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evenmorefatallyobsessed · 2 years ago

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Prof. Gelé AU Concept

To be clear this isn't the only Au/ comic I'll put the model in but it is the one that comes to mind for me most often.

Bleiss is born into the previous generation to RWBY's main characters like Jaune was in my Prof. Arc AU, also like him she became Glynda's partner.

There wasn't really much to say about Bleiss, not really. She Nicholas Schnee's second born daughter. She had talent, beauty and a fierce intellect. But she was also a rebellious teen with a chip on her shoulder towards Atlas.

After that one snake in the grass tried to coil around her what was his name again Assques? Anyways she broke his nose, stole his date and the next day sick of this Atlas high Society shit she left to be a Huntress in Vale, to live her own life how she pleased, free from the SDC.

And Bleiss didn't just manage she fucking flourished! Made a cute friend and admittedly unrequited love named Summer, the best drinking buddy ever in a Branwen called Qrow and finally a bitch she could count to cover her back in Glynda...

Yeah admittedly the two didn't get along too well at first... Okay more like their first two years but whatever. Anyways Bleiss fucking loved her life, shit even turned out she had a knack for this teaching shit.

though only for Hunter Academies, combat school parents were always complaining bout their brats picking up some of her awesome habits.

She loved her students, some more the others specifically of the cute girl variety. Gawd did she love putting that brat Coco in her place. She'd have to do it again soon, the girl had been a bit too cocky recently with her fellow students after all.

But for now there were mors important things to deal with. Some fuckers had attacked Amber, she might not have fucked the girl or anything but she was a former student and nobody fucked with the brats she trained, graduated or not.

So she was suprised when the Malachites called her. The pair of girls she trained both on fighting and in bed having been excited over beating Ray's fucking brat who tried to wreck her favorite club. Thank god she gave them a few lessons on fighting from time to time.

Anyways apparently Junior got some kid some fake transcripts. A part of her wanted to grab the suspicious brat and throw him in a cell to interrogate. Too coincidental that someone attacks Amber, steals half her fucking soul and now someone else is trying to sneak into where they just so happen to have her.

So she makes it a point to be in front of the Bullhead the faker was coming in through. She was gonna decide what to do with him once she saw him. After all her drinking buddy Qrow got in with fake transcripts after all so she had to at least pretend to give him the benefit of the doubt...

She felt a bit bad for her neice Weiss, yeah she wasn't exactly her favorite kid of her sis but still. She always did like sweet, little innocent Whitley betterbafter all.

Then her daughter started showing of her dad's side and the guilt for not paying her too much mind died...

Seriously she left the brat there in a freaking crater sniffling and... And... And who the fuck was that?

Tall, blonde and strangely getting her engines roaring was a blonde boy with deep blue eyes, and a freaking knight aesthetics and a sword and... Wait? That was him!?

Okay so the brat apparently had a semblance that influenced people, had to be that? She wasn't into men. So why did her eyes keep tracking him, right right semblance.

Well didn't matter she had her man targeted and went in for the kill. Grabbing the blonde away after old Ozzy's dumb speech. Really it was less kidnapping and more telling the blonde to follow her.

A lie about boys sleeping separately from girls and he was all too willing to follow. Really he was sorta naive for a spy/ assassin. She had him right where she wanted, in her room ready to get straight to the Seductio-Interrogation! She meant Interrogation.

Thankfully the hunky chump still believed he was in the clear so she just had to act all treachery and respectable and junk while she slowly used her ace.

Alchohol, loose lips came hand in hand with drinks after all. And here he was all trusting, with that dopey sweet smile and those lovely blue eyes and that fuckable fac- DAMMIT!

She didn't think he'd be heavy drinker like her, brat could hold his liquor... Sexy. Finally though she managed to ignore the blazing inferno that was her libido long enough to get down to buisness.

And by that she meant she broke a bottle and he reached to clean it for her drunk ass... And cut himself.

He, he didn't have aura... And then everything came out now that she was interrogating the boy about his aura outta worry more then suspicion. After all he couldn't be a spy without aura. That'd be retarded and suicidal, once she told him how she knew he was a fake he buckled and caved in...

And she listened, listened to the blonde talk about his dream, and how he was denied the chance to even attempt it. How he ran away from home, sold just about everything he owned to get his hands on the fake papers so he could risk it all on the chance to attempt to live up to his families name.

So he could be a hero instead of just his families biggest dissapointment... Their black sheep. And she made up her mind then.

Glyn would've blamed the booze, but Bleiss knew perfectly well what she wanted to do.

So she did something she really did...

Something Glynda feared her doing, she gave the blonde a private lesson... And no not the sexy kind though she was awfully fucking tempted.

But no Bleiss Gelé unlocked the blonde's stud levels of aura and then went full out drill Sargent on the sexy blonde. Most would've broke, hell many combat school graduates did under her excessive, cruel and unusual tutoledge.

It was why she was strictly teaching in Dust classes so she couldn't train the poor soft Hunters-in-training. But Jaune didn't break, oh he whined, cried and yelled, but the blonde as it turned out was made of tougher stuff then his folks gave him credit for.

And then the night was over... Dawn broke and the poor blonde bastard hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. But that was fine, she had a plan, she'd go to Ozzy, get his permission to make the kid her sexy assistant like she was gonna do for sweet lil Whitley when he came down for Vytal and then she'd... And he was gone!

Next thing she knows she's freaking out over the kid being launched into the fucking Emerald Forest! Oh Gawd! She wore him the fuck out and not even in the fun way!

She'd never been more pissed at her partner then she was at that moment as Glynda restrained her. She was freaking the fuck out as she saw the poor kid launched through the air... Then he wasn't cuz that one famous brat chucked her spear his way.

Then she directed herself his way... Did something happen between them? How? Darling must've at best had a minute or two to interact with anyone on the way here?

After several more minutes of annoyingly futile resistance she finally calmed down and accepted things as is and decided to watch Jaune try his luck during Initiation and vouch for him if he failed.

-O-O-O-

Glynda felt very... Conflicted over her partner Bleiss. On one hand she'd known her through her entire time in Beacon. She understood Bleiss even if at times if was irritating to do so.

It was ultimately why she felt secured to a point around her. Glynda knew what to expect from her... Usually. Right now as she fretted over a random boy who she couldn't have known for more then a few hours was leaving her utterly stumped.

She observed him, and frankly Jaune Arc while having high aura levels was hardly what she could call competent. The boy was tripping all over himself and getting lost in thought randomly.

He was proving to be a detriment to his partner. Then they entered that cave and he... Did he fall asleep!?

Actually looking closer at him the blonde he looked utterly exhausted and his aura levels were rather low especially given how quickly they were restoring... If she didn't know better she'd have thought the Arc had been fighting for his life, the. Night... Prior.

No...

Turning she looked to her worried partner and spoke the most dire question without thinking positive even her impulsive, sadistic partner wouldn't be so reckless.

"Bleiss what did you do?" Bleiss avoided her gaze and begun to mumble, that was never a good sign.

"What did you say?"

"I... just... Trained him a bit last night." She wasn't the only on to look horrified, Port, Oobeleck and even Ozpin looked pale at the implications. After what Bleiss considered legitimate training was illegal across the kingdoms.

"How is he alive..." She agreed with Port before turning back to the screen concerned about the boy.

Her previous concerns were utterly dashed. Anyone who could survive Gelé's training more the deserved a spot in Beacon.

-0-0-0-

Exhausted, irritated and sore were Jaune's feelings... Aura, thank merciful Oum for aura! He didn't know how he survived all these years without it. But he was sure he would've died last night if not for the soulful energy.

Miss Gelé was terrifying, at first he'd been flustered when such a pretty older woman tricked him into her room, then confused and then worried when his transcripts came to life.

But all that fell wayside when out of nowhere she stood up grabbed him, dragged him outside and told him she'd be teaching him a few of the basics a Huntsman needed to know.

He'd been about to talk back, not willing to take a hand out even if from a teache- Then she knocked him flat on his ass, walked up to him and said some kinda cool sounding words before she unlocked his aura.

Oh she explained what she did to him. But did so as she was stabbing at him with a freaking sword, darting around the place like a bullet. She even summoned monsters! Just constant pain, agony on the physical front and lectures on Grimm, Aura, Dust and a ton of other stuff he didn't know about.

All while she continued to beat his ass...

Once his aura shattered she'd beat him with fist, kicks and really painful grabs until it restored and they were back to him trying not to be impaled! Wash and rinse and repeat to sunrise! She looked happy! Excited even!

But hey, at least he had super powers now... Aura was awesome. Though right now he'd trade it in a heart beat for a coffee of even better a pillow...

But those thoughts could wait! He had bigger worries. He didn't go through all that just to g

fail Initiation! The Grimm weren't even as scary as that after all!

At some point he must've gone in a cave because currently he was running from a freaking Giant Scorpion!... Still not as scary as Ms. Gelé but this thing clearly wanted to kill him.

Aura into his feet like he saw miss Gelé doing he managed to outpace it! Pyrrha said something bout not wasting his aura but frankly he still had a lot...

Like much of the rest of the day it all happened like a blur. Ruby and Weiss eating dirt from falling from the sky and giant bird getting added to the mix and something about chess pieces.

All he knew is that they needed to get outta there fast to pass and best of all not fight the two giant monsters. That was a plan he could get behind!

And he would've, should've and was sure as hell going to. Until the ginger girl beside him called out her partner's name. He turned and saw that Pyrrha and the brunette he could assume was Ren hadn't made it before the bridge collapsed.

Really it should've been a easy choice, they were strangers, he hadn't even known Pyrrha a hour. He owed them nothing and the finish line was right there! Yep, it was a easy choice, one he didn't even need to think about... Dammit.

Pumping aura in his legs he leaped out towards them. After all what kinda person wouldn't rush in to help others? Not him that's for sure.

Exhausted, tired and only mentally there by a fraction his mind worked overtime. Instincts were in the front seat. And so he listened to them.

He knew there was no way he could tear through the things armor... At least, not with what he knew how to do. But there was something?

pumping aura into his arm he tanked a sting with his shield, the attack denting his heirloom's mechanism shifting sheath but somehow managed to feat of strength to not have his poise broken from the blow.

The Grimm's carapace was thick, to thick for a sword like his... But maybe if he stole another one of miss Bleiss's moves?

She'd been so nimble and quick during the fight, pushing aura into her legs as she explain it while beating him.

It was where he got the idea of doing it, though he had the feeling he wasn't nearly as good at it as she was. But despite how petite she was her blows were heavy... Because she put aura on the blade, heck she even swung it once and sent the energy flying.

It was that which he inspired to copy in that moment.

Pushing all the energy he could into his sword, desperation and determination were powerful motivators.

and from them he managed to once more repeat the technique Bleiss had preformed before him like her aura reinforcement.

All his aura surging out in a arc of violent energy, that cleaved into and through one of the Deathstalker's claws.

His aura shattered, he was out and now the thing was glaring at him, oh he was scared but he had three people with him. All of which seemed more worried about his auraless state then even he was. It reassured him, didn't seem like they'd run for it.

Which meant he had a chance. After all, this Grimm wasn't nearly as fast a attacker as Ms. Gelé, and Jaune had learned last night just how much being light on his feet could help.

He smiled, a crooked, sure toothy grin it's way, finding himself terrified but also excited to kill his first monster.

-0-0-0-

While they were sure Team RWBY would be the focus of their students for the staff the group their eyes were on were JNPR. And for once it wasn't because of miss Nikos.

No the reason was the blonde dancing around and avoiding the Death Stalker's strikes.

Who knew it was targeting him but didn't turn tell to run despite having no aura but instead kept it's attention so the others could wear it down.

"A Fucking Mazing..." Glynda felt a chill run up her spine as she turned to look at her partner. And what she saw terrified her.

Bleiss was unashamedly looking hungrily at the Arc.

"One fuckinh night with aura and he manages this..." Her lip bled she was biting it so hard. Wait, did she say a night with aura!? Didn't that imply he didn't have it before.

Surely not, he used aura reinforcement on his legs several times and even swung a aura Arc. Those were advance techniques, techniques her partner knew... Technique that look utterly and completely unrefined and raw being performed by the Arc as if he'd never used...

She had to do a double take, but, but he was so nimble on his feet?

"Heheh, Hahaha! He can't beat that thing in strength but if he can dodge me he can sure as hell dodge it!" That... Was true.

Actually he didn't look like he was dodging it so much as... Dancing around it's blows.

What was this, well at the least she knew one thing as Bleiss licked her lips.

She would have to keep a eye on the boy for his own sake from her partner.

#prof. bleiss au #bleiss schnee #glynda goodwitch #jaune arc #au concept

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olaqueenbeeofastrology · 1 month ago

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sagittariusmarz · 2 years ago

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(Top to bottom) advice from crystals

Pile 1

I see that malachite, garnet, and chrysoprase has a message for you. Garnet wants to let u know that if things look rough or things look like it will never get better it’s a sign of change and a rebirth is coming, do what you can to soothe yourself and stay grounded. Take these obstacles as a lesson, See where the pain comes from and see what you can do in ur situation. keep fighting and stay persistent. Chrysoprase wants to let you know that it’s okay to feel pessimistic sometimes but beware of letting your emotions control ur actions, learn how to deal with ur emotions in a healthy way and transmute ur anger/pain. Malachite wants you to focus on healing past trauma especially in your childhood, let go of whatever doesn’t serve you and be open to change. Signs- Scorpio, Sagittarius, libra. Initials- P, C, T, V, F, K, J

Pile 2

I see you have messages from Angelite , green fluorite, and dumortierite. Angelite wants you to know that there are powerful sources that u can’t see and you should connect with them as they try to connect with u, listen to your intuition and try meditation or something that brings u peace/grounds you. Green flourite wants you to accept the things that you can’t control and be more open minded, do things that make you happy or find a new hobby. Dumortierite wants you to work on ur patience and self discipline, try to find something that benefits you and brings u joy. Signs- Virgo, Gemini, Scorpio. initials- V, Y, I, P

Pile 3

I see that you have messages from Smoky quart, sodalite, rose quartz, and turquoise. Smoky quartz wants you to know that you can’t ignore things and push them to the back of ur subconscious, your subconscious may be trying to tell you that u need to handle something instead of putting it off. Listen to ur intuition and do some shadow work, sodalite wants you to connect to ur spirituality and intuition more. Continue to ground yourself as you ascend, rose quartz wants you to be more compassionate to yourself and others. Turquoise wants you to focus on balancing your feminine and masculine energy,find the courage to get out tough situations and don’t make excuses for yourself. Signs- Leo, Aquarius, Taurus. Initials- Y, T, Q, F, P, N, E, A, I

Pile 4

I see that blue howlite, citrine, and amethyst have a message for u. I see that amethyst wants u to pay attention more to ur feminine side, focus on healing and letting go of fears. Blue howlite wants you to know that you have what it takes to be successful but u gotta be confident and ambitious, citrine wants you to control ur temper and learn how to handle tough situations. Signs- Aquarius, Pisces, Virgo. Initials- M, E, O, C, I

Personal readings always available, please watch my 18+ pick a card reading on YouTube

youtube

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 5 months ago

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Day 6: Malformed

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. For more information on LeviathanPat, go here. For more information on Sol, go here. For more information on ColosSeptic, go here.)

(This story is a continuation of a sneak-peek I included at the end of Day 2. Originally, this was going to be a sneak-peek itself, but plans have changed, and I'm on a bit of time-crunch, so...)

(As usual, I got tons of help developing these characters from the amazing @sammys-magical-au ! Please go check out their blog and stories!)

(One more thing: if you’d like to use the distorted fonts you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, body horror, mentions of experimentation, specimen preservation, implied murder/death, eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 7

___

Sol Magee considered herself equal parts flexible and responsible.

After all, if anyone thought they could run an entire museum-and-art-gallery-combo without those qualities, they’d be in for a very rude awakening.

And that was just talking about normal establishments. The ones that didn’t come with a slew of provisos that managed to be kinda funny and deathly serious at the same time.

Namely, the fact that the building was connected to an outer monstrosity who had a habit of collecting oddities and making his own oddities by experimenting on humans unfortunate enough to fall for his schemes.

And yet, if you managed to get on his good side, he could be pretty chill.

Sol had already worked under their fair share of human managers who were just downright insufferable for no actual reason, so it was simultaneously amazing and depressing to know that literal monsters could sometimes have better manners with staff.

Hell, Sol even had some things in common with him. Eccentricity had been the source of bonding between the two of them. It wasn’t that neither of them were playing with a full deck; rather, they each played with two-and-a-half decks and had managed to make up a new game where most of those extra cards benefited them.

Most, not all.

And that was probably why he seemed a bit on-edge tonight.

Even if Sol didn’t mind squeezing random rituals and the like in with their typical nightly tasks, her latest assignment was…strange.

“Wait, hold on—” Sol fidgeted with the notepad and pen they’d been carrying. “You want me to hide out in the attic and spy on…you?”

“ñð† jµ§† mê,” replied the nine-foot-tall mass of nightmare flesh that loomed beside her. As usual, his skin seemed to squirm of its own accord around whatever horrible skeleton he may or may not have had underneath.

(Sol had learned to call him Pat, since apparently her eyes and teeth would melt right out of her head if she tried pronouncing the other half of his name).

The Abnormal Orchard nearly resembled a tower from the outside, unless you counted the huge sign that hung over the main entrance, covered in wires that glowed with a mix of violet and blue light. They all worked together to form the image of a pomegranate with a cluster of eyeballs where its seeds should’ve been.

The building was just as imposingly tall as it was wide. So, of course there was a broad, spiraling ramp that stood at the center inside, just about a hundred feet from the main entrance.

Despite the elevators positioned across from her office, Sol almost always opted for the ramp instead. They just enjoyed the way they could see pretty much everything no matter where they stood on it. It seemed to keep all five of the museum’s expansive floors in a suspended tornado.

Tonight was no different as they strolled along, footsteps muffled by dark green carpeting that was adorned by splotches of black. The pattern almost resembled malachite and complimented the wallpaper’s deep yellow shade.

“Äñ ðlÐ ßµÐÐ¥ ð£ mïñê ï§ gðññå ßê §†ðþþïñg ß¥ £ðr å ¢hå†,” Pat continued as he kept pace beside them. His current movement was a mix between crawling and slithering, due to how his slightly-too-long-torso ended in what honestly looked like blistering tree roots instead of legs. But then, those appendages would likely take on a different shape in about five-or-so-minutes. “Ððñ'† ¥ðµ rêmêmßêr †hê þrêÐï¢†ïðñ§ Ì måÐê lå§† wêêk?”

(Pat was a creature of many talents; one of them being semi-regular visions of the future. Some were less clear than others, but then, there was nothing to stop him and Sol from theorizing on what they could mean. And it wasn’t often at all that he turned out to be wrong.)

“Yeah, I do. Just like I thought you’d remember that your predictions aren’t always the only ones,” Sol jokingly snarked, craning her neck to look up at his eyes…well, his primary eyes, at least. A few extra ones had sprouted along his cheeks and temples, seeming to glance at the ideas she’d been jotting down for future exhibit designs. “I found out that The Chocolate Guy made something disturbingly normal before you even knew.”

For most people, making eye-contact with him would lead to a migraine at best and a sudden case of blindness at worst, considering how his eyes were much too wide, how they glowed with the sickly-pale color of a corpse, how his pinprick pupils refused to stop shuddering in place.

But Sol wasn’t most people…plus, they also had a mask that had apparently been crafted with some serious protective juju. That certainly helped.

Putting it on had long-since become the first part of her nightly routine, right up until she officially closed up and clocked out to the apartment-suite that came included on the property.

The mask’s black material was smooth and compact, like porcelain or marble. Even after so much time, the interior never stopped feeling cold against the skin of Sol’s face. That soft chill always seemed to race up and down along her forehead and cheekbones.

The base of it had been molded into a shape that sort of resembled an upside-down pentagon. The center protruded forward, stretching out just enough to make you wince; there was no outline of a nose, but this still gave the impression of a triangular snout that ended in a smooth, simple stub.

Sculpted veins curved around the eye-holes, stretching from aforementioned stub all the way to the top-half that rested on Sol’s ginger hair. The paint that coated them seemed a bit tarnished, leaving them a dull shade of reddish-violet.

They could remember Pat saying something about a goat when he’d directed them through the museum’s basement to find it years ago. But honestly, they thought it looked more like a fox. A freak-of-nature fox with a pair of layered horns growing just below its long, oddly sharp ears to curl by its jaws.

Yeah, that’s right. Jaws. The mask’s design included a mouth that wrapped around the bottom-half. It would’ve been open, too, if not for the sets of gleaming porcelain teeth that gleamed like polished chinaware, jagged enough to make a piranha jealous.

It portrayed two emotions fused together: on the left side, the corner was quirked up to simulate a winding grin. The corner on the right side was the opposite—it tugged itself down in an almost feral grimace. This extended to the glass-lensed eyes as well. The left was scrunched-up, and the right almost looked like it was drooping.

“…Älrïgh†, ålrïgh†. †ðµ¢h'ê ðñ †hå†,” Pat relented, the first row of jagged teeth in his maw actively lengthening as he chuckled. “Èvêñ ï£ ¥ðµ jµ§† §ð håþþêñêÐ †ð ßê ðñ ¥ðµr låþ†ðþ whêñ †hå† vïÐêð wêñ† þµßlï¢.”

“Nuh-uh! I sensed some legit wrongness before I even opened my laptop—I woke up in a cold sweat that same morning, and that damn video was the reason!” Sol contended, snickering herself, trying to ignore the memory of all that sudden dread.

(The Chocolate Guy was a cosmic abomination himself, after all; one who was just apparently more comfortable with wearing a human disguise than Pat. And judging by some of the stories Pat had told Sol about the baker-creature before he’d made a home on Earth…well, she was extremely grateful that he was so focused on using his powers to simply create all kinds of amazing, life-like sculptures from sweets.)

“ÄñÐ ¥ðµ'vê ßêêñ £êêlïñg §ðmê ð£ †hå† wrðñgñê§§ ð££-åñÐ-ðñ-ågåïñ †ðÐå¥, håvêñ'† ¥ðµ?” Pat wondered.

“Yeah, I have.” Sol offered both a nod and shrug. “It’s just—I don’t know. I wasn’t too sure you’d want me getting close to that kind of stuff.”

“Èh, ¢êr†åïñ †hïñg§ håvê gð††å håþþêñ §ðmêÐå¥.” Pat mused. A keening, sheering noise rippled through the air as he clicked his teeth in thought. “§ð, ï£ ¥ðµ wåñ† ¥ðµr §êñ§ê§ †ð kêêþ gê††ïñg §hårþêr, åñÐ ï£ Ì håvê †ð mêê† wï†h å §þê¢ïål gµê§†...wêll, wh¥ ñð† ¢åþï†ålïzê?”

“Why not?” Sol echoed. They didn’t bother to hide the spark of excitement growing in their voice. There was no point; as far as they knew, Pat could already taste the adrenaline that was now coursing through their mind.

Plus, it just felt kinda great to know that she was trusted.

Pat was a centuries-old monstrosity whose life-purpose revolved around a very literal type of mad science. Sol had seen what he was capable of, how he could easily twist and warp humans (whether the victims of his casual hunting or organized sacrifices) in all sorts of horrific ways just to see what would happen. He fed on emotions, thoughts, entire minds and souls like it was nothing. He’d told her stories about eating the odd star or two in his past.

So, for something like him to see something like her as someone he could include in his surreal business matters—as a friend…

There just wasn’t much like it.

…Even if he had sarcastically spat out the word special guest like it was fried feather that had somehow found its way into a box of buffalo wings. That didn’t seem like the best omen out there.

“How much time do we have before this guy gets here?” Sol asked.

Pat gave pause, brow furrowing in frustration. He quickly shrank down until he only stood about four inches taller than Sol’s five-foot-seven.

“ñð† å whðlê lð†,” He finally admitted as he sidled over to perch on one section of the ramp’s safety-railing, far too little effort in his movements. By now, the spire of his lower-half had split into a pair of actual legs. They looked pretty human-esque for the most part, though the calves were bent backwards like those of a quadraped, each ending in a clutch of talons. “Ì kñðw hê'§ ðñ hï§ wå¥, ßµ† Ì'll ðñl¥ rêåll¥ ßê åßlê †ð †êll ðñ¢ê hê'§ å¢†µåll¥ ðñ †hê þrðþêr†¥.”

Sol offered an understanding shrug, stuffing the notepad into the breast pocket of their purple leather jacket. “Well, I can just pick this up where I left off sometime after your meeting, right?”

“Rïgh†,” Pat agreed, nodding in a way that was just too fluid for comfort.

A cluster of long, sinuous tendrils manifested from his back with a terrible chorus of snaps and pops and cracks. He leaned back, allowing them to press up against the wall behind him. And with that, his form seemed to churn in on itself as he effectively melted out of sight. He left a black, blurry silhouette-stain behind, but even that didn’t take long to shrink and fade away from the yellow wallpaper. In less than a minute, there was no evidence he’d ever even been there in the first place.

Sol knew where he was headed, so they quickened their pace, ascending along the ramp and passing everything by to meet him there.

The first four floors were all dedicated to anomalies and curiosities. Despite all the organization, none of them adhered to an actual category. They each just held a vast collection of things that people were either disgusted and terrified of, or morbidly fascinated by.

All sorts of preservation was practiced here.

Specimens floating in concoctions of decay-defying fluids (formaldehyde, casualdejekyll, the works).

Apothecary jars lined certain shelves, all coming in various shapes and sizes. A few veritable truckloads of pickled organs or appendages, or, or, or. One held a pair of human hands, the fingers of which seemed to have been fused together. Another contained an entire mouth—skin, lips, tongue and everything—that had been propped open unnaturally wide to display a horrific amount of crooked, rotting teeth.

Specimens frozen in resin cubes or slides.

Where wet preservation typically led to discoloring, the resin was honestly a bit like amber. Somehow, it kept the tissues looking vibrant, like they could still be full of life and functioning as intended.

Except for the fact that they absolutely couldn’t, considering the states they’d been left in.

A set of intestines twisted into several knots, the end-results of a brain-bleed, an appendix that somehow seemed to be captured mere seconds after rupturing, an arm’s worth of branching veins forced to swell because apparently the blood inside them had gained a consistency similar to tapioca pudding…

Specimens kept in simple, tightly-sealed display cases. Those ones were often completely skeletonized, just for the sake of convenience, but still.

In all classifications, sizes varied.

Some were small enough for Sol to pinch between their index finger and thumb. Such as one little vial which held the phalanges of a pinkie-toe with an uncomfortable amount of joints. (Not nearly as disturbing as the teretomas, though. The mere thought of those sickly, fleshy spheres that had been sliced open juuuuust enough to reveal piles of teeth inside…it was enough to make even someone with Sol’s experience itch all over.)

Others, meanwhile, were so big and heavy that the only safe way to move them would be via forklift. Such as what was basically a glass coffin housing an entire human body, mummified and infested with a subspecies of cordyceps. A much stronger, much more aggressive variant. Though the mold-colored stalks protruding from a jagged hole in the corpse’s head had been stiff for so many years, the way they all bent and just barely rubbed against the inside of the case suggested they were still trying to break out and spread their spores every which way to find fresher hosts.

Just a few examples out of many. And yet…none of the upper floors could ever even dream of comparing to the collection in the basement. The collection that was kept under heavy lock-and-key, kept hidden from mortal customers. Sol herself had only been down there a couple times, though apparently she’d be able to more often the more she adjusted…

The Fifth Floor stood out from the rest. It was much more of a gallery than an archive; it hosted art of all mediums. (Though, in order for a new piece to be accepted, it had to be crafted with the darker genres in mind. But that wasn’t much of a problem. Horror and surrealism were all the rage these days, after all.)

It was also the only floor to not have any windows in its walls, whereas the others seemed to have a few too many.

Instead, the carpet seemed to be the only space not covered by glossy frames that came in various shapes and sizes.

Sol had to be careful to keep at least three feet of distance as she passed by.

Some of the drawings had an odd type of gravitational pull.

The colors of specific paintings never seemed to fully dry; not only that, but they often gave off powerful scents at certain hours. Some smelled soft and sweet and enticing. Others, meanwhile, were heavy with the stench of rot and pain.

Suspicious shapes would bulge out from under the canvases on occasion. The struggle was obviously desperate, despite how slow the movements were.

A fair number of the focuses didn’t have eyes. Those that did, however, always seemed to stare after you, no matter how far away you walked.

(Especially one ancient-looking portrait that offered the etching of a cyclopian triangle with spindly arms and legs. Sometimes, if Sol looked at it for too long, she’d start to hear a faint, muffled chorus of cackling and wisecracking comments.)

Sol ventured over to the little corridor that stood off to one side of the gallery.

A sleek black cat had apparently beaten them there, pacing the floor in small circles, occasionally jumping up to try and paw at the long pull-cord that hung from a white panel in the ceiling.

Charcoal couldn’t really be blamed for his trance, considering how the string swayed to and fro despite the fact that there was no breeze to move it. (In fact, it even seemed to be fluttering in time with his movements, and if that didn’t count as taunting, then what would?)

Sol knelt down and invoked the undeniably powerful chant of pspspspspspsps.

Their pet’s ears twitched, and he almost immediately came trotting over to greet them.

In the nick of time, too; in less than a heartbeat, that white panel swung open, leaving a dark hole in its place. The ceiling-door’s hinges let out a scream like a dying cow as an old ladder came sliding out to hit the floor with a heavy thump.

Sol gathered Charcoal up—even with their mask on, they still got a faceful of the brimstone that never seemed to leave the cat’s fur. Using one arm to awkwardly cradle him to their chest and the other arm to keep their balance, they climbed on up.

As usual, the museum’s attic was dark and cold.

A large, perfectly circular hole had been cut out of the far wall. That space used to be filled with a decorative window, and it had stayed that way when Sol took over The Abnormal Orchard.

They’d opened it for perhaps the very first time on that fateful night when Pat had arrived, and…well, he hadn’t exactly meant to tear out the glass and its framing, but hey. He’d already made it clear that it was to stay open at all times.

Long ago, the attic had been used as an extra storage space, and technically it still functioned as such. A plethora of crates and chests and boxes were pushed against the walls, stacked on top of one another, each holding something that Pat wasn’t quite ready to add to any of the main floors just yet.

Some of them ever-so-slightly trembled, like whatever was inside them had stirred in its sleep…or struggled against strong bindings. Some were covered in stains that glistened in the dim moonlight that seeped in from outside.

As soon as Sol got their bearings, the ladder folded back onto its track, the door lifting to shut itself behind them. They crossed the center of the room and gazed up.

The attic’s entire ceiling had been swallowed up by a mass of gauzy threads. Thick strands had been attached to the corners, allowing even more to all come together, twisting and criss-crossing in layers upon more layers upon even more layers to form some kind of huge, silky, cocoon-hammock…thing.

If not for how all the fibrous stuff boasted the splotchy colors of bruises, it would’ve resembled a combination of spiderweb and wasp nest.

Pat was lounging inside of it, just like he usually did during the museum’s business hours (whenever he wasn’t busy hunting or experimenting, that is). He’d shifted into a truly massive size, his lower-half now coiled up beneath him like a snake or a centipede. A few extra arms sprouted from his sides to idly pluck at some of the strings around him. While the nest-cocoon-hammock-thing swayed to and fro as he shuffled in place, it never seemed to strain under his weight.

“Anything I need to look out for?” Sol asked, heading for a crawlspace door that had been built into the side of the adjacent wall `a la Coraline. Snug would’ve been a generous word for the inside, but it’d already proven to be a fine hiding spot. Plus, it offered a good vantage point of everything on the outside, even when its door had to be held ajar. “When he gets here, I mean.”

“Ìñ†êrê§†ïñg ¢hðï¢ê ð£ wðrÐ§,” Pat chuckled, a searing, buzzing sound reminiscent of glass splintering apart at the bottom of a boiling pot. “Hê †ê¢hñï¢åll¥ Ððê§ñ'† håvê å ßlïñÐ§þð†, ßµ† ¥ðµ'll ålrêåÐ¥ håvê §ðmê ¢ðvêr. þlµ§, ßrïgh† lïgh†§ ¢åñ måkê †hïñg§ ßlµrr¥; hðlÐïñg å §måll £låmê wðµlÐñ'† hµr†.”

“Gotcha.” Once they’d pretzeled themself inside the crawlspace, Sol reached for another one of their jacket-pockets; the one where their striker-knife and chunk of rainbow flint had free real estate.

But Charcoal seemed eager to participate. Just before his owner could fish their tools out, he perked up on their lap. He rolled his shoulders, his chest puffing out as he took a deep, quiet breath.

He then opened his mouth, allowing thin flames to lick out past his bared fangs. And yet, the little ball of fire he’d brought up from his lungs seemed content to just linger at the back of his throat, casting short shadows that flickered and danced around his teeth.

“...Never mind, then. Thanks, buddy.” Sol smiled, scratching her pet’s ears just in time to feel a pair of horns ease their way out of his little forehead.

Charcoal purred, a sound that grew ever-so-slightly deeper and raspier as some of his fur pulled back, showing off a coat of dark scales underneath. Strangest of all, his eyes didn’t even reflect the glow like those of a normal cat would. Instead, his pupils just grew and grew until his eye sockets resembled bottomless pits in his face.

Pat’s neck stretched out from the mouth of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing. He nodded at the little display.

“ÄñÐ êvêñ whêñ hï§ vï§ïðñ'§ ðß§¢µrêÐ, hê ¢åñ §†ïll §êê †hrðµgh †hê ê¥ê§ ð£ ð†hêr§,” he continued. “Ððñ'† lððk Ðïrê¢†l¥ å† hïm. †r¥ †ð £ð¢µ§ ðñ †hê §†µ££ årðµñÐ hïm. ßµ† ï£ ¥ðµ håvê ñð ¢hðï¢ê êx¢êþ† †ð lððk å† hï§ ê¥ê§, jµ§† Ððñ'†—”

Pat stiffened, trailing off as a seam manifested in the middle of his forehead. With a sickening, almost rubbery sigh, that seam peeled itself open to reveal a eyeball. It was larger than his primaries, its sclera was pitch-dark. Pat’s ever-moving skin was already a void in itself, but this particular eye was even more abyssal than that. Save for a tiny, shivering, pale-as-snow iris with no pupil at all.

Pat could summon as many extra eyes as he wanted at will, but this one was different.

This eye only bloomed on his face at serious times. (In the grand scheme of things, this was perfectly logical. Pat already had far more senses than mortal creatures. This third eye was just a sense all of its own.) Sol privately called it the Illuminati’s Cousin.

A low, dangerous hissssss crept out through Pat’s teeth, his neck retracting and his head snapping back into place.

Sol got the hint; they silently shuffled themself and Charcoal even further into the crawlspace until their back hit the wall. They reached over and pulled at the little door, only leaving a small crack to peer through.

As if on cue, all the nighttime hubbub echoing from outside—the drone of insects, the hollow screeches of owls, even the wind and thunder that had just started rumbling a few moments ago—came to an abrupt, uncanny halt.

The far wall of the attic shook.

Sccrrrrrp

A sound so low that it managed to be soft and piercing at the same time. Like a person who, despite only having a set of bloody stubs left of their nails, decided to drag their fingers along a chalkboard just for the hell of it…

Scccrrrrp-sssccrrrrp

…Or a cluster of ragged claws scratching against a brick wall.

It followed a distinct rhythm. Even with all the screeching, there was no doubt how the source was moving so carefully, so deliberately.

Like an ambush predator stalking after its prey

Sccrrrp-scccrrrp, sccrrrp-sccrrrrp

The noise finally reached its peak when a pair of too-large hands adorned by too-long, too-crooked digits wrapped around the edges of the attic window.

They dug further into the wall as a distorted shape spilled into the attic, momentarily blotting out the moonlight. The sight reminded Sol of all those edutainment videos of octopuses using their boneless nature to squeeze through openings that would’ve been impossible for literally anything else to bypass.

After a batch of long, uncomfortable seconds dragged by, the shape slithered from the window frame and onto the floor. It almost seemed to spread there like a pool of viscous liquid…and then, thick clouds of smoke began to rise from it. They pulled the shape up like it was magnetic putty, coaxing it to weave itself into something much more solid.

Without warning, a harsh emerald light beamed to life from somewhere inside the figure. Sol flinched back, having to wrench her eyes shut. But once she re-opened them, she felt something cold and clammy start to churn in her stomach.

Thanks to all their time working with Pat, Sol was much more prepared to accept the unacceptable than the average human.

But the scene unfolding before her…she had to admit that it was something else.

In the span of mere seconds, the visiting monster already grown to roughly the same size as Pat.

And, keeping up with the similarities, his head and torso followed a vague human shape.

And vague was an extremely generous term here, folks.

His skin was almost completely transparent—that green illumination had tapered down some, allowing Sol to realize that the monster’s bones and organs were glowing from the inside. Similar to a diaphonized specimen with its container positioned over an LED stand.

As Sol stared, she managed to see how his misshapen heart squirmed its way out from under his lungs; though it didn’t escape his jagged, bending ribcage, it seemed perfectly fine with crawling around in tight circles to press up against bone. His intestines shuffled and writhed over one another like a pile of worms.

The jagged, organic crater taking up space by his abdomen suggested that he’d been ripped in half at the navel. That smoke from earlier was now drifting out of it, veils curling through in the air in a very unnatural way.

Before Sol could stop herself, she looked up at the monster’s face.

The corners of his mouth stretched quite literally from ear-to-ear. A few inches before those corners, thin strands of flesh stretch out to connect his upper and lower jaws. It was honestly miraculous that they hadn’t been accidentally shredded by the unnecessary amount of glinting teeth nestled inside. Hair grew over his lips(?) and along his chin, forming a short beard that was just as dark as the thatch on his scalp, which draped over his shoulders and back in long tangles.

And to top it all off, both of his eye sockets were completely hollow, as well as disturbingly wide. In fact, the glistening flesh inside them stretched out of his head to curve alongside his temples in shapes somewhat similar to the ears of a bat.

Pat’s warning echoed through Sol’s brain…but where were this guy’s eyes? How could he see at all?

Sol’s own eyes drifted down, and she just barely managed to catch herself and pin her focus to the opposite wall instead. Because she’d gotten her answer: displaced peepers were littered about the monster’s arms and hands and neck, with the largest one blinking on that spot right where his collarbones met.

Eye Guy shuffled in place, surveying Pat’s cocoon-hammock-nest thing before his vision finally settled on his fellow monster. Pat stared right back, the Illuminati’s Cousin rolling around in his head.

“.⃥.̸.⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘠̸,⃥” Eye Guy greeted, his voice seeming to splash through the air, rough and loud and…laced with an honest-to-God Irish accent?

“Hê¥,” Pat echoed, the edges of his voice spinning like a swarm of cicadas.

A trio of his back-tendrils suddenly stretched out from the cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, reaching across the attic to a little mini-fridge that had been set up in the corner. One of them pulled the little door open, then heaved it shut once the other two each coiled around a can of Diet Coke.

The tendrils weaved their way back over, one of them hovering near Eye Guy while the other two vanished, probably wrapping around Pat's spine and ribs, the other can of soda sticking the landing in his outstretched palm

Eye Guy tilted his head, quietly reaching up to accept the offered beverage. “𝗢⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗞⃥𝘚̸.⃥”

“ñð þrðßlêm,” Pat responded, using the tips of his claws to pop the tab.

Eye Guy followed suite, the two of them drinking until the cans were empty…at which point the aforementioned cans simply followed the soda’s path, aluminum crunching and tearing and screeching against horrifically sharp enamel, likely leaving jagged scars and opening up thin rivers of monstrous blood in its wake as it was swallowed.

𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘍̸𝗘⃥𝘞̸ 𝘚̸𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘔̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗨⃥𝘛̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸.⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥'̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥?̸” Eye Guy asked.

“Öh, jµ§† þêå¢h¥!” Pat’s fangs curled out of his mouth like tusks as he aimed a sarcastic grin the visitor’s way.

Eye Guy shrugged. “𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗗⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘋̸𝗨⃥𝘗̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥.̸ 𝘊̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘕̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥.̸”

Pat hummed affirmative, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head in a prideful manner. Another awkward few seconds came and went before he let out a grating sigh.

“§ð. Çårê †ð êxþlåïñ wh¥ ¥ðµ'rê ¢rå§hïñg ðñ M¥ †ÈRRÌ†ÖR¥? È§þê¢ïåll¥ å£†êr Ì JÚ§† gð† ßå¢k †ð ï†?”

Eye Guy clicked his long, forked tongue. “𝗜⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘋̸𝗬⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘈̸𝗪⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘊̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘛̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸��⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸𝗚⃥𝘖̸—𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗬⃥,̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘠̸,⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘔̸ 𝘋̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸𝗡⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗧⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘖̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘑̸𝗢⃥𝘠̸.” He briefly cut himself off to wave a dismissive clutch of talons at the way Pat snarled. Although there was no denying the mischievous smirk in his tone as he added, “𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥,̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗬⃥.̸”

Pat leaned out of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, clicking his teeth as his eyes narrowed.

“†hå†'§ §†rïkê Öñê, þål. †r¥ ågåïñ,” he warned.

“𝗢⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗖⃥'̸𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥. 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘋̸𝗬⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸.⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘍̸𝗙⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘕̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸!⃥” Eye Guy huffed. He got the privilege of taking the rolling-your-eyes-with-your-whole-body thing to an extremely authentic level. “𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗗⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘏̸’⃥𝘔̸𝗨⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥-̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸ 𝘐̸𝗦⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗖⃥𝘒̸,⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘌̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸ 𝘛̸𝗥⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸.⃥”

“¥êåh, Ì Ðð kñðw åll †hå†,” Pat agreed. He shifted in place, soon lying on his back, the Illuminati’s Cousin still glaring at Eye Guy. “Lêmmê gµê§§: ¥ðµ wåñ† †ð mêê† µþ wï†h mê åñÐ m¥ kñðwïñg-†hïñg§ §¢h†ï¢k ïñ å ¢ðµþlê ñïgh†§. †hå† wå¥, åñ¥ þð†êñïål †hrêå†§ ¢åñ ßê þrêÐï¢†êÐ ßê£ðrê †hê¥ Ðï§rµþ† å ¢êr†åïñ rï†µål?”

The way he spoke made it sound much more like a statement than a question.

Out of the corner of their eye, Sol glimpsed how Eye Guy’s collar-eye (wow, that was way too many eyes in one sentence, huh?) lit up. It seemed he was about to reply, but Pat interjected with a theatrical gasp.

“ßµ† wåï†!” After an overexaggerated pause, he continued: “¥ðµ ÐïÐñ'† êvêñ mêñ†ïðñ åñ¥ rï†µål§ ïñ ¥ðµr êlêvå†ðr-þï†¢h, Ðê§þï†ê †hê ðßvïðµ§ñê§§ ð£ ï† åll!”

He let himself fall out halfway over the edge of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, now hanging upside-down, all six pairs of his arms folded across his chest. “Wh¥'Ð ¥ðµ Ðð †hå†?”

A sour look flickered in the collar-eye; Eye Guy’s bioluminesence shifted into a more toxic shade of green. An aggravated groan seeped through his gnashing teeth.

“.⃥.̸.⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘒̸ 𝘞̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸ 𝘗̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗖⃥𝘐̸𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘙̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸!⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘈̸𝗗⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗠⃥!̸”

“Öh, Ì'm ñð† §å¥ïñg ¥ðµ ÐïÐ,” Pat agreed, his pitch dripping with honey that was so obviously pumped full of venom. “Ì†'§ jµ§†—†ð ßê ¢lêår: ï£ ¥ðµ åñÐ I årê §µþþð§êÐ †ð ßê ïñvðlvêÐ, †hêñ whð årê ¥ðµ †hïñkïñg åßðµ† £ðr †hå† †hïrÐ þår†ï¢ïþåñ†?”

Now it was Eye Guy’s turn to hissssss, talons leaving long gashes in the old attic floor panels.

“.⃥.̸.⃥𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘒̸𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥,̸” he finally muttered.

Pat nodded with a snarky hum, his eyes all narrowing to slits. “Èxå¢†l¥. §ð, wh¥ †hê HÈLL årê ¥ðµ å§kïñg mê †ð ßê ïñvlðvêÐ ï£ HÈ'§ gðññå ßê †hêrê?!”

“𝗕⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸ 𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘈̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘉̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸!⃥” Eye Guy snapped back, his voice now booming enough for Sol’s ears to ring.

“Wêll, MÄ¥ßÈ ¥ðµ jµ§† håvêñ'† ßêêñ lððkïñg hårÐ êñðµgh,” Pat snipped. With an awful crunching sound, he twisted his torso around on itself in a way that would've been more than enough to snap a mortal spine five times over, turning his back to the other monster. “Hðw åßðµ† ¥ðµ jµ§† jðg ðñ åñÐ kêêþ †r¥ïñg?”

“𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸ 𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸!⃥” Eye Guy protested. “𝗧⃥𝘙̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸,⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘍̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥,̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘌̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥,̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸ 𝗜⃥'̸𝗠⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘕̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸𝗪⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗪⃥𝘖̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥!̸”

“Öh, å§ ï£ Ì'M †HÈ þRÖßLÈM!” Pat’s neck swiveled in the opposite of the direction he’d just shifted, soon staring daggers at his guest yet again. “Ì£ ¥ðµ rêåll¥ £êêl †hå† wå¥, †hêñ wh¥ §hðµlÐ Ì ¢årê?!”

Following the new pattern, one pair of his arms bent backwards as he raised them, wrists popping and cricking as he made air-quotes with his claws. “ÐïÐñ'† ¥ÖÚ †êll mê †ð 'jµ§† §å¥ ñð' å† †hå† £ê§†ïvål årðµñÐ 4000 ßÇ?”

Eye Guy growled deep in his throat. He then shook his head, pressing a hand to his temple and dragging it down his face (and nearly getting one of his claws caught in his eye-sockets).

“𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥𝘠̸ 𝘑̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗬⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥,̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸?⃥”

“Wêll, ñêï†hêr ¢åñ ¥ðµ!” Pat finally slid all the way out of his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing, his form unfurling to land on the floor with a heavy thud. He arched his back, drumming his talons against wood.

Eye Guy lightly shook his head, began pacing in small, tight circles.

“𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗟⃥𝘋̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥,̸” he responded after a moment, “𝗕⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘈̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘜̸𝗗⃥𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸ 𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘜̸𝗖⃥𝘒̸ 𝘜̸𝗣⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸ 𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘕̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘏̸𝗨⃥𝘎̸𝗘⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗬⃥.̸”

He halted, all eyes now focusing on his host. “𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘐̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗦⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗨⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸ 𝘐̸𝗡⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘜̸𝗚⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸.⃥”

He crawled a few paces closer, only stopping once he was a mere few inches away from getting in Pat’s face. “'⃥𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸𝗧⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘍̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥,̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸ 𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗨⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸ 𝘐̸𝗡⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘜̸𝗚⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸.⃥”

Silence.

Though he didn’t shrink back, still baring his fangs and fuming…there was no denying how Pat stiffened. As quick as he was to mask the spark of anxiety in his eyes, he was somehow still far too late.

Sol swallowed a lump in their throat. Even with how well they’d gotten to know him, they’d never really thought that Pat could actually be…perturbed by anything, considering the hobbies he carried out.

It wouldn’t have taken a genius to guess that Eye Guy had a hidden-in-plain-sight lair of his own. Was it connected to The Abnormal Orchard? If so, how? Why?

Not only that, but Sol could remember a few of Pat’s semi-recent ranting-sessions; all vague venting about some other abomination. There was no way aforementioned monster wasn’t the ‘HE’ Eye Guy had admitted to involving with whatever ritual was on the table.

But that other name that had been brought up…Ah’ Mung-Stus. Sol had never heard anything like that from Pat.

Who—or what—was this other creature? And what did any of this have to do with the moon?

Without warning, Eye Guy shifted in place.

“𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘒̸ 𝘈̸𝗕⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘛̸,⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘊̸𝗘⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘙̸𝗬⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘎̸ 𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘛̸𝗬⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘚̸𝗦⃥𝘜̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸,” he declared, turning away to crawl toward the attic window. He paused as his hands grasped the edges of the hollow frame once again.

“𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘜̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘋̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸𝗙⃥.̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸ 𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸𝗬⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸-⃥𝘍̸𝗜⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘋̸;⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘏̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸ 𝘐̸𝗧⃥.̸𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘔̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥,̸ 𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗤⃥𝘜̸𝗜⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥𝘚̸.⃥”

A few of the watery orbs lining Eye Guy’s shoulders rolled over to stare at Pat. And for the very first time that night, Pat glanced away.

“𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗘⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥.̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘎̸𝗨⃥𝘠̸𝗦⃥'̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘑̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗥⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗖⃥𝘏̸ 𝘖̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘙̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸ 𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘎̸𝗛⃥𝘛̸.⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸ 𝘉̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘖̸ 𝘉̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗠⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘖̸𝗝⃥𝘌̸𝗖⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗫⃥𝘛̸ 𝘍̸𝗘⃥𝘞̸ 𝘔̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘈̸,” Eye Guy concluded.

And with that, he reared back and dove through the window. All the smoke that had accompanied him was suddenly drawn out after him, like he’d opened up some kind of invisible vacuum. It took a long few moments, but eventually the air was clear again.

Slowly-but-surely, the lively sounds of various nocturnes echoed through the world outside the museum.

Even so, Sol didn’t move, no matter how much their cramped muscles screamed at them to.

Not until Pat climbed back onto his cocoon-hammock-nest-thing and turned his head to regard their hiding spot. The Illuminati’s Cousin had finally closed, disappearing from his forehead altogether.

“Çðå§† ï§ ¢lêår,” he called, his voice drenched in something that was soft yet bitter.

Sol gently tapped Charcoal on the shoulder. He finally closed his mouth, smothering the flame that had been part of their cover for what felt like hours. As the cat hopped away from his owner’s lap to stretch, Sol clambered out of the crawl space, quickly getting to their feet almost like a soldier called to attention.

They reached into their jacket, palming their flint striker-knife. They couldn’t help it; as dangerous as it could be, it just made for a shockingly good stim-toy at times.

“...So.” Sol chewed their lip. “I take it the moon is very angry or something?”

“ñð† qµï†ê,” Pat replied as he curled back up, his pale, shining eyes contemplative and…wait, was that an iota of actual dread? “Ì†'§ å† rï§k ð£ gê††ïñg êå†êñ ïñ å lï††lê whïlê.”

“Oh.” Sol rocked back and forth on their heels, not sure what else they could really say to that. Still, they were nothing if not tenacious, so they pressed on. “Eaten by what, exactly?”

Pat clicked his many teeth again, eyes tracing all the network of the silk he’d woven to make himself a proper den after going far, far too long without one.

“...¥'kñðw †hê å§†êrðïÐ †hå† êñ†êrêÐ Èår†h'§ ðrßï† åßðµ† å mðñ†h ågð?”

Sol nodded, politely ignoring how their question had gone unanswered. “Yeah. 2024 PT5. What about it?”

A hollow chuckle slithered up and out of whatever misshapen lungs were hiding inside Pat’s system.

He glanced down at his mortal companion, his mouth stretching much too quickly and fluidly to form a wry, exhausted grin on his features. “Älrïgh†. ñðw, †êll mê êvêr¥†hïñg ¥ðµ kñðw åßðµ† åggrê§ïvê mïmï¢r¥…”

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedou

#my writing #my stories #goretober 2024 #a week of goretober 2024 #my fanegos #fanmade egos #leviathanpat #matpat #egopats #matthew patrick #sol magee #sol the semi-cultist #gtlive ash #ash egos #colosseptic #jacksepticeye #septicegos #sean mcloughlin

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spartacus-the-dreamer · 24 days ago

Text

AKENAMĒP THE SAND PRINCESS PART 2

~A Gladiator II fanfiction

The navis oneraria glided through the mouth of the Tiber, its dark hull cutting through the waters with slow, deliberate purpose. A warm wind carried the scent of salt and distant spices, mingling with the acrid smoke of Rome’s ever-burning hearths. The city loomed ahead, its seven hills crowned with temples and marble palaces, the heart of an empire that had swallowed kingdoms whole.

Marcus Acacius stood at the prow, his posture rigid as he watched the docks of Ostia grow closer. He had spent enough years in the East to understand the weight of what this moment meant. Egypt had long been an ally to Rome, its wealth funnelled into the coffers of the emperors, but this—this was different.

Behind him, veiled in linen so fine it was near translucent, stood Princess Akenamēp. The golden asp coiled around her wrist marked her for what she was—a daughter of the old blood, a descendant of Pharaohs who had ruled the Two Lands before Rome had even been a whisper on the wind.

Her dark eyes, lined with malachite, remained unreadable as she studied the approaching shore. “This is where your emperors await ?” she asked, her voice smooth, measured.

Marcus inclined his head. “The Emperors Callaca and Geta hold court in Rome itself, but we dock in Ostia first. The journey will continue by road.”

She tilted her head, the corner of her lips curving into a smile. “And tell me, Legatus, do your emperors share their throne in peace, or will they attempt to impress me with a display of discord ?”

Marcus exhaled through his nose. The tension between the brothers was no secret, not even to those beyond Rome’s reach.

“You will see soon enough,” he replied. The gangplank groaned as it was lowered. As Marcus extended his arm, Akenamēp hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand lightly atop his. Then, together, they descended onto Roman soil, stepping into the wolves’s territory.

…

Akenamep looked around curiously. The air was thick with the hustle and bustle of the docks, the clatter of crates being moved, the chatter of traders shouting out their wares, and the distant cry of gulls circling above the quay. But beneath the noise, a quiet tension hovered in the air as Marcus Acacius led Princess Akenamēp through the crowd.

Her presence drew curious glances, but she moved with the grace of someone who had learned to command attention without a single word. Her eyes, though seemingly aloof, were constantly taking in her surroundings, measuring every detail.

Marcus, aware of her every move, kept his gaze fixed ahead. He had been tasked with ensuring the princess’ safety and comfort, and that was what he intended to do. But also…He dared a quick glance at her. All those years and the little princess had always been one of his most fervent defenders and allies in Egypt. He had to ensure her safety for political reasons—but also personal. The chariot awaiting them was grand but simple in design, its wheels adorned with gold leaf and its horses black as night, snorting softly as they pawed at the ground.

The driver, a grizzled veteran of the legions, bowed low as they approached. “All is ready, Legatus,” he reported, his voice low and respectful.

“Good,” Marcus replied, stepping aside to allow Akenamēp to enter first. She slid into the chariot, her movements fluid and graceful. As she settled onto the plush cushions, she glanced at Marcus.

“Do your emperors expect a tribute ?” she asked coolly. “Or will this be another attempt at a trade agreement that benefits only one party ?”

Marcus climbed in after her, adjusting his cape to avoid it getting entangled. The horses shifted impatiently, their hooves clacking against the cobblestones, and the driver clucked to them, urging them into motion. As the chariot rumbled along the narrow streets of Ostia, Marcus considered how to answer the princess’ question. He knew the history of Roman dealings with Egypt, and the bitterness of those agreements still lingered in the air like the scent of burnt oil.

“Rome,” he said at last, meeting her gaze briefly, “has a habit of taking what it wants.”

Akenamep’s gaze flickered to him, as though considering his words.

“It always does, does it not ?” Her tone was even, but there was an underlying feeling of anger that she hid. “But I will play my part, as I always do. If the gods smile upon us, perhaps this will not be a transaction, but a partnership.”

Marcus leaned back into his seat, the rough weave of the fabric pressing against his shoulder blades. Partnerships were like sandcastles, all too easily washed away by the tide.

“A partnership would imply mutual benefit,” he said, his voice low. “Rome is known for taking more than it gives.”

The charioteer guided the horses onto the Via Ostiensis, the road that led north to Rome. The clop of hooves and the creak of the chariot wheels were the only sounds between them for a moment. She looked at the general. "You must be glad to come back home, general…"

Marcus raised a brow at the change in topic. The princess was sharp—she must have noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor when they left the dock. Or she was attempting to catch him off guard. Either way, he took the bait.

“Ostia hardly feels like home anymore,” he replied. “But I am glad to be back in Rome. The East has its wonders, but nothing compares to the city.”

She smiled. "Do you have a family waiting for you ?"

Marcus’ expression hardened. The question touched a nerve that he thought he had buried beneath years of campaign and blood.

“No,” he said after a moment. “There is no family to return to, only soldiers and duty.”

The sun was setting, painting the landscape in hues of gold and amber. The distant silhouette of Rome’s seven hills loomed on the horizon, growing larger with each kilometer they covered. Her kohl-lined eyes remained fixed on the same horizon as Marcus’, catching the fading light of the sun until their dark pupils glowed with its brilliance.

"…The same sun," she murmured.

Marcus followed her gaze, watching the day surrender to the west. It was undeniable—the very sun that shone on Rome, caressed the ancient pyramids of Egypt, and set over the Parthian deserts. For a brief moment, the immense distances that separated their worlds seemed to collapse into insignificance.

"Yes," he agreed quietly. "The same sun."

A gentle smile graced her lips as she closed her eyes, as if savoring the ephemeral beauty of that shared light.

"Though the sounds differ, they all sing in unison. Life…life in a city destined for greatness," she observed.

Marcus leaned back against the chariot’s side, the rough-hewn wheels grinding over the graveled road. Her words echoed within him—both alien and achingly familiar. He had witnessed countless cities, yet none held the majestic allure of Rome. Still, he could appreciate her perspective: the vibrant pulse of the streets, the intricate tapestry of voices that together created a melody as beautiful as it was brutal. She possessed an uncanny ability to see beyond mere appearances. He studied her for a long moment, noting how the setting sun transformed her dusky skin to a burnished gold, with shadows delicately tracing her features.

"You hear Rome's song, then," he finally said in an even tone. "Most only perceive noise."

She opened her eyes and met his. "And what do you hear, General Acacius ?"

Marcus fell silent as the rhythmic clatter of wheels and the soft cadence of the horses filled the pause. "I hear..." he began, weighing his words. In his mind swirled the clang of forges, the murmur of a thousand conversations, and the distant roar of the Colosseum at the height of its gladiatorial bouts.

"I hear the song of an empire—a melody of power and glory..." he paused, searching her face, "…and of blood."

A soft smile deepened on her face as she leaned back. "How much blood, I wonder ? Isn't it said that your city was founded on fratricide ?"

A dark smile tugged at the corner of Marcus's mouth. "Yes, the tale of Romulus and Remus is a brutal one," he admitted. "But Rome was born from violence—it thrives on it."

Another pause allowed the creaking of the chariot to punctuate his words. "In Rome, the weak are devoured, and the strong rise to claim their place."

She hummed in quiet agreement. "Tell me, do you know my favorite part of that story ?"

Marcus tilted his head, intrigued. Rarely did he find himself discussing ancient lore, much less with a princess from a distant land. "And which part might that be ?"

His expression softened as he turned his gaze back to the shifting landscape. "That they were raised by a wolf."

He paused, his thumb lightly grazing the hilt of his gladius, the cool metal a silent reminder of battles past. "It symbolizes a rugged upbringing, mirroring the fierce nature of Rome itself."

Soon the chariot passed beneath an ancient archway that marked the city’s boundary—they were nearly there.

"Is there a reason for this sudden interest in old tales, Princess Akenamēp ?" Marcus inquired, his tone laced with curiosity.

Her expression remained serene as she responded, "Do not the gods speak to us in countless forms, General Acacius ?"

She turned her gaze to the unfolding landscape as dusk fell; the sun’s final traces of red melted behind the hills, and the city’s lights began to twinkle like a scattered crown above the darkness.

"Rome was nurtured by a she-wolf. An unlikely mother, yet the city thrives regardless," she said softly.

Marcus watched her intently as she observed the approaching metropolis. Her regal bearing, the contrast of her smooth, dark skin against the pale linen of her dress, the kohl that framed her eyes, and the perpetual half-smile on her lips—all combined to create a vision of quiet strength and indescribable beauty. For a long moment, he wondered what emotions stirred within her as she beheld Rome. Was it fear, curiosity, or merely the acknowledgment of another milestone in her journey ?

Her eyes met his, and her smile widened imperceptibly. "You have the eyes of a wolf, General Acacius. Tell me—are you one of Rome's true heirs ?"

Comparisons to wolves were not new—often uttered by those who saw only the blade in his hand and the blood on his armor. Yet her words, imbued with quiet insight, struck a chord within him. Lowering his voice, he met her steady gaze. "And what would you know of wolves, Princess of Egypt ?"

Her eyes did not waver as she replied, "Does your people not worship Mars—the god of blood and war, the harbinger of victory and demise ? Often depicted with a wolf's skin. And if I am not mistaken, your city was founded by two men raised by an animal." An almost imperceptible smirk curved her lips. "How fitting—a city of animals."

He smiled a little. Rome’s deities and legends were steeped in bloodshed and conflict. Indeed, the city had been born from fratricide and strife. Perhaps Rome was indeed forged on the blood and bones of those consumed by the strong.

And perhaps, he was one of those very wolves she spoke of.

She laughed softly and the sound was like the rustling of silk.

"I am only being playful. I know that wolves howl at the moon, and are feared for their sharp fangs and claws." She shifted on the seat, her form slowly bent forward before tilting her head curiously at him. "But I also know that they hunt as a pack, and are fiercely loyal to those who belong to them. So tell me, General Acacius ? Are you loyal ?"

He held her gaze, the question hanging heavy in the air between them. Loyalty. A concept as ancient as the city itself, steeped in blood and battle. He could sense her testing him, trying to peel back the layers of his armor. She knew his reputation for victory, but she wanted to see beneath the surface.

She wanted the truth.

"My loyalty," he said slowly, "is to Rome. It is the city that gave me a name, an identity. My duty is to the Empire and its people, nothing else."

Her smile widened—satisfied. "…Good General. Loyal to his masters. Tell me…do you answer by name or is it sufficient for one of your emperors to whistle for you to answer the call ?"

Marcus' jaw tensed briefly at her words. To be reduced to a dog, answering to a whistle. It was a belittling analogy. Yet he knew there was a degree of truth in what she was saying. He was a weapon of the empire, as sharp and deadly as his gladius. When called upon, he answered.

"My role is to serve Rome," he replied after a few seconds, "in whatever capacity necessary. The emperors hold the power, not the dog, Princess Akenamēp."

She hummed and remained silent for a moment before smirking as she started whistling innocently all the way to the palace. Marcus gritted his teeth at the sound of her whistling, the melody light and innocent, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of mockery he could detect. He knew she was toying with him, testing his patience, and it was working. Her every question, every gesture, was designed to dig beneath his skin, to see how far she could push before he snapped.

But he refused to give her the satisfaction. He held his silence, watching stonily as the chariot rolled to a halt before the Imperial Palace.

Once arrived, she waited patiently for him to offer her his hand…Marcus offered his hand dutifully, helping her descend from the chariot. His touch lingered for a moment, his calloused fingers against the smooth skin of her hand. He could feel the heat of her flesh, the faint thrum of her pulse. He held her gaze as she stood before him. She was a vision in the dusky light, her kohl-rimmed eyes like the night itself. This princess was like a snake, he thought, her mood shifting like quicksilver.

She met his gaze with a knowing smile before slithering her arm around his.

"Shall we enter, dear wolf ?"

Her every move was calculated, her scent sweet and heady. Like a snake, she coiled herself around him without him realising.

"Yes," he replied, his voice even. "Let's proceed."

As they walked in, he noted the curious glances from the palace guards. To see a foreign princess on the arm of Rome's most decorated general was an odd sight. He could hear the soft murmur of whispers in their wake, the soldiers clearly curious about this newcomer. He looked down at her, her expression calm and unruffled, as if they were merely taking an evening walk. She was completely at ease…or so he thought.

His eyes caught something at the corner of his eye. He lowered his gaze slightly and saw the way she was stroking her knuckles with her thumb mechanically…as if caressing her own skin to reassure herself. It was a subtle gesture, subconscious, but it hinted at something beneath the surface. Was she as unworried as she appeared, or was this a mask, a way to hide an internal turmoil ?

Marcus continued on, leading her into the palace, the grand halls and corridors stretching out before them. He could sense the curious eyes upon them from the officials and court members, their whispered conversations just out of earshot.

And yet, the princess remained silent and unperturbed at his side, her hand still resting on his arm. She however reluctantly released his arm to take a few steps forward when it was time to greet the two most powerful men in Rome: the emperors Caracalla and Geta. Both the sons of the deceased Roman emperor Commodus and empress Julia Domna.

At the far end, upon twin thrones raised on a dais of polished onyx, sat the rulers of Rome. Caracalla and Geta.

Caracalla lounged forward, one elbow propped lazily on the gilded armrest, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm. His hair, a shock of untamed orange curls, burned like a dying ember in the dim light, sweat-matted at the edges as though he had just risen from some drunken brawl. His tunic, an ostentatious display of purple and gold, sat unfastened at the collar, revealing the flush of his skin—the hue of wine and excess. His features, broad and chiseled, were twisted into something feral. His mouth curled into an impatient sneer, his eyes sharp, predatory—like a beast sizing up its prey. His faithful pet monkey by his side on his shoulder.

Geta, by contrast, carried himself with an air of languid amusement, though his cruelty was no less dangerous. He sat upright, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers wrapped around the stem of a silver goblet. His hair, identical in its unnatural brilliance to Caracalla’s, had been oiled and shaped into something more refined, yet no less wild—like a wolf groomed in silks. His tunic, cut from the same decadent fabric, clung to his frame, though unlike his brother, he had taken care to fasten it properly, as if to suggest a veneer of restraint. His lips curved—not in a scowl, but in something worse: a smirk, lazy and knowing, as if every soul in the room were already dancing at the end of his strings.

Marcus kept a polite distance as the princess approached them.

Caracalla's eyes narrowed as they fell upon the princess, taking in her dark skin and heavy kohl-lined eyes. He giggled.

"Who is this one ?"

His brother, Geta, looked up from his goblet, his gaze flicking over the princess. He seemed more intrigued than his brother, but his expression was cold, his eyes calculating. He said nothing, waiting for the princess to introduce herself.

She raised her hand to her forehead and extended it towards them in greeting.

"Greetings, oh great emperors. I am Princess Akenamēp, an ambassador from Egypt. My father is the Pharaoh Nectanebo III. I have come to discuss the trade agreements with you and—"

Caracalla waved his hand impatiently, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Yes, yes, we know why you're here. The trade agreements, the exchange of goods, the usual boredom."

He leaned back in his seat, his gaze roaming over her again. His tone was dismissive, as if her presence held no weight.

Geta, on the other hand, was more intrigued. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue. He took a slow sip from his goblet, his eyes never leaving the princess.

Akenamēp didn’t know if she could continue so she looked back at Marcus—trying to see if she could talk again. Marcus nodded slightly, giving her permission to continue. He could see the two emperors growing bored of the princess' diplomatic formalities. Caracalla's gaze had shifted, his attention already divided.

Geta, however, remained focused on her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed her actions. He smiled.

"An Egyptian princess ? We have never had one of those visit us before, it is usually the old man who comes in person. Why isn’t he here ? Your father ?"

Akenamēp closed her eyes and forced herself not to react at the obvious taunt. She bent her head forward.

"My father is…sick, your highness. He sent me in his stead."

Caracalla chuckled, his laughter loud and boisterous. "Sick ? Or just too old to travel this far ?”

Geta, on the other hand, seemed to have a different opinion. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze more intent. "And a woman to represent him. No doubt he thinks this would soften our hearts and increase the leniency of our terms."

Akenamēp raised her head once again, her gaze meeting Geta's coolly. Her words were measured, yet her voice firm. "I assure you, my presence is not a ploy to sway you, my emperors. I was sent because my father trusts me to negotiate on his behalf. I am just as capable as any man."

Caracalla laughed again, his tone mocking. "Oh, I'm sure you are. But you see, little princess…"

He stood up and descended the dais, his steps heavy against the stone floor. He stopped before her, his face inches from hers, his gaze flickering over her frame significantly.

"…In Rome, power is something men hold. Women are meant to be seen, not heard."

She smiled innocently as she realised she was a few centimetres taller than him. Her eyes lowered and she replied.

"Is that so, Emperor Caracalla ? Rome may compensate you well then…"

Caracalla's face twisted into a scowl at her words. His pride wouldn't allow him to tolerate such brazenness from a woman, especially one of a foreign land.

"I rule Rome, you insolent princess," he said, his voice a low growl. "My empire is the envy of the world. My achievements are legendary. And you, a mere daughter of a sand-covered kingdom, dare to imply—"

Geta, watching from his throne, chuckled softly into his goblet. He was clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Akenamēp tilted her head before looking up at Geta. "I have come to discuss the terms of the trading agreements. I will go back to my ‘sand-covered kingdom’ as soon as we have reached a suitable agreement. Please. Do not see me as a woman, but a good-willed messenger for the duration of the negotiations."

Caracalla bristled, his face reddening at her audacity. But before he could retort, Geta intervened.

"Enough, brother," he said, his tone calm yet authoritative. "Let's hear what the princess has to say."

Caracalla grumbled, but subsided, returning to his throne. Geta leaned back in his seat, his gaze measuring the princess.

"Continue," he said.

She smiled and tilted her head in acknowledgment.

"Thank you, emperor Geta. As I have said, I have come here to tell you that Egypt has sent the required wheat and barley and will keep sending them for the duration of agreed contract. Egyptian linen has been provided three times in the last three months and another shipment should arrive in a few days. We also added papyrus for your literature and administration for good measure."

Caracalla scoffed, his tone derisive. "Yes, Yes, We know all of this. The grain, the linen, the papyrus, you're repeating what we are already aware of."

Geta shot him a quick glare, silencing his brother's petulant retort. He looked back at the princess.

"And what else does Egypt have to offer ?"

She smiled—she had predicted the question. "Lapis lazuli, turquoise, and amethyst that I have allowed myself to bring with me for safety. All for you, my emperors."

Caracalla's expression softened at the mention of gemstones, his gaze flickering towards the pouch of stones that the princess held. Geta, on the other hand, remained pensive, his eyes studying the princess.

"The jewels are a generous offer, princess," he said, his tone thoughtful. "But what do you ask in return for them ?"

She knew what was to come. She restrained a shudder as she finally spoke up.

"My oh so generous emperors. I have come here for a specific purpose…"

Geta's eyebrows raised marginally, his earlier amusement giving way to piqued interest. Caracalla, on the other hand, looked irritated.

"A specific purpose ?" he asked with obvious disdain. "What could you possibly want that is so important that you had to come all the way to Rome ?"

She lowered her gaze before continuing. "…My emperors. I…Egypt has taken a decision."

Caracalla groaned, his patience thinning. "Yes, yes, get to the point. What decision ?!"

Geta didn't seem as hurried however, his eyes still fixed on the princess as she gathered the courage to say next:

"…We have decided to limit—if not completely abandon—the transaction of Egyptian slaves and animals." She remained with her eyes cast downward as she prepared for their upcoming outrage. It didn’t take long.

Caracalla's face twisted into a scowl at her words. "WHAT ?"

Geta, although his expression didn't change, was clearly taken aback.

"You're saying you'll no longer offer us slaves and animals for the games ?" he asked, his voice a touch sharper than before.

She dared to look up. "…Egypt has sent you many slaves and animals over the years. My father even witnessed your games and took pleasure in the entertainment you so graciously offered…But let us see the games as they are. Sacrifices. Human sacrifices. And my people dropped such customs long ago. If we keep supplying and supporting such…barbaric customs…our country would be going against the evolution we pride ourselves upon. The slaves we sent are our people. We cannot keep sending them abroad when we—ourselves—have noticed a shortage in births."

Caracalla's face turned an alarming shade of red at the princess’ words. His eyes were like slits, his face twisted in anger. "Barbaric. You dare to call Rome's games barbaric ?!"

Geta, however, remained unnervingly calm. His gaze was steely, but his hands were steady on the arms of his throne. Caracalla continued, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"You dare to lecture us on civility ?" he snapped, his voice a harsh bark. "Your country, as you call it, is nothing more than a collection of sand and dunes. We, on the other hand, are the grand empire of Rome. Our games, our customs, are an essential part of our cultural heritage. They are a reminder of our strength, our power. And you would dare take that away from us ?"

She looked down. "…You have your own slaves. Our traditions and human ressources’ shortage prevent us from giving you more. But I dare to think you have enough to last…"

Caracalla sputtered, his face now verging on purple. "Enough slaves ?! What nonsense. We can never have enough slaves. The more we have, the more we can train for the games."

Geta remained silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving the princess. His expression was unreadable, his thoughts obscured by his usual cool facade. But his gaze was more intense, his fingers slowly drumming against the armrest of his throne.

She looked back at Marcus before returning her attention to the emperors. "We are providers for a majority of the food you eat, the fabric you use for your clothes, the paper you write on and the gold or precious gems we offer for your protection…Isn’t that enough ?"

Caracalla seemed to be about to explode at this point, but Geta held up a hand, silencing his brother. He leaned forward, his gaze fixed intently on the princess.

"Your words are true," he said, his voice almost a purr. "You seem to put much value on the items you provide us, princess. But do you realize the scale of our empire ? We need vast quantities of those resources, day after day, just to keep it running."

He leaned back, his smile cold.

"And, as it were, we prefer to have more than one supplier."

She tilted her head. "…But we are your first supplier. We are closest to you by sea and our empire is as great in number as yours. And to be honest, emperor Geta ? With all due respect, you offer us protection against…what ? You are the biggest military threat we have now."

Caracalla scoffed. "You think we only protect you from outsiders ? We protect your entire country, your borders, your people."

Geta lifted a hand to silence his brother once again. He looked at the princess, his gaze still intense.

"I understand your concern, princess,” he said. “But you must also understand our position. Rome is a vast empire with endless needs."

He paused, then leaned forward again, his smile still cold.

"Are you suggesting that you could withdraw your supplies if we don't agree to your terms ?"

She took a deep breath and raised her head to look at them challengingly. "…Maybe we would. Maybe we wouldn’t. Would you be willing to risk that bet ?"

Caracalla laughed, the tension finally breaking with his outburst.

"You underestimate us, little princess," he said, his tone mocking, "We have conquered lands and peoples many times greater than yours. You are but a flea compared to the lion that is Rome."

Geta remained silent, his expression never changing. His eyes were locked with the princess’. Caracalla continued, stepping forward.

"You think yourself powerful, offering us what you believe we cannot live without. But do not forget, we are the ones holding the whip here. You are but a subject to our rule."

As his brother raved like a madman, Geta leaned back in his throne, his eyes still on the princess. His expression was unreadable, his mind working behind his inexpressive gaze.

She didn’t look at Caracalla. She knew where the true threat was…She didn’t shy away from Geta’s gaze. The silent wolf was just as dangerous as the howling one…

Caracalla took another step forward, his hand itching for his dagger.

"You are on our land," he snarled, "In our palace, in our city. You are surrounded by our guards on our territory. You are a guest. You would do well to remember it."

Geta raised a hand once more, silencing his brother once again. Caracalla obeyed. Then, Geta stood up, descending the small platform of the dais which held the thrones. His steps echoed in the large hall as he approached the princess, the toga he wore flowing behind him.

She was suddenly eyes to eyes with him and smiled. "…Greetings, emperor Geta. I was wondering when you would grace me with your presence down from your throne."

She wasn’t mocking him. She had had to see Caracalla get close and personal three times before Geta had decided she was worth the approach. He lifted an eyebrow, his gaze flicking towards his seat on the dais and back at her.

"I was simply enjoying the scene from above," he said mockingly. "Your exchange with my brother was quite entertaining."

He took another step closer, looking down at her, his gaze calculating. She didn’t flinch, even when those dark golden orbs highlighted with red liner met hers. His lips curled into a slight smirk.

"You have much courage," he noted, his voice smooth, "To come here, into the heart of the Roman Empire, and to openly challenge us like this."

Her eyes glanced up at Caracalla before returning to him. "Challenge ? Those are merely new the conditions of the trading agreements."

She smiled placidly. "Do not shoot…the messenger."

Geta's smirk deepened at her reply. He turned his head towards his brother.

"Did you hear that ? My brother," he said with a smile, "The princess is just a messenger, is she ?"

Caracalla bristled, his fists clenching again. Geta's gaze shifted back towards the princess, his voice turning smooth again.

"But you are no mere messenger, are you ? You speak for the kingdom of Egypt itself."

She tilted her head quizzically at him. "Isn’t that what a messenger does ? Talk on behalf of its sender ?"

Geta chuckled, the sound deep and dark. "Oh, my dear princess, you are a diplomat through and through."

He took another step forward, his gaze still locked on hers. "But you and I both know that you are more than that. You do not simply speak on Egypt's behalf. You think and act on Egypt's behalf."

He slowly walked around her, his eyes taking in every detail.

"You have power," he told her, "You have authority. You are not simply a puppet."

He stopped directly behind her, so close she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

"You are a princess," he continued, his tone almost mocking, "But you are also a leader. You hold your country's future in your hands. It must be…exhilarating, is it not ?"

She immediately turned around.

"If you dare to imply that I am blinded by power then I…"

She did not expect him to be so close to her and her eyes widened momentarily in surprise. Geta's expression was cool as he looked down at her. His brown eyes reflected the light of the room—as hellfire within the darkness of darkest pits…

"Oh, is that how you interpreted my words ?" he asked, his voice a low purr before he smirked. "I merely meant to say that you are not some fragile blossom, easily swayed by the wind. You are a lioness, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness…"

Marcus was silently watching the scene and notice how both brothers seemed to circle around the princess like two vultures ready for a feast. But the princess didn’t let weakness show.

She smiled politely at Geta. "Am I ? But I am just a woman…surely, I wouldn’t be so dangerous as you seem to suggest—unless you are scared, emperor Geta ? But no. How absurd…"

He arched an eyebrow at her and his smile widened.

"A woman, yes." He agreed before whispering in her ear. "But just because you were graced with a feminine form, doesn't mean you are no threat, especially with you daring to enter our palace and making demands."

She shivered at his words and couldn’t find the words to defend herself. Caracalla, who had been silently watching until now, could no longer hold back.

"Confidence, or arrogance ?" he interrupted, his voice sneering.

"Caracalla…" Geta warned firmly but, Caracalla ignored him, his eyes still fixed on the princess.

"What right do you have, to come here, into our very own palace and demand such things ?" he repeated his brother’s words, his voice growing louder, "You offer us nothing we cannot live without. You think yourselves superior ? You, and your bunch of sun-burnt monkeys ? You are but grains of sand to us."

She glared at him and took a step out of the circle the emperors attempted to trap her in. "Sand storms are known to kill men, emperor Caracalla. I suggest you never forget that…"

Caracalla's face turned red with anger.

"Are you threatening me ?" he thundered, his fists clenching.

Geta took a step forward, positioning himself between the princess and Caracalla. "Calm yourself, brother."

Caracalla huffed, his face still purple with rage.

"I will not stand for such insolence !" he ignored his brother and shouted, "We could make your country bow at our feet if we wanted to !"

Geta laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, his gaze warning his brother to keep silent. He could see this was quickly getting out of hand.

"I think there is no room for threats tonight, brother," he said calmly. "We are here to discuss, not to fight."

Akenamēp bowed—knowing that she better not push her luck. "I will be leaving in 6 days. You are free to think about our proposal until then…I will leave you to your affairs. If you wish to speak to me, do send a messenger to the boat—as I imagine you wouldn’t wish for my presence within your home for the duration of my stay."

"We shall be in contact with you before you leave," Geta said, his voice cool and formal.

Caracalla, still angry but more controlled, did not comment. He simply folded his arms in front of his chest and glowered at the princess.

Akenamēp nodded and was about to leave when she stopped and looked at General Acacius—waiting for him. As the princess looked at him, he nodded and walked up to her.

She smiled and wrapped an arm around his.

"Let’s go."

Acacius nodded and placed a hand on hers as they walked out of the palace. As they disappeared from view, Geta’s gaze lingered on the place she had been standing just moments before.

Meanwhile, Caracalla scoffed, breaking the silence.

"That pompous little…”

Geta laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, silencing him.

"Let her leave," Geta said, his voice cool, "The less time she spends under our roof, the less trouble we'll have. She is leaving in six days. We have time to think."

Caracalla grumbled but did not argue. He knew his brother was right. The princess was a headache, and the sooner she left, the better…

#gladiator 2 #general acacius #geta and caracalla #emperor geta #oc

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