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monstersdownthepath · 24 days ago

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Homebrew Horror: Unwanted Amalgam

(Art source, and probably one of the better fanart pieces of this critter I've seen!)

Remember to eat your veggies, don't just scoot them around on your plate.

Malevolent boogeymen known by many names in many different cultures across the Inner Sea, Unwanted Amalgams are twisted aberrations formed from wasted and (as their name suggests) unwanted foods. Believed to be spirits embodying wasteful gluttony, Amalgams don't just rise out of plates of uneaten broccoli at a child's table or leftovers which go sour after they're forgotten, but instead arise from truly egregious displays of carelessness; whole banquets squandered when a noble grows full after a single dish and orders the rest disposed of, countless "ugly" pieces of produce thrown away by farmers and citizens alike for no reason but appearance, or truly impressive amounts of food being hoarded away from hungry mouths and left to rot.

Amalgams weave their bodies from this unwanted food, knitting countless pieces of edibles together into humanoid shapes whose general appearance depends on the most common form of food within them: an Amalgam constructed mostly of wasted meat may resemble a towering troll or ogre, while a primarily produce or grain-based one may look more like an especially tall and willowy elf. The one displayed above is one of the rarest types, constructed of wasted sweets and confections, and ambulates more like an insect than a human, with limb proportions to match. Regardless of their general shape, the ways they move and carry the weight of their amorphous bodies prevents anyone from mistaking them for a human in all but complete darkness.

Because they arise from food waste, Amalgams are a more recent boogeyman, ones that have begun to haunt the modernizing world as food production begins to exceed its demand, stalking through urban areas where people can afford to waste food as, in their minds, more will always be available. Due to their recent appearance, they are poorly studied and poorly understood, and have little desire to talk specifics about their motivations, origins, or desires beyond the immediately obvious... though they ARE quite talkative. To the point many wish they would stop.

The Amalgams possess a twisted sense of justice which the vast majority of them are incredibly vocal about, launching into soliloquy at the slightest prompting or provocation. Though they are all born from an incident of incredible magnitude, they are motivated to punish any act of wastefulness or gluttony they observe, no matter how small. Everything from a restaurant throwing away hundreds of pounds of perfectly edible food down to a child refusing to eat their vegetables may incite the wrath of an observing Amalgam, who will confront these unfortunates and command them to perform some task for it to spare them a terrible fate. These tasks are set by the whims of the Amalgam and run the gamut from the mercifully ordinary (finish your meal) to the nonsensical (gather 100 red objects and place them in a circle in one's front yard) to the impossible (slay a monster with an inadequate weapon), but failure to complete them within an arbitrary time limit sees the victim pummeled into helplessness by the horror and, in a cruel reversal of fate, consumed by it.

Attempting to fight for one's life against an Amalgam is no easy task. Their aberrant physiology renders them impervious to many reliable tricks, and whatever strange forces animate their bodies also knits them back together with frightening speed (to the point of returning them from death), though the ever-reliable fire and acid damage can destroy them beyond their ability to regenerate. Magic which affects only plantlife also affects Amalgams, even if they aren't entirely made of plant matter, and of course all Amalgams subconsciously desire to be eaten, rendering them extremely vulnerable to any hungry beast that attempts to take a bite out of them.

Unwanted Amalgam CR 6

Neutral Evil Large Aberration Init: +3; Senses: Darkvision 60ft; Perception +13 Aura: Frightful Presence (30ft, DC 15, 2d6 rounds)

------ Defense ------

AC 18, touch 12, flat-footed 15 (+3 Dex, +6 natural armor, -1 size) HP 48 (8d8+14), Regeneration 3 (Acid, Fire, bite attacks) Fort +6 Ref +5 Will +8 Defensive abilities Pull Together; DR 4/--; Immune critical hits, precision damage Weaknesses Vulnerable to Putrefaction, Yearn for Purpose

------ Offense ------

Speed 40ft, climb 40ft Melee Bite +10 (1d8+5 plus Grab), 2 slams +8 (1d6+3 plus Grab) Space 10ft; Reach 10ft Special Attacks Many-Armed Grapple, Swallow Whole (1d10 bludgeoning, AC 13, HP 5) Spell-like Abilities (CL 8; Concentration +9)

Constant--Spider Climb At-will--Dancing Lights, Ghost Sound, Prestidigitation 1/day--Dimension Door

------ Statistics ------

Str 20 Dex 16 Con 17 Int 14 Wis 15 Cha 13 Base Atk: +6; CMB +11; CMD 25

Feats Combat Reflexes, Great Fortitude, Intimidating Prowess, Multiattack

Skills Acrobatics +18, Climb +22, Intimidate +21, Knowledge (Local) +11, Perception +13, Stealth +11, Survival +13 Racial modifiers: +8 to Acrobatics, +4 to Intimidate

Languages Aklo, Common, any one local language

SQ Compression

------ Ecology ------

Environment any urban Organization solitary Treasure standard (rations, pilfered items)

------

Combat: Before battle, Unwanted Amalgams will clamber out of reach and repeatedly intimidate creatures to weaken them before leaping in. It will also use its surprise round to intimidate the enemy it wishes to punish most, if possible. Amalgams are simple creatures in a fight: They attack with their slams and attempt to grapple as many creatures as possible, swallowing the smallest among them while beating the rest to unconsciousness or death.

Morale: Amalgams are fierce fighters which pursue their prey relentlessly; they always fight to the death, though their supernatural resilience prevents some deaths from being the end of them.

------ Special Abilities ------

Many-Armed Grapple (Ex): Amalgams can produce upwards to six additional limbs as a free action to maintain grapples against an equal number of Medium or smaller creatures, allowing them to grapple multiple creatures at once while still being able to make two slam attacks. When not grappling a creature, these excess limbs are instantly re-absorbed.

Pull Together (Ex): An Amalgam's severed portions remain animate when they're severed, crawling back towards the whole at a rate of 10ft a round at the end of the Amalgam's turn. Each round the Amalgam ends adjacent to a severed piece of itself, it absorbs the piece (regenerating the severed portion instantly) and regains 1 HP. A severed piece can be destroyed with at least 1 point of Fire or Acid damage, or damage done by a bite attack. In addition, an Amalgam that is slain will return to life 1d4 hours later at 0 HP unless its remains are burned, doused in acid, or consumed by one or more other creatures.

Swallow Whole (Ex): An Amalgam can swallow Small or smaller creatures grappled by its claws without needing to transfer them to its mouth first; if it succeeds the check to pin the creature, it simply raises the creature over its head and drops them into its waiting maw. When a creature cuts its way out, the hole instantly closes behind that creature.

Vulnerable to Putrefaction (Ex): Regardless of their composition, Amalgams are treated as both Aberrations and Plants for the purposes of harmful spells (such as Blight) and abilities (such as Favored Enemy). A Putrefy Food and Drink spell cast on an Amalgam deals 2d8 Acid damage to it, and if that spell is cast on its remains, its body is destroyed utterly and it cannot return to life (see Pull Together, above). Inversely, a Purify Food and Drink cast on an Amalgam restores 2d8 HP to it and grants it the benefits of Haste for 1 round.

Yearn for Purpose (Ex): All Amalgams subconsciously desire the destiny of all food: to be eaten. Bite attacks made against them resolve as touch attacks, and damage from bites both bypasses their Damage Reduction and suppresses their regeneration for 1 round.

#Homebrew Horror #an extra halloween special #Original Concepts #Pathfinder #dungeons and dragons #im in the market for a better name btw

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popjunkie42 · 27 days ago

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Hungry Thirsty Roots

Read on AO3

Chapter One: The High Lady of the Night Court has everything she could ever desire - a loving mate, a beautiful baby boy, her family in Velaris. What does she have to fear when the autumn Goblin Market comes to town, shrouded in mist, there only for a single night of revelry and enchantment?

Tags: eventual smut and some dubcon magic-style, Under the Mountain vibes. Mostly porn with plot.

I got the spooky Feysand urge and wrote this in a flurry over the past few days. Thank you to @climbthemountain2020 and @berd-nerd for the encouragement and beta reads!

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

“Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.” -Christina Rosetti Goblin Market

Feyre stood on the edge of the Goblin Market.

Once a year, Rhys had said, in fall after the harvest time, in the last full moon just before the first taste of winter, it appeared. Quietly, appearing out of mist and shadow. The people of Velaris burned dried rosemary and rue and shut up their windows tight when it settled next to the docks.

“Cassian, Azriel and I used to dare each other to go in. We finally gained the courage to go in after we returned from the war.”

“What did you find?”

His smile had been distant, wistful. Fingers reached out to grasp a curl of her hair, twirling it half heartedly around a finger. “Oh, the usual darker underbellies of magic. Brews, enchantments, illicit ingredients even the fae have banned.” His smile faded. “Promises to fulfill all your darkest dreams. Bargains that sound sweet in the ear but taste bitter on the tongue.” Rhys sighed. “It’s not a safe place. It will be gone by morning, but everyone who visits will still be bound by the promises they made in the dark. I wouldn’t stop you, but I hate the thought of you there.”

Hopeless, as he knew, was any thought at keeping her away.

How could she not want to know everything about her Court? About magic so powerful and forbidden it could tempt anyone astray?

Feyre Archeron, High Lady, had everything she could ever want. More than she had ever dreamed of. What could possibly tempt her?

And how could she ever turn away?

The air in the city streets was filled with the scents of autumn - the chill first, settling on the land as soon as the sun set. Then the change in the markets: baking of heartier breads, cloves and cinnamon, rich mulled wine stirred on a fire all day long. And behind it all, the fires burning, the citizens of Velaris either dancing in the streets despite the chill or retreating to cozy homes and warming the dark with toasty fires. The moon, fatter and fatter each night, that freshy risen, glowed orange against the gathering mist next to the harbor docks.

The High Lady of the Night Court strode through the streets of Velaris in a dress fit for the finest revelry. Black with long lace sleeves, a “V” collar cut deep to her sternum. Skirts of flowing black tulle over white and silver. She glistened in the moonlight as she walked, fog whirling around her boots.

Feyre would not sneak into the market under a cloak - although she had considered it. No, let the market know their High Lady had arrived.

There were no gemstones, no pearls on her dress, no sparkling jewelry adorned her neck or ears. Only a circlet - simple and severe, a silver half-moon perched atop a braided band of metal.

In fabric layers closest to her skin, a bag of gold pieces and gemstones was sewn into her skirts.

Closer still were the knives hidden in her gown, one strapped to her thigh.

But the fine Illyrian sword, plain and well-used, hung from a scabbard around her waist for all to see.

Tonight, her city of song and light was as quiet as the tombs of the Hewn City.

What few fae she encountered on her journey were rushing, hurried. The metal sound of locks bolting behind doors shut fast.

A jolt went through her as she rounded the corner and was upon the Market, long lost in her thoughts.

The fog has come in from the sea, heavier than she’d ever seen it, like smoke from thick fire. It swirled in unnatural formations. Gusts of wind masking as ghosts.

Feyre swallowed. The sounds of laughter, merriment, of song and dance were deep within. Muffled as though underground.

The cold drifting in from the ocean began to bite at the skin along her collarbone.

The fae here dealt in the forbidden - unmet desires, unslaked hunger, the desperate, the needy. Feyre was none of those things. She had her family, her powers to protect them, her joy and love bursting like overripe fruit.

Feyre Archeron has looked into the ouroboros mirror, bargained with Bone Carver, slain the Middengard Wyrm.

A few enchantments and hungry merchants wouldn’t keep her locked behind her doors.

She steeled herself, straightening her back, and stepped through the thick mist.

The darkness changed, shifting around her.

No longer was her vision blurred by fog and dark shapes. Before her were bright tents, precarious shanties, wooden stalls covered in cobwebs or draped with spider-silks. All lit by fires burning all colors of the rainbow, and soft fae lights -

The market was a cacophony of sound just like the busiest hours of the streets in Velaris. Scents of the unknown variety assaulted her nose. Sulphur and burnt tar and unfamiliar spices. The air was filled with the sound of arguments and laughter and the hum of artisans at work, even if a dark haze hung about every little walkway.

Fae and creatures of all kinds walked the small alleyways. She had to remind herself the stone under her feet is still Velaris - a moment ago she could hear the ringing of the ship bells in the harbor.

There were scales and tails and jagged horns - but she was accustomed to that in Velaris. Here there was something more - fluttering iridescent insect wings, metal the size of her wrist looped through stretched flesh, enchanted patterns glowing in the dark.

She walked by stalls of pungent potions, brewers promising true love or the endless misery of your enemies. In the windows of an apothecary, the limbs of creatures she had never seen the likes of hung like slabs of meat at the butcher’s. A merchant with dragonfly wings tried to sell her jewelry that she swore would make all fall in love with her at first sight.

Another with iridescent scales guaranteed her spells, once read aloud from parchment, that could turn a whole army into swine. Still another tried to sell her fried meat on a stick that looked like a three-headed eel.

The High Lady wandered aimlessly, drinking in the market, smiling politely to all who caught her attention to hawk their wares. Not a single fae bowed to her, or addressed her by an honorific even once.

After an hour and the formation of a rough blister on her toe, Feyre relented, and paid a bronze piece for what looked like a simple dish of eggs and tomatoes cooked over rice.

She repeated the words Rhys told her, feeling slightly foolish, but better safe than sorry. “I give one bronze piece for a bowl of food, nothing more and nothing less, freely exchanged between us.”

The food was hot and warm. She ate it standing, shoveling spoonfuls into her mouth.

What could she desire here? What was here that was dangerous, and what lured the fae that risked it anyway? The fae that recognized her shied away: citizens of Velaris, many known to her, here on business they obviously do not want observed.

Breathing in deeply, Feyre was determined to learn more. What were her greatest desires, what could tempt her, what must be learned? What things - after so much war, suffering, adventures - could surprise her, frighten her, unsettle her?

Maybe her pockets get picked and she would have a story for the boys tomorrow. Thus far, the worst she had seen were the open expressions of such desperate desires - and the array of illicit ingredients for spells and potions.

Feyre smiled. Maybe she’d buy presents for all the boys, just to have something to taunt them with for the next year. Little mummified rats with pigeon’s wings, and a plate of roasted beetles the male at the other corner had crackling atop the fire.

Would it be asking for trouble to find something for her husband, for her son? Maybe just for Rhysand to examine, since he had been away so long. Surely the jewelers would make something with a harmless enchantment, such as your tea always being just the right temperature, or your socks never getting wet.

She would just explore a little more, visit one or two stores. Then she would go home to Rhys, who was alone in the River Manor, surely awake and anxious awaiting her. There were questions she wanted to ask the fae here, although she was afraid of their reception. Or of appearing naive. Certainly she stood out like a sore thumb - made no attempt to hide who she was.

Tonight, they had sent the servants home for the evening, most of their circle scattered throughout the territory on assignments. Nyx had been bundled up and flown to the House of Wind with his aunt and uncle for the night.

Feyre knew why. Though he may try to hide it, she knew her mate’s protective instincts were still roaring inside of him. When Nyx cried in pain from his teething, she had to reinforce her shields, bombarded as she was with the pain of her infant son and the screaming unmet desire to protect, to fix coming from Rhys’s side of the bond.

His smile had been tired as he explained: Nesta had gotten new books from the library, and was excited to read them to her nephew. It wasn’t quite a lie, as both of them knew the truth, but chose not to speak of it. Not just now.

She knew he felt the same towards her. Glimpses of nightmares - blood soaking a bed, their son quiet and unmoving, the feeling of the bond slipping away -

And all because of me, the thoughts echoed.

Those evenings, he held her like a fragile thing, hands so gentle. Reluctant, even. Healing even though she still was, body and soul, sometimes she still felt herself longing for his fire. They laid in bed, head to head, like two flower buds on the same stem, curled in towards one another, whispering.

“I want to, cauldron knows I do. It’s just, all I can think about is blood and -”

“Shhh, I know. It’s all right, my love.”

“The market isn’t for gawkers, your highness. We’re here to make a living, not be on display.”

Feyre whipped around, skirts and sword flying, to the croaking voice behind her.

The goblin woman stood hunch-backed, skin layered and wrinkled in a way fae rarely were, tufts of white hair sprouting out from a green scalp.

She was dressed in flowing robes, worn and patched until it was difficult to discern the original fabric. Her nose was bulbous and covered in warts, and in her knotty hands she held a curled walking stick.

Feyre balanced a wrist upon the pommel of her sword. “Perhaps I haven’t yet found something that took my fancy. Although I have a feeling you’re about to tell me why your wares are best.”

The goblin smiled, a few brown teeth peeking out from curled lips. “Mother Enfys does not go calling for customers in the street, High Lady. The fae come from far and wide to beg for the magic at my hands.”

Behind her, the fabric covering her door blew back and forth in a breeze, revealing a glowing green fire and piles of rugs and furs in her little hut.

Perhaps Feyre wouldn’t have to seek out someone to answer her questions.

Or perhaps she was being lured like a spider into a web.

“What sort of services do you provide, Mother?”

The goblin smiled, idly sweeping dirt off of her small stoop with a straw broom. “Oh, sweetie, just the usual. Answering all of your dreams. Revealing your greatest desires.”

“Revealing them? Do people often not know what it is they desire?”

“Rarely, my lady. And rarely are they happy at the answers I provide. But I am too old and too tired to lie to my customers for a few extra coin. Not like those frauds across the way peddling their watered-down love potions. No, Mother Enfys deals in truth and desires, for better or for worse.”

“What if I already have all that I desire?”

“Then I would say you are dead in the ground. It is not in our nature not to want.”

Feyre looked around, this side of the street quiet, fewer stalls with loud merchants and haggling customers. “It doesn’t look like you’re too in demand at the moment. Perhaps the people of Velaris are more content than your usual customers.”

The goblin smiled. “I was waiting for you, High Lady. You’ve already used up the first five minutes of your appointment.”

“But I didn’t -”

“Come, or go, Mother Enfys doesn’t care. Just know that if you step into my doorway, all that is revealed comes from you, my dear. I don’t give refunds for unpleasant realizations.”

Moving quicker than Feyre expected, Enfys was gone, retreating into her little hut.

Feyre paused for a moment at the threshold.

She could return home, walk away satisfied she had seen the market, and laugh at it the next morning over breakfast. She had nothing to prove to anyone but herself.

Ducking low, the High Lady of the Night Court followed the goblin inside.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The hut was larger on the inside than it appeared. Feyre wondered how they traveled, as small jars of potions and ingredients lined the walls in precarious configurations. Worn rugs covered the floor, and furs and tapestries were draped from the ceiling. The room was warm, and smelled of burning cloves and whatever thin stew was boiling in the fireplace.

A round table sat in the center of the room, two mismatched wooden chairs on either side. In the middle was a golden plate overflowing with fruit and a decanter of wine.

“Please, the wine is for you, High Lady.”

Mother Enfys bustled about, gathering bottles and dried herbs.

“I’d be happy to accept the wine, as a freely given token to a guest.”

At that, Enfys turned on her heels, once again faster than Feyre would have imagined her capable of. “The newborn fae is learning our ways,” she said with a grin, those teeth gleaming in the low green light. “Yes, my dear, it will be as you say. The wine is free and without enchantment or expectation of return. I give it freely to my guest.”

Feyre poured herself a small glass, sipping at the dark red wine, rich and well aged.

Enfys returned to the table, her arms full. A bowl filled with burning embers and handfuls of herbs and ingredients in small bottles clattered on the table.

“Why do you think so many are unaware of their own desires?”

“Ah. I am reminded you are so young, my dear. Just a stumbling colt newborn in the spring.” She pulled out a mortar and pestle, and began grinding her herbs. “Most people are afraid of themselves and their own minds, have you not seen this yourself?”

Feyre recalled her time in the Spring court, falling into Prythian like tumbling down a hill. Smacking her head on rocks and brambles as she went. Confused about her feelings, the dangers around her, who to trust. Who to love.

Enfys clattered more on the table, pulling Feyre out of her reverie. The goblin mixed herbs in a bowl, grinding something that looks like a desiccated slug with a pestle into the mixture. “I can lift the veil from your eyes, the lies from your niceties, I can show you what you truly desire. And then, I can give you the means to achieve it, to hold it in your hand.”

“For a price, I imagine?”

Mother Enfys grinned. “Of course, High Lady. But when you see it before your eyes, you may find there is nothing you would not give to hold it tight. My only requirement is that you are bold enough to speak your desires aloud, that you give word to your dreams. Otherwise the magic can be muddled, directionless.”

“I know who I am, what I want. You cannot tell me anything I don’t know about myself.”

“Perhaps it is true, lady, you are a new creature on this speck of earth. Perhaps you are different from everyone who has ever set foot into this place. If that is the case, please at least be availed of my hospitality, so I can say I served the High Lady of the Night Court well and sent her off satisfied.”

Feyre sighed. She was stubborn, but her curiosity was not slaked.

The fruits on the golden platter glittered in the low light of the fire, a rainbow of ripened flesh. Fresh drops of dew glistened on taut skin - currants black and red, the wine-red skin of a pomegranate, the globes of blood red cherries larger than a gold coin.

Feyre picked up a peach, downy-cheeked and yellow-pink, and bit.

Stars, galaxies exploded behind her eyes.

Suddenly, everything was beautiful.

Before she took her second breath it was only a quick whisper of a thought - oh fuck - and she was gone under the spell of the faerie fruit.

Feyre watched as Enfys plucked the peach from her still fingers. Pointed nails speared the pit and Feyre gagged. It smeared out of the fruit, black and rotten, shining sickly in the light.

Mother Enfys only hummed. Grabbed Feyre’s wine glass, now empty, and spilled the dregs onto the table in front of her.

She examined the sediment as if reading the constellations in the sky.

Feyre could only feel the giddy euphoria of joy, of love. The hut was warm and cozy. Rhys was waiting at home, and tomorrow, they’d have breakfast with their son. The fire crackled merrily and the potions bubbled in colors she had never seen before.

“Don’t worry, child, Mother Enfys will care for you. Sometimes we must remove the mask before the truth can be coaxed to the surface.”

As the goblin observed her puzzle, she turned her head this way and that, piecing some mystery together. “The fae in you is still so young, so new. Your human heart beats strong inside. Already when you were reborn you had two faces. Now there are more still - wife, mother, Queen. Sometimes they are at peace. Sometimes they war. Like sisters inside of you.” A tooth nibbled on her green lip. “The fae are still a mystery to your mind. You speak it as if it were a second language. You still long for the kindness, the straightforward answer.”

“Is that so wrong?” Feyre asked, smiling at the sound of her own voice.

“No. But sometimes the fae desires what the human does not. Tell me High Lady, what do you dream of?”

Fingers closed over her windpipe, her mate’s strong arms wrapped around her, holding her still and pliant as he moved in her, head pressed down harder into the mattress -

Feyre’s eyes opened and she gasped, the memory real and pulsing.

Enfys looked up from her scattered wine, brow furrowed. “Why do you blush, lady? It is good for the land for the High Lord and Lady to be so in love, so desirous of one another. The soil of the fae lands feed off the magic let off by deep passions, as much as deep hatreds. Like the market - it is a darkness but one born of magic itself, and the way the fae wish to use it. To deny it is to deny our true selves. I think you know something about that darkness inside, child.”

Feyre hadn’t thought herself a prude, but her cheeks heated uncontrollably in the warm room. Closing her eyes, she was lost in her thoughts. Rhys was suffering - echoes of what could have been following them to bed.

She certainly could understand. The terror and hurt of the past year - such sweetness mixed with such wounds.

Enfys smiled. “They come to see me, the powerful and the poor, the young and the old. All to make their dreams come true. Riches, fame, love, talent. And this one longs for nothing more than the embrace of her husband.” Feyre cheeks flamed hotter. “You are cauldron-blessed, High Lady, and it is good to see. Your fortune will be ours. But many will come for your happiness.”

Feyre dug deep inside to summon her voice, pulled it up through her chest. “So you know my desire. Now what?”

Enfys scraped the dregs of the wine off the table with a knife. She threw her crushed mixture into the smoldering embers in the bowl before her.

“I have a bargain to offer you, Feyre Archeron.” Naturally.

“What is your price?”

“Certainly more than that little embroidered purse hanging in your skirts, your Highness.” Feyre frowned. “I’ll give you the first two pieces of knowledge for free. But for the third, I ask only a small token.

“First, I have shared your true feelings, hidden under worries and concerns - it is yours to do with as you will.”

Feyre thought of her mate. Of the hazy first days of mating. She was filled with many faces - some grasped at, some thrust upon her. She ignored her past in favor of a bright future. Still they followed her - her human heart, her sisters needing her care. Buried deep down the fears of her own mother, of becoming her - pushing Nyx too hard, caring too little.

And Rhys. It felt so often that they were one, in each other’s minds, a circle of each other’s feelings - it could be frightening when suddenly they differed. The hurt of his lies, the pain of betrayal - not recognizing him, or worse, knowing exactly who he was all along. And despite all the hurt and anger, the longing to fall into him for support, the painful inability to hold onto her rage against him.

“Second, I give you your great desire. Not only for the male you love, but for the new fae blood running in your veins. Let it sink into your soul, High Lady. Let go of your worries and embrace the instincts - the mating bond, the trickster, the reveler. A cycle of light and dark, emptiness that is filled, over and over.”

If she had many faces then so did her mate - dark and menacing on Calanmai, vicious Under the Mountain, soft and new in Velaris, the beast on the battlefield, the father holding his son.

“For your word, I give you the third: the ability to possess what you desire.”

Feyre tried to bury her groggy thoughts, to get her wits about her. “And what do you desire from me? Don’t be coy, Mother. I have made bargains before.”

“All I ask, your highness, is you revisit the same hospitality I have given you today. One day I will show up on your doorstep and ask to be your guest, as you have been mine.”

Surely that sounded fine…surely it was a trick. “In equal measure to what I have been given today?”

“As you say, lady.”

Feyre rolled the words over in her mind, wished she wasn’t feeling quite so generous and light-headed.

Perhaps it was a trick, and perhaps she’d come to regret it. But Feyre had made many bargains, some more foolish than others. They had all led her here, to her family. To her home.

“I - “

“Before you agree, please consider my words again,” Enfys interrupted. “You must speak your desires aloud, to own it fully.”

“I accept your bargain, to return your hospitality in kind.”

A flash as Mother Enfys threw her potion into the embers, the air filling with foul-smelling smoke, until she flipped the bowl face down on the table.

“Speak your desire, and it will be fulfilled.”

“I -” Feyre’s tongue felt too large in her mouth, her foolhardy decision while under enchantment suddenly tasting sour - “I wish for one night with my mate where things are back as they were, in the beginning between us. Something healing that we both need.”

Slowly, the enchantress lifted the bowl.

Thick purple smoke was heavy on the table, falling off it like water, dripping through cracks in the wood. It pooled around their feet and swirled on invisible breath, escaping out the gaps in the corners of the hut.

Long, spindly green fingers extended, holding out the rotted pit of the peach.

“When you first step onto your manor, place this on your tongue, and swallow. Then all will be as you wish.”

The pit was large, nobbled, smelling slightly of mold. Feyre swallowed.

“And highness?” Feyre looked up, her mind slowly clearing from the enchanted fruit, “beware of those offering unsavory bargains. Not all here are as generous and kind as I am.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

At the edge of the market, a small, jittery fae bowed low.

Long silky ears fell down her shoulders against her hair, tipped white like a rabbit’s.

With a motion, she signaled her intent, and Feyre nodded, bending her knees.

Long woven strands of jasmine and moonflowers were placed upon the crown of her head, trailing down her shoulders to her skirts to brush the ground, sweeping as a veil.

The River House was quiet and dark.

Feyre rolled her neck as she unstrapped her sword and knives, as she kicked off her sea-stained boots.

A plate was set for her in the oven. She picked chicken off the bone as the fae lights floated around her, wandering tired to her bedroom.

When she downed a sip of red wine, Feyre remembered the pit in her pocket.

It didn’t look quite so foul here in the safe quiet of her home.

Feyre let out a deep sigh. These enchantments were silly. Or worse, dangerous. She had laughed at Rhys as he asked her to promise not to agree to anything, or drink or eat anything given with expectations.

She was no fool.

Not usually.

But the sensation of his hands on her - the way the feel of him changed inside her as he hauled her body up against him, sweat slicked flesh and a hand on her throat -

Without another thought, Feyre placed the pit on the back of her tongue and swallowed, chasing it down with the rest of her very fine red wine.

She coughed a bit, then magicked her leftovers away to the kitchen, licking her fingers as she turned down the hall to their bedroom.

It was odd, she thought, that it was so dark in here - usually she was the one forcing Rhys to bed, as he read or drafted letters in candlelight. Feyre had been sure he would be up all night worrying about her. But when she had reached out with her mind to say she was returning, the bond was quiet - fast asleep.

Feyre smiled to herself as she turned to slowly snick the door shut. If he fell asleep early, that was good. Perhaps a night with no nightmares, and no fussy toddler to wake them, was exactly what he needed. The dark bags under his eyes should worry her more, if she knew she wasn’t carrying the same on her own face.

She leaned against the door, pulling off her hose as she wondered how quickly she could get the dress off her and climb into the bed to cuddle with her mate.

Her heart was filled with longing - embarrassing, considering they had only been apart a few hours. Rhys, who was the most tender father, whose silver-limned eyes could make her burst into tears as he stared at their son. Even exhausted, attending most of the Court’s meetings, he still made sure her every need was met, doting on her so much she sometimes had to shoo him away before he was late to yet another meeting just to make her tea.

Whatever he wanted, whatever he needed to heal - she would be ready. She would take care of him the same way he’d always taken care of her - her sweet, doting husband.

Without warning, magic tendrils of darkness slammed into her body. Feyre was pinned up against the wall. Her skirts swayed above the ground, feet dangling.

Feyre gasped, the air to her lungs cut off. She tried to fight it, squirming, woefully unprepared.

Out from the darkness of their bedroom, she was met with the gleam of two violet eyes in a single slash of moonlight.

And a voice, a tone she hadn’t heard in ages - a powerful chill dripping down her spine - “What is this pitiful human thing doing lurking around the chambers of a High Lord?”

Oh shit.

#feysand #acotar #acotar fanfiction #spooky feysand #happy halloween!#goblin market #feysand fanfiction #my husband went out of town and I wrote this in a frenzied haze #utm stuff

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