#One Hundred Fables

[mantisgodsdomain]

For context we are doing this because otherwise we have to either cut Zommoth's card or have Snakemouth Den's whole Thing be known to at the very least a small selection of people beyond Team Snakemouth

Finally, we get the opportunity to put our Spy Cards worldbuilding in a work. Though there are many questions about such things as "regulation" "how these cards are printed" "who approves a single spy card", and so on, we are here to present a bold new take: this game is based like 60% on obscure roach memory-reading tech that got turned into a card game with absolutely No card-game-related intentions included in the original tech and most of the card vetting is just from the fact that there aren't too many card printers out there and most of them make cards that need to be translated from Roach.

Strictly speaking, as a card game, it is not a terribly good or well-balanced one. It's popular primarily because of a mix of the difficulty involved in getting the data for high-level cards, the fun of seeing the variety of monsters that can be brought to the table, and the incredible amounts of ham and drama that goes into specifically the professional scene.

[apas-95]

Really, watching The Wandering Earth makes Interstellar seem pretty ridiculous in comparison.

In no particular order:

In Interstellar, we are only ever shown the US perspective, and the only time another nation is even mentioned is when the protagonists down a long-abandoned, autonomous Indian Air Force¹ drone - even at the end, when humanity leaves Earth, the space habitats are purely USAmerican, complete with small-town baseball field. In The Wandering Earth, however, a multitude of nations are represented - China is most prominent, but Indian, Kazakh, Russian, Indonesian, Korean, etc. crews are also shown, and are instrumental to the climax of the movie, where only the cooperation of all nations pushing together solves the issue.

While both movies feature the plotpoint of a cynical backup plan to re-seed humanity from frozen embryonic cells, in Interstellar, the best-case plan is evacuating a necessarily small number of people off of Earth, abandoning the planet to its fate. Solving the problem on Earth is impossible. Here, the solution is Noah's Ark. In The Wandering Earth, the best-case plan is to save the Earth, preserving as much of humanity as possible. Most resources are spent on constructing safe cities for humanity that can weather the storm, and on the infrastructure necessary for the Moving Mountains² project. Here, the solution is Great Yu Controls the Waters.

In Interstellar, the result of the crisis in society is a massive reduction in organisation. Governments basically cease to exist, armies are dissolved, and humanity turns to rural, agricultural production. Despite this, they are able to construct and launch complex interplanetary space missions, with secrecy even. In The Wandering Earth, the result of the crisis in society is a massive increase in organisation. A world government is formed to unite as many forces as possible, and a massive project of industrialisation occurs, in order to carry out the work needed to save the Earth. The construction of the Earth Engines is shown to have taken decades, with long periods of difficult experimentation.

In Interstellar, the focus is on the immediate family, on the protagonist's children. It is a tragedy that the protagonist spends thirty years in space, but the mission to leave Earth happens quickly enough that he can still see his daughter again, on the spaceship full of cornfields and single-family houses. In The Wandering Earth, the focus is on all generations to follow. The project being undertaken will not bear fruit for centuries, and in those centuries the people working for it will face extreme difficulties and struggle. But, many, many years from now, it will provide a good life for the children of a future Earth.

¹Originally, this was to be a Russian drone, operated by the Chinese military. The movie's plot originally included a conflict against secretive Chinese space forces who attack the protagonists.

²The Foolish Old Man Moves the Mountains is a Chinese fable, about an elderly man who begins carving out a path in the mountainside - when asked why, even though he'd never quarry through the mountain in his lifetime, he answers that others will follow his work, and one day the pass will be complete. It was referenced by Mao Zedong as a metaphor for the long construction of socialism in China, estimated at the time to take a hundred years or more to achieve a developed and prosperous society.

[linksqueerawakening]

Miscellaneous LU Headcanons

Four doesn't cast a shadow. when questioned, they flatly state "it died" and refuse to elaborate. if pushed on the matter, they become more and more irritated, while still refusing to elaborate

Time always knows what time it is. you could wake him up in the middle of the night and before he's even fully opened his eyes he could tell you the time without having to even think about it

Hyrule has the most magic, but Legend knows the most magical theory, followed closely by Time

Warriors, Legend, and Four are the only members of the chain who are actually legit monarchists. like the others are pretty much neutral on the concept (tho Wild doesn't like how flora was treated with all the expectations and lack of freedom, but that's another matter entirely than being of the opinion that monarchy is inherently bad), they're fine with monarchy. they just don't have strong opinions one way or another, so long as the current holder of power isn't corrupt. meanwhile Four Legend and Warriors would probably fight you if you insinuated that hyrule's monarchy should be abolished

Legend and Fable are twins but it's a secret. and also due to Fable getting kidnapped and transformed in various worlds in some of their adventures, they're no longer the same age; Legend is 19, she's 16 or 17. they still look very similar so they used the excuse that they're cousins on their father's side

Legend used to want to be a knight very very badly when he grew up, because his uncle who raised him was a knight. the knights who were controlled and attacked him during Link to the Past were pretty much all trusted adults that he knew and admired. he stopped wanting to be a knight after that

Wild may be the best cook when they have good ingredients, but when the chain is down to the wire and they need to make every little bit count? Hyrules horrible concoctions are actually the best option. he can't make it taste good but he can make it keep you alive when there are no other options

Wind is the best at navigating without a map or compass due to his experiences on ships - he would rather have the tools, but he's pretty damn good at managing without

Four has a habit of referring to themselves with "we/us" pronouns ever since they were split and then reformed with the four sword. the other heroes don't know why, but sort of shrugged and started using "they/them" pronouns bc it seemed polite. Four is mostly unaware that they do this - green picked up on it but hasn't pointed it out to the rest of four bc he knows it'll make them stress, and it clearly hasn't caused any issues

Twilight is disarmingly charismatic but only when he's not trying. if he's talking to someone casually or even somewhat irritably, they tend to be completely taken by him, but if he's actively trying to be smooth it just comes across as awkward

Sky is the most mild mannered person you've ever met until you cross certain lines, at which point it's like a switch flips and he's so pissed that even the other heroes hesitate to deal with him

Discounting the hundred years in which Wild was unconscious, Warriors had the longest single adventure, with the war of eras lasting about 7 years. Legend's six adventures altogether may have lasted longer, but they were split up into multiple parts, not one long quest

Wild takes pictures of pretty much everything they can to show Flora whenever they're back home, because they know how much she wants to learn about the ancient past, like their species, their societies, and their magic

[galedekarios]

the splendours of waterdeep

Gale: I hail from Waterdeep, the City of Splendours.

we've all heard gale introduce himself and there's a certain pride that colours his voice. but what exactly are waterdeep's splendours?

1. general noteworthy things about waterdeep

i) waterdeep is one of the cleanest cities in the realms

this is not only achieved by having many of waterdeep's buildings and facilities connected to a sewer system, but also through waterdeep's dungsweeper's guild. the members of the guild make their rounds through the city, sweeping streets, collecting trash, litter and refuse.

this service is paid for by taxes.

ii) waterdeep's water system

waterdeep boasts an extensive water system that enables the city to have free access to clean water. this free access comes in many forms: fountains, wells and bath houses. some establishment even have their own access to fresh water in form of tap water "with the turn of a knob", as volo puts it in his chapbook about the city.

iii) waterdeep, city of light

waterdeep possesses many signs and street lamps that are lit with continual flame spells:

hundreds of driftglobes also illuminate the city each night:

A driftglobe was a small glass orb that magically floated in the air and emitted light.

in addition to these magical means, so called lamplighters keep the streets lit - with the exception of the field ward and more dangerous areas of the dock ward.

iv) waterdeep and literacy

waterdeep is one of the most literate cities in the realms.

the font of knowledge is a temple to oghma, god of the domain of knowledge, in waterdeep. priests of oghma "valued, preserved, shared, sought, created, or uncovered knowledge and learning. [x]" the priests there offer free instructions and lessons in reading to everyone. the temple has a library, known as "the great library".

the city has many publishing houses and printing presses. books and chapbooks (short books containing various topics from memoirs to romances, politics, etc.) are popular, as are small and large paper advertisements that dot the streets and alleys. broadsheets are popular too in the city:

A broadsheet, also known as a short scroll, was a short, printed document which usually contained tabloid-style news or political rants. They were common in Waterdeep, where they were sold by broadcriers on the main streets.

some of these broadsheets popular in waterdeep are [x]:

The Vigilant Citizen, which was one of the most reputable broadsheets in the city.

The Blue Unicorn, which reported paranormal events such as haunted mansions or undead hiding among the nobility.

The Daily Luck, a sheet aimed at gamblers.

Horkle's Gossip Cauldron, whose style of writing was said to be profane and blunt to the point of rudeness.

The Mocking Minstrel, one of the most read broadsheets in the city, known for its caustic and sarcastic tone.

The North Wind, which focused on nobility gossip and fashion.

The Merchant's Friend

Halivar's Broadsheet

restaurants and other establishments in waterdeep often have printed menus that are placed outside, as well as handed out to those who choose to eat there.

2. the griffon cavalry

"Waterdeep doesn’t have the fabled flying ships of Halruaa, but it does deploy an aerial defense force. Brave warriors of the City Guard light out from the Peaktop Aerie atop Mount Waterdeep, riding fearsome griffons that have been bred and trained for that purpose. Each of the riders is equipped with a ring of feather falling — not merely to prevent death from mishap, but to allow them to perform stunning feats of aerial acrobatics. In both martial displays and in real battles against flying threats such as manticores, harpies, and outlaw wizards, the griffon riders actually leap off their mounts into the open air! For a breath-stealing moment, they fall like stones, closing in on their targets at incredible speed. Their opponents rarely see the griffon riders. When they are past the danger, the free-falling riders then suddenly halt in the air, drifting like feathers until their griffon companions swoop in and they regain their saddles. Working in concert with one another in this fashion, members of the Griffon Cavalry can rapidly eliminate any threat to the city — and even catch the body of the offender before it hits the rooftops below. Riders of the Griffon Cavalry are trained to stay above the rooftops, not because they fear crashing into towers and weather vanes, but because the smell of so much horseflesh in the streets below can sometimes drive their griffons into a frenzy."

[from: volo's waterdeep enchiridion]

3. the walking statues

"Over a century ago, just one of these eight behemoth statues stood visible at the northern foot of Mount Waterdeep, on a bluff called Gull Leap. Ninety feet tall, it resembled a bald human staring out to sea. Later events (discussed below) caused it to be transformed into the statue known today as the Sahuagin Humbled. When the Spellplague gripped Waterdeep in 1385 DR, six more walking statues suddenly appeared in the city, wandering to wreak havoc even as the Sahuagin Humbled remained motionless. The authorities and citizens of Waterdeep succeeded in stopping three of these new statues, breaking the Swordmaiden and the Hawk Man, and sinking the God Catcher into the street up to its waist. Then all the statues mysteriously stopped their rampage just as quickly as they had begun it. Tsarra Chaadren, the Blackstaff at the time, couldn’t command them to return to their former hiding places on the Ethereal Plane. Consequently, the city repaired itself and built up around them. Much later, in 1479 DR, the eighth statue — the Griffon — merged from the Ethereal Plane to defend Ahghairon’s Tower against intrusion. It roosted there for a time before flying to its current position near Peaktop Aerie on Mount Waterdeep. Once more, this activity seemed to be outside the Blackstaff’s control. Thankfully, all the walking statues have been dormant for well over a decade now, serving only as beautiful, cyclopean reminders of Waterdeep’s might."

[from: volo's waterdeep enchiridion]

the walking statues are:

the god catcher

the griffon

the sahuagin humbled

the great drunkard

the lady dreaming

the honorable knight

the hawk man

the sword maiden

below you'll find more lore and backstory about these walking statues of waterdeep:

[from: volo's waterdeep enchiridion]

edited to improve format and added text descriptions of the statues for easier reading:

the great drunkard

This walking statue stopped its rampage as it approached the Market, then fell backward and sat upon a building. When it settled, its arms fell limp at its sides and its head tilted forward onto its chest, giving the impression that it had fallen asleep. The statue’s huge stone battleaxe still stands nearby, its haft angled upright and its blade half buried in the cobbles. The rubble of the crushed building was long ago rebuilt into a broad stone stair (with railings and a ramp that drunkards are often rolled down) that ascends from the cobbles to the statue’s lap. That lap now holds a two-story tavern also built from the rubble, called Gralkyn’s Tankard. The unconscious pose of the statue and the tavern in its lap made the name of the Great Drunkard a natural fit.

the god catcher

This is perhaps the most famous walking statue in the city, thanks to its dramatic pose, its nearness to the Market, and the self-evident magic of its existence. The statue is of a well-muscled but impassive male human with its left leg sunk to the hip in the street, the result of a spell cast by the Blackstaff at the time of its rampage. Its left hand and right foot press against the ground as if it is trying to pull itself out. Its right arm is raised skyward, and above its open palm floats a sphere of stone. Its gaze looks up toward the sphere, and the pattern of bird droppings around its eyes gives it the appearance of weeping. All about the statue, climbing up its chest and on its knee and shoulders, is a tenement that carries the name “the God Catcher.” The tenement’s landlord is Aundra Blackcloak, an unsociable sorcerer who is rarely seen in the city except when she alights from the door carved in the floating sphere, which serves as her home. On the rare occasions when she wants to meet with city folk (typically to purchase odd substances for magical purposes), she appears unannounced on balconies or rooftops after dark. Her dealings are polite, though, and she pays fair coin. She never confides in anyone or talks about her own doings — and if anyone but she has ever seen the inside of her spherical home, they’ve said nothing publicly about it.

the griffon

The walking statue called the Griffon is shaped like the beast for which it is named. Though it stands on all four legs, its back is fully twenty feet off the ground, making it a mount fit for a storm giant. Although it has shown itself to be capable of flight, with the granite feathers of its wings spreading like a bird’s, the Griffon now merely stands in a regal pose near Peaktop Aerie atop Mount Waterdeep, looking to the southeast over the Dock Ward. Newcomers sometimes assume it to be a monument to Waterdeep’s Griffon Cavalry, but Waterdavians know better.

the sahuagin humbled

For years, the only visible walking statue of Waterdeep was known simply as “the walking statue.” It stood at the foot of Mount Waterdeep near the head of Julthoon Street. Then, after its critical role in defending the city against an invasion of sahuagin in 1370 DR, Khelben Blackstaff reshaped the statue into a sahuagin. It now bows low toward the House of Heroes on bended knee — a gesture of obeisance to the city, and an acknowledgment of the sacrifice of all who fought for the city in that war.

the lady dreaming

This fair lady caused much chaos when she was active. The statue has the appearance of a female elf, whose hair and clothing appeared to flow naturally as it walked through the city during the Spellplague. When the walking statues stopped, this one toppled onto its side, taking on the appearance of a titanic sculpture of a noble lady asleep in her garden.

the honorable knight

The Honorable Knight is a statue of a male warrior in plate armor with a shield and longsword. When the walking statues stopped, it bowed to those opposing it, straightened, sheathed its sword, and doffed its shield, setting it point down on the ground and upright by its side. It then ceased motion in this position, facing southwest toward the harbor, and looking for all the world like a castle guard standing at ease. The pose it assumed led to its naming, and it is viewed with respect by the citizens of the southerly wards.

the hawk man

This statue looks like a winged, hawk-headed being, and thus locals call it the Hawk Man. I can reveal that in fact it bears much resemblance to an aarakocra, one of the bird-people said to live in the Star Mounts in the High Forest. The statue’s wings are folded tightly against its back and have never unfurled, leaving its flight capability uncertain. It was brought low during its rampage across the city, and now it tilts decidedly toward the northeast due to a missing right foot — long ago broken up for building rubble, along with its right arm. Its left arm is extended out toward the north, palm forward as if in a gesture to say, “Stop.” The body has been hollowed out and turned into a tower shared by several wealthy tenants, which is officially known as Sparaunt Tower after its owner. The statue’s left hand extends over a courtyard to the north, wherein lies the entrance of a tunnel carved through the arm. Visitors and residents can ring a bell in the courtyard, whereupon a door guard acknowledges the ringer and lowers a rope ladder for tenants and expected guests (or a rope chair that is drawn up for guests who are infirm or laden with heavy items).

the sword maiden

This statue appears virtually identical to the Honorable Knight, except for its female form and open-faced helm. It was felled during the Spellplague after causing much chaos and slaughter. The residents of Waterdeep’s North Ward funneled much of their frustrated and dismayed reaction to its rampage into dismantling the statue, parts of which can now be found all over the North Ward, either incorporated into buildings or as bits of freestanding sculpture. The head of the Swordmaiden sits in a stand of tall trees in the center of the block of the North Ward bounded by Hassantyr’s Street, Tarsar’s Street, Whaelgond Way, and Ussilbran Street. The center of its jaw and mouth have been replaced by a door, which leads into the shop known as Thort’s Findings. Undevvur Thort is a wizened ex-adventurer who leans on a cane (which some locals insist is more than just a cane). He lives in the small shop, whose many levels, staircases, and landings fill the hollowed-out interior of the head, and which is crammed with oddments sold to Thort by adventurers and other travelers. These items bear little placards in Thort’s beautiful, flowing handwriting that identify them (or at least provide speculation as to their origin and purpose). Nobles and wealthy merchants who desire props for themed revels often rent some of Thort’s wares as decoration — and many sages, alchemists, and wizards visit him regularly in search of potentially useful items.

[heartcountry]

i am listening to 5 year olds in gaza beg for ceasefires and talk about the warplanes and drones and carry language no one should carry but especially no one so small. they should be sitting in classrooms reading fables, solving silly word problems but the world decided they were born guilty, from a guilty womb, from guilty blood. and people on the other side of a wall and the other side of the world cheered on their death. i want no part in that world, i reject every politician, every news anchor, every celebrity. i reject their movies, their music, their UN work, their empty calls for peace. i want no part in this machine of death. i want no part and can no longer desire anything from life except for the people of palestine, sudan, congo, yemen, and a hundred other places to never have the murderous reach of western imperialism near them ever again.

[seat-safety-switch]

There can be no secret made of the fact that I didn't do well in shop class. All of my teachers looked at my work, and said something to the effect of "nice, but a bit slow." Perhaps it was because I was intimidated by power tools. I will tell you now about power tools, by telling you something else entirely.

Power is the one thing our civilization craves more than anything. You can leave your money, you can abandon your fame, but once you've got that power, you won't give it up. Without getting too political about it, this phenomenon is why you can buy a four-hundred-and-thirty horsepower SUV. Then your neighbour will ask you why you didn't get the 600hp version instead. That might, even if you don't use it while driving thirty under directly in front of me as I'm trying to get places, is comforting to have under your control.

Of course, as the classic fables will tell you, too much power is a bad thing. Back in shop class, we had all kinds of kids fuck up their duck-shaped napkin holders with an inadvertent jiggle on the bandsaw or spending a second too long on the sanding wheel. These malformed, tear-stained ducks would get thrown in the bin, and then they'd have to go even faster to make a replacement duck in time for grading. I, on the other hand, would simply hand in a duck that's 80% decent but not super polished. Ran out of time to do it, because I was too busy watching the other kids destroy their hard work in a moment of frustration.

Even today, I'm not a huge fan of power tools, or engines with too much horsepower. The Slant Six has enough, even after several decades of building up caramelized oil on all of its combustion passages. And you've got enough power already, too. As long as everyone suspects you're "nice, but a bit slow," you can steal like four hundred dollars in solvents when the teacher's not looking.

[janicekao]

Fear

Pairing: Pennywise/Bill Skarsgard x Black oc (dark smut) Summary: Going after his next victim: a little boy named Booker Jones, Pennywise the clown becomes intrigued by his older sister instead, and no... what he is hungry for is not her fear. Warnings: Horror, violence, entity, monster, monster s3x, rough s3x, dub!con, cnc, age gap, dark romance, smut, tummy bulge k!nk, dom&femsub cr3am pie, etc. 7130 words Wattpad link

Enjoy my babies <3 ----------------------------------

Rumors have begun to spread that Pennywise the clown has returned back to Derry.

But who would believe the rumors being that they were coming from kids? Being gossiped around Elementary and Middle schools.

As children started to disappear again, the adults of Derry have also picked up on believing in this rumor, but luckily most of them have common sense.

Although this myth of a supernatural clown has been told in Derry for hundreds of years, the adults have been in contact with the police thinking that instead of something as crazy as a fictitious clown, some insane Pennywise fanatic has entered the town and is preying on children to keep the fable alive.

"He lives in the sewers."

"He can reach you through the drains of your house."

"He can make you hallucinate and you will see awful things to frighten you."

"He survives off of fear."

Sadly, the children are more than right.

Worst of all, they are going unheard. Parents are ignoring them as they search for what makes the most sense to them, a psychotic murderous pedophile on the loose.

And as the adults of Derry waste their time not believing in the supernatural, Pennywise is preparing to strike again.

Booker Jones, an eight year old boy is Pennywise's next victim.

Pennywise has been stalking his dreams, showing up each day at the boy's school, and whispering through the drains of his home.

Pennywise is infatuated with Booker's fear. Each time he plays with the young child's mind, his mouth waters with excitement to devour the boy and absorb his fear to keep him alive.

It's almost time now.

Booker has told his friends and family... But no one believes him. His parents tell him to stop listening to the gossip of the town because of how bad he's getting nightmares now. Little do they know, Pennywise is sizing him and getting his levels of fear exactly where he wants them to be.

Sunday nights are usually Booker's bath nights. Finally ready for Pennywise's taking, the clown plans on slithering inhumanely through the drain and drag Booker to his death into the sewers where Pennywise will consume his fear and let his decaying body be found in the streams that lead out of the tunnels of Derry.

As Pennywise listens into the pipes of the Jones' house, at eight-pm he finally hears the bath running... he knows that his time to feast, is now.

Pennywise slithers quietly through the pipes, opening his eyes in the sudsy lukewarm water as he expects to see the tiny feet and draggable legs of an eight year old boy...

The clown nearly gasps, almost choking on water as the gaze of his eyes latch onto the spread legs of a young woman...

Confusion takes over his mind, never once has he ever had to take a pause during one of his killings.

Still watching from the impossibly deep pits of the filled tub, Pennywise watches long brown legs soak in the sweetly fragrant bath. The girl's toes are painted a light pink and she taps her feet lightly to what seems to be music coming from her headphones.

What disgruntles Pennywise the most is the powers coming from between her thighs... he even momentarily begins to think that maybe, just maybe, she could be a supernatural herself.

Pennywise is hungry... Usually for fear, but this time, for a taste of the soft flesh between her legs.

Peaking out of the water for just a moment, he craves to see the face of the enchanting creature.

The girl nods her head to the rhythm of the music, luckily eyes closed as she relaxes... Because if they opened, they'd view upon the gray crumbling skin, patchy red hair, and demonic yellow eyes of Pennywise, and surely would die of a heart attack on the spot.

Pennywise is puzzled by her beauty...

Full dark brown curls drenching at the ends as she soaks in the water, face red and blushing due to the humidity of the bathroom, full lips, long eyelashes, and breasts large... nipples upturned and beaming with water droplets...

Fucking hell...

She isn't a child... no, she isn't a child at all.

What Pennywise didn't realize about Booker Jones, is that he has a sister. Quinn Jones, an older sister, age twenty, and home from college for Summer Break.

Tonight won't be the night for feeding after all... However, Pennywise can't leave without a taste, of something.

Seeping back into the drain, the clown's unbelievably long snake-like tongue slithers between Quinn's legs, swiping a powerful lick that goes from the crack of her bottom, through her folds, and to the delicious flesh of her clit.

She immediately gasps. Breath hitched in her throat as her eyes dart open. She flips her headphones from off of the top of her head and frantically kicks her legs, searching for what violated her in such way... however, the bath is empty.

As Pennywise ventures back into the sewers, the taste of Quinn stays on his tongue... a taste that he will forever crave until his dying day.

—•—

Pennywise paces the sewers, mind full of thoughts about the girl.

He isn't used to this feeling... and being an evil entity born Before Christ, he doesn't understand why after all these years, obstacles are now getting into his way?

He hears the snickering of preteens walking through the sewers with flashlights, probably dared by each other to see who is the bravest to meet the myth of Pennywise...

Sadly for the youngins, there is fear that Pennywise needs to feast upon, and once they lay eyes upon his stature of eight-feet tall, his dingy and torn clown costume, and his shards of glass like teeth, fear is exactly what they will have plenty of.

Pennywise tears them to shreds, consuming each drop of their fear. Finally becoming full and energized, he can prepare to tackle the obstacle known as Quinn Jones.

For the first time ever, Pennywise doesn't want to cause fright. He is so curious about the beauty that he just wants to be around her, to know her... However, if push comes to shove, killing her works just as well.

But to get close to the girl without her fleeing from him, he can not appear to her as a clown...

He once would appear human at times around the town of Derry, in his opinion his human form is a handsome man...

But being that the last time he tried this appearance was nearly sixty years ago, it's probably best to appear as something the girl could be attracted to nowadays.

He will have to appear as young as she is. In his twenties, charming, handsome, less forehead, less evil grin, and just more modern all together.

Contorting his appearance into what he needs to be, he finally becomes satisfied with his look as he stares at his reflection in the shard of a broken mirror, dumped in the sewers like the rest of the trash around him.

"This'll do." He finally agrees with what he sees. "This'll do just fine."

—•—

Before being able to show himself, Pennywise wants to be familiar with the girl he plans on meeting.

What does a clown who only knows of murder know about charming a girl?

For weeks of the summer, Pennywise quietly stalks Quinn until he knows her every detail.

Quinn even begins to think that her little brother's irrational fear of Pennywise the clown is rubbing off on her, ever since she's been home she sees the clown in her dreams...

He fills her every thought and at night as she sleeps, Quinn even feels him in the corner of her room.

She thinks that she's just going crazy, but she is far from crazy. Pennywise is using his abilities to infiltrate Quinn's mind, as he does his victims. But instead of frightening her, he just wants her to know of his existence.

Finally mustering up the courage to meet Quinn, things go surprisingly smoother than Pennywise could ever have expected.

In his new appearance, Pennywise purposely runs into her as she grocery shops dinner for her family. He compliments her, asks about the music she is listening to in her headphones, and lies that they are too his favorite band.

He enjoys speaking with her for the very first time... It is like a breath of fresh air.

Pennywise introduces himself to the girl as "Bill", a twenty-seven year old accountant who is interested in taking her out on a date.

Impressed by the man's charm and their almost impossible similarities, Quinn quickly accepts.

Over weeks of hanging out with each other daily, a bond has began to grow. They trust each other and Pennywise enjoys hearing her talk for as long as she wants to.

Each day that he picks her up from the Jones' residence, Quinn's blushing cheeks proves each time that his plan is working, it proves that the girl is crushing on him as much as Pennywise is crushing on her.

A month of knowing each other passes quickly being that the two have become immediately infatuated with each other.

Today, to celebrate a month together, Pennywise has planned a night at a drive in movie theater... a perfect place for romance, and to also scope out the scenery for potential children he can feasts upon when he's ready to.

Wearing a brown mesh dress that fits her body to perfection and compliments her mahogany skin beautifully, Quinn answers Pennywise's knock to her front door.

Pennywise can barely speak... Awed by her beauty, he can barely breathe.

She smiles. "Do I look okay?"

Voice sweet as candy, his heart begins to melt.

"Yes Quinn." He gulps. "More than okay, absolutely perfect."

She blushes. Quinn reaches up on the tips of her heels to place a kiss on the cheek of his handsome face.

She accepts his flowers. "Happy one month, Bill."

—•—

As Pennywise discretely digs through the wallets of his previous victims, he also drives a stolen car.

He impresses the girl with his willingness to care for her, to pay for all of their dates... although nothing that he has belongs to him, not even his own appearance.

Parked in front of the large movie screen, the two share a bucket of popcorn.

Pennywise listens to Quinn as she talks about her last year of college coming up in August. She'll then graduate and become a local Elementary School Teacher here in Derry.

As if she were made just for him. Pennywise's lips nearly begin to drool. Oh what perfect career for her... this way they'll never be apart, she can bring him the kids, and he absorbs their fear.

Curious with her thoughts on the rumored clown of Derry, Pennywise brings it up in conversation, wondering will he forever have to keep up with this appearance around her, or if one day she can accept him as he is.

"Like most adults, I don't believe in entities and things that just don't make practical sense." She shrugs. "But ever since I've been home in Derry, I too have had many thoughts of this clown... it started with my little brother's nightmares, he was sure this evil clown was out to get him... So as a big sister would, I comforted him, calmed his nerves, and reminded him that everything would be okay. But recently, something tells me that the myth of the clown may be true. It's like I can feel him, like he's always near to me... Like I know him personally."

Quinn smiles, shrugging off the goosebumps caused by just the thought of Pennywise the clown. "But honestly there is something else I'd rather talk to you about..."

Chomping on a hand full of popcorn, Pennywise agrees. "Sure, go ahead."

"Bill..." She gulps. "We've been seeing each other for a month now, and I'm a bit confused on where we stand... I go back to school in a month, I'd just like to know if I'm going back single, or is this something... more?"

Pennywise frowns.

Has he not been clear?

"You're mine." The only words he can conjure up at the thought of Quinn seeing anyone else.

Blush heating her cheeks, she accepts his answer with the prettiest smile. "I can be yours."

He nods. "Good."

Taking the popcorn to the floor of the car, Quinn reaches over to kiss Pennywise. Their lips meet, and their affection and adoration for each other melts into each of their breaths.

Although they have taken things very slow over summer, they still have had a few gentle kisses every now and then. But Pennywise realizes that this kiss is a bit different...

Quinn moans into his full lips, body closing in on him in the driver seat of the car as she clearly hungers for more.

His heart begins to beat out of his chest and his human form suffers with keeping up with the seducing kiss.

Pulling away from her, Pennywise watches her almost startled, confused by the bite she has to her full bottom lip yet his pants grow as she squirms in needy arousal.

He gulps. "Quinn, the movie?"

"I'd rather watch you." Her voice drips with seduction as her hand unzips the front of his pants.

Quinn calms his worry as her other hand caresses the back of his neck gently. "If I'm yours, let me take care of you Bill."

He watches puzzled, with a racing heartbeat, however he allows Quinn to do whatever she wants with him.

Quinn gracefully tucks her full mane of curls onto the other side of her shoulder as she bows into his lap.

Her lips line with his up-turned erection as she sweetly kisses the tip of his cock, staining it with her pink strawberry flavored lipgloss.

Staring down at his handsomely perfect member, thoughts of having him inside her chokes her mind. The best looking cock she's ever seen in her life, for now she'll satisfy her hunger with just his taste.

Hallowing out her cheeks, Quinn takes him fully into her mouth. Slowly wetting his cock with her spit as she gently tugs his shaft lubed with her drool.

Breaths caught in Pennywise's throat as he watches his sweetheart take him completely in her throat. Her delicious moans and sweetly scented perfume plagues his mind, he can't control the groans coming from the depths of his stomach.

She feels fucking perfect to him. Willing to choke herself to tears for his pleasure, he knows that he absolutely loves the girl.

As Quinn continues to slurp, stroke, and suck, Pennywise can't control the bucking of his hips. Gently fucking into her throat at the rhythm that he needs.

Quinn opens her eyes, peering up at him with her innocent doll like eyes as she slaps his cock on her drooling wet tongue.

His eyes roll back into his skull.. "Quinn.." He gulps. "Honey I—"

Forcing him deeper into her throat, Quinn inhales his balls along with the entirety of his cock.

Coughing and dripping mascara as her only care is to bring him to a pleasured finish

Fucking hell... he can't take it. Never having this sense of pleasure in his impossibly long lifetime, he feels the need to explode.

Noticing her deep arch in the passenger seat of the car, Pennywise can't help but to run his hand onto her firm backside, slapping her ass as she sucks his cock with absolute perfection.

His mouth hangs ajar as the pressure to cum continues to build. Stomach tightened as he listens to her intoxicating chokes and moans, he can't hold out any longer.

Quinn takes him into her throat once more as he blows his load.

He shouts a pleasured groan as the cum bursts streams into her mouth and down her pretty chin.

The pleasure is too much for him to handle, Pennywise loses focus on his appearance... and absolutely drops it.

He watches Quinn's satisfied smile turn into eyes of fear as he begins to reveal his truest form.

"P-Pennywise.." The shock causes her face to whiten into a pale fright.

He smiles, the jingle of his bells chiming out of thin air. "Pennywise, The Dancing Clown!"

—•—

Thrashing around in the arms of the clown, Pennywise leaves the car for the nearest city drain.

Crying and shouting to be let go, he doesn't listen to her once.

"Close your eyes." He calmly demands. "It'll hurt a lot less."

Fearing for her life. Quinn tightens her eyes closed as she notices them slipping into the sewer drain.

She knows it's impossible for them to fit and expects to be squashed to death... But underestimating the powers of Pennywise, gets her nowhere. As she opens her eyes, she's surprisingly unharmed and in the sewer tunnels of Derry.

As she's being carried, she notices her dangling legs nowhere near the ground being that her date has grown into a whopping eight feet tall.

As she cries and continues to lash out, Pennywise isn't phased or harmed by her gentle fists. However, he doesn't know how to calm her...

When he's killing for the absorption of fear, he would have snapped his victim's neck by now, but not wanting to hurt Quinn... he's at a loss for a next step.

Taking her to the driest and deepest part of the sewers, he leaves Quinn by herself beside a pile of his victim's belongings.

She becomes a mess of frightened tears as she looks up at the massive pile, noticing the floating children in Pennywise's possession, decaying and have been hanging there for many, many years.

As hours pass, and night darkens.

Pennywise decides to revisit Quinn. He finds her exhausted from tears and asleep in a dirty corner, however he's glad that she is calm.

He never wanted this to happen, but now that he's infatuated with her he can't let her go.

Waking up from her stressful nap, Quinn is startled by his quiet watching in the pipes of the sewer.

Balling herself up into bended knees, she refuses to even look at him.

He jumps down, creating a cloud of dust around him as he lands right in front of her.

"Open your eyes." He demands. "See me as I am."

"As what?" She argues. "Accept that you're Pennywise the clown? Or accept that you're a liar?"

Her smart tongue aggravates him as he forces her into his strict yellow gaze. "Everything I've said, I've meant."

"You're a murderer." Tears of sadness wet her cheeks.

"Don't bring up what you don't understand." He denies being called such things.

"You were after my brother weren't you?" She continues. "You wanted to kill him! Turn him into the children above-"

"But I didn't." He interrupts. "And I won't."

She scoffs. "You have been an entirely different man since I've known you, how am I ever to believe a word that you say!"

"Because you'll just have to trust me." His voice although sensitive to her fear, he is clearly demanding and intimidating. "Do it, because you don't have any other choice to."

Rolling her eyes, clearly heartbroken and confused, Quinn attempts to leave.

Stretching his arm like taffy, Pennywise pulls her back to him from many feet away.

Can't she see that he's inhuman? Whatever she does he can correct without even dropping a bead of sweat.

She can't win, and she never will.

Pennywise softens his stare into something less threatening... He slowly bends to the crook of Quinn's neck, placing gentle kisses on her skin. "I am still me."

Uncomfortable with his caress, Quinn begins to frown.

He continues to press his lips to her body and Quinn quickly realizes that she isn't uncomfortable with his kiss at all, she's uncomfortable with enjoying it... Uncomfortable with still feeling safe with a creature that shouldn't even exist.

Pennywise pulls from his kiss and watches her quiet expression... he feels hopeful, now that she's trembling less and her eyes have softened.

He wants to tell her that he loves her, but it just isn't in his character to say something so forward.

"Do I still call you Bill?"Her voice meek and sweet makes his heart beat loudly.

"Pennywise." He responds.

"Will you take me home Penny?"Pennywise shuts his eyes, soul melting at the cute nickname she has quickly came up for him.

Pennywise becomes hungry, wanting to give her what he received in the car.

"Yes Quinn, you'll go home." He whispers sweetly pressed against her face. "Right after I return the favor."

Tearing the panties from her body, Pennywise pins her wrists above her head.

She gasps, squirming in refusal. "No! Please Pennywise, I don't want that!"

Widening her legs her dripping cunt says otherwise.

Pennywise's insanely long tongue swipes between her thighs as he did the first time he met her.

She gasps, body arching in pleasure... Quinn remembers that feeling immediately. "It was you, i-in the bathtub."

Grinning deviously he nods. "Of course, who else could give you a kiss below like that?"

His mouth returns to her sweet succulent flesh. He's wanted badly to feast on this pussy for so many days now.

Hands forcing her dress above her chest, his eyes widen at her perky breasts... nipples hardened and painfully aroused.

Biting a glove off of his hand, he bites his lip as he enjoys the skin to skin contact of caressing her full bust.

Covering her face, Quinn becomes embarrassed. She tries to cover the moans from her tongue, but Pennywise hears them, Pennywise loves them.

Rolling the bud between his fingers with sudden gentle pinches, Pennywise dives back into her cunt.

His mouth is too good for her, she can't keep still.

He grips her ankles folding her legs to her chest to refuse her from moving his mouth from her pussy.

He circles his tongue around her swollen clit, nipping it to watch her body jolt. He slurps on her every drop of pleasure, swallowing it as if his thirst could never be quenched.

His tongue plows into her pussy, bringing shameful squeals through her begging lips. Tongue long enough to fuck her like a cock, he pushes it in and out of her hole and brings her to tears.

His monstrous cock aches, forced against his tight clown costume, and ready to burst from her taste and squeals alone.

Pennywise's face dug deeply between her thighs, his nose and mouth slide vengefully prodding inside the slick folds of her smooth cunt, forcing her to quake as she pulls on the red strands of his hair.

The clown's eyes shutter closed, rolling back into his skull in pure satisfaction. Mouth usually dripping with blood however tonight dripping with Quinn's sweet nectar.

"Please Pennywise..." Her sweet voice stabs at him. "Will you kill me too?"

"You hush now Quinn, you'll be back in your bed, sleeping the best that you've ever had." Breathless and eager to make her orgasm, Pennywise continues.

She moans... pleasure becoming far too painful for her. "When?!"

"Don't act as if you want me to rush, I can feel how much you're enjoying this Quinn." Nearly offended, he shuts her up with a deep tongue plow against her cervix.

She shouts in pleasure... Ashamed of knowing how incredible his tongue feels, and feeling like an absolute little slut for an evil clown.

However soon he answers her anyway. "You'll go home when I get you to that point , when you realize that I won't stop seeking after you, and when you realize that with me— you'll never want to be sought after by anyone else again."

"Do you understand Quinn?" His question is threatening.

She nods. "Yes."

"Good girl." He grins. "Now release for me... release for me, and you will be home sweet girl. You'll just have to do it, right here on my tongue."

Lying on his belly, face devouring Quinn's pussy as he grips the thick indents of her hips, Quinn begins to buck her hips... fucking his face until the tightened spring in her stomach releases.

Tears dropping from her eyes as she shouts out from a mind blowing orgasm, Quinn's vision fades into a bright light.

Seeing only white and hearing a ringing similar to after a bomb, she fades into an unexpected slumber, waking up peacefully tucked into her bed back at her home...

—•—

Days pass and Quinn still doesn't understand what has happened to her this summer.

She's painfully alone with this knowledge, knowing that no one would ever believe her about Pennywise, nevertheless believe that she's been intimate with him.

Her thoughts of the night with Pennywise in the sewer plagues her mind... the memories make her drip with desire and because of it, she feels embarrassed.

What's even more embarrassing, is that she can't help but wonder why he hasn't made contact with her again...

Tempted to visit him in the tunnels, she doesn't want to seem desperate. Her mental health fights with her, filling her with shame knowing that longing for this creature is extremely wrong.

As the weekend draws closer, it'll be a week since they've seen each other. Quinn has gotten to the point of believing that maybe she's just going crazy, maybe she dreamt all of this!

She forces herself to drop him from her thoughts so she can prepare herself for the school year, and get back to everyday life.

Quinn showers in her parents' bathroom, refusing to bathe in the hall bathroom being that was where she first encountered the clown.

As she dresses for bed in a black silk night gown, she brushes her wet curls and brushes her teeth in the mirror of the hall bathroom.

As she spits the toothpaste out, she hears the calling of the clown.

"Oh Quuuiiinnn.."Pennywise nearly sings for her as he calls her name, echoing throughout the bathroom's pipes.

She gulps, realizing that everything that happened between them is absolutely true.

His voice taunts with seduction. "I've missed you honey..."

Cutting off the bathroom light, she decides to ignore the noise and leave.

"Don't you dare leave this bathroom."His threat startles her. "Come here Quinn."

She rolls her eyes, kneeling to the tub as she begins to whisper aggressively at the tub's drain, looking like a psychopath if anyone were to catch her. "What do you want from me? It's been a week, I thought I was free of you."

"Never." He chuckles. "It seems that you've been counting our days apart... if I'm correct, you've missed me just as much?"

"I waited for your bath." Pennywise causes Quinn to blush in embarrassment. "You never came."

"Showered in my parents' bathroom." She shrugs stubbornly. "Felt safer."

Pennywise laughs. "Then we'll just have to have our fun now."

Pennywise's gloved hand reaches through the drain...

"Take the glove off." He demands. "Then sit on it."

Quinn trembles as she pulls the clown's white glove from his hand.

His hand is revealed, gray, monstrous, with talon like nails.

She flinches at the thought of being fingered by that. "Put that away!" Quinn complains. "I will not do anything with that."

He sighs. "Fine."

Pulling his hand back into the drain, he soon brings it back up... handsome, soft, human, with enticingly long digits...

"Now." Compromising with the girl, Pennywise sighs. "Be a good girl, and come sit on this hand Quinn."

She licks her lips, becoming convinced to find pleasure on the handsome hand.

But she refuses... "No!" She snaps. "Pennywise, I won't! I'm going to bed!"

"So help me god Quinn." The threatening tone of his voice stops her dead in her tracks. "If you don't sit on this hand, I will come through this drain and fuck you to absolute pieces."

She wishes that his demanding threat didn't make her melt between her thighs... but interestingly enough, it does.

Quinn enters the tub. Hiking up her silk nightgown, she kneels to the floor of the tub, taking a seat on the warm hand coming from the drain.

His deep baritoned chuckle echoes through the steel pipes. "You know what to do."

And that she does.

Quinn begins to buck her hips... fucking the hand with slow trembled breaths.

Pennywise massages her clit with his thumb, making her slick and preparing her for his probing fingers.

Quinn continues to soak his hand, sticky webbed dripping from her needy little cunt oozing down Pennywise's wrist.

He places two of his longest fingers inside of her, bending at the knuckle to caress her g-spot each time they thrust into her. Quinn closes her eyes and enjoys the pleasure of each bounce onto the hand, a moan escapes her tongue as a broad thumb seeps into her asshole.

He's marked her as his own. Having the girl obsessed with the many ways he can fill her.

Quinn gyrates the lacy dress past her shoulders, her hands begin to toy at her now revealed sensitive breasts as she reaches closer to her cum.

Drawing the faint taste of blood from her full bottom lip, she bites down hard enough to silence her need to squeal.

"I have such the surprise for you.."Mysterious temptation clouds over Pennywise's voice. "Tomorrow, I'll come get you. Be ready for me, be ready for your gift."

"W-What is it?" Quinn's breath hitches in her throat, being choked by a moan.

"Be patient little lamb." He chuckles. "You will see."

Quinn clinches around Pennywise's fingers, nearing her finish. "Cum for me." A sweet command from Pennywise, sends Quinn into hysterics. She jolts, body quaking as she releases for him, soaking and pruning his fingertips.

Panting for breath after her climax, she watches the wet hand slide back down the drain... Quinn listens into the drain, hearing the sudden lapping of his tongue over his fingers, obsessed and constantly thirsty for her taste.

Realizing how much he craves for her, Quinn's crush grows larger. She's utterly fixated on her new lover.

"My glove?" Pennywise waits calmly for her to send it down the drain, but she refuses.

She gulps. "Tomorrow."

"You want to keep it?" You can nearly hear the joyful smile in Pennywise's voice.

"Yes." She admits.

He accepts it. "Fine, as long as you sleep with it pressed against your chest, or even better, between your legs."

"Quinn?" He calls once more. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow, sleep well sweet girl."

—•—

Quinn gets dressed early today not knowing which time to expect Pennywise.

Her knee shakes nervously as she waits all day on the edge of her bed, wondering if she should warn her family to not expect her home tonight... Hell, dealing with an evil entity, she even thought to warn them that she may never be back.

But the clown asked for her trust... so trust is what she has to give.

If he were to kill her, she's sure that he would have done it by now.

As the evening darkens, a nervous Quinn refuses to eat any meals... Her stomach is too anxious to accept any food to eat.

Quinn's eyes become tired, she accidentally begins to fall over into her pillows as sleep takes over her...

Before her head hits the pillow, the side of Quinn's face is carefully placed into the wide palm of Pennywise's hand.

She notices the feel of his skin instead of the pillow on her cheek, not once caring to ask how did he get inside of her room.

"You're late." Quinn's voice so very quiet and sleepy, plays gently on his heart strings.

Pennywise leans into the girl, wearing his human appearance as he softly kisses his tired love.

"I'm sorry sweetheart." He coos, taking his borrowed glove from her bedside table. "Just needed time to get things perfect for you."

As Quinn blinks her heavy eyelids open, she watches Pennywise puff on a cigarette. "So now you smoke?"

He shrugs. "Thought I'd see what's the hype around it to you humans."

Quinn disapproves, up from lying on her bed, she takes the cigarette from his lips and tosses it out of the opened bedroom window. "There is no hype to it, it's bad for you."

Amused with her sexy authoritative side, he wraps his arm around her body. His hand graces the small of her back gently as he lifts her to his kiss.

The tender kiss, mind blowing for them both as Quinn enjoys finally seeing his presence again, and Pennywise enjoys her beauty. Long brown legs in a pair of light blue denim short-shorts, dirty red converse tied in a bow on each of her feet, and braless in a nearly see through white summer tank top.

She's so gorgeous, it physically pains him.

Enjoying every detail of grace and beauty on her face, he pauses momentarily as he takes her image in. "Close your eyes."

Expecting to be transported somewhere, Quinn does just that. She closes her eyes, grasping onto his broad shoulders as she trusts him to take her wherever he wants.

Feeling ground beneath her feet, Quinn soon opens her eyes. She notices her house a few feet away as her and Pennywise walk hand in hand into the woods of her backyard.

She frowns in confusion. "The woods? Why?"

"So you can see how to get to me, and where to find me, whenever you need me." The calm comfort in his voice takes her worries away. She agrees with a nod, tightening her hand around his.

As the two walk together in the woods for a few short minutes, Pennywise follows a stream that leads them to the canals.

He makes sure that she's paying attention as he watches down upon her, she nods, memorizing the path of how to get to him.

They cross the dense rocks surrounded by water as they head towards the sewer. An older gentleman packed up from late night fishing stops them in their path.

Quinn instantly worries about how Pennywise will react... If she is to spend time with him, she never, ever, wants to see him kill.

"Penny, don't." Her voice a quiet plead for him to behave.

The man shines his flashlight into their direction, and Pennywise can hardly decide to kill him or not as he watches  the man shine the bright light into his eyes.

"Hey kiddos! You shouldn't be out this late, especially around these parts. Haven't you all heard about the bodies being found around here? Apparently a murderer is on the loose, some even say an evil clown who lives in the sewers... although that's just a fable." The man chuckles.

"Can't say we're ones to believe in the clown." Pennywise laughs. "Like you said, it's just a fable, right?Have a good night sir!"

Quinn finally breathes again, glad that Pennywise never lost his cool.

He sighs. "The things I do for you."

Together they make their way into the sewers, sloshing through the mucky waters until they've reached the dry area of the tunnels.

Quinn notices how different it looks from the last time she was here...

Cleaned out, floating bodies taken elsewhere, and no pile of his victims belongings.

Even a bedroom is built...

Candles lit around the two of them for romance, and to mask the horrid smells of the sewer.

She begins to chuckle, impressed with the effort he put into making her feel comfortable with where he hides out at...

She walks around the bedroom touching the furniture and the decorations he put together to feel like a home.

Quinn knows the stuff is stolen, but it is the thought that counts.

"Too much?" Nervous and nearly sweating, Pennywise can't get a good read on her expression. "I over did it, huh?"

"I think it's beautiful." She admits. "The reason you went missing for a week?"

He shrugs. "I didn't like you being on the floor, you deserve better... A bed, a place to stay whenever you want to free yourself from the outside world."

Quinn's cheeks blush, clearly falling in love with the clown.

"The bed is awfully big..." Kicking off her shoes, Quinn lays back onto the pillows. "Should I expect to share it?"

Pennywise chuckles, rolling his eyes playfully however noticeably infatuated with the girl.

"Quinn?" He curiously asks. "Do you only like me like this? Does the clown frighten you?"

She smiles. "I like you for the man that I got to know over summer, regardless of how he appears to me. Penny, I like you, for you."

Pennywise gazes into his reflection of the bedroom's mirror with guilt... suddenly becoming unsure of which version that he even likes, himself...

He chuckles dryly. "So I'll change it up, keep things interesting with my different appearances."

She agrees with him, yet begins to sigh. "I'm sorry that I can't do the same."

Her feelings of not being enough for him snaps Pennywise out of his gaze.

"Don't ever say that again." He quickly leaves the mirror, joining her as he sits on the edge of the bed. "You don't need multiple appearances. I love just the one that you have, I'll never want for anything else."

"You love my appearance?" She asks. "Or you love me?"

He gulps, finally admitting the truth. "Quinn, I love you."

Feeling relief as he finally gets those three meaningful words off of his chest, he doesn't even care to hear her say it back... for he is sure that the day will come.

The two share a longing kiss.

A tongue kiss that heats into their clothes being stripped off of each other.

As he pulls the daisy dukes along with her panties off of her body, he bites his lip as he watches her lift enough to slide them off of her legs... just as impatient and horny as he is.

Pennywise watches Quinn tremble with excitement, as she glistens between her thighs, ready for his taking.

Lying on her back, Quinn nearly begs for missionary sex. The type of sex where the wider she spreads, the more she can feel him dig into her.

"Are you sure?" Surprisingly gentle, Pennywise asks for her reassurance.

Biting her lip and already panting, she nods.

He doesn't think twice.

Lying over her gorgeously nude body, Pennywise begins to place slow, bruising kisses along her skin. Sucking the flesh of her chin, neck, and breasts... Marking her with his affection.

Accepting another of his tongue kisses, Quinn moans into his mouth as he loses himself down her throat.

Pennywise begins to slowly lube his cock, thrusting slowly through her slickness until he's covered in her nectar. Just the gliding of his cock through her folds causes her body to arch, pleading aimlessly to be fucked into.

Pussy slapping her with the tip of his weighty cock, he grins deviously as he watches her body jolt each time it smacks her on her throbbing clit.

Toyed with enough, already to the point of soaking his brand new sheets, he gains momentum to seep into her entry.

Slowly thrusting his tip into her, Pennywise holds her hips down as she attempts to run from the pleasure.

His plows deepen..

He watches Quinn take half, then all of his cock as he stretches her to her max. Watching his cock spread her wide is the prettiest thing he's ever seen, his groans tremble as he watches each time he slides out, and rams back into her.

Quinn grips the sheets as Pennywise kisses her salty tears away.

"So pretty.." He coos. "And such a good listener. Quinn, baby, are you with me?"

The girl nods, body blushing red as she endures his brutal fucking, however enjoying the restraint on her breathing from his crushingly heavy body and the fullness of his veiny erection.

Catching a bouncing breast into his mouth, Pennywise's tongue laps teasing circles around her hardened nipple.

Picking up speed and listening to the wet fapping of their bodies and the squeaking bed frame, Pennywise is determined to bottom completely out into her.

Finally doing it, pushing his cock in to the base of his happy trail, Quinn presses her hand against his chest, begging for mercy. "Please—" she pants. "Penny, I-I can't!"

Taking the hand from his chest, Pennywise kisses the girl's palm gently before placing it above her head. Holding her wrists back from interrupting his heavy bucking. "You can baby, you can."

Taking his free hand to her fleshy clit, he massages her in a way that makes her squirm underneath him.

Finishing his handsy caress with a sharp slap onto her pussy, he sends her into oblivion.

Quinn's body begins to quake, squealing inaudibly as the orgasm melts her into the mattress.

Wanting that same incredible finish, Pennywise's speed picks up, aiming for his cum. Her orgasm spasming around his cock as he grunts, mercilessly fucking into the girl.

"Fuck!" He shouts as he nears his finish.

Pussy quivering around his erection, already doused in his sticky precum, his sweetheart lays tiredly beneath him...

Sweated out, dumbly drooling, and looking so beautiful half-lidded and absolutely slutty for only him.

To bring him to his climax, he begs to hear her perfect little voice.

"Is this what you want?" He grits through his teeth. "Could we have this for a lifetime?"

Quinn nearly cries, numbly taking the rough fucking like a champ. "Yes Pennywise, God yes— just continue to be good to me, be good to Derry."

He nods, simping immediately to whatever she wants. "Mmm- fuck! This pussy is fucking fantastic. Yes baby.. Haven't killed since we met, I'll do whatever you want."

"Haven't killed since we met..."

"Haven't killed since we met..."

The words replay, strangling his mind.

How hasn't he killed, since they have met?

Pennywise comes to a slow pace, not understanding how he has been surviving if he hasn't fed off of fear?

....

Or has he been feeding off of it all along?

Quinn, she fears him.

He only has been surviving around her, because she's fucking faking it...

Pennywise believes that Quinn doesn't feel the same about him at all, she loathes him, she's frightened by him and doing whatever she needs to do in hopes of keeping her family and this town safe from him.

He can't hold his appearance any longer, as anger fuels him, Pennywise bursts into full clown...

Eight feet tall, ravenous teeth, hands that tear through his white gloves due to the black talon sized nails, and a monstrous cock that fills Quinn to the absolute brim.

She hisses in immediate pain, "Pennywise it hurts!"

The bed breaks down to the floor now that he's massive and impossibly heavy. However, Quinn's tight little cunt feels sooo very good to him.

"It hurts?"He begins to deviously taunt. "Does it now? I think you can take it Quinn. Be good for me."

She squeals. "Please! You're still inside me, you'll have to go back to your human appearance!"

Becoming familiar again with his evil nature, he refuses. "I think I'll fuck you just like this."

His hands wrap around her entire waist as if she were a can of soda, the clown's form being so large over her petite frame it's like fucking into a Barbie doll.

He huffs, nearing a mountain size amount of cum as he nearly splits Quinn into two.

The clown's mouth begins to drool as he places his hand at her womb, feeling his cock and watching the insane tummy bulge he forces into her guts.

So fucking sexy, he feels his explosion erupting.

Eyes rolling back into his skull, the clown releases to the sweet sounds of her cries.

Muscles tightening as does the vicious grip on her skin as he stills himself inside of her and coats her walls with his hot sticky cum.

"When were you going to stop wasting my fucking time?" Pennywise watches his cum spill out on each side of his cock that still penetrates her. "I can taste the fear on you, so don't dare lie."

Aggravated with her silence, he slams her against the bed. "Faking everything that you've said... Why, because you think it would keep you alive longer?"

He clicks his tongue with taunt. "I'm too old to be made a fool of, but you almost had me Quinn... you really did."

"Penny please!" She begs, although now on soft his giantly inhuman cock continues to sit deeply inside of her. Without barely any movement, she still feels as if she's being fucked due to his size and the pulsing veins of his cock. "I-I can't speak to you like this."

Not being able to catch her breath, and seeming to be seriously ill. Her poor body can't take much more.

She begs tearfully. "It's too much!! S'too full!!"

Pulling himself out of Quinn, she jolts at the lewd pop of the head of his massive cock exiting her.

He watches his cum seep from out of her with more plans of revenge sex and doing this all night to her.

She can finally breathe as her body relaxes, pouring out his messy load into the middle of her trembling thighs.

"Talk!" Pennywise shouts.

"I'm not afraid of you!" She cries.

Pennywise's finger nail sticks uncomfortably into her belly button, with just the slightest drag, Quinn's steaming hot intestines could be lying right in front of her eyes. "Oh Quinn... I've enjoyed every minute with you, but don't think that I won't tear you into fucking shreds if you lie to me again."

"I'm telling you the truth, I don't fear you!" The poor girl, now heartbroken and regretting becoming the lover of a demonic entity continues to weep until she runs out of tears.

"The fear that you are surviving off of is my fear of the future. Fear of our fate together being that we are in an impossible relationship..." Quinn explains herself , unable to even look at him anymore. "A girl and an entity— a fear of the universe pulling us apart when I have too fallen in love with you."

....

His eyes soften with immense guilt... Finally realizing what he has done...

Looking at his love lying exhausted, half-lidded, and fucked to a pulp, he worries that he has injured her... For the first time feeling fear himself.

What Pennywise failed to realize, is that the girl never feared him at all. What she feared, was losing him.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Common Fantasy Subgenres

The broad tent of fantasy literature has spawned many fantasy subgenres that range from mythical and gritty to modern and otherworldly. Understanding the different fantasy subgenres can help aspiring writers find their niche so that they can create a fantasy series that readers can enjoy for years to come.

Fantasy novels take on many forms, and the number of distinct fantasy subgenres seems to grow with each passing year. Here are 18 particularly important subgenres within the world of fantasy:

Dystopian fantasy: Sometimes grouped in with science fiction, speculative fiction, and literary fiction, dystopian fantasies imagine worlds gone wrong. The settings are at once familiar to contemporary audiences and also alarmingly worse than the present world. Jack Vance’s Dying Earth series is a pulpy example of this subgenre of fantasy fiction.

High fantasy: Sometimes called “epic fantasy,” high fantasy is set in a magical environment that has its own rules and physical laws. This subgenre’s plots and themes have a grand scale and typically center on a single, well-developed hero or a band of heroes, such as Frodo Baggins and his cohorts in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings or Bilbo Baggins and the dwarves in The Hobbit. George R.R. Martin combines high fantasy with elements of medieval fantasy and romance in his Song of Ice and Fire series (and the Game of Thrones television series based upon those books).

Low fantasy: Set in the real world, low fantasy includes unexpected magical elements that surprise ordinary characters, like the plastic figurines come to life in Lynne Reid Banks’s The Indian in the Cupboard.

Magical realism: While similar to low fantasy, magical realism characters accept fantastical elements like levitation and telekinesis as a normal part of their otherwise realistic world, as in Gabriel García Márquez’s magical realism classic One Hundred Years of Solitude.

Sword and sorcery: A subset of high fantasy, this subgenre focuses on sword-wielding heroes—such as the titular barbarian in Robert E. Howard’s Conan pulp fiction stories.

Urban fantasy: Urban fantasy is a genre of literature encompassing novels, novellas, and short stories in which fantastical characters and concepts are placed in a real world urban setting, often in the present day. Urban fantasy novels have devoted followings and they have spawned film and TV adaptations. Urban fantasy stories often draw from noir and gritty police procedurals. They also may incorporate fantastical elements and supernatural creatures. These could involve undead zombies, vampires, druids, demons, wizardry, witchcraft, and other such fantasy tropes. For example, The Dresden Files by Jim Butcher.

Paranormal romance: This fantasy subgenre combines romantic themes with fantasy elements like vampires, werewolves, shifters, faeries, and zombie armies. Many contemporary fantasy series blur the line between urban fantasy stories, coming-of-age tales, and paranormal romances. Patricia Briggs and Jeaniene Frost are popular authors in this subgenre.

Dark fantasy: Combining elements of fantasy with the horror genre, dark fantasy’s aim is to unnerve and frighten readers. For example, consider the gargantuan, otherworldly monsters in H. P. Lovecraft’s universe. Gothic and Victorian dark fantasy tends to embrace a paranormal setting and supernatural elements, which can range from vampires to werewolves and beyond. Note that by no means is every paranormal fantasy a dark fantasy.

Grimdark fantasy: One step beyond dark fantasy, grimdark novels pry into the blackest depths of the human condition, often in the proverbial underbelly of an alternate world. The Court of Broken Knives by Anna Smith Spark is a popular book within this subgenre.

Fables: Using personified animals and the supernatural, fables impart moral lessons, like the stories in Aesop’s Fables and Arabian Nights.

Fairy Tales: Intended for children, fairy tales and folk tales are typically set in distant magical worlds (with beginnings like “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…”) where trolls, dragons, witches, and other supernatural characters are an accepted truth, as in the Brothers Grimm’s Grimms’ Fairy Tales.

Superhero fantasy: Unlike stories in which a hero acquires special abilities through scientific means, such as exposure to radiation, the protagonists’ powers in more fantastical superhero stories are supernatural. Many superhero stories are set in a low fantasy world—one that’s quite similar to our own world. Superheroes ranging from Wonder Woman to Thor bring fantasy elements to worlds that otherwise obey the known laws of science. Many superhero fantasy authors have worked in the comic book medium, from Stan Lee to Bob Kane. As such, superhero fiction in the fantasy genre is also known as comic fantasy or comic book fantasy.

Fantasy of manners: This subgenre, exemplified by fantasy books like Gormenghast by Mervyn Peake, combines supernatural world-building with the type of society-centric concerns one might encounter in a work by Edith Wharton or Noel Coward. Human drama and pettiness may outweigh magical powers in this subgenre of fantasy literature.

Crossworlds fantasy: Sometimes called portal fantasy, this subgenre involves characters transporting from a normal world to a magical one. This requires authors to engage in both magical world-building and grounded realistic world-building. Crossworlds fantasy stories often appeal to children, as seen in the Chronicles of Narnia series by C.S. Lewis and Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. These works also fit a category known as juvenile fantasy.

Steampunk fantasy: This highly specific subgenre combines the Victorian science and technology of the Industrial Revolution with contemporary takes on robots and machines. As such, steampunk fantasy is at once alternate history, science fantasy, and a modern fantasy—although the specifics vary with specific novels. Soulless by Gail Carriger is a particularly well-regarded steampunk fantasy novel.

Arthurian fantasy: These historical fantasy stories exist in a magical world of King Arthur, although Arthur himself is not always the main character. Due to their magical setting, Arthurian fantasy novels and short stories tend to feature mythic creatures like dragons, and many of their heroes are knights—which also makes them part of the heroic fantasy subgenre.

Sci-fi fantasy: These stories can be set in any variety of time periods—which means they can be a contemporary fantasy, a modern fantasy, a futuristic fantasy, or even historical fantasy—but they establish a new world where scientific advancements have changed the rules of engagement, while still incorporating magical elements. The Star Wars series and the various works of Isaac Asimov have helped set the bar for sci-fi fantasy.

Wuxia fantasy: This subgenre is rooted in classic Chinese literature. It involves elements of fantasy interspersed with martial arts. Jade City by Fonda Lee is an example of wuxia fantasy.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[shrillow]

Winter Flowers - Ch 3

sylus x reader; dragon!sylus x human sacrifice!reader

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4

NSFW: gore, smut, cunnilingus

You spend the winter in the dragon’s lair. 

At first, neither of you seem to know what you’re doing. Where to start.

Shall he begin with the dead languages of a people whose last descendants no longer walk the earth? Will he show you the fashions of the world? Should he recount the doctrines of the hundred religions he knew? Perhaps he still possesses those old star maps which sailors once used to brave the seas?

In the end, Sylus begins with a story. Many stories. Whatever your hand brushes—an instrument, a piece of furniture, a weapon—he unravels its history with the steady, patient rhythm of his voice.

“It was an heirloom passed down through a royal bloodline that ruled two thousand years ago . . .”

“The fae believed that sword was forged by a sun god when he was banished to the mortal world . . .”

“This was a popular instrument used for herding sheep. You place your fingers over these holes and blow here . . .”

From sunrise to sunset, the dragon recalls the stories of things with eidetic precision. To your delight and amazement, Sylus has a seemingly limitless memory. And despite the spontaneous nature of your lessons, the dragon is a surprisingly good teacher.

“Only because you’ve proven yourself to be a prodigious student.” The affection laced through his words softens his smug grin.

You blush and bury your nose back into the astronomy text you’re translating.

Nights in the cave are your favorite, for you and dragon select a book from his expansive collection and read together.

Sylus’ tail loosely curls around you while you decipher a collection of mariners fables. Something about a sea serpent who’s hunting a group of sailors after they stole a legendary treasure from it—a brooch? The interpretation is frustratingly vague.

It’s slow work, and the ink has either faded or smeared, but you persevere through the ages it’s endured to be read by you.

The dragon corrects you occasionally, but otherwise is content to rest his head in your lap.

Through the night, your voice fills the cavern, drowning out the winter noise. So engrossed in the book, you don’t notice when Sylus grows quiet.

You glance down to see if he fell asleep, only for you to catch him staring at you. His gaze is honey in the light. Skin like the golden shade of the wheat fields. Even his silver hair seems to catch fire and all his sharp edges are burned down to something tender.

You have not touched each other since the rut, and you dare not now. Why would you? You are not his mate.

Oh, but it’s moments like these, where time turns to liquid and the earth quiets until it’s just your and the dragon’s hushed murmurs, when you want to melt into him and never leave.

How long can you pretend? At least one more night.

“Why’d you stop?” he murmurs, “Are you bored?”

You shake your head. “I just lost my place.”

Sylus lifts himself up, and you mourn his closeness until he gently grasps your hands beneath the book. “Would you like me to take over?”

You ignore the way his thumb circles your knuckles. “Only if you teach me the rest tomorrow.”

His next words leave a dull ache in your chest.

“I’ll teach you everything I know.”

So as the world darkens to its last season, and the snow quietly gathers outside your alpine sanctuary, you and the dragon weave a tapestry of the universe, of everything that once or continues to sleep below the ageless stars.

Sometimes, your mind wanders back to the village. To your siblings and father. To Tara. Not because of some longing for those sleepy huts and worn fields. Only because that is the nature of memory, and as all these treasures that pass through your searching hands inevitably remind you of them.

“Tara would love this.”

You flip through a manuscript on herbology, searching for a more effective salve for Sylus’ injuries. You recognize only a handful of the plants mentioned, Tara would know at least half.

Sylus’ tail flicks out. “Who?”

“My friend,” you elaborate, “She’s a healer. She knows every plant in the valley, when they grow, which ones work together and which don't.”

You grind the dried herbs Tara had stuffed into your bag before you left. She’d almost given you her entire stash, even though those same plants would not be seen again until spring. You're grateful for her generosity as you peel back the dressing and gently clean the dragon’s wounds.

His injuries are surprisingly slow to heal. It may be weeks yet until his full strength returns. You suspect it is due to whatever magic the bounty hunters used to subdue him. The very thought makes your blood boil every time.

“Why were those men after you?” you ask Sylus. You force your hand to steady as you apply the new salve.

He tries to look over his shoulder at you, only to pull at the stitching. “Ngh. I thought you would’ve guessed by now, sweetie.” He holds up a bloody bandage. “Healing blood, remember?”

The answer does not sit well with you.

“And the collar?”

“Useless runes and mage tricks,” he sneers, “I’ve broken every one they’ve put on me.”

Images of the dragon collared flash through your mind. You’re extra gentle when you clean around his neck. “How often do they come?”

“A couple times a century.” He shrugs. “It’s to be expected. Dragons are a valuable commodity.”

Your hands pause over his skin. “What do you mean?”

“Our blood heals. Our scales make excellent armor. Witches use our tears to brew love potions.” You stare at him horrified. Sylus just smiles. “I was once told our livers are boiled to a paste to reverse one’s aging.”

“You’re just messing with me now.”

“I haven’t even gotten to my best parts.” His eyes take on a sudden, unmistakable heat. 

Only Sylus would joke about something like that. Regardless, your face starts to burn.

Sparks fly from his mouth when he laughs. “It’s nothing to worry about, sweetie. They would have to kill me first, and I’m very difficult to kill.”

Perhaps it’s the trick of the light, a dance of shadows, but the red veins on his chest catch your attention as he heaves with laughter. You swear that they have shifted closer to that hollow above his heart.

Difficult, you worry, but he never said impossible.

-

You and Sylus discover your affinity for music.

He presents you with a zither, a fiddle, hand drums, and panpipes. He gifts you sheet music and ancient canvases depicting grand banquets so you can study the hand placements of the musicians who were painted into the scene.

Most of the time, however, you learn by trial and error, copying from the simple melodies you learned in childhood. You hum those tunes to yourself, plucking at your pipa until you strike the right notes.

“You have a good ear,” the dragon compliments, “have you played before?”

“No, but I sing,” you tell him, “mostly to calm the herd. My father played the lute, but it broke and he never bothered to fix it.”

Your focus drifts to the pipa in your hands. A couple strings are missing, but with some tuning, the remaining ones ring out clear and strong.

“Do you miss him?”

You stare at Sylus. He works on a strange contraption, various tools and something he calls a magnifying glass sprawled before him.

You follow your father across the hills as he plays a tune to guide the flock back to the village for shearing and butchering. You listen to his easy strumming as you fall asleep by the hearth. You hear its strings snap under your brother’s young fingers.

“Not in the way I should,” you say.

Sylus looks up. “There’s no wrong way to miss a person.”

“Is there someone you miss?”

The question catches both of you off guard. 

“Sorry,” you amend, looking away, “I shouldn’t pry.”

Sylus doesn’t say anything at first. He fidgets with the object, turning it over and over while silence permeates between you.

“The music stopped,” he observes, “could you play it again?”

A few days later, you find the device he was working on in your room. It’s a mechanical bird, with articulating metal wings and a beak that can open and close with a twist of a gear. Its eyes are the same shade as yours.

-

Tell me what you desire.

His eyes are fountains of truth, pouring with the ageless, nameless, and forgotten. Waiting for some soul to drink from its waters.

Take what you want.

Is it that easy? You open your hands and feel them grow heavy with the weight of this world.

Do you want more?

You bring your hands to your mouth and sate yourself until you are bursting.

Poetry, music, medicine, dragons.

How strange to think that you were scared to plunge beneath the surface. What might you find? What might you unleash? Only to find that it is a bottomless well; the more you consume, the deeper it becomes.

Not all of it is good—of course it’s not.

War, disease, tyrants, curses.

You recognize the beauty, the cruelty. And as any true glutton, you drink more in the hopes of understanding it.

Selfish girl.  Your mother's ring leaves a scar on your cheek as she strikes you. Wanton daughter.

When Sylus offers you starlight from his hand, you hesitate.

“I thought dragons were possessive creatures.”

“I was unaware that generosity would damage my reputation," he quips, “Won’t you at least try this on for me, Dear Shepherd?”

Shimmering diamonds of various sizes are fastened to a silver chain. Fractals of light splash onto the walls. Only the river that passes through the valley has sparkled so magnificently.

“We don’t wear jewelry in the village.”

Jenna’s pendant dangles near your face as she reads to you. You watch your reflection in its scarlet body. Your village boasts no riches and disdains all vanity. But Jenna—

It is her greatest treasure. It is her only treasure. Yet, sometimes you catch her grasping the pendant like a knife to her chest.

Sylus considers you for a moment, a small cluster of lights glint in his eyes. “Then it’s a good thing we’re not in the village.”

Sylus turns you around. His breath caresses the back of your neck as he secures the necklace. “There,” he breathes, “beautiful.”

Your mouth is painfully dry. “It’s heavy.” 

“Beauty should not be taken lightly.” His hand twitches—you think he’s going to touch you—but Sylus bends down instead, hovering over your shoulder like an owl.

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” His gaze drinks you in. “This was once a betrothal gift. A man promised his beloved that he would fashion a necklace from the heart of a star.”

“Very romantic,” you hum, “but was the price worth it?”

“I’m sure the star didn’t mind,” Sylus reassures, “they don’t have feelings, after all.”

One beauty for another. The whole earth is merely an appetite to satisfy. What are you within ouroboros’ hunger? The eater or the eaten?

With the dragon looking at you the way he does, you feel like you are both.

-

Your chamber slowly fills with trinkets.

New bedding, chests full of garments, bronze mirrors, all sorts of musical instruments, and towers of books.

"Even the greediest dragon would be impressed by your hoard," Sylus comments, but he never asks for anything back. Nor does he demand for something in return.

You understand sacrifice. You are descended from those who brokered a deal with an ancient power and irrevocably bound your fate to him thereafter. He is owed your soul, your body. And yet . . .

You stand beside Sylus before a grand tapestry.

“What is this?” you ask him.

“The world,” he replies, “at least some of it.”

Your mouth falls open. Continents and oceans are rendered from thousands of dyed threads. Even the borders are lined with gold patterning. Artistic portrayals of various plants and creatures fill the bare spaces. Foreign words hover across specific parts of the map.

“Where are we?”

“Not here,” he says.

You trace your hand down the old weaves, frowning at his words. “Did my people come from these lands?” As you examine map, your attention catches on a set of words floating above a strange looking animal. “What does this say?”

A strange expression crosses his face. “‘Here be dragons.’”

You realize the creature beneath the words is supposed to be a dragon, but it’s no dragon you’ve ever seen. Triple-headed, slavering, and grotesque. No expense was spared in portraying the dragon as a beast.

“You’ve been alone a long time, haven’t you?”

He doesn’t deign you with a response.

He claws at his skin. He fights against a fever that will ravage his body until all he knows is the mark that claims you as his. You have never known a creature more hateful towards its own nature. He told you several times that you could leave; you think he wishes you did, but not for the reasons you think. 

“Sylus,” you choose your next words carefully, “Why did you make the deal with my ancestors if you were just going to let us go?”

A stillness ensnares the both of you in a kind of limbo, tethering you to a precipice you’re not sure you would survive.

“Do you think I would force you?” His voice is the current in the air before a lightning strike.

You aren’t under any delusion that he isn’t capable of violence, however, you’re not prepared for his anger—

No. Not anger.

His body is coiled tight, brow furrowed and eyes so dark and red like gaping wounds. When your hand searches for his, he retreats as if you are a pair of dancers forbidden from touching.

“Of course not,” you tell him, meaning it.

You think he might answer you, but then he hesitates, and you know you’ve lost him. “Then you need to stop.”

His words feel like a brand.

“If you don’t,” he continues, “you’re not going to like the answers.” 

-

Sylus doesn’t talk about what happened. Neither do you.

The dragon speaks in offered books and mechanical gifts, through muted smiles and old literature.

His quiet touches lessen. His lingering gaze fades.

You hold your silence like a noose around your neck.

You miss the Sylus who clutched you in the dark, helpless with need. Who kissed your scars and named you huntress. Who could not pretend that he was a thing without feeling. 

Only in the secret hours after midnight do you let yourself imagine tiptoeing into his chamber and slipping into his nest, allowing his body heat to close around you like a summer day.

From outside, just before sleep catches you in that lovely dream, you hear the baying whine of something suffering, some creature dying.

-

The weather eases; you explore the mountains with Sylus.

He shows you glades that hide the best views of the valley. He takes you to waterfalls from which you drink the freshest water you’ve tasted. You meander through the woods at sunset when the light turns the snow pink and orange. You can see the lake and a herd of caribou making their way across the open plains. You’re too far away to be of any concern to them. Meanwhile, the dragon ambles by your side, scoffing at your jokes and flicking snow at you.

You ask him no more questions about the past. It turns to smoke when Sylus’ eyes settle on you. He plucks a winter camellia and threads it into your hair. 

“I’ve read about this before,” you say as you gather twigs and start weaving a crown.

His eyes flash. “Oh?” 

“A knight gives a flower to a princess.” You creep toward him until your coats brush and your breaths mingle in the cold air. “She tells him to take her back to the palace . . .”

His tail brushes your leg. “And?”

You toss the crown onto his horns. “Then she asks him to make her mooncakes!”

Sylus’ laugh echoes wonderfully through the mountains. You wish you could bottle the sound.

He brings you out in the evening when the skies are clearest, and he points out all the constellations.

“To the west is the Tortoise, it shares a star with the Old Fisherman. And over there—a bit higher—is the Tiger and the Crane . . .”

You stay up well into the night listening to the dragon spin tales from memory. With his head tilted to the heavens—face open and white hair glowing with the light of the full moon—it reminds you strangely of Tara.

You shiver as a sudden gust barrels up the mountain.

“Cold?” Sylus brings his coat tighter around you. With a snap of his fingers, a flame flickers to life in his palm.

“Thank you.” You sigh at the warmth. “That’s a pretty neat trick.”

Sylus hums in agreement, though his mood turns melancholic. “I learned it from a witch.”

“That’s something you needed to learn?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Dragons are creatures of magic. All magic is a matter of patience,” he explains, “and will.” A hesitant smile begins to form. “I believe you have much of both.”

Your heart flutters. “Do you really think . . . ?”

Sylus stares at you incredulously. “You could call down the stars if that is your desire.”

There’s that look in his eyes—an unwavering intensity you’ve only seen glimpses of since the rut—before it’s gone again.

“Besides, it’s a useful skill to know when you leave,” he goes on, “people will be disinclined to mess with a girl who can wield fire.”

-

You don’t notice it at first. How can you, when you spend every day with the dragon?

You are removing the last of Sylus’ bandages when you realize how dull his scales have become.

After that, you notice everything else.

There are bruises under his eyes when he reads to you at night. His hair has lost its luster. The red veins on his chest glow brightly as if inflamed.

Valley-born that you are, you’re unfamiliar with the signs of starvation.

His indifference vexes you. It terrifies you.

You’re paranoid that Sylus will disintegrate from your very touch. You are one sleepless night away from wringing all his dreadful secrets from his throat.

Fear. What a violent animal.

The dragon guards his silence and pretends that nothing is wrong.

-

You watch him with his automatons, tinkering away at their intricate joints and handmade gears. You follow the curve of his back as he hunches over his worktable, lost in his craft. It’s so human. 

You can’t help but stare at his profile. His lips are slightly parted; you want to rediscover the shape of them, find common ground between soft skin and stilted breaths. The light behind him casts a golden halo around his head. It reminds you of sunsets in the valley, how the mountains’ silhouettes are carved from the brilliant hues of a dying sun.

How beautiful. How unreachable.

Although you’re grateful for everything he shares with you—the more you learn about the world, the more questions you have about the dragon himself.

How did you learn this? Where did you acquire it?

Why did you come here? Why do you remain?

The answers to your questions cannot be found in a book.

You pore over mythology texts, bestiaries, religious anthologies, and epic poems. All are more or less the same.

An evil dragon terrorizes a kingdom; a monster kidnaps the princess; a winged serpent tricks the hero into killing his beloved. 

You open a hunting manual on a whim, but immediately regret picking it up.

‘A dragon’s underside is the softest part of their body. As such, make your first incision under the jaw. Continue slitting around its mouth, then down the stomach. Now, you can begin peeling back its skin—’

The words sink into your flesh like rot. You slam the book shut.

You think you know why Sylus has been alone all this time. Why he will always be alone.

-

The dragon is not yours.

Stitch stitch stitch.

Yet, he comes to you when his wounds have torn open. You strip off his ruined cloak and don’t question it.

He has given you—books, tools, jewelry, and music. He has given you himself in the only way he can.

It’s enough it’s enough it’s enough.

You thread a needle through his skin. It feels like sacrilege.

His long fingers grasp your shaking hand, warm and unafraid. It feels like worship.

“You could never hurt me.”

A dragon’s roar is swallowed by the violent storm. Nothing warm-blooded can survive the cold.

The spot beneath your ear tingles.

“Sometimes I want you to hurt.” 

His gaze does not waver. “I won’t stop you.”

Tell me of your shame, you want to say to him, as I have told you mine.

“Are you dying?”

“If only fate were that kind to me.” His mouth twists into a mockery of a smile that quickly evaporates when he sees your stricken expression. You wait for him to say more; he doesn’t.

Oh, he might give you the world, but he cannot give you this.

You gather his tattered old cloak, torn and bloody, and neatly fold it in your lap. It is good fabric. You want to believe that you can fix it.

“I will leave come spring,” you tell him.

Sylus’ expression is indecipherable. He strokes the back of your hand, committing every vein and knuckle to memory. “Then we mustn’t waste our time together.”

-

One night, when the sky is tinged a deep purple, you glance down into the valley and notice the blazing lights of your village.

You motion to Sylus. “Look.”

Several dozen lanterns drift into the night sky while music trickles up the mountain. Although you cannot see the villagers, you know they’re gathering in the town center for the dances.

“I can’t believe it’s already the new year,” you breathe. If you close your eyes, you can almost smell the sweet tarts you and Tara made together.

“Is that what you’ve been celebrating,” Sylus muses, “I wondered what all that noise and revelry were for.”

You turn to him, realizing that the dragon has been watching your village celebrate for the last thousand years without knowing the reason. Has perhaps sat alone on this very ledge to watch the lanterns pass over his head and the festivities down below.

“Stay here.”

You scurry back to the cave to retrieve your pipa.

His tired eyes settle on you when you return. Even now, you want him. Whatever is left of him. Whatever will remain after tonight, even if it falls away like water through your fingers come morning. You will remember him like this: snow in his hair, phantom smile, and bleeding gaze heavy with all the things he cannot say.

You press your fingers to the strings, and begin to sing.

-

He comes to you at night.

You gasp when you blink awake and see his silhouette above you.

He wordlessly slides in behind you, under the furs. It is muscle memory when his arms snake around you and his face finds the crook of your neck. He carries the scent of pine and woodsmoke and . . . something sharper. His skin is hot to the touch as you press your hand against his chest and prompt him to look at you.

A faint tendril of red mist spills from the corner of his eyes.

“Do you want me to leave?”

His voice sounds like cracked glass.

Without a word, you guide him back down until his skin is against yours. You would savor this moment if sleep did not find you all too soon, even as the air smells faintly of blood.

-

There comes a day when Sylus slips off into the mountains and does not return. 

You suspect the worst.

The winds are fierce, but your will is iron. You trace his path down the mountain and through the trees, listening for the beat of dragon wings.

You call his name but all you receive is the mountain’s echoing response. The snow and wind beat against you, punishing your determination.

You trudge through the forest past sunset, until the moonlight casts the woods in a lonely grey. Still, you find no sign of the dragon.

Did he really leave? Did hunters get to him?

One fear after another hurtles through your mind, urging you farther and deeper into the forest. You brought your spear, having learned from experience that predators have no issue encroaching on the dragon’s territory.

What else did your village get wrong? What would happen to your people if Sylus could no longer protect them?

What would you do if you cannot find him?

A violent heat pulses from your nonexistent mating bite. Your legs and face are numb, and you can barely see in front of you.

You snap your fingers, whispering a word of power just as Sylus taught you. Sparks fly off your trembling fingers. You try again and again until the smallest of flames swells to life amidst shadow and snow.

You can only maintain it for a few more moments before your foot catches on something and you crash to the ground.

The flame gutters out. The winds wail through the barren trees. You lift your head, wipe snow off your face. You look back to see what made you fall and you scream.

The unseeing eye of a caribou stares back at you. Its blood oozes from the gashes along its body and pools beneath your hands. Still warm.

You stagger to your feet, and nearly trip again over another carcass.

An entire herd of reindeer lie in mangled puddles, slaughtered in the dozens. Steam rises from their bodies. Torn limbs and viscera stain the once spotless snow.

Just like the sheep.

You grip your spear until your knuckles turn white, the grain of the wood biting uncomfortably into your skin.

The trees close over you like the bars of a cage, their shadows smothering out light and sound. You cannot see where you came from.

Between the trees, you see the dragon. But everything about him is unrecognizable to you.

Sylus crouches over a carcass, tearing and consuming its flesh with razor-like teeth. Black spikes jut out from his skin. He’s elbow-deep in gore and red smoke spills from blood-bright eyes when he spots you.

You run.

-

His screams shake the mountain.

You hide in the dark with your spear, keeping watch outside the dragon’s lair.

You wait for days. You wait long after his cries have died out.

You should leave.

The thought pecks at your mind.

The dragon will not return.

You stare out across the mountains as another storm rolls in. Snow gathers in a frenzy, the world so bright your eyes sting.

The dragon is mad.

You read one of Sylus’ books to distract yourself.

The dragon is a liar.

He emerges from the whiteout like a spectre. He is as you remember him, a quiet ancient power exudes from his decaying body. But when he stumbles upon seeing you, you see his mortification.

“I thought you would have left already.”

Your grip tightens around your spear. “You killed my flock.”

He does not deny it.

“Is that why you’ve remained,” he asks, “to extract my apology?”

Your nostrils flare. “I would have the truth.”

“It will ruin you.”

You regard the dragon. Does he think you are a child in need of protection? You are not so feeble-minded, you never have been. He allowed you to believe that he was sick, that he was dying—and even after seeing the worst of him, he resists. So you will force his hand.

You unsheathe the dagger he gifted you, and slice it across your arm.

The dragon springs toward you and freezes. Red mist pours from reptilian eyes, his claws extend and his skin splits to reveal mangled spikes. Sylus’ knees dig into the earth as he collapses and emits a vicious growl. The red veins writhe across his chest.

You quickly wipe the blood away and press a thick bandage to the cut. “You didn’t just need a mate,” you whisper, “you also needed blood.”

Sylus bows his head. “Abhorrent, am I not?” His distorted voice slices through the air, guttural and raw. The red mist dissipates, his scales slide back under his skin. “How do you feel knowing you’ve bedded a monster?”

Monster. What a cruel word.

“I would not forsake you for this,” you say.

His eyes flutter before they harden in disbelief. “One second,” he threatens, “is all it would take to raze the entire valley.”

Tara and your family flash through your mind. You take a steadying breath. “But you haven’t yet.”

“I found a way to delay it.” With a mate. With blood—your blood.

There’s something else he isn’t telling you.

“Why did your rut come early?” 

He’s quiet for so long, you think he might turn and fly away for good. Until he admits, “I didn’t take her blood before she left.”

“Why not?” you press, “What happened last time?”

The look on his face will haunt you for years to come.

“They sent me a child.”

-

The dragon steals glances at you, waiting for you to speak—to leave—anything. He moves as if to touch you before thinking better of it.

He anticipates your censure, but you cannot find the words to reassure him.

“Only those who’ve had their first blood can be chosen.”

“I know.”

Your blood continues to soak the bandage, though you barely feel the injury’s sting.

“What did you do?” you ask.

“I took her across the lake, and told her to never return to the valley,” he answers.

Your village never spoke of the last girl who was chosen, and you, like a sheep, never asked. Never wondered about their lives until your fate mirrored theirs. How could your village send a child up the mountain to be his mate believing what they do about the dragon’s brutality? 

You don’t realize you’re crying until Sylus wipes your tears away. “I never harmed any of you. I swear it.”

He looks as distraught as you feel.

“I believe you,” you rasp, and he sags with relief. “But Sylus. Couldn't you have returned her? Demand we choose someone else?”

His expression shudders with pain. “The last time I did that, they put her to the torch, convinced that she disappointed me.”

You feel sick.

Memories of the harvest season. Children’s games. The mead hall’s lively music and Josephine’s patient guidance as she walks you through a new embroidery technique—

“I am sorry.” 

—All tarnishes as Sylus kneels before you. He seems to be the only solid thing keeping you anchored to this moment. Diminished as he is. Self-named monster that he claims to be. “You deserved to know before I ever placed my mark on you.”

Remorse darkens his face when he glances at your bleeding arm. You see his hunger. Sylus takes a sharp breath before he retracts a claw and prepares to cut his own palm. His hands shake.

And you—you cannot resent him for withholding the truth. Not when it takes everything he has to resist the bloodlust.

Would a monster cut himself for someone else? Would he yield when told to stop? Would he teach you how to chart the stars? How to speak an ancient language? Would he read to you long into the night, or ask you to play that song one more time?

You stop him before he can draw blood. A bewildered, helpless expression crosses his gaunt face.

“I am already cut,” you say, raising your arm to his mouth, “Why let it go to waste?”

-

His strength returns. The red veins retreat.

You lie in his nest, sleepy and surrounded in his warmth.

“Is there any way to fix it?” you ask the dragon, “This—this bloodlust?”

He sighs and shakes his head. You press yourself against him in a way you haven’t since the rut. 

Who cursed you?

The question sits heavy on your tongue as you follow the haloed edges of his lean body. Hard and soft in equal measure. Violent and innocent.

You press your hand over the hollow of his chest. “Did any of them stay with you, Sylus? The way I had?”

He swallows.

“You’re the only one.”

-

You stare down into the valley. For a village of inconsequential size, it casts long shadows across the white expanse.

They sent me a child.

The dragon may have lied about the sheep, but your village elders—well—what more did they lie about?

You cannot let it happen again. But if you return to the village, would your family and neighbors heed your words, or would they put you to the torch as well? What would stop them from sending another little girl up the mountain?

By the time Sylus' rut returns and his bloodlust needs to be sated, you’ll be nothing but rot beneath the earth.

Your neck burns from the very thought when you hold up the finished cloak to Sylus.

“I’ve made some repairs. Do you like it?”

Sylus cautiously takes the cloak, examines the patched holes and new fur lining with round eyes. His fingers run along your even stitching, stopping at your embroidery. An elaborate pattern of wildflowers and knotwork Elder Josephine taught you long ago.

“I hope you don’t mind,” you say, “I also replaced the old fur with the wolf’s pelt. It should be much warmer now.”

As if the dragon has to worry about the cold. You mentally shake yourself as Sylus slips the cloak over his shoulders, surrounding himself in a field of flowers.

“Your skill knows no equal,” he praises, halting your train of thought. He bites his lip, looking uncharacteristically rueful. “I will probably ruin it again.”

“Then I will mend it again.”

And again and again and again.

A light blush tinges the edges of Sylus’ ears. You watch him smooth down the collar of his cloak, and the memory of the hidden words you embroidered there flash in your mind.

You glance away. “Think of it as something to remember me by.”

In a hundred years, the next woman may find a trace of you here, and know there is nothing to be afraid of.

-

You find yourself staring across the lake more often. Dreaming. Planning.

You have studied the maps, languages, and histories. But there is only so much you can learn from a book.

You spot Sylus some distance away, crouched low. His hair blends in with the snow. He extends a hand towards a fox peeking out from the underbrush. It snarls at the dragon before scampering away.

Something in your chest twists. It's a familiar sensation, so why does it hurt so much more now?

What you're leaving behind feels larger than what's ahead of you.

When Sylus notices you across the clearing, his regal horns shimmering in the winter sun, you think you will long for him forever.

He crosses the distance between you, and says simply, “Thank you."

“You're welcome,” you reply, because you know what he means.

Sylus leans down until your foreheads nearly touch. “May I?” he asks. When you nod, you feel his mouth brush your temple as he inhales deeply. “Your scent haunts my dreams.”

Your breath quickens.

“What do I smell like?”

His gaze settles on you, revealing the jewel of his eyes in all their warm devotion.

“Like flowers.”

-

You do not want winter to end. But end it will.

The frozen lake gradually thaws. Although the snow never truly stops in the mountains, the slow melts creep up through the forests.

You wander through the mountains for one of the last times. The sun casts its glare across the pale landscape, but the persistent cold is not easily vanquished.

You come across a meadow overflowing with wintering blooms. Their colors stand out against the blinding white. You run your hands over their delicate yet hardy petals.

Yellow daffodils and primrose. Snowdrops and winterberries. Jasmine and blue violas.

You follow the meadow until you’re on the outer edge of the mountain proper. Out here in the open, its strangely quiet.

Vibrant red flowers pepper the mountainside, standing out against the pristine white. They sway in the breeze, their sweet fragrance calling to you.

You've never seen their like before. As you bend down to pluck one of them and bring it to your nose, you hear the beat of wings.

The flower is ripped from your hand. You don’t have time to cry out as Sylus wraps a hand over your nose and mouth.

“Don’t breathe!”

But it’s too late. You feel your mouth go dry and your heart beats madly against your ribs. You latch onto Sylus as your legs start to give

“Fuck,” he growls, covering his own face. Your grip slips as your skin breaks out into a sweat and your palms turn clammy. Sylus holds you fast, and drags you away the meadow. You watch his lips move, but you might as well be underwater from the way you can’t make out a single sound.

“Sylus, what—” Inks spots of color flood your blurring vision. Your heart is racing so fast you think it might explode. You swear you hear your mother calling for you.

You reach for the dragon but you no longer have control of your limbs.

When you look at yourself, your skin is melting off your bones.

Your mind fractures. You fall through the seams of reality, to a place where not even the dragon can follow.

-

Heat. Ash. Blood.

You wince at the intense light. Your eyes are slow to focus, all you see are warping colors and loose shapes crossing your vision.

You cannot feel your body. You wonder if you have one.

“ . . . hear me?”

What? You try to speak, but you’ve forgotten how.

“Do you remember your name?” A face sharpens before you. Hauntingly familiar and achingly beautiful. 

What is a name? Why do you need to know?

Your silence shatters that pretty face. His voice breaks as he babbles apologies and pleas at you. 

You want to help him, you do. But your tongue feels swollen and some of his words don’t make sense to you . . . you want to wipe away his tears but you cannot find your hands.

“Do you know who I am?”

Of course you do.

“Sylus."

His eyes flutter, and he releases a soul-deep, relief-filled sigh. He presses his forehead to yours; you realize he’s shaking.

“I thought I lost you.”

When you brush your knuckles against his cheek, they come away damp. “What happened?” 

“Those flowers,” he explains, “can fell even the greatest animals. Inhale their scent and you’ll sleep forever.”

You swallow, your throat feels as dry as kindling.

“How . . .” You survey your surroundings. You’re back in the cave. Tara’s herbs, your mortar, and a bowl of dark liquid lie beside you.

Your mouth tastes like iron and salt. “Thank you.”

Sylus reaches for your face before pulling his hand back at the last second. “Consider it part of my debt to you.”

You take in his tense posture—how he shelters you with his body even though the danger is internal. His tail is tightly coiled and his claws are out. There’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows. You have not seen him so fierce since the rut.

Oh, this won’t do.

“Is that all we are to each other,” you ask him, “debts and deals?”

His throat bobs. When he doesn’t answer, you sit up and run your fingers down his face, across his sensitive chest He makes small, airy gasps that light a fire in your core.

“If I still bore your mark,” you murmur, “maybe you would be more honest with me.”

His breath hitches.

You wait for him.

You do not have to wait long; Sylus cups the back of your head and then he’s kissing you.

-

In some ways, it’s much like the rut, but in many others, it’s completely different.

Sylus kneels between your legs at the edge of his work table. His tools and unfinished projects lie discarded on the ground. He drags the flat of his tongue against your sex and drinks the juices that spill from your twitching entrance. You roll your hips against his face and welcome the searing heat of his tongue inside you.

He whines as you stroke his twisting horns, from base to tip, sharp enough you could prick yourself. He swirls his wet lips around your clit before sucking deeply on the tender nub. His fingers slip between your folders with ease, and crooks them until they press against that spot inside you.

“Sylus!” You arch off the table, grabbing the edge as wave after wave of pleasure cascades through your body. He continues to work your clit as you clench around his fingers.

The dragon gazes up at you, face and ears flushed, panting wildly.

You pull him to his feet and crash your lips against his. His mouth opens immediately. You taste yourself and moan as his hands slide up your body and begin undoing the rest of the laces of your dress.

His mouths down your neck, lingering where his mark used to be, before continuing lower to pepper your bare shoulder with kisses. He pulls down your sleeves until your breasts are exposed and he can take one into his salivating mouth.

You fumble with the buckles of his trousers, only for him to brush your hands away.

“Let me taste you again,” he implores. He gives you several small kisses on your lips and you sigh in response to the onslaught of affection. “Let me do this for you.”

“Don’t you want . . . ?” You gasp when he teases your entrance with his fingers. Your legs wrap around his waist and pull him as close as you can to yourself. You feel his hard length and your thighs shake with need.

“What I want—” Sylus strokes your breasts with his other hand “—is for you—” you hear his knees strike the ground once again “—to cum on my face.”

His breath teases your clit, already swollen up with renewed interest. 

“Can you do that for me, sweetie?”

You nod weakly, before Sylus buries his face between your legs and proceeds to steal your ability to think.

-

He kisses you before you fall asleep. He kisses you during your daily walks through the mountains. He kisses you while he spills deep inside you, exchanging names with a shared breath, until you smell like fire and he of wildflowers.

He kisses you as if he's starving. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he always was.

“I thought—” He shivers against your lips as you trace his naked spine “—that you merely tolerated my rut. You only stayed for what I could teach you.”

You brush away the lock of hair from his forehead. "Couldn't you tell?" you say in disbelief, "I stayed for you."

His eyes widen.

You look away, suddenly shy. If you still had his mating bite, you think it'd burn a hole right through you. "But I have no right to covet you."

You are not his mate.

Sylus threads your fingers together, your interlocked hands are molten gold in the firelight. He kisses your knuckles as he stares at you with a reverent expression. And you realize, suddenly, he's only ever looked at you that way.

“You always had that right.”

You are not his mate, but you are everything else.

When you make love to him, it is less impatient than the wildfire from before. The two of you are more like embers, not yet ready to die.

-

The night sky above the city is alight with every color. You watch them explode and pop and burst across the lake. 

“What’s happening over there?” you ask Sylus.

He sits beside you on the cliff, one leg propped up while he lets the other swing beside yours.

“Tarus City has its own celebrations,” he explains, “this time of year marks the opening of the gates to the underworld, when demons began entering the mortal realm.”

“Is there any truth in that?”

“Perhaps.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Why don’t we find out for ourselves?”

Your eyes light up. “Is this fearsome dragon asking me to attend a festival with him?"

"That depends entirely on your answer."

The joy in Sylus' eyes is more intoxicating than the rarest of wines. When you reach for him, he meets you halfway.

"I'd like nothing more."

Ch 4

Can also be read on ao3!

[twooftheluckyones]

Disciples

Pictured above left to right: Zepar, he's the head chef. Gemma, she's lead disciple. Hano, he's the head of arts and crafts, plus sin.

Any god needs faith, but the devotion of a common follower pales in comparison to that of a dedicated disciple. In the world of Luck of the Lamb, disciples are a select handful of the many hundreds of people of the cult, numbering roughly around a dozen. The path to becoming a disciple is long and rigorous. A follower must first dedicate a serious amount of time to studying. Their initiation test will involve being heavily questioned on divine history, arts, fluency in the demonic language, and many more topics that the average follower will not be normally educated on. While school is provided for every member, the topics are simple and only begin to brush against the large degree required to pass discipleship initiation. Additionally, a follower making their attempt will need to prove their loyalty and devotion for many months or years prior, regularly attending sermons and participating in the more basic rituals to build their rapport. Some followers try for decades to become a disciple, and for many it never becomes more than a idle fantasy. If the follower passes their initial exam, they will be dubbed an initiate and taken into the fold. Disciples do not typically mingle with the outside followers, living inside an exclusive section of the temple only accessible to disciples. The initiate will be given a necklace of proven loyalty, but they are far from receiving their halo. For five years they remain on probation, never leaving the protected inner area as they slowly adjust to their new life. A disciple gives themselves fully to their faith, expected to abandon their possessions, family, and more. They are expected to follow any order, perform any task, and do it all with a smile on their face knowing its for the good of the cult. What happens beyond this point is known only to those who pass it, and there is no return. If one fails their initiation, either by attempting to leave or failing to integrate properly, they are never heard from again.

At the end of their probation, an initiate is tasked with the final test of their unwavering loyalty. They must place their head on the chopping block, passing into divinity like the Lamb they worship did as well. Resurrection is only used in this exact situation, so the initiate has no way of knowing what will truly happen, but they must go in without hesitation to prove they trust fully in the divine. They must be willing to die without question. Only after a new scar decorates their neck upon their revival do they earn their halo and become a true disciple.

Many followers have an idealized concept of what a disciple does. Many see the mysterious lifestyle, living so close to the fabled Lamb, and can only dream. The reality is much more intense. Disciples follow a strict schedule of daily chores and prayer. Initiates are often tasked with preparing meals, cleaning, and other rudimentary tasks. Disciples themselves have many duties, ranging from delivering sermons and minor blessings to the wider flock and producing art in glory of the Lamb and Death.

But of the duties, one of the most important was rituals. The average follower has very little to do with complex rituals, which for the vast majority of the flock have been adjusted to seasonal festivals more approachable to the uninitiated. However, beyond the locked doors of the temple complex, disciples still perform the horrifying and intense rituals that the faith demands. Deep in the temple, dissident prisoners are sacrificed, lust flows freely, and true power is wrought. Their necklaces, given to them upon becoming a disciple, allow them to tap into the devotion of the flock and become a conduit for it. While normally they then pass it on to their gods, they may use some to use curses if needed.

[bungeepuppet]

ILLUMI'S × TOYBOX

prince illumi finds a new toy to play with~🧸👑🃏

(+fic wip below!)

--

The Kingdom of Padokea wrapped around the northwest coast of the northernmost continent of the Known World. Despite this, the weather of Padokea was temperate, and the late-spring temperatures coaxed out plenty of fresh blooms across the countryside. With such lush landscapes in abundance, Padokea was best known for its quaint villages and the friendly villagers that resided in them.

Hisoka Morow, a young man that was a gladiator by day and a mercenary by night, was resting in his room on the second floor of an inn at the center of one such quaint village. He sat by the window, entertaining himself by shuffling a deck of playing cards as he stared past the cobbled rooftops and beyond the vast forests that surrounded the town.

His eye was trained on the gnarled, black mountain in the distance – the only thing that seemed out of place in this idealistic atmosphere.

Kukuru Mountain was the home of a very curious family. The royals there were not part of any governing force in the Kingdom of Padokea. They had seemingly no interest in any political affairs, and very rarely made appearances at gatherings. Anyone would say that it was unheard of for a royal family to be excluded from invitation lists, or to decline attending balls or galas comprised of nothing but the bluest blood in the world, but the elusive Zoldyck family was an exception.

It wasn’t quite as disrespectful as it sounded. It was not that they were being shunned, exactly, but rather it was that most royals and nobles alike would prefer to keep their connections with that particular family out of the public eye.

The Zoldyck family, after all, was first and foremost, a family of assassins.

Sometime within the last hundred years or so, they were recognized officially as a royal family. No one seemed to know what council decided it, or what the purpose of the decision was, but it didn’t matter. The family was fabled to be so demonically powerful and ruthless, that there wasn’t a soul on Earth who would try to argue the authenticity of the title to them.

The fluttering of cards filled the air as Hisoka smiled and licked the corner of his mouth in anticipation.

His favorite pastime was tracking down powerful fighters, and then killing them. Watching their confidence sap away into immobilizing fear was so delectable, so irresistible, that it was Hisoka’s only driving force in his life. The impending hunt for a good fight whet his appetite, and the castle on Kukuru Mountain promised a variety of meals that would satisfy his cravings, at least for the time being.

Hisoka had done as much research as anyone could about the Zoldyck family, and now all there was left to do was a field study.

(more to come soon!! <33)

[msbigredmachine]

New To This - Chapter 1

Jaded by her fiancé’s disinterest in her ambitions to become a professional wrestler, Delilah Parrish’s life takes an interesting turn when one of WWE’s top names offers her the support she’s not getting at home.

Pairing: Jey Uso/OC

Warnings: As we go along...

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: This was initially a Roman fic but I realized I have too many upcoming stories featuring him, so I switched it up and passed it off to Jey. Hope you enjoy!

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

“Come on, Parrish, move your ass! Get on her!”

The damp, unruly strands of baby hair in Delilah Parrish’s eyes temporarily obscured her vision and made it difficult to take on her trainer’s instruction. Brushing them away impatiently, her mind flitted to the next line of offense, but her opponent had tackled her to the canvas before her thoughts could fully register. The hard surface made unfriendly contact with her body, but the rushing adrenaline helped fight off the pain, and she battled with her opponent trying to twist her body into a sleeper hold. Delilah tried to concentrate on countering the hold, but between the hundreds of thoughts scrambling around her head and the yelling coming from outside the regulation wrestling ring, it was a near impossible feat.

“For fuck’s sake, Parrish, what are you doin’?” Pounding his palm hard on the mat, her trainer, Makena 'Tank' Kalua, shouted again. “Quit pullin’ her arm like that! You’re gonna break it!”

The other woman, an older, more experienced student named Janie from England, easily slipped out of the armbar Delilah was attempting on her and sat up, seizing both of Delilah’s legs and twisting them in a figure-four leg lock. Usually it was Delilah’s job to sell this move, try to roll over to ease the pressure, or even grab the bottom rope for relief, just like she’d learned. Instead, she kicked her legs carelessly, grunting as she wildly fought out of the hold.

“What the fuck! Is that what I taught you?” Tank screamed again. Blowing the whistle around his neck, he reached under the bottom rope and grabbed Delilah by her leg, forcibly dragging her out of the ring and setting her on her feet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Huffing irritably, Delilah yanked her arm away from him and marched away to the other end of the warehouse, ignoring Janie and the other girls that glared wearily after her, wondering what Tank saw in her to begin with. Delilah wondered that herself sometimes.

Ever since she was a little girl growing up in the tiny town of Pensacola, Florida, she dreamed about being in the middle of the fabled squared circle, performing for sellout crowds all over the world, making a name for herself in the notoriously tough wrestling business. And now she was finally getting her chance. In two days’ time, she would be partaking in her very first singles match, lacing up the boots she had worked two extra shifts at the local gym to afford. At last, she was taking that small step towards her dream.

So why did she not feel ready? Why was she doubting herself at the last hour?

One word; Andre.

She was starting to lose count of how many fights they’d gotten into in the six months since she’d embarked on what her fiancé openly thought was her childish desire to become a professional wrestler. Once he realized that it wasn’t just some hobby she would lose interest in after a week, his support began to dwindle more and more as the months went on. There were heated arguments between them on a weekly basis it seemed, mostly on what her ambitions were costing the couple financially. After all, they still had a wedding to plan; their already tight budget was being nibbled at by her exorbitant wrestling class fees. There were bills to pay around the house; she’d already squandered a month’s salary to purchase her wrestling outfit and boots. Yesterday, Delilah had kept quiet, refused to argue, and let Andre vent all he wanted. But this morning, her nerves were starting to kick in over her upcoming match, and when Andre began another tirade as he headed out to work, she not-so-politely shut him down. Tempers were lost and words were exchanged, and both left the house angry. Delilah hadn’t heard from him all day. Secretly, she was glad. She didn’t need his crap today.

Evidently, Tank didn’t need her crap either. The trainer usually gave her some leeway but today he wasn’t having it at all. “Hey, get your ass back here!” His deep, angry voice sounded behind her. He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. “Where ya goin’ huh? You wanna run home like a little girl?” he asked her. “Go ahead, go.”

“Just stop, alright?” Delilah snapped, her fists clenched involuntarily as she fought the urge to hit him right in his face. Unfortunately she didn’t stand a chance against him, not when he weighed over a hundred pounds more than she did and was an entire foot taller than her, and certainly not with his over two decades of wrestling experience in comparison to her puny half-year.

Moving closer to her, Tank placed a calloused hand on her shoulder. “What’s goin’ on Dee? You’ve been acting up today.”

Delilah knew she was among the very few trainees Tank afforded the luxury of his concern and sympathy. She liked to think it was because she was one of the teachable ones, easily picking up the wrestling moves like she’d been doing it for years. She was always one of the first to arrive and one of the last to leave, helping set up the ring and take it down after classes. Her attitude was refreshing, and she eventually managed to become something resembling a friend to him.

But there was only so much friendship could do for her current situation. Running a hand through her hair, Delilah tried to figure out where to start answering his question. She was fuckin’ tired, for one. She was wrestling in front of an actual crowd in a mere forty-eight hours. Her fiancé was being an ass. Her pride however, wouldn’t let her say those things out loud. That he considered her to be a friend didn’t mean she had to go crying to him for every problem she had. “It’s nothing, I’m fine,” she murmured, choosing to focus on the Polynesian tribal tattoo spread over his right arm.

Tank rolled his eyes with a huff. “We both know that’s bullshit, but if you say so.” Turning back for the ring, he sighed heavily. “You got sixty seconds to clear your head, then you get your ass back in that ring. We got shit to do so hurry up.” With that, he walked away.

She expected no other response. He never coddled her, not during working hours anyway. She didn’t want him to, either. The last thing she wanted to look was weak in front of fellow trainees; people, as Tank always reminded her, who wanted this career, who wanted this life, more than anything else in the world. And that brought her back to the same question she’d been asking herself for months.

How badly did she want it?

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

The next couple of hours seemed to go on forever. Tired, bruised and battered from a long day of training, Delilah hitched her bag over her shoulder and cast a glance at the round black clock on the wall as she walked towards the exit of the warehouse. Andre had sent a text message that filled her with hope of reconciliation after their heated morning. Maybe they could sit down and talk about what had happened, and hopefully work things out like they always did.

“Hey, Parrish, come here a sec,” Tank's voice sounded out of nowhere. “Got someone I want you to meet.”

Sighing heavily, Delilah turned her gaze towards the doorway of the small office where he stood. “Do I have to? I gotta meet up with Dre.”

“He’ll be there when you get home,” he dismissed her excuse. “Come say hi. You won’t regret it, come on.”

With a quiet groan, Delilah shuffled toward the office. “I hope not,” she mumbled, stopping short when her eyes fell upon the hulking, tattooed figure sitting on Tank's desk. Her eyes widened and her jaw slackened, unable to believe what she was seeing. “Oh shit!”

Tank's grin widened as he pushed her further into his office. “Told ya. Delilah, meet Jey Uso. Jey, this is one of my students, Delilah Parrish.”

Standing up from his place on the edge of his friend’s desk, Joshua Fatu extended a hand to the toned beauty standing in front of him. He smiled when she placed her hand in his, noticed how it trembled. “Sup, Delilah, nice to meet you,” he said.

Delilah tried to reply, but her mouth seemed to have forgotten its primary function. She could feel her face burning as she continued to hold his large hand, wanting to let go but somehow unable to. It wasn’t every day she shook hands, or was even within a mile radius of Main Event Jey Uso himself. She’d been a big fan of his ever since his debut with his brother, Jimmy. To see them evolve and grow from a tag team to singles stars was so rewarding. The Bloodline storyline was must-see TV for her, and she had found herself sympathizing with the Right Hand Man over the course of the storyline. She followed him on X and Instagram, and had a couple of his Yeet T-shirts. To be in the presence of a man whom she watched on TV every week, a guy she grew to idolize and respect so much, was beyond mind-blowing.

Before her silence could grow awkward, Delilah removed her hand from his grasp. She’d always hoped that the day she got to meet a WWE Superstar, she’d act much cooler and more composed and not like the average tongue-tied fan. She knew she just failed miserably.

Josh crossed his muscled arms over his chest, his gaze firmly on her face. “So Delilah, Tank tells me you gotta lot of potential, uce. Says you’re very talented,” he said, his deep, gruff voice tinged with curiosity.

“Well, all those bumps he’s taken over the years have finally damaged his brain cells,” she said sarcastically, smiling when she drew a laugh from both men, particularly Jey.

“Nah, I’ve known this fool for damn near twenty years now,” said Josh, jerking his thumb in Tank's direction, “If he say you got talent, then you got talent.” He sat back on the desk and let his eyes admire her, silently wondering just how smoking hot the body hidden underneath the baggy clothes was. “So how long you been training?” he inquired. 

Delilah shoved her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants. “I started working out about nine months ago, tryna get in ring shape,” she answered. “But I’ve been training for about six.”

Josh nodded his head. “And your first show’s the day after tomorrow, right?” he queried, keeping his eyes on hers.

“My first match,” she corrected him. “I’ve been to a few shows, done some ring announcing, valeted a couple of times,” she added proudly, as though that would make her look more credible in her idol’s eyes. As she spoke, she stole the chance to look him over. Diamond Cuban links glittered around his neck and both his wrists and gave a shine to his fitted Nike sweatsuit that covered up the tattoos she knew decorated a good portion of his russet skin. He was taller than she expected, and just as ruggedly handsome. And those eyes…a hint of danger lurked behind the jovial, friendly facade, very much giving off bad boy vibes. Against her will, she was intrigued.

Ignoring the eye-fucking session going on in his office, Tank patted Josh’s shoulder. “A’ight y’all, time to get outta here.” He ushered the two of them out of his office and towards the exit of the gym. 

“So…what brings you back to town, Jey?” she asked Josh as they walked side by side behind Tank.

The Samoan smiled at the young woman who hadn’t stopped blushing since they met. “Not much. Just hangin’ out with family and shit,” he replied. “Thought I’d come visit my mans over here, but now I hear there’s a show in town, I may just stick around a while longer.” He paused, noting the way her face paled a little. “You nervous?”

Delilah blew out a breath. “Honestly? I’m terrified.”

Josh shook his head. “Naw, don’t be. Focus on all the positives, how far you’ve come, and you’ll be fine.”

She nodded and bit her lip. That was reassuring, just a little bit. “Thanks,” she said, noting that her trainer’s car was heading their way. Tank always dropped her off at home as he lived not too far off from hers. “Well, I better get going. It was so cool to meet you, Jey,” she added, thinking it better to wave this time rather than shake hands. 

“Same here Delilah. And trust me when I say I’ll be seeing you more often in the future,” Josh replied.

For some reason, it sounded to Delilah like there were a handful of promises in those words, but she waved off the silly notion immediately and opted to leave before she made a fool of herself in front of the Jey Uso. It felt like she was walking on air as she approached Tank's car, still star-struck, still stunned by the last couple of minutes that had just happened.

But then, as she slammed the car door shut, she remembered what was waiting for her at home, and with a tired sigh, she was forced to push the moment away, forced to forget about the intense brown eyes that continued to stare after her even as the car drove away from the warehouse.

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

Thoughts so far?

Thank you all so much for reading and commenting!

Banner made by me. Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs.

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[vxnuslogy]

— as our skins start to burn and rot.

pairing: abyss!lumine x f!reader

— warnings: angst no comfort + character death

— author's note: this is heavily inspired by gigi's new song "fable" so please give it a listen! art credits to @.void_ling on twt. | 505 words.

— tags: @ryescapades @moineauz @mikashisus @https-sourlimes @wystiix ; if you'd like to be tagged, please fill out the forms in my pinned!!!

there is something wrong with you. something so incredibly wrong as you hide your face from your leader’s smiling face. 

lumine is beautiful and there is no denying that. behind her strong and cold front as the order’s princess, she was kind and playful. it’s hard to believe that this woman who could kill a god with only a sword was the same woman who your heart now beats for. you find yourself going down on one knee in front of her as she pledges you as her new guard—her right hand. 

you promised her victory, she promised you vengeance and eventual peace. everything was strictly professional so why? why is it that when you spend the night with her by your side you feel something burning? your body tingles down to your very fingertips when she brushes your hair aside to look at your face or when your hands accidentally brush.

suddenly your feelings of loyalty begin to merge and muddle with something else—something complicated and untouched, by you or her.

since when did every swing of your weapon burn with her name and ideals? every injury and near death experiences endured for the sake of her survival. your life is now dedicated to gathering every flower khaenri’ah lost during the cataclysm–just to see her smile. you’re very sure you’d be the lamb she ends up sacrificing for a greater cause—and you wouldn’t mind. what’s worse is she doesn’t do anything about this burning feeling you both have, in fact, she does the opposite—lumine is so persistent in trying to burn you alive.

but really, nothing could ever quite compare to the wrenching of your heart when she starts to pull away after you gather your courage to reciprocate. 

when you start reaching for her hand, she flinches back with a look in her eyes you can’t quite describe. with every meeting by her side, she drifted further from your reach. god, it hurt to see her eyes become dimmer and dimmer. but if you approached, an argument will ensue and her words felt like hot iron being pressed to your skin.

just because you believe you two are in love doesn’t mean it is true.

oh, it burns. everything burns as tears flow from your eyes, hand helplessly trying to reach out for her figure in the blazing war she has ignited. hundreds of years trying to withstand the consequences of your curse just to stay with her, only to be left with your skin rotting on the ground.

for a moment, you see her turn around–stars of gold blinking in her eyes as she glares in anger–not at you, never at you. but what else could she do? you willingly offered yourself as a lamb to the slaughter, of course she would end up leaving you, too. 

in your final moments as the love of your life–who’ll never know you love her to hell and back–turns to leave, you quietly laugh and look up at the sky. burning gold, just like her. 

© vxnuslogy 2024. do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works without my knowledge or consent in other platforms or websites.

[watchnrant]

Is Violet a Descendant of the Brother Who Wielded the Sky? And What Does That Mean for Tairn, Andarna, and the Irid Dragons?

SPOILER WARNING

Alright, let’s break this down. We’ve known since Fourth Wing that Violet’s abilities—her instinctive, overwhelming connection to storm magic—aren’t just strong. They’re different. By the time Iron Flame rolled around, it became undeniable: Violet isn’t just powerful; she’s tied to something much older than we understand.

So, let’s revisit the Fables of the Barren. Specifically, the brother who wielded the sky. If Violet’s power stems from an ancient bloodline, could she be his direct descendant? And if so, what does that mean for her dragons?

Because, let’s be real—Tairn and Andarna aren’t normal either.

Tairn’s Connection to the Past

If Violet is connected to the sky-wielding brother, then what about Tairn? We already suspect that dragons carry their own lineages, much like riders. If Tairn is part of the same bloodline as the dragon who originally bonded to the sky-wielding brother, then his and Violet’s bond isn’t just powerful—it’s fated. A rekindling of an ancient connection that’s been buried for centuries.

But that still doesn’t explain Andarna.

The Truth About Andarna’s Origins

For two books, Andarna’s 650-year-old egg was a mystery. Why was she left behind? Why did she choose Violet? And why does her fire burn venin—something no other dragon has done?

Then, in Onyx Storm, we finally got answers.

Andarna isn’t just rare. She’s irid—one of the mysterious, long-lost seventh breed of dragons. But more than that, she was deliberately left behind.

When Violet and her squad track down the missing breed, they quickly realize the irid dragons weren’t lost. They were hiding. They had been following the squad undetected, using their natural camouflaging abilities until they chose to reveal themselves to Violet, Andarna, Tairn, and Ridoc (and his dragon, Aotrom).

That’s when the irids confirm what Andarna has always suspected—she is one of them.

Leothan, an irid dragon, even shares the same markings as Andarna, proving they are from the same den—they are family. But there’s a difference.

Andarna isn’t a feathertail like the rest of them. She’s a scorpiontail.

And that seemingly small detail? Turns out, it’s everything.

Irid Dragons: What Makes Them Different?

The irid dragons are unlike any other breed in Navarre.

They can camouflage—changing their colors or turning completely invisible.

They don’t use magic—they are magic.

They bend, shape, and break magic at will

That last part is huge.

When Andarna burned a venin to ash, she didn’t just breathe fire—she reshaped magic itself in that moment. That’s why no other dragon has been able to do the same.

Leothan explains this to Andarna:

“You are irid. You are magic. Bend it, shape it, break it as you see fit.”

Meaning Andarna didn’t even realize what she was doing. She instinctively rewrote the rules of magic to suit her needs.

And that makes her—and by extension, Violet—incredibly dangerous.

But here’s the problem: The other irids want nothing to do with the rest of dragonkind.

Why Did the Irids Leave Navarre?

Unlike Empyrean dragons, who fight to protect their own, irid dragons see war as beneath them. They withdrew from Navarre and hid away in a remote southern archipelago—so well hidden that their islands aren’t even on maps.

And there are hundreds of them.

They’ve thrived by avoiding battle, choosing instead to live in isolation, believing themselves to be the only “evolved” breed of dragon.

To them, the endless war between humans, venin, and dragons is proof that the other breeds are primitive, violent, and doomed.

Which brings us to Andarna.

Why Did the Irids Abandon Andarna?

When the irids finally meet Andarna, one of them calls her “the criterion.”

A criterion is a standard for judgment—which is exactly what Andarna was meant to be.

The irids left Andarna behind on purpose.

They wanted to see if she would grow up in human society and prove that humans were capable of peace. If she had returned to them as a reflection of wisdom and restraint, they would have taken it as evidence that humans had evolved.

Instead?

Andarna became a weapon.

She bonded with a human.

She fought in battle.

She killed.

Even her tail was weaponized.

To the irids, this meant humans had not changed at all.

And so, they rejected Andarna.

“You have weaponized your magic, even your tail. You’ve become the very thing we abhor, the horror we fled from.”

They saw her as corrupted, defective, and unworthy of learning their ways.

Why Did Leothan Change His Mind?

At first, the irids abandoned Andarna completely. But later, Leothan returned—breaking ranks—to help fire the wardstone at Tyrrendor and to train Andarna.

Why?

Was an exception made for her? Did he defy the other irids? Or is there something bigger at play?

What we do know is that the irids are not done. Their magic is capable of reshaping reality itself. And their decision to step away from the world may no longer be an option.

So What Does This All Mean?

Violet is likely a descendant of the brother who wielded the sky, which explains her raw, instinctive power.

Tairn may be tied to that same ancient bond, making their connection fated rather than random.

Andarna’s breed doesn’t just use magic—they are magic.

Andarna’s fire burned a venin because she reshaped magic to do so—something no other dragon has done.

The irids left Andarna behind to judge humanity—and they believe we failed.

Leothan’s choice to return raises huge questions about what’s coming next.

With everything we now know about the irids, Violet’s lineage, and the growing threat of the venin, one thing is certain:

This war is bigger than Navarre. It’s bigger than the riders. It’s bigger than dragons.

The irids can change everything—but whether they will remains to be seen.

So… what do we think? Did Leothan break rank? Will Andarna ever be accepted? And how much further can Violet push her magic before she reshapes more than just lightning?

[thatonecrazysidekick]

I saw this prompt by @weepingtalecowboy, opened a word document and ran with it. I didn't run very far, but I tried lol.

Here you go! I know it's supposed to be a crack AU, but it sort of devolved into angst once I considered the effects sleeping for hundreds of years would have on the world around him, I'm sorry T0T

When Legend woke up, it was sudden. There was no gentle rise to consciousness, no gradual transition from deep sleep to wakefulness.  The moment the golden power of the Triforce washed over him, his eyes snapped open. Sitting up, he blinked, the light from the brazier in front of him making his eyes water. Closing his eyes quickly, he pressed the palms of his hands against his face to better block the light as he tried to adjust, both to the brightness and to being awake.

How long have I slept?

“Uhm...Miss Zelda? Are-are you alright?”

Legend jerked his hands down, lights be damned, and turned his head towards the voice. The incredibly familiar voice. Squinting down at the blobby green figure at the bottom of the steps—and why is Legend on a dais like this is some sort of open-casket funeral, could that wizard have been any more dramatic?—he tried to force his eyes into focus. A couple hard blinks later, and the blob solidified into a teenager with messy brown hair and a green tunic, staring up at him with worried, doe-like eyes.

Legend started. “Hyrule?” His voice rasped in his throat, as though he hadn’t spoken in a hundred years.

“We’re in Hyrule, if that’s what you mean? My name’s Link,” Hyrule said, offering him a reassuring smile. “You were put under a sleeping curse, and I used the Triforce to wake you up. Are you feeling okay? This must all be very jarring.”

Jarring was a word for it, that was for sure. A better one might be shocking, or dumbfounding, or perhaps flabbergasting? Yeah, that was the one. Legend was flabbergasted. How was Hyrule here? The chain had parted ways just over two years before the beginning of Legend’s current predicament. Had they found a way to traverse the timelines again? But then why didn’t Hyrule seem to recognize his nickname? An uneasy feeling was starting to build in Legend’s gut. He didn’t like where this was going.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed-altar thing he had been laying on, he sat up fully, lingering on the edge for a moment as he tried to think. The soles of his shoes rested flat against the red carpet that covered the dais, trying to ground him. He was still wearing his Pegasus boots, and he could feel that the magically-expandable pouch that held his items and supplies was strapped to his leg beneath the pale pink fabric of Fable’s dress, right where he’d left it.

Right, Fable’s dress. The reason Legend was wearing that in the first place was slowly coming back to him in its entirety. Yet another evil wizard had decided to invade the kingdom, though in a slightly more diplomatic way than the other two—and by that, Legend meant the wizard had walked into the castle and demanded to be told the location of the Triforce instead of immediately resorting to murder or kidnapping. Given the princess’s previous experiences, Legend had convinced his sister to let him go in her stead to talk to the wizard. It hadn’t been hard to pull of the switch, with how similar their appearances were, though that was just about the only thing that went well about the situation.

 Legend noted absently that Hyrule was still at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him to respond. He sighed, reaching up to try and run a hand quickly through his hair. Keyword: try. It just kept going, until the strands finally tangled around his fingers and forced them to a stop. Pulling his hand, hair still attached, into his lap, Legend blinked down at the bright, cotton-candy pink bundle.

The uneasy feeling grew.

He had made a point to dye his hair blond after his first journey, and had kept it that way ever since. And sure, he’d put in some hair extensions when he disguised himself as Fable, but her hair was not this long. It was down to her hips at the longest, not this knee-length rat’s nest just waiting to happen. Smoothing out the locks of hair, Legend saw that it faded into blond a few inches from the tips, just about how long his actual hair had been before the incident. Legend felt positively sick at this point.

“Hy—Link,” Legend said, trying to keep his voice steady. Hyrule was already watching him, a curious expression on his face. “How long have I been here?”

“Oh! Well, I’m not actually sure. Impa told me you are a princess from long ago, who was cursed to sleep by your brother’s wizard after refusing to reveal the location of the Triforce.”

A princess from long ago, cursed by her brother’s wizard. Legend didn’t know if he wanted to laugh at how distorted the story had become, or cry from the dawning realization that if it had been long enough for his era to become a thing of story, then his sister was gone. His hands twisted in his hair, and he heard a few strands snap.

Everyone was gone—Fable and Ravio and Ralph and—and he was still here, because of course whenever he tried to protect the people he loved, it always backfired in some way. Go figure.

It wasn’t until Hyrule spoke again that he realized he’d been staring blankly at the traveler for the past few minutes.

“We’re in the North Castle tower right now. If…if you’d like, I can take you to meet Zelda? I mean, a different Zelda! She’s the princess. Or, I guess, the other princess…?” Hyrule frowned, a crease forming between his brows. “I have a feeling this is going to get confusing.”

Despite the cold numbness that had taken hold of him, Legend felt his heart warm, just a little. Most of his family was still gone—don’t think about it yet, wait to break down until you’ve gotten your bearings—but he had Hyrule back, even if the traveler didn’t know him yet, and there was Hyrule’s Zelda as well. That meant that Fable had survived the wizard, and continued the royal line. She had lived, and if she had lived then there was no way she’d have let that wizard do the same.

Legend took a deep breath. He would be able to mourn soon. He would dig through every library he could find until he discovered what had happened after he was cursed. He would scour the land for even a trace of where his family had been laid to rest. Bottling up his emotions was nothing new to Legend, so he forced down his grief and guilt and anger, stuffed it in a little box labeled “For Later,” and chucked it into the back of his mind.

Pushing himself to his feet, Legend took a moment to find his balance before carefully descending the steps of the dais. He wrapped his arms around Hyrule, the younger boy letting out a surprised yelp as he was enveloped in a tight hug. Legend could feel Hyrule’s uncertainty in the stiff line of his shoulders and way his hands hovered awkwardly over his back, and wondered how many times the traveler had been hugged before this. Probably not nearly enough.

Legend was going to fix that.

“Thank you, Hero of Hyrule,” he murmured into the boy’s shoulder, and found tears pricking at the corners his eyes, despite his best efforts to keep them back. “I would like that very much.”

[uss-edsall]

Far Cry 5, I’ve determined, is a kin to Spec Ops: The Line in one particular way. Both of the games have a very specific fable in mind: "Sometimes the best choice you can make is to walk away. You don’t have to be the hero. You can just choose to walk away - and it’s often your best choice."

Ignoring the fact the message is combined with, ‘just don’t play it, that’s the only winning move, as there’s no avenue to just do your assigned mission.’ Spec Ops makes the correct choice to depict that in the form of, “the protagonist has delusions of grandeur, and way oversteps the very clear boundaries of his very clear mission.”

Far Cry 5 also goes, “just walk away.” It does have an avenue to do this. You can hesitate to make the arrest, causing the sheriff to call it off. One of the two endings, ignoring the idiotic decision to keep a radio on when you know the radio station broadcasts brainwashing music, is also ‘just walk away.’ But it’s walking away from trying to stop a murder death cult that has killed dozens of people, started kidnapping hundreds more, is terrorising an entire region of innocents, has committed uncountable numbers of crimes, brainwashed all your friends and you, made you commit multiple crimes yourself and ruined your life, on and on and on and on. “Just walk away from stopping the murder death cult that has destroyed so many lives and is actively trying to brainwash you.” And, more to the point, “If you don't walk away the world ends, proving that the murder death cult was right all along!”

And, I think, that’s where I find I’m most annoyed with Far Cry 5 as a game.

Far Cry as a series is dedicated towards confronting the promises and lies that cults use to try to sway people, and the atrocities they will do when you refuse. “In this case the murder death cult was Correct All Along!” is not a fucking good look, especially when the Murder Death Cult in this case is christian fundamentalist terrorism.

It’s no wonder that music like “Keep Your Rifle By Your Side” became such great hits in the christofascist side of gaming.