#May that spirit twist your heart until its shape remembers your personal comfort is not worth a life

[bijoumikhawal]

"Oh but if so and so gets elected then-" read 1-45 Have Lied, 46-100 Will Be No Different (I Don’t Want a Dyke for President) by Mwende Katwiwa before you spit out representational platitudes. I am SIIIIIIICK OF IT. Be brave. Imagine bigger things. Imagine a better future. If you don't, it will never come! You deserve better! The world deserves better! This is not a good world! You could elect the Messiah and it would still not be good! The system itself is rotted! Nothing can grow within it! Do people not nod along when people explain that "systemic racism" describes a state of affairs where it is possible that no individual in the system is racist, but the system itself reproduces racism? If you can understand that, never open your mouth about this nonsense again! Fight for a better world!

[visd3stele]

The beauty and his beast - wolfstar fic

summary: two different nights, years passed, some things changes, but some never do

TW: nightmares, PTSD, trauma, non depictive child abuse, themes of suicidal thoughts

A/N: I loved writing this, but I am so nervous about it. What do you think?

requests ; masterlist

fanart credit picture down below: @lunopal

Ragged voices licked his ears. Three different ones overlapped in a cacophony of hissed whispers and dooming laughs. From where he stood in the middle of his cell, Sirius could see a silhouette standing in the open door. Open, because there was no way he could escape. Three Dementors floated in a circle around him, so fast he could barely tell them apart. Black smoke, a burning smell and shadows whirled under low hoods, bringing him to his knees.

The man in the door curled his lips in a terrible grin. The Dementors were his and with each mind they broke, with each soul they ate, the wizard gained a sense of pride and morbid joy.

Sirius knew it. He knew the man, back in his school years - how far they seemed now! But Sirius also knew he was delusional. The Dementors bow to no one. They have no law, no caretaker, no master. Only their purpose.

Continuing to swirl around his frail body, sinked in to a third of what it used to be, bony edges poking out through dirty thin layers of clothing, the Dementors closed in on Sirius. Flashes of memories flew before the Animagus' eyes. James' empty ones, still open in a silent plea for his sacrifice to be enough to save his family, his brown hair dipped in his own blood, body angled in an unnatural position with his hand stretched forward above his head as if reaching for his best friend. Lily's tears, yet to dry and evaporates, stained her too pale face, the red of her hair sprayed around too lively; no blood pools formed around her lifeless body, laid on its belly as it fell onward, as if leaping away from her son, so the baby won't have to see it. And finally Harry, his godson, crying in his crib, a brown-red crust shaped like a lightning forming on his forehead; his green, small eyes, swollen, puffy and trimmed with red followed his godfather as the man turned his back on him and ran outside.

Sirius cursed loudly, beginning to shackle the chains trapping him in place in case he tried to escape the daily visit of the Prison Warrant and his guards. But the now twenty five years old has stopped trying to run a long time ago. What good would it be? There was nothing - no one - waiting from him out in the world. No, Sirius trashing around the cold, dirty dais, snapping the metal biting in his wrists, bruising his effervescent skin and almost cracking his bones as well was his attempt to run from his own mind. If he could just wipe the haunting memories away with a shook of his head, a twist of his back or punching and kicking the thick walls.

Fragments of thoughts he wasn't sure belonged to him invaded his mind. "Your fault. Traitor. Another Black." And, worst of all, one pained howl, a desperate scream in the night. Sirius wasn't sure if he heard it, or the dark creatures around toyed with him, but Remus' wild, feral yell of pure hurt reverberated inside the bars of his mind. The young wizard shut his eyes closed tightly, hoping to brush away the sound, the voices. Failing to do so, he released a scream of his own, only a hint of Padfoot, the big, black dog, his alter ego, printed in it.

The thirty four years old man yanked up. The bed sheets were soaked in his sweat, the blanket throwed on the floor. Sirius passed a shacking hand over his face, feeling the hot air leaving his mouth in short breaths, than big inhales with no exhale, the burning of tears on his warm red cheeks and the running nose. His lips felt sewed together all of a sudden, as chill after chill entered his body, cooling off his face too quickly.

It was just a nightmare, he knew. He escaped Azkaban, has been a free man from over a week already. But Sirius Black couldn't let the twelve years in prison go. The things he saw there, what the Dementors showed him day after day, carved their way in his brain, refusing to leave. Yes, he may have been wrong: his family and living friend welcomed him back. Harry was warming up to hid godfather, Nymphadora Tonks was eager to know her uncle, Andromeda even reached out, sending letter after letter and Remus - well, Remus hugged him tight and apologized for believing that filthy rat's lies. The werewolf spent his days, from first ray of sunshine until the last drop of sunlight. But the nights he went home. The nights when ghosts came to play, wounds teared open and pain leaked like blood from Sirius' heart, Remus was gone.

He tried to remember a time they didn't share a bed - before Azkaban, of course. Not in a sexual way, though it came to that in the late years of Hogwarts too. But simply for the comfort they each found in the other. It started in the second year, Sirius recalled.

Four twelve years old boys in a room seemed like a receipt for disaster. In a way, it was. After finding out their friend's secret, James, Sirius and Peter decided to sneak in the herbology cabinet, get Mandrake leaves and become Animagus. Seeing as they got away with it, the four created their enchanted map and become the Marauders, messers Prongs, Padfoot, Moony and Wormtail, waltzing their merry way through Hogwarts.

Not everything was merry and joyful, though. And despite their reputation, the wizards could be grave and serious when need be. Like one night, when Sirius woke them all up with his cries. The grey eyed boy stood on top of his bed covers, knees drawn to his chest, hands tangled in his shoulder length hair. He leaned back and forth, trembling. Front teeth bit in his lower lip to prevent him from making more noises as silent tears rolled down his face.

The other three boys thought Sirius saw a mean spirit, the haunted glassy look in his eyes only proving their theory further. But no danger threatened in the shadows of their room. No monster lurked in the darkness.

James was the first to get up and surf his way to the pure blood. Remus followed closely behind while Peter watched everything from the safety of his bed. Sirius' episode truly spooked him.

"Padfoot, mate, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. 'm sorry. Go back to sleep."

James and Remus changed worried looks at the sourness of Sirius' voice. Their friend would usually be the epitome of confidence, yet now he seemed to desperately try to shrink and disappear. But it was late and they were tired, so the boys decided with a swift nod that they'd pick up the subject in the morning and climbed back under their covers.

Remus jolted awake. Two out of his three best friends were sound asleep. Sirius still stared at the wall in front of him, breathing jerky. Due to his fine, superior hearing, the werewolf discerned the Black boy's muffled whimpers, sounds that kept him from sleeping.

"Sirius, why are you so afraid?" Remus whispered.

" 'm not afraid, Moony. Sleep."

"Can't. Werewolf remember? I hear you trying to not cry. You can cry, you know."

"I know." Sirius said in a tone that clearly showed he doesn't. With a sigh, Remus threw away his blanket, slipped his feet in his shoes and trailed his legs over the dorm's brick daises until he reached his friend's bed. The brown haired boy signed Sirius to scoop over, which he did, to both wizards surprise.

Later, when talking about that night, Padfoot admitted he was too tired, too shocked and too lost in his mind to think and only acted on auto pilot.

Remus brought the blankets to cover them both, still seated as they were. "Do you need a hug?" Sirius hesitated before answering, but eventually he nodded twice, a quick movement as if the boy was ashamed to admit it and wanted to pass unnoticed.

But Remus smiled softly and wrapped his hands around him. Sirius clinged onto his friend. The warmth of the gesture, the cozy closeness of a settled, stable body, a person that cared deeply about him and only him as a being, set the restrained tears free. Remus held Sirius until his body stilled and he could feel no more tears soaking his pajamas.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sirius swallowed, but the words demanded to be spoken. "Yes."

"Alright. I'm gonna ask you questions and you can answer with yes or no. It's your choice if you want to elaborate. Sounds good?"

"Yes." Sirius said and for a moment his usual, ironic self showed up.

"Was it a nightmare?"

"Yes."

"About your family?"

With a shudder, the grey eyed boy forced out another "yes."

"Your brother?"

"No."

"Your parents, then. Did they - did they do something to you?"

"Yes." Remus' arms tighten around him and he clunged harder to his friend as well. In the safety of the Gryffindor dorm, shared with his most trusted peers, comforted by the scarred boy he became an Animagus for, Sirius stumbled over his thoughts. The dream weighted heavy on his mind, but he didn't know how to let free of those horrible images that haunted him. Not images, memories. Sirius feared that if he said anything they'll become real. Not that they weren't, but they happened in the past. Talking about them, invoking them, would feel like living through them again.

And yet, part of him wanted to talk. He needed someone to know. Sirius couldn't be sure why. Maybe to hear that it was nothing, that it was ok and he shouldn't be such a weak ship. Or maybe to hear it was normal and he wasn't alone. That is how parents love and his didn't hate him after all. Or just to show someone how broken he were, hoping to be picked un and patched.

So, speaking slowly, but evenly, Sirius retailed his nightmare to Remus. In his sleep, the twelve years old boy was hanging some muggle posters in his room: bands, promo for concerts, normal things a boy his age would own. He smiled broadly, music turned on quite loud, muggle music, when his parents bursts in. Walburga and Orion both yell, but Sirius can’t understand what they’re saying. It’s pretty clear they are very upset with him, though. And the reason couldn’t be more obvious. 

“Sirius Orion Black!” his mother shrieked. “Ungrateful, worthless child! You are a stain on the family’s name.”

“You should be ashamed of you. As much as I am for being your father. Well, say something. Look how upset you made your mother!”

“Sorry,” he’d try to say, but his voice would break, too small to be heard by the angry adults. Which only worsened their state. Sirius watched frozen in terror as Walburga took her wand. Only his head seemed to be able to move, and he was shacking it vigorously, wiping his cheeks with it. The young wizard tasted tears on his tongue as he repeated the same words over and over again “no, please, ‘m sorry!” It did nothing to help. 

Remus stayed in his bed that night.

°•▪︎~▪︎��°

The moon shone mockingly on the window. Last night has been a full moon and Prongs, Padfoot and Wormtail failed to properly contain Moony. It happened quite a lot in their first days as Animagus. As normal, they got better over the years, the four boys falling in rhythm like an oiled machine. By the time they reached excellency, though, mistakes happened. James, Peter and Sirius thought less of it, but Remus took it badly. 

As he laid in the dark, blanket drawn to cover his head as he hugged his knees on the side, the young werewolf tried to remember what happened last night. What if he killed someone? What if he will next time the boys won’t be able to restrain him? Is it worth living like this, a danger to himself and the ones around? What if he hurts his friends? 

“I can hear your mind working from over here y’know?”

Remus straighten up in shock. “Padfoot?”

“Well, it’s not the Fat Lady. What’s on your mind?”

Remus shrugged, but Sirius wouldn’t stop pestering him until he poured his deepest fears and doubts. 

“You won’t”

“How do you know this?”

“You won’t, Moony,” Sirius said more firmly this time.

“Alright.” Remus clearly didn’t believe him and his worries still troubled him as he turned to lay back down. He heard footsteps, then felt the mattress shifting as another body climbed over his bed covers. “I know because I am Sirius Black and you are my friend.” Less than an hour later, both boys were sound asleep.

Sirius slept in his bed that night.

°•▪︎~▪︎•°

It became a tradition. At first, they'd wait until one of them woke frozen in pain and panic, then they'd stay together and talk silently until they could sleep again. Later, Sirius and Remus would wait until James and Peter were out to decide who's bed to sleep in, knowing one of them - or both - ought to need the comfort.

The man kept trembling. His sobs caught in hiccups, leaving him out of breath. He did it. He left Harry for revenge. He practically made the choice for James and Lily, selecting Peter as secret keeper. His brother died and instead of mourning him, Sirius rejoiced bitterly in his cell - until he found out how he betrayed the Dark Lord.

He was just another Black. An evil presence in the world, despite his efforts. Gryffindor or Slytherin, it mattered not when his genes crafted him. Sirius tried so hard to be good, brave, loyal and the only thing he managed was to disappoint everyone. He was a nuisance and a burden and the a stain on the world. It'd be better if his sorry, useless existence would be wiped off the surface of the Earth.

Such thoughts clouded Sirius' mind when a light knock pulled him out of his head. "May I come in, Padfoot?"

The man almost broke at the nickname. Only one single person now would know to call him that. The weight of the realization hit him and another wave of tears carried the air from his lungs.

Receiving no answer, Remus kicked the door open, worry written all over him. The werewolf was panting and sweating from running, eyes wide close to terror. "Padfoot!" Seeing his oldest friend's state, he rushed to his side and hesitated only a moment before drawing him in for a hug.

"Nightmare?"

"Yes."

"Azkaban?"

"Yes."

"Dementors?"

"Yes. They-" Sirius gulped, shame tightening up in his throat. He was a thirty four man, for Godric's sake! And yet he cries like a baby. But the path he and Remus trailed off to, simple questions, any type of answer, so familiar and soothing he couldn't stop. "They tortured me. Showing me their - James and Lily's - death over and over. I left Harry, Moony. I stepped inside the house, saw that beautiful, brave child, suffering and I took off after bloody Pettigrew!" Before Remus could say a thing, Sirius continued, teeth so barred that words barely spitted out. "I heard you screaming too. I don't think that was real, but it sounded so broken, Moony. Twelve years, over twenty four full moons alone. 'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

Remus inhaled sharply, pulling Sirius even closer to him. He rubbed circles on his back, leaning to whisper in his ear "It was not, Padfoot. I should have trusted you more, star. If anything, it's my fault for spending so much time alone. So much, in fact, that it seems I neglected you, our agreement."

“It was my fault.” Sirius insisted.

“No,” and not letting him time to argue, Remus added “I know so, Sirius, because I am Remus Lupin and you are my... friend.”

Sirius pulled away only to find a reluctant smile playing on Remus' face. His body reacted before his mind could process its moving. He moved on the right side of the bed, still avoiding the other wizard's eyes. "Why are you here, Remus?"

"I couldn't sleep either. Thought to check on you as well. And good thing I did. You looked..." The professor didn't know how to finish that sentenced. Hollow. Empty. Dead. Scaringly close to death, in fact.

"Merlin! Thank you, Moony. You don't look bad yourself."

Remus chuckled. "Are you feeling any better?"

"No. You?"

"No."

Both men laughed. A bitter sweet sound passing through silence, taking with it any sign of discomfort that existed.

"I'm glad you came."

"Me too."

[vintage-writes]

Six Shots Later Tomura Shigaraki x Reader

Word Count: 1 728

Pairing: Tomura Shigaraki

Summary: The League of Villains decide to go bar hopping one night and Shigaraki boasts about his impressive tolerance. Impressive indeed, six shots later and he is literally barely able to function. It is now Y/N’s job to see him home safely.

Warnings: None, It’s all fluff. He’s literally an angel. 

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The dingy hallway stretched forward in a rather bleak manner. The air feels musty. The lighting is terrible. Most bulbs have burnt out already while others flicker insistently. The paint is peeling off the walls and the distinct smell of urine wafted in the air. The apartment building is absolutely disgusting but funds were low and it is rather inconspicuous. The heroes most probably won’t have the stomachs to search the building or will assume the League of Villains would have more class. Whatever the case, this disgusting sack of bricks is the current residence of the most feared villains in Japan, and it’s ironically fitting. The upside to a building this disgusting is that there are barely any other tenants, and the few who remain in the building tend to mind their own business. Which is exactly what you need right now.

“Move Faster!” shouts Tomura Shigaraki, the head of the League of Villains.

“ ‘I don’t get drunk easily’, he says", You mutter under your breath. Yes, clearly Shiggy has the amazing tolerance he so desperately claims he has. Six shots later and he’s stumbling around the street yelling Christmas carols at random passers-by and claiming that they have no Christmas spirit. He then proceeded to wave using his father’s hand, which effectively created a lot of chaos. You are praying to God that no one who saw thought calling a hero was necessary.

Shiggy moves around trying to get more comfortable on your back. Of course, being the girlfriend, you now have to lug him back to his room while everyone else moves on to the next bar. You can now cross, giving a Villain a piggy-back ride, off your bucket list. Shiggy shifts again and yells out more words. You have no idea what he’s saying.

You finally see the door leading into your shared apartment, you adjust him on your back as he flops forward causing you to stumble into the door.

“Babe?” You ask.

No response. Maybe he knocked himself out. 

After fishing around for the key you’re able to get into the apartment, lock the door and enter your room. You shift Shigaraki onto the bed and he flops onto his back. You can’t help but give a quiet chuckle at his starfish shape. Cotton Candy hair framing his peaceful face. The bags under his eyes are still prominent and yet he appears to be comfortable. The air in the room is peaceful, a rare moment for the villain haunted by his nightmares. His chest rises and falls steadily and his eyelids flutter slightly. 

You leave quickly to fetch a wet towel and upon return you see that he is sitting up. He sways slightly on the bed. His clothes are ruffled and his hair sticks up slightly. His eyes are barely staying open as he rubs at them like a child. The soft expression on his face doesn’t quite surprise you, over the past few months he has slowly but surely opened up to you. His soft nature is often overlooked due to his criminal persona, but it’s always there. Tomura never yells at his comrades, always treats them nicely, and remembers small things about them. A memory pushes its way to the surface of your mind. Three weeks ago, Tomura ordered food for all of you while you were out on a job. It was only him at the warehouse and when you got back you were starving. You fully expected him to just order a few pizzas but what awaited you was a variety of your favourite dishes. Not a single person said it out loud, but you felt it. You all came to a silent agreement. This man is an Angel and you would remain loyal until the end.

If the world could see the Tomura that you see, they would understand. You see it, even now, how delicate he looks lying on the bed. You could blame it on the alcohol for stripping away most of his walls, but this person in front of you doesn’t want to harm anyone, he is vulnerable. You take a tentative step forward and lean down in front of him. Crimson eyes study you gently with vague recognition. You take your cloth and gently wipe across his eyes. 

His nose.

His cheeks. 

His Jaw. 

You pause and breathe in slowly. Strong alcohol permeates the air around him. His clothes also look uncomfortable. Although the material looks soft, it is rather thick. Possibly too warm for the night air. In the past few weeks, you have crossed a lot of boundaries ,respectfully, in this room and on this bed. Surely, he wouldn’t mind losing a few layers of clothing for a short while. 

You move to grab another shirt from the cupboard before settling in front of him again. You blush as it occurs to you that your are Kneeling directly in front of him.

No No No. He’s drunk, pull yourself together!!

You clear your throat. 

“Just Breathe”, you remind yourself. You reach for the corner of his shirt and tug gently.

“Tomura? Hey Baby, I need you to let me take off your shirt.”, You say as you tug again.

He throws his back and lets out a weird whine. You freeze and immediately let go. Crimson eyes stare at you again, however this time, it is not gentle. His expression has completely darkened. You lean away from him and watch as he holds up both hands.

“I..”, he says, but doesn’t finish his sentence. His mouth gaping open and closed like a fish.

You hum gently and watch carefully as his words fail him. He looks like a small child about to throw a tantrum. His face twists as his mouth struggles to form words. Weird huffing noises escape him. For a second, you wonder if he might actually lose his cool and yell at you. Perhaps, you overstepped?

“I Have a GIRLFRIEND!!”, He shouts suddenly. The word Girlfriend is drawn out slowly as if he were talking to a child. You freeze before your lips move on their own. A smile has officially wormed its way onto your lips. You swallow hard.

Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Even though he is so cute right now. His lips have morphed into a pout. His childlike expression throws you off guard. Your breath catches and his eyes scrunch. How can someone with so many crimes be so adorable? How is he so beautiful? Red eyes glow in front of you, completely incandescent. This villain may kill you by looks alone. You look away feeling flushed.

“Baby, I am your girlfriend.”, You offer gently, “It’s me, Y/N”

“Princess?”

“I’m here”

His eyes light up slightly, his expression calm once again. Until his eyes narrow at you. He’s studying you, you can feel his gaze searing into your skin as he analyses every nook and cranny of your body. His eyes seem half satisfied before he blurts out.

“You’re also very pretty. My princess is so beautiful. She’s stunning. She’s my light. I like the light.”, he babbles. His voice is surprisingly smooth. Your heart leaps forward. He’s going to be the end of you. You suddenly feel the need to hold him. To hear his heartbeat and to feel his breath against your ear while he whispers gently, the sweet sayings that can comfort you in any tragedy. His warmth, that glows strongly in someone that the world has cast away. You reach forward to grab him again but he jerks away again.

He whines again. His hands ball into fists as he raises them. His eyes are wide open. His mouth tilted into a frown. 

“I don’t want you to die.”, he admits softly. 

“You’re not going to hurt me.”

You reach forward again, this time your aim is directed to his jacket but he evades again. He appears more desperate now. His hands are even higher, as they wave around.

“Baby, please trust me.”, you say gently as if talking to a wild animal ready to bolt. He tilts his head and looks at you again. His face blanks. Void of any emotions, his face tilts in the other direction. He huffs out a breath before allowing the faintest smile to grace his chapped lips.

“Ok Y/N, I trust you.” he relents and lowers his arms slightly. The initial wariness has not left him though. You reach again for his jacket and extract his gloves. You gently raise your hand and curl your fingers around his left wrist. You whisper some words of encouragement and slip his glove on. You then reach again for his right wrist and slip that glove onto his other hand. He wiggles his fingers within the gloves.

You burst out laughing at his innocent action. His fingers wobbling about as his face shapes into the brightest smile. It overtakes the room and any uneasiness fades away. He too lets out a low chuckle and throws his head back. It’s surprisingly soft. He leans forward unsteadily and looks you dead in the eye. His right hand lifts ever so gently before running a gloved finger over your head and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He smiles again, this time, it feels softer, more intimate. His eyes have drilled their way into your soul. The glow of fireflies entrap you into his world.

“Now I can’t hurt you.”, his voice flutters against your ear. His breath is hot. Heat spreads across your face and your tiny voice of reasoning begins to soften ever so slightly. He pulls back slightly and your eyes immediately lock onto his lips. Chapped ever so slightly but full and soft nonetheless. 

Shiggy’s head sways forward, forehead resting against your own. Powder blue hair curtains around us. His breath fans against your face, fluttering against your lips. Mouth only inches from my own. Your lips part. You’re ready. Heart Beating. Head pounding. Blood rushing.

��Goodnight Love”, he whispers, before turning away.

What?

He flops onto the bed. Head first and still shirtless. 

Are you kidding right now? He proceeds to bury his nose into the cushions and before you know it, he’s fast asleep. 

Did he just?

Sure whatever.

You climb onto your feet and hop onto the bed next to him. It’s fine, You’ll get him in the morning.

[colehasapen]

(ONE SHOT) fit two people under your skin  STAR WARS

Febuwhump Day 1 - Brainwashing

A03

Alpha-17 doesn’t believe in monsters.

He’s lived through too much in his life to believe in the creatures under the bed, or those that creep through the dark hallways and eat unsuspecting cadets. He’s seen real monsters, he’s seen cruelty and violence. He’s seen real life, and nothing can scare him more than that, but he comforts himself with the knowledge that everything dies, that he can fight to the death if he has to. He knows the pain of being taken apart piece by piece, of being tortured past his limits, of watching so many vode marching off to the death. He knows the pain of losing good men that he trained personally, the pain of losing those he raised himself from childhood.

He knows the pain that comes from not having done enough.

Millions of vode are dead, millions more will die, and Alpha is almost numb to it. He’s lost enough that it no longer surprises him.

But he’s never had anyone come  back from the dead, and yet, here he is.

Months ago, Alpha had been brought back to the warfront by the death of his little brother, one of the boys he had trained and raised from childhood to be one of the best. He had been on Kamino when news had reached him that Marshal Commander Cody had died in the line of duty, and he had immediately felt the world drop out from beneath him. Cody -  Kote  - the youngest and smallest of Squad 17, his  vod’ika  ,  his ad’ika ; his pride and joy. Cody had been one of his, he had watched him grow into the man he was, and Alpha had thought, had hoped, that out of any of them, that Cody would make it to the end of this Manda-forsaken War. Cody had been a leader, a viciously competent warrior that put even other A-classers to shame. He may have only been a CC, but Alpha would bet anything that he’d be able to beat even a Null into the ground if given the chance.

He had never imagined Cody being just another name on a KIA list.

Cody could have been their leader, had the spirit needed to be Mand’alor. He had a natural charisma that made people  want to follow him, a strength to his soul that shone like fire in his eyes. He could be beaten, but he’d never break.

But he’d still died. He had died and left his 212th without a Commander.

Eventually, Alpha had managed to hunt down the troopers that had survived the mission that had killed one of his boys. Had tracked them down during shore leave and demanded to know what had happened. They couldn’t tell him much, because of the confidential status of the mission, but eventually a pale-faced and haunted Echo had spoken up, staring down at his alcohol like it could take the nightmares away.

“It should have been me.” The young ARC Trooper had whispered, looking close to tears, and Fives had gripped his brother’s hand like a lifeline. “I had gone for the shuttle - Cody - he saw what was about to happen before any of us. He saved me. He threw me out of the way and took the blast instead.”

Alpha had volunteered as soon as he could, had hunted General Kenobi down and put his name forward as his next Commander. He knew what his  ad’ika  would have wanted; he’d want Alpha to teach and protect his men where he couldn’t, to lead his Ghosts and 7th Sky. He’d trust Alpha-17 to watch his  Jetii’s back, to be at his side when he couldn’t, because Alpha wasn’t blind - he knew what his Kot’ika thought of General Kenobi, knew what he’d felt for him. He had seen the way Cody had looked at Kenobi, had known that they’d work well together when he’d suggested Cody as the Commander for Kenobi’s Battalion, even if he’d never imagined his little brother actually falling in love with the man.

Despite how much it hurt to stand in his place, Alpha had put himself forward, had painted his armour gold, and taken the title of Commander. It fits like an ill-fitting body glove, but Alpha wears it, because it’s what Cody would have wanted. He could keep up with Kenobi better than any shiny commander could, could call the Jedi out on his bullshit and keep him and his men safe. He knows it hurts Kenobi too. He knows that sometimes Kenobi turns to him expecting Cody to be there to a witty quip or a sarcastic smirk, and he sees the way he falters when it’s Alpha there instead.

The troopers are the same. Alpha knows they respect him, that they look up to him, but he’s not Cody, and they all know it. Over the months though, they’d learned how to work together; he’s glad it was him who had taken over for Cody, because he recognizes a lot of the signs of his own training in the way the 212th troopers move, no doubt passed on by Cody. They don’t move the way CTs are expected to move, instead Alpha can see his own personalized ARC training shining through in them, and he knows that any other commander wouldn’t have been able to keep up. As the months pass, he whips them into shape, distracts them from their grief, and keeps them moving.

And then rumours of the Seperatists’ newest asset reaches them. Until Umbara, no one sees it, but they hear the rumours spread by the small numbers of survivors left behind. Some sort of new droid made to look like a clone in black armour, that never speaks, never hesitates, and always wins. Until Umbara, its nothing more than a ghost story, a monster in the night, but Alpha had never believed in monsters, it was just another clanker that he’d destroy if he faced it on the field.

It was called many things; monster, assassin, dark trooper, but Alpha would know it as another target.

And then Umbara happened. The asset had killed Krell, had saved the lives of the 501st troopers that the  dar’jetii  was tormenting. It had killed  only  Krell, had torn the Besalisk apart, and then walked away; it hadn’t even  touched the clones, had barely even looked at them before leaving. Rex had come to him afterwards, baring footage of the fight between the asset and the General, an odd look on his face.

“It fights like a vod, Alpha.” Rex had said, sounding confused and lost as they’d watched the footage over and over again, looking to learn the clanker’s fighting style to better combat it in battle. “It fights like  you do.”

Watching the figure in black and gold armour, styled mockingly after his own, a kama swinging around it’s waist and a gold pauldron on it’s shoulder, Alpha couldn’t help but agree. It did fight like a clone; specifically, it fought like one of the cadets Alpha had trained personally. It was reckless, throwing itself into battle without a care, twisting into powerful kicks and using its blaster like a club in ways that Alpha specifically remembers one of his cadets doing, something that had driven Alpha to a frothing rage.

Cody.

It fights like  Cody.

He hadn’t voiced it at the time, had stewed in his rage at the insult aimed towards his dead  vod’ika. A droid that fought like Cody, a droid that had the exact same shade of orange-gold as his  vod’ika had chosen for his Battalion. It was an insult and an affront on everything Alpha stood for. He’d held on to that anger, had let it burn hot and harsh in his gut, knowing that the moment he faced the clanker on the battlefield, that he’d  destroy it.

He would tear it apart for the insult it symbolized. To know that the Seperatists were perverting his brother’s memory in such a way lights a fire in him that refuses to burn out.

And then he gets the chance to fight the asset. He fights it one on one, intent to destroy it and avenge his little brother, when the bucket comes off and Alpha’s heart stops. All he can think of, is that that’s a face glaring up at him, a familiar face with a familiar scar. He barely remembers the chaos that had followed.

Cody.

Somehow, the asset is Cody.

Somehow, they’d managed to get the asset -  Cody, his Kote - sedated and transferred onto the  Negotiator. It had hurt all of them to need to restrain him, to strip away black plastoid to reveal prosthetics and burns. They’d gotten him back to the ship, into the medbay and under the medics’ hands, and they’d found a  chip in his head.

And now, Alpha is staring down at the limp body strapped down to the biobed, ankles, hips, chest, and arms pinned to the bed by unforgiving metal, to make sure he wouldn’t attack again when he woke up. It’s still Cody. He’s missing both his legs at the thighs, there’s metal drilled into his spine and up the back of his skull. There’s a blinking monitor embedded into his chest, scarred skin growing around it, flashing with his heartbeat. They’d shaved him, put a cybernetic implant on the side of his head, over where his ear should be and stretching around his temple to interrupt the curving, hooked scar that had become his little brother’s visual marker of individuality, the one Alpha personally remembers tending to, right before pulling Cody into ARC training to ensure that Priest and Reau wouldn’t get their hands on him again. He’s covered in twisting, healing burn scars, left from the explosion they had all believed to have killed him, and there’s dark bruises standing stark against brown skin.

Bruises that Alpha had put there, when he’d nearly broken his brother’s neck while fighting him. When he had thought that Cody was a droid programmed to fight like him.

He'd nearly killed his little brother, the boy he'd raised, and he never would have known if he hadn't accidentally knocked his helmet off.

“Manda.” He breathes harshly, nostrils flaring, and he drops down into the chair Pace had put next to Cody’s bed. He ignores the medic’s eyes drilling into the side of his head, instead reaching out to gently squeeze Cody’s limp hand like he had when Cody had been a too-small child enduring too-cruel punishments in the place of more replaceable brothers. “What can you tell about the chip?”

Pace scowls, “It only showed up on a level five atomic scan.” He says, “We only found it because we were trying to find out the cause of the strange brain activity we were picking up - it showed up as a tumour, but once we removed it -” he gestures to the petri-dish next to the biobed, “- we found  that.”  ‘That’ being an ugly scrap of what looked like flesh, pink and pocketed and flecked with old blood. “Removing it from the frontal lobe stopped the strange brain signals we were picking up, and his waves went back to baseline - what you could expect from a regular clone.” Alpha tears his eyes away from Cody’s peaceful face to glower at the strange object. “We don’t have any proof, won’t until we can see how he acts when he wakes up, but Crys thinks it could have been controlling him.”

Alpha lets out a harsh curse, “Fucking seppies.”

“Yeah.” Pace murmurs, then shifts. “Commander,” he says slowly, enough of something odd in his tone that it makes Alpha look up to meet his gaze, to see them dark with anger, “whatever it is - that chip? It wasn’t made by the Seps.”

“What?” Alpha’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Pace nods, glowering at nothing as he rubs a hand aggressively against the gray fabric of his uniform.

“It gives off a different signal than the… prosthetics -” he says the words with furious contempt, like the sentence is rotten on his tongue, “- they drilled into him.”

Alpha snarls, baring his teeth like a cornered animal as he grips Cody’s clammy hand protectively, like he could destroy whatever did this to him with his will alone. “Who  do I need to kill for what they did to him?”

“Sir.” Pace’s voice is just as dangerous, “Whatever it is? It’s  Kaminoan.”

Taglist: @a-mediocre-succulent @yellowisharo @spoofymcgee @roseofalderaan @everything-or-anything @bellablue42

[faquarlofmycenae]

Lo and behold, another original from the house of FOM! I haven’t even settled for a title, even though the work title initially was Death, three millenia in the making, but in hindsight it simply doesn’t fit and ideas shifted, etc etc etc, so here we are. 

Either way, have this excerpt of the AU that’s floating around in my head like a Windows XP screensaver. There’s an old face, a new one and one already featured elsewhere but after a bit of a transformation... one might even call it an upgrade, depending on what you think of it. 

It’s a lot that I wrote down in one day, and now that I got it out of my system I can move onto the next fic which I already plotted out a bit :^)

At last but not least, a big shout out to both Nunki @sine-luce-angor-minus for inspiring me with his phenomenal art and Posi @shadowy-dumbo-octopus for both brainstorming with me and sharing her great ideas!

Enjoy!

The impenetrable darkness had been there for so long that to call it an eternity was a vast understatement. It was a part of him by now and it replaced everything that had been there before. Be it the things that were very much his own; his voice, his substance, his feelings, his senses, even his personality and maybe as well as his most treasured memories, all of that was overshadowed by the void that ate at him ever since he was in here. He could scarcely remember how he got there, he knew someone had to do with it and if he ever managed to get a hold of that someone, provided he hadn’t been killed, his future would find its end right there and then. 

And then — it was no more. The thick oppressive cocoon had surrounded him like dark honey and it took him a moment to realize it was all gone and the light blinded him. He cloaked himself in shadows and darkness as if he were a fetus that didn’t want to leave the comfort of the womb until he realized that his martyrdom on this wicked and cursed Earth was so close to being over. The light burned what remained of his essence to its core as if it were purest silver and he silently pleaded for the bonds that still tied him to this mortal realm to finally set him free. 

The Other Place… it was still his home, where he belonged. Earth might have once felt like home to him but the connection that once firmly tied him here, a chain that was sweeter than a lover’s caress had been violently torn into pieces. The memory of it was foggy but it was there.

Through the darkness, something pushed through. That surprised him. The intruder didn’t cut or slash their way through the shadows shielding him, but calmly shoved them aside with gentle hands. It wore the face of a human and there was nothing but humanity in its face but still… something underneath the mask was familiar to him.

What have they done to you?

The voice was quiet, in a language he understood despite not remembering which one, and he hated it for being so soothing; he was no squabbling human child, he was a marid of immeasurable power, he could tear this peon apart like it was less than nothing. 

But was it worth it? He was so exhausted and the accursed bonds wouldn’t break.

Soft fingers ran along his form in the dark, he didn’t have time to recoil from the touch but underneath them he felt the unmistakable energy of the Other Place.

O great spirit, in whose name shall your revenge be?

Ammet gazed into the eyes, into the fire within them, green and bright and otherworldly. One of the names he spoke was one that hasn't been heard in many years, forgotten to the world, and he had been the only being privy to know it besides its owner, an immense privilege.

Senusret, and Ammet.

It didn't matter to say it out loud, the human face with the energy of his home was not real, something like this couldn't exist and this was the end. He was going home

It had been seconds but it felt like so much more than that when the invisible chains broke. He didn’t let out a cry of joy, he never did, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t glad to leave this spinning ball of mud — may it burn down and all of humanity as well as the spirits remaining there with it.

…

…

…

The very second he was back, he began to regain his strength and with strength came clarity of mind. The darkness had transformed his consciousness into something twisted, strange and revolting but the energies of the Other Place were softly pushing away the fog had clouded everything the longer he stayed here. Time ran differently here than it did on Earth but something that had roughly been five terrestrial years, maybe even more, passed by and with each moment he grew stronger and stronger, but some of the wounds left behind on his essence but especially on his pride simply wouldn't close but instead festered and the pain they caused could only be lessened by retribution.

Oh, he wouldn't simply kill the djinni. He'd draw out his suffering to something no spirit or human had ever experienced — he'd make Bartimaeus of Uruk wish that he had simply been plunged into the Dismal Flame instead of what was waiting for him now. But… How much time has passed exactly while in the amphora? He still didn't know. 

…

He felt a scratch on his essence — no, a gentle pull. The same way he'd seen these pathetic human children pull on their equally pathetic progenitors. If he had a form, he would've kicked at the sensation, or even better, sent a lightning bolt at the offender.

Another pull, this time much more insistent. Leave me be, vile wretch, unless you want a marid's wrath upon you, he wanted to scream but the next pull was so much more violent than the previous one that it knocked the metaphorical breath out of him. 

Then he was pulled through the elemental walls, as if someone was pulling him through a narrow pipe and —

He was surrounded by light once again. Ammet hissed and brought down the room temperature in an instant. Ice crystals materialized within seconds but the light didn't subside. Someone let out a curse, a particularly vicious one — in a language that vaguely sounded like Greek, perhaps even a Barbarian language. 

The form he had picked was a combination of two of his favourite guises — a creature made out of the human skeletons dyed in red, each corpse with its own autonomy (and in some cases rotting flesh hanging from their bones) and a head shaped like the skull of a crocodile, with more teeth than one could count and huge skeletal wings; it had been quite the hit in Ombos when Set had been around. The other was one he used to slip into without thinking about it; a shadow, a perfect replica made of darkness belonging to someone he had once loved.

The black beast, the heart-eater, was cloaked in absolute blackness with shadows hanging from it and while the eye sockets were empty, he could perfectly see his surroundings. First of all, the pentacle in which he stood was of an infuriating perfection that he wanted nothing more than to smash himself against its wards in the futile effort to destroy it. Secondly, the room… had a strange aura. It was a room, alright, these had existed ever since the fleshlings had learned how to construct buildings (not that they did the building, of course), but something in here or maybe it was the way Earth worked now that was so radically different from him as a spirit that he recoiled. 

The walls were made of stark grey stone, on the ceiling a long vertical imp-light flickered in pale yellow and besides pots of incense and herbs, there were no actual objects in the room nor windows. They most likely were underground. 

Oh, and there was the magician standing in a pentacle opposite of him.

It was a slender woman, not very tall of height but not exactly short either. Dark curls fell upon her shoulders and framed a round face that by human standards was most likely considered very beautiful, shallow and vapid as they were. The lips were full and gave the impression that she was perpetually pouting, her skin light brown with a glow that indicated she was out in the sun quite often. There was youth in her face, but the faint wrinkles on her forehead told a different story. One of her eyes was of a cold dark brown, the other not organic at all; an orb made of shining gold with painted iris and pupils for the sake of realism. The pupil was a deep black, the iris a vibrant blue similar to lapis lazuli but even brighter. The eye pulsated with magic on the higher planes as the piercing gaze burned through his form and he knew, for a fact, that this feeble creature, so insignificant compared to him, could see his true form — for what he really was.  

„Ammet; Bezalel; Rahab.“ She spoke Greek, alright, even if it was a curious dialect. He still understood her every word; a side effect of the summons, as it was most useful for the slave to understand the master‘s commands. It sounded different than the Greek he had been used to previously but still not far enough to have evolved over so many years. Years in which his name had been unearthed.

Apophis curse this world; the face had not been a product of his imagination or confused state. Him saying names had been real —

He let out a furious roar, one that made the implight tremble, the room shake by a margin — but not the magician, oh no. She didn't even twitch but merely sneered in anger at the obvious disrespect, raised a hand, opened her mouth to speak a punishment — and caught herself. She took a deep breath, halted her respiration for one, two, three seconds and then exhaled once again.

„A powerful demon you might be but now you are my slave. Bow your head and do my bidding as I command, elsewhile I will rattle your essence with a pestilence that even you will carry the pain for the remainder of your days here and in the Nowhere.”

Ammet gritted his teeth but nevertheless bowed his head. He was regaining his composure once again but the fire of fury raged within him. But there was a time and place for this… not now. Not while in the damned pentacle. 

“Your word is my command, mistress.” 

He spoke, soft and gentle. That coupled with a gentle and discreet guise would occasionally — and if the magician was an amateur and/or took a greater bite than they could chew — do the trick and lure the human into a false sense of security. But Ammet was in the mood for anything but a gentle guise and this individual’s strength, as feeble as she might seem, judging by her aura hadn't faded in the least so as far as magicians went, she probably packed quite the punch. In addition to that, she had summoned him all on her own, which already was a tremendous task for the likes of her kind, so he probably was not going to be lucky with her. That strength, unapparent to the untrained eye but blatant to anyone who knew of real power, reminded him of someone he had once loved.

The magician jutted her chin upwards, a smug expression on her face.

“You are a smart slave then, smarter than many who have been in my service. Hear me out: needless to say as I included it in your bindings, you are prohibited from harming not only me but all those you interact with, be it by magical or physical attack. You shall answer every question that is asked of you, without hesitation and in earnest — as alien as honesty is to the likes of vile demons like yourself.” She wrinkled her nose before she spoke next. “Afterwards, you shall be dismissed; that is, if you decide to cooperate. Refuse to, and your fate shall be worse than what you went through in that jar of wine.”

The golden eye glinted and with a sharp snap of her fingers, something materialized in the air in front of the magician. She got a hold of it and held it out to him. It was a small box of black wood, polished to a gleam. A small net of silvery veins ran over it and a similar magical energy resided within it as the golden eye.

“The people who made this call it Pandora's Box. It doesn't come close to the real deal, obviously, but it has its surprises.” The magician smiled. “You will get cozy with them, should you choose to act unwisely.”

Ammet considered the box. It didn't seem like a lot but the thought of being imprisoned once again gave him the most unpleasant of sensations.

He fluttered his wings and continued his swaying, but didn't respond.

The magician nodded. “Now that we have that out of our way: fulfill your charge.” She clapped her hands and Ammet dissolved into shards of shadows and bone. A sensation pulled him elsewhere; one moment he was in the strange vault many meters beneath the ground — and the other he was gone.

The light that burned Ammet now — a bothersome habit, as he had apparently developed a sensibility for light during his captivity — came of no cold implight but was rather the light of the setting sun. It shone through a tall window, warming him even through the glass. 

The revolting aura from the vault remained but wasn’t as amplified which meant that the effect was relatively widespread.

He didn't stand in a pentacle but on white tiles, making his dark form appear even blacker as he remained there. The walls were tiled wood, rich mahogany, and in the center of the room stood a long dinner table with a total of fourteen chairs around it. It had a costly air about it, and confirmed to Ammet that even though time might pass, humans were still exactly the same; utterly obsessed with material goods and hedonistic to the maximum. 

He scoffed.

“Enjoying the view?”

It wasn't the fact that someone had entered the room behind him that made him spin around at neckbreak speed; it was because whoever had spoken was the owner to the voice belonging to the face. 

The language itself was nothing close to any language Ammet consciously understood, its sounds being mumbled and so ugly compared to the refined beauty of Egyptian or even the cruder Arabic, and yet he knew exactly what she said. It also meant that he was either far from home or actually a lot of time had passed for language to evolve into… whatever this could be considered, regardless of the magician’s Greek.

Just like the golden-eyed magician, this one was also a woman — although judging by the stench of incense clinging on her skin if not directly her bizarre clothes (form-fitting lower garments that covered her ankles and a way too short tunic on her upper body) she most likely was either one as well or at least associated with them frequently — but quite different from her too which, well, was better than them looking alike, a nasty tendency humans had.

Taller and pale of skin, she had auburn hair mixed in with grey that was tied together with a few loose strands. Her face was angular, her nose straight and pointy which made her look like a songbird. Freckles grew on her face like pimples on a youth’s visage, crow’s feet and lines under her eyes indicated at least forty years of age. The fire of the Other Place wasn’t to be found in the eyes, instead they were of a dull light brown with green specks — green specks that did not have anything within them that reminded him of home. Her aura did burn a little brighter than that of your ordinary human though, but ultimately that didn’t need to mean anything.

“What you see out there,” she said and pointed outside of the window, “is a country named Spain; its most Southern part to be precise, we call it Andalusia.”

Ammet didn't respond nor did he look outside. Neither of those names meant anything to him. 

“I hope it's a more pleasant view than the cellar in which you were summoned. I hate to say it under the circumstances which, let's face it, are always unpleasant but: welcome back to Earth, Lord Ammet.”

Soft food steps walked away and for a moment, Ammet considered sending a black bolt of lightning her way and into her back as she had it turned on him. Then he remembered the box.

“I apologize for any harshness my colleague showed you; she is still of the old school and old habits die hard.” She sighed. “Maybe even never. But we don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, do we?” Her voice was clear and strong and if it wasn’t just a product of his imagination, Ammet could swear that there was a current within her tone that wasn’t human at all.

She turned around to face Ammet and to the marid‘s surprise, the expression on her face was a welcoming smile. He immediately distrusted her. 

“Please, sit down. I know it doesn't lessen the pain of being bound but for the sake of courtesy, I rarely like to have my guests standing around.”

Ammet didn't move, he merely looked at her. 

“I was told to answer questions.”

The woman didn't look up as she poured herself a glass of white wine (the smell of the alcohol was sweet and pungent, so unlike red wine) and moved to sit at the head of the table.

“And that you will, and as soon as that is done, you are free to return to the Other Place.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass and took a sip. “To be a good host and as a show of good faith towards you, Lord Ammet, I will tell you something of this world, as well as about my own person.” She smiled as if she remembered something. “Well, not everything, obviously, but everything I deem deserving for you to. But first of all, let me apologize for the predicament I put you under — prying your name from you while you were in a confused state is a great betrayal to do upon a spirit, yet while I regret it, there was no other way around it.”

Ammet tilted his head slightly at those words. Well, here was someone who knew her way with words. 

“So it was you who freed me. For many years I thought you weren't real.”

She smiled.

“Yes, but like I said… It is a rather double-edged sword. You had been imprisoned in a wine amphora for, ah, quite some time. Five years ago an archeological expedition looking to loot long-sunken treasures in the hopes of discovering powerful magical artifacts brought many things, among them the vessel that contained you, to the surface. I happened to be around and,”, her lips curved into a smile, “felt your aura, faint as it was, even from afar. Freeing you was the right thing to do, obviously, but I wanted to know the identity of the one I had saved - cue me asking. A bit melodramatic, yes, but it did the trick, did it not?”

She put down her glass and observed him. 

“The search for you wasn't as easy as I thought it would be, even though I had your name. According to Herodotus, the last sighting of you was in Ombos 1000 BCE, give or take.”

“BCE?”

“... Ah. Yes.”

The number the woman said then would have knocked any and all breath out of Ammet's lungs if he had them. No, no no, it cannot be!

“I know, even for a spirit this is a lot to take him.”

The tone being calming did nothing for him. Ammet felt the edges of his form tremble and with a horrid piercing cry he released a great force of energy and made the planes shudder. Oh, how he wished to exact his wrath upon — well, everything under this accursed sun. The golden-eyed magician was lucky to have made the binding clause so tight, otherwise Ammet would have found or simply disregarded the finer lines and wreaked untold havok on whatever and whoever were to cross his path — man, spirit, it didn't matter to him. He was of such power that they could impossibly stand in his way.

When he calmed down, silence beat down upon them. The woman looked a bit disheveled but had mostly maintained her composure, as if she had assumed something like this to happen. She coughed and finished the remains in her glass in one go, then steeped her fingers.

“Time is nothing to the likes of us—”

“Us?” Ammet's voice was a roar and he moved at lightning speed to stand over the woman. His eyes were raging fires now, spewing contempt and hatred with such fury and even like this, it was nothing compared to the anger burning within him.

“What sort of wicked and foolish creature are you? How dare you compare yourself to an entity like me?”

If she was unnerved, she didn't bother with showing it.

“My name is Nimuë, and there are no creatures like me.”

Ammet hissed like an aggressive cobra and shook his head. His claws dug deep into the table, something not missed by Nimuë who raised an eyebrow.

“Don't make me laugh. You are human, but so unlike all of them.” Even as he said it, he knew at least the first part to be a lie. 

She straightened her shoulders and stood from the chair with a fluid motion.

“Human a part of me is, yes, and unlike all of them I am too — including Senusret.”

Ammet was quicker than thought; he reached out to rip her in two, binding clauses be damned, but somehow she was even quicker. There was a crash and the marid spun around to the window where a human-shaped hole had appeared when it hadn't been there before and a flash of auburn winked in the waning sunlight. Ammet opened shadowy wings and followed her, making sure to break through the window with enough gusto. 

The stench of incense and her alien aura led him down the hill on which the large house was seated upon. Among olive trees and scrubs he looked for her, but no more flashes of auburn or even a single sound. 

“I'll tear your human flesh from your bones and throw what remains of you into the sea, as even the sacred beasts would heave at your vile nature.” He screamed and listened in closely to the ensuing silence. But then! A cracking, maybe of branches underneath a foot, he whirled around, ready to strike and tear her apart into her atoms! — and was struck square in the chest with not just one but two surprisingly potent purple lightning bolts.

His detonation missed its target by several meters as his aim was thrown off and he was flung backwards and into an olive tree which broke and splintered under his weight. 

As he laid on his back like a scarab turned upside down, the woman named Nimuë came into his view. She was floating downwards to the ground, auburn but greying hair not bound anymore and flowing freely, but Ammet didn't care about the fact that she could fly — it was the eyes, which positively radiated energy from the Other Place. Green fires burned brightly and cast her human features into something incomprehensible and otherworldly. 

“I don't think so.” Her feet touched the ground and she crossed her arms. The green fires died down to a glow and now he saw that her expression was less one of anger but rather extreme crossness, like an usually benevolent priestess whose acolytes had vexed her one time too many.

“So, tell me: could he do that? I know the answer, and now let me continue. Be lucky you haven't harmed me, or you'd be back in Circe's gentle care — you will find that she has no love whatsoever for spirits.”

The voice remained the same but if there had just been a gentle hint of the Other Place in it before, now it was the defining trait of it. 

Ammet got back on his feet and as he did so shifted back into the shadowy silhouette. 

Instantly, Nimuë's demeanor changed. Her eyes widened and her hands twitched and as if she wanted to reach out. 

“That form.” She whispered.

“Only the clause is preventing me from causing you such pain that your screams would be heard on even the most desolate corners of this spinning ball of mud.” Ammet spat. The lightning had caused him hurt momentarily but nothing he couldn't shrug off after mere seconds. It had been of the force of something an afrit could've hurled at him, but on no plane, not the first seven nor anything above was Nimuë anything but human.

“Good.” She stated coldly and leaned against an olive tree. “Can we continue? I'd prefer it down here, in case you decide to lose your marbles again. As much as you are a guest to me I am a guest in that house.”

Ammet pressed his shadowy lips together tightly like he had seen it done before so many times but nodded. Nimuë let out a breath and ran a hand through her hair, tying it up once again. 

“Either way, Ombos… Set's city back then. But it wasn't the name” She made a meaningful gesture with her hand. “You told me. Those who held it were prominent rulers of Egypt, alright, but not a single magician. So, evidently, it had to be someone either off the records or they were on the records but not as that. To this day, I don't know who it is but considering your reaction… well, you catch my drift.”

She grinned. Ammet's guise had no facial expressions but he most certainly wouldn't have smiled.

“You were considered dead for the last three millenia, so imagine my surprise when that is anything but the case. For a spirit to show up alive after the only reports I found of him were in some old tomes that haven't been touched in two centuries, that was quite something. And of course, no one just happens to stumble into an amphora, especially when that one is at the bottom of the ocean. So someone must've not just done you dirty but done so while fully intending to make it as horrible as possible. I figured you would both need rest as well as desire for retribution — but the former was more important than the latter.” She sneered. “You should be glad you couldn't see the sorry state of your essence when I destroyed the jar. And the way the world has changed in the last millennium and a half… well, if my essence crawls at the thought of it, and I have witnessed all of its development, then I don't want to know how it must've been for you.”

Ammet stared at her. 

“To answer your question concerning me, I trust you as a spirit to keep this a secret, especially because I might be the greatest ally whose paths you crossed on Earth. But yes, I am of the Other Place, despite what appearances might say otherwise.”

The maid's essence shivered in disgust as he considered what she said. “But you are not visible as a spirit.”

Nimuë smiled, and even though she couldn't change her form it had a sharpness to it only spirits could manage.

“Yes, and as revolting it might be to you, I have my fair share of advantages in turn.”

“Such as?” 

Nimuë curled her upper lip in a self-sufficient smile. She was too human to be a spirit, there was no doubt about it.

“No pain whatsoever, Lord Ammet.”

No pain? But…

“What about the human?”

Nimuë grinned. “Oh, she's here — but at the moment I hold the reins. It felt appropriate to speak from spirit to spirit so she took a backseat.”

The marid regarded the creature. Oh, there was not a doubt that she had lost her mind. Whoever willingly shared a body with a human… what a perverse thought. And yet, unbidden memories came to him, of a time when he had wished he could just do that… when he had done it, only momentarily though and it was never enough...

“You disgust me.”

The spirit in a human's body scoffed. “What a way to show gratitude. I won't let you be locked up by Circe, as she no doubt showed you her wicked little prison, but I'm nevertheless disappointed. And here I thought that a spirit who held such a curious and invaluable possession in obvious affection could see the future just as I do!” She sniffed. “Yes, I do share a body with a human being. It is a quite benevolent and mutually agreeable partnership and I am not bound by cruel words, bonds and contracts.”

Ammet wanted to respond to that but found out he couldn't. Nimuë seemed to notice too and took that unashamedly as a victory.

“Do you wish to know anything else about me? Or is enough of my oh so disgusting nature revealed to you?”

The marid gave her a sharp look but still was silent.

“Alright. Because I have a proposition for you. A cooperation, the summons are a necessary part of it at first, sadly, but we'll find a way around that.”

Ammet let out a dry laugh. “I'd like to see you try merging me with a human. I would rather eat myself.”

Nimuë cackled, it was an unpleasant sound coming from a spirit who thought themself more human than anything else. “Oh, I doubt you'd commit to that part. I consider myself as something of a visionary, thanks to having made use of some groundbreaking discoveries that were right in front of humanity's nose but as always, they either don't have the ability to see it or are too wrapped up in their hedonism and selfishness to think further than themselves.” The green fires lit up for a brief moment, mischief sparking within them. “Let me tell you a bit about that and then onto my questions — or rather, my question. Then regardless of your answer you are free to return to Circe's gentle hands for her to dismiss you for you to return home. She won't like it but she will have to live with it. She is the sort of magician who hates all spirits after having been wronged by a single one of them despite being tied to his charge.” 

Nimuë shook her head.

“What about the box? Was that just an empty threat?”

Instead of an answer, Nimuë simply smiled. Then she pushed herself off the tree and approached Ammet. In front of him, she stretched out her hand for him to shake.

“A good magician never reveals his tricks. So, what do you say? Is there an angle for a deal here?”

[of-muppets-and-men]

Her Mother?

Although Atlas may have been the land of stuck-up pricks, no one would ever dare deny its beauty. It’s decadent buildings and towers; as posh and lavish as its citizens. Though it may have been freezing on a good day, Atlas did have the most breathtaking view of the horizon out of any of the four kingdoms. And enjoying said brilliance was Qrow branwen and Maria Calavera.

It had been a few days since their dramatic meeting with Ironwood, and their group was thankfully given a few days grace. After the many times they nearly died; everyone was more than willing to relax. Ruby and Weiss had gone to visit Winter and by extension, the Schnee Manor. Yang and Blake were with Professor Polendina, getting their weapons repaired. And the rest of Team JNPR alongside Ozcar, were exploring the rest of Atlas; while trying not to bring too much attention to themselves.

Now that the “adults” were alone, Qrow and Maria decided to take to a lovely little cafe. Qrow, still shaking his Drinking habits, sat on the veranda, sipping away at his bitter coffee. Maria sat adjacent to him, helping shake his vice by cracking him over the head with her cane every time he reached for his flask. The veteran huntsman grumbled at his idol, rubbing the growing bruise on the back of his head; all the while, Maria kept a smug grin plastered on her face.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” He complained loudly.

“Perhaps.” She grinned devilishly while stirring her tea.

Annoyed, Qrow laid his half finished and criminally overpriced latte back on it’s serving dish. He slunked back into his chair and stared back out to the horizon, hoping to feel some level of ease. But even though the relic was as safe as it was going to get; he couldn’t shake his feelings of grief. He contemplated on his time as Ozpin’s left eye. Years upon years of service, all the people he’s killed, all the friends he’s lost, and for what? Piece of mind knowing a mystic lantern is safe? What a joke. All those broken families for a lost cause. His thoughts continually ate at him, as they always did; the same voice in his head screaming the words ‘It’s your fault’ at him like some twisted mantra. Being the wiser of the two, Maria could tell something was bothering him.

“Y’know that niece of yours is quite something Qrow.” She said, hoping to interrupt his brooding.

“What?” he answered, understandably confused “Where’d that come from?”

“Just a simple observation. Her skill with her weapon is extraordinary.” Maria remarked honestly “Ruby’s nearly as good as I was when I was her age. She must have had an incredible teacher.”

Qrow blushed earnestly at his hero, honoured yet embarrassed by her praise. Never in his life did he think The Grimm Reaper herself would compliment his teaching ability. Maria was relieved her compliment worked; he’d been down since the battle in Argus and his withdrawals weren’t helping him either. It was nice to see his spirits lifted for once.

“You should be proud.”

“I am.” Qrow grinned “I’ve always been proud of her. I’m sure her mom would be too.”

“Her Mother?” 

The old crow’s eyes noticeably widened. He thought about Summer all the time, more than he probably should have, that's for sure. But he’d always managed to keep it to himself. Damn Semblance.

“Uhh yeah...” He awkwardly replied.

“ You’ve never mentioned her before? And now that I think about it… Neither has Ruby.”

A lull of silence fell upon the pair. 

Every word his Idol spoke stung at his heart. Summer had died nearly 14 years ago and yet the idea of her not being here was still hard for him to swallow. Or worse still, Ruby barely even remembering her own mother. It didn’t feel real; he didn’t want it to be real, so much so, he spent those same 14 years drinking away his grief. His abstinence was bringing many things he thought he’d locked in his subconscious. Maria sat idly, knowing she’d likely touched an old wound.

Qrow forced out a weary response, the buried emotion taking shape on his face for the first time in years.

“Well Ruby was still pretty small when Summer…” He breathed, though unable to say the last word.

“Ohh, I see. Forgive me. I should’ve known.”

The air became more uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by. The quiet between the two worsened, spoiling Qrow’s coffee and mood to boot. Qrow, slipping back into his chair, let out a solemn sigh. His hand instinctively reached for his flask. Maria thought it cruel to crack him over the head for having to remember such a thing. So as he went to unscrew the cap, Maria did the only thing she could think of.

“Y’know Qrow. Before you disappoint your niece. How about we talk about…” Maria opened with “Hmm, what her name again? Oh yes, Summer.” 

“Hmm? Why would want to know of all people?” Qrow answered, offense lacing his words.

“Consider it an Old woman’s curiosity. Plus I’m interested to know what she meant to you and Ruby.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, you did go back on your word as soon as you mentioned her. So she must mean something, right?”

The Old hunter was a bit astonished that Maria had figured him out so quick. He wanted to argue, to dispute her, but she was right. Sure he may casually drunk during his days at Beacon, but it was never a problem till… that day. His annoyance turned to melancholy as his mind delved into the past. Remembering when things were so much less complicated; when things were good… better than they are now.

But with a shaky breath and tense hands, he began: “Summer was… one of a kind.”

“She was the leader of my team. Back when I was just a punk kid at Beacon. Now, I had gotten pretty used to being on my own out in the wilds, so the whole “team” thing didn’t sit well with me. Or Raven for that matter. And on top of that my semblance just caused problems wherever I went, so I tried my damnedest to distance myself from the others.”

“Tried?” Maria interjected curiously.

“Yeah, tried would be the word,” Qrow chuckled “No matter what I tried, Sum wasn’t having it. She’d hunt me across campus to get me to participate in group studies, training sessions and whatever else she had for us. Hmph. It was kind of incredible how persistent she was. But then again, she was always uniquely strong-willed.”

The old huntsman shifted forward in his seat, sighing loudly. His hands rubbed together, jittering with anxiety. Knowing full well how this story ended; he struggled against the urge to reach for his flask. Grabbing his coffee as his only option, Qrow took a slow yet deliberate sip of the morning brew before setting it back down to speak again.

“Annoying as it may have been, I slowly strayed away less and less. I stopped altogether when she said something I honestly never thought I would hear. Care to know?”

“Do tell.”

“We’re a team, Qrow. We need you; I need you.” Qrow recalled with a delicate smile “I’d never been told that up until then. It was… nice to feel wanted.”

The old woman had never seen Qrow smile so often or so brightly before. Tempting as it may have been to tease him about opening up, Maria decided to let have his peace. He definitely needed it more than he let on; not that he’d ever admit it.

Maria then remarked with a posthumous compliment, “She must have been lovely.”

“That she was,” Qrow reaffirmed “Sweetest person I’ve ever met. Hell of a baker too. Oh what I’d give to have some of her cookies just one more time.” 

Summer’s cookies. Such a precious and well guarded secret of his little leader. Everybody loved them; Teachers and students alike. Hell, even Raven couldn’t resist scarfing down a tray or two. Qrow and his sister often fought for the last one, while just Taiyang tried to steer clear of their warpath. Another thing he missed so earnestly, yet seemed to slip from his memory. He closed his eyes in an attempt to remember the sweet aroma. Leaning back in his chair yet again, the fragrance of freshly baked cookies drowned his thoughts; even the stupid, frilly apron Summer used to wear.

“Y’know, I may be going out on a limb here, but from how you’ve spoken about this girl, there’s really only one answer.”

“And that is?” He wondered curiously.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

While his vermilion eyes sank to the floor, a sharp exhale escaped his chest: 

“Yeah… I did.”

A now weary Qrow reached for inside of his dress shirt. Maria feared it was his flask again, but was somewhat relieved when he pulled out a photo instead. Once brought into full view, Qrow caressed the picture of his team, the exact spot where Summer stood. The old woman resonated with the forlorn hunter as he stared longingly at the photo. She very well knew the grief behind the loss of loved ones and didn’t dare to judge him as he pressed the image against his brow. As tears began to form in his eyes, Maria placed her hand on his shoulder, for whatever comfort it could provide him.

“Well, At least I know why you care for Ruby so much.” Maria said dryly.

“Hmmm? What are you talking about?” replied Qrow, puzzled by her statement.

“Ruby isn’t really your niece, is she?”

“Uhhh not technically, no. She’s…”

“Your Daughter?”

The words echoed in Qrow’s mind. He stared blankly into the old woman’s mechanical eyes, trying to swallow an immovable lump in his throat. His breathing grew noticeably heavy, as Maria sat solemnly waiting for a reply. Qrow clutched the photo again, with both hands this time. As a single tear came down upon his lover’s likeness, a heavy sigh let out. A lie came undone and a bitter truth passed his lips.

“Yes. She is.”

“What?” a voice said from behind them.

Qrow’s head snapped and swiveled towards the all too familiar voice. His fears were realized when his gaze met that of Ruby’s; her silver eyes tainted by her sobs. The rest of Team RWBY and JNPR stood by her side, shock plastered on each of their faces. Yang was in disbelief; It couldn’t be true, could it? It had to be a lie...

Before Yang could come up with an answer she liked, Ruby raced past her in a flurry of red flower petals. JNPR gave chase along with Oscar, while Yang, Blake and Weiss continued to gawk. Yang moved first towards her Uncle, eyes red with rage. Qrow slowly stood up in response and barely flinched as she slapped hard across the cheek. The young huntress turned to her friends, shifting between anger and sadness. Yang walked towards the exit, Blake and Weiss following behind her, but not before giving Qrow the dirtiest looks they could manage. Qrow’s niece spoke defiantly as she walked down the stairs.

“C’mon. Let’s go find my Sister.”

[qhostqizmo]

Remember Your Manners

I got some serious emotions out of this piece bruh I cried what?? why?? i am big soft ‘n stupid.

- - - - - - - - - -

Essätha noticed when he placed a hand to his left shoulder. It took her only seconds to realize what was wrong as he winced; in the way gritted his teeth and the way he so gingerly carried things to try hiding his hindrance how in pain he was. Observing the strain around his eyes, only two things held her back from coddling her nobleman in front of everyone. The first: the embarrassment she would endure when everyone ridiculed her soft spot for the man (and she certainly had a soft spot for him). The second: his own reaction. Sometimes he took to her kindness with modest gratitude, but there were times he was too proud. Wanting to uphold his image, he would dismiss her. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand; she truly did, but sometimes it was hard not to take personally.

Stepping around the short woodland elf, she approached the silent man with the piercing clouded dark gaze and darker hair. Her fingers outstretched towards him, and she murmured in careful inquiry, “M’lord Amon, may I help carry your load?”

There was that stubborn light in his gaze as he glanced down at her, but she expected it. How much of it was a measure of caution and analytic approach, how much of it was his father’s own words to ‘man up’ ingrained in his brain like the vines of a strangling plant? All she wanted to do was help him; to ease his burdens, to be his support, his rock, his lean-on. She could handle it; she was stronger than she looked.

He rolled his shoulder around in its socket while studying her; calculating. The cues were minuscule, but she had admired his dashing features long enough to see the squinting around his eyes, and the way his nostrils flared. He was hurting, badly.

“I’m fine, Essie. Thank you.”

And from his tone, that was that.

Picking up the shattered shards of her spirit, Essätha lowered her eyes respectfully, and moved to step away. It cut deeper then she dared show. He could trust her; she thought, and hoped, he knew. He was nearly unshakable, but she was a faithful confident, if he would only just let go, and understand her intentions only came from… from a place of-

Amon reached for her with his good arm; a flicker of light in his widening gaze. A silent plea. Don’t go.

She offered a soft smile, and allowed him her hand. He held her palm at first; respectable, gentlemanly, dare she call it simple? He still wore the illusion of a wall, even if she knew the spots to bridge it. However badly she wanted to pout over it, she kept her respectful distance of the space he wanted to lick his own wounds.

Her attention was brought back into the present slowly, with the communion of their team. As her thoughts began to navigate away from the feeling of his touch, his fingers sought out the spaces between hers. Essie hoped he couldn’t feel the acceleration in her pulse as his fingertips grazed the back of her hand; rubbing along her knuckles. She wanted to openly berate herself for taking such a small gesture and trying to magnify it into something it wasn’t, but it sure made her breathing catch and heart stutter.

Forcing her thoughts to tune into conversation albeit the temptation of her nobleman’s touch, Essätha murmured a quiet agreement to the snotty high-elf and pink tiefling’s declaration to return to town for a good night’s rest, rather then camping out. The crimson dragonborn had to shrug alas, as more and more of the team fell into agreement. It put them behind a few hours travel the next day, but at least they’d feel well-rested in a bed.

Amon did not comment, but she had a feeling he would appreciate a comforter before the cold ground beneath a thin layer of a bedroll. In fact, he stayed quiet even as they finished loading into the wagon, only grunting clipped and brief responses to the ever-enthusiastic ray of literal sunshine that was their cleric. Maybe it was worse then she thought? Her free-hand curled slightly, craving the daydream dancing in the back of her thoughts; to cradle his face in her palms and urge him rest and solace. She would be right there, watching over him. He could rest, and when he’d wake she’d promise to still be there.

She shook the secret vision away, rubbing her fingertips to her temple. The gesture must have worried her nobleman, for he held her hand a little tighter. She cast him a look of inquiry, and he appeared just as puzzled. With a one-sided shrug, she swallowed and gazed away, safely from the hypnotic nature of his regard.

As the cart jostled along the dirt path back towards the village, the rest of the light mostly faded from the skyline. Hard pieces of bread, nuts, cheeses, and berries were passed around to nibble on. Essie laughed as Caesar rested his chin upon Amon’s knee at first, but after a few minutes of observing the attentive look in the canine’s eyes upon his master, her worry returned. It didn’t console her, either, to glimpse over at him and catch him staring off with a blank expression.

Darkness fully fell as the paladin pulled their carriage up to the lone inn in town. Essätha reached out with a foot to nudge the sleeping elf-child and; having only just rested his head to her shoulder, Amon’s rigid frame stirred with a snort. She had to bite her lip to suppress openly cooing how adorable the sound was. It was vexing as it was magical to be so enamored by his every little sound and breath.

“Reserve me a bed while I unload the cart in the back, please.”

“Sure thing Sul; enjoy your room with Penimra.”

“I will stay with you as well!” chirped Pri’cha wiggling their antenna.

Adela offered the dragonborn one wicked grin a safe distance of the horses. “Enjoy the price of two sets of eyes upon you that don’t need an eight-hour’s rest,” she mocked.

“I can still watch you,” Ravamora pointed out almost proudly.

“You could, but you actually like to sleep.”

“That’s true.”

Sighing heavily, Essie made for the door; but wasn’t fast enough. Stiffly keeping one arm down, Amon opened the door with his other and slid his foot out to keep it so. She smiled at him with thanks, but worry knit her brow.

“I could have gotten it, m’lord.”

“That wouldn’t have been very courteous of me.”

She tisked towards him unhappily, and reached out to caress his cheek as she stepped inside. His face followed her movement, and then his body; like a magnet, leaning, and then sliding his shoes to carry himself after her. Rava, who had been trying to come in behind her, was left struck in the threshold with confusion on her face. She ended up ducking around the Briarton Protector’s side just to get by, with the door beginning to squeak shut as his body language shifted in the building

Essätha dropped her hand from his features with embarrassment. She couldn’t make out what Adela said outside, but it was followed by a quiet snigger from Pen that left her face hot.

Turning away from Amon’s gaze just before it turned pleading, she noted a few travelers playing cards at one of the few tables wedged in the corner of the reception area. They eyed her and her companions as they strode up to the desk. The half-elf man at the counter was young, appeared tired, and wasn’t much for conversation. They passed out room keys, accepted payment, and muttered a few courtesy’s and policies no one really listened to. The only thing that seemed to change his overall dull demeanor was when asked if they served meals, he replied with a ‘no’, to which Penimra had to remark something crude and better left forgotten.

“Thank you,” Essie murmured, accepting her own room key quickly to leave the poor lad be. She reached for Amon’s hand; found it waiting just for her, and glanced up towards his face. His expression wasn’t focused. Caesar whimpered at his side, nudging his leg.

Nevertheless, she smiled radiantly upon him. It was returned, barely. With her hand remaining folded within his, they took the single flight of stairs to the rooms just beside the desk. Amon’s breath was loud behind her; escaping in a hiss behind clenched teeth with each step.

“M’lord, do you want Pri’cha to-”

“I’m fine.”

She bit her tongue and guided them to their door.

Caesar was the first to enter, hurrying inside with the thump of his heavy paw-pads upon the floor. He inspected the floorboards one by one; for trouble or signs of food, she couldn’t say. A single amused note carried in her throat as Essie released the nobleman’s hand to be able to slide her carrying bag from her shoulder, and set it on the floor.

She made her way to the bedside and pulled back the sheets, looking them over for signs they hadn’t been washed. Satisfied with the results and the waft of clean linens, Essie hummed as she adjusted the room; placing the lamp on the nightstand beside Amon’s favored side of the bed, fluffing the pillows, and checking for anything that stuck out as odd in the room. From behind, the occasional muted curse alerted her, but she politely ignored it. Giving him the space he initially seemed to want, she pulled out some comfy, well-worn clothes to wear for the night and tried to organize her bag… That is, up until the panting sound of breathing began to escalate from across the room.

Turning around, a wave of sympathy coursed over her. She should have helped sooner, regardless how he denied the aid and pushed her away.

Approaching him from the side, she reached for him. “One second, dear, don’t move so much-”

“I can hardly move as it is,” Amon gruffly replied, his voice muffled within the fabric of his tunic twisted around his neck and face. It was stuck in an awkward distorted shape around his head and upper torso.

Essätha faltered. Dragging her teeth anxiously along her lower lip, the sorceress bunched up the fabric beneath Amon’s arms. He inhaled a little sharper, and she did too as her fingers brushed against skin. Thankfully, the brief breathlessness from the contact was lost to her by the reality of the moment returned as he flinched.

“Maybe leave it on?” She advised nervously.

“It’s already half-way off my head,” he replied helplessly, “… it’s going to hurt either way at this point. Just… pull it off fast.”

Like ripping off a band-aid, she thought wearily. Sucking in a steadying breath, Essie held the shirt as much as she could in her hands, and pulled it up steadily. Her entire body recoiled in sympathy to the hoarse groan of agony that escaped the nobleman. Even Caesar joined in, with a remorseful drawn out whine of their own.

She tossed the garment aside as his head finally popped free at the last yoink, trying not to stare. His shoulder made it easy, however. There was some visible minor swelling, and the muscle jumped painfully as he turned away from her, still swearing.

“M’lord…” Exhaling raggedly, she reached for him. Her fingers grazed his good shoulder, yet he still winced. The reaction made her pull her hand back quickly.

“I’m sorry, Did I-”

“No.”

“Oh,” she mumbled at the sharpness of his tone. Don’t hold it against him, she reminded herself, watching the way he moved. Stalked, more like. A wounded animal, he very lightly pressed his palm over his bad shoulder and hissed aloud in misery.

Amon paced, conflicted. She watched, her fingers laced in front. Whatever he was doing it for wasn’t clear; he didn’t seem to be looking for anything. It just appeared as though the pain was muddling his thoughts so much, he couldn’t focus. He would step towards the nightstand, then the bed, then his bag, and then around in a circle with frustration written on his features.

After a few more moments of watching his confusion, Essie cleared her throat softly: “M’lord Amon, perhaps take a seat on the bed? I’ll find the salve.”

He merely grunted in thick response,  trudging towards the bedside.

Essätha nibbled her lip. Scooting their things aside, she grabbed for Amon’s bag where it lay. Her fingers dug inside, locating trousers, socks, undergarments- her face turned pink- and finally the jar of ailment balm. Success!

“Found it!” she declared.

Another grunt.

Hurrying around the bed, Essie sat slowly upon the edge, hearing Amon’s pained gasp as the mattress shifted beneath him. His spine locked in a rigid line. Guilt like an arrow slammed into her chest suddenly, and even still an aching was left behind even after she froze in place. Holding her breath, she waited for him to relax, but he only appeared unable to really do so.

Mumbling an apology, her eyes swept over to his shoulder as she unscrewed the top of the ointment. He didn’t respond. The silence was somehow worse. Filled with doubt, and a crushing, crippling, humiliating sense that she’d upset him, she coated her fingertips and palm with a heavy amount of the cream. Too much probably, but her hands were shaky and rushing. Her racing mind was torn between the nurturing desire to cherish and protect this man, and the voice telling her that she wasn’t enough. That she didn’t do enough. That she didn’t mean enough.

As lightly and careful as she could, Essie rested her hand over his shoulder. Clipped words in a language she didn’t know escaped him, and the nobleman doubled forward, exhaling loudly through his nose.

“I’m sorry, m’lord” she whispered, nursing her fingers over his shoulder. She glided to the left, and then the right. Up and down, back and forth; applying little to no pressure, and allowing the pomade to instead be smeared over his shoulderblade around his arm; towards the front of his chest and back to absorb into his skin. He gritted his teeth visible through it, and spoke not a single word.

Essie folded her legs beneath her as she scooted up on the bed more. “Lean back please, beloved.”

There was no urging tone in her voice, but he reacted so immediately it was startling. Puffing as though he was winded, the nobleman forced his stiff spine to bend back, until he was nearly against her chest.

“There’s f-fine.”

He said nothing. Uneasily lying on the floor nearby, Caesar whimpered on his master’s behalf.

Once certain that she had the salve spread not so thick, Essätha began to skim her touch a bit more boldly across his skin. Amon let out a groan, and she froze, her fingers hovering.

The nobleman’s hoarse voice carried back to her; a sole wanting word: “Please.”

Promptly, her face felt flush. He sounded breathless; helpless, yearning. Her mouth pulled down in the corner, trying to deter the hope surging through her, daring her to smile. He was growing comfortable, and that’s what she wanted. Not… not-

Drawing out a heavy breath of relief, Essie slid her hand down his shoulder, kneading the tense muscle. Almost restless, the nobleman shuddered and began to shift. His head lulled to the side as her hand crept along his shoulder towards the tendons standing out in his neck. Digging her palm deeper into the tense tissue along his shoulderblade, she rolled her hand against his skin. The delightful sound of his sigh was praise enough for her to continue.

She became engrossed. Massaging down the length of his arm, back up, and down the front of his chest, she rubbed in the ailment balm into his skin. Pressing her fingertips deep, she rubbed from the base of his spine at an angle along his shoulder.

Amon stopped jolting and wrestling with aches and trying directing her touch, and absorbed himself into the sensation. The pitch-notes of his growls and quiet gasps of pain as she’d delicately try working against a particular painful spot ceased; and instead he grew mostly quiet. A grateful moan tipped out as she stroked along his rotary cuff that heated her blush.

Her inquisitive nature got the better of her. Feeling awkward, Essätha raised her other hand. She hesitated with each gesture; to touch, or not to touch? Finally, as the nobleman stretched out leisurely closer to her, she laid her hand delicately on the opposite shoulder.

He turned his head curiously towards her fingers.

Lashes fluttering closed, he sagged back almost into her as she squeezed both shoulders, and caressed both hands down his forearm and up again.

“Essätha…”

Face hot, she cleared her throat. “I-Is this okay with you?”

“Yes.”

His voice was even weaker now; quiet and longing hopefully.

Pleading her starving frantic wishes be silent, she bent her elbows out further to lean in further as she rubbed her hands down lower on his back than before. He arched; bent to her will, and then relaxed his posture again as she massaged her way forward, and slipped her fingers to graze along his neck and around his collarbone.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?” she wondered aloud; cursing herself for how out of breath she sounded now.

“Mmmm,” he exhaled, rolling both arms slowly beneath her palms. “Better.”

Shyly, she drew her hands over his skin again while smiling. “Good.” She leaned over his shoulder to give him a quick peck on the cheek; barely a brush of her lips, and felt the searing heat of his instantaneous blush as she retreated.

Essätha kneaded his shoulders in the same pattern a few more times; doing a wide circle from his shoulderblades, towards his shoulders, down to his forearms, back up to his shoulders, along his neck, and to his shouldeblades again before retracting her hands. The absence of her touch seemed to alarm Amon. He reached across his chest for her retreating hand, catching her. She was unable to refrain from a surprised little gasp, and he quickly and shamefully released her hand, almost slumping forward.

Swallowing her nerves, Essie reached out to tentatively place her hand to his shoulder once more. “You didn’t expect me to massage you all night, did you?” she joked, “Or do you and Caesar have more in common then I thought?”

He chuckled, but it wasn’t full, deep, and as appreciating as she knew it could be.

“No, I’m… I’ m sorry. I was just being selfish.”

“You’re not being selfish m’lord Amon. I offered, and you’re in pain. I could continue for a little while longer, if you’d prefer?”

He shook his head, scooting away from her. Somehow it made her heart feel brittle, and filled with fissures and cracks.

“No,” he grunted. To her delight and shock, her nobleman turned around instead of retreating, and lifted his head to look to her as they faced.

The heat bloomed in her cheeks once more. Something in his face, it was… It felt different. More exposed then usual. His pupils hung like black new moons in his dark iris; exploded and large. There was almost a look of fear, in that vulnerability. But what did someone like him have to fear around someone like her? He was mighty, dapper, and smart; what on this earth could possibly give him a reason to be afraid of her?

His throat jumped as he swallowed, and with a sheepish grin, Amon confessed, “I was being quite selfish, taking advantage of your kindness. I appreciate your help, Essie. I feel much more… relaxed.”

She beamed from ear to ear. “It was my pleasure, m’lord. And I don’t see how you were taking advantage of something I offered, and enjoyed giving.”

The color in his face grew redder. He hesitated; opening his mouth, only to lick his lips. She tilted her head slightly; knitting her brow to the curious anxious gesture. Her hands quickly drifted south, as he took gentle hold of her hands.

“Thank you, Essätha. I know I’ll never be able to find all the words to express how appreciative I am of you. You are truly a remarkable, unique, extraordinary woman.”

Her lips parted slightly in a shaky exhale of awe to his words. He spoke them so warmly; so genuine.

Amon’s breathing jumped. He let go of her hands, and reached for her face. Cupping her cheeks in either hands; rough, barely daring to whisper against her skin, a series of goosebumps broke out against her arms and a field of butterflies swarmed her stomach. She felt dizzy.

Gently, he curled strands of ebony hair along the side of her face behind her ear. He did this with meticulous care, not… quite staring at her. He was looking at her, but not meeting her gaze as he continued on; his voice husky; low, “You do so much for me that I’m not worthy of. You look out for me, even when I don’t think I want it. You… You have got to be one of the kindest, most endearing souls I have ever had the honor of meeting. You are so filled with light, and beauty; it’s serene.”

The cartwheels and dance routine her heart was doing was making her queasy. Behind it all, it was like a chorus of angels singing; a background to harmonize with just how enchanting his voice was. She felt drawn closer; or perhaps she was moving closer without realizing. Her Lord Amon was so magnificent, and so charming. It eased her, somehow, to hear him recognize her.

Trying to catch her breath was impossible; and her words escaped in a barely-audible whisper as she murmured, “I promised I would stay.” Her breath hitched; and the next words escaped her before she could snatch them back: “I want to stay with you.”

His face was glowing. Between the pair of them, there was no telling who was more pink. Essie blinked a few times; wondering for how long she was going to be blinded by the halo of light and warm that seemed to shine out from within him. Forever, probably.

“Staying with me doesn’t mean you have to attend to an old obstinate bastard like me though.”

“M’lord-”

“Ahh shhh shh shhh, I am not finished,” he scolded gently, brushing the dangling twists behind her ear on the opposite side of her face. “My point is… I will never be able to give to you the full depth of thanks. There aren’t enough words; there isn’t enough time for thousands of actions and gifts to bestow upon you in this life. But I do see you. I see the remarkable, funny, stunning, intelligent lady that you are. I feel blessed to have gotten to meet you…”

His eyes drifted. Swallowing a lump in her throat; as it appeared he did, his hands pressed to her cheeks a little firmer, but only just to tilt her head back. Essie blinked rapidly, puzzled.

Amon’s thumb skimmed her lips. The barest touch left tingles behind. She realized he was staring at her mouth all at once and gasped; a bit too loudly and ragged, as her lashes lowered.

“… I don’t deserve you,” he breathed, “you’re too good for me, Essie. You’re too good for this world.”

He was closer now. She wasn’t sure when her hands got ensnared in his hair, but they were there, now. She couldn’t catch her breath anymore.

Running her tongue over her lips, she pursed her lips to kiss the tip of the nobleman’s thumb as he skimmed it above her mouth once more.

“Please,” she implored; almost whimpered.

Her eyes slid shut as he pressed his lips to hers, and kissed her softly. Stealing her air; stealing her heart. Holding her steady, as her grip intensified and dug into the roots of his hair.

Oh Good Lord.

He was almost painfully delicate, and sweet, and restrained.

Her nails raked through his locks as they parted with a faint grasp for air, and she dove in for another; this one firmer, but still far more innocent and tender then she was used to.

Barely pulling part from the second; still dragging in air desperately, she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, and lingered there.

“I love you.”

A well of dampness sprang up from her eyes. It was more then she’d ever expected to hear. The swarm of emotions were overwhelming; elation, comfort, adoration, relief, giddiness, freedom.

“I love you, too.”

The third kiss was more greedy and less patient; their teeth clicked together, and Amon urged her to tilt her head to the side as her lips parted to the tease of his tongue against the seams of her mouth.

Essätha decided then and there that she was fine with him showing his gratitude for her this way as often and frequently as he liked.

[littlemisssquiggles]

Pinehead Headcanons: Oscar’s Light II

miki-13 asked “ So the fic "Until We Have Faces" having Ruby being thrown into the Grimm Pool has been on my mind constantly. The idea of Ruby's pure, small and honest soul being corrupted by the pool, turning her silver eyes red and stealing the ability to destroy the grimm would be a such a blow to everyone. It would simultaneously wipe out the threat of the Silver Eyes and be the perfect way to demoralize Ozpin: if she could taint his smaller, more honest soul, what hope was there to be had?  

Adding onto my last ask, it's pretty obvious Silver Eyes are a reference to Silver Slippers (Ruby in the movie, changed to take advantage of them having actual color inside it) and Salem wanting her alive has plenty of parallels of the Wicked Witch Of The West trying to get the Silver Slippers from Dorothy. It's also quite fitting if Ruby is thrown into the grimm pool that her silver eyes are changed to red, just like the slippers in the movie.”

Squiggles Answers:

@miki-13 ‘Sup Miki-chan! Sorry for the late answer. Weekends have generally been busy days for me since the start of this new semester since I normally use them for school work so now getting around to answering my backlog of inbox messages. 

I’m actually starting to really dig that concept too and your justification of it tying back to the Wizard of Oz story only adds more flavour to this sweet theory. Ruby Rose being broken and worse corrupted by Salem would actually be a rather fitting twist to the RWBY’s main narrative if done. It’s been foreshadowed since the end of V3 that Salem plans to extinguish Ruby’s spark. Since the get-go, Ruby has been revered for her propensity for inspiring hope in the hearts of others in the darkest of times.

It is part of what drew Ozpin to take interest in her development apart from her silver eyes. Beyond that, Ruby is our main protagonist. She is the key hero of RWBY’s story. The brave warrior who stands up for what is right and is always willing to step in to save the day and protect the lives of the weak and innocent; similar to the benevolent champions that Ruby admired in stories as a child.

For Ruby to suddenly become the fallen hero to be tainted by the key villain, not only will it provide a game changer. But it can also provide a way to show what Oscar’s true purpose is in regards to what his bond with Ruby was meant to symbolize.

Ever since Oscar was first introduced to RNJR back in V5, the show hasn’t exactly been subtle with the way it’s edged Ruby and Oscar together. In spite of only knowing Oscar for such a short time, I find it fascinating how much Ruby has gravitated towards him and has already cemented herself as a person Oscar can rely on. Someone who will definitely have his back when he needs it. A permanent player in his court, if you will. 

During the Mistral Days, before Yang and Weiss ultimately showed up at the house, you can see that Ruby was the one who looked out for Oscar the most---ensuring that he didn’t overexert himself during training with Ozpin, checking in him when he was training privately, etc.

This was what immediately sparked my interest in the Rosebud friendship because I found it adorable how much Ruby became a proverbial mother hen to Oscar with such a short time. It’s even perfectly understandable why Ruby would be that way with our precious freckled farm boy. After all, Oscar is now the youngest member of the heroes and I can see Ruby stepping up to support him because she probably sees a lot of her former younger self in Oscar 

Unlike anyone else on the JN(O)R_QROWMBY (apart from Jaune at least), Ruby fully understands what it’s like to be in Oscar’s shoes---the youngest among a group of older, more experienced huntsmen being thrust into a leadership role and having to shoulder the burden of such a badge of responsibility by working hard to always ensure that you are as strong as your team. This makes me think it could be cool to see a possible parallel scene where Oscar is possibly struggling with his training and the immense pressure he feels saddled with after Oz’s departure (provoked by meeting Ironwood possibly) only for Ruby to comfort him by subconsciously quoting the same ‘badge of leadership’ speech that Oz gave her so long ago. Could be a nice little segway to highlight that Ozpin’s teachings and words of wisdom still continue to influence Ruby in spite of everything that happened between the team and her former headmaster. Just an idea.

Ruby understands what Oscar is going through to an extent and it is for this reason why I’m very eager to see how the Rosebudding friendship develops for V7. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I expect Ruby and Oscar to grow closer than they’ve ever been over the duration of the Atlas Trilogy.

I feel like there is a strong possibility for this happening since I believe that these two kids are meant to be close They are meant to be together in some shape or form; be it purely platonic or…perhaps something more.

As of V4, Ruby is no longer the only smaller, more honest soul. It is a title she now shares with Oscar.

And what I like just as much as this is the fact that, similar to how Ruby has become a staple of support for Oscar going forward, this backing is reciprocated with Oscar looking out for Ruby as well. Oscar may not have the skills to aid Ruby on the battlefield (as yet) but he has provided her with a different kind of support that’s just as helpful and significant. Emotional.  

When Ruby was being nonchalant regarding her repressed pain of the events of the Fall of Beacon, it was Oscar’s words that helped her to finally speak out about it during the dojo scene from V5 C5. When Ruby appeared helpless and overwhelmed without a plan of action to answer the infuriated Jaune Arc in V6 C8, it was Oscar, noticing Ruby’s distress who stepped up to try and cipher some of the pressure off of her. While it didn’t exactly end well for him, it’s still noteworthy.

This action of Oscar stepping up to provide emotional reassurance to Ruby during moments when she seems distressed is additionally mimicked in V6 C10 when Oscar noticed how deeply concerned Ruby appeared to be for her Uncle Qrow’s doubts in their plan and did his best to reassure her that everything was going to be okay. Sure, the heist didn’t go without a hitch but you see where I’m going at with this.

When Ruby appears distressed, Oscar is usually the one to take notice and step up to help ease her qualms. As matter of fact, this has happened at least three times now.

It happened in the dojo scene in V5 C5. It happened in V6 C8 and lastly V6 C9. It’s like Oscar has some kind of built-in radar that blares off every time Ruby is in emotional distress and it’s his natural instinct as someone who cares about her to get out of that scenario..

So basically the point I’m trying to make here with all this jibber jab is that Ruby and Oscar are being written to ultimately become pillars for each other. They are meant to support each other.

The two rosebuds go hand in hand because at the moment, they represent the light. The only difference is that Ruby’s light is the one that most talked about. The one that is proclaimed to save everyone.

The light of Ruby’s indomitable spirit is what will save Remnant from the darkness of the forces of evil, right?

‘There’s a light that shines and its power is mine. Though our body’s weak and breakable, the spirit is indomitable’

---That’s the song, right? This now pegs the question, who is destined to protect Ruby’s light while she’s off using it to save the world? Sure you can use the obvious answer of her friends, family and teammates, right? But what if… Ruby’s unquantifiable indomitable spark does get snuffed out? 

What if…that light is lost? If such a thing happens, who will rise up to reignite that spark of hope?Who will even possess that kind of power? This is why I like the idea of should Ruby fall to the darkness, it would Oscar to reach out his hand, becoming the beacon that guides her back. 

When we last discussed this topic, remember how I talked about Oscar’s power being light itself and it will be his light that brings Ruby back? Well, that’s how I see it. Just as how you can’t shake the thought of Ruby being corrupted by Salem and her Grimm Pool of Darkness, this squiggle meister can’t shake the notion of Oscar’s light purifying Ruby of said darkness should she ever fall.

This now ties into my Pinehead headcanon of Oscar’s true power being light and magic; in the sense that he will nullify the darkness and cleanse it rather than destroy it.  Imagine if…Oscar winds up with a power similar to the Silver Eyes but instead of destroying the Grimm, he purifies them in some shape or form.  

Imagine if…Oscar becomes the living embodiment of light magic---the very power of creation and preservation and he winds up becoming this great and powerful young being whose gift pushes back the darkness. But his power isn’t destructive. Oscar’s light doesn’t destroy. It restores. Revives. 

This is why I also love my Oscar’s Creatures of Luxx Pinehead headcanon so much. I’m just picturing a scene where the heroes are backed into a corner fighting a full-blown horde of Grimm and only for Oscar to whip out the Oz-cane. Channelling his semblance into the ancient weapon, Oscar forms a giant barrier of light around himself and his comrades which basically forms a impenetrable shield that forces the Grimm to retreat.

Like imagine, Oscar emulating the kind of light that God of Light exerted with the Grimm being almost…fearful of said light.

Or better yet, Oscar is surrounded by Grimm and his semblance kicks in, bathing all the Grimm in a parting sea of light turning all the Grimm into Creatures of Luxx awaiting Oscar’s command. 

Sorry if I sound like a broken record with this theory, I just really like it because of the Wizard of Oz reference to the Golden Cap and Princess Ozma.  

And it also comes full circle because it simultaneously feeds into Oscar’s light being what saves Ruby from the darkness, should she fall, and reignite her spark should it ever go out.

Both Ruby and Oscar are the youngest members of our gaggle of heroes. Both of them are the current versions of powerful beings who share the light of the God of Light coursing through them. Ruby is presently the last known Silver Eyed Warrior in existence whose abilities originated from the eyes of the God of Light himself, allegedly. Oscar, on the other hand, is the current Wizard of Light---an incarnate of Ozma, the champion of a lost time who the God of Light chose to restore and protect humanity while bestowing him with the godly power of reincarnation. And let’s not forget that Ozma was already blessed with the God’s gift of magic since he is a relic of First Remnant. And that same power will ultimately be inherited by Oscar when the time comes.

I’ve said it before and I shall say it again, if Ruby is a spark then Oscar’s presence in her life is to be a fuel to her spark. 

He is meant to support her. Better yet, these two kids are destined to support each other through thick and thin. 

For they are our smaller, more honest souls who share the Light of a God. It is a light that shines in not just one, but both of them. 

The only difference is that only one of them has unlocked her said light and it’s only a matter of time for the other to go through his own awakening. 

And should either of these two beings of Light fall prey to the darkness, I can only expect the other---their partner, to be right there to save with their own light.

That’s my theory. I hope this answers your message Miki-chan. As always, let me know your thoughts on my thoughts.

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

[wandering-through-wonder-land]

I have a writing prompt! What if... Deceit was a main part of Thomas at first. But then the light sides start to change everything. Deceit angst? >:)

Hoo guuuuurrrrrlllll! Two days and it’s done! I hope you like it! I do, even if it broke my heart at times while writing it. Heh, ;)Not One of Us, (Anymore).Deceit remembered a time when he had been accepted, when he hadn’t been shunnedor hated, when he hadn’t been Deceit. He remembered before he had a physicalform, when his being had merely existed in a void of nothingness, aconsciousness without a body, without a care but to do his job. He couldremember what it had been like back then, not breathing, not moving, not speaking,just thinking, just existing. He hadobserved Thomas’s life, birth and onward, without ever living a life of hisown. He watched, and he advised. He watched as the boy grew, as he learned, ashe bonded with others, as he was hurt, and as he healed. Through it all he wasthere to whisper words of encouragement, a voice disembodied in the darkness,echoing out into the nothingness, a gentle comfort. Back then he had beenReassurance, not Deceit.

His existence never changed, and there he stayed, within thedarkness, watching, comforting, observing, calming. The day Thomas broke hisarm he whispered that it would heal. When the boy accidentally broke hismother’s vase, he had shushed him with reminders of his mother’s love andpromises of her forgiveness. When the family pet had to be put down due to age,he reminded the child that there was nothing he could have done. Thomas didn’tunderstand a school assignment and he assured him that he had plenty of time tolearn. This was his job, and this was all he did: Reassure the child of whatwas true when he became distraught.

Then one day he couldn’t do that, and it broke somethingdeep inside of him, he wanted so badly to reassure the child that everythingwould be fine when his grandfather fell ill…. but he couldn’t. It wasn’t true.So he lied. He told the boy that it would be alright, he told him that hisgrandfather would heal, that the old man would come home once again, that hewould hear deep laughter ringing through the halls once again. He promised thathe wouldn’t die. He swore that Thomas had no reason to worry. And then hisgrandfather had died. And he had known all along that he was lying to thechild.

He had thought little of it, the minor guilt he felt fordeceiving the now distraught child giving way to the knowledge that Thomas hadnot been inconsolable with grief the last few months. Now he did his proper jobagain, reminding him of his grandfather’s love, reassuring him that his belovedelder was no longer in pain, that he would see him again one day. And in time,Thomas stopped crying. That should have been the end of it, things should havegone back to normal. But they didn’t.

The consequences of the boy having lied to himself formonths became clear all too quickly. He started to think to himself that maybe,when he broke the lamp, he could say that he tripped rather than saying that hewas playing around. He thought that maybe he could say he lost his book ratherthan admitting that he just didn’t want to read it. When he was upset he saidhe was fine. He didn’t do his chores and he said he forgot. He, as manychildren do, learned that lying could ease his path just a bit, get him out oftrouble and hide things he didn’t want to be known…. He had learned thatsometimes lies hurt far less than the truth. And through it all, Reassurancetold him that it would be alright. That things would be fine, that he would beforgiven if he got caught and that there was no need to be afraid if he didn’t.Oh, how he had never meant for his reassurances to turn into this….

The force of Thomas learning to lie, of needing morereassurances because of it, warped the void around him. He hadn’t expected it,and he almost failed to reassure himself that everything was ok. Thenothingness changed from and inky black to an ashy grey, seeming to move aroundhim, shapes like shadows peeking through the darkness, until they solidified. Abox of dark grey, the top and bottom of which were black, a bed draped inyellow sheets and black blankets, a dresser and wardrobe of glossy black, and adoor a deep brown framed in yellow.

He seemed to hover at the center of it all, his beingshifting and changing as he took it all in. He felt lighter than he ever had,yet impossibly heavier, it took him a moment to realize this was because he hadnever had a body with which to experience either of these sensations. The roomsoftly stopped shifting as he was set down, everything around him solidifying. 

A sudden softness startled him, and he looked down. Two barefeet were resting in a black rug so soft you could almost sink into it anddisappear. ‘Was that where it had comefrom? That strange sensation?’ He could see those feet leading into legs thatdisappeared in soft back pants, where the pants ended he could see the faintoutline of hips. Above that was a gentle curve that lead up into a firmer section…astomach, and a chest…these too were encased in fabric, a deep charcoal grey.Two pale arms hung loosely at either side, soft grey encircling them as well. Hestared, trying to comprehend what was happening.

A sudden sensation flared in the center of his being -pain,he distantly realized – and something higher up unhinged -his jaw he dimly notedlater on- a gasping sound echoing in newly formed ears as coldness raced down intohis being and into the now expanding chest he was staring at. ‘This… this was his body. And that was…. hewas breathing. How? And why?’

He knew, of course, that there were pieces of Thomas’spersonality that had physical forms: Morality, Logic, Creativity. But he alsoknew there were far more pieces that did not: Calm, Self-Preservation,Fight-or-Flight…. him. So why did he have a physical form now? The other threewere an integral part of Thomas’s personality, making up the majority of hisvery being, his every action and who he was. Having a physical form betterenabled them to interact with each other and do their jobs… ‘Oh. Was that it? Was he here now because Thomas needed him more?’

That was not…. ideal. That his host should be in so muchdistress as to need him in a physical form, but he would do his job as best hecould. There was no use worrying over it now. He faced the door and paused amoment, deciding to take a day and learn how to navigate this body, how to useit properly, and to familiarize himself with his surroundings, before he wentthrough that opening. He figured out how to walk and run, how to twist and turnhis body, how to move his limbs, and how far he could move before it hurt. Heopened his mouth and learned how to speak, only biting his tongue a few timesat the unfamiliar sensation. As he lay down that night, he looked to theceiling and saw little white dots scattered along its expanse, glowing. ‘Stars’. He realized. He smiled softly ashe counted them, remembering what Thomas’s grandfather had always told theyoung boy before he passed:

“Look to the stars,Dear Boy. When all seems lost, look to the stars and find your way.” 

***

The next day he descended the stairs, more than a littleworried, but reminding himself that he was meant to be here, that he wouldbelong here. That he would not have been given physical form if that were nottrue. So he bolstered his own spirits and walked onward, pausing at the bottomof the stairs to take in his surroundings. The commons were a simple andspacious area, giving off a feeling of home. It had been his intention tosurvey his entire surroundings, but his focus was broken as his eyes rested onone of the couches, at its center sat another man. His attention was completelytaken by studying the other, their surroundings forgotten. The man was clad indark blue with a tie cinched around his neck, thick framed glasses framing deepbrown eyes. He seemed calm, if his measured movements as he turned the pages ofhis book and the general stillness were any indication.

 After a few momentsthose eyes flicked up to him, a page pausing halfway through a turn, a clinicalgaze sweeping over him once, analyzing. He put the book down, quiet and calm.“Ah, I see you’ve come down. We did notice your door last night, but I can’tsay we were expecting you so soon. No matter.” He stood, stepping a bit closerbut not within arm’s reach, a shift of attention, nothing more. “I am Logic,though you may call me Logan.”

The new trait opened his mouth to speak, but another voicecut him off. “Lo! Did he come down?!” A bouncy man with a happy grin on hisface bounded out of the kitchen, grey cardigan swinging on his shoulders, thebright blue of his shirt nearly as peppy as he himself was, glasses identicalto Logan’s framing sparkling eyes. The fatherly trait bounded over to him likean excited puppy, stopping just short of hugging him. “Heya Kiddo! Welcomedown, ‘m so glad you came out!” A deliberate clearing of a throat drew thehappy man’s attention to the Logical trait who raised a brow. The energetic mangiggled, rocking back on his heels. “Oh! How silly of me! I’m Morality, thoughmy name’s Patton! Everyone just calls me Dad though!

”A mumbled comment of ‘no we don’t’ from Logan was drownedout by a booming voice sounding from the man who just walked in the door. “Ofcourse we do Padre!” His eyes tracked to the newcomer, taking note of shouldersslightly broader than the other two, the clothing of white with a red sash, andthe self-assured smile on a tan face. The dramatic man shifted his gaze to thenew comer and grinned wider, bowing and taking his hand to press a kiss to itwith a flourish. “Ah! How lovely of you to join us! I am Prince Roman, theembodiment of Creativity!” The newest side blushed a little, finding himselfflustered. Of all the things he’d learned how to do in the last day, respondingto dramatics wasn’t one of them.

Logan rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, enough with your theatricsRoman. Now then,” His eyes settled back on the darkly clothed side, “would youtell us your name and what your role is?”

The youngest side met his gaze and spoke clearly, a smallsmile on his lips. “I am Reassurance, and my name is Veritas.” The stoic onenodded thoughtfully. “Latin for ‘truth’. Fitting, for your role. Welcome.”

Patton grabbed his wrist and dragged him over to sit down onthe couch, the other two following suit, and Veritas allowed himself a smallsmile as the emotional man rambled to him about their home and their selves,asking him random questions about himself, the other two interjecting sometimes.He grinned to himself and answered the questions as honestly as he could. ‘Yeah’ he thought, ‘I could get used to this, to having a family.’

***

Weeks passed, and Veritas got along well with the othersides, debating different points of interest with Logan and baking with Patton,listening to the man’s silly stories and horrible puns. Heck, he’d even gone ona quest with Roman, though those weren’t really his forte he’d come to findout. He did his job happily, telling Roman that his art was beautiful and hisideas would be amazing, telling Patton that his cooking was delicious and thatit was going to be a good day, relating to Logan that he was intelligent andwould go on to do great things with what he learned. He was happy, and itseemed he made the others happy too. He was content. He should have known itwouldn’t last.In a short time his reassurances became hollow. It wasn’t his doing, but it wasinevitable that the words he was saying would become lies to those who heardthem. He didn’t mean to lie, but how could he truthfully tell Morality it wouldbe alright when the moral trait didn’t believe it? How could he tell Creativitythat his creations were wonderful when all he sees were the flaws? How could hetell Logic he was cared for when the calculating man couldn’t fathom beingworth care? Soon all he could tell to his fellow sides was lies. Thomas was not much better. The boy had begun to doubthimself, things going wrong in his life, and all Reassurance could do was tellhim it would be alright. That everything would work out. That he would be happyagain, he would be cared for, he would heal. But Thomas didn’t believe hiswords, so these too became lies.

He hated it. He hated how acrid the words felt in his mouth,the bitter taste they left behind. But it was his job to reassure the others,and most importantly Thomas, so he did, swallowing past the sick feeling itgave him and saying the words with as much calm and compassion as he could.

He continued his job for weeks, months even, feeling sickerand sicker in the pit of his stomach with each passing day. He kept reassuringthem, all of them and Thomas, day in and day out, lie after lie after lie, andthe sick feeling grew. Grew until it threatened to crawl out his throat andspew out like venom. He fought against it, reassuring himself that he was doinghis job, that he was helping the others. That they were more important than hiscomfort. He told himself it was fine, that everything would be well…. until theday it wasn’t.

Thomas was hurting, Patton on the verge of crying whileLogic laid out the facts to him. A child Thomas had hoped to be friends withhad started hurting him, and as much as it hurt Morality to turn away from afriend, Logic made it clear this wouldn’t be good for Thomas if they stayed.The confusion their disagreement caused was making Thomas upset, so Veritasopened his mouth to reassure him.

He had meant to say, ‘If you tell them you don’t want to befriends, you will still find other friends.’, but what had come out of hismouth had been “Tell them you hate them.”

His own eyes had widened in horror as Morality gasped andLogic gaped at him, and Thomas…. did as he was told. Thomas had gotten introuble, badly, and the others had blamed him. Roman had lashed out at him,yelling that this was “Your fault! If you can’t do your job, you shouldn’t beReassurance!”

It had stung, badly, even if the creative trait was right.He had sunk out to his room, a pain flaring to life on the side of his neck. Ithurt so damn bad! As soon as he was safe in his own room he tore his shirt off,rubbing at the spot and craning his neck so he could see it in the mirror. 

A green circle the size of his thumb print rested at thebase of his neck, where the top of his shoulder became his back, itchy andforeign. ‘A scale.’ He didn’tunderstand it, he didn’t know why it was there, but he ignored it. There wouldbe time to figure that out later. Except later didn’t come, there was no time to figure out the little green markhe made sure to cover with a little cloak he’d found in his wardrobe, becauseThomas was having a rough patch. Everything that could go wrong was goingwrong, and the sides were suffering for it. And Veritas tried to soothe it all.

Roman couldn’t create anything decent and was falling apartat the seams because of it.

               “It’s horrible!” - “No, it’s not, it’sbeautiful.”  

             “My ideas are wretched!” – “Theyare wonderful.” 

              “I can’t do anything right!” –“You are brilliant, Roman.”  

             “I’ll never be a great artist!” –“You already are.” 

              “I’m a failure to Thomas!” – “Youcould never be a failure to him.”

Morality began toquestion if he was good enough, if life would be ok.   

            “We don’t have friends wholisten.” – “We have two who love us very much, they simply can’t help.” 

              “I can’t make a good dinner.” –“Your food is delicious Patton.” 

              “Everything is gloomy and it’snot getting better.” – “You make it better already Patt.” 

              “Thomas will never be happyagain.” – “Yes, he will Patt, one day, soon.” 

              “I’m a burden to Thomas and theothers.” – “You’re important to him and to us.”

Logan couldn’t learn,couldn’t absorb any more information, and he panicked, reasoning skillssuffering.

              “We’ll never amount to anythingif I can’t learn!” – “You have plenty of time to learn, this is temporary.”

              “I’m an idiot!” – “You are intelligentand diligent, Logan.” 

              “What if he never learns again?”– “He will.”               “He’ll never learn all he needsto!” – “Of course he will.” 

              “Should he go into math orscience? Arts? It’s hopeless!” – “He will follow his own path, and he will behappy, Logan.”

This continued, the odd pain the child was in not ceasingfor a long time, and with everything he said, every truth the others believedto be a lie Veritas grew sicker, until he found one day he could tell nothingbut a lie, that nothing but a twisted version of his words would come out ofhis mouth. 

Logan was having a break down, actually crying for once, hisvoice shaky with harsh breaths and clogged with tears. “He-He’s failingschool!” Thomas had gotten into trouble for having a D in math. “He won’t pass…I’m an idiot! A damn failure!”‘

No, you’re not, andhe won’t fail. You are not to blame.’ Those were the words he had tried tosay, but the sickness in his stomach reared its head, forcing its way up histhroat. “Yes, you are. He will fail, and it will be your fault.”

Logan had stopped crying, freezing in shock at the words,staring at him wide eyed as they sunk in, then he began to sob. Veritas triedto open his mouth, a fever like cold settling over his body, horror andsickness twisting in his gut. He tried to take it back, to explain, but the harshvoice of Morality cut him off before he could begin. “Veritas! How could you?!” The father figure had turned to Logan,rubbing his back and trying to console him, eyes locked on Veritas’s. “Itdoesn’t matter if it’s true or not -which it’s not!- You don’t get tosay such cruel things!”

Veritas had flinched back, a searing pain on the base of hisneck. He’d meant to open his mouth and apologize, he wanted to say he wassorry, desperately wanted to make it right. “I’m not sorry.” Was what came out. 

His eyes widened and tears started to brim in his eyes asLogan cried harder. He sunk out and fled to his room, the burning on his neckintensifying. He scrabbled to get his shirt off, checking his neck in themirror, dreading what he would see. Sure enough, settled right next to thefirst, was a second scale. It was larger than the other, nearly double the sizeand at least doubly as painful, a slightly darker shade of green. He stared atit, numbness spreading through his chest, and he cried.

***

It didn’t stop. Every time he went to reassure Thomas or theothers, a lie spilled from his lips, the very opposite of what he wanted to saytumbling out into the air between them. He watched his once calming words thathad brought such happiness and peace turn to acid, burning and scaring those hewished to help. And he couldn’t stop it. He had tried once to lie on purpose,hoping against hope that his words would twist into the opposite again, statingthe truth. Instead they had come out cruel, dripping more venom than he couldhave ever thought possible. That scale had been the size of a ping pong ball onthe side of his neck. He continued to do his job, trying to, pleading with themto understand that he wasn’t saying what he meant, eyes wide and tonedesperate… but they never understood, and every time he lied they lashed out,words nearly as venomous flying back in his face.

Every barb and every jab at him, every time they blamed himfor something going wrong, every time they spit venomous words at him, anotherscale grew on his skin…eventually it corrupted his eye, turning it yellow witha slit pupil. He covered his mirror, not wanting to see it anymore.

***

It was Roman whofinally snapped one day, they all did, but he was the worst. Children are almostnever reasonable, and it only takes one imagined slight for rivalries and crueltyto break out in their midst. This was a lesson Thomas was learning as he waswrongfully blamed for something by another child, this child having now decidedthat Thomas was their mortal enemy. Meaning the child had decided to makeThomas’s life a living hell every chance they got.

Morality had whisperedto the child that it would be alright, that he could smooth things over, thatthey could be friends even! Logic, while he had not taken such an optimisticapproach, had informed Thomas that this child who was bullying him had no legitimatereason to be angry with him, that explaining this should resolve the issue. Creativityhad decided the best way to go about this was a gift, bright and colorful andfilled with an apology and a wish to be friends. Veritas had whispered that hewould be forgiven, and all would be well.

The three had pouredthemselves into the plan, executing it nearly flawlessly…. almost. The one flawthey hadn’t counted on was it not working. The gift had been thrown to theground, crushed under a child’s heel, and Thomas had not only been laughed at,but also hit. The others reeled, having not planned for this, and in the chaos,Veritas opened his mouth. ‘You’re alright. Just get up and walk away, don’t sayanything. You’ll be ok.’ These words were all he wanted to say, hisgreatest wish at that moment, but fate hated him and his words, once again,twisted out of his control. “He hurt you. Yell at him.”

And Thomas, in his pain and heightened emotional state, haddone that and more. He had attacked the other child, pushing him down andhitting him. He had gotten in trouble, suspended, both children having receivedbruises and cuts. Veritas watched it all unfold with horror. He decided thenthat he wouldn’t speak again, that he would be a comforting presence, a silentone. But he decided this too late. When it was all done, and Thomas was homethat night, punishment over, in bed, Veritas was summoned to the commons where theother three waited for him. Patton sat on the couch, staring solemnly at theground, Logic stood at his side with a clenched jaw, and Roman stood by thewindow, arms folded behind his back, teeth gritted.

Logic had informed him that he was “More hindrance thanhelp and your presence at the current time is detrimental to Thomas’sdevelopment.” In a clipped and formal tone. “Though it is unlikely deceptionwill ever be a trait of any benefit to him.” 

Morality had said he was disappointed in a sad tone. “I’mnot proud of you Kiddo, this isn’t how we should behave.” He had frowned,perhaps the most serious tone anyone had ever heard from him coming out of hismouth. “I think it’d be best if you backed off for a while, until Thomasmatures enough to handle you.” The, ‘and that’ll be never’ was left unsaid.

Veritas had flushed, tears welling up in his eyes as hetried to bite them back. ‘I didn’t meanto hurt you, I was only trying to help! You’re all wonderful and capable, and Thomaswill live a happy life with you.’ He should have known better by now, buthis mouth opened of its own accord. “I’m not sorry, I intended to hurt you. Youare all foolish invalids and Thomas’s life will be wretched with you.”

It was Creativity who lost his composure, face flushed redfrom anger and voice booming in fury. “HOWDARE YOU?! You come here, into ourhome and we welcome you, call you family, and you BETRAY US?!” He’d scoffed then, eventhat sounded angry. “’Reassurance’,that was just a lie! You come hereunder false name to injure us and defileour home!” The angry man had stepped closer then, the other two remainingquiet, one pair of eyes fixed coldly on them, the other sadly on the floor.“Even your name is a lie! ‘Veritas’,‘truth’,HA! Your name is Deceit, you foul creature, and your nature is known!” A step closer, fists balled angrily at hissides. “LEAVE HERE AND DO NOT REUTRN, YOU WRETCHED SERPENT!”

Veritas had pressed his eyes closed in an effort to hold inhis tears, sinking out and fleeing the only home he had ever known, for howeverbrief a time. Over his shoulder he called a single phrase. “I’m notsorry.” Even now he couldn’t tell the truth.

They had poisoned him with their lies and self-doubt.Scarred him with their cruel words. Mangled his speech with their disbelief.And now…. now they were throwing him away.

***

Years later, after having come out of hiding, Deceitwatched, expression closed off, as the others spoke their minds, turning Thomasagainst him. It seemed the Prince would be the one to deliver the final blow,“Come on Thomas! Surely you see it?! He is evil!” he gestures sharply towardDeceit’s face, toward his scar. “It’s as plain as the scales on his face!”

Deceit couldn’t bear to watch and pretend he didn’t careanymore. His eyes slid from Roman’s, moving down as he turned his head, hidinghis shame and his scar from view. He grit his teeth, lips pulling back insilent agony, and squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his cheeks as hefled. He sank out, popping up in the commons, doubting very much that any ofthe others had noticed his tears or would have bothered to care if they had. Heran up the stairs, barely avoiding tripping with his tear blurred vision, andflung himself into his own room. He stopped in the center of it, not botheringto turn the light on. ‘I had only triedto help. That’s all I had ever wanted!’ he collapsed onto the floor, cryingand sobbing for hours. When he had no more tears left to cry he looked up, helooked up and counted the stars. And if he reassured himself that one day, oneday, he would be part of their family…well, that was just another lie.Fin~Whoooo Boy! That was a ride!

Big thank you to @fangirltothefullest for this phenomenal gif/drawing/animation that inspired not only the ending of this fic, but also the name! Seriously! Go look at it!

Thank you to @neonwaffleninja for the prompt! 

Thank you @anxiousangelvirgil for helping me puzzle out a tricky scene!

[blackphoenixalchemylab]

The Weenies Are In!

Halloween starts early at the lab, and we’re excited to present the Halloween 2017 update! It’s here! The cornerstone of this year's collection is a spirited tribute to Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart," featuring numerous heart-stopping illustrations by Drew Rausch (as previewed above).

But wait! There are more collections within the Collection:  Pile of Leaves, Pumpkin Spice Whatever (It will never die!), Samhainophobia (be very afraid), and, of course, the season’s stirring Single Notes.

The 2017 Weenies, all limited editions, are all ready and waiting for you online. If you’d like to catch a whiff of the whole set—and a whole lot more—come smell us at New York Comic Con, October 5 through 8. Or send your fairy to Comic Con on a Weenie-gathering mission. 

NOW, HERE’S EVERYTHING!

ALL SOULS

A day of remembrance and intercession. Without the prayers and sacrifices of their families and loved ones, the faithful departed may not be cleansed of their venal sins, and thereby cannot attain beatific vision. On November 2nd, prayers are sung and offerings are made to aid lost souls in transcending purgatory. An incense blend that invokes the higher qualities of mercy and compassion, mingled with the soft, sugared currant scent of offertory soul cakes.

THE APPARITION

When by thy scorne, O murdresse, I am dead,And that thou thinkst thee freeFrom all solicitation from mee,Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,And thee, fain'd vestall, in worse armes shall see;Then thy sicke taper will begin to winke,And he,whose thou art then, being tyr'd before,Will, if thou stirre, or pinch to wake him, thinkeThou call'st for more,And in false sleepe will from thee shrinke,And then poore Aspen wretch, neglected thouBath'd in a cold quicksilver swear wilt lyeA veryer ghost than I;What I will say, I will not tell thee now,Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,Than by my threatenings rest still innocent.

Quicksilver-cold and heartless: white sandalwood, immortelle, zdravetz, and oudh.

APPLE BUTTER RUM

Spiced rum with cinnamon, apple butter, nutmeg, and thick vanilla cream.

CARDAMOM CREAM PUMPKIN CAKE

Thick lumps of pumpkin cake with cardamom-cream frosting and a dusting of cinnamon.

CHOCOLATE BLOOD

A sideways ode to Hitchcock’s Psycho, by way of Bosco Chocolate Syrup.

CINNAMON CHAI CUPCAKE

A cozy accompaniment on chilly autumn nights.

DAY OF THE SKULLS

In Bolivia, many people hold to the tradition of keeping the skulls of their ancestors with them in their homes, caring for their remains. It is believed that each person has seven souls, and one of those souls stays with the skull after death, enabling a spirit to grant protection and prophetic dreams to their descendants, and to bless their families with good health and prosperity.

The Bolivian Fiesta de las Natitas, or Dia de los Natitas, is a day of honor for these ancestors. Their skulls are dressed with fragrant blossoms, and offerings of cocoa leaves, alcohol, and cigarettes are made.

White sandalwood, beeswax, and frankincense crowned by hydrangea, rose, and kantuta blossoms, dressed with tobacco, cocoa leaves and flowers from the sacred Cactus of the Four Winds.

DIRGE

We do lie beneath the grass In the moonlight, in the shade  Of the yew-tree. They that pass Hear us not. We are afraid   They would envy our delight,   In our graves by glow-worm night. Come follow us, and smile as we; We sail to the rock in the ancient waves, Where the snow falls by thousands into the sea, And the drown’d and the shipwreck’d have happy graves.- Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Yew berries and cypress boughs, ropes of kelp and sea spray.

FEEDING THE DEAD

A barrel of beer, a pyramid of cakes, and three sticks of incense.

HALLOW-E’EN, 1914

"Why do you wait at your door, woman,Alone in the night?”“I am waiting for one who will come, stranger,To show him a light.He will see me afar on the roadAnd be glad at the sight.” “Have you no fear in your heart, woman,To stand there alone?There is comfort for you and kindly contentBeside the hearthstone.”But she answered, “No rest can I haveTill I welcome my own.”“Is it far he must travel to-night,This man of your heart?”“Strange lands that I know not and pitiless seasHave kept us apart,And he travels this night to his homeWithout guide, without chart.” “And has he companions to cheer him?”“Aye, many,” she said.“The candles are lighted, the hearthstones are swept,The fires glow red.We shall welcome them out of the night—Our home-coming dead.”- Winifred M. Letts

A welcome for the home-coming dead: an incense of dried ivy and maple leaf with honeyed fig, black cypress, and grave dirt.

HAUNTED SEAS

A gleaming glassy ocean  Under a sky of grey;A tide that dreams of motion,  Or moves, as the dead may;A bird that dips and wavers  Over lone waters round,Then with a cry that quavers  Is gone—a spectral sound. The brown sad sea-weed drifting  Far from the land, and lost;The faint warm fog unlifting,  The derelict long tossed,But now at rest—though haunted  By the death-scenting shark,Whose prey no more undaunted  Slips from it, spent and stark.

- Cale Young Rice

Seaspray and flecks of foam welling with opoponax and labdanum’s sepulchral moans.

IN A WHISPERING GALLERY

That whisper takes the voiceOf a Spirit, speaking to me,Close, but invisible,And throws me under a spellAt the kindling vision it brings;And for a moment I rejoice,And believe in transcendent thingsThat would make of this muddy earthA spot for the splendid birthOf everlasting lives,Whereto no night arrives;And this gaunt gray galleryA tabernacle of worthOn this drab-aired afternoon,When you can barely seeAcross its hazed lacuneIf opposite aught there beOf fleshed humanityWherewith I may commune;Or if the voice so nearBe a soul’s voice floating here.- Thomas Hardy

Marbled white iris, white tobacco flower, Italian bergamot, white leather, and Mysore sandalwood.

LA CALAVERA CATRINA

The Lady of the Graveyard! Autumn leaves, wild roses, bourbon vanilla, dry chamomile, and a bouquet of bright chrysanthemums and Mexican marigolds.

OCTOBER

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath!

When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief

And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay

In the gay woods and in the golden air,

Like to a good old age released from care,

Journeying, in long serenity, away.

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I

Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks

And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,

And music of kind voices ever nigh;

And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,

Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

Dry, cold autumn wind. A rustle of red leaves, a touch of smoke and sap in the air.

PUMPKIN BROWNIES

Swirled with caramel and topped with sour cream frosting.

PUMPKIN CHYPRE

A gleaming auburn chypre shot through with streaks of pumpkin.

PUMPKIN SUGAR 2017

Crystallized glittering shards of lightly spiced pumpkin sugar.

SAMHAIN 2017

Truly the scent of autumn itself -- damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.

SEPTEMBER MIDNIGHT 2017

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,

Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,

Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,

Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples,

The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence

Under a moon waning and worn, broken,

Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,

Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,

Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,

Snow-hushed and heavy.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,

While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,

As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,

Lest they forget them.

- Sara Teasdale

A myrrh-darkened amber chypre sweetened by newly-ripened black pomegranate.

SUGAR SKULL 2017

Vibrant with the joy and sweetness of life in death! A blend of five sugars, lightly dusted with candied fruits.

THE WITCH BRIDE 2017

A fair witch crept to a young man's side,

And he kiss'd her and took her for his bride.

But a Shape came in at the dead of night,

And fill'd the room with snowy light.

And he saw how in his arms there lay

A thing more frightful than mouth may say.

And he rose in haste, and follow'd the Shape

Till morning crown'd an eastern cape.

And he girded himself, and follow'd still

When sunset sainted the western hill.

But, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side,

Weary day!-the foul Witch-Bride.

(Aw, c'mon, Allingham. Foul is a pretty strong choice of words, dontcha think?)

Pale and lovely, with eyes belladonna-wide: hemlock blossoms and ghostly nightshade veiled by wisteria, white frankincense, black amber, and narcissus resin.

++ HALLOWEEN 2017: PILE OF LEAVES

Every leaf tells a story.

DEAD LEAVES AND SQUISHED CANDY CORN

DEAD LEAVES, HEMP, MOSSY SOIL, FRANKINCENSE AND OUDH

DEAD LEAVES, TUSCAN LEATHER, WHITE AMBER, AND MIMOSA BLOSSOM

DEAD LEAVES, PINEAPPLE, PATCHOULI, AND VETIVER

DEAD LEAVES, LEMON VERBENA, AND CEDAR

DEAD LEAVES, BOURBON, BLACK CHERRY, AND AN ORANGE TWIST

DEAD LEAVES, BLACK PLUM, BITTER CLOVE, AND OUDH

DEAD LEAVES AND PINK PEPPERCORN

DEAD LEAVES, VIOLET CANDY, AND SUGAR CRYSTALS

DEAD LEAVES, COCONUT, AND CHAMPACA BLOSSOM

++ HALLOWEEN 2017: SINGLE NOTES

Black Phoenix’s cheeky interpretation of the iconic scents of the season. No actual single notes—or hags—were harmed during the creation of these blends.

BLOOD SQUIB

BOBBING FOR APPLES

GRAVEYARD DIRT

PAPIÉR-MÂCHE GHOST

PLASTIC PUMPKIN CANDY TUB

PUMPKIN SPICE EVERYTHING

UNSETTLING CLEAR PLASTIC MASK

++ HALLOWEEN 2017: PUMPKIN SPICE WHATEVER

We’re going to keep jumpin’ that pumpkin spice shark until there’s no pumpkins left to spice. Prime motivation: this is hella funny. Illustration by Drew Rausch!

PUMPKIN SPICE CATHEDRAL

Pumpkin spiced incense smoke!

PUMPKIN SPICE OPIUM POPPY

Pumpkin spiced euphoria!

PUMPKIN SPICE EMBALMING FLUID

Pumpkin spice that funeral home!

PUMPKIN SPICE SNAKE OIL

Pumpkin spice them carnies!

PUMPKIN SPICE SHOGGOTH

Bursting bubbles of self-luminous pumpkin spice!

PUMPKIN SPICE PERVERSION

You dirty bird.

PUMPKIN SPICE HARLOT

Pumpkin spice that brothel!

++ HALLOWEEN 2017: SAMHAINOPHOBIA

A celebration of the terrors of the season.

CHIROPTOPHOBIA

Fear of Bats

A flutter of leather becomes a swarm of buffeting musks, tangled with a white flash of sandalwood and near-inaudible shrieks of eucalyptus and elemi.

COIMETROPHOBIA

Fear of Cemeteries

Upturned earth, moss-damp and thick with creeping things. A shard of mahogany from a broken casket. Creaking marble doors pushing open under moonlit skies.

HEMOPHOBIA

Fear of Blood

Crimson splatter, pulsating with blackened vetiver.

NEBULAPHOBIA

Fear of Fog

Sinuous, suffocating tendrils of grey ambergris, white frankincense, and cade.

SAMHAINOPHOBIA

Fear of Halloween

Menacing vetiver, patchouli, and clove with a shock of bourbon geranium, grim oakmoss, and dread-inspiring balsams pierce the innocuous scent of autumn leaves.

++ THE TELL-TALE HEART

Story by Edgar Allan Poe, art by Drew Rausch, scents by Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab.

I HEARD MANY THINGS IN HELL

The disease had sharpened my senses -- not destroyed -- not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily -- how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

Hearken and observe: black iris, French lavender, Roman chamomile, and frankincense.

THE EYE OF A VULTURE

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture -- a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees -- very gradually -- I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Milky white fluid obfuscating a pale, lilac-blue iris.

YOU FANCY ME MAD

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight -- with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.

Percolating with derangement: flashing spikes of orange blossom, neroli, lemon, and bitter clove in a bubbling mass of opoponax, patchouli, and thick, black vetiver.

GROAN OF MORTAL TERROR

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief -- oh, no! -- it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well.

Opaque grey amber and opoponax swelling up like thick smoke, pressed under the weight of baleful tobacco.

THE MOURNFUL INFLUENCE OF THE UNPERCEIVED SHADOW

I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself -- "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney -- it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel -- although he neither saw nor heard -- to feel the presence of my head within the room.

Unutterable dread: thick black patchouli, shadow musk, myrrh, and threads of hot saffron mired in sweet, viscous labdanum.

And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror.

THE DEAD HOUR OF THE NIGHT

Mist-shrouded pine and moonflower creeping over flaccid opium poppies.

THE DREADFUL SILENCE OF THAT OLD HOUSE

Polished mahogany blanketed by myrrh.

STEALTHILY, STEALTHILY

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little -- a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily -- until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open -- wide, wide open -- and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness -- all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

A dim ray upon the vulture eye: smoked violets and bulbous orris, threads of crumbling lavender, and wet iris butter.

OVER-ACUTENESS OF THE SENSE

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? -- now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

Hyper-aware, swirling with delusions: orange blossom, lemon balm, and clove.

THE HELLISH TATTOO OF THE HEART

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am.

Blood musk and pulsating black pepper, a throb of bitter almond, and cracked pimento.

SUSPICION OF FOUL PLAY

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye -- not even his -- could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all -- ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock -- still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

Clean wood floors, a clean tub, clean, clean, clean, with no stain of any kind, no blood-spot whatsoever.

THE WILD AUDACITY OF MY PERFECT TRIUMPH

I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search -- search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

A jubilant and deranged lime absinthe.

SINGULARLY AT EASE

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted.

Rum cakes and black tea, blueberry scones and biscuits.

VIOLENT GESTICULATIONS

No doubt I now grew very pale; -- but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound -- much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly -- more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone?

An erratic pomegranate mint, high-pitched and flailing with eucalyptus, above a throbbing core of black musk.

[dawnfletcherstuff]

The sky was gray, rumbling in the distance as a faint drizzle began above the outskirts of Sylvanas Town. Two figures walked side-by-side – the taller of the two being a blood elf sporting an especially fancy pair of sunglasses to complement some rad horns as well as a split felstalker bone mask around his collar. On his back was a small brown satchel of books that bounced precariously over the two vibrant pink draenite axes that were hooked onto his hips. Between his blonde pompadour and his odd vest, it was clear that this fellow was one odd customer indeed! That said, the man walking beside him was equally unusual- Lush hair with small, dark mushrooms growing in it was the perfect accentuation to this necrolyte's jaw of solidified shadow and five glowing ochre eyes. For that matter- his arms were a hybrid of shadows and vines.

The two, Armaleonis and Canthar, respectively, plodded forward through the gray mist, looking ahead, determined, but in good spirits, both smiling as they traveled West. As the Amani crypt colloquially known as the 'Tomb of Mystery' drew closer into view with every step, the rumbling in the sky intensified, leading the friends to hasten their pace to the unconventional shelter.

It was much darker in the tomb than it had been the last time- no loa-magic lanterns, no torches or even glowing mushrooms- further, it was silent, save for the slow dripping of a water leak deeper in. Had something happened since their last visit? The atmosphere was completely different, that much was for certain. While some might see an attack that nearly cost the pair their lives as undesirable, there  had been some good company, at least. This time, however, it truly lived up to its nature as a graveyard.  The two looked to each other, confused as they began to explore. “HEEEEEEEY!” Arma yelled into his cupped hand, pointed toward the deeper interior of the stone catacombs. “WHERE YOU AT, MUMMY DUDE?” Turning, he flinched a bit when he saw Canthar's displeased expression. With five eyes, the necrolyte could give a withering glare that may very well have been able to kill the recipient.

Before Canthar could get the opportunity to give his opinion on the matter, there was a long, agonizing wet noise that culminated in a thud behind them. They turned instantly, looking at what appeared to be a troll mummy in the dark. “Oh, S'tanky, you scared us.” Canthar said, breathing a sigh of relief- that is, until their eyes adapted to the low light and they realized what they were looking at was no troll mummy. It was some sort of creature that most closely resembled a jellyfish, bending itself into a trollish shape. Its body was rippling and swirling as a kaleidoscope-like rotation of colors and patterns quickly emanated from its goopy form, along a cloud of pheromones of some kind. The patterns were quick, even at the start, but at least they had some sort of sense- lines, colors- they began to move at a speed that made all of Canthar's eyes spin. While wordless, there was an undercurrent of chanting in some odd pseudo-language that accelerated as fast as the patterns upon its flesh.  The two had no chance and everything went black.

-

Armaleonis awoke in a cold sweat in the most comfortable bed he could ever remember sleeping in. He tilted his head as he wiped his eyes and yawned. Yeah, that was a bed. His bed? Wasn't he just in a tunnel or something?

He yawned again, gently tapping his forehead as he tried to make sense of the world. It was too early for this, he concluded. He lay himself back down and pulled up the covers, determined to look into it after another...oh, five minutes or so.

“WOOOOORF!”

He was not going to get that extra five minutes. On the one hand, he was mildly annoyed that he had to wake up at this moment, but on the other, he recognized that bark- the owner of which came running into the room with a wide open mouth and lolling tongue! “Roland!” Arma cried out, grinning as he sat up. Most people would have flinched when a giant timber wolf with rusty red fur leapt onto their bed and snuggled them, but not Armaleonis! No, he gave the big lout the biggest dog hug that he could manage. “I've missed you so so much buddy. Man....” “WORF!” The wolf was looking down at him as though he were crazy. Arma leaned back and looked at  the big beast and canted his head, as though expecting Roland to explain himself. In that moment, however, the wolf hopped down, made a sharp “Yip!” of urgency and ran out of his room, turning to yip at him again when he was slow to follow. Scratching his head, Armaleonis got up and followed his four-legged friend, who led him through a home that was bigger and more beautiful than any he remembered. Everything fell into place, however, once he passed the West Balcony- and was able to look into a star-filled sky that looked onto the Twisting Nether with alabaster bolts of lightning that tore across the sky. “This is...home?” He said, tilting his head. Another, slightly annoyed yip down the hall reminded him that the wolf was not the patient type, and thus the young blonde elf had to run to catch up. As he did, he found himself entering a forum, in the center of which there was a small series of tables- and most notably, two figures with food on their plates- as well as a third plate! Squinting, he could recognize them- even if his brain took a few moments to catch up- The black haired woman with her hair in a bun and the beige regal priest robes was none other than his mother, and the blonde man in sharp red and gold civil attire was his...father? He looked more closely at his father, head feeling like it was swimming through murk. Don't I have a Dad and a Not-Dad?

He tried to figure this out for a couple moments before his father got up and started walking toward him with a smile. 

“You coming to eat breakfast with your old man and your mother or are you gonna stand there til sunset, Leon?” When Armaleonis canted his head a bit, it looked on the one side like his father's hair was scruffy and cut short, but when he looked at him straight, it was as though his hair was perfectly in order and long. He shook it off, chalking it up to not being a morning person, and made his way over to the table, sitting down at the third seat. Roland was sitting next to his chair. He was a good boy. The best boy. His mother leaned on her left hand with a smile. “We thought you weren't going to be up til tonight with how hard you partied last night, Leon. You really ought to thank Roland- at least ONE of you remembered your date with that Ezekiel boy.” Armaleonis tapped his chin. “Ezeki.....Zeke?”

Suddenly, everything made sense to him! His face went red and he put his hands on his cheeks in near panic! “OH NO I'M GONNA BE LATE TO MY DATE! AAAAAAGH!” He immediately jumped up, grabbed a piece of toast, put the corner of it in his mouth and ran to his room to change.

His parents laughed as Roland looked on, panting in what may have been the canine version of a laugh.

As he rapidly changed from his heart-print pajamas into his favorite outfit- a long-sleeved shirt with a fantastic V-neck and fancy ruffles as well as ruffled wrists with slacks and sandals, something struck him as he looked in the mirror.

His eyes. They were...aquamarine.

Something about my eyes...they don't....well, I do have nice eyes.

He flashed himself a grin and nommed a bit of his toast. Mm, cinnamon. With a fist-pump of excitement, he leapt onto the railing and surfed it down to the ground, where he landed with a triple-flip. He waved to his parents and Roland with toast still in his mouth as he ran out to meet his date not too far from home!

Wy tidd feal zmy ydypylzid darvw za ittyez zmuw witruouty, za qujy zmy fdzupizy pyrth ul zmy flylvulq vryip. Gujy zmywy zsa zmy gryiz dirc myrth!  

Armaleonis scratched the back of his neck, squinting for a moment. “What was that?” He looked around as he walked, but nothing seemed to be making that noise. He shrugged it off, dashing to meet his date! The tall sin'dorei who was waiting for him was the ultimate ideal of cool- his hair was both wild and expressive, black as night and yet the style was all natural- no hair products necessary! Two large wings stuck out of his back and the lime green tattoos that were on his body, as well as his wicked horns and dragonlike tail swishing behind him made it clear that he was something exotic- a demon hunter! Arma bit his lip, nearly jumping in place, excited to see his date and friend. He didn't know what to say, and luckily, didn't need to say anything as Zeke hugged him firmly.

“You're late, y'know.” The demon hunter couldn't help but snerk at Arma's nature, even if he was late. “Good thing I like you that much, huh?” 

Arma's face was completely red as he gave the goofiest grin, fiddling his thumbs together. “W-well, yeah! Yeah! I owe you one! Yeah! So where did you have in mind that you wanted to go?” Zeke tapped his thumb to his chin and shrugged gently. “I was thinking we'd go to a nice place to look at the stars. I know you're gonna wanna stop by to check on your best pal on the way, though.” Armaleonis blinked a few times before nodding rapidly. “Yeah! Oh my gosh, you think of everything! That's why you're the best!” He then tapped his chin. “Well I mean you're the best for a bunch of reasons, from your considerate nature to your confidence and sense of humor and the fact that you're incredibly attractive and are a lot more wise than me and like spending time with me and such.” He babbled a bit, completely redfaced. Zeke merely rubbed the top of Arma's head and led the way. It didn't take long for them to get to their first destination- a large mansion with what looked to be a purple phoenix-print for the door. Tilting his head to look at the yard, he saw a young man who couldn't have been much older than himself practicing dance moves in the backyard. Recognizing him, he waved frantically. “PURPS! OH MY GOSH PURPS! PUUUUUUUURPS!” He waved, jumping up and down for visibility. His date couldn't help but snicker at his enthusiasm.

Across the fence, the young man froze up when Arma cried out, but instead of looking embarrassed, made a beeline right for the gate and opened it at a brisk pace, waving at Arma in return. 

“LEON! HEY! BUDDY! PAL! BUD! MY BEST FRIEND! HEY!” His pal, Purps, was looking extra nice today- definitely alive, for starters. His hair was almost fuschia and he had the biggest grin on his face. “I am so glad you stopped by!” He said, hugging Arma gently.

Armaleonis returned the gesture and looked his best pal over. “You are looking really healthy and happy! I'm so glad that you're in one piece and have never fucked my father which means it's okay for me to have a mild attraction to you but not too much because I am your best friend and brotherish figure sort of it's weird but bear with me I'm glad you're you and that's what matters!” Purps nodded. “Yeah man! That's exactly right! Hey, I would love to stick around, but I'm gonna have dinner with my folks! They just got back from a trip and they missed me a whole bunch! I'll hit you up later, okay?” Armaleonis flashed Purps a thumbs up. “Tell me how it goes man!” And with that, he turned toward Zeke with a grin. “Man, you are the best! You made a great day even better!”

Kyye afr witruoutyw kaflv za zmy kditc pyrth! wy'ry qaulq za witruouty zmy aly lipyv cilzmir ourwz!

Armaleonis blinked a few times. Did Zeke say that? Nah. Couldn't have been.  The two made their way to their favorite hilltop and lay down together to look at the stars. Getting comfortable and snuggling together with Zeke, Arma smiled.

“This has been the best day ever. I don't know why, but everything just feels...right. I mean, I feel comfortable here with you, and we got to visit my best pal Purps, and my parents are happy together, and I'm healthy and....man. I'm so lucky to be here with you.”

Zeke looked at him warmly and gently brushed a stray hair away from in front of Arma's face.

“This can go on forever, you know.”

Something about his voice sounded off, but Arma did everything in his power to not care. He was happy. This was all that mattered. This was...his perfect world.

As he was lost in thought, something blocked the stars. Shaking his head, he recognized it once his eyes adjusted- it was Roland. Gently moving the wolf out of the way, he sat up and looked into the wolf's eyes. The beast looked at him with a gaze that said everything, wordless as he was.

“Something just ain’t righ...oh Light. You...you died a while back, didn't you, buddy?” Arma asked, breath suddenly tight in his chest. Those eyes looked like they were apologizing to him, grateful to see him, but with a dire warning. The wolf gently set his head on Arma's shoulder and whined.

Gyz zmy clujyw ryivh! wuzm zmywy, sy sudd kulv Canthar za zmy bdulv ezyrluzuyw vorv qiul qryiz easyr!

Armaleonis looked up- it was as though, beyond the stars, in the sky, there was some sort of glass dome over his world that he could now see through. He saw several troll cultists standing overhead, knives drawn above his pal Canthar.

Dream-Zeke's hand gently rested on his shoulder.

“You don't have to go. We can be here, forever.”

Armaleonis looked to Roland. 

“What do...I have to do?” He asked the hound tepidly.

The wolf gestured with his head to a shadowy area not too far away, where, when Arma squinted, he could see the form of Ghar'bygg, and behind him-- the demon hunter who made him truly feel fear. Arma took a sharp breath and lowered his head. 

“You've done enough for everyone. Don't you think that you deserve to be the one that gets rescued? You don't need to suffer any more. Think of all the good things you've done- you don't need to take that shitty life back!” Dream-Zeke looked more upset than Arma felt, and that was an accomplishment.

Softly, Armaelonis took Zeke's hand off his shoulder and stood up.

“I want nothing more than that.” He said quietly, before looking up at the troll cultists. “But it's out of my hands. I wouldn't be the person you love if I didn't do the right thing. I'm gonna miss you.”

Taking a step forward, he gave the timber wolf one last hug. “You're the best dog a man could ask for.” He was crying now, holding that wolf and trying to lock it into his memories.

Slowly, he got up and walked toward Ghar'bygg, the hound demon. His hound demon. 

Someone was about to have a very, very bad day.

As he approached, the form of the felstalker shrank into a red and black orb that hovered in the air in front of the silhouette of the Illidari monster that hurt him. Arma looked up at that monster defiantly and grasped the felstalker essence and closed his hands around it, taking it into his true self.

In a flash, his world was pure agony as he felt every Illidari memory he had been trying to run from at once- and the physical transformation ripping him to shreds- felstalker tendrils ripping out of his back, the mask forming on his neck, the tail jutting out from his spine- and the loss of his true eyesight.

And it was that pain that woke him up with a shriek.

–

The Twilight's Hammer Cultists hadn't intended to run into two adventurers in their looting of an Amani catacomb, but they were all too eager to unleash a new variant of Faceless One upon them- the Dark Mercy- a creature that would entrap its victims in their own fantasies. They had drawn their daggers to sacrifice their new victims, only to be interrupted when the blood elf roared back to life and covered the two cultists standing over him in shadowflame. They turned and ran, but were too slow. The demon hunter gave them a thrashing they would never forget, leaving them holding onto life by mere threads, before picking his friend up and carrying him back to the town they called home.

-Fin.

[thewordweavers]

SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET

Written in iambic pentameter, just like Shakespeare would have.

 Love at First Sight by Mia Espinosa

I took a sight of your fine-looking face

Everything holds up for a time of life

My heartbeat I hear, your every grimace

Each time you smile, belly butterflies strife

I can’t afford to stand out at your eyes

That captivates my demeanor, spirit

Your voice I hear seems like a vicious vice

Strange feeling aside you suddenly lit

Body as hard as a rock attracts me

Well-shaped nose paired perfectly with your jawline

Deep dark eyes that’s so lovable to see

How will I find a way to make you mine?

All I can do is to take an eye gape

I hope someday that my heart will escape.

 This poem was written when the writer had firsthand experience of being smitten for the first time.

Return Of Hard Work by Nikki Miano

Said that you’ll be leaving early morning

Fortunes great happen over lately noon

Payback of hardships that you’ve been doing

Sweat gain every now and then by your own

Worthwhile received through power whom released Piece of paper written a certain proof

Passion and loyal deeds still left unsaid

Truly proud indeed higher than the roof

Return earlier than usually expected

Sleepless night prevail again due not here

Still waiting until sun’s peak do reflect

Heard “vroom-vroom” saying that you’re outside there

Rejoice for return and firmly happy

Union in Jesus’ day really gladly

 The poem is about the sharing of memorable happenings of the year.

Journey of his Regrets by Alyssa Dumaguit

The sky is gray and full of mystery

A girl is slowly walking towards me

Her eyes are plain while sobbing silently

‘Cause I reject her confession to me

She was quickly running away from here

While rain falls onto her skinny body

I follow her for I believe she’s rare

Then I saw a car bumped her recklessly

A sudden pain hit me as I went near

Seeing her lifeless body with red strain

Coming to her grave, I did not bother

For it’s a pain seeing her in coffin

All my regrets are just going nothing

But I’ll wait and love her, my everything.

 Inspired by a book the author just read, she made her own twist to the story in this sonnet.

The Morning Sun’s Glow by Rowena Formentera

The morning sun glows brightly in the sky

As the cold breeze of air blows to my hair

I walked around like the slow cloud drifts by

The silent place that gave joy need to bear

What will become of this place, if sun’s down?

Will the birds sing happily in the trees?

Forests in green, a dusty road to town

Beneath in the morning sun’s glow with thee

The morning sun’s glow seems to bring light

A warm feeling that settles in the air

The nature awake that peek to my sight

Behold in charm, and to behave with care

Silently sitting, as the winds blow

I gaze in awe, of the morning sun’s glow

 The sonnet is about how the sun brings light to the whole universe, so that we may see the beauty of the world.

Long Lost Friend by Charisma Joyce Magno

I see an august guy at church, laughing

Looking towards him makes me undermine

His sweet voice and cute laugh; how amusing!

Miss to hear it, for it’s rare, but I’m fine

Ignoring me is the distressing bear

I will find some ways to see smiling male

Did something for my pal to feel my care

To make us peace, do comfort doesn’t fail

No one can explain, how happy can be

When Pal shared moments we had together

Building other memories, Pal and me

He’s my pillow and my stress reliever

A friend is a blessing needs to cherish

That lasts forever, ‘til the world perish.

This poem was constructed because the author remembers the unforgettable moments she had with her friend. 

Love Is Not All by Jhay-Ann Cortez

Love is not all: it is not meat, not drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain

Nor yet a floating spar to mean that sinks

And rise and sink and rise and sink again

Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath

Nor clear the blood, nor set the fractured bone

Yet many a man is making friends with death

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone

It well may be that in a difficult

Pinned down by pain and meaning for release

Or nagged by want pas resolutions power

I might be driven to sell your love for peace

Or trade the memory of this night for

It well may be. I do not think I would

 Inspired by the song “Stay” by Rihanna, the writer was struck with the lyrics, so she decided to write a sonnet about it.

 Burdens to Victory by Denise Luna

So many trials I could hardly bear

My soul is thirsty; burdens over me

The gentle voice of yours I long to hear

No light was there, yet flames of fire I see

So long as I lived in the path full dimmed

The days I used to hold on doing wrong

And those days are days when no light has beamed

O Savior, you fill my sad heart with song

You make me known the fullness of your love

My wounds are healed when I was in distress

You leave me not with angels up above

I could not troubles; blessings to possess

Behold, you hath made my days with delight

My savior only, present help at night

This sonnet simply describes how victorious a person is despite of all the burdens he/she encounters in life. 

Love and Its Wonders by CJ Sidra

My love come and partakes of my garden

My heart is in full bloom with love for you

This love I have will not fade nor harden

Shower me with kisses like morning dew

Please come caress each petal with your touch

Before we met my garden was empty

My darling I needed you care so much

It was filled with many thorns and was lonely

Darling you’re the gardener of my dreams

You lend to each flower with so much love

We’re the perfect match and make a good team

You are a precious gift from up above

Your love is comforting, I knew before

You are my love, forever I adore

 The sonnet expresses the thoughts of the writer, who is obviously in love with his beloved.

Words by Jerome Jumao-as

The cup of love from which my lips are wet spill

My wings may smile but they can never wait

My heart has for more fire has frost to chill

A being darkly wise and rudely great

He hands between in doubt to act or rest

With too much knowledge for the skeptic side

In double to deem himself the worst or the best

With too much weakness for the stoic’s pride

I swing in the peak of white mountain snow

Hear the sledges with the great silver bells

There are of a plenty seed and grand gold

Howl of the land with all the golden wells

A changing man they can buy all, sans strife

I need redemption for my burdened life

 The sonnet is about a the complex workings of a persona the author closely identifies with.

 Ending Adolescence by Justine Cuento

The summer of my youth has gone to pass

Together with my broken hopes and dreams

I’ve come to realize that nothing lasts

With my disquiet bursting at the seams

 My life has been in perfect symmetry

Concurring with unfathomable bliss

But now I fear time would catch up with me

Destroying every single youthful wish

 I’m drowning in the harsh light of the truth

The harsh light burning bright to blind my eyes

As I unconsciously depart my youth

Towards maturity I go and dive

 A question I ask to myself and some:

Will you still like what you’ll become?

This sonnet gives you a quick look on  the author’s worries on what she would really be when she finally escapes being a teenage and run headfirst into adulthood.

[vvitcheshq]

Hello everybody! Under the cut you will find a sample application written for the character I’m playing! I put this together a little quicker than I would usually like to, but I know a couple of you have been waiting for it and I didn’t want to keep you on the hook for much longer! I hope you enjoy it and find inspiration for your own applications through reading it! 

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED SKELTON: Dahlia CHARACTER NAME: Jyn D’Arcy  AGE: 24 years old.  GENDER & PRONOUNS: cisfemale, she/her pronouns. MAGICAL DISCIPLINE: Jyn’s primary magical discipline is Chaos Magic, with a minor in Elemental magic.  FACECLAIM: Benedetta Gargari 

DEVELOPMENT

PAST: (trigger warning for brief mentions of child abuse.) 

–– Life begins in cloudy fits and starts. Jyn D’Arcy rather unfortunately born to husband and wife. It isn’t glorious, there are no happy golden days of early childhood. Those first few years are a black pit, the aura of hopelessness so thick in the air that someone could choke on it. Jyn isn’t a cherished child, is loved in only the intensely twisted way two monsters can love somebody, in a way that marks you with both physical and mental scars. She is left fragile from it, mind gauzy and out of step with the rest of the world. She sees nothing with clarity, feels a step behind everyone else. Her childish brain thinking that surely the fault must rest with her. She is something unworthy, never good enough, never right. Something deserving of the hurts that are heaped upon her.         She doesn’t notice the aura of an aptitude for something odd seeping out of her, and may come to wonder later in her life if this was what made her so inherently disliked by those around her in those early years. Perhaps she was too odd, a creature that reeked of death, speaking too often to an imaginary friend or the beautiful ghost that haunted the garden paths.  –– If you asked her to tell you the moment that everything changed, she wouldn’t be able to pinpoint it. Jyn sees figures in the woods, shrouded in darkness and mystery. She feels the prickle of eyes watching her from a distance as she plays her games, as she jumps from stone step to stone step. Hopscotch on a cloudy misty afternoon, all shrouded light like someone has closed blinds over the sky. Someone leaves a poppet on her window frame. She is young, still. Her mind is still being shaped by her experiences, clouded with fear and pain. This new layer of oddness is nothing new to her, so she thinks little of it. She hides the odd little doll carefully, and attempts to push all thoughts of it aside. Six crows perch on the tree outside her window on the night that the house goes up in flames, her wide eyes glued to them until sleep takes her into its slick embrace. Distant thoughts that tomorrow she will turn six years old, though no one else may notice. She thinks she hears voices in her dreams, imagines comforting hands stroking hair away from her face. Poor dear, they whisper into the night, little dove.        They talk about the fire on the news for weeks after it happens. One blaze, three dead. Except the truth as you know it isn’t always the truth. One fire, two dead, one disappeared. One stolen away. Jyn D’Arcy remembers watching her house burn to the ground from the tree line, sleepy and unafraid, held in comforting arms. It’s a hazy memory, but she knows its a true one. And when the smoke and ash had settled, those arms carried her away. 

–– The Triskelion Coven finds home deep in the wilderness. So deep that Jyn, tired and childish and half asleep, doesn’t even know where she is. She thought she knew what the woods were like, but you can never know until you go deep. The trees packed close, twisted and alive with something mystical. Their homes built in a small clearing, cabins of wood, almost obscured by green crawling plants. She should be scared upon her arrival in this place, but it feels like coming home. The people here look like they’ve stepped out of the past, these eight witches who welcome her –– straight out of Salem. She makes them nine. A powerful number. Abigail D’Arcy kneels on the dirt in front of Jyn, caresses her cheek with gentle hands. She says: It’s all okay now, little dove. She says: You are a very special girl, aren’t you? She says: Welcome home.  Abigail raises her, and gives her a name, and gives her a destiny.      No single witch raises Jyn, but Abigail gives her a new name. She gifts it as they wash Jyn clean, water from a mountain stream, cold against skin. The others chanting something she doesn’t understand yet. She says: A new name for a new beginning, little dove. And so Jyn embraces her new life. The thrill of the wildness around her, seeping into her bones. She runs through the forest around their camp, free as a bird, as a wild deer. Dirty feet and dirty hands and feral smiles, and when time comes for magical lessons, it is Orion who must find her and fetch her back, calm her enough to take in his patient teaching. She learns the power of all things, learns the significance of a drop of blood can hold. He never lets her prick her own finger to call forth the rust red blood, his rough voice insisting ‘when you’re older, little dove. plenty of time yet.’

–– Inheritance day finds her kneeling on the soft dirt of the forest floor, a clearing separate and away from the space they live. Heart moving fast in hummingbird beats, throat constricting with nerves. This is when she proves herself, when she becomes what she must. The Triskelion coven cannot continue forever as eight witches and one girl, so she must transend herself. She pricks her finger, calls forth a drop of life. She chants her chant, thrice to thine and thrice to mine and thrice again to make up nine. The red clay that Abigail used to daub a Triskelion on her chest stands out stark against her skin as she takes in heaving breaths. Smouldering herbs and incense create smoke around her, the whole world taking on that familiar haze. A trance, then, as she waits alone.       Irina comes quick. A candle blown out. Terrifyingly otherworldly, glowering. She looks solid enough to touch, but Jyn doesn’t dare try. She looks more like a monster than a person, falling to her knees in front of Jyn with the grace of a lynx. And then she smiles, sharp like a knife. Her voice like an echo: You’re a very special girl, aren’t you? Irina leans in close, calculating, evaluating. Says: If you take it, you have to take all of it. Even the parts that might scare you. But Jyn can’t imagine what could ever scare her about this, and greedily accepts the power. 

–– She learns later, the parts of great things that can leave you shaking. The Aradia Institute is a shocking change from her Coven’s home in the wilderness. She feels out of place, terrified at every corner by things new and unusual to her. Shoes on her feet too constricting until she can get used to them. But Irina is with her always, now. Or that’s how it feels. An echo of a memory reminding her to stand up straight, head held high. You’re a special girl, Jyn D’Arcy, carry yourself with dignity. So she dedicates herself wholeheartedly to magic, the thrill of it through her blood. It’s all she needs, all consuming. 

PERSONALITY:

–– POISED: Its something of the aura her patron passes on to her, the way she can carry herself with grace and dignity even when she’s getting herself into unimaginable amounts of trouble.  –– CREATIVE: Life is a web, but Jyn is a master of navigation. There isn’t a problem she can’t find a creative solution to, no puzzle that would go unsloved when you place it in her hands. She thinks outside the box –– more than that, she burns the box to the ground. –– AFFABLE: its a skill she had to cultivate, but natural charm starts flowing easily. cloying smiles, a free spirit. she gets along with people sometimes without trying at all.  –– SECRETIVE: Jyn guards herself possessively. Keeps hidden treasures away from the world. The opposite of an open book, she doesn’t like anyone to know anything of importance. The truth holds power, and she wants to keep it to herself.  –– RECKLESS: It was far from careful decisions that Jyn was raised. Be a troublemaker, take risks, break the rules. She leaps into her decisions head first, heedless of the fact that they might hurt her, might get her killed.  –– OPINIONATED: she doesn’t like to keep quiet about what she thinks. if something is unfair, she’ll say it. If someone is wrong, she’ll point it out. These darts are often thrown hard and they hit harder, but she doesn’t pull her punches. 

PATRON:

IRINA PETROVA.  –– A storm of a woman, a sharp knife always poised to strike. Irina Petrova could slice through any conversation like it was a battleground, and always came out the champion. A rare breed of witch not raised in a coven, Irina never let this set her back. She walked through life with an aristocratic grace, posied for anything and everything that might come toward her. Irina soaked up magical knowledge like she was a sponge, sought out knowledge with a hunger that could never be sated. Her life eventually brought her to America, and she became the head professor of Battle Magic at the Aradia Institute while it was still in its early years. A prolific academic and a notorious socialite. She was well on her way to becoming the Head Council of the ACW before her untimely death. Irina went down in history as one of the most powerful witches to teach at the Institute and to hold a seat on the ACW.  –– Jyn feels a particularly close connection with her Patron. Irina has gifted her a lot of knowledge about her life, and she feels as if their hearts beat as one. She feels like she has to live up to Irina, to be someone unstoppable. She bridges her life with Irina’s, graceful and feral all at once. She wants to prove that she can be an unstoppable force, that she can take Irina’s magic and do everything she sets her mind to. 

PLOTS:

1. UNAUTHORISED MAGIC –– Jyn D’Arcy likes to break the rules. And what better way to do that than to study all the things the teachers tell you that you shouldn’t. The second Jyn learned about Battle Magic, she knew she had to master it, even if it wasn’t allowed. And she didn’t want to wait for it, didn’t want to have to give up anything to get it. And so, she began to study it in secret. In the old Armory, she took her books and Irina’s guidance and began to learn the basics. It wasn’t long before someone found out what she was doing –– not a teacher, thank god, but another student –– and before long she had a following of her own. Together, her and a handful of Aradia students get together in secret and attempt to learn Battle Magic while no one is looking.  2. DEAD GIRLS TELL TALES –– Irinia Petrova’s untimely death was a tragedy, that’s what all the history books say. But Jyn knows something that no one else will believe: Irina Petrova was murdered. That’s how stories for girls like them go. You harness enough power, you break enough rules, revel in the taboo, and people get scared at you. When you shine so brightly, someone will always want to snuff out your light. She knows that Irina was murdered, but she wants to find out who did it. She wants them to have to face up to it if they’re still breathing, or wants their memory tarnished for committing the crime if they’ve already passed away. 

EXTRAS: 

COVEN: The Triskelion Coven is named for its symbol of power. The threefold spiral that hooks in their souls and pulls them deeper into the world of magic. As Jyn lived in it, it was a coven that practiced worship of many old Gods. Particularly there was a mix of worshipping the Horned God and of worshipping Hecate.  FAMILIAR: In Jyn’s first year at The Institute, she undertook the task of summoning a familiar. To guide her in all things, to offer her support, and most of all to offer her true companionship. She yearned for the feeling of wild magic, and so was bestowed a large black Raven named Ingram, a clingy thing. Ingram is the thing Jyn feels the closest to in the world. It’s at its happiest when it can be carried around in Jyn’s shoulder, and resents being sent away. 

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Cool Tattoos for Men

The removal of technical tattoos have been done so that getting a tattoo is no longer necessarily a lifelong commitment, but you still want to get a tattoo that is worth the time, effort and money it takes to get one. Educate yourself about the different types of tattoo available and those that are fresh for men can also help you make the best choice when it comes to selecting tattoo that you should get. When you find the design you want, be sure to also choose a reputed tattoo artist, so you know that your tattoo will be well made.

How to choose a cool tattoo?

Choosing where to put your tattoo is the next decision you will have to make. The upper part of the arms, the forearms and the chests are all parts of the body that are popular for men to place their tattoos. Tattoos on these body parts can usually be easily hidden when necessary and can also be partially hidden when you want to ask questions such as “let me see the rest of that tattoo” of people’s curiosity that can sometimes be romantic interests of the his. Tattoos can be a great conversation starter.

More great tattoo designs in 2016

There are many fashionable, tattoo designs that make cool tattoos for men. If you have a more aggressive personality you can choose one of the Daggers and Knives, the Design Shark or a Tribal Dragon design. Creative warrior designs are also very popular and arrow tattoos are trends in 2016. At least aggressivepersonality types can explore the possibility of obtaining a Yin Yang or Geometric tattoo. In recent times tattoos of lines or shapes like triangles have also gained popularity. If you are choosing any of these designs, be sure to research and find meanings with them. You do not want a design warrior that means “weak warrior” just because you like how it looks but do not bother to find out what it means.

Color trends to cool tattoos

The color you will use in the tattoo, you should also give careful consideration. Cool tattoos for men are usually made in black ink only, but you can find many colors of tattoos that looks good on men. Tribal designs, arrow and geometric designs are typically in black ink. Talk to your tattoo artist about your color selection before performing the tattoo. An experienced and well-trained tattoo artist can give valuable information on which colors and color combinations, if any, are best suited for your skin complexion and chosen tattoo design. The right tattoo can significantly improve your appearance and even makes you more attractive for possible romantic interests. That often can cause conversations and possible friendships with other people who also have tattoos. You must choose a tattoo design that is both meaningful and aesthetically pleasing to you. It should also have a timelessness in it, so in a few years you can still feel proud to have it in your body. Watch as many different tattoo options as you can, until you find one that is right for you.

Cool Tattoo Ideas for Boys

Tattoos can help show your physique, with your artistic placement. This, for example, emphasizes the perfect chest. The arms and neck are covered with various images, including several faces, a clock tower and much more. The neck has even more designs on it. But since each of these is predominantly black, it forms a strong contrast to the bare skin of the chest. The angel of the wings are also a classic that never goes out of style. This beautifuly tattoo highlights the physique of your back, and there is no need for another story behind it. The only question that remains is, are you a fallen angel or a white one? Owls are always the safe option, if you are cnsidering an animal tatoo. This great tattoo of an owl that rests gently on the neck and keeps you remembering to make intelligent decisions. It is completely sufficient and do not need any color to highlight the symbolic meaning. While the black ink tattoos are very popular because of their sharp contrast to the skin, the color of the tattoos can bring images to life. This tattoo is done just that. Create designs around the autumn leaves in warm colors while incorporating cool colors such as blue in the background. In addition, the black color is used to give it a 3D effect. The character of this tattoo is very urban. There is a mixture of chaos and order that presents the chaotic and at the same time very comfortable flow of an urban environment. The subtle color scheme is just enough to add a bit of life. Go for something a little out of the ordinary? This tatoo literally feels like you have printed a graphic on your body directly from your computer screen. And yet, it seems so real. This is undoubtedly one that stands out a bit from the other tatoo options. If you are looking for tattoo ideas for men, it may be worth considering this. If you are more of a spiritual type and are looking for something with a symbolic meaning, it is always safe to go with the famous ying-yang. Only this time you add something special on the side. The skulls are fascinating. They have inspired artists of all, but this only leads to a new level. A simple skull that emanates from a network of eye and mouth flux – it feels like the material of nightmares! The chest and neck tattoos are becoming more popular, so this is an exclusive design for the artist at heart. Colorful and happy, you can see the flowers, the flies and the petals. While a whole range of tones have been used, they blend well together and are used in perfect harmony. If you are not convinced by this design, I do not know what will convince you. The amazing 3D effect is really fascinating and just literally stinks in your eyes. If you want to enchant others with your tatoo choice, this is definitely a good idea. Chest tattoos are usually centered in a way that ensures that people can not look away. This skull tattoo, which is topped by a very attentive owl, is the perfect example of that. While darker shades predominate, their coexistence with pale tones make the whole picture come to life. On the other hand, the red in the background looks like blood, giving the intricate design of a bloody twist. A machine? A human being? Who knows? This tatoo perfectly presents our struggle with the fast path of life and the amazing 3D effect with all the details that make it look so real. Do you want others to look into your machine, as well as the body and find humanity inside? Is your heart steel or flesh? This fresh tattoo gives the appearance of a choker or a shackle. The eye in the neck fixedly, while the bird spread wings symbolize freedom. Most of that design is in a shade in the color black, but the reddish brown color of the additions emphasize the image. The mysterious souls, I would definitely recommend that you go for a tattoo with less color, much precise observation and maybe a classic skeleton motif updated with an owl or random symbols, from here and there that only you know the meaning of. This is another impressive tattoo of the idea that men. Unlike the typical openly morbid or terrifying images, this takes a break from tradition. In contrast, the red flowers on the black background stand out, but not in a delicate way. The strong yellow color of the eyes looking out from underneath will catch you forever. So I decided to get the manga? What about going Japanese style with some of the traditional reasons? The rich history of Japan, the warrior spirit of a symbolism all in his arm. Imagine if you immerse yourself deeply in Japanese culture, only to find your own soul samurai within you. This comic tattoo of a Chinese dragon in clouds that cover the length of an arm knows how to use color. Mainly in black, red offers a wonderful contrast to the design of the whole, making it stand out. Nothing better than a dragon tattoo when it comes to wonder. This tattoo on the chest shows the fiery beast in all its majesty, as it curves around the skin. The Chinese dragon is the symbol of male power, and this one represents it better. What could be cooler than a tattoo that gives an idea of ​​your skull. Put your hand back on your face, and you can see it transform into an optical illusion. This tattoo back hand of a partial skull shaded in black and will be sure to spin heads. The designs are new to the thing. Here both arms are covered in similar, but contrasting designs. He made use of blue ink, the delicate shading as well as the intricate design is sure to keep all eyes on you. The tattoo that covers all of the arms and the upper part of the corners of the chest, leaving the rest of the skin naked, and with it framed by ink. The intense use of black color in this dragon is what gives rise to that feeling of foreboding. The magnificent beast returns to life in the back, powerful and terrible. Everything, from its claws and mustaches, its fiery red eyes seem to scream danger. A dream come true for the cyborg secret, this tattoo will finally help reveal its true nature. Made in black ink with the bright red of the blood of the glasses, this creations intertwines internal machinery with muscles. Therefore, it represents the harmony between machines and humanity and also proves once and for all that cyborgs are real. This perfected tatoo technique is a great option for anyone who is inspired by ancient inventions and great minds like that of Leonardo da Vinci. Or you can consider yourself as a perpetuum being mobile that runs continuously like a machine. Half a skull and a lot of cold, this forearm tattoo will capture the attention of everyone as you walk down the street. The perfect shading gives the image a 3-D effect, ensuring that it stands out against your skin. A simple, but beautiful design. Two deer blocking the antlers under a man bone necklace. Made in black, they put emphasis on your bare chest. The detail inside the two animals is impressive. If you are a fan of flying and believing in mythical creatures, you might consider getting inked with something like this. The feathers are really very well made and the colors that the real magic brings in it. The tattoos also has a lot of details. One word: Comic-Com. Great vibrant colors of this stunning tattoo are the reason why you woke up in the morning to stand in front of your mirror, admiring your back. Imagine having all your favorite comic book heroes always with you? A dark tattoo that covers the upper half of the back, here you can see part of a skull, wings, crosses, and more. The black ink is used only to emphasize your feeling of images. An owl with two heads and detailed wings, this little tattoo is a beauty. Its creative and captivating design in the use of blue single point, the rest of the image. In fact, it is the blue eyes, in particular, that will leave you in a state of trance while also balancing the blue tattoo on the upper arm. Cool, masculine tattoos do not always include scary skulls or horrible monsters, sometimes they’re just designs – like this one. The bold shapes, strong lines, and fire in the neck and skull create an impressive conglomerate. This cool and colorful tattoo is for all the city dwelers who love to show their skin. Brings a very vibrant and happy tone to any observer. If you like comics, consider getting something like that, I’m sure it fits perfectly with your character. A drilling platform for the blood of a heart – what could be more heartbreaking. This cool tattoo idea is brought to life by the contrast between red and black, two colors that go very well together (even Dracula seems to think so). Who can say no to a good tatoo? If you are having a great time, this option is definitely the one to consider. Despite a single motive, it is extremely powerful and rich, and is likely to impress anyone, not to mention feeling good about oneself. Romantics love this tattoo as it reflects the soft but cruel side of love. The intense red of the rose and the flower of the beautiful shadows are a perfect decoration for your neck. Be careful that you are exposing your inner soft side. A masterpiece, this stunning tattoo is beautiful work of art made on the canvas of a bare back. The woman’s face done in shades of black is accentuated through the colored bars that will come in front of her. The upper half of the back is covered in warm tones with touches seen throughout the rest of the tattoo. Meanwhile, the beautifully arched woman, indifferent face is seen through the colors. Dark romantic dragon, flying along his arm. What a great story. Some details in red give it a very deep sense of serenity, even if the dragon’s eyes may seem vicious. Maybe you just want people to see beyond the obvious. The dragon, a powerful classic. Probably you can not lose with a dragon. They are noble creatures, they are powerful and that everyone is, no doubt attracted by their mysterious past. This tattoo is great because you do not have to exaggerate with the color, and, nevertheless, it captures all the greatness of the creature. Going back to the black ink tradition of tattoos, this cool design makes your chest the coffin of this skeleton. With several designs on the arms, the chest becomes the focus of attention with the skeleton very clearly that they have been placed inside it. With perfect shading, the creation retains a 3-D effect. Are you a dog lover? Then this is your choice. Simple, not very detailed and shady, but very powerful and cruel. And the interesting detail in the dog’s neck is that it also has a tattoo of a rose on the neck. But it’s a Rose, right? While crows are the best symbol of danger, nothing can beat this design. The incorporation of the dark feathers of birds in is widespread wings, which frequently remind people of terrible times, the head is present in their skeleton instead. If you are looking for something with a symbolic meaning that you can try to go for anchors and crowns. Or a combination of both. Remember that not everyone is fit to be king and have strong roots to counteract heavy storms. Tattoos usually have a story behind. And what greater of history, than the original sin with the serpent, the apple and that of Adam and Eve somewhere in the middle. Do you consider yourself a sinner or protector of the Truth? This snake is, without doubt giving you many options. This is another example of the stunning beauty of colorful tattoos. An inspiration to everyone around him, “Who has always anyway?” he asks. So why wait? Just get this wonderful inking creation now! It represents an hourglass with wings inside which the sand seems to be replaced by blood. It is surrounded by a laurel wreath, a reminder of power – which is ultimately in your hands. Lover of the bones? Show love, spread it on the whole of his back. This piece of tattoo art is something that everyone admires and you will always be safe, someone behind you. Imagine wearing a tank top for the gym. Speaking of artistic placement, this is another example. Covering a corner of the chest and an arm, the design is striking. Not too overwhelming, covering only the right amount of skin. On the other hand, the audacity of its lines and the tribal style is striking. This tattoo requires, without a doubt, his total dedication. It is very abundant in color and detail so unless you are a total fan of the Vikings or maybe the da Vinci code, I would not go for it. What I like about this is its asymmetric concept. If you do not like the color, in such a way, this idea is great, because despite having only 2 colors, it says a lot. For all the dark souls this may be what you have been looking for all the time. The shadows are not too strong and still information includes some sweetness. This tattoo is for those who have the courage of a wolf. It resembles someone who knows what he wants and also have the courage and mentality to achieve it. The beautiful and very detailed skin on the head that gives this tatoo very dynamic and feel. An example of the eternal fascination with skulls, this cool tattoo idea is to die for! In the hands of one of its most innovative representation, this shows two stylized skulls, one obviously male and one female, one of each arm. On the other hand, a dark brown tint is added to each, with a subtle rose embedded in the female skull of the hair, emphasizing its femininitity. One can never have enough of skeletons right? If you are one of those people who like to clash with your design options, this is definitely worth considering. Not very common in the placement, not to mention the great details.