#Pompe Disease

[reasonsforhope]

“An unborn baby was treated through her umbilical cord for a rare genetic condition—the same disease that killed her two older siblings—and the pioneering procedure prevented the infant’s death.

It’s the first time in history Pompe disease has been treated in utero, and it could represent a life-saving new standard of care that’s safe and effective for both mother and infant.

In Canada, the parents of 16-month-old Ayla were relieved when she was born as expected, with no signs of the disease that can cause lethal heart complications. Pompe affects fewer than 1 in 100,000 infants, but this inherited condition arising from a defective gene copy is often fatal...

In March of 2021, Ayla’s mother entered an Ottawa maternal hospital and over the following weeks received 6 injections of an infant-Pompe drug called alglucosidase alfa into the umbilical vein, a delivery method that’s established for treating anemia in a fetus.

Ayla was born on schedule without any signs of the disease. She’s met normal developmental milestones and doesn’t show any loss of motor function. She still receives regular ERT. The results were compiled and published in the New England Journal of Medicine.

“Our results are consistent with in utero ERT attenuating or even halting the disease process in the fetal period,” the doctors wrote in their case report.” -via Good News Network, 11/29/22

[quirinah]

i! ro! ha!

[cheapcheapfaker]

unrepentant 90s swag

[surkuted]

https://biiut.com/read-blog/59398

[roseaa11]

The global pompe disease treatment market is projected to witness significant growth during the forecast period. In U.S., projected occurrence are approximately 1 in 40,000 births. Males and females are equally affected by the diseases. Medical advancements that involves ongoing drug discovery, and government and non-government organizational initiatives are what that boosts the market growth.  

[b-does-the-write-thing]

general incivility, chapter four

                              - a brienne x jaime pride & prejudice retelling -

chapter one l chapter two  l chapter three l chapter four

The Stormlands were, like most of the families who had settled there, rather unremarkable. The rocky region lay nestled between the more wealthy Crownlands to the north and the more fertile Reach to the west. Most ever bothered to cross the mountain range that separated the regions, and to the south was nothing but the Dornish desert, as inhospitable as its people from what Septa Roelle had taught her. 

It was a rugged land, as large and sprawling, pitted and scarred as she was. It would never be considered beautiful but it was what it was. One either learned to love it or they hated it and Brienne had adopted the same practice to her own life. 

Many a day, Brienne went riding. Usually to train, but other days, just as an excuse to stretch her legs and clear her mind. But today, fresh from a wash after her morning bout with the Colonel, Brienne set out on the path towards the closet manor home, Storm’s End, to pay a call upon her most intimate of friends—her only friend to speak plainly. 

Storm’s End was perched upon Durran’s Point, the southernmost stop of the King’s Road. Here, the elder of King Robert’s younger brothers had made his home nearly a decade ago now. Brienne had been too young to attend but her father had told her stories of the great retinue that had arrived with Stannis Baratheon and his young wife and how all of the Stormlands had celebrated for seven days straight before King Robert had returned north to his iron throne. 

If the people of the Stormlands had hoped for a lively royal in their midst, they were sadly disappointed. Stannis Baratheon lacked the love of pomp and party that his two brothers had inherited, preferring the solemn and dreary coasts of Storm’s End to the other manors he may have claimed for his own as the King’s brother and heir. 

As they arrived at the manor’s gates, Septa Roelle turned her nose up. “Oh, Lady Selyse is at home,” she remarked in the same tone she pointed out mice droppings. Septa Roelle liked few people but she actively disliked even fewer, but somehow Lady Selyse Baratheon had never risen high in the Septa's mind. 

The Bartheons only had the one daughter, an intelligent, sweet young debutant of fifteen who though Brienne's junior, was more mature than any of the other ladies in the region.  She was also, like Brienne, no stranger to cruelty at the sake of her appearance.

As tall and thin as both her parents, Shireen had the Baratheon bold blue eyes and the equally strong, jutting jaw which may have made her handsome if not partnered with her mother’s large ears and aquiline nose. 

Fate had taken a hand in Shireen’s appearance as well. While still in the cradle, Shireen had been afflicted with grayscale. While she had recovered, she had been left with gray and black mottled scars all across her left cheek and down to her neck. 

The more superstitious families avoided the Baratheons, believing the disease lay dormant in the skin and could be reawoken with a single sneeze. Folly, according to all the maesters but still even the more opportunistic fortune hunters steered clear of the young Lady Baratheon. Septa Roelle had also been conflicted. On the one hand, her charge rubbing elbows with royalty, and on the other, a disease so deadly that its mere name was considered dangerous.

Thankfully, royal blood, diseased or not, won out in the end, and the two unfortunates became fast friends. Shireen liked the loyal and true Brienne Tarth, finding her refreshing and more intelligent than any of the other ladies her mother tried to foster upon her, while Brienne liked the quiet solitude of Shireen’s company. Shireen never stared or ogled or winced and, on numerous occasions, put herself pointedly between Brienne and her tormentors at assemblies so no one would jokingly ask Brienne the Beauty for a dance. 

Shireen had been in attendance at the assembly though her mother had kept her occupied with both Lannister brothers. “Brienne tells me you were the first to dance with Mr. Lannister,” Septa Roelle praised Shireen as they all sat down in the sitting room over a cup of tea. 

Lady Baratheon beamed at the accomplishment, but Shireen was quick to deflect any praise. “Yes, but he danced with nearly every lady present. Though, he did ask after you, Brienne.”

Septa Roelle perked up at this. “Oh?”

“Yes, but it was later in the evening, and poor Mr. Tarth had already called for the chaise. Mr. Lannister did seem rather disappointed.”

“My departure, if truly noticed, was nothing but a slight inconvenience, if that.” Brienne insisted lest Septa Roelle get the wrong idea. 

“Oh, but he was most sincere,” Shireen protested. “He mentioned you had spoken for a moment and while he was rudely whisked away, he had great hopes of the two of you finishing the conversation before the night came to an end.”

“I dare say he’ll have to get used to disappointment,” Brienne murmured into her cup. 

Shireen heard it and gave her a knowing smile, but Septa Roelle had already moved on to the next eligible bachelor. “Is there any truth to this rumor that the elder Lannister is set to marry the cousin that was in attendance?” 

“It was obvious to even that blind old bat Whent,” Lady Baratheon confirmed. “Ms. Lannister did deign to dance with some of the local gentlemen but never more than once. As for the Lion of Lannister, he was most disagreeable. I was in his company for nearly the entire evening, and he barely uttered a word. Most unfortunate. Good breeding does not always result in good manners.” 

Brienne could only imagine what Jaime Lannister had thought of Selyse Baratheon shadowing his every move. His unpleasant mood became less of a mystery. 

“The youngest Mr. Lannister told me his brother is not much for conversation among strangers but is a remarkably agreeable fellow among his intimate acquaintances,” Shireen contributed.

“Simply making excuses for his family,” her mother replied. “It was clear to the whole assembly that he is a sinfully prideful man. Comely or not, I’ll be happy to see the back of him.” 

“I do not see why he should not be proud. He is the most handsome man I have ever seen, and his family is reported to have more wealth than even Uncle Robert’s treasury. If our roles were reversed, I would surely be proud, wouldn’t you, mother?”

Selyse Baratheon bristled at the suggestion. “I certainly would not. I am not so vain as that, child!”

“Vanity is something different entirely,” Septa Roelle corrected. “A person may be proud without being vain. Pride is our opinion of oneself; vanity is what we would have others think.”

The two older women soon fell into debate on the subject, with Septa Roelle taking the high ground of her faith and Lady Baratheon that of her education.  Shireen scooted closer under the guise of rearranging her skirts. “All this talk of pride and vanity, but you never said, what did you think of Mr. Tyrion Lannister, my dear Brienne?”

Ensuring Septa Roelle was caught up in the debate, she confessed, “I found him to be an odd sort of fellow.”

“How so?”

Brienne shared what she had overheard, speaking low so as not to be overheard. By the end, Shireen was clearly amused. “He ought not to have said those things,” she conceded, though it was unclear if she was speaking of the younger or elder Lannister.

“It was not gentleman-like,” Brienne conceded,” but neither of them were wrong.”

Shireen lay her hand upon Brienne’s to administer a gentle squeeze. “You are too kind to others and much too hard on yourself,” she admonished. 

“Careful, lest you make me too vain of my so-called good nature,” Brienne teased.

“Never. I can only attempt to make you proud of it,” Shireen rallied back.

“Girls? What are you two whispering about?” Septa Roelle demanded. They quickly echoed platitudes about the weather and the rest of the visit was spent discussing the health of Lady Whent. 

--- Just some general story establishing today, folks. Next chapter, everyone is back.

[wixed]

Temptations of Circuits and Sin

CW: Blood/Gore, Torture, Medical Torture, Medical Experimentation, Drugged Torture, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Religious Zealotry, Ingesting Body Fluids (Blood), Cannibalism, Loss of Agency, Durge Episode, Clawing/Scratching, Grinding, Choking, Dom/Sub

Pairing: OC!Durge x Gortash

Word Count: 5221 Ao3 Link Part 2

Summary : Durge experiences a troubling fascination with anatomy in a way that Bhaal disapproves of. This doesn't stop them from pursuing understanding in- what they believe- is secret. After attempting to manipulate the means of death in vile ways, they experience a break of sanity that a certain Tyrant witnesses. Their expertise in the natural sciences compels Gortash to ask Durge for aid in his own creations. Thus begins their tumultuous and whirlwind relationship.

Part 1

◤──���~   ҉  The Dark Urge   ҉ ~•──◥

The meeting between the Chosen drew laboriously on. The bhaalspawn could feel the urge in the back of their mind twitch at the banality of the current discussion. 

War plans, invasions, political scheming - it all felt like needless pomp. 

Each chime from the grandiose, overly mechanical clock rang through their ears like a shrill laugh. Mocking the Murder Lord’s chosen. Bound by the drivel of civility. Chained to this table like a sacrifice at an altar, for a ritual they cannot comprehend and care little for. Only instead of being cut and splayed, they were forced into an agreeable nature. It made them want to split their own skull to pierce through the dull ache of boredom.  

Another melodious chime tore through the room. They slammed their dagger into the wooden table, bringing whatever conversation they had long since drowned out to an abrupt halt. 

“Do you have something you wish to bring to the table, Assassin? Other than more scuffs and scrapes?" Gortash’s question was meant to rile them. Shame them for their outburst as if the Tyrant held such power over them. 

"I do not see why I must be here for the Moonrise invasion plans. They have little to do with my part in this.” They tried to cow the petulant tone in their voice. 

Gortash smiled with a seductive ease. The sight of it sent a lash to the bhaalspawn’s core. They turned their head with a dissatisfied grunt. 

“We simply want to ensure you understand and are kept in the loop. If you do not wish to be here any longer, by all means, you may leave." The Tyrant’s words caused a roaring heat to roll over in their belly. 

"Good. I have a complicated series of staged ritualistic murders to plan. These meetings are a waste of my time and talent.” They lifted the dagger from where it still dug upright into the table. They deftly twirled the blade as they sheathed it. Gortash gave a wry, crooked smile. 

"Well then, it sounds like you have your work cut out for you, Chosen." His words dripped with coy superiority. 

The bhaalspawn scowled as they left the war room, the doors slamming shut behind them. As they left the confines of Wyrm’s Rock, they could feel the eyes of prey upon them. It made their blood itch. How dare such pathetic creatures use such weak eyes to observe their visage? Their body surged with a murder-lust their Father demanded of them. Their focus flicked from patron to patron, momentarily stopping on a beggar woman who seemed sickly. 

Normally, they avoided such frail offerings for their Father. The god of disease already claimed this soul, but it would suffice for the practice and planning of the staged rituals. 

—

Luring the beggar back to the abandoned house they used for such practices was easy. The house was a secret place for sacrifices that would defile their Father-God's sacred temple. This blood would not spill in the name of Bhaal. It would not be clean and freely flow from the lash of their blade. There would be no praising cuts to adorn the body before Bhaal claimed it. It did not deserve the temple. 

They gave the woman a meal and medicine to ease her fever. It would be no good for study if the brain was cooked from illness. She cried in supplication at the feet of her would-be savior. The Chosen did not move from their seat. They looked on with deliberating patience, waiting for the sleeping drug to take hold of the peasant. 

A few moments later, her feeble body slumped in her chair, and her breathing slowed to a dangerous pace. The bhaalspawn lifted the unconscious body with ease, opening a hidden latch in the floorboards and taking her to the secret basement below. They tied their unwitting project to a medical table stained with blood from overuse. Save for the stains, the table was remarkably clean. 

In fact, the entire space was neatly organized and relatively clean for what one might expect from a Chosen of Bhaal. Shelves held books and scrolls at one end of the room, and another was full of varied herbs, toxins, and alchemical supplies. 

They picked up a small razor, sharp yet delicate, and shaved the head of all hair, removing anything that could impede sight and compromise the precision of their cuts. They began to split the skin of the woman at the crown of the skull. She was too far gone in the drug to do more than twitch out of instinct, eyelids barely fluttering at the glide of the blade across her skin. They carefully sliced around the crown, blood dripping down the twitching face. With a slow ease, they peeled back the skin, pinning it out of the way. 

They licked the blade clean with a satisfied hum, then set it down. Grabbing another larger knife with unique serrations, they growled a noise of frustrated contemplation. They hovered over the exposed skull, steadying their erratic breath. 

They felt a sudden spur of pain cut through their body. Father did not approve of their hesitation. He misunderstood - they did not hesitate out of guilt or some other weak foreign emotion. They hesitated out of pride. Their cuts were divine prayer, the mutilated bodies at their hand a providence. Though this meat was unfit for the temple, they were still a priest and must act under their holy creed. Sloppy would not suffice. 

Once their breath drew steady and their heart beat in rhythm with the world around them, the serrated blade started to work on the skull. They finessed away a small piece of bone. exposing the brain. They felt their lips twitch with excitement at the sight. Their hands shook over the enticing organic matter. With a sharp inhale, they placed the blade neatly adjacent to the small razor. 

They gathered a few small vials of liquid from a shelf. The liquids consisted mostly of poisons and some acids of varying strength. They mused over which to try first, eventually deciding on a common nerve poison. They slowly added a drop to the exposed brain and waited for the poison to take hold. A few moments later the body violently seized against the table. The loud rattling of their bones hitting wood echoed through the room with gasping strained breathing. The body continued to convulse until the limbs froze, contorted joints locking in place. 

Seeing the body dance for them enthralled the bhaalspawn, a small smile forming at the corner of their lips, showing the sharpened teeth beneath. They grabbed a vial of acid and carefully but excitedly poured a drop into the cranial cavity. The body twitched but had very little response. The Chosen glared at the defiant meatsack. They took a syringe and drew up some of the acid, injecting it into the internal jugular vein. 

The process was slow, but eventually, the cuts started to ooze once again. The urge inside them stirred at the smell of the sanguine nectar. Despite it being poisoned and diseased, their bloodlust craved the carnage. When it became evident the acid would not have the desired effect, they stood and reached for another toxin. Their deliberation was cut short by the body experiencing another violent series of convulsions, breathing rapidly increasing. Bloody foam gathered around the mouth. 

The bhaalspawn cursed. They tried to keep the wretched thing from choking on her bile and spittle, but it was too late. The chest sank as her limbs went rigid, still bent from the nerve poison. In frustration, the bhaalspawn slashed the throat of the beggar and drove the blade into her heart. 

They unlatched the body from the table and tossed it aside, sighing at their experiment cut short. They bent over the table, their face a mere hair’s breadth away from the pooled blood left there. They closed their eyes and languidly inhaled deep and slow. The iron aroma of the crimson called to them. They slowly dipped their tongue into the pool and licked a long stripe up the table, clenching the table so tight their sharp fingernails left indentations. Suddenly, a vision invaded their mind. 

They imagined licking a body, warm and supple under their touch, blood flowing from the cuts drawn by their blade. Their tongue traveled up the collarbone to the neck. They pulled back to gaze upon the face of their prey, and instead of seeing lifeless eyes from a sacrifice, they saw his face. The Tyrant looking back at them with his smug smile shocked them out of the daydream. 

They shot up from the table with sudden alertness, eyes wide and darting about the room. Disgust roiled in their core, their heartbeat once again thrumming wildly. Once the panic of the uninvited vision left, they glowered in still silence.

“Sceleritas!” they broke the quiet, summoning their faithful servant. The imp appeared with a pop of sulfurous smoke. 

“Yes, my Liege?” He bowed to his master. 

“Take this body to the ruins outside the temple. Make use of it.”  

“As you command, my Dark Master.” Another deep bow. He took hold of the corpse and snapped his fingers, taking the body with him in another swirl of infernal smoke. 

Once Sceleritas vanished, they cleaned the remainder of the spilled viscera. They tried to push thoughts of Bane’s Chosen from their mind. They soon left the abandoned house. Their body still ached with the need for bloodshed, proper bloodshed. They needed to still their mind in prayer. Their Father would make all things clear. Cleanse the weakness from them as they cleanse this world of vitality. They had several sacrifices awaiting them in the temple, ready to be made holy for their Father. 

They stalked to the sewer entrance leading to the temple ruins, so distracted by the events of the last few hours they didn’t notice the lowly Banite who had been following them since the meeting. 

◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥

 Enver paced his foundry workshop. The metal clack of the cane hitting the stone floor was the only sound among the hissing steam vents until there was a knock at the door. 

“Enter.” He cooly called out. The Banite sent to tail Bhaal’s Chosen returned from their mission. 

“Sir.” The soldier stood at attention with a small bow of his head. Enver waved his hand dismissively. 

“At ease. I assume you were successful? Tell me what you found.” He sat in the plush chair at a writing desk, hand still atop his cane. 

“Yes sir, I tracked them to a decrepit house in the Lower City. They brought a peasant beggar with them but left alone, with no additional baggage or body. They took to the sewers after.” the Banite reported. Enver brushed his metal-clad thumb over his lips while humming a thought. 

“And how long were they in the house?” 

“A few hours, my lord.” 

“Very well, leave the address for me. You are dismissed.” Enver passed the soldier a piece of blank parchment and a quill. The man did as he was commanded and took his leave. 

Enver sat staring at the address for moments that turned to minutes until he tapped his cane against the stone, standing and moving to the mobile teaching-board covered with schematics and architectural drawings. He pinned the address to the board next to sketches of an automaton design. A low hum echoed from his chest to his throat. 

“Interesting.” 

—

Half a tenday came and went since Enver first had the Bhaalist followed. Each day since, he commanded his most skilled rogues to continue tracking and observing the curious bhaalspawn. Always the same report; They lure a lowly peasant, usually sick or diseased, they go to the abandoned house, hours pass, and they leave. 

Enver never gave much thought to the daily routines of Bhaal worshipers, or his blood-spawn, but his mind kept wandering back to them. It was a near hyperfixation if he was being honest with himself. He told himself several times over the past few days that the Chosen was likely doing their duty assigned to them, simple as that. And yet, he couldn’t shake that there was more to it than that. More to them. 

He found himself staring out a large arched window, the main source of light for his office at this time of day. He couldn’t see the house from his lofty tower, but he knew the direction all the same. His thoughts swarming and swirling like rats caught in a current. 

“Lord Gortash.” The servant startled him from his troubling fixation. He scowled at being caught unaware. 

“Yes? What is it?” his voice low and threatening. 

“They’ve taken more to the house. This time several at once, a count of four peasants, sir.” The servant dutifully reported. Enver stood pensive for a moment before grabbing his elaborately embroidered overcoat. 

“Thank you. Dismissed.” he waved a hand at the cowering servant, then left. 

◤──•~   ҉  The Dark Urge   ҉ ~•──◥

Days upon days of failure weighed heavy on the bhaalspawn. Failure to their Father, failure to their mission, failure to their urges. 

They attempted concoction after concoction of poisons, toxins, and acids to no avail. The resulting deaths didn’t look right, wasn’t what they needed. The nerves would seize, but that was the only success. The poisons extracted from mushrooms would cause too much distress to the stomach, the poisons harvested from a particularly nasty insect resulted in too much swelling, and the toxic oils from dangerous plants caused uncontrollable and unpredictable rashes. They were at their wit's end. They chuckled a helpless, deranged laugh at the thought of having any wits left. 

This obsession all but consumed their every waking moment. They had fallen behind in prayer, in their holy duty to the Temple, and their Father took notice. They were sure a punishment wasn’t far off. In desperation, they decided to lure a larger group tonight. They wouldn’t stop until they got it right, even if it took till morning.

They weren’t sure why this riddle had become so important to them. A flash of Gortash’s face flitted across their mind, and they growled under their breath. Perhaps it was simple competitive nature that made them so crazed for this answer, but the flutter of something in their core prevented them from fully accepting such a contrite explanation. 

They strapped three of the half-unconscious bodies to chains hanging from the walls while the remaining one got the table. They stroked the face of the plump sacrifice laid flat on their altar, an altar to understanding rather than butchery. 

“You are lucky. You get the comfortable seat.” Their sharpened nails dug into the skin a little too deep, drawing blood from the rosy apple cheek. They smiled with deranged glee, sharpened teeth flashing across their face as the smell of blood filled their nostrils. They breathed it in like the air would run out of the room. They blinked their eyes quickly, attempting to banish the crimson haze taking over. 

“No, no, no, Father, please. Not now. Please I b-… I beg, Father, please!” They gripped the shoulders of the victim on the table tightly, bloodied claws digging in for purchase. But it was too late. Their sanity had left them, their Father-God demanding control over the bhaalspawn’s bloodlust. With a shrill manic cry, they clutched their head. Their body twitched through feral screams as they began to slice the warm and waiting flesh before them. 

◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥

Enver didn’t relish in sneaking through the city, his city, but he could manage it when the occasion called for it. He quietly waited outside the entrance of the old house. A few glances about the area told him that if anyone was watching him, they likely wouldn’t care. 

He slipped into the house with ease. Old dressers and empty crates filled the room. He cautiously looked about the dwelling, growing frustrated in thinking he had the wrong house, but then saw a curious set of marks behind some crates. Upon inspection, he found the hidden entrance to the basement. He paused at the open hatch, he knew it was a risk, but something was gnawing at the back of his mind. He inhaled a short, decisive breath and descended the ladder. 

When he made contact with the ground, he found himself in a makeshift foyer that seemed to spill into a larger room. He slipped behind a crate against a wall, watching the scene escalate before him. 

The bhaalspawn had finished chaining three people to a wall. An older woman who suffered from a cough wearing a washer woman’s apron with an embroidered monogram - a servant to a high house. A young man who seemed healthy with tanned, broad shoulders - a stable hand or farmer perhaps? And a young woman who seemed too thin but otherwise seemed healthy, based on the finer clothing, likely a brothel worker, a low-end brothel at that if she couldn’t be fed properly. The Assassin leaned over their fourth victim, a rotund man strapped to a table whose ankles and feet were puffy and swollen, a spoiled merchant, no doubt.

Enver’s eyes danced around the room, he saw bookshelves, what appeared to be medicine cabinets, an alchemy station, a writing desk- 

Before he could finish assessing the room the bhaalspawn began to mutter with a desperate tone. They were pleading. Enver’s brows knit together in confusion as he continued to watch from his dangerous vantage point. With a wail, the bhaalspawn lashed out at the body on the table. They sounded like an animal, their cries of desperation mixed with feral guttural noises. 

When they finished eviscerating the man on the table, they moved to the chained bodies. The young, healthy man unfortunately looked as though whatever drug they had given him had worn off. Enver watched the crazed Chosen tear into him as he cried for mercy, eventually choking on his blood. The wet bubbling of the choking drowned out his pained screaming until his eyes went dull and his head hung limp.

They moved to the other victims with erratic speed. Slashing, biting, ripping, and tearing flesh away. They were covered in viscera - entrails hanging from their arms, bits of skin caught on their blade-like nails, blood soaking through their clothing and hair. Enver couldn’t help but feel a fascination at the consuming nature of this “urge”. He still readied a dagger just in case. 

It was several minutes before the bhaalspawn seemed to come to themselves. They had been in the middle of sawing off the wrist of the man on the table, or what was left of him, at least. They dropped the bone saw, standing still like a crimson statue. 

Enver was even more shocked at what he saw next. They fell to their knees and started to sob. Deep heaving sobs while they quietly uttered a prayer of apology over and over to their father. He thought of revealing himself but decided to give it some more time and distance between the vulnerable state they were in and his unwanted appearance.

◤──•~   ҉  The Dark Urge   ҉ ~•──◥

Blood and meat covered the bhaalspawn like a blanket. A blanket that was once warm and comforting but turned to an overwhelming heat. They could feel the pieces of flesh under their nails as the blood dried and cracked on their skin. The taste of iron lingered in their mouth as they swiped their tongue across their teeth. 

They slowly forced their body up from the floor and began cleaning the mess. They unlatched the sabotaged experiments from the wall, the remainants piling on the ground.  They pushed the brutalized meat on the table into the pile, joining the others in a homogenized mixture of carrion and sinew. 

They stared at the writing desk where notes had laid open, in process studies strewn across the surface, now covered in blood. If they weren’t ruined, it would take days to transcribe it all. They sighed and it turned into a low dissatisfied growl. This was their punishment. More than losing their mind, more than the red haze taking over their body, this - their fascination with the mortal body and interest in discovering its secrets, destroying the lucid days of study devoted to it. That is why they suffered their Father’s lash. 

They suffered the lash of Bhaal and still learned nothing. The wresting of control did not deter them. It was a momentary hiccup. Their Father didn’t understand, same as every other soul who knew of their interests. They needed to understand the mortal body to better utilize the meat sacks for their Father’s purpose. It was a half-lie they told themself on repeat. A lie they told themself now as they gently dabbed the sweet red juices from the ruined pages. 

“Ahem”

They drew their knife and threw another barely missing the intruder as he cleared his throat behind them. Their eyes widened in shock, then quickly narrowed in anger when Gortash’s visage became clear. 

“What are you doing here?” they spat out. “Get out, now.” They didn’t raise their voice, but the demand was laced with venomous unsaid threats of what defying it would mean for the Tyrant. 

Gortash pulled the dagger from the wall behind him. He wore an easy, almost cocky smile as he stepped closer to the bhaalspawn, handing them the dagger hilt first. 

“I had a gnawing feeling you were in need of aid, and it seems I may be correct.” He sounded confident, all of his usual charm edging through his words. The sound of his voice was enough to ground the bhaalspawn and they hated it. 

“That is very presumptuous of you, Tyrant.” They grabbed the dagger, resheathing it in a quick fluid motion. They eyed him wearily like one predator sizing up another. They felt the saliva catch in their throat the longer they took him in. An irritated grunt left their lips without permission and they tore their eyes away from him. 

He gave a small chuckle at their annoyance. “I know we come from very different… backgrounds, but I feel as though we share something in common.” He ran a finger over one of the shelves holding the alchemy supplies. They studied him closely, waiting for the reveal of his observation. 

Gortash smiled at them, causing their heart to pick up pace. “We have brilliant minds, you and I.” He walked to the viscera-covered bookshelves. “Minds that many underestimate, devalue, and would leave to rot.” He candidly kicked some entrails out of his path, circling the bhaalspawn like a vulture. The Bhaalist stood unmoving but watched Gortash as he moved about their study, eyes never leaving him, and their hand never leaving the hilt of their blade.

“I always knew you were capable. Retrieving the Crown from the Hells proved that much. However, your brilliance, your intellect, it’s something that slipped through my notice, until recently.” He picked up one of the books and flipped to a clean page. It showed sketches of the mortal body and notes about the brain specifically. 

One part of them wanted to snatch the book away and drive their dagger through his haughty, overly confident heart. Another part was frozen, treading unfamiliar territory. The Tyrant was praising them for their revolting interests. He seemed intrigued by it rather than put off. This alone was enough to allow him more of the floor in their conversation. 

He shut the book, setting it down again. “I believe I can help you. If you’ll let me.” 

He waited for their answer. The assassin thought through the offer carefully. This dilemma was the result of their shared plans. It wasn’t strictly Bhaalist business. They took in the sight of the half-cleaned study and failed experiments decorating their shameful, secret dwelling. Their mind raced through all the possible ways the Banite could use this against them, all the ways he could betray them, all the ways he could leverage the aid he seemingly freely offered. They sighed in exasperation. 

“Fine.” 

—

The two chosen spent hours together. Gortash seemed barely bothered, if at all, by the remaining gore that lay about the room. Eventually, the bhaalspawn called for their faithful butler to clean the mutilated bodies, ordering him to repurpose what he could. Waste not, want not. 

They detailed their idea for the staged murders. The rituals had to appear of The Absolute, not of Bhaal, so their usual methods wouldn’t suffice. They decided that a “god” who communicates and works through telepathy would use the same means to kill. This Absolute would want sacrifices that gave the brain of the victim to the “god”. 

“This already aligns with how weak brains reject the tadpole, when the infection is too much.-” 

“The brain hemorrhages. Brilliant.” Gortash grinned with excitement. The bhaalspawn felt a renewed vigor for their ideas. Just having one person share in the thrill of puzzling through it set their blood aflame in a way they hadn’t felt before. 

“I also thought so.” A smug smile flashed across their face. They pulled out their most recent notes on the varied toxins and poisons they’ve attempted to mimic a hemorrhage. 

“The part I am …stumbling over is making the brain bleed look divinely spontaneous, no evidence of blunt force trauma, or piercing pokers can be left behind. I was hoping a potent poison could achieve this. I have found a toxin that results in a very fitting secondary symptom, but haven’t had much luck with the star of the show.” They showed the combinations and the results to Gortash as best they could through the blood stains. 

Gortash reviewed the summary of experiments in earnest. A few moments of silence passed as he read. The bhaalspawn watched his fingers, dressed in the gold of his gauntlet flip through the pages of their notes. They analyzed the way he deliberately and delicately at the same time manipulated the frail pages. Their body felt a jolt of something shoot from the base of their spine to the neck. Like lightning had found its way into their spinal fluid. Their fingers twitched from the feeling. 

The Tyrant made a reserved but triumphant exclamation. “I think I’ve got it.” He snapped the book shut with one hand, offering it to them. The assassin lurched forward to grab it, excitement written over their face. 

“What? What is it? Out with it, Tyrant.” Their words might have been demanding, but their tone was anxious and supplicant. Gortash grinned with the power he held over them. 

“Patience, dear Assassin.” He inspected the bottles of poisons and toxins that were all meticulously labeled. He picked one at the back, labeled “Rat Poison.” 

“This is what you’re looking for.” He handed the bottle to them. They glanced at the bottle in their hand. 

“I’ve already tried this, it causes hemorrhaging, but it’s of the gut.” The delight in their eyes faded. The Tyrant clicked his tongue in a chiding manner and lifted their chin with one sharp golden finger. They should slice the finger from his hand, they should spill his entrails on the floor before them for daring to touch Bhaal’s Chosen. They’ve done worse for less. Their eye twitched at the touch, and their body tensed in anticipation, but they held still, glaring up at him through what little restraint they possessed. 

“You didn’t let me finish.” He dropped his finger from their chin, and their body immediately relaxed. 

“We adjust the dose, pair it with the toxin you already have for the seizures, then apply it to the barrier between the brain and-”

“The blood-brain barrier! Of course! Gods, how could I not see it? We need to induce a stroke, so stressing the blood vessels locally would cause mass bursting - this is ingenious. We’ll need a binding agent and a few tweaks to the base solution to ensure the seizure toxin won’t be affected. Get the two working synergistically rather than-” 

Their rambling was cut short by Gortash pressing his lips to theirs. Their words caught between the joined lips. They made a muffled noise of displeasure and pushed him at an arm’s distance. 

“How dare you?!” They gasped for breath, their pulse unstable, causing their words to lose footing. Gortash smiled a wry grin. He saw through their veiled disgust. Knew their strained words for what they were. An attempt to do what they should. Attempts to cow their obvious desires. He chewed on his bottom lip as he shifted closer again, finding little resistance from the hands against his chest. 

“By all means, Assassin, tell me to stop.” He pushed even closer. The bhaalspawn was pressed up against the table behind them, their hands finding the surface, attempting to steady their stance. Their piercing glare focused from his eyes to his lips. A low growl under their breath was their only response. Gortash closed the gap between them, his thigh pressing against their groin. He leaned in close, his breath hot and prickling against their skin. In a low husky voice, he continued. 

“Say you don't want this, and I won't give it." He rubbed his leg enticingly against them, the friction sending heat coiling tight in their core. They didn't stop him. 

Gortash captured their lips in his once more. They returned the kiss this time, needy and all-consuming. Growls of frustrated pleasure escaped them as they writhed against his thigh, causing the Tyrant to groan with delighted satisfaction. 

The bhaalspawn moved their hands to his chest and drew their nails down the exposed skin. Gortash parted from their lips with a moan. Blood trickled from the scratches and they went to lick it up, fulfilling the fantasy that had plagued them. 

The blood was sweeter than anything they'd tasted. It filled their senses with a different haze. They purred at the euphoric thrill of it all. They nipped at his neck and kissed at the vein they could feel pulsing under his skin. 

His hand gripped the bhaalspawn's throat. He applied pressure to the sides as he pulled their face away from his skin. They grimaced with a whimper. They felt pathetic, yet the shame melted away with the intoxicating pressure on their neck. 

“What did I say before, Assassin? Patience." He moved his grip to their jaw, positioning their face to look at him. He planted one last claiming kiss on the bhaalspawn. When they parted, he brushed his thumb over their wanting lips. He gave a small, satisfied chuckle before dropping his hand. He moved back to the ladder's base, glancing back at the wanton creature.  

"Find me in my workshop, tomorrow. You can repay the favor by helping me with a problem in turn. Quid pro quo.” He smiled a devilishly coy smile. “Tonight, you have a breakthrough to document." 

He left them reeling in their twisted lust and anger. The two emotions mixed terribly at first but settled out like an acid mixing with base, creating a neutral feeling as the pounding in their chest calmed and quieted. They finally let the death grip they had on the table relax. 

They pulled a blank sheet of parchment and scrawled desperate prayers.

‘Forgive me, Father…’ 

Part 2

This was supposed to be a smut oneshot - a self-indulgent Durgetash deranged smut-fest. BUT I guess we're here now.

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Choral

CR 6

Neutral Good Small Outsider

Bestiary 5, pg. 23 (pic taken from 2e’s Bestiary 1, pg. 17)

Created from the souls of poets, songwriters, musicians, and bards of every sort, these glorious angels are the answer to the question of “where is that holy, vaguely-Latin orchestral music coming from?” whenever especially powerful celestial beings appear. Responsible for providing the background music to every upper plane, Choral Angels tend to remain in those planes for the majority of their existence, composing new songs and ballads to all that is Good. Occasionally, their superiors will ask them to deliver messages to the mortal flocks in their care, a task they do with as much pomp and presentation as one could ask for; subtlety isn’t their strong suit... unless they spot fellow musicians in distress. While this practice isn’t always authorized, the Choral Angels rarely care for dealing with red tape and will descend from the upper planes to provide musical inspiration to unfortunate creatives who’ve been abandoned by their muses and are falling into despair because of it. Sometimes, they even fall in love. And that’s where Aasimar Bards come from!

Like all angels, Choral possess a suit of restorative spells available to them, including Dispel Evil, Remove Curse, and Remove Disease at will, making them boons for any society that hosts one. Because they occupy a relatively low rung on the celestial ladder, Choral Angels can usually get away with sneaking off to aid those in need of their talents and provide much-needed morale where it’s at its lowest. These facts combined mean the generous beings can sometimes end up living among mortals as healers and musicians for years, though their penchant for song means they tend not to be the best at keeping their heads down when Evil is afoot.

Given their small size (literally Small, something I hadn’t noticed until I wrote it down!), relatively low importance in the halls of Good, and relatively harmless appearance, any fiend or vile mortal may believe that these creatures to be easy prey... And, for the most part, they’re right! IF, and only if, the attacker can get them to land, because if a Choral takes to the air, they can fight back with a staggering amount of destructive power for their size. I don’t mean physical power, mind, because a Choral in melee is absolutely pathetic, having only a 1d3+1 slam attack. What I mean is their primary offensive measure: Piercing Hymn.

This note of divine destruction is a ranged touch attack with a 90ft range that’s so damn loud anyone struck by it must succeed a DC 17 Fortitude save or be rendered deaf for minutes at a time, but more importantly it deals 4d6 Sonic damage. With a Fly speed of 60ft and 0 melee power, there’s no reason for a Choral to ever not spend its turn getting as high above a foe as they can and blasting them to pieces with holy hymns. Their Protective Aura is especially useful in helping them maintain their dangerous distance, because if for whatever reason some fiend, or even the party, needs to fight them at an appropriate level of 4~6... well, suddenly immunity to 3rd level or lower spells goes from a nuisance to encounter defining. Hope you have someone in your party with good ranged attacks!

As Heaven’s bards, you may expect the Choral to possess some bardic talent, but you’re only partially right. They do have Countersong to drown out hostile noises and a 3/day Sculpt Sound to cause diversions and silence allied movements, but their real power lies in the terror that’s unleashed if Chorals form a chorus. Able to Harmonize with one another to join their divine voices into a myriad of holy sounds, their abilities become more potent and dangerous the more Chorals spend their swift action to join in the song: two Choral working in tandem can cast Calm Emotions and Heroism at will to bolster those in their care while Harmonizing, four can use Shout to blast cones of powerful Sonic energy outwards, while an ensemble of six Choral can generate Greater Heroism for their allies and Holy Word for their enemies.

It serves as a fun lesson, I think. Even the most harmless and gentle agent of Heaven can split eardrums, turn a cadre of peasants into a heroic army, and obliterate an entire swath of villainous forces with song alone... if they work together.

You can read more about them here.

[brinefathomcaves]

Nov 9: The Wheel of Fortune

The walls of this chamber are hung with banners depicting humanoid body parts: Eyeballs, skinless hands, anatomical hearts. The banners are always moist. On the raised platform, 10’ of stairs above the rest of the room, a flayed humanoid corpse is nailed to a wheel. Once per day, a creature can spin the wheel to receive the following:

d10

Disgust: Gain one level of exhaustion as the corpse spits in your face.

Confusion: Be under the effect of the confusion spell during the first round (and surprise round, if applicable) of each combat for the next 24 hours.

Ridicule: The corpse looks the creature in the eye and laughs. No game effect.

Pomp: A dramatic puff of sulfurous smoke, after which nothing happens. No game effect.

Betrayal: Grow devil horns, cloven hooves, or another signifier of an infernal nature. No game effect.

Foresight: For the next week, gain the ability to cast augury once a day.

Quiet: For the next week, gain the ability to cast silence once a day.

Vision: Gain the ability to see 120’ normally  in mundane and magical darkness for 24 hours.

Fortitude: Gain resistance to cold and fire damage for 24 hours.

Vigor: Immediately healed to full health. All diseases, poisons, and curses on the creature are cured.

If the corpse is removed from the wheel, it crumbles to dust, and spinning the wheel has no effect until another corpse is skinned and nailed on.

[shslskaterboy]

Look, I know people have differing opinions on Hiyoko but I feel like something most people could agree on is that her death should’ve had at least a little more pomp and circumstance; if only because I think Mikan deserves to SNAP. Like I know why Hiyoko was just tacked on for the purposes of double-murder, but imagine the drama if she was pestering an under-pressure Tsumiki while she was trying to treat the despair disease- whilst contracting it herself- and that was the straw that broke the camels back and she lashes out with the scalpel, taking her by surprise. Then Hiyoko lay dying, Mikan is looming over her, wild despair filled eyes as she relishes in the power she now holds over her, as the memories of despair now flood back to her and she begins planning her second murder for her beloved Junko. Imagine the last thing Hiyoko ever sees is Mikan saying “I guess I was a nasty, trashy pig-skank, huh?” Imagine.

[eliotrosechild]

Pigeon Pomp

The park and bus platforms are, at midday, same

as a walk by the seaboard rushed with breeze,

or the cranny grandstands hours after a game.

There, where hunger begets the fever for seed,

you find my head, sullen, with social ease,

chomping, stomping, pigeon pomping through need.

Man asks Pigeon: How does pomping suit your need?

Pigeon tells Man: Suits are pompous, needs are same.

You and we, bound by blood, cloaked with disease,

envy and pride, form graceless chords to the breeze,

mar the tokens of Regality’s seed,

and rake life’s contract with our pompous game.

By our sails, we are greatness in sport, a game

we love and hate. We fly and fie by need.

We take by want. We rape to spread our seed.

Dear murderous man, our pomp suits you the same.

Yet we are innocent when we yield to the breeze,

Juxtaposed, fat bellies of crumb fed ease.

If these pigeon thoughts offend your Gentle ease,

perhaps you ignore the pomp of man’s game,

where pride, envy and other chords hang the breeze:

man wakes to tame the day, anticipates need

and takes without remorse or shame. This same

taking is as common to hand as beak to seed.

We come to the ripe ground to eat the seed

en masse. Tireless at work, but sporting an ease,

in Congress we hoot, peck, hoot. While sesame

slips from our tongues, we’re coy to rethink this game—

“Could life, without competing, unscratch our need?”—

but the words taste dry as cotton-curled breeze.

Will we forever fly in a waking breeze?

Will we yield to the best the ripest seed?

Are we damned to hoot and peck the pomp of need?

An unsettled beak and neck finds no ease

competing in an uncompleting game:

these pompous virtues make man and pigeon, same.

At ease, my sweet, fat, pigeon man, you need

the man-bird to study its game and learn, same

as I, how pompous seed breeds a foul breeze.

[wolfcake101]

uhh facts about baldi's basics ms wc i should probably mention

i call her bbieal ms wc as to not cause confusion with myself. she goes by Wolfie though

she is made of plastic! she is 3d printed. thats why she's 3d sometimes. though most of the time i draw her 2d because its less time consuming

she IS diseased, but not contagious

those fun splotches on her are paint

she is 15 years old

mrs. pomp absolutely terrifies her

as you already know she looks up to dr. reflex a lot and likes to follow him around when possible

she ends up having to see dr. reflex a LOT because of how ill she is

also those marks on her are bruises

she likes drawing a lot!!

[aceofcupsbiggestfan]

Dionysia ta Megala

~ 10-17 Elaphebolion ~

Dionysia ta Megala translated to Greater Dionysia (or Dionysia ta astika/City Dionysia), was the second most important Dionysian Festival of the year.

City Dionysia celebrated the end of winter, as well as the crop harvest of the year. Nearing around the Spring Equinox, you can also celebrate as a welcoming of spring.

The festival has it origins in Eleutherea, a town north of Attica. A myth came about that when the Athenians rejected the Dionysian cult, he cast upon the men a disease on their genitals.

This lead to the Athenians hosting Dionysia ta Megala, as honoring Dionysus after their misfalling. Because of this particpants carried a large phallus across the polis durng Dionysia.

Several things were done every City Dionysia. Starting with the pompe, citizens continued with komos after.

Modern Hellenes can celebrate City Dionysia by following the pompe and the komos.

Plan your own route to walk, talking time to celebrate Dionysus by carrying a statue or a reminder of him.

Find a City Dionysia festival or group to join! Sing loudly and go out with friends to raucous parties. Have a feast, holding a space for Dionysus. Watch theatre, whether modern or ancient and sing hymns!

Traditional Offerings:

-phallus shaped objects

-oboloi

-wine

-water

-statues of Dionysus

Traditional Acts:

-party

-sing hymns

-hold a feast

-watch plays

-drink wine

-parade through the streets

-role-reversing

Khaire Dionysus! 🐆🍷🍇

[lauvra]

The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode by Thomas Gray

I.1.

         Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

I.2.

         Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War, Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his eye.

I.3.

         Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day With antic Sports and blue-ey'd Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

II.1.

         Man's feeble race what ills await, Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

II.2.

         In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

II.3.

         Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mæander's amber waves In ling'ring Lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III.1.

         Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

III.2.

         Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.

III.3.

         Hark, his hands thy lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more— O lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.