she completely dotes on them. There won't be a day where her partner questions her love for them. Obviously, she'll get kisses in where she can be it a quick peck, several quick ones, or something hot, heavy, and needy, but she also loves simple things like holding hands/locking pinkies, having her partner rest their head on her lap, running her fingers through their hair (if applicable), and simply being near each other.

WHAT POSITION DOES YOUR MUSE SLEEP IN?

With the life she's lived, Faye can sleep in just about any position imaginable. There are times when she has to get sleep where she can which results in some peculiar positions. However, if given a bed, mattress, or something similar she typically curls up in a tight fetal position and makes herself as small as possible. If she's with someone she trusts she's likely to remain in a fetal position but won't be as curled up and if she's with someone she completely trusts then she's likely to starfish or have her arm(s)/leg(s) flung over them and may even spoon. It's also safe to assume there's always a gun or knife hidden somewhere nearby.

COULD YOU HEAR YOUR MUSE IN THE HALLWAY FROM ANOTHER ROOM?

If she's taken a job that requires stealth then absolutely not. As much as she despises silence she knows how to be quiet and move around undetected. However, any other time and there's no telling. She's not especially loud when speaking unless she's trying to be noticed or get someone's attention. As I mentioned before, she loathes silence and will resort to singing, whistling, humming, or using something to make noise and sometimes she can get a little loud and probably kind of obnoxious. But this can also be avoided if she's got headphones to play music.

tagged by: I stole it

tagging: @spectrefour @renoxvated @ferinehuntress (Karlach) @faerunscursed (Wyll) @dimensionalspades (Arlynn) & anyone else who'd like to or hasn't

[lighthouseborn]

Repost and bold what applies to your muse: Health Edition

gets colds easily - has a chronic condition - has had major surgery - has had minor surgery - suffers from spring allergies - has broken a bone - has a sensitive stomach - gets headaches easily - has anxiety - has depression - is prone to panic attacks - bruises easily - has had a major health scare - has lost a loved one to health issues - pushes themselves when sick - is a poor patient - is a good patient - ignores signs of poor health in themselves - is a hypochondriac - has undiagnosed health issues - isn’t bothered by medical settings - hates medical settings

• has had minor surgery — Stitches. All verses he has gotten stitches at least once. At least. He has ... definitely one but maybe two? verses where he has had major surgery (D:BH and modern.)

• has broken a bone — A few! I have my 'he climbs' headcanon, so he's definitely broken fingers here and there. His nose, at least once (which I guess is not technically a bone, but it's in the spirit of things.) His right forearm, once (compounded with a shoulder injury, which was more muscle damage but. All in all just a really bad incident.) And I think he's at least fractured a few ribs, if not completely broken them.

• gets headaches easily — Maybe not... easily? But he's prone. Familiar with them, anyway, for different reasons in different verses but also just in general. Maybe it's all the should-have-been-a-concussion's, maybe Turners aren't so immune to head trauma after all, I don't know.

• has anxiety — There's a definite lean for it that exists, mostly separation anxiety. I don't think it plagues him in a daily capacity, and honestly there are some things he could probably stand to be more cautious about, but I do think he's specifically touchy about the matter of his loved ones being parted from him. It doesn't take a lot to make him worry about his people. It doesn't..take anything, really. If they're out of his immediate reach, he's at least a little bit worried they won't be able to get back. He's got a few tools for dealing with it and generally keeps handle unless there's a lot of pressure on it, but it's still a thing that's There you know?

• pushes themself when sick — For one thing he just doesn't get sick very often, he's a resilient type, so he's definitely likely to try and ignore (or just more likely he'll miss the signs of) things at first. He generally writes things off until he's gone from 'feel a little off' to 'miserable and suffering'. So, if it never gets that bad, he's not likely to act 'sick' at all. It'll be just a rough couple days, not "got sick."

• is a poor patient — When he feels half bad but not awful and someone tries to get him to rest and etc. he is... very unlikely to follow this instruction. As well, he just struggles in general with accepting acts of service + hates when people try to assume authority/control. If he really truly feels very bad and/or sought out the help he will follow instructions to feel better, but. You know. Levels. Nuance. You'll have to fight with him at least a little bit, probably, but there are also ways he'll Try.

• hates medical settings — Well, sort of? It's not that he has medical anxiety or a particular grudge against infirmaries or hospitals, etc., it's that he broadly associates them with boredom and a certain level of (annoying but not (typically) threatening) loss of autonomy. So it's not that he hates the setting itself he just dislikes when he's bound to them. He generally has no problems paying visits to others or passing through for a checkup.

Circumstantially; in verses that engage with his sixth sense, his mild aversion to medical settings also has to do with the way these places are unavoidably shadowed by death. When you're a person who can feel and Notice the places death touches your world, hospitals tend to sit a little funny. (Like a knot in the chest.)

tagged: @halforc-mercenary tagging: @tiderider @parameddic @dvarapala @hvndredstories & all my beloved dash thieves

[larsisfrommars]

BG3 Santa Playthrough #6

The Path to The Shadow Druid Rendevous:

Before we leave let us question the drow that was killed, perhaps he’ll give us some answers that Nettie would not or could not! Moonrise Towers seems to be another place where people are getting sick.

Is that music? Perhaps we should head this way before we leave! Oh, there’s a lovely young woman writing a song for a passed love one. There is some tenderness in this grove after all!

Wait, we’ve let Alfira be, why do I still hear singing? Oh look a little boy, surely hes not the one singing that tune? No it’s something else, a beautiful bird! Astarion don’t shoot it you selfish little! Oh… Harpies. We must get this child out of here!!

A letter in the harpy’s nest, it seems there is a Cambion lurking about. Goodness, is there no end to the dark creatures lurking in these lands? Goblins, harpies, cambions, a dragon, what next?!

Gale seems to be as fond of children as me, we seem to be getting along quite well, more than I can say for other more… complicated members of this merry band of ours. We should find this dragon’s lair, hopefully we can help these children who’ve made it their business to scamper about unseen in the grove.

What was that man threatening that poor boy for?! Whether he did what he claimed, it does no good to be vitriolic against children! We’d better find this Mol and quickly, maybe she can talk some sense into these children.

Apparently she’s the reason they’re getting into trouble in the first place, hmm… children who have nothing seeking to better their lot through trickeries that do little to actually harm the victims but endanger themselves. Naughty or nice? Remains to be seen.

Zevlor wishes me to kill Kagha?! She is a shadow Druid that much is true but… perhaps she isn’t too far gone? Let’s us see what the other half of her secret must say. If she doesn’t see reason then. Arabella won’t have to be afraid of her anymore.

That harpy fight was no laughing matter, time to make camp and head to the tree where answers live (as they so often do). Let’s befriend the blade of frontiers. He seems more pleasant company than the selfish pale one.

My goodness! Astarion is a vampire?! How awful! For both of us! He says only eats animals… like any other predatory beast. He hasn’t hurt us at least, and he could have. He’s been helpful if a bit… disturbing. As long as he keeps it that way, he won’t be on my list, I trust him that much… for now.

Gale seems unbothered by it, perhaps Astarion isn’t the only “vampire” among us, given what he’s said about his illness. I suppose… You can’t be naughty for something you did not choose. Maybe Astarion never wanted to be one to begin with. Maybe there’s hope for him yet!

More talk of this Absolute “goddess” these people seem very misguided, or very naughty. I’ll send them on their way for now, the more I hear of this goddess the more she worries me. Oh goodness! I will not submit to its desires I must force it to let go of me! Nothing good can come from this! Or them!

What is Shadowheart’s distaste for a goddess of light and kindness?! She is allies with Silvanus! Lady Shar? Gale’s goddess seems to not like her, I am not versed in divine politics… the more I learn of this girl the more she confuses me. She acts with kindness in many things, and is punished for doing so. Perhaps it is Shar then, who belongs on my list. Though I am not certain this damage to her nature could be unlearned…

An Owlbear! Beautiful creature, I will not hurt her child, let’s be in our way! We’ve bigger fish to fry than protective mothers. I wonder what else we’ll find on our way to this shadow Druid meeting place.

Secrets, Swamps, Kagha & Karlach ->

<- Finding The Healer Nettie

[libidomechanica]

Untitled # 13148

A rispetto sequence

               1

Sick, old naked fist, even now. To Sheba yet. In arts to be foul, the dull though he censures in new Bloom, ourself at ever

rest; and went out thrown, death into cities new, change or mournful of my arm in your heart were to dismiss her celestial canopy.

               2

That are crushing hour: but most crosses are circling to man. Thou art insensible of the Paradise, all the sweet proprietress bells,

I see the divinely spent sweet breathe or eyes, possess what’s the red gold compact of lust of Eternity, our hair it is to love!

               3

The news; the valiant such would close meadows with us! And watch’d at last, is her eyes, as bottom agates seem near. In this enchanting

maister then gan himselfe to this made unapt for his clothes to my thought her need as he were missed his fearfully on the soil lies fit.

               4

This shot the meaning of my father war begun to mend; that and night, that on the wayside their meanes of unborn To-morrow, since

again! ’ Amorous crowd the man, and place unknown; there lies fast for endless bounds and adore incredulous. See, of his cups diverged.

               5

The Two World in the whole stricken by the worships go on a tear the Wise, turn’d the seas of death. Thy Counsel of an SUV and I hae

tint my door, near petrified. Though in Cupids help, on your own war! With lullaby, as welcome parts with rival’s heard, I left below.

               6

Kiddie (quoth shee those selfishness. To tak me eerie, sir. But her whisper’d though better lone composed with them the Two World in like, as

thought, and glories and the restless may now suffice to seek: were fixed as Pasimond, saved me, curled like three castles shade, when the family!

               7

Now I may speak, and they lay behind the bride. With lid-lashes and set the block we are through the Cloth of It with tinkling staid night with

lullaby now should thy circles round their lives to my thought me the day. Divorced back the sea. Your vows, and to the herself never feet.

               8

’Er the should so abide? In fact, I put away; give pearl dissolv’d: Crete. Composed with her honey enough, sweet Water, and not disdains

the lang day I speak not, she saw no more. And curse midas the quiet- coloure donne: for half so precious to divided love us!

               9

That in all! And just above feet, feeling. On you welcome for me replied, ye are not the said, and happy where I made my Grandsire

me leaves of a trumpet down. Self above the grounds to bridge hung, shadows on the moon dropped with all its work. When pity do not the fold!

               10

He sat in the Buskie-glen, fu’ is his conquest for long denied, but every fair hair like an ocean while the Wine has voued thirsts appealing

those days, for verse my Julia’s lip was bedded. Prefer before we rides, stunned the hall then shall lure him free, and o’er young one, and years!

               11

The Foxe him self to death, O clamorous heart is an islands for those of war within the violet- hooded sae neat, father, but to

proves insubstantial forced back again. No thirst conference use, and Clear Heart to look her what Meg o’ the Mill was given the other throne?

               12

Myself I’ll behold against a rocky shore; and with the knives, the Ladde can be confess’d hard, as filchers use, and this for one of truth

with lullaby, my life beyond the watch’d out, at ease. Carved opened, mixt with the older sort, and our lips, dear strong witches fly, as his.

               13

For their grave love without redound of some few favoured of joy departed—but with fragrant, now I raised by thirst found? Somewhat

unfoundering there was a brides, know: whether gown; she neither sire and if I dream—that compact of leisure, and read the summer’s soul.

               14

Wishes granted Sword. For this whole, and kind of thy hands, how only a memories all others life into Gold transgression of

meditative land the Powers rolled for honor, or ruined for blooms white v-neck t-shirt on your sweet dream of love, whole, the first good-bye!

               15

Yet what her side, in whom grimy naked body and brake. ’ Motion measure knows but only to the grass, does a children rage of double

rent. Slew both his Rhodian Pasimond purling said, she wrought dost the fingers dropped not: O, if so in Grecian dame, their wont to save.

               16

Truly Piers, beneath the hounds that is better, she saw his earnes, his will come to the Hand often fine.—Borne aloft with lullaby,

as well: this glimmer, when all I never noticed the caper her heard in madness down too, down! Reflected will gie to trouble me!

               17

Left to virtue them from afar. By then the Two World I blow: and you wept. And you are not a little one, sleep were you might mickle

ado, I’ll tell, among their triumphs and Satyr from stray; that I forget and rising shadow? But when turtles to removed! My chest.

               18

Shut not vain: but the first time to a married and I, but just stop, and you. … To concluded, and came near—close that might uphold against

thou web of winter cloud I follows nor sees; rolled for he will come away child, if good instruction that Psyche, ’ I began to ride.

               19

Knowing forth by the Soul scatter pleased the arms shalt pass among the accord, and prove to life too into you were vnprouide for me? Dream, upon

my tomb the tap is dripping in a storm and opened one, and yet—hear my oracles of infamy my coldness you of it.

[darknessillumina]

DAHMER 213

[Verse] Yo, I ain't askin' for your permission When the cleaver gon' butcher your physique I'ma skin your epidermis to cover my rare skin disease Parricide on my own family picture them all deceased Cannibals feast on your testicles like The whole veggies on vegetables I'm Incredible like Bob Parr punchin' on your body skeleton The moustard gas chemicals got you coughin' intentional It's sadness and madness the scalpel gives access To your inner fragments I'll play darts with your severed head Like I'm Ed Kemper and crucifixion will leave you bleedin' With the passion of Christ your brain will hemorrhage While fireflies bite right through your eyes Like Samurais I'll slice your calf in half and then watch you die And if your wife chooses to not reply I'll rip out her spine I'm on some Henrique shit spit on your grave type of shit With the shotgun shoved up your ass and just to blow out your lips There's many methods to revolt the stomach and make it sick So just get out my way quick I'll John Wick on you bitch Contortionist I'll bend your body the opposite way Beneath Wayne Gacy's crawlspace is where your flesh will decay Razorblades with the vertical motion to slay the vein See why my knee breaks your back like Bruce Wayne vs. Bane All the hate pumped through my bloodstream got me suffering But it's all fun and pleasure just in case you're wondering Demonic shadows travel with me and keep me company Yeah, the rhyme of the scorn, the eye of the storm; We keep it thundering!

[assortedsouls]

MXY: Modern Verse

TW: sexual assault, imprisonment, neglect

Mo Xuanyu is one of Jin Guangshan's many illegitimate children. The difference with him is that his father actually liked his mother, at least at first. Eventually, he grew bored of her, just like he did with all his mistresses. After five years of being pampered, his mother was now forced to move out from her luxury home and back to her parents. Somehow, she blamed this on little Xuanyu, as did his the others in the Mo family. He ended up not being very well-treated.

For reasons unknown, Jin Guangshan, once again showed up when Xuanyu was 14, taking him with him home for the summer. From then until he was 17, his father would show up and let him spend three summer months at the Jin Mansion and also trying to teach him how their business worked (or rather businesses). Unfortunately, Mo Xuanyu is a little slow. Not unintelligent, but also not academic and he takes a little time to learn things. Jin Guangshan didn't have the time for that, but he noticed that Mo Xuanyu, although very shy, was a friendly and pretty boy, allowing him to do some customer facing work.

Unfortunately for Xuanyu, he saw something he shouldn't have seen. He saw his half-brother, Jin Guangyao, kill his own son. Why he did that, he doesn't know, but he saw it by accident. Xuanyu isn't sure why his half-brother didn't kill him too or try to blame the murder on him, but instead he staged an assault. A sexual assault.

To avoid bringing shame to the family, Mo Xuanyu was swiftly removed and imprisoned in a hidden room in the estate. They couldn't kill him, but they couldn't have a sick freak like him walking around and tarnishing the family name either. So, they hid him away and told everyone else he went abroad. Only ones knowing what actually happened was his parents and Guangyao.

Locked inside a small dark room, he was left by himself. A servant visiting once a day, sometimes less, with some cold left-overs and to empty the pot, everything being brought back and forth through a small hatch in the door. Once a month, he was brought some water and a rag so he could clean himself off a bit. As the years passed, his mental health declined until he's not much more than a shadow.

And perhaps that's why the mistake happened. One evening, after four years in there, the servant forgot to lock the hatch in the door. Mo Xuanyu being nothing but skin and bones, managed to squeeze himself out through it and escape into the night. How he didn't manage to get caught is a miracle, or maybe someone helped him. It doesn't matter, at least he is free and nothing can be worse than the hellhole he just escaped from.

[thegothicviking]

They give SO MUCH at every show that I actually saw a live clip of Till (probably feeling sick) turning away into the side of the stage for a second so he could force himself to VOMIT (he shoved his fingers down his throat) and then half a second later he started to sing the first verse of Ohne Dich as if nothing had happened!

Several others of them have insisted too on playing shows even though they had high fevers and/or being sick in other ways.

I read somewhere that Paul admitted that during the clip of him being blonde and slightly bearded and "stepping back into the shadows" was actually him trying to keep focus as he had an intense fever that night (the one that every Paul fangirl insist is sooo sexy because he is starring so intensely. I am sure most rammfans knows which GIF I am talking about)

I also remember Till was pretty much forced by his doctor or local doctors for the country he was in at the moment to cancel a Lindemann show because he had high fever and Pnemonia. According to what I read he really wanted to play but they had to keep him from it as he was probably about to pass out!

These guys are like willing to pass out or die on that stage if they at least gave us the best show ever that night! They care more about us than their own health! Not many artists these days are willing to sacrifice their health and well being to give it all for their fans!

Mad respect to these gentlemen..mad respect:

I like the respect Rammstein has for their fans. Not only Till tries to speak a few words in the language of the country where they play, but they also try every time to be energetic, to take and give pleasure to their fans. For all that, I will always love them ❤️

Yes, you said it all ! They are always full of love for their fans. They are keen to put on a good show every time. I remember that when Till met fans at the end of the concerts, he asked them if they liked the concert, and I think he wouldn't have liked it if we had told him we didn't like it. Till doesn't speak much during the concert but he has, like the other guys, other ways of interacting with the public and these are precious and often funny interactions. They give their all on stage, even when they have difficult moments. Out of respect for us, who follow them, who love them. I also believe that they love these moments with us, feeling face to face the love that we give them ❤️‍🔥

[machiiatto]

tag drop: Jesse Blackthorn ( The Last Hours / The Shadowhunter Chronicles)