#Celebrate the death of mankind

[circeyoru]

Future Power Couple = Requested

The Request

[Sung Jinwoo x S-Rank Player!Reader]

! ALERT

- A new Player has joined the System.

That was months ago. You have received noticed on how well this new Player did from time to time, sounded like the System was mighty happy with this Player’s progress. Well, it wasn’t like you could do anything when you knew this person was in the same situation as yourself. While it was good that the System helped you level up to be the strongest S-Rank Hunter, you were sort of a test run for the real Player. You didn’t like being used as a trial run. 

You returned back to Korea after your exchange a bit too late. By the time you returned, the Jeju Raid ended in success with a major lost. Had you known he joined the raid, you would have joined too. Min Byung-Gyu and you were close but different, while he was the only Healer class S-Rank, you were his opposite as you were the only Assassin class S-Rank in Korea. Still, the uniqueness of your singular class among the fighter and mage class made the two of you bond like siblings with him being the other one.

So, without question, you attended his funeral. That’s when you caught a glimpse of the new S-Rank Hunter the Chairman was talking about. Sung Jinwoo, a mage class, former E-Rank and the Weakest Hunter of All Mankind. It was clear as day that he was the new Player the System noticed you all those months ago, and continuously praised. But that was all that happened, you didn’t stray away from the main objective that day and it was to honour your brother-like friend’s sacrifice and work.

“Can you join Hunter Sung to deal with a gate that appeared in the middle of the road?”

“Ha?” You side eyed the phone next to your ear. Just your luck that you were immediately given a dungeon to clear, and with Jinwoo no less. “He can handle it himself, right?” After all, he was raised by the System and leveled up to the point of gaining S-Rank. “There’s no need for me to join him.”

“You could see him in action.”

It was an enticing offer. You’ve only heard of Jinwoo’s powers and abilities, never did you see him fight or what he actually did during the Jeju Raid, since you were distraught about your friend’s death. You hummed and tapped your feet repeatedly, you want to go and don’t want to go. “Fine! Send me the location!”

Chuckles could be heard on the other side. “Haha, thank you for your work.”

Clearing a dungeon with a lack of teammates was nothing compared to what you usually do. You were the Association’s exclusive S-Rank Hunter, also known as The Underworld Assassin, due to your class and the fact that you do the Association’s dirty work. You were a feared Hunter unlike those that were treated as celebrities. 

While Jinwoo seemed to be stopped by an officer in charge of the gate, you came up behind her. “Hey, let him pass, he has permission from the Chairman.”

It was obvious that she flinched from your sudden appearance, “Huh?! Oh, yes! Please!”

“Let’s go.” You told Jinwoo without sparing him another glance. All the better if he didn’t follow behind you and you had to deal with this situation alone. Just ilke always.

To your surprise, he followed. The two of you eyed each other when you got a good look at your surrounding. No doubt thinking of the same thing. This was definitely a Red Gate. It felt like a scam and it is one.

“I can handle it on my own.” Jinwoo proudly stated while his Shadows appeared behind him.

“Yeah? Well, I was sent to clear this dungeon by the Chairman too.” You glared at him, taking out your weapons from your inventory. 

“You’ll be in my way. I have an army to help me.” Jinwoo gestured to his Shadows. 

“Relying on your soldiers to do your work?” You teased with a smirk. “Some Hunter you are. I can manage all on my own.”

In the end, admist your argument with Jinwoo on who would clear the dungeon, the two of you had already destroyed the surrounding forest, weaker monsters and boss while Jinwoo’s Shadows tried to calm the two of you down. The argument only ended when you accidentally slipped and fell through the reopened gate, while pulling Jinwoo with you of course. 

(It was Tusk that used his gravitational ability, Beru’s idea, and Igris�� agreement that made the two of you fall for each other. Literally.)

After your first raid with the Hunter, your System gave you stupid quests to meet with Jinwoo outside of work. Ridiculous missions like <Meet Your Partner!> or <Have A Meal> and Jinwoo got the same. The two of you worked out your little secret to growing strong. Turns out he was approached by Norma Selner as well, an offer to join their country’s ranks. Similarly, both of you declined. 

“You’re too slow.”

“You’re too stiff.”

“Your form is weird.”

“You’re not acting like a mage.”

“An assassin doesn’t use bow and arrow.”

“A mage doesn’t use daggers.”

“Want to get punched?”

“Want to get stabbed?”

It was decided that once in a while, S-Rank Hunters would gather at the training grounds to train together and even have mock battles. Whenever you and Jinwoo were in the same hall, the two of you would immediately get into a spat then a mock battle. Because the two of you had the System and quicker recovery, you two would let loose. No unique skills and back-up (Jinwoo’s Shadows), just pure physical talent. Which always result in childish bantering back and forth between blows. 

Your mock battles with Jinwoo always have to be timed else it could and would go on for hours. Cha Hae-In would rush to drag you away while Jinwoo had to be held off by Baek Yoonho and Ma Dongwook. Then the two of you would be sitting in the dialogically opposite spot glaring at each other, even resulting to making weird faces and hand gestures. The other Hunters could only sigh, unable to bear with the consequence if they stepped between you two.

Look at his silly face… Definitely not a better S-Rank Hunter than me. You looked away while drinking your water for a moment. But his speed is impressive… It’s been a while since I could let loose.

Being feisty again. Isn’t an assassin purposed to be quick with their target? Jinwoo would sneak glances at you while Hae-In requested to train with you and compete with a mock battle. Holding back? Guess mock battles with me is more fun. Ah, that form really brings out all the right qualities…

“They’re at it again.” Woo Jinchul sighed, calculating the damage cost that was done during the mock battle you had with Jinwoo. 

“Young love is wonderful isn’t it?” Chairman Go Gunhee chuckled, watching the two of you look at each other when the other’s attention was elsewhere. Of course, noticing the facial expression change and the faint blush on your faces. 

Jinchul groaned at the numbers, “We might as well have an entire island as their battle grounds.”

“That would give them the privacy needed.”

“Yes, that would help with the cost—” Jinchul did a double take to what the Chairman said, “Pardon sir?”

Gunhee only smiled and turned to his trusted aid, “If the two most powerful Hunters in our country were officially a couple, don’t you think they’d be a power couple?”

“...I suppose…”

Note: Yay! This is my first request for Solo Leveling! Hope it's done as you expected or wanted, Anon! Feels like everything's all over the place, but it's what it is. Enjoy!

Circe Y.

My Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist: (none)

[nelkcats]

The King's last gift

Danny was tired, tired of being responsible for protecting the world. At first it was just Amity but the ghosts began to explore more and the halfa was exhausted. He was the only hero available and it was taking its toll.

He knew he couldn't go on like this, let alone with his coronation around the corner but he didn't know what else to do. He knew he couldn't interfere with the world after the crown was on his head. The world would fear him (maybe even more than now) and protecting them with so much power in hand could do more harm than good, but if he didn't protect them, who would?

His core ached at the thought of all those people begging for a hero who wouldn't come, so Danny took desperate measures, and cheated a little.

He visited Desiree; she watched him with a raised eyebrow, curious. And Danny did what he forbade long ago, he wished. He wished for the future and for humanity itself, he uttered the words he had wanted to say ever since he knew he would not be able to visit earth for a long time.

"I wish for the world to be safe even when I no longer live in it, I wish for there to be someone who can protect it, even if it's just a human."

Desiree blinked in surprise not expecting the King who had "forbidden" her to do such a thing. She smiled and nodded. Her power grew exponentially but neither she nor Danny said anything about it. The halfa would not undo that wish after all.

In New Jersey, Thomas and Martha Wayne were celebrating the birth of their son. Neither of them noticed the spark of magic entering the baby, nor the boy's unusually blue eyes. Bruce Wayne, the Ghost King's latest gift to mankind, had been born.

And years later, when the Justice League was formed and everyone was talking to each other, John Constantine looked at the dark knight curiously, wondering if he was aware that he was death's favorite.

[wordsinhaled]

the way Unreal Unearth is so much about opposites, and contradictions, and paired things, and nature as a force. light and darkness, knowing and the unknown, the self and the other, the inner world and the exterior, the ceaseless and unstoppable flow of water and tide, places and the finding of them, naming and being seen, being lost and being found in the finding of yourself. the land and the sky juxtaposed, the rivers running through it all. falling and crawling and rising. mourning and celebrating. anguish and relief. it makes me think of togetherness for some reason. connectedness. and the life cycle. death and rebirth and loss and regaining through collective memory. and pain being lessened when shared. there’s something so Joyce about it too, this groundedness in place, and the layers, so many layers.

and it reminds me of John Donne’s ‘No Man Is An Island’:

‘any man's death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom

the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’

[balladingbard]

How Deryk Solved the Problem of the Ancients

When we talk about the Myths of the Realm finale, I think many of us went in expecting how the story would end.

We knew the Twelve were former Ancients from Venat’s faction. We knew they were getting ready to pass the torch to mankind. Heck, we even knew Deryk was Oschon.

But despite the predictability of the story, I think Myths highlighted a nagging problem Ancient society was plagued with and never could get over: the inability to enjoy life simply for what it was.

When we think about it, the Ancients based their lives on their work and purpose. Once that purpose was done, death awaited. We saw it in Ancient society with the Elpis arc. We saw it with the Ascians, like Emet-Selch and Elidibus and their speeches on duty. We also saw it with the Twelve, who after all these millennia of guiding mankind to stand on their own feet again, decided to call it quits and return to the Star.

Work becomes life, according to the Ancients, and once that work is done, what life is there left to live?

But then Oschon came along.

Like the rest of the Twelve, Oschon (or Deryk, as he called himself) was like the other Ancients. His work was wrapping up, and after a final test for mankind, he was going to return to the Star with his friends like the other Ancients before him. But unlike the rest of the Twelve, rather than observing and keeping communication to a minimum with mankind, he reached out and became one of them - joining their travels, breaking bread at the table, listening to their hopes and dreams.

Though still at work, he got to do something the other Twelve had little chance to do - see the newly created world not from the eyes of a protective deity, but of a man. And when he allowed himself to glimpse a life outside of his work, it awakened a desire to remain. While the other Eleven returned to the Star, Oschon decided to stay, embracing Deryk’s identity and finally taking the time to simply enjoy the world and people he’d spent lifetimes protecting.

In short, Oschon learned a lesson the Ancients ignored - how to see the beauty of life outside of work.

Though the Ancients weren’t wrong in celebrating their purposes and finding joy in what they did, we saw in the Elpis arc and Hermes how damaging it was to make life solely about work. Would Hermes have been as distraught in taking Fandaniel’s seat knowing it didn’t mean the end of his mentor? Could the Eleven have gotten to know their people had they stayed, and thus find new purpose in the world they helped shape? Menphina says in her final battle, “Let’s delight in the simple things,” but does she really allow herself to?

No. Instead, it’s Oschon, the wanderer…the loner. The one who really wasn’t supposed to be around people much, but chose them over his purpose as an Ancient anyways. And despite still having love for the Eleven, he allowed himself to do something no other Ancient (except perhaps Elidibus) could do: remember the Ancient world, but still embrace the new.

[hearthandheathenry]

All About Lughnasadh

Lughnasadh, also known as Lughnasa or Lúnasa, is the name given to the Gaelic festival that represents the beginning of the harvest season, which traditionally falls on August 1st in the northern hemisphere. The holiday is about halfway between the summer solstice and autumn equinox, and is one of the 4 Gaelic seasonal festivals. Although it is traditionally Irish, many neopagans celebrate the holiday as well.

Traditionally named after the Irish God Lugh, Lughnasadh has been documented to be celebrated since at least the middle ages and involved great gatherings, ceremonies, athletic games like the Tailteann Games, feasting, horse racing, matchmaking, trading, and more, and were traditionally celebrated on top of hills and mountains. The festival remained widely celebrated until about the 20th century, where it seemed to be replaced by Christian counterparts.

Lugh, the God the festival is named after, is said to have founded the holiday as a funeral feast and funeral games to commemorate the death of an earth goddess. The Irish stories vary throughout regions and times, but it usually involves a woman who is stolen away or held against her will and dies of grief, shame, exhaustion, or unspecified causes. There is notable similarities to the Greek Persephone tale. According to a tale about the Lughnasadh festival site Tailtin, it is said to be a funeral for his foster-mother, Tailtiu, who was said to have died from exhaustion after clearing the plains of Ireland for agriculture. A tale about the Lughnasadh site Naas, says the festival was founded in the memory of his two wives, Nás and Bói. Another theory states it was a mourning for the end of summer.

Máire MacNeill, a folklorist, studied the later lore of the holiday and claims it is about a struggle for the harvest between Lugh and another god, often named Crom Dubh. In some stories Lugh must seize Crom Dubh's treasure of grain to give to all of mankind. In other stories, it's over a woman named Eithne who represents grain. Othertimes, its a battle of Lugh defeating a figure representing blight. There doesn't seem to be one agreed upon legend, other than it's revolving around the God Lugh.

As for ancient customs and traditions, they can vary region to region and have morphed throughout time. However, a big tradition was the gathering at Óenach Tailten, a type of olympic style games and gathering where kings declared truces during the entire festival in order to partake and compete against eachother. It included ritual athletic and sporting competitions, horse racing, music and storytelling, trading, law-making and settling legal disputes, creating contracts, and even matchmaking. A common matchmaking tradition was allowing couples to enter a trial marriage that lasted a year and a day by joining hands through a wooden door, after of which they could make permanent or break without consequences once the trial marriage was up. One gathering, called the Óenach Carmain, also consisted of a food and livestock market along with a market for foreign traders.

Other traditions also included a solemn cutting of the first corn to be offered to the deity by bringing it to a high place and burying it, a meal for everyone consisting of the new food and blueberries, a sacrifice and rituals involving a sacred bull, a ritual dance-play, reenactment of the lore, and closing ceremonies. Climbing hills and mountains were also a popular tradition, but has been rebranded overtime as Christian pilgrimages. At some gatherings, everyone wore flowers and climbed a hill, where they buried said flowers at the top to signify the ending of summer. At other gatherings, the first sheaf of harvest was buried instead.

A popular tradition up until about the 18th century were faction fights where young men fought eachother with sticks. One such game consisted of building towers of sod topped with a flag to defend from the other team's sabotaging. Bull sacrifices were also recorded into the 18th century, being used as offerings to various deities, along with special meals made from the first harvest. A special cake called the lunastain was also recorded. Visiting holy wells was also a very prominent tradition, just like during the other yearly festivals. Although bonfires were associated with Lughnasadh and the other main Celtic festivals, they were considered rare for this holiday, most likely due to the very warm summer temperatures.

Some traditions are still celebrated today in Ireland, with festivals being held in honor of Lughnasadh and re-enactors and historians reviving and teaching new generations old lore. There are still markets, traditional dancing, traditional storytelling, arts and craft workshops, feasting, and much more during these modern gatherings, keeping the traditions alive and well, even if they differ region to region. Some pagans and Wiccans also celebrate Lughnasadh, usually differing in their practices, but still using it as a signifier of the first harvest and summer's ending.

Lughnasadh Associations

Colors - yellow, orange, red, brown, green, gold, bronze

Food - blueberries, blackberries, grains, fruit, vegetables, bread, corn, beef, stews, lamb, wine, beer, cider, fruit drinks

Animals - bulls/cows, roosters, sheep

Items - scythes and harvest tools, grain/corn stalks

Crystals - citrine, aventurine, tigers eye, carnelian, topaz

Other - sporting/athletic competitive games, storytelling, matchmaking, cycle of life, harvest

Ways to celebrate:

gather blueberries or blackberries

enjoy grains or breads

make homemade bread

have a feast

climb a hill/take a pilgrimage

offer food to your deity(ies)

commit or recommit to your partner

harvest fresh food from your garden

visit a farmers market

complete a craft or make art

participate in an athletic competition or game

[annikin-annotates]

Lady of the Lake

Hi y’all! I’m so glad to be writing this for my dear kindred spirit for her 1,000 followers celebration! I hope you all enjoy the One Shot I’ve created using Hozier's Butchered Tongues as my base. Congratulations my dear @arcielee, you deserve all the love you receive, I hope this lives up to your expectations!. 

Let me know if you would like to be added to my taglists!

Happy reading.

Pairing: Aemond x Siren!Reader

Word Count: 3,069 (Nice)

Warnings; Blood, mentions of death, thoughts of ripping Aemond limb from limb. Minors DNI 18+

Chosen lyrics; They are buried without scalp in the shattered bedrock of our home.

The lake had been covered in misty fog, its eerie tendrils dancing just above the surface of the water, if one looked close enough they could see water sprites at work. Humans believed that magic was gone from the world, but if they only looked a little closer they would see that it was still here, barely; like the final embers on a candle wick. 

She lived beneath the surface of a pond, a safe haven under the ever changing waters of the stream that flows into it. It was always quiet in her small pond, the blue gills and catfish her only company. Though she would not say that it was entirely awful, it may be secluded and quiet but it was always safe, and being safe meant staying alive. 

Trees twisted and wrapped their way around one another, strangling one another for a chance at seeing the sun, oh how she longed for the sun’s warmth. The dense dark green thickets surrounding the edge of the lake, pointed thorns dipping into the water, another reminder of the cage she had put herself in. 

She slipped below the surface once more, sinking to the mossy floor, her head resting on a mossy rock, staring up at the underside of the lily pads. She spent the rest of her day hunting catfish and playing with the small water spiders that skimmed across the surface of the water.

She spent her night curled up in a patch of Hydrilla, its green tips making a space in the water. She stared up into the inky expanse and wondered what it was like above the surface. She wondered if perhaps one day, she too could walk amongst them. She had walked on land before, some centuries ago when she was only a girl.

Back when humans knew and respected the creatures that dwell out of sight, the rulers of nature. For a time they had lived in peace, silently walking amongst them, helping when needed, fighting in wars that were not ours, and aiding the sick with cures and magic long forgotten by mankind.

Somewhere along the path, we had become a threat, a danger to humans, they began to push them back into the woods and lakes, away from civilisations. Her mother was forced from her job as a maid in a keep not far from where she dwelled, it was not long after that, they began to cull them. All her family were snuffed out within a night, now all of them laid at the bottom of the God’s Eye.

All except her. 

She shook the thoughts from her head, she couldn’t bear to think about it any more. She reached a webbed hand toward the starry sky, the rippled surface obscuring the true beauty of it. Her arm came to rest by her side, disturbing the sediment as she sighed, an air pocket travelling all the way to the surface.  

Shimmering sunlight awoke her from her slumber, she sat up and stretched her arms and leant forward to stretch her back, the dorsal fin waying with the current. Perhaps today she would sun herself on the boulder in her lake, enjoy the sound of birdsong and they trickling water. The warmth of the flat rock warmed her cold flesh, her tail swishing in the clear water beneath her. 

The sun had just begun to beam down into her pond, refracting different colours like light onto a thousand precious gems. She spent time braiding her hair down the length of her back, small river flowers delicately weaved into it. She hummed the melody of a song her mother used to sing to her when she was young, the same one she would use to lure men to their watery graves. 

The sound of approaching hooves sent her beneath the water again, resurfacing in the safety of the water reeds. Directly across from her was a lithe man knelt by the running water of the stream, drinking handfuls of water. He was marvellous to look at, his deep green clothes and gold trimmed armour and his hair that looked like spun silver fluttering in the gentle wind. 

A familiar primal feeling came over her, it was stronger than she had ever felt before: have him, have him, devour him, feast upon his bones, it chanted. It frightened her, but she followed the feeling, diving below the water once more only to look at him from between the reeds. She could see all the features of his face now, a strong chin and pronounced nose and eyes that glittered like amethysts in the sun. He was handsome, but she could taste the sadness permeating from him, the wish to be anywhere other than where he was, she empathised with him. 

‘Come and find me,’ she whispered, edging him closer and closer to the water ‘Let me free you from your burdens,’ she cooed, watching him fall deeper and deeper under her spell. 

He was within her grasp, she surfaced from beneath the water, scaled chest glimmering in the sunlight, a webbed hand extended for him to take. Their fingers ghosted one another, his hands were soft and warm while hers were cold and slippery, ‘Come to me, my sweet,’ she hummed melodically. She could practically feel her teeth sinking into his flesh, tearing him limb from limb, the thought sent her milky eyes rolling back into her head. 

A woman with long dark hair grasped his shoulder, pulling him from her carefully laid trance, “You mustn’t venture too close to the water, my Prince,” she said firmly. By the time he had flicked his eyes towards the other woman and back to the water, she was gone. 

“Why?” she heard him ask, standing from the waters edge, his eyes hadn’t yet left the spot where he saw her. 

“Dark creatures lurk below the surface of these waters,” the woman replied, though the conversation had become less clear the further they ventured from the water. 

The woman in the water haunted him for days after returning to Harrenhal, the word she spoke to him ringing in his ears, ‘Let me free you from your burdens,’ she had said. She was slowly consuming him, mind, body and soul, and he had no desire to break free from her hold. He would never forget the feeling of being lured by her, both horrifying and euphoric. 

He saw flashes of her everywhere, peeking around corners, the melody of birdsong and in his dark haired lover. He saw her in the pursuit of his own high, chasing her from the recesses of his mind, Alys’ face slowly morphing into the face he saw below the water. Aemond could almost feel her talons ghosting along his skin, leaving rippling heat in its wake.

The feeling of fangs pressing against the column of his throat sent him into a frenzy of thrusts, his large hands guiding the body above him. The melodic song he had heard from her, guiding him like a boat through a tempest, had driven him over the edge. ‘Aemond,’ Alys moaned, though he heard only the melodic voice of the woman in the water. 

He didn’t dare look up at her, instead he slipped from beneath her, choosing to stand at the windowsill, looking over the God’s Eye, wondering about her. Slender fingers and soft lips trailed over his shoulder and down his arm, and yet it did not stoke the fire that burned deep within him as it usually did. 

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Alys asked her nose softly nudging the nape of his neck, her hands never leaving him.

Aemond thought for a moment, “Yes,” he replied, a cold edge to his voice. 

Alys pulled away from him, recoiling from the coldness of the  response “I see,” she said, clearing her throat. “I shall leave you be, my Prince,” she continued, making her way to where her clothes lay. She dressed silently and left through the servants corridor, to remain unseen. 

—

Muffled dragon cries woke her abruptly from her slumber, she broke the surface of the water, a panicked gasp tearing from her as she looked helplessly at the sky. She looked around her, as flickering embers and ash fell from the sky, she couldn’t stay here. Today would be the day where she would face her fears and leave the safety of her pond.

She heaved herself up through the bramble that surrounded her pond, thorns pricking and scratching her tender skin, half blind from the sun. Her legs wobbled as she took a few steps before breaking out into a stumbling run, similar to that of a newborn foal. She cried out in pain as she began to run, nothing good could come from two dragons warring above, she needed to clear out of the pond, she could return when it was safe. 

The pain in her legs and feet was extraordinary, each log she cleared felt as though she was stepping on shards of glass when she landed. It was so loud, the overlapping shouts of soldiers, the clanking of armour and screeching of metal on metal, it was cacophonous; it reeked of self assured destruction. Every bone inside her wanted to turn around and leap back into the safety of her pond, but now wasn’t the time for hiding, it was the time for running. 

She veered deeper into the forest, but something made her stop to look up at the sky, to the dragons wrapping themselves around one another. She turned away once more, determined to find some other body of water to bide her time, when an ear piercing screech sent her to a screeching halt. Her breath heaved in her chest, her lungs working overtime ‘He needs you,’ a pleading voice whispered.

It was enough to send her careening towards the waters of the God’s Eye. 

The larger of the dragons was falling towards the lake, its throat had been ripped open, flames escaping the wound. If its rider was to stand any chance of living she would need to rescue him, humans didn’t live long once they entered her domain. She threw herself head first into its frigid waters, disappearing into its depths untraced. Her eyes only needed a minute to adjust to her surroundings once more, the world around her becoming a little clearer, and it would be any moment before that scaled beast would hit the water.

The crash was unimaginable, sediment and rocks flew past her as she braced herself by a sunken boulder, she could hear the sound of the heart drumming in his chest. It was now a race to find him before The Stranger did, she at the very least could follow his heart beat. She had no idea why she was putting herself in danger for a human who was supposed to be her next meal, she was designed to consume them - not save them. 

She dove deeper and deeper into the lake, the sunlight filtering away, total blackness enveloping her. Though she could not see very well above the water in the sunlight, she could see perfectly in the dark. She did not dare look at the bedrock of the lake, in fear of discovering corpses she did not wish to see. She could see the roiling bubbles ascending to the surface and the immense heat emanating from directly beneath her, she wasted no time in diving again. 

She very quickly discovered the corpse of the beast, resting peacefully in the bedrock, her rider still saddled. She stopped directly in front of him, watching his hands shake as he struggled with the chains. Malicious thoughts slithered into her head; she could feast for ages on both dragon and rider, she would have no need to think about the surface for a long time. It would be so easy, all she had to do was wait for him to drown.

No. He didn’t deserve this, at the very least she could unbind him and send him to the surface, what happened to him beyond that was not her problem. Against her better judgement, she rushed him, shoving his hands away from the ropes around his waist and ripping them away with her nails. He struggled and thrashed in her grip, using all his might to get away from her.

‘Stop struggling! I’m trying to help you!’ She hissed. He ceased his struggling immediately, having become sluggish and slow, the lack of oxygen finally taking its toll on him, leaving him weak and defenceless. Everything in her screamed at her to devour him, to gut him like a fish and swallow him whole.

A helpless groan left her as she threw his arm around her broad shoulders, heaving him up towards the rippling light of the surface. They wouldn’t be looking for his body yet, but she didn’t have long before they would be descending upon them, she’d be damned if she would die for a human. With one final forceful push of her tail, she was able to push his lithe body halfway up on to a secluded bank, her heartbeat thundering in her chest.

He wasn’t breathing. Gods, he wasn’t breathing!

With the last of her strength she threw herself up onto the bank, kneeling beside him; his heartbeat was there, but faint, she needed to work quickly if he was to survive the day. His body felt as though it was made of lead as she dragged him away from the water, the further away they were from the water, the less temptation there was. 

He had taken water into his lungs, which meant she needed to get it out as soon as possible. She opened his mouth, placing her own on his, pulling the water from his lungs mouthful after mouthful, spitting it onto the lush grass. He had other wounds, cuts and scrapes but it was nothing she couldn’t use her magic to heal. With a final mouthful of water, air rushed into his lungs, sending him bolt upright coughing and hacking. 

The movement sent her toppling over into the grass, where he descended upon her, blade against her throat. Her slender taloned fingers spread out across his face, daring to take his other eye. 

“I saved your life, and this is how you repay me? By slitting my throat?” she asked, half daring him to do it, maybe then she would get some peace. His face seemed to shift in that moment, furrowed brows relaxed his clenched jaw loosening. 

“You are right, I am sorry,” He replied, taking the blade from her throat.

The woman in front of him was full of contradictions, she was both dark and light, sharp edges and softness, terrifying and beautiful. She had almost lured him to his death one day and then saved him the very next. She held no fear in her eyes, even as he had held the blade to her throat, her beautiful, supple throat, he shook the thoughts from his head. 

“Stop looking at me like you wish to swallow me whole, and let me heal you,” she bit at him, a gentle push sending him into the plush grass. She struggled with taking his chest plate, the leather straps far too finicky for her liking she took a sharp talon to the supple leather, slicing into it. 

“No, leave me here,” he told her, trying to force her hands away. 

“You will die if I don’t tend to your wounds!” she said through gritted teeth, pulling the chest plate away and straddling him, pinning his arms underneath her legs. Her hand hovered over the gaping wound in his shoulder, a calming blue light emanating from her palm. She watched the wound pull the deep red ichor back into his body, skin stitching itself shut, leaving no trace that there was ever a wound there. 

I’d like to see his witch heal him in such a manner. 

—

They took shelter in a cave deep in the woods outside Harrenhal, out of the sight of prying eyes and away from hands that would do them harm. In the time they had spent in the cave, she had learnt that the Prince's name was Aemond and that he was not one for conversation. 

“I wish I could leave all of this behind,” Aemond whispered, his voice laced with pain and exhaustion. She sat cross legged across from him, a pleasant prickling feeling crawling up her legs from sitting in one place. 

She tilted her head to the side slightly “Why can’t you?” she asked, her brows furrowed.

“I have a duty to my family, it's a matter of honour,” was the silver haired Prince's response, his jaw twitching as his arms came to rest across his broad chest. The dim embers illuminating the way his lip twitched upward as she leant forward, to press him further.

“Your family would rather send you to die than allow you to leave?” She responded, her voice laced with disbelief, she shook her head. It slowly became clear to her about what happened just hours ago, when he demanded she leave him to die. He had wanted that fate, he would have preferred death to failure. 

Aemond pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice taking on an edge “It is about honour, as I said,” his response did not invite any further conversation between them. And for a while there was nothing but the crackle of logs on a fire and the sound of their breaths. 

“Run away with me, it's not safe for either of us here. We can board a ship tonight and be gone by morning,” she offered, they could board a ship for Essos or Yi-Ti and never be found again. She would forsake the waters of her home for him, if it meant that he could live the life he desired. 

“No,” was Aemond's immediate response, face contorting into a scowl. She was beginning to break down the barrier of duty and honour he had surrounded himself with, for without those virtues, what would he become? 

She stood from her perch on a boulder, allowing the silk shoulder cape Aemond had given her to cover herself to slip away. Exposing the mounds and valleys of her body, the scales on her legs and cheekbones catching the firelight. “Come, My Darling. Please just give me your hand,” she cooed into his ear, running her delicate fingers over his shoulder and up the column of his throat, stopping to stroke his jaw. 

And so he did. 

Thank you to my darling @sylasthegrim for beta reading this! And creating the wonderful header/moodboard!

Please reblog my work if you enjoy it! it helps keep fan fiction alive <3

[cheriecelestial]

Luminary Pt.1

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Yan Emperor!OC X Swordmaster!OC

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ yandere thoughts. hurt/no comfort. angst. mentions of violence and character death. lovers to enemies.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Reposting a very old piece post editing (not really lol). According to my old a/n this was “very 3am spontaneous writing” meaning the idea was spontaneous not the process. Very manhwa-esque historical plot ig. Please listen to Joel Sunny’s Luminary for the whole experience. like always COMMENT LIKE & REBLOG (☆≧▽^)

Pt.2

Ceaseless noblesse chatter, clinking of glasses and rustling of ball gowns blurred into an unintelligible myriad of sounds. Cecily massaged the bridge of her nose in an attempt to calm the pulsating migraine in her forehead. As much as she loved dressing up on her own accord and dancing, she felt much repulsion to high society. Whosoever had compared high society to a sandalwood tree must’ve been a wise person - exquisite and ambrosial smelling but intertwined with serpents waiting to pounce. Her sharp gaze, reminiscent of a relentless hunter, swept the expanse of ballroom to locate her target attendee. He wasn’t here, not yet at least. But he was expected to be here soon, after all what king doesn’t show up to the party he hosted in his own honour ?

Everything the room exuded an elite air of grandeur. Golden tendrils resembling vines creeping up the wall and colluding in a labyrinthine pattern of flowers and leaves against the stained glass ceilings. Lush roses filled each vase placed exactly five meters apart from each other. In the centre of the dome were three collinear alchemy powered faux stars, the centre attraction and the nominative factor of the ballroom — the Syzygy Hall. Leaning against the stone wall, the crisp night air fills her lungs while the stars twinkle in the dark, velvety sky, and she watched them with a nostalgic sense of appreciation. The flashing memories of her stargazing in this very hall with a certain gifted mage tugged harshly on her heart stings but she forced herself to shun them and focus on the task ahead.

Cecily shifted her attention to the noblemen and women drift across the smooth marble floors like clockwork nutcrackers in grandfather clocks. It all looked so beautiful and for the lack of a better word, rich. A part of her would’ve wanted to join to the festivities had her heart not drowned in waves of indignation for the host. But then as having danced her fair share of high society parties — she knew of the incessant debauchery, corruption and vicious yet sugarcoated calumny at the core of this diamond and silk adorned marvel. Nobility was a word that evoked images of artifice, undeserved riches, wastefulness and textbook narcissism. Albeit belonging to the pinnacle of non-royal nobility — Cecily’s lineage was both a blessing and a curse. As the daughter of one of the three dukes in the empire and the daughter and successor of the continent’s finest swordsman , Carlisle Reginald, Cecily was taught to be wary of desperate social climber with saccharine laced tongues at a young age. Just the thought of her family flared the inferno of negative feelings further.

“This far behind enemy lines ? Can’t tell if it’s brave, audacious or plain stupid.” Cecily rolled her eyes at the new admission. “What would you know anything about bravery Marcellus ?” The red haired paladin flinched at the woman using his full name and bit his tongue to restrain himself from answering her verbal jabs.

“I did what I had to do” He muttered quietly with his gaze fixed on the floor as if it was the most scintillating creation known to mankind. “You mean leaving your men to die mid-battle and defecting to the enemy’s side ?” Cecily scoffed at his confession. She couldn’t help be reminded of the past when they were trainee knights and how they were a symbol of valour and justice. The nights they spent at taverns celebrating after successfully completing missions and training. Cecily couldn’t pinpoint when everything changed and when people she knew digressed beyond recognition but it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Marcel’s words were slow to come out but he sighed and answered, “I merely chose the winning side . Unlike you, I have a sense of self preservation.”

“Where I’m from , we call it cowardice”

“Probably why that place burnt to the ground,”Marcel was hit with a sense of instant regret the second those words left his mouth. He muttered a quick apology as if that ever solved anything .

“Don’t say what you don’t mean. Genuine care doesn’t suit the self-serving likes of you.” Cecily spat out with anger laced in her seemingly calm tone. Had it been some other place with someone else, she wouldn’t have hesitated to draw her sword. Knowing her temper, he saw fit to change the topic of the conversation, “ It’s a fine dress you’re wearing. But I have to say - had I not known better I’d say it was a wedding gown. One refined enough for a duke’s daughter”

“It is a wedding gown. I just repurposed it since I don’t need it anymore and my other gowns were burnt along with my house. I’m sure you remember, you were there.”Cecily spoke in a monotone as she absentmindedly fiddled with the lace trimmings of her dress and the silver corsage on her wrist.

Marcel gulped at the realisation and looked away to the sea of jolly nobility dancing their evening away but he still couldn’t seem to shake off the chills floating in the air. Luck truly wasn’t on his side today “I know it was a purely political arrangement but Cedric was a good man. You have my condolences.”

His words evoked a humourless laugh from Cecily. Just how shameless could he be ? Leading the campaign that killed her fiancé and still have the guts to offer his sympathies.

“Losing a fiancé ? I’m sure you know what that’s like. Considering how you let Lucia Arden die just to save your own skin.”

Cecily remembered the sweet and gentle field medic who stopped at nothing to consistently heal her comrades and boost her fellow knights’ morale with her encouraging words. And she also remembered watching the radiant light leave her eyes and her skin turn frigid pale after Marcel defected and ambushed his own squadron. Cecily and Marcel were the closest of friends, maybe that’s why his betrayal stung so much. Had someone told about Marcel’s betrayal to her younger self from two years ago, she would’ve laughed at them and wonder if they lost their mind.

“What happened to her was regrettable. I asked her to join me. But she refused. Because she was -” so loyal to you, is what he wanted to say but something told him that not completely the sentence would serve him better. Cecily didn’t respond to him nor did she look at him. Marcel’s gaze fell to her fist which had clenched so tight that her knuckles were turning white.

“I tried you know. I really tried to convince her. That was more what I should’ve done considering what her family did to Genevieve—” despite his attempts to mask his emotions, venomous contempt seeped into his voice.“Lucia wasn’t her family. She didn’t know. She had no part in it.” Cecily countered firmly.

“She was going to be a mother ! And they—”Marcel swallowed thickly, unable to continue. Cecily sighed and massaged the bridge of her nose. Genevieve - the feisty barmaid at their favourite tavern who managed to capture Marcel’s heart and subsequently died a tragic death the hands of the Marquis Arden who couldn’t bear the disgrace of his daughter’s fiancé choosing a destitute orphaned commoner over his well-bred aristocratic daughter.

“What happened to her was unjust, but that doesn’t justify your treachery. You let your own men die. The very men that swore loyalty to you. The ones that fought, ate and bled by your side.” Cecily eyed him with simmering hatred. Marcel looked uncharacteristically startled for a moment by the her disdain but covered it up quickly. Silvers of guilt flashed in his eyes when he realised that even if he had managed to secure a future for himself as the commander general of the new king’s knights, he lost something truly important to him. The past him would’ve really hated him now.

“Of all people I thought you’d know what it’s like to lose the one you love the most. But in hindsight, you’re probably worse off than me. I’m sure you know, he isn’t what he used to be. The King’s scouts have been looking for you and the other rebels . You should leave before he sees you.” Warning her was the most he could do for her now. He had sworn loyalty to the new king but standing in front of his childhood friend - he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of conflict.

“Why ? Is he planning to send me and my men to the gallows ?” Cecily scoffed as if impressed that the king was putting in so much effort to locate her. “Your men ? Yes. You ? No. Corrupted or not, not even he could get himself to kill the woman he loves so dearly. But I’m positive whatever his plans for you are, would make you wish that he sent you to the gallows instead. He won’t kill you but beware— he won’t be soft either. He’s changed beyond recognition.”

“That’s exactly what I’m counting on,”she muttered to herself as she watched Marcel vanish from her side and melt into the sea of guests.

For a moment the entire ballroom stilled and she knew he was here. Her eyes swept the length of the ballroom till she met the gaze of the devil himself. Unlike what he used to wear when she knew him, he donned the most lavish robes and jewels she’d seen on a person. His unruly platinum hair were styled perfect to accentuate his looks. The crystalline vivid blue eyes she fell in love with were replaced by a sinister shade of ruby red. He stared intently at her, it is as if his eyes intended to pierce her skin and rip out her soul. Her stomach twisted and the chill in the air sent goosebumps down her neck and back. He never looked more glorious. The corners of his lips curled up into a slight smile as he made his way through the crowd. Her breath shallowed with each step that he took towards her.

“Duchess Reginald. It truly is you and here I thought my senses were deceiving me.” Cecily flinched at the title knowing full well that she never got to ceremoniously inherit the title since the previous Duke died at the emperor’s sword following the coup d’état and the estate was burned to a crisp not too long ago. His gentle expression of adoration cut off air from her lungs and she felt as though the string of pearls around her neck turned into a noose. She wanted to scream, to cry, to seek retribution for all the havoc he wrecked but swallowing her emotions down she placed her hand on her heart and bowed lightly,“Glory and blessings upon the rising sun of the Asterin empire,” Cecily heard melodious laughter as response to her words. Her heart dropped from the sheer impact. Cecily Reginald was a creature of pure control and the idea of losing control, especially just by his mere presence, was offensive to her. Her heart burst into multitude of emotions as she tried to rein them and stay calm.

“And I never thought I’d see you bow. But then, bowing isn’t always submission. Now is it, my dearest Cecily ?” Electricity coursed her veins at the way her name rolled off his tongue in the same tender fashion as he used to when they were younger. He’s changed beyond recognition, Marcel’s words ringed in her ears. Cecily didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of eliciting a reaction so she shifted her gaze away. Much to her dismay, her refusal just swelled his need to provoke her further .

“Please don’t shy away duchess. It’s a glorious party, would you be so kind to grant me the honour of a dance ?” The king outstretched his hand towards her with seemingly innocent intent. The emperor’s first dance of the evening, an action that symbolised winning the favour of the emperor. Which was why — traditionally it was done between courting, betrothed or wedded couples. After a moment’s hesitation she took his hand and was guided to the centre of the dance floor. The king placed a hand on her waist and interlaced his other hand with hers. The position seemed so natural to them like two pieces of a puzzle that were created to fit together. He actioned the orchestra and the waltz began without a hitch as the band of musicians weaved pleasant melodies into the air.

“You look ravishing my dearest.” Cecily’s breath hitched as the king tugged on her waist, pulling her closer. His smirk widened in satisfaction at her visceral reaction. “Thank you your majesty.” She looked at him with her eyes betraying traces of emotion even though she was restraining herself to her best capacity. But the memory of his touch still fills her heart with longing but she still hated how much the sensation excites her.

“I was informed that troops stationed north of Demaris were brutally slaughtered by the rebel forces spearheaded by a certain raven haired general. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now would you duchess ?” Cecily’s face hardened and she replied in a sharp tone,“Depends on why those troops were present in the first place your majesty.” The king’s troops were sent to forcefully evict war immigrants that were rendered homeless by the conquests of the previous emperor since he regarded them as a political liability. The villagers were kind enough to house some of the rebels in exchange for protection against the monsters near the border.

Vivacious laughter bubbles from his chest and he responded ,“Very well dearest. And please, drop the formalities. Call me by my name. Your majesty feels unnatural.” She knew provoking him any more than necessary would only spell trouble for it. Her scheme had to work out as planned. “Atticus,” she breathed out with much difficulty. Saying his name was a tougher task than she had initially thought. A pleased smirk made its way onto his lips, leaving Cecily feeling as if she had lost.

“I know blue is your colour but I have to admit, you look utterly angelic in white. You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes on. What a fine bride you would make.”

Under different circumstances, she would’ve blushed and accepted the compliment graciously. Cecily felt a strange feeling of melancholy and what ifs shrouded her. She was so determined before coming here and she couldn’t afford letting her purpose dissolve just because she was holding onto the ghost of the man she loved.

“What use is beauty when you’re cursed with rotten luck the way I am. I have two dead fiancés on my tab already.” She laughed humorouslessly and eyed him with an insinuating sharpness. Atticus smiled with his evergreen charm before continuing knowingly ,“ Hmm. Maybe it’s a sign from the goddess of marriage that those men and you weren’t meant to be .”

Cecily arched her brow at his revelation. Is that what he was trying to paint them as ? Twists of fate ? She may not have loved either of them but they weren’t deserving of the end that befell them. “I know you’ve taken many aliases in your lifetime but goddess of marriage ? That’s a new one your majesty.” Atticus’ mocking clearly struck a nerve. She half expected him to take offence to her words but instead he looked at her in bemusement.

He clicked his tongue in a ‘ah’ gesture and suggested ,” Well you know what they say m’lady. Third time’s a charm .” Cecily knew exactly what he was implying but she didn’t want to grant him an ounce of satisfaction by giving him a favourable reaction .

“Unfortunately your majesty, I am above wedding kinslayers and dark magic practitioners .” She scowled at him as if testing to see if he had even an ounce of conscience intact . Atticus’ smile faltered and there was a brief flicker of discomfort in him as the implications of her words sunk in. His eyes narrowed slightly at her reaction.

“Ces I —,” but before he could respond Cecily cut him off ,“ And even if they had it coming . It doesn’t change the fact that you killed my father.” Memory of the pain of finding out about her father’s death on accounts of treason was clear as day in her heart. Carlisle Reginald was many things but not a traitor. He was so loyal to the crown that there were times when she resented him for choosing his duty over his own family.

Atticus visibly grimaced and his eyes turned to icy resentment ,“ The same father that abused you and caused you unimaginable pain in the name of training ? The same father who burnt the side of your face to destroy any chance of marriage because noblemen don’t wed women with scars ? The same father that nearly pushed you to end your life because you couldn’t handle the mantle of becoming the next swordsmaster ? Do you truly resent me for it my dearest ?” Cecily felt her throat tighten with emotion. She glanced away as though trying to think of an answer. There is no right answer to that question.

“ I don’t but —,” She admitted, her eyes still fixated on the corners of the room ,“ What about my Silas? Why did you kill him ? He looked up to you. He chose to pursue alchemy over swordsmanship because of you. He was a child . He didn’t deserve it.” The night her father died, the king’s men burnt her family estate to the ground and her brother with it.

Atticus stared at her for a couple of seconds before letting out a pained sigh ,“ My love, you must believe me. I never intended to put Silas in harm’s way . I just wanted to get rid of the duke because he was the only one standing between me and the throne. I was sure that Si would be at the academy. But unfortunately he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. If it provides any solace just know I had the informants and soldiers who failed to convey that Silas was in there executed .”

There were many things she wanted to say, to vent her frustration and anger but when the time came - her grief was too severe to be expressed in words so she just looked at him, hoping he’d see how much he made her suffer. Atticus tore his gaze away from hers and clenched his jaw as if keeping himself from saying or doing things that would just worsen their situation. Uncomfortable silence befell them as they continued to dance. For the first time she realised, that they were is a ballroom filled with people. The world seemed to have dissolved into nothingness when it came to Atticus but now she was starting to feel the weight of the other guests’ curious stares and whispers. Of course rumours would make their way across high society at the speed of lightning. Two star crossed lovers forced on opposite sides by fate. Cecily and Atticus had love, one for the ages but one chose the duty to her homeland over love and the other chose power over love. Love had no place in this fight of morality and duty. It was quite a pity really.

“But your crimes don’t end there. You delved into a form of magic that was forbidden for a reason, there is always a cost for power that wicked. Always.” She looked straight into his ruby red eyes. The vibrant blood red swirled in a way that resembled shadows obscuring a ravenous beast lurking underneath.

“Is that why you got engaged my brother ? To dispose of me and make him king ?” Cecily felt the temperature around them fall as Atticus’ eyes shone with a newfound sense of fury. Gone was the sweet and gentle man she knew, instead he was replaced by this - this thing. His fingers twitched where he held her waist as if wanting to tear into her skin.

“Sure. Let’s go with that .”She replied cooly. Logic be damned, she just wanted to shatter the mask he was wearing and truly see what he’d become.

“You think I’d let him have you ? Let him make you his queen ? I‘m so sorry if it hurts you my darling but I will slay any man who thinks he can have you . If you really want to be queen, I could make you this very moment. Just say the word.” For the first time, his suave facade cracked. He sounded almost desperate, so much so that Cecily was tempted to believe that a part of the old him was still in there. Regardless of Cedric somewhat sanctimonious and saintly character, he always lacked the vigour and the ambition it took to become king and most of all - to deserve Atticus’ goddess. Cedric was the only pure blooded prince who showed an inkling of kindness to a bastard of the previous emperor so Atticus granted him the mercy of a quick and painless death. But the idea of him wedding his beloved was beyond blasphemous and filled him with unimaginable rage; making him want to give Cedric a slow and painful death instead.

To him, Cecilia Seraphina Reginald was the closest humanity has attained to godliness. The passion she projected in her art and the fire that burned behind her eyes is enough to drive anyone to insanity . She used the sword as if it was an extension of her own body and where most fought with the crude desperation , every movement of her body was deliberate and precise as if she was floating like a butterfly through the air. With each step, she seemed to move through space and time, transcending the boundaries between ordinary and extraordinary. Each slash and strike was like a paint stroke on canvas, drawing a picture of beauty and grace in motion. Her raven hair striking a beautiful contrast against her emerald eyes . Even when her father burnt the side of her face , it barely obscured her beauty. Atticus had seen her in sickness and in health. At what she considered her worst, to his eyes — she was far more enchanting than any of the excessively powdered noble ladies he’d seen in court . There is something religious about the way he adored her. There never was a God in Atticus's life. No one deserved that title after what life had thrown at him since he was little.

He remembered the first day they met when she fended off the third prince bullying Atticus at their first day at the Royal Academy. She never once discriminated against for being an illegitimate child of the emperor. Atticus was born as a result of acts of cruelty on an elite battle mage of an enemy nation who was taken by the previous emperor as spoils of war. Despite his actions, the emperor never even bothered to officially make her his concubine so Atticus’ status in the Royal Palace was akin to that of a servant’s. Throughout his childhood, he had been a prince solely in name. His entire life, everyone looked at him as if he was some sort of abomination — except her. Despite that the dignified and legendary duke’s only daughter, the lady with the highest status after the empress and princesses themselves, when faced disapproval for befriending the emperor’s bastard, she never once turned her back on him. And not necessarily because she was kind but because it was the right thing to do. Cecily was first person in Atticus’ life who made him believe that he was worth being treated as a human.

“What have you become Atticus ? We could’ve—”

“We could’ve what exactly ? Huh ? There was no other way. And you know it.” Atticus spat out through gritted teeth, a look of abject misery flashed by Cecily’s face. He was right, unless there had been some great power intervention there was no way he could become king. It didn’t matter if the most elite swordsmaster or the nouveau rich nobles that supported him, he could never get past the old nobility and the six legitimate pure blooded princes.

“What is worth it ?” She asked with her words dying by the end of the sentence. For a moment, she felt as though she was back when they were kids and how he would talk about making them pay. No rebels or tyrants, no duty or thirst for power — just as Ces and Atty .

Something in Atticus’ snapped as he gripped her wrist tighter,“ Better than anything I ever imagined. They always acted so high and mighty, you should’ve seen how they grovelled and begged . It was worth it, all of it.”

“Was it worth losing me ?” Cecily knew she shouldn’t have asked something she didn’t want him to answer. She knew she shouldn’t have crossed that line. She shouldn’t have because she knew the answer. But she had to— in order to move on, to let him go, to fulfil her duty and destiny.

“I haven’t lost you” Out of all the responses he could’ve given , this was the least expected. Did he truly believe that ? Cecily searched his face for any signs of fallacy or trickery but found none. Her mouth fell open in disbelief and after composing herself she asked ,“ What makes you say that ?”

“The way I feel for you.” He answered without even skipping a beat. Cecily scoffed internally, the way he felt for her ? What a jest. It was common knowledge that the starting price for dark magic is a person’s humanity. Dark magicians were known to not be able to feel anything let alone remorse or guilt .

“That’s not true. You can’t feel anything.” She jeered at him. Atticus didn’t respond and twirled and lifted her into the air in accordance to the rhythm of the waltz. His lack of reaction almost made her think that he didn’t hear what she said, she opened her mouth to say that again but was cut off by his reply ,“Contrary to popular beliefs my darling , dark magic doesn’t completely deprive a person of all emotion. It merely diminishes emotions that were present in silvers and amplifies the most emotions felt by the person. In short, the user becomes absolutely sure of what they feel and what they want. Anger becomes rage , sadness becomes despair , fear becomes horror and love becomes –” As he spoke, he pressed his lips against her hand. She can feel the heat of his breath in the centre of her palm ,“ — unbridled obsession.” Cecily breath hitched as he moved his lips up her wrist to her palm again, tracing her veins with his lips.

"Pray tell, is that how it went ? Your barter of soul with a devil for dominion only to find yourself upon the throne, consumed by anguish not because you killed your family but rather by the realization that your affection for me would impede your ambitions ?"

Atticus got closer to her. His eyes were locked on hers, and his lips had a slight twitch to them. Lust. He was never the type to give into such base urges, but in the her presence - he craved her. A part of him hated this feeling even more than her tormenting comments. If only he could kill her and rid himself of this weakness of the flesh. “You aren’t far from it . You know I never understood the appeal my father saw in my mother but I guess I do see it now. Fiesty enemy general that just refuses to concede and all.”

“And here I thought you said you were never going to be anything like your father. I guess you kings are doomed to repeat failures of your predecessors. After all the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He absentmindedly hummed in response to her words as if neither agreeing nor disagreeing. His eyes were fixated on his thumb caressing her wrist, Cecily noticed it and tilted her head to her side as if silently asking ‘what’re you thinking ?’

“You aren’t wrong my darling. Maybe I am the same as him. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I have everything I wanted. Except for a couple things and I don’t intend on stopping until I’ve got them.” Atticus’ eyes gleamed with a glint of great impending danger. He paused for a second as if debating whether he should disclose his plans or not but in the festive atmosphere decided the former. “You’re quite a stubborn little thing you know. I wonder if I were to incapacitate you from wielding the blade ever again, would your resolve shatter ? All the princes are dead, there’s no one to succeed me. I’ve made sure of it. Who would you crown king after me ?” He wondered if he chopped her wrists off so that she couldn’t use her sword again, would she stop resisting then ? Or perhaps if he snapped her ankles then maybe she wouldn’t be able to run away ?

“Incapacitate me ? You think you could do that ?” Albeit Cecily knew she was playing with fire, she wanted to see to what limits she could provoke him before he took extreme measures. They were playing a dangerous game. Both were waiting for the other to make a mistake, to lose their cool and to drop the civil facade and settle the score .

Others might see Atticus as this stone cold man with no feelings, but his heart was beating loud and clear in his chest, seemingly for one purpose. He hoped that his emotional conflict would clear out once he made the deal but it didn’t help. Not one bit. He often found his eyes subconsciously searching for the familiar figure in the crowds of people he’d address every day, wanting nothing more than to reach out and have her with him again. The scent of her skin and the light lavender fragrance haunted him as he tried to sleep, the vivid image of her following him in his dreams. If it were up to him, he’d drag her to the church alter this very moment and make good on the wedding gown she was wearing. He knew she wore that to mock his guilty conscience, that is if he had any left.

“I have my knights stationed at every corner of the ballroom. One action and they’ll attack.”

“You think fresh recruits could even hold a candle against a swordmaster ?” She was right, no matter how trained they would never able to best her. The only one who stood a chance against her skill was he himself. No one else.

He chuckled at her spirit, it was one of the things he adored most about her. “No. Not really.” Cecily smiled with a victorious expression but at the same time she knew if he were to use his magic, things were bound to get messy. Although not their own, but much blood would be spilt and in a room full of the empire’s finest — it wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.

a/n 2.0 – After reading this my current writing seems so crappy wtf. I guess there is a reason this took three months to write. Tho good to know I couldn’t articulate my thoughts well enough to make a respectable plot even back then. Sorry for the abrupt ending, tumblr kept glitching so I had to split it in two. I’ll upload pt.2 in a week.

[aphroditesmoon]

sea, swallow me (part I)

jacaerys velaryon x fem!velaryon!reader

Part 2

summary: when jacaerys finally meets the hidden bastard of corlys velaryon, he loses interests in his betrothed Baela and intends to make her aunt his, but are you really what your family has made you up to be?

warnings: this fic is inspired by the movie 'song of the sea', CANON DIVERGENCE, slowburn, aged up jace (18 yrs old), reader has selective mutism (she CAN talk), reader is 5 years older than jace, selkie! reader, reader's race is NOT specified. cursing, nsfw content in future chapters,typical ASOIAF sexism, typical asoiaf targcest.

A/N: this part is moreso an introduction, the next chapters will have more stuff going on promise<3

taglist: @marytargaryen , @cdragons , @libdarkheart

♧♣︎♧

The day that the rumours of Corlys' Velaryon's illegitimate child was spread by the man himself in vague tell-tales, was the same day that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon was celebrating his third name day.

The skies on Driftmark turned dark by afternoon, a rare sighting of a thunderstorm had appeared. And while every mankind on the land had went off to hide themselves in the comfort and warmth of their homes, an 8 year old child of the seas drifted ashore, she had not drowned, but she knew to act that way as to lead the oblivious guards towards her.

Brought onto land to be passed around to the servant quarters, you fell right into the master of the land himself.

Corlys should've brushed you off, should've sent you right back to the kitchen maids, but the unnerving bravery in your eyes hadn't made sense for a child that was supposedly, probably, had almost drowned due to a shipwreck.

So he took in the sight of you, standing tall, wordless when spoken to, similar even when not. A white complicated looking hugging your body. He is not one to be superstitious, even moreso his wife Rhaenys who had been againts his suggestion the moment it was spoken aloud, but his heart made him halt whenever he even thinks of shrugging you away.

The trusting unknowing look you have for him wasn't helping, you gazed at the life around you in awe, suprise, and even fear at times. So he did what everyone warned him againts, he announces her as his bastard child from a dead noble woman, and them proceeded 1to denounce your illegitimacy, claiming you under the Velaryon name.

The whispering guards and chattering servants could talk all the wanted, for all they knew, the real truth of who you were was uknown to everyone but Corlys Velaryon.

♣︎♧♣︎

Your heart's yearning was divided in two. The calling of the sea, and the wanting of land. You were not as free as you sister Laena nor your brother Laenor, and you weren't given respect as much as they did either, given your known identity.

But you relished the joy of being able to dance on your two feet, to feel water as how it feels to a man, and to see the people in a much closer view.

You don't mind the constant nagging of your maidens as they fuss over your unkempt hair or your bare foots often forgetting their shoes. You asked for this, and you don't regret it. Besides, there was no one there for you in the sea, your kind understood you, they know you, but your mother has left you in her death, and you don't quite crave the grief and loneliness again.

Though now that you've grown, you realise, it was quite inevitable either way.

The day you lost your sister, you thought that was the end of it, but the gods had taken your brother too soon enough. You cried for the first time that year, and you felt what the mortals had written poems and ballads of.

For all of your wanting of more freedom, you were glad to be confined in your room during their funerals.

You would've thought that the passing of her children would make Rhaenys Targaryen more open towards you, but you were wrong. You were greeted with hostility you've never known. The glare she often saved for you reads what others couldn't understand; it should've been you, not them.

Laena's daughter Rhaena had been placed under her care soon, you rarely saw her. Rhaenys' making sure that your paths never cross.

But even with the power she held over you, your father's power proved to overtook hers when he announced that you were to be introduced to society, and to your extended family, for your own benefit and the Velaryon's house, in his own words.

So you locked up your white coat in your treasure box, and you prepared yourself for your first feast, a celebration for your two and twentieth name day.

♣︎♧♣︎

The attendance for your feast was outstanding. The servants had said so, it hadn't been a minute since it started, and the usually empty hall was already half full.

You knew from Corlys' warning, that half of these people aren't really here for your name day celebration, they're here to see if the rumours were true. "Do not talk to anyone I haven't." He speaks sternly. You stared at him blankly, receiving a sigh of realization. "Right, well, don't, warm up to anyone I haven't." He corrects himself.

You nod once smiling thankfully at him before leaving his chambers.

He and Rhaenys would be the first to be announced, and then Rhaena, and then you.

But staring at the large doors hiding what you've heard to be a room full of nothing but hungry vipers, your stomach churns.

You flinch when you feel a set of hands clasp your shoulders gently. It was Rhaena. "Are you alright?" She asks in a hushed tone. You nod your head twice.

She holds you still as her eyes lingers on yours longer than before. "Do you want to walk together?" She asks again.

You don't hesitate to accept her offer, nodding at her question. Please, you almost whispered back. She smiles at your answer and you feel her hands slowly sliding away. "Alright, I'll let grandsire know, don't fret." She tells you soothingly betore making her way to Corlys.

A few minutes after that, Rhaena scrambles by your side as your father and his wife enters first before you, their names loudly announced, as if everyone and their mothers didn't know who they were. Humans are hilarious.

Your hand unintentionally grips Rhaena's as your names were announced after. Her fingers easily intertwining with yours. "Don't smile." She notes quickly when she saw you grinning widely. Your smile died immediately. You walk side by side, your feet trying to move in the same rhythm and steps as hers, and your eyes watching straight at your seated father, staring back at you with a small smile etched on his lips.

You could feel the stares still when you finally reach the table, giving out a elieved sigh as you take your seat by Corly's right, Rhaenys to his left, and Rhaena to your right, hands still clasped together until noble houses are starting to be announced.

You do as you're taught, you smile and nod, and let your father do all the talking.

House Lannister stood out to you most so far. You can't decide if Jason Lannister is arrogant or bad at arse kissing. A person to turn any conversation about themselves

"You are as beautiful as they say." He starts, eyeing you in whole. "Tell me my lady, do you ever envy your siblings that had dragons?" You hesitated, turning to Corlys instead of responding.

"She does not, and the both of us know she would not need one, my dear girl fares better in the sea." He answers for her with a bitter laugh at the end of his sentence, as if shooing the man. "Ah I see, truly a daughter of yours then." The table turns silent. Jason Lannister's own smile dissapear as quickly as it came, realizing his mistake too late.

Your father's lips pursed together, a brow raised as he leans closer to the table. "Yes, she is." The coldness in his voice indicated the Lord of his time to leave. With a quick thank you and honor to meet you's, Lord Lannister leaves.

You hear the man next to you mutter an incoherent insult under his breath, wiping a hand over his already tired face. "People have eyes, Corlys." Rhaenys justifies. "And Mouths." She added, making him groan as House Baratheon are announced. "Oh believe me, I know." He replies shortly, awaiting Lord Baratheon. Thankfully the man was quick, and polite, though you were sure you weren't the only one who noticed how his eyes stayed on your face, a judgmental intent behind them.

But at least he knew not to say anything disrespectful out loud before walking off.

You watch your father's eyes light up for the next house, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. House Targaryen. "Finally, a house with more manners." His wife snorted at his words. "Pretend niceties aren't manners." You feel Rhaena stiffen next to you. "That boldness of yours will get you in trouble one day Rhaenys." He warns lightly, in which she only hums carelessly in return.

You almost laugh at contrast of the white and darkhaired family walking your way. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the throne, holds your eyes as she walks nearer. You hae never met your sister in law before, you've seen her through faraway window glances, but she looked at you like she's seen you, like she recognises you.

Her husband, prince consort Daemon Targaryen however, you have met. Once, while he had been staying in Driftmark with Laena during her pregnancy with Rhaena. He saw you leave Laena's room the same moment he was about to enter and spoke your name in a guess. When you turned in his direction at the call, his suspicion was confirmed. What he never understood howerver, was why would Corlys go through many lengths of restricting her from meeting people and hiding her identity?

The court wouldn't have given two shits over another man's bastard daughter. He knows it well enough.

It seemed the question he bore was the same question everyone else wondered, thus why they're all here, willing to feign courtesy and respect towards a so called bastard.

Now he's seeing her again, and it makes things even more confusing. Surely he knows how ignominious she'd feel, being put under the spotlight after 15 years of entrapment. Did he know that this feast was as good as feeding you to wolves? Was that what he intended to do in the first place? Sell you up to the first noble lord willing to take in a bastard Velaryon girl as his wife? And why did Daemon Targaryen cared so much about this girl, when he knows that nothing about her deems worthy of his attention.

Those thoughts ran through the mind of Daemon Targaryen until he's close enough to you that he had to turn his eyes towards Rhaenys' and Corlys' faces instead.

"And where has this lovely dear been all along?" Rhaenyra was the first to speak, greeting the lord and lady of the house properly first. "Ah well, if you had been here more frequent with my son, you could've caught her plenty." He replies easily.

Daemon hummed and bobbed his head. "It's true, I believe this isn't the first time we've met, yes?" He raises a brow at you, a small warm smile painted on his lips.

You responded with a smile that matched his and nodded once. The veracity in your every move made you look like a puppet with strings he's not sure who holds in their hands.

What Daemon Targaryen has not realized yet, was that Corlys velaryon's hands on you were barely a grip. They lead you because you let them. And for a girl who swam her way up into one of the most richest and well known houses of Westeros at 8 years old, you knew more than anyone thought.

♣︎♧♣︎

The dark coloured halls of the Velaryons were lit brightly with gold ornaments and lights. Jacaerys doesn't think he's ever seen much wealth be spent on his mother's own wedding.

The singer hired for the event pauses only for a few minutes before she resumes her orchestral performances. No one pays the music mind of course. The center was you.

He'd kiss your hand and tell you that you had your father's eyes. But that was a lie. His ears maybe, if he squinted closely at yours. He smiled at you and he says the things that he should. It is lovely to meet you. It is a lovely feast. May you continue to age as gracefully as you are now.

And then he walks away and never look back, just as he's told to.

It shouldn't be that big of a deal, or at least thats what he thought. But his mother had given him clear instructions earlier that evening. Do not mingle, do not talk more than you should, the rumours around you sre bad enough. The people will see what they want to and spin those pictures into false stories.

A bastardy affair? Laughable. He's sure the Queen would eat it right off her spy's hands. But still, his gaze on you lingered.

You had an air around you that gave the idea of naivety and carelessness. But he's not so sure if that's the real case here, or are you just so sure in your own sense of self and identity to not fear the men ready to point their fingers in your direction at the first moment they could.

He hopes he'll never see you again after this, his curiosity has always won the best of him.

"She is pretty, though Rhaena's right, you only see how much she resembles grandsire when you're up close. I've met her once, as a child. I don't thisnk we talked at all, but I do remember her gifting me a scarf." Baela's calm voice reached his ears clearly even through the loud chatting and extravagant music.

He raises his head from his food to glance at her. "That's nice, do you still have it?" The girl shook her head and pursed her lips. "No, Rhaena stole it, and then lost it." His face breaks into a grin. "Sounds like her."

He gives another quick glance to your table and looked again when he notices you weren't there. His head moves slowly until he catches the sight of you, standing straight, in front of Dalton Greyjoy. The Red Kraken was what they called him.

Jacaerys could see him speakingas he frowned, glancing from your face to the nothingness behind you as he's deep in his own talking. You were silent, only your eyebrows moved up and down to indicate understanding. He forgets sometimes how some men prefer their women mute.

The Greyjoy boy was waving his hands now, as if an invisible object laid before him. You start to lean slightly againts the serving table and he wondered the same thing you were; when will he stop talking?

"He's a little bit too young to be that pretentious now, isn't he?" Jacaerys says loud enough for Baela and Lucerys to hear him. "He's a year younger than you." His younger brother quipped. Jace frowns. "What? He's 17?" Baela hums in reply. "Doesn't make him any less pretentious." Jace concludes, earning a laugh from both of the people seated by his side. "Ah yes, he's probably explaining how killing people works to her." Baela adds. "I wish someone would tell him how conversation works, she hasn't said a word still." Luc says, the three of the them staring at you now.

"She's mute, Luc." Jace corrects, turning back towards the table, watching as his mother and Daemon make conversations with the other houses. "No she's not, Rhaena said she's heard her talk to grandsire before in one of her letters." The boys' eyes widen. "Then why does she never talk to anyone else?" She shrugs, feeding herself a spoonful if pudding.

A sigh escapes him as he pushes away his plate, his appetite lost. If he'd ask you to talk? Would you? Is that what it was, had no one asked you to talk?

Dalton Greyjoy's face seems unamused as you shook your head at him, his mouth moves once more and his head tilts at you in question, you shook your head again, immediately moving away from him, and straight into Jacaerys' stepfather. The 17 year old took in his defeat and walked away, and Jacaerys watches as Daemon Targaryen speaks so slowly that he can't make up what he's saying fron where he's situated.

You held a steady posture, and your face doesn't give away any reaction, it is stoic, but not cold. "Should I ask her to dance?" Jace suggests. Luc and Baela shares a look of disagreement. "Right in front of our parents? You know we shouldn't get too close to her." He almost doesn't even hear what his betrothed says when he stands up abruptly. "I'm gonna ask her."

Baela stutters and he hears Luc mutters for the love of the gods, as he makes his way to you and Daemon.

He can see his stepfather sigh audibly when he arrives. "Ah, You've met Prince Jacaerys, the heir after his mother, Rhaenyra. Jace, we've been talking of her fondness of the sea, your father said he's only taken you sailing with him when you were 8?" You nod, acknowledging the prince with a smile.

"Then, have you been on a dragon? Surely Laena or Laenor must've offered you a ride once." You shook your head.

Daemon's grin only widens. "Well that only means that you're long overdue a staying at Dragonstone, right Jacaerys?" A nervous laugh leaves the younger man. "Oh yes, I do a bit of uh, sailing sometimes, on my mother's orders. I also have a dragon." He explains, taking in your beauty properly.

"You've seen a dragon up close?" He tries, watching Daemon relaxes as his eyes darts from you to Rhaenyra. Both men are disappointed when you sshook your head, nudging utin Corlys' direction. "He worries to much for you, it is true that getting too close to a dragon for someone without valyrian blood in their veins, is dangerous. But with the right company, you won't have a problem."

You suffer the awkward conversation between the two men, willing for someone to drag you away.

It wasn't that they were rude, or terrible. But you don't think you've ever talked to this much people in your life. Your voice disaappears as it always do, and your usual smile is starting to feel forced.

You were enticed by the idea of travelling to Dragonstone. You've never seen much if anywhere outside of Driftmark, it was boring. But you also knew that the Targaryens are no different from the other houses. They don't offer kindness in return for nothing. And they sure as hell did not see you as family, for you know how much they protect their families.

So why such civility and effort? You could offer no allegiance as a bastard, nor could you even be used as a pawn.

You've blocked out half of what Daemon Targaryen has been saying the past two minutes, eyes still on him, trying to ignore the boy staring intently at the side of your face.

When the older prince finally excuses himself, you were relieved, only to turn around towards his stepson who's been awaiting your attention. "Do you dance?" You shook your head. A dissapointment 'oh' came after. "Do you not know how?" He tries again. The same answer prevails.

You could dance if you wanted to, but you doubted it'd make you feel better. In fact, you're sure dancing with him would attract more attention and not just to you. His mother surely won't be pleased with more rumours surrounding her son. So you give a bow and you leave, walking far away enough until you're sure he's not looking.

But you don't see him watching you barely sit by your father for barely a second before disappearing completely from the crowd. And you didn't see him do the same thing.

[inconspicious-random-thoughts]

The Hazbin Timeline

I'm just making a timeline list of the Hazbin Hell residents biological and death ages. It's fun and interesting to see who is around who time period and such.

It might make help fanfic writers with backstories to know who existed at what time.

Im making the "current" date in the Hazbin universe 2019 as that's when The pilot aired.

Oldest: Lucifer. Existed before the dawn of mankind.

Adam: First man, existed since the dawn of mankind

Lilith: First woman, Existed since the dawn of mankind.

Eve: Second woman, Existed since the dawn of mankind, after Lilith.

Zestial: Information unknown beside oldest overlord, but going by his Shakespearean speech, death around the 1600's making him about 400 years old.

Possibly witness in his lifetime: Mary, Queen of Scots, executed for treason by order of Queen Elizabeth I, Galileo's experiments, Pilgrims from England arrive at Plymouth, Massachusetts, on the Mayflower.

Charlie: Appears to be in her 20s but

Despite her youthful appearance, it appears that Charlie's age is a matter of question. Although Vivziepop thinks that Charlie does celebrate birthdays with the standard kind of party, she is still unsure of how demon years and time work for someone like Charlie. In a later stream, Vivziepop stated that demons age in "hell years"] This may hint that Charlie's biological aging is different from how humans age, although it is unknown if hell years are similar in length to Earth years.

In one of the Hazbin Hotel pilot teasers, a portrait of the Magne family taken in the year 1871 hints that Charlie is decades older than she appears. Although this detail is omitted in the final version of the pilot, Faustisse has corroborated that Charlie is over 200 years old.

Rosie: Tricky, giving by her preferred time period, her death would be about 1890ish and her birth near 1850s-1860s making her 170 years old BUT Faustisse stated Rosie never died, suggesting that she was born in Hell. Which may subject to change as the show progress but if she's Hell born, they grow slower. So if we doing the same math as Charlie, she been around for 400 years. Which is similar to Zestial but not mention she on par with him in age so I think her being Hellborn not going to be finalized in canon. Rosie human age would be a little older if not similar to Alastor mother ages which is probably why he so easily bonds with her along with similar interest.

Sir Pentious: Biologically 40s, deceased 1888 making his soul 170is years old. His birth year is in the 1840s (This guy live through over 100 exterminations, and turf wars and challenging Alastor?)

Witness in his lifetime. The great famine in Ireland, the great Chicago fire, the pony express, the civil war, Lincoln assassinated, the statue of Liberty being dedicated,

Carmilia: Going with my headcanon that Carmilla was the lead ballerina in swan lake. Swan lake composed in 1877. Also, we have to consider her daughters to figure her death as I think they all died the same day. One of them goes by the name Clara...which is character in the nutcracker composed in 1892. So their deaths are after that date. Swan lake had a revival at 1895 so we just making their deaths at that time for sake of making it easy. Carmilla is vibing near 40 but I wouldn't push her past that as I think it be tough to be a 40 year old ballerina in the late 1800's. So her birth year is 1860s So I'm just going to guess her age be no older then 35 making her soul 160ish.

Her daughters being little after that. Being 150ish years old.

Witness in his lifetime. The civil war, Lincoln assassinated, the great Chicago fire, the statue of Liberty being dedicated,

Tom Trench: Biologically in his 40s, died 1910-1920s. Assumed during ww1 making his birth year late 1870s. His soul being around 150ish years old.

Alastor: Biologically 30-40's so for simplicity sake-35. So being born just smidge before the turn of 1900s. His death is 1933. Making his soul about 120 years old.

He witnessed 3 states included in the Us (up at 48 at his death) Wright brothers flight, Titanic sink, WW1, Great depression, Woman can vote, and prohibition.

Husk: Biologically 60-70, to make is simple 65. his death in the 1970s. Making his birth year about 1910's. About a decade after Alastors birth. Husker soul age about 110 years old. Husker has nearly the same timeline as Alastor and Angel except Husker lived an additional 40-50 years. Husk is about 10 year difference between both Alastor and Angel in either direction. So Husker being one the very few characters who lived a full life could at some point crossed paths with most of the characters in his living life, especially its been noted he was a world traveler to increase those odds. Alastor, Mimzy, Angel, Vox, Nifty, and Valentino. Husker is the unique character we get to witness that he an "old soul" because he lived the longest while alive, yet is in the same soul generation as Alastor, Angel and Vox, yet one of the youngest with his afterlife and still managed to be Overlord at one point. His overlords years being in the 1980-90s. As it takes time to become an overlord with the exception of Alastor. But I believe Husk did raise to Overlord fairly rapidly but lost it nearly as quickly as it seems Alastor had him under contract for a long while. Husk was in his 20s during Alastor death, in his 30s going on 40s for Angel Death, and 40's for Nifty and Nox death. Husk and Valentino share the same Hell afterlife timeline.

Angel Dust: Stated his age is in the 30s...and it most be very early 30's because I do not get the impression of him being 30 but more in the 20's. It so weird to know Angel meant to be a few years younger then Alastor biologically. Death year 1947. Making his birth year around 1917. His soul being just over 100 years. about 20 year difference from Alastor. Alastor hitting the age of adulthood while Husker not even a preteen at the time of Angel birth. Angel was in his mid teens when Alastor died.. Alastor possibly linked to is murders at this time of death and Angel would witness the news that would arise from it. Possibly heard some of Alastor broadcast. Angel is assumed gone by the name Anthony for a few decades in Hell before adopting his porn star name when he signed on with Valentino.

Vox: Biologically 30-40's so for simplicity sake-35. Died in the 1950's. Making his birth year about 1915 his soul just over 100 years old. He was a teen at the time of Alastor death. Alastor possibly linked to is murders at this time of death and Vox would witness the news that would arise from it. Angel and Vox lives and death are about in the same timeline, Angel died no more than a decade before Vox.

Witness in his lifetime: Great depression, prohibition start and end. all of WWII, holocaust, Hindenburg, Mount Rushmore finished first motion picture with sound The Jazz Singer.

Niffty: Biologically 22. Died in the 1950's making her birth year about 1930's. Her soul is about 90 years old. She possibly the youngest biological age character we seen. She as an infant when Alastor died. A preteen to late teen when Angel died. Possibly watched Voxs programs. (I headcanon that Vox is a tv game host). Died about the same time as Vox. Husk was in his 40s at her time of Death. Husk was in his 20 at the time of her birth.

Valentino: I'm placing him similar to Vox age so 35. He died in 1970's making his birth year about 1935. Just after Alastor death. Was in his late teens at the time of Vox death. Possibly watched Voxs programs growing up. (I headcanon that Vox is a tv game host). His soul is about 85 years old. Angel is older than Valentino even if Angel biological age might been slightly younger.

Angel been around longer than Valentino and its easy to forget that. Angel been uncontracted for a few decades before Valeninto became an overlord.

In his lifetime, the last two states was added to the US. Beatlemania, the space race, woodstock.

Katie Killjoy: in her 40's and died in 1992. Her birth year being late 1940-early 1950s. Making her soul little over 70 years old.

Zeezi: No information but giving her blatant 80's style she dies in the 80's and her personality seem of someone in early 20s...she was born in the 1960's Making her soul just about 70 years old. Same age as Katie, but Katie lived longer making Zeezi a citizen of Hell longer.

Cherri Bomb: Biologically in her 20s, and died in 1980s. Her birth year being 1960s. Living the same exact timeline as Zeezi. Cherri is possibly the youngest character we witness so far.

Velvette: No real information released but appears to be in the 20s. Her "age and death age" don't really match up to her character, but since maybe that's because she just good at updating and staying on trend. I headcanon it takes a minimum for a soul to become an overlord 10 years. So going by that, early 2000s since she not a brand spankin new overlord, she vibing she been overlord for a few years-close to a decade. ? Her birth year being in the 1980's which....doesn't seem to match. But giving the show timeline is 2019 subtract having years of experience as an overlord, and years to accomative the power and climb the ladder, and add her age...its near 1980s. Only way she can be an overlord with her birth being later in the 90's and death close to current year frame is that the other Vees saw potential and her and adopted her immediately and steamline her into being an overlord. But why would they do that if they just make a deal for her soul and use her potential that way?

That it for now. Hopefully someone enjoys this or could use the information I gathered, some venture a guess on the characters timeline and who may overlap who. I hope it wasn't terribly dull.

[sleepy-sirin]

Incarnation (Honkai Star Rail x Child! Herrscher! Reader)

Summary: In which Y/n, the creation of Will of Honkai, successfully defeated her own creator with the help of her friends. After defeating the Will of Honkai, for using too much of her power she goes into a deep sleep.

Next chapter

A/n: Reader will be based on Jyahnar from GGZ

Prologue

Third POV:

They finally did it.

They finally defeated the Will of Honkai.

She finally defeated her own creator.

Back then, Y/n didn't care about humanity when she was born. Her creator simply told her to destroy humanity. Y/n woke up and considered the planet to be a fit world for her to rule, especially the vast blue ocean of the world.

Overseeing humans, Y/n concluded they are not worthy of being her slaves and used her Houkai energy to destroy the sanity of all humans alive at the time and especially whole empires to destroy themselves, ending the culture of mankind and destroying every creation made by man. After 5,000 years making the world in her image, she fell asleep in the pacific ocean

But it all changes when a certain white-haired female convinces her about humanity. She'll never forget the kindness that she receives from her no matter how Y/n almost destroys the Earth.

Y/n asked Kiana to destroy her. After the destruction, Y/n used the last remaining strength to shape a human body, expressing her longing for thousands of years.

When Houkai created her, in addition to genetically engraving the mission of exterminating mankind like other Houkai creatures, it also included other information. That is to let her come to this planet to find the trace of Kiana and to destroy humanity together with Kiana as the Messenger of the Houkai.

At the end of her life, Y/n hopes to become a human in the next life. Kiana didn't want Y/n to die like this and used the power of the saint to completely integrate the core into Y/n's human body. Y/n survived but fell into a deep sleep. Y/n promise Kiana that she will help defeat her own creator, the Will of Honkai, if they are ready to defeat it.

Right now, they all celebrate defeating the Will of Honkai and grief of the death of Seele and Sin Mal for their sacrifice.

Y/n couldn't help but feel sleepy all of a sudden, maybe because she uses too much of her powers. Bronya and Ninti notice you are sleepy and they try to wake you up.

You couldn't help but let the darkness consume you and block everyone who is calling for your name.

Y/n's POV:

Where am I?

Why is it so dark in here?

I look around to see nothing but darkness. Is this how death looks like? Is this how I die when my creator is gone, I disappear too... Maybe I shouldn't rebel the Will of Honkai with the humans if I disappear too.

But I didn't regret it. I only did it for the person that I admire, Kiana Kaslana. She's the reason why I want to save humanity, even though back then I try to persuade Kiana to destroy with humanity with me. Maybe I will get reincarnated as human, and find Kiana like I always do whenever she gets reincarnated.

I see a light above me, is it time for me to wake up now? Am I finally going to be a human? I reach out my hand to the light...

I open my eyes to see a ceiling above me, I sit up on the bed I was in and look through the window to see that I'm in space. I have no recollection sleeping through space since I always sleep in the ocean.

I saw two humans talking not far away from me, a woman who looks awfully familiar to me has bright red hair, and gold-colored eyes. She wears a white toga gown with red along the inside. A tall brown-eyed man with matching brown hair that has a small white streak. He wears a gray and white dress coat with a scarf and black armor on his chest. He also wears glasses, dark brown pants, black shoes, and a black glove on his right hand. The two humans saw that I am awake and walk to my direction.

"It looks like you're finally awake, child." The red-haired woman said.

"We have few questions for you to answer." The brown-haired male said and ask me few questions.

"What's your name?"

"Y/n."

"How old are you?"

"I don't know my age."

"Where are you from?"

"Nowhere."

"Who's your parents?"

"I don't have parents."

The old man was done asking me questions but I knew there's something he wants to ask me in private, so he told the red-haired lady that he wants to talk to me in private. The red-haired woman listen and gave us some privacy.

It was now only the two of us, the brown-haired male ask me with a serious tone in his voice:

"You're a Herrscher, aren't you?"

I smirk at the question he asks, what a smart human he is to figure out who I am.

"Yes, I am a Herrscher. What a smart human you are."

The old man backed away from me and summoned his weapon, ready to engage battle with me.

"You Herrscher shouldn't exist anymore since the Will of Honkai is gone!"

"The Will of Honkai may be gone but you have forgotten that I am the creation of the Will of Honkai! I'm the most powerful Herrscher in the universe!"

As the two of us are ready to fight, 3 new humans have entered the room and noticed that the old man is literally fighting a "human" child.

"Mr.Yang, what are you doing?!" The pink-haired girl asked in a panic voice.

The red-haired woman came back to the room who looked shocked at the scene she witnessed.

"Everyone stay back! This child is not a human but a dangerous Herrscher!" The old man said.

"Don't you get it? I'm God! I'm beyond your understanding! You can never defeat me!"

[ask-ciaphas-cain]

Not to mix too much of The Locked Tomb into 40k, but I really think that not leaning more into the fact that the venerated leader of the Imperium is functionally dead is doing the setting a tremendous disservice.

Sure there's skulls and shit everywhere but it feels like there's no acknowledgement that the Emperor is dead. Humanity should be leaning way harder into that. Like Jesus but x1000. The Emperor died to keep Chaos from reaching humanity, he is dead but still Thee Protector of Mankind. There needs to be Venerations of the Holy Corpse, He Who Sits Upon The Throne Eternal. The 9th House in TLT has a locked tomb to pray about, why aren't Navigators praying to the Light That Guides. Where are my pictures of the Emperor with the Astronomican depicted as his heart hanging in every space-abuelas kitchen. Where are the weird cults who argue over whether or not the Astronomican is an aspect of the Emperor or a separate thing entirely.

WHERE IS MY 40K VERSION OF SANTA MUERTE

To die for the Imperium is to follow in the Emperor's footsteps! Why isn't dying for the Imperium a bigger deal!!!! Like, families celebrating that their child who went off to the Imperial Guard has brought upon them the greatest honor, to follow in the Emperor's name? More religious guardsmen should be painting their faces like skulls, to bring fear to their foes by mimicking the Emperor's holy visage.

Where is the veneration of the valiant dead and why aren't there more reliquaries???? To die for the Imperium is to die like the Emperor. Belief gives power, the human skull should burn a daemon the way a cross burns a vampire because of the absolute belief that death is a holy act.

Catacombs should be nigh-on daemon proof because of the protective force of the sacred dead. And there should be catacombs EVERYWHERE because the dead body is a holy thing. The Emperor is a corpse on a throne, his corpse is most holy, each humans' corpse bears a little of his holy power for are we not built in his image.

The Ecclesiarchy should be a million times more unhinged about death and its sacred nature because to die is the holiest act of all.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Prima Nocta (or the right of the first night) Part 1

Warnings: so so so so many for thematic material. This is dark. Quite dark. This is freshly divorced and verrrrrry bitter and disillusioned Elvis helping himself to the bride of the newest Memphis Mafia initiate. Hugely unreliable narrator, belittling and objectifying of women, dub con because of that, sanctimonious chauvinism, reference to his marriage going very south. no actual sex yet but definitely 18+.

Notes: this got so long from just lead up that I figured it was worth publishing on its own and seeing if there’s interest for a part 2. Sorry for going bonkers on this one, sometimes you just gotta tap into the villain side of yourself. Also, this was inspired by many talks with my previous mutuals about THAT picture of Elvis holding a gun to George Klein’s head at his own wedding…I’m using it for solely for vibes, sorry George

Series: Sky High Lovin -reading Honeymoon might make this even better but not necessary

Dedicated to: Sweet Christi with the wayward mind and all my thanks to Ally and Jane and Elise for spitballing this into existence.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Elvis enjoyed life affirming events like weddings, believe it or not. He enjoyed facilitating days to celebrate love and loyalty and vows before God, promising everlasting devotion. That is, until he learned that “till death do us part” meant about as much to most as a “bless you” did when someone sneezed.

It makes surveying the pink and white festooned hotel ballroom something of an eyesore for him as he lounges back, dressed in black velvet, a sore thumb of ominous derision amidst the pastels, viewing the merry reception through moody, tinted lenses. The familiarly charming table accents of champagne and flowers and paper mache hearts twist his own into something a little furious and decidedly bitter.

A man’s wife betraying him and leaving him and stripping him of his pride and his joy and all his best intentions for her and your child will do that to a man.

Couldn’t even make it a whole decade before she found fault and spread her legs for another and turned his child against the father that loved her.

Sorry for being away so much baby, I was just singin’ myself hoarse to buy you that fuckin ring and car and hair and face and keep you in the style you’d married me for.

Cause it was obvious as all hell that honoring and obeying hadn’t been first and foremost in her mind when she promised forever. Forever to riches and fame, maybe, but not forever to him. She has those now, and he hasn’t got the family he’d prayed an Old Testament God for.

Rather like the pretty lady currently allowing her rodent of a groom to feed her their wedding cake, fake giggles and batting lashes adding to the nauseating act of pretending she can stand being in his company for longer than a couple hours.

Forever, my ass.

Elvis watches her through his shades and with each passing minute the anger burns brighter and his justification steadily builds for the liberty he’s about to commit.

The groom is here for Elvis’ paycheck, the lovely bride is planning to suck that idiot's cock till death doth them part (or a good four years) for the status of being a Memphis Mafia wife, and even the guests now stuffing their faces with pasta and alcohol are here for what Elvis’ money buys.

Loyalty is dead and what’s left is the goddamn food chain, like they’re the animals school tells them they’ve evolved past. In the recent months since his divorce, Elvis has felt a near Devine calling to bring this wicked devolution of morals and motivations to light, to humiliate these homosapiens until some level of shame is regained by mankind. If this is a pack of animals that surrounds him, he is King of the Jungle, and it is a careless and heartless king who lets his subjects run amuck.

He has no appetite for pasta, the hours of frivolity pass him by and he remains aloof, crouching in wait in his chair, running off righteous indignation and primal sufferance. Good things come to those who wait.

That’s what the bride is thinking, Elvis suspects, as the reception winds down and her luxurious honeymoon full of sunbathing and spas, good food and rich wine and the obligatory playing hooky to get out of sex draws nearer. Just a little more time letting fuckin’ Ronnie feed her cake and paw at her, then she’ll be on her way, securely locked into her future of privilege. He’s got nothing against Connie, uh, Sandra, -oh hell what was her name? he consults the gold embossed invitation at his elbow,- He’s got nothing against the newly minted Mrs. Kemp, nothing in particular, except that she’s a woman. And Elvis has a bone to pick and a point to prove with the whole, whorish lot of them.

Elvis opens the limo door for the bride himself, gallantly ushering in the happy couple before joining them as arranged, the whole merry band of his boys piling in after.

The new Mrs. Kemp, unlike some of his boys wives, had had the good grace not to whine about the lack of privacy and alone time to be found in and around Graceland’s inner circle. As a result Elvis allowed her to choose the more expensive flowers and gold embossed invites and french vintages, even if he knew why knew she’d been disgustingly eager for any chance of her intended husband being distracted from her. Elvis is certain, thanks to first hand accounts from fuckin’ Ronnie himslef, that the groom has sampled the bride already. It’s the way of things in this decadent decade, and she’s no fresh outta the nest baby chick. The fact Ronnie could give no further details about his encounters with his betrothed beyond the mechanics of thrusting above her till he blew his load, made Elvis despair of humanity and suspect Mrs. Kemp had a serpentine pragmatism about this entire arrangement.

Oh my buddy my pal, he thinks to himself as the limo flies through the never dark streets of Las Vegas towards the airstrip, I gave my wife everything and that wasn’t enough, how can you compete? God gave Eve the whole of Eden ‘cept for one measly apple tree -and what did the mother of all mankind do? She took, she ate, she damned them all with her disloyalty.

Ronnie is a damn fool, and while Elvis’ warnings were not needed during the engagement and this marriage has progressed to a limo ride and honeymoon, Elvis is not to be thwarted in his determination to save Ronnie the slow disillusionment, the slow death of any pretense of love in his wife’s eyes, the crumbling of all faith in anything such as Elvis has endured. Better to rip the bandage off now, five years is a long crucifixion.

As the limo parks on the tarmac and the gleaming hulk of the private jet looms over them in the night sky, no doubt Ronnie harbors some pathetic hope Elvis has forgotten his promise.

Elvis proceeds his guests up the jet bridge, cane thumping and carefully harnessed excitement radiating through him as he enters the opulent space, watching with benign magnanimity as the newlyweds board his jet, the boys providing a rollicking group to ferry the new couple to their honeymoon destination.

This was Elvis’ treat, he had insisted the jet drop them off before he heads back to wherever it is he’s supposed to be tomorrow. He’s not lost his appetite for spoiling folks. Only this time, he is gonna get repaid in currency a little more tangible than ephemeral, transient, fleeting loyalty. And Ronnie, kiss-ass, weak-spined fuckin’ Ronnie wasn’t man enough to hold out more than a few minutes when Elvis told him his new bride was the price for being inducted into the inner circle, the intitiation to prove his loyalty to The King.

Predictably, after some pathetic and scandalized objections, some monetary threats by Elvis and some judgmental snickers by the guys, fuckin’ Ronnie had caved and betrayed his loyalty to his own wife before he’d even walked down the aisle to marry her.

“B-b-but d-did the rest of t-the g-guys h-h-have to do this?” Ronnie had protested while they were shootin some pool, leaving the gals the other rooms to wedding plan, “Is it a-a-always this w-way?”

It hasn’t always been, no. Because Elvis hadn’t always been so astute. He had allowed his taste for pleasure and innocence and childish notions of fidelity to cloud his perception of women and the men they married. Elvis once was blind, now he saw, and now there was a currency of wedding nights established in the jungle.

“No one’s forcin’ ya to stay in this group.” Elvis had pointed out while lining up his pool cue with the ball, “you’re mighty welcome to go right on out that door, never receive another check from me or a glimpse of Vegas again, you’ll lose that girl, too, cause she sure as hell won’t be stickin around when all your bells and whistles fall off and it’s just you she’s left with. She don’t want ya Ronnie, she wants what I give ya, which makes me her provider, don’t it?” he reasoned before making his shot, the clatter of the balls deafening against the green felt as the older members of the mafia held their breaths in sick fascination with this new form of hazing. “And now, if I’m her provider,” Elvis had straightened up his posture to watch Sonny mark the score on the board, “that makes me a husband of sorts, an authority, a protector. A sugar daddy. Don’t it? You gonna tell me I should throw you guys a damn weddin’ and honeymoon, buy ya the house you live in and the cars you drive, the clothes she wears and the food you eat cause you hang around me an’ promise to protect me if the time comes? Bodyguard my ass, I could turn anyone to chopsticks before you even woke up long enough to realize a threat. Face it Ronnie, there’s a totem pole in this here life, and no one blames ya for bein’ a few notches down than most in the scale of things, but it don’t give ya much leverage bein’ down there. I give you that leverage. And I’d like to compensate myself for my generosity with a lil marital privilege. Jus’ once, just first night rights.” he took a swing of his coke and watched Ronnie closely, licking the sugar off his lips with deliberate swipes of his tongue, “Or would ya prefer I just wait and fuck her in six monthes when she comes knockin’ on my door sayin’ she just got lost in this big ole place?”

Fuckin’ Ronnie was a coward and a cad and he essentially agreed that he’d rather Elvis fuck his wife on the wedding night and be done with it than always be watching his back, suspecting her of carrying on an affair. Ronnie was a little bitch, Elvis surmised. Gone was any protest that he couldn’t do that to her, that she was a good gal, that Elvis wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Kings had no friends. And tonight Ronnie was oh so close to being officially inducted into the Memphis Mafia, he’d do nothing to jeopardize that . Elvis figured he’d wait until the plane took off to sample the goods, make her husband squirm guiltily over it while his new bride puzzled over why he was so tense.

Out of consideration for her downer of a groom, Elvis handed her a drink, playing the gracious host and taking her mind off her husband's stiff bearing and sweaty pallor.

“Don’t mind him, honey,” Elvis whispered hot and wet in her ear as he handed the drink off, “Ronnie boy here’s just scared of flyin’. You’re not scared are ya, honey?”

Honey….he couldn’t recall her name, Mrs. Kemp’s name, his fatigue and apathy too strong. He stood straight and dug in his pocket for a pick-me-up as he watched her smile and blush under his attentions,

“No sir, Mr. Presley, I’m not scared.” she smiled, “One could think we’re sat in a living room, it's so spacious here.” she added a compliment.

“I’d like to show ya the rest.” he says sitting down next to her, his arm heavy and warm around her shoulders and his gaze intent on her, knowing the effect this has on an ignored woman.

He recalls using that same line on his young bride during their honeymoon, eager to show his own new wife everything he had to offer. Beauty and luxury and care and a damn good fuck in front of the mirror back there. And it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough.

He can feel Ronnie tense further against the back of his hand where he clasps the bride’s shoulder, knowing that the “rest” of the plane beyond this lounge is a conference table, a toilet and a bedroom. Ronnie has had the privileges of being part of the TCB and now he’s about to pay his admission fee, and Elvis smirks at the thought that the man will never ride aboard this jet again without thinking of getting cuckolded by his boss.

The Bride is trying to make sense of Elvis' sudden shift of mood along with her husband’s. Both of them seeming to have swapped bearings, changing from the reception as if the jet’s air pressure had doused Ronnie’s merriment and finally revitalized Mr. Presley from the rather sullen attendee he had been. Elvis can feel her hesitancy to agree in her body language and the way she keeps looking over to Ronnie, as if to figure out his nervous ignoring of her and the way Elvis makes up for it in touches and attention. Beneath them the jet rumbles and takes flight, her little gasp at the heart swooping feeling of take-off a taste of what’s to come, of what he’ll pull from her body, willing or not . He’d rather lure her, try that first, the other can always be resorted to.

There’s an unspoken agreement to wait on this lil tour till the jet reaches cruising altitude, and Elvis spends the wait rubbing her arm and watching her try to make conversation with her groom who finds discussing the latest baseball stats with Red far more interesting than recalling the beauteous memories of the last few hours with his now introspective and mildly panicked bride. It’s funny to hold a woman whose mind is racing, Elvis can almost feel the frantic thoughts and conflicting emotions battering her frame from the inside out like a caged bird against its bars.

Elvis allows the minutes to trickle by and work for him, the soothing sweep of his hand slowly melting her rigidity, the continued abandonment of her husband's attention going from hurtful to frustrating, the innocuous chatter of the fellas talking and laughing around them, the cool air of the jet’s cooling system kicking on, and his warm and broad chest already pressed against her, now beckoning like a little haven for her to cower inside until the confusion passes. He clocks all these developments as the minutes go by, fully aware the boys are making small talk with their minds as preoccupied as Ronnie’s about when Elvis will make his move, their anticipation mounting while her guard drops, finally accepting his closeness without question. The jet rumbles and her drink kicks in and with the wedding fever abated it leaves her drowsy, unmoored.

Elvis waits for the perfect moment to pounce and is rewarded for his patience. The cool blast of the AC has made her begin to curl towards him and he’s met her halfway and it’s not till her head almost nods weakly to lay on his shoulder that her sensibilities prick her and she jerks it back up, another little gasp. It makes his repeated,

“Lemme show ya round, honey, got all sorts of remarkable stuff up here”

sound like a gallant cover for her lapse of decorum. Predictably, she shakes herself upright and gives him a polite nod of thanks, their first mutual, unspoken communication acknowledging something the rest of the room isn’t privy to. Her loyalty is slipping and all it took was a few minutes of heating her up with his embrace, a few whispered teases and buying her a whole damn lifestyle. To her credit she looks to Ronnie as she rises, asking him to come along in a coaxing voice Elvis knows is her trying to get her new husband to even look at her.

Elvis watches her try and fail at this from the curtained doorway leading to the back of the jet, thinking it makes a striking picture. A bride still dressed in white, bending over to try to catch her husband's eyes as he watches TV in his rumpled tux, the entire plane’s worth of masculine attention directed on her, except for the man who swore to worship her. Perhaps the disillusion will go both ways tonight, maybe women aren’t all merley bitches in heat, maybe some start out intending to be faithful and good and content.

Elvis has yet to meet a woman faithful and good and content once he puts his mark on them, they spend the rest of their lives day dreaming and closing their eyes when their husbands are in them and clogging his phone lines, kidding themselves that they’re special. He’s saving her the sin of coming to his room in a couple of months or years and saying she got lost while dropping her silk nightwear down her frame, an old and familiar expression of invitation on her face. She might not know that’s in her future otherwise, but he does. And he’s gonna save her the wait. When she wants something she’ll come to him now, not her husband, and he will have the discipline to make the right choices for her.

Elvis holds the curtain aside and beckons her with his fingers, and she would be angrier that he has the nerve to summon her away from her husband if she weren’t so humiliated at being ignored by the man. Frustration at their man makes women very susceptible to comfort, Elvis knows this intimately, and in their strong desire to be understood and soothed, they’ll spread their legs for the first person who tells them they deserve that attention.

She ducks under his arm, into the shade of the conference room with an attitude written on her face. Elvis drops the curtain behind them, the prey corralled. Nothin so easy as a woman scorned, nothin’ quite so hungry and quite so fierce. He hopes she’ll take out some of that miffed little ‘tude out on his back with those fancy nails his money bought her. It makes him smirk in anticipation and he can tell she finds that unsettling, her huffy bearing faltering once she notices him just watching her move round the glossy table top, suddenly aware of their seclusion and the fact she left her groom behind for a tour of the jet. She’s beginning to doubt her choice, doubt her loyalties.

Honeymoon off to a damn good start, she thinks sourly.

It’s innocuous, standing at opposite ends of a conference table with a man who is your husband's closest friend and at whose house you’ve eaten multiple dinners. There’s nothing wrong with it, but she feels her skin prickle none the less like she’s in danger, like those eyes observing her through shaded lenses are not fully human, not fully beneficent. She curses Ronnie for humiliating her, for his weird mood these past weeks making her feel isolated, for her past making her paranoid of this assessing male gaze.

She’d met a panther in the woods on an Appalachian bike ride once. They’d stared each other down as he had crouched and observed, his eyes fathomless and intent, the muscles of its body undulating in readiness beneath sleek black fur. Her mouth had dried out exactly the same as it does now when her shy smiles aren’t met with anything besides those assessing eyes and that crooked smirk that holds no fondness for her, no pride in his jet, no amusement at her awe of his wealth. A smirk of pure and smug knowingness.

Then he calls to her and the warmth of his voice melts her fear. “Check out this icebox, honey”

Her face lights up like a kids in the yellow glow of the refrigerator light as she bends over to look inside, white stain skirt hugging her perfectly and he gathers that all that athleticism has done her good, she could probably ride a man for hours without tiring, judging by the firm curve of that ass.

“See anyhtin ya’d like?” he asks her casually, laying a light hand between her shoulder blades as she reads rows and rows of labeled refreshments.

“Oh, uh, no, no, the drink was enough for now. Thank you Mr. Presley.”

He used to correct folks when they called him that, and used to punt the honorary title to his father. But nowadays he finds “Mr. Presley” might be closer to “your majesty” than mere “Elvis” -in which case he’s stopped putting little floozies at ease by asking them to call him by the name his mama gave him. That’s a name used by a wife back when he was happy and respected and alive.

“C’mere, I wanna show ya this television back here.” he beckons again, removing the heat of his hand from her back and she breathes easier with him taking the lead, she’s able to watch his imposing figure unobserved as he leads her past the conference table and into a small hallway with a large, showbiz style mirror.

Elvis swaggers right on by the marvelous monstrosity with its low counter and doused bare bulbs, but she can’t help herself. A flicker of childish glee taking over as she flips the switch on the wall and makes the bulbs buzz to life, brilliant as a spotlight in the inky gloom, illuminating them from the knees to the ceiling in a gaudy reflection. The sudden blast of light makes him pause on his trek to the bedroom and he joins her in looking at their reflection.

“Hell, honey,” he drawls amused as he takes in her fresh little wedding set and his decadent black suit, “we look like cake toppers.”

She laughs at that, a sweet unaffected thing that is music to his ears, and no doubt a screech to Ronnie’s. Elvis finds his grin growing at that thought and she mistakes it for joy. She laughs again, aborted little chuckles tapering out.

“There’s a tv back here, too?” she asks, embarrassingly at ease with entering a bedroom in the company of Elvis Presley.

Interestingly she doesn’t even glance at the bed when he ushers her in, she’s peering at the walls and the built in furniture for a peek of a screen.

“Mhmm, keep lookin, it’s hidden.” Elvis follows her and shuts the door behind him, a quiet click she doesn’t hear as she’s got her back to him, busily creaking open dresser doors and clapping in commendation upon finding the tastefully camouflaged TV set.

“How wonderful!” She praises and his heart does something funny and nostalgic over unpretentious enjoyment of what he has to give her.

One day it’ll be old hat to her and she’ll be like all the other wives, naggin’ and bitchin’ over keeping up with each other, forgetting about what it was they ever wanted, consumed with one upping each other and dominating the pecking order, spending Elvis’ money not for pleasure but for bragging rights. For now he watches this young woman bounce in her heels over a hidden TV set and makes a pact with himself to be nice, to gentle her into this ruination.

Then he recalls she married Fuckin Ronnie, and that twists his gut in reminder she’s a practical gold digger like all the rest. And he doesn’t mind that about her, he just hates the dishonesty of pretending she’s in it for more, and her ignoring him for a tv irks him as disingenuine.

“Wanna kick back and watch somethin, doll?” he asks her and sees the exact minute his words make her back and shoulders stiffen beneath white silk.

“Uh, on this one?” she’s scared to ask, scared to sound like she’s accusing him of suggesting it, scared to suggest it and give him ideas.

“They got the damn game on the other.” he answers her smoothly, coming up behind her and reaching round her to power it up.

“Elvis.” she dares to sound reprimanding when all he’s done is stand behind her and punch a button, she’s the one who walked into a bedroom with a man who isn’t her husband.

“Gonna be a long flight, three more hours I reckon.” he is patient with her.

“Y-yes.” she hesitantly agrees, watching the screen flicker to life, “And I wanna spend it with Ronnie, exc-“

Liar! He doesn’t let her turn around, he puts his hands on her shoulders and keeps her facing the TV, keeps her away from the closed door she’s not yet noticed, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck telling himself, gently, gently, tempt her, tempt her. “Doesn’t seem like Ronnie is eager to spend it with ya.” he mourns low and sympathetic in her ear and she gasps at his brutal honesty, at the fact he’d have no tact to pretend he didn’t notice.

“Elvis, t-this isn’t right.” she parrots her mother or her favorite tv show or some rote set of rules she doesn’t really embrace.

“What ain’t right, honey?” he rumbles, keeping his hands on her, moving them from her shoulders down her arms, then swooping them up again and fingering at the sides of her neck, delighting in the shiver her body yields up to him.

If he hadn’t been so aloof before, she figures she might not feel so electrified by his sudden, all consuming touch. But it’s not just that, he’s kept his distance from her since she started dating Ronnie and in her star struck insecurity she’d made no move to become friendly with him.

Now this, this intentional hovering and the petting that tastes like something she’s only ever heard about. It’s Elvis, Elvis petting her in her wedding dress on the way to her honeymoon destination and that’s simultaneously about as predictable and uncredible as can be. Elvis, who’s been the ephemeral host for countless of lovely parties, Elvis who’s been the presiding specter over all their schedules since she became part of the group, Elvis who has been the magical name on the credit card used for everything she ever wanted. Elvis Presley, the man who achieved all there was in life by 21, and has been bored by it ever since. What did she expect him to be, a fatherly figure?

“Did you like your weddin’ honey?” he asks her after her raging thoughts consume the time she should have spent answering and protesting him.

The hands descending to her hips and squeezing there hint a warning prompt even as his gentle tone reminds her of all he has done for her, his inexhaustible benevolence -which it seems something has finally exhausted. She begins to panic, no need to see those panther eyes when the heat is radiating off of him, sexual intent potent from his aura alone, no need to feel a crude gesture or have it spoken out in clunky declarations of desire. Ingrained self doubt takes hold of her for one brief moment before the scratch of his sideburn rubs against her cheeks and the hot press of his lips against her neck tells her it is not vanity making her project on him, Elvis Presley really is trying to seduce her mere hours after her vows, a few yards away from her new husband and his friends.

“Mr. Presley!” she resolutely stiffens in his embrace and tries to turn and leave his hold of her and he lets her so far as she’s spun round and facing him, her stern tone wobbling out when she’s met with the hypnosis of his expectant stare, “Y-yes it was lovely, thank you.” she stammers out, fear and primal instinct kicking in and guiding her to cower and simper her way out of this, her boldness having bounced off him like shotgun shells off cement. Nothing but damaging to her. “T-thank you for all you did.” she tries again, her tone unsure as his face remains unreadable, his eyes burning and unblinking behind his shades, lit with white hot something in the glow of the tv screen. “You’re very generous.” she admits, tacking on every obeisance she can think of while resolutely ignoring the feel of being held to his chest, near eye level with the gap of his shirt and the chains glittering on his skin. “I need to rejoin my husband, sir.” she begs, begs that she doesn’t want this, denies she’s ever hoped for this.

Idly he wonders if she’s being honest, then he watches her swallow thickly as she catches a whiff of his scent.

Suddenly he crushes her to him, her mouth smashed to the metallic, skin warmed nest of his chains, pinning her there with a hand to the back of her head as his other reaches for the hem of her skirt and drags it up and over her ass, palming it even as she shrieks in shock, “Tell me, Mrs. Kemp,” he growls in her ear, “did you go after Ronnie cause he was near me, or did ya come for the money and stay in the hopes I’d pay attention to your little self? Was you countin’ on me gettin lonely some night an’ sendin’ your husband on an errand so I could get my fill of his wife? Is that what keeps ya from gaggin when he’s on top of ya? Is that the hope?”

Elvis’ fingers find the band of her lacy panties -honeymoon lingerie his money bought her- and he snakes his hand in, down the warm curve of her ass and along her crack, dipping between clenched thighs to rake through predictably sopping wet folds. She gave the whole resistance act a good try, but her womanly body responds to dominance, and Elvis is dominance incarnate. It’s in her weak nature to drip for him, plain and simple, and so he swipes and dips and drags his fingers through her as she fights against his chest, pounding her fists impotently against the velvet of his coat.

“Shhh, shhh honey, I know, it ain’t your fault.” he is magnanimous, gracious as King Solomon. “This, honey, this is what hope tastes like.” he brings his glistening fingers to her snarling mouth and shoves them in against her tongue, savoring the way her choke distracts her from the obvious defense of biting him, “Taste that? That’s how hope tastes, and there ain’t anyhtin’ more harmful than hope. Makes a purgatory of your life. Doesn’t let ya be satisfied with what ya got, won’t let ya get dissatisfied enough to wanna change anythin. You just hope and hope and your life goes by, while you’re hopin.”

She whimpers around his fingers, wilted white silk in his arms, dress bunched up obscenely in the screen-lit room. He strokes her cheek with his spit wet hand, the ring faces of rubies and diamonds and priceless gems caressing her tears away, lulling the creature back to her basic instincts, hypocrisy and futility purged away beneath Elvis’ healing hands. “I ain’t gonna let you go on hopin for years and years,” he enchants her with whispers, rocking her now as she whimpers in catatonic fascination, “I’m gonna gift ya with knowledge.”

Everything she’s given up while fighting to get herself on a jet like this, married to a man of means, with a house and a steady future and a predictable timeline stretching out before her -security at last! -all of it crowds her mind, the devil and the angel on her shoulders whisper in a traitorous debate. Of course life isn’t how she wanted at eighteen when she expected to marry for love, yet of course her mature self is pleased with this match. Those can both exist, and she planned for them to exist in a tidy world where Elvis Presley wasn’t an option, because he’s not. He’s not offering himself, doesn't even have enough dreams of his own to bother with lying about it to buy them both a minute of reprieve from the disillusioned hellscape that is life in one’s thirties when you comforted your starry eyed twenties by telling yourself it gets better. Then to no one’s surprise -it didn’t. The one last insupportable piece of this maturing puzzle that would cement her growing up forever is tasting this then going back to Ronnie. It’s out of the question and she doesn’t give a shit what he’s going through right now, or what Ronnie thinks about her angering his boss, what she needs is the peace of mind that comes with not knowing.

“You can take your knowledge and shove it.” she snaps out of the pliant heatstroke his embrace caused her and shoves him away, only succeeding at making room between them because he’s so surprised by her sudden surfacing out of the trance.

One final thrash of the prey and he watches with amusement as she stumbles in haste across the flickering room, yanking open the closed door and steadfastly booking it to the front of the jet. Headed to the shelter of a man who promised to protect and defend her and cherish her and swore it all while counting his bonus for selling her out.

Elvis watches her till she and her crumpled white dress fly past the brightly mirrored hallway and disappear from his vantage point through the doorway. He picks at his nose and thinks about what he might like to take on this little experiment, and having procured a few items of use saunters after her at a leisurely pace. He sets them on the conference room and table and watches as she pulls back the curtain and steps into the lounge, her whole being vibrating in a way that is not subtle or discreet about what just occurred between them.

It’s warmer in the lounge, just pulling the curtain back wafts warmth into the ice box chilled areas of the plane that Elvis frequents, it makes her tremble with relief. She’s back in public, back where he won’t try anything. Ronnie, to her angry bewilderment, is still glued to watching the TV like he didn’t even register her absence. But his mere existence will still work for what she needs. She needs to belong to someone and sit beside that person for three hours while his boss cools off.

She is not prepared for the way everyone in the lounge spins round to look at her once registering her presence, looking with absolute surprise as if her reemergence was the surprise, not the lengthy plane tour to the back bedroom. It makes her seethe inside, they thought she’d go through with it, damn animals that they are, all “what happens on the road stays on the road” and carefree chauvinism inherited from their boss. She has to remind herself why she wanted this life in the first place, has to recall the perks and the wages and lavish reception.

Red and Joe now flank Ronnie and her seat beside him is taken up by those two manspreading oaf’s. Desperate, she decides to play at being cute and makes to sit on her husband’s lap, spinning round to find Elvis watching hehe from the curtained doorway as she tries to lower herself down to perch.

“Babe, I can’t see the damn screen with you like that.” Ronnie has the churlishness to complain and she wants to scream at his denseness, the way pushes at her lower back to tip her out of his lap.

To save herself the humiliation of face planting on the plane floor she chooses to stand of her own accord and catch herself from the shove. She sees Elvis’ lush mouth frown behind the cigar he’s lighting up.

“Don’t be an ass to her Ronnie, she’s your wife.” he reprimands and she gets a funny feeling of appreciation for being defended in all this. Her loyalty teeters towards the man she has to remind herself she needs to escape from. “Or have ya forgotten, ya unchivalrous bastard?”

That’s a little harsh but the memory of Ronnie not giving a damn about the fact she was almost assaulted -that’s harsh word for that too, her traitorous mind supplies- reminds her that she isn’t happy with him at all. But in fact, come to think of it, she isn’t pleased with any one them, and there’s no where to go on this damned plane. It starts to make her skin crawl, the realization that she’s surrounded by men who would either not believe or else not care if Elvis went through with the forceful attentions he was showing her back there. Who would believe her if she said he forced her?

“Ronnie I’m tired and my seat’s been taken!” she argues with him, “I just wanna sit down. Lay down, even!” she begs, thinking of how best to clear the couch of anyone but him so that no one takes liberties and sits down beside her.

“Then go lay down in back where there’s a fuckin’ bed? Why’d you come out?” he snaps.

“Cause-“ because Elvis Presley tried to take liberties, that’s why, but she feels strangled watching how all the men await her answer with a little too much investment, the way Elvis is still watching her behind tinted shades and a haze of cigar smoke.

“You get all bitchy when you’re tired, go lay down and take a nap, honey. I’m watching the game.” Ronnie suggests her worst fear and it infuriates her how he’s changed just since he slipped a ring on her finger.

“Ronnie please-“ She whimpers and would give anything to know why Joe is leering up at her with a sly grin. There’s no time to think on it as Elvis’ ringed fingers close around her elbow and tug her back towards the curtain.

“C’mon honey, ya heard your husband, let’s get ya situated.” he coos and her fingers turn to ice from the shock of it all.

“I don’t wanna!” she protests, “Ronnie!” she tries one more time while being backed away from her husband by his boss.

“Oh for fucks sake just do what he wants!” Ronnie begs with something akin to frustration but the red hot blush sweating up his neck suggests he’s humiliated to be caught saying it.

“Beg your pardon?” she hisses in disbelief, feeling Elvis’ hand clamp on her arm just a little more, maybe to keep her from marching up to Ronnie and smacking him.

“Just, just give him what he wants. Just tonight.” Ronnie spills the beans far sooner than needed and Elvis wants to roll his eyes at how fast they went from taking her for a nap to admitting to something far more sinister.

The bride’s head swivels from viewing her husband to Elvis and back to her husband and the room full of men who’s thrumming interest in her makes her wanna bolt straight out of the plane now she knows why. It’s sickening yet so strongly in character for them she doesn’t waste many moments in disbelief, it all makes sense in a horribly predictable way. Every one of these fella’s grinning at her discomfort are pathetic in her eyes, as pathetic as men who’d prefer to watch naughty movies than better themselves as lovers. Somehow in the mess of it all, Elvis alone stands out as something a little less deplorable. Even if it’s just his brash and demented honesty she admires.

“Y’all planned this?” she asks dully, scanning each lip licking face, ending with her husband’s sullen one, “This was all planned out? You offered me up? You goddamn, two faced bastard-“

Elvis loops his arm around her waist to prevent her from launching at Ronnie and clawing him to shreds. His chest is searing her through the silk on her back and his hands grab at her more than they need to in order to restrain her. It makes her pulse pound and fury swirls inside her, battling with the cold dread of weakness and helplessness.

“Ronnie made a little deal with me.” Elvis is drawling in her ear in so soothing a way it almost counteracts the nauseating confirmation, “And now, we can watch you runnin’ round this plane for hours to get away from me like a Junebug in a bottle but that ain’t gonna change how this night ends. How bout ya just be sensible, hmm? Just cause he’s a lyin’, no good sunnuvabitch don’t mean you gotta turn bad yourself, ya know? He gave ya instructions, ya can still be a good lil wifey and honor and obey him, can’t ya?”

“Why?” she persists, but feebly this time, not knowing if she’s asking her husband who keeps his face averted towards the screen or the man whose hands are mapping out her body in full view of his friends. “Why y’all gotta do this?”

“I told ya honey,” Elvis murmurs, rucking the hem of her skirt up passed her knees, “hope’s a dangerous thing. I don’t allow it in my house. An’ you’re part of my house now, ain’t ya?” he pets at the damp plushness of her inner thighs as the men stare and she struggles to find a way to empower herself while caught in such a feeble position. Hurting Ronnie, twisting the knife a little more like he’s done her is all she can think of at the time. “Don’t you belong to me, sweetie?” Elvis is prodding once more and his cheek is clammy and hot against hers, the cigar smoke pungent around them.

“Yes sir.” she agrees while sneering at Ronnie’s reddened face.

“That’s more like it.” Elvis’ voice gentles to something a little less frightening than before but all the more terrifying for how sure and smug it sounds. His hands grab at her breasts and she can’t help the whimper she lets out from the presumption, no doubt it’ll only get worse. “Since you’re so eager to stick close to ole Ronnie and include e’rbody in our private business, I reckon it’s only fair we conduct this lil interview on the conference table, hmm?”

When she cranes her neck to look behind him and past the curtain, she can see the shiny table top littered with items it didn’t hold when she made her hasty exit passed it; scarves and a strange sort of plastic wand, that stupid police flashlight and a box of cigars are clumped at its foot in an ominous hodgepodge.

Admitting to being frightened by it would strip away her last bit of autonomy in this and so in a bid to act unbothered she slips out of Elvis’ hold and walks on her own two feet into the room, turning her back to Ronnie before shifting herself to sit on the cold, hard surface of the table.

“Is this what you had in mind, Mr. Presley?” she asks him meekly and makes sure to let her legs fall apart just so. She thinks she’s going to have some control in all this, the silly little thing, thinking he’s a man with regular tastes and base preoccupations, easily distracted from the purpose of this like any other. And the purpose is not pleasure -though he intends to draw it from her till she is broken from it- but purity of intention and nature. A lie dressed in white no more, but a wanton woman giving in to her true nature. Only he has the power to bring this out in every one he meets, and to purge it all the same.

Elvis Presley eyes her, as do all the men in the lounge just past him, until with an approving little hum and smile that is almost pleased, he steps towards her, yanking the curtain closed behind him and leaving them (somewhat) alone together in the dimly lit room, full of anticipation.

And maybe dread.

[venillopewrites]

After nearly a millennium of innovation, research, and money sank into a far-off dream of galaxies beyond the Milky Way, the world watches with bated breath as the oval portal sparkles to life. Safe in their homes they lean forward on their couches, captivated by the next big step in mankind’s conquest towards the great beyond. The portal lights up in a brilliant display of greens and blues, and the world cheers. Their celebration mixes with the screams from beyond their screens, unheard, a mix of raucous joy and unimaginable terror lasting mere seconds before the broadcast ends.

DEMO TBA ✕ CHARACTER DESCRIPTIONS

Note: Demo will be written in CScript, but the full game will be written in Twine.

The Erebus Project is an 18+ sci-fi/cyberpunk game meant for mature audiences, and will include scenes that might upset some readers.

This includes, but is not limited to; death, violence, blood & gore, body horror, loss of control, recreational drug use, unhealthy relationships (optional), harsh language, and sexually explicit themes (optional).

The Earth is the cradle of humanity, but mankind cannot stay in the cradle forever.

 - Konstantin Tsiolkovsky.

When humanity first dabbled in the science of portal technology, no one thought much of it. A project of immense proportions, doomed to fail, that's what everyone said.

You were skeptical as well, and that exact skepticism ended up uprooting your entire life. Not that you had much in the shady pits of The Pens, but it was better than the glass cage you've been imprisoned in.

An alien. It came through the portal with a vicious screech and a horrifying visage of a maw large enough to swallow you whole. It did so to the others, tore them limb from limb and left them in pieces, but here you are; safe, quarantined, with that same black ichor briefly appearing like veins on your skin. Poked, prodded, and treated like nothing but a walking test subject, that's what the alien turned you into.

Until it utters the first notes of speech, inside your head like an echo. It learns through you, and for those endless months it was one of the only two voices you heard. It grew angry, restless, loud in your head. It spoke of a threat, and a salvation in words you couldn't comprehend. As it grew stronger, you had to resist it more. Hold down your own fingers, then your hand, then your entire arm. The scientists were exstatic.

Then it broke out. Not from you, as you, and your life would never be the same. From a poor, unassuming resident of The Pens to the most hunted human on the surface of Earth - All the while the alien echoes in your mind, threatening, warning in a low, constant rattle.

It's coming.

Create and guide your Host; a broke and desperate resident of The Pens that learned that when something is too good to be true, it probably is.

Customize the Host! Names, gender, appearance, sexuality, and romantic preference; even clothing style, skin details, and core personality. It's up to you to create your perfect host!

Romance it not lost in the void of space: there are currently four characters to pursue, with possibly more on the horizon. All characters are gender selectable, and available for romance even if the Host is asexual.

Name your alien! It doesn't need a name, but you can't call it 'parasite' forever. Decide whether or not to give it pronouns as well, unless you're content with calling the thing 'it' throughout your journey.

Choose whether to accept the new tenant residing in your cranium, or fight it every step of the way. On one hand, you're technically a bona fide superhero; on the other hand, you have an interstellar, sentient goo inside your body.

Learn why the alien appeared through the portal, and subsequently gain knowledge of a approaching threat that will end your solar system as you know it.

Balance a semi-social life as a fugitive, all while being hunted by the CSI, and keeping the parasite from going on a rampage. Your willpower will be your greatest asset, use it. If not for anything else but to keep the alien from entirely consuming you.

And most importantly: Save the galaxy! No big deal, right?

An extraterrestrial entity with no known origin, the creature that stepped through the portal and found its way into your brain. No tests have proven its existence, and only you can hear it, but scientists are certain it resides somewhere within your body. It rarely spoke in the beginning, but the months you’ve spend in captivity with it has altered it to understand your language, at least. Occasionally it shifts across your body, appearing in rivulets of black, green, and blue across your skin but neither human nor camera has been able to catch it in motion.

Parasitic Entity / Ageless / Color code: ⚫

PROFILE

The more time you spend together, the more you come to realize that it’s not just a mindless organism inhabiting your body, but a sentient creature with knowledge beyond your own, and a desire to leave.

The one who took you into protective custody after your body was retrieved from the wreckage in the portal room. No one knows why they believe you’re infused with the monstrosity that appeared from beyond the abyss, but they’ve kept you alive so far. Their underlings trust them completely, but there are whispers that there’s a separate reason they're keeping you alive and cooped up instead of vivisecting you for the alien that resides within. If you only had more time within the project, maybe you could've learned why their eyes are so cold and distant.

Nathan/Naomi Hanover [M or F] / Lead Scientist / 36 / Color code: 🔵

PROFILE

For months, they were your only contact to the outside world. Observing them through your glass cage only painted them as aloof and cold, disinterested in idle chatter and friendly banter; when they spoke with you alone, they were different. Warm, with sadness in their eyes. Is there reason why they changed so, or is it just a way to manipulate you into trusting them?

A bloodhound, an assassin, a bounty hunter; Vale is your worst nightmare once you shoot up to the top of the CSI's most wanted list. They pursue you relentlessly, and have made it their personal mission in life to either bring you in or put you down. They are on the brash side, with a very prominent “act now, ask questions whenever” attitude and it shows when they get close to catching you, and ultimately makes them lose sight of you again. They’re fearsomely effective and you feel as if you can’t go a second without looking over your shoulder in fear that Vale's cold gray eyes settle on you.

Emerson/Emery Vale [M or F] / CSI Special Agent / 29 / Color code: 🔴

PROFILE

Duty is their mission, but it's not all they are; you've heard their name in The Pens before, an old face who somehow made it out. In contrast to what haunts you, people say Vale was kind, and found a way out so they could help make a change once they did. What happened when they finally found their way out, to turn them into the relentless agent that now hounds your every move?

The heart of The Pens, with a finger on the district's erratic pulse, Shiba is hailed as a celebrity among those who call the rusty cauldron of misery home. It's said that they know everything happening within the shady, artificially lit corridors of their kingdom, and you have no proof that it would be wrong. A royal beacon of unity, Shiba is akin to a leader to those unfortunate who find themselves beneath the pristine city above, but to you they are a friend. You've shared an apartment with them for years now, and you're lucky they let you back in after coming back from a job they told you not to accept.

Shiloh "Shiba" Barnes [M, F, NB] / IT Specialist / 27 / Color code: 🟠

PROFILE

Beneath the bright charisma and dazzling presence, Shiloh is only human. Revered as they might be, you've come to learn their personal side; the person who trips on the upturned corner of a carpet, spills marinara on their interascreens, and whispers encouragements to the ancient microwave as it unsteadily hums away. They are the first one to learn about the stowaway in you head, but will they forfeit friendship in exchange for unimaginable riches?

[yridenergyridenergy]

Tour22-23 PHALARIS BluRay/DVD release on 2024/08/21

The compilation will include the one show in Tour23 Phalaris Vol.II where Kyo had the skull makeup!!

"The 『TOUR22-23 PHALARIS』 is a live footage compilation of the three tours held under the title of the 11th ALBUM 『PHALARIS』. It will include the full uncut version of the following concerts: the July 16th Namba Hatch show from “TOUR22 PHALARIS -Vol.I-” for DISC 1, the May 23rd Zepp Haneda show from “TOUR23 PHALARIS -Vol.II-” for DISC 2 and the December 5th show at Omiya Sonic City・Large Hall from “TOUR23 PHALARIS FINAL -The scent of a peaceful death-” for DISC3. Each of the discs of the First Press Limited Version comes in a digipack with a sleeve case, all in a special package that allows you to store the 3 discs in an one-open-side case.

A 「a knot」 Members Limited Bundle will also be on sale for 『TOUR22-23 PHALARIS』. As exclusive gifts limited to the bundle, it will include the 『TOUR22-23 PHALARIS』 LIVE photo book, an exclusive acrylic stand and a special clear case where you can store the following 5 items: the 3 discs of the First Press Limited Version, the bundle-exclusive live photo book and the 『TOUR23 PHALARIS -Vol.II- 「a knot」 LIMITED 25TH ANNIVERSARY LIVE』, which was released as 「a knot」 limited product in October 2023. The reservation period starts on May 14th (Tue.) at 19:00 JST and will end on June 18th (Tue.) at 23:59 JST.

First Press Limited Version (sleeved digipack in a one-open-side storage case)

3 discs (3 Blu-ray) SFXD-0028～30 ￥17,600 (tax in)

3 discs (3 DVD) SFBD-0080～82 ￥16,500 (tax in)

 

Regular Version

3 discs (Blu-ray) SFXD-0031～33 ￥15,400 (tax in)

 

Track list

DISC1

TOUR22 PHALARIS -Vol.I-

2022.7.16 Namba Hatch

01. Schadenfreude

02. 朧 (Oboro)

03. Phenomenon

04. Unraveling

05. 落ちた事のある空 (Ochita Koto no Aru Sora)

06. The Perfume of Sins

07. mazohyst of decadence

08. 響 (Hibiki)

09. Behind a vacant image

10. Celebrate Empty Howls

11. Values of Madness

12. T.D.F.F.

13. 詩踏み (Utafumi)

14. 愛しさは腐敗につき (ITOSHISA HA FUHAI NITSUKI)

15. 逆上堪能ケロイドミルク (Gyakujou Tannou Keloid Milk)

16. STUCK MAN

17. CLEVER SLEAZOID

18. 人間を被る (Ningen wo Kaburu)

 

DISC2

TOUR23 PHALARIS -Vol.II-

2023.5.23 Zepp Haneda

01. Schadenfreude

02. 13

03. 現、忘我を喰らう (Utsutsu, Bouga wo Kurau)

04. 人間を被る (Ningen wo Kaburu)

05. Devote My Life

06. 盲愛に処す (Mouai ni Shosu)

07. 響 (Hibiki)

08. 鱗 (Uroko)

09. Eddie

10. GRIEF

11. 凱歌、沈黙が眠る頃 (GAIKA, CHINMOKU GA NEMURU KORO)

12. 御伽 (Otogi)

13. The Perfume of Sins

14. DOZING GREEN (Acoustic Ver.)

15. Un deux

16. T.D.F.F.

17. 詩踏み (Utafumi)

18. Revelation of mankind

 

DISC3

TOUR23 PHALARIS FINAL -The scent of a peaceful death-

2023.12.5 Omiya Sonic City・Large Hall

01. 御伽 (Otogi)

02. 咀嚼 (Soshaku)

03. 落ちた事のある空 (Ochita Koto no Aru Sora)

04. 響 (Hibiki)

05. The Perfume of Sins

06. Schadenfreude

07. 朧 (Oboro)

08. The World of Mercy

09. 輪郭 (RINKAKU)

10. 13

11. 盲愛に処す (Mouai ni Shosu)

12. Downfall

13. Eddie

14. REPETITION OF HATRED

15. Rubbish Heap

16. T.D.F.F.

17. カムイ (Kamuy)"

[dailyanarchistposts]

...so sore mennes eyes were blinded Where covetousnesse of filthie gaine is more than reason minded. — Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Golding translation)

A friend of mine told me a story recently that makes a good introduction to a column about economics. It seems that my friend was in the men’s room at his place of business, voiding his bladder energetically, when the President of his firm walked in and took a stance at the next urinal. A strange thing thereupon happened to my friend: his urine ceased spurting, even though he could still feel the pressure of an incompletely emptied bladder.

The reader may want to accuse me of surrealist symbolism, a dirty mind or a perverted sense of humor, but I can think of no better place to begin an examination of Capitalism than the lavatory. We are all aware by now, or should be aware, that Protestantism has played a large part in creating and maintaining the Capitalist ideology, and Protestantism itself began in a privy.

This little-known fact is worth stressing, in the light of psychoanalytical theory. Luther’s own words are: “But once when in this tower I was meditating on those words, ‘the just lives by faith,’ ‘justice of God.’ I soon had the thought whether we ought to live justified by faith [the central doctrine of Protestantism — R.A.W.]. This knowledge the Holy Spirit gave me on the privy in the tower” (quoted in Luther by H. Grisar).

All Protestant theology begins from, and pays tribute to. this “experience in the tower” — Thurmerlehnis, as it is called. That this experience could hardly have happened anywhere else but in a toilet is well documented by the anal and excremental style of Luther’s fantasy: at least twice he had visions of the devil in which that Evil Spirit assaulted him by the time-honored gesture of contempt — “showing him his posterior,” in Grisar’s words.

More: this anal preoccupation colors Luther’s entire sensibility. The Pope and his Bishops are, Luther says, “urine, excrement and filth... the filth of squiredom, dung splattered on the sleeve,” etc. The devil wants to “stink us and stab us with his dung.” As for mankind, “we are but worms in ordure and filth.” Such quotes could be multiplied almost ad infinitum, certainly ad nauseam. Alfred North Whitehead was being accurate, not polemical, when he compared Luther’s rhetoric to Hitler’s, and said that Luther was “more foul-mouthed.” Even facing death Luther could think in no other imagery: “I am the ripe shard,” he said, “and the world is the gaping anus.”

It was, I believe, Erich Fromm who first explained the connection between the Protestant ethic and the rise of Capitalism — a connection long noted and well documented by such sociologists as Tawney and Weber — by pointing out that both Protestantism and Capitalism are creations of what Freud called “anal personalites.” Fromm, of course, has to dilute and obfuscate the basic Freudian insight in order to get it in line with his sociologicalization of psychology.

This dilution and obfuscation is what Fromm and other neo-Freudians celebrate as their “advance” over Freud’s “biological orientation.” What is primary to Fromm is not body-sensations but “attitudes toward the world” occasionally expressed “in the language of the body.” (I am paraphrasing and condensing from his Escape from Freedom.) Thus Freud’s clear and eminently scientific conception of the “anal personality” becomes vulgarized into the foggy and uselessly vague notion of the “authoritarian personality.”

I leave this de-materialized psychology to those professors who, finding it useful in mixed classrooms and inoffensive to the public at large, have embraced it. I take it that I have a body, and my reader has a body, and that we both had them long before we began developing “attitudes toward the world,” and that any psychology worth elbow-room at the counter of scientific consideration will have to be centered on these facts and on the pulsating rhythms of the living flesh.

Freud, like Marx — and, in a different way, like Cezanne — was gifted with a special kind of stupidity; a kind of stupidity which (I flatter myself) often appears in this column to the irritation of its readers. I mean the kind of stupidity that the little boy had in Anderson’s legend when he refused to see the Emperor’s new clothes. Marx was just dumb enough to ignore, or disbelieve, all the cultural prejudices of his infamous century and see with his own eyes that the relation of boss and worker is chiefly a physical relationship, an energy relationship, in which part of the worker’s energy is drained off much in the manner that a vampire’s victim has his blood sucked.

All ideological super-structure is built upon this simple energy process, and Marx was right in refusing to let any other fact or set of facts distract him from his unblinking examination of this central circumstance of our economic system. When the “natural sciences” and the “social sciences” are finally synthesized, this basic energy process will be their chief link, and will be formulated. I am convinced, in a Third Law of Thermodynamics.

Freud’s stupidity was of an equally brilliant kind: he was the first psychologist really to understand the implications for psychology of the simple fact that people have bodies. (Cezanne’s stupidity, similarly, was to look at the world as a child does and not as an art teacher tells one to.)

“...refresh my bowels in The Lord.” St. Paul, Philemon 1:20

But to return to my friend, standing there at the urinal in the grip of an unusual variety of impotence.

Readers are beginning to write in accusing me of being a Reichian. and I don’t want to lend support to so terrible an accusation, but I also don’t see, and can’t see, how we can account for what happened here except by saying, in Reich’s terms, that the presence of the President of the firm created an anxiety — and anxiety, to Dr. Reich, meant simply, physically, the withdrawal of life-energy from the periphery of the body to its core: a contraction. My friend’s genital-urinary apparatus went dead as the energy flowed back into his center.

(For some interesting data tending to indicate the increasing prevalence of this anxious energy-contraction in American culture, see Lawrence Barth’s column in the October 1960 Realist.)

An experience of my own comes to mind here. Recently, a guy I know got so damned mad at me that he refused to speak to me anymore. Readers of this column may figure he had good justification — and I would be the last one in the world to deny that, intent as I am on becoming known as the meanest literary bastard since Brann the Iconoclast — but the point is that my offense, in this case, was merely speaking against the Capitalist system. Being sent to Coventry for this, by a cat who has been only mildly peeved by my sexual and religious heresies, is what prompted the question asked in the title of this column: “Is Capitalism a Revealed Religion?” Has it now become so sacred that questioning it is more dangerous than, let us say, asking if Jesus ever pulled his pudding as a boy?

I am going to come on so strong as to say that, in a Freudian sense, Capitalism always has been a revealed religion. (“Religion,” old Papa Sigmund once succinctly said, “is a public neurosis; neurosis is a private religion.”) Capitalism, I would in all seriousness suggest, can best be understood as a public neurosis characteristic of societies in which the life energy has been driven out of the genital area into the anal area. Being a public neurosis, it is institutionalized, ritualized and mystificated with all the pomp and folderol of any other religion.

Let us look into the age that gave birth to Capitalism. The Late Middle Ages were a time of hysteria (always a result of prolonged anxiety states) and of witch-hunting (a symptom of hysteria) — and, finally, of impotence. The whole style of the age, as Spengler would call it, is well illustrated by Rull Summa desiderantes issued by Pope Innocent VIII:

“It has indeed lately come to Our ears,” wrote His Holiness, “that in some parts of Northern Germany... many persons of both sexes... have abandoned themselves to devils... and by their incantations, spells and conjurations... have slain infants yet in their mother’s womb, as also the offspring of cattle... These wretches further afflict and torment men and women... with terrible piteous pains and sore diseases; they hinder men from performing the sexual act and women from conceiving, whence husbands cannot know their wives, or wives receive their husbands...”

It seems evident that, as G. Rattray Taylor notes in his brilliant Sex in History, Innocent was concerned “solely with certain pathological sexual phenomena... particularly psychic impotence and frigidity.” Taylor produces considerable evidence that such Papal fears were well-grounded because the dictatorship of the Medieval Church was indeed so thoroughly destroying the normal sexual functioning of men and women as to create widespread impotence and infertility.

The witch-hunts of the period were almost all, Taylor demonstrates, brought on by people who, finding themselves impotent, accused some neighbor of “bewitching” them. The infamous Malleus Malificarum, the handbook used for centuries by witch-hunters and Inquisitors, reads like nothing so much as a modern textbook of sexual pathology.

It was out of the maelstrom that Protestantism and Capitalism emerged. As the genitals of the Western World died, its anus, so to speak, came to be its central living preoccupation — inspired and guided by the hysterical vision of one neurotic monk sitting on a john.

The psychoanalytical insight that money represents to the anal personality — the feces which it covets — is not really new or novel. Have we not always spoken of “filthy lucre?” Doesn’t Dante put the usurers and the buggers in one pocket of hell because both are “against natural increase?” Five hundred years after Dante, didn’t another great poet, who is markedly hostile to Freudian theory, intuitively make the same discovery:

Usury kills the child in the womb And breaks short the young man’s courting Usury brings age into youth; it lies between the bride and the bridegroom Usury is against Nature’s increase.

Yes, that is Ezra Pound, in his Canto 51. Elsewhere, Pound has indicated the same awareness of the pro- anal, anti-genital direction of the Capitalist (or, as he calls it, Usurocratic) temperament:

his condom full of black beetles, tattoo marks round the anus, and a circle of lady golfers about him. the courageous violent slashing themselves with knives the cowardly inciters to violence... the beast with a hundred legs, USURIA and the swill full of respectors bowing to the lords of the place, explaining its advantages, and the laudatores temporis acti claiming that the shit used to be blacker and richer (Canto 15)

At the end of Arthur Miller’s novel. The Misfits, the hero curses, not “money,” but, significantly, “shit, and money.” Another artistic expression of the anal orientation of the modern world occurs in Norman Mailer’s “The Time of Her Time,” in which the protagonist, trying to cure his girl of frigidity, finds he can bring her to orgasm by entering per anum.

Actually, the psychoanalytical theory of money as a symbolic turd is already implicit in the Judeo-Christian myth of work as Adam’s Curse. Dr. Karl Menninger’s The Human Mind recounts a case-history of a millionaire who was compulsively busy to escape anxieties connected with infantile anal guilts. Similar cases appear in the works of Freud, Ferenczi and Jones, among others. Abraham describes in his Selected Papers on Psychoanalysis a patient whose anxieties centered around the idea of being forced to eat excrement as a punishment for sin: the theme of two or three of the most popular jokes in capitalist society.

“Work,” says Durkheim briefly, “is still for most men a punishment and a scourge.” Freud, perhaps, put it even more simply, in his study of Dosteovski, saying that Dosteovski was under a compulsion to make his burden of guilt take tangible form as a burden of debt. Norman Brown’s brilliant Life Against Death (to which I am greatly indebted) sums it all up thusly: “Money is human guilt with the dross refined away till it is a pure crystal of self-punishment, but it remains filthy because it remains guilt.”

It may seem almost too pat if we now remind ourselves that the congenital problem of Capitalism, never yet solved, is the problem of dumping the surplus.

The psycho-dynamics of Capitalism, in short, seem to consist of what cyberneticists call a circular-causal process. Born of neurotic anxiety and desensitization (contraction of the life energies), it constantly generates more anxiety through its unpredictable boom-and-bust cycles and the wars incident upon its imperialistic necessity to dump the surplus. But this second-order anxiety (which afflicts the boss as well as the worker, for he, too, is the victim of the cycle) breeds that “busy-busy-busy” compensating activity which drives the whole system ever onward into contradictions, crashes and further anxieties.

Dr. Wilhelm Reich’s theory was that cancer is caused, partially, by the contraction of life energies, i.e., anxiety. (And anybody who doubts Reich’s theory of anxiety only needs to observe himself in a moment of stress to be convinced that Reich was absolutely right. Improper breathing and what A. S. Neill calls “the stiff stomach danger” make up the feeling we call “anxiety” or “tension,” and both are symptomatic of muscular contraction, such as we see on a very gross level in an infant cringing with fear.)

Consider, in the context of Reich’s idea, the following words of one of the most enthusiastic defenders of modern American Capitalism, Dr. Ernest Dichter, President of The Institute of Motivational Research: “Possibly more than half of all human diseases are psychogenic.” says Dr. Dichter in The Strategy of Desire; “worry, maladjustment and other emotional disturbances can be responsible for almost anything from heart attack to cancer.” Dr. Dichter’s job. as high-priest of Motivational Research, is using this “worry, maladjustment and other emotional disturbances” to influence people to allow themselves to be exploited still further by the Power Elite of Capitalism.

According to the University of California’s recent symposium on psychological factors in cancer, all the women with cancer of the breast examined by Dr. Franz Alexander in one study showed severe psychiatric disturbances, generally with some degree of sexual malfunctioning; another study, of women with cancer of the uterus, showed even more conspicuous sexual disturbances, especially of the sort called “frigidity” (Psychological Variables in Human Cancer, University of California Press).

Vihjalmur Stefansson’s Cancer: Disease of Civilization points out that this pathology is rare, or non-existent, among primitive tribes. Need we add to this that the physical bearing of primitive peoples is so different from that of our so-called “civilization” that almost every explorer on record comes back with bemused comments on the subject? Primitive man, free of the anxieties and armors-against-anxiety characteristic of our culture, stands and walks and sits as a human being should, gracefully and naturally. Look around you and notice how much visible tension you can see in people’s postures; and you will know why Dr. Reich called cancer a shrinking biopathy.

Our kindly editor has asked me to stop using the example of the guy walking into the park with a radio in his hand every time I want to say that people are dead in modern America. Okay. I will use another example. I once said to a young lady (who happened to be the wife of the guy who stopped talking to me when he found out I’m a socialist), “Dig that tree there — wow!” She replied, icily, “I dug it,” putting me down for being so corny as to talk that way. The point was that she hadn’t dug it; she had hardly glanced at it. Basho could flip over a sight as simple as a tom cat with the Yen, and write a poem about it:

Yawning. Then, fully awake, the cat goes out to a night of poontang.

This is not just “the poet’s eye”; Cezanne had it. Nor is it the “artist’s eye”; Darwin had it when he looked at the iguana and intuited the law of evolution. It is the special kind of stupidity I was talking about earlier in this column. It is the innocent childish eye of a man who is not completely blinded by the organized bullshit and desensitization of an unjust social system. It is obvious, or should be, that the prejudiced white never “sees” a Negro; he sees the social lies, stereotypes, in his own mind. (This is the point of the best novel ever written about the Negro in America, Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.)

It should be equally obvious that, in a social system motivated by anxiety and a deadening of life energy, nobody even sees the street on which he lives anymore. We are walking dead men, as Lawrence tried so hard to show us in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, that great and mostly unread novel in which average readers hop around looking for symbolic sexual gratification and skipping the passages which give the book half its meaning — the passages about how Clifford’s impotence and paralysis drove him to becoming a successful businessman.

The whole world has been stunned for 17 years now by the opening, in 1944, of the Nazi annihilation camps. We still don’t know how to explain such things, how they could be possible. Let me bring this column toward a conclusion with a set of facts that may throw some light on what happened in Germany — and is happening here — facts which are all explained by my hypothesis that Capitalism derives from deadening of the genitals and centering of the interest in the anus, but which cannot be explained, so far as I know, by any other hypothesis.

The English of Shakespeare’s day were a bawdy, sexy, uninhibited bunch of hipsters. As Capitalism grew in England, this national character changed markedly, so much so that it is difficult for us to imagine Falstaff and his friends as truly English. The modern post-Capitalist Englishman is the epitome of the armored individual, rigid, compulsively “moral,” utterly lacking in spontaneity. Simultaneously, England was the first nation consciously to idealize the completely frigid woman.

Capitalism was born in Germany, chiefly, and chiefly in the age of Luther.

Calvin’s fanatically anti-sexual regime in Geneva was also one of the primary creators of the Capitalist spirit. Raleigh, observing the deadness of the Genevese, remarked that they had “nothing left but their usury.”

As Capitalism came to dominance in Germany, the German national character became more and more rigid, armored, “closed” and secretive, lacking in play and spontaneity, etc. Out of this came the automaton who is a living caricature of humanity, the goose-stepping tin soldier known as the Nazi.

America, the only surviving 100% Capitalist nation, is the most Puritanical nation in the world. It is the only nation, indeed, which has executed a man in the 20th Century, not for murder, but (in effect) for a Sexual offense.

Desensitization in America is growing more appalling all the time. Lawrence Barth recounted in the Realist a few months ago an incident at a racetrack in Illinois where a section of the grandstand collapsed, killing and injuring a great number of people; the people in the uncollapsed part of the grandstand were completely unmoved, according to reports — even those sitting only a few feet from the groaning bodies of the victims. It is this country also which twice dropped atomic bombs on two cities full of men, women and children, and which poured burning napalm on its enemies in Korea.

Recently, in Harmony, North Carolina, the American Legion staged a little rabbit hunt — for charitable purposes, of course. The rabbits were beaten to death with baseball bats.

The mysteries of Capitalist economics are held to be as sacred as those of any other religion — i.e., every other organized social neurosis. Only the “experts” are supposed to be able to understand “the rate of interest,” “the price of money,” the “dangers” of “inflation,” etc. The whole system — “the black magic of money,” as Pound once called it — simply rests upon breeding money as if it were alive. (“Is your gold ewes and rams?” — Shakespeare.) Or, as Paterson, the founder of the Bank of England, put it, “the bank hath interest on all moneys it creates out of nothing.” This creation out of nothing is just what the infant wants to do with its feces, according to Freud, Jones, Ferenczi, Abraham, Menninger and other psychoanalysts. (Rexroth once paraphrased Dante’s analysis of this system by saying that, to Dante, the usurer is a pederast who wants to make his turds his heirs.)

I could go on, but what’s the use? Those who have had a little experience in psychiatry will know what I’m getting at: others will just laugh, as they’ve been laughing since Freud published his first case histories. I ask only one thing of skeptics: don’t bring up Soviet Russia, please. That horrible example of State Capitalism has nothing to do with what I, and other libertarian socialists, would offer as an alternative to the present system.

Dante said of the damned in hell that they were persons who had lost il ben del’ intelletto, which I don’t think it’s at all extravagant to translate as: their ability to dig things. This is not a Marxist kind of social criticism I have been presenting in this column, but just a way of saying that there’s something pathological, literally so, about a system which increasingly blinds people to the joys of the senses and ties them down to a narrow groove of profit-seeking.

[helluva-insomniac]

Headcannons for Hazbin Hotel characters pt. 2

Some of these characters weren’t seen in the pilot, but I’m hoping they’re in the rest of the show so I still added them

Cherri Bomb-

She tries to help Angel get out of his contract with Valentino, but Angel does his best not to let her

She sets aside 3 days a week for self-care, turf wars take a lot out of a girl, you know?

She’s accidentally blown up some of her own stuff with her bombs before, those are bad days

Sir Pentious-

Doesn’t like Alastor because he’s “too modern” despite trying to be more modern himself

“How do you do, fellow kids?”

One of his songs for his music band got number one for like an hour, little did he know it was because people were showing it to their friends because of how bad it was

Outside of turf wars, Sir Pentious treats the egg bois like his children

Molly-

Is only in hell because she has such close ties with the mafia, but also she can DEFINITELY shoot and probably went on a hit once or twice to help her brothers

World’s best Italian chef, she had to learn how to cook quickly after her mother’s death because “the help can’t help forever, Molly, grow up.”

Hosts HUGE Christmas celebrations every year, they are catholic after all, but mostly it’s for the food

She has the Thickest Italian accent known to mankind

Arackniss-

Is with Sir Pentious (still have no idea where that ship came from. Love it)

The only reason he goes to Christmas at Molly’s is for the food

For a while, he only sees Angel every few years, but the brothers act like they’ve never been apart when they’re together

Speaks almost exclusively in Italian unless it’s for work and the other doesn’t know the language

Also treats the Egg Bois like they’re his kids. It’s one big happy family

Baxter-

Can be seen about once a year on a random Tuesday at the grocery store

Most experiments he attempts blow up in his face

The only other times he’s seen is at the hotel making plans with Alastor if he needs something

A True introvert