#Blood Hunters 4 Preview

[dispatchdcu]

Blood Hunters #4 Preview

Blood Hunters #4 Preview #BloodHunters #bloodhunt #bloodhunters #MARVEL #marvelcomics #comics #comicbooks #news #mcu #art #info #NCBD #comicbooknews #previews #reviews

  Blood Hunters #4 Preview: When Earth’s skies go dark, it attracts the attention of the Silver Surfer! See the BLOOD HUNT event from an entirely new and cosmic perspective! Then Satana and her basilisk intend to show the invading vamps exactly what happens when you cross the daughter of Satan! And finally, Hallows’ Eve enters the fray, joining Dagger, Elsa Bloodstone and White Widow for a final…

[kimingyuslover]

WONWOO FIC RECS

scandal by @fantasyescapes17 (regency!au, fluff, angst, kinda enemies to lovers!au) pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4

The Viscount's sister with an enormous dowry, beauty and unmistakable talent- you began the London season as the most desired woman in any room. But Jeon Wonwoo (a man who would rather hide in the library than dance at a ball) was beyond your comprehension. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it embroiled you into a scandal with a man you could never love.

the peephole by @rubyreduji (smut)

➥ wonwoo can’t stop thinking about how he wants to ruin his roommate, the peephole in his wall isn’t helping tamper those desires either

neurosurgery department by @taeyegu (fluff, angst, some humor, friends to lovers!au)

“if there is a nice person, please introduce him to me. sometimes like water, sometimes like fire. someone who can love me sincerely. i hope he is someone who is mature and faithful…” (introduce me a good person, joy)

getting closer (angst, smut, crime!au, Joker!Jeon Wonwoo x Chief Inspector!fem!reader) by @multi-kpop-fanfic

Summary: Four months. It has taken inspector Y/N L/N four months to get her hands on Jeon Wonwoo, the maniac, Joker-like criminal, who has thrown the city into total fear. The same criminal who has an obsession with the inspector, because she's the only one who can grant him his greatest wish. They need each other to fulfill their goals and there's only one way - by getting closer to each other, one last time.  

bloodily safe by @starlightxsvt (psychological thriller? camgirl au, college au, smut)

synopsis ➳ you have a little secret. one you are desperately hiding. yet the boy you have a crush on has figured it out. now a game of cat and mouse has begun. how do you make it out alive?

game on by @starlightxsvt (pt. 2 of bloodily safe, smut)

synopsis ► ❝ there has not been a single uninteresting moment since you have started living with wonwoo. as halloween rolls around, things only get more riveting. ❞

twisted fate by @smileysuh (smut, some fluff, vampire!wonwoo, vampire hunter!reader, soulmate!au, enemies to lovers!au)

💙 preview. “He deserved it,” Wonwoo assures you, reaching out to grab you by the back of the neck, pulling you closer. He’s covered in blood, and he looks like a sexy, wild monster. But he’s your monster, and you can’t help but react, leaning in- “Jesus Christ,” you hear Jeonghan breathe, turning to give you and Wonwoo privacy while he presses his lips against yours hungrily. At first, you can try to ignore the wet liquid on your fingertips as you grab at his strong shoulders, but you can’t ignore the taste on his tongue. Your body goes rigid and Wonwoo pulls back with a sigh, resting his forehead against yours. It’s an oddly peaceful moment amongst the chaos.

anteric by @smileysuh (smut, friends to lovers!au, frat!au, fake dating!au, ft. mingyu)

💙 preview. when you bump into the guy that ghosted you, your model best friend and roommate, Mingyu, steps up to be your fake boyfriend for the night... and when the asshole is hired at your workplace, your other roommate, twitch gamer Wonwoo, is roped into the charade too - “polyamory exists dude, get over it.”

work husband by @rubyreduji (fluff, ft. mingyu, office!au)

summary: your two coworkers get a bit too involved in becoming your “work husband”

to my youth by @viastro (slice of life!au, smau, fluff, humor, angst)

ミ☆ synopsis: in a world where everyone finds out who loves them within a 10 meter radius through the app love alarm, confessing your feelings without the use of the app is no longer considered normal. however, you refuse to download it in hopes that you’ll be able to fall in love without being dependent on love alarm.

[childlikegoblinqueen]

SCOM Next (few) Chapter (s) Preview

As mentioned in the notes for the last chapter I will be away for the next week and a half starting Wednesday. The latter half of my trip will be a bit more relaxed and I plan on writing as much as I can in the earlier half, but I wanted to drop a quick teaser for the upcoming arc.

We are about 6 weeks from Willow's due date and the election. 4 weeks from the baby shower -- and 2 weeks from Kikimora's parole hearing.

But the need for sigil removal is becoming dire -- not only because of Hunter's hallucinations, but because Steve is sick too -- and this is a reminder that Belos has managed to kill even beyond his own failed Day of Unity.

So Hunter and Raine accept an invitation for Survivor's Song to present at the Intention Invention Gala in Nommeking -- and they will be required to perform if they want to bring in a baseline stipend of 5 million snails with a chance to gain investors.

But Willow won't be able to travel with Hunter -- rather meet him a day or two later.

And why does the city the event takes place in concern his family so much?

Hint: The Tourist Brochures aren't doing the destination any favors.

VISIT BEAUTIFUL NOMMEKING !  THE CITY OF ORACLES! LAND OF LIVING SCARY-TALES WHERE THE STREETS ARE PAVED WITH GALDORSTONES. GALDORSTONES

[artemiseamoon]

Dancer between worlds

A fic for The Moon in May 2023

Status: hiatus, back in December 2023

Moon in May fics/ masterlist

(Read my 2022 fic here)

Summary: Being head librarian and bookkeeper for the Alliance of Shifters, Sahali spends her days inside the quiet and quaint Hudson Valley branch. When a threat surfaces, one that affects all shifters, the founders of A.O.S seek the help of one of their best investigators; the retired lone wolf Frankie Morales. When Sahali is sent to locate him, her curated world changes drastically.

Warnings: typical warnings for werewolf & shifter stuff (biting, blood, injuries and healing), typical warnings for hunters (hunting, trapping, killing), missing persons, sexual themes and situations (I’m not in a smut mood these days so there won’t be anything explicit)

Themes: supernatural elements, mediumistic abilities, shifters vs hunters, soul mate au

An: I am working on a number of things, so may or may not stick to schedule on this one. We’ll see! As usual, full chapters only post to A03, previews to tumblr.

⏱ as I have time & feel like it

Chapters

Preview on tumblr, full chapters only on A03

0. One pine road | preview | A03

1. The lone wolf | preview | A03

2. Making a decision| preview | A03

3. Title | preview | A03

4. Title | preview | A03

More chapters tba

Characters

Werecat! Sahali

Lone wolf! Mechanic Frankie Morales

Minor / Mentions only

The alliance & staff (see a moodboard at the bottom for the main ones)

Mentions of the TF guys, all wolves

Featured alliance members for this fic

1. Hudson Delmar, Founder & werewolf

2. Emi Bell, Founder & werewolf

3. James, Werebear division rep

4. Bembe, Werecat division rep

5. Ramia, Shifter/witch division rep

6. Demi, Hybrid were/vampire division rep

Background character mentions

Kai - scout/ agent

Tau - senior investigator/ agent

Moodboards | more | more

*** there will be background stuff I can’t cover in the main fic. So anything left unanswered will be visited via post fic Drabbles or one shots. 💕

[heckcareoxytwit]

A preview of Blood Hunters #4

BLOOD HUNTERS #4

The super-vamps of the Bloodcoven have Dagger in their clutches — and her teammates in the Blood Hunters will risk it all to get her back! How far will Elsa Bloodstone, White Widow and Hallows’ Eve be forced to go in order to rescue Dagger? And with the Bloodcoven’s endgame in place, who will survive the experience?!

Written by: Erica Schultz Art by: Robert Gill Cover by: Emanuela Lupacchino Page Count: 32 Pages Release Date: November 6, 2024

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

your jrwiposting has piqued my interest some. if one were to perhaps look into getting into it... where would one start ?

HELLO ANON !!!!!! OH BOY YOUVE UNLOCKED SOMETHING SINISTER IN MY BONES. I LOVE JRWI AND I LOVE TALKING ABOUT JRWI AND GETTING MORE PEOPLE INTO ITTTTT. there are. MULTIPLE different campaigns it really just depends on where your interests lie the most!! my personal recommendation will always be to listen to Riptide first because that's their free campaign! riptide is a good gauge of the players and whether or not you think theyre entertaining :] also gillion tidestrider is in there and i love him. all of those eps are up for free on youtube, but personally i use spotify the most.

most of the other campaigns are behind a paywall on patreon but personally i think theyre soooo worth it. also for most of their patreon campaigns they do put the first 5 or so episodes out for free to give people a sort of preview for what theyll potentially be paying for (if not there ARE resources on how to pirate the patreon campaigns, if i can find that masterpost in my tag i'll reblog it for u after i answer this!)

ill put a brief overview of each campaign for u under the cut!!

Riptide: long-running free access campaign! uses the traditional dnd ruleset, is set in an oceanic world with pirates vs the navy!

Prime Defenders: long-running main patreon campaign! uses the mutants and masterminds ruleset, is set in a modern/futuristic world with superheroes!

Blood in the Bayou: uses the Call of Cthulu ruleset. EXTREMELY horror focused campaign set in a small town in louisiana in the 80s. this one is only 4 episodes long and WILL fuck you up if youre a fan of tragedy and hivemind eldrich horror and bugs <3

Apotheosis: Uses the dnd ruleset again, but its set in a world where the gods are on the mortal realm and are extremely corrupt and need to be slain <3 BIG fan of the party dynamics in this one, one guy is possessed by an angel who sucks

The Suckening: uses the Vampire the Masquerade rulest, set in modern day (2012? 2018? who knows) LA and follows three vampires from vastly different backgrounds. this one is like horror/comedy.

Wonderlust + Total Monster Kill: the two newest campaigns!! only one episode of each is out. tmk is patreon-only i believe, and is in a monster hunter type setting. wonderlust just put its first episode out for free and i havent actually listened to it yet but its supposedly in a steampunk-ish setting! this is the ones all my mutuals have been freaking out about lately but im slow and havent gotten around to listening yet <3

[undermounts]

bite the hand - chapter 4: false idol of mine

pairing: Astarion/The Dark Urge

summary: Astarion helps her hide the body. Romance ensues.

chapter preview:

The following evening, there is a devil in their campsite.

And it isn’t Karlach.

Read it on Ao3

The next morning, Astarion’s tribunal ends without bloodshed, much to Irileth’s immense relief.

It comes a little close once (Lae’zel unsheathing her greatsword, she holds it like an executioner’s axe—‘Bloodsucker!’) but cooler heads prevail. Namely Wyll’s, of all people.

“At ease everyone,” he says placatingly. “There is no need to spill blood on peaceful ground.”

“I’m sorry, but aren’t you some sort of monster hunter?” Gale interjects, frowning. “I feel as though I am experiencing a disconnect between that title and what is taking place here.”

“Monster,” Lae’zel clarifies. “So, hunt. Our course of action seems quite clear to me.”

“Vampire he may be, but Astarion is no beast,” Wyll explains. “He’s just a spawn. I’m more concerned about his former master.”

“Just a spawn?” Astarion echoes, miffed. But he bites his tongue when Lae’zel’s reaffirms her grip on her sword. “Of course. There are, as they say, bigger fish to fry. I will happily point you in the right direction. A gesture of goodwill, Wyll. ”

Oh, dear gods, Irileth thinks, vexed. Astarion truly is dedicated to his own demise.

“I didn’t say you were harmless,” Wyll retorts and it is clear from his tone that he doesn’t mean that as the compliment Astarion surely thinks it is. “I am only saying being a spawn does not automatically equate to being completely evil. Many are turned without their consent.”

Astarion sneers. “My, my, aren’t you well informed.”

“If you are evil,” Wyll continues, “you can rest assured knowing that I will not let you roam free. For now, consider this your probation. You’d best behave yourself.”

On and on it goes until Astarion is left alone, thoroughly scrutinized but ultimately unstaked. And for all of the threats he received, he looks remarkably unbothered. Smug even. Across the clearing, he meets Irileth’s gaze and smirks.

She’s moving toward him before she’s even realized. Damn it.

“That went quite well, don’t you think?” Astarion says glibly as she approaches. He gestures to himself. “No wooden stakes in my heart. Today is shaping up to be a splendid day.”

“You are certainly in a good mood,” Irileth replies, giving him a once over. Again, looking at him now in the full light of day, the change in him is subtle but considerable. He stands taller, prouder, and not (only) in the arrogant, preening way he did before, when he still pretended to be a noble. He is confident. Secure.  

“Why wouldn’t I be? I feel incredible. Powerful. Ready to take on the world!” He grins, laughing lightly, and closes his eyes.  His words become more hushed as he continues on, voice full of so much wonder. “I’ve imagined it so many times, but I never thought…I never thought it would feel like this. That I could feel like this.”

“Blood really has this sort of effect on you?”

“Yours does, certainly,” Astarion teases, and his gaze is lidded when he looks at her. “Animals, beasts… not nearly so much.”

“It’s no wonder Cazador forbid us from drinking it.” Astarion suddenly looks away and his fingers fumble with the metal fastenings of his new gloves. His resentment is made clear in the tense lines around his mouth and the deep furrow of his brow. “Why waste perfectly good blood on a bunch of slaves?”

Cazador. Master.

Irileth saw glimpses of the vampire lord through Astarion’s mind last night, though she never got a full look. Oil slick hair, grey skin, and glowing red eyes. She can hear his voice, though there are no distinguishable words, only an aura of malice.

(Gods help the wretch if she ever finds him; she will crack his chest wide open and construct a shrine with his ribs.)

“But I’m not his slave anymore,” he says fiercely, more to himself than her. “I’m free. Conveniently lost. And I’m never going back. Now,” he adds, looking at her, “you all know what I am. Which means I can fight with everything at my disposal—fangs included.”

His smile is all teeth and challenge, which reminds Irileth of the question that has been floating about her head ever since she awoke that morning. “How often do you need it? Blood from people.”

“Mmm, hard to say, really,” he hums, shooting for nonchalant as he examines his cuticles. “Depends on what we do. If we’re just traveling, engaging in some light fighting from time to time?” A shrug. “Then a little nibble every now and then will do just fine. Perhaps when a ripe neck presents itself in a fight?” 

Irileth raises a brow. “And if we’re pushing it?”

Astarion’s eyes are intent on hers. His voice drops to a low tenor, purring, “Then I’ll take anything and everything I can get.”

How quickly his moods change! It is nearly dizzying, but despite herself, Irileth feels her insides turn molten. Her brain positively lights up with the fresh memory of him pressed into her back, teeth in her neck. How Astarion groaned when he first pierced her skin, mouth full with the taste of her.

Astarion smiles like they are indulging in the same memory. Then, he reaches out and brushes Irileth’s hair off of her shoulder with a feather light touch. Just when she thinks he is going to caress her neck and the tender marks that still sit there, his fingers alight on the buckle of her armor, adjusting the strap. 

With truly—cursedly—impeccable timing, Wyll calls out from the edge of camp where he and Lae’zel stand ready to depart. Irileth must be unwittingly glaring at Astarion because he laughs lowly as he pulls away, all melted sugar and rich smoke. 

“Let’s go hunt a devil, darling,” he purrs with his trademark, sinful smirk. “I think it’s high time for you to see just what you’ve done to me, too.”

A little blood, it seems, goes a long way.

With ease, they tear through the gnolls and bloated hyenas that roam in pockets around the Risen Road. Irileth sees now that before Astarion had supped of her blood, he wasn’t even close to reaching his full potential. Being well fed has made him stronger. Faster, too. Better.

He doesn’t fight like she does. Dancing through the thick of it; she waffles between striking where she is most needed and appearing where she is least expected. Prior to last night, Astarion mostly kept to the edges of a fight, but now he dips in and out of the fray—unseen arrow, hidden knife. 

It delights Irileth every time his arrow pierces the throat of a beast in her radius, or whenever he drops down from his vantage point, a dark blur limned in silver, and drives his daggers into the back of her immediate foe, priming her death blow. 

Lae’zel and Wyll are terrors in their own right. Lae’zel’s unflagging stamina and devastating swings complement Wyll’s concentrated blasts of magic to wheedle the gnolls down. But the two rogues working in tandem are the pressure point upon which the hordes break.

The whole thing is glorious, if not a little repulsive (hyenas whimper-writhing, distended bellies bulging, bursting!) and provides some very fascinating insight into the other uses of their illithid stowaways. When they find the gnoll pack leader, the tadpole twitches, pulses, and Irileth forces her way into her mind without hesitation. She sees the creature’s insatiable hunger, her spoiled devotion to the Voice. 

(A bloodied handprint smeared across a slab of stone, it melts into a skull. They yearn to eat the world whole, but the Voice is unrelenting, all encompassing. Absolute.)

Poor, loathsome creature. It would be kinder for Irileth to just kill it, kill it like she has killed all the rest. But the urge within gnashes its teeth. 

If you are so hungry, Irileth coaxes into the pack leader’s mind, forcing it to turn its attention to its remaining fellow gnoll hunters, to see them from a new, bloodier perspective. Then feast.

The following evening, there is a devil in their campsite.

And it isn’t Karlach.

Wyll is bound to Mizora, a gods damned devil, member of the Archdevil Zariel’s inner circle. Selfishly, Irileth feels betrayed. She had hoped… He is supposed to be a hero. Pride of the Gate. The Blade of Frontiers.  

And now? Now, Irileth doesn’t know.

Serves her right, she supposes, for being so naive as to fall for his chivalrous and heroic persona. A facade, she thinks bitterly—all of it. Astarion would tell her that she is the worst kind of fool—the hopeful kind—for actually believing that once Wyll completed his hunt and was freed of his duty, he would transform into some sort of knight in shining armor, just like in his stories, and put everything to rights. In the end, she is just as responsible for her own disappointment, for believing that Wyll—that anyone else—could save her.

This is quickly becoming a trend, it seems: her being repeatedly tricked by her companions into seeing one thing while reality is quite another.

After Mizora vanished in a blazing puff of fire and smoke, Wyll retreated from the heart of camp to sulk alone by the river. Irileth studies his unfamiliar silhouette, the new horns that curl back from his head.

“Poor guy,” Karlach sighs, kicking the dirt. “Mizora’s a nasty one. There is literally no one in all of Avernus more unpleasant than her. Except Zariel. Fucking devils man.”

At least one good thing came out of all of this, Irileth reminds herself. Karlach’s presence burns beside her, heat rolling off of the barbarian in waves. Irileth maintains what she thinks might be a safe distance, eyeing the flames that lick off of Karlach’s red skin. They’ve all seen first hand today just how hot Karlach can burn, and she has no intention of feeling it as well (even though a part of her fantasizes about it, craves it).

Irileth and the others watched from the road as the toll house smoldered to ruins. The sound of wood snapping and glass shattering echoed from within, and above it all, there was Karlach whooping and hollering in all of her frenzied rage.

“I’m free! Free! AhaHAHAHAHAHA! And I’m NEVER. GOING. BACK! ”

“You’re taking all of this in stride,” Irileth replies now, picking at the side of her thumb. It eases some part of her, to have something to do with her hands. Due to her personal commitment to keep her blades sheathed at camp, she has resorted to this: clawing up her own skin like an undisciplined child.

“It’s hard not to,” Karlach answers, and, evidently also not one to keep still, she bounces from side to side on the balls of her feet. “Don’t mean to monologue, but you’ve got no idea what it’s like, soldier, to finally be free of the Avernus after ten. Long. Years! ” She laughs triumphantly again. “And Wyll! Gods, I’ve gotta be honest—I’m reeling. He barely knows me, and still! He chose my life over his. Been a long time since someone stuck their neck out for me.”

Irileth raises her brows. “You don’t think he’ll go back on his decision? Go back to hunting you to get back into Mizora’s favor?”

“Nah. No way.” Karlach waves her hand dismissively. “I’ve spent years dealing with cambions and their ilk. I know how to identify a liar and a swindler. Wyll is a good man. When he was chasing me through Avernus, I thought he was just another sad merc. How wrong I was.”

That gives Irileth pause. They have drastically different interpretations of tonight’s revelations, it seems. Maybe—no. Amiable as Karlach is, Irileth doesn’t want her opinions to be swayed so easily. This is her weakness, she has come to realize: her dependence on her companions’ insight and information to fill in the yawning chasm of her memory. But how to avoid it, when her cratered brain is filled with so many holes?

“So… You wanna give Wyll a pep talk, or should I?” Karlach asks, picking at bits of ash that are speckled around her broken horn, caught in her hair. Then, she drops her hands, swinging her arms around. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your inner dialogue or whatever. You were staring at him for a while, though.”

Irileth shakes her head, rubbing her eyes. Hells, is she tired today. Irileth, in fact, does not want to give Wyll a pep talk. What Irileth wants is to crawl into her tent, and sleep for an age. But wounds fester and Wyll is practically bleeding shame everywhere.

“I’ll talk to Wyll,” she decides wearily. As for that pep talk? She’ll see. 

“Oh, and Karlach?” Irileth halts in her tracks, turning around.

“What’s up?”

“We’ll find you a mechanic as soon as possible,” Irileth promises her. “We’re going to fix your heart and get you home.”

Karlach’s grin is even brighter than her flames. “I appreciate you, you know that? Gods, I would smooch that little face of yours if I didn’t think I’d melt it off! First Wyll, and now you—this is the best day ever.”

Irileth smiles at Karlach’s back as she goes bounding over to where the rest of their party sits around the campfire, chatting and eating their rations. It’s only been a handful of hours, but everyone adores Karlach, Irileth included. There is such a light about Karlach, and Irileth cannot help but be drawn in by it; why anyone would try so hard to subject her to so much darkness is beyond Irileth.

“Karlach, my fiery friend!” Astarion looks up when Karlach joins the circle, and his fangs glint in the low light as he exclaims, “Settle a debate for Lae’zel and I, will you? In your opinion, what is the best way to kill a devil? I’m thinking it’s beheading.”

How adorable. The camaraderie that has sprouted up amongst her companions is so sweet it makes her sick. Irileth hurriedly turns away from the others and her smile melts from her lips, vision rimming with red.

Beheading, she muses. A quick death. Too quick. As she makes for the river, Irileth can’t help but wonder: would Karlach’s head still burn if severed from her body?

“Oh. Irileth. You startled me.” Wyll’s head snaps up when she approaches his spot on the riverbank. Illuminated by the light of the full moon, their reflections warp and ripple in the swift moving water—hers pale and ghoulish, his dark and distorted. Wyll gestures to the fallen tree behind him. “You’re welcome to sit, though I’m afraid I will make foul company tonight.”

“Foul company. Is that because you’re in a pact with a fiend?” Irileth asks bluntly as she ignores his offer and stands above him with her arms folded. She’s being unfair, she knows that. But it still smarts, the darkness she feels that she has been left in, without a guiding light.

“You don’t mince words, do you?” Wyll laughs mirthlessly, shaking his head. “I was referring to my presently poor attitude, but that too.”

Irileth is angry with him and she doesn’t quite know why. Or rather, she does know why, but not how to articulate it. Wyll doesn’t know the sadistic thoughts that churn in her vile little head. After all, Irileth has tried in vain not to let her sickness show, fearing what her companions might do to her (and what she might do to them in return) if they saw her true, darkest self. How to tell him—that she is mad at him for failing to rescue her before he even knew to try? 

Instead, she draws up something one of their companions (Gale, she thinks) said after Mizora disappeared and Wyll retreated to isolation, tail tucked between his legs in shame. “If there’s a devil at the other end of your leash, she was bound to come around sooner or later.”

Wyll only winces and nods despondently, contemplating his strange reflection before him.

“You should have mentioned your pact, Wyll,” Irileth adds, but the rebuke falls flat on her own ears. 

(She thinks of Astarion, unbidden: ‘I spent two centuries at someone else’s mercy.’ He needs someone to blame; this too, cannot also be his fault. ‘You can see why I didn’t trust you at first.’ )

They all have their reasons for keeping secrets, she supposes.

“Did it hurt?” Irileth asks when Wyll still does not rise to her bait, gesturing toward his new appearance. Sharp ridges of scar tissue-like flesh cut across his cheekbones and down his neck, looking for all the world as if someone had snatched Wyll up and carved a crude set of gills into his skin. Even his remaining good eye has been changed to something demonic: inky black scleras that encroach upon a ring of brightest red.

“When Mizora sent me through the Hells? Yes. More than anything I have ever felt before,” Wyll says bitterly, lips twisting with disgust as picks up a stone along the shore and rubs it between his fingers. “But now? The only thing my appearance harms now is my pride. A petty punishment from my petty patron.” His mouth suddenly forms a snarl. “Gods damn her!”

Irileth is silent as Wyll lobs the stone into the river, scattering his warbled reflection into tiny shimmering droplets. He whirls on her, teeth bared with disgust and pain. “Look at me! I did what was right, and Mizora punished me for it. When I made my pact, we had an agreement: I would be hunting devils and demons, traitors and hypocrites! Heartless evils—not Zariel’s victims, not innocent tieflings.”

Then, evidently exhausted by his outburst, Wyll sags forward like a puppet cut from his strings, resting his arms on his knees.

“You must think me a sham. And you would be right.” The moonlight glints off the ridges of his curled horns as Wyll hangs his head dejectedly. “It’s Mizora who grants me my power, but even that is a shadow of what it once was, now that we’ve been tadpoled. By the Helm, what have I become?”

Irileth feels a pang of sympathy (Soft-hearted whelp! She should cut that thing out—quick! Before it cleanses her foul and festering rot!) and her resolve against Wyll defrosts. He looks so miserable, like a wounded dog.

“Why did you make the pact with Mizora?” Irileth questions, because for some reason, it is important to her, to know how the Blade really came to be, and how much of him is real. 

She wants to know how badly she misunderstood him.

“Because I had to,” Wyll states firmly, clutching his hand to his chest. “I told you before—of the time I realized the Coast needed a defender. The realm is too big for one man alone; what is a lone rapier to a horde of goblins? A band of cultists? I needed to be more. Someone who could actually help.”

“I understand that, but was there truly no one else you could have bargained with?” Irileth grapples blindly for any information she knows about warlocks and pacts, though of course, she comes up nearly empty handed. “A different being. The archfey?”

“It’s not that simple, and I’m afraid I cannot do much to clarify.” Will sighs wearily although his expression remains kind, if not a touch wry. “Literally. I am forbidden by my pact to tell you the details of how it came to be. Just know that my deal with Mizora was not sought prior, nor was it expected. If there is anything to be learned from my sorry tale it is that devils only come when there are no other options, and not a moment before.”

“So, what? Mizora forced you into your deal?” She wants him to say yes.

“I only wish I could be as blameless as you think I am. But no.” Wyll unsheathes his rapier and holds it up, the sharp blade like quicksilver beneath the moon. Irileth catches his reflection in it, his new devil-marked eye. “Mizora may have forced my hand, but I still decided to make the pact. Because someone had to. Everything I have done since has been for the good of the people. And so I cannot regret it, not even now.”

Wyll turns away from his reflection, closing his eyes. “No matter what kind of horror she has made me into.”

Slowly, over the course of Wyll’s confession, Irileth’s anger deflated; now, it abandons her entirely. Hells. 

When they first met, Irileth had thought him unflappable. Unchangeable. She’d looked upon the Blade of Frontiers, saw his easy confidence and warm smile, and thought that this was a man who not only knew no shame, but also never had reason to know. She’d never considered him to be capable of holding such regret nor so much self-loathing. 

No, she hadn’t been that kind. She didn’t want him to be more than what she thought he was. 

Now, Irileth lowers herself to sit beside Wyll and lightly touches her hand to his shoulder. Wyll looks up in surprise.

“You’re still you, Wyll,” Irileth tells him, although a part of her recognizes she is convincing herself as much as him. “Horns or no, you’re still you.”

She wants to believe in the Blade of Frontiers. She wants to believe that some things can still be saved, even if she isn’t one of them.

Wyll stares at her, a bit starry eyed. Then he smiles sadly and puts his hand over hers. “I’ve let you down, Irileth. I know that.” He sighs heavily, then releases her to put his hand over his heart once more. “But I promise, I will make it up to you. You have my word.”

Irileth withdraws, a protest on her lips. She is at once flattered and… disquieted by his vow. He should not be beholden to her, no one should—it is too much pressure, to be the person someone looks to for approval and guidance.

Irileth squirms. She really had been unfair to Wyll from the start.

Fortunately—or maybe, unfortunately—Irileth is spared from responding. Something snaps in the brush behind them, and in an instant, both Wyll and Irileth are on their feet. Wyll, having already drawn his blade, steps forward, placing himself between camp and their unseen interloper.

Irileth is unarmed, but she knows—oh she knows that her hands require no daggers to reap death. (Open palm and fingers splayed, all the better to feel the sternum crack.)

“Show yourself!” Wyll demands, and (bless him, he still thinks she needs protecting) gestures for Irileth to stand back. “I’ll not suffer any sneaks or thieves tonight.”

His rapier begins to shimmer with green fiendish power and eldritch energy swarms around his clenched fist, ready to fire.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Someone—a familiar voice—shouts, and a woman stumbles forward out of the shadowed forest. A jumble of color, pale blue and purple, like the leaves of an autumncrocus flower. “It’s me!”

Alfira.

[joz-yyh]

Rust - Ch. 9 (Preview)

SUMMARY: Junia lets slip something she shouldn't. Will the bounty hunter be able to trust it's just a misunderstanding? No Beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (for blood / violence / swearing)

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant

WORD COUNT: 1,638

A/N: Another FLASHBACK chapter!! Takes place around Ch. 4 (after the warrens boss fight).

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

"There ye fuckin’ are," Tardif sneers, marching up to the flagellant with swift vengence.

Usually, the bounty hunter wouldn't show himself unless it was to visit the tavern, conduct some shady business transaction, but today he's making a special exception.

Damian turns, unsuspecting and curious as to what penchant has incurred the brute's wrath this time.

"Ah, Tardif,” his quarry cheers, "What brings you here?"

If the bounty hunter had to describe the emotion boiling up inside him it would be rage, blind rage.

“Kickin’ yer bloody ass!” 

With a practiced hand, the mercenary slips on his lesser used repertoire of brass knuckles, a slight pivotal motion, barely discernible, a glint of metal that bides into an explosive doctrine, decking the flagellant hard enough to wipe the smile clean off his face.

The garish impact sends the masochist staggering backwards, a flurry of blood drops gushing into the air as he trips into the broken fountain behind him.

With a poignant splash, the priest falls on his hands, landing face first, trickles of red beads already tainting the algae-infested well of water and cracked stone around him.

The spectacle draws some attention, the surrounding townsfolk gawking, but the bounty hunter couldn't care less if they watch, he's more than happy to beat them to a pulp too if they dare get in his way.

With an ardent step, Tardif climbs into the stagnant pool after him, despises how much it soaks his boots, but he's willing to withstand the sensation if it means retrieving his prey, crippling him faster.

He drags the sorry priest up by the handle of his collar, stares piercingly at the trenchant guise of teeth because he wants Damian to see it in his eyes, just how deep his hatred goes.

The priest can't speak, the mercenary making him incapable of it as he swings at him again and again, one fist to fasten him in place while the other reduces the holy man to splatters of gore.

By the time the brute breaks from his heated rampage, his gloves are warm with scarlet pimpernels, his chest panting heavy with exertion.

Damian is absolutely throbbing, body pulsing, his head a swirling abyss, a delirious censure born from repeated blows to the face.

"Wow,” he sputters, barely recognizable, a macabre painting of shredded lips, busted nose and black eyes. "You’re incredible.”

Tardif scoffs at the praise, fights off any pride coalescing in his chest because this glorified dreck of a man deserved nothing less than his disgust, another enemy to be cut down. 

“What inspired this,” the flagellant purrs, or tries to, praising the Light for this blessing of blood.

"Junia told me everythin'," the bounty hunter snarls, cords of muscle ripe with tension.

At this revelation, Damian gives him that infuriating head tilt, confusion born from a concussion maybe, but Tardif doesn't want to give him that excuse.

"Don't fuckin’ give me that look," the mercenary barks, snarling behind his mask.

"What did miss Junia say to you,” Damian asks, his breath suddenly weak, body limp.

"Teh! Has the flagellant forgotten his sacred mission already?" 

At this taunt, Damian's grin falters, his expression turning serious. "What are you talking about?"

“Maybe, ye should ask her,” the bounty hunter snorts, “Then, I can finally be cured of my loneliness.”

Just how far was the flagellant willing to go to bring him comfort? Were all their interactions forced, nothing more than a disillusioned missionary taking pity on a condemned nonbeliever? 

Tardif grows all the more enraged by this outcome, silently fuming beneath his mantle of steel, shaking with the strain.

"Do you really not understand,” Damian implores, realizing that the bounty hunter wasn't pretending, that this was different from their usual spars of dialogue.

He reaches for the leather bound fingers cinched around his neck, clasping gloved hands inside his, recreating the past, he and Tardift amidst the weald, wearing halos of poison. 

“Did you not feel it too?”

That’s right, this religious zealot thought he could bless him in a foolish demonstration of the Light’s power. Is it glorified magic flowing through him now or something else?

“Tardif,” the flagellant presses, his hand raking down the other’s arm, clinging to it, nails prying under his skin as they always do, “tell me, did you not feel it too?”

It takes him a long moment to answer, staring somewhere just off in the distance.

“Wots it matter?"

"You did, didn’t you? I know you did.”

The bounty hunter doesn't like how sure of himself the priest sounds, that his memory isn't more contentious from getting his  skull bashed in.

“Heh, nice try, but I ain't fallin' for anymore of yer lies.”

He lets the masochist crumple to the ground, releasing him with another splash of polluted water. 

Any gratification he'd gleaned from this clash of disputes had run its course, shifting now to jaded disinterest.

"Do you think I could fake how I look at you,” Damian propounds, deadpan with the thought.

"Ha! Dunno, yer pretty good at fakin’ looks wit' the houndmaster too.”

Damian frowns at the insinuation.

"What do you mean?”

"Ye two looked awfully cozy together," the brute spits, crossing his arms, recalling their mushy visit at the sanitarium.

"We're friends," the flagellant says, confused at how it could be misconstrued as anything more than that.

"That's some ‘friendship’ ye got, huh?"

First, Damian must come to terms with the fact that Tardif, as cold and distant as he is, had been watching him, more closely and more often than he could have ever imagined, even when he thought he wasn't looking. 

Then, he must realize the bounty hunter is treading dangerously close to the bitter omens of jealousy, that it's fueling his accusations, bending the narrative, dealing defaming blows to his character.

"Tardif, I will not entertain this," the flagellant growls, “If you truly believe there is nothing between us, why are you so angry if I hold affection for another? Could it be that you were hoping for more?"

Tardif feels his muscles stiffen, his whole body rigid with how close to the truth that strikes.

Still on his knees, Damian sloshes closer, uncoordinated thanks to his beating, but clings to the ridges of Tardif's belt like the destitute bum he is.

“Tell me,” he implores, searching everywhere for a sign, to reach the huntsman's eyes that still refuse to meet his, “were you hoping for more?”

"Get back," Tardif barks, trying to push him off, bogged with sluice.

"No,” Damian protests, holding on as tightly as his current condition can muster. “Look into my eyes, see that what I tell you is true.”

Tardif doesn’t want to fall for his tricks again, but eventually, he can't stop himself, reaching out to see if the man would flinch, expecting Damian to pull away the moment he touches the sanctity of his hood.

It's a wonder the raggedy fabric wasn't knocked off during their quarrel, but it's pulled down now, the full extent of his face visible, the flagellant giving him naught a reason to doubt his sincerity.

The bounty hunter remembers those eyes, of what such vitriolic elation does to him.

Once again, his rational mind warns him not to touch, but his gloved hand has already gripped the ashen priest's jaw, inspecting the strength of his resolve within a tourniquet grip.

"I should end ye,” Tardif sneers, narrowing his gaze. He trails lower, squeezing at the flagellant’s bulging neck, wanting to crush it under his fist.

“I would follow you, even then,” Damian vows, undeterred by his threat, willing to fulfill it, walk forever by his side.

The bounty hunter shouldn't be surprised by that answer, the uncanny flagellant had a fascination with death, had aptly chosen him to reap his soul, but it does pose another question. 

"Why? Ain't ye got better saints to follow than me?"

The priest drags his deviant hand up, over the man's armor, where his heart resides. He can hear the blood pumping beneath, making Damian’s ears ring in delight.

“Such a passionate heart. It rivals that of my own devotion.”

Some of his answer is expected, some of it not. There have been others who have been drawn to his strength, his notoriety, wanting to harness these talents for themselves, use him, possess him for the discreet service he provides.

If the offer was sweet enough, he'd hurt people just for the money, simply because they asked, enjoy it himself to some degree, but was he able to give this man the attachment he seeks, would it last?

The mercenary must be lost, stuck inside his own head because the priest is speaking in lieu of silence.

“It is in the blood you spill, you speak through it, as do I. It calls to me. Have I not mentioned this to you before?”

He might have. The bounty hunter doesn't quite recall. He's grown accustomed to toning out any prayers or inspirational speeches.

What Tardif does remember is the true nature of what he came here to do, before the vestal threw a snag into everything, learned of an ugly half truth. 

He unlatches the extra yards of rope tied to his belt, a replica of his grappling hook, fashioned in good faith of an ornery student, shoving it into Damian’s possession.

“To think I was goin' to give ye this.”

It takes the holy man a moment to realize the gravity of what's been thrusted upon him. Not just a mere weapon, nor a gift, this was something deeper, more grand than both. 

“My escort in exchange for your expertise.”

The brazen proposal he made back then, the bounty hunter had been carefully considering it all this time, his intentions resounding just as clearly as the words themselves, if actions could speak.

{End Preview}

[huntunderironskies]

Heads/Last/Seven/Something

Tagged by @late-to-the-fandom ! I think I'm supposed to just post some out of context lines from things I am writing. If I'm wrong, well, you get a preview of assorted things I'm working on, and it's....pretty varied. It's mostly either (.......fandom-related, cough, good luck guessing which fandoms because one of them has an English speaking fandom in the dozens at most) essays or game writing so I'll try to toss in a bit of everything. Especially since the mechanical stuff is short supplements and if I give away more than one bit then you've already got a good chunk of the booklet.

1."But they were the Ishmael to his Abraham, and their Abraham would never have given up his Isaac, and there was an angel, and there was no one and nothing to save them from what was to come."

2. "Strangely, the Storm Lords welcome the Gishtahu, albeit cautiously. Struggle and growth towards perfection is the essence of the Storm Lords. What greater struggle is there to overcome such a base instinct and still strive for the apex of predatory sainthood the Storm Lords strive for? Who else can claim to have suffered so much in the pursuit of that but the Gishtahu Iminir? A Storm Lord Martyr would never brag about this, of course, such a thing is unbecoming and a true Storm Lord hides their weakness and makes their immaculate qualities seem effortless, but the Gishtahu who overcome their vices are acknowledged with a quiet reverence by their Tribemates."

3. "I have very little proof for this other than his character art, but I believe deep in my soul he is an early transition transman. Demons took his tits away. Good for him. God, I wish that were me."

4. "The Wolf must hunt.

Things other than the Wolf hunt, of course. That’s a given. But it’s not a part of their being. It’s not a Sacred Hunt. It’s not a part of their very being.

Or at least, that’s what the Uratha have told themselves for all their history. By their own billing, the Final Lodge stands alone among the People by acknowledging the fact this isn’t true anymore. Some humans must Hunt."

5. "This rite may only be performed when a werewolf suffers from at least one point of aggravated damage from an enemy of the pack and the wound is still open (meaning at least one level is still there when the rite is performed.) The pack gains +2 on rolls to activate Glory facets and to activate their Hunter’s Aspect for one month. It is only taught to Blood Talons."

6. "Let he who has not committed organ theft on at least like, three people cast the first stone."

7. "In the dim lights of the bar, his eyes have a faint blue glow to them. And, for the first time, you're getting a good look at his face. He's not as immediately, strikingly handsome in the way Gabriel is, and he doesn't have that ethereal beauty that Samael does, but there's something in his lean, sharp features that draws you in.

Maybe if he'd stop scowling once in a while, it'd be easier to see. He's still a half-step away from a smile, but he already seems so much warmer."

I will tag, uh, anyone who wants to show off a WIP I guess. Have at it. Or don't, I'm not your dad.

[heliotrope-journey]

Elemental, My Dear Michaela

Good evening, vampire hunters. Would you care to join me for a drink? A spot of tea will shield you from your troubled minds for now. You might catch a glimpse of July pouring you a cup on your tote bag or phone case once I've vectored it. Or a coaster would be more suitable. ;)

Certain herbs and dragonfruit used to brew medicinal tea can tame the beast within us all, but nothing unleashes it more than black magic. Humans are believed to be inherently greedy and the magic they steal from a creature so fragile like a pixie or a hippocampus becomes a reflection of that nature. Michaela is a rare exception of magicians that acquire power through the murder of a life form previously known in legend. To protect Einsam and herself, she killed man and animal alike, but her black magic did not fracture her humanity. Only when the odds are stacked against her and Michaela's stress becomes chronic does her befouled water magic take control, temporarily changing her into a humanoid elemental composed of liquid*. Why is it only that element that burdens her as opposed to earth, fire, shadow, lightning, etc.?

Water is a force of nature that closely matches Michaela's personality; calm, gentle, and serene one moment and the next, she's violent, destructive, and reckless. Magicians that have not received an Olympian's blessing are lucky to keep their benevolence after killing one creature for its power, but it takes enduring constant trauma and still keeping her cool for Michaela to bear enough dark magic that should've altered her appearance. To seek power not out of selfishness but to protect a vulnerable soul from potentially his own blood is what ultimately makes her incorruptible. Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash.

Sheer willpower is a quality Michaela lives on, but not every sorcerer is that gifted. Sipping medicinal tea brewed from dragonfruit and a few specific herbs is one other method to prevent their black magic from consuming them, which is why if they choose to go down that path and avoid descending into villiany, it is recommended they keep a teapot and the necessary ingredients handy.

As always, thank you for supporting the series and we'll be back soon with more previews of Chapter 4 in Waltz of Sepulchral Silence and The Heliotrope Chronicles.

Best wishes,

WN

*Cronix went the extra mile with his take on Michaela by giving her that form a couple years back. The concept embodies her at her scariest and devastating, but it's also the reason why she must control her crippling emotions.

[dispatchdcu]

Blood Hunters #4 Preview

Blood Hunters #4 Preview #BloodHunters #bloodhunt #bloodhunters #MARVEL #marvelcomics #comics #comicbooks #news #mcu #art #info #NCBD #comicbooknews #previews #reviews

Blood Hunters #4 Preview: The super-vamps of the Bloodcoven have Dagger in their clutches – and her teammates in the Blood Hunters will risk it all to get her back! How far will Elsa Bloodstone, White Widow and Hallows’ Eve be forced to go in order to rescue Dagger? And with the Bloodcoven’s endgame in place, who will survive the experience?! ERICA SCHULTZ • ROBERT GILL (A) Cover by EMA…

[graphicpolicy]

Preview: Blood Hunters #4

Blood Hunters #4 preview. When Earth's skies go dark, it attracts the attention of the Silver Surfer! #comics #comicbooks

[comicbookclub]

Marvel Preview: Blood Hunters #4

Read a preview of Blood Hunters #4 from Marvel Comics, written by Fabian Nicieza, Mary Sangiovanni, and Erica Schultz, with art by Patch Zircher, Giada Belviso, and Bernard Chang.

[comicbookclublive]

Marvel Preview: Blood Hunters #4

Read a preview of Blood Hunters #4 from Marvel Comics, written by Fabian Nicieza, Mary Sangiovanni, and Erica Schultz, with art by Patch Zircher, Giada Belviso, and Bernard Chang.

[artemiseamoon]

Preview: Death Kiss 4

Vampire Hunters! Bishop, Reyes Brothers & ocs

Mayans x JC Vampires | Artes Frighfest

Words: 3,145

Fic info

Read on A03

Blu stops in front of the water fountain. “Holy shit-”

She thought the motel room was a blood bath, this was even more fucked up. Instead of water, the fountain is running red with blood. Two bodies are thrown across it, even more on the ground. The doors to the church are wide open, with blood splatter all over them.

She only looks a moment longer before following the group inside the church. Inside there is more blood and death.

Bishop examined the room before turning his attention to Luz, “where is he?”

“I don’t know - I don’t feel him right now.”

Bishop points at her, “as soon as you feel something, you fucking tell us, got it?” he leads the way out, “we got 8 hours of sunlight left, come on.”

Read on A03

Mayans masterlist

No tags

[heckcareoxytwit]

A preview of Blood Hunters #4

BLOOD HUNTERS #4

When Earth’s skies go dark, it attracts the attention of the Silver Surfer! See the BLOOD HUNT event from an entirely new and cosmic perspective! Then Satana and her basilisk intend to show the invading vamps exactly what happens when you cross the daughter of Satan! And finally, Hallows’ Eve enters the fray, joining Dagger, Elsa Bloodstone and White Widow for a final showdown with the vampiric hordes! But the end of this tale is just the beginning for… the BLOOD HUNTERS!

Written by: Fabian Nicieza Art by: Patrick Zircher Cover by: Greg Land, Frank D’Armata Page Count: 36 Pages Release Date: July 17, 2024