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shrikepublishing · 18 days ago

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Ashen Silence: Bearer of the True Sight

Art by @sugarmountalns

Content Warning: Heavy Religious Content, Implied Delusional Mania, Violence and Injury Gore, Drug Use, Heavy Body Modification, Horror

PDF Linked.

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To my dearest friend, Dan. I have always been playing catch up to you, but there is no one’s shadow I’d rather be in.

*****

“Sorrow looks back, Worry looks around, Faith looks up”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

*****

“The gods love the predator as much as the prey.”

The Reverend Father had said that once, in a sermon or a scripture study, Mira couldn’t remember. At the time it had seemed another of his many musings. The Father said so many things after all. Now, as the meaning of it grew clearer, she appreciated his wisdom once again.

They found Mira at a trading post just outside of the Gryphon’s Head Peninsula. She had stopped to grab some extra rations and a new space heater. She knew right away they were trouble. She paid for her things, grabbed what she could, and when the shots started, she started running.

She didn’t make herself an easy target. She ran for a day straight, pursued by them. Two of them, in dark cloaks that concealed their forms. One was short, one was tall. On the second day, they almost caught her. She lost them long enough to sleep, but soon they were back on her trail. She thought for a second they might try to talk to her. The burning heat of a bullet in her right side dissuaded this illusion.

She needed to get away. Some petrified trees stood to her left, too sparse for cover. She rounded a bend. A ditch was coming up on her right. She checked behind her, but no one yet. She threw herself down. The landing was rough and the hideous pain from the wound in her shoulder almost made her cry out. It took all her discipline to bite her tongue and keep quiet. She tumbled and ashy mud covered her face wrappings and blotted out her vision. Desperately, she crawled her weakened self underneath a lip of the road above that formed a slight overhang from where she lay.

Mira stayed low and repeated silent prayers to herself. She ran her fingers along an amulet of the 11-pointed star of the Divine Council. With her other arm, she clutched her bag jealousy toward her breast like a mother protecting her child. Ichor from her wound seeped into her protective gear and onto the ground below her. Heavy boots beat against the dirt road above her. Voices muffled by rebreathers exclaimed in frustration that their quarry had eluded them. She put her mouth over her own respirator and tried to hold her breath. She couldn’t get caught. She was too close to her goal, at long last the end of her journey.

They passed by. She stayed there a while longer. When she was sure the predators had lost their scent, she wriggled herself out from under the overhang and climbed back onto the road. She fell to her knees, having grown lightheaded. How much blood had she lost? The thought flitted from her mind. She stood with a wobble and looked up. The sky above was the color and texture of slate stone. A reminder from the Divine Council that the people of Vian had grown so distant from their light.

She stopped to examine her injury. The bullet had torn straight through. Her understanding of mortal anatomy was strong enough to know it must have barely missed an artery. With some rough bandaging, she managed to stop the worst of it. The gods were good and she would live long enough to get to her destination. However, she needed care quickly, lest it be a martyr’s journey.

Next, she opened her bag and checked on her treasure. It was a cylindrical canister sealed by cryogenic technologies. A view window showed the contents within, two pristine eyes. A small indicator light flashed green, indicating it was safe but out of ideal conditions. Even the cold of the wasteland she wandered in was not enough for this frozen container. This was everything she had spent the last year trying to find. She had already sent word to her people that she was returning victorious.

She put it back carefully and slung her bag over her good shoulder. The road branched off to a side trail, which she took to avoid running into her pursuers again. They would try to take her prize from her, but she would not let them. She would not let anyone touch what she had been trusted with.

Fatigue scraped against a wall of willpower in Mira’s mind. She had carried on foot for weeks. When the stench of sulfuric salt filtered through her rebreather, she knew that at long last she was close.

Her faith was rewarded when she crested the next hill. The downslope ran into the Grey Sea. In the center of view, perched on an island in the water, was a city whose purple shields shined like amethysts. New Bekton. Home.

Her hymns turned to praise and she jumped for joy before the pain in her wound sobered her demeanor. She pressed on, tripping as she navigated the side road’s sharp decline.

By the time she got to the city’s gates, she had grown faint. Her bandages had soaked through, staining her mottled cloth overwraps to a muted scarlet. Her willpower carried her there, but dizziness overtook her. She limped into line and kept jabbing her leg to stay awake. No one paid her any mind. Desperate situations at the city’s entrance were no strange occurrence.

She wondered if they would just watch as she bled out. No. She couldn’t. She was so close. Maybe someone from the enclave could come meet her. Would they even know where she is? How could she reach them? The Divines had protected her journey up to this point. They just needed to keep their hands over her for a little longer.

She got to the front of the line, and a customs agent in cobalt blue sealed armor asked for her identification, business, and everything else they did in the process. She took her bag off her unwounded shoulder and searched for an ID. When she handed it over, she realized she had smudged it in blood. The customs officer barely noticed. He scrawled some information down on a clipboard. She managed to get out that she was returning home with a delivery. When asked what she was carrying, she remembered the Father’s warning to identify it as familial relics.

Of course, he demanded a fee. There were dark spots in her vision as if she was viewing the world through a cardboard tube. She got the money out of her bag’s wallet pouch and handed it over. The officer wiped off the scarlet fluid that covered it. Through the haze, she thought she saw him pocket it directly.

He waved her on, and she moved forward as best she could. Her breathing was shallow and fast. She made it inside the opened gate, though not much further. She slumped against a divider near customs, but an officer pushed her back with the butt of a rifle. She hardly even registered the blow. She landed on her back, looking up at the latticed hexagonal city shield that wrapped the sky.

A wry smirk crept across her masked lips. The Council had such a strange sense of humor. To get so close to the end of her journey to die just before its completion.

As her consciousness faded, the words of the Reverend Father came to her again. “The Council’s Will is not to be comprehended, merely obeyed.”

Through blurred vision, she saw a figure above her, saying something to her. They shook her, and said again, “Hey, stay with me!”

The world slipped away.

*****

“My child, why do you hide your face from me?” spoke the White Rat.

The pickpocket bent low. “I am unworthy in your presence, my lady. Mortals shall not gaze upon the Divine unprepared.”

“Arise, child Dralia. When we formed you in the heavens we delighted in you. We sang a song of our love for you. Do not hide from us now. Do not deprive us our creation.”

The Ascension of St. Dralia 2:5–9

*****

Mira did not wake up in the hallowed halls of Atharas, as she had expected to. If this was the afterlife it was not the one she had been promised. Someone was shaking her again. A small middle-aged man with long, rounded ears, and violet eyes with no pupils. An elek, certainly. He wore wasteland gear like hers, but with rounded spectacles and a patch on his shoulder that said Medic, “Hey hey, now. Stay awake, lass. Don’t go passing out on me again!” His accent was thick, Northlandic.

She looked down, her jacket and robes had been undone, and pulled down around her shoulder. He had moved her against what appeared to be some kind of hedge. She was too dazed to feel anything, this wasn’t happening to her. It was happening to someone else who looked just like her, sitting just below her. The small man put a rag soaked in alcohol on her wound and pressed hard. It burned and sent a shooting pain through her arm, but she was in no state to react.

She realized how thirsty she was. How long had it been since she’d had a drink? “Wa- wa- wat-” She stammered, too weak to speak.

He looked up at her, “What’s that, girlie?”

She pointed her left index finger at a flask on his hip. “Wat-er” with an additional emphasis on the -er.

He looked at his flask, “Aye, I can do that.” Holding the wound tight with the hand that had the rag, he undid the flask with his teeth and put some to her mouth. She opened wide like a baby bird, greedily lapping up the liquid.

“Okay, I’m going to apply the healing potion now. Have you had a Yender’s Formula treatment before?” He set the flask down and rummaged through his bag.

“Yes…” This was true but for much more minor injuries. She’d never been hurt this badly.

“The wound is deep and on both sides. This is going to hurt, lass.”

She nodded. It didn’t matter to her.

He took off the rag and uncorked a vial of red liquid. He poured some onto the exit wound and massaged it into the exposed flesh. This time she cried out. The pain snapped her awake and the reality of her situation set in. She started panicking. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Save me!” She begged the heavens and the man before her.

“I’m doing my best. Almost there.” He pulled her forward and began to apply the healing Yender’s Formula to the entrance wound. Same pain, same cry out, same pleading to be spared.

When it was done, he reapplied bandages and returned her robes to their normal order. He set her gently against the shrubbery and knelt there with her for some time.

Certain the worst had passed, he grabbed another vial from his bag. This one was solid metal and had the icon of several drops of liquid on it. “Drink this, you lost a lot of your lifeblood.”

Mira took the vial and downed it, though she nearly wretched it up the second after. It had the aroma and flavor of spoiled licorice. Could licorice even spoil? She reached for the flask and downed more water. Her arms fell to her sides and she let out a long sigh. She cried, and the medic looked away to give her some dignity.

When she was done, he took back the vial and flask. “That second potion should help your body regenerate blood more quickly. Take it easy, though. You took a licking.”

Mira nodded, and clarity of thought returned to her. “I understand. Thank you for your care, good doctor.”

“Vili’Mael or Doctor Vili works.”

She looked around. “Mira… May I ask where my things are?”

He slid her backpack from behind him. “Right here. I grabbed it in the ruckus.”

Mira wrinkled her brow slightly, “Did you… open my bag?”

The doctor put up a hand, “No no, not my business. I’m just here to make sure you stay alive.”

She gave a slight smile, “The Council reward the servant’s heart, Writ of Duty 12:5”

He gave her a look, then brushed off whatever was on his mind. “The Divines says a lot of things– or they did, anyway. Do you think you can stand up?”

The pain shooting across her body had settled into a stiff, dull ache in her shoulder. “I… Didn’t think I was going to make it.”

“I won’t mince words, Mira. You almost didn’t.” He pointed to her bandaged right side. “The healing potions did their work, but that wound went untreated for too long. It’s going to be hard to move and it’s almost definitely going to scar.”

Mira nodded, then reached for her bag. It took her a few seconds before she found what she was looking for. She pulled out the cryogenic canister and rotated it in her hands. The green light on the side of the top confirmed the eyes were safe. She sighed in relief and said a brief prayer to The Ascended.

Vili folded his arms and looked at the canister, “Everything okay?”

“Yes… yes, thank you. I was worried my pilgrimage had been for naught.”

“Nah lass, you seem to be in order.”

She turned to him and continued rummaging through the pockets of the bag. She produced a handful of crystal coins. “I’m afraid I don’t have much with which to pay you.”

The doctor shook his head, “Not needed, miss. I didn’t do it for pay. My clinic does fine as is.”

Mira put the coins in his palm, “Let no debt linger, Writ of Order 23:7.” Vili smiled back. Then she put something else in the other hand. A simple beige tract with bold red font ‘WHEN THE COUNCIL RETURNS, WILL YOU HEAR THEIR VOICE?’ She looked into his oversized eyes and grinned, “The gods smile upon you, Vili of the Great House Mael.”

Vili didn’t react to this, beyond setting the coins and the tract down in his bag. He stopped and regarded her. “Are you a priest, ma’am?”

Her freckled cheeks blushed and she shook her head. “An acolyte. I serve the flock of Father Cyran.”

“Haven’t heard of him.”

“We keep to ourselves. The righteous are honed by the fires of adversity, Writ of Service 3:29. We have been faced with many trials and enemies.”

“Aye, well they’re well off with an acolyte like you.” Mira beamed at this. He continued, “Is that why you don’t have any augs? You an RP?”

She forgot how such a plain appearance made her stand out in the city. She twirled a strand of auburn hair on her finger. “No, the Righteous Perfect serve a noble cause, but we believe their complete rejection of the modern sciences to be misguided.”

“And the folks who shot you? They belong to some religious sect too?”

Mira frowned, “I believe so, but they have lost the mandate of the Divines. They serve their worldly interests now.”

“Will they chase you? Don’t want all my work to be for nothing.” Vili started to let out a grim chuckle but caught himself.

Mira paid no mind, “With luck and grace, I have lost them. I will be careful on my return to my kindred.” She looked out at the mass of people coming to and from the gate. Then she looked toward the direction she was headed, “I need to get back to my flock.”

Vili nodded. “Aye, let me show you the way. I don’t know how well you know West-Gate, I can point you to some food, you must be famished.”

*****

The giants of shadow danced a ring around Dralia. Their voices were as of another world, and so was their language.

They sang and though she did not speak their tongue, she knew what they said.

“Rise, O’ rise you of the Ascended’s favor. Bring unto her the ears of the people. They have grown cold and weary away from the light of their Beloved.”

The Ascension of St. Dralia 4:8–12

*****

A couple of hours later, Mira was sipping a hot drink outside of a Quikbru in West-Gate. It was blue, foamy, and tasted like spiced berries. One might call it an unseasonable brew for the early Spring, but her journey in the cold sunless wastelands gave her an appreciation for the warmth on her palms. She huddled into a ball next to a low wall along the sidewalk, still regaining her strength. Her bag was right next to her and she eyed anyone who dared to get close. Most people steered clear of her warning glare. Oxen without masters.

Before her, the rising skyline of New Bekton ascended layer by layer. Lowtown, the largest and poorest; Midtown, populated by corporate suits and wide-eyed academics; and Uptown, where the city’s most powerful elites resided. These sectors were built on top of each other in ring-shaped platforms that culminated in the grandness of the titanic central spire that shot past the cloudline and into space. Above the city and the base of the tower, a dome of purple hexagonal shields glittered. It stretched an entire island, protected from the harshness of the world the gods had abandoned.

Of course, the gods had not truly abandoned Vian. Their grace showed in the diligence of the persistent faithful. Their ingenuity was present in the work of the engineers and architects of this strange new life. So many hearts had strayed from the righteous path the Council laid out for all. They called these thousand-long years The Silence, but to Mira, the gods’ voice could not be louder.

She mouthed a verse to herself, “In all things, trust the Will of The Council.”

Father Cyran was expecting her. There was work to be done. She stood up, slung her backpack over her good shoulder, and threw her cup away.

She briefly stopped to ask for directions from a construction worker with four arms. He was pleasant enough, though he mumbled when he talked. She wrote the important steps on her hand, thanked him, and handed him the same tract she gave to the doctor earlier. The worker obliged, though she caught him ditching it in a bin as she walked away. She wasn’t hurt, not every soul was within her power to save.

*****

It was hard to believe she was one of the godless, once. Her world had been transformed when the Reverend Father and his flock came into her life. Mira had never lacked faith, per se. She grew up going to church with her parents, was confirmed at the right age, and all the other traits one associated with a life of religion.

It was just that, though, religion. Structure and practice hollow of belief. She was in university for mechanics when one of the robed Cyranites handed her a beige tract with red lettering, much like the ones she handed out now. She almost threw it out, but it had been a hard semester. Her mother was sick, and she had just been going through a particularly bad breakup. Something, which she now knew to be the Will of the Council, moved her to attend a meeting.

The service she attended was unlike anything she had known from a childhood of sitting in pews in stuffy churches. There were colored lights, dancing, and joy. She had never seen such passion in the hearts of the faithful. She asked a boy with dusty hair and a cybernetic eye why everyone was so happy, and he simply told her “The dominion of the Divine is at hand.”

When Father Cyran stood to speak, she wasn’t sure what to think. His augmentation had already been extensive, which was not necessarily unusual. Yet his outlandish visage was hardly what you’d expect from a public speaker. When he spoke, his voice was strained and metallic. Then the words came from his mouth, and she understood. She had never seen such a command of scripture. Holy words resounded from his mouth and blended like music. Indeed many people hummed along. She realized that these words that made up the Writs were not just the writings of scribes, but the voice of the gods. If their words lived on in scripture, how could they be silent?

Mira never looked back. It was hard at first. The enclave demanded tithe upon entry, and she didn’t have much money. She sold her school books, her clothes, her jewelry, anything she could. She knew she would never need them again anyway. She had found her new calling. Cutting off the people in her life was harder, made easier by her mother’s passing. Friends and family she missed, but she had tried to get them to see the light of truth. They could not see, their hearts were blinded. They expressed concern for her, the fools. They couldn’t comprehend the bliss she lived in now.

More importantly, the work of Father Cyran’s flock was too important. There were no empty promises of salvation. They would bring about the return of the Council. They had worked to do so for many years, and completion grew ever closer. The eyes she carried in her bag would be the next step in the final days of the Long Silence. The Reverend Father had assured it, and her devotion to his cause was unwavering.

*****

St. Dralia spoke, “Who are you who aid me now?”

One of the giants bent low to meet her gaze.

“We are the ones who came before. We have watched this world since it was young. Our Creators made us as they made you. Though we are the watchers, not the children. We are the angels.”

The Ascension of St. Dralia 5:1–5

*****

Four blocks down and a right turn put her on Prosperity Street. Mira considered stopping at the marketplace there, but her pockets were light and she was expected back at the enclave. Instead, she turned into Prosperity Street’s metro station and began the descent on a steep escalator.

The station was well-kept, by Lowtown standards. All the lights were working and the grime on the tiles was minimal. Concrete vaulted ceilings greeted the riders on two sets of tracks. One headed north to south, and the other headed east into the city’s heart. She eyed the crowd carefully. There were so many strange, wonderful people. Many modified by alchemical surgeries. She saw wings, shimmering hair, even some gills. Many were still like her, unaugmented and unassuming, enough for her to blend in. Even the blood stains on her robes weren’t too strange in this rough-and-tumble part of town.

She got on the northbound platform and halted. She nestled into a corner next to an advertisement for lab-grown vitamins and tried to make herself small. Next to her was a man with wiry hair across his distended shirtless torso, a bestial snout, and yellow eyes. He was smoking some kind of cigarette. Not legal in the station, but rarely enforced in the new administration.

Bestial eyes glanced at her, and a clawed hand passed over the cig. She accepted, though hesitantly, and while fumbling to keep hold of her bag. After all, the Writs said to graciously accept gifts from a noble heart. She took a couple of puffs, much to the disgust of people in front of them, and passed it back. The snout bent into a twisted grin, and she returned it. She offered him a tract but he politely declined, and they waited in silence.

The gentle buzz brushed against her mind and flushed her cheeks. Its comforting warmth was like the burning of incense, spicy and calming. She leaned against the ad display and for a second realized how tired she was. It had been a long time carrying these eyes, coming all the way down from Ziyo Point in the northeast. She vowed to sleep for a whole week when she returned to the compound.

The train came squealing into the station and blew a gust of air into her face. She winced and looked around. The crowd pushed up on the platform where they thought the doors would stop. She took a breath, found strength, and pushed her way forward.

The car was cramped, but it always was. New Bekton’s transportation had been overwhelmed since before Mira was born. She grabbed a hand grip from one of two poles that ran along the rows of seats and clung to her bag tightly. She was a woman alone in the city and had grown used to taking care of herself when she was away from the enclave. There was always some threat, something to be watchful for. Moreso now.

The doors closed, followed by a momentary pause. Then the train lurched forward, bumping her into a girl with a mohawk of tentacles on the seat below her. She glared at Mira, and the latter tried to get some space between them.

Mira felt as if she was being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck bristled. She was not gifted with premonitions like some of her kindred, but in that moment, she felt a malevolent gaze upon her. She had been seen by something, or something else was wrong. She murmured prayers of protection. Nothing happened

*****

A dozen blocks away from the enclave, wary paranoia gave way to grim clarity. Her premonition had been correct, almost certainly. Two figures had been following her from a distance since she got off the metro. Their cloaks concealed any more identifiers from her over-the-shoulder glances, but she knew in her heart and soul they were the same people who chased her to New Bekton’s gates.

She muttered the Writs while she pondered her options. She couldn’t lead them to the enclave, too risky. She could face them directly, but they had tried to take her life once before and she saw no reason they wouldn’t try again. While she would gladly become a martyr for her faith, she still had the eyes. They had to stay safe. She clutched her amulet and prayed for guidance. The clattering of rats across metal scrap drew her attention to an alleyway. It was filled with junk and debris, likely from the renovation of the adjoining tailor shop. It was perfect.

She ducked behind a couple laborers carrying a couch, and slid into the alleyway, hopefully unseen. Immediately she began searching for a place to stash the treasure. A pile of opened crates, a broken drone, construction materials, and… Gods are kind! An old cooler, with perfect insulation. She opened her bag and started to hide the canister, then she heard footsteps at the entrance to the alley.

She turned to see who it was, though on some level she already knew. Two hooded figures, one tall and one short skulked towards her. “What you got there?” the shorter one said, in a cool, smooth voice. Like ice.

The tall one spoke next, “Reckon she’s got something mighty special to protect it all this way.”

The short one looked at the tall one, “Think it’s something the Master would want?” He lowered his hood, revealing a bald head covered in profane tattoos. References to some heathen god that Mira couldn’t identify. A gore-covered hand.

The tall one lowered their hood, revealing the scales, horns, and braided hair of a Primas-ika. “Undoubtedly. Something this precious? Would go a long way in his service.”

They both looked back at her, “So, surely you won’t mind if we take a peek, miss?”

She clutched the cooler in her arms and tried to work up courage. She yelled, “Stay back!”

The shorter one laughed, “I don’t think you’re in the position to be giving orders.” He flashed steel under his robe, attached to his hip. The same pistol that had wounded her before, surely. “Now last time, you got away, but we’re a lot closer now. Don’t think I’d fuck up twice.”

She was breathing heavily as he drew the pistol, a revolver. Her mind ran through scriptures for wisdom in a time like this, all she could recall was the command to be defiant to your enemies. “I said… stay back.”

Both the dark-robed figures laughed this time, “The bravery! They don’t make disciples like you anymore. Tell me, lady, who do you serve?”

She thought for a second to declare herself a proud Cyranite, then reconsidered. They may have caught her, but she could keep the enclave safe with her silence. She bit her tongue.

“Nothing to say, eh?” The shorter one stepped closer. “Well, let me make this a little easier on you. We’re leaving with those eyes you’re carrying. They don’t belong to you or whatever cloister you serve. The only real difference is if you’ll give them to us or…” the hammer on the gun clicked.

Mira sat there, defeated. Her journey seemed at an end. She could not return to her enclave after so much time empty-handed. She could not face these foul acolytes directly. She was caught, and she accepted her fate. She began to pray out loud.

The shorter one stopped for a second, and eyed her, “Now now, you can tell them everything in person soon enough.”

In a moment of serendipity, the side door to the tailor shop swung open. An old human woman burst onto the stoop, “Who’s making all that-”

She was cut short by a gunshot from the shorter man, who swung around in surprise. Mira couldn’t see if the old lady, who was out of view from her vantage behind the open door, was hit. She saw surprise and fear in the shorter man’s tattooed face. She knew this was her only chance.

Mira was not strong, not even in the slightest. Yet in that moment, the fury of the gods flowed through her, and she charged all the weight and force she had into the man’s torso. Maybe he was still surprised, or maybe she was more mighty than she thought. Either way, he went tumbling back into a pile of debris.

His landing was met with the sickening tearing of flesh and meat into metal. A rogue piece of rebar protruded from his chest, where the heart would be on a normal human. He spasmed and spat blood from his mouth. He looked at Mira and began to utter something in a foul language that she didn’t recognize. He was cut short, more red fell from his open mouth and his body went slack.

Mira’s hands were trembling. She had never killed before. It was a sin unless ordained by the Council. She hadn’t meant to…

The tall one, the Primas-ika, looked at their dead companion, and back to Mira. They let out a furious battle cry, and they charged Mira. Before she could even process it, a barbed scaly fist tore into her face. She reeled back. The tall cultist brought two fists down on the crown of her head. The impact concussed her, and the huge person pushed her to the ground.

On the ground, she received several more blows, punches, and kicks. In the daze, and through the pain, she wondered if this was it. Her chance at salvation was blown. Then she didn’t think anything at all. She thought she saw a glint of light, like the one they said those saw on the journey to Atharas. She crawled towards it, and reached for it, ready to receive her eternal reward.

She gripped it and it was cold like metal. It was small but heavy in her hands. Not at all what she expected of the afterlife. She was beyond coherent thought, but her impulses took over for her. She rolled on her back just as the tall one prepared to stomp on her ribs. She found the trigger and fired. The tall one halted. She fired again, and this time they fell.

She lay there a while, pools of blood intermingling. She stared at the purple hexagonal sky, below the rolling clouds that smothered their broken world. If this world had any hope, she carried it in that cryo container. Was she doomed to die here? She was hurt badly, and there was no doctor to save her this time. She considered crying out, but her broken ribs made that an impossibility. Plus, she was a killer now. She could not be caught while she still had a delivery to make. She would have to pay her penance at the compound.

After minutes of effort, she got to her feet. She got her bag, now covered in the Primas-ika’s vital fluids. She retrieved the eyes and ensured they were okay. The green light flashed. Mira considered stopping to burn the dead, as was customary. She limped by the door and checked for what she thought would be the corpse of the old woman. The old lady was there, still alive and breathing heavily. She clutched a wound in her hip and leaned against the interior of the door. When she saw Mira, they both made panicked eye contact. The old woman began to shout, and Mira knew she couldn’t stay there.

Half limping, half running, she stumbled out of the alley and began to make as straight of a line as possible for the enclave. Passersby eyed the wounded girl in robes, but no one stopped her, not even the cops.

Her strength failed her just as she arrived at the compound’s gate.

*****

They had bodies as black as night.

Limbs like the tentacles of a great sea beast.

Smooth, round heads atop necks stretched by the gallows.

Mouth, nose, and ears like slits in leather.

Eyes like the finest rubies, that gleamed through the night.

Their shadows cast long over the young woman.

The Ascension of St. Dralia 6:2–7

*****

Several taps on the good shoulder woke Mira up. Through the haze, she was in pain and felt weak. Her head rested against metal just inside the gates of the compound. Through blurry vision, she made out the smiling face above her, her brother acolyte, Jays. His boisterous voice rose over the ringing and rushing in her head, “Welcome home, Sister Mira!”

She managed to mutter out a “thank you” and struggled to sit up against the solid metal gate. “My bag… I have it.”

“I had no doubt you would not return empty-handed, dear kindred.” He glanced at her blood-soaked robes and facial injuries, “How badly hurt are you? Can you stand?”

“I can, Brother Jays. Just give me a second.” She grunted and groaned and forced herself to her feet with a wobble. Her head swam and she saw white. She was badly off, she needed help soon. If it wasn’t already too late.

“Excellent, Father Cyran is already waiting for you.”

“Of… course.” Together they walked deeper into the compound, going slowly to accommodate her limping. First past the barracks, the kitchen, and the chapel. Then to the largest building, what was once a large warehouse, now the Sanctum.

Outside this most holy of places, a podium had been set up. Others had already gathered and made way for Mira as she went to the front. The doorway was concealed, but in the shadows, she saw a figure shifting. She leaned against the podium, smearing blood on it. All the work of Doc Vili was wasted. She wouldn’t last long and she knew it. In a way, she felt some serene peace with this. She had made it to the Sanctum. That was all she had to do.

From the entrance, a shape ducked out. He was radiant, beautiful, and perfect. She fell to her knees and face in prostration and weakness. “F-father…”

The cracked resonant voice of the Reverend Father met her, “You have done well, my child. Your journey nears its end. Look upon me.”

She raised her head and beheld his form. He was pitch black and wore no clothes. Most of his limbs were like tendrils and bent and contorted in ways that would be impossible for any other mortal. The ribcage had been enlarged and tapered down into an impossibly thin waist that expanded into jagged hips. His head sat atop a long neck, and his mouth and nose had been replaced by a fleshy grate-like structure that wheezed when he breathed or spoke.

In the olden times, the angels were a manifestation of the Divine Council across Vian. The messengers of the gods, sent to carry their word into the world. Of course, Cyran had not been born an angel. His transformation had been long and torturous and was yet incomplete. His right arm was still mortal, human. Many of his internal organs still needed replacing, and in the front of his head were two normal green eyes.

She opened her bag and retrieved the cryo canister, presenting it in trembling hands to Father Cyran. His long left arm clasped her wounded shoulder and she winced, both in surprise and pain. “The great work nears its end. Soon I will gaze upon you with the true sight, as I will gaze upon the world.”

Mira tried to thank him, but drops of scarlet fell from her mouth and the pounding in her head overtook her. She collapsed and looked up at her congregation through fading vision.

Father Cyran did not come to her aid. No one else did either. Instead, the remade angel stood at the podium and looked to the crowd. He stood tall, dwarfing everyone. His voice was like hot steel passing through resin. “Our sister has brought us one step closer to completing our glorious mission. My eyes now see the faces of faithful men, women, and others who have dedicated their lives in the service of the most noble pursuit, ending the gods’ Long Silence!”

The Cyranites cheered, and the Reverend Father continued. “Soon, I will see so much more. Each of us was made for a purpose. The whole of Vian was. We feel it in our hearts, in our souls. There is no greater calling than service in the name of the gods. You know this, it is what drew you to our humble community. Our great curse is to be deprived of this assurance. To toil endlessly in the sunless wastes of the world the gods deemed unworthy of their light.”

He held up the canister, “But their light is not gone completely. My ears now hear their wisdom, and soon my eyes will see the beauty of the Divine!” The crowd erupted in rapturous applause. Even Mira, broken and dying, beamed.

It seemed that the angel Cyran remembered her, looking down with a solemn expression. “Let us not forget the efforts and sacrifice of our good Sister Mira. There is no greater end than in the service of the Divines!” Scattered mournful ‘amen’s rolled across the crowd. He looked up and raised his distended, impossibly long arm, “Mourn not, kindred. For she will live on in the halls of the Saints!”

The crowd oohed and ahed in wonder. A rare blessing given to so few who passed. Even Mira, half-conscious and slipping away, could not believe she was so lucky. Was she so important? She was but a lowly handmaiden of the Council.

Cyran made a gesture to the medic of their flock, Kindred Arin. They rushed over to Mira’s side. It was too late, no healing potion would save her now. Instead, they pushed a syringe of light blue fluid into her neck and pressed the plunger. A cool rush ran through her head and body as the stimulant took effect. Her wounds still hurt, and her blood still poured from her wounds. Yet her pain was lessened and her mind was clearer.

She looked up to the Father, who stood over her. He spoke again, “Find your strength and arise, Sister Mira. Your journey is not over yet.”

She complied, forcing what little reserves of strength she had to her arms and legs. She got to her feet once more, to the cheers of the other Cyranites. Through blackened eyes and shattered teeth, she smiled at them. Her family.

Cyran looked to the flock one final time, ‘This will conclude our gathering. I will be occupied with the transformation in the Sanctum. Tonight’s study of the Writs will be led by Sister Yulna. Treat her with the respect you would treat me. Only Sister Mira will accompany me right now.”

The flock obeyed their shepherd and dispersed. Mira’s heart was beating fast. She was pale as a ghost, drained of blood. She and the Reverend Father made their way inside the Sanctum.

Incense and candlelight guided their way through the empty halls. They passed custodians, mostly constructs, though a rare few mortals like them. The walls were lined with art and artifacts from before the Silence, reminders of the world the gods made and left behind.

Mira heard the sound of a small drill as she approached the central chamber, the Holy of Holies. Now the walls were lined with body parts and organs, kept suspended in green liquid. So many former attempts, not all of them successful. Building perfection was not a trivial task. They could not compromise.

At last, the lights of the central chamber bathed her broken form. Rows of lanterns and candles, mixed with overhead lights and a surgeon’s lamp. In the center, under the lamp, was a man in scrubs and an apron. She thought of Vili and wondered what would become of him.

Father Cyran went forward to the operating table, carrying the canister. She kneeled there and watched as the surgeon began to work. First, the old eyes were removed, and placed on a tray. One eye, and then the other. The smell of cut bone and chemical solvents mixed with the candles and incense into a confused medley. A wet ‘schlick’ sound as the new eyes were set. Then there was quiet for some time.

The three waited and waited for some time longer than that. Then Father Cyran’s new eyes opened, red and shiny as rubies. He looked first to the surgeon and thanked him. Then he stood up, head bumping against the lamp. He went over to Mira, whose stimulant was beginning to fade. Her breathing had slowed and grown ragged. It was almost her time. She wondered what it was like to die. Though she knew with pride that she would be embraced by the gods.

Cyran scooped her up in his surprisingly strong, mismatched arms. He carried her to the next room over, and as exhaustion took hold of Mira’s body, she couldn’t help but wonder. “F-Father, what… do you… see?”

Cyran’s mouth folds distended into a facsimile of a smile, “My child,” he looked up, “I see everything.”

She slipped away one final time, her work completed.

*****

The angels departed from her that evening.

She made their mission clear, to carry the holy words of the Ascended and the rest of the Council to the people of the world Vian.

Sometimes, one would minister to her the will of her Mistress, then just as a shadow, it would disappear again.

These things were, are, and shall be.

The Ascension of St. Dralia 10:21–25

*****

Mira awoke, though still not in the bright halls of the heavens. Rather, it was dark. Very dark. She tried to move her head to look around, but she could not. In confusion, she tried to move her arms, and then her legs. Nothing. She could breathe, but it was slightly restricted. She felt cables attached to her spine, pumping some kind of liquid into her.

She began to call out, “Hello! Is there anybody there?”

There was a long quiet. She called out again, and then again.

An older woman’s voice answered. “Hush, child. You are new here, but this is your appointed place.”

Mira was fearful and confused, “W-w-who are you?”

“In life, I was named Raquel, but we do not often hold onto our names, here.”

“What do you mean? Where is here?”

The lights turned and Mira screamed. The room was filled with people, Cyranites, cast in metal. Each of them connected to machines like the ones connected to her. Each was locked into poses of praise and prayer. Some with raised hands, some with heads bowed. She realized her own hands were folded together and she was sat cross-legged.

They all exclaimed praise as someone entered their room. Into her vision came the smooth dark head of Father Cyran himself, now with his new eyes. “I am sorry, child Mira. Your wounds were too great to treat. Your devotion to our ministry was too great to let you pass on just yet. So I brought you here, to the Living Saints.”

“I should… I should have died.” Mira argued. She couldn’t tell if she was grateful.

Cyran’s mouth folds formed a frown, “But my dear, this calling is one of the greatest the faithful can be given.”

Raquel chimed in, “We counsel the Father, and await the return of the gods from here in our chamber.”

“But the gods speak to the Father, that is why we have assisted his transformation.”

The Reverend Father looked at her and clasped the side of her still head, “Do you remember The Writ of Ministry 5:6–7?”

“The words of kindred in good counsel are the words of the gods.”

“I commune with the Divines, yes, but when their Will is obscured to me, I come here.”

“But what shall I do? I cannot move. I cannot even read the Writs anymore.”

Raquel interjected again, “Oh my child we have so many conversations here. Sermons, hymns, stories from our old lives.”

An amen rose from the other statues.

Mira was too shocked to be terrified. “Yes…”

Cyran’s red eyes, which she had carried for so long, gleamed, “I ask that you trust me, Mira. I knew you were destined for greater things since the first moment you came to our service.”

Mira was silent for a while, and then relented, “I trust you, Father.”

This is what became of Mira. Her old life had ended. She would never live again, but she would not die for quite some time. Just as the Father Cyran had transformed, so had she. They still talked from time to time. He did not come to the Saints often, but when he did he sought wisdom. Rarely, another Cyranite would approach them to refill their life support systems, or to join in their hymns. Most of her days were dark and quiet, kept away in the reserves of the Sanctum. She spent many of her days singing the hymns she knew and even writing new ones. She had all the time in the world. In many ways, she was happy and even filled with pride for her new role.

Of course, she missed her old life. She wondered if her friends were okay. She wondered about her family. She also pondered greater things, like what the end of the Silence would mean for her and the other Living Saints. Surely they must have been close to the end of the thousand years without the Divines. Cyran’s work was so close to completion. She kept waiting. They all did. Certain that someday soon, the end to their suffering and the suffering of the whole world was at hand.

For now, the wait went on.

#fantasy #era of silence #ashen silence #science fiction #science fantasy #apocalypse #megacity #short story #fiction #writing #writers of tumblr #religion #faith

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ryusxnka · 2 years ago

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@deathleads Continuation from ( X )

I nitiating an expeditious grip of his hollowed Armament might have been impetuously foolhardy by the garish laughter that hauntingly overtook the ambience in response to his motion of engagement. - Woman of twisted exultation - of festering quietus ------ Expressing her unfathomable amusement in regards to his wretched exhibition of uncertain hesitation ----- his contradicting executions. ----- The adolescent's wintry - teal eyes straiten, scrutinizing her own Ichored-hued possessions of unfaltering lunacy; an incontrovertible brace of intimidation that exerted the effortless capability of asphyxiating lungs as if crushing them from within -------- Immobilizing an individual onto their own spiralling thoughts of unease and anticipation. Stumped on how to proceed with this discourse which would not spur a gruesome conclusion. - He hearkens her intensively, scraping at any morsel of potentiality that may assist him via progression - She brings forth outcomes that depicted her, truly, as a monstrosity and it stupors him. Their mindset was awfully unparalleled, but admittedly faultless. - Naught but a result conceived by the age-old toxicity of genocide left behind by the deceased.

Coercion. Stricture. He swallows whilst she demands to establish the militaristic standing, the weight of significance he constituted. Tongue flicks in revulsion as it readied itself to publicize his sobriquet of captaincy. However, 'fore intonation could abscond, it was forthwith incarcerated in shackles of momentary stillness by another's stifled vocalization. -- A beaten and bloodstained girl, a recently-recruited subordinate he vividly recalls greeting him a few days prior, laid adjacently positioned by their locality, panting for oxygen, eyeing him with panic-stricken worry, forewarns him in spite of her excruciating condition, instigating features to mold onto distressing incredulity. You must get out of here Captain Hitsugaya. She'd gravely wheeze in request amid feeble respires. ----- You're no match for her without your Bankai. She'd adjunct, extending details utmost disadvantageous. Please. She begs, she weeps. But in turn, he merely authorizes, childlike voice cracking, for silence, for immobility. ----------- To notify an opponent of one's position was indecorously perilous.

#deathleads #& done #No need 2 match lengths!#tried not 2 be repetitious

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jaws-and-canines · 3 years ago

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In The Walls, #1

A Growing Pains story. Content warning for body horror.

---

Angelo was the one, at least on paper, to find the colony.

Transport Security was subordinate to Infrastructure Security, and all the power grid people tended to have more important things to do, so Angelo found himself dispatched to a call about something drawing power illegally from the grid of a high rise. Thirty-odd floors up, carpets black with dirt, cream walls with brown drips of mould down them and windows so dirty that it looked like the skies had turned yellow again, as they sometimes did.

Angelo doesn’t really like being able to see out of the window this high up, so he shrugs off the filth around him and tries to work out which way the flat is. He can’t read the signs, so has to go around with his phone, comparing the numbers until he finds the correct corridor and walks towards the flat where the complaint was issued from, only to find a rather harried-looking Civil slumped outside it, respirator on, head in hands.

“Lance Corporal Morrow, ATLAS’d, Transec,” he says, holding out a hand for the Civil to shake. The Civil ignores him. “What is it?” he asks.

“They sent us a fucking… transport security spannerhead? What are you going to do, stand in the hallway and look menacing with a semi automatic?” half-laughs, half-sobs the Civil. “There’s a colony in there. We need a Meridian Alliance person here. I can’t… I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen one of those before.”

“I’ll call for backup. You go and take some fresh air,” says Angelo.

They’re thirty-odd floors up and the windows don’t open.

The clearance specialist arrives within fifteen minutes, a brusque, short white-haired man who introduces himself as Sergeant Reeves. Angelo salutes him, and turns command over to him. If corralling a weak-at-the-knees Civil Authority constable and an irritated landlord could really be called a command, anyways.

“If we’re going in there,” says Reeves, throwing a thumb back towards the stained door of the room. “I want full face respirators on all of you.”

Angelo itches his nose, and shrugs off his rucksack. His regular respirator is clipped to the outside, a dual-filter model designed for Carriers like him, and his full-face is further down in his bag.

The landlord pauses. “I don’t have one of those,” he says.

“Well,” says Reeves. “Stay back. The hosts spit sometimes. Don’t get ichor in your eyes or you’re fucked.”

They breach the room with Angelo taking point, shotgun levelled at the four corners of the room, Reeves over his shoulder. “Clear,” calls Angelo. The Civil and landlord shuffle in after him.

Reeves looks up and down the room, shining the torch under his gun over the walls, over the network of fine black and grey fibres tearing into the plaster, and across the ceiling, where moist bundles of pinkish growths hang down. The ones that reach the floor spew black growths out at the bottom, creating living pillars. “There,” he says. At the back of the room, slumped over at the desk, is the body of the host, shaking and shuddering uneven breaths, skin almost split from the pressure of the ichor the colony is forcing through its too-human veins. All the growth in this room leads back to him, a huge carpet of tiny twisting and turning fibres.

“Fucking hell,” says the Civil. He looks practically green beneath his respirator. The landlord just looks annoyed.

“This is why you’re having a power problem,” says Reeves, finding a point on the wall where the plaster has been split open and the colony has grown beneath, into the ducts of the building. “It’s feeding off the power grid.”

Angelo rocks on his heels and shakes his head. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says. He taps the side of his respirator, turning off the internal lights. Something feels a little off to him, a subtle prickling at the back of his neck, so he holds up his hand. “I need to listen. Hold your breath. It’s too loud.”

Angelo closes his eyes. He listens to the gasping of the host beside him, and files that to one side of his head, focusing on the surrounding sounds. The subtle pumping of ichor, the drip, drip, drip of moisture off the humid walls, the hissing of electricity through the wires.

The second gasping breath that underlays the first. He grabs the broken bit of the wall and pulls.

“I hope you’re going to pay for that,” says the landlord. Angelo ignores him and cracks a chunk off the plaster and peers into the duct behind. “Sergeant, I think you’ll want to see this,” he says, glancing behind him.

Reeves frowns, but peers into the ducting. The duct opens out into a void between the floors that spans under the flooring, and up and down, metal gratings and ladders right through the building. And the void is seething with life. Even as Angelo covers the light on Reeves’ gun with his hand, it glows a steady fleshy red.

“Well, fuck,” says Reeves.

“What is it?” asks the landlord.

Reves chuckles and turns back to the landlord. “Your whole building is alive. The entire fucking building’s infested.” He orders the Civil to go and pull the fire alarm, get everyone out.

“What do we do?” asks the landlord, hands on his head. “Oh, God, I can’t lose the whole building.”

Angelo leans a little further out into the void. It’s awfully humid, but he has a short-sleeved shirt on and it would be stupid to walk into a Phobos colony with uncovered skin. “Sergeant, we could go in and try to find the heart. Kill it, then there’s no need to burn the place down. I’ve had enclosed spaces training. I could do it.”

Reeves looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Alright,” he says at last. “But the moment you find anything that remotely looks like an amniotic sac, you run.”

“I’m good at running,” says Angelo bluntly.

#count the days #horror #original writing #angelo my beloved

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lorienfae · 3 years ago

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Bonfire

This strange splintering atmosphere

it respires in cimmerian smoke and rhapsodizing shadows, rains melodies phantasmagoric and drips of steampunk dreams.

I am not afraid of the gears, they only whir. They cannot burn.

The air trills in crystal but the rain still flows as ichor, for all the years that passed, they still atone,

still spill their essence to satiate.

We are more than mere gears, we are ember asterisms and we smolder

as this bonfire falls and swells

again and again.

#poetry #spilled ink #poem #creative writing #writing #lit #poets on tumblr

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cawolters · 6 years ago

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Tagged! Sweet! The ever supportive @james-stark-the-writer and the ever adorable @amongwriters both got to me in this round! Thanks guys, this is a neat tag and I enjoyed reading about your wips!

Guidelines : list your wips and explain how you came up with their names. if your wip is unnamed, what are you thinking of calling it? then tag some people ✨

The Serpent Kiss (gotta start where I am Book One in the Rise of the Blood Dawn trilogy):

this wip is all kinds of fucked up and disturbing, and that’s why it’s so great! I wanted the title to reflect the villainous, dark, sensual mystery that the novel entails, and I wanted it to mean something.

The Serpent magic, coiled around Shiroins heart, gives her sawlike teeth and other cool attributes when it’s ‘activated’, and the first ‘Kiss’ she deals out is the kiss of death to her father. She rips out his windpipe. Then, her second kiss, is an actual kiss, where she heals Kiel after a nasty fall deep in the Drower Mounts.

This is where the gate opens to their relationship, and it’s well.. The Serpent’s magic within the Kiss. It fit.

However, I might choose a different title by the end as this is perhaps overly erotic in the sense that the rest of the mystery gets lost. AND the fact that there’s an Asian element in the story, could also be clearer.

Fun fact, the horrid first title of the novel was The Serpent’s Box.

The Liar Alliance (Book Two in the Rise of the Blood Dawn trilogy):

Theres an Alliance. They’re all liars haha. That’s it.

The Mark in Iron and Bone (Book Three in the Rise of the Blood Dawn trilogy):

Well, This was also called The Mark of Iron and Blood at some point, and it refers to the events within the story, where Shiroin gets a witch mark burned into her ribs to seal the Serpent and it’s slightly unpredictable magic, inside of her.

And it was inspired by a patriotic war speech ‘Blood and Iron’ (German: Blut und Eisen) by Otto von Bismarck from 1862.

But, this title can still change if I stumble upon something better while writing the book!

Now, I have two wips sitting in my drawer and maybe someday they’ll be ready to be written, but until then, here’s a quick intro.

The Witchling: it’s a YA urban fantasy, funny and whimsical, and with horror elements. It’s about a guy who’s cursed and the which who accidentally did it, and now the world is ending. She’s the witchling. The title sucks, but the baseline of the story is kinda cool.

Finding the Fox, the Arrow and Emma-Rose: YA contemporary romance, melancholic and bitter-sweet with a touch of heart wrench. A half danish girl, half American, has to fly to Beaver Island in Michigan to turn off her father’s respirator. He’s a well recognized atronomer (The Fox and the arrow are constellations) and he has been in a coma for five years, and it’s time to let go.

However Sonna, our teen MC, has fallen into a deep depression and she can’t bring herself to say goodbye with no closure. Then she meets a boy. He’s a bit crazy and a ghost hunter, he’s looking for closure too as he has been obsessing over the ghost story of the murdered Emma-Rose.

Together they go on an adventure.

I really like this story and some day it will get it’s time in the sun. But not quite yet.

I tag you beautiful beans:

@mandyflamhammer

@writebruh

@cjjameswriting

@unwriter-sc

@elaynab-writing

@leo-november

@kainablue

@the-ichor-of-ruination

@justafriendlymonster

@paperprince

#writeblr #cawolters #riseoftheblooddawn #writer #writing #writerscorner #writerscommunity #wip #oc #mc #fantasy #ya #romance #horror #tag #game #you can see right through who i am and what i like writing about and its eeeeeh making me uncomfortable

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oldbluethings · 6 years ago

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So, I wrote the start of something because I am weak. (I was supposed to be grading exams but whatever.)

*warning for descriptions of injuries and blood*

Tony Stark had always known he would meet his end fighting against the creatures of night. He pictured dying in some epic battle, after a triumph over the dark, at some nebulous time in the far future. Hopefully, when he was old and had already done everything he wanted to do.

He just never thought it would happen so soon. And on a Wednesday, too.

The vampire on top of him was powerful—an elder of its kind, twisted so far beyond human by a millennium spent feeding off the blood of innocents that its body hardly obeyed the laws of physics. White and bloated like a grub, it should have been slow and fragile, but it was still stronger than his suit at maximum power. Even the protective runes drawn by his nanites on the metal had no effect against the creature. The vamp tore through them like they were made of tissue paper.

"Armor coverage at seventy percent. Power at fifteen percent. Deploying back up." Even Friday sounded concerned, Tony thought. As any A.I. worth her salt should be.

This was his fault, really. He’d been caught unaware on his nightly patrol. Maybe he'd grown complacent. He'd gone out tonight expecting to dispatch a few newly-turned bloodsuckers, maybe take out a ghoul or two. He'd never encountered such an old vampire so far from any known nest. Creatures that lived to this age rarely ventured above the ground.

And, yet, here it was, trying to rip his armor open and eat him.

So, yeah, Tony Stark was going to die. He'd just never expected it to happen on a fucking Wednesday, of all days.

He'd just decided to initiate the suit's self-destruct sequence, when a dark shape suddenly hurtled out of the darkness and slammed into the vampire, releasing a shower of orange sparks. A wolf, Tony realized, when his eyes had adjusted to the dark once again. A huge black wolf, as large as a man. A wolf that now had its jaws locked around the grub-like vampire's white neck. The two of them scrambled on the ground in a frantic struggle. The vampire let out a shriek that made Tony's ears ring and clawed at the furred body. Orange sparks crackled and hissed and formed sigils in the air.

Tony could only stare. Magic? What the hell?

The wolf thrashed, trying to rip the vampire's head off, Tony realized. But this bloodsucker was strong. Probably stronger than any were could ever be. More magic flashed bright and faded and the wolf let out a cry like a wounded dog. The vampire had managed to pull one of the wolf's front legs to its mouth and bite down. The wolf whimpered but its jaws stayed locked on the vamp.

Tony scrambled back. Fuck, if that vampire broke free, he was next...

He had to act before that happened. Not enough power left in the arc reactor to produce a photon blast, but his nanotech could still make a weapon. He staggered to his feet just as the long blade finished forming on his right gauntlet.

The wolf was in trouble now. He gave the vampire's neck another desperate shake, but Tony could tell he was weakening. Blood flew from the wound on the wolf's leg and spattered the dirt around them. The huge body was now covered in wounds, sides heaving. Whatever magical protection was on it had failed completely. The vampire's screams had turned into a high-pitched gurgle.

Tony approached the fight as close as he dared, blade ready. "Let go," he muttered.

Intelligent blue-green eyes turned toward him.

Tony nodded at the wolf. "Let go. I've got him."

The wolf leaped away just as the vampire surged up, shrieking.

Tony swung his sword as hard as he could and sent the vampire's head flying off into the bushes. Black ichor pulsed from the neck and the body slumped to the ground, shuddering in the dirt.

"Holy shit," Tony breathed. He sliced off a still-twitching arm and then a leg for good measure. The body finally lay still.

Fucking undead.

"Friday, damage report." He needed a few moments to get his breath back.

"Down to ten percent power, Boss. Nano particle population at sixty-seven percent. And you’ve suffered multiple contusions and a possible concussion. You should have that looked at."

Tony smiled. "Will do." It would be simple enough to ask Bruce to check him out when he got home. But the smile faded when he remembered he wasn't done here. Not yet. "Fuck," he muttered. He watched as nanites containing a silver-copper alloy streamed down and coated the blade. But he'd suddenly lost the stomach for killing.

"You all right, Boss?"

"Yeah, Fri. I'm fine. Which way did he go?"

"Tracking heat signature." The map appeared on his screen seconds later, blue line snaking erratically deeper into the forest.

The wolf hadn't gone far. And he wasn't a wolf anymore.

Tony found the naked man collapsed in a hollow formed by the roots of a tree, one hand wrapped around a terrible wound in his forearm, pale skin covered in blood and dirt. The man's eyes—blue-green and still sharp, but wet with pain—tracked Tony's movements warily as he approached.

With his black, silver-streaked hair and neatly-trimmed goatee, he looked more like a college professor than a man who had been an animal just a few minutes ago. Tony had never seen a were who looked so... controlled. He'd never met a were who could use magic. And he'd certainly never had a were save his life.

The man's eyes flicked down to the blade, then back up to Tony's face. He nodded, almost to himself. "Do it," he rasped. "Just"—he swallowed hard—"be quick. Please." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the tree trunk, exposing his throat.

Tony raised the blade slowly. Werewolves were vermin, nothing more than dangerous animals. They served the dark. He'd sworn an oath to eradicate their kind. He'd killed dozens of them without a second thought. But tonight...

"Fuck," he muttered again. He tapped the nano housing unit and the blade receded. He wasn't in any danger. Not right now.

Tony considered the defenseless were before him. "Why did you save my life?"

The man opened his eyes again and his brows drew together in confusion. "I don't... I don't know," he mumbled. "I just... I wanted... to." His eyes started to slip closed.

"Shit." Tony grabbed for the man just as he slipped sideways. Now that his hand wasn't covering up that vampire bite, Tony could see it was bad. Dark blood seeped from the wound in slow pulses. "Friday? Vitals?"

"Heart rate at one-hundred sixty beats per minute. Respiration at forty breaths per minute. Blood pressure eighty over fifty-three and dropping fast. Dangerously low levels, even for a were. I also detect traces of vampire venom. That can be fatal to weres if left untreated."

For the second time that night, he didn't think, he just gathered the unconscious man in his arms and took off, clearing the tops of the trees and heading for home.

"Friday, estimated flight time to base?"

"Approximately seven minutes at your current speed." Friday actually hesitated before continuing. "May I ask, Boss? What do you plan to do with him once you get there?" It was highly illegal to harbor or aid a sub-natural creature like a were. And both he and his A.I. knew it.

Tony sighed. "I have no fucking clue."

#ironstrange #ironstrange advent calendar #werewolves #tony stark #stephen strange #prompt fic #mcu fanfiction #au

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chaosravencommander · 6 years ago

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The Folly of Class

++++ ++ Aboard Ultramarine Strike Cruiser Guilliman’s Rebuttal ++ ++++

The carrionflies buzzed through the corridors like a black flood that swirled and spewed itself in a deafening cacophony of a billion wings. The serf-guards were driven insane. The astartes defending the depleted vessel couldn’t even part the great daemon incursion, their boltfire exploding and dented momentary holes in the flies’ appearance before drowning under the kinetic force of it all.

Nothing was safe. No one will be untouched by the inevitable of the Elder of Gods.

One of the cobalt-clad marines fired blindly into the swarm, howling under the winged tempest in the name of his precious Emperor. The moment his last bolt flew, a shape pushed through and a horrid arrangement of blighted talons tore under his cuirass and ribs with a sickly shnk!

A strangled gurgle, already becoming thick jelly of squirming diseases to eat his body’s defending constitution. Limbs seizing in attempt to draw his melee weapon or fight his impaler, lifted bodily off the ground as a masked gaunt face peered from his great swarm. Face long since pallid with his veins pulsing black, glazed eyes glared with a malign pleasantry while his face was hidden under a snarling respirator that breathed wisps of fell-smelling flumes.

With a simplistic flex of his lighting claws, the Cult-Lord cleaved every organ under those ribs and kicked the twitching body off as the daemonflies continued their greedy rampage through the entire ship. Marching in their wild guidance, he appeared into a large amphitheatre of halls and levels to the strike cruiser.

The heart in a sense, the roadway that led to the many sectors of the ship and most important a great battlefield as chaos space marines battled against the Ultramarines; both of the Black Legion and that of the renegade Blood Ravens who knelt to the Gift of Nurgle.

Their blood-red armour had become diseased ichor-green, their aquilae��pockmarked into the Plague-god’s triad and truly, they moved with his love.

Thaddeus, Exalted Champion of His Rotten Finality, knew it to be so. His face twisted a pleased smile under his respirator, breathes gurgling and heaving through the filter-tubes in his throat and face. The mutation of his great insectoid wings buzzing in trembling delight before with a sudden splay upheaved the Raptor into a great flight. Right at his flank, six of his Blight Ravens followed with their marked jump-packs.

“None shall find us wanting!” His warcry rang great and true, carving one marine into halves in a flyby and kicked another’s bolter from a near close-quarter shot. Despite the Nurglish tendencies for the slow and lumber, Thaddeus was swift and agile. One lightning claw cleaved forearm free from its elbow as he leapt over into a spinning momentum that sliced another from the groin to throat.

His honour guard joining with their bolt pistols and chainswords barking and growling for their enemy. Flashes of plasma pistol from his second, Thaddeus looked about in one fell-intent swoop before pouncing a charging serf-guard that had a melta grenade in time to wound his battle-brother. Knee crushing spine into splintering powder, the Nurglite Champion barbarically sunk that grenade into the screaming man’s gut and hurled him like a child’s toy against a lumbering Terminator. The explosion of gore and melta did not destroy the veteran but the surprise was just enough.

“Death to the Unwanting!” Thaddeus cried out as he came into duelist’s engagement.

#Thaddeus #blight ravens #m42 #imperium nihilus: vigilus

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obciidian-archived · 6 years ago

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“breathtaking.” pls go wild w this one : - ))

source : open : @ofkillings

abysmal is the revelation in front of them -- of innards croppered of the cadaver alike veiny yolk from a crenated egg, splattered onto the floor with naught but rue. carrion dozed on the floor with the most strenuous, laborious endeavors to regain oxygen to the lungs… to sustain itself ? he cannot facilitate that now, can he ? impale to the abdomen, puncture to the arm, to the languid palm endeavoring to shield one from inadvisable quietus. ravishing.

oh, the savor of iron… so gratifying, satiating… alike a ravenous upir he laps the crimson solvent ichor at the length of his blade, clutched in his ardent palm tightly as a child possesses their most favorable toy. the only minuscule modifications between eunsoo ans a macabre upir is that for once, he isn't written of in novels and fright for the mankind own callous inclinations. he is dreaded from the depth of one's nucleus, the most winsome and trepidation accumulated nightmare. moreover, he guzzles the blood not for he sustains on it and without shall cease to exist -- he quaffs it ever so scrumptiously for he loves it.

oh, the flavor of iron -- filling his taste buds with utter euphoria and rapture so that his somber orbs glisten with effervescent petulance and iniquity.

leisurely as ever, the lad then crouches upon and atop the sprawled carcass which barely hangs onto life, relishing the sight of a moribund man already too feeble, soul profoundly decrepit, to beseech for his verve no more. a breathtaking sight, literally -- as his unoccupied palm reaches go throttle the throat with a simper of sheer malice painted on his bordures. he could indulge himself for hours alas, keeping company awaiting is impertinent. he was taught better than that to fit into the decorum, was he not ?

and so, arising as a final locomotion he prompts his ubeity towards bonnie. oh, his dear bonnie -- juvenile indignation and desideratum for blood which they share is so beguiling, that whenever she is around he feels like home. a home where he can tumble across butchered limbs and feels utterly blissed. scarlet contaminated shirt collides with hers as he pulls her so close, so flushed against him that each of their thorax scarcely has any room to respire soundly. sultry proximity. ever so tenderly ( as if created of cotton and silk ) his lips move along her blanched complexion ; first, pressing feeble kisses across her pharynx, then malar, until they reach her lips -- thence, he engulfs her essence through the kiss. designating her the flavor of his oh so beloved iron, malignant on her tongue. he kisses her ever so turbulently, ardently… that he can hardly breathe. digits slide from the side of her throat downwards to her palm, passing her the most revered possession -- his blade. acute, dripping of crimson dense and feverish.

what is more prepossessing that witnessing his saccharine little girl taking the quietus's job to her own hands ?

#ofkillings #❪ askbox. ❫#❪ prompts. ❫#❪ aes. ❫ interactions.#tw:gore #tw: blood #tw: violence

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bleedingichorhearts · 23 days ago

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How would the salamanders react to hearing reader (same reader as my last ask but if they found reader instead of the hydras) had actually unknowingly saw vulkan and comforted him, what was worried about u ask? Vulkan was worried he was being a shitty father figure because he's seen how bat boy's, slurry snake's and angron's "sons" went down.

Not really sure what you are asking here, are we still on the Subnautica 40k concept? Or Warhammer 40k purely? I can totally do both the asks I just don’t know what setting you are going for.😭

#Ichor’s respire #ask reply

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sourcherrymag · 3 years ago

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rush of blood by sonali shah (she/her)

you embody the rush of blood to my aching head, the ebb and flow of ichor, the ebb and flow of you.

heady pressure on the temples of my mind, cascading down cracked skull and shrines, ferrous fragrance dripping down my nose, eyes of glass, sanguine and lachrymose.

when your words kiss the tender flesh of my strawberry tongue, it tastes like your charred lungs and a hint of my blood, enraptured rapture when you pour scarlet sap into my skull, tantamount to drowning in a deep of blood and dull.

i abstain, i devour, i respire, i expire.

and yet, every time my addled brain haemorrhages, i yearn for that rush of blood to my withering head, i yearn for you.

Sonali Shah (she/her) is a Canadian writer and science student. She enjoys reading, watching medical dramas, and searching for creative inspiration. @melanchollily

#poetry #poem

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shaso-cinnjin · 6 years ago

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Planetary Annexation Report -13455 - Rust and Oil

Planetary Designation: Imperial Factory World.

Imperial Title: Forgeworld Telbane.

Fauna/Flora: Hostile

Biome: Sub-Arctic

Summary:

Planet located at point Sel'los of the great rift, ejection took place within system -=REDACTED=- , approximately -=REDACTED=- distance from Sept Bork'an. A "distress" signal was received on a primitive broad band frequency accelerated via means still under investigation.

The signal was received as the following:

*Translated from Binary Code*

Rust and oil.

Chipped souls burnt to cinders.

Abandoned twas we.

Cast adrift to suffer.

Discarded old tools.

We thought ourselves righteous.

We thought ourselves hateful.

We witnessed true hate.

We witnessed truth.

Learn from our folly.

The folly of hate.

The folly of ignorance.

The folly of intolerance.

Rust and oil.

The cogs stop.

An Omnissiah dies.

An Omnissiah dies..

An Omnissiah dies...

*Last Dialogue Repeats in Intervals of 12000, Entire Message then Repeats*

Message was received and translated, prompting an Ethereal council headed by Aun'el Au'taal Ki to lead hunter contingents Stellarblade, Blacksun and Mu'galth'ka to the system now known as Barrenvask.

The orbit around Telbane consisted of a debris belt that upon inspection consisted, in its entirety, of imperial civilian and military vessels, as well as a large portion of organic matter that was found to be that of their former crews, ritualistically strewn across each of the ship hulls. Larger objects of such nature were later scuttled by contingent Stellarblades’ fleet assets. A search for survivors provided no results.

The surface of Telbane consisted of what appeared to be reddish brown snow, the high content of oxidized iron in the planets upper and lower atmospheres was believed to be the culprit of such an anomaly, which had also made scanning through the planets thick atmosphere difficult, most scan’s coming back scattered or distorted due to interference caused by the iron laced air.

Samples sent by Recon Drone’s further proved this hypothesis, though the strangeness of the the situation was only heightened by the 90% iron to 10% crystallized hydrogen dioxide ratio. The air, obviously, was unsafe for respiration.

Another note worthy characteristic of Telbane was that upon its surface the planet had two sprawling industrial complexes, one centered with mathematical precision upon the planets equator and the other, more heavily damaged, military installation situation at the southern pole of the planet.

The following reports collected from personnel sent unto the planets surface give a more in-depth description of what happened on the strange planet.

Report One: Ambush

Team Longbow lead by Shas’ui Tash’var Bel’shi:

-Bel’shi: “This is Shas’ui Bel, we’ve made planet fall and are beginning our trek to the Recon Drone.”

-Por’ui James Shepard: “Copy, we may lose communication off and on as you complete the repairs, transmission is shaky as is. We’ll try to keep contact. Be safe Shas.

-Bel’shi: “We’ll be fine, you Gue’la worry to much, the bio-scan the por’ar’tol did came up 0%. There’s nothing here.”

-Shepard: “Still, come back. Drinks are on me if you do.”

-Bel’shi: “*Audible laughter* I’ll tell Na’ban you said that, he’ll be happy to drain your pockets!”

-3 Hours of Trek pass-

-Bel’shi: “What’s that? Is that... translator on.”

-*Audible beep*-

-Bel’shi: “Hello! We are warriors of the T’au Empire, we’ve come to hel- Agh!”

-Unknown: *Static Shrieking*

-Bel’shi: “Its got blades for hands! Why’s it got blades for hands?! Stay back! We’ll respond to aggression with necessary force!“

-Shepard: “Bel, whats going on down there, communications are getting shakier and we’ve got multiples closing in on you!“

-Bel’shi: “Ruststalkers! Open Fire!”

-Ruststalker: *Shrieking increases in volume*

-Team Longbow Engages hostiles-

-00:00:56: -Shas’la Hel’los vitals hit 0%, helmet feed confirms termination via decapitation-

-00:01:12: -Helmet feed confirms two hostiles are brought down from Shas’la Jun’ka and Shas’ui Bel’s cross-fire-

-00:01:24: -Shas’la Na’ban’s vid feed confirms a killshot on a single hostile-

-00:01:45: -Shas’la Na’ban’s vid feed confirms an additional killshot.

-00:01:45: -Shas’la Jun’ka’s Vitals drop to 32%, helmet feed confirms a loss of limb, right arm at the elbow, medical is administered.-

-00:02:00: -Shas’ui Bel tosses a standard issue EMP grenade, detonation appears to disable the limbs of another five hostiles, causing them to flop around on the ground, mechanical limbs robbed of function.-

-00:02:10: -Hostiles seen falling back, no longer visible through the dust, seemingly routed due the detonation of the grenade.-

-Team Longbow disengages hostiles at 00:02:20-

-One Casualty-

-One Wounded-

-Two Combat Ready-

-Shepard: “Longbow, We’ve got your location, remain hidden and tend to Jun, we’ll send a devilfish”

-Bel’shi: “C-copy, there’s something wrong with these stalkers, they’re all rusted, and they’re not bleeding. Not blood anyways, I-Its all black and viscus. They seemed like they were rusting away into the wind. What the- they’re completely rusted through!”

Team Longbow is received by Devilfish Fury, Shas’la Jun’ka’s arm is further amputated to the shoulder due frostbite and an “infection”, symptoms characteristic’s of necrosis occurred, however dead cells immediately exhibited hyper-oxidization causing them to turn flaky and red.

Rust damage caused to Devilfish Fury has rendered its internal systems in need of replacement.

Objective Recon Drone triggers self-destruct to avoid capture, this is due to being moved by an unseen force it could not visually verify.

Report Two: Untenable

Team Rust-Jumpers lead by Shas’el D'yanoi Monat:

Team Rust-Jumpers Consisted of pilots in enforcer battle-suits configured for aquatic combat, the advanced pressure sealing and nano-crystalline coating provided efficient protection from the advanced decay caused by the anomalous rust.

The team of three set down three clicks south of the aforementioned military complex through low orbit and began their attempt to search for survivors, the source of the distress signal, assets considered valuable, or simply answers to what had happened.

Rusted wrecks of what was later identified as Dunecrawler class assault vehicles lay strewn around, red dunes forming over them as red icicles hung from their blocky silhouettes, some looking to have torn violently into each other. Reddish skeletal remains of what looked to be skitarii lay in poses of torment, each one seemingly fighting against itself, many having torn their mechanical implements from their bodies. An Imperial Knight, Warden class, lay on its side, its multi-barreled cannon torn off in an act of self mutilation still firmly grasped by the rusted claw of its remaining arm.

After transmitting the prior visual to command the team made a series of planned jumps towards the complex, the visuals of carnage increasing with each bound.

On the third jump a sinkhole seemed to open around 400 meters ahead of the team, black viscous liquid beginning to seep out from its depths until the hulking and malformed shape of another imperial knight emerged from the pits depths, covered in the slick and viscous substance.

It seemed to cry-out in pain, emitting a vox that sounded as if someone was drowning from within the beast, muffled screams and the sloshing of liquid were all that was heard.

The Imperial Knight was so severely damaged from what is expected to have previously transpired that it all but fired its battle cannon twice before it was slain by fusion fire. The team lead Shas’el Monat set the creatures cockpit aflame with ionic fire, an attempt to lay the tapped individual to eternal rest.

Having confirmed the presence of seemingly scattered Imperial forces, a discovery previously made by Team Longbow, the team continued with caution to their final destination, an opening in the fortress spire created by a monolithic cargo vessel having made impact with the structure.

The three entered a gash between the two superstructures, the endless hallways of the ship creating a confusing maze made worse when one has to frequently navigate between the vertical and horizontal, the two melding together as if welded perilously yet with purpose by giants of myth. Traveling through the fortification the team came across a hanger-bay, seemingly torn from the ship and placed upside down within the fortification, space craft still gravlocked to what was now the ceiling, along with the hundreds corpses hung from the same space by what the team hoped to not be entrails, due to this one member of the team quickly became overwhelmed and had to be calmed by the other two, they then proceeded as normal and continued deeper into the structure.

After another two hours of exploration and the distress signal going silent the team deemed the fortification “empty”, the fortification was brimming with corpses, adepts torn up and strewn across rooms, skitarii laying dead against makeshift barricades still clutching their rifles, magos’ laying over cashes of primitive data storage devices as if protecting their own children, the hundreds of data stacks now to rusted to be useful, and strangely in areas where concentrated fire took place strange energies could be felt, as if something had forced its way through reality only to be sent back screaming to an unknown void by a fusillade of rifle fire.

As soon as the report was given an ear-shattering scream smashed into the team, a gaggle of slimy black creatures fell unto the squad emerging from ceilings, walls and floors. Electroshock projectors blasting ichor into the air before the pilots had a chance to act on their own, and when they did they unleashed the might of what could only be compared to as a typhoon against the creatures, sending puffs of red and black in every direction, the rusted blades of the creatures scraping harmlessly against the contrastingly pristine armor of the commander suits.

Shas’el Monat immediately began cutting through the walls of the structure with his fusions, keeping his cyclonic Ion blasters trained on the monsters. Within the hour they were out, covered in black soot and gore but out.

Two of the three were later submitted for stress therapy due to mental trauma caused by such an experience.

Report Three: Vaulted

Report Designation: Classified

-=Administrator Override Accepted=-

Shas’O Tash’var Cinnjin Nem’ka:

[00:00:00]-Shas’O Cinnjin make’s final checks aboard Manta-12231-Moonshark

[00:05:00] -Bay doors open

[00:05:05] -Decoupling...

[00:05:07] -Decoupled

[00:05:20] -Coldstar is clear of slipstream

[00:05:20] -Recording system on standby

[00:10:00] -Retro’s ignited

[00:10:30] -Burning 75%

[00:11:00] -Burning 25%

[00:11:40] -Mid atmosphere reached

[00:12:00] -Liquid fuel switch-over complete

[00:12:00] -Shield systems check positive

[00:12:00] -Exiting free-fall, entering controlled descent

[00:20:00] -Lower atmosphere reached

[00:30:00] - Rust clouds reached

[00:31:00] -Hull integrity remaining at 100%

[00:35:00] -Impact occurs

[00:35:04] -Origin signal emanating from Alpha-one-three is followed

-=Log Cut for Brevity=-

[02:00:00] -Contact Made with Alpha-One-Three

[02:02:00] -Alpha-One-Three leads Commander Cinnjin to Vault, designation One-Three

[02:03:00] -Vult-One-Three can be seen opening

[02:03:00] -No auditory, visual of physical communication has occurred between Alpha-One-Three and Shas’O Cinnjin

[02:03:20] -Vult-One-Three's door consists of an airlock, unseen scrubbing and treatment mechanism which activates at this time frame

[02:03:25] -Vult-One-Three’s inner airlock opens

[02:05:40] -An industrial elevator is boarded and begins its decent

[02:10:30] -Lift system reaches its destination

[02:10:30] -Approximately between Three-million to Six-billion non-combatants are seen huddled in a cavern spanning an undetermined distance.

[02:10:30] -Designation Gue’la.

[02:10:32] -Alpha-One-Three Speaks, phrase is received and translated as “Help them.”

[Continuing Entries From This Log Have Been Expunged on request of Shas’O Tash’var Cinnjin Nem’ka. Reasoning: -Pending-]

Evacuation log of Vault-One-Three:

-Evacuation order is sent at 04:00:56-

-Evacuation begins at 04:10:32-

-Evacuation is complete at 72:22:32-

-Planet’s atmosphere is set ablaze by ionic fire from Battleship Drakken, Os’lan, Tek’el and Shas’len’ra at 80:10:45-

-Reasonsing: -=*Redacted*=-

-=To’Tau’Va=-

#tashvartau #Tau #Tau Empire #WH40K #wh40ktau #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #Warhammer #fanfiction #HunterContengiantStellarblade

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ryusxnka · 5 years ago

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@serirosea

“ I must hurry!! “ Ichor spews intermittently from partitioned lips whilst he spoke. Carelessly did he allow it to hit ... to bite through sinew. “ They’re in grave danger!! “

T he boy’s pace as he surmounted a diminutive earth mound was impotently feeble -- sluggish -- pitifully too inept to acquire progression. -- His wounded appendage bled incessantly alike an overflowing wine glass; it aches insufferably, pulsates tortuously in Ire, as he gradually neared the imperiled castle -- Peach’s governing residence. - He hearkens them from the outside veranda ----- Their blood-curdling shrieks, their faint wailings, ear-deafening cries, and unambiguous deficiency in knowledge regarding the otherworldly. -- Ignorant fools, these mortals were; never endlessly monopolized to what is before them, negligent towards anything beyond that until the instant their ripe flesh, prone to tear to even needles, is parted from their Osseins. -- A hoarse respiration, desperate to achieve in spite of failings, absconds from ‘tween lips. - A hostile, relentless, and disturbingly violent Hollow, one of an untold genus and starved not for souls but for the flesh of the living, who had succeeded in eluding the eyes of the Shinigami had now found itself a buffet to gore within in absolute delight. ----- He must hasten with weighted shoulders. -Save them.- Protect her until he is ridden of his last breath.

The towering entrance doors, oftentimes guarded, was unprofessionally left unattended, and furthermore, unclosed for all to access sans complications. -- Its hinges were completely shredded, ripped asunder and besmirched in crimson hues. -- None of these men retained a sliver of a hopeful plausibility of appropriately defending themselves; they were not remotely trained, unlike their able princess, to confront things unseen, after all. ---- Infiltrating the tumultuous abode, once solidifying his impairing senses, Teal optics, habitually exhibiting a paladin's bravado and meticulous administration, expeditiously widened in proportion in utter disbelief of the grotesque spectacle presented. --- The outer decors, generally vibrant in pastel warmth, were plundered by the hands of death as ample limbs, more so legs and arms, furnished the polished floors and internal organs laid atop shelves as if they were ornaments -- a woman’s severed head even dangled from the chandelier aloft, trickling rivulets at his feet. Another outcry sounds from the corridors. Forthwith indicating to the captain that he could not afford to maltreat any time for he had to find Peach before it did. -- Not because he deems her frail -- but for the sole actuality that she’d certainly decide to challenge it in the stead of fleeing.

“ -- Peach!! “ He barks out her name shakenly, praying she’d acknowledge him. “ Wherever you may be out there, stay hidden!! - You mustn't engage!! “

#;Starter #serirosea #Does this make sense?#Who knows #sjhdsjkdh

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jaws-and-canines · 2 years ago

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Asleep, I'll Tread With Care

A The Re-education of Haskell Haveter story. Continues from here. Content warning for body horror/biohorror, blood, brief mentions of glass in face. [The title is taken from Death Dream by Frightened Rabbit, which is honestly an amazing song + album]

---

Fennec dreams quite often of the colony. Not his finest hour in reality, but nothing ever really is. He's walking down a seemingly endless corridor, flesh and black ichor in delicate veins weaving through the pulpy pink walls and yellowing inhuman bones that curve over like the arches of a cathedral. It looks almost like a ribcage, breathing around him, and there's the off-kilter heartbeat of a human heart running through the walls.

He's not wearing a respirator, which if not for the fact he is dreaming would mean he'd condemned himself to a slow death. In fact, he's not wearing a uniform suited for walking like this through a colony at all, and he's in his Technician's uniform, blue shirt sleeves rolled up, blue nitrile gloves, dark grey trousers and bloodstained white trainers. But the logic of an unconscious mind means that he isn't worried about breathing in spores or coming into contact with ichor. He's only worried about keeping moving forwards.

Under his feet, he crunches through a thick carpet of decaying tiny bones. Birds, rats, who knows what, reduced to a slurry by decay and the incessant heat of the colony. The awake part of Fennec’s brain is disgusted, halfway between uncanny valley and just plain disgust. The asleep part of him keeps walking. He doesn’t tend to limp in dreams.

He's not sure where he's going, just that he can’t stop. He has the overwhelming feeling that he's being chased.

He walks, and walks and walks, humidity drenching him in a feverish sweat, and he walks until to his horror, he feels a twinge in his knee. He stops, leaning against one of the bone pillars, pressing the heel of his palm against the side of his leg, just like he does instinctively to stabilise it when he's awake. He swallows back a yelp, feeling the warmth of an open wound there, and stumbles to the next bone pillar, smearing his blood over the ivory white. The pain quickly builds until he can barely stand, let alone walk, and he's stumbling and half-dragging himself between the bones, holding onto them like they are a piece of driftwood in an unkind sea.

For the first time, he looks behind him. There's someone there, just standing there in the half light, staring at him with dead eyes. They are, in fact, unmistakably dead, almost skeletal, bloodied and on the very edge of decay. He stares at the corpse for a moment, and recognises the face. "My God, Fride," he breathes, but his old friend doesn't seem to recognise him. Just walks towards him.

Fennec panics a little and tries to run. He falls almost immediately, his knee rolling the one way, the bones snapping together in ways they should never, but undoubtedly he's felt before whilst awake.

"Ah… ah…" he gasps, clutching at his bloodstained trousers and rolling onto his side. "Fride… Fride…Christopher, leave me alone, please," he pleads as the footsteps get closer. He carries on trying to crawl away but his old friend catches up with him in a few strides. Fride's ice cold long-dead hand grabs Fennec by the wrist, squeezing tightly. They lock eyes for a brief moment, milky-white decaying sclera to terrified but very much alive hazel brown, and then Fennec jolts awake in his stiflingly hot room, eyes flying open.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and grabs for his glasses from the bedside table with a sigh, fumbling around blindly and flicking on the bedside lamp. He coughs into his hands, wipes them on his trousers and stares at the shadows of the moths fluttering across the walls.

---

Across the facility, Haskell wakes up screaming. About what, he never really grasps, but one moment he's asleep and the next he is screaming, fists balled in his sheets. He screams until he runs out of breath and sucks in a heaving gasp right as he snaps out of it, looking around and blinking slowly. His right eye is gritty, so he rubs at it absent-mindedly, working his knuckles into the canyon of the scar to itch at the base of his eye socket. He sighs, looking around the bare room, the empty desk and the moonlight coming through the window, warped by reinforced glass and metal grating.

It’s almost silent. Almost. Because somewhere down the hall he can hear someone screaming to be let out, to be freed, and the jangling of keys and shoes over linoleum. He sits up on the edge of the bed with a bitter laugh, perching on the edge of the single slab of concrete, and runs his fingers over the scars from the accident, the indents in his face that are still angry and red. He vaguely remembers them having to pull glass out of his face with tweezers, surfacing between the stitches in increasingly small slivers for weeks afterwards.

Whoever’s screaming to be let out is still screaming, and there’s the distant ring of an alarm. Somebody walks past hurriedly, then another, another, and Haskell strains to make out the conversation. He can’t. I didn’t fucking do it, half-sobs, half-screams the disruption. I told you I didn’t fucking do it, it wasn't me!

Haskell sighs, and brushes his fringe forwards, over his eye. He realises he should probably get moving if he isn’t going to go back to sleep and slips his peeling shoes on, worn by countless others before him, does up the velcro, holding his aching head. Whatever is in the sedative they use doesn’t agree with him, never has. It gives him a hangover. He stands up and walks over to the metal toilet and sink, leaning on it to splash his face with cold water. He stares at his blunted reflection in the stainless steel mirror, wetting his hair and combing through it with damp fingers that ache along old fractures from the icy cold of the water. As he does, a single greying hair works its way loose and flutters to his shirt. He stares at it for a moment, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"Oh, I'm getting old," he mutters to himself, and brushes the shed hair off the front of his uniform, gripping the edges of the sink with white knuckles. He stares at himself in the mirror for a moment longer, knowing that it's not age that's wearing him down but consequences. He turns off the tap and goes back to sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.

#count the days #whump #whump writing #original writing #haskell haveter #emotional whump #the reeducation of haskell haveter #tag vomit time lol #i literally don't organise my tags so if you like organisation for binge reading use my website i swear its actually organised

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baronfulmen · 8 years ago

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Story 215: Cultural Exchange

The human steps onto the station from her shuttle, and walks into the scanner. It flashes - no weapons. I pity her, though there’s nothing I can do for her. By tomorrow she will be a slave the same as me; the Gaunvans collect ambassadors like trophies. “Hello there! Amanda Thorn, ambassador for the Empire of Humanity. You’re a Ixian, correct?” Mimicking human body language, I nod my head. "That’s correct. Ix Malasan. It is an honor to meet you.“ She smiles, reminding me again that she has somehow modified herself to breathe atmosphere suited to the Gaunvans rather than wear a respirator like myself. Other than that she appears to be a standard human, something I am led to believe is less and less common as they pursue the bizarre compulsion humans have to alter their bodies. Changing hair color, adding pigments to their skins in patterns and pictures, growing long tails or ears that mimic other species from their planet. No other known species tampers with their bodies like this. "Not to be undiplomatic, she says, "but the Gaunvans enslaved your people. Why are you here?” “We… reached a mutually beneficial agreement. We would have lost in combat and been eliminated, so we chose to preserve what we could of our culture. The Gaunvans are not naturally skilled at diplomacy, so they bring me along to assist and to show that peace can be made.” She nods. "Understood. I can respect that choice. How much freedom do you have, personally?“ Smart of her, to start planning for her future. "A fair amount. I have free reign on the ship when we are in transit. At the homeworld I have reasonably comfortable quarters.” “Have you ever met the Empress, or…?” “Oh, no. No, while on the homeworld I am confined to my chambers - but they’re quite spacious.” “Shame. Okay, plan ‘A’ then. Let’s get this over with.”

Despite my attempt at encouraging diplomacy, the Gaunvan commander starts with threats. I don’t know why I bother. He looms over the human, chitinous plates almost black in the dim light. His pod of six is posted around the room, for show more than for actual security since she followed orders and came alone and unarmed. "Failure to surrender will bring the full wrath of our army upon you. Humanity will be crushed, and wiped from the universe.“ To her credit, she looks very calm. "We live in a post-scarcity society. Bloody conquest just seems silly, doesn’t it?” “It is for the glory of Gaun!” “Well, I’m not prepared to get into a religious debate with you,” she says, “since I doubt there’s anything I can do to change your mind. Since you’re committed to this course of action, what are you willing to offer if we surrender?” Now he goes back on script. Maybe I am getting through to him a little? He talks about the benefits of being enslaved, mainly the protections for up to twelve designated culturally historical sites. They’ve been mostly good on their word on my homeworld, though they did use the area just outside of the Hahhn Memorial as a waste dump.

She nods as she listens. There was a part of me that was worried she would argue, because the humans are somewhat childlike. They don’t understand the horrors of war. Certainly they fought in the past, but the last time they had to battle was more than two of their generations ago, so these ones have all grown up coddled and soft. They play games with each other instead, silly competitions. They make art, and play pretend, and alter their bodies for fun. They don’t have weapons anymore, and wouldn’t know how to use them if they did. “Well then,” ambassador Thorn says, “this is about what I expected. On behalf of humanity, I would like to formally reject this offer.” Oh no. Foolish humans. The galaxy will miss your innocence. The commander makes an excited clicking noise, looking forward to combat. He reaches a blade-tipped hand towards ambassador Thorn, but hesitates as every device in the room bleats out an alert - we’ve all lost communications with the outside.

Like one of the dances humans do, she gracefully pivots around while taking his hand. She ends up close to him and places her other arm against his thorax, then… oh gods. Gods, what… she’s ripped his arm off. It’s not possible. The commander is clearly thinking the same thing, staring in mute shock at his dripping limb. “I’d like to extend a counter-offer,” she says, and flips the arm around before jamming the bladed end into his neck. The warriors around the room are fidgeting, uncertain. They haven’t been told to attack, and don’t want to dishonor their commander by intervening in a fight with such a small creature. She’s still holding the commander’s severed arm in his neck, but she rotates and heaves, lifting him off the ground with it for a moment… and then his head pops off, landing squarely on the conference table. She allows the corpse to slide to the ground, and straightens her clothes as if they aren’t covered in ichor.

I don’t understand.

The warriors, now with no orders at all, finally act. She smiles as they come for her, I suppose because she has done her duty to send this powerful message of resistance. She can die in peace. Or… no… She’s killing them. She’s smiling because this is fun for her. Though they’re partly killing themselves; if there had been two of them, prepared, strategic, they might have prevailed. Watching six panicked fighters get in each other’s way while trying to stop a smaller, faster, and somehow impossibly stronger foe is almost hypnotic. At least one is killed by the stab of a friendly lance due to pure confusion. It’s over faster than I would have thought possible, severed limbs strewn across the room. I’ve got some fluids splashed across my clothing. Only one yet lives, and he is retreating. She seems to be allowing it.

She follows behind, holding a lance. The wounded and scared warrior scurries down the hallway towards his ship, looking back behind him as he goes. She’s just… walking. Calm. And for some reason I’m following. The last Gaunvan reaches the airlock and the second he enters his code she throws the lance - throws it! - and spears him. “Come on, we’re stealing their ship.” She says it like this is the most normal thing in the world. “There are thousands more on board! Thousands! Almost all warrior caste!” She smiles again, and keeps walking. I see errors on the screens that we pass, messages indicating communications have been lost. They can’t tell anyone what is happening here. Even the communicators within the ship are on nodes rather than being wired, so the warriors at one end of the vessel won’t be able to coordinate with the other end. Do they even know they’ve been boarded? “How?”

We enter the bridge after she kills a handful of other guards with ease. They’re too shocked by her presence to act in time. Once the door are sealed and she is working on the control systems she starts talking to me again. “Well, you know, we do like to be prepared.” “But you… you ripped his arm off.” “Yeah, that was super satisfying.” She looks at me appraisingly. "Oh, come on. Is it really that surprising? You knew we were into changing ourselves, right? Being strong enough to pop an overgrown bug’s forelimb off isn’t rocket science.“ "Your people are so peaceful…” “Oh, sure, most of them. But we did that, too. Tweaked ourselves over the years to decrease aggression and some of our tribalistic tendencies, increase empathy… all stuff that can be undone if needed. Though for a good cause even the nicest of us can squish a bug or two.” “You bond with Ry'ling devourers!” “Those are the big fuzzy guys that look like cats, yeah? Those guys are adorable! But… look, liking some things that could kill us doesn’t mean we’ll sit back and get enslaved. We didn’t put up with it well when we enslaved each other, and we certainly aren’t going to go for it now that we’re… finally… on the same page about slavery being unacceptable. It was, uh, a longer time than we like to admit before the last hold-outs were convinced of that one.”

I can feel the ship un-dock. We’re moving. "What about all the warriors on board? They’ll break through the doors eventually!“ "Not according to this control panel here. Take a look.” It says there’s no atmosphere in the rest of the ship. Life signs are negative on all but two of the warriors, presumably the only ones that got to their suits in time. She disabled all the safety measures, somehow. She just killed… I check the life signs readout again to confirm the number… three thousand, six hundred, and fourteen soldiers. Wait, how is it tracking that unless… “Are communications back up?” “Yeah, I’m calling some friends. The military is right around the corner, so to speak.” “But Earth doesn’t have a standing military.” She laughs. Not just a little bit. She’s actually doubled over for a moment, unable to catch her breath. "Sweet Jeebus, you guys actually fell for that? No standing military. Have you read about us at all?“

Three ships appear seemingly out of nowhere, and one docks with the Gaunvan vessel. Once the atmosphere is restored we head to the airlock to meet them, and I’m surprised by an entire platoon of Gaunvan warriors. Speaking English. "Okay boys, send your last goodbyes! This is in all likelihood a one way mission. Commander Thorn! It is an honor to see you again, and might I say you look exquisite drenched in the blood of your enemies!” She bows to him, blushing, and then salutes the Gaunvans. Or… humans? Can they change themselves this drastically? “You’ve got two holed up in here somewhere. Bridge is clear, have the techs bring the new brain on board.” “New brain?” She looks at me like she’s forgotten that I’m here, and then turns back to the others. "Men, this is our new friend Ix Malasan who has just been liberated from his captivity. He’s going to be helping with our intel. Malasan, yeah, a new brain for the ship. Once this vessel is cleaned up and back in service with a new crew we’ll be able to take it over whenever we want even if all of our boys get killed. We cooked up a really sadistic AI for it.“ "But how do you know the protocols? This was your first contact with the Gaunvans, they’ve never lost a ship anywhere near here!” “No? There wasn’t a mining colony disaster two years ago?” “But that was just an accident… and you weren’t even involved in the war yet… and…”

The faux-Gaunvans have finished boarding. The one that was talking to them before puts a bladed claw on ambassador - commander - Thorn’s shoulder. "You coming with?“ "Naw. Orders said I could only come if they allow ambassadors near extremely high value targets. Malasan here says they don’t, so I need to wait for my next mission back on Earth.” “It would have been nice having you with us, Thorn. Well, maybe we’ll see each other again. Suicide mission or not, I think I’ve decided to live through it.” “Bold choice,” she says, and kisses him next to his lower mandibles. He nods at me, then turns back to his men. “Okay everyone, we are now officially on the job. And what is that job?” In unison, they start chanting.

“FUCK! SHIT! UP! FUCK! SHIT! UP! FUCK! SHIT! UP!”

For a moment I nearly feel pity for the Gaunvans. Nearly. Commander Thorn leads me off of the ship, and I start thinking about what useful information I can provide the 'harmless’ humans. Fuck shit up, indeed.

#humans are weird #humans fuck yeah #humans are space orcs #short story #scifi

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