#Rekindling the Blood on Soul Street | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

graffitistars · 1 year ago

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OOh I'd love to see more of your OCs!! Do you have a tag for them so that I can peruse what's there? 👀 And also which of your OCs have you been paying the most attention to as of late?

I usually just tag them as "ocs" or their names tbh

My new vampire (who is yet to be given a name) is who I've been paying the most attention to behind the scenes, recently. They're very much inspired by wwdits; being very much out of the times and still dressing like it's the 18th century. I'm still building on their backstory and personality, so I won't ramble about them just yet.

However!

These four are probably the ones I give the most attention to on here!

More info about them under cut because idw spam dash

I could talk a lot about all four of these fools. Maybe I'll try and tag them more in things and draw/talk about them more often in the open, but usually with my ocs, most of their development comes from rps with friends. Still, I'm always down to ramble if anyone ever asks :'))

Mena and Kayden

Kayden and Mena are both devils, or demons, whatever you prefer to call them. They make formal/informal contracts with people to reap their souls, sort of like a business for Hell. The more souls they reap, the higher their social status in Hell gets.

A bit of a backstory ramble:

Mena has been around on Earth for a fair few centuries and is quite high in the business at this point. They're siblings with Kayden who they adopted back when he was but a poor little orphan boy wandering the streets, after losing their own baby brother under unfortunate circumstances.

The two of them were pretty inseparable in their youth until Kayden was grown up and Mena decided to move abroad, which caused a little bitterness between the two.

Tbf Kayden has always been quite independent, but sees the world and everyone in it quite narrow mindedly. Growing up, his whole world was himself and Mena and so that's all he cared about; no one else mattered to him. Mena, being broken over the loss of their previous brother and in a very toxic mindset, encouraged this behaviour in Kayden. They didn't want Kayden to trust others in case it led him to harm.

When Mena left, Kayden changed his name to get more with the modern age, he was on his own now and so his world became that little bit colder - but it's okay because he has hellfire in his blood to keep him warm :)

After a century or so, Mena returns, but the two of them are very different people now and Kayden has little interest in reigniting the past. His bad habits have gotten worse and he's not the most honest when it comes to contracts; he'll find a loophole to get what he wants without having to wait it out, so people need to be very careful with what they sign with him.

Mena, on the other hand, has gone up in the world(s)! They've seen more of Earth and have learnt to find love in the smaller things. They're now actually higher than ever in devil society, only taking contracts from those who have something to give aside from their soul. Mena is living the high life; having bought themself a penthouse apartment in a nice part of town and got engaged to their rekindled ex-lover, Rosie. However, that's not to say they're perfect and wonderful now. They can still bring out some nasty claws when they're pushed to a limit.

But yeah, that's the general gist of Mena and Kayden's backstory together. I have aus where the two of them are human, but their story together stays surprisingly fairly similar.

I'm currently working on another plot with Kayden, where he's unwillingly helping out a girl who summoned him to bring back the soul of her dead brother. It's pretty fun!

Radio and Alistair

More siblings! I'll spare you another detailed backstory with these two though.

So this version of Radio is deoncelerised from 2016 Weehawken. He's in his mid-twenties and, despite being deoncelerised, is still tormented by his mother. He's the middle child and very much a people-pleaser. His nickname comes from high school, where he did the school announcement and ran his own little school radio show over lunch; he was "the radio station kid", which eventually just turned into "Radio" for short.

He's a good lad. Runs his own independent show in his free time and works at the local radio station, working his way up the ladder. He's surprisingly anxious for a guy who speaks to hundreds of people, but I guess it's easier to talk when you haven't got all those eyes staring at you. He'd probably do himself a favour if he didn't drink so much coffee in a day, but he's gotta keep chugging by somehow!

His hair is in a constant state of needing a trim and brush, but it was the only thing about his appearance he had control over when he was still living at home, because he grew too tall for his mother to reach with a pair of scissors. He'll give himself a sensible haircut one day.

Alistair is Radio's older brother. He originated from an uncomfortable au, back in the days of SSU blog rps, which is why he's so edgy. Now he's the ex-prodigy eldest son with too short of a fuse to stick with being told what to do.

Alistair's around 5 years older than Radio and despite the two being like chalk and cheese in many ways, they get along quite well! Alistair looks out for his little brother and encouraged the rebel in him when Radio was still living with his mother. He's had his own obstacles to overcome in life, but he's come far and in most universes has his partner, Garrick, by his side.

The universe that the brothers are most developed in is one where they're werewolves! Alistair loves being a werewolf, Radio not so much, but they live together in a pack, inside a big old gothic mansion in that universe. It's actually the same universe that Mena and Kayden come from, so I guess that's why I end up talking about the four of them more than most of my other ocs.

Rosie belongs to Litzi

Garrick belongs to Casey

#sorry that was so much more than i meant to ramble about--#kayden #mena #radio #alistair #ocs #graffiti art #disclaimer: i never draw any of my ocs consistently so they may change slightly every now and then

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a-play-on-words · 1 year ago

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Open historical RP WW2 // Sergeant x (open) // MxM // mature themes may occur // 18+ // discord // dm for details

War was a merciless abyss, a realm where only the foolhardy or the deceased dared to deny its wretchedness. The looming specter of death, forever lurking in the shadows, bore down upon the soul with an unbearable weight. Some men, unable to bear the burden, surrendered their defenses and ventured forth into the maw of battle, yearning for swift release from this interminable torment. To die swiftly seemed a preferable fate to the ceaseless waiting. Each night, sleep evaded their weary frames, replaced by haunting screams that echoed through fitful slumbers, their minds tormented by unfathomable nightmares.

Sebastian had never aspired to ascend the ranks and become a superior officer. Yet, when his eyes beheld the chilling sight of his commanding officer being ruthlessly gunned down, fate bestowed upon him an unwelcome and unearned promotion. Now, burdened with the responsibility for lives he did not wish to bear, Sebastian grappled with the weight of his conscience. There was no way to abdicate this newfound authority. Such was the twisted trajectory of his existence, perpetually teetering on the precipice of death, constantly consumed by the fear that even the slightest exhalation might expose their location to the merciless Nazis. Sebastian pondered whether succumbing to the hands of his captors or meeting an instantaneous demise would be the lesser of two evils. Whispers of the German concentration camps had reached his ears, and the mere concept of them sickened his soul. Yet, it was precisely for the eradication of such abominations that he fought this war.

Morning crept upon them, unremarkable in its semblance to countless sleepless nights prior. The men huddled together, seeking solace in the meager warmth of a small fire they had kindled. The frigid air invaded their makeshift camp, a constant reminder of their vulnerability. A dilapidated German town had reluctantly offered them a shattered haven, and they had sought refuge within the confines of an old, desolate warehouse. Distant gunshots reverberated through the air, a somber reminder that safety was but a fleeting illusion. It was a perilous choice they faced—remain sheltered within these crumbling walls or venture out onto the treacherous streets. Some among them were grievously wounded, while others teetered on the precipice of oblivion. Sebastian brought a cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply, his gaze fixated upon the empty streets. The acrid stench of blood and gunpowder clung to the air, assailing his senses. He grimaced, flicking the dwindling cigarette to the ground, extinguishing its feeble glow beneath the weight of his boot. A protracted sigh escaped his lips, his hand navigating through disheveled locks of hair, before his gaze settled upon his men. They sought direction, a guiding light in this enveloping darkness. But Sebastian, burdened by the weight of his own uncertainties, found himself bereft of the guidance they so desperately needed.

As the morning light slowly washed over the war-torn landscape, Sebastian's gaze lingered on the weary faces of his comrades. Each man bore the scars of their own battles, both seen and unseen. Their eyes, once filled with hope and youthful vigor, now reflected a mixture of fear, fatigue, and a shared longing for a respite from the horrors of war. It was in their eyes that Sebastian found his own dwindling resolve rekindled, a flicker of determination to protect and lead them through this living nightmare.

The distant sounds of artillery fire drew nearer, prompting Sebastian to break the heavy silence that hung over their small encampment. His voice, though laced with the weight of uncertainty, carried a hint of unyielding determination. "Gather your belongings, boys. We can't afford to stay here any longer. It's time to move."

The men stirred, their weariness momentarily overshadowed by a renewed sense of purpose. They hastily packed their meager belongings, shouldering the weight of their rifles and donning their worn-out helmets. With a collective understanding, they prepared to venture back into the abyss, their lives once again entrusted to the hands of fate and their reluctant leader. As they cautiously stepped out onto the desolate streets, the grim reality of their surroundings intensified. Buildings stood as skeletal remnants, mere shells of the lives they once housed. The air hung heavy with the scent of destruction, a poignant reminder of the lives lost and the innocence shattered. Sebastian led the way, his footsteps echoing through the silence, each stride fueled by a desperate yearning for survival. They navigated through the war-ravaged town, their senses attuned to every subtle shift in the landscape. Shadows danced on the crumbling walls, playing tricks on their fatigued minds. Sebastian's heart raced, his instincts honed by months of relentless warfare. His gaze darted from one hiding spot to another, searching for signs of danger or the hidden presence of their enemy.

Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed through the air, the distinctive sound of a sniper's shot. Instinctively, the men scattered, seeking refuge behind whatever rubble they could find. Fear surged through their veins, intertwining with the adrenaline coursing through their bodies. They had become prey, stalked by unseen predators. Sebastian's mind raced, calculating their next move. Taking cover behind a partially collapsed wall, Sebastian observed the chaos unfolding around him.

#oc rp #rp #open rp #historical rp #ww2 rp #mature rp #discord rp #new rp #roleplay #Spotify

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mountphoenixrp · 2 years ago

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We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

Song Ezra, a 25 year old child of Seshat. They are a student and clerk at The Lion’s Den.

FC NAME/GROUP: Choi Minki / Ren / Former Nu’est CHARACTER NAME: Song Ezra AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 3 november 1997, 25 PLACE OF BIRTH: Busan, South Korea OCCUPATION: Clerk @ Lion’s Den, studying World Literature @ Phoenix University HEIGHT: 178cm DEFINING FEATURES: Ezra is a tall and slender type with "almost no meat on the bone". They walk on crutches.

PERSONALITY: The smile Ezra wears on their face is a fake, a mask. Horrific things happened to them that left them with permanent mental scars. Their photographic memory doesn’t make things easier for them either. Once very social and outgoing, they now keep mostly to themselves in fear people might take advantage of them. They rather read a book than get close to anyone, but if a connection is made, and the vibes are right, Ezra tends to cling to you like their live depends on it.

HISTORY: TW // sexual assault, near-death, depression, ptsd //

With their mom being Seshat, the goddess of literature and their dad being a poet, it was inevitable Ezra would grow up a bookworm and aspiring poet. Ezra’s been in the books for as long as they could remember and they’ve been writing ever since they could hold a pen. They were a bright child, always on top of their class and they take much pride in that.

In their senior year of high school, they applied for many scholarships abroad and was accepted into several. After some long thought, they decided to study Liberal Arts and Sciences in New Orleans and interned at a local newspaper. They didn't stay with the company after graduation, however, because of the toxic work environment. They traveled the States, having some odd jobs here and there, before heading back to Busan to spend more time with their dad and planning their next big trip; Europe.

But a trip to Europe wasn’t in the demigod’s stars.

Ezra reconnected with some old friends from high school. Rekindled old memories and catching up on each other’s adventures from the past few years. It was fun, familiar, but with a lot more alcohol this time around.

After a few glasses too many, Ezra decided to go home. By themselves. They didn’t want to be a bother to their friends who were still having fun and were seemingly not ready to go yet. The streets were dark and quiet. Not a soul traversed and it was probably not a good idea to walk those streets alone. Probably.

A group of men approached, wanting to take the poet home for some “fun”, but Ezra refused. The men didn’t take no for an answer. They pushed, they insisted, but when Ezra didn’t budge, the gang eventually brutally and mercilessly assaulted the demigod, leaving them to die in an alley by the end of it.

Days later, they woke up in the hospital with no idea how they got there. Severely scared and bruised, broken leg and a lot of blood lost, Ezra was lucky to still be alive. Or were they?

Their photographic memory, once a blessing, was now a curse as every where they went, Ezra could see what happened, see those monsters’ faces. The demigod spiraled into a deep depression and couldn’t even leave the house without having severe panic attacks. They didn’t sleep, as the nightmares kept them up at night.

Ezra’s dad was worried. Uncertain how to handle the situation, he suggested his child moved to Mount Phoenix – to heal and potentially find their mother. Ezra refused at first, but later realized they couldn’t live like a shut-in forever.

PANTHEON: Egyptian CHILD OF: Seshat POWERS:

Photographic memory

Ability to read all written languages

Able to read much faster than the average person.

STRENGTHS: Respectful, disciplined, loyal, intelligent WEAKNESSES: Emotional, shy, prideful

#kpop rp #krp #nu'est #choi minki #nu'est ren #mp; welcome

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hatraragemage · 5 days ago

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About the Rage Mage

Hatra is a Canadian heavy metal screamer who pairs powerful screams with deep demonic undertones.

My introduction to music was the classical and old Arabic music my parents used to play around the house. Growing up, there was never a moment of silence. Even though they weren't musicians themselves, it was important to them that that I learn an instrument.

Like a lot of people, I started with the piano. I wasn't great at it, but there was still something in playing that brought me peace. Around this time, my mom starting bringing home CDs of the early rock variety; The Killer's Hot Fuss and Franz Ferdinand's Franz Ferdinand became our home's soundtrack. These were also the early days of bands like Sum 41, Billy Talent, and Three Days Grace dominating the Canadian air waves.

I moved into middle school, and I found two new loves as I took up violin in my personal time and drums in school and band. These became the things I poured my soul into through the stress of high school. Finding Finnish heavy metal cellists Apocalyptica opened up a whole new world of music to me. I fell into Five Finger Death Punch, Bullet for my Valentine, and Trivium. The blend of complex technicality that I had grown up with and the teenage face-punching rage I was growing into fed a part of me that I hadn't even realized was starving.

Though I had to leave playing music behind when I left high school, I spent the years after expanding my musical horizons. Death metal, black metal, power metal... I consumed it all. Machine Head, Amon Amarth, Eluveitie, and Sabaton became my running soundtracks.

It wasn't until 2020 that I touched an instrument again. With lockdown bringing everything to a stop, I rekindled my old love of drumming with an electric kit that I rented from the local music store. My pride and joy was learning Powerwolf's We Drink Your Blood with only the single bass drum pedal.

It wasn't very long-lived.

A (minor but still very painful) spinal injury in July put a stop to everything that brought me any sort of comfort during that time. My 'social bubble' became the team of specialists looking after me. There were days where I was lucky if I could walk down the street. But I could stand, and I could breathe.

And, with the help of Mary Z, I learned to scream.

It became the only thing I cared about. It was more than just something I could do without pain. It was, for the first time in my life, something that came easy to me. I threw everything I had into into. Within a handful of years of practicing hours a day, I went from barely doing more than breathing loudly to recording the same songs that got me through the worst parts of my life.

In that same first year, I was fortunate enough to find a community in the Machine Head Sub's Club. These amazing people from all over the world gave us a place where we could love and support each other.

One of those people was England's Lord Crookedhorn. At the same time that I was pouring my heart into screaming, he was pouring his heart into his own music. He became not only my mix guy, turning my raw recordings into the visions I had in my head, but also my biggest supporter. It's an absolutely honour to be the full-time vocalist of his solo project Crookedhorn.

When I'm not testing how sound-proof the walls are, I like hiking, reading, and being the most theatrical one in the D&D party.

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graciousheaven · 2 years ago

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THE GOOD SHEPHERD Who is like You, O Lord our Redeemer? You gather all your sheep in the sheep pen, And feed them with good pasture. You heal the sick and bind the broken, You comfort those who mourn and strengthen the weak, You bring back the outcast and seek the lost. You protect your sheep from the beasts of the field, And fill them all with peace and joy. Who is like You, O Good Shepherd? You laid down your life for your sheep! You inhabit eternity, O God, And dwell in a high and lofty place, And with him who has a contrite and a humble spirit. You revive the spirit of the humble, And rekindle the heart of the contrite ones. Your ear, O Gracious One, is attuned To the cry of every broken and humble spirit. You offer deliverance to every repentant sinner. Lord, You lead your people through the deep. The Redeemer from everlasting is your name! Our souls no more shall know sorrow; For You have given us beauty for ashes, The oil of gladness for mourning. You have anointed our hearts with the oil of joy, And adorned our minds with the garments of praise. To the praise of your glory, O Lord, You have made us trees of righteousness – You have clothed us with the garments of salvation, And covered us with the robe of righteousness. In your love and mercy, You have redeemed your chosen ones. You cause righteousness and praise To spring forth before all nations. In the greatness of your strength You defeat your foes; You trample them in your fury, You make them drunk in your wrath, And bring down their strength to the earth. O Mighty One! The blood of your enemies shall fill the streets On the day of your vengeance. He who takes the way of the wicked Shall know no peace. Salvation is far from them; For their sins testify against them. The Lord is clothed with the garments of vengeance. For his wrath is kindled Against the sons of disobedience. He will repay his foes according to their deeds – Fury and torment shall be their recompense, Terror and dread shall fall upon the ungodly. But blessed are those who share in the Lord’s sufferings! They shall receive from Him their share of glory. For You, O Lord, are good to them. Blessed be your holy name, my God! For You give life and breath and all things to everyone. In You we live and move and have our being.

https://www.faithintheoneaboveall.com

#the good shepherd #great shepherd #Christ the Shepherd #graciousheaven

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youngster-monster · 4 years ago

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shallow grave

Archmage Kael’thas Sunstrider comes back home to a kingdom in ruin, a city in flames, and a father whose body has not yet finished cooling on the cold dry earth. The sky is choked with smoke and ashes; the streets run red with blood. His people need him — his people need better than him — and if he’s all that they have, then he’ll have to be enough.

He allows himself a day and a night to grieve, to bury his father and water his grave with his tears. Then, in the hours before dawn breaks on that second day, while his people do the same — while they bury their dead and mourn all that they’ve lost — Kael’thas lays down his grief and goes to the Sunwell.

The font of magic, like its city, like its people, was broken and tainted at the hand of the Scourge. The air echoes with a sound like the distant howling wind, but it sits heavy and still around him. Once it rang like a struck chord with the arcane energy swirling within.

This, nearly more than the bodies still lying in the streets, tells Kael’thas that they are dying.

His people need magic to thrive. They need magic to survive. Arthas has cleaved through the city to reach the heart of their power, but it’s no surprise that he wouldn’t bother to destroy them the way he has destroyed Lordaeron. What is left of them, without the Sunwell? What more does he need to do than sit and wait for them to succumb to the hunger that Kael’thas can already feel clawing at his heart?

Their survival isn’t a given anymore. It’s a question.

And what remains of the Sunwell offers an answer.

It is alive, Kael’thas finds, though he’s always expected that much. It is alive enough to be in pain, as its body is the sin’dorei’s body and their suffering is its suffering. Soon, it will die, and there will be nothing left to soothe the pain of their people.

But in these last moments, the Sunwell does not look for a way to ease its own anguish. It doesn’t fear its own end; for really what end can there be, for the mindless soul of a people, that shall live as long as they live and die alongside them? But it fears that they might never be avenged. They have been baptized anew in blood; now it would have them drown their enemies in it.

Magic, like its practitioners, holds grudges. It is a language of debt, spoken only through what you draw from it and what it takes from you. And there’s nothing quite so daunting as a debt never paid back in full.

Kael’thas hears this — the rage, wordless and unending, of a being that only exists as an instrument to a people’s collective will. Something in him answers.

This anger that finds its echo inside of Kael’thas is a pyre, he thinks, and it shall consume him if he lets it.

(His name means phoenix, in their language. He can no more fear the flames than the Sunwell can fear death. It is not in his nature.)

Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider walks into the throneroom changed, though the people gathered would be hard-pressed to say how. Perhaps it is in his eyes, the barely noticeable flicker in their golden light.

The Sunwell is gone. Long live the Sun Prince.

Still, no one speaks of it. They may not know what has transpired, but there is an instinctual recognition of the Sunwell buried deep in them. Like a compass points true to the north, they recognize this magic without knowing it.

He can feel it as well, like another heart within himself. The pulse, alien as it is, chills and comforts him in equal measure. He is both more and less than what he was before stepping into the Sunwell. Maybe he isn’t even the same person at all; something different, rather than exalted or diminished by the change.

“We will march in a week’s time,” he tells the new Ranger-General, Lor’themar Theron.

The man looks weary. The mantle is heavy on his shoulders, for all that he wears it well. Already he looks Kael’thas in the eyes when he speaks, and refuses to flinch at what he sees there.

“With what army, my lord? Over half our forces are dead; those who still live are exhausted, or stationed too far from the city to reach us before we depart.”

“You worry about the living, Lor’themar, and I will worry about the dead.”

The Sunwell was tainted by the Scourge when it sunk into Kael’thas; he can feel that as well. But Kael’thas is not a Well of magic that feeds an entire kingdom.

He is but a man, and a man may be touched by necromancy and survive in a way a Well cannot.

A man can be a necromancer.

And Kael’thas intends to be one. He intends to be the best necromancer there ever was, actually, because when has he ever settled for anything less?

When he walks through the streets, people hush and step aside. They see that he is grieving, and the world knows what happens when the Sunstriders grieve.

Dath’Remar founded a kingdom over this grief — for a time past, for magic that he could not bear to be parted from. Kael’thas has lost so much more; his retribution will match the scale of his grief.

He walks until the ground underneath his feet has gone black with ashes and graveyard dirt; until the stench of rot chokes him; until he can walk no more for all the bodies still not buried, and the few still walking that threaten to take notice of him. They could tear through him in seconds, alone as he is, still strong from their master’s passage.

That’s fine. He won’t be alone for long.

He knows his people by the shape of the space left empty by their absence. The awareness is unnatural — no, not unnatural. It’s foreign to him; not meant for a body like his own. Not meant to be embodied at all. It’s like an itch under his skin, a calling that he can’t quite hear.

When he reaches for it, something reaches back.

It feels rather like fire, where he would have expected ice. It stands to reason that his magic would not suffer the cold, no matter how necromantic the source. If anyone were to raise the dead with the very fire that would see them cremated, likely as not it would be him.

The flames race across the ground, seeking their brethren: the fires that used to burn in the heart of dead sin’dorei. Once found, the embers are rekindled by the deadfire; light blazes in empty eyes, and what few bodies were left behind by Arthas rise to their feet. Fire can be seen through the gaps in flesh, beneath exposed ribs, like a coal engine fueling the precious machine of their reanimated body.

The ghouls shy away from them, hissing at the light they cast. The burning dead pays them no mind, if they have any mind left to pay; they gather themselves into neat ranks to be inspected.

Kael’thas expected it to take more energy, but even the shattered remains of the Sunwell are more magic than any one man should hold; he doesn’t even feel winded. He steps up to one of the risen bodies. A civilian, he thinks; most of them must be, to have been discarded by Arthas. She looks up at him and he sees nothing in her eyes but a reflection of his own resolve.

These he will walk out of the city, to be buried with dignity. They didn’t live a life of battle, and he finds himself reluctant to give them such a restless death. Without the instinctual knowledge of weapons carrying over from their life, he’s not even sure he could make them fight.

But after— he’ll have to find motivated graverobbers, he thinks, and appeal to the noble houses of Silvermoon for authorizations to desecrate family crypts. There are many soldiers buried in the city, and he intends to make use of them all.

Again bodies walk through the streets of Silvermoon, though this time the prince that leads them trails embers in his wake rather than frost. It’s a testament to their grief that few bother to curse him for it; once he’s laid the bodies outside of the city, away from the ghouls that would devour them before they can be buried, his people come to him with questions on their lips but little blame.

Though it might be because they are too shocked for outrage to take root.

“How?” Lor’themar asks, helpless, as they watch the last of the dead lay down at the end of a row of their kind and go back to their eternal sleep.

“It is my duty to keep this kingdom safe,” he replies, which is not much of an answer at all. “And, this failing, to see it avenged.”

It doesn’t feel wrong, that playing with the natural order of things, though he expects Arthas had a remarkably similar train of thought before laying waste to the city of his birth. It feels as natural as all other magic Kael’thas has ever wielded. It will take care to keep it from getting out of hand; this is the kind of power that corrupts absolutely.

Unlike Arthas, this magic does not come from a place of corruption; it is born of the sin’dorei and for them, and draws its power from the seven thousand years of memories and magic that made up the Sunwell. As long as he holds on to that impulse of protection rather than destruction, he thinks he can make it.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel any different than other spells. Because it fits him, that burning desire to keep what belongs to him safe, to the point that he’d bend the laws of nature to do it. Maybe it wasn’t so much a transformation as an evolution; a rebirth into something not so much changed as made better suited to its task.

“You’re different,” Rommath notes nonetheless, though it doesn’t sound accusing.

In the absence of the Convocation of Silvermoon, Kael’thas brought his demand for bodies directly to the noble houses. Most have agreed, animated by the same desire to see their enemies brought down, never to hurt them again, no matter the cost. He’s making rounds through their cemeteries now, watching every undertaker in the city and any abled person willing to take up a shovel digging up caskets and carrying shrouded bodies to the outskirts of Silvermoon where their troops are gathering. They’ll have to be quick. Work with corpses requires speed as hygiene can hardly be guaranteed.

It’s lucky that they’ve somewhat lost the tradition to cremate their dead. Many still do; and they are safe from his sacrilege now, though all sin’dorei soldiers are sworn to protect the kingdom any way they might, in life and beyond. Commoners have been coming to offer their own dead to his cause. He would not ask that of his subjects; but they understand the need for desperate measures.

What good is a full grave to the living?

“Am I really?” He asks idly, crossing names off his list. The Brightwalker crypt has been emptied already; their matriarch watches over the process herself, red-eyed but strong in the face of her youngest son’s body being brought out and covered by a veil for transport. “Besides the obvious.”

Rommath tilts his head, considering this. “Not by much, I suppose.”

“Is it a good difference?”

“That, only time will tell. But it’s a necessary one; that much I believe.”

Of course Rommath would understand. They are, in the end, creatures of pride, and pride begets duty. Good has nothing to do with it.

They march out of Silvermoon with a force diminished from the invasion of Quel’thalas — but still thousands strong, and twice what they might have been able to gather if not for Kael’thas’ foray into graverobbing. Grave-borrowing? He’s regent, now, would be king if he had bothered to get crowned. He has a right to conscript a few bodies, he thinks, if he promises to give them back after.

Arthas leaves a clear trail to follow, and they do. The dead can march forever, if need be; the living are not so impervious to fatigue, but desperation pushes them forward nearly as efficiently as Kael’thas’ magical control would.

He rides at the front, half a mind on the control of the army of undead at his back and the other half on the army of undead they’re marching towards.

They plan to cut Arthas’ path in Northrend; they meet the Forsaken on their way north, which is a surprise for both parties.

An arrow nearly takes Kael’thas’ head clean off his shoulders. It combusts in flight and disintegrates to ashes before reaching him, caught by a mage more attentive than he is. The next volley meets the same fate, and is quickly followed by the soldiers shifting formation — Lor’themar’s cry of protect the prince answered by hundreds of clanking armor.

Looking up, Kael’thas sees them coming from the trees like wraiths; dark figures, alight with death magic, but walking with a confidence that the shambling masses that Arthas controls simply lack. He holds his counter-attack, for now, though their approach makes his entire body shake with a kind of aimless bloodthirst. The Sunwell remembers what has hurt it; it does not forget hate nor fear easily.

When it becomes clear that the undead will neither attack nor come forward, Kael’thas rides out of the protective circle of his men, heedless of Lor’themar’s complaints. He recognizes Sylvanas soon enough. She’s a difficult woman to forget, even looking for all the world like she’s just clawed out of her grave.

“Ranger-General Windrunner,” he greets, as pleasantly as he can muster. He’s had a hard time sounding pleasant, lately. “I’m afraid I’ve given away your job.”

Her glare is a fierce thing, and her hand flexes around her bow like she’s considering striking him down anyway. “Prince Kael’thas. You’re alive.”

“No need to sound so disappointed.”

Ignoring him, she casts a look at the troops at his back. He can imagine what she sees: the strange glow of the reanimated soldiers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the living in an uneasy, desperate show of force.

“Your soldiers are not.”

“Indeed they aren’t.”

Her sharp eyes come back to him, assessing. “Have you gone and pledged yourself to the Scourge, then, since you could not beat it?”

Her tone suggests he would not leave this place alive, if that were the case. But her assumption is only met with a flash of rage; Kael’thas’ grip over his reins goes white-knuckled, and he has to breathe shallowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“I would have Arthas dead by my hand, if I can; the Sunwell concurred, and gave me the means to achieve this goal.”

It is a remarkably reserved way to summarize events. Yet Sylvanas looks as if he had struck her, eyes widening as she takes in the force behind him once again, quickly.

“Ana’band tur, anu dor’ishura belore.” You speak, and we should hear the sun. Once a ritual phrase meant to show respect to the king or queen of Quel’thalas; now a literal truth.

He tilts his head to the side in acknowledgement. “So it is.”

As expected from the fierce ranger, she takes that information with suspicion rather than relief. She squares her shoulders and asks, walking the fine line between curiosity and suspicion, “What makes you different from the Scourge?”

“I do not claim to resurrect anyone.” At her disbelief, he gestures at the army at his back. The corpses are still in a way the Scourge, ever shifting like one giant creature of hunger, could never manage. “They are all animated, by magic and the lingering will of their soul to protect their land — puppets rather than slaves, I suppose.”

When one lives hundreds of years, their soul leaves an imprint on the body that is hardly scrubbed by death. Even when only skeletons remain of the people they once were, the bones remember what it was to love Quel’thalas — and to die for it. They are ready to do it again, if they must.

Sylvanas observes him silently. Gauging him, though what she hopes or expects to find here he doesn’t know.

“Will you join us?” he asks, once it becomes clear she will not speak again.

“We have taken Lordaeron for our own — as free, independent people. I cannot fight your war, prince.”

Death changes them all, no matter which side of it they are on. If she considers herself more undead than she is elven, then so be it.

“Then will you fight with us?”

Sylvanas Windrunner has never turned down a fight. Especially not against the Scourge.

Northrend is a cold, barren place, but Kael’thas’ army burns bright as if it is carrying its own sunlight, stowed away in the gaps between their bones. It keeps them warm when the howling blizzard would tear the flesh right off their skeleton.

It is only a worry for those of them who still have flesh to lose, which is a majority by not quite as much of a comfortable margin as they may like.

Kael’thas makes them march on until they can’t take another step, and then a few miles more, until the snow and the storm-grey sky have become one uninterrupted expense of darkness and they have no choice but to put up tents and fires. His men suffer through because they, too, can feel the end coming. They are running out of time. Soon fate will decide whether Arthas lives or dies, and Kael’thas intends to wrestle the decision from its hands.

The dead among their ranks light the way in the dark, they keep frostbite and hypothermia away, they keep their kin safe. That is what they were made for.

The fire set to an arrow and the fire of the hearth come from the same ember.

And through it all Kael’thas keeps a tight hold over the magic that animates them. It grows in him, like a fire kept well-stoked by rage, rekindled whenever it falters by the sight of yet another body puppeteered by Arthas.

Every forward party, every cohort of undead they cross paths with, they dispatch with immense prejudice. And once the dead have been killed again, they sort through the wreckage and pull the sin’dorei from their hard-won rest.

Fight for me, Kael’thas whispers, breathing fire into the furnace of their chest. Fight for your people, so that they may one day rest as you do.

There is nothing left of the person they once were in these restless dead — sometimes very little of their body even — but that small kernel of devotion to their kin, that banked ember that he coaxes back into a blaze.

Their numbers keep growing as they pick the Scourge apart, little by little. It makes them easier to spot; good. Let Arthas come track them down. Let him face the people he sought to destroy, and be destroyed in return.

Someone else takes notice of them — this glowing army of half dead men that burns through Northrend on its way to the Frozen Throne.

The demon hunter descends upon them, armed and unafraid, as if he might fight them all single-handedly if given the chance. But he keeps his hands at his side as he asks which master they serve, with a kind of foolish hope that they may not fight him.

“We serve the crown of Quel’thalas,” Lor’themar says, bright and sure in his role of Ranger-General, shielding Kael’thas behind his greater bulk. “Who are you? Who do you serve? Who do you fight?”

Illidan Stormrage serves no one, he claims, but himself; but he fights the Scourge, and the man at its head who would summon Archimonde to their world, and little matters more in an alliance than shared hatred for the Scourge nowadays.

Kael’thas steps past Lor’themar, crosses the barren space between his army and the lonely figure of the Betrayer, stands toe-to-toe with him and asks, “Will you fight with us?”

And Illidan — anger burning in face instead of eyes, a grief too large for even he to carry — a man who has only ever had himself to fight for, and to fight with—

This man looks back at Kael’thas’ smaller form, at the burning army of the dead that follows him, at the suffering of a people hounding his steps. He looks at the dark resolve in his golden eyes and the stubborn set of his shoulders as he prepares to fight — he’s always prepared to fight — and sees himself, younger and fairer but just as hungry. Just as desperate.

Victory or death, he whispers, quiet around a mouthful of teeth and blood, taking Kael’thas’ hand.

Sometimes both, Kael’thas replies, only half in jest, and shakes it.

These are three armies alike in desperation, taken to the limit of their force, unified in singular hatred of the force marching to the Frozen Throne.

It’s their edge, in a cruel way. No one could expect them to reach Arthas in time to cut him off; no one but themselves, pushing themselves to cross the continent in half the time it ought to take, the dead carrying the living when their mortal bodies fail.

They’re sharp, the three of them, all too clever for their own good, each ruthless in their own way. Each foolish in the same way. Sylvanas would have their men die to reach the battle one day sooner; Illidan would die himself for a chance at slowing Arthas down; Kael’thas would burn this continent to the ground and fall with it, if it meant ridding the world of its curse for good.

They balance each other out, somewhat, or rather keep each other contained by virtue of their sharp edges, like brawlers stuck in a fighting ring made up of the drawn blades of the audience. Stray too far from the plan, and you bleed. It’s as simple as that.

As a long-term alliance, calling it flimsy would be an abject overestimation. But here, in Northrend, with their time quickly running out, it’s as solid as steel to Kael’thas.

“You are fascinating,” Illidan says, watching the way golden light plays across Kael’thas’ skin as he weaves the spell over his troops stronger, makes sure they keep moving, keep burning, and never run out of fuel. The Sunwell is not an endless source; but it will hold until the end. That much he knows.

“I don’t think I am,” he replies easily, though that’s a lie. He knows himself to be one of a kind; but he’s been raised properly, and it’s impolite to brag.

Illidan doesn’t buy it for one second. “You are,” he insists, holding a strand of Kael’thas’ hair between two claws. It emits a faint glow, like heated metal, that might go unnoticed if not for the color it casts over Illidan’s darker skin. Like holding sunset in his palm. “All the power of a well of magic, held within one man— It’s not so much a surprise you can raise the dead, when one thinks about all the other things you might do with such magic at your disposal.”

Slowly, so Illidan might clue in before he makes a remark of it, Kael’thas lifts his eyes up and quirks up an inquisitive eyebrow at the piece of his hair that the other man is currently manipulating. He flushes, dark against his nightshade skin, and drops it as if it burned.

Pity; Kael’thas did not mind the touch, only found it amusing that Illidan would give it so freely. But the man might not have noticed himself doing it. Out of habit, perhaps, of being more free with his affection among other demon hunters; or because he, like many of the magic-infused elves, finds himself drawn to Kael’thas for reasons he could not put into words if pressed upon it.

Pushing the offending strand of hair behind his ear, he casts a glance across their assembled troops again. His men mill about, as comfortable among the Forsaken and Illidari as among their own. Only the dead stand still, puppets without a purpose yet. He longs to put them to rest. It aches to see them denied their rightful afterlife.

“This power isn’t mine,” he says eventually. “I must give it back, though I do not know — do not wish to know — how I will go around to doing it.”

It surprises him that he’s willing to say that much, to a man so nearly a stranger as Illidan. But it is true: he is running out of time in many more ways than one, and once Arthas is dead and he has brought his brethren back to their graves, he’s afraid of what will be left for him to do.

A phoenix must die to be reborn, after all.

At least he would die for his people; there is honor in that. What would happen if he were to die here, on this frozen hellscape, bears not thinking about.

He will not, cannot, fail.

In the final battle — their last chance before Arthas ascends to the Frozen Throne and crowns himself Lich King — Kael’thas thinks he may die.

His blood is hot on his skin, the stench of the undead pervasive in the air, and though every one of his men that fall can still fight he’s not sure the same can be said for him. He’s nearing his limits; he’s not sure he’ll notice he has crossed it until it’s too late.

Kael’thas wants to scream as he struggles to wrestle the control of sin’dorei from Arthas’ grasp, to cut the strings that tie their spirits to this world and burn the Lich King’s mark from them until only the piece of sun inside of them remains. Give me back my people. Let my kin come home. Let me bury them properly, and never disturb their rest again.

The wind whips his hair around his face as the battle rages, and each arc from his sword draws blood, too thick with decay and frost to splatter over him. All the blood on his skin is his alone; or his kin’s, but that is very nearly the same thing.

But he’ll make it through; he has to. For his people, for his father, for all the bodies held together by magic and prayer fighting around him.

When he reaches Arthas, the world falls to a standstill.

He’d like to gloat; he’d like to rage. But words fail him. Felo’melorn in his hands, the ghost of the sin’dorei at his back, it does not matter. Actions speak louder than words.

Whatever his sword says for him, Arthas gives his answer in blood.

#writing #world of warcraft #kael'thas sunstrider #illidan stormrage #necromancer kael'thas

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skiller0dani · 4 years ago

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Briefly Lovers | Timothee Chalamet

M A S T E R L I S T

smut | vampire au part 1 requested requests info wanna be on my Timmy taglist? click here sorry if it takes me a hot second to write your request, I’m kinda being flooded with them rn xx thanks for all the love and support guys!

It was harder than he was expecting, almost ten times harder than the last time he’d had to do this. Timothee had settled into his new life easily enough, it was always easy for him to assimilate, he’d sure done it enough times. This time he’d picked a house on the countryside of a small city he’d forgotten the name of. It reminded him of his own childhood home, though he could barely remember anymore. Those memories were locked somewhere deep in his mind, stored away in a lifetime from over 250 years ago. He was no longer that carefree child, throwing seed to the chickens. It doesn’t feel like him anymore, now he spent every waking hour resisting his blood lust and now trying to push you from his mind. His chest constricted just at the mere thought of you, and his heart seized if he heard your name fall off a strangers lips. Why did you have to have a name so commonly used? He heard it everywhere. On mens lips that didn’t deserve to say it. You awakened something from deep within his heart he had not yet mustered up the courage to face. It was raw, it was wild, it was passion, it was so painfully human. Something he had not been for longer than he could remember.

He thought about returning to the man he used to be, to the prowling monster clinging to the darkness that loomed as the sun set. There certainly wasn’t a compelling reason to try to reclaim the man he used to be. Timothee never asked for this, he never asked to be turned. He would have rather been left to die in that hospital bed. Timothee knew she thought she was helping him, but dear Susanna was subjecting him to a lifetime of loneliness. All of that melted away when he was in your embrace, and he hated that he could still feel your nails dragging down his back. Your lips against his neck, your arms around him, the warmth you helped blossom in his chest. This sort of emotion was dangerous, it means that Timothee could start to care. The more he cared, the more he lost. Better to have nothing to lose, leaving your enemies with nothing to take away. So Timothee stayed holed up in his new home, far from other people. Far from you.

If Timothee thought you’d let him go without a fight then he was sorely mistaken. While it was true that you didn’t know exactly how to find him, you were certain you could find a way to bring him to you. Now the plan you were beginning to concoct in your head was 7 flavors of crazy, but you’d fallen in love with a vampire. A vampire. You thought crazy was exactly you needed right now. If keeping you safe is what drove him away, then keeping you safe would also bring him back to you. Right? You chose not to question yourself or talk yourself out of what you were about to do. You couldn’t go another second without him, every time you close your eyes you see him. His messy chocolate curls that he managed to tame, those eyes that shined like emeralds, his smooth voice he could use to coax you to orgasm. A shudder ran down your spin upon remembering that wild night you shared, no barriers between your bodies. No hesitation, no sadness, just you and him. Your body craved for that again, and what scared you more was that your heart craved it too.

This was crazy, it was beyond crazy. Mainly because of the fact that since Timothee up and left, your Dad has been borderline unhinged in his desperate search for him. He hadn’t even attempted to hide the truth of the situation from you or your sister, practically saying it plain. You had no idea how he was going to react to what you were about to say as you descended the stairs. All you knew was that you needed to draw Timothee out, you needed him. When you rounded the corner into the kitchen you saw your Dad where he usually was. Hunched over the counter, with maps and books sprawled out in front of him. “Still looking for the runaway neighbor?” You ask as you move to stand next to him. He groaned, his eyes looking tired but his expression tight and he could do nothing more but nod curtly. You nibbled on your lower lip, the anxiety in your gut beginning to take over as your blood practically curdled in your veins at the level your anxiety had risen to. You straightened your back and reached for the sleeve of your shirt, you’d been practicing this for quite sometime. You wanted it to look perfect, and more than that you wanted it to look convincing.

“Dad I have something to tell you.” You began, effectively drawing his attention as you rolled up your sleeve. You had sculpted a convincing enough bite on your forearm, using the powers of horror movie makeup and a bottle of fake blood. Your Dad immediately grabbed your arm and yanked it over towards him, a rekindled flame of rage in his eyes. “Was it him?” He asks and your body trembles from the sheer intensity of his voice. You nod, your palms beginning to shake- this might not have been a very good idea. “He bit you?” Your Dad asks for further clarification, and by now it was unspoken between the two of you that you were aware of vampires. And that you were also aware that your neighbor is one. “Yes he bit me, he said he wanted me to be his forever...” You lied, turning your eyes to the tiles of your kitchen floor. Your Dad releases you before turning to a kitchen drawer, yanking it open and searching for something inside it. When he turns around, he’s jamming a needle into your neck.

“Sorry sweetheart but when the blood lust takes over I won’t be able to trust you. Don’t worry- I’ll fix this.” He whispers as the world around you begins to blur. You reach out to grab him, but your movements are sluggish. His arms wrap around you to prevent you from falling as blackness spots at the corners of your eyes. He holds you to his chest when your body has slumped fully against him, and he lifts you into his arms before swiftly carrying you out to his van. He knew leaving the monster across the street unattended to would bite him in the ass, and it did. Except it bit his daughter, in the goddamn arm. Thankfully, as long as you haven’t drank human blood- there was still a way to fix this. The bite on your arm looked pretty fresh, and your eyes hadn’t turned quite yet so he knows you haven’t had your first drink yet. As long as he can get a hold of Timothee, this can still be fixed. He just needs the blood of the vampire who bit you, and then this will all be over. If he couldn’t cure you, then he’ll do what needs to be done. By then, you won’t be his daughter anymore. Just another monster walking the Earth wearing his daughters face.

The contacts your Dad knew spread their ivy vines, probing for information regarding the young handsome vampire who’d bitten his daughter. The drive to the warehouse just outside town was a longer drive then he’d anticipated but you couldn’t be around people. He should have driven a stake through Timothee’s chest when he first had the chance, it’s time to end this once and for all. Why did you never listen to him? He told you to stay away from Timothee and you disobeyed him, and now this is the position you’re in. His eyes flashed to you through the rear view mirror. Your arms are strapped to the wall of the van, and your ankles are held to the floor. Your head is slumped low and he can only hope you won’t wake before you arrive. When you arrived at the warehouse, you were still- thankfully, asleep. Your Dad lifted you into his arms and brought you to the warehouse, strapping you up inside it and placing a leather strap over your mouth. “We found him.” A man says approaching your Dad’s right side. Your Dad pulls out a Polaroid camera and snaps a photo of you, handing it to the man. “Give him this, and the address.” He instructs and the other man nods before taking the photo and heading for the exit of the warehouse.

Timothee sat near his fireplace, his stubborn mind once again drifting to you. For the first few weeks his thoughts were purely animalistic, thinking of bending you over the back of his couch. Or on your knees in front of him, dick in your mouth and tears down your cheeks. But now, he thinks of nothing but your smile, how radiant and full of life it is. He thinks of the way you say his name, so soft, so intense, it runs shivers down his back. He thinks of your fingertips trailing down his arms, holding him so tenderly that you almost convinced him that he deserves a happiness like that. Timothee understands a truth that you do not, he understands that monsters like him don’t deserve happiness like that. He didn’t want to sully your pure heart with the darkness looming in his soul. He leans back in his chair, beginning to be consumed by his thoughts when a pounding on his door draws his attention. Timothee is on his feet, slowly making his way towards his front door but when he swings it open there’s no one standing there. Out of the corner of his eye, something nailed to his door catches his attention. When he pulls the photo free, his entire world stops. It’s you, tied up and gagged but it’s what’s on your arm that constricts his heart the most. You were bit. At the bottom of the photo is an address written in sharpie, and he’s out the door.

Your vision is bleary as you slowly open your eyes, flood lights pointed straight at you. The lights blind you, hurting your eyes as you struggle to adjust to it. Behind the lights you see a figure sitting in a chair and when you feel the leather binds holding you to the wall, and the one placed around your mouth you know you made a mistake. Your vision clear enough to see your Dad sitting and observing you carefully, a dangerously detached look in his eyes. “Soon this whole mess will be behind us sweetheart. Timothee is on his way, and as soon as he arrives I’m going to drive a stake through his heart and drain his body of every drop of blood in his veins.” He says smoothly and tears build in your eyes as panic rises in your chest. You begin to cry out against the leather strap, tears in your eyes as your desperate words come out muffled. You pull and yank your limbs against the restraints, your desperate cries ripping through your throat. Your Dad nods to someone to his left and soon the leather strap is removed from your mouth. You gasp for breath as you continue struggling against the straps. “Dad, please don’t hurt him! You don’t have to hurt him!” You beg, tears staining your cheeks.

“I know he’s infected your heart, you think you care for him but it’s not real Y/N. He’s bitten you, all you feel is loyalty because his blood runs through your veins.” Your Dad explains in an even voice and you pull harder, the straps cutting into your wrists. “I love him! I’ve loved him since the first second I saw him. Please don’t hurt him please!” You plead, your eyes begging him as he stands and takes a few careful steps towards you. Your Dad kneels in front of you and brushes tears off your cheeks, “I’ll never see him again I promise. I’ll do whatever you ask but please don’t hurt him.” You cry, your voice hoarse as you look up at your Dad. He smiles, but the emotion doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks down at you. “This is not love, this is infatuation. Forced blood loyalty. That’s all it is, and once he’s dead you will be cured of the weakness in your heart.” He says softly, pressing a kiss to your head before securing the strap around your mouth again. You scream and try to bite at the leather strap as he turns and walks away. A flash of lights flood the room and a smile slides onto your Dad’s face as he reaches for a wooden stake. “He’s here.” Another man says and your panic sky rockets. You sob, pulling as hard as you can even though you know you’re breaking skin.

Everything moves in slow motion as the door to the warehouse open and you’re trying to cry warnings to him through your muffled gag. When Timothee walks in, his eyes are on you before you see a stake driving through the middle of his chest. You scream, your eyes locked on him as you slump against your restrains- sobbing. Blood runs down the stake and wets his shirt as he looks at your father, and you can see the life leaving his eyes. Your Dad walks over to him, grabbing him by the neck before cutting his neck open and draining his blood into a bucket. You feel hollow as your eyes stay fixed on the cement floors of the warehouse, and you just feel numb. You close your eyes to will the tears to stop but they just keep coming. This isn’t real, this isn’t happening. Your Dad didn’t just kill Timothee right in front of you because you pretended to be bit. Oh God this whole thing is your fault, and you choke through your sobs. Suddenly you feel your arm and leg restrains being torn and when you look over, your heart stops.

Timothee is crouched beside you, his eyes glancing towards your Father and the other men surrounding what you thought was him. When he pulls your mouth restraint off his palm is over your mouth, “shh.” He says and helps you silently stand. Your eyes stay trained on him, tears steadily flowing down your cheeks as you follow him through the building. You stay in the shadows, following his every step as his hand stays securely wrapped around yours. His eyes flicker to the bite on your arm and his heart breaks in his chest, he didn’t want this life for you. Your other hand holds his arm, still not fully believing that this is real, that he’s stood in front of you. Eventually you make it to a side door and slip out into the night where you can breathe as you take a step away from him. “I- I just watched my Dad kill you, how are you..?” Your voice trails off, your heart hammering against your chest as you reach for him. Your hands smooth down his chest and his arms are around your waist. “It’s called astral projection. Something Vampires can do. Not very often, but it’s a useful distraction.” He says, his voice hurried as he grabs your arm- observing the bite.

“Who was it? Baby who bit you?” Timothee asks, his hands cradling your face as he looks into your eyes. There is panic in his eyes, and an immeasurable amount of fear behind them as he studies your face. “Nobody Tim-” You start but he shakes his head as his hands gently wipe away the drying tears. “I will find whoever did this and I will kill them. Have you drank from anybody yet? I promise baby, I’ll fix this.” He stammers, holding you tightly. You reach your hand towards your arm and begin lifting the makeup, effectively pulling the ‘bite’ off your arm. Timothee falters, his eyes studying your arm- no bite anywhere to be seen. “It’s make up Timothee. I just- I needed to see you badly and I didn’t know how else to draw you out...” You trail off and he releases you, taking a few steps away from you. There is an unreadable expression on his face as he looks at you, “are you insane? You could have gotten yourself killed! Jesus you could have gotten yourself killed Y/N.” Timothee gasps, running a hand through his curls. Your throat closes in embarrassment as you avoid his gaze. “What the hell were you thinking? Have you ever considered that maybe it’s better for you, if I’m not around? Look at what’s happened to your life since you met me!” Timothee says, his voice strained as he watches you.

“I don’t care! I love you.” You exclaim, catching both him and you by surprise. Tears are pushing at the corners of your eyes again as you look up to meet his gaze. “I love you Timothee, I don’t care about how dangerous it is I just want to be with you. Please take me with you,” You plead as you take a slow step towards him. He looks up at you, his hands coming up to gently cradle your face again as he presses his forehead to yours. “You’d choose a life on the run, a life like this...for me?” Timothee asks as your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders. You nod immediately, “yes. I want to be with you.” You whisper, your hands holding him tightly. Timothee pressed his lips against yours, salty tears mixing in as tears rush down both of your cheeks. “I love you, are you sure this is what you want?” Timothee asks, his eyes searching yours as he looks at you. You smile as your fingers tangle in his hair, “I want this- I want you.” You breathe and his hand wraps around yours before pulling you away from the warehouse.

When you arrive at his house, your back is immediately pressed against the wall as soon as the door closes. He grinds his hardening cock against you and you gasp. “Baby, if we do this there’s one condition.” He whispers in your ear, and you nod desperately wanting him to just keep kissing and touching you. “I’ll let you come with me, but I will never bite you. Ever.” Timothee says, his voice tight as he looks down at you. Your heart drops, the thought of spending forever with him is far too tempting to pass up. If he won’t bite you, you’ll just have to find another Vampire who will. “Fine.” You huff, your lips moving to find his again. Timothee hums, satisfied by your answer as his lips press to yours again. Your mouths move together, languid and slow as his hands reach up to pull your lips for firmly against his. You grind your hips against him, needing to soothe the throbbing between your legs. Timothee takes the hint and slides his hand down your front, under your jeans. His fingers find your slick lips and he smiles against you, “soaked already baby? You’re so ready for me aren’t you?” He asks, his voice low and you nod frantically. His fingers gently toy with your clit, moving too slowly for your liking as he lazily rolls circles over your bundle of nerves. Your hips roll with his movements as you whine against his lips.

“Please Timmy, more.” You plead and you hear him groan under his breath as he takes his hand from your jeans. Before you can protest he’s lifting your legs and wrapping them around his waist as his hands hold you up by your ass. Timothee walks you through the house before gently laying you back against his bed. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you baby,” Timothee whispers as his fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans. He pulls your jeans down your legs, “couldn’t stop thinking about your perfect little pussy.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Timothee slides his hands up your bare legs, another groan escaping his mouth when he sees the black thong you’re wearing. “Couldn’t stop thinking about how it felt to be inside you, so warm and so goddamn wet.” He breathes, his voice husky as his pupils dilate as he looks at you. Timothee continues pressing kisses up your thigh, pressing one light kiss to your clit over the fabric of your thong before moving to kiss down your other leg. “Fuck,” You whine, your hips beginning to wriggle as the heat builds in your stomach. “But mostly, I couldn’t stop thinking about your smile, your laugh. Your beautiful eyes, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how fucking much I missed you.” Timothee admits, his eyes looking vulnerable as he looks up at you.

Finally his fingers pull your thong down and he groans loudly seeing your pussy glistening for him. “God, I missed you so much baby.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. He presses his tongue into you then, his fingers rubbing at your clit. Your back arches off the bed as a strangled moan falls from your lips. “Fuck baby,” You moan loudly, your fingers winding into his hair to pull him against you more firmly. Timothee continues to push his tongue into you, moaning softly at your taste. Your cries come out more strangled as he continues to wind that coil tighter in your stomach. His cock is pressed against his pants so hard it’s beginning to hurt. No matter how much he jerked himself off, he could never cum. Only you can make him cum. He replaces his fingers with his mouth over your clit as he slides 2 fingers into you. Timothee changes the frantic desperate pace he just had for a much slower one. He very gently and sensually pushes his fingers into you and draws them out slowly, causing you to whine as the pressure in your pelvis builds. “Please don’t stop, please please,” You plead, your voice almost coming out as a cry. Timothee doesn’t stop, he keeps his slow languid pace as he gently builds you up until you’re squeezing around his fingers. You cry out as you throw your head to the side, feeling your cum gush around his fingers.

Your heart races and your eyes are closed when you feel Timothee slide up your body, his nose brushing against yours. You open your eyes and your arms wrap around his shoulders, “please baby. Make love to me.” You whisper against his lips and you feel him smile. His hands reach down to push his pants down his legs and off his ankles before he’s lining himself up at your entrance. You spread your thighs wider for him as he presses the head of his cock into you. Your face buries in his neck as Timothee gently slides into you, the warmth and tightness of your pussy overwhelming him as he releases a shaky breath. One of his hands cups your cheek and the other slides under your back as he slowly pulls out of you so that only the tip was inside you before pushing back in. The pace was slow, long deep strokes that reached places inside you that you didn’t know existed. Your legs open further for him as he continues so slowly thrust into you, and you feel the heat spreading through your veins like fire. “I love you.” You whisper into his neck and you feel goosebumps spread over his skin as a shiver runs down his back. “Say it again baby,” Timothee groans, his pace increasing a little as your orgasms approach. You look into his eyes, “I love you Timothee,” You say again and he drops his head to your chest- taking a nipple in his mouth. In an instant that coil snaps and you cry out, squeezing around him and effectively sending him over the edge. He cums into you as you cum around his cock.

Both of your hearts are racing as he pulls out of you and lays beside you. Your breaths are heaving as he reaches over and pulls you into his chest. “I love you too baby.” Timothee says, his eyes closed as he squeezes you against him. You nuzzle against him, peppering soft kisses across his chest. “You’re not gonna leave again are you?” You ask as your eyes begin to droop and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Baby I promise I’ll still be right here when you wake up.” He promises and you relax completely against him, all anxiety leaving your body. You feel sleep beginning to take you as you cuddle into his side more. “I know you don’t want me to be turned, but I want to spend forever with you.” You breathe into the silence and you feel his body tense. Fear courses through him as he presses another soft kiss into your hair, “sleep my love. We can talk about this in the morning.” He says and you nod, finally letting sleep take you.

***taglist*** @sflowervol6 @90sthemedsunsets @newletas

#timothee chalamet smut #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet #timmy chalamet #timothée chalamet imagine #timmy chalamet imagine #lil timmy tim #au #vampire #vampire au #vampire smut #vampire timothee chalamet #timmy chalamet vampire

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kdram-chjh · 27 days ago

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Cdrama: Hero is Back (2024)

Gifs of Ending of cdrama "Hero is Back"

ENGSUB 【镇魂街之热血再燃 Hero is Back EP01】热血少年随心而战守世界安宁丨动作 / 冒险 | 敖瑞鹏 / 张予曦 / 金珈 | YOUKU COSTUME

Watch this video on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHgjHBTtdo4

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pkmnsdarkqueen · 4 years ago

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The Johto League as their dnd class and races

From this

that helped inspire all of this

(used hero forge )

Tiefling bloodhunter:lycan -Karen

So blood hunters of lycan use elemental magic and this may come as a surprise but her main one would be ice and secondary one would be fire. Gave her rougher kind of attire but still suitable for exploring. Also gave her a lamp to keep with her cannon theme of light in the darkness. Also scattered arrows cause she'd take a volley and act like it's nothing.

Rest under the cut!

Owl folk Sorcerer: psionic soul -Will

Owl cause ye he's a bird but no he's not a usual bird but an owl cause hey they fit the wise sort of psychic vibe. He's got street sort of fancy clothes though because hey it fits his street magician vibe. Also his magic would naturally be purple.

Minotaur Barbarian: Ancestral Guardian -Bruno

Still doesn't have a shirt and still ripped af. Again in this world practically all minotaur are violent monsters but not Bruno. Unknown to him he's from a different dimension where minotaur are peaceful. He doesn't know that tho so here he's he's anomaly with jo memory of his past having just broken free of some mind control. It's the simple things like fall leaves and good friends he's enjoying.

Yuan-ti Monk: Tranquility -Koga

It took some time for the tranquility to set in what with his mafia dealings. No matter this he eventually settled in with the monastic tradition while bettering himself. One day he hopes to find his daughter and rekindle what he lost. His magic though is a sick green as he has delved heavily in that of poisons. His staff is worn from many fights but sturdy.

Dragonborn Paladin: Oath of the Ancients -Lance

The one managing the chaos of everyone else. He left his restrictive responsibilities at home and fell into this lot. With his trusty steed though he has traveled far. He's wearing armor similar tk that of his home still tied to them in that way, and is the most scholarly of the group. He's a classic dragon born paladin but with some lovely coloring taking inspiration from him and his dragonite.

#(look this still pops up in my head sometimes)#dnd #campaign #johto league

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fuyumiworld · 4 years ago

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•(you are gonna feel angry)•

•(or sad)•

•(or you won't feel anymore)•

Long, long ago in , the pious Tanigakure humans built a great tower as an epitome of their faith and reverence to their Goddess, Nera.

The Goddess, deeply moved by the human's piety, decided to reward them for their devotion. With her grace, she opened an ethereal door that was connected to another world at the very peak of the tower, it was known as the Heaven Eye.

Soon after, it was from that very door visitors descend from the world beyond, the creatures known as the Feather race . or, as they are now called : Dragons

These beings of the Feather race soon opened an alliance with the humans. They had come bearing with them varied stones precious beyond measure, each piece foreign and unique to this world.

They instructed mankind in the ways of the steel-making, forging, and craftsmanship. It was from them the human race learned to make armour for protection, skills in self-defence, weapons for combat, essential tools for daily life, crafting jewellery and ornaments.

Among other things, they also shared their vast knowledge in agriculture improvement, lore, arts, literature, architecture, alchemy, mathematics, science, history, a common alphabet and language. By applying their methods, crops grew in abundance, yielding a bountiful harvest far more than the past and an end to starvation of women and children. Scrolls, books and scriptures became widely spread as every human regardless of age or gender were taught to read and write.

The inhabitants that lived surrounding the great tower soon started to construct magnificent buildings and comfortable homes with the advanced architecture they had learned from the Feather race whose designs they had attempted to mirror. Gone were the days of wooden houses, muddy huts and fragile barns, for in its place the landscape now stood tall concrete buildings that scrape the skies with spires and arch roofs.

Many statues of the dragons stood erected all across the cities and the streets below were always swarming with life. The vicinity itself never seemed to sleep as every district was illuminated with the light of candles be it day or night.

Thus the human societies and civilizations surrounding the Heaven Eye became a symbol of progress and limitless potential as it thrived and prospered by leaps and bounds, all thanks to the generous guidance of the benevolent dragons

The glorious future of mankind seemed to be as bright as the light of the sun itself.

However...

In the light of that glory of the alliance between the dragons and the humans, drunk on comfort and pleasure, the humans had begun to forget their past hardships and struggles. As time passed, so did their gratitude for the dragons wane as they forgot their debt .

Humanity's greatest weakness was greed, and it never seemed to end.

It is a hole in their hearts, a bottomless pit that no power, wealth, status or knowledge could fill. Regardless of how long they try or how hard they struggle, mankind could not change what was in their nature. Never having enough, they kept asking for more and more, until the day mankind's fall from grace took place...

One day in a land of snow, a man called Guld kidnapped a baby dragon -in order to demand more treasure and power for himself.

Despite being helplessly restrained and bound, the small dragon did not yield to his demands. And when he had refused every last one of his requests, Guld brutally murdered this innocent dragon

The moment his lifeless body fell to the ground and his blood stained the white snow a brilliant red, the fate of humanity was sealed.

When word of this atrocity reached the ears of the King of dragons, he was enraged beyond words and swore to cast this ignorant, greedy and ungrateful race into oblivion.

What was once worshiped as Heaven soon became Hell.

In the course of a single night, the world as mankind knew it became a purgatory; in the place of the once kind dragons from Heaven Eye to nurture and teach them, mankind received powerful monsters bent on punishing the human race with their annihilation.

With the alliance now broken, the once proud city that stood at the pinnacle of human civilization were set aflame as they fell to the onslaught of the dragons .

The streets that used to be full of laughter and happiness was now replaced with chaos and the screams of confusion, horror, and terror while the burning fires raged on.

Many lives were extinguished that night, and countless more bloodshed followed suit. The air thick with the smell of burned flesh as hot blood ran freely on the cobblestones.

The skies were bolted out with the armies of heaven as a Dragons swoop down and pierced through the retreating inhabitants with their fire and immense Chakra, covered from their wings to their heads in a deep crimson.

Structures crumbled and fell to ruin, the smoke from the burning shops and houses choked the air and painted the night sky with clouds of black, adding depth to the darkness.

As the howls of the city inhabitants died off, the screams of the following city sprouted anew, and repeated so to the next, and the next... the dragons did not stop.

Eventually, Tanigakure and its surrounding cities in the River Land were engulfed in dark days and fear as the remaining humans had either attempt to repel the dragons escape from their reach or simply fought among each another for resources to survive. Family, relatives, friends, loved ones, many were slaughtered and untold lives were lost, neither women nor children were spared from the dragon's wrath.

The land was nearly drowned in the blood of the fallen, and humanity itself was driven to near-extinction. Those few surviving refugees were forced to seek shelter deep beneath the underground caverns and caves to hides from vigilant eyes of the dragons Without a stable supply of crops and hardly any fuel left for warmth, the demise of the human race seemed imminent and most began to lose the will to live.

This was the darkest age of mankind.

Yet, all was not lost.

It is said that chaos and despair breed the greatest of heroes.

So it was that from that conflict, the hope of mankind was rekindled with the emergence of Ostin, a shinobi from Tanigakure with the strangest pair of eyes who was the son of a women and a dragon He called and gathered various shinobi around the world, both far or near, to join his great cause and led them to fight back against the dragons

There were many setbacks in the beginning, as the angels still proved too difficult to defeat. Nevertheless, as time passed and more allies joined the battle, they started to turn the tides of the war.

Many brave shinobis willingly gave their lives for hope of peace, to reclaim their world from the dragons once more. Never before had humanity been this united.

Inspired by the hope of Ostin's charisma, more and more brave shinobi begun to gather under Ostin's banner like moths drawn to a bright flame. With his leadership, mankind was able to rise from depths of despair and defeat, banding together and fighting as one against the dragons with renewed tenacity and vigor. Gradually, the shinobi army began to win more battles against the feather race.

Finally, humanity won the war and forced their defeated dragon foes back to their own world through the Heaven Eye.

The long, hard arduous war was at long last laid to rest in human history. The dead were mourned as lives lost to end the war was the price for the future paid in blood.

This historic event was marked as "Adam's Heavenly War".

After their victory, Ostin personally handpicked five hundred of the most powerful shinobi fighters and led them as a special guardian force.

These brave souls who patrol the Heaven Tower are known as the "Templar"; they were known afterward by

The 竜司

‘Dragon, rule’

The Ryuuji Clan

200 years passed in peace,

Note : based on Ghostblade

#Oc #new oc #open rp #naruto rp #teaser #Ryû #rp

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moeruhoshi · 5 years ago

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I haven’t written the end of this yet bc idk which way I want to go but yeah tell me what you think so far

She loved him so much, but couldn’t remember his face anymore. What could this painful feeling be classified as? She had everyone she’d ever known, her father, her friends, the face of her mother was well imprinted into her memory. And of course, she saw it every morning when she looked in the mirror.

But he…who was he?

An ex-boyfriend? He couldn’t be, she knew all of them, unfortunately. And was reminded of them at least once a year when they tried attempting to rekindle their old sparks, but the flames of her heart had gone out for each and every one of them.

Maybe an old friend? No, she knew all of them too, and their group had always been closer than ever. It was only so often that a group of friends were so lucky to graduate all three prep schools together before deciding on and getting into the same college. Graduating together was another amazing feat. They all worked relatively near each other and felt no real need to leave their amazingly huge town, even meeting up every week to have dinner and go out together.

Her life, in other words, was beyond perfect. She was a teacher and used her summers to work on her novels, one already published and stamped with a best-sellers award.

Nothing was wrong, how could it be? She had everything she ever wanted, plus her father had no say in the way she lived anymore.

So why did she feel so painfully empty? When she looked at Erza and her husband, Jellal, she wasn’t jealous, but longed for a love just as beautiful. The same went for Juvia and Gray, not forgetting to mention Gajeel and Levy. Even Cana had Bacchus and their more than twisted relationship, but really, she wasn’t jealous of the love that surrounded her.

A childhood friend to fall in love with, that would’ve been nice.

Maybe she wasn’t the best at choosing guys to date…Loke, Dan, and Sting…they’d all lasted quite long, but they weren’t him. Whoever he was.

And he…well he knew who she was. The love of his life, how could anyone forget their first love?

She was beautiful, with hair that shone like the sun, a smile sweeter than candy, and whenever she said his name, fuck. He was done for the day he set his eyes on her. Preschool was a wild time.

He was fortunate enough to grow up with his first love, to see her go from being an idiot and then a weirdo, the prettiest weirdo.

She was too good for anyone, even him. So he refused to be anything more than her best friend. And when he knew he couldn’t be forever, after the night they finally shared their first kiss…

Oh wow, what a kiss. Her lips were softer than marshmallows, and her body in his hold felt smaller than ever. She moaned softly against him and tied her hands around his neck, fingers softly curled in his hair. The hazy-eyed look she gave him after they parted; he’d give anything to see that again. But as she whispered her confession of love to him as the two stood in front of her door that night, he had to say goodbye.

He manipulated himself out of everyone’s memory and forced her to think she just hadn’t met the right guy yet. He knew she would, she was amazing, it wouldn’t be long before she was taken.

There was no way he was going to let her be dragged down by his being; demons…they never did deserve a happy ending.

No matter how much leaving her side killed him, an angel such as she couldn’t be poisoned by his darkness.

Lucy wasn’t tired, but she woke up feeling tired; when didn’t she? Coffee didn’t remedy the lagging feeling that weighed her down, but surely she hadn’t always felt this way. Something felt like it was missing, a part of her day that would just get her blood racing and smile spreading, a feeling that instantly reared her to take on the day.

She would lean against her counter and sip from her mug, staring blankly at her empty kitchen island. A faint scent of breakfast wafted under her nose as if trying to coax a memory.

Mornings filled with cooking and light baking, food spread across every inch of the counter space. She faced the stove and fiddled with something in a pan, smiling as warm arms found their way around her midsection.

“Smells good, Luc...”

The blonde snapped from her distant thoughts, lifting a brow as she wondered to herself what she had just been thinking about.

Shrugging off the forgotten thought, Lucy continued with her day and went back into her room to get dressed for work.

The days where Lucy didn’t have any plans after work, time seemed to go by slower than it usually did. This was another thing about her life that consistently followed her around, as she had nothing much to look forward to after the workday. Even when she was dating Sting and he’d be waiting in the lobby for when she came out of the elevator...the elation of knowing the two had plans together never able to make her unbearably giddy.

She was an author who wrote about love. It wasn’t uncommon for a young female author to be popular for their detailed description of two lost souls finding one another amid various dramatic occasions.

Her most famous book, The Adventures of Iris, told tale of a girl and her best friend traveling the mythical world of Edolas. They fought monsters, villains, and whoever decided to get in their way. It was a classic adventure story where everyone was zoned in on the love between her main characters. Their friendship was sweet and loving, the two went over and beyond to take care of one another. And when they finally confessed with a kiss...millions of readers felt they could die happily.

It was a love that mimicked the love around her; strong, hot, and warm; the love Lucy so desperately wanted. Sting, as kind as he was, could not give her the love she unconsciously searched for.

Her apartment building wasn’t far from her office, making it a simple enough walk to take alone when the workday had finally finished. The streets were always relatively empty, the sound of the cars on the road beside her honking and filling the air as after-work traffic picked up.

Jamming her key into her door, Lucy’s mind wandered again, fooling her into a sense of excitement that pretended to bubble in her stomach. The smell of the food coming from her kitchen wasn’t real, nor was the faint image of a smile...a smile? And not one she could place with the face of anyone she knew.

Just as quickly as the thought flashed before her, her mind was equally quick to move on, reminding her to continue the usual routine she performed before bed.

Dinner was lonely and quiet, her eyes staring through the ghost across the table. The local news filled the silence and drowned out the distant laughs of the past that unknowingly followed her around.

Once the lights were out and she laid alone in bed, Lucy said a goodnight for her mother up in the heavens and another for the friends she had hidden in the stars.

Another strange sensation would make its appearance at some point before she fell asleep. A kiss to her forehead, warm arms securing their position around her waist, and the nuzzle of someone’s nose against the nape of her neck. She couldn’t help but tear up, reaching for a pillow to hold close to her chest as she shut her eyes tight. A rush of endorphins would slide through her, the want to look up into the eyes of the one she truly loved her most demanding feeling.

“Goodnight, N…” Sleep would overtake her form before the name of her cursed mentality could surface.

Morning would come, and again Lucy’s life continued bleakly, lacking the excitement and warmth she was unable to source.

Today was Saturday, and every Saturday, Lucy would get dressed despite not having any plans and take a walk around the city.

She took the same route; going from her house to a breakfast nook two blocks away, then to the farmers market where she would pick up ingredients for a light picnic to have alone underneath the rainbow sakura in the park.

It was a relaxing ritual that Lucy very much enjoyed. Sitting underneath the trees even if they weren’t in bloom always had a way of taking the stress from her overworked body.

She would read with her back pressed against the wide berth of a tree, her hand stroking the air in her lap. Not that she ever noticed, being too focused on the book she was reading. The light touch of someone’s nose against her stomach went unnoticed, arms that held her waist dearly disappearing in the slow blow of the wind.

Lucy stood up to begin her walk home just as the sun was setting, stifling a shriek when she felt something warm and fuzzy against her ankle.

“A cat? Oh goodness, you really scared me, little one!” Lucy let out the breath she had unknowingly held in, smiling down at the blue cat that looked up at her. “Blue? Did you get into some paint...Happy?”

The blonde had knelt down to pet the suspiciously friendly feline, reading the name on his tag that thankfully listed his home address.

“Hargeon? How’d you make it all the way to Magnolia?” She giggled and picked Happy up, unable to hide her smile as the kitten instinctively cozied up to her chest. “I guess I’ll make the trip to take you home tomorrow, I’m glad they won’t need me working on Monday so I can do some sightseeing too! Do you think you’ll be able to show me around town for a bit?”

Lucy laughed as the cat meowed in response, their conversation continuing as she walked them home.

She never thought of herself as a cat person but this cat, in particular, made her want to do nothing but open her heart, to explain her hopes and her dreams, that she was weirdly close to a cat she’d just met and was afraid of how far the depths of her loneliness reached.

As the moon rose above them and the two laid in bed, Happy watched as Lucy fell asleep, caught up in the fatal memories that haunted her every night. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he watched his adoptive parent suffer so greatly with the absence of her greatest love.

He pawed away the trail of tears left on her face as she slept, cursing his idiot owner for leaving her all alone like this.

#nalu #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #natsu and lucy #lucy and natsu #natsu x lucy #lucy x natsu #nalu fanfiction #nalu angst #fairy tail #fairy tail nalu

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candyshua · 5 years ago

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It’s a Long Way Home | Chapter 10 (Finale)

Pairing: Joshua x Minghao x Reader

Synopsis: It was dark, and then it was light. You’re finally lucid. After 15 years of not being conscious, you wake up in a desolate and post-apocalyptic earth where infected flesh-eating beings roam the streets. Soon enveloped into a mysterious group of survivors, you consistently wonder who they are. But most importantly, who are you?

Genre: Heavy angst, some fluff here and there

Warnings: Gore, bad language, physical & verbal abuse

Word Count: 2k

The world unfolded before your meek eyes. What was happening soon sunk in, and you immediately ripped your already bitten arm from "Joshua's" grasp. Looking down, you noticed a bite mark was there.

But then, like magic, it disappeared. It faded off of your skin gradually within the course of a few seconds, and you displayed no signs of turning any time soon. The moment your blood touched Joshua's tongue, a series of gargles elicited from his mouth and then he fell, clutching his chest. The Doctor watched intently, and Minghao merely rushed over to help you. "Are you okay?" He stuttered, and you just nodded emptily. You paid no mind to Minghao, your attention was on the dramatic scene happening in front of you.

The first thing you noticed about Joshua was his eyes. Soon, a familiar brown coated the white vastness, and pupils sprouted like a sudden unexpected rainstorm. Color returned to his face, and his flesh tightened and cleansed itself. The reverse transformation was surreal, along with extremely satisfying. His teeth whitened, his lips weren't a pale blue anymore; he was Joshua.

Clutching his chest with both of his hands, he fell to the ground and passed out in front of you. If somebody would've walked in at this very moment, they would've seen four humans.

Soon, your eyes widened and the tears on your cheeks dried. Your eyes wandered to the open cut on your arm, no signs of being bitten near. It was just a cut, like being sliced with a knife.

You were immune.

And you were the cure.

Time blended together in a haziness. Days felt like weeks, as your mind swam in and out on consciousness. The reality of the power you held kind of drove you mad temporarily, but any heated haziness can be replenished with a sweep of ice cold reality.

It started when Joshua would wake up in the middle of the night, in the hospital of Fort Lockwood of course, and then he'd puke up blood. You assumed it was just his body getting rid of the infection, but to be fair you had no idea how to react in this situation. Any medically experienced fellow would have been absolutely stumped. Slowly, Fort Lockwood was rebuilt and The Doctor was under constant surveillance. You helped revive the fort to what it used to be, along with taking care of the excess scientists.

You had felt heaps of guilt, knowing many people died due to their mere inconvenience. So many souls succumbed to the title of "Collateral Damage". They were executed because they were in the way - and that was that.

Truth be told, it had been four days since your attack on Fort Lockwood, but it felt like four months. Everything was so slow, worry tended to drag things out until the final show - where everything all comes crashing down. It was like you were in a play, and the end was near.

But one more plot twist was in store, just to mess with you.

Today, you would finally talk to The Doctor - face to face. Alone.

You walked into the dimly lit basement where Joshua was once constricted, that thought being enough to stimulate an anger deep inside you. You strode over to the beaten down man, who once reigned down upon his own miniature civilization. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Now, he was under the control of somebody he used to own, somebody he used to control.

You could do whatever you wanted to him. You could torture him like he did to you, you could let him starve to death, hell - you could untie him and let him walk out a free man. You weren't foolish enough to do so, but you knew you could have.

You were powerful. This time, you were mighty and great, you were no longer the girl subject to a glory-desiring genius or her amnesic self. You were the one with the good hand, it was like showing your royal flush to fellow poker players. The prize was so close, yet so far. But, was it as glorious and magnificent as it was prophesied to be? Was power what you wanted?

You knew you wanted to make him suffer, like he did to you.

Alas, you were a living example of it - you had won.

And, The Doctor had many answers you needed. But, you wanted his name to be forever tainted - not glorified as he had wanted. So, when you walked in that room, you had a vision in your mind.

"Hello." You hissed, the pure rage burning inside of you. The Doctor scoffed, his ragged, pale skin and scruffy grey beard only adding to his pathetic and defeated nature. His icy blue eyes were no longer sparking with the evil dreams that blew inside of him, instead they were hollowed out with the harsh winds of you. You played with the gun in your waistband, until you pulled it out and pointed it directly at his head.

"I'm making it quick. Have fun rotting in Hell, buddy." You grumbled.

And then you squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot rang through out the room, but you didn't care. The incessant ring in your ears was overpowered by your triumphant smile. Victory was yours, and it tasted oh so sweet.

A week later, Joshua's puking wouldn't stop. You had talked to Seungkwan about it, but his blood loss was extremely risky and potentially fatal. You didn't have the technology nor the staff to figure out what was happening.

Yet, you didn't really need that. Joshua called you to his room one day, and he knew exactly what was happening to him. The thick quiet atmosphere spoke louder than so many things you wanted to say, the air impregnated with a poignant awkwardness. You two had talked over the course of this week, but there was something gone. He wasn't the Josh he was before, but did you expect him to be?

"He did horrible things to me." Joshua mentioned oddly, the once quiet air now drowning in those sad words. You didn't need to be told, for you knew the horrible extensiveness of The Doctor's actions. You just nodded and let him talk.

"He told me why he did it...How he created the virus, how you were immune...And then he fucking injected me with it- and you saved me." He continued, and you just nodded solemnly. "I don't think your blood cured me though, Y/N. I think your blood reversed whatever happened...I think it's poisoning me."

The cruel reality of fate was quite entertaining at times. It was obvious -- if your blood was the cure, then why didn't The Doctor have you hooked up to a machine? Of course he had tested your blood before. And, of course, it didn't work.

What were you supposed to do? Pretend to be shocked at the inevitability? You and Seungkwan had tried everything in your power to end Joshua's sickness, but it was no use. You knew - you god damn knew - that Joshua was going to die. And it was your fault.

You wanted to cry, but it was like you were dried out from the insurmountable amount of tears you have cried this week. You just sighed, and then laughed.

You laughed hysterically, to the point where tears rolled down your face endlessly. Joshua didn't react, he knew it was an odd reaction of some sort. Soon, your laughs surprisingly turned into tears, and then choking sobs. "I'm so sorry!" You wailed, and Joshua just held you like he used to, before everything went to shit.

You weren't at home when you in Joshua's arms. Joshua wasn't himself anymore, and you both knew that. "It isn't your fault." Joshua soothed. Truth be told, it really wasn't. He would've continued to be a mindless infected buffoon if you hadn't tried to save him with your blood. You had given him a little more time.

"I fucking poisoned you..." You shakily sobbed, as he stroked your hair and bit his lip. He wanted to cry, but he had accepted his fate. The pain of knowing that Joshua couldn't hold on to his love for you is what troubled him the most. For your love was a flame, but eventually it dwindled and burned out.

Now, just ashes were remaining. And here in the pile of ashes, you cried for what could have been.

"You gave me more time, Y/N."

"I shouldn't have killed The Doctor. He could've fixed this-"

"You did what was understandable." Joshua interrupted, hushing you softly. Soon, a comfortable silence engulfed you two, and all that could be heard were your quiet sobs or Josh's soft, slowing breaths.

"I want you to be happy, Y/N." Joshua mumbled, and you knew what he was getting at. You knew he knew, but you refused to believe it. Denial was a strong force after all.

"What do you mean?" You questioned dumbly.

"You know exactly what I mean. Don't guilt yourself into being alone forever. I can rest happily knowing that you'll be happy." Joshua mumbled, and you just sucked in a sharp breath.

You wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that he shouldn't give up because you loved him, but that wasn't true. You weren't at home with Joshua, there was no warmth. The love was gone, and it rekindled for the man who had been waiting for you. Joshua had still loved you, and he would die loving you. And in another life, he would be happy with you.

Just not in this one, for you would be happy with someone else. And Joshua? Well Joshua would be dead.

That night, Joshua had died beside you. And soon you learned that your blood wasn't the cure.

Not only that, you had discovered everybody from the ship you were previously on came down to Earth, and your father was no where found. And now, you lie in bed next to Minghao, a year later, still in Fort Lockwood. The world would continue on, and The Doctor's name would forever be cursed.

You and Minghao sat on top of the watch towers, looking over the forest that surrounded Fort Lockwood. It was around 2 AM, and the two of you sat in a comfortable silence. You wanted to say something, like that your period was late -- or that it had been a year since Joshua died.

But you just sat there, in silence. It was like Minghao knew the sound of the silence, he could listen to it.

During this past year, you and Seungkwan had worked endlessly with samples of your blood. No cure had surfaced.

Not only that, but no word from your father had been heard either. And as you stared into the dwindling dawn, you realized some questions would never be answered. Then, the sun rose and everything went on, like it always had.

And for a split second, you were again that girl who was confused with herself, who didn't know who she was or what she wanted, but then the feeling died. You lied in bed next to Minghao, resting after your night shift, and stared at his closed eyes.

A new passion erupted in you, a passion that was fueled from your love and experiences. It made you want to protect Minghao, it made you regret not being able to protect Joshua, and it made you you.

It was like a new reality was discovered -- a clearer more dense one. You weren't one of the good guys -- you had killed, stolen, and lied. You did all of those things because you thought you were right.

Yet looking back at it, you were so wrong. And an even harsher reality sunk in once you realized you could never make it right. You would forever be a killer, and a burglar, and a liar.

Your eyes sunk into Minghao's closed ones, and tears fell out of your eyes before you could stop them. Everyday, you would try to find a cure to help the fucked up world you lived in. You had no time to think about your happiness, because the world sat in your hands.

In another life you would be just another normal girl -- but not in this one.

THE END.

#joshua hong #joshua hong x reader #the8 x reader #the8 angst #the8 smut #the8 fluff #joshua angst #joshua fluff #joshua x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen angst #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader angst #seventeen x reader fluff #xu minghao #hong jisoo #minghao #jisoo

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dailymolliarty · 5 years ago

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The Mouse and the Spider by I’m Over There: Jim Moriarty gets bored. Molly Hooper gets lonely. They’re just two planets revolving around the brilliant sun that is Sherlock Holmes, drawn in by his gravity. And his light. But everybody needs distractions…

Song as Old as Rhyme by @wherestoriescomefrom: Hush, the wind is blowing hard. Be quiet, child, sleep soundly - Or the Dark One will steal your heart. [Beauty and the Beast AU]

Nameless by @wherestoriescomefrom: The first name was expected - even welcomed. The second, on the other hand, left much to be desired. And Jim would never understand what it was about it that was compelling. [Soulmate AU: On one hand, the name of your soulmate, on the other - your enemy. Molliarty.]

The Rose Point Manor: A young woman struggling in an unjust society takes a break from the theatrics of pretending to be her male counterpart, Mark Hooper, and decides to relax at the quiet but foreboding Rose Point Manor. There she comes to a realization that something far more sinister lurks there than at her morgue back home - Victorian AU

We’re Ancient History: When Molly Hooper had begun her scientific expedition, she never knew her time on the dig sites would unearth more than the dead.

Forget Me Not: “This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.” What happens when two lost souls find each other? Are they still forgotten? - Amnesia!AU

Capture My Good Side: “Photography is all about secrets. The secrets we all have and will never tell.”

Deus Mortis: "You can hide from the devil, but he’ll always find you.“ - Victorian AU

Face Value: “I’m not sure how to describe this nonsense, basically Molly looks good in a moustache and Jim notices.”

Not a Body Farm: Molly really should’ve known better than to download FarmVille on a criminal mastermind’s cell phone, even if it had been a hilarious joke at the time. Since one day she wakes up in a bed in some random farm in the middle of nowhere, and the deed to the property in her name.

Oh God, Not the Westwood!: In which timid Molly Hooper must hide a heinous crime from a man who likes to watch a murder take place while drinking his morning coffee.

Life Preserver: “Missing you comes in waves and tonight I am drowning.”

Midnight Edition: The Bittersweet: Pop-rocks can be unpredictable. In an instance, a delight to the senses, or startling painful the next - smut

The Bittersweet: Even delicious things can be sour, at another glance.

Third Date Syndrome: Long bouts of silence and awkwardness on first dates are inevitable, and for the hundredth time Molly wished she was exempted from it.

We’ll Always Have St. Barts: “I wish I didn’t love you so much.” - Casablanca AU

Apex: Molly Hooper thinks fondly of Jim from IT, but can’t get enough of Jim Moriarty - contains smut~

The Parting Glass: After Reichenbach, Molly Hooper is drowning. She receives a package, request and tradition from a very dead Jim Moriarty. She receives nothing but burdens from a very alive Sherlock Holmes.

Rust and Stardust: “The last long lap is the hardest. I shall be dumped where the weed decays, and the rest is rust and stardust.” - Jim is a ghost, and wouldn’t it just figure that he haunts Molly Hooper.

Wild and Precious: “Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” - How Molly fell in love with a ghost, and tried not to waste her life beside him. She failed. - settled in the same universe of Rust and Stardust

Release: Written for the prompt “Jim fucking Molly so hard and so good that she can’t even get a full word out, only moans and half-uttered curses “: In which Jim surprises Molly after work - contains smut~

A Love Outside of Time: There’s a lot of strange happenings at 2945 S Willow Street, shrieks and screams and moans that have terrorized the neighbors and left the house unsold for generations. Can the great paranormal investigator, Sherlock Holmes, exorcise the spirits living there?

Gifts Given and Received: Sherlock ruined Molly’s Christmas gift and Jim is determined to make her holiday better. - ASIB AU, contains smut~

Cabernet Sauvignon: Written for the prompt “Jim’s ready to propose, but wants the event to be special, and so he hides the ring in Molly’s wine. Molly drinks it down too fast and chokes on the ring”: A fluffy slice of life, where Molly makes Jim’s life just a little less lonely.

Power Dynamic: Molly can’t help trying to control the insanity that is Jim Moriarty. A framework for his mind to lean on, a collar to hold him together, a mistress to keep him mostly sane.

Asphodel: “When you need slightly-less-than-legal magic substances, you seek out ‘Moriarty’s Special Imports and Fineries’. A new branch of Necromancy, pathologist-in-training Molly Hooper returns a set of counterfeit goods and receives a job offer in return.” - Fantasy AU

Her beast feature: “As he studied her from afar, Jim thought Molly’s best feature was her neck. He really didn’t anticipate her reaction to Sherlock beating a dead man with a riding crop.” - Molly x Jim, PWP, set at the beginning of A Study in Pink

Junior: So what’s a beleaguered pathologist to do when the UK’s Most Wanted turns up to visit her cat?

Mr Sex: Jim doesn’t ask her what she likes or what she needs; it’s not necessary. But he asks her what she wants - contains smut

Sunday Afternoon: Sleep with Molly Hooper: Molly canceled their date at the last minute, but no one messes with Jim’s precisely organized calendar and gets away with it.

Why Don’t You Do Right?: Seb arranges for Molly to get an extra special, early birthday present. Jim gets to learn something new about Molly. And Molly discovers one of Jim’s deepest secrets.

Club Calavera: Downing five zombies doesn’t give Jim the liquid courage he needs to ask Molly a very important question. It only makes him forget that he and Molly are already together.

Happy Birthday, Jimmy Boy: Jim’s never had a good birthday. Molly’s determined to buck the trend. - contains smut

It’s A Nice Day For a [White Wedding]: The wedding of James Moriarty to Molly Hooper can be nothing less than a momentous occasion. In his speech, their best man recounts some of the juicier bits of Jim and Molly’s journey into matrimony.

Cold War: She had to admit Jim was creative. Who else would think to kill three ice cream salesmen from different towns and attach a one-worded note to each corpse, forming the sentence, “Ready to concede?”

My Persuasion Can Build a Nation: In a world where Eurus had a best friend growing up, she doesn’t go to Sherrinford, nor does she turn out as unhinged as she did in canon. However, she’s still Eurus, and her brothers absolutely forbid her from meeting Jim Moriarty. She’ll just have to fix that, won’t she? Also: Matchmaker!Eurus ftw.

What Sober Couldn’t Say: “(11:23 pm) Drinking again(11:24 pm) And since it makes me too sad to go on my blog anymore thanks to you, I figured it’s only fair you become my new place to vent(11:25 pm) You’re probably not receiving these messages anyway so no harm no foul(11:25 pm) Right?” - Molly drunk-texts Jim over the course of several months.

I Wanna Feel Like I Am Floating: “Now the question is…" He vamp-flipped them over so she was lying down and his body was pinning hers. “Should I tie you up and make you take it, or are you going to be a good little vampire and let Daddy have his way with you?” Jim & Molly’s journey: blood-sharing edition.- Vampire!Molliarty AU, s-m-u-t.

Coffin Shopping: Sebastian could only imagine what the other, mostly ancient customers perusing the store must be thinking of the couple in their thirties, bubbling with laughter and fooling around as they ran about in search of the perfect coffin.

Come To Daddy: Jim failed to see how Molly’s physicality could ever not be arousing. The size of her lips did nothing to detract from how amazing she was at sucking cock. The size of her breasts made it no less fun for Jim to cup them in his hands, tease her nipples into hard peaks, suck on them until she squirmed and made those delightful little sounds. - smuttish ;)

Intention: A take on how the brief but unforgettable office romance between Jim from IT and Molly from Pathology began and how it just might become more than just a simple office romance.

An Exchange: Jim Moriarty comes across a familiar face and realises, from just one exchange, that it is not merely Sherlock Holmes that connects them, but a connection of their own.

A Beginning: Jim Moriarty tries to make sense of new waves of sentiment as his office romance with Molly Hooper transits to become something more.

Interruptions: Molly Hooper is made to face a stunning revelation about Jim Moriarty, but it is her reaction that stuns him most.

An Enemy’s Gift: In the pursuit of his greatest enemy, Jim Moriarty makes an unexpected discovery.

On Fanfiction.net:

Life: James Moriarty is in trouble, so much trouble that he fears for his life. He soon learns, however, he has absolutely nothing to fear, not with Molly Hooper around.

Spiders: Molly and Jim have a casual chat laced with hints of their plans, revealing a side to Molly that both surprises and seduces Jim.

(Re)kindle: Jim Moriarty is perplexed at the lasting impression a certain Molly Hooper has left on him. When his rekindled fascination with her meets an unexpected obstacle, an animosity is ignited.

Other fics:

- The Demon I cling to

- The Anatomist

- What Slinks Unseen (one-shot)

- Safety in Small Numbers (one-shot)

- Heart Shaped Buttons (one-shot)

- I.O.U (in progress, Season 4 AU)

- A change of clothes (one-shot, smut)

- The Uninvited House Guest

- Home is where (one-shot)

- Danse Macabre (one-shot) mine

- Lay your body next to mine (one-shot, mine, smut, dark themes)

- Symmetry (one-shot)

- Kisses for the Devil (one-shot)

- Descend (one-shot)

- Death and the Maiden

- The Number Is (one-shot)

- The Devil’s Own (warning: dark themes)

- Reality of Innocence (warning:smut)

- Gifts (one-shot)

- Thanaptosis (warning: dark themes)

- Pulse (one-shot)

- Yorick’s grin

- Hades (one-shot)

- Gay (warning:smut)

- Oaths, affidavits and Other Lies

- Brain Drain (one-shot)

- Counting Days (one-shot)

- A conversation starter (one-shot)

- Spinning Tornadoes (one-shot)

- Secret Veins and Arteries (warning:dark themes)

- Watching the world burn (one-shot, smut)

- Death and the Maiden

- Unloveable

- Sweet Dreams (one-shot)

- Frozen Feelings

- Forever and Always

- I will burn the heart out of you

- Choke (one-shot)

- His Dark Mistress (one-shot)

- He saved the last dance for me

- Exsanguination (one-shot, very kinky smut)

- Almost Anyone (one-shot)

- No Space between Us (one-shot, smut)

- Brain Drain (one-shot)

- Between the bars (one-shot, smut)

- Troubleshooting (one-shot, smut)

- Falling (one-shot, smut)

- Knots in this noose of mine (one-shot)

- Glass shatters softly (one-shot)

- Victor, meet spoils (one-shot)

- He kindly stopped me (one-shot)

- Blow the House Down (one-shot)

- The answer is one (one-shot)

- Strings (one-shot)

- Heartbeats in the Dark

- The Fox (one-shot, smut)

- Bad Romance

- Lion and the Lamb (one-shot)

- Red Song in the Night

- The Rules Are (one-shot)

- Molly Mine (one-shot, smut)

- Restless Things (warning: very dark themes + Johnlock)

- Intention (one-shot)

- At the End of it all (one-shot, smuttish)

- An Incorrect Deduction

#jim moriarty #molly hooper #molliarty #sherlock #fic recs

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kenimichrow · 5 years ago

Text

The Landless King (Arvaelon Narkerym) 1: The Day of Memories

Spring in the Southern Continent, City of Flosee

That day was a day of memories.

It started with good memories. It was a new city in a new continent. A new country with a new culture. I had already been there a few days after arriving from Masserine, where I had left my magic teacher to settle into his retirement. Having rested a little, I could now go out and explore.

The city was filled with sights to behold. I met a merchant with wondrous wares from all parts of the Sessite Confederacy. Each item was extraordinary and unique, and he explained each one’s origins in detail as he tried to convince me to purchase it. Alas, traveling is not the most profitable of pastimes, and so I had to turn him down. He seemed to think I was haggling and brought the price down, but in the end I could neither afford the luxury nor the weight.

Soon after that I wandered into the palace district. I gazed upon huge majestic buildings with foreign architecture that I couldn't even begin to understand and admired their lavish beauty. You’d think that I would have had my fill of such displays of overly obnoxious amounts of wealth from my decades in Kessan, but there is a reason they cost so much. They were dazzling with a hypnotic strangeness unique to the Sessite Confederacy’s culture. I’m sure I made more than one palace guard anxious as I stared at them from the street, so I did not linger at any one palace for long.

Flosee, however, is not only beauty and wonder. That day, I met a poor soul who tried to pick my pocket. I chose not to pursue him as he ran into the market crowd after I foiled his attempt, but his presence reminded me of the dark underbelly of the city that I had been ignoring.

He wasn’t the only poor soul in the city.

I pretended not to see them, but slaves littered the city. It made my own slave mark tingle beneath my leather bracer as memories of ancient pain tried to surface. I pushed it down, intent on enjoying my day, but my momentary pity for the thief rekindled the same thoughts for those shackled in the market.

My mood soured, but I told myself I could do nothing for them. It wasn’t as if I had sparked the Revolution of Sladora myself. I had simply played my part. There were other far wiser men who had given me the opportunities to free myself. I had been the soldier, not the commander, and so I wouldn’t know how to light the match of similar flames here. And even if I could, would I do it wherever I saw slaves? Travel the world, setting every city on fire who dared to collar their fellow man?

I saw my long lifespan stretch before me, and a weariness began to weigh down on my soul. The Revolution of Sladora had been a hard and trying time, and I selfishly didn’t want to repeat it just to change the entire world. I just wanted to live in it, content that I myself was free and that I had my homeland of Sladora to return to.

Perhaps Tuenoril was right, and I was a coward without conviction. Our whole family was now dead, countless years of their life cut short, and what had I done to stop it? Counseled caution? Spoke of endurance and waiting for an opportune moment? As I waited, our sister had wasted away in the same bed where her nightmares were made real. Would the slaves in the market waste away too under their suffering as they waited for an opportunity that might never come to them?

I had no answer, and so I pushed it to the back of my mind and made my way to find lunch. I had seen a particularly interesting food stall earlier that day and had promised myself I would try it.The excitement of trying something new temporarily replaced my melancholy, but the fates were not so kind as to let that last.

Art by Haver

Before I could reach my anticipated destination, I saw a flash of steel from the corner of my eye. My instincts from the war made me turn to face it, but the blade I saw was not meant for me. Too quick to stop, a dagger entered the throat of a nearby guardsman. The unlucky man fell to the ground as he quickly bled out, and his compatriots swiftly descended on his assassin.

The sudden violence was unnerving, and I was quickly swept up in the panicking crowd as they fled the scene of the attack. I managed to find an alcove to escape the stampede, but by then I had been carried far from where it had all happened. When I tried to return and offer help, I was shooed away by a wary guard who was barring people from re-entering the market.

I decided to find a tavern instead to fill my belly and clear my sense of unease. It was only later that I would realize that the guard’s death might have been a warning from Kirith, if her divine spark still lived.

“Flee! Like the flood of people from the market. Before the coming violence.” Her gentle voice might say. But alas, I viewed it then as only a random skirmish in the vast expanse of the cityscape.

My unease dissipated as the shadows grew long. As I made my way back to the inn I was staying at, I heard a gasp in a nearby alley way along with fleeing footsteps. When I moved to inquire, I found a woman staggering towards me as she clutched her side. Blood dripped onto the pavement and gushed between her fingers. Even in the dim light I could tell it was the wrong color. I could smell rot, and the flesh exposed by the tear near the wound was clearly festering in a way that old injuries fester when ignored. But old wounds didn’t bleed like that.

I offered her support, and she fell into my arms. I instructed her to apply as much pressure as possible to her side, though I was careful not to touch it myself as I held her up. Then I scanned our surroundings for the nearest guard. My search was fruitless in an eerie way. There were no guards nearby. I wracked my memory and could not remember seeing any guards for a while. The unease from that afternoon began to grow anew, but my immediate concern was the woman.

We made our way into the city towards where I assumed would be a guard station. As we walked, the woman leaned on me more and more until I was practically carrying her.

Then I heard them. Warning bells ringing throughout the city.

Memories of the night the Sladoran Revolution caught flame flooded my mind. The cold sweat brought on by panic. Standing above my dead master as the mansion came alive at the sound of the city bells. Fleeing into the night to discover the city in a riot as other slaves who had also successfully assassinated their masters attempted to save those who had failed. My heart rate spiked, but I forced myself back to the present.

There was no battle in the streets right now, but the bells were ringing, so there might soon be. I turned to the woman in my arms, intent on moving her to my back to speed up our progress, only to find her eyes unfocused and her breath stopped. Reverently, but with haste, I laid her in the streets. I said a silent prayer to a God who had long before my birth been no longer able to hear it, and turned away.

My knowledge of Flosee was limited, and with a different culture, I had no way of knowing the city’s plans to protect the citizenry in the case of an attack. As such I made a guess - the most protected part of the city would be either the palace district or the city center. I decided the city center was the better bet, as they would have to make it past the palace district to get there, and began to make my way there.

Before I could reach it, however, sounds of battle began to surround me. As I tried to avoid the sources of the noise, I caught glimpses of ogres, trolls, hill giants, and even goblins fighting alongside men of all different races covered in red-painted armor. It was an unsettling sight of cooperation as they murdered the people of Flosee, but oddly quixotic in a gruesome way.

I did not stop to admire it, though. I fled deeper into the city. I quickly became lost in the maze of a foreign metropolis, but I noticed I wasn’t alone. Others fleeing the battle were also gathering, almost as if they were being corralled toward one another. This became more obvious when, at one plaza, red-painted attackers emerged from all directions. Most of the civilians fled, but two armed combatants and myself were cut off.

One of those trapped in the plaza was a grey skinned half-orc covered in hides and wielding a large sword. He was the only one of us who looked rather undisturbed by being surrounded, even seeming a little excited as he eyed their crimson armor.

“These guys don’t seem to be too friendly, how about you guys?”

When I called out to the two, he didn’t even look at me. I thus deemed him agreeable enough to hide behind as I summoned a disk of force to act as my shield.

The other potential ally, a mocha half-elf with the exotic features of the Sessite Confederacy, no doubt from the dilution of her Elven blood, had a similar idea. The leather clad lady graceful maneuvered to my side and brandished a dagger at the man who charged her. As she fended him off, she greeted me back in a furious shout. “They’re burning my city to the ground!” I took that as yes, she was indeed friendly to me. Probably.

Art by Haver

The half-orc began to mow down those who came at him like they were little more than dogs, so I decided to lend a hand to my kin. I made my way behind her attacker with my rapier in hand, and gracefully cut him down. Or rather, I tried. I managed to get a few good hits in, but then made a major error of judgement.

Casting magic in combat was new to me. Though over the last 35 or so years I had been taught by my teacher to fight with it, and had even learned to cast while wielding my rapier, I had not had many opportunities to put the skill to use in real combat. As such, I failed to put the proper distance between myself and my opponent before trying to cast a ray of freezing air at him. The spell shot over his shoulder as his blade sank into the flesh beneath my arm. I could feel the blood seep into my wool shirt beneath my armor, plastering the tattered cloth to the wound.

As a seasoned soldier, I pushed through the pain, but the battle dragged out as neither the lady nor myself could land a decisive blow. Eventually the half-orc, having decimated his half of the battle, moved to our side of the plaza to take out the remainder of the enemies. One by one they fell at his hand until finally, only one attacker still stood. His life ended thanks to a well placed dagger by the lady while he cowered from the half-orc’s raging visage.

The half-orc smiled at the woman and patted her shoulder with a growly “good job”, while I clutched my side, ignored. He then kicked one of the corpses that surrounded us and asked, “Where are these weaklings from?”

I could only shrug, but the half-elf mentioned some rumors of red-painted bandits she had heard before. She had no specifics, though.

As we mulled over the mystery, I suddenly noticed that it hadn’t been three people fighting in the plaza, but four. A small halfling waddled through the fountain water that came up to his waist as blood streaked behind him. When he got to the edge, he clamored over the fountain wall and came to stand before the three of us.

He was caramel in color with the robes and features of a native and a grim look on his face. “Who here is a citizen?” He demanded, but only the half-elf gave a reluctant “I am”. It seemed the half-orc was also a visitor unlucky enough to be in the city at the wrong time.

“Then you’re conscripted. You’ll be with me on this. I’m a member of the city guard.” The halfling mandated.

“I am?” The half-elf sneered scornfully, clearly not on board.

“We must defend the city.” He stated firmly, but the half-elf continued to express her reluctance. We didn’t have time for them to argue, here in the middle of a besieged city, and so I quickly stepped in.

“Have you seen any other guards of late? I don’t think only two, one conscripted, are going to be much good by themselves.” I interjected, and the halfling paused.

“And who are you?” He asked.

“You can just call me Arnny for now.” I replied in the interest of brevity. My full name could be a mouthful for those unfamiliar with the Elven tongue.

“Well, Arnny’s right, I stumbled upon some robed figures who seemed to have killed a guard. Have you seen anything like that?” The halfling asked as he looked at the group.

“I haven’t seen any guards, but I have seen some dead people with some nasty wounds made by a robed figure in the… uh, in an alleyway.” The lady responded.

“Like decaying nasty? On a fresh wound?” I asked, remembering the woman who had died in my arms earlier.

“Yeah.” We began to muse over the connection between everything that had happened: the strange wounds, the robed figures, and the guards. It was clear by the timing that the robed figures had something to do with the red-painted attackers, but there wasn’t much any of us knew. Thus, before we said much, the half-elf stopped us.

“I think this discussion would be better had somewhere safer.” She cautioned.

“Then we should head to the guard station. Even if there are no guards there to help, it will at least have supplies.” The halfling suggested, and we all agreed, though the half-orc gave a token protest in favor of searching out more combat. The half-elf quickly assured him we’d probably find a fight on the way. After all, the city was under attack.

Before we could decide which guard station to head to, however, a crowd of people came running through the plaza. Low and behold there was at least one guard other than the halfling left in the city. He was directing the group that raced by as they traveled through the war torn streets. He called out to us as they passed:

“The walls have been breached! The city is lost! Head to the docks! We must escape the city!” With his brief warning delivered, he continued to herd the citizens to the south. We quickly decided to follow.

What awaited us there was the bright, orange flames of all the city’s boats set afire. Massive ships all flying the same colors dotted the river. They clearly belonged to the red-painted soldiers who had taken the city. Behind us, those same enemies surrounded us, killing any who fought back. Eventually a lull in the battle appeared, and a leader among the attackers came forward. “Surrender or die.” He declared simply.

The half-orc who I had fought beside in the plaza immediately went to protest by readying his weapon until the half-elf put her hand on his arm to caution him. “There will be time for revenge another day.”

“It will not be revenge for me.” He grunted back, still hesitant.

“For me it will be.” She murmured with quiet fury.

Something in those words, perhaps the fierce anger so lowly spoken, seemed to convince him “You promise me a good fight?” He asked.

“It will be.” She swore in a voice dripping with venom. With a grunt of agreement, he dropped his sword. Everyone in the crowd did as well. Surrender was the clearly logical choice. We were vastly outnumbered with no place to retreat. If even the battle-hungry half-orc could see it, how could the rest of us not?

Logic did little for my heart as despair locked around it just as the cold metal of the shackles locked around my wrists.

Almost a hundred and twenty years, and I was still as powerless as the night slavers invaded the small fishing village I was born in off the coast of Martovia. That night, the bells rang out as they had here, and my family fought as I had fought here. My father and eldest brother lay dead at our feet as my sister and I urged Tuenoril to surrender. Just as the woman had urged the half-orc. It was the clearly logical choice then too. But my mother never even saw Kessan, and my only remaining family despises even the sight of me. Was it logical if you died anyway? Was it logical if in return for your life you lost everyone you cared about?

I had hoped I would never have to make that choice again. I trained so I would never have to make that choice again. I thought I had become stronger since then. That I could at least defend myself if something like that ever happened again.

I stared down at the shackles.

As the weight of my past and my present overtook me, all I could feel was a vast apathy resurging from a human lifetime ago.

It must certainly be that the Elven gods are dead, and our fates cast off to crueler ones.

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