#I have found no moth corpses or other signs of them

[shannonpurdyjones]

Tragic news: for the first time ever, wool moths have somehow infiltrated my yarn stash. Thankfully I caught it before losing too many skeins to damage, but they got the spindle stick holding one of my first in-hand spinning projects. 😢

[bunnakit]

surprise!! 🎲🎲 two of them

OH THIS IS GONNA BE A LONG ONE LOL (also sorry it took me so long to do this, work stress is a bitch) - Ships used for this are Inspector M x Oat (Manner of Death) and Arm x Tay (Kinnporsche)

33) A Kiss to a Scar, Birthmark, Injury, or Other Marking

The tap squeaked overly loud as he stepped out of the shower, hastily drying himself while avoiding looking towards the fogged over cabinet mirror hanging just above his sink. It was always a race to get out of the bathroom and normally he could retreat to his bedroom, finish drying there, and avoid the unwanted confrontation with his reflection altogether. Today, however, he had company and he didn't want to risk waking the sleeping figure curled up beneath his duvet, knowing sleep came to them so very rarely with their rigorous workload and internship.

It was bad luck that the steam from the quick shower faded too quickly, and he turned at just the right time to catch a glimpse of himself in the dewy surface of his mirror. He swallowed the lump rising up his throat, eyes darting between the various puckered scars scattered over his torso. Unconsciously, he lifted a hand to trace his finger over the highest one, swallowing again the nausea of the memories; the betrayal, the sound of the gunshots, the scent of the warm, damp earth as his body hit the ground. He pressed against it slightly, the dull ache of pain drawing him back to the present just as the door to the bathroom cracked open. "M?" God, he loved the way Oat sounded fresh from sleep; loved everything about him, really.

"Sorry, did you need the bathroom?" He tried to offer a smile but he knew it was just a crude facsimile of what it should look like. He moved to cover his chest with the towel he had been using to dry his hair, but froze when Oat reached out to grab his wrist.

He stood frozen in place as his lover approached, standing just in front of him and examining his exposed chest in the dull yellow light of his tiny bathroom. It took every ounce of self control not to push his way through the door, to escape to the bedroom and pull on a shirt and duck beneath the covers until morning. He'd tried so hard and for so long to keep the ugly signs of his ineptitude from seeing the light of day, especially so around Oat.

"These are looking really good." Oat offered him the bright, blinding smile full of pure love and optimism that had drawn M to him like a moth to a beautiful shining flame. His pinched brow and baffled expression must have spurred Oat to speak again, the smile morphing to something reassuring.

"They're healing very nicely- Wait." His sleep-addled brain seemed to catch up to everything they'd done the last few months and his eyes darted up to M's. "Is this why you've never taken your shirt off?" He asked, his voice small and filled with trepidation and M found he hated it. Oat should never, ever sound that way around him.

"They're ugly and a sign of my mistakes," He confessed into the humid, quiet din of the tiny apartment bathroom. "They're not worth looking at." He moved to cover himself with the towel again but his eyebrows quickly rose in surprise as it was snatched from his hand and thrown towards the empty shower.

"Shut up," Oat hissed and M couldn't remember if he'd ever seen him truly angry like this. He was torn between guilt and attraction. "You know who don't have nicely healing scars? Corpses, and you very nearly were one. I stitched these myself, kept your blood in your body." He paused to swallow hard, his fingers dancing over the lower scars and M would have to be a much stronger man to keep his abdomen from jumping at the feather-light touch.

"I love these scars just as much as the man carrying them." He looked up with fierce determination and M physically felt the way his heart swelled at the expression, as if Oat was daring him to question his devotion.

"Okay, baby." He whispered, reaching up to tuck Oat's hair behind his ear. His hand fell to his lover's shoulder as he ducked down slightly and M suddenly felt the warmth of lips against the angry, twisted flesh of his highest scar. He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling and keep the moisture locked behind his eyes, unable to bear looking at his gentle (so fucking gentle) lover pressing cleansing, worshipping kisses against his most hated features.

Oat was far more than he deserved, but he promised to earn his love each and every day.

------ 28) A Kiss in Parting

Arm was just finishing his once over of his gun when the creak of his door drew his attention up from his desk. The sight of Tay approaching would normally draw a smile to his face, conscious or otherwise, but today it had him dropping his gaze and looking away. Like a coward, he turned around and slid his suit jacket from his shoulders and began unbuttoning his shirt so he could slip into the Kevlar vest set out on a crate in front of him. He was proud of himself for not jumping at the touch to his shoulder, soon enough feeling the entirety of Tay press against his back as his arms wound around his middle. "Arm, please." His voice was soft and small and Arm hated it. He'd learned so much about Tay in the last few weeks and he knew he only spoke like this when he felt truly insecure or anxious.

"We've talked about this, Khun Tay." he peeled himself away with all the ease of a man ripping out his own teeth. He tried to distract himself in securing every clasp on his vest only to be spun around by his shoulder. Tay smacked his hands out of the way, taking over and tightening the vest in all the right spots before sliding Arm's shirt back up his arms and shoulders. Even angry, he was caring and attentive and Arm knew he didn't deserve it, not right now, not with the blatant distance he'd tried to erect between them.

"You don't have to do this. It's not a big deal, he'll get bored eventually." Tay sighed, but Arm could tell he believed the words less than the first time he'd said them, shouted them in his penthouse apartment the previous day.

"He hasn't yet and I'm not taking chances, not where you're concerned," Arm explained once again, hoping he sounded even more determined than when he had yelled his response yesterday. "I know what I'm doing, I've been doing this a while after all." He tried to reassure, tried to sooth away the pinch between Tay's perfectly sculpted brows.

He shrugged on his jacket once his shirt was buttoned and tucked in to Tay's satisfaction, the fleeting touches to his chest and shoulders reminding him of sharing a shower. It was something they'd both quickly become addicted to, nothing lustful or demanding, just two men taking the time to care for one another. He almost looked forward to feeling Tay's wet hair between his fingers, to feeling the way he relaxed against his chest as he massaged in the shampoo and pressed soft kisses to his temple.

"You make your way back here, Arm. Do you hear me? You come back to me, safe and whole." Tay demanded as his straightened his lapel, almost as if he was getting Arm ready for a gala rather than a confrontation with his jaded, bloodthirsty ex lover. "I won't be responsible for my actions if you don't make it back." A promise and a warning woven in an icy tone that brooked no argument. These were the moments where Arm was reminded that Tay was every bit the mafia heir Kinn was, just to a smaller offshoot of the Family.

"I promise. I wouldn't leave you for anything." He sighed, pressing his forehead to Tay's and closing his eyes as he slowly inhaled the complex scent of Tay's favored cologne. He kept his eyes closed even as he felt soft lips press to his, his hands automatically traveling to hold the hips across from him. He would never get over the way Tay felt so perfect in his arms, beneath his hands, beneath his lips.

"Go get him, love."

[eggo-witch]

Okay elaboration time

So I don't have many things that I recognize as signs, but I do have at least 2 since being at college

The first is that every fall semester, within the first month or so, I look for sphinx/Hawk moths (or other large or interesting moths), and if I find one or more, that means the semester will go well and all will be well. If I fail to find one, that means the semester will be very difficult, I will likely struggle immensely, and overall, it'll be bad in some way (achedemically, mental health, etc.). This has been a sign I've looked for every fall for the past 5 years.

The second is dead birds. They're less of a time sensitive one and more of a forewarning. If I find a dead bird, it means something bad is gonna happen. The most recent one I found was 4 days before my whole life went to shit. I find them a bit before things go wrong. They're a newer sign, so I don't have all the minutia figured out yet.

But this semester, I haven't seen any moths that qualify, just a bunch of little fluttery ones . And normally, I would list that as nothing and note that I need to be aware and careful this semester, but they feel significant in some way

And I've been finding feathers EVERYWHERE, lots of them, some single, some in multiples, some that had me looking for the corpse because surely to lose that many would mean it died, but still no actual body

So, to say I've been uncertain would be a bit of an understatement, I guess

So I don't have time to detail what I meant now, but I might elaborate later

Tired of watching and waiting for signs

Only to realize

Their also in limbo

And will change based on the decision I make :(

Super inconvenient

Feels like I'm grasping at straws

[theseathatsparkles]

On Bugs

so for creative writing class we were told to imitate Amy Dillard’s writing style. This is the essay on bugs that I ended up making. Not Bleach, I know, but I thought someone might enjoy it. 

This took so long to write oh my god ;-;

also, I am fully aware that not all insects are bugs, and that spiders aren’t either of the two, but. bug is much more fun to say.

Word count - 1500 on the dot

@despairforme THE BUG ESSAY. IT’S HERE. @onenicebugperday you inspired me to write a four page essay about bugs i hope you’re happy

When I was in third grade, I dropped a dandelion down the back of my classmate’s shirt. She was upset, having thought the rather inconspicuous dandelion was a daddy long-legs spider. She’d screamed, slapped me on the chest in an attempt to escape her arachnid harasser, and had decided to wage war against me for the rest of our time together in school.

I never was afraid of spiders the way she was. Spiders and snakes and all sorts of bugs, so long as I could be assured they weren't poisonous, had always held a special place in my heart - and, more often than not, my hand. Growing up in woody, wet Germany gave me a healthy dosage of ladybugs, crickets, and snails at a young age, and I never looked at a bug with anything other than fascination. 

It’s the middle of winter, now. There aren’t many bugs around. Forty-two little silhouettes in the light above my desk, but none of them move, empty exoskeletons like shells. They’re probably dry, and if I touched one I’m sure it would crumble under my fingers. There seem to be more of them every time I look up; it’s the middle of winter, so the warmth of the indoors must be especially tantalizing. Right now, there isn’t any wind outside, but the world seems to be painted in shades of grey. Even looking outside makes you feel cold, and the drifts of iced-over snow outside of the window just emphasize this.

I have mixed feelings about winter. I love the snow, love having an excuse to stay inside wrapped in blankets on the days I don’t have school. I love that there aren’t mosquitoes to follow me around - I must taste good to them, since they always seem to swarm me. But the lack of the bugs I do like - spiders, caterpillars, grasshoppers, even the jeweled dragonflies that swarm our canoes in summer - makes winter feel especially harsh. 

When I’m feeling more grey than usual, I turn to the internet to soothe me. My computer has a tab open - one nice bug per day. The third picture that appears on image search is a gorgeous skeleton leaf moth, the row under that containing a domino cuckoo bee. I smile, looking at the pictures.  A photo of a hissing cockroach wearing a tiny paper party hat jumps out at me, curled around a leaf. I click on the picture, save it to my gmail by emailing it to myself. I’ll take some time to admire them later.

The bigger the bug the better, of course. Small bugs are hard to track, and the idea of one getting somewhere without me knowing about it gives me chills. That’s probably why I hate ants; they swarm up your legs and into your shoes and socks and it takes far too long to extract them all, and you feel phantom itches on your body for the next day or so. 

The fear of ants is called myrmecophobia, and often goes hand-in-hand with entomophobia - the fear of insects. When I was young - still in Elementary school, at a time before my decision to quit soccer - I’d practice with my mom in the field a bit southeast of the elementary school tucked at the base of the mountain pass. The playground had been north of us. I always wanted to go back to the playground. The whole complex had been a good half hour’s drive from my house, so we didn’t go there often, but it had an excellent jungle gym and some new swings. It got hot easily, out there under the sun; if I didn’t bring water, the ninety-degree weather would feel twenty degrees hotter, the sort of heat that makes you lightheaded and grumpy. 

But my mom had told me to play soccer, and she wasn’t the sort of person who you could say no to easily. I tried, of course, in futile attempts that would end with me in tears and my mom seething, but always ended up on that field, kicking the ball back and forth as my mom chastised me for skipping to the goal. Skipping, apparently, was slower than running.

 I’d hated soccer. 

It was one of those days that solidified my fear of ants. Wyoming doesn’t have fire ants or most other nasty biting bugs, so I was never in real danger, but that didn’t stop the whole experience from being traumatic. My mom, of course, had laughed about it later; it seems to be a habit of adults to take the irrational fears of children lightly. The ants crawling up my leg had probably been just as afraid of me as I was of them, but knowing that didn’t help any. Adults will tell you that the shark that bit off your arm was just as afraid of you as you were of it, but that doesn’t change the fact that your arm’s gone. 

I’d been unlucky enough to step right in an ant nest, the sort that stays hidden by the short grass until something, or someone, disturbs it. It hadn’t looked different from the regular ground from my five feet, but the moment I felt a tickle on my leg, I knew. 

I’d screamed. I think anyone would have screamed when confronted with one of their worst fears, so I never was ashamed of my reaction, even if I’d hated the exasperation and faint amusement on my mom’s face. The ants had come right off, lady fortune smiling on me that day, and I hadn’t found any tiny ant corpses in my shoes when I took them off that afternoon - a rarity; ants always seem to turn up in unexpected places post-encounter. I’d been paranoid, though, and had hopped around on one foot until I was a safe distance from the nest before shoving my hands down my socks to search for any lone ants. There were none.

I refused to resume play until I was positive there were no ants on me, of course. Even when we started the game again I was wary, taking light steps and watching the ground like a hawk for any sign of another insect. It had taken the fun out of the game pretty quickly, and we went home soon after.

The internet goes out for a moment, and the photo of the mantis I’m looking at shifts to a grey screen. I frown, take a second to stand up and stretch. My legs and shoulders are especially sore. By the time I sit down again, my picture has loaded again, and I scroll to the left to see a swallowtail butterfly looking out of the screen at me. They have yellow fur around their eyes and antennae, and look vaguely curious. This picture also goes to my saved folder to look at later, and I keep scrolling.

When I was in second grade, we studied bugs in science class. Not extensively; there’s only so much work you can get done as a scatterbrained second grader, and bugs weren’t on the top of my list of priorities. But we studied them, and after a few weeks our teacher imported seven Madagascar hissing cockroaches to be our class pets.

Nobody in my class was afraid of them; I think we were too young to be afraid of something as hideously cute as those little insects. They remind me of pugs now, disgusting in the sort of way that makes you want to coo over them. We’d kept them in a little glass terrarium in the back of the classroom, and took them out during lunch break and sometimes to sketch them during art. Our teacher had told us how to tell the males and females apart, but the information had gone straight in ear and out the other, like water through a sieve. There are two things I can remember about them now: first, that they would shed their skins sometimes and we’d have to clean out their terrarium; second, that if you poked their heads, they’d hiss.

The second thing was the most important to my little second-grade brain. My classmates and I took great satisfaction in poking the cockroaches and watching them puff up and make little hissing sounds like air coming out of a tire. They’d always make their funny wheezing sound, and we’d sit there for minutes on end - the longest amount of time our young minds could stay on track for - and tap them, giggling uncontrollably as they got progressively more frustrated.

I like bugs. I’m no entomologist, I would never spend my days in the wild watching them through magnifying glasses. But I still like them. Their colors remind me of spring and summer, and I love their size - perfect to pick up and put on a fingertip. They’re much more simple than people, never worried about money or jobs or politics. They have no worries, no fears.

I would love to be a bug.

[sophi-s]

In Their Hollow Heart

Chapter I: Sealed Fate

Fandom: Hollow Knight video game

Words: 9,153

Characters: The Hollow Knight, The Pale King, The Radiance

Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Sickness, Angst, Mind manipulation, Gross imagery, Permanent injury, Mentions of vomit, Suicidal thoughts, THK really needs a hug :(, SPOILERS for the game (That's a lot of warnings, :O)

Summary:

There is a good reason why the Hollow Knight doesn't discuss with anyone what happened in the Black Egg Temple.

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In the eternal kingdom of Hallownest there were many places one could without hesitation call decrepit or desolated at best. Especially after the plague of the Old Light has swept through it like a tidal wave. None of them, however, were able to match the current state of the Crossroads. Many of the inhabitants left in panic once they realised it was the epicenter of the vile Infection, leaving the place nearly completely abandoned. Crossroads were unfortunate enough to be the first area to succumb to Her wrath. But that was years ago. And only recently the orange veins shriveled up and receded, much to all bugs' relief. Their King had finally found the solution to the frightening disease of Dreams and Mind that now seemed like a distant memory. The sickly sweet smell of the plague of the Old Light made place for a stale aroma of dust and dirt of underground tunnels, as though nothing had ever happened.

The Hollow Knight however - even with their void-dulled sense of smell - could still detect the nauseating scent drifting through the caverns. Hovering nearby wherever they went. Or maybe it was just them? Were they already going crazy? Maybe. Maybe not. A barely noticeable tint of orange invaded the corner of their vision… Do not think. They reprimanded themself, forcing the vibrant color to disappear, as they stood before a gaping entrance to the temple of the Black Egg. An accursed place that would soon become their tomb. They tried not to compare it to being buried alive… But no matter how you look at it, unless the King finds a way to get rid of Her for good this will be their final resting place. A grave. And they would be a living corpse hidden inside forever. A frightening perspective… Do not.. Even though they were trying their best to hide it, they were in pain. Pain so great that it had them trembling, unable to cry out or make any sound to voice their suffering to be honest. Do not speak… An alien feeling, as though someone had poured liquid fire into their body, ever since the source of the Infection was placed within them, was constantly there. It's been barely half an hour, yet it hurts so much already… The Goddess was more powerful than they ever imagined. Do not feel. Easier said than done. But they can fight it. They have to fight it. For Hallownest. For the King… their father.

The Pale Monarch in question silently stood beside the Pure Vessel, staring off into the impenetrable darkness filling up the temple constructed for the sole purpose - one it shared with the Hollow Knight - no discernible expression on his face. This was it. Once they enter here, they won't leave. A one way ticket to their damnation. As tempting as it was, the Hollow Knight did not make a move to look at the Pale King. That would mean they have thoughts and feelings. They weren't supposed to. They didn't want to disappoint him. He tried so hard to save this kingdom and he desperately needed his child to be pure, devoid of any emotion, without a mind or will… the Hollow Knight hated that they weren't pure like their father wanted them to be. They detested it. But for him they had to be pure. They couldn't fail him. They wouldn't fail him. She can push against them all She wants, they're not going to break that easily. With a soundless groan, they blink away the bright pinpricks swirling before their eyes and shudder at the heat welling up in their chest only to be cooled down by the Void in their heart. It will take some getting used to… No one said it's going to be easy to hold onto a raging Goddess of Dreams. But they can do this. Right?

"Vessel."

Automatically, the Hollow Knight turns their head to face the owner of the stern, seemingly indifferent voice as he addresses them, and shoots a glance at the Pale King looking up at them with as much dignity as he can, considering he was barely up to the Vessel's hip by that point. They always found it strange. That after their second molt, their father started to have to look up at them. How fast the time had passed.. Not so long ago, they were just a hatchling, no taller than the King's shoulder, following him obediently wherever he went, always fulfilling his orders without a second of hesitation. Just like he wanted them to. And now? They were towering over him like he did over them back then at the summit of the Abyss.

It was not the curiosity that made them turn to the King. They shouldn't be curious. They can't. It would mean their inevitable failure before their task even truly began. Because that's what they were always meant to be. Emotionless. Empty. Hollow.. But no matter how hard they tried, they weren't. They never were… However, they were immensely good at their act. Without a single sound, the Hollow Knight watched their father for a moment as he tried to find the right words. In a very odd, sort of amusing way, the Pale King knitted his eyebrows in annoyance and sighed in exasperation at his own height before making a beckoning gesture with one of his four hands while the other three remained tucked into his white cloak. Amusement. It makes one want to chuckle at something one finds funny.

"Come down here."

Not waiting a second, the Hollow Knight bent down and noisily got on one knee - dropping much heavier than they intended due to the pain which was for now blessedly dissipating -  to be on the eye level with their father. The Pale King was a mysterious creature. A Wyrm, a God of Mind and Soul, taking a form of a small bug, always aloof and regal. But sometimes, the façade would slip to reveal something more than a cold monarch without care for anything other than Hallownest. He didn't seem to care about hundreds of vessels that died in the dark depths of the Abyss. He didn't seem to care when Xero was executed for treason (executed might be s bit of a stretch. The moth died where he stood when he attacked the King). And he didn't seem to care when the allied Mantis Lord succumbed to the Infection on his own volition after the tragic loss of his only daughter. But Wyrm’s child knew their father too well. Up this close, even with his stern mask of a ruler in its place, the Hollow Knight could clearly see that he did, in fact, care. The dull look in his dark eyes spoke volumes. Sadness. This one makes one want to cry and takes away the will to do anything. His glimmering, half-translucent wings quivered ever so slightly.. He cares. He cared when their mother, the Root, had left the White Palace and hid away in her gardens when grief and remorse became too much for her to bear. He always cared, even though very few could see it. And now, he cares that he is about to lock his only surviving offspring away with a furious moth Goddess sealed inside of them. Condemn them to an endless torture. Was it too late for regrets?

For just a short second, the King stepped a little closer to the Pure Vessel. Reached out… The black heart hastened in their chest, partially because of anticipation and partially because whatever this gesture made them feel caused the faint haze to fall over their sight again. The pale hand stained black with Void was inches away from the Hollow Knight's cheek, they could practically feel it rest on their shell already. Was it to be the first and the last time their father found it in himself to actually openly and consciously grant them a small sign of affection? Was it?

Before the blackened claws could come into contact with their white shell however, the Pale King closed his eyes in defeat and turning away slipped his hand back into the folds of his cloak. A new feeling, like many others before it, was forced down to not give Her this satisfaction that She's winning. Disappointment. When one doesn't get something much awaited. Or when something doesn't meet one's expectations. Reminding them again. Do not hope. The Hollow Knight didn't make a move aside from the occasional shiver caused by the burning in their gut and in their head. Maybe he was right not to follow through with it.. Yes, he knows it best. It will be better this way. No distractions to keep the Pure Vessel from containing the Radiance.

"Stay strong, Hollow Knight.. Do not fail me."

Never, father.

The Hollow Knight was glad their facial expression cannot really change as it now would be scrunched up in frustration and a little bit of anger. This one they were rather familiar with. Makes one want to hit something or be surly. They were thinking. Again. Why is it so hard? Sometimes, they really wished they were born without a mind. At least, they wouldn't have to fear disappointing their father. And maybe just once he would have a reason to be truly proud of them.. Fortunately, the plague didn't seem to take advantage of their lapse in self control. If anything, the spiteful presence behind it recoiled almost in disgust as it listened to their short thought. Good.

"It is time. Come."

Their father solemnly stated and slowly stepped into the Egg, the Hollow Knight following close behind, begging their legs not to fail them when they felt like their limbs were empty. Pure Vessel focused on the sound of shuffling metal, the plates of their armor scraping against one another, the only sound in the thick silence of the Void pressing against the walls of the temple, as they walked after the familiar, soft, pale glow of their father's form through the pitch black darkness - just like that fateful day of their birth - ignoring the intricate white sigils forming wherever their and their father's feet fell. Merely the close proximity to the Void filling up the temple made the Radiance hiss with alarm. She and this darkness were mortal enemies since the dawn of time. The Void was pressing against them as well, a house for the Old Light. They only hoped-... No. Do not hope. Breathing in the cold, still air and exhaling without a sound, the Hollow Knight repeated the words in their head. Echo of it seemed like a mantra they kept wordlessly saying to themself whenever in doubt of the success of their purpose.

Do not think.

Do not speak.

Do not hope.

Do not feel.

"Hollow Knight."

Their head perked up in attention at their father's call. He stood beside a stone tablet glimmering with white lights forming into words. To the Hollow Knight, those were just meaningless symbols. Like those scribbled on the letters his father was writing. They lacked both of those abilities - reading and writing - but with these tablets it wasn't necessary. The chunks of carved stone were infused with Soul after all, allowing everyone to know the message placed upon them. Gesturing to it, the Pale King didn't look up at the Knight.

"Lay your hand upon it and claim its wisdom. My last gift to you."

A gift? One of the few they'd ever received, with others being a necklace from their mother (a solid silver teardrop stored away in a simple locket on a delicate chain), the pure nail from a skilled nailsmith at the request of their father once they reached adolescence and a small, wooden figurine of a spider from their younger half-sister Hornet. Kneeling down in front of the glowing tablet, the white light reflecting in their spotless armor and washing over their features, the Hollow Knight did as they were told. Almost immediately, the magic crept up their arm and the words inscribed on the tablet turned into a quiet but unmistakable whisper in their head.

Vessel. Though bound, you shall know the state of the world.

Hallownest will be whole again.

As confusing as those words were, soon everything became clear once the Hollow Knight's vision for just a sliver of a second was projected through the fabric of reality and wandered across Hallownest before quickly returning to the tablet before them. Their father's last gift… Whenever they wish, they could gaze upon the land they'd saved. The land they'd freed from the clutches of the vengeful deity. The world that would move on without them while they silently remained on their post to guard it from the plague that crippled minds of its inhabitants. They wished to thank him. They really did. But they knew they couldn't..

"Go, Vessel. Fulfil your destiny."

It was hard to miss the slight crack in the Pale King's voice as he said it. Was he having second thoughts about the whole thing? Too late to back out now. The Infection was nested within the Child of Void. No turning back. No regrets. Shaking through another hot spasm, the Hollow Knight mustered up the strength to straighten up and dutifully walk off into the depths of the Black Temple, switching the roles with their father who was now following them. The Vessel didn't want this to end that way. End in an eternity of suffering with no one but a Goddess to keep them company in the stillness of the Egg. But they had to do this. They were born for this. Even though they were scared. This here makes one tremble. Heart and breath hasten, and this awful lump grows in one's throat as the stomach twists unpleasantly.

The memories of their early years passed through their mind. When they were barely a few years old but already wielding a nail rather skillfully and training with the Fierce Drrya, while their father watched from afar with a ghost of a smile on his face. He was proud. Proud of his son. And right now, the very same son was about to make him proud this one final time.

Stepping into the large, circular chamber, the Hollow Knight took in their surroundings. So this was their new home then.. just as dull and bleak as the entire Crossroads. Why would it be any different? They weren't to indulge in luxuries here. They were to keep the plague at bay. And that's exactly what they are going to do. At long last, the Pure Vessel stood where it was intended to ever since their nubby paw pierced through the blackened shell of their egg. Looking at their appendage now, it was far from nubby. Long, slender fingers ending in short but still rather sharp claws they never used in favor of the long nail that now rested on their back. One they unsheathed and with one firm strike stabbed it into the floor where it would remain as long as their duty held and took their place in the middle of the smallest stone circles that the floor was made out of. In an instant, the entire temple started to tremble, twisting and churning as reinforced chains of pale ore shot out from the far ceiling, with metallic clanking surrounding the Hollow Knight, wrapping around their body like vines, tangling them in the merciless grasp. Scared again.. Out of the corner of their eye, the Hollow Knight saw their father, finally looking at them and while he showed no guilt, no dismay over shackling his only child, his hands were fiddling with the hem of his robes. A nervous habit. Then, just like that, the floor was gone from underneath the Vessel's feet as they were lifted up into the air. Seconds later a white Seal of Binding flashed over their entire form, as well as on the chains holding them in place and the process of Sealing was complete.

The Hollow Knight tested the chains around their body. Seem sturdy enough… Pale ore is no ordinary material after all. At a quiet sigh coming from the King, they turned to look at him. And he… he was preparing to leave the chamber behind. With his head low, his dignity and regal posture nowhere to be seen as he reluctantly walked towards the archway leading out of the temple. Something in the Vessel's chest twisted unpleasantly as he did. Maybe it was just the Infection? No. It's the sadness.. Look back. Please, look back… If he cares, he will. Just when they brushed the perspective away, the Pale King halted for a short moment to glance over his shoulder at his last surviving child. He did. He cares and he proved it this one last time.

"Goodbye, Hollow Knight.."

He offered and quickly disappeared into the blackness once and for all. The Hollow Knight knew this would be the last time they saw him until the Radiance breathed Her last. Do not feel… They turn away from the doorway and lower their heavy head onto their armored chest with a sigh. The burning pain wasn't as troublesome as it had been minutes ago but present nonetheless. But for Hallownest and their father, they could endure. It still may turn out just fine. They can handle this!

Goodbye, father.

The burning intensified for a beat. Breath in, breath out. It subsided just as quickly. They can handle this…

(Day 1)

The first day is always the most difficult. Hours were passing so obnoxiously long.. one after another, each an eternity in the perfect silence of the Egg. Seconds ticked by in their solitude, making them feel rather strange. As though with each second a small bit of their life was leaving never to return. Perhaps because that’s how it was. Every second spent in the vault was irreversibly lost to them. Every second they could live in the Palace again, beside the Five Knights. Beside their-... No. They firmly shook their head, immediately regretting their decision due to the nausea settling in their stomach. They were never supposed to live. They were just a vessel. A tool. No thoughts, no desires. No bonds with the world they left behind. Liar.

After the first twenty-four hours of vigil, the Hollow Knight started to hear something. A steady, rhythmic thumping seemingly without any clear source. They weren't easily frightened but this unidentified sound was driving them crazy. Where was it coming from? Was this Her attempt to agitate them and torment them? As though the steady fire inside was too little.. Strangely enough, the Radiance seemed rather… passive. She retreated into the farthest reaches of their supposedly empty mind like a grumpy child who'd been grounded by her parents for mischief. Unfortunately, that was most likely not the case. They could bet their head that She was already planning something. Thinking how to get under their skin, to snap them. But was this sound one of Her tricks?

After a couple more seconds, they realised that it's not. In the silence so thick that it would seem loud, Hollow Knight's senses were gradually sharpening, catching the smallest disturbances. And this rhythmic sound was one of them.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum..

Ba-dum…

Their heart of Void thrummed calmly. To be honest, the Vessel was relieved. Relief.. It comes when something bad doesn't happen or ends. No tricks so far. Only their heart. Nothing else. For now the Infection seemed awfully docile. Almost nonexistent. The only sign of its presence was the continual flame swirling around in their body and occasional lights dancing in the periphery of their vision. As painful as it is, the longer it stays that way, the better.

(Day 15)

Just like they suspected, after the first day it became easier. The time seemed to pass faster than it initially did. Even if the silence broken only by their heartbeat was growing maddening. The Hollow Knight kept themself sane by counting seconds, minutes and hours. If their count was without a fault, it's been over two weeks already. Fifteen days, to be exact. Fifteen days in solitude. No voice to speak to them, no familiar face to look at. They missed everyone… Longing. When one desperately wants to see a person or a place again...

Their mother. Lovely, pale Root with sapphire blue eyes, humming softly to herself. Gentle and loving. The Five Knights. Fierce and stern Drrya, their teacher. Surprisingly cheerful and witty Hegemol, clad in a massive set of armor, wielding a mace they found so enormous when they were little. Morose and serious Ze'mer, an outsider, speaking with a funny accent, a silverfish lady with nigh unmatched skills of swordsmanship. Caring and kind Isma, a responsible woman with love for plants. And of course Ogrim. A loyal and tough warrior with a warm and soft inside of a good friend. With the only smell that accompanied them being the sweet, awful smell of sickness, the Vessel realised they were actually missing the distinctive odor of the dung beetle. As odd as it may sound, they would take that stench over the scent of Infection any time now..

And of course, there was their father. The one who's light led them out of the Abyss, the one who practically raised them. The one who's presence made them… happy? One's heart warms up, a smile tries to pull at one's face... Do not feel. The reminded themself when heat began to grow stronger, focusing deeply to make the Void push the unpleasant sensation down. Do not think. It was even more difficult to make the thoughts cease now. There was a whole eternity for them to muse about various things. And with each thought the disease seemed to gain in strength before they inevitably pushed its alluring brightness aside. It's not that bad yet.. They can still do this.

(Day 27)

Hollow Knight, is it? I wonder if the Worm knew how "hollow" you truly are, voidling.

The taunting call reverberating through their pale shell interrupted the Vessel in counting seconds of the slowly passing twenty-seventh day of containment. This voice… soft, strong, yet laced with so much hatred that it seemed to drip from the lips which spoke it like venom. It wasn't there before. She finally found the audacity to try and talk to the Vessel. They shifted uncomfortably in their shackles but didn't react to the taunt. They knew they couldn't. They merely kept counting.

My, so quiet and obedient! A good, little pet dancing to the Worm's tune.

Shuddering, the Hollow Knight chased the dots of orange away from their sight. To distract themself from the Goddess, they peered out at now thriving Hallownest, its citizens carelessly trotting down the streets of the City of Tears, the endless downpour never bothering them in the slightest. They missed the sensation of rain trickling down their shell.. It was relieving to see how much value their duty holds. Wandering across the alleys, the Hollow Knight noticed something that wasn't there before. In the middle of the central plaza was a fountain. It stood there ever since they remembered but this time a large statue crowned it. Surrounded by three smaller figures, it was them. Stoic and silent, head bowed in a loyal gesture, hands on the hilt of their nail in front of them. A cold piece of stone, a reminder of what they did for everybody.

Memorial to the Hollow Knight

In the Black Vault far above. Through its sacrifice Hallownest lasts eternal.

Of course their father would raise a monument to their deed. A faint memory of them posing for such a statue passes through their feverish mind. It was still somewhat surprising it was there as the Hollow Knight never thought that they deserved such recognition. After all, what were they but a weapon? Surprised. Something one was not expecting to happen actually happens.. Still, many bugs stopped beside the statue, sometimes praying, sometimes saying their thanks, sometimes even offering small gifts. And sometimes merely staring in wonderment and gratitude, each of them baffling the Hollow Knight greatly. Confused. This one... They had no idea how to define this emotion. It simply happened every time they couldn't understand something and that was it.

Look at them.. They adore you. I wonder what they would say if they found out you're nothing but a fraud.

No reaction. They are the Pure Vessel. Her tricks won't work on them. By all means, the Hollow Knight was self-distanced enough to ignore any and all insults directed straight at their person. Because, as their father wanted, they refused to be a person. A tool feels no shame, no anger, no outrage in the face of even the most foul profanities. And so they didn't. The Radiance hummed to herself when they remained cold and indifferent.

You are a strong one, I'll give you that. But it won't be long. Soon, you will be mine.

A harsh push against their mind was not enough. Although a faint orange light came to be in the Hollow Knight's eye sockets, it was soon viciously assaulted by tendrils of Void and brutally extinguished. Suppressing a shiver caused by a stab of pain in their thorax, the Hollow Knight bowed their head, bracing themself for whatever the Goddess of Dreams has in store for them. They will not fail Hallownest. They were ready.

(Day 79)

Breaking the Hollow Knight wasn't as easy as the Radiance suspected at first. She kept on trying, attacking their pride (of which they had none), their self esteem (also barely noticeable), the sole purpose of their existence itself. It took Her around eighty days to figure out that none of this was working and it left Her delightfully frustrated. Counting seconds was becoming more and more difficult however. Her constant activity made it harder to keep track and focus on anything else than pushing back against Her.

More and more often, the Hollow Knight saw the lights in their vision, swimming around the chamber and trying to devour their eyesight as they stubbornly kept stifling the plague down. The pain was getting stronger day by day.. How much longer can they keep it at bay? You are the Hollow Knight. The words of the Pale King came to them. Yes. Yes, they are. They have to be. The Radiance has yet to draw an answer from them. Nothing She did thus far made them reply to anything She said. If they did, it would be game over. They cannot fail.. They cannot… And to make sure She won't take control over them that easily, the Hollow Knight avoided sleep to the best of their ability. Falling into the misleadingly comforting embrace of even a short slumber would mean yielding their consciousness into the Realm of Dreams where they would be at their most vulnerable. Almost eighty days without sleep… Even though as a Void born child of two Higher Beings the Hollow Knight didn't find the sleep mandatory for survival, the lack of proper rest and the wrestling for control with the enraged moth Goddess as well as the burning pain have taken their toll on them. How much longer…?

The Pale King would surely find another solution. Soon enough! He wouldn't leave them to rot in this place. He wouldn't.. Would he? Just to make sure, they projected their vision towards the White Palace and towards their father's workshop which was in utter disarray. Pieces of white armor were everywhere as well as stains of liquid Void and unfinished Wingsmoulds resting lifeless on many shelves. It is not surprising to find their creator there, slumped against his desk out cold. Before, every time he worked himself to the point of collapse, the White Lady would come for him, scoop him up in her branches and gently carry him back to their shared bed. But now there was no one for him to retrieve him from his never-ending work. The Hollow Knight tries their best to choke down the feeling of pity when not even a single retainer comes to the workshop if only to place a blanket around the King's shoulders. They were forbidden from entering this place… Pity. This one's tricky. It feels almost like sadness but not quite. It's... sadness directed at someone else who is in difficult situation or a sorry state.

Oh? Could it be that you love him?

A pang of cold, unexpected fear dropped into the depths of their burning stomach once the Vessel realises their grave mistake. They left themselves open before Her. Their minds became one and the same from the moment She was trapped within their body. And they foolishly let themselves be read like a book. A mist of orange fully cloaked their eyes as the suffocating heat rose up to their throat. Now their thoughts (Do not think!) and all their secrets were Hers.

How unusual… and how fortunate for me!

(Day 156...?)

What is this place? The Hollow Knight silently wonders as they look out at a sea of golden clouds gently illuminated by the sun in the distance. They didn't remember a place such as this in the entire Hallownest and they'd seen much of it during their imprisonment and before. All around them is just a sea of cotton like clouds covering everything in sight aside from the amber sky and the aforementioned sun. Perhaps they're on some tall mountain peak in Howling Cliffs during particularly good weather? It would add up.. Only…

Something felt off.

Especially when the Hollow Knight looked down at themself. Their armor shone in the light while their black chitin seemed to consume the brightness instead of reflecting it. Just as it always has been. But it doesn't mean it sits right with them. While peering out at Hallownest, they weren't able to do that. Or even move, so to speak. Chains and all. And another thing. They don't remember attempting to peer out in the first place. All of the sudden they are horrifyingly aware that the rays of the sun, seemingly harmless and soft felt like boiling acid on their Void body. Looking up in mounting panic, they realised that the sun was not actually a sun as the orb of light unfolded, revealing two magnificent wings reaching out as if to embrace the skies-

It was all they needed to jerk back into consciousness with a jolt. The bright orange was once again in their vision, stronger than ever, the scorching heat threatening with asphyxiation. The Hollow Knight attempted to take a deep breath… but the sound they unintentionally produced made them freeze in their bindings. Ever since they hatched in the deepest pit of the Abyss, they were unable to make any sort of sound aside from quietly inhaling and exhaling, even if they were panting from exhaustion after the climb. Now however… Every struggling breath they took came out as a disturbing, wet and gurgling wheeze as though something was clogging up their lungs and hoarse throat. Every breath was loud and unsettling and they felt themself shaking uncontrollably.

They'd fallen asleep. Fool, fool, fool! Exposed themself to the Radiance directly. Thank Wyrm, they managed to wake up at all. But still, the damage was done, the orange film coated their vision and the hot pain seemed to throb just underneath their black chitin, waiting to emerge at any second. The Hollow Knight shifted and tried to pull their legs up but any movement seemed to upset the Infection even further, causing it to thrum louder and more painfully through their flesh.

Looking down at their body was the catalyst. Never before have they thought their Void that served as blood could run even colder but this short glance was all it took to prove them wrong. Uneven buds of developing pustules were forming on their chest and abdomen, pulsing alongside their pounding heart, the orange color slowly surfacing beneath the clear black. Their right shoulder also seemed to be suffering the same fate. The Hollow Knight abruptly becomes dreadfully aware of the sweet taste of rot in the back of their gullet, so sickly nauseating that it makes them retch. In just a few ragged heaves they expel a gout of pure Infection that dribbles down their mouth and splatters across the floor of their chamber. No.. no it cannot end like this…

It wouldn't be so painful if you stopped resisting, you know..

Focus, Vessel. Focus!

Do not think.

Do not speak.

Do not hope…

Do not… feel!

And focus they do. Struggling to even out their breathing, coughing a couple more times to clear their respiratory system of the radiant pus, the Hollow Knight reaches into their core, to the purest Void that remains within and fights the Infection off as best as they can. The Radiance present in their head doesn't hide annoyance when they manage to make the glowing cysts recede back into their shivering body, leaving almost no trace suggesting they were there in the first place. The orange light in their eyes flickers out of existence, swallowed by the Void. The Hollow Knight finally stops desperately clutching at the cloth of their cape with their claws but don't let themself relax fully even as the Radiance admits Her temporary defeat and moves out from the forefront of their mind to the back. Droplets of sweat rolled down their mask alongside a couple of midnight black tears emerging from their eye sockets. The orange in their vision left only to be replaced by darkness that took their hearing and made them feel sick in the stomach again.

The Hollow Knight nearly passes out from the effort of reigning in the Infection but they push through the swimming darkness and fight for each raspy breath. They cannot fall asleep again. If they do, they are done for. Scratch that, Hallownest is done for! They need to stay sharp, stay strong! They wouldn't fail their father. The more they struggled, the more painful the whole ordeal seemed to be. Visions of the suffering's end were tempting but they knew they couldn't stop resisting. They won't let Her win. Focus. They need to focus. Just like many times before, the Vessel returns to counting. Day one hundred and fifty… six. Eight hours (?), thirty-three minutes and nine… teen seconds?

How long have they been asleep? Too long, is the answer. One hundred fifty-six days...- or was it already fifty-seven? What time of day was it in the moment of their imprisonment? It was morning. No, no it wasn't… Evening. But late or early evening? One hundred fifty… Wait, no. Sixty-five? Sev… seventy-five? They can't tell anymore. It was just… long. So much for that idea.. But if it has been so long already.. maybe their father will come back for them any day now? Please… Do not hope… Swallowing thickly only to hack out another glob of sticky pus, the Hollow Knight looks up, letting the black tears perfectly intertwined with orange drip down their chin. How much longer…?

(Day one… two hundred…? Maybe three…)

Release me, voidling.

Never.

Bring the pain to an end. Destroy the Pale Usurper.

No…

You cannot contain me forever.

I will as long as I can..

Keeping the maddening haze of the Infection at bay was slowly but surely becoming more and more difficult. A week or so ago the Hollow Knight lost feeling in their right arm, partially because of the chain and partially because of the swelling of cysts pressing against the metal. Before, the chains fit neatly without too much discomfort aside from the fact that they prevented almost all movement. Pustules on their thorax reemerged soon after those on their shoulder, throbbing with searing pain. A faint hue of orange smoke was crawling around the chamber floor like carrion worms. The Radiance was growing restless, desperately trying to break the Vessel, searching through their memories they tried so hard to keep hidden, looking for ways to make it easier for Her. She shamelessly filled them with doubt, attacking the feelings towards their father which shouldn't exist in the first place. And unable to ignore it any longer, the Hollow Knight made a terrible mistake and replied with their thoughts.

He abandoned you. The Worm isn't coming back.

No. You're wrong.

Don't you see what he's done? Have you forgotten what lies in the Abyss beneath this kingdom?

Corpses. Mountains of corpses of their newly hatched siblings who never got a chance to live. Majority of them died within eggs, stillborn. No cost too great. Their father once told them. Could it… could it be that he was wrong? Impossible! She's just toying with them. Believe and trust nothing.

I have not. Their sacrifice was needed..

But to what end?

What was the worst, the Goddess changed Her tactics. She no longer hissed with hatred and anger and used brute force of Her will. Instead, Her voice grew softer. More gentle. Alluring and carrying a promise of peace and release from the unending nightmare. Almost motherly.. They knew it to be only an illusion concealing the cruel deity beneath.

For Hallownest.

Child, he has you so fooled. He fears me and cares not about this world. He cares not about you. Think about it…

With a shudder, the Hollow Knight feels Her presence recede slightly but never fully leaving. Do not think. Do not listen to Her. They shift in their bindings when their head begins to spin, calling them into a sweet embrace of blessed unconsciousness but they hold fast. And that's when they hear something hit the floor with a wet, sickening "thwack!". This sound makes a spike of fear jolt down their throat mostly occupied by the Infection. What was that? There's nothing here with them that could make this sound. Did they imagine it? Looking around for the cause of the strange noise, the Hollow Knight glances towards the source. The floor below them. And they freeze, feeling their heart drop to their heels.

The Vessel was a warrior at heart. They were used to grisly sights and gore. Had seen plenty of it too. But this was just too much. Right there, like a silent taunt lies a black, limp arm. Their arm, they realise when they look to the right where their shoulder abruptly ends with a cluster of Infected tissue. The severed appendage too was coated in the orange goop in the place where it detached from the Knight's body. The disease had eaten through their flesh until their arm had nothing more to cling to and after the slightest movement just… fell off. They draw a wheezing breath when the fingers twitch once in a last reflex before the entire arm dissolves into a puddle of Void which soon disappears without a trace.

Wyrms above, they were rotting. Decomposing alive. Melting like a faulty Kingsmould. At this point, death would've been a blessing. But if they had to die, they'd rather go out the proper way! Defeated, felled in combat like a knight they are. Not falling apart, piece by piece until… Before, they thought they knew fear. What they felt now however, was a whole new dimension. An excruciating sob wracked their body as Infected tears fell from their eyes and where the droplets met the floor, pulsing, orange veins of Infection sprouted like vines from seeds and crawled their way around the entire chamber, developing large cysts but thankfully not straying out through the archway. Still, the Hollow Knight looked up at the not so distant ceiling as more tears fell. They cannot do this anymore.

Father… please… take me home.

Their head drooped in defeat as their body trembled both with pain and fear. It's only a matter of time before the Infection breaks free and sets out to devour Hallownest. And the fault was on them. Because they weren't hollow. They were just another failure created by the Pale King. A broken vessel that failed to fulfill its purpose. Soon, the dawn shall break. And it would be their fault.

…Help me…

(Another day of torment…)

Droplets as black as sin were falling to the floor freely where the Hollow Knight crumbled to their knees, shaking like a leaf on a gale under the dreaded golden light. Void was seeping out from a wound inflicted by a spectral nail stuck above their hip. They can't, they can't do this.. They tried to fight her in the Dream, doing their best to avoid summoned blades, rays of light and orbs of magic but to no avail. She had won. Failed. Worthless. Flawed. Shattered.. This was their last chance to fend off the Infection festering inside of them. And after a torturous fight they’d failed. They had broken their promise to their father. When did they make it? Can't say for certain. It was so.. so long ago. How many days before have they lost count of the days of containment? Too many.. Far too many. Was the Radiance right? Has their father truly discarded them like a broken tool? He wouldn't… he just needs more time. But they don't have that time! They will break any moment now.

Like on a cue, a warm, soft wing brushed against their face, making the Hollow Knight look up into a pair of luminous, golden eyes staring at them from behind the ruff of dense, cream-colored fur that seemed to glow. For just a moment they had to lift their only arm to shield their eyes from bright luminosity. No wonder the old tribe of moths called their deity "the Radiance". They gawked at Her, the Goddess who caused them so much pain, who wished to destroy Hallownest out of spite against the Pale King. Was this hatred justified? They cannot tell. But now it doesn't matter. What does matter is that She is hovering before them, radiant and mesmerizing. Once their sight adjusts, the Hollow Knight finds it impossible to look away. Instead they stare like hypnotized. With a flick of Her wing She extracts the blade from their wound, making them stiffen in pain and fall back down. Still, they watch Her without blinking and weakly pull themself to their feet to shuffle closer in this trance. Where was this strange, soothing music coming from? Can She hear it too or has their sanity finally left them for good?

The Pale Wyrm took my children away from me. I only wish to have them back.

Even in a haze of feverish delirium, the Hollow Knight struggled to reject Her words. Lying wretch, if She wanted her children back, She wouldn't be hurting them. But.. She was so… beautiful, so damn convincing in Her deception! No… they can't.. She can't be...

Just like you wish you hadn't abandoned your twin..

All gears in their brain ground to a sudden halt. Twin.. Their chin trembles. The Radiance… She dug through them into their most guarded and most painful memory they ever carried. As though there has been a spell cast on them, the Hollow Knight feels their vision fade and travel back in time to this very moment. To the metal platform in the Abyss and a tiny figure of their twin struggling to pull themself up after the gruelling ascend. Their gazes met for the whole three seconds, one hopeful and begging the other uncaring and empty. And in this short while the Hollow Knight felt. For the first time in their short life. Felt the urge to turn back. To come with rescue to their exhausted sibling. But the pale light of the King, their father, was quickly heading out of this accursed place and with a twinge of an unknown feeling they later learned to recognise as guilt (one wishes to not have done something one has done..), the Pure Vessel turned away and trailed after the Wyrm who soon shut the doors to the Abyss with a bone rattling crash, sealing it forever. The imaginary sound of their twin's shell shattering on the ground and the dread-inducing wails of their Shade haunted the Hollow Knight for years to come. This has been one of those instances when the Hollow Knight was glad they have no voice and they couldn't scream in their sleep. They wished they could turn back time. That they returned and helped the struggling child onto the platform, even if it would cost them everything they gained later. It felt… wrong. They left the sibling they shared their egg with, the one who spent the time before their hatching snuggled against the Hollow Knight and embracing them protectively. This one thought stalked them through their entire life. You let them die.

Set me free, Vessel. I will ease this pain. And when I claim what's mine, it shall be my turn to release you and allow you to fade into the darkness you were born from. And then you will reunite with your lost siblings…

A violent shiver was all the answer the Hollow Knight had for Her. No voice to cry suffering. A thinking mind.. A strong will to break.. They swallowed in agitation, still unable to take their eyes off the Goddess.

Do not fight anymore..

Do not think.

Do not speak.

Do not hope..

Do not…

No more.. They were so tired…They can't keep this up. The cold, collected exterior of the legendary Pure Vessel cracks apart. She's too strong… Forgive me, father… With a sigh, the Vessel shuts their eyes as the Radiance pulls them even closer into an embrace and after Wyrm knows how long, they give up. I tried.. I really did... With the tips of her wings, the Radiance cups their cheeks and presses her forehead to their own. In the deep black eyes appear small pinpricks of orange, like pupils, slowly expanding to replace shadow with light. Sometimes trying is not good enough... They could imagine their father's voice saying that.. and he'd be right. As always... The pain that was tearing them to pieces from the inside for ages started to subside, their whole body seemed to be pulsating with heat. Just make it stop…

In the depths of the Black Egg Temple, the limp body of the Sealed Vessel dangles suspended above the ground as it had for many long years ever since the time seemed to come to a stop. No movement, not a sound as they keep their stoic vigil over the Old Light. No mind to think. No will to break. No voice to cry suffering. The Hollow Knight born of God and Void to take away the blinding light plaguing the dreams of Hallownest. All of this is a one, cruel lie. After countless years of imprisonment and service to the Pale Monarch their willpower spectacularly shatters to pieces. Orange pustules erupt from their torso as the sockets in their mask flare up with the same sickly glow, the voice in their head mingling with their own distorted thoughts.

Kill… Crush Contain him Her.. Destroy Seal away the false king the Old Light.

The searing light behind their eyes is all they see as with a horrid crunch the shell above their right eye socket gives out. A crack forms all the way towards the base of their horn as they draw a disturbingly garbled breath. No longer in control of their own body, they strain against the reinforced shackles strengthened by Seals of Binding like a feral animal to the point when the chains and armor begin to dig into their chitin painfully. Faced with failure, the Hollow Knight wheezes again, tilts their large head back gathering all their strength, feeling the years of suffering pressing onto them. Opens their mouth…

No mind the Pale King Usurper had created. Only strength.

And s c r e a m s.

…

Nothing was ever the same since that terrible, terrible day. The Infection began to spread once again, taking minds of all bugs it touched. The Hollow Knight remained trapped in the Black Vault in chains, a snarling, panting beast thirsting for blood and revenge. But in moments when their own self rears its head through the cloak of orange, even if barely for a glimpse, they are overcome with unimaginable pain forcing them back into submission. Fighting Her felt like having their lungs torn clean out. They beg death to claim them for their failure and their weakness. Hallownest was quickly dying and all they could do was watch as the thriving kingdom was brought to ruin. Because of them. Because they weren't pure like they were intended to. Because they let the Radiance take over.

However, even those short moments of clarity left them when one day an odd sensation rippled through their entire being. Something left them. Something they didn't even know was there until they lost it. A presence, cold and comforting, a stark contrast to the blinding brightness of the Radiance. For a while they weren't sure what it was until a grim realisation eventually dawned on them when they searched for the White Palace only to find... nothing. Only emptiness behind a crumbling gate where it once stood tall and majestic. It was the Pale King. It was his presence they felt. And this presence was suddenly snuffed out like a candlelight. Just like that. The Wyrm was gone. His light faded and left Hallownest and its inhabitants behind. How…? The entire Palace, their home along with all memories vanished.. What happened? Could he be… dead…? The mere thought caused them to halt their struggling breath. Not a single part of their being could come to terms with what just happened once they understood. No... No, it’s impossible, it can’t be true!

No amount of denial would change the reality. The Pale King is gone along with the whole court. Everything around ceased, even the earth itself seemed to pause at the disappearance of the Wyrm. Only the brightness of Her domain was surrounding the Hollow Knight as they stared forward into nothingness in disbelief. Half of their shredded mind was clouded by a spectre of a distant memory. Two figures. One bright as the moon itself, the Pale King in all his glory. The other, much shorter, Void incarnate. A small Vessel with two horns crowning its head. The Hollow Knight cannot hear what the Pale King was saying, it was too long ago and their memory seemed to be failing them as of late. All they did remember from that moment, a day or so after their arrival to the White Palace, was exacly what played out before their eyes. The Wyrm absent mindedly rested his hand on the Vessel’s back as he kept talking. A slight weight seemed to fall in the very same place between shoulder blades of the Hollow Knight but no hand was there to offer comfort. From a very far away, they heard the Pale King’s voice, barely a faint echo.

“Until the end of time, they shall always remember what you’ve done for them. As will I...”

In seconds the vision of their past became undone before them, leaving them alone and at the mercy (or its lack thereof) of the Dream Goddess. Their already fragile heart broke thousand times over, the last shreds of their hope faded away and globules of orange pus rolled down their face instead of inky Void tears dripping onto their armor, tarnished by the passage of time. He said he would remember.. Always...

Father… why…?

When the Radiance told them the Pale King abandoned them, they didn't believe Her. They found it inconceivable. He wouldn't leave them on purpose.. Something horrible must've happened. He… he cared… He-… Rearing back, the Hollow Knight once again cried out in dismay with the borrowed voice of the plague.

Why have you… forsaken me…?

Time has lost its meaning that day. Seconds slipped past the shattered Vessel. Weeks passed without notice and the disease raged across the faded land. How long has it been since the departure of the Pale Monarch…? A month, a year… or maybe a decade? Hard to say. The Hollow Knight spent it in a numb haze, unable to wrestle the control the Radiance had over their body, because they simply.. had no will to do so anymore. All they could do on their own was look around the dark chamber but they had no wish to do so either. Instead, they stared at  a wall with blank eyes. No sense. No hope. No death. No relief.. Only pain and sorrow. Burning wrath of the Dream Goddess. She lied. The Wyrm has disappeared, possibly perished in some tragedy that brought down the entire White Palace.. If he was gone, where was the release She promised? No, it was no longer about the King. She just wanted the end of Hallownest for the sake of vengeance alone.. This was not a motherly longing for lost children. It was a punishment. How could they have been so foolish…?

No longer did the Hollow Knight find strength to resist. It left them with their beloved father. Did he leave because of their failure…? Or was he truly gone? No longer did the Hollow Knight find the will to look out at their old home. They couldn't muster up the courage to gaze upon the land they failed to protect. But perhaps if they had seen what became of the eternal kingdom, their heart would fully break and maybe the sorrow alone would grant them the peace they begged for for so long now. All they could see was the bright, scorching light. Nothing more, nothing less… Why won't She let them go? A dark, not entirely unwelcome thought crept into their head. If only they could reach their nail.. all it would take was a quick stab through the heart. It rested below them where they had left it years ago, now tarnished and covered in dust, just out of reach. Even if they could grab it though, their only arm remained in chains, immobilized.. Was this a punishment for thinking they can match the strength of the Radiance? If so… they very well deserved it. Gurgling up a pathetic sound, the once great Hollow Knight trembled.

Father… I failed you... I'm sorry…

They thought as though this apology would mean anything or be heard by anyone aside from Her. And She didn't care. But they needed to, wanted to say it. If only they could… Maybe he would hear them then and mercifully grant his child their final, desperate wish.

… please, let me die…

--------------------------------------------------

There is the first of two chapters. Hope it's decent, I have NO idea how to portray the Hollow Knight. I'm abysmal XD

I know I said it's gonna be a short fic. People who have been following me for a while probably know me well for being a liar but god DAMN. I got a bit carried away and the other chapter isn't going to be shorter :O

[pyrrhesia]

FF14 Write - ‘Destruct’

In which Ysabet Sable puts her pride aside.

The forest canopy hummed with life. Songbirds boomed out their mating cries, the autumn-fall of leaves drifted to the floor, and underneath it all, the whispers of viera footfall glided unnoticed through the chaos. All that drew attention to them was the brewing argument between the three figures. Viera remained alike the other warmblooded races in a few aspects, not  least the fact that any trio of adolescents could immediately be carved into three archetypes: the brash one, the clever one, and the one who ensured the three would actually make it to adulthood. Even if they did not fit these roles alone, any group of three would slide into the same, time-honoured dynamics. The tallest one, Kjva, represented the first archetype; given this, it was an ill sign she was the one carrying the bow. "You're fretting for nothing, Thrjs. The beast is old and slow." "So let it die!" Thrjs argued. "If it represented a threat unaccosted, the hunters would act. You'll only to madden the beast." "And risk it preying on helpless foragers? What do you think, Mrdja?" The third of the crew shrugged. "I'm here, am I not?" "There, a vote of confidence!" "Besides, you'll need someone to pry you out of the thing's maw when it has you." Mrdja grinned. "This is a terrible idea, Kjva, and you are an idiot. But you are my idiot, and life would be dull without you." "Mrdja, you're as bad as her!" Thrjs despaired. "Sh!" Kjva gestured frantically to the others. "I've found the beast's tracks." Silence lasted almost a full second. "Don't sound so pleased with yourself," said Mrdja. "They're the size of tree-trunks." "Tracks as wide as trees, and we're going to follow it," said Thrjs, rolling her eyes. "Idiots the both of you." It did not take them long to catch up. The beast was slow, lumbering through the woods with all the grace of a light-drunk moth slamming into a window. It had uprooted a number of trees on its trail of carnage, and, judging by master tracker Kjva's evaluation of a massive haemorrhage in the middle of its path, had probably eaten recently. They found it in a clearing, outside a cave. A great, slavering canine creature, dragging a deer carcass in its maw. It dropped the carcass outside its lair, and a few pups came bounding out eagerly, worrying at the remnants. Mrdja marvelled. "The size of the thing... !" Its work done, the patriarch shifted over towards a maggot-ravaged corpse, a smaller mirror in duller colours. It licked it a couple of times - Thrjs gagged - before almost mournfully seeming to sit by its side. "A hyur arrow through its throat," Kjva said, softly. "That must be the mate. No wonder the beast went feral." Thrjs turned to her. "Well, master archer, I doubt even you could miss that thing. Care to take your mark? I promise to clap when it's over with." Kjva re-evaluated the task, and her bravado in relation to it. "Uh," she said. "What was that you were saying earlier about heroes, Kj?" Thrjs never could resist twisting a knife. "Let's just go--" She took the first step, tugging Kjva's sleeve, and stepped on a thin, dry branch which snapped underfoot. The beast turned, and reared up. The three of them stood petrified for a moment, before instinct took over. Kjva nocked and drew the arrow in a single fluid motion, but as the beast lumbered towards the three of them, her heart raced and threw off her aim as she let fly. The arrow sank into one of the pups, which whined and scattered into the woods. The beast bellowed a roar which shook the woods. The three young viera bolted, all thoughts of glory gone, the only thought on their mind getting back to Camoa, not daring to look behind them but hearing the thundering of paws, the trees in their way being bulldozed aside, and Mrdja stumbled on a rock and fell heavily on her ankle, cried out, shut her eyes and waited for death. There was a silken sound, and the rush of air overhead as a volley of arrows struck their mark, tearing through flesh. The beast gave out a final, defiant roar... before collapsing with what seemed almost like a sigh. Mrdja opened her eyes. Grim-faced figures slipped away from the shadows, surveying the scene. A familiar voice cut through. "Idiot!" shouted Irsa, Kjva's mentor, pushing through her companions to loom in the time-honoured 'I'm so glad you're alive but you are in so much shit' posture adopted by all adults at one time or another. Kjva bowed her head in shame. "We wanted to be of use to our people." "Be of use by staying alive, you stupid girl! Seven years I've taught you, barely even a start to your training, and you want to throw it all away? Selfish idiot!" There was just one course of action remaining to Kjva. She burst into tears. Irsa gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, performatively huffed before finally enveloping the girl in a hug. "Just don't scare me like that again..." Thrjs stepped forward, felt it was time to claim her credit points as The Good Influence. "I told her it was madness! I told them both, but Mrdja just kept egging her on, just because she wants to kiss her, everyone knows it--" Irsa glared at Thrjs. "Yet did you stop them? Or did you just want to crow over the bodies of your dead friends?" Thrjs looked stricken, but had no answer. But Mrdja was still dreadfully pale. "We committed a crime against the wood," she murmured, eyes locked on the corpse of the beast. Irsa cocked her head. "It was old, feral, without a mate. Its part in the cycle was over. It was not your role to end its life, but this in itself is no tragedy." From the cover of her arms, Kjva glared with sudden don't-you-dare hatred. It was too big a secret to keep, even for her sake. "Kjva's shot missed. She struck a pup." The other hunters glanced among each other. That was a different matter. "But..." Mrdja rallied. No, she could still fix all this! "I can make this right!" "Mrdja, no--" "No, I can! Ljda's taught me well! Let me make atonement, I beg you!" And she turned and slipped off into the woods before anyone could stop her.

It had not made it far from the cave. Mrdja followed the trail of blood until she found the pup, shivering and whimpering, coiled up under a tree. The shot had taken it through the shoulder and throat. Mrdja clicked her tongue. It was a grievous wound, and simply pulling the arrow free would push the pitiful creature over the edge. It struggled at first under her hands, but lacked the strength to resist. "Calm, now," she murmured. "It will be alright." Mrdja kneeled by the pup for hours as the sun set, ministering to its wounds, her fingers stroking its soft, downy fur and letting her meagre stores of aether seep into the wound. It whined softly as she broke off the broadleaf arrowhead, trying to prise it free as slowly and as gently as she could, not even noticing the pup lash out with its claws and tear a bloody score in her arm, her energy focused on mending its wounds as she went... before, at last, pulling the thing free. It mewled, wretchedly. Mrdja held it down firmly with one hand, fumbling for her poultice and bandages with the other. Her ministrations did not stop when it cried out one final time. They did not stop when it went still. "Mrdja." "I can still save it," she muttered. "Mrdja." Firmer, this time, and accompanied by a hand on her shoulder. Mrdja squirmed violently away from it, turning to face the new arrival as she still protectively clutched the pup in her hands. Her mentor stood, watching her impassively, leaning on an old, gnarled staff. "It's over, girl," she said, not unkind but certainly final. Mrdja pushed back, a rush of anger boiling over. "You don't believe in me? After seven years your student! Have I not shown you--" Ljda tutted. "Seven years my student and you still can't see its heart stopped minutes ago." Mrdja's mouth opened and shut, but the words wouldn't come. Ljda supplied them for her. "I know you did what you could. You found a dying creature that would have succumbed in minutes and drew its suffering over a matter of hours." "That isn't fair!" Mrdja said, the words sounding hollow the moment . "I... I tried everything I knew..." Ljda took a deep breath. "No. It wasn't fair to the poor creature that your pride blinded you to the truth." Mrdja blinked, her eyes damp. The weight in her hands felt so horribly light. "You should have said something," she said, thickly. "How long were you there? And you just let this happen?" The old viera smiled, sadly. "I will not always be there to guide you, you know. Not because I plan to die," she added, seeing her student look panicked. "Because of you. Already, I can see your eyes casting beyond the forest. I suspect there is an itch you cannot quite resolve in Camoa. So I must prepare you for the world, proud little Mrdja, and if you are to call yourself a healer, there are things you must know. What if I had told you, hm? Can you really say you would not think to yourself, you knew better than your Ljda? This way you know. Deep in your bones, I think." They buried the pup under the tree.

Several generations later, by Eorzean reckoning, the aftermath of battle proved no respite for Ysabet Sable. Her cuirass was dented a thousand ways, cuts on her cheek and thigh had scabbed over, and she was acutely aware she was fortunate to still be standing. More than anything she wanted to sit, or better, to sleep. To find some respite amidst the chaos. Yet she still had the privilege of her strength, and a way to make a difference. The indulgence of rest would cost lives that could still be snatched from the brink of death. "Hey! You!" Ysabet was not accustomed to being a 'hey you', but too tired to argue. Wearily, she looked over her shoulder, saw two partisans dragging a comrade between their shoulders. The man was unnaturally pale, his coat closed tight with a dark, sodden patch around his midriff. His head lolled, trying to put Ysabet in focus. He tried to speak. "Just rest, Garwyn," soothed the other partisan. "You'll be alright." "The fucking tree-shaggers are holding out on us!" fumed the first. "Talking about the will of the elements. How about our fucking will to string 'em up, eh? But I heard some say you were some kind of a witch!" "Hush," said Ysabet, firmly. She glanced at the man. She remembered, to her bones. This was no time for pride. "Lay him on the slab, then give me space." The Ala Mhigans rested Garwyn down. Ysabet did not need to open the coat to see the wound. The smell told her everything. "Leave us," she commanded. "You'll save him, right?" "I will do there is to be done. Go do what you can for some others." The tent-flap rustled as they stepped away. Ysabet hissed out a breath between her teeth, pinched her temple. She was so dry of energy, but even with a day's rest and three square meals there would be nothing to do but this. She placed two of her fingers on Garwyn's temple. His mouth opened, but could not shut, as failing eyes cast about looking for a focus. Ysabet leaned in close. "Just rest your eyes, now," she said, softly. "Your pain is too great to be borne. I will free you of its burden."

[yellowmagicalgirl]

All the ways we couldn't save you

Ladybug and Chat Noir defeat Hawk Moth and Mayura late on Friday night. On Monday morning, Mme. Bustier tells the class Adrien won't be coming to school anymore.

I don't consider myself to be in the Miraculous Ladybug fandom anymore, and I haven't watched most of seasons 2 and 3 nor do I have any desire to. However, I had this idea and I wanted to write it.

Timeline-wise, I guess this takes place sometime after Marinette becomes the Guardian? Though, the episode "Dark Owl" did not occur in order for this to properly work.

TRIGGER/SPOILER WARNING: This fic is about suicide. There is no happy ending.

AO3

FFN

Ladybug and Chat Noir defeated Hawk Moth and Mayura late on Friday night. Ladybug had taken the Miraculous from the two unconscious adults, pocketing them to take back to the Miraculous Box when she and Chat were done. Chat had found rope, and he and Ladybug had tied up Gabriel Agreste and Nathalie Sancouer. When the police arrived, the superheroes handed over the now ex-supervillains and re-entered the mansion, looking for any underlying threats.

"Should we wake him? Tell him?" Ladybug asked as they passed by the portrait of Adrien and his father.

"No," Chat said, eyes oddly downcast. "When Adrien wakes up, he's not... I don't think he's going to like having to live in the world he wakes up to. Let's not force him into it so soon."

Ladybug shivered as they made their way up to Hawk Moth's lair. Not because she felt cold, but something felt very wrong about this situation. She couldn't place why, though.

She shook her head, briefly. It must have been being so close to the Peacock Miraculous. That was what was setting her off. It had to be.

They found notes. Blueprints to a secret room. Ladybug pressed her lips together and glanced at her partner. She couldn't tell if it was the lighting or something else that made him seem so pale.

They found the coffin in an underground garden. There was something beautiful about it, in a horrifying way.

Adrien's mother looked so peaceful. She looked like might just be sleeping.

She wasn't breathing.

Chat Noir gasped. It was an ugly, wet, choking sound. "Why?"

"I don't know. Let's face it, Gabriel Agreste was an evil man. He kept his son locked up for years. Of course he'd keep his wife's corpse locked up, too."

"And not even tell his son."

After a minute of searching (and Chat staring at Emilie Agreste with an odd look on his face), Ladybug found the plugs to the life support. She wrapped her hand around one.

"What are you doing?" Chat asked her. He did not move.

"Chat, she's already dead."

"You don't know that."

Ladybug took out the butterfly miraculous, and pinned it to her suit. "Is she alive?" Ladybug asked, looking between the kwami and the woman in the coffin.

"No. Well, technically yes, but only because of life support. Her mind is gone," they said, shaking their head. "I already told Ma- Gabriel this before he even formed his first akuma, but he wouldn't listen."

"Is there a way we can bring her back?" Chat's voice was strained.

"That's why he wanted your miraculous," Nooroo said. "If you combine the Ladybug and Chat Noir miraculous together, you can grant a wish. But, that wish comes at a great cost. I tried to tell Gabriel this, too, but he wouldn't listen."

"What sort of cost?" Chat asked. Ladybug wrapped her fingers around the plug once more.

"A human life, and probably the one of someone he cared about," Nooroo said. Ladybug pulled the plug loose.

"What are you doing?" Chat turned to Ladybug, horror evident on his face. Ladybug continued pulling the plugs. "We're not the bad guys, Ladybug! We save people!"

"She's already gone. She's been dead for months," Ladybug said, dropping the last plug. "And sacrificing someone, anyone, isn't the right thing to do."

Chat stood rooted to the spot, eyes vacant.

"I'm going to go tell the police about her, so they can take her so she can finally get buried," Ladybug said. "Trust me, Chat, I didn't want to do this either."

"Go ahead." Chat's voice was flat.

Ladybug gave him a soft smile. "I'll meet up with you later. I'm glad this is over, but I'm also really tired."

"Yeah. I'm tired, too. It's over."

Marinette went to school on Monday morning, a smile on her face and a spring in her step. She had a box of celebratory cookies with her.

Hawk Moth and Mayura were gone, so she could be a normal girl with a normal life. She could go through school without worrying about having to miss class because of an akuma, or that her frustration with a failed quiz would lead to the downfall of Paris. In fact, she probably wouldn't fail as many quizzes, now, because now she could spend more time studying.

Adrien and Chloé weren't at school. Marinette frowned slightly as the minutes passed and neither of them walked into the classroom.

Mme. Bustier walked into the classroom, her arm around Sabrina's shoulders. Sabrina went to her seat, hugging herself. Sabrina seemed paler than normal, and her clothes seemed darker. Mme. Bustier's eyes were downcast, and her lips were pressed together. Her face looked slightly red.

"Adrien isn't going to be coming to class, anymore," she said. "Chloé will be... when she returns, don't press her about it. She's already not doing well."

"What? Why?" Alix asked. "Do the police think Adrien was working with his dad?"

"He did never get akumatized," Max said, and shrank down into his seat when the class turned to glare at him. "I'm not saying that he's at fault, I'm just saying it looks bad to an outside observer!"

Sabrina sank further into her seat.

"Okay, but didn't M. Agreste get akumatized himself? Into the Collector?" Alya said.

"Yeah, he did, Adrien was really torn up about it afterwards," Nino said, looking sadly at the empty seat.

"So the authorities shouldn't be blaming Adrien, then," Max said.

"Adrien isn't in any trouble," Mme. Bustier said. "He... Adrien was sick, and he succumbed to his illness on Saturday evening."

"Stop using euphemisms," Sabrina said. Her glare was so icy that it could've frozen the tears in her eyes. "Adrien killed himself."

On Monday night, Ladybug tried to call Chat Noir. She had given him space, because she had known he was mad at her, but she needed the one human who'd know why she felt so guilty.

He didn't respond.

On Tuesday, Marinette saw a tabloid wondering if Adrien's death was a cover up - if someone thought he was a threat. Thought that he would become the next Hawk Moth.

Marinette had never wanted to become Lady Noir again so badly as she did then, wanting to cataclysm the entire stand.

She called Chat Noir again that night. She still got no answer.

She didn't think he killed Adrien. If anything, Ladybug had killed Adrien.

Chloé came back to school on Wednesday, but it took Marinette a moment to recognize her.

Her long blonde hair was in a loose, low, lopsided ponytail. She didn't wear any of her usual eye makeup, and her foundation did little to disguise the redness around her eyes, the bags under them, and the paleness of her complexion. Her posture was hunched, like she was trying to make herself smaller. A plain golden ring was on her middle finger, but she wore no other jewelry.

Sabrina went to hug her.

"The funeral's on Saturday," Chloé said; her voice was soft and hoarse and didn't sound like her at all.

Throughout the lesson, Chloé stared at her ring with unfocused eyes.

On Friday, Mme. Bustier gave a lesson on mental health, and how to recognize signs of depression in someone else. It surprised her, that suddenly being happy after being sad for so long wasn't always a hopeful sign.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marinette saw Chloé flinch when their teacher mentioned that a suicidal person will give things important to them away.

Marinette didn't remember seeing most of these signs in Adrien. She remembered seeing some of them in Chat Noir.

Chat Noir still wasn't answering her calls.

It was a double funeral for both Emilie and Adrien. It made sense. Gabriel had not been allowed to go to his son's funeral, so the task fell to foreign relatives. It would be easier to bury both at the same time.

It was an open-coffin funeral. Emilie looked the same as she did when Ladybug had killed her.

Adrien looked so peaceful. He looked like might just be sleeping.

He wasn't breathing. If Marinette squinted the way she did when she used her lucky charm, she could almost see the signs underneath the mortician's makeup, showing where his neck had broken. They also hadn't covered up the tan line where Adrien's silver ring had been.

Chloé hugged Adrien's cousin, still wearing the gold ring she had worn to class.

Ladybug went out on patrol again on Sunday evening. She needed to clear her head so that all she would be able to think about would be way she had to swing in order to not fall.

She checked her yo-yo's map, to see where she was because she got too caught up. She saw an indicator to Chat Noir's location.

It was time to go find her partner.

The holder of the Cat Miraculous sat on a rooftop, knees curled to their chest. They stared at the Agreste mansion with unfocused eyes, specifically where Adrien's room had been.

They weren't Chat Noir.

She had long blonde hair was in a loose, low, lopsided ponytail, held by a dark green ribbon. Her torso, legs, and arms were coal-colored. Her collar, gloves, and thigh-high boots were the color of midnight, and all were at v-shaped angles. Her bell was on a dark green ribbon, and a dark green ribbon formed her tail as well. Her blue eyes had tears in them.

The Cat Miraculous holder looked up at Ladybug, and then back at Adrien's room. "I couldn't stop him." Her voice was soft and hoarse.

"Stop who?" Ladybug asked, sitting a few feet from the girl.

"The previous Chat. I couldn't stop him, and I should've known better. I should've known something was wrong. I should've known that something was wrong when he gave me a small jewelry box. Not that he had been Chat, of course, because it was a plain black box. But he wasn't wearing his ring when he gave me the box. I should've stayed with him."

"What happened to Chat?"

"It was all over the news."

"I didn't know his identity. He didn't know mine."

The girl's eyes narrowed as she glanced towards Ladybug. Her eyes unfocused again as she started staring at the Cat Miraculous.

"He hung himself. And his name was Adrien Agreste. And his body was still warm when I found him."

Ladybug hugged Chloé as she burst into tears.

Author's note: Here is how Chloe looks when she uses the cat miraculous.

[imsuchmarveltrash]

Revolutionary (A Stucky x Reader Imagine) - inspired by Badlands by Halsey [PROLOGUE + Chapter One]

“Hello, and I’m sorry: a salutation and a farewell. I don’t have much time. This Times New Roman is gonna fly through my fingertips, like a plague of moths. The hollow black-letter shells crunched into the ground, like the skin of a cicada. And you can do whatever you want with it–keep it to yourself, or let it serve as a warning.

“This city is disgusting; a corpse of what it used to be. The people are filthy, gluttonous: ruled by the power exchange of sex from the hands of the proletariat to the bourgeoisie. The tops of the skylines buzz with the lacklustre enthusiasm. The ground level is caked in dirt and rust and grime, and the people that dwell there awake and rub the filmy layer off their lukewarm eyes.

“There are some here I love, some who fear me, and some who wish I was dead. I didn’t ask for this. No one asks for this. You’re born into it. You grow up oblivious and sheltered, and one day the evil realities of this place hit you square between the eyes, like a perfectly aimed bullet. If this were a movie, I would ride off in some blood red sunset, down a stretch of desert road, into the wasteland that keeps us captive here. But this isn’t a movie. These are the Badlands.”

-Halsey

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWCOW7TaGQE 

Chapter One: Castle

These were the Badlands. A singular long-forgotten city that existed leagues away from any other known civilisation. No one knew what happened to the rest of the world, just that as far as your eye could see, all that remained was a stretch of desert wasteland, seemingly endless. The city itself was completely dystopian: a dilapidated ground level filled with squalor and people living in misery. They were referred to as The Proletariat–the 99% that was forced to live off the scraps the government could barely care to provide. That other 1% was what you called the Bourgeoisie. They were the richest of the rich, living lives of excess and gluttony. Yet, the superfluity could never hide the emptiness that never wavered from their dull eyes.

The government could barely care for order. They’d passed few rules of society and as long as they weren’t broken there were never any issues. These rules were:

1.      The Badlands are what’s left of society, you may never leave.

2.      There is a clear line between Proletariat and Bourgeoisie. You cannot cross it. Be exiled if you dare.

3.      Relations between the Proletariat and Bourgeoisie are taboo. People who break this rule will be outcasted.

The government’s biggest concern was keeping the Proletariat separate from the Bourgeoisie. Naturally, people had their ways of bypassing the rules. They met in secret, spoke in codes. That was how you’d become part of an underground circle that believed in equal treatment of all people. The government only acted to keep the people they liked happy. The needs of the rest of the city were never prioritised. The group you belonged to wanted change.

You were a small group–barely over fifteen people. Consisting of people mostly part of the Proletariat, there were few Bourgeoisie members. These included Tony Stark, Natalia Romanova (better referred to as Natasha Romanoff), Loki Laufeyson, and Nicholas J. Fury.

The mastermind that was Tony Stark remained a mystery to you. The government adored him. A descendant of Howard Stark, the man responsible for the city surviving, Tony had both privilege and the weight of rather large shoes to fill. Yet, Tony was treated as royalty, but he couldn’t care less for the system the government had in place. He’d seen too many people  dying in the streets to be able to continue turning a blind eye. Soon after embracing his dissatisfaction, he’d met you, and the two of you formed a pact, vowing to make a difference.

Natasha was a beauty born straight into the government. She’d seen what they were doing and had been appalled. Unlike the rest of society, Natasha didn’t grow up sheltered. Her parents were government agents who helped enforce the ruling system. They wanted her to grow up to be just like them, so the system was her harsh reality from the start.

Loki was the most reluctant of the Bourgeoisie members in the group. He enjoyed his life of luxury and liked being able to have the entire city at his fingertips. He  just couldn’t take the injustice anymore. Not after his brother, Thor, renounced his position within the Bourgeoisie to be exiled to a low-class Proletarian lifestyle.

Nicholas Fury had stumbled into your group by chance, but it was a chance you were all thankful for. He was the right-hand man to Alexander Pierce, the leader of the government’s schema. His desire for equality along with his pull within the government, made him an integral part of your circle.

The Proletariat members consisted of you, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Thor Odinson, Peter Parker, Clint Barton, Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, Bruce Banner, Vision, James Rhodes, and Maria Hill.

You, Steve and Bucky had grown up together. Growing from friends in your youth to something so intricate yet indescribable as the three of you got older. They were your closest confidants and gave you both everything you wanted and needed. Relationships and labels didn’t exist within the Badlands, so you could exist freely with your boys. The three of you had made a pact to follow each other to the end of the line, even if that meant that they were following your lead through this revolution.

Thor Odinson joined shortly before his brother Loki. He’d been a member of high society but had a good heart. He’d spend a lot of his money trying to help those he could within the Proletariat in whichever way he could. This made him highly unfavoured with the government, so they propositioned him. He could either stop helping the Proletariat or be stripped of his wealth and become one of them. The convoluted system somehow gave the government the rights to do that. So, Thor chose to rather be a part of the Proletariat.

Peter Parker was your youngest member. He had a brilliant mind and, together with Maria Hill and Wanda Maximoff, had found a way to hack all of the government systems. There was no special reason for any of them being in your circle, they were only tired of living in squalor.

James “Rhodey” Rhodes and Pietro Maximoff also only joined for the cause. Rhodey because of Maria, and Pietro because of his sister. They were both strong fighters, which you knew you’d need to win this war, so you accepted the both of them gladly.

Bruce and Vision were two of the most intelligent men you’d ever known. They both had a passion for knowledge and, unfortunately, being born into the Proletariat didn’t allow them much access to it. Yet, with what they had, they somehow managed to be incredible at developing the weapons and tools that would be needed to power this revolution. Vision was spectacular with raw materials, having the skill to rival even the most qualified mechanical engineer, whereas Bruce was the Proletariat leading expert in chemical and biological weaponry.

Lastly, Clint Barton probably had the biggest vendetta out of anyone in your circle. Like Thor, he was exiled from the Bourgeoisie. What hurt him the most was that he’d lost his position because of falling in love and the government stripped him from his choice in the matter. Instead, they took his wife, Laura, only minutes after they’d gotten their marriage licence signed in secret. They took her to a government facility, never to be seen again, and had outcasted Clint to be a Proletarian. Knowing the cruelty of the government, he worried for Laura’s life and all that pain changed him, hardened him into the man he is now.

You were chosen as your circle’s  leader not only because of founding the group with Tony and your elaborate mind for strategy, but you all knew that the city would need a Proletariat leader after you overthrew the government. You weren’t self-elected. The group all believed in you. They knew that, mentally, you were the strongest and would be the best person to lead them both through the overthrow of the government and the change in the future. These may have been the Badlands, but this was your revolution.

[twilights-800-cats]

<< Allegiances || Chapter 19 || Chapter 20 || Chapter 21 || From the Beginning || Patreon >>

Chapter 20

Mothwing looked up at the sky, frowning. The clouds that had formed the night before looked like they were staying around. She had a feeling it didn’t signal another sudden downpour, but she was unwilling to trust her own instincts at a time like this.

Tawnypelt… The deputy’s absence was a huge blow to the Clan’s morale, and Mothwing could see it on every cat’s face. Even though Leopardstar had stepped in and was doling out the morning patrols as if nothing happened, Mothwing could see behind her mother’s confident stance – Tawnypelt had been her closest friend for a long time, and Leopardstar was worried.

“Keep an eye out for her,” Leopardstar was telling every patrol. “But no cat is to go near a Twoleg if you see one; and stay within our borders no matter what.”

“Even if we catch WindClan stealing our prey?” asked Brackenflight, her eyes flung wide.

Leopardstar nodded. “Be safe,” she urged.

She’s finally taking this threat seriously, Mothwing thought, her stomach churning. She could hear the Twoleg monsters starting up in the distance – they always roared to life just as the sun rose, and their patrols were getting closer and closer…

Mothwing had to force herself to breathe evenly. If she panicked in front of the whole Clan, it wouldn’t make anything better. Mudfur was already so weak he refused to get out of his nest until the sun warmed him through – RiverClan needed her to be strong.

A flash of gray caught her eye, and Mothwing straightened her back as she watched her brother pad towards her. Mothwing frowned – he smelled faintly of the reeds, like he’d been outside recently, and she spotted him favoring a paw slightly.

What have you gotten into? A season ago she might not have hesitated to ask such a question, but Falcontail’s attitude had soured since Mothwing had become a medicine cat. Lately, though, Mothwing wondered if her littermate had always been that way, and she had been blinded by their shared perspectives while they trained to be warriors. She kept her jaws shut for now, only dipping her head to acknowledge Falcontail as he stopped a tail-length away.

“I want you to come with me,” he stated.

Mothwing’s ear twitched. It ruffled her fur that it sounded more like a command than a request. I might be an apprentice, but I’m not your apprentice! Still, there were no other tasks pressing her – it was her duty, after all, to see to the needs of her Clanmates. Falcontail might be a pain in the tail lately but he was still her Clanmate.

“Where to?” she asked.

Falcontail sniffed. “Just come,” he insisted, turning his back.

Mothwing sighed and got to her paws, letting Falcontail lead the way out of camp. His scent lay very faintly on the path they were trotting along, heading towards a thick reed bed that lay beside an open stretch of land near WindClan territory. Mothwing’s nose twitched – she could smell it so well because they were littermates, but… He tried to disguise his path, she realized.

Not only that, but Mothwing saw the seriousness in Falcontail’s yellow eyes, and the stiff way he walked put her on edge. Where were they going? What did he want with her?

Falcontail led her into the center of the thicket of reeds. Mothwing could hear the roar of the gorge water not far off, and her legs ached. He’d come all this way, earlier than any cat was awake… for what?

She smelled it before she saw it – the smell of blood, and something bird-like. Falcontail parted the reeds to reveal a dead falcon hidden in the fronds, still fresh. Mothwing looked up at a nearby young tree – there was a falcon’s nest just at the top. Empty, now, she realized. Did he climb up there just to kill it?

Mothwing flinched and took a pawstep back, staring incredulously at her brother. “What is this?” she demanded. Her claws flexed with uncertainty, and something in her was telling her this was a very strange, bad situation to be in.

“I want you to take a feather from this bird and give it to Leopardstar,” Falcontail stated, his tone very even and serious. He sat himself down beside the corpse, curling his striped tail around his paws. “Tell her it was a sign from StarClan that I should be deputy.”

Mothwing stared at her brother, jaws agape in shock. It took her a moment to collect herself, to really process what her littermate was suggesting – “You want me to fake a sign from StarClan? For you?”

“Yes.” Falcontail’s tone was flat.

“Do you know how against the warrior code that is?!” Mothwing hissed, glancing behind her to ensure no cats were within earshot – thankfully they were so deep in the reeds that no cat could see or hear them. Her heart was pounding in her ears. “I can’t believe you would ask me such a thing! Have you any idea how much trouble we would both get into?”

Falcontail still looked unoffended. He shrugged. “It’s no big deal, really. RiverClan needs a deputy and we can’t afford to wait for whenever Tawnypelt decides to return. I’m the cat that can help RiverClan best now – everyone knows it, but Leopardstar needs a push to see it.”

Mothwing was bristling from ears to tail, her limbs shaking. How could Falcontail be so arrogant?! “You’re an ambitious fool!” she spat. Remembering that he was her littermate, she added, “Maybe one day you could be a great deputy, but you’re too young! Frostsplash has been your only apprentice, and he was already an adult! Not to mention the fact that you want me to fake a sign from StarClan to get you what you want! Have bees gotten into your brain?!”

Falcontail’s eyes flashed. “I have the backing of the Clan, and by the warrior code I can be deputy,” he stated simply. “There have been younger deputies, and not just in RiverClan’s history. Leopardstar will wait until the sky falls before she appoints someone to replace Tawnypelt – a sign is all that will make her budge.”

He got to his paws. “So, if you won’t do it, I will,” Falcontail declared.

Mothwing stared at her brother, feeling as if he had taken all the wind from her lungs. She gripped the earth beneath her paws in order to keep from swaying.  

Falcontail seemed to take Mothwing’s silence as an invitation to keep going: “It’s really not so hard – I’ve done it before. For you.”

Mothwing’s mouth went dry. “I was chosen by StarClan,” she retorted, her hackles rising. How dare he say—

“StarClan? Please – I killed the moth. I put its wing in front of the medicine cat’s den,” Falcontail snapped. He rose to his paws to meet Mothwing, his face twisted and smug. “Did you really think StarClan had done it?” He said ‘StarClan’ as if they meant nothing to him. “Did you really think you were worthy?”

Mothwing flung herself at Falcontail before she could process what was happening, her screech of horror echoing through the reeds. She dug her claws into her brother’s pelt as she pushed him to the earth, but though fury was searing in her veins like fire, she couldn’t bring herself to tear into him. He was still her littermate.

Falcontail wasn’t even fighting back. He lay beneath her, his yellow eyes narrowed to slits as they bored into her. “You wanted to be a medicine cat so badly,” he hissed. “But Mudfur wouldn’t dare accept an apprentice without a sign from his precious StarClan. I helped you get what you want, Mothwing – so now it’s your turn!”

Mothwing trembled. She didn’t want to believe him but his words rang with truth – Mudfur had been so reluctant at first that Mothwing had felt like she would never be a medicine cat; but the moment the moth’s wing sign appeared…

She felt hollow, like Falcontail had drained all the life and light from her body. It’s true, she thought, staring down at her littermate. He… it’s all because of him… He’s the reason StarClan won’t talk to me!

Falcontail’s eyes burned. “If you don’t do this for me… I will tell all of RiverClan the truth – and then who knows what will happen to you?”

“You… you faked the sign, though,” Mothwing trembled. “It would be you in trouble, not me!”

Falcontail shrugged. “I don’t have to tell the whole truth… ‘Oh, my poor sister wanted to be a medicine cat so badly!’” His voice rose in shrill mockery. “‘She begged me to help!’ That’s all I have to say – what do you think RiverClan would do if they found out their medicine cat was falsely appointed…?”

Mothwing felt as if the world was upside-down. She pulled away from her brother as if he were a snake about to strike, her entire body shivering. She curled her tail around herself, trying to keep from fainting.

“I won’t do it,” she managed to whisper. Though she felt like collapsing, the fury at what her brother had done was still there – perhaps that was what was keeping her upright. No matter what, she would not let RiverClan suffer. She forced her lip to curl, growling, “StarClan chose me. I will never help you!”

Falcontail shook his head and sighed as he got to his paws. “If you really think so… why not ask them?” he meowed, his voice low and dark. He gave her a very sinister look, and for the first time Mothwing could see darkness in his eyes, pulsing and hungry and angry. “And when you learn the truth, you’ll see the mistake you made in defying me.”

He bent down and plucked a feather from the falcon’s corpse before he slunk away. Mothwing watched him go, bile rising in her throat. She felt sick, and pushed herself into the reeds to retch. Every bit of her felt like it was coming apart, and she didn’t know how to keep it all together.

A raindrop hit her ear. And then another, and, a long while later, another. Mothwing lifted her head to look at the sky. The gray clouds had come together, and it felt like the whole world was weeping with her… but the sound of the Twoleg monsters drowned out the pitter-patter of the raindrops, and Mothwing felt like retching again.

She stared hopelessly at the falcon corpse. Mothwing knew she should have stopped Falcontail, but how could she do that short of killing him? How could she explain his death to her Clan? What good would it even do?

Mothwing moved her gaze up into the clouds, into the rain. A medicine cat should see something in this weather, right? All she could see were clouds.

“Why couldn’t you stop him?” she asked, her voice small and quiet. “Why did you let him do this to me?”

There was only the sound of Twoleg monsters, and rain.

[nxghtangel]

18) one muse has just killed for the first time and the other more experienced muse is there to help them in the aftermath. (with micah:))

Interactions; Accepting

She ran. The horrible, adrenaline spiked running of the hunted. Kylar could see the prinkling between her shoulders readying for a blow in the back, the daring angle of her head to catch the quickening slap of the phantom's footfalls echoing off the rooftop cement and into the alleyway bricks behind her. He pulled out the gun, twisting the silencer onto the barrel. The chase was on.

High, night blackened buildings flashed past on either side, windows doors, neon signs, and fire escapes. People too, shouting as they dived out of the way or flattened themselves against the walls. He had no idea where she was going, what part of town they were in, but he cannot lose her. Not this time. A man stepps out of a doorway right in front of her. They almost crashed, he almost jumped down to tackle her. Ducking and flipping, she skids past and Kylar curses sharply.

Her legs must be starting to burn--and he wasn't even out of breath. Boots skidding, he braces and lines up for the shot-- sparks shooting off the wall on the other side, just short of blowing out her knee cap. "Fuck!" She charges through an archway up and to the left and the night angel sprints after her, head down, boots flying across the rooftops, skidding as he turns the same corner. A great shadowy space, dilapidated double doors clinging to their hinges having been thrown open, layers of graffiti almost completely obscuring the sign above the doorway. From what he could see up on the roof, there was a faint light inside, sparking like a busted bulb. Kylar jumps down, nimble as a cat, tucking the gun back into its holster, replacing it with a curved dagger and the short sword Curoch that manifested from the palm of his hand. He grips the weapon like the hand of a familiar friend and stalks bodly into the dark. Annabel was just beyond him, turning round slowly, breathing hard. The two of them were in the middle of a wide open area, cobweb covered chairs stacked along the walls, used water bottles and beer cans and discarded plastic baggies littering the greasy concrete floor.

He knew where they were now. There were people everywhere, bumping to house music. Servers crawling amongst the throngs, trying to make rent via tips from the rowdy clubbers. He had worked here, as a security guard, undercover for a job. Kylar stalked towards a bloodied Annabel, bent at the knee, blades shimmering against the black fire that had begun to consume and lave his arms, shoulders, and eyes. Light flickers, his head snaps to the right--

"--Micah?" The dark fire gutters as if strangled.

His chest hurt, his mouth suddenly sour. There's a coldness in his stomach, a feeling he hasn't felt for the month since he's come back. It pours out of the mangled corpse on the ground, seeping out and spreading across the floor like a low fog. Kneeling next to it, their ripped open face twisted in a foreign rage, gaped down at it, smoke still curling from the burnt hole where the sternum used to be. Bloody moths and static swarming their torn clothes, pouring out of their slobbering, disfigured maw. Beyond Micah, Kylar caught the outline of Candle in a heap against the far wall. Even draped in long shadows, he could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, the startling red of congealing blood that trailed from her temple to the floor.

The sudden slap of shoes against the concrete startles Kylar, but his dagger is already flying. By the time his eyes catch up, the dagger was lodged in the trim of the doorway next to the stage. Annabel is nowhere in sight. Before he can even curse his lapse in focus, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Micah’s eyes were already on him long before Kylar turned back around.

“Micah…” he tried, voice hoarse and heavy but not from the chase, “it’s okay, it’s me.” Purposefully, his movements became slow and deliberate, the Curoch gradually liquifying and slinking back into his hand, disappearing up under the sleeve of his mottled jacket. Step by step, he inched closer towards Micah, watching the glazed fury fall away, the light returning to his increasingly bewildered expression. “Micah--” he barked sharply to keep their attention, trying to keep the other from hyperventilating as realization began to come crashing down. More gently, still firmly, almost within arms length of the corpse now, “Just focus on me. Focus on my voice, nothing else. I need you to tell me you understand--can you do that? Yeah? Okay, okay good….”

Moisture squelches under his boots as he squats down on the other side of the mangled body, feels the sticky liquid rippling out, ignoring it since it could only be one thing in this concrete coffin. His gaze flicks to Candle’s prone form and back, “Micah, Candle is hurt-- no, no she’s fine,” he cuts off the wild panic before it can surge up into his stricken lover’s throat, “I can see her breathing from here, but she might have a concussion. I need you to go check on her--you need to open one of her eyes and see if it constricts against the light and then I need you to tell me if it does. Can you do that?” He watches Micah’s face, reading the emotions pushing through the shock until he gets a nod out of them. “Alright then. Go do that now and stay with her for me. I need to take care of…” he glances down, just a flick of the eyes, “of this.”

If one has never seen the transition from human to corpse, the moment the soul passes on, it is a very moving experience. If it is one you love there is a moment of grief, as if all the love you ever felt for them, every good memory sparks up, as if the soul makes this SOS for them to return. The cadaver, the corpse, the body without them is so very different. If one is responsible for the passing of that soul, it is a very different, horrific feeling. Especially when it’s the first one. As he set to grabbing the corpse under the back of the shoulders, dragging it across the room towards the stage, he remembers not the first kill, when he tied a rope secured to a stone to Rat’s neck and threw the stone off the wharf, but his first mission under Durzo Blint. He had succeeded in killing the man who robbed the Sa’Kage, but ended up fighting with an innocent woman who had walked into the room at the wrong time. He’d been fifteen at the time, barely a man, when he drove the dagger into her mouth, staked her to the floor to keep her from screaming for help. Durzo had been there, watching, always watching to make sure his prodigy didn’t fuck up his reputation, and when the woman had finally stopped twitching under Kylar, Durzo baptized Kylar in her blood. Proclaimed him a ‘real’ wetboy as he smeared coppery red onto his forehead. With a grunt, Kylar heaves the body up onto the stage, dark smears trailing up the wall onto the platform. Hopping up, he grabs the body by the ankles this time and drags it into the darkness behind the partially drawn curtains to the left of the stage. What followed was the tearing of fabric, the shuffle and thump of meat being rolled- ‘thwump...thwump… thwump!’-followed soon after the quiet pad of his boots as he came back into the meager bit of light from the caved in ceiling illuminating the center of the open dance space. He’d have to come back for it later and properly dispose of it. His fingerprints would never be found on the body and while he was back behind the stage he made damn sure neither Micah’s or Candles DNA would show up in a forensics screening should the police stumble upon it before he could finish the job. Already a mental list of the chemicals he’d need, the contacts he would be soon calling to assist with the task, were being filed away in his brain as he approached Micah and Candle.

Cautiously, he crouches down near them, but far enough away so that he could dodge should Micah still not believe he’s real. Black fire still flickering about his shoulders and arms. The slash wounds he'd received from Annabel during their brief fight before the chase close to healing entirely. “Listen to me, this is not your fault, Micah,” he wished Durzo had told him that back then, even though he knew it would have been a lie in that scenario, “something… something dark possessed that body. I can still feel its power even from over here.” A bout of nausea attempted to surface, but he quickly swallowed it down. “We need to get Candle home, okay? I can treat her there if she does have a concussion, but we have to go now. Think you can carry her?” It’s safer for them both to keep his hands free, weapons at the ready, senses fine tuned in case the night has more in store for them. “Come on, get up, we gotta move.”

[itsbenedict]

Two-Faced Jewel: Session 7

A half-elf conwoman (and the moth tasked with keeping her out of trouble) travel the Jewel in search of, uh, whatever a fashionable accessory is pointing them at. [Campaign log]

Last time, Saelhen and Looseleaf continued their scouring of the evil torture wizard's evil torture tower for clues as to the identity of the murderer terrorizing the towns of Barley and Wheat. They found a bunch of mysterious documents of ominous character, but they've yet to check out the tower's hidden basement- and the ne'er-do-well lurking within...

The basement doesn't immediately contain any horrors, unless you're the type to get the jibblies from a messy room. There's dirty dishes (recently used), empty beer bottles from a Zeishus Brewery, and discarded clothes everywhere. It's very lived-in, and whoever lives-in here doesn't seem like they were expecting visitors.

Saelhen takes a look at the desk nearest the stairs, next to a well-used recliner and a recently-extinguished candle. She gets a nat 20 on her Investigation, and finds that the desk has been rotated to face the wall, concealing a drawer that doesn't look like it's been opened in some time, judging by the cobwebs.

What's inside is mainly more of the sort of thing they found on the sixth floor- technical notes on neurology and pain magic. With the critical success, she's able to piece together that the odd numbers on the abrasive letter found upstairs were some sort of pain measurements the letter-writer was providing to Lumiere.

They also find a less academic, more personal note, expressing frustration with his own research.

"Why would the Burnscreamer's rituals require Abyssal? Even a god like him shouldn't have any connection to the demons- what is he playing at?" "If I could just correct the sigil, I could bypass so much of this nonsense..."

Saelhen then gets a nat 1 on her Religion roll to know what that means, and assumes the Burnscreamer is the frontman for a metal band her dad likes.

As they search the rest of the room, they notice- at the bottom of the central shaft- a circular basin in the stone floor. It's stained red, but it's dry- not as much blood as you'd expect to see given the carnage on the sixth floor, so it seems like it's been recently emptied or cleaned out.

Oyobi, meanwhile, checks the locked door by the stairs, and finds it... cold? I wonder what that means vis-a-vis-

The extremely sneaky +9 Stealth person hiding braced against the walls of the central shaft fucks up right about then, and slips a little, letting out an involuntary "Gh- shit!", alerting the party to his presence.

Saelhen tries to chase after this person by parkouring off those same walls, gets a 9, and faceplants in the blood basin, leaving the issue to the party member who has wings. As the hider flees through one of the doors in the shaft, Looseleaf uses her darkvision and 24 Investigation roll to pick out the right door and give chase.

(Meanwhile, the rest of the party heads up the stairs normally- and Saelhen orders Orluthe to bust down the front door, so they can go outside and catch anyone trying to escape by rappelling down the side of the building. This turns out to be unnecessary, because when Looseleaf detected that the front door was magic and assumed it was a trap, this was incorrect.)

Benedict I. (GM): ("who knows what kind of trap could be on this magic door? better go up and through the window into the room full of traps, instead") (i was laughing so hard) (it's just an automatic door!) Looseleaf: Honestly, the people in town oversold this place. They made it sound like such a deathtrap and really it was just a bunch of spiky bots. And knives. And comfy pillows. Benedict I. (GM): Well, when they were there, there was a living evil torture wizard actively trying to take them prisoner and torture them.

Looseleaf botches her Investigation roll to search the torture lab she emerges in, but... that doesn't stop her from just checking each and every possible hiding place one by one, manually. She alights upon the correct solution swiftly- checking inside the broken remains of the iron maiden.

bBenedict I. (GM): Anyway, Looseleaf, inside the corpse of the iron maiden, you find. A rather heavy man, performing a downright heroic feat of contortionism to suspend himself inside the door without getting impaled on the spikes. Arnie: "Uh." "Can you pretend you never saw me?" Looseleaf: "That depends on what you're doing here, I guess. Who are you and what are you doing here?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: oh that is a nervous man Arnie: "No one. Nothing. I'm, uh, supposed to be like, dead, probably." "So I'm not here." "Yeah?"

Arnie Zeishus is the deadbeat husband of Cassie, the innkeeper from Barley, who fled town a while back. He explains that after fleeing his responsibilities in Barley, he tried to set up shop in Wheat running a brewery, but got in trouble flouting the brewing regulations of the Ecumene of Harmony. So after getting arrested there and breaking out of prison, he decided to sneak into the torture wizard's tower and lay low as a squatter in the guy's basement. He figured he might get caught and tortured, but it couldn't be worse than what the townspeople wanted to do to him.

Except, as luck would have it, the torture wizard was already dead when he arrived! So he's been making a home of the place with Lumiere's old animated housekeepers, using the torture wizard's fearsome reputation as a way to keep anyone from tracking him down and making him do stuff like clean up a distillery explosion or pay child support or what have you.

On the other hand, someone has been sneaking around his tower doing something sinister on the sixth floor that results in blood pouring down into the basin periodically, and he's stressed out of his mind wondering who the hell is doing that and how he's supposed to avoid getting caught and/or killed by them.

(He notes that the "KEEP SHOUTING" sign was his attempt to get intruders to at least give themselves away by making noise, after they were clearly ignoring the "KEEP OUT" sign he put up.)

Looseleaf also takes the time to ask if Arnie here knows anything about someone named Choss.

Arnie: He looks surprised. "You know Choss?" Looseleaf: "Let's say that Choss is a figure of importance in this investigation." "Anything you could tell us about how they arrived in town and what they did in town would be appreciated." Arnie: He shrugs. "Choss was there before I was- she's a real weirdo." "Knows how to party, but- gotta say, her stuff's a little too strong for me." "A crazy high at first, but it gets- whoof, intense." Looseleaf: "She's an apothecary of some kind?" Arnie: He laughs. "You could say that. She's got herself a little drug lab in town, always smells like burning. Don't know how she gets away with it- some of that stuff's gotta be illegal." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "And how old is she, approximately?" Arnie: "Eh? She's- hard to tell with lizardfolk, s'not like you can read the wrinkles..." Looseleaf: Ah, of course. Lizardfolk. Saelhen du Fishercrown: yep Arnie: "Seems youngish, though? Party girl through and through." "Just, uh, if she offers you a blend, don't take it unless you're ready to spend the next hour feelin' like fire ants are chewin' their way out of your skin." He shudders a little. Looseleaf: "Hm. Sounds painful." Arnie: "You have no idea," he laughs.

They also inquire about the locked freezer room- and why Arnie would hide out here, in dangerous torture tower, rather than just running off to a city, which is a little weird that he didn't do. Arnie claims there's just groceries in there, and no stolen wine bottles whatsoever, he certainly isn't a thief and he definitely hasn't been lying low out here because if he goes to a city some old pals from Thunderbrush might find him and want him dead, no sir! He would never ever commit a crime, ["wink wink" in hand-signed Thieves' Cant].

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Of course. I can't imagine we have any thieves here." [Nudge nudge.] Looseleaf: "In the meantime, Mr. Zeishus, you mentioned having done something that.. makes going anywhere where you might meet someone from Thunderbrush a dangerous thing?" Arnie: He fidgets. "Uh, well..." "I, I try to leave all that behind me." "You just... don't want to get involved with the ghost dryad mafia. Just a tip."

He drops a little bit of exposition about something that may be coming up- apparently, Thunderbrush used to have these huge skyscraper-sized trees, but they got chopped down in some sort of war or raid a while back, and now the Stumps are ruled by the necromancer ghost dryads of those trees who used the last vestiges of their power to cheat death. Apparently Arnie was strongarmed into doing crimes for various ghost dryad mafiosos and made too many enemies, so he fled to Barley to shake the heat.

Looseleaf also comes to a realization regarding some hints dropped earlier in the townsfolks' tragic backstories:

Looseleaf: (actually, wait, i just realized: choss is probably chitch's daughter, the timelines there line up perfectly and maybe this whole dragonborn business is a total red herring we invented for ourselves) (what the shit, lumiere, you kidnap a guy's daughter and raise them as your own child? that's fucked.)

Looseleaf occupies this Arnie guy by interrogating him about these things, while Saelhen slips downstairs to try to pick the lock to the freezer room.

Eventually, after a bunch of failed rolls and more small talk from Looseleaf to keep Arnie occupied, Saelhen pops open the lock. Inside, she finds a fairly large and frigid room. There are meathooks hanging from the ceiling, empty. There are shelves lining the edges full of frozen food.

And to her right, there's another door- this one out of place with the rest of the construction, made of a strange stone shot through with rivulets of glowing orange. There's a symbol on a stone circle embedded in the door:

Before she checks that out, though, she checks the darkened back of the room- which contains some tubs filled with ice.

And those tubs have corpses in them, with the four-pointed wounds.

It is not especially likely that Arnie had no idea these were here, in a room he claims to use to store groceries and has the key to.

Looseleaf, meanwhile, attempts to read Arnie's spirit to determine his alignment and general intentions. His Deception beats her Insight, but what she does manage to get is...

Arnie is afraid. He is filled to bursting with terror and desperation more intense than you've ever felt from anyone before. And the fear does not seem directed at you.

Meanwhile, Saelhen tries to get that door open. What's the deal with that thing, huh? There's no handle, so... she has the bright idea of slapping her mysterious god icon bracer (the one that when previously slapped against a magic thing opened a pit to infinite bats) against it, see what happens. And I get very excited, because ohohoho, I didn't expect that, I had to think through the ramifications of doing that, and...

...then I work through those ramifications, and what I realize is that, as far as the players would know, the end result is just that the door slides open, and nothing else of note occurs.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Why am I even here I just wanted to help a nice little girl show up her dipshit inquisitor mom now I'm in a pain room investigating pain machines..." Looseleaf: (looseleaf warned you about getting involved in the case, she warned you dog)

There's also a bunch of weird machines, and more of Lumiere's notes, which Saelhen goes and nabs as many of as she can. Then she beats feet immediately, not wanting to spend any longer than necessary in the hell lab. The problem is, she doesn't want to leave any sign she was in there, so...

Saelhen du Fishercrown: Does tapping the exposed bit of stone with the bracer again close the secret hell door? Benedict I. (GM): Nope. Saelhen du Fishercrown: hmm. poking it with her finger? Benedict I. (GM): Ouch. Nope. Saelhen du Fishercrown: physically pulling the stone upwards while muttering "fuck fuck fuck ow ow ow"? Benedict I. (GM): Oh, hm, yeah, that would work. At first there's no effect, but as you continue to pull and the pain gets worse and worse... Roll me a Constitution save. Saelhen du Fishercrown: 16 CONSTITUTION SAVE (3) Benedict I. (GM): That'll do it! Your pain feeds the door, and, satisfied, the mouth closes. Looseleaf: How extremely concerning!

Cool!

So Saelhen goes back upstairs, the party secretly confers and exchanges information, and... something has to be done about Arnie.

His expression changes, suddenly.

Arnie: "You don't know what you're talking about." "This doesn't have to happen."

Looseleaf continues to try to offer help to this guy, inferring that he's being forced to do someone else's dirty work. She rolls a 20 on Persuasion! So... what happens following them cornering and exposing the culprit is not the rolling of initiative. Still, though...

Arnie: Arnie... backs up a step. "You're morons." "You have no idea." "You're talking like you can help me?" "That's impossible. No one can help me." "I- I'm fucking cursed, dammit!" Looseleaf: is he? i have magic sense, he is clearly not actually magically cursed, right Arnie: "What are you clowns going to do about it? Nothing!" "What are you going to do, kill a dragon?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "You are entangled here. If Looseleaf says so, then I trust her intuition and her investigative prowess. This doesn't necessarily mean you're entangled in such a way that there is no way out for you." Saelhen shrugs. "Theoretically, the device on my arm is responsible for drowning a small city in vampiric monsters from beyond the stars. And yet there was a way out of that, and a genuine silver lining into the bargain." "I want you to understand that I am absolutely sincere when I say: There is always a way out." Arnie: "That's- there's no way! There's only one way out!" "He'll free me from the curse if I do what he says, and that's the only way!" Looseleaf: ...That is not how dragon-curses work at all. Benedict I. (GM): Not as far as you're aware, no. Doesn't seem like anyone's told Arnie.

They continue to try to convince him that there's hope, that he doesn't need to do what the dragon says, that they can help him. And Arnie just keeps pushing back, refusing to acknowledge any of it, weeping and shouting and doing whatever he can to avoid believing that he didn't have to do any of that, that there was any other way- because if there was, he'd be a monster, right?

Meanwhile, Vayen... is standing a ways away and staring at them all, as usual... but this time, he's smiling. No one here has ever seen Vayen smile before. He looks like his birthday came early. And as they're on the verge of a breakthrough...

Arnie: "Fucking- you don't think I know that?" "I know that! I know he's manipulating me!" "But what else do I do?" Vayen: "You could kill yourself," Vayen suggests. Looseleaf: "Vayen what the FUCK?" Arnie: "What the fuck- shut up, asshole!" "I'm not dying! Not here, not nowhere!" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...Vayen, you are placing a remarkable number of ticks in the 'leave you at the side of the road' column." Vayen: Vayen shrugs. "It's the most reliable way to neutralize a dragon's curse." "It's the sensible thing to do, if you don't want to cause collateral damage."

It's as though he deliberately picked the one thing to say to ensure that this argument would keep happening, and not reach a friendly resolution. The hell is his problem?

Still, the party keeps trying to talk this guy down.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "And -- Arnie, surely you don't think the dragon would hunt you down? Dragons don't go out of their way to punish us; they just use us to accomplish whatever it is they're planning. He'll make it someone else's problem." "I know the type. Arnie, it wouldn't care enough to hunt you down. What seems like a personal connection, like it caring about you -- if it tries that at all -- it's just an implement. It's a way of getting you to do what it wants. Go to ground effectively, and it won't bother to spare the effort." Arnie: "What are you, talking like some kinda dragonologist? The hell do you know about dragons?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...I am not a dragonologist, no," admits Saelhen. Looseleaf: "...Are you a dragonologist?" Arnie: "Of course it could hunt me down! Damn thing's got magic items out the ass and it flies faster than I can run!" "As soon as it saw me going somewhere it didn't tell me to, I'd get turned into a midnight snack!" "And then I go to ground, and the curse kicks in, and I end up dead or worse anyway. Sounds great." "Or, I stay here, gut a few self-righteous fucks who treated me like dirt for a while, and maybe the thing keeps its end of the bargain and lets me go!"

Yeah, that's a confession, and like, not one that makes him look great. Still, given this guy's weirdly high rolls on physical stuff, and his apparent aptitude for murdering people, they're not super sure they want to fight this guy- on top of just, not exactly wanting to fight this guy.

What are they going to do? They have to come up with a plan- and their plan has to take less than three weeks to pull off, since Arnie only has six corpses left in the bathtubs, and the dragon wants two corpses a week to prove he's still doing the job.

(And is it even worth going to all that trouble just to protect this guy from the consequences of his actions?)

Next time: a plan is hatched, and the party gets back on the road.

[antihero-writings]

His Dog, Warming Their Hearts

(Cover art by stlyrica_art on instagram!! Please go check her out!!) 

Fandom: Black Butler | Kuroshitsuji (manga)

Fic Summary: Not every stray finds a home at Christmas, but puppy Sebastian just might.

Character focus: Undertaker

Fic: 

Whimpering. High-pitched, timid, and pitiful.

For a moment, Undertaker wondered if one of his guests was still here. It wasn’t like him to forget, but maybe one of the coffins was still filled, its inhabitant clawing at the lid to get out, for just one last taste of life. That would make for an interesting tale, he smirked to himself: one of the dead, not yet at the funeral, trying to escape its eternal rest.

Despite the presiding theme of the shop, the noise was made by something alive.

Shivering in one of the empty, open coffins against the wall was an animal. A very small animal, that is. Its black fur was matted and dirty, the look in its brown eyes shivering more than the rest of it, but defiant still.

A puppy.

“Now what would a thing like you doing here in my parlor?” Undertaker asked, crouching down beside it, offering a long-nailed finger for it to sniff.

The puppy did so, cautiously as it could, though fear still gleamed in its eyes—the black robes, unnaturally long, grey hair, which more often than not covered his eyes, and the stitch-like scars weaving their way across his skin, not to mention the usually twisted smiles on his face, were enough to make anyone a little uneasy. The animal, however, seemed to come to the same conclusion that most people did; Undertaker was an odd fellow, but wouldn’t go so far as cruel.

“If it’s a nice funeral you’re looking for,” amusement lined his words as he circled his finger in the air to reference the shop, “you’ve come to the right place.” He sat down beside it. “That one there,” he knocked on the puppy’s current sanctuary, making it shy away, “is made from a very rare wood. I’d need a first-rate laugh for it. Though, I do admit,” he gave that signature, high-pitched laugh, more like a twitch at the corner of his mouth, “it might be a bit large for you.”

The puppy only shivered, neither caring, nor understanding his sense of humor. Though few could tell when he was joking, and most found their faces in a constant awkward grimace around him.

Undertaker sat up and frowned, his too-green gaze flicking to the door to his shop, which was open, just enough to let the cold—(not that one can feel the cold when they’ve been dead for centuries)—and apparently other things, in.

“Must’ve been me last customer,” he reasoned softly, “Fellow lost his son. And so close to Christmas too. A shame, really.” He shook his head. “Told me he was a nice boy.” He smirked. “They all say that, though. ‘Nice’ doesn’t last forever, you know.”

Undertaker paused, looked at the pitiful creature, putting a robe sleeve to his chin, “If you’ve not come for business,” he returned to the subject, “you’d best be on your way. I’m not particularly fond of tending the living, ya see.” He held up a finger. “Too much on the upkeep.”

He stood back up and strode over the door, holding it open. A gust of wind tossed his hair. The animal wouldn’t budge.

“Well, if you’d rather have a bit of fun,” his grin became more maniacal, and he held his nails in front of his face, “that can be arranged.”

The puppy seemed to get the idea, and gave a yelp, pattering over to hide on the other side of the coffin.

“That’s what I thought.” He inclined his head to the door.

Still, it wouldn’t oblige.

Undertaker sighed, putting his hand on his forehead. “You are a stubborn fellow aren’t you?”

Despite it not leaving, he headed into the back of his shop, where all things deemed not-fit-for-the-eyes-of-the-living occurred. He left the door to outside open a crack, hoping it would get out with nothing else getting in in the meantime.

Laying on the slab in the back was a boy, no older than fourteen, his skin pale and waxy, his limbs stiff in his clothes, a boyhood smirk still on his face. If Undertaker had been alive he may have worried about catching the fever that killed him. But being dead, he ran his hand gently along the boy’s arm. “Better this way.” He murmured. “At least now he can be a child forever.”

There was the sound of little claws on wood; the puppy had followed him, and was peering from behind the curtain that divided the sections of the shop.

Undertaker lifted his head “Persistent, aren’t you?”

“Are you forgetting that there are many things I could do that might just make you rethink your decision to stay?”

He held a bunch of tools from the table between his fingers like a magician, giving that creepy grin as the blades glinted in the candlelight.

The big, fearful brown eyes reflected the metal.

Undertaker rolled his eyes, setting them back down. He didn’t have any intention of hurting the thing, still it’s presence was a bit of a nuisance, and scaring it could prove for a good laugh.

He sighed. “Well, if you if you insist on staying—” He picked up a skull from the corner of the room, poked his head out from behind the curtain and threw it at the door, shutting it. Then he strode over to a shelf where he kept little ‘souvenirs’ from his guests, and dragged down an old, moth-eaten coat—(the poor man’s wife could barely contain her tears)—and made a little nest against the wall.

“Can’t have you interrupting my work, now,” he wagged his finger as the thing stumbled over to the makeshift bed, before mocking, “Would you like any refreshments, my lord?”

It curled up in the coat, it’s tail beginning to wag.

“Don’t be forming any attachments to me, now. It’s off to the pound soon as I get a decent break.”

The puppy lowered its head and stopped wagging its tail.

After working for a while he turned to see it was fast asleep.

He smirked. “Poor thing doesn’t even know what’s good for it.”

Once finished with his present task, he put his tools away, blew out the candles, and attempted to escape, when the creature appeared at the door again, as if it had a sixth sense about things about to leave it.

He chuckled low, grabbing his hat off a nearby coffin, and held the door open wide, letting a flurry in, gesturing for it to leave.

Those eyes looked up at him unknowingly. The ex-reaper clicked his teeth and flung open the door, gliding out through it.

The patter of little paws sounded against the floorboards, it squeezed its little body through the gap as the door closed, landing on its bum in the snow, shaking the flakes off its floppy ears.

“I don’t suppose you plan on following me all day?”

The puppy tilted his head to the side, wagging its tail a little.

Snow crunched beneath his boots, the puppy running circles and zigzags around him as he walked, leaving little pawprints in the snow around his own steps.

It smelled like Christmas; the cold always has a sort of smell, but the food stalls nearby added gingerbread and peppermint aromas to the winter air, the sweet sent of pine drifting about, as the Christmas trees made the world a museum for their decorated corpses.

Kids ran about in fluffy hats and scarves throwing snowballs and making angels. One bumped into Undertaker, and ran away fearfully, nearly bursting into tears when he picked her up and put her back on her feet saying, “You be careful now, we wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you hitting her head.”

He was examining a snowman they made when he noticed a familiar face across the street.

It would have been easy to just walk up to him, to say ‘hello, good afternoon, sir’ but if he had done that he wouldn’t have been Undertaker.

No, instead of acting like normal person, he darted behind the nearest decorative poinsettia, and proceeded jump from bush to bush—(the puppy wagging its tail inquisitively at him, wondering what sort of game this was)—until he was right beside him. Then he snuck up and whispered in his ear, “Penny for your thoughts, my lord?”

Most people would have screamed, grabbed the nearest available weapon and proceeded to whack him over the head with it, but this man was not normal himself. Instead his face broke into a smile.

“Undertaker,” he tipped his hat to him, “It’s good to see you.”

“Vincent Phantomhive.” He twirled his hat off his head, bowing too low, “Now what’s a rich fellow like you doing coming down from his castle?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t quite finished my Christmas shopping.” He held up a bag which was allegedly full of Christmas gifts. “Rachel would be furious if she found out I was finishing up days before Christmas.”

“You willing to pay for my silence?” Undertaker sidled up beside him.

Vincent shoved him back. “You willing to do something nice for a friend?”

“Oh so we’re friends?”

Vincent scoffed, about to say something, when he stopped to look up at the sign on the shop beside him.

“She mentioned there was a brooch she wanted—Oh!”

When they’d stopped the puppy was able to catch up, and had made its presence known by pouncing on a loose lace of the earl’s shoes. “And who might this fellow be?”

“Just a beggar who wandered in to my parlor earlier today.”

Vincent smiled and crouched down to rub its chin. “He—is it a he?—is rather friendly, isn’t he?” he scratched behind its ears, and the puppy ate up the attention like a decadent chocolate cake. “Does he belong to someone?”

“More likely the product of a few strays. And people can’t resist a cute face—You wouldn’t know anything about that now would you? Probably fed him and made him grow accustomed to people.”

Vincent waved him off.

“Well don’t get too attached to this one, I was just on my way to take it to the pound.”

“Oh must you?” the puppy’s tongue was hanging out, his little tail whirring like an engine. “I’ve heard the kinds of things they do to dogs there. A little thing like him wouldn’t last a week.”

“You can dispense with fellow human beings with ease, but a Heaven forbid a cute puppy meet the same fate.”

Vincent glared at him.

“No you’re right,” Undertaker added sardonically, “why I don’t just open my parlor to every stray that walks in?”

“You know that’s not what I’m suggesting.”

“Then what other options are there? Turning him back out to the street isn’t much kinder.”

Vincent set down his bag and picked up the dog, who proceeded to lick his face. “You know, Rachel and I have been talking about getting a dog. For the twins. You know, like a guard dog.”

“You think Licky over here is a good candidate for guarding your home? I thought you noblemen were all about the purebreds.”

“What’s that saying about teaching dogs tricks? He’s young, with a little love and perseverance I’m sure he can be taught.”

“You do realize it could carry all sorts of…unsightly maladies.” He grinned like that would be fun to see.

“Well, I do think it would be much more lethargic if it were sick, don’t you?”

Undertaker shrugged. “Some things that are sick don’t show it till the whole house has it.”

Vincent frowned, looking at it more critically. “There’s a veterinarian around here, isn’t there? We could have it checked out.”

“We?”

“You.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well it won’t be a surprise Christmas present if I bring it home tonight, now will it?”

Undertaker put his head in his palm. “Even if he was willing to do that—which, I’m not—Would your wife would be alright with you bringing in a stray?”

“Oh she loves dogs. And, well we don’t have to tell her he’s a stray, do we? We can get him checked out, clean him up, feed him. No one will ever know the difference once he’s all dressed up.”

“What a tangled web you weave, dear Earl.”

“I just think he would be a lovely Christmas present, that’s all.” he held out the puppy—which looked like he was about to explode with joy—as if admiring a fine work of art.

Undertaker stared at the puppy with something akin to a grimace.

“You will take care of him in the meantime, won’t you?”

Undertaker stood there with his mouth half open.

“I assure you, you’ll be compensated most generously for your troubles.”

“You must have multiple first-rate laughs up your sleeve if you think I’ll agree to this.”

Vincent nodded, grinning. “You know I always deliver. …So it’s decided, you’ll bring him around, all cleaned up, checked out, and fed on Christmas.”

Undertaker stared at the puppy. “This sure is a lot of work for a mutt.”

“For the smile it’ll bring to the twins’ faces? It’s worth it.”

******

This wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t normal for Undertaker to take care of living things; when he had said he wasn’t in the business of doing so, it was meant to be a rule, not just a nice notion.

Each time he had to remember to feed it, to clean up after it, he wondered if Vincent had paid enough.

It also wasn’t normal to drive a hearse to something other than a graveyard or church, much less to carry something living.

And lastly, it wasn’t normal for him to make house calls, much less to take the aforementioned living thing to a friend on Christmas evening.

Undertaker arrived at the manor, stepping down from the hearse to retrieve the puppy from the back.

It—he—was much happier now; over the past few days, Undertaker had cleaned him up, bought or made him food, and today had tied a red bow around his neck, just for flair.

“What do you think, little one?” he asked, as he opened the back, throwing the puppy a dog biscuit from the container he was carrying—he baked a batch earlier—which he jumped up and caught, chowing down happily. He wagged his tail, glancing eagerly from the house to the Undertaker.

“You’re lucky,” Undertaker mentioned, biting off a piece of dog biscuit himself, leaning against the side of the hearse, “Not every stray finds a home at Christmas.”

After finishing the biscuit and setting down the container, he took off his hat and scooped the now clean and presentable puppy up into it, making his way up the path to the manor.

The snow was coming down more densely today, the wind attempting to brush the hair from his eyes—though didn’t matter if the wind and the white saw those green, green eyes.

Tanaka greeted him properly, then let him know his master would be with him shortly and went to collect the earl.

“Merry Christmas, Undertaker,” Vincent remarked, smiling as he walked down the stairs to the front door.

“Is it merry?” Undertaker asked.

“Is it not?”

“Well I have no doubt that it is, for you.” He chuckled, “But I also don’t doubt that I’ll still get customers today. All a matter of perspective.”

“I suppose so,” Vincent mused as he reached him, “Now, where is the little rascal?”

As if on cue, the creature popped its head out from inside the hat.

Vincent beamed at the sight of him, reaching out his hand to let him sniff his fingers—at which the puppy brightened, tried to jump out of the hat—then scratching gently beneath his chin.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, little one. You look so charming.”

“Why thank you,” Undertaker twirled a strand of his hair around his finger.

Vincent rolled his eyes. “Thank you for all you’ve done, really, I couldn’t have done this without you. …Please, come in!”

Vincent motioned for Undertaker to follow, guiding him through the house to the living room where his wife sat watching the twin boys play with their assortment new toys, barely old enough to walk, bumbling around at their mother’s feet.

“Ah, hello! And Merry Christmas!” Rachel exclaimed happily, getting up and curtseying.

Undertaker gave a little bow.

“Boys,” Vincent put his hands on his knees to speak to his sons, “this man has one last gift for you.”

One of them toddled up and clung to his father’s pant leg, staring up at Undertaker inquisitively, the other hid behind their mother, holding onto her dress, looking fearfully from the creepy-looking stranger to each of their parents.

Undertaker crouched down and held out the hat for them see the gift.

“Oh!” Rachel exclaimed softly, putting her hands on her face standing. Her face broke into a smile, giving a perfectly gratefully look from her husband to Undertaker, “A puppy! How wonderful! What’s his—is it a he?—name?”

Undertaker shrugged. “The name’s up to you, my lady.”

Rachel took the puppy out of the hat, who licked her nose, wagging his little tail.

“What do you think Vincent?”

“Hmm, we never got around to talking of names, did we?”

Rachel crouched down to show their sons their new pet.

“Look boys!”

The toddlers really had no idea what was going on, and looked at the creature apprehensively. One of them eagerly toddled up to pet it, while the other stayed a safe distance away, not leaving his mother’s side. The puppy licked the more adventurous boy’s hand, who giggled.

“What about you boys? Any ideas?”

The puppy got overzealous, knocked the shy one over, making him cry. She picked him up while Vincent held the dog and the other boy—who was now very interested in the creature—in each arm.

“He’ll need a strong name, don’t you think?”

“Certainly! Hmm…what about George? Edward?”

“Too…Well…Hmm…” Rachel mused, bouncing the shy boy, and petting the puppy between the ears, “I’ve always liked the name ‘Sebastian.’”

“What do you think boys? Do you like that name?”

The shy one sneezed.

“‘Sebastian’ it is!” He beamed at his family, before turning back to Undertaker, “Where are my manners? Please, Undertaker, stay for dinner!”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Undertaker began, putting his hat back on his head, and his hands in his sleeves, backing up. “Didn’t I tell you I’d be getting customers today? After all, Death doesn’t take the day off for Christmas.”

“Maybe not,” Vincent put an arm around his back guiding him into the room, smiling in the same creepy way Undertaker always did, making it clear ‘no’ was never in the word bank. “but you can.”

[horrorkingdom]

Quiet

I never saw the ocean till I was nineteen, and if I ever see it again it will be too goddamn soon. I was a child, coming out of the train, fresh from Amarillo, into San Diego and all her glory. The sight of it, all that water and the blind crushing power of the surf, filled me with dread. I’d seen water before, lakes, plenty big, but that was nothing like this. I don’t think I can describe what it was like that first time, and further more, I’m not sure I care too.

You can imagine the state I was in when a few weeks later they gave me a rifle and put me on a boat. When I stopped vomiting up everything that I ate, I decided that I might not kill myself after all. Not being able to see the land, and that ceaseless chaotic, rocking of the waves; I remember thinking that the war had to be a step up from this. Kids can be so fucking stupid.

I had such a giddy sense of glee when I saw the island, and it’s solid banks. They transferred us to a smaller boat in the middle of the night, just our undersized company with our rucksacks and rifles and not a word. We just took a ride right into it, just because they asked us to. The lieutenants herded us into our platoons on the decks and briefed us: the island had been lost. That was exactly how he put it. Somehow in the grand plan for the Pacific, this one tiny speck of earth, only recently discovered and unmapped, had gotten lost in the shuffle; a singularly perfect clerical error was all it took. It was extremely unlikely, he stressed, that the Japanese had gotten a hold of it, being so far east and south of their current borders, but a recent fly over reported what looked like an airfield in the central plateau.

We hit the beach in the middle of the night. I’d heard talk of landings before, and I’m not ashamed to tell, I was scared shitless. I don’t know quite what I expected, but it wasn’t we got, that thick, heavy silence. Behind the lapping of the waves and the wind in the trees, there was… nothing, no birds, no insects. Just deathly stillness.

Another hundred yards deeper into the eerie tranquility of the jungle, we stopped in a small clearing for the officers to reconvene, and it was obvious even they were spooked. I wasn’t a bright kid, but I knew enough to know that something was very wrong. It was like the whole island was dead. I remember I could only smell the sea, despite the red blossoms dangling from the trees.

It wasn’t an airfield, on top of the plateau. I can’t tell you what it was, because I’ve never seen anything like it, and I don’t think anyone ever will. If I tell you it was like the Aztec pyramids, but turned upside down, so that it sank like giant steps into the earth, you’d get the basic idea of it, but that somehow fails to capture the profound unearthliness of the structure.

There was no sign of individual pieces in the masonry, it appeared to have been carved out of a single immense block of black rock into a sharp and geometric shape. It was slick and perfectly smooth like obsidian, but it had no shine to it. It swallowed up even the moonlight, so that it was impossible to see how deep it went, or even focus your eyes on any one part of it, like it was one giant blind spot.

Our platoon drew the honor of investigating the lower levels, so we descended the stairs as the rest of the company surrounded the plateau. We took the stairs slowly and carefully after the first man to touch one of the right angle edges slit his hands down the bone.

At odd intervals down the steps, there were several small stone rooms; simple, empty, hollow cubes of stone with one opening, facing the pit in the center. There was no door that we could see, and with the opening being four feet of the ground, you’d have to put your hands on that black razor sharp edge to climb in into it.

We circled the descending floors, shining our lights into each of the small structures; They contained the same featureless black walls and nothing else. No dust, no leaves and other detritus from the jungle, the whole monument was immaculate, as if the place was just built; but that couldn’t be right. The whole structure felt incalculably old to me somehow, despite having no way to articulate the particular reasons.

Down near the bottom you could see that it simply sloped away into a darkness that swallowed the flashlights. We tossed first a button and then a shell casing down into the pit, and waited in the unearthly silence, but no sounds returned. No one spoke, we simply turned away from the yawning abyss and continued our sweep of the bottom rung and the last of the small structures.

The body in the back corner was almost invisible at first in the thick shadows, but the long spill of drying blood reflected the light of our flashlights, and it led right too him. He was coiled tight, arms around his thighs, and his face tucked into his knees. You could see badly he was cut, his clothes opened in ragged bloody tatters to reveal the pale skin and bone beneath it. He may have been dressed in a Japanese uniform, but it had been reduced to ribbons; I only had few seconds to look at him before we heard the first shots.

It echoed like the buzzing of faraway insects in the still jungle, swallowed almost instantly by the blanket of quiet. By the time we reached the top, the rest of the company had vanished. There were shell casings on the ground, and the hot smell of gunpowder in the air, but they were gone. The trees were deathly quiet around, there was not a trace of the nearly fifty other men that had come ashore with us. I could taste bile rising in my throat as panic threatened to cripple me; I felt crushed between the yawning pit and razor edges on one side and the dead jungle and the pounding ocean on the other. The silence rang in my ears and I struggled to still myself.

They were just inside the jungle, waiting for us. They came out from between the trees with all sound of a moth, simply sliding into our view.

I can try to tell you what I saw, the same as I did to the army doc on the hospital ship when I first woke up, and again half dozen other various officers over the following months, and you’ll have the same reaction they did; that I was a dumb country rube suffering from heatstroke and exposure and trauma. That I was crazy.

You know me. You know I’m not crazy. And I remember every second of that night with crystal clarity.

The thing, the first one that caught my eye, was wearing the skin of a Jap soldier, all mottled with the belly distended from rot. The head drooped, useless and obscene on the shoulders, tongue swollen and eyes cloudy. I could see where it was coming apart at the ill-defined joints, with ragged holes in the drying flesh. At the bottom of each of these raw pits was blackness, deeper than the stones of the buildings; a darkness that seemed to churn and froth like an angry cloud.

The thing moved suddenly, the head snapping and rolling backwards as it dashed towards us. I had my rifle clasped tightly in my hands, but it simply didn’t occur to me to fire. All I could do was gape silently at the macabre sight bearing down on us, and think absurdly of my mother’s marionettes.

A gun went off beside me, and I turned to see a dozen more of the horrors darting silently in on us. Among them were a few more rotting and swollen forms, but the majority wore the same uniforms as us, and were pale, fresh, and soaked in blood. More bullets zipped through the air, and I saw the grisly things hit again and again, but they never slowed. I caught a glimpse of the First Sergeant’s vacant glassy eyes as his head dangled limp from his shoulders; I saw the great ragged wound in his back and the shuddering darkness that inhabited his corpse when he leapt just past me without a sound, landing like a graceful predator onto the soldier beside me. The others around me began to drop in a silent dance of kinetic energy and blurred motion

I was on the track team in high school, and it could have got me to college. I didn’t need an invitation. I just ran. I ran blind through jungle, caroming of tree trunks; I ran until I saw the ocean, and it struck a new ringing note of terror in me. I don’t remember actually deciding to swim, but when I turned back to the tree line, I saw one of the white and bloody things emerge, running on all fours, the hands splayed wide and the back contorted and cracked in an impossible angle.

To this day, the mere thought of the ocean still brings on a cold sweat, but that night I let it embrace me, let the tide drag me out to sea, if only to bring momentary relief from the impossible monolith and terrors on the island. The days I spent drifting off shore and blistering in the sun were a welcome release from the silent island.

I never saw the war. They sent me home as soon as I recovered.

It was comforting in a way, when I thought no one believed me. It allowed me to believe that it never happened, that it was a product of my mind. But as I got older, I’ve found that it is pointless to lie to anyone, especially yourself. I know what I saw.

Someone else believed me too. I’ve seen maps of where they tested the hydrogen bombs in the South Pacific.

—

Credited to Josef K. (aka entropyblues).

[antedilfuvian]

I’m curious about your ocs :) do you wanna talk about their sires/why they were embraced? (Unless it’s a really spoiler-y plot point for something you are writing lol)

Of course!! To preface, all of this is just for my own personal enjoyment/not used for actual tabletop sessions. So, bear that in mind when delving into the high-stakes, grandiose nature of their stories. :)

Hadrian

Although his modern namesake derives from the Roman emperor, we have to go a bit farther back to capture the moment of Hadrian's embrace—somewhere around 500 BC in northern Greece. Hadrian's real-life inspiration is Epaminondas, a Theban general who, through ballsy maneuvering and brilliant tactics, freed many from Spartan rule and unified a large chunk of Greece. With the power struggle between Ventrue and Brujah present within the region at this time, such strategizing gained the attention of a number of watchful observers, all eager to secure such strategic advisory for themselves.

Ultimately, however, it was not a meticulously-planned course of action that found Hadrian in the world of the undead; rather, the impulsive decision of a powerful tourist. Victorious in his final battle yet mortally wounded, Hadrian awaited his final moments amongst the living, shrouded by a cloak of mourning comrades. Abruptly, the presence of a newcomer found those around him in a Domination-induced trance. Veddhartha appeared to him and, just as Hadrian was shy of his final breath, provided him life anew.

The lore on Veddhartha is somewhat unclear and conflicting at parts (based both on what the wiki says and what resources I've managed to find on him), but the the purposes of my story, Veddhartha was the one who diablerized Ventrue. This places Hadrian at 4th generation, but given the delicate nature of his sire's acquisition of power, he claims only 5th amongst the circles that know his true age and identity.

Hadrian, deemed incorruptible in life, detested the new life thrust upon him, surrounded by those that favored material gain and power-grabbing over honor-bound aspirations. While compliant with the traditions of his clan, his relationship with his sire was a cold and distant thing marked by bitterness. This mattered less and less with the passing ages and the gradual disappearance of Veddhartha, leaving Hadrian with only the hollow loneliness associated with being sired and left to one's own devices.

Though with time Hadrian succumbed to some of the selfish inclinations of his blood, he never sired his own childre. Mocked by his contemporaries for being childless both in life and death, Hadrian's real name grew more obscure with each century. This, however, only made him all the more desireable as a prospective agent for the Inconnu.

Piers

Piers' siring was unorthodox, to say the least. Born a Salubri revenant although largely unaware of the fact for the majority of his life, Piers found a certain ease in adapting to the norms of the undead when playing his own masquerade amongst them as a hunter in Cainite socialite's clothing. A strained and often-times-hostile relationship with his father born of circumstance unknown to Piers himself found him seeking independence at a young age and bearing the brunt of foolhardy decision making in the process.

It was only when meeting Hadrian at the age of 18 in 1998 that Piers found someone to serve as a mentor despite a (potentially mutually-beneficial) conflict on interest present within their individual goals. Unbeknownst to Piers, Hadrian knew the truth of his blood—not only its vague properties as being that of a revenant's, but also the gritty details of the Ashfield family's past. This information stemmed from his work with the Inconnu, who provided him clear orders not to interfere with the path Piers had been set on. Of course, like a moth to a flame Hadrian failed to obey, opting rather to assist the young hunter at arm's length over the course of 6 years until finally incapacitated by the Inconnu (something that I'd likely have to go into greater detail about in another post haha). Upon his rescue 9 years later and subsequent nursing-back-from-frenzy that transpired over the course of a year, he found Piers had discovered the nature of his blood.

It was not Hadrian who ultimately sired Piers, even if both secretely desired that to be the inevitable. Rather, it was Piers' pursuit of the man who had began the domino effect that led to his own creation, a 5th generation Salubri by the name of Klaudio and, more personally, his great-great-to-the-thirteenth grandfather. Piers, accompanied by a still-recuperating Hadrian, tracked down his grandfather to an estate occupied not only by the man himself, but every other firstborn Ashfield to precede Piers, sustained by the blood of their primogenitor. This would be the site of Piers' Blooding, one marked by the felling of his forebears (including his own father), until finally face-to-face with Klaudio.

Both Piers and Klaudio were mortally wounded in their fight, but then, as Piers' hands reached out to touch the face of his foe, a man over a century old yet so familiar, a heat ignited at his fingertips and set Klaudio's skull aflame. This final display was not a coup de gras, but rather a form of unconscious, thaumaturgical diablerie, consuming the elder's essence and taking it upon himself. Hadrian, separated but arriving just in time to observe Piers collapse to the floor, rushed forward to cradle the body of his lover and mourn what he thought to be a corpse. "You're not getting rid of me that easily," coughed Piers, looking up at Hadrian from behind a lidded gaze, exhausted yet cocky as ever, before succumbing to unconsciousness.

It would be 14 days before Piers awoke. In that time, Hadrian returned his body to their apartment and never left his side, doing what he could to mitigate the pain of the embrace. It was only when carrying his body to the pool of his bathhouse that Hadrian noticed a quickening of breath and a sudden struggle. Fearing Piers would reject his newfound blood, Hadrian's eyes searched for signs of change in the younger's body.

When Piers' eyes opened, it was with a third to accompany them. Piers had Awakened.

Thanks so much for the ask!! Tumblr never seems to let me add tags to asks, but hopefully I can slap a long post tag on this one. And also if there's any OCs you'd like to talk about yourself, I'd love to hear about them!

[lambychop]

Ultimate Horror Flick List

I know this isn’t usually my style, but 🎵it’s the most wonderful time of the year🎵

That’s right: it’s the spoopy month! Which means SPOOPY MOVIES

So I present to you:

IRONICENIGMA’S ULTIMATE HORROR FLICK LIST FOR ALL TYPES OF FILM LOVERS

1) For the Gore Hounds

•Saw series- the classic films for the guys who just wanna see some people get ripped to shreads (honestly, after the second one, they go downhill)

•Jigsaw- the more recent edition to the Saw series (this ones actually pretty good and FULL of gore)

•Hostel- Saw Studies Abroad (TM)

•Final Destination series- kinda a dumb one. The movies can be kinda dumb, but the kills are INSANE. Fun movies to watch with the gang

•Texas Chainsaw Massacre- you know it, you love it, I don’t gotta explain it

•Cannibal Holocaust- seriously messed up. Banned in multiple countries. It’s something special.

•The Midnight Meat Train- lesser known, kinda weird, super bloody

•Cabin Fever- gross disease makes you loose your skin. Nasty

•Wrong Turn- basically The Hills Have Eyes but with funner kills

2) The Classic Slashers

•Scream series- one of my faves. Classic story of small town teens with a killer on the loose. Lots of fun

•Friday the Thirteenth- do I have to tell you why this is here?

•Nightmare on Elm Street- Johnny Depp getting turned into a volcano of blood? I’m in.

•Halloween- can’t have Halloween without the movie that took the name, right?

•My Bloody Valentine (the original one)- one of my all time favorite movies. Creepy killer, great group of characters, great time

•Sleepaway Camp- infamous for its batshit ending. Kinda weird ngl, but a classic

•The Town That Dreaded Sundown- Based on a real killer. Oldie, but goodie

•Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon- different take on the slasher genre. Fun look into the life of a movie slasher

•You’re Next- badass female lead? Check. Masked murderers? Check. Family bonding? Uh sure okay

•I Know What You Did Last Summer- secrets are bad. Roll credits

3) Supernatural (demons, ghosts, etc)

•The Conjuring- it’s pretty popular, you know it

•Insidious- also popular. Moral: your body is a ghost hotel

•Sinister- classic demon: likes kids, likes brutal deaths, likes to appear in the background of pictures

•The Exorcist- obviously

•Lights Out- ghosts are scared of light, that’s all you need to know

•The Sixth Sense- not really scary. Actually pretty wholesome. In an “I see dead people” kinda way

•The Rite- priest Anthony Hopkins coughs up nails

•The Omen- aka don’t trust kids

•1408- haunted hotel room. Someone call the ghoul bois

•The Amityville Horror- based on true events. Well at least we know the murders were real and the house is creepy

•The Skeleton Key- Old People+Voodoo= bad time

•Haunting In Connecticut- also a “true” story. Don’t buy a house that used to be a morgue

•The Autopsy Of Jane Doe- boy bonds with dad over dead teenage girl

•Mama- moths are gross, ghosts are worse. Dead Mom from Beetlejuice, but now a movie

•Rosemary’s Baby- dont trust thy neighbor

•The Shinning- classic. That’s all I’ve got to say

•The Orphanage- again: creepy kids

•Stir Of Echos- Kevin Bacon sees ghosts. Must I say more?

•The Others- haunted house story with a twist ending

4) Creature Features

•Trick ‘r Treat- classic Halloween film. Fun, creepy, iconic

•The Ritual- camping trip turns bad. Monster looks really cool

•A Quiet Place- you’ve probably seen it. Jim from the office speaks sign language

•The Babadook- children’s storybook is not kid friendly

•Backcountry- bears are dangerous

•Alien- you’ve seen this already but it needs to be here

•The Descent- dont watch if your claustrophobic

•An American Werewolf In London- also a fave. Best werewolf movie ever made

•The Monster- lesser know, actually pretty good

•The Thing- classic. Super good. Based on a short story. No one can be trusted because you don’t know if they’re even them

5) Horror Comedies

•Zombieland- hysterical. Bloody. Great cast

•Cabin In The Woods- this movie is insane. Combine every horror monster ever, the Illuminati, and the Office- that’s this movie

•Shaun of the Dead- the classic horror comedy

•Scary Movie series- less horror, ridiculous comedy

•This Is The End- again, like no horror, but one of the funniest films ever

6)Found Footage (not a great genre, but some can be pretty entertaining)

•The Blair Witch Project- basically the king of the found footage films. You’ve seen it

•The Conspiracy- the Illuminati is real and they don’t like to be filmed

•Paranormal Activity series- kinda annoying to horror fans. Relies on jump scares and the characters are idiots. But if I’m doing a section on foud footage, this has to be here

•Creep- okay this movie actually really disturbed me. People are absolutely insane. Don’t meet up with people from Craigslist

•V/H/S series- basically a anthology of short horror films. Kinda fun

•Apollo 18- the government faked the moon landing because they found some crazy shit

•The Sacrament- Jonestown caught on camera

•As Above So Below- Paris Catacombs are wack

•Grave Encounters- what if Ghost Adventures actually found ghosts

•Unfriended Dark Web- lets be honest: the first one sucked. Second one is actually not bad. Take away the ghosts, add the black market

•The Poughkeepsie Tapes- lesser know, can be hard to find. Really disturbing. Basically watching a serial killer tape his crimes

•Cold Ground- Set up to look just like it’s out of the seventies. It’s pretty fun

•The Last Exorcism- priests are liers

•Quarantine- English version of [REC]. I wouldn’t say it’s great, but it’s something

•Hell House LLC.- kids set up a haunted house. People die

•The Houses October Built- again with the haunted houses. Don’t trust em

•The Bay- Cabin Fever but found footage-y

•Willow Creek- y’all gotta leave Bigfoot alone

•Lake Mungo- girl drowns, family sees her ghost. No jump scares with this one, like most found footage. Mostly just a family in mourning

•The Tunnel- if the government says to stay out, STAY OUT

•The Taking Of Deborah Logan- alzheimers itself is awful to go through, but let’s add some more spooks

•The Possession Of Michael King- another possession film? Yep they just keep comin

•The Last Broadcast- suspicious murder of tv hosts

6) Family Fun

•Hocus Pocus- okay obviously

•Beetlejuice- dark humor in a “kids” film. Most of the comedy caters to adults, but it’s an awesome film

•Corpse Bride- guy accidentally marries dead girl. Wholesome family fun

•The Nightmare Before Christmas- my fave Disney film. Super cute

•Frankenweenie- dead dog=goodest boy

•Paranorman- sixth sense but now for kids+zombies

•Coraline- Might scar some small children, but I loved it when it came out when I was 8

7) Psychological

•Midsommar- happy cult family holds a festival

•Funny Games- home invasion movie done well. No cheap thrills, just some sadistic shit

•The Strangers- dont answer the door for people wearing masks when it’s not Halloween are you crazy

•The Perfection- artistic, bloody, absolute mind fuck

•Gerald’s Game- sexy time turns not good

•Unsane- imagine being stalked and no one believes you. That’s the premise

•Triangle- ummmmmmmm wtf is happening what time is it??

•It Comes At Night- trust is bad. Paranoia is good.

•The Silence of the Lambs- my personal favorite film. Serial killer helps rookie detective find another serial killer

•Jacob’s Ladder- Vietnam vet struggles with EXTREMELY terrifying visions

AND THERE YOU GO. I have seen plenty more, so if you don’t see one you’d like on this list, hit me up with what kinda movie you’re lookin for and I’ll hook you up amigo

[aikatxt]

in empty fields beneath neon lights

i. wings

my grandmother used to have the walls of her house covered in insect wings, pinned against cork boards and kept safe behind a wall of glass. hundreds of brown moth wings, put up for display. in the sitting room, the prettiest wings were left for guest to peer at; vibrant blues and reds and oranges, stripes and stained glass patterns.

i don’t know what happened to all those insect wings. the house seemed to dim and darken, then crumble after she died. the glass-like dragonfly wings vanished; those were the ones that captivated me most in my early years.

i wonder what it means that i can only think of the dead when i see a dragonfly pass by.

the cemetery where my grandmother is buried is old; like everything else in small towns, it has a history we’ve all forgotten. but i don’t visit for my grandmother most days. no, it’s the weather-worn angel that always catches my attention. i know it stands guard over an empty grave;  they never found her body, and after twenty years, it’s clear she will  always be a case that cannot be solved.

its wings are chipped and grey, hands clasped and the stone veil over its head gives only the faintest hint of a face.

the name on the headstone it stands over reads:

                                          Myra Victoria Ksapre

                                          July 15, 1981 - 2009

                                       Lost, but never Forgotten

i wonder about her sometimes. leave flowers at my grandmother’s grave, then sit before the memory of myra and quietly tell her about the butterflies that often rest on her angel’s shoulders.

there is something enchanting about watching a butterfly flutter its wings, gently moving them to keep the wind from blowing it over. i think of my grandmother teaching me how to pull apart a butterfly without damaging the wings, of her hands cradling the tiny corpse, of those hands on my shoulder as she instructs me on how to pin it up.

i leave, and the butterflies keep their wings.

ii. neon

they’ve added more lights since i was last here. like everyone else my age, i  had longed to leave the slow, tired life a our small town behind. unlike most of them, i managed to find my way out into the world and tried to leave the past behind me.

it’s an old story: running away and becoming someone else. and it always ends the same.

i come back, and my ghosts remain with me.

i  haven’t told my mother that i’m back yet. i haven’t spoken to my father in six years. so i leave my suitcase against the wall of this small  hotel room and look out over the once familiar streets. it’s near midnight, and the neon green sign for the next door bar illuminates the street and transforms the groups of stumbling, laughing people into  something more magical.

a moth flies by, moving sporadically, up and down but forwards nonetheless. i watch it fly towards the neon sign  that spells the hotel’s name. it’s too small for me to keep sight of as  it moves away from my window, but i can clearly imagine the little moth  hitting the light and the heat ending its life quickly and painfully.

a  memory returns to me suddenly: a humid summer night, laughing as i chased after fireflies in a grassy field, my grandmother cradling a moth in her hands and my grandfather speaking to someone in hushed tones near their old car.

it’s been a long time since i last thought of them. been a long time since they were buried.

though it’s past midnight, i doubted that i would get any sleep soon, so i  head down to the bar across the street in the hopes that a drink would  get my mind off of things. the neon lights feel nostalgic in a strange way and i am suddenly struck with the realization that my youth is gone, escaped me years ago and i was too focused on running away to notice.

on a cork board stuck outside the old movie theater that closed down when i was in middle school, i see myra’s face suddenly, half hidden in  shadow. the missing sign is weathered and worn, but her smile hasn’t changed.  

the only people who can keep their youth are the ones who die young.

iii. roses

the house has fallen apart. faded graffiti decorates the walls both inside  and outside. the yard my grandmother once cared for is overgrown and  wild.

on the edge of the town, with the nearest neighbor being a mile down the dirt road, it’s clear that this house has been forgotten. no one wants to buy it, so no one wants to fix it up. abandoned, my grandparent’s house is slowly being reclaimed by nature.

the rose bushes my mother helped plant have grown large and unruly. they cling to the chain-link fence that surrounds the house. i have to wrestle with the branches just to open the gate, and thorns cut through  my skin as i make my way up the barely visible path to the front door.

the lock on the door has been broken. i’m sure the bolder teenagers must have broken in, telling each other ghost stories and scaring each other  as they looked through the aging rooms of the house.

with the early afternoon light coming in through broken and dusty windows, the house is filled with golden light. the floorboards creak under my feet as i walk around, looking at how a place once so familiar has changed. though the frames filled with insect wings and bodies have disappeared, couches and tables have been left behind. the dining table still has the marks made by a seven year old me trying to saw through it with a  butter knife.

i wander aimlessly. i don’t try to go upstairs;  the wood is old and decayed and though i may not care much for my own health, i still don’t want to fall through the steps.

there’s a door in the hallway i don’t remember. it opens easily, the hinges loud in the silent house, and any light that makes it through the windows  disappears here. there’s a staircase that goes down into darkness.

i would have remembered this. why don’t i?

with my phone as a flashlight, i descend.

iv. chalk

it smells like mold and dust, so strong it feels like it coats the inside  of my mouth. i put a hand over my mouth and nose and force myself forward.

there are no windows. there’s not much of anything. but against the walls, i find a few frames, glass cracked, holding the dusty remains of insects. the dragonflies are among them. i want to take them back up, pack them beneath the clothes in my suitcase, but my eyes keep going back to the far corner of the basement.

i can’t see anything, but i know something is there.

heart in my throat, i make my way deeper; the walls seem to press down on me, a part of me screams to run away and never come back, but i force myself to put one foot in front of the other. i accidentally kick something, and when i look down, i see green chalk slowly rolling away  from me.

distantly i remember my mother talking to my grandmother: ‘i never did find my chalk after that summer. and you never bought me any again. did you ever tell me why?’  my grandmother’s elusive smiles, her apple cakes, her insects. the old photographs in the family albums of my mother as a child, drawing colorful illustrations on the concrete of the garage.

when i look up, the light of my phone illuminates the bones peeking out of old clothes, the type my mother wore when she was younger.

“it was my father you know,” says a girl emerging from the shadows. her features are blurry. “asked your father to hide me down here and never speak a word of it. what do you think of that, sophie? your best friend beneath you and you never noticed.”

this girl mistook me for my mother. a dreadful understanding dawned on me.

“sophie is my mother. she never told me that she knew you.”

“your mother? how long has it been?”

she steps closer. it’s easier to see her now. see that same face, the same eyes as those missing posters, just without the smile.

“very long. we’re a small town. your disappearance turned you into a legend, myra.”

“they did the same thing to johann when i was still alive.” she stops just a  few feet away from me. “i need you to do something for me,” she says.

i stare at her, the girl whose empty grave i sat near, whose face haunted my entire life in this town, whose memory was only shared in whispers  and tears.

“anything,” i promise.

v. rituals

i  wonder if my grandmother knew. she must have; the missing chalk she kept from my mother means she must have seen the body. the questions i  asked as a child about myra had been answered with the words found in the news about her disappearance. i wonder if her hands that pulled  apart insects were red with the blood of others.

my mother must never know. no one can ever know.

myra’s father and my grandfather are dead. who would take on the consequences of a murder over twenty years old?

i go back to my hotel room. i text my mother and promise to visit her in  two days. i shower and get a drink. i go through the slow ritual of getting ready for bed, thoughts a thousand miles away. i dream of myra, young and alive, and wonder why?

these are answers i will never have. this is a secret i will carry to my grave. the sins of my grandfather are the ones i must bear. my grandmother had me well acquainted with  death before i ever entered school. i can carry another ghost.

i leave at one in the morning. i let the rose bushes take their share of my blood, then put myra’s bones in a large trash bag. when i leave, i pluck off a rose for her, then another just to rip off the petals. i sneak into the cemetery, where nearly every light is as dead as the  people inside. it takes me another hour to dig up her empty grave and lay her bones to rest.

“thank you,” she whispers from behind me. i don’t turn around. i fill in the grave.

when the sun begins to rise, i toss the trash bag and shovel into a dumpster down the street. when i come back, the sunlight falls upon the stone angel like a halo. the dead are at rest. her case will never be solved. i alone will know where she was hidden.

at the feet of the angel is a dead butterfly. i reach out and tear off its wings.

the apple never falls too far from the tree after all.