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sorcerous-caress · 1 year ago

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What are your thoughts that we can now recruit Minthara in a play through where you defend the grove?

I like it honestly, because at the end of the day whether you slaughter the grove or not, she still ends up at the same situation in moonrise tower.

I have a lot to say about this.

She is still deemed not good enough for failing at her mission, no matter how far she went, no matter if she actually found the grove and killed the innocent and the guilty. At the end of the day, she is still scorned by Thorm and sent to prison.

Failure is essential to her story, failure proves how conditional the love of the absolute for her is. That's what gets Minthara to leave.

Also it gives her more opportunity to interact with good aligned characters. I read this post before about someone's experience with Minthara during their first game and how they skipped the whole goblin camp thing, so from their point of view, Minthara was just an innocent person as any other being sentenced to death by Ketheric Thorm, the man you learn early on is the obvious bad guy who you need to kill. So their lawful good paladin saw absolutely nothing wrong with freeing her and letting her join them.

What I'm saying is, it takes a certain kind of person to kill the grove, and if your Tav just didn't happen to be that person then it's a massive OOC which will bother you a lot. I'm glad the developers took initiative and allow for alternative Minthara recruitment because of how much the people loved her.

Then you might say what's the point of slaughtering the grove? Well what's the point of anything really, it's a role-playing game. What's the point of helping Alfira with her song or the point of exposing kagha to the grove you'll end up leaving alongside the tieflings? It's a role-playing game, the point is to roleplay.

And there are some benfits still, her only sex scene is locked behind the grove route. And she tells you that she prayed for you to come and save her while being in prison if you've met her before, she tells you that spending the night with you was something she did out of her own free will.

You can still slaughter the grove even if the consequences outweigh the benfits. Because well, let's be real, those consequences aren't loot that you're losing but your companions, future friends and innocent children. You don't lose anything of actual value besides the people, those consequences are just reasonable consequences, not a reward, not a punishment.

Of course when people die their questline stops, of course the good aligned companions will leave when they see this mascara. The devs aren't punishing you, they're being true to the characters.

Evil isn't always rewarding, good isn't always the easy route.

It's still an option, still a choice offered to you. Even in terms of loot, the tieflings were poor they had nothing worthy to steal, only the druids did.

Evil is the easier fight between the two, you're killing a handful of civilians and inexperienced fighters instead of a whole camp of goblins with their leaders. Not to mention you even get backup when killing the grove, you're at a clear advantage, you can let your turn skip and still win the fight.

Evil is the fastest one too, all the goblins leave afterwards and you're granted the spider lyre. Which you would've had to go to the underdark and do the much harder Nere fight to obtain.

Evil is convenient, easy, fast and straightforward. You lose your friends but you gain loot, respect, and a clear way to your destination.

Minthara had little to do with taking the evil route, she says it herself that she is just a typical drow that happened to be at goblin camp at the time. That you could've just as easily killed her like you did to the others, but you didn't. Your small act of mercy barely changed anything in your world, but it changed the whole world for her.

I really don't get it when people say the evil route locks you out of so many good stuff, characters are not stuff or loot in the game world, they're people and they have free will. In terms of loot I think it evens out at the end, you do get that amazing Warlock robe for killing Karlach and the slayer form for killing isobel don't you?

It's all about choices, evil isn't fun for everyone and that's fair. Good isn't always fun too, Ascended Astarion and God Gale are more interesting concepts but it's not the right path is it.

Minthara deserves redemption, if she wants it. She deserves a small mercy out of the universe, a chance to escape the clutches of death that no one else in the goblin camp was granted.

It's not about you, the player, it's about Minthara and her story. The writers granted her this small miracle, why take it away just to make her exclusive? To make her do something that she calls horrific later in the game, that she admits to not wanting to be held responsible for the lifes she has taken.

She is evil aligned yes but she is never needlessly evil, she doesn't have a lust for blood she kills because she has to so she can survive. She tells you to control yourself when you express how excited you are to slaughter the grove, she doesn't seem to care for the chance to kill people, her main motivation is the absolute that she believes she is doing the right thing.

Minthara does not kill for the sake of killing.

When you prob her futher as Durge, she tells you that it's a good thing that murder excites you because it will make it easier for you to do, she subtly confesses that she does struggle with murdering people but she still does it no matter how hard.

Because that's how she was raised, that's the cruelty of drow culture and the Baerne family, that's why she is so fast to condem Lolth and her ways.

She wouldn't bother to kill the grove on her own is what I'm saying, she wouldn't see them as worthy opponents, she wouldn't care for them. Wasn't it for the absolute absolute orders, she would've been somewhere else.

Also keep in mind that they purposely isolated and seperated all the drows they kidnapped. Each absolute stronghold so far only has one or three drows per order. Underdark has Nere, Goblin camp has Minthara, Fireworks shop has the drow guy, Moonrise tower has Oblodra.

They purposefully spread them out so they can't have a resemblance of their home back in the underdark. Drows are very exclusive societies, most of them only interact with other drows for the rest of their lives, everyone else is a murder on sight kinda of deal.

She tells Thorm that, only if he has given her drow warriors, someone she can understand.

Yet she is supposed to work with these goblins. Why do you think her station is kept in the dark and most isolated part of the camp? Ragzling has an entire throne room with followers, the priestess has a throne too in the entrance and a private chamber.

Minthara has the crumpled edge near a cliff that's an abandoned library or something? Evening getting to her is very inconvenient and deliberately misleading. The two drow soldiers were following ragzling too and didn't even mention Minthara. Her own people were ignoring her while only 3 goblins stayed around her station.

Minthara wasn't loyal to these people even in a leader sort of way, yet she craved loyality so unlike a typical drows who are known for stabbing people in the back. She wanted to be loyal and she did give her genuine best to Ketheric.

But he didn't care for what crimes you and her have commited or not, he has done worse and killed many more people. He discards her just as easily and that's why it stings so much more when he does it after you slaughtered the grove.

Because you were there, your remember their screams, their helpless attempts at fighting back. The guilt is still fresh sitting at the pit of your stomach like poison refusing to resurface, preventing you from throwing it up.

At the end, it didn't matter, it nevered mattered to Ketheric. All her efforts, all that you sacrificed, everyone who died by his orders. The end results is always the same.

And so this small act of mercy of sparing her is like a gift to her honestly. After all she has been through, she deserves a chance at redemption, an easy way out, the one time the scale of fate actually leaned her way.

#♡Minthara #♡character study

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pengychan · 6 months ago

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[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 11

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** I honestly don't know what Raphael was expecting his first audience with Mephistopheles to be like, but the answer is still probably 'Not This'. ***

Despite Avernus being-- well, Avernus, Karlach had recently found it had a few features that made it… not too unbearable, all things considered.

First thing first, it didn’t make the engine in her chest overheat to the point of explosion, which was a plus. Until that tin can had started overheating in the Material Plane, Karlach hadn’t even thought she could count ‘my heart isn’t threatening to literally explode’ as a blessing, but there she was. Secondly, while being pretty much the definition of a hellish landscape and a near-infinite battlefield where demons or devils or both could show up any second, it had a surprising amount of deep, easily defensible cave systems where they could set up camp in relative - very relative - safety after clearing out of their occupants, which were generally either imps or hellsboar. The latter were pretty tasty roasted on a spit, too.

And third, of course, there was the company. She loved-- well. Most of the company.

The devil tagging along - who may not be a devil anymore on a sheer technicality but was still a fucking devil as far as she was concerned, the monster who’d tricked and trapped and tormented all the souls she’d spent the past weeks with and who of course tortured Hope for no damn reason but his own amusement - had been a surprise. And not a pleasant one.

If they really needed him she could bear his presence like she’d been able to bear Mizora’s at their camp half a year earlier… but that didn’t mean she had to like it. When her turn came to stand guard at the entrance and she walked up to him, she had to really struggle to ignore the urge to grab her greataxe and give him… just a little tap on the top of the skull with the blunt edge. But, as her greataxe actually did not have a blunt edge, she didn’t.

Instead she stopped a few feet from him, tilting her head to see what he was even doing. The box she’d thrown to his hea-- given him was open on the ground, the letter he’d been reading earlier folded and placed back inside. Next to it was the Spider’s Lyre, but the strings were gone and Raphael was tinkering with the black lyre that had been in the box. Karlach frowned, and stepped closer.

“The fuck are you doing?”

The only response she got at first was a scoff. Raphael didn’t even look up, still working on the lyre. “I may be consuming the souls of the innocent, or stringing a lyre. I’ll let your intellectual prowess lead you to the answer.”

Ah, the bastard. Good thing she was there to take his place watching out, because the idiot would probably get them all killed. Half an army of Orthons could walk past him while he was focused on the stupid lyre. “You’re supposed to be watching out for dangers.”

“I cast a glyph of warding on the ground just outside. If anything steps on it, it will trigger.”

Karlach rolled her eyes, and went to sit at the entrance as well. “Oh, great. I’m sure fucking glad wings are not commonplace here,” she muttered. “Does it trigger when flown over?”

“Do feel free to launch yourself outside and find out.”

“Don’t tempt me into launching you out.”

“Perish the thought. I’d hate to tempt anyone.” Raphael sneered, like he hadn’t tempted countless into far worse fates, still not looking up. This time, Karlach’s hands really itched to grab her weapon; still, she only glared… and saw something glinting at his neck. She recognized it immediately: the locket with the star-and-spire motif on it, the one with the miniature portrait. She sneered right back.

“Kinda brazen, isn’t it?” she muttered. “Wearing a portrait of your first kill.”

Raphael’s hands stilled for a moment, still holding onto the string he was fastening, and his features twisted… but then they smoothed over again and, with another scoff, he resumed stringing the lyre. Something about his calm demeanor pissed her off even more. Just earlier that day, she’d watched souls - people - she’d learned to know flee deep into the House, cowering as far away as they could from the foyer. They all trembled, some stuttered pleas to be left alone - any peace they had managed to painfully regain ripped away by Raphael’s mere presence.

His sadness, Hope had called the box, but he didn’t seem nearly sad enough, nowhere near as sad as he’d made countless souls over godsdamned millennia. Nowhere as hurt as the souls in the House of Hope had been, as Hope herself had been… as a kid called Enver Flymm must have been, not too long ago, trapped in Raphael’s own slice of Hell.

This bastard fucked him over, and Gortash fucked others over in turn. Fucked me over sure enough, sold me to a damn devil like he was. Maybe none of this would have happened if Raphael never bought him. He’d have never grown up in Avernus, never met Zariel, never sold me to her. I’d still have my own heart and I wouldn’t be here now. But he did and here I am, and this bastard was the start of it all. Gortash is dead but the devil is still here.

Unaware of her thoughts, and probably uncaring either way, Raphael just spoke again. “As you’re so familiar with the fate that befalls any mortal mother of a cambion,” he said, voice even, “you’ll no doubt know I had no awareness of what was happening, and certainly no intention--”

“What does it matter? The plague doesn’t mean to kill anyone, but it’s still the fucking plague.”

It was a cruel remark; heartless, some might say, and very fittingly in her case. This time, she hit a nerve. Raphael winced as though struck, and the string he was securing to the lyre cut deep into his hand, near the base of his fingers. He hissed, and let go of the lyre to grasp the injured hand. Blood dripped on his trousers, on the lyre; Raphael stared at his bleeding hand for a few moments before breathing out, somewhat shakily.

Karlach expected some kind of response - a temper tantrum, maybe, or a show of indifference again - but at first there was none. He wiped blood off the lyre as well as he could with a sleeve, put everything back in the box with one hand before he picked it up, awkwardly, and stood.

“I’ll leave you to be our guard dog for the night. I trust Zariel has trained well enough for that at least,” he finally ground out, and turned away without another word, back inside the cave, a trail of blood in his wake. Fitting, that.

She found herself staring at that blood for a few moments, and sneered… or tried to. She had wanted to get a rise out of him, but now the smile felt forced on her lips. Much like when she’d taken down Gortash, it didn’t taste like triumph. It didn’t taste like anything. She’d hit the mark and made him bleed, and he’d deserved it, yet it gave her no joy whatsoever.

Karlach sighed and turned her gaze to the burning skies outside, wondering if beheading Zariel with her own hands might, at last, do the trick.

***

“You’re wounded.”

“How very observant.”

“If you need healing--”

“Vis medicatrix.”

Ah, of course he could heal himself; Halsin had almost forgotten about it. He watched the cut on Raphael’s hand close up, and held out a clean towel when he began looking around for something to wipe off the blood.

“Here,” he said. He kept his voice low enough not to awaken the others, who were asleep a few paces away from the fire where he sat. He was not quite tired enough to sleep yet, and had been whittling away until Raphael had come to sit by the fire too. When he replied, his voice was almost as quiet.

“... At least it’s passably clean.” He took the towel somewhat stiffly, and used it to wipe his hands before he opened his box and wiped the lyre clean as well. Half the new strings were on, the rest yet to be put in place; it was easy to tell now how the wound had come to be. The lyre cleaned, Raphael turned his attention to the blood on his trousers and sleeve, nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Cold water,” Halsin, who was rather certain the devil did not know the first thing about laundry, spoke.

“... Excuse me?”

“To get those stains out. You’ll want to use cold water and soap, before the blood can clot.”

A pause, a small sound that may even, with some effort, pass off as a chuckle. “And here I thought a druid would be more inclined to use stains as an excuse to do away with clothing entirely.”

“I will not deny I find clothing restrictive, but--”

“I know someone you might just get along with.”

“--You do learn how to take stains out of clothes when looking after a few dozen children.”

“A worse torture than I ever could have engineered, and you do it voluntarily?”

Halsin chuckled. “I spent time untold wishing I had a chance to become a father. I am grateful to be one to so many, now.” A pause. “... I could help, if you’d like. With the blazer. Change into your camp clothes before the blood dries and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Suspiciously helpful.”

“If you’re wondering if it’s an excuse to get you to strip, no. I’d be far more direct, believe me,” Halsin quipped, and this time Raphael’s lips actually curled into a faint smile before he nodded and went to his tent to change.

It wasn’t too bad, really: the blood was still fresh enough that some cold water, soap, and a good rubbing did the trick. After putting the blazer to dry, Halsin was satisfied to see he got all the blood out. He sat back next to Raphael, and resumed whittling. “It’ll be fine to wear come morning. If… we can tell when it’s morning. Does the sky outside always look like this?”

“Yes.”

“And the natural the cycle of day and night--”

“No such thing.”

Halsin frowned. No surprise, he thought, that Karlach had missed the stars so much. “That sounds dreadful.”

“Some would even venture to say it’s hellish,” Raphael commented. He’d resumed stringing the lyre and, by the looks of it, he was almost done. “You do get used to it, though. Or it drives you insane, I suppose. But I believe our vampiric friend,” he added, tilting his head towards where Astarion lay, head resting on Durge’s shoulder, “has reason to prefer this to daylight, at least in his current state.”

“... He does miss sunlight. I can understand. I spent years as a-- guest in the Underdark.”

“I’m going to assume you were a guest the same way Karlach was a guest in Avernus.”

“More or less. I was not forced to fight, but--” Halsin paused, and cleared his throat. “Well. I’ll never forget the moment I stepped into the sun again. I hope Astarion can feel it again soon.”

“I’d focus on getting out of here alive in the first place.”

“Heh. Fair enough,” Halsin chuckled, and said nothing more. For a time, everything was quiet again except for the crackling of fire and the steady breathing of their sleeping companions, Wyll sleeping with his rapier close at hand and Durge and Astarion sharing a bedroll. Halsin was halfway through whittling yet another duck when he saw Raphael put the lyre aside, clearly having decided to wait until morning, or what passed as morning, to tune it properly.

“You should have some soup. There is just enough left.”

“I am not particularly hungry.”

“Your body needs nourishment,” Halsin pointed out. He took the last ladle’s worth of soup out of the pot, and into a bowl. He pushed it in Raphael’s hands without waiting for a reply. “Do pretend I’m a decent cook. I’ll consider this your thanks for getting blood out of your blazer.”

“... Mph. Worse deals have been made, I suppose,” was the response, and he did drink it down, slowly, staring into the fire as though he could see something in it that Halsin could not. Halsin resumed whittling and they stayed like that for another while, without speaking, each lost in their own thoughts.

Until Halsin looked up from his work to see that Raphael had fallen asleep, back against a boulder, the healed hand holding onto a locket he wore around his neck. In the open box, next to the newly stringed lyre, there was a folded letter with some dark splotches on it, as though something had dripped on the ink.

And it was not, Halsin could tell, blood.

***

Dearest Israfel,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you’ll forgive me for using the name I’ve always known you by: it is the name your mother chose for you, with her last breath. I feel I’d do her wrong by not using it.

I hope the Hells are the home I know you always wished they would be to you, and that you never have reason to look back in regret. I wish there was advice I could give you, more than what little I could impart to you, but I am no devil and I am under now delusion that I may even begin to understand the workings of the Hells. But I do know you learn fast, and I trust you’ll do what needs doing to thrive.

I also hope that you did not take the few words I spoke when you left for coldness. There was more I wished to tell you, yet words failed me as they often do. There is a reason why you could talk circles around me since you were a boy of ten, after all. I had known the day would come that you’d be taken to your father’s court, and it still caught me unprepared. Until you can visit us, then, this letter will have to suffice.

There is much I hope you can find in yourself to forgive me for. Our time together was always meant to be short; I am but a human in his twilight years, and you are an immortal being barely at the beginning of life. However, I was foolish enough to shorten it further. Ten years you lived under my roof before I so much acknowledged you. It should not have taken me that long - should not have taken your mother’s features in your human form - to truly see you.

I’d have seen Dalah in you much earlier if I had. The penchant for rhymes, a sweet tooth, the way you scrunch your nose when angry. (I know it annoys you, when it’s brought up; you’re doing it right now, I am sure. For this, too, I hope you’ll forgive me.)

I saw her first, and only then did I finally see you. It was my failing, not yours. It was out of grief and guilt, never hatred, but it was a grievous failing nonetheless. In a different world, I would have been proud to call you my son. I am sorry this is no such world.

I hope I could teach you something of use in the few years we did have; for the rest, I hope you know Nan, and everyone else, loved you greatly even when I could not. They still do, and we all hope to see you again soon.

I took the liberty to send you a few things I thought you’d like to have - your mother’s lyre and her favorite book, and a locket with her portrait. Only once you’d gone I realized I never showed you a portrait of her, or even so much talked about her. Again, my grief bound my tongue, but it is no excuse. I did you wrong, and I hope I may yet have the chance to rectify that mistake. When you visit, we will talk about your mother.

Until then, I hope you are safe, and happy.

With deepest affection,

Rahirek.

***

By the time he stepped before the high doors leading to Lord Mephistopheles’ throne room, Raphael was certain of two things: he was not ready, and he was about to throw up.

“Lord Mephistopheles demands your presence,” he’d been told, and that was it. Five words to answer a plea he’d repeated almost daily for… weeks? Months? It was hard to tell, with each day exactly like the last and a perpetual snowstorm hiding the skies outside. The preceptor had taken him there and left , telling him he’d be allowed inside shortly.

“If he can even understand what you’re saying, with that dreadful pronunciation,” he’d muttered on his way out. “Speak clearly, or he may make a meal out of you. He does not suffer fools gladly.”

For his sanity, Raphael had decided to take that warning as an exaggeration, and gathered up the courage to walk closer to the doors behind which his father sat on a throne of ice. All that waiting, all that yearning, and here he was. He should have been elated. Instead, he was terrified.

The towering pit fiend suddenly stepping before the intricately carved doors with a mace in hand and eyes glowing like fire did not help, either. His voice was a gravelly growl, and he had fangs easily as long as Raphael’s forearm. It took him an effort to look away from those formidable teeth and into the fiend’s eyes. They were not a much more reassuring sight; knowing who he was did little to help.

“Who goes there?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

Raphael cleared his throat, hoping fervently that words would come out right, and bowed. “Duke Hutijin,” he spoke carefully, praying whoever or whatever could hear him now that he hadn’t mispronounced his name. “It is a privilege to meet you. My name is Raphael. I have been summoned by Lord Mephistopheles.”

A few moments of silence, but that mace did not come down on him, and Raphael supposed it was something. Another gravelly sound he identified as a chuckle, and he dared look up. Duke Hutijin had lowered the mace, and was leaning over to better look at him.

“Ah, the new one. Let me have a look at you.” A huge hand with a dagger-sharp claw lifted his chin, and the pit fiend laughed when he saw him swallow. “Fear not, I’d never spill my liege’s blood unless he ordered me to himself. And no such order has been given today.” A pause, a tilt of his head. Those flaming eyes stared, but whatever he thought of what he saw, he did not say. “Well then, go meet your father. Do try not to piss yourself, little duke. You’ll find him in a fair enough mood.”

Raphael wanted to protest at the insult, say that he was not that scared, but he could tell that talking back to what was probably the most powerful pit fiend in Cania - and lying to him to boot - would probably not be a clever course of action. So he lowered his eyes, nodded, and went to the doors. A touch on the surface - ice cold, despite the warmth inside the citadel - and slowly, they opened.

The throne room was so vast it may have felt as though he’d stepped outside if not for the domed ceiling above and the columns on both sides - each of intricately carved ice, and ice was the floor, the ceiling. Two pits opened up in the floor on either side of the throne; from one rose a column of roaring fire, and from the other a stream of swirling green wisps that, he’d learned, were mortal souls. They rose up to the ceiling and fell back down into the pit, slowly, endlessly.

And on the throne at the back of the room, beneath a banner bearing the sigil of a three-pronged ranseur piercing a halo of flames, sat Mephistopheles.

He was tall, more than any mortal Raphael had ever met, and of most devils too. Even if he did not tower the way Duke Hutijin did, Raphael knew this was but one of the forms he could take. This form of his was reminiscent of the portraits he’d seen of the Cold Lord, with deep blue skin so dark it almost looked black near the base of his four ram-like horns. The horns curled backward, golden rings around each. His hair was so black and so long it was hard to tell where it ended and where the void-black cape he wore began.

And there were the eyes, pale blue, fixed on him.

For a moment, Raphael forgot how to breathe. He’d imagined meeting his father since he could understand what a father was, and why he did not seem to have one. When he was very young, he’d imagined that a stranger would approach him one day at a crossroads - it was always crossroads, in the stories - to reveal himself as his father, tell him he’d come to take him home. Until recently he’d had no notion that his sire may be an Archdevil, and that meeting him would need to wait until he could find the time for an audience.

Now he had that audience, and his tongue was coated with lead. For a few moments he could only stare, heart in his throat, feeling like an utter fool.

He does not suffer fools gladly.

Panic reared its head, and still Raphael stood frozen on the spot. For a few moments Mephistopheles’ features remained still, his face expressionless… then, slowly, his lips curled upwards and he let out a low, rumbling chuckle. Maybe Duke Hutijin was right, and he was in a fair mood after all.

“You asked to see me with such insistence my own Consort requested I grant you an audience, yet you seem to have misplaced your tongue,” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone. “Am I not as you imagined?”

The calm tone was balm to Raphael’s nerves, and he finally managed to regain his speech. He bowed quickly, and deep. “My liege,” he said, and this time Infernal slid off his tongue with practiced ease. “It is an honor to stand in your presence. I deeply apologize if my earlier insistence caused annoyance.”

A hum. It sounded neither pleased, nor displeased. “You did not answer my question.”

Raphael looked up, and swallowed. He could feel the weight of that gaze, even as no true emotion showed on his sire’s face. “I have seen portraits, my lord, of this form and others.”

“Ah, of course you’d have seen those. Were you hoping to be met with the visage that most resembles your own?”

“I wouldn’t presume it’s my place to make such requests, my lord.”

Lord Mephistopheles tilted his head, just slightly, in what may have been an approving nod. “No, it is not,” he agreed, and lifted a hand to beckon him closer. Raphael did step towards the throne on somewhat shaky legs, gaze respectfully low, until his sire’s voice rang out again. “That’s close enough.”

Standing between the column of fire and the column of souls, Raphael dared look up again. Lord Mephistopheles was looking down at him, eyes narrowed. When he spoke again it was still in that calm, even tone. “You’ll have to remind me - where and when was it I sired you?”

“In Tethyr, sir, just over thirteen years ago. My mother’s name--” he began, only to be silenced with a chuckle and another wave of that hand, as though to chase a fly away.

“You can’t possibly expect me to remember the name of every mortal who received my seed,” Mephistopheles said, obviously amused. Like the mortal who’d received his seed hadn’t also borne his son, and died for it. “But where you were born matters not, as now you’re just where you ought to be. I have been told you have a proclivity for music and poetry. Is that so?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Hm. Songs of praise are always welcome here, but I do have a High Cantor and more than enough musicians, so that skill of yours is of no use to me.” A vague gesture of his hand, that unnerving gaze still fixed on him. “So tell me…” a pause, a chuckle. “Ah, but I forgot. What is your name again, boy?”

Something sank in Raphael’s chest, cold as the ice around them.

You named me, he wanted to cry out. You took away the name my mother gave me to impose another, and still you can��t recall it?

Still, he knew better than that. He swallowed the ache, and tried to keep his voice as firm as possible. “You named me Raphael, my lord.”

“Very well, Raphael. What else can you offer to serve me?”

For a moment, Raphael found himself speechless, raking his mind for a response and finding none. What could he offer? He was well-read and learned fast; he had a good memory and, back home, people always said he could have sold ice cubes to Auril herself if he wanted. But with his sire’s gaze on him, he struggled to think of a way he could put those skills to use.

I can use hellfire, he thought, but he hesitated to speak those words too. Antilia’s voice rang in his head, the warning as dire as it had sounded when she’d uttered it.

Until you are certain of your affinity with hellfire, do not speak of it. Don’t ever tell them you used it entirely by accident. Go boasting about it, and you’ll be seen as too much a threat.

It seemed almost absurd to think, that Mephistopheles could consider him a threat… but Raphael had already heard tales, whispers, of how he’d destroyed far lesser devil for little to no reason but-- well, the word they used for it was caution, but the tone made the meaning clear enough - paranoia . Lord Mephistopheles could undo him with a word and, he saw it now, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

Maybe Lady Antilia lied, part of him thought. Maybe he would be pleased to know I can wield hellfire. She did tell me I shouldn’t trust her either. But to what end?

“Come boy, speak,” Mephistopheles spoke up, his voice now curt, and colder. “Surely, you would not have insisted on being in my presence without something to offer.”

The underlying threat was unmistakable, and Raphael swallowed before forcing himself to speak again. He could keep his voice from shaking, at least, and spoke in fluent enough Infernal as he lowered his head. “As of now, my liege, all I have to offer is my utter loyalty,” he said. “But I’ve been studying as much as I can, so I can find a way to serve you.”

“Mmh.” A pause, and he rubbed his chin. Again, he sounded neither pleased nor displeased; he was simply considering . “I see. I can extend you some grace, on account of you having but thirteen winters behind you. Still, my patience is not endless.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Many of my blood possess an innate talent for arcane magic. Do you?”

Raphael looked up. “Yes, my liege. I have been able to cast spells since I was--”

He had no time to finish the sentence. Mephistopheles gave a smile that did not reach his eyes, and lifted a hand. “Show me,” was all he said, and he snapped his fingers.

With a drum-shattering shriek, two imps leaped out of the column of fire, fangs bared and yellow eyes glowing with malice. One swung a clawed hand, and Raphael scrambled back just on time for the claws to miss his flesh and only tear clothes. He fell back with a cry, landing hard on the ice, head spinning.

He’s never been in a real fight before and, aside from the encounter with perytons not too long ago, he’d never struck anything but some targets the master-at-arms back home had set up for practice, when it had become clear he wasn’t meant to hold a sword. He’d been getting good at hitting those, but they were just that - targets. Static, and very much not trying to claw his eyes out.

With another shriek, one of the imps threw itself at him. Raphael cried out and instinctively held up his hands, grasping the being’s head to keep him away. Claws still sank into his arms, tearing clothes and skin, and… and…

Flames erupted from his hands and the imp’s head was all but gone, all burning flesh, scorched bone and brain matter as it fell back motionless on the floor. Raphael choked back a cry and tried to stand up, but he slipped on the ice and fell back with a grunt. Above him, there was a furious shriek. The other imp had lifted itself up in the air on tattered wings and dove down on him, fags bared, claws out, stinger dripping venom.

What came next was, again, pure instinct: he rolled to the side and, when the imp landed with a crack on the spot where he’d been until an instant earlier, he threw out a hand.

“Gela!”

In retrospect, it was a mistake: he was too close to his target, and the result was predictable. The ice knife hit the imp square in the chest and exploded in shards, knocking them in opposite directions. Raphael could hear the imp shrieking over his own cry of pain, shards of ice cutting into his arm, his shoulder, his face. He ground his teeth, tried to ignore the smears of blood his hand left on the floor, and lifted himself on one knee before looking up.

The imp was wounded, ice shards through its chest, but still alive. It writhed on the floor, features twisted in a snarl, glaring at him but unable to stand, to fly, to attack. It was defeated. It was helpless. It was weak, and Raphael had never hated anything more. He stood with a snarl, and again he acted without much thought at all. He lifted a hand and so did the imp, in a last futile attempt at a defense. It was an easy mark, now. One Raphael would not miss.

The splash of acid hit true, and the imp screamed. It was a cry of agony, and short-lived; it had been barely clinging to life, and the acid did the rest. The creature fell back, sizzling, and moved no more. The acrid smell of flesh melting away filled Raphael’s nostrils, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from the corpse. His wounds hurt and his heart pounded in his chest; still, he smiled. The things that hurt him were dead, and it felt good. He wished he could bring them back and kill them again and again and again, hear those screams over and over. He wished--

A chuckle snapped Raphael from his thoughts, reminding him where he was, and with whom. He looked up to see his sire was leaning his chin on his hand. “I would say that was adequate enough, for a halfbreed just plucked out of the Material Plane,” he conceded, then, “was it your first kill?”

Raphael looked up, still breathing heavily. When he spoke again his voice was rougher, honorifics entirely forgotten. “No. I killed a peryton, once.”

Mephistopheles raised an eyebrow. “A peryton? That is indeed a greater feat than defeating a pair of lowly imps. Perhaps I should have given you more of a challenge.” His lips quirked upwards, barely. “How did you kill it?”

Do not speak of it, Antilia’s voice rang in his head, and he didn’t. Not all of it. “Fire. I burned it.”

“And how did it make you feel?”

Raphael closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall. He hadn't truly realized he'd killed the creature until the screams died down, until he saw the corpse. Until that moment there had only been his stepfather’s heartbeat against his ear, the protective embrace that seemed to last forever. He swallowed. “Good,” he whispered. “It felt good.”

“And this?” A gesture towards the half-melted, charred corpses on the ground. Raphael looked at it for a few, long moments.

“It feels good,” he replied again, and it was no lie this time either. I wish they screamed more, he thought.

He expected another question, but there was none: just a nod again. It gave Raphael the distinct feeling he had passed a test of some kind; not with flying colors, perhaps, but he'd passed it all the same.

“I see. If you find no other way of serving me, you may serve well in the Blood War.”

The Blood War. Raphael had learned of it, of this endless war spilling rivers of blood, from devils and demons alike, every single day in Avernus. His preceptor had made a point to let him know many halfbreeds would go on to become cannon fodder in it. For all the pleasure Raphael had taken in this kill, the prospect of being sent to the front lines was enough to make him balk. “I-- my lord, I--”

“You’re wounded,” Lord Mephistopheles cut him off, and gestured towards the slow streams of souls, which floated up to the ceiling and then back down in the pit. “You may consume a soul, if you wish.”

Raphael stared at the souls, stepped closer, and held out a hand. They were incorporeal, of course; faintly glowing wisps, all that remained of mortal beings. There was a faint warmth to them as they weaved through his fingers - each of them once a mortal life, swayed or tricked into becoming this, the most sought-after resource in all of the Nine Hells.

“Souls,” Raphael whispered, and finally looked up. “I can-- I will get you souls, my lord. I know mortals, I know how they think. I can learn all I need to learn about contracts. This is how I can serve you.”

A nod. “Ah, yes. Your kind often has a queer attraction towards mortals. It places you well to procure souls, if you’re clever enough.”

They said I could sell ice to Auril herself, Raphael thought. I am clever enough. I can be of use. I can make you proud.

His path forward now clear, Raphael breathed more easily. He turned his attention back on the souls dancing around his palm, focused on one, and willed it to come to him. No one had ever instructed him as to how to consume a soul, but it came as naturally as magic ever did. He breathed in deeply through his mouth and it flooded him, cool and soothing and electrifying at the same time - healing his wounds, feeding his powers, amplifying his senses. When he tore out the last shard of ice from his shoulder, Raphael felt no pain. There was only that sense of euphoria, the clarity that comes with finally seeing a path ahead after wandering blind for so long.

Above him, unseen, the Lord of the Eighth bared his teeth in a smile.

***

“In my world there is order, he said!”

“I specified I was talking about my--”

Raphael’s protest was cut off by Karlach’s cry as she swung her axe, cutting a spinagon in half and sending its blood and guts to spray across the ground and, well, across Astarion. Who, as a response, only yelled louder, just as he drew his bowstring to put another arrow through an imp. “WE BRING THE CHAOS OF OUR WORLD IN HIS, HE SAID!”

“I WAS TALKING ABOUT MY HOUSE!”

“YOU ARE NEVER GETTING TO-- ah, nice shot, love, thank you-- NEVER WHINE ABOUT CHAOS IN THE MATERIAL PLANE AGAIN, DEVIL!”

Raphael snorted, and cast a cloud of daggers that annihilated a pair of nupperibos before they could so much as attempt an attack at Halsin’s unprotected back. The only surviving nupperibo of the trio was promptly blasted back by Wyll, into a pit of boiling tar, and didn’t resurface again.

“This entire layer is a battlefield and I would have stopped all this with the crown, spawn!” Raphael snapped, glaring at Astarion and entirely missing the spinagon trying to dive on him from above.

Durge groaned, and dispatched it with a ray of frost before speaking. “I don’t think this is the moment to air grievances--”

“This is your doing and I’ll air all the grievances I please!”

“Oh please, let me cut him in two.”

“No, Karlach," Durge muttered, and to their relief she went to cut an imp in two instead.

All things considered, they had to run into devils or demons sooner or later; it had been a small miracle that they’d been able to go from the House of Hope to the cave they’d chosen to rest the previous night without meeting anything but a couple of hellsboars. Raphael was right when he described Avernus as one huge battlefield, and running into foes soon after setting out for the day's march was perhaps inevitable.

Luckily, they were all rather weak. Unfortunately, there was a swarm of them.

“We’ve been pretty lucky we didn’t run into these while next to that lake of lava!” Wyll yelled over the screams of a couple of spinagons trapped within the blackness of a Hunger of Hadar spell. “That would have made a dismal battlefield.”

“Oh, how lucky that we’ve met them in the middle of these delightful pits or tar and quicksand instead!” Astarion yelled, and drew his bowstring again. The arrow found its target in the throat of yet another spinagon just as Durge’s frost breath downed a couple of imps. “What were you planning to turn this spot into, Raphael? An archdevil resort?”

Raphael scoffed, downing another imp with an admittedly well-placed ice knife spell. “I’ll have you know that before the Blood War, this layer was the most wondrous thing you’d ever set your eyes on!”

Astarion laughed, almost dancing under an imp’s swing of a scimitar before gutting it with a single, swift strike of a knife. “Gods, are you that old?”

“It is a well known fact for anyone with even a modicum amount of knowledge, and I’d have restored its former glo--”

“FIREBALL!”

Halsin’s warning cut through the sulfur-saturated air, through the shrieks and clangs of the battle. Durge looked up to see that indeed, one of the fireballs that were ever streaking Avernus’ sky had taken a sharp turn downwards and was coming… directly at them.

“Shit-- we got to take cover!”

“I’ve got this - get over here, everyone!” Durge called out, and lifted a hand. “Veni et iuva me!”

The Globe of Invulnerability shimmered into being around them, and Astarion immediately leaped in. Raphael and Halsin were quick to follow, though Halsin took a moment to create a gust of wind to knock back the spinagons trying to follow.

“Oh that’s a handy one!” Karlach laughed, nearly barrelling right through the globe and skidding to a halt just inside it. “Both the globe and the fireball, I mean! There was this one time we were in deep shit, fuckers everywhere, but then this fireball came down and fried them. Remember, Wy-- Wyll?”

With a sense of dawning horror, they all looked back to see that Wyll was some distance away from the globe, one leg stuck in quicksand up to his knee, struggling to pull free while the fireball plummeted down towards the ground.

“Shit! No! Wyll!” Karlach cried out, and tried to run out towards him. Tried to, because they all could tell there was no way she could get to him and back on time, even if she could pluck him out from the quicksand at the first try. If she went, the fireball would strike both. Durge, Halsin and Astarion held onto her as one, and even then they struggled to hold her back.

“Karlach, wait!”

“Karlach, no!” Wyll cried out. “Stay back! Please, keep her back!”

A scream, holding all the anguish in the world. “No, no, no! Let me go! Wyll! WY--”

“MOVE ASIDE!”

Raphael’s voice was a roar, loud enough to drown out Karlach’s own screams. He stepped forward, almost to the edge of the globe, taking the lyre off his back to play a few notes on it, eyes fixed on Wyll. And gods, it worked: the next moment Wyll, with a grunt of effort, was able to free his leg from the quicksand. He stood, and lifted his hands to cast; Durge could recognize the gesture to cast a Dimension Door, and it was the last thing they could see at all before the fireball became too close, its light too bright, and they had to close their eyes.

“Quod dico face!” Wyll cried out, then for a time Durge could hear nothing else: the explosion was loud enough to cancel out all other noise. Around them, the world shook, stone shattered, enemies burned. Even within the globe they were thrown to the ground, trying to cover mouths and noses to keep out dust and debris with varying degrees of success.

When the dust finally began to settle and they could blink their eyes open they were still beneath the globe in the middle of a smoldering crater, faces and clothes black with dust but still all in one piece.

And among them, grinning widely, half-drowned in Karlach’s embrace as he made no attempt to pull away, was Wyll.

“Wyll! Are you all right? Are you wounded?”

“I’m good, really! Only thing that’s wounded is my pride.”

With a sigh of relief, Karlach pulled back. “Oh, thank the gods.”

Another laugh. “Afraid I’ve got to thank the devil for this one, don’t I?” He turned to look over at Raphael, who was still coughing while Astarion helped him back on his feet. “That was bardic inspiration, then? Never been on the receiving end of it before. Not bad at all.”

Another cough, and Raphael rasped out, “I told you I have no need to wield a toothpick in battle, did I not?”

Durge had no idea what that was about, but it made Wyll laugh. “Ah, I suppose you really don’t. Your spells do serve you well enough, point very much taken. Thank you for saving my skin.”

“Yeah, that was-- good thinking,” Karlach muttered, crossing her arms and looking awkwardly to the side. Her compliment, half-hearted as it was, seemed to give Raphael pause, but in the end he scoffed and said nothing.

“Well!” Astarion spoke up, clapping his hands once to break the sudden silence. “Here we are! All in one piece, enemies vanquished, ready to celebrate before we get going again. And I think we could all use a shower right about now. Halsin, if you please?”

Rainfall in Avernus had to be a rare thing indeed - a never event, most likely - and Durge enjoyed every second of it. As they glanced to the side they noticed that so did Raphael, eyes shut and face tilted upwards, palms up as though to welcome the rain.

*** [Back to Chapter 10]

[On to Chapter 12]

[Back to Start]

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #the dark urge #raphael bg3 #astarion ancunin #halsin bg3 #wyll ravengard #karlach bg3 #haarlep bg3 #bg3 raphael #bg3 astarion #antilia dnd #mephistopheles dnd #raphael the cambion #hell to pay

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aaronofithaca05 · 8 months ago

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The first night

Part 2: Wanax

“Father what?!!!!”. I was interrupted by a stoic voice coming from across the megaron as clear and cold as glass.

“Telemachus..I “. I tried to muster something to quell his fiery question but.

“She did what?”; he asked once more.

“Telemachus, my dear joy, my little prince, what did you hear?”. I tried to compose myself while my thoughts were stuck one upon the other

“Everything..since the beginning.”, he said with confusion in his eyes

He exchanged eyes with mine. A cold sweat started to embrace me, as dark as last night but not a chill breeze but of winter´s freeze. I tried to compose myself, to talk, to say something. but then noticed..

“Why I can´t talk''; I thought, “Why I can´t move my limbs?” i tried to said, but nothing, my lisps where shut and my eyes still.

“Are they here?”, “is this nothing more than a dream?” , “Am I still in the concave cave?” , my thoughts started to coalesce in a waterfall of doubts, shouting louder than poseidon´s waves.

Then I heard it: *oink* and a woman´s laughter.

I froze for a moment: “she can´t be here, she can´t be in Ithaca, she must be in Aiaia!”

*oink* *oink*

The pigs were getting closer.

I tried to recognize the room, tried to scrutinize everyone's reactions to the Daughter of Helios; no one seemed to heard what i heard; I tried once more when an oink felt sharper than a spear instead i saw flowers; white flowers gently growing in the morning light of the room, in the light of my throne

“Molly” I thought, “she's here to make everyone her next meal”, I tried to think, “she's here in Ithaca because of me”, “ I can't let her near”, “I can't lose here”, “I can't lose them too”.

Before the radiant Circe could enter the palace I shouted from deep inside like an earthquake: “Telemachus, dear son run for your sweet life!!!!!!”. I saw how my beautiful son shaked in fear while I was heading towards you, my Joy.

“Penelope, my queen, my life, my star, run upstairs and cover your gracious face, an immortal has come and shines worse than the summer´s sun”, I tried to muster this before seeing how your eyes started to fill with the radiance of stars.

You believed me though, as your entourage and you, climbed the pearly stairs to our bed.

I heard her steeps, as harmonious as the lyre´s strings and I thought: “think Odysseus, think, what can be her plan?, to suffocate you while she sheds Penelope´s blood, is she here for fresh lovers, is she here for ..is she here for …?”, that question: “ is she here for…? .Those words ravaged my mind and my eyes fixated again on the gentle flowers.

“THE FLOWERS” I shouted. “ Look how they move, how they snare, how they creep from below. the pain, the gold, the threads, the stick, the pigs”,I rumbled.

“ White”. It all become white.

“It was her,” I knew. Before being able to react, she stepped into the throne room.

As gracious as she was, as wild as her home, as intimidating as ever, she was there in my home.

“Your graceful goddess, mistress of Aiaia” I said in my kindest of voices.” Odysseus Laertides, father of Telemachus”, spoke as mellow as honey.

“Welcome to my Ithaca, to my palace, to my home” I welcomed her, waiting for a response but She as passive as a spider waiting for something to throw her thread, didn't say a word.

But I added in a joyful tone “ By your oath you must not harm me nor my people” . I remember the oath I made her vow, but it only applied in Aiaia, I feared as a knot was forming in my throat.

“hurt them or the taste of my bronze sword would be…” I couldn't finish my speech as you cut me.

“ODYSSEUS, STOP!!!” You shouted.

It was quicker than the evading foam of the sea, but as that I saw her transform

“HE..R HER FACE IS CHANGING, STAY BACK” I said as I saw her changing formswas . “Stay back ! I'm warning you!.” I shouted imagining the monster that she would become:

“ A siren” to low for her grace, “scylla”, no, she pitied her.. I made recount of all my encounters but then It hit me as lighting of the mighty above.

“A chimera”. I was getting ready to stick out my sword as the bow was hanging in the wall.

But as the thought was being born, her height diminished, her light arms became dark,

“ It's a girl?” I thought as her factions rounded and became mundane.

A sweet voice as morning dew let through her frail throat: “Our lord, your grace, i'm only here to bring you my harvest, my tribute to you” she said before tears formed in her little eyes. “Why do I get to taste your divine threat?” she let out amidst a nascent spring.

“You're a girl,” I said, perplexed.

Where is SHE? I asked, then it dawned “OHH you're one of her nymphs, aren't you?” I asked her with rage

“Tell Circe in my house her presence is not allowed….”. I was demanding to know before I felt a pain in the cheek, how I felt it touched my teeth”, how it started to rush like five hundred bites.

The sound traveled the throne room as the godly arrows of Eros, as silence followed suit.

A moment later I saw a hand, a delicate hand, marked by years of work, of pricked fingers, your hand.

“Mighty Wanax, who's Circe??” asked the perplexed girl.

she then added “ I'm (insert girl name here), daughter of (insert random name)”, she recovered her normal voice as she saw there was danger no more.

“ Shepherd as the only kin of his, I came to bring you the fattest pigs of us as sacrifice to the gods of the isle, from my father and I”.

As she was speaking I saw her eyes turning from fear to pity, as you Joy were whispering something into her ear.

Then she looked at me and with a reverence said goodbye.

“I told her that our rightful lord, our divine King, has become afraid of pigs as part of his crew was killed by Circe's boars”, you said in a calm voice after the storm of before.

My dear, thank you.... I lost myself… I tried to say before you cutted me again.

“Lost myself?”, you spitted from your mouth.

“I saw your deep eyes filled with blood, your tense wrists, your forced grin, I saw anger in your words” you said before composing yourself again.

And delivered from the depths of your kind heart: “ My Joy I'm afraid of you”

-A...afraid, you are afraid of me? Those winged words cut deeper than immortal bronce, than mighty lighting than the grief I have been carrying since the beaches of Troy.

Did I become a threat, a….. monster to you? I asked.

Words couldn't exist as I mumbled my way through the syllables, letters then formed my deepest fear, losing you.

“Not dear, i'm afraid of what you can do to our people, you're still King after all, i pity you from my depths below bottom, but you aren't my Odysseus, not anymore” another cold rush befell on me, I was being skinned alive, no, I would have prefer that instead of making you say those words,

“I i..i. am...Odysseus”. I tried to say as I was getting myself out of the vortex of despair I was falling prey to.

“Why does she hate me, 20 years away, the horse, the boy, Polyphemus, the crew…..all has been in vain?” my head wanted to explode. I wanted to be Priam there, I was cursed to feel his demise too.

“I…i…i a..am sorry” I said supplicant while throwing myself to your knees, to your knees my love.

I thought I was falling to the house of the one of many guests, to the one whose house is set on the west but no; I felt a hand and kiss after all what had been said.

“You're Odysseus, son of Laertes, father of my joy, dear Telemachus” you said before adding” you're Odysseus King of Ithaca, you're but still my love.”. Those words felt like woven wool blankets, as warm as a child could hope for.

“I..ahm” I said as I was standing up, as I was composing myself again, as seeing there was no threat again.…

Thank you, my queen” I said in my normal voice.

Everything was as normal as before, the people were there again, no one had runned away as I demanded when thinking Aiaia´s mistress was in the palace. No, they had been there petrified as there awaited king shouted to a little girl no more than 14 springs old. They witnessed how their beloved wanax was put in place by the hand of her faithful wife. Even he had been there all the time.

“Telemachus” I tried to reach him with his name..

Thanks so much to all of you! I´m tagging to my best friends and special moots:

@jarondont,@iroissleepdeprived, @nikoisme, @perroulisses,@poshgirlsstuff, @katerinaaqu @incorrecthomer, @dootznbootz, @nyx-of-darkness-1620, @sunshines-child, @randomkrab, @ironspdr6700, @fangirlofallthefanthings, @twomanyfandomshelp, @thehighpaladin, @the-decapod, @myblacknightworld, @simugeuge, @itszorrito67, @incorrectatlas @tunguszka20, @dootznbootz , @ironspdr6700

#odysseus #the odyssey #greek mythology #homer #circe #penelope #my first fic #the first night #telemachus #wanax

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officialhexrpg · 2 years ago

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Magical Arts: July's Writing Challenge Winner!

This month, we’ll be looking at the magical world under water. Did you know that the world’s longest mountain range is actually in the oceans? In this month’s writing challenge, your task is to describe your scuba driving experience! What sorts of creatures did you encounter? How did the gush of water feel? Learnt anything new about the world under water? Or did you race any fish?

2nd Place: Kestrel Winter

Scuba diving is a delightful experience, a magical and wonderful experience. Yeah, Maybe for others. Personally, I will never, ever venture beneath the waves again. Oh sure it was pretty enough, and I do love swimming, but, shudders, the cons outweigh the pros in my case!

I had booked a trip to Iceland for the sole purpose of diving and exploring Strýtan the Geothermal Chimney. I had read tons about it and even though I am not an expert at scuba, I was going to be with some professional divers familiar with the area. So what could go wrong?

The first thing I noticed upon entering the water, was that it was cold. I mean super cold. But the visibility was amazing. I had never dove in such clear waters. But then again, I had never dived this far north in the world. It was crystalline clear, enabling me to see everything. The first thing I saw was the strýtan themselves. In case you do not know these are giant geothermal cones of silica. The fact that they are geothermal is what makes it warm enough for us to even be there. In fact, the closer you get to one, the warmer it is, almost balmy.

The next thing I noticed was the flabellina nudibranchs. Yes, sea slugs. In some of the most amazing colors too. My favorite was an almost translucent, milky white one with coral -colored tips on it. There were others around us that were larger and others with brighter, flashier hues, but these were just so elegant. I must have spent a good twenty minutes observing them. But there was so much more to see.

Great schools of cod, silvery shoals of pollock, a couple of mean looking wolfish and one enormous and stunning starry ray that was the most amazing tint of gold. It was really unbelievable the amount of fish life around, not to mention the copious amounts of crustaceans. Artic lyre crab were the most numerous, but there were also spider crabs, large and creepy looking if you ask me. Iceland has only one type of lobster, the Nephrops lobster, but they were also most prolific. Who knew that this area would be so teeming of life? And therein lay the problem.

We had all gathered around one of the strýtan to warm up a bit, when I noticed a large cave in the side of a really big one next to us. For some reason it was compelling me to watch it and I soon found out why. Suddenly two large, ice blue eyes appeared, staring incessantly at me. Then, the gleaming white teeth appeared, followed by what can only be called a sea monster horse thingy! Silvery blue with an outrageous fringe of red running over its head and neck!

As it started to undulate out of the darkness towards us, I felt my dive leaders grabbing my arms and propelling me swiftly to the surface. Once we had reached the safety of the boat, they started the motor and sped towards shore. As I looked back over our jet wash, I saw that enormous evil looking head breach the waves and look after us hungrily. My Icelandic guides informed me that this was indeed the ‘Faxaskrímsli’ a legendary monster of the deep, that few had ever lived to tell the tale about.

I think I could have lived the rest of my life without having seen this thing .Most call me lucky to have the encounter: I say cursed. I have lost any desire to even put one toe into the ocean again. If this creature is real, who is to say that all the other monsters of the deep are not?

#hexrpg #hexrpg.com #f: MoMA #harry potter forum #w: writing challenge #creative writing #d: November 2022

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btsslowburnfic · 4 years ago

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Chthonic Love Chapter 3

Series Summary: Greek AU Yoongi/Hades x You/Persephone. The Olympic Lord, Namjoon kidnaps you as a "gift" for his brother, ruler of the Underworld. Lord of Death: Yoongi.

Previous Chapter: Chapter 2

“Dear Hoseok,

I am sure you are quite worried about me and so I firstly want you to know that, all things considered, I am ok. Zeus brought me to the Underworld and Lord Yoongi has been a very gracious host. I’ve heard you lost a bet? I need to know what in Olympus happened so I can disentangle myself from any terms you have entered me into. Maybe now you’ll listen to me when I tell you to stop messing with the Olympians.

--Persephone”

You folded the letter and looked around for an envelope. You didn’t see any on the desk so you left and walked over to the door. You opened it and poked your head out to see if Yoongi was out there, but he wasn't. Feeling disappointed and not really wanting to go back to your cold, boring chamber, you turned back into the office. It was much warmer there than the rest of the castle. You appraised the room once more; you tried to remember what all you had heard about Lord Yoongi before today and you realized: not a whole lot. He seemed nice enough, just lightly annoyed that you were here. But if someone had dropped a person off in your house unexpectedly you would also be irritated.

You walked along one of the many bookcases and pulled out a few different books, perusing their covers. Some seem to be journals and you put those back, not wanting to be rude. A few of them have musical notes written in them, you turned your head towards the back of the office, noticing the Lyre and Harpsicord one again. Yoongi must play at least one of them. You continue to browse the shelves, finally finding a small book labeled, “Underworld Compendium.” You take it over to the pile of furs you had made earlier and settle in for some reading.

In the beginning there was Darkness. Before the brothers were Kings of the Realm, they were slaves to their father: Cronus. Cronus, not wanting to share any of his power, swallowed each of his sons, keeping them in interminable darkness and pain. Finally, their mother was able to spare a child: Zeus. Zeus led the charge against Cronus and the other Titans, and in his surprise, the enslaved children were accidentally released. The Titan Wars were waged for decades: Olympians versus Titans. Finally, Cronus was destroyed. The realms were divided amongst those sons who fought in the Titan Wars. Namjoon, who the mortals worship as Zeus, wanted Olympus and ascended to his throne with great fanfare and a feast that lasted for 40 days and 40 nights. Jin, Poseidon, enjoyed splashing in the waves and playing with the animals of the sea. Yoongi, Hades, traveled down from Olympus, through the Earth, Through the sea, and arrived at the Underworld.

GEOGRAPHY

The Underworld is comprised of many subsections. At the center of it lies the Obsidian Palace. Hewn into the very core of the Underworld, it is a sight to behold, visible from Erebos all the way to Oceanus. Surrounding the Obsidian Palace is the Desert of Sorrow, bordered by the Stygian Sea to the South….

You yawned and sat the book facedown on the furs. You found the book interesting, you really did, but between the warm fire and the crying earlier, your eyelids grew heavy. You decided to lay down for just a moment and before you knew it, Hypnos was proverbially knocking on your door.

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

Yoongi had left you to write your letter in private. He’d deliver it to Charon either tonight or tomorrow. To his surprise, he wasn’t as annoyed by your presence as he thought he would be. He started to wonder when the last time he had talked to a person? He occasionally would speak to Penthos, but considering every day was the same, there wasn’t really much to say.

He walked down the hallway and heard voices speaking in a hushed tone.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m sure she’ll be leaving soon. She seems so nice. I don’t know what your problem is.” It was Lethe.

“She just walks in and acts like she owns the damned place,” Yoongi heard Penthos harshly retort.

Lethe laughed, “She’s a Goddess. The fact she didn’t disembowel you for speaking to her without being spoken to is really something. It’s clear you've never served in any other courts before. While Lord Yoongi is a quiet God, he’s a million times better than most of them.”

Penthos sighed, “I suppose you’re right about that. I’ll see you later.”

Yoongi waited a few seconds and then rounded the corner, he put his hands on his hips, “Lethe, Just the person I wanted to see.”

Lethe froze at first, clearly surprised. After a few seconds, she turned around, bowing slightly, “Yes, my Lord?”

“What room did you end up taking Lady Persephone to?”

“Uh…” she faltered for a moment, wringing her hands.

“I know you didn’t actually put her out in the furthest corner of the palace. It’s fine.”

She let out a deep breath, “She’s staying in the room with the quicksilver door. And I’m sorry she wandered around the castle. I didn’t know if she was supposed to stay in her room or if I was supposed to lock her up. Even though I don’t have a key. I really should have asked first but I didn’t,” Lethe rambled.

“Lethe, it's OK . She’s not a prisoner here, it’s fine.” Yoongi gave a rare smile to reassure her.

“Ok, thank you sir.” she visibly relaxed. “Do you need anything?”

“Just make sure Lady Persephone is comfortable while she is staying here. I’m not sure how long she will be staying, but consider yourself her attendant while she is here.”

Lethe was visibly surprised, “Yes, m’lord.”

This is what I get for complaining that things were too boring. He thought to himself.I’m just glad she’s calmed down. Crying women terrify me. Yoongi continued down the hallway to the furthest wing of the castle. He approached a large set of Enchanted doors. He raised his hands to the sigils and unlocked them. You can’t be too careful. He crossed the antechamber, twisting through another hallway, and finally down a staircase he hadn’t used in decades. He conjured a blue flame to light his path. The air had turned heavy and acrid in the absence of any fresh air. He continued until he arrived at the bottom of the staircase where the floor was dirt. He took a few steps into the small room which connected to the catacombs through various tunnels. He waited several moments before he heard the scratching sound begin against the wall. The sound came closer, accompanied by a clicking noise.

A voice that sounded like something being stretched uncomfortably over a wringer called out in the darkness. “Lord Yoongi. It’s been so long. What does the Lord of the Underworld require?”

Yoongi looked almost bored as the creature climbed closer; its hundreds of black eyes reflected his blue flame.

“Hello Arachne. How are the catacombs?”

“Such a kind Lord. Asking Arachne about the catacombs. This is why you’re my favorite.”

“The catacombs?”

“Fine my Lord. You know we keep the others down here. Its is our privilege to serve the Underworld.” she replies in her raspy voice. Dozens of smaller spiders have started to enter the chamber. Arachne’s children crawl over the walls, eager to catch a rare glimpse of the ruler of the underworld.

Yoongi turned his gaze back to Arachne’s eyes, “Clothes, Arachne. I need dresses. Nice ones, suitable for a Lady.”

The creature let out a cacophonous sound like gnashing teeth. “Oh? Is there a Lady of the Underworld now? I haven’t sewn a wedding dress in centuries.”

Yoongi sighed. He hated dealing with Arachne. Being a gossip is what caused Athena to turn her into a spider in the first place. “No Arachne. Just a visiting Lady who didn’t pack enough. A few normal dresses. No wedding dresses.”

He heard a small wailing sound and watched her pincers quiver, “But I want to make beautiful clothes again. The Underworld needs a Lady for me to dress, and then children to dress. I’ve taught my children to sew, did you know that?” Arachne sounds almost human again as she becomes increasingly excited.

“No. No.” he holds his hand up, glad the darkness is hiding his red cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and anger coloring his face. He’s becoming sick of others telling him he needs a companion. “Just normal dresses. That’s all”

He heard a collective whining sound from all the spiders, “Very well Lord Yoongi, what colors should they be.”

Yoongi was already turning around and walking towards the door, “You’re the stylist not me. Nice normal dresses Arachne!” He went back up the stairs and straightened his jacket once he arrived on the other side of the locked doors. Arachne would have those clothes done in no time. The poor Spider-Woman had nothing else to do, just decorating the Underworld’s cave system with things people would never see. Yoongi had invited her to come up to the main part of the palace when she first arrived, but she had balked saying it was “too bright” and that “nobody wanted to see a monster.”

He wondered what you were up to. He imagined you had probably finished your letter and were poking your head around the castle some more. He found himself smiling as he walked up the staircase to his office. He opened the door and saw you fast asleep in front of the fireplace. He brought his hand to his mouth and entered the room as quietly as possible, not wanting this moment to end. He tried to decide if he should stay or leave. Instead he found himself just staring at you. You were very pretty. Not in an unnatural way like the other Goddesses he had met, just pretty. He walked across the room and saw You were clutching a book. He knelt down to see what book you had ended up with. Yoongi gently removed it from beneath your arm and ran a finger down the spine. “Underworld Compendium.” A good book. He should know, he wrote it. He grabbed a scrap of paper and marked where you had it open and sat it down next to you.

He walked over to his desk and saw the letter you had written your brother. He imagines that it said “Please come rescue me, I’m being forced to stay with a monster and pretend to be nice to him.” He really wanted to look but knew he shouldn’t. He heard you stir a little and watched you throw an arm over your eyes. Yoongi raised a hand towards the flames, dimming the lights in the room. He looked at the letter again and decided to read it. He took a breath and flipped it open. He read it quickly. It’s a very short letter. He propped his elbows on his desk and held his head in his hands for a moment. He was also eager to see what your brother’s response would be. He thought about writing his own letter but somehow “you fucked up and now I own your sister,” seemed like a bad idea. His nose twitched. He smelled a faint floral scent and looked up. Flowers had started to bloom in a bowl on his desk.

“What the hell is this?” he asked. He heard a faint moaning come from in front of the fireplace, another flower bud appeared. Yoongi felt his face grow warm. He tapped on his Hourglass, watching the sand swirl.

He pulled out one of his journals and began to write in it. He became lost in his own thoughts for a while, the crackling of the fireplace and your light breathing the only sounds. It was soothing in a way he had never felt before.

When he looked up again his desk was covered in flowers. He laughed lightly and heard you start to awaken.

You stretched your arms above your head. Where were you again? You felt the warm fire on your back and slowly opened your eyes. You saw Lord Yoongi sitting at his desk. His eyes flicked over towards you and you suddenly felt very embarrassed. “Sorry. I meant to just rest my eyes,” you said as you sat up. “I hope I didn’t snore too much.”

To your shock he laughs, his deep voice echoing. “Just a little bit. You did make quite the garden here though,” he gestures to his desk which is covered in chrysanthemums.

You blush “Sorry, it happens sometimes. My powers sometimes do their own thing when I'm sleeping or sick. Fortunately, other than making people sneeze, it’s not that bad.” He clearly doesn’t know the meaning behind flowers and you hope he doesn’t look it up any time soon.

You stood up, rubbing your hands up and down your arms at the loss of direct heat from the fireplace.

"it's fine I uh," he runs his tongue along his lower lip, "just didn't know flowers could bloom in the underworld. I've never seen them here."

You laugh a little, "Well apparently they can when the Goddess of Spring is here. Speaking of, when is the next time Charon will be arriving?"

Yoongi moved the hourglass on his desk and looked into it. To you it appeared as though nothing was happening, the sand suspended in between the top and bottom, but he appraised it carefully as though he was reading it.

"Soon," he stood up, pulling his shirt down straight. He pulled an envelope out of the desk drawer and placed your letter inside.

You walked over to the desk to gather the flowers. “Sorry, I’ll just--”

"No. Leave them." he said

You thought maybe he would say more about it but he doesn't. He walked to the back corner of the room and grabbed a cloak.

"Can I come with you?" you asked him

"You don't trust me to deliver it?" he responded harshly.

You feel sad that that's what he thought, your gaze traveled to the floor, "No. I just saw the sea earlier and it looked pretty. And I really don't want to be alone in this giant Palace."

His features immediately softened. "Oh. Ok. Hmm. Hold on." he walks over to you with his cloak and puts it around you, carefully fastening it below your neck. "Here. It's colder out there than it looks."

"Won't you be cold?" you asked in disbelief at how quickly his moods could change.

He shrugged and picked up your letter. "I'm used to it. Don't worry about me."

"I can just stay here…"

"No, let's go." he said and opened the door, motioning for you to go through it.

NEXT CHAPTER

#bts fanfic #bts fanfction #bts yoongi x reader #bts suga x you #bts au fanfic #bts fluff

27 notes · View notes

nshah2 · 5 years ago

Text

First Part of Story Lolz: The first step into the cavern isn’t that dark. People believe it is but they’re just intimidated by the dark green moss that grows around it along with the spiky vines. Marie Jane? The Marie who likes to switch between Mary because it makes her feel chic? Oh she was just flabbergasted to the even proposition of stepping one Louis Vuitton, red high-heel in there. Even so, she was curious about the bright side of the cavern, as much of an oxymoron of that statement is. Everyone is.

Alex Lyres, skinny jeans and long sleeves, brown skin or hairy arms, one of the two, that is unsuspecting of outside analyzing, and depressed green eyes. They fell silent in front of the cavern, walked in slowly in a trance of the great things that awaited, pushing away the wispy spider webs and teething bats. I hope she doesn’t get lost.

Kamila Civet, she ran. She ran straight in, we hardly saw her anymore. She’s addicted to the cavern, she likes to run through all of it. She can’t handle the darkness though, it pushes her out with sharp black nails, sometimes it only used two, sometimes it used all.

The cavern does terrible things, it made me lose what was alread lost.

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Chapter 1:

A tip of a black word that could have meant to be blue grazes me everytime I step out of my house. Ten thousand words clutter the pages of others' mother tongues, so you can imagine the scars that yielded me weak to the eye of the majority. Fading away into the deepest shadow of Oaktown High seemed to cloak me with the power of moving through the halls without being at a sword's end, or at least at one I could see. I had grown comfortable with this lifestyle because it’s all I knew along with the wrappers of mistakes in my closet. But please do not play the chorus of slow violin notes because I am not my paragraph, I am my essay.

I couldn’t say the same about Mary Jane.

Gaggles of laughter follow her tall figure, swaying with her long blonde hair. Skinny arms wrapped around the shoulders of her companions whose skin is as unblemished as their reputation. Longing stares from the girls and boys who smile for status. An idolized individual that excelled at whatever you did not. “Okay, okay, listen!” Samia Davenport tries to reason, “Ignore the fact he’s a ginger. He’s cute.” Mary squeezes Samia’s face and squeals, “My little babushka is growing up. She likes men who aren’t on reality T.V too!” Samia swats her arm away, trying not to laugh. “Oh shut up, don’t deny that Dave Hansen is absolutely my soulmate.” Dave Hansen? Interesting, stupid choice. The boy who spread a rumor about you being homeless in eighth grade? The boy who chopped your hair off in ninth! The boy who smirks and everything feels like a blissful high, a serenity of happiness flooding through your brain. Too bad he likes Maya, who dismissed half of his heart with a slur that demolished him into succumbing to a camp which told him, be Christian, not you.

They’re idiots for craving such expensive baggage because they know they can’t have it, though I can’t fault them. I’ve -however- learned to push my credit card back into my pocket and tame my legs to walk out of the store.

Mary nods with disinterest as she eyes Ms. Alejandras classroom. “Wait up, okay?” She grinned at Samia and rushed in the door. “Ms! Ms. Alehandra, I was wondering if I could obtain some extra credit?”

“Mary, just turn in your missing assignments . I’ll give you 50% for each.”

“I lost all the papers.”

“I can print new ones.”

I watch the exchange with dancing pupils, careful to not let my shadow get into the light. Mary has fists furrowed into small pockets with inching frustration poking out of them.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Tapping on the linoleum floor, 1, 2, 3, 4…

“It’s uneven. It has to be 0-5, 5-10, 15-20. Right now if I do an extra credit assignment it’ll finally be 0-5.”

“Does it have to be in 5s?”

“More satisfying in 5s ma’am.”

Ms. Alejandra adjusts her long brown pencil skirt and touches Mary’s shoulder. “Read a book after you complete your missing assignments and then talk to Dr. Vienna.”

Mary sighs, she nods a quiet thank you and walks away with red fists and a crippling smile. “Did you get the extra credit?” Samia asks. Mary laughs , “No, that idiot was like ‘oh just talk to Dr. Vienna after you do it. Like oh cause he always helps, blah, blah.”

Dr. Vienna, the man who thought if you met him or his staff every night at 8:00 pm to get your daily fix of yellow, blue, pink, or green you could be cured from your worries. I mean, he’s not wrong. But yellow turns to blue and blue to pink and pink to green and then thousands of green clutter a controlled mind.

“What did you say?” Samia asks.

“I was just like ‘Yeah, sure, whatever haha.”

“I would have just cleaned her room right then and there, just ignore her and start cleaning.”

“Oh, if only.”

A familiar buzz sounds through the halls. A calling for lost luggage, they want to keep alive. Too bad our owners aren’t coming to pick us up any time soon. Airport security was a hassle enough the first time.

Most of us groan and walk to the assigned seats and watch the numbers. Dr. Vienna sits with the ones who watch too carefully. “Don’t you wish you were like them?” Says the blonde girl next to me, tapping my shoulder. “No Kamila, I don’t.” She rolls her eyes, “Well then you're crazy, imagine how easy it is for them. I can’t believe some of these girls came voluntarily. It’s like being Albert Einstein and then going to a camp that teaches you to be dumb.” Kamila eyes her cheesy potato cubes and boiled egg on veggies. She stuffs all of it in her pocket, one egg slice, one cube, one veggie at a time. Staring, being mesmerized by the girls who grasp control over uncontrollable behaviors. I want to tap her shoulder like she did to me but I know she’s so much more cluttered than me, she would trip over all her the mess in her brain to think that’s pretty. Mary walks to our table with her plate of food, a lunch of one cookie, one apple, two pieces of lean fish, a salad, and a baked potato. “Just be balanced.” Mary said, smiling shiny white teeth. “Do you really want to go into the cavern just to look like that? They’re miserable.” Kamila glared back, “Oh please Mary. All 5’8 of you would want to sit there and look like that. Everyone does.” Mary sits down, “Of course everyone does. But it’s not worth it. Besides, the cavern is so gross and if you go the wrong way you are done forever. You don’t even get to be them. “

Kamila scowled in disgust, “Ugh you know nothing! I already did, I got lost too but I’m going to go back and find my way in.” Mary laughed, “Kamila, you're going to go in there and never get out. You're going to want to keep going. But you won’t be able to. It’s like a cigarette, you’ll be addicted.”

“What’s the cavern?” I popped in. They looked at me with shock.

“You don’t know what the cavern is? It’s literally why almost everyone is in here. What are you in for then?”

“My parents got sick of having a kid who doesn’t know how to love them.” My flat response. It didn’t even feel like I spoke, I just opened my mouth and the words fell into place. The ones I was hoping would never come out.

“Oh.” They said in unison, eyes wary of the girl they once thought was innocent. Would it be better if I had gone into the cavern first? Got addicted to it, whatever ‘it’ may be.” Uneasily Mary explained, “If you haven’t gone into the cavern, it’s best you only know it by its code name. It’s not actually a cavern.”

Kamila joined in, “I came in here for other reasons too, then I learned about it and started. You need something to distract you here. I mean but if you haven’t started it, find something else.”

“Just tell me what it is.”

They both looked at eachother, they seemed indecisive. Should we tell her? I could practically hear the words they looked at each other with. It couldn’t be that problematic, could it? “I’m sure I’ve heard of worse.” They both shook their heads. “It’s not that you haven’t.”

Kamila tried to explain.

“It’s just that you can’t try it once and be done. If you try it, you're done for. It’s not murder obviously, it’s...it’s like everything bad on this world is labeled in colors. Blue for normal, green for normal but you're slipping, orange for hey this is getting bad, and red for you messed up. The cavern pushes you to orange right? But then you like it so you keep going and slip down to red. Then it's like...it takes all of it’s rocks and barricades you with them. The oxygen is slowly slipping away, you know you will die. But in your mind that's worth it so you either die or someone pulls you out. Hardly ever does anyone pull you out though.”

Chapter 2:

All week I had been curious to what the cavern was, jumping at any chance to pull the answer out of unsuspecting victims. Yet they always hushed me and pointed at a staff member or harshly whispered something along the lines of “if you don’t know you don’t need to. I shouldn’t be talking about this here.” Yet in every location I could find with every set of people available, the answer was always the same. Actually that's a false statement, as time went on the answers became more general and specific at the same time. The cavern was so wide, it had such an in depth storyline but from physical appearances it was normal and forgettable. The cavern came off as a stranger to me, a human I did not know who has a story that would make me cry if I read it.

“Mama used to say that my eyes were a gift from the desert, that they were a sandy brown drought. “

That’s cute.” Commented Kamila. “My Mom used to call me a little bird. Since my legs used to be really skinny and I liked to wear my halloween costume wings like almost every day.”

“Did I say that out loud?” I ask.

“Yeah, you do that a lot, ponder quietly with a mysterious look on your face and then randomly drop in the crumble of words in your head.”

“Oh.”

I’m pretty sure Mom used to say something like that. That my eyes seemed to get lost in the colourful realm, speechless to the greenery of new ideas and scenarios. I guess the cavern was a new scenario. I had spent two years at Oakwood, never once did the word cavern actually mean anything to me than the base definition. I suspected it was a hangout for teens to maybe drink or smoke, that’s why they called it addicting. But Mom also used to say “Your never far off from the truth once you make an assumption, your penny isn’t in the fairy’s hand but it’s going down the well, it’s getting closer.” It could be about smoking or drinking, but then they would have used another example to compare it to. Reverse psychology? No, in the span of a few seconds they wouldn’t have been intellectual enough to corroborate such an intricate plan, unless they did... But they aren’t exactly top of the chain in terms of intelligence.

No, they certainly weren’t. One blank page could hold wiser knowledge than their brains could ever learn in their lifetime. Maybe the way they mindlessly transferred their thoughts onto a piece of a paper got them an A, but they have no street smarts. A ratio that didn’t match Mary's agenda would throw her off her high horse into the dirt. If Kamila spoke a word everyone didn’t agree with she would resort back to the deep depths of her mind, not caring about the cobwebs and dirty floor. Everyone in this school is like this, stubborn, selfish brats who didn’t realise that sticking your nose in a book doesn’t make you a genius. It makes you an average person who gets a teacher's signature on her report card with a happy face sticker. Wow, good on you, a happy face, that’s going to get you through life? A happy face?

“Little Madam, the one in the blue dress? Oh where is she, is she sticking out because of her oh so obvious dress? Or the fact that she isn’t hearing anything I’m saying?”

Everyone laughs with pasted smiles for an objective. Everyone knows Ms. Alejandra picks favorites. It’s all objective. Even her damn joke is objective, a power move, calling everyone out and making them laugh about it. Keep laughing, I’m not a clone.

Definitely not a clone of her favorites right now.

“Yes, Ma’am?” I speak, keeping my dignity upheld.

She sighs with annoyance, “Can you tell me what I was just explaining about chain rules?”

Chain rules, chain rules, chain rules...She must have just been covering it today, that fatuous fool Kamila was correct. The cavern was good for distracting you.

“I’m not sure.” I say, my voice felt like a particularly bad day on the ground near the Pacific Ocean in the Philippines.

Another sigh, this time with actual disappointed eyes. Did she expect me to know the complications of a couple of Xs and numbers labeled under-

“The derivative of f(g(x)) . g’(x) will always be f'(g(x))⋅g'(x).”

Everyone turned around to the raised hand and straight face of Alex Lyres. A matty mess of short, dirty blonde hair, bangs almost cocealing the never turned off glare in her green eyes. Her limbs were long and skinny and danced in the wind every Friday where administrators let her be `recreational”.

Alex Lyres who sits at the table with Dr. Vienna every day and goes to him personally for three green ones every night. She speaks seldom but when she does her words dive into your mind and almost as quickly as they come in, evaporate. She would know about the cavern, she was at the table Kamila admired specifically because people who were there went in the cavern. Or should I say, went in too deep. But I’d have to rephrase my wording into a more casual conversation. You don’t just light a candle in a monster accompanied by darkness, you wait for the perfect time.

Tick, Tock.

One-Forty. Two-a clock.

The bell dings its warning signs and Alex lifts her legs off the seat. In quick movements she makes her way to her bedroom. The teacher gives her that stern ‘what do you think you're doing’ look and she starts to slow down, hanging her head a little lower.

“Alex! Hey!”

She looks around, uncomfortable that her name has been brought into the spotlight. Don’t worry Alex, give me the answers and the switch gets clicked off.

It gives her a chance though, a chance to slide her feet across the marble floor, static building in her soft teddy bear socks.

“Alex, hey can I ask you something?”

“Sure, um…?”

I disregard her blank stare, notioning me to give out my name. My name has never been uttered in the walls of this wretched place and it never will. I won’t give it that power.

“How do you do it?”

It’s like her facial features immediately morphed into a sweaty recognition about what I’m about to say.

“How do I do what?”

“Y’know…” I push, “How do you do the...cavern?”

She looks at me for a couple of seconds before shaking her head and storming away. I chase after her which isn’t hard because she speeds with caution. Why? We aren’t allowed to run in the halls but we can speed walk. She’s not going to get in trouble for speed walking.

“Yeah, I am.”

“I said that aloud?” I really need to stop doing that.

“No, I can just see it in your face. You're confused on why I look so cautious. Yeah, I will get in trouble if I’m going ‘above average speed’ or whatever.”

My hand instinctively goes to grab my chin, I pause indecisively. It’s extra but it’s what you're supposed to do when you're confused. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” She snaps.

“I don’t know, why are you specific?”

“Not just me, everyone else in the cavern.”

My mind jumps back to the main objective and I robotically move myself into a more sympathetic position. Arms crossed with pouty eyes, “Why wouldn’t they let you run just because you’ve been in the cavern?”

“Again, why do you think?”

“I don’t know?”

She looks at me up and down with quizzing eyes, her disbelief is obvious. I’m not sure what I did wrong, I guess I really need more information.

Her eyes widened with shock, “Oh my god, are you that one girl who's trying to find the cavern? Oh, my friends told me you would try to find me, just forget about it!”

I don’t care about much at all. The world is a blank page I’d like to keep clean, showing interesting written words I can not erase. If I try, the eraser marks will clutter what could have been a precise story of nothing. If I don’t care, nothing happens which is easier than risking your life for a second of happiness that will wash away. Yet, now, there are no warm arms to welcome me into a hug. No one is waiting for the three special words from me anymore. My desire from others has faded away to a past sentence no one will ever flip a page back to again. No one wants me, I have no purpose. It would make the three years pass a little bit faster, maybe once I’m out I can prove I am still deserving of those arms.

I’m not playing by a script anymore, the stage has disappeared. Emotions come rushing back as the dam has broken with that one phrase. I can’t forget about it, I can’t be denied again. Just give me something to latch onto, please.

My voice cracks and eyes water, alien sobs escape my cracked lips. Alex watches as I fall to the ground. I can’t understand why I’m crying. I don’t know what’s going on. I just know that I still feel no matter how much I want to deny. Suddenly I feel those warm arms I’ve been longing for since the first day I stepped foot into Oakwood. Alex cloaks me in kindness while I stare blankly at the dizzy walls. “Are you okay?” Alex asks.

“No.” I reply.

Alex sighs and pulls me up, “I...do you consider yourself-like...doomed? Do you think of yourself as a time bomb?”

“No, that’s idiotic.”

She looks at me with eyes that are confused, “When you get out of here, you have hope?”

I’m about to say yes, yes of course I do. I don’t even deserve to be here, I didn’t do anything. I’m fine, I-

The strong glass walls reinforced with thick creamy clay blocks show me a reflection of a stranger. I can’t speak for her.

“I don’t know.”

“Ok.”

Alex starts walking down the hall so I follow, feeling sheepish and insecure. What just happened? Her dorm room is void of decoration and sound, an echoless big room.

She motions for me to go in, so I do.

“You want to know what the cavern is?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Ok, choose.”

She lays out three items on her bed, “Choose one.”

There is a toothbrush, a jug, and a box with cloth inside.

“How did you get this all? The toothbrush isn’t used right?”

“On my rare free days, I collect what I can.”

“You hid this? I’ve heard of smuggling phones, but a humongous jug?”

“You’d be surprised what siblings can smuggle in for you when they're giving you ‘clothes’?”

I look at the random items, “What is the point of these? What are you trying to prove, just tell me!”

She looks at me with annoyance, “Do you want to do this my way or get someone else's help. Trust me, if you really want to know you're going to do it my way. No one is as sadistic as I am to help you.”

Chapter 3:

I took the toothbrush, unsure of the faith that comes with it. I already have one so it just lies in my cabinet drawer, waiting for it’s mysterious day to arrive. I’m not sure really what or how this will lead me to the cavern. I’ve been trying it out though, in every situation I can’t really find a way to use it. So, again, my only choice is to hint a subtle lie, a little dancing shadow among the white imperial clouds. I hinder my speed from each class so Kamila’s wistful, disorganized eyes can zero in on me. Her being, well her, she’s obviously going to ‘casually’ speed up to me so she can initiate a conversation about her busy schedule. I’ll listen, or at least pretend to, while she goes on about being so tired her eyes nearly popped out from studying so she couldn’t get that one math page done and can she copy mine?

That’s boring and I don’t have time though.

“Hey! Were you waiting up for me?” Kamila asks, tapping my shoulder.

“You can copy my math page Kamila.” I say dryly, she's not the only one who's tired from studying.

“Excuse me?” She asks, tone offended. She walks in front of me and places her hands on her hips. “Why would you think I need that?”

“Why else would you be talking to me?” I ask, did I misread why she always sped up to me in the hallways? I’m not in any clubs, I don’t think I can help her with advice for that.

“What the hell do you mean? ‘Cause you're my friend?” Her structure relaxes a little bit, seeing my face soften into a concerned look. I wrinkled my nose a little more so I look less offensive and more defensive. ‘Slouch a bit, look down. She’s mad.’ I think to myself. It’s working.

Then the words set in and I stop for a second. The definition of a friend is a person you have a bond of mutual affection with.

“‘I’m not affectionate towards you.” I say.

Kamila looks at me with that studying eyes of hers, “Yeah, so?”

“Then we aren’t friends.”

“Yeah, but-”

“There is no “but”, that’s the exact definition of friend.”

She sighs with frustration, “Do you like garlic bread?”

“What does that have to do with-”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

She pulls out a dictionary from her satchel, “The definition of like is to have love, respect, and admiration for something. Tell me, do you admire garlic bread?”

“To be honest, food is quite neutral as a whole to me-”

Her face looked tired and annoyed so I cut it off.

“No, I don’t admire garlic bread.”

Her face transforms from drowsy monday to a bright sunday morning, “Exactly!” With that, she strided off with her red sneakers bouncing off the marble floor through the endless hallways. I never got to ask her about the toothbrush.

Why are people so complicated? I don’t understand any of them. Why doesn’t anyone want anything from me here?

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stampsthecircuscat · 5 years ago

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Where Stories Come From

Okay so like I know there are a bazillion stories out there about how stories came to be and stuff but this popped into my head and I felt the need to write it out so... Meh.

There once was a young bard in ancient times, a wonderful storyteller who would roam from place to place, spreading tales of the old ones as he and others had been taught. Now these stories were amazing legends, feats of grandeur and triumph, but there were only five. Five tales to tell, and the young bard was getting bored. He noticed every year less people would listen, or the interest faded in their eyes.

"This will not do," thought the young bard. "There must be more stories to tell, I just have to find them!" Not long after this thought had he packed his bag and grabbed his lute, ready to run off for his search. He started with the other bards of course, maybe one had been taught another story, but none had ever heard another tale and scoffed at his idea of there being more. "This is all there is, and all there ever will be!" Cried every bard he spoke to. The young spoke to priests, kings, jesters, rogues, even villagers praying for a story. Alas, none were found and the poor lad was left to lament his quest on a stone at the forest's edge, curled up in defeat.

However, as night fell and silence covered the land an odd sound was heard by the young bard, quiet as a whisper. He looked up from his arms and saw a miniscule light in the grass, a curious sight indeed. He carefully and quietly crawled over and as he did, he saw the whisper was from a spider, a spider telling stories! Many bugs were around the spider, listening to the tales, and now the young bard had joined as well. As he listened he found he had never heard this tale before! A miracle, he thought there was no hope for his search! He listened to the one story the spider told, and when it was done the other bugs left, leaving the bard to trap the spider. The bard squatted close so the spider could see him, and smiling wide said. "Mr. Spider, please tell me your tales!"

The spider was surprised at first, what a shock for a human to approach him without fear, but rather excitement. However it quickly shook it's head. "I'm sorry but I cannot tell you my tales. I only have so many after all, and I'm running out of them."

The bard was disheartened at first, but quickly smiled again. "Well, I have tales to tell. Won't you share with me?"

The spider seemed intrigued at this, no other bug lived to tell the tales of the humans. "Alright, I'll tell you my stories." The spider told tales of the struggles of life, the quiet of the leaves and the darkness of caves, trading them for the stories of the brave warriors and triumphant Kings the young bard told.

Once the bard had the new stories he leapt for joy and quickly started running towards the towns before he slowed, thinking to himself. "If the spider had such grand stories… Do the other animals as well?" With the thought in mind he turned back around, running into the forest to continue his quest.

As he travelled over the years he traded stories from everyone, the humble mouse, the sly fox, the brave wolf, the majestic deer, on and on until he had stories from every animal and the hairs on his head turned gray. However, even still he was not satisfied. There was one more animal to see, one more story to gain, and he would find it at the top of the highest mountain, in the darkest cave. The journey was gruelling and it took many more years, but his determination and lust for stories brought him to the top of the mountain where there were so many failed knights and kings that one would more commonly hear the crunch of bone or pang of metal under their feet rather than snow or stone. This however did not deter the bard, and now at the front of the cave he held his lyre and called out, "Dragon! Tell me your tales!"

All was quiet for a moment as the cold winds whipped around him, until a loud, low growl shook the mountain and heat poured from the mouth of the cave until the dragon's piercing eyes glared at the bard from the darkness. "Who dares wake me from my rest?" Hissed the dragon.

The bard gulped and shivered, suddenly feeling quite a bit less brave. "I… I do Dragon. I am hear to trade stories with you."

The dragon stared at the bard for a moment before it chuckled and slid out of the cave. It's fire red scales sparkled and shone bright against the snow, along with it's huge golden horns that were adorned with rubies and diamonds. "I have no need for stories" it hissed. "I have heard every tale in the world, from the tiniest ant to the mightiest dragon."

The bard was shocked, thinking a creature only ever knew of its own stories. "Well, perhaps I have a story you haven't heard? Something worthy of a tale of a dragon?"

The dragon grinned, steam rolling out between it's teeth. "Very well. If you can tell me a story I have never heard, I will tell you a tale of mine, but if you fail you will die, and no one will hear your stories."

The bard grew pale. No one would hear his stories? His wracked his mind for something, anything he could tell the dragon so that all his work would not be lost. The tale of the spider? No, the quail? No, the deer? No! The dragon has heard every story, every tale. He sank to a rock as he felt the wave of defeat. Just about as he was going to accept his fate and admit he had no tales however, he paused. Perhaps… perhaps there was one. One story the dragon never was told, and the bard had never been told either. With a shaky breath he started his tale, the tale of the man who searched the world for stories. His story was sloppy at best, recalling his adventures and weaving the story together as best he could on the spot until he finished, finished here with the dragon.

The dragon glared at the bard, eyes piercing through his very soul until it softened, and the dragon started to laugh. It's laugh was loud and rocked snow off of the mountain, and once it had calmed it looked back down at the poor, shaken bard. "That story was awful. It's clear you have never told it before and have not practiced it which…" it grinned. "Is why I have never heard it before." It settled down in the snow and set an old shield on fire to warm the bard. "And now, I shall tell you my stories."

The stories the dragon told were long and complex, coming from all around the world. Stories of dragons, animals the bard had never seen, and people so far away he would not reach them even in three lifetimes. Once the dragon was done it bid the bard farewell and skunk back into it's home, leaving the bard to his thoughts.

He stayed there for awhile, seated on his rock as the snow froze his face and the wind tore at his clothes as he realized the reason there were no other stories was because no one had created them! The stories just needed to be weaved! With that he ran back down the mountain, through the forest and past the fields until he reached a town and told his stories in the open roads. He spewed mixes of tales and completely new ones, catching the ear of anyone nearby. It was a miracle, new stories, new adventures, and it would go on forever. It took awhile for other bards to catch on, mostly due to pride, but eventually the whole world was telling and hearing new stories. The man is lost to time of course, a name only lasts so long, but the stories he made… the stories last forever.

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lyricaspromise · 6 years ago

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We Become Crafters ‘R’ Us

After we slept, we woke to speak with Marsque and Ox again. Ai was having issues understanding that the Changeling was Ox, which was absolutely hysterical to me. Marsque thanked us for our help, before he said he needed to return to his people. He needed to be certain the others who had come with him escaped safely, and he also needed to inform his superiors that we had helped them.

Of course, as a Drider Ai would be very likely to be attacked by anyone who saw her above ground, so Ox offered her an item he felt would be of great use. When activated, it made her spider body a horse body instead, allowing her to pass as a centaur. They aren’t common, but they aren’t liable to be attacked at any point in time. As we made our way to the surface, Ai and Charra found, something in an abandoned building. Once we reached the surface, however, it was about midday once again. We told Ox we would meet him back at the guild, and made sure he had the list of everything we’d found during our travels and what we’d encountered so he could figure out our requisition tokens and what not. Heading to the baths, we all got clean and enjoyed some wine once again before heading back to the guild.

Once there, we found there was a new group in the guild. Apparently, this was one of the best parties the guild had. Consisting of a human, an dwarf, and a silver dragonborn they were, interesting. One of the others in the guild, the Cleric came over before he was amazed that Lenna was alive. Apparently, we are the third party she has been in, as her first passed on. Heading to Ox, we were given a number of different forms. I used my personal forms to get books to learn how to use a Jeweler’s Kit and Tinkerer’s Tools, as well as the tool sets and starting materials for them. I also took a set of Armguards of Nimbleness and a Quicksilver weapon. I’m going to enjoy using that: I can switch it from one weapon to another in just a bonus action. And, I can adjust the weight to be able to utilize even normally heavy weapons as Versatile when I need to. Not sure what the others got.

We did end up deciding that our party forms would be used to get blueprints for myself and Charra. I was able to get a blueprint to make message earrings for the party, while Charra is now able to make “of Holding” items for us. Ikki also turned in her enchanted leatherworker’s tools so I’d have a set of magical Jeweler’s Kit items to work with. We got Balasar some magical Smith’s Tools and an alchemy jug with our other forms.

Our first day above ground we all took some time to rest, since the Night Shift hasn’t been here in a while. Our second day we began to learn our new skills, or do some crafting. I knew Balasar and Charra wanted to smith, so I joined them in the forge. I rested on the barrel in the corner to read, offering them each Inspiration as they needed it. I chose to read The Gemstone’s Edge, the book about jewelry, first, and on the tenth day I was able to craft a beautiful new piece for my hair out of gold. Having gotten the hang of it, I was able to knock Nuts, Bolts, and Everything in Between out in only three days, and made my first trap on that same day. Charra had apparently been finalizing Ikki’s Spear, before starting on new hammers for Balasar and herself. I took the next three days off from crafting to work with Elodie, Lenna, and Ikki in learning Elvish. I’ve made a start, but its going to take some more time in order to understand it. Elodie also offered me a book: Dr. Chuck Tingle’s Complete Guide to Romance.

We’d spent three days on that before I began making something for Charra. I managed to create a Ring of Shield for her, which will allow her to cast Shield on herself at need. Almost as soon as I finished making that, Charra came to me with a gift. She, well. She’d made me a new flute. She admitted that she hadn’t been able to create the internal mechanisms that allow it to be functional, but the outside was done. I, believe I can handle that myself at some point. Looking at it, this is one of the most beautiful instruments I have ever been given. Made entirely of copper, this was most certainly a beautiful piece of Charra’s creation. Looking it over, I found some murals inscribed on it. One side has some musical notes for a melody. I’ll have to take some time, see if it would be best played on this flute when finished or on my lyre. On the other side, there were a few other depictions. The cut of an amethyst, a diamond, a woman’s visage, and a shield that may have been made of mithral. It’s fucking gorgeous, and I know I’ll treasure it forever. Miten hän teki tämän? Kuinka hän tietää, että soitin huilu? Miksi hän tekee niin vaikeaksi suojautua? I might have given her a kiss on the cheek in thanks.

I spent the next six days relaxing in the smithy as Balasar started working on a shield for both them self and for Lenna. They were quite impressive, and I enjoyed watching them work. I, enjoy watching them and Charra craft really. After those were finished, I went to watch them spar together, but Alphonse found me there. Ah shit I forgot. I went with him and we headed to the roof. I learned a bit of sign language, but it will definitely take me time to really understand it. Apparently, Alphonse, Emily, Roderick, and Adamar are to return to the dungeon again sometime soon. And, well. He is finding he holds feelings for both Roderick and Adamar, and wanted advice for how to talk to them and be brave. I felt horrible for pretending to know what I was talking about when I’m having the same issue myself. Still, I did my best to help him, and tried to act as a good friend and give him solid advice.

A few days after I got the flute from Charra, I found a book of Dwarven poems on my bed. Miten pidät sydämeni turvassa, kun hän tekee tällaisia asioita? It told a story, a beautiful story. By the gods.

The one that really caught my eye in the book, the one I think is the reason the book was left out for me? A love story. It tells about a dwarven woman who had decided to prove herself to be worthy of her beloved. She wished to find her fortune in gems and metals to do so, and as such traveled into the mountains to do so. During her travels, she encountered challenges that stood in her way, including many beasts she was forced to fight and even Drow looking for new slaves in the mountains. Yet for all her challenges, she found that the treasures she found didn’t compare to her beloved. Amethysts couldn’t compare to her lover’s eyes, diamonds were dull compared to her smile. Copper was dull compared to her hair, and even precious mithral failed to compare. Even still, she collected these items she wished to use to make her fortune, before hearing a voice raised in song. Hearing her beloved, she realized she was already rich in love and strove to return home, even though she brought the treasures of the mountains with her.

Somehow, that last bit did not surprise me. Dwarves, you know. (Miksi hän innostaa sellaisia tunteita minussa? Kuinka minun pitäisi suojella itseäni, kun hän antaa minulle tällaisia lahjoja?)

Ah! I forgot one of the other things that happened during our stay at the guild. We chose to play a game of Never Have I Ever in our rooms. Well, everyone but Taras that asshole. On that note, we’d been sent up to the room the Night Shift had been using since a new influx of new members meant the barracks were needed again. That was fine. We’re still together anyways. I’m not going to mention everything, but some of the more interesting things to learn were:

Outside of Charra and myself, Ai and Balasar have also hit their allies in battle

Balasar was in a war

Charra, Taras, Ikki, and Ai have never had their first kiss (and Elodie hasn’t had a second kiss either)

Charra is incapable of casting magic of any kind.

Most of us have hurt ourselves trying to impress someone else

Almost all of us have skipped out on when we promised to be someone

By the gods everyone in this party but myself and the old one are innocent babies.

Charra has at least 12 siblings. What.

Elodie bites if you wake her up

Lenna, Balasar, Charra and myself have all been in love

Most of us have fucked up, big time

The day after working with Alphonse, Fen’Glath asked Ikki and I to help him with something. Apparently, the company in charge of supplying the guild with Yew has been padding the shipments with pine and other items useless for his purposes. But, they often given him shit for being a former thief, and he wants some back up. We agree to help him, since he’s a good man.

Apparently, the town is unhappy with the Guild’s offer of amnesty for work, and the previous crafter actually left the guild when he joined. When we reached the shop, the owner’s son was inside. When Fen’Glath asked him about the shipments, he claimed that we were getting our full shipments. And for doing this, we would only be getting this months shipment and then things would break. Fen’Glath was stunned, so I stepped in. Ikki had been able to tell he was lying, so I took that and ran. I pointed out that even if Fen’Glath might now be respected? Captain Marks is. Ox is. And they may get involved if the threat of removing their business goes through. And of course, upset adventurers drink and might complain. If enough of the guild does that? Well, we may end up driving them out of business. But if they gave us what they had been cheating us on, and make sure our future shipments are fine, no one will ever hear about this. The guy promises to make sure we get our shipments in the future, and we left. Ikki? She actually talked to me. It. Was. Amazing.

The next day, I finally got to watch Charra and Balasar sparring with their new weapons. It was incredible, and they are both amazing fighters. Charra managed to cause massive amounts of damage in one turn, knocking Balasar completely out. On aina hämmästyttävää nähdä kuinka vahva hän on. We all returned to our room after that point, deciding to head down in the morning.

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dark-canary · 6 years ago

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Crossing Into The Unknown.

Hail and Hallowed Hunting my friends and fellow witches. As you know I performed my trance ritual today for the New Moon. Just before I began the ritual, a spider crawled across my leg. A real one, though small. I took this as a good sign because the trance spider always seems to appear when I'm about to have a particularly vivid experience. Unlike last time, I was able to descend, the problem was the visions were more disjointed than they normally are. And I was interrupted partway through it. I tried to record the experience, so I wouldn't forget what I saw, but I found it difficult to pull myself out of the visions long enough to say anything. What I needed was someone to prompt me to speak. During this ritual, I once again made my offering to the Fae, calling to them so that I might learn more of what it is I am supposed to do. I have a general idea, but no solid method for doing what it is. In this vision, the first thing that I saw was a teacup, much like the one I saw when I first met with the Fae in what I believe was more of a neutral setting. However, this time the cup didn't hold just tea and I didn't make the mistake of almost drinking it. Inside of this teacup were larvae, moth larvae I believe, though at first I thought they were simply large maggots. The cup was filled to the brim, filled to overflowing, with moth larvae, tea, and green herbs which I believe to be mint. It was after I saw this teacup that the man appeared. A man shrouded in shadow with a Cheshire smile. I've seen him before, more times than I can count. In dreams and visions alike. I asked him who he was, what he wanted. I know he wants something, though it took me a long time to understand that despite him being there for so long. He wouldn't give me his name, or even speak to me though. Just grinned, turned, and walked away. I went to follow him through the darkness and he disappeared. In his place a black cat, as dark as the darkness around it, was walking towards me. A black cat with startlingly white or silvery paws coming towards me. I looked down at my feet as it wound its way around my legs, and there was a bowl, a large glass bowl filled with water. Inside the bowl, beneath the water, was a spider, a spindly spider like I'm always seeing. I took the bowl in my hands and turned it over to dump the water out. The spider seemed to be reaching towards the surface, trying to escape. But when I turned the bowl over the water remained where it was and the spider looked like it was walking along the glassy surface, one leg extending out of the liquid. It didn't seem to be in any pain or harm at all. I looked like it belonged there. The bowl vanished and suddenly I was standing on a glassy surface, just like the spider. Only it was a pond or a lake. The body of water was massive, I couldn't see how far it stretched on, but there were fish swimming beneath the surface that I was standing on, doing slow figure eights. They looked like Koi fish. Off to one side there was a book on the lake's surface that flipped open on its own, ruffling pages turning to a specific point before stopping. But when I moved towards it to see what page it stopped on and what the page said, it vanished. I felt compelled to walk across this lake even though the book was gone and there were only the fish and water and darkness in every direction. So I continued on in the direction the book, moving past where it had been. It became so cold, the chill in the air seemed to seep into my skin. And then it began to rain, great curtains of rain falling so heavily you could hardly see in front of you. But I could just barely make out a silhouette in the distance ahead of me. No matter how far I walked I never seemed to get closer. The rain didn't ripple the lake's surface, it was as still as glass even as I walked across it. And mist rose from it, huge, cold, white clouds of it, the further I walked. There was always a ring around me though that no mist crept into it, allowing me to see the surface of the lake clearly. It was almost like the eerie opposite of a lantern light casting its glow – darkness instead of light. Other images swirled in and out of my vision, from the mist around me and the water below. Images of a man tall and blond from one angle and brunette at another. Sometimes I saw myself with him smiling or laughing, others I saw myself alone and in agony. There was music sometimes, soft flute or harp or lyre, the sound of bells and singing. Other times it was disconcertingly quiet, even the rain didn't make any noise. There were all manner of beasts too, just out of discernible sight. Suddenly there was a presence behind me. I could feel it and hear the rustling of clothes that sounded like leaves in autumn. Just as I went to turn around, just as I caught a glimpse of the tall shadowed figure, the phone rang and I was ripped from the vision. I wasn't afraid during the visions. But frustrated at not getting the answers I needed. And trying to understand the meanings of what I saw, puzzling those things out, has been difficult. There are certain parts that I am not sure of the meaning of. It took me a long time to relax enough to descend this time around. Which is unusual. Part of it was probably because I was worried I would see nothing again. But it was a struggle to get to that point and took me much longer than it usually does. I cannot say I'm surprised by that though, after dealing with this feeling of being bound from my craft. Still, the entire experience was...not frightening, but unnerving. And it's made me terribly curious. I may not wait until the full moon to descend again. It is possible my trance states will become more frequent in these next months. It feels like that is important and at the point impossible to avoid. I hope you all had a magical Friday The Thirteenth and an interesting New Moon. If you have any questions, comments, or thoughts on this, I'd love to hear them. Hallowed Hunting, Ydra

#witch #witchblr #trance #trance visions #visions #magic #trance work #trance magic #new moon ritual #ritual trance #Ydra speaks

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antiquated-storyteller · 6 years ago

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Dieing flame

Inspired and basically done off of this . This is a sort of “What if” situation. Each link was chosen as the music that would play during the events told. * I strongly advise listening to this song with the lyrics on.

Intro prologue/fight

“You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

How many times had they heard that saying? Countless of times, was the answer. Each and every time it would cause them to smile sadly, at the hero in the book they read. At how the hero had lost themselves, for various reasons. They could no longer tolerate the pain that was left in their wake. The destruction, the death that clung to them as much as hope did. Of the people that they couldn’t save, of those that they did save. Each and every time they heard those words, they thought and were agreement with each other; ‘That may have happened to them...But not our hero. Not our Warrior of Light.’

Alphinaud, Alisaie, they was still children despite everything. The couldn’t see her pain behind her smile. They couldn’t hear her laugh going into a mere whisper of what it once was. Of how she gazed at the night sky in yearning for something more. No, they chalked it all up to her merely needing rest. They all did. Each and everyone one of them should have asked. Should have spoken to her. Had lent her a shoulder to cry on, to hear her doubts and fears. To see her as still herself. Not as a Warrior of Light, as the EIkon Slayer, as Hydaelyn’s most precious daughter. As simply Vala.

“Only he thought of me as that....” She told them. Her back turned, bow hanging limp in her hand and her other hand placed atop one of the mountains of crystals at her feet. It was like all the other times. The same story that had been told countless times.

The Warrior of Light, sent upon to stop a Primals awakening with her fellow companions. To stop a Primal whom would tear Eorzea and its people asunder. She would go and stop it, no matter who got in her way. Whether it be man or beast. She had a duty to protect Hydaelyn’s children. Yet, yet what awaited at the threshold was a reminder of what the stories didn’t say. Of what the mistrals didn’t sing in their retelling. Of the pain, suffering, and sorrow of those involved in such things. Of the stench of blood, the warmth of it caked on her hands of those who were desperate enough to pray for salvation or of those who had already been “saved” by their God.

They only sang about her heroics, of her deeds as a “Warrior of Light”. Always singing of her. Of how she helped everyone, how she solved all their problems when times were grim. She was always there to save them. Always. There was no one to save her from herself.

“I wish,” Her voice cracked as she felt the tears long held back begin to fall. “I wish I could be reborn.”

A single tear fell right on top of the crystals. The brilliance they showed off then was beautiful as it was terrifying.

They cried out her name, in confusion, in pain, in betrayal and realization. If it wasn’t for the others Scions present they easily could have had died in an instant to her arrows. She gave them no quarter; her prowess often admired from afar - they all had front row seats to her performance now.

Y’shtola had blocked her arrows with a magic shield, but it wouldn’t hold for long. They knew they had to stop her, it was their duty. Their solemn duty, no matter who or what stood in their way - a Primal could not be born. Thancred had launched himself at her next, his visible eye showing the pain bubbling underneath.

“Vala get a hold of yourself!!!” He cried to her. “Don’t listen to the Primal’s whispers!”

His blades were about to connect with the back of her skull, hoping to knock her out to end the summoning. He should have known better, he had seen her fight after all. She ducked underneath his blades at the last possible moment, delivering a swift kick and launching back from whence he came. Wtih an arrow piercing him along the way.

“Thancred!!” The twins cried, finally coming back to reality. The man landed on his back and coughed, trying to breath. He had more than one arrow he realized, one stinging as if the wind was biting into him, and the other steadily oozing poison. Krile was about to go to him, but the strings of a lyre and a voice stopped her. Foes Requiem, it sounded more painful, more mournful. When they looked upon her, their cherished warrior - tears, non stopping tears rolled down her cheeks from those beautiful crystal blue eyes.

“VALA STOP THIS!!!” Alphinaud cried, tears beginning to prickle in his own blue orbs.

She paused, her eyes widening at his expression. Mirroring what she felt inside, what she was inside at that moment. A sudden screech interrupted them. It sounded like something clawing at glass, shrieking to be let free. The crystals, they were screaming. Her eyes flew to them. She had done this, she had let her heart break. A part of her was happy, they could finally see what she had locked away for so long. Yet there was another part of her, screaming at her to stop this. To stop all of this. To remember what she swore to do. To turn tragedies into happy endings. Her oath won, if only for a moment.

They saw her point her bow to the sky, ready to unleash a hail of arrows. A “Rain of Death”. They needed to raise another protective barrier, little did they know that there was no need for one. Their old friend let loose the arrow, right above herself.

They screamed as they realized what she had done, yet could do nothing. The rain came down upon her, in red, so much red. She fell to her knees, the crystals light sputtering behind her. “Red blossoms” began to bloom on the floor. She wanted to laugh, she still bled the same blood as them. Weakly she looked at them. Her former comrades, her family. Her eyes still wept, for everything. Everything that had happened up to that point, everything that was happening. They were weeping as well.

She wanted to tell them not to cry, not for her, not for what she had almost done. She was not worthy of such tears. Her voice died in her throat however as she felt a familiar pull. Of a sweet whisper in her ear. Her eyes widened at the realization. In mere moments the crystals behind flourished in a brilliant light, shattering from the inside out in a gust of wind. The gale blinded them all, yet through tear filled eyes they saw her. Her coattails enveloping her in a cocoon of what appeared to be wings, she screamed.*

The wind continued to swirl around them, causing them to screw their eyes shut as the pieces of the remaining crystals began to hit them. When they next opened their eyes, they wish they hadn’t. The Scions found themselves in a field of what appeared to be spider lilies, surrounded by a ring of flames at the outer edges of what would have been a lake. In front of them, where Vala should have stood was that same cocoon made of wings.

They were a dull ash grey, yet in an instant the color began to change before their very eyes. They started to dye themselves a starling blue. The flames surrounding them adopted this color and roared to life as the wings unfurled. Another cry rang out, full of pain and sorrow. What was revealed before them; engulfed in sacred flames was the Primal that had been born.

“Phoenix.” Alisaie could scarcely mutter. Never had she dreamed that she would see this Primal again, nor had she any wish to see it be born.

The Primal gave another shrill cry to the heavens, its blue feathers shot out like arrows. The Scions scarcely had time to dodge, more so when the very feathers erupted in pillars of fire.This was repeated twice more, then it was followed by the beast flying higher, readying its next move.

“Everyone get together!!” Thancred cried. They all grouped up and clung to each other as they were buffeted by a whirlwind, once, twice, and three times total. The flames licked at them, but not burning them completely. The pain bled and only seemed to get worse as time went on.

They had to fight back, there was no choice now. Y’shtola and Thancred were the first to strike back, A Stone spell cast quickly and followed by spears of ice. Thancred dodging the flames that erupted and being able to land several blows. Krile and Urianger hesitated but soon they too began to join their comrades. Only the twins remained, their hearts holding them back. They were screaming at themselves internally. They all were in their own right, some had more control to quiet those voices at the moment however.

He heard it first, Alisaie readying to cast her own magic. The click of the lock for the orb that sat atop her rapier. She had her eyes shut as she cast the magic, feeling it course through her and knowing where it was to go. Alphinaud grit his teeth, but he too began his own incantation as the battle carried on. Oh how it seemed to last for an eternity, yet amazingly they were able to subdue the beast. Yet, just as it seemed as they were to kill it - it being on the ground at their feet, wings battered, cut, and bruised did they hear its voice.

“She fell. She crashed. She broke. She cried. She crawled. She hurt. She surrendered. And then...” Phoenix looked at them, looked deep into their souls at the memories each held of the one who had called out to him. “She rose again.”

Just like she had done to herself, the Primal let it’s own plumes rain down on itself. They witnessed it die right before their eyes, but this wasn’t the end. For just like it’s name - it arose again. From inside the flames they saw it - or rather her. Vala and Phoenix were now one. Her eyes glowed with the fire of the Primal, her scales turned to talons at her hands and feet, and the flames wreathed around were beautiful as they were deadly.

They wanted to cry, they wanted to scream, they wanted to give up. But they couldn’t they knew, that she wouldn’t want them to. Just like she had. She never cried when she needed to, she never screamed when she needed to, and she never gave up. So they continued the fight. Blades were scorched and acquired new scars. The elements raged with her flames. At one point she even looked like her old self, the bow she created brought back those memories.

In the end however, just like the stories that were sung about her. Of the Primals that she had defeated, so too did she join them. The world that was made from within her heart began to turn to ash and fluttered in the air around them, almost appearing like snow. The smoke was almost comforting, it seemed as if it was from a hearth. Yet there was no solace, no peace of mind as they held her within their arms. Tears staining her face, wiping away the remains of ash from her skin.

All she could do was smile at them, a smile best suited a hero after all.

First and foremost if you read all that, congrats! Second of all, I was going to include the weapon drops of what she would have, but I saw my chance at heartbreak and took it! However, Vala’s weapon drops for her Primal fight would be weapons made of obsidian or accented with the stone. Why obsidian you ask? Well here is why: The Obsidian meaning is linked with the concept of darkness, and just like our ever-spinning planet and its phases of night and day, the human soul also contains elements of light and dark. A powerful protection stone, the Obsidian crystal meaning helps identify your dark side so that its healing properties can clear it away from your psyche. The Obsidian crystal stone meaning reminds us that everyone has a good and bad side. Instead of hiding from our inner truth, Obsidian shines a light on the negativity and clears it away, helping us to choose the path leading towards light and love.

I guess you can say, she still wants to protect them even after she’s gone.

#Vala Malaguld #what if #vala malaguld primal #time to go cry #there goes my fucking heart #aaaah this took forever but I am proud

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2bitnoir-blog · 5 years ago

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Kitten Island

First he noticed the noise. Tiny eeks, like squeaky baby birds. Birds were all over, different birds, and they squeaked but not like this.

The veranda was long and low. Jutted out the back of the house like an afterthought. Stubby tree ferns squatted the length.

At the tank-stand end a rabid bouganvillea threw purple and green up onto the corrugated tin wave of the roof. Unsatisfied and still reaching it tried to hook tendrils onto the sky.

There was a bald spot of ground by the back door that was dead and smelled of piss.

Straight from dim indoors, his eyes squinty. The bright was broken glass.

Almost afternoon now, his morning was wasted.

Splat flat on the lawn, he listened. Slim grass tongues licking his toes. Bright yellow dandelions smearing sunny paint onto his face.

Wondering at the sound.

Sunlight stenciled prison bar shadows onto the dirt through the cracks in the boot-worn boardwalk. The noise came from somewhere under.

He crawled closer.

Many indignant insects in his face. Buzzing and clicking and skittish.

He could see movement like the swirling grey on black when he closed his eyes at bedtime. Something moving in the underhouse.

A stray thought to be turned and examined like something found. Could he make the same sound?

He had a talent for it. For mimic. He could give the three-bell ‘all’s well’ signal to the rosellas. Match the laconic caw of the greasy black crows.

Maybe this was another he could do. A new one.

He drew his lips across his teeth and squashed his tongue. It was a kind of squeaky-yowling he made in the back of his throat. It was “Yew, Yew…”

Wrong.

Close, but not the same.

He shushed. Listened.

No noise. No movement. No swirling grey, just black.

He pressed his fingers hard into the corners of his eyes. Scrubbed at his eyeballs, a trick to bring the sparkling fairy goldies. Friendly twinkling lights, sometime companions that came when he stood up too fast or sat too long on the toilet.

They didn’t appear.

A cloud blotched the sun, shat dim light over all.

He waited for it to fly by in the sky.

Frogs gronked down by the creek. Blowflies farted and zoomed. Cicadas tore strips off the air.

His heart thudded. Distant marching soldiers, louder the longer the cloud lingered.

He tried again. “Eew, Eww…”

It was closer. Almost there.

He worked the sound around. Chewed on the shape of it.

“Ehew. Ehew…” He had it. Spot on like a lyre bird, or near as.

Again. “Ehew. Ehew…”

He waited.

Nothing. Just screaming insects because it was so hot.

He drifted for a while under the warm and blue.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm... The afternoon hummed.

“Ehew. Ehew…”

Piercing, the noise stabbed the still.

He was swimming, swimming in the creek with the platyp-.

“Ehew. Ehew…”

Awake now and aware. Under the ferns, with a crook neck and itchy mosquito bites.

He responded.

“Ehew. Ehew.”

Two blue eyes peeked out at him through the gap in the boards. He saw them and they saw him.

“Ehew, Ehew…”

It wanted something. He wasn’t afraid though. It was something good.

“Ehew, Ehew…” He spoke to it.

“Ehew, Ehew…” It answered.

This was great.

It was joined by another. Then another.

They too said “Ehew, Ehew…”

“The bloody heck?”

Grey on black swirling. Blue eyes peering at him through the cracks.

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said.

“Ehew, Ehew…” the underhouse things said, then ventured out into the day.

Raggedy kittens, as many as the fingers on his hand. They blinked flinty eyes. Tried to focus on everything at once, swaying their little heads.

Grey tabbies with stripes like tiny tigers, crooked tails hoisted.

Impossibly cute.

Fragile magic, delicate and exposed.

The boy grinned from happy. “Ehew, Ehew…” he said.

They looked at him in unison. It was funny. Then they looked at each other.

They were wary of the stranger who spoke kitten.

He was like nothing they knew.

Tempted to flee, follow instinct and scatter, run, hide.

He made his new sound, rising like a plea. “Ehew?”

The kittens stared at him, afraid to move and afraid to come closer.

He could wait.

He would wait.

He could smell the sweet grass, the moist earth slightly cloying.

He thought about all the things that lived and grew and died there.

Slugs, seeds, caterpillars, weeds.

Harlequin beetles, grasshoppers and lizards.

Butterflies, stick-insects, bugs, lots of different bugs.

Bugs in your face, bugs in your eyes, eat a horse manure pie.

Too many things to count.

A cold shock dabbed briefly his hand. Silk brushed past his elbow like a whisper.

He lay still as a dead rabbit.

A wet kiss in his ear, startling.

The kittens were there, soft and suddenly all around. Jumping, climbing, scrambling over him. Scratchy claws catching in his t-shirt. Paws poking into his back, trotting down his spine. Whiskers swiping his nose and tickling his legs.

An adorable patchwork menagerie, stuffed toys come wonderfully to life.

“Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew…”

A head picture flickered, took form, played like a movie. He was the hero, the star, an idea that literally moved him.

Carefully so as not to alarm, he sat up.

The kittens looked up at him wide-eyed.

He slowly stood. They were unsure, but still squirming on the grass.

Then he moved quickly. He didn’t look back lest the magic vanish.

The shed was peeling weatherboards on an exposed wood frame and a dark mouth yawning.

Shabby white sheets nailed to an elephant’s skeleton full of spiders.

Hanging waving cobwebs and the strong smell of rats.

Moldering piles of junk almost to the roof and sprawling across the crammed gravel floor. Stuff and more stuff.

There were lead pipes and a bicycle pump.

Gamey horse blankets, horse ropes and leather bridles, horse medicines, horse shoes, horse stuff.

A metal bucket, a selection of birds nests and a big tractor tyre.

An untouched packet of ratsac and a half-full bag of super-phosphate.

A butcher’s knife, a fishing pole, a kerosene lantern.

A bunch of thick maroon books, pages slowly fleeing their bindings.

A stringless tennis racket, a box of nails, a mangy or moth-eaten fox’s tail.

A bunch of empty plastic bags, brittle and disintegrating.

It was resting on its side close to the back of one of the smaller piles.

Woven by some deft hand, the cane basket Mum used to haul fruit up from the orchard.

Peaches, pears, apricots, apples. Whatever the coddling moth or possums hadn’t got to first. He was pleased; it would be ideal.

He grasped the handle and hoisted.

It felt good in his hand and smelled faintly of lemons.

It was dusty so he wiped the inside of it with his shirt. Now he was dusty too.

That shirt would be big trouble later with Mum.

Sunlight fingers felt through the cracks in the shed wall. Motes swished in the shards, swirled, slowly fell.

The flattened patch of grass by the veranda was empty when he returned.

He sat and called to the kittens. “Ehew, Ehew…” he said. “Ehew, Ehew?” he asked. There was nothing.

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said louder. “Ehew, Ehew?” he asked louder.

The emptiness ached a bit, so did his stomach.

He called until at last they answered, little mouths opening to show little pink tongues.

Little inquisitive faces poking out from the gloom.

�� 4.

“Ehew, Ehew…” Up from inside the basket, a swinging pendulum from the crook of his fingers. Rock-a-bye-babies, his responsibility now.

Panicked blue eyes, they couldn’t get out.

He couldn’t see Mum. That didn’t mean she wasn’t watching, but he didn’t think so.

There was no yell to “Get here right now.”

He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she wouldn’t understand.

She would take the kittens away. Hurt them, kill them.

Ferals.

This was no place.

He carried the basket like a secret up the garden path.

Grey concrete pavers, fragrant roses along the way.

At the end a wrought iron gate, ornate but exhausted. Old paint flaked off like dandruff.

Its hinges complained bitterly when he shoved through with his hip and into the back paddock.

It was ill, he should show more respect.

He wasn’t supposed to be in the back paddock, there were bulls.

He couldn’t see any but Mum said so. He’d never seen any but the fear was there all the same.

Bulls were all big horns and snorting fury.

A lone crow wheeled above and decided on the bony remnants of a gum.

Brooding and dreadful it sat in judgement. Then with a flap and dismissive “Waark…” it was gone.

A cockatoo shrieked and for a second he thought it was Mum.

No, not her.

Just a bird.

The sun baked the side of the hill. The air wavered in the heat.

Thump, thump, thump.

His feet determined thumps in front.

Over short crunchy stubble, summer-scorched pasture parched and beaten. Mainly kikuyu, some dock here and there.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The kittens weeped, their eyes pleaded.

He made the sound to them. “Mhew…” It didn’t help.

Reaching the base of the hill, he approached with caution a crowd of scotch thistles, most standing taller than him.

They were menacing, alien things. Huddled in groups, dire needles sharp and glinting.

Vibrant purple crew cuts sprouting from faceless heads held together in nodding conference, watching, whispering.

He picked his way through, feeling an occasional quick sting to his legs. They tried to grab the basket but he wouldn’t let them.

He was relieved when they thinned out and he spotted the creek fence, bedraggled posts struggling to stay upright under the constant duress of standing. Two strands of barbed wire hung red-brown and speckled with bird shit, drooping like a low clothes line.

He stooped and lifted the top wire, careful of his fingers, careful of the tet-nus.

Tet-nus meant big needles in his belly Mum said. Doctor’s needles, bigger and sharper than even thistles.

The kittens begged him to stop.

He squatted through into the rudely lush foliage edging the blasted paddock.

It was a riot of green.

Patches of clover, milkweed and waving bracken.

Long grass probably full of snakes.

Bunches of turnip gone wild, a hang-over from earlier days when the farm was still being properly worked.

Sweet yellow wattle. Ragwort, also yellow but sour.

Clumps of slicing razor tussock, innocuous enough but with hidden bastard blades.

He couldn’t see the water, but he could smell it.

The only way down was a steep narrow cow-track scar worn into the slope by generations of hooves. He used his free hand to grasp tufts of whatever; anything to steady.

He dug in his heels and slipped straight onto his arse, still holding the basket but quickly sliding out of control.

A jarring stop at the bottom and he saw the goldies at last.

It felt wet where he was sitting. The kittens were frantic, spitting and trying to climb out.

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said to them.

“We’re here now. Calm down. Don’t cry.”

He stood on the edge of the squishy bank and dipped his toes just into the water.

The intrusion stirred the silt.

Brown clouds drifted.

He stepped in up to his ankles.

Brown clouds billowed.

The basket was heavier now than when he’d left the yard. The handle seemed to strain in his hand just from the sheer weight.

Paddling water-clocks tilled the surface and left expanding Vs in their wake.

They paused occasionally to make the crazy ticking circles that gave them their name.

Weeping willows trailed golden strands from above, languid in the drowsy breeze. Tangled limbs embraced, rubbing and knocking, their gnarled bark skins as tough as tonka.

Friendly guardians of the creek, his favourite trees by far. Tall and stooped like Grandad, nicer even than oaks or poplars.

He would sometimes swing on them with a big handfull of their hair, out over the water, feet kicking, before returning safely to shore. Sending haphazard leaves spiralling down. Miniature yellow gondolas that settled to drift untethered, race trills and currents, or float helplessly caught on some piece of jetsam.

The sky, blue like no other colour, reflected up at him from the water.

It was a mirror. In it he looked small and weak.

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair.

He looked at the wriggling kittens. They were small and weak too.

It was easy to get lost watching the water.

Time flowed gently down the stream. The creek was beautiful, but not to be trusted.

There were deep holes with snags where kids could drown.

Slippery black eels hungrily patrolling the depths, bellies white and fleshy.

Crayfish with snipping claws and beady eyes on stalks in hollow-log lairs, scuttling under shelves of wormy willow roots or flipping their tails and shooting backwards through the murk.

Mesmerising sounds, hypnotic ripples, boggy traps of sucking quickmud, dangerous crossings…

Once in winter he had seen a platypus playing.

The water was brown and fast, right up the sides of the creek and spilling over.

Mum told him falling in meant dead as dead so to stay away.

The platypus was rolling on its back, bobbing and diving, having fun in the speeding flood.

Dead was dead though, so he’d just watched until eventually it bobbed under and didn’t come back up.

The bridge to the island was a half submerged root, like a pale wet bone reaching.

The island itself no more than a bump.

Two slow roads flecked with whitish foam flowed around.

Cress and water-weeds fringed the shore. Baby gudgeons bulleted, flashed, sucked at the waving strands.

Fishbone ferns gave an impression of solidity, alongside blanched drifts of disintegrating leaves.

Piles of wattle baubles - no longer golden but gritty soaked orange.

He tried not to think and just did.

He walked the root.

He jumped at the end, planted his feet and landed with a splotch.

He stepped forward. He hadn’t fallen in.

Tawny water seeped shallowly into his left-behind footprints.

At last they had arrived. Kitten Island.

A place away from all the bad things in the world.

A place he could visit any time he wanted.

A place where he could watch them grow, his beautiful secrets.

Tenderly he tipped the kittens out of the basket. They toddled onto the ground, lost and frightened. They were not where they thought they belonged.

He was sure they were wrong though.

They would be happy here, safe and privileged and private.

The way back was easier without the weight of the kittens in the basket.

It felt so much lighter.

He felt so much lighter.

Epilogue.

After a sweaty night he wakes still tired.

Rags of lucid dreams. Something about his stuffed toys attacking him, circling with bared teeth.

Then he remembers the kittens and leaps from the bed.

A hurried bowl of coco-pops and a disapproving scowl from Mum.

He smiles and tells her he’s going outside to play.

“Alright,” she says. “But stay in the yard.”

He steps off the veranda into a scalding wind.

No noise from the underhouse.

The insects scream about the heat. He doesn’t care, lets them scream.

He feels a sort of thrumming anticipation, the twitching tug of a line running to his guts and pulling at his insides.

How happy they will be to see him.

They’ll purr and rub his bare legs with their chins.

Little darlings.

A blowfly buzzes by. Fat and slow, patrolling for a feed or somewhere to lay its eggs.

It diverts to the plum tree, attracted by the soggy bombs that sticky the ground dark red with juice.

He avoids going over there this time of year. Hates the disgusting feel of the plums under his his bare feet. Imagines walking across a field of bloody eyeballs.

Spring is better. Petals cover the ground in pink snow.

He makes his way up the path and through the gate. It’s still sick and lets him know.

Mum is wrong, the back paddock has no bulls.

He isn’t afraid. He’s yelping and rushing forward, his feet quick thumps in front.

Thump, thump, thump.

Whacking the thistles with a picked-up stick, laughing.

Through the fence, the green curtain, sliding down the slope easily.

His heart drums fast-marching soldiers. The blood sings sugar in his ears.

Nothing could be better.

The creek is a shiny silver worm, a dark mirror over which iridescent dragonflies skim and linger.

The weeping willows groan and sway in the hot gusts, tossing leaves to the cool water below.

He looks to the island and his smile sinks like a clod thrown into a dam.

It sinks like Mum’s smile when he’s again broken something.

“Ehew, Ehew..?” he asks.

Kitten Island is empty.

The kittens are gone.

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