#Ichor - soul turned to rot

[penwrythe]

well...that looks familiar lol

i learned that at least one of the victims of the Vesuvius Eruption in 79 C.E was found with a vitrified brain. In other words their brain was turned to glass due to the extreme heat (x)

[nyashykyunnie]

˗ˏˋ One-Sided Love: In Which, you realize Jinwoo was always for ???... ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 017 ✦ ┆・

‼️[tw: ANGST TO FLUFF, HAPPY ENDING, strong imagery of depression, hanahaki disease, hurt, subtance-abuse, suicidal-imagery, mention of death]‼️

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅ Part 1 || Part Two ♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

╰┈➤ ❝ [ He Lied. He Had to Lie. He Needed to Lie. ] ¡! ❞

It is his first, and his final gift to you.   The you who is no longer by his side. He bids you a farewell, a farewell he never thought he would do. For a friend.       "Goodbye, may your dreams be pleasant as you drift in purgatory. May your soul rest. I'm sorry."

…

As Jinwoo walks away from the stonehead, a sudden sharp ring stabs through his head. He groaned, almost stumbling on the muddy ground from the sheer agony.

He continued to struggle for a while, before finally removing his hand that had been gripping the side of his head. His fingers that had been wrapped around the umbrella hilt loosened, causing the object to flutter and fall down the floor. Splattering down on the muddy floor.

Ah… Yes.

He finally remembers. 

Everything that he had erased in his memories,... Have finally come back. The things he had buried in the sea of forgotten memories, have suddenly come back to him like a dam bursting open. It swallowed everything at its wake.

Everything that Jinwoo swore he would never have again, has finally come back.

His gaze lingered back on the stonehead in front of him. The lonely, lonely rock that was hollow and devoid of anything.

Though the flowers he had offered were beautiful as they were, it didn’t matter as the rain dampened the pretty petals down into pathetic, lifeless things. Those flowers were beautiful when he had offered it, but now, it looked drained of all its colours.

Jinwoo took a step again, turning his back and walking away.

He was trying desperately to ignore the hammering feeling ripping his heart apart.

Maybe it was of guilt, of sadness, of shame, of remorse— No.

Maybe it was all of it.

As Jinwoo comes home, his gaze would linger upon Cha Hae-in, who greets him warmly with that beaming smile.

She was beautiful, like a precious gemstone gleaming amongst the cobbles.

Jinwoo wanted to admire her, he truly did, but the memories he has regained caused her image to become muddy.

He tried everyday, he tried to be happy, he tried to play the perfect role of boyfriend to her. He kept up his appearances as the most beloved and hailed hunter.

But everything was slowly starting to swallow him into the abyss.

Ironic, isn’t it?

He was the embodiment of the darkness, the face of death, the persona of all the shadows.

Yet somehow, his own darkness was finally starting to destroy him from within.

The more the days passed, the more his grey eyes would lose their life, the more empty they became. Eventually, Jinwoo’s normally calm gaze—

Would become faded.

His eyes were still there, but for some reason, it felt that they were far gone. The little light that he had in his brilliant orbs has finally disappeared.

Jinwoo was rotting from the inside-out. As if his heart is beating out black ichor. He felt vile and disgusting, he wanted to rip himself apart, he wanted to stab himself and put an end to it.

Jinwoo was drowning now. 

Not even Hae-in’s loving words and affectionate advances weren’t doing it for him.

The more Jinwoo looked at her, the more muddled his gaze would become.

He didn’t know if it was hate or disgust.

He still needed to be a good man, so he politely asked her to break off the relationship. He didn’t want part of this anymore, he didn’t want to keep up the illusion anymore. He just wanted to disappear.

Jinwoo started to become an alcoholic, he would douse bottle after bottle but to his dismay— He could never be drunk. He couldn’t drink his sorrows away. He can’t get lost in the blissful euphoria of being lost in the toxicity of debauchery.

Even his family can't stop Jinwoo’s descent into silent madness.

He felt pathetic and guilty whenever he would see the pained expressions they would make when they see the amount of bottles he had already empty.

So Jinwoo would isolate himself in the land of eternal rest, where not even his children can call out to him unless absolutely necessary.

Jinwoo really just wanted to hide here, to bask in the darkness he had first mastered but now is a representation of his dying consciousness.

He would disappear and reappear again and again.

Whenever he hunts, his methods are especially brutal and unforgiving, as if he is projecting all of his pain onto the poor creatures that would cross paths with him.

He would often come out of the gates completely drenched in blood, creating an image of utter horror but somehow the bloodbath he showers in suited his broken gaze.

Jinwoo felt more like a wanderer now.

Ceaselessly taking one step in front of the other, wandering aimlessly like a lost spirit that is nothing more than a fleeting illusion.

Wander. Wander. Wander.

And eventually, he wanders over to your resting place. Jinwoo found himself unconsciously walking to your grave eventually, his distant gaze reading the stonehead over and over as if expecting something of some sort.

The memories he was trying to repress so badly, are torturing him again.

Jinwoo had spent… 800 times regressing over and over.

The reason?

You.

The you who is now dead.

But why is that? Didn’t he make you suffer such a torturous heartbreak? Didn’t he himself push you away and abandon you to your own woes? So why?

Those 800 times he had regressed, Jinwoo had lost you over and over. No matter how hard he tries to save you, no matter how hard he attempts to change your fate— Jinwoo would keep losing you and in the end your cold corpse would be in his arms while he screams into the air; cursing the gods and everything that is alive. 

Why?... How come everything else could have a happy ending but you? You who had always been there for him, you who cradled him in most miserable days? You who had always been the one to patch his wounds up? Why can’t he have you? Why can’t he give you everything? 

Jinwoo had tried every goddamn method.

He killed the gods, he murdered the monarchs, he sealed off the gates, he tried every outcome he could ever think of— And yet… And yet the outcome is always the same.

Jinwoo kept gambling, pulling card after card after card after card… And now he is empty handed.

All of it always ends with him having the fool in his hand. 

He cries, laughing like a madman as he knelt in front of your grave as if he was begging for mercy.

Jinwoo thought that removing himself from your life would solve things. He attempted to remove your memories and it didn’t work.

So Jinwoo instead tried to remove his memories of you. Because if he had kept those memories of you, he wouldn’t be able to resist himself and would run back to your arms where he felt so safe and sound.

Even after he removed every trace of you in his brain— His heart stubbornly yearned for you and reversed the curse he had inflicted on himself and once again showed him the hell he tried so desperately tried to escape.

“Child, you’re weeping again” Jinwoo’s gaze would snap up, finding himself in the presence of Ashborn who is sporting his image. “Your plans have failed once again, I see”

Jinwoo bitterly laughs, getting up from his pathetic position. “Of course I did, and you as always— Had predicted it. You’re right, I lost that person again.”

“...”

“I tried everything, Ashborn” Jinwoo chokes up, his look far gone from sane now. “I tried ever fucking method in hopes that my bet would have a sliver of hope and make a break through. I always… Always considered all the possibilities that could destroy the ending that I want but for fuck’s sake I keep losing everytime.”

“You haven’t tried everything, child” Ashborn says, transforming into the image of you.

Jinwoo purses his lips, his eyes watering at the sight of you. Although it was just an illusion by his predecessor— Jinwoo still felt a strong tug in his heart that of which longs to embrace you.

“What do you mean?” Jinwoo asks, his gaze falling down. 

“Have you ever wondered why that child was immune to the potions and how you couldn’t remove their memories of you?” Ashorn hums, circling around Jinwoo. “Why do you think so?”

“....”

“Because they’re not from here” Ashborn answers immediately, catching Jinwoo off-guard.

“What?” Jinwoo glares at him.

“That child’s body doesn’t respond to your powers because they are an anomaly that shouldn’t have been in this world in the first place” Ashborn explains. “The world in which that lover of yours hails from is far different from our homeland that is tainted by meddling gods and monarchs, mana doesn't flow through that world. None of our ailments with the divine or anything else taints their homeworld.”

“So you’re saying that my biggest mistake was not figuring that out soon and I was the fool who made my lover suffer through those painful things when I could have solved it just by sending them home?” Jinwoo bitterly laughs, choking in his sobs. “...I’m so… So stupid”

“....” Ashborn chuckles, patting Jinwoo’s shoulder. “Do you want to be with them? Your beloved?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“In exchange, you will give up your throne as the shadow monarch, everything that you have with you right now including the system—” Ashborn turns to him “Are you willing to give that up.”

“Yes.”

There was silence between the two, Ashbron’s eyes would bore into Jinwoo’s as if waiting for the man to falter. 

But falter he didn’t.

“Alright” Ashborn hums. 

“I’ll be an anomaly in that world, won’t I?” Jinwoo asks.

“That would be the case if it weren’t for the fact that I am your predecessor” He muses, “My last gift to you will be me taking my place back as the shadow monarch. All of which that are yours as my heir will be returned to me.”

“Including my kids?” Jinwoo inquires.

“Naturally.”

“Then let me say farewell to them” He requests.

Ashborn merely nods, letting Jinwoo turn around.

He takes a deep breath, his deep grey eyes turning purple as for one final time he says his command, “Arise”

“I’m sorry,”— Was the first thing Jinwoo had said, bowing his head to the shadows he had grown to love. “And thank you,... For everything. For all of your services, for all of the memories you all have shown me. Even if you’re all just undead creatures I summoned for my own greedy pursuit, I thank you all for everything that you have done,... My kids.”

The shadows wail, from sadness and from joy. Their voices would mix and howl, urging Jinwoo to pursue his dream. They would miss him, yes, but they value their master’s happiness over their own selfish wishes.

They had been there, they knew how much heartache and mourning their master has gone through for that person, how much pain Jinwoo had gone through, how much he cried in those lonely nights. 

They listened to all of his screams.

And they, his shadows, his soldiers, his children,... Yearn for nothing more than to give Jinwoo the happiness he deserves.

So for a final time, they salute to Sung Jinwoo.

As the man himself fades into pieces of fleeting white petals.

For a final time, it is now farewell.

Farewell to the shadow monarch, Sung Jinwoo.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

You were admiring the pink petals falling beside your window, not noticing a pair of grey eyes lovingly admiring you from the classroom door. 

A tender gaze so full of love.

“May I?” The deep and smooth voice inquires, snapping you out of your daze and you turn.

He was handsome, pristine and upright. Perfectly carved out features as if made by divine hands. Everything about his features was absolutely symmetrical, even his gentle eyes and straight brows. Even with his puffy ebony locks— He looked so otherworldly and yet familiar at the same time

You nod and he sits down, throwing you a small smile.

“Jinwoo.” He speaks, the sound of his voice causing the tips of your heart to tremble as your stomach fluttered. “My name is Sung Jinwoo."

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Hello Howl how're you doing. I just wondering what's your opinions on Killers excessive determination? Does it effect on his physical body much like geno? (Ik Geno kinda stero injects DM into his soul)

but like, is his excessive determination slowly melting away him like Geno? and what we saw he coughing up black goos, are some part of them are his marrow that just seeping out of his bone, or is it something that is manifest?

Anyways have a great day!

(Omg first interaction)

I personally like to think that the black goo is a mixture of DT and his own melting insides—blood/bone marrow, or more like, the dt gives his melting insides an acidic like properties. And the DT gives it this black goopy appearance, and I personally like to think it smells either really bad or sickly sweet—and has a bubbling like appearance as if it’s boiling.

Now, as for side effects, there’s the canon ones we see. Which is the constant leaking, the choking and difficulty breathing hazard, the frequent coughing and spitting, and eye sight problems that likely lead to extremely blurred vision that could also cause visual or auditory hallucinations—images from the past, voices that aren’t there, etc.

And the constant, overwhelming, physical pain that seems to just be everywhere. In Stage 1, where he’s unable to ignore his physical pains, he seems to shake and curl in on himself a lot.

@signanothername also frequently draws their killer with black stained bones, which I honestly really like. Makes sense to me.

On top of that, I also think that Killer’s ichor also seeps within his joints and bones—even from any broken bones, fractures, and injuries he gains—and if he doesn’t frequently clean between these areas, not only will it hurt more, but the blood can dry and crust up; causing limited mobility and movement. It may also cause intense numbness or partial paralysis in limbs.

I’ve also seen a HC around that if Killer lays on or sleeps on his back, his skull will eventually fill up with goop and he’ll wake up with what feels like a “bloated” skull. And as result, he keeps like a bucket or a trashcan beside his bed, so he can lean over and dump out his skull in the mornings. Or you know, to throw up and cough and spit in it.

I do think that as it worsens, Killer will start experiencing intense physical weakness—if he doesn’t already, because of the immense energy used to both keep his body intact and ensure that his SOUL remains outside of his body—which in turn can cause sudden and extreme energy plummets that he blacks out.

This can result in feeling like his bones are brittle, and he could even start experiencing partial fractures and spontaneous bone splinting from internal pressure.

And although he may not have typical nerves, he could experience something like nerve pain—stabbing, intense sensations where blood leaks. It could be constant, sometimes escalating into something so unbearable he convulses or loses control of his limbs.

He may experience something like rapid dehydration with all constant leaking substances and potential blood lost, making his bones appear cracked or flaked as if he’s slowly drying up because his body has to compensate for all the lost energy.

His body may even be extremely sensitive to temperature; causing him to swing between hot and cold, potentially causing fractures from the sudden expansion and contraction of his bones—potentially even causing steam and/or frost to emit from his body at random.

As the DT continues to cause his body to corrode from the inside out, his motor functions could suffer; leading to tremors, stumbling, or jerky movements.

He could feel an intense internal pressure from within, an ache behind his ribs, as if something wants to burst out; the goop leaking more aggressively from the cracks.

Over time, he could even begin developing what appears to be patches of rot on his body where the goop accumulates heavily; like eye sockets, jaw, ribs, etc.

If ya wanna lean more into the DT aspect of the goopage, it could start becoming acidic to surfaces he touches or anyone who touches him; leaving stains and burn marks wherever he goes.

Over time, his bones could disintegrate and erode; leaving certain segments and joints vulnerable to snapping and detaching all together; line a toe, a finger, an entire limb.

It can all lead to his physical form deforming, becoming something unrecognizable as even skeletal—especially if his DT also attempts to regenerate but causes malformed or mutated growth.

Alexa play the sharpest lives jinx edit.

[unicyclehippo]

touch

‘you know i’m like this all the way down, don’t you? it isn’t - it isn’t an act, i do laugh it off sometimes dear, it can be terribly funny but. i am like this. forever. and it’s—could you—do you think you might be able to withstand that for a long time? i should like to be with you for a long time but it would depend on - on when you get exhausted, you see, because i must live with this or - ha - not live with, i suppose, but survive, contend, with this for however long i shall live but you, well.’ laudna’s twists her face into graceful acceptance. soft, understanding, hardly sad at all. it’s very easy to do, once you have the trick of it. ‘you needn’t. deal with this. the bark and the hair and the nails. the popping joints. the ichor, the aches, the smell, the stares, the rot.’ the word drops between them, gross, embarrassing, like she’d spat by accident. her teeth are hatesharp in her mouth. ‘the teeth,’ she adds.

imogen looks up from the book she studies with such careful, wonderful intent. so smart. she quirks a brow, amused. ‘i know what you are, laud. you forget we’ve been travellin’ together awhile now?’

‘no, no.’ her stomach twists, her hands twist, knot, roots. so is she, rooted in place. ‘i know, dear, i only mean to remind you—should you need a moment to yourself, or, or should something in particular sicken you—‘

‘laudna.’

she sinks low. imogen isn’t listening. of course not. she is kind. she lo-hmm. yes, well, laudna can surmise imogen likely loves her. which is, well, lovely! but they haven’t been in love for very long and laudna has never done it before, romance, love, but she knows herself. how she clings to things. she knows herself. love to her is like…tar. sticky and black, bubbling and pouring up and up around their ankles their calves their knees her beautiful knees. if imogen doesn’t know that now then gods help her, what if she drowns her—them—in it? and she would, imogen would stay with her she would be pleased by it, even, because she loves her, but there is something wrong with it. impossible to know if it has always been this or if it’s all the death and the accessories she’s obtained through it—lady d, trauma, blah blah blah—but she thinks she has a capacity for love like a pyre, grease-fire and rising choking smoke; like a hungry dog, snapbite shut around the hand outstretched. and she knows what she wants for imogen, the kind of love she deserves, and how far it is from what she has to offer.

‘what are you afraid of, honey?’

laudna nibbles at her bottom lip. she takes up the bone she has been carving and turns it between her fingers, not wanting to see the moment imogen sees her, maskless, exposed.

‘i want to hold you until we both die,’ laudna says, sad and sweet. ‘i want to lay down in a grave with you side by side and i shall never move again and every worm that comes to eat us up will be little versions of us, because they’ve fed on us, and they will be in love and they’ll feed all the farms and chickens and we’ll be a thousand souls in love. i want to open up your scars and see what is under your skin, what your magic does under there. i want,’ she says, and folds her elbows close to her rotten chest, folds herself small, words small, so not a page stirs, not another soul could be stirred by what she admits. ‘i want to taste it. i want to grow into a tree and grow around you like armour like a second skin so you are always safe and maybe grow taproots, grow into you. through you. i want you as part of me forever. i want to touch you, i want to always be touching you, i want you to never be able to move without feeling me beside you, i want you to crack me open and see how vile it is inside of me and plunge in neck deep and when you struggle to get out, i want to hold on.’ she pauses. ‘i want to dislocate my jaw.’

imogen sits very still. her eyes very dark. she lets out a slow breath, pink tongue flicking out to wet her lips. ‘what-‘ she clears her throat. ‘what does that last one have to do with me?’

‘it doesn’t really. but. i’ll always be quite horrible to be around and i want you to be with me anyway.’

[arcielee]

She Walks in Starlight

Summary: He is the darkness and she is the light.  Paring: Aemond!Hades x OFC!Persephone Word Count: 4615 Warnings: Mention of character(s) death. It’s HotD and Greek mythology, so there will be incest.   Author's Note: Thank you @aspen-carter​ for being my beta reader! Her work is absolutely amazing, so when she says it is good, I post. The artwork is by brina ♥ Also! Gō vys is Valyrian for Under world and Doru-borto valītsossa is dumb boys. Enjoy! Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @sirenofavalon​ @annikin-im-panicin​ @schniiipsel​ @watercolorskyy​ @aaaaaamond​ @iiamthehybrid​ @deltamoon666​ @dahlias-and-marigolds​  Series:  Act I -  Act II - Act III

ACT II

Aemond remembered how his brother’s silver words spilled so seamlessly from his lips and he, in return, wore his own apprehension on his aristocratic features, always sharp and always untrusting when it came to Aegon.

His brother was unfazed by his stoicism, undeterred as he continued to paint the pretty portrait of possibility with the Gō vys. He had sworn he only meant to honor the sacrifice Aemond had made, that ended the Titanomachy that had ravaged the cosmos for the last decade.

“It would be a kingdom all your own,” Aegon had finished with his always rakish grin.

The sacrifice. The word ignited the subtle burn that would flit the length of his scar; it would be just a dull ache beneath the sapphire stone gifted by Helaena, but more often it spread with a fiery vindication. Right now, it paired with a sense of ambivalence with what was said, but Aegon added how he would remain in Mount Olympus and Daeron would rule the seas, so of course order must be brought to the shadowed realm. 

Aemond accepted this and left to find the pathway that weaved into the depths of the cosmos, towards the infinite void of the Underworld. 

It seemed barren, only littered with the damned, both good souls and the bad, along with the spirits of the gods who lost more than just an eye during the war. All of them were just shadows of their former selves and all equally aimless in the tenebrosity of his new kingdom. 

He watched and one wafted past him, through him, and he felt a shuddering cold that cut into the bone. 

My kingdom, was the grim thought to his mind. All my own.

With his lordship came the condition and he heard the only other occupant he was aware of. 

Their grandsire. 

It began with the flutter of unease that gripped him when he heard the guttural cries that rose from the infernal abyss below; the throb of his scar from the endless dissonance that spewed from Tartarus. There was no structure, nothing for it to ricochet and return, just the ceaseless roar for vengeance that began to permeate within him. 

His unease, the pain, grew into an overwhelming hold, the anxiety tight in his chest and a searing fear that burned alongside his own ichor. 

It did not stop; it was a wrath that was palpable, a sound that buried and began to rot. It was his constant reminder that though they managed to usurp their grandsire and he was imprisoned below, he lived still. 

“It is maddening,” a velvet tone spoke one day. “Almost.” 

Aemond remained stoic as always, despite the lurch in his chest to hear another voice within the Gō vys, and he turned to see a woman standing, her kohl-smeared eyes watchful. Alys, he assumed, the goddess of magic and witchcraft, the night and the moon, and the aimless spirits that surrounded them with their gelid presence. 

His iced kingdom. 

“His unceasing wails have brought me to you, Aïdōneús,” she continued, her painted lips smirked. “I come to help you, my king.” 

This was the realization of his burden, the exhaustion to claim the unorganized chaos of the Underworld and instead it pushed him to the precipice of his own sanity.

Aemond said nothing and left. 

Time, he realized, was different in the Gō vys. He recalled the warm tones of autumn back when his brother presented his gift and now noticed the floral scents that accompanied spring. He relished in the warmth of the sun that settled over the mortal realm and the vivid colors of new life for the healing cosmos. 

The quiet was almost unsettling, but it allowed him to find clarity with his thoughts, to decide on what he must do.

He would go to Mount Olympus and he would beg Aegon for another role, to tell him he could not return to that dreary realm. 

What he had not expected was his sister, Rhaenyra. Though the bloomage that surrounded him should have given her away, it still took a moment before he realized how she teetered the edge of the plane of the mortal realm to where it touched the shadows. 

She watched him, her brow quirked over her lavender eyes. 

Aemond stepped towards her and into the sunlight. “Mandia,” he greeted her, a forced smile to his lips. “What brings you here?”

Her expression was similar to his own, a severity in that moment. She was aware of how the bit of color to his complexion had blanched since he had gone, how the shadows were more prominent to his sharp features. “I had come to check on you, lēkia,” Rhaenyra took a tentative step closer, still wary of the imaginary border.

Brother.

Her hesitation aside, the familiarity of their old tongue spoken warmed his chest. 

“I came to see how you were, how it is in the Underworld,” but her words were slow, her eyes still searching. 

She softened with the spoken concern and it bloomed the hope that perhaps she would be able to rescue him from this dark fate. He shared his embittered thoughts of the shadow realm, the so-called kingdom that Aegon claimed to be a gift. 

Rhaenyra listened to him, wordless and her eyes glassy. When he finished, her palm slipped into his own and she pulled for him to follow her. His steps were slow and she looked back to admire how the sun soaked into his ethereal beauty, how his silver hair glimmered in the sunlight. They continued to walk throughout the garden of Herspirdes until she was satisfied to see his godly aura returned. 

“I had not realized I had been gone so long, I had not realized it was spring already,” Aemond breathed, his eye wide to admire as Rhaenyra continued her flowering and the lavender of laconian thyme that now sprouted in her steps. “Truly, this is your best work, mandia.”

She smiled with his compliment. “I believe that beauty was forgotten with the war,” her eyes sparkled. “But I thank you.”

They did not go to Mount Olympus, but instead remained so he could relish in the life that sprouted around him. 

As the day waned away and the golden glow of the setting sun began to roll over, she looked to him. “I cannot imagine this burden our brother has placed on you, Aemond.” They were back at the edge and she turned to face him and placed her hand onto his shoulder; he almost shuddered from the touch. “Aegon and Daeron do not carry the strength, they lack the omnipotence that resides with you, lēkia.”

His gaze dropped, his arms crossed and his one hand cupped his elbow, his fingertips careful to touch his jaw and trace until he came to the bottom of his scar. 

“They could have just asked it of me,” there was a tightness to his tone, the hint of betrayal. “They know I would have done this for them, for all of us.” 

She nodded her head and her golden waves spilled onto her shoulders. “I know this and so does Helaena, but Aegon needs a sense of control. Allow him to remain in Olympus as some ornate for the mortals to fawn over, but,” she stepped closer, moving her palm to rest on his chest, “know you are not alone. I know Alys came to you. Myself, the others, we do not wish for Otto to ever return and we will help you create your kingdom.” 

Aemond hummed. “Can she be trusted?” 

“Helaena sees that she will be a powerful ally for you,” and her lavender eyes shone with her words. 

He returned to the shadow and was greeted by Alys, her expression as smug as earlier. She held up her hands to present a crown, iron and ruby, and gestured to him. 

Aemond leaned forward, the silver spill of his tresses with the movement, and he allowed her to place it on top of his head. 

“Fit for a king,” she declared. “Shall we get started, Aïdōneús?” 

Aemond would grow grateful for the companionship and all that Alys offered. She showed herself to be the mediator of the other inhabitants of the Gō vys; she managed to convince them, to coerce them to recognize their new king and they served him as such. 

Rhaenyra returned with the others, as she had said she would, all with the same visceral shudder entering the realm, the same he was growing accustomed to. 

All seemed willing to assist him and help organize the eternal chaos of the Underworld. They created and built until the cries were smothered below; the grey earth was dug into and it allowed the Styx to meet with the Lethe and Lamentation, while slate stone was stacked within the marsh, creating a castle worthy for a king. 

+ + + + + + +  

There was a sense of pride from the eerie beauty that now loomed from his created kingdom, but it was lonely still.

His sister returned to the grey shores of the Styx and gifted him Vhagar, just a pup with a large set of eyes for each of the three heads. In return, he followed her to the surface, finding comfort in the consistency of spring and wanting to admire the new sea of bloomage that would be spread over. 

Though there was a twinge of pain with how it came to an abrupt end to the edge. 

“It cannot bloom in the shadow,” she spoke as if it was obvious and he nodded his head with solemn understanding. 

Aemond had come to accept his role within the cosmos. He was the god of many monikers. Hades. Aïdōneús. The king of the Underworld and the god of the dead. 

He was all too aware of the hushed whispers and the skittish looks of the mortals, the nymphs, and the new gods, but it did not deter him from this annual endeavor. Every new spring seemed to coincide with the heartsick, the ennui that would settle into his bones from the company of death and he would go.

His steps were slow, deliberate as he allowed the warmth of the sun to revitalize him, pressing the boundaries to see how long he could go before the ache would come with its ice grip, its pull back below to continue his role, dutiful as always.

On this day, something caught his eye. 

Peonies.   

He marveled how their red bulbs were vibrant still in the shadows, only a few that lined the pathway that led towards the sunlight. 

Aemond gazed around and realized that this new season looked different, felt different. There was a vibrance of color that engulfed the realm and a sweetness to the air he never noticed before or else it was lost to his dreary jurisdiction. 

“Lēkia!” He turned to see Aegon walking towards him, a gilded goblet in his hand and red stained lips to frame his smile. “Have you come to celebrate this new era of spring?” 

His brow quirked at his words and Aegon was quick to further explain. “Our dear sister has finally revealed the goddess of spring and she is a gift to the cosmos!” His arm clasped around his shoulders, his other arm gestured towards the vibrant swell of gloxinias and begonias and more. 

This was the moment that Aemond saw her. 

She did not flit like the nymphs that trailed in her wake nor did the earth blossom with her steps, as her mother would do for show, but instead she walked with purpose. Her brow was furrowed with her concentration and her touch deliberate with each bloom. 

He found himself enraptured with her subtle movements, the grace of the goddess of spring. 

“I believe she is another bastard from that mortal Rhaenyra had kept,” Aegon made a show to whisper, his exhale was the bittersweet wine. Aemond was grateful they were far enough to avoid any prying ears with where the topic headed. “Those same dark curls, but it suits her more than her brothers.” He giggled.

His jaw tightened as he stole another glance, admiring her curls that cascaded enticingly on her milky backside that showed through the peplos that was wrapped around her curves, how the freckles dotted in stark contrast to her porcelain skin. “I suppose,” was all he managed to say. 

Aegon only continued. “I pitied our sister when Daemon decided to put an end to their tryst. Do you remember how he annihilated that temple? If anything, I am sure you remember the soul intake on that day.” 

What Aemond recalled were the tears that spilled from their sister’s eyes when she came to him and begged him to bring Harwin back to life. Comfort was never his strong suit, long before his isolation to the Gō vys, but he was patient to explain that once a soul crossed his threshold that the body began to decay and it was irreversible, even if the spirit was returned. 

He remembered the horror on her face when he explained how it would corrupt the soul, how bitter it would become as they finally had a true understanding of their mortality. She was rooted in his throne room and he allowed her to stay, while Vhagar lapped her tears until she had no more to spill.

Rhaenyra looked to him and all he offered was, “Kesan jorrāelagon ziry.”

A promise in their family tongue, I will take care of him.

“Kirimvose,” her voice was hoarse, but grateful with new tears that glittered.

Thank you. 

And she was gone. 

“What is her name?” Aemond asked, his gaze remained.

Persephone. The goddess of spring, the embodiment of vitality. A comely contrast to their sister’s golden hair and lavender eyes, but a beauty all her own. A grace with her motion, in tandem with the breeze that allowed the sweet blossom scent roll over the cosmos.

A new era of spring.

He was watchful, etching the details of this moment, down to the pink hues that glowed and complimented her complexion, for something he could revisit when he returned below and when the swell of the dead would begin again to erode away his psyche. This moment would be cradled to his chest and remain with him until he would resurface the following spring, returning as a shadow amongst the living and quietly enjoying the serenity she ardently created. 

Aemond was pleased to see more peonies that littered the pathway, but he had not expected Aegon to be waiting on the cusp. 

“You are very predictable, lēkia,” he teased him, his brows raised and his rakish smile on his lips. “I assumed you would return to pluck the perfect flower.”  

His jaw steeled in response and Aegon only laughed, pulling him to the sunlight again so he could renew his vision of spring, to savor, to rekindle this moment until the following year.

+ + + + + + +  

There was comfort back within the slate walls of his forged castle.The day had ended, though there were no differentiating features to his pallid realm, but still he leaned onto the ornate balustrade and looked below, reflecting. 

He felt a tightness in his chest from his brother’s jest, I assumed you would return to pluck the perfect flower, but he pushed the words from his mind.

Alys was at his side, as she often was, quiet with her own contemplation but he never would ask what was on her mind. Ahead they saw a golden beacon that striked through the shades of grey. 

He peered at her and she had a mischievous smile on her painted lips. “It seems your fate beckons you, my king,” Alys said to him. 

Aemond left for the shores of the Styx. 

Fate was a fickle thing from what he learned from the Moirai, with far too many variables that must align and allow something to fall so perfectly into place. He had scoffed before when they spoke of the inevitable golden glow for him but now he choked on their words when he saw her and how she walked in his realm, her soft steps that allowed indents in the grey sand. 

With his role within the cosmos, all too often he found the pitied looks more tiresome than the scornful ones, but she held neither. She looked at him with a sense of reverence, an almost awe, as if her dark eyes were etching the details of him into her mind. 

Perhaps to revisit when she returns to the mortal realm, was his wistful, intrusive thought. 

The same serenity he felt when he watched her above followed her proximity; there was a warmth, a comfort with the lilt of her voice to the golden halo that danced around her irises. He noted that with the sweet smile splayed on her pink lips, that she also had a veil of sorrow that seemed to drape over and touch her subtle mannerisms. 

“Who did you lose?”

He had seen this loss, in the eyes of the living, in his sister’s eyes. Though he mourned when she left, he could not help but admire the sway of her hips with her every step. 

Aemond returned and found Alys awaiting him, smirking still. Though he knew that Persephone would never dare return to the Gō vys, he still wished to do everything within his power to find her friends, to remove the burden that she so blatantly carried with her. 

“She will come back, my king,” Alys whispered to him, before she left to do her part. 

And Persephone did just that.

There was an intimacy of the moment that was not lost to him; he brought her to the Asphodel, to bring her a sense of comfort for the afterlife her companions would have, something he would personally see too. His chest swelled with pride when she asked for more, to see his kingdom and how she so willingly went to his arms. His touch was firm, but gentle to cradle her and he could feel her ichor thrum beneath as they toured the Underworld, the genuineness as she admired his kingdom. 

“It is beautiful, Aïdōneús.” She had said before she left.

He was left to curse himself to not correct her, to not offer that she could simply refer to him as only Aemond, just as she said to call her Kore. He wished to see her again and hoped he would be given the opportunity to correct this. 

She would return to him and time seemed to slip so easily between his fingers, moments so perfect and now a plethora to choose from, something he would revisit when he would inevitably be left alone. He was still aware of her sorrow, the guilt? How it shadowed behind her dauntless gaze and he knew he had to ask, that he needed to understand what brought her to his realm to begin with.  

To see if fate was what the Moirai claimed. 

He listened as she shared her grief, her sorrow spilled from her lips and she paused to swallow her tears.

“A flower,” Aemond had hummed, the white sear of anger that scorched through his mind. 

I assumed you would return to pluck the perfect flower.

“It should have been me.” She finished and he knew he could not correct her. 

Persephone agreed to return the following night and when she left, he began at once. The mortal names, Baela and Rhaena, were given to Alys with the explicit instructions for when she found the souls. She nodded, doleful as she listened, and left when he finished, quick to do her king’s bidding.

As well as her queen’s.

Aemond then placed his crown, iron and ruby glowing, on his head, his cape to his shoulders and checked the pin of the snapdragon he now always wore, before he left for Olympus. 

His movements would match the anger he felt; a flash of white, the streak of fury that landed at the steps with such force, the marble splintered beneath. He stopped a moment, his fists clenched with his ire, before his gaze slowly rose to see Aegon, who was wide eyed at the arrival. 

A nymph was pushed from his lap as he stood, forcing his same rakish smile as he greeted him with, “Lēkia! Have you come to thank me for the gift I so graciously gave to you?” His hesitation had a hint of hope, which diminished as Aemond’s gaze darkened.

Fate, he now knew, was such a fickle thing that was filled with happenstance to allow happy endings throughout the cosmos. 

It would be a fate that would elude him, he now realized. 

“You have killed the granddaughters of Corlys, Aegon,” he replied, his tone was low and lethal and his eye narrowed onto his brother. 

Aegon paled with this news and then he scoffed. “What are a few mortals in exchange for the happiness of a king?” Though his words wavered, the same arrogance remained on his features as he dared to press closer to Aemond. “Surely, you know, as I know, that you would have spent eternity to silently pine for the goddess of spring? You should be thanking me for allowing you the opportunity to know her more intimately.” Aegon raised his brow. 

“Doru-borto valītsossa.”

The venomous hiss took them both by surprise and they turned to see Rhaenyra, storming towards them. Her golden hair billowed with her steps and reflected the gold fire that enveloped the lavender of her eyes; her sharp features narrowed from one to the other, before settling on Aemond. 

“I have come to demand your witch to release the hold you have on my daughter.”

Aemond fell back a step, the accusation cut into him and his own anger abated. “Rhaenyra, I do not know what you mean…” he began, but her tone was hot and cut through. 

“She returns to me and babbles this idea of love, Aemond,” she cried. 

Aegon took the moment and slipped away, abandoning his siblings to quarrel alone in his throne room. Aemond grit his teeth, his jaw worked as he listened to her accusations thrown. 

“She returns to me and smells of death, with these foolish ideals of living in the Gō vys-” she stopped, her hand pressed to her mouth.

As hurt as he felt, he also understood the unspoken fear. Rhaenyra was well aware of the burden that came with the realm of the dead, the constant fear that Otto, though captivated and chained away, still lived and how his evil forever tainted the realm. 

“Aemond,” she exhaled and his attention returned to her. “Please, you cannot truly believe Kore would be content with such an existence. You are the darkness and she is the light. Do not damn her.” 

Her words cut deep, but his expression remained stoic, as always, and he hummed to acknowledge her cruelty, the truth spoken. “I have a debt I must repay her, mandia,” his voice was still low. “After I right this wrong, I will let her be.”

Her lips were pressed into a thin line, then she gave a quick nod and left him alone.

Aemond knew it was laughable; the goddess of spring dare love the king of the damned, to give up her life and birthright only to become queen regent of the dead? His steps were slow to return below, his thoughts a dark and suffocating cloud that followed. 

There was the echo of her words. You are the darkness and she is the light.

He knew what must be done. 

He returned to find two small vials waiting, an iridescent blue glow emitting through the glass, but he was more surprised to be greeted by the aura that Kora held. She turned at the sound of his steps, her eyes bright with the golden fire that danced around her pupils when she looked at him. “I know we did not set an exact time,” she seemed flushed with her rush of words. “You said to return at nightfall so I came as soon as the sun set.”

Aemond hummed, his jaw steeled as he reached for the vials and tucked them away. He looked and saw how her brow knitted with his silence, so he choked, “You have impeccable timing, Kore.” He faltered, then reached for her hand. “Please, come with me.”

The glee on her features caused a hitch in his chest, the spark of their touch when her fingers interlaced with his own, a perfect fit. He accepted he would never see her after this night, save the shadows that crept with each spring, and he chose to indulge, allowing himself to pull her to his chest. She nestled close to him and he moved, the gleam of white of two gods escaping the shadows and embracing the night. 

The moon was full and its silver light touched everything, lighting the way as he brought her to the east pillar of Hyperion, to a ledge that bore from the mountainside. They came to the edge and admired the view of amber hues of the manmade lights that rose from each kome settled throughout, while above the stars competed with the moonbeam radiance.

When he stepped back, she turned to look at him. “I am right here,” he soothed. “Trust me.” 

She remained but her head tilted to watch as he pulled the first vial; he poured the silky smoke that fell into a misty form of Baela, then Rhaena. Aemond saw her lips part, her eyes wide as the spirits smiled from seeing their friend once more. 

Kore looked at him and he focused on his hands, rubbing his palms together until the familiar glow pooled between. He reached forward, the bolt of cold to touch and laughter filled his ears as the girls began to run towards the edge and then leaped, each metamorphosing into a ball of fire that shot out against the night sky. 

She watched, her eyes still wide. “They are comets,” she whispered, turning to face him.

He nodded his head and his tongue wet his lips. “I did not want them to aimlessly wander the Asphodel.” 

In this moment, he felt he truly saw her; the veil of sorrow had been removed and tears stilled in the corners of her eyes. There was a serenity that smoothed her features and she was graceful to curl her legs beneath and sit, her head tilted back and it allowed the silver light to emphasize her beauty.

Kore looked at him again and beckoned to him.

There was a reservation that held him still for a moment, the thoughts that he should go and allow her the privacy of this moment, that he should just return to his kingdom and yet…

His steps were deliberate and brought him to her side before he sank down next to her. His posture was rigid, with a newfound tension with her proximity, but she seemed unaware. Instead, she lifted her hand from the grass and rested it on top of his own, her head turning to look at him and he dared to look back. 

There was a flush of pink that touched her porcelain skin, an inviting sight, and her eyes bore into him, the golden flame bright. She then shifted, pressing closer, and he relished in the soft touch of her body as she melted against his chest.

Aemond remained rigid, still as stone and unwilling to pressure, to coerce her into anything outside her own volition.

And then he felt the fullness of her lips touch to his own.  

[astorichan]

Covered In False Images

Fandom: Hollow Knight

Rating: Gen

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & The Radiance, The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & The Pale King

Summary:

The Pale King's plan was flawless: his vessel was pure, flawless, reliable.

The vessel did not share that opinion.

Additional Tags: POV Third Person Omniscient, Past Tense, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Fanfic of AU, Fanfic of fanart, AU: Radiant Vessel

For @quirrel. Happy New Year!!

Text under readmore!

▪────  ⚔  ────▪

(They say that praying to be loved is a sin.

It has such a sweet scent.)

▪────  ⚔  ────▪

Shadows and light: two opposing forces.

Such was the idea behind the Pale King's ultimate weapon. When all else failed in subduing the Radiance’s rampage, weapons of Soul ineffective and healing properties of lifeblood useless, he turned to the darkness that slept beneath for aid.

Shadows and light: one meant to subdue another.

The shell of a child desecrated by the choking twilight listened to his every command. The only light it would ever follow was his, as was the only light that it could not overpower. He trained it to perfection, eradicating every flaw of its mortal design and preparing it for its eternal vigil.

When the day of the Sealing came, he was certain his plan would work. The vessel marched on with even, steady steps, its empty gaze cast forward; in his wake were left joyful Hallownestians, their reverent whispers rising as wisps of silver luminescence to tail him like a second cloak.

Shadows: bringing the kingdom much-needed shelter from the light.

If you weren’t there on the day that heralded Hallownest’s salvation, you would not know of the battle raging just outside of view. Life went on as though no plague had ever bathed the narrow caverns in haemolymph and rot, as though no smell of decay had ever wafted off bloated corpses strewn across the capitol’s streets.

But light would not surrender to the suffocating shadows so easily.

Within the pitch dark temple, beyond the offerings left on the threshold glimmering with Soul, two enemies as old as the world itself clashed once more. Their blades crossed, each wound, each victory and each loss quaked through the voided vessel’s shell that hung limp in its chains, eyes bored into the black egg’s inner wall forevermore.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the first flickers of lurid orange clawed their way into the fathomless darkness of the Hollow Knight’s gaze.

Shadows and light: unable to co-exist.

From the outside, the strenuous war was not visible, lest we count the first pustules full of scorching rot that sprouted from the vessel’s chest. But on the inside...

Its mind, the one it was not meant to possess, was flooded with the dawn’s whispers. The light wove its lies through the shadow in golden thread, unravelling streaks of silver and black alike. Frayed ends of collapsed lies stuck out, ugly and unseemly; the vessel’s trust in its King was giving out inch by painful inch.

Light: branded into shadows.

Why let yourself and your kingdom burn? the dawn asked over and over, when you can save everyone in truth?

And the vessel cracked under the unbearable weight of truth and rage. Golden ichor seeped out of the fissures left behind by the light’s onslaught, in its gaze the Old Light’s radiance and on its mask a fiery brand covering the Pale King’s spellwork. It would get back all that had been denied to it; it would get its revenge on the world that betrayed it.

Shadows: embracing the light.

The vessel let the dawn’s power course through it, the oppressive shroud of Void that had cornered the Old Light in a far-off corner of the Dream dissipating into nothing. All doubts thrown aside, it rose from the ashes of its former glory, shaking off the chains of deceit that had bound it for so long – and it incinerated the jailors holding it in the Temple.

If you didn’t know exactly what to look for, you would never notice the seals fizzling out like smoke from a fire. The morning following its treason came, and the denizens of Dirtmouth were no wiser as to the battle that came to a head mere hours ago.

From their eyes, though, surged golden luminosity.

Light: unbound, no longer held down by the choking shadows.

The infection spread like wildfire, in the Hollow Knight’s footsteps blooming twisted vines that carried disease within. Adorned with beautiful flowers, they invaded the shade of Hallownest’s caverns, and it was too late to do anything to stop the traitor’s descent.

Not that they didn’t try, of course.

Hallownest’s most powerful champions rose to defend the kingdom from the plague. But the vessel had been trained to perfection: it was infused with power beyond mortals’ understanding, prepared for an eternal war with the goddess of dreams.

Shadows: entwined with light.

The Hollow Knight brought down the kingdom’s greatest knights, its weapons infused with sunlight. It tore through chitin and flesh in primal, cold fury, its claws and mandibles tearing its former allies to shreds. Not even all their prowess combined was enough to resist two forces old as the world itself.

With the final obstacle gone from their path, the two gods stood before Hallownest’s crown jewel. The White Palace gleamed with familiar, though no longer welcoming silver; motes of Soul swirled around the Hollow Knight as it treaded paths of its former home. None was fool enough to stand in its way – none, except the Pale King himself.

Shadows and light: allied against a mutual enemy.

Soul and blackened Dream clashed in a violent battle. The Palace’s walls creaked and lamented the sacrilege taking place within, on them left sprays of Void, godly ichor and infection alike.

But even the King could not hold out against the joined forces of unknowable darkness and luminous dawn. The radiant vessel cornered him, though its shell was littered with wounds deep and shallow, though its mask wept black miasma and its arm held only by the virtue of the Old Light’s strength; it cornered him, and as he stared into his perfect creation’s eyes, he saw only the raging pyre of fury and contempt.

Gone was the love it had once carried, the Hollow Knight wanted so desperately to believe as it plunged its nail through the Pale King’s chest. Gone was the unfulfillable wish to prove itself that ate it alive, it convinced itself as chitin snapped and silver haemolymph pooled at the feet of Hallownest’s new ruler. Gone was the conflict that tore the kingdom apart, clawing its way free from Hallownest’s very heart.

Gone was the reason behind its suffering, and so its anguish should’ve been gone as well. But was it truly so?

Shadows and light: finally reaching a truce.

When the Hollow Knight embraced her, the only one that had ever understood and accepted it, it could almost believe that the price it had exacted for its needless pain was enough. In her light, the reassurance she extended to it soothed every ache, every doubt that it could ever have.

Sometimes, though, in the darkest corners of its mind – those that still held, if by the thinnest of threads keeping the tapestry of its mindscape from coming undone – a wail like that of a wounded animal resounded, no end and no beginning to the elegy for the life it had taken with its own hands.

Shadows and light: ancient enemies.

It wondered, on those days, if someone heard those cries, muffled as they were. If maybe, just maybe, someone would come to enact the final act of vengeance long overdue.

But then, the Radiance’s gentle glow shrouded its fractured mind as she extended the same mercy to it as to the entire kingdom, and those thoughts were no more.

Shadows and light: ruling side by side.

Until, inevitably, someone would try to take what was rightfully its once more.

▪────  ⚔  ────▪

(My rage and other such things vanished long ago

But though I perform my act, I’m ignorant

Yet this story is still going

Because I wish for it to reach you)

[sculptorofcrimson]

Where Angels Fear To Go

Fandom: Curse of Strahd

Characters: Strahd, Sergei

Synopsis: The ruminating of Pre-curse Strahd

@vampire-chokehold for you!

“I stopped asking for forgiveness 'cause you should know

Only fools tread where the angels fear to go” - Redemption

Even the devils had once admired the angels. 

They may rot with their claws and horns and fangs, and hover through sulfur stained shadows where roses grow like cobwebs and brass molds like clay, where the circles are suffering and the sinners rejoice. They may rot within the darkness while the celestials dance beneath the stars and sky, they may watch through envious, lustful eyes of jealous worship at what they could have been, at what they once was, the perfection that had been stolen from their corpses. 

Some scriptures say that Lathander had taken their wings when they fell. Some scriptures, my angelic little brother, say that Lathander had torn their wings joint from joint and uprooted their delicate bones from half-divine shoulders. The first demons had fallen, cast down to earth screaming and wailing, weeping amid a storm of their own shredded feathers and corrupted ichor.

Their broken wing feathers can still yet be found. It brings bad luck, certainly, but is it not a marvel as well? The last remnants of their old glory, torn away feather from feather, bone from bone, till they could fly no more than the wretched serpents, sent out to grovel in their misery.

If you were here, my angelic little brother, my Angel, you may have told me that they deserved it. They certainly deserve no better for their sins against your god. But perhaps not. You were always the gentle one, Sergei. The gentry call you the Angel of Barovia, the angel of the morning, the Prince of all that shines. You who could have made Lathander laugh with your joy, and weep with your sorrow. What monster could peer into those shining eyes of such cerulean adoration and turn you away? 

You were always the Angel, Sergei. 

~~~~~~~~~

“But you keep trying to get too close

Saved myself by turning into stone

So save your judgment 'cause you just don't know

But somethings never change, never change”

You scorn Lathander with your love. 

I will not forget the glimmer upon your armor, the very laughter in your words, the genuine joy you could barely contain the moment we had met face to face, the devil and the angel, brothers who were tied with nothing more than blood.

Blood! What an amusement, such a fickle bond to depend upon. 

“Brother,” you had called me, holding me in an embrace practically vibrating with your own delectation. And the sheer jubilation in your regard when I had not refused! I have not the words to describe it. Your demeanor is not so unlike the sun, so timidly and so carefully withholding your searing brilliance behind the mists until you were sure you could scald them to oblivion with your smiles and your exultation.

You were like the sun, like the angels and the prophets of the old. You burn like divinity incarnate, so warm that you were scalding, and so brilliant that you were blinding. You were all that I hated yet all that could love me, you who held a charm beyond compare, and devotion beyond reason.

It would have been so much easier if you had hated me, Sergei.

Lathander would have wept his divine tears had he heard of the sins I have partaken upon, the blood that had washed my armor crimson upon the battlefield. Your god holds no power over my atrocities, there is no forgiveness despite what your flowery words and sermons can proclaim. Why spare me now, Sergei, when my hands are already bathed in enough blood to drown in? Why shine your divine grace upon me, when war has already taken all there is for me to give? 

You would not want to conceive of a hundredth part of the anguish I have endured. Your words are as empty as the tombs of the soldiers who had fallen in combat, whose corpses were never found, whose souls I had once led into battle the same way you lead sheep to a slaughter. Your words are as hollow as the crypts beneath Ravenloft, yet you are far too inebriated with your own innocence to understand such utter misery. I can no more lead an angel to sin than I can bring you to understand the depths of despair I have long since sunk to. 

You damn us both with your ceaseless infatuation. Why do you love me yet, an ancient relic of war and massacres? Is this the childish adoration of a younger brother who has known only of his older brother from his legacy, or is it the unbreakable love of a man too foolish to see he loves a monster? Or perhaps you believe I am someone who deserves to be saved from his eternal misery, someone to be admired and placed upon a pedestal of perfection. 

Perhaps you have deluded yourself into believing I would be resplendent when you finally drag me out before the light of your lord, when I finally repent for my sins and suddenly all shall be forgiven, all the atrocities I’ve committed and all the blood I have spilled. 

I would tell you that you are a fool, Sergei, but I'm afraid I cannot. I cannot pretend there is nothing honorable about your damnable zeal, your unwavering devotion even I cannot shake. One look into your eyes is enough to tell me you would bleed a thousand ways to love me, you would dare go mad from endless prayers and litanies to see me repent. You would smite down the sun for scorning your most adored brother and I would love you none the more for it. 

Sometimes, I try to understand. I try to ponder and wrestle with what strange mind you must have, I try to voice prayers to a god I know will never answer one such as I. 

How? I ask myself, How can you love? 

How can you love someone like me?  

How can you love me, Sergei? How can you look at my legacy of glorified blasphemies and call me admirable? How can you look at the Devil of Barovia, and wrap your angelic wings around his shoulders and comfort him when the sun seems loathsome and its light seems repugnant?

How can you love me, Sergei? 

~~~~~~~~~

“Somethings never change, never change, 

Redemption never came”

Sometimes, I dare wonder. Is it a sin to hate an angel? Is it the mark of a monster, a beast, to hate the brother who loved me so relentlessly, so recklessly? 

Perhaps I am ungrateful, selfish and wretched in my rancor, and loathsome in my resentment. Perhaps I am undeserving of such adoration, of such loyalty, of such loathsome love that it was abhorrent. Perhaps I do not deserve you, Sergei. 

I tire of this game where only one of us plays. I tire of your innocence, of your ceaseless adoration, of your forgiveness and your grace. I tire of you, Sergei. You, who are all that I could have never been, you of innocence and youth, you who have never had to slay your own lieutenant for driving a hole through your gut. 

I tire of you, Sergei. I hate you, Sergei. I hate your innocence, for all you had and all I could have never been, I abhor your faith(so naive, so impossible), I detest your youth, your boundless enthusiasm of which I cannot compare. But most of all, it is your despicable love, your unbreakable devotion to a brother who could not muster up the courage to completely loathe nor love you. 

Answer me, Sergei, I beseech you, Angel of the morning, I beg of you, answer me. 

How could you love? 

How could you love someone like me?

[thequeenofthewinter]

Violent Red

Despite the fact that everything everywhere in every which direction would lead one to believe that Caelid was a dead hellscape full of nothing but putrescent scarlet rot, it was very much indeed alive. It writhed and squirmed as Malenia’s blight crawled and creeped from every crevice and every crack of the seemingly inert lands as far as the eye could see. 

And if you looked closely enough, pressed your ears onto the red, scorched earth or leaned in carefully to the poisonblooms, you could hear it: the Scarlet rot, as it bended and distorted the flora and fauna of the Lands Between as it touched and corrupted it from within.

Lisinia detested it.

Her lips curled downwards even further into a bleak frown, the only expression which she has been able to manage since having the misfortune of being sent to this—whatever it is.

Astrologer’s hood pulled down to rest upon her pale shoulders, she looked across the stark landscape, but it was no different than the other 12 times she checked since this morning—red, red seas of rage and anger roiling in every direction.

How is it that no one had noticed this before?

When she asked about Caelid and its infested lands, every person she had encountered had told her the same thing: it is dead and rotting; there is no life of which to speak. And of course,  she could see how compared to Limgrave or Liurnia, one might think that; however, in her own personal experience, she has come to a distinct conclusion. Quite different, may it be—but dead it is not.

While as fascinating as it may be—and while Lisinia does appreciate a good mystery—it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t sorely wish for the verdant plains of the region she had just come from or even the near-constant dripping of Liurnia’s marshes.

Why did it have to be her? 

Tarnished. 

What does that even mean?

Despite everything in her body which had told her not to push forwards, she did so anyway. One foot after another steadily moved her until she came here—as if she too were possessed by some malignant rot which caused her to come here when she could easily have easily turned around and taken the road every other lost soul she came across had: aimless wandering.

They don’t see the light of grace anymore, so why should she? 

Because she is stubborn if nothing else, and she cannot leave everyone to the madness which has befallen them since the Shattering.

Lisinia pushed another foot forward, her dark hair falling into her face and blessedly shading her eyes from the taunting scarlet visions before her. If she doesn’t keep pressing onwards, she won’t ever get to Redmane castle. And she will certainly never leave Caelid if she doesn’t pay Radahn a visit. 

Glintstone staff suddenly raised in one hand, Lisinia threw a shower of winking blue stars vaguely in the direction of yet another diseased abomination. As they hit their mark, the unfortunate creature caved into itself, melting into a strange amalgamation of sludge and bone. 

Danger comes from all sides in the maroon-cast shadows of Aeonia’s swamp, and it is easy to become a meal if ones do not pay attention to the chattering of the rot. That is perhaps the one piece of advice which she has found useful on her travels here.

Carefully, she stepped over the carcass to continue down the road towards her goal, but her boots still squelched into the ichor. 

Disgusting.

Lisinia sniffed as she tried to scrape the remains from the bottoms of her soles.

Perhaps she will visit Malenia herself and take up her qualms related to her choice of decoration for the place.

She smirked at the thought.

After all, she likes a good spot of revenge as much as the next, and she deserves a bit of fun after the chaos and turmoil she has been forced to suffer.

[stigmvtas]

TALES OF DYAL — ROHAN.

welcome to marina, ROHAN DYAL ( cis man, he/him ) ! they are a THIRTY SIX year old HUMAN / EXORCIST who resides in PROSPECT HILL. They work as the OWNER OF GREEN FARMER'S MARKET and are said to look a lot like RAYMOND ABLACK. People around the island find them to be PRAGMATIC and AFFABLE, but also FLUCTUANT and ENERVATED. what do you think?

CONTENT WARNINGS FOR ILLNESS, ADDICTION, CAR ACCIDENT, AND DEATH.

profile.

full name — rohan dyal.

nickname(s) —n/a! but he'd think a nickname would be cute.

date of birth & age — december 18th, 1988. thirty6.

gender / pronouns — cis man. he/him.

sexuality — bisexual.

typing — human / exorcist.

occupation — owner of the green farmer's market. exorcist. farmer. lover.

astrology — sagittarius sun, taurus moon, leo ascending.

interests — opening his doors to those who need it. hot drinks. long cigarette breaks and rolling his own. sitting in the fields in the springtime. homecooked meals. things he oughtn't know. magic. resurrection. the afterlife.

aversions — the dishes in his sink that just keep piling up. the cold that wraps so firm against his shoulders and refuses to lift. killing the chickens, so they just keep multiplying. door - to - door salesmen. vandals in the market. firearms.

next in queue — sweet disposition by the temper trap; she's so high by tal bachman; man in the box by alice in chains.

notable features — the warmest eyes with deep - set bags beneath them, and a well - kept beard.

general disposition — straight but easygoing - firm in his stance, but shoulders unburdened.

last known location — leaving the farmer's market way after all the stalls had packed up and gone - a cardboard box of clanking metal and glass beneath his arm.

scrying mirror & kindred — clark kent ( smallville ), captain america ( marvel ), glenn rhee ( the walking dead ), ted mullens ( schitt's creek ), sam winchester ( supernatural ).

brief history.

the dyals have always lived in marina, as far as they could date back. rohan's father, his father before him - and their fathers before them. they are as part of marina as marina is part of them - and with a family history so prominent, they've always been aware of their supernatural counterparts.

that being said - growing up hadn't been easy. there were the good parts - a family home that stood for years, atop a hill and overlooking acres of field and crop, meadow and wood. a mother and a father who loved him and his siblings dearly, fiercely. but there were the spirits - always drawn to his father, shaking the foundations of their home. the late - night visitors who'd talk to his parents in hushed voices besides the fireplace, a smaller rohan peeking out through the stair bannisters to overhear worry - laced words - uprisings and disappearances, strange symbols and entities that left black tar in their wake.

he watched as his father's work - as both farmer and exorcist, medium and market owner - consumed him, exhausted him. as his mother fret over land that wouldn't grow - of crops that all rot before ripening.

demons have always haunted their family - manageable at best, disastrous at worst. shadows in the hallways - eyes in mirrors; an unease at the back of their necks. a bloodline cursed to become weaker and weaker - to walk earth time after time again and live the same fate. to never reach nirvana - to only have a soul left weak and restless.

illness; rohan was particularly afflicted; an illness that wouldn't let - origins unknown but abnormal. his body in a constant yielding pain. as hard as he worked - weakness would come twicefold. dizzying spells and deep - set fatigue - sleepless nights and an ache deep inside him; coughs that spit up the same black ichor.

addiction; he still struggles with it intensely - waves of nausea and unsteadiness, striking without a moment's notice. no amount of potions or medicine seem to help it - and he's turned to... other methods to at least alleviate some of the pain. it never lasts - but rohan repeats the cycle, knowing that it'll still never be enough.

rohan married fairly young - fresh out of high school to his high school sweetheart; he'd known he loved her from the day they met and he would've crossed the ends of the earth for her. they had a child together only a few years later - a daughter who soon became the apple of his eye - who he would cross universes for.

car accident, death; but as life would've had it - when their daughter was only a few years old, rohan's wife was in a fatal car accident. some parts of him felt it - wrong. like there'd been supernatural forces at play - because none of it added up. the details all wrong - and it was chalked up as a simple accident. a mistake.

nights and days he waited - waited for her to return to him in any form that she could - the one ghost he knew he could never exorcise - but she never appeared, for one reason or another. the fact crushed him - and for a long time he wasn't okay; but rohan had a daughter to raise, and a family to take care of - and he forced himself to move along.

ummm but besides that! he's inherited the family land as the oldest son, alongside the green farmer's market - that his father once owned, and his father before him, and so on and so on. his parents still live in their family home - and rohan takes care of them. in the small free time he has - he's followed in his father's footsteps in becoming an exorcist. holds his spirituality close to his heart.

facts & temperament.

a fun fact about rohan is that he has hundreds of past lives. centuries of the same soul living different lives, though rohan has no memory of them. the occasional dream - and odd sense of familiarity when it comes to certain people - but the memories of his past lives are inaccessible to him.

unfortunately a perpetrator of dad humor. genuinely thinks he's so funny but he's not please don't enable him.

has a teenage daughter! considers her his greatest accomplishment and while he considers himself a stark pacifist he would kill for her.

works a lot, almost nonstop. is either always found on the farm or at the farmer's market, tending to stalls and handling the finances, vendor rent, etc. etc. sometimes at the church, if only to convene with other local exorcists.

works alongside witches often to try and find a cause and cure for his affliction; has a hunch that it's demonic in nature, but has yet to actually reveal that to others. is constantly scared that his daughter will be afflicted with the same illness - and that something will happen to her.

a calm, reasonable person. doesn't freak out often - takes life as it comes, and generally is hard to anger. sometimes he's just too tired to really feel it - but he's genuine in his nature. is loyal, reliable - and just really wants to take a nap.

the kind of person to actually talk to his neighbors, even if they're all stretched out. cares deeply for the community, both human and supernatural, and will go out of his way to make sure the people he knows are safe and well. volunteers in his free time - and like his father, he never turns down his home for someone in need.

loves to cook, though he misses the way his wife would cook. misses her a lot - and while he hasn't been single the entire time since her passing, he struggles with long term, deep relationships. in part it's because of his grief - and in part because he never wanted to introduce someone into his daughter's life if they weren't going to stay.

has good days energy - wise, and then has terrible days. it's always a gamble - and he finds himself trying to overcompensate for the days he's out of commission. someone who can't stay still - he always has to be doing something.

[only-we]

The distance between them had always been a chasm, with Jacob firmly on the upper ground and Aerith easily overlooked. He didn't have simple walls, he was a fortress, armed with an open air of danger to all those who approached.

He often pulled away. Fell into his silences with his hard, fiery stares. There was something that burned inside, an anger that dug into his skin with claws, a rage against the world that left him untrusting and wary of people. Even her. A whisp of a woman at his side.

Because it must have been mistrust. The way he glared when she dared reach for him. Like she had done something that proved him right all along, like she was attacking him with how her hands firmly closed around his forearms. It hurt. She caused pain, and for that she was sorry.

Aerith felt the tug from him but a surge of her magic ravaged his arms. Tendrils of green wrapped around his skin like vines that coiled and seeped beneath his skin. The infection was deep, and the rot that expelled was unpleasant in every sense, to look at, to smell, to feel, all of it.

Slowly her hands eased off him. His long sleeves were coated with pus and weeping ichor, but that ever-present pain, that sharp stab when cloth rubbed over tender wounds was gone. If he pulled back his shirt he would witness scarred skin, it still looked an angry red, but it already looked... improved. By the time he washed clean he would feel like a new man.

"... your majesty." she stepped back, and back again, and then she turned and walked away. Better to widen the chasm again until he puzzled out what had just happened.

Jacob had been this short of growling at her. She was a walking enigma. A woman that had survived Emmanuel - and as a witch right under his nose on top of that. A healer. Small and frail. And yet she had fire in her soul. But never had Jacobe expected something like that from her.

And truly... in the first moment all his senses had told him to fight her off. Hold her. Hurt her. Get her to back away. Break her hands for touching him.

The pain had worsened. The pain had been incredible, there had been a suffocated roar dying in his throat - and then..... nothing.

She stepped away. Fled.

And still, Jacob thought she must have cursed him. His arms. His arms were full of blood and pus. It was revolting, more so than usual. And for a second he was sure she had worsened it. Had cursed him. Had pushed him towards death.

But...

Slowly, he got rid of his shirt. Disbelief trickling onto his face. The bandages around his arms, unwrapped slowly, then rapidly. Staring. Uttered thoughts. Fingers wiping off the last of the rot. Feeling over marred... but healed skin.

Jacob looked up - but she was gone already.

"HEALER!"

That word echoed like a thunder through the fortress' corridors. A shake that let every soldier and servant wince. Followed by heavy and hard steps from Jacob, hunting after Aerith.

"WOMAN?!"

Doors were slammed open and shut, scared servants and maids scattering and when barked at, they just pointed vaguely into a direction. The small court. The one with the ruined chapel, where the healer had started to make a place of her own.

One last door flew open... and Jacob stood in the archway leading to this court. Looking so peaceful. So calm. He was like a giant shadow waltzing towards it, towards where she stood. Staring back at him. Not scared. Firm.

His form towering over her, as he stood there, breathing harsh and his eyes with a deep seethed fire. But... his voice a low whisper. One that gave away a kind of... gentle wonder.

"...why?"

@holyguardian

[cimmeriana]

{ Character Sheet }

Full Name: Melinoë Ja'don Tavaras ( Mel-in-OY jah-DON tav-ARE-as ) Nicknames: Tav, Lina (friends), Noi (closest loved ones), Nell (closest loved ones) Titles: The Black, High Priestess of Murder, Lady of Dread, Favored Daughter of Bhaal, She Who Has Been Redeemed Race: Tiefling - Subrace: Asmodeus - Category: Bhaalspawn Class: Druid Monk - Subclass: Circle of the Moon / Way of Shadow Background: Dark Urge - Age: 32 Height: 5ft 5in - Weight: 56kg - Size: Medium Father: Bhaal - Mother: Elisheva Tavaras - Bloodkin: Orin, Sarevok Anchev

STR: 13 DEX: 22 (+3) CON: 20 (+2) INT: 12 (+5) WIS: 20 (+6) CHA: 19 (+2)

Feats:

Duel Wielding Martial Adept

Conditions:

Loviatar's Love

Appearance: Her skin is that of the falling pale ash, shades of a shadow weaving and swirling like a whirlpool as if veins of magic. Or perhaps darkness itself gifted from her Lord God father, Bhaal. From her mother she was gifted her tiefling ridges, angular and eerily beautiful, as all of her kind are.

Eyes white like the flash of lightening in a stormy shy, and twice as fierce when she pierces you with her gaze. Eyes of a Royal Dead, made all the more bold by the scar that paints over her right eye like a warning. A warning from her beloved sister. A parting gift and a mocked "thank you" for the throne in which she was tossed so hatefully. Enchanting and terrible.

You may think her a devil with her twisted horns that jut like sharp cliffs over rough seas, decorated in sharpened silver with the stain of blood upon the tips. Her claws match in ferocity, well-kept and perfectly sharp enough to tear flesh when she is angry or to entice the sweetest of surrenders when she caresses. The silver ring that decorates her septum is a trophy, one plucked from the mangled body of a minotaur who's crime was to belittle and sneer.

She is not weak, picturesque in the way her lean muscles curve as she twists and contorts to slip a blade between ribs or command fire into her palms. That ash-colored skin covered in thick leathers of a beast we dare not question, a companion piece forged to symbolize a sisterly bond that has long since been broken and betrayed.

Wild, dark curls tamed into two braids, a remnant of her childhood when she once adored that sister and was so sure the two would never be parted.

She cannot remember, and yet a look of loss and sadness flickers over her face in the light of the campfire at night when she believes no one watching.

History: Born to a Druid Cleric of Bhaal, the child was raised in the woodland outskirts of Baldur's Gate to be trained as a Druid. Her Dark Urges began in adolescence and culminated in the event of the brutal murder of an unsuspecting family of travelling merchants. Basking in the gore and horror, Bhaal rose from the red, sticky ichor to proclaim his parentage and decree she take her place within his court in Baldur's Gate.

As children, Melinoe and Orin were inseparable little beasts that reveled in pulling wings off of butterflies and pour water into ant hills. Melinoe, being younger than Orin, admired and adored her elder bloodkin. She wanted to be her. To have her braid. To have her armor. To show her admiration and show her love through imitation.

Orin the Red and Melinoe the Black. It's said that these titles came from the saying: black like the shadows in which they creep, and red like the blood they will spill when they take hold of you.

They would have likely continued to be close, had it not been for the fact that Bhaal himself split between them, sporing a rot as he so cruelly declared that he would only acknowledge a single heir to his legacy. Both desperate for the acknowledgement and love of Bhaal, loving sisters turned enemies and rivals. It was to Orin's misfortune that Melinoe rose as the favored and most trusted Bhaalspawn.

To be the Favored came with responsibility. She was to take the Sword Coast and every soul within, a gift for her God-Father. The capital to a world enshrouded in darkness and engorged with blood. Bhaal did not expect that his most beloved daughter would stray.

This was the beginning of her downfall, her descent into disenchantment. Melinoe's adorations and loyalty flickered to the ever insatiably aspiring Lord Enver Gortash. Was it love, perhaps? A feeling that she no longer received from her estranged sister and a feeling that she would realize her Father that she wished so deeply to appease could never love her in return. The domination of an elder brain was not enough for her father's pleasure, she received no accolades and his words were silent in her ears. She was expected, and so she was not praised. This was not a gift from loving daughter to father, but one f many never-ending conditions to prove that she deserved his favor and attentions. To fail his expectations would be for him to turn away.

She would spend nights begging for forgiveness, for she knew the betrayals that crawled in her mind, and cling to the hopes that her father would hear her pleading sincerity. A beloved daughter to turn on her almighty father, begging for him to show her a sign that she was mistaken. To show her that she was loved and cherished. But the God was silent, and abandoned she was left she return with the fruits of her blood and seat and tears for him to rein supreme. Father saw her only as a Dog to be trained to fetch and breed for his legacy.

If only her beloved sister could see this cruelty of their making. The design that their father had woven for them as if they were toys and tools. But Orin was not to be persuaded. Elder sister was blinded by her desire to be loved by Bhaal, and by the great offense in the fact that, despite Melinoe's continual treachery, the younger remained the Chosen. Little sister was a threat. For if Little Sister were to remain, Orin would surely never have a chance at Father's love.

It was from Orin's petty jealousy that Melinoe was flung from her throne.

Sharp, cold knife sliding between the bone of her skull and pried apart as claws shredded and banshee screams echoed. The feeling of an altered, abomination of an Illithid tadpole spawn crawled and gnawed itself a nest in brain matter.

Cast out into the abyss for the Illithid to poke and prod and defile in their demented parasitic conception rituals.

Alone. Unloved.

A shell to be filled. A puppet to be pulled and made to dance.

You are not your own. You never have been.

So is to be the Chosen Daughter of Bhaal.

But what shall you do now that you awaken?

Your memories shattered to winds as only sinister whispers and bed time stories mothers tell to frighten their children?

Who do you belong to?

❝ You only are free when you realize you belong no place, you belong every place — no place at all. The price is high. The reward is great… More and more, I belong to myself. ❞ ( MAYA ANGELOU )

[spacecowbees-space]

A story

Who knows how long i had been here, laying motionless in a field. I stopped counting after the first couple of days, it didnt seem to matter anymore. The flowers around me were blooming so fast, there's many more than i could count at this point. Not like i want to try anyways. The sky changes colours more often than i thought, sunsets turn into sunrises and sunrises turn into sunsets more times than i care to acknowledge. It happened so fast, all i can remember clearly is falling. And him. Where is he? Where did he land? Will he find me? I cant find him. I cant move, i keep trying but each time it's less effective. My tears keep flowing, i'm surrounded by them, and these stupid flowers. Everything hurts. All i can feel is a breeze and agonizing pain. Yet all i can do is stare into the distance and cry. The ichor is still spreading, i can feel it. The burning, the itchiness, the fear it creates. My body...it's rotting at this point. My soul too damaged to mend itself. Where is he? When will i be found? Will it be too late? It hurts...everything hurts. The sky looks strange today, there are a few clouds. But its a weird shade of blue, one i've never seen before. The flowers have started to cover my body. I can see them in the corners of my eyes, their soft petals covering the bruises and cuts littering my body. I'm starting to go numb, maybe i'm finally drifting off to sleep. I havent been able to since the fall. The sky is an even stranger shade of blue, it's almost green at this point. All things considered i am incredibly thankful no bugs have noticed me. From the open wounds to the utter stillness, my body, or corpse at this point maybe, would have been perfect for their filthy spawn. My thoughts are interrupted by a low rumbling, the ground beneath me shaking. The animals nearby start fleeing from the area, more spooked than i have ever seen. The rumbling continues for a while, slowly getting more intense as the sky continues to darken. A figure emerges in the distance, even from here i could tell they're enormous. My eyes widen, Help, i call out wordlessly. please...i dont want to be alone. No sound escapes, i can't even move my mouth, i just want to go home. The figure and i seem to make eye contact. help..help me..... Slowly it approaches me. Other much smaller figures rise, but they leave in other directions. The figure comes closer as i continue to breathlessly call out. i dont want to die. Its here, it looks familiar. Why does it look familiar? I watch as it becomes smaller, shifting to resemble a human. And runs towards me. I cant hear it but its mouth is moving, it looks scared. It kneels beside me and turns my head towards itself, then i hear it, a choir of voices in my mind. "what...what did they do to you.. ?" Still, all i can do is stare. My tears still haven't stopped flowing. But it doesnt seem to care. It wraps its arms around me and the voices speak again as everything fades away, "you may rest now little one"

[lances-and-quills]

Symphony of Dusk, Chapter One Part Three

 The air of the building felt like hellfire lashing at one’s skin. Knights and squires rushed around Cotton as he navigated the chaos and emerged into the garrison yard. Even then that was only the start of his problems as he crashed multiple times into serfs carrying weapons of all types from swords, to halberds, rifles, to spears. The air smelt wrong, like fetid waste and blood. It drifted in the air, coming from behind the scarlet gate that held back the blighted lands of the north. Apoptosis, there was no doubt. They were trying another attack, which Leice must have woken him up for. He clenched his rifle tight, his fingers cutting on the angelic wings jutting from the receiver. That’s what she meant by an expedition. The Apoptosis threat was attacking and in the middle of it, his squad was going to be sent in through the blind spots in the horde to attack the monster lord’s castle head-on. Blood ran down the length of his rifle, pouring into the crevices in the ornamentation, he was going to die today. No squad of Red Hoods had ever made it to the castle or at least made it out alive, to expect them to be any different was a fool's errand.

A kind voice released Cotton’s bleeding grip on his rifle, his face rising to see Leice’s now shrouded by a thick metal helmet,  “Cotton you made it, we’re just about to head out through one of the cracks, Captain Grimm says we have a good chance of making it today.”

Cotton calmed his nerves, smearing his bloody hand on his cloak causing a searing pain as the wounds slid over the rough leather.

“To the other side of the gate or the castle itself?”

Leice pondered momentarily, “The castle, the captain said with this new wave they concentrated their forces too much on the right side. I’m sure Captain Grimm will tell you the rest of the plan once we meet up by the gatehouse.” An explosion rocked the ground, the sounds of otherworldly monsters causing both knights to break into a dead sprint toward the gate. This phantom barrier held back the hordes of horrors shimmering before flickering and finally falling, giving way to a wretched smell. Cotton gagged and fell to the ground. The smell made his stomach lurch, a combination of rotted meat and death forcing vomit up his throat.

Leice picked the incapacitated knight up by his midsection, hefting him over her shoulders as she moved like lightning towards a group of soldiers that fought the Apoptosis bleeding in through a hole in the barrier. 

A skinny young knight tore his blade from the rocky skin of what used to be a human, turning to the captain with a panting breath, “Captain, the last two are here, permission to start carving a path?” Grimm tore the head of an Apoptosis soldier clean off its shoulders and shouted back to the knight, “Go ahead, Iman, you and Carolas are the vanguards!” He turned to a couple of knights beside him, “Istik, Arin, cover our rear!”

Leice set down Cotton, who immediately collapsed, painting the ground with his sickness. She gripped his arms and pulled him up, forcing him forward as she pulled a knife from her back and plunged it into her hand. Black ichor leaked from the wound, and she threw it forth, creating a wall of onyx that hardened instantly, plugging the hole in the barrier.

Grimm turned to the girl as she smeared the ichor over her exposed skin, creating a barrier of onyx over herself. Her companion looked half-ready to lose his lunch again, unsteadily loading a handful of blessed god-slayer cartridges into his long gun. “Knight Cotton, are you scared of something?”

“Apoptosis sir.” The boy responded, “Never seen them this aggressive before.”

Grim chuckled, wiping shimmering blood off his pauldron, “They’re nothing but pawns same as us, their souls may be black as pitch but they ain't unkillable.”

“Makes me feel much better sir.” The snap of his weapon as he pulled the cocking lever signaled Grimm that he was ready, he looked at the path ahead, it was clear for now. “Alright move up, we don't have a lot of time before the next wave.”

Cotton kept pace as best he could, his eyes constantly darting from his squad to the tree line as now and then something cracked for the underbrush. Aside from that the path was clear, the black keep of the monster lord towered over them, reaching into the clouds like a sinister tree made from hatred incarnate. Cotton and his squad were suddenly halted as something powerful split the air above them screeching with the fury of a hurricane as it passed by. He looked up, spying a massive hawk-like bird with cream-colored feathers soaring above them, “A Garuda bird? I thought the wildlife here had been completely wiped out.” Cotton watched as the behemoth flew into the clouds, its shadow settling just under the layer it had nested. “It’s the monster lord’s.”

“The monster lord keeps Garuda birds?” one of his companions asked.

“Of course, he does, who doesn't want a bird the size of a city as their guard?”

“Keep moving, Istik, it’s still another mile or so.”

Cotton kept pace with Leice as she stayed in the middle of the group, almost tripping over his own feet as she threw a gathering of onyx caltrops behind them. “How is your mana doing?”

The lamia wiped the sweat off her brow, “Fine, I can last at least until we make it to the castle, after that…” She trailed off, losing focus before snapping back, “After that, I’ll need to rest for a moment.”

“Just tell me if you’re feeling faint so I can carry you.”

She smiled warmly, “So you can be sweet.”

“Just with you, Leice, only for you.”

[senatushq]

NAME. Arturo Guerrero AGE & BIRTH DATE. 256 & February 14th, 1768 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Demon ( Familiar ) OCCUPATION. Bartender at Flirt FACE CLAIM. Diego Tinoco

biography

( tw: blood, violence, satanism, death ) Evil wasn’t always made, sometimes it was born. Arturo’s grandmother had sworn that was the case, that her grandson had been born with sin running through his veins, a curse left on their doorstep that was discovered too late. An orphaned witch wrapped in blankets, blessed with mercy the small and humble family welcomed the child into their home. Raised with the mediocre beginnings of an average childhood, something hateful burned behind Arturo’s eyes from even his childhood hour. He’d been a child running amuck with siblings who never let him forget he was of a different blood; there was a thought at the back of his mind, a whisper like a serpent from someone other than him. Their parents had told them not to play in the kitchen, especially while the stove was hot, but one push and the elder sibling who’d chided him for so long suddenly spent the rest of her years disfigured by the burn from her face planting against the searing surface. 

In the pews of the old church they told him that God would forgive those who supplicated themselves on their knees. Forehead pressed to rotted wood, mould seeped through old stones, and the drawl of a Father droned forward. Forgiveness found the pennant but Arturo never asked for penance, wrapped knuckles and back breaking work. If he would not humble himself before the eyes of gratitude then he would be humbled instead through arduous labours and menial tasks. The nuns that he’d been left in the care of never stopped, the boy had the devil in him, that’s what they’d say: they could see it in his eyes. With their lectures, their punishments, and their litany of prayers. He heard her again then, the woman from the flames, the serpent of his dreams. It was only when the dented, bloodied chalice for communion was in his hands, and the nun was dead at his feet that Arturo began to listen. That beautiful pool of crimson ichor spilled across the stones he’d swept and scrubbed for years, Arturo could see himself in it, hateful eyes and a grim smile. Gray matter slipped from her skull, her face forever frozen in something between outrage and fear: she’d never looked better. 

Ashes were all that Arturo left behind, his work was sloppy and unclean. He was a witch but he was untrained, he knew nothing of schools or reserves but he knew a great deal about pain. About blood. First the church, then the home that had ousted him and one last time they had screamed that that boy was a demon. Not quite yet, but Arturo was on the right path. 

A bright star that flamed out young, hubris and inexperience had been his downfall, Arturo had flitted from violent delight to violent delight and had suffered a violent end as a result. He did not crawl to hell willingly, but had been dragged kicking and screaming by the jaws of hellhounds as the would-be demon was dropped before the judges three. His soul long claimed, his judgement befell a commandment of the wicked but where he thought to look upon that woman enshrined in flames, he found only virulent madness. Arturo’s skin turned to bark, his body twisted in upon itself, and the devil was joined in the forest of the blood witches. The grove of the many and the damned, where few but the most vile managed to escape. 

One century rolled into another, Arturo watched how these trees would decay, how’d they’d rot and concave upon themselves before crumbling into the dirt. Hell food for the scavengers and the cretins; too spiteful to go quietly, and too hateful to stay stagnant. Will alone broke the creature free as he carved a way through the forest, the ichor of those that were like him flowed freely when he snapped their limbs. They could speak when they were broken, and if they could speak then they could scream. Hungry lips and the curved tongue of a demon lapped at their power as he consumed them with violent urgency. Their strength became his own, Arturo had given the Inferno its meal, and as he gorged himself he would take his own as well. 

Corruption was in his veins; the desire to see others fall had already been bred inside him when a witch conjured him into a luxury city. The world had evolved, ripened by decadence, fattened by greed, it was just waiting to bleed; and the would-be necromancer that had invoked him was begging for defilement. The woman of his dreams had coiled herself inside this one just as she had Arturo all those years ago, while the Inferno had stripped his memories away, the demon saw them restored the first moment he could. Curiosity to start, satisfaction after; Arturo had been born violent, the Inferno hadn’t needed to cement his status as a demon. 

personality

+ observant, honest, protective - violent, hedonistic, jealous

played by shane. est. he/him.

[stainedgold]

Kill Me.

Cw : metaphorical depiction of emotions with gore/death, religious themes if you squint

Kill me. Pry out my heart like a wild cougar on a search for his lover, his paws drenched with the blood pooled by his claws, fur damp with tears and throat filled with bones and aching.

Kill me. Kill me, stab me, burn me at the stake you swore would be my reckoning.

Kill me. Kill me, burn me with the fire you promised would be the heat that would warm my soul, the heat you promised you would hold out to give me.

Kill me. Tear out my heart, hallow and barren, barely beating and throw it against the wall. Splatter my feelings while my blood seeps through the dry wall like acid.

Kill me. Kill me, skin me alive and deprive me of the pressure you've glued onto my flesh.

Kill me. Throw me in a pit and leave my pathetic worthless body to rot.

Kill me. Kill me, like a stupid pathetic dog not worth enough to be kept inside. Press a needle into my skin and inject me with the ichor of Sephtis.

Kill me. Drain me of my love, my feelings, my worth and spill it out like oil in the ocean.

Kill me. Turn my tears into diamonds and split my brain in two with my gem light dagger you've molded with my weeping.

Kill me. Or I will do it myself.

[000life-is-meaningless000]

✨✨✨ Divine ✨✨✨

A few truth that you're never going to learn in human religion.

First off deities are real second off deities are aliens third off they're not like the aliens you know

DTS have their own base in the universe they kind of have like their own headquarters and that place is called Olympus

Deities have their own blood it's called : Ichor

. . .

Deities have divided in male and female

. . .

God like adding a lot of religions no one knows is actually a super deity in Zeus is just an alpha deity

God is an extremely old deity who's older than the primordials he says super deity but he didn't start off that way all deities actually go through a cycle of being a baby and they slowly evolve into becoming an adult the life cycle of a deity is so fucking wrong as longer than a googleplexian

Deities have to have children to Survive

. . .

God goes fucking crazy if a DAT dies or is going to die so he's committed himself to saving deities not mortals he even said and I will quote with God said

God//Allha/Ptah/All Father :

I care not for The mortals

I do not have a son I have no Divine children ( Aka Jesus )

I only love my family the other deities

End Quote

. . .

Deities in no way shape or form have to be human they actually polymorph

When a deity is able to get the energy the essence and understand the creature they're able to literally turn into the creature once they get the energy and the essence of a creature they're able to polymorph and that creature and be a perfect doppelganger that creature and also generate energies to fuel that creature

This is why they're right this is why there are deities for different things in the universe they can generate life force Essence energy you know what I'm talking about, You Get The Gist

They generate all these things and the older of God becomes and wiser the more powerful they eventually become as well

This is why I did he's get this supreme Almighty power to blow up a planet with a snap of their fingers but they don't have to have fingers because most of them are just energetic Being's

Aka, Like a Ghost

. . .

Deities have problems deities have enemies deities are not perfect by any means God is Somewhat perfect, he still a humongous asshole to everyone he still is extremely extremely prickish he'll say he loves everyone then treat them like shit and he likes to set everybody on fire

God is the biggest pyromaniac in existence

. . .

God is also one of my Sadistic beings, I've ever experienced.

. . .

On top of that God is at Lily has one of the biggest fucking ego got us the biggest most egotistical antenna I've experienced a lot of different creatures that weren't human and I see a lot of very ego driven eagle Maniac eagle centric Souls especially The Reptilian people I've experienced a lot of shit but there is never been a more ego extreme entity quite like God

. . .

God has the biggest Ego God revolves around Ego God is based entirely an Ego !

. . .

Another fact about that he's that day he can't have babies all the time deities have a mating cycle every so often or every couple hundred trillion years deities eventually get to have babies

If for some reason if deities can't get a baby they go insane ???

Deity survive death by going into the white void the white boy strips away everything down to the bare-bone essence it rips the soul apart down to the sentient Consciousness and the essence they're even they're less than that even a mortal when they die

But the white void despite being an extremely horrible thing it also saves their soul from Death because when did you get old they self destruct when deities get old their power turns against them their power starts to rot their soul the power starts to rot with them

And sold that they are synced with that they power will begin to rot away and die too without a deity there is no life if the deity goes away it's like destroying the power plant down the road all your electronic devices die and they never work again

Do you think either exactly the same way the deity dies then everything they power goes away it just season to exist in physical reality

And generally God has a plan and a rule for creation and his people have to obey his Divine laws or his creation but the same fucking time this also an Olympian throne so there's kind of like two kings in the fucking Castle ?

But God used to get the fuck out of the way to whoever sits into the Divine throne of Olympus and that the throne of Olympus every so every so often Next Generation there's a new Divine leader of Olympus

And, This Divine leader doesn't have to be Male

. . .

So I just want to let you got them know that oh by the way did you catch on to the fact that I said deities are not human beings and they don't have human nature

Did you also catch on the fucking fact that I said that Daisy's have their own blood

Deities polymorph DVD shapeshift and deities come from dimension called the Great chaos a great chaos of dimension like you never seen before it's a dimension where the place were you abandon logic

I'll put a link

Link :

Oh ! And Side Note : God has so much fucking power and so much fucking energy that he quite literally has to exist in his own dimension away from everything in existence because he can't even enter a limp through all the other extremely powered up gods and got us if you can't even fucking do that

God destroys everything that gets too close to him if God existed within the universe the entire universe would end with a matter of Second's !

I've seen God I've been with God I seen the colors of God and the spirit of God and the spirit of God is white and the spirit of God is more like a white Platinum Pearl but the spirit of God is made entirely out of fire the element fire god is a pyromancer God is a fire Spirit or a fire soul is the ultimate fire deity it still has all the power in existence

God is still optimistic omnipotent and omnipresent but at the same time the true God are the core of God or The God that you can you know talk to is walk yourself away in a different dimension and if you open the dimension it's like exploding all the stars and Universe on you within a fraction of a second you won't survive

You can only get so close to God God has to talk to you from a far distance away and even then his voice will Quake everything around you, when God speaks it really does cause like a booming explosion it really does cause a loud loud almost like he's talking with thunder or talking with the sound of thunder

God is so fucking powerful he has to stay away from everybody he want he still want everybody know he loves them in Olympus and especially loves deity babies but God is the craziest motherfucker in existence God is God is the most insane Looney tune there is if you ever been with God you understand something else by this nature he's completely and absolutely fucking insane

God is Fucking insane

I Really don't give a shit if you think I blasphemed or not I'm being fucking honest

He's Almighty he's all knowing he's Omni present and He'S . . . . . . FUCKING NUT'S !