#Selfpara

[aviel-gillinski]

CRYPTID BITS - EP. 73 - FRESNO NIGHTCRAWLERS

"Goooooood evening, Bitties - it’s one of those nights where I’m deeply contemplative on the nature of many things. I’m sure we all get that way. When you sit alone and it’s raining, and something about the sound is so deeply nostalgic even though you hear it all the time. And then, you somehow get into existential questions about self, about love, about loss. 

And it’ll all stemmed from grabbing some ice for your glass of water or something, right? Because, well, your second cousin used to make jokes about how you only put 2 ice cubes in your drink. Like why only 2? Is that enough to get it cold? And you’d only see that second cousin every summer, because your families would go to that old lodge by the lake. You’d swim all day and then dry out on the rocks, and you’d both go steal a few otter pops from the secret cooler your uncle kept in the garage."

... more of Aviel's podcast under the read more ....

"So you start thinking about that lodge, and your uncle. Passed from pancreatic cancer, years ago. You start wondering if your second cousin’s okay- haven’t heard from her in a long time. She sold the lodge, though, after her father died. And last time you had a call with her, she was complaining about her son wanting an iPhone.

Rain’s still falling. You start thinking about invention. Utilitarian things like spoons and forks. iPhones.

Things that we don’t need but we like. Beanbag chairs. Pringles. 

What else is invention though? Through imagination, we can conduct so many ideas… inventions of the mind, whether they come to fruition or not."

"Is Bigfoot a real, hairy apeman? Or is he the invention of some creatives with too much time on their hands and a gorilla suit? Was Nessie a sea serpent, or dark metal pieces, some concoction to confuse humans for years, and elude them to this day? 

This all stems from my feelings on a truly unique cryptid, and our subject today. The Fresno Nightcrawlers.

Any cryptid enthusiast knows them - the white, ghostly pants. Armless creatures with long legs, walking almost as if they’re on strings. Marionettes to something celestial, perhaps. 

Some say sightings are few… but with multiple angled video recordings to look at, it’s hard to deny there’s something otherworldly at play. But does nostalgia color our views on this being? Let's start with the basics."

"A man named Jose was the first to see them in Fresno California - they were in his front yard, and even more peculiar was that he went to look only because his dog had started barking at something out in the night.

I don’t know about you - but there’s something far scarier about a creature that dogs don’t like. Having a dog on edge? There must’ve been something, or someone, out front of this poor man’s yard. But he caught it on CCTV footage… his brother even reported finding tiny footprints out front. However, even more odd… that CCTV footage was mysteriously deleted. All that remains of the original recording is a video of the security monitor. So we know they have tiny feet, long legs, no arms. We know that some force is at play to delete footage of them. So what are they? Where are they from, what’s their plan?

What’s even more odd… they have been seen recently. The most recent documented sighting is in 2020."

"They’ve been filmed at night in Yosemite- two of them, one large, one small. Walking, slow, across the screen. Now, I have to be honest - the footage of that specific instance? The jury’s still out for me. Dear Bitties, I’m sure you’ve seen it, but they almost look a bit too perfect. Too crisp, comparatively to the background. As if someone had laid it all out. 

I’ve seen the Nightcrawlers likened to those little tissue ghosts people often make as children - something I can say I used to do with my son and daughter on many October evenings. And I can’t help but agree, even to the point where some of the footage can appear slightly… tissue-esque. 

However. Fear not, Bitties. Because In all the footage, they are so incredibly consistent that it’s hard to disagree that something unexplainable is there. 

Many think these are aliens- and with hieroglyphics from Egypt sometimes showing humanoid figures with their arms completely at their sides, paler than the average being they would depict… well, you do the math.

Tell you what, let’s ruminate on it. Time to take a quick brain-break to hear some ads and then we’ll be deep-diving into a nightcrawler’s connection to aliens, ghosts… and maybe even deer? Hm. Makes you think. Now, a word from our sponsors…."

[griffinxgallo]

Taken || Griffin Gallo Self Para

Griffin goes searching for Ella after she misses a pick up for the kids tw: home invasion, blood, wrongful arrest, menty b, kidnapping

Griffin had tried to call her the night before to see if she could take the twins early. He understood that her sister was one of the many people in the hospital so in the voicemail he even offered to keep one of the twins. Mina was not having any of this. She was starting to settle in but he could tell the little girl was scared. But Ella never answered or called him back. He understood. It was her night off from parenting and she was probably enjoying herself, something she hadn't been able to in years.

That did not make this morning any easier. Three toddlers, one of him and one nanny. Griffin took Mina with him to work. He had to spend the day at the distillery doing the usual bullshit paperwork. Besides that, the business ran itself so that was a plus. That plus being in the army reserves gave him enough to do.

It wasn't until 15 past eleven that Aspen had informed him Ella was late for pick up. She had never been late before. Granted, this was a new thing for them. He gave her the benefit of the doubt and when 30 minutes rolled around, he started to text and call.

He started off with Dante who didn't know anything and then went to Ludovica next. Nothing. He told himself not to panic and her siblings were doing a good job of writing it off as nothing so he decided to give it another hour and pick the kids up. It was Aspen's day off so he felt bad she was stuck with them for longer. Once he had all three kids he headed out to Long Island. Grandma Gallo will have to entertain them for a bit.

The whole drive his thoughts began to fester. "She's gone. She left you again. She's in a ditch. She's been attacked. She hates you and your mini devils. You've ruined her life. She left you again. She's never coming back." Itchy, that's what he was feeling. By the time he got out of the car at his mother's estate the first thing she asked was "Griffy baby, did you eat a mango? Look at your poor neck!" He had scratched himself raw in anxiety.

The drive back to the city took twice as long in the traffic, as it had now hit 5pm. He was still desperately contacting whoever he could for answers before putting it in the group chat. That's when he learned she never visited her sister. Ella was not like him. She was kind and caring. She would have been outside that door each moment she could. She was too, but Ludy wasn't awake yet. He figured she would have been the first person in the door when she woke up.

Thats when he decided to floor it. He was a mad man on the road as he made it to her place. He threw the car in park and rushed up to her place. Walking up, he saw something that sank his gut. The door was busted in. He shot off a quick text to the group before he pocked his phone in exchange for a gun.

Resorting back to army mode, Griffin turned the corner, scanning the room. The place was TRASHED. furniture flipped, glass broken, shit everywhere. But he needed to stay on task. He cleared the first room before continuing to the next. That's where he found a puddle of blood and a trail that led to the back door. He refused to panic. Now is not the time. She is smart. She knows how to hide. She knows how to defend herself. It could be someone else's blood. With deep breaths, he cleared the kitchen and went on to the bedrooms. He checked Torin's first, it was left mostly untouched. That evil thought crossed his head, What if she had the kids then. What if they were taken too. He knows they are safe, but if she had happened to have them, he would be nuclear right now.

Moving back down the hall he cleared the bathroom quick before going to Ella's room. This site was much harder to look at. The way the sheets pulled from one corner suggested she was dragged out of bed. This could have been last night. She was sleeping. Her phone is still plugged in on the nightstand. Things from the dresser were knocked off. There was a hole through the drywall. She fought. Good Girl.

"911, what's your emergency" "My ex is missing. She missed pick up, I came to check in.. her house has been broken into." After they traded more information he knew he didn't have much longer to act.

Griffin finished his search as he forced himself not to break. There is no room for emotions. Not in war. He went out to his car and opened his trunk, pulling back the hatch he opened a built-in safe in which he traded his handgun for his pistol. This was a registered army gun in which he had a permit. The police are already on their way.

His mind was slipping to that dark place, the one he avoided, the one that people ran from, even his own family. Griffin was dark most of the time but many didn't realize there was a switch, a place in his mind where his worst had been locked away.

"I'll ask again, Mr. Gallo, where were you last night." He sat with his hands cuffed behind him in a cold metal room. Interrogation. Signs of foul play, being an ex with suspected kidnapping charges on him did not go over well, even if Roselia De La Cruz was walking freely in New York City. "At St. John's hospital," He repeats again, getting tired of this. "What did you do with Gabriella Moretti?" The detective asked him again and he snapped. "I didn't fucking do anything to her! You fucks are sitting here bothering with me? I called it in! Me! I have an alibi. Let. Me. Go."

A woman bursts into the room and lays into the two detectives sitting there. "Are you insane? Why is he still chained up? What probably cause do you have for having him here?" Everything about Griffin's detainment was dirty. He hadn't gotten a phone call, they said he wasn't under arrest but cuffed him, smart, and no rights were read to him. Within the next twenty minutes, he had been released and on his way back to his car. Everything was a blur, he couldn't tell if he was blacked out or not, operating on autopilot. He had no idea how, but he ended up back at his penthouse, pushing through the front door. He couldn't keep it in any longer. He was going to snap. Needed to snap.

The first thing he could find was a dumb coffee table centerpiece and it was going through his try wall. All humanity was lost. He didn;t understand what he was feeling, what that sinking at the bottom of his stomach was. Why his chest felt tight and his head was spilling. He felt warm, like he was burning from the inside out and he needed it to stop, needed everything to stop. She is gone. Ella is Gone. Someone has her. Someone took her and wrecked her place. But he just got her back. Raelynn just got her back. She is all Torin knew. How would he explain that. How would he help them cope when he was falling apart himself.

And before he knew it, his great room was destroyed. The glass of the coffee table shattered, the tv cracked. The chairs around the dining room table were broken into pieces scattered around the room. The drywall was barely left standing with all the holes from the chairs that he repeatedly threw at it. Some holes in his fists. Blood on the walls. His knuckles busted open and there was only destruction left. And then he dropped to his knees. Silently. Because the screaming was already happening in his head. He hadn't even realized the reason he stopped was because of the arms wrapping around him and taking him to the floor. He let his head drop back on Dante's shoulder. "She's gone."

And then he felt his heart crack

[sheenlux]

Odi Et Amo \\ Prt 1

Synopsis: Sheen receives a letter from his parents asking him to come speak with them, he accepts and it changes the trajectory of his life. Characters: Sheen, Silveria & Hermes Lux, Vox Military Official TW: Mentions of Abuse, Body Image Issues, Anxiety Attack, Vomit

Nov. 4th: Sheen had been with Monty for about a month, getting him from the prison, traveling to and through Two with him, and getting to know the rest of his family beyond Everett. He had finally decided to check on his house in One, to see if it was burned down or ransacked. He told Monty he'd see him back at the Capitol, made his farewells, and headed off to One with Shimmer. Surprisingly, his house for the most part was fine. The grass was longer than he would have liked. There was a broken window upstairs, looked like someone made a bet to see if they could hit it. Annoyingly, they had. Purely out of habit, Sheen stuck his hand in the mailbox, not sure if there would actually be anything, doubting it, and yet, his fingers felt an all too familiar envelope and his heartbeat started to pick up. His mother was still using the same stationery. She had fallen in love with it when he was six, and she must not have found anything to replace that joy for it. Once he and Shimmer were settled in the house, he played with the letter sitting at his kitchen table. He debated burning it, tearing it up, reading it. After eleven years why would she reach out now? He wasn't surprised they had survived. He wouldn't be surprised if she had already had lunch with Tera. His parents were good at surviving, and coming out on top in every situation. Finally, he sighed and tore open the envelope to read what she wanted.

Beni, My Dearest Darling Beautiful Baby Boy,

I have sent this letter to both your home in One and any address I could get for you in the Capitol. I know it has been quite some time since we have spoken, but in light of everything, your father and I have done quite a bit of self-reflecting. We know we did not rise up to be the best parents we could have been. For that, we are deeply sorry. Yet, this letter is written with urgency. We need you, now more than ever. Your father has been summoned to serve the nation in the armed forces. He says he is up to the task, but we both know he is not, me and you, my darling boy. He will die if he goes into service. You will not. You can do this. You have done this. Thanks to the skills we equipped you with. I hope to see you soon, Sheen.

Your Ever Loving and Dedicated Mother,

Silveria Sapphire Lux

Nov. 6th: His fist hit the door, knocking on it softly and then too hard. Sheen was trying not to shake. He was scared.....the last time he was ever this scared, he was laying on a beach spitting blood out of his mouth, certain he was about to be killed. Don't sweat, don't stutter, don't cry when they opened the door kept running through his head. If he did any of those things it would instantly give her the advantage in the conversation. Don't let her take the advantage. The door opened, and there his mother was. She still somehow looked.....impeccable. Not a hair out of place, a perfectly styled outfit, matching jewelry. If anyone was able to do that in this crisis, he wasn't surprised it was his mother. His mother......the smile that pulled on her face....

"Beni." The moment she said it, he started to cry, audible ugly crying.

"Mommy." He felt her arms wrapping around him, pulling him into a hug, and he was crying into her. He was terrified of her, hated her, loathed her, he could count on his hands how many times he had been hugged, and yet, he loved her and right now this was the only place he wanted to be, in his mother's arms.

"My darling baby Beni. It's ok, it's ok. I'm here." She was petting the back of his head, and they stayed there like that for a few minutes. She just held him as he cried into her. He didn't know why he was crying, or what he was crying over, but he felt like a child again. It wasn't until she spoke again that he stopped.

"And this must be Shimmer! We've seen so many pictures of him, we have so many pictures clipped from magazines in frames on our mantle of him, the two of you together." Her hand rested on his face, a thumb wiping one of his tears away. He couldn't help but think about the time he asked for a dog as a child, and he was forced to sleep outside in a doghouse, and yet now here she was confessing they had pictures of his dog on their mantle. "Your father and I, have never stopped following what you've done. We are so proud of you. Come on let's get inside."

Sheen knew his parents taught him more of the skills he used in the arena than most, but he hadn't expected them to use the same skills outside of it. Sour grapes from his father's vineyard and dried-up, salted meats were keeping them going through this crisis. His mother had enough beauty products stocked up to keep going for about another year. Sheen was told by his parents how his father was being called into service and despite his protests, Sheen knew he wouldn't make it. He had to take his place or else his father was going to die. His parents were right, what was war, but a day in the arena? As he was getting ready to leave his mother was running a hand through his hair, and then it moved to rest on his stomach, "You know, you really have grown into your teeth. And those moles. My darling baby boy. You do look so good now. Like the Victor you were always meant to be." And then she gave him two pats on the stomach, before her hand moved up his back, running along where the scars were, and then giving where he was bitten by the mutt on his shoulder a squeeze. "Mommy's perfect little champion. You don't know how much you doing this means to me. Your father and I.......we both love you, very much."

Sheen could only nod, he felt like he was seven again. How many nights had he laid in bed crying, confused as to why his parents couldn't tell him that. Now here he was being told how much they loved him because he was going into an active combat zone for them, and it was at the tail end of his mother once again, in her little ways judging, shaming how he looked. When she had squeezed his shoulder it felt like the jaguar sinking its teeth into him again. "I love you too, Mommy."

As he and Shimmer walked back to his house in the village, and were a safe distance that she couldn't see, Sheen had to stop to throw up in some bushes and wipe away the tears.

Nov. 12th: "Sheen Benitoite Lux? I'm General Calico Weave. You have undergone our military recruitment evaluation process for the past five days correct?"

Sheen nodded his head, "Correct, Ma'am."

"I am looking through the report compiled on you in that time, and I must say.....your athletics.....survival skills....they're a lot higher than most people we've seen. Even other, well what you could call Careers."

"I suppose you could thank my parents for that special training. They asked the Academy to go harder on me. They went harder on me. They wanted me to be better than a Career. They wanted me to be a Victor." Sheen watched the General nod her head, he wasn't sure if she was worried or judging what he went through, her face didn't make it known.

"Well during your evaluations, while you passed with some of the highest scores I have seen, a few things came up, that I personally wanted to enquire about. First, during intake, during your physical, you recoiled at the mirror, and wouldn't undress for the doctor until something was put over it. Then, on day 3, you struggled quite a bit with the swimming test. That was quite surprising to us, and then finally......your.....you didn't show much worry at the thought of having to take lives. Can you please elaborate on why that was?"

Sheen nodded his head, not surprised that those were the things that would get flagged. Wetting his lip, he took a drink of the water that had been offered.

"My parent's training wasn't just training at times. They used mirrors to help model me into their idea of a perfect victor. Once I turned about six, if I cried they put me in front of a mirror to show me how silly I looked crying. When I was 10, they started on a weekly basis, putting me in front of a mirror in my underwear to evaluate what on my body needed work. Looking at my reflection.....it reminds me of those moments. Though ma'am, I suppose there aren't many mirrors on the front lines." The General shook her head and affirmed that there weren't.

"It's not water that scares me, but rather larger bodies of water. I can do bathtubs finally, but pools....lakes...the ocean reminds me of my arena. The sharks that were inside the water. If that disqualifies me than I need to make sure that my father won't still be taken in my place. Finally as for the....last worry. I don't have any desire to take life, if that's what you're worried about. I don't want to hurt people. I am not joining so I can kill. I am joining to save my father. The reason killing doesn't bother me is because I have killed. In the arena, eight people. I realize now as I did then, that anyone I kill or killed is because I have to. I had to in the arena so that I could live. I have to now so that Panem can survive."

There was a long pause, the General taking in what Sheen said. She finally wrote a few things down and then nodded her head. "I am going to tell you this because you're doing a good thing. You're volunteering to save someone who sounds like they don't deserve it. We are desperate. The enemy is tougher, and more ruthless than we could have expected. This will not be easy, but evidently, you are used to that. I get the final say over your recruitment, and your combat scores are so high, I would be an idiot to reject you because you're not afraid to kill or scared of a pool.

You deploy on November 24th to District Seven, which should limit exposure to large bodies of water. In addition, because of your experiences and your test results, and how desperate we are. We are signing you on as a Major. You'll be the lowest of our most senior ranks, but I think you can do a lot of good for our soldiers. Vox and Panem thank you for your service. Go take the time you have left to say goodbye to the people you care about."

[octaviuscreed]

Moves and Countermoves

Synopsis: Octavius' hours before the Vox attack, and the days following their attack. Characters: Octavius Creed, mentions of; Nerissa Snow, Vox Officials, The Creed Family, mentions of other high-ranking Capitol officials TW: None

The Games were running as they were supposed to, but nothing noteworthy was going on, so Octavius took that as his chance to depart from the Gamemaker's room, return to the Creed Estate, and celebrate his mother's very late 90th birthday dinner. He was easily accessible should he have to step away but he was sure any problems that could arise would be easy to manage, especially with their latest Head Gamemaker on the scene. Dinner was as unnoteworthy as he expected. His sister talked about lumber production from their mills in Seven, apparently, there was a work shortage with people trying to or successfully fleeing to join Free Eleven. Octavius had told Nerissa that her handling of the situation and of he Defense Minister was filled with flaws and to allow him to examine the situation, he had been told to return to his Games.

"The Creeds survived the Dark Days, we will survive this." His mother boldly proclaimed, and he was inclined to agree, but not by following the path Nerissa Snow, and her government had laid out for them. Octavius knew that, most people who were smart enough knew that. Unfortunately in his eyes, the cabinet was filled with people too afraid to tell the President differently then what she wanted to hear, to tell her the things she needed to hear.

"We will. Yes, we will. However, to ensure that survival, I believe it prudent, the family move itself into the Creed Bunker." It was something they had designed after the Dark Days, to make sure they never knew hunger again, it was well-protected and well-stocked. "Because of my relationship with President Snow, I know that the rebels are already within the city limits. That is why the Tower is on lockdown, it is why we have so much heightened security, and why we lost power during the Interviews. I think.....an attack is imminent. I do not know exactly when it will happen, but it will be before the end of this game. When the attack comes, I think the government will collapse rather quickly." His mother and sister were silent, before his mother shook her head, "Coriolanus never would have let this happen. He was strong, Nerissa....." His mother waved a hand before nodding. "If that's what you think, Octavius, neither of us will fight you." Pointing at her daughter, "Don't argue with it, think of your kids, my grandchildren, and your own grandchild. My great-grandchild. We cannot allow a family that has existed as long as we have disappear because of Nerissa Snow."

Octavius nodded, "I will have you all retrieved when it is safe to do so." A brief debate arose, well why wouldn't he be with them, because he needed to secure their safety. They wouldn't simply be allowed to hide and eventually pop out forgiven. Forgiveness would need to be gained......and if not forgiveness, then at least a pardon. Favors were easy to win with rising governments. They would need help, and Octavius if the map looked so favorable would be more than happy to give them that help. Once he got his mother to relent, the family was packed into a car, and off they went to the safety of their bunker, Octavius while packing watched live feeds of the camera, and he saw it before probably anyone else.....the attack was beginning.

Power in the city was flickering, here and there and he knew because of that he would need to act quickly. Certain skills as a Gamemaker were now proving their worth, and rather quickly he was able to open up a channel of communication with those who represented the leaders of Vox. They were rather surprised that an old Gamemaker, from an Old Capitol Family reached out to them, but when they arrived at the Creed Family home, no traps were waiting. Rather, Octavius was, with a lunch spread, along with tablets, and books and letters and notes. All carefully collected over the years to protect himself in a moment like this, when information would be vital.

What was the information he was offering to Vox? Access codes to penthouses, and mansions. Capitol military capabilities, the locations of weapon stockades, and contingency plans. Anything and everything that he had that could prove useful to them making their control over the Capitol quicker, and easier. All he asked for in exchange was a full pardon for the Creed Family, and the assurance that their bank accounts would not be seized. What the future of Seven may have held was entirely up to Vox, but he would be more than willing to negotiate pay increases, break times, and the like if they so wished.

Which is why now, at the end of this month now that power was restored to the city, his family was returning from their bunker, and he would be returning to the Tower. Octavius Creed, a friend and early investor of the new Vox Government.

[erikdragon]

But that was just a dream

A new age of The Golden One starts. Where: Erik's mansion. Who: Erik Drakorn and Dr. William Bones.

Slowly, Erik’s faith in his people had faded. Not to say that he’d ever stop caring about his town, he sworn to protect it at all costs long before anyone who walked these streets took their first breath, but he couldn’t help but feel like his own presence there didn’t matter anymore.

Back in the golden days, the mansion was called The Golden One’s Temple, he used to take women in as sacrifices, the ones whom society had failed. the ones who’s options were to run away or death, and he’d give them new life under his roof. He missed his priestesses. They were always nice to him, they kept the mansion clean and bustling with life, they kept him fed and entertained, and most of all, they kept him up to date with the villager’s affairs.

People used to come in asking for protection, for blessings and even to settle disagreements. He was a king to most senses of the word, he was respected and cherished, and he liked it.

Erik refused to think about it for long, though. For one, because he couldn’t complain about his life with Seth, he was happy, and also because then he’d have to admit to himself that he regretted sleeping for so long. Now he could see that a heartbreak wasn’t enough of a reason to miss this.

Those thoughts were running through his head as he sat in his library, his phone in hand showing the email he had reread at least a dozen times by now.

A couple of weeks prior, Erik was surprised by a knock on his door in the middle of the afternoon. An old man stood there, the coordinator of the History department of the local college, he said, Dr. William Bones. He had nice eyes, gray hair and the wrinkles of someone who smiled way too much in his youth, so Erik didn’t think much to it when he invited the man in for tea.

“My mother used to tell me stories about this place” he said, picking Erik’s interest “It’s a legend really, they say somewhere along my family tree there was a woman who lived here.”

“Is that so?” Erik asked, expression soft.

“Yes, she was one of the Golden One’s priestesses. Her name was Meredith.”

He remembered her, of course. She was a young one, must’ve been twelve or so when she arrived. She had freckles and the same kind eyes. He remembered she had something about her hands, back then they didn’t know the name of the condition, just called them defective. She broke so many of his ceramic bowls that Erik made her one out of metal with his own hands, if he looked around his lair that bowl might still be there.

“Not many people know his name these days. The… Golden One” Erik said instead.

“Yes, that’s precisely why I’m here.” Dr. Bones followed when he saw Erik’s confused frown “You see, my students were pretty passionate about reviving the traditions of the town, once they discovered there were any.” He chuckled “And who could blame them? Not many towns get to say they used to have a god amongst them, that they were protected by a dragon, that’s for sure” He also seemed passionate about it.

Erik smiled at his enthusiasm “Do you believe that he was real?”

Dr. Bones smiled kindly “Does it matter?” He paused, then sighed “Some things in history are not so literal, sometimes they’re… ideas, emotions, collective thoughts. The Golden One could’ve been a goat for all I know, but what he represented? That was precious.”

Erik smiled behind his cup of tea, a warmth in his chest. The historian continued.

“Which brings us to why I am here.”

“Oh? So you didn’t come here for tea, then?” Erik teased, the man laughed.

“As delicious as your blend is, no, I’m afraid not” he placed the teacup on the side table “Mr. Drakorn, you said your family has lived in this historical sight for hundreds of years, am I correct?”

“Something like that” the dragon shrugged, unable to give him a more accurate answer.

“I was wondering, if maybe you’d have any material that could help in our quest to put some pieces together”

“Pieces?”

“Yes, you see” the old man took a file from his messenger bag, showing Erik the papers inside. Notes and illustrations of The Golden One, quotes and pages taken out of history books, ancient maps of the town showing the new buildings and more. His eyes stopped on an illustration of a party, the image of women dancing around a fire with glasses in their hands. Their clothes weren’t exactly accurate nor the decorations, but he smiled when he realized what that was supposed to represent. 

His festival.

“We’ve been gathering information all around town, with the most traditional of families. Everyone knows a story or two about the Golden One, or about the festivals they used to have, or his blessings of the crops, or something or another. But we’re missing some key details and I was hoping  you could help us fill in the gaps.”

“I… have a few old books lying around, I could check if they have anything of interest for your… research? Is that what this is?” Erik asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

People remembered him! More people would know about him now!

“Something like that” Dr. Bones repeated Erik’s words with a teasing smile, then grabbed the illustration of the festival and handed it to the dragon “This festival. It used to happen every year, for days on end. People celebrated the community, they shared their harvest, were grateful for blessings of fertility and even whole wedding ceremonies happened in them.” Erik held back from mentioning the orgies. “It was an act of togetherness that reinforced the bonds of the townsfolk. I feel like it’s something that- that we’ve been losing in the last few decades and to be honest I fear of what will be of the next generations when they grow even more apart.”

“What are you saying, Dr. Bones?”

“I’m saying we have a project to bring back the Great Festival of the Golden One, Mr. Drakorn.”

Erik stopped breathing.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be the same, we wouldn’t have the support of the community for so many days off as they used to last, but I’ve been sharing my findings with the mayor office and there’s talk of even turning it into a local holiday. The mayor thinks it could help with tourism, even. But for that to happen, we’d need more… concrete evidence of the history of the town.” He paused, Erik wasn’t blinking. “Which is why I came here to talk to you.”

A moment too long, Erik took a deep breath, forcing his body to react “Of course” he said, clearing his throat. Was he serious? “Well, I will help in any way I can, Dr. Bones.” The dragon offered his hand to the old man to shake, a smile on his face “Consider me an avid supporter of the project.”

In the days that followed, Erik had taken some of his books downtown, to the history department. He also took a couple of handbound notebooks he had found after his latest clean up - journals of the priestesses. He made sure to include a few notes from Meredith too, just because, and one of the vests they used to wear around the temple.

Dr. Bones was ecstatic to say the least, Erik worried he might’ve given the old man a heart attack with how excited he got with the donations. 

He invited the man and his pupils to a tour of the mansion at the end of the week as well, showing them the priestesses quarters and the whole side of the mansion that wasn’t used anymore, telling them a couple of stories about the temple and answering some of their questions as they took notes and pictures. He avoided the lair, for obvious reasons, but the exposure he had given seemed to be more than enough to light the fire inside of the young historians.

Which brings us back to the email.

His hands were shaking as he picked th phone up again, to read it just one more time, as if the words would be different on the thirteenth read through, as if he had understood something wrong due to wishful thinking. Still, they were crisp and clean as they were in the first time he read them.

To the esteemed Mr. Erik Drakorn, I come this bright sunny morning to bring you up to date on recent occurings about the project Golden One Festival, which we have discussed before. Your donations to our cause were fundamental to the development of the project, as they made up the backbone of the presentation we have given to the mayor office a couple of days ago. The mayor himself was surprised and extremely excited with the sheer amount of information we were able to collect as well as the quality of it. He was so excited, in fact, that he greenlit the project right away. We’re aiming for a late October festival, the paperwork for the official holiday has been sent and the culture and tourism department are already working on the publicity campaign to engage the local community on the festivities. The Golden One Festival is happening, and we couldn’t have done it without you, Mr. Drakorn. So I must offer you my most sincere gratitude. I’d also like to invite you to be a part on the planning of the festivities, if you’d like. Let me know what you think? With my best wishes, Dr. William Bones. Head Director of the History Department Hollow’s Creek Community College

[ggathena]

bitter brew {self para}

The White Wyvern was a haven for withces and wizards seeking solace and celebration. Tonight, it was a refuger for Athena, who sat in a shadowed corner nursing a tumbler of firewhisky. The amber liquid burned her throat, but the physical heat was a welcome distraction from the storm raging within her.

The news had hit her like a Bludger to the chest. Her mind replayed the moment she found out in excrutiating detail. Rita was ruthless, she lived for the gossip and took a special kind of pleasure in writing sensationalist stories to get the best out of her readers. Athena had always admired her cousin for that wicked quality yet had never been one to indulge behind the scenes or pay attention to what she was writing. However, she had certainly appreciated the private meeting they'd shared where she had shown pictures and spilled all the details of the couple's outings. A brief encounter, a strong negative on her part and off she was.

"Another one," she murmured to the barmaid, who eyed her with a mix of sypmathy and concern.

"Sure you don't want to slow down, love?" she asked, but Athena only shook her head, her eyes fixated on the glass in front of her, downing its contents and extending the glass for the barmaid to refill it with a deft hand.

I love you, Thea. The words echoed through her head, her grip tightening on the glass. In spite of the breakup, all throughout these years their time together had been a whirlwind of passion and volatility, a flame that burned too bright for it to ever die out. She'd already known heartbreak once, stepping out of his room where she'd seen his blonde hair resting on the pillow beside another witch. That should've been it, enough to have her stay away from him, but it never really was. Relentlessly drawn back together, the beater's love for the wizard had never once faltered and after too many late nights lying awake wondering if she shouldn't have walked away, she'd finally came to the conclusion she didn't want to lie to herself anymore.

It had been only a couple of nights ago where she'd confessed her love, vowed herself his and believed they were finally in the same page again. How mistaken had she been. While she'd put herself out there, wrapped her heart up and delivered it to him hopeful and determined, he had laughed right in her face, a pretense that had her stripping her clothes for him one last time, murmuring in the dark a love that wasn't returned, promising to be his when he was already someone else's.

She downed the rest of her firewhisky in one gulp, the liquid scorching her throat but failing to cleanse her heart. Her eyes were red, anger flashing behind them, the tears welling up as she held onto the glass with all her force, smashing it to pieces just like her soul had. She didn't feel the pain from the nasty cut now in her hand, her body too numb from the alcohol intake that had been going on for hours at this time. Emma's face appeared beneath her eyes though she was certain the witch wasn't really there, a wicked trick her mind was playing her. She knew her friend hadn't meant to hurt her, after all she didn't exactly knew about her past with Thorfinn, but that knowledge didn't ease the sting of betrayal she felt now.

The brunette stood up unsteady, not caring to look back at the table or the mess she'd left behind. Making her way past the door and into the cold night, the dim lights blurred into a kaleidoscope of pain and confusion as she stumbled down the damp streets, her vision swimming from the alcohol, blood mingling with rainwater as it dripped from her hand, leaving crimson trails on the craked pavement. The irony of the glass with her favorite shattering in her grip, mirroring the shards of her heart. The betrayal had been swift and brutal, her lover and her best friend, entwined in deceit that left her world crumbling.

Now, she wandered aimlessly, the cool night air doing little to soothe the searing pain that tore through her chest. People passed by, their faces a blur of indifference, unaware or unisterested in the silent scream that echoed within her.

Her steps faltered as she reached a deserted alley, the oppressive darkness matching the void inside her. She fell to her knees, the rough asphalt digging into her flesh. The sobs came then, wracking her body with violent shudders. She clutched her bleeding hand to her chest, the physical pain should've been a distraction from the torment in her sould, yet it was not.

"Why?" She choked out, her voice breaking in the emptiness. The word hung in the air, unanswered, swallowed by the night. She bower her head, the tears mingling with the rain, her heart splintering with every beat. There was no solace, no escape from the anguish that consumed her. She was lost, adrift in a sea of betrayal and heartache, drowning in her sorrow.

The witch's eyes snapped open, blazing with a resolve born of her pain. She wasn't going to be a victim, her heart had been taken from her, a void left in her chest-- but they hadn't taken her strenght. She pushed herself to her feet, looking down at the dry blood in her hand, a reminder of the night's cruel reality.

Her breath came faster, her anger intensifying with each passing moment. Athena clenched her jaw, tasting the metalic tang of blood as she bit down on her lip. She wanted to confront him, to demand answers, to make him feel a fraction of the torment he had inflicted upon her.

But even as the fury consumed her, a hollow ache lingered beneath it. She still loved him, despite everything. The thought twisted like a knife in her gut, adding a bitter edge to her anger. How could she still care for someone who had shattered her so completely? Twice?

Torn between her rage and the remnants of her love, the brunette stromed out of the alley, the cold rain pelting her face, mingling with the hot tears of rage. Her steps grew surer, her heart pounding with a volatile mix of fury and longing. It wasn't over, and she wasn't done. He would know of her pain, and somehow she would confront the love that still, inexplicably, held a piece of her heart.

[ezekielurquhart]

Memento Mori

"Some people don't know what they have until it's gone." "But what about the ones who do know? The ones who never took a damn thing for granted? Who tried their hardest to hold on, yet could only look on helplessly while they lost the thing they loved the most. Isn't it so much worse for them?" - Lang Leav

XXX

[acolyterose]

Tagging: mentions of @octavianrising and @legioneoin Location: Harlan, Rome, and some abandoned warehouse Timeframe: Various, childhood until now Notes: tldr; atlas kills his ex stepdad Trigger Warnings: homophobia, bullying, violence, death, and torture. Also it's done mostly in first person until the kill kill.

Curtis Waddell used to laugh every time I walked by, he’d snicker anytime that he saw me like my whole existence was some big joke to him. Him and his friends could have just left it at that because I’d go home every night and think that I was something worth laughing at. They didn’t, they never did, they always had to make it worse. 

School wasn’t a safe place for me, you’d think that the adults would have known better but small towns bred small minds and nobody blinked twice at the appearance of a bruise or split lip. If I’d come back from break soaked or if I didn’t come back at all the latter was my fault, I was making a choice not to go to class and so I had to be punished for it. Detention wasn’t much of a sentencing though because for me it helped delay the inevitable or sometimes put it off completely. Waylon Roberts, or Ryan Harper, or Stephen Taylor sometimes got bored of waiting and ended up somewhere else. That’s what I used to call a lucky day. 

The thing is we used to be friends, briefly, for a time. My dad worked with their dads in the mines but the difference between me and Curtis Waddell, and everyone else was we both lost ours in the same accident. It was more common than you’d think but there were dangers to working at those depths and the company was generous when something did happen. Most families were lucky and everyone got out okay, Curtis and I weren’t. I can’t pinpoint the time when he’d started to hate me but it happened definitively. I think now that the line between love and hate is thin for a reason; you can love someone one day and then hate them the next. Going one way was always easy, but I can’t remember a time when there was ever any back and forth. 

One weekend I was in Curtis’ basement, swapping his N64 controller every twenty minutes as we played Ocarina of Time, the bike I’d ridden to his house was tipped over and abandoned in his front yard, and then the next he was laughing as Kyle Russel shoved me over the 840 bridge into the Cumberland river. Most parts were safe to swim in, this one notoriously wasn’t, but they didn’t care, I heard them laughing as I broke the surface. There was a brief pause as another splash followed, I didn’t know if it was Curtis, Kyle, or Waylon Roberts but one of them threw my bike in after me and then shortly after the laughter continued, then receded. I’d heard what they called me after my bike went in but I never really associated it with myself, it wasn’t something anyone ever wanted to be but my ‘friends’ and I used to use it to describe that guy that lived above the movie theatre. 

I cried, and I cried, and I cried. Tears were cheap and easy and while my mom stroked my hair I kept my head in her lap. She asked me what had happened but I was too embarrassed to say it, because if I told her then she’d learn what they said and I’d be letting her in on this awful truth that I didn’t want to see. One that I felt was more taboo than anything, the worst thing any man could be was different, and apart from that one loner that lived above the movie theatre, I was completely alone in myself. I learned that I walked differently because Garrett Kennedy let me know that I looked like a fairy, I realised I had a lisp and affected the wrong syllables because Joshua McRay mocked me anytime I opened my mouth. So, I tried not to. I raised my hand less, I spoke out less often, and I tried to keep the words that burned at the back of my throat at bay.

Fathers brought their sons to the park, they went to their games, they were there in the stands even with soot covered fingers. Mine wasn’t, he couldn’t be, he would never be. I always thought that Curtis Waddell and I had a sort of understanding because of it but instead of sympathy I just heard his laughter. Slurs shouted in the halls, that word in particular uttered in contempt as he shoved me into a locker, jeering cries as he and his friends flushed filthy toilet water around my head. Pushed into cow pies or made to eat a live frog, even that was meant to be less gross than the moniker they gave me. The first bottle rocket was shot by Derick Young, I can still remember that grin on his face when he lifted his arm; I didn’t realise at the time what it was at the time until it went off and I jumped out of my skin. Another went off and another, I’d never really run from them then because they had a way of sneaking up on me. In the halls at school, in the park, at festivals and that sort of thing. I ran then, and I ran every time after that. 

I started running a lot to try and get good at it, by the end of middle school I was on the track team and my mother had me in self defence classes for a few years prior. None of it really mattered, they still caught up with me, and they still outnumbered me. Only difference was I stopped being quiet and I started getting bold, it didn’t matter how silent I made myself because inevitably they were still going to torture me. I could have not said a word all day and I’d still go home and cry myself to sleep, still listen in the late hours as my tired and overworked mother vented to her friend. How she’d call around and demand that people do something about their own damn kids, eventually she either stopped or they didn’t bother picking up their phones. I didn’t know for sure which it was and yet I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t the former. 

Video games were a quiet solace, in a fantasy world I could be the protagonist of the story and in a melee I could be the winner if I clicked the buttons in proper succession. It was always fair then, there weren’t cheat codes in a one on one fight and there was no one there to call over their friends to make it easier. Local tournaments turned into regional ones. My mother forked over the cash she saved for vacations and expenses because these were the only victories I was getting and it was one of the few times that she got to see me smile. 

I got louder and she got louder too, but she had the decency to wait for me to come to her. To tearfully admit why everyone hated me as much as they did, to apologise to her for being so different from all the other boys my age. She hadn’t meant to laugh but it helped that she did, because unlike Waylon Roberts and his friends it didn’t sting this time. There was no cruelty behind her voice, just acknowledgement because she had known just like everyone else had always known and she was so happy that I’d finally told her. She held me and I cried and because she knew how hard my life was going to be she cried too. That’s when the flag went up and the enamel pins went on, she’d wear this vest tailored to allyship everytime we went anywhere and anytime she went to work. Even if she was the only woman in Harlan that was happy to say her son was gay, eventually that ended up being enough for me. It was enough for me to say it too, to her, and to myself. 

Thomas Jackson broke my arm the summer before high school, not unintentionally or because they’d shoved me a bit too hard, but because when I was on the ground I’d lifted it to try and shield my face. That was when the police got involved and while I’d say his name and the name of every other boy there: Waylon Roberts, Derick Young, Stephen Taylor, Curtis Waddell, Ryan Harper, Garrett Kennedy, Joshua McRay, and Kyle Russell, nothing happened to them. The cop laughed, it was small, a short scoff but he put his pen down and I could see the shrug. He reminded me of the man that lived above the movie theatre, the one that didn’t make it out of Harlan alive. Not in any way that he acted but in that they would have been about the same age, I was a sharp kid, smart, especially once I’d started speaking up in class and applying myself. So I could recognise a bully when I saw one, he was just like the ones I’d named, and boys would be boys. 

I’d been hurt before, but this was different and I saw then that my mom had changed because she was going to do whatever it took to get us out. To get me out. We were both Harlan born and raised so she knew better than me what kind of life waited out in front, just like the guys that made my life hell I’d probably end up working in the mines. She said that I was good, too good for those kids that didn’t have parents willing to teach them any better. “A damn shame,” she’d say, then she’d repeat it louder, with an expletive in the middle. 

Cadmus was such a strange name, then again, so was Atlas. I think that’s why I took to him as quickly as I did because he was an outsider, a little bit like me. He had an Italian accent that sounded out of place amidst the Kentucky twang and before I realised it was happening my mother was completely taken by him. He was suave and travelling on the road for work, he came by with gifts for both me and her; the strangest thing about him though was how everything just seemed to get easier when he was around. Curtis Waddell stopped laughing when I walked by, Ryan Harper didn’t shove me in the locker anymore; one afternoon I turned a corner and managed to make my way right past the lot of them without any issue. They didn’t acknowledge me, truthfully they barely even looked at me, but one week rolled into two and all of a sudden I felt free. Then Cadmus left and it started all over again, though maybe it was worse because the first day of Freshmen year they’d found me, stripped me, and left me taped across the flagpole with that familiar word spray painted across my chest.

High school was unbearable and teenagers were quicker to violence than their adolescent selves, but that was also when it ended and something else began. Cadmus invited us to Rome, he proposed to my mother, and he enrolled me in a private school. I’d always been bright, a big fish in a small pond and now I was somewhere that challenged me. People didn’t bother me but my sharp tongue had already been formed, I’d been so used to defending myself that cutting into others felt appropriate. Better them than me, better to be predator than prey. Needless to say I wasn’t popular but I didn’t care, I didn’t need to be because at the very least I was safe. My mother was in love and she was happy, happier than I’d ever seen her. She kept the vest and she kept the flag and she kept going to the parades. She sat on every committee and she attended every event, she dragged me along too. I’d been scared and ashamed for so long, she wanted me to know that it was alright and that everything would be okay from then on. 

I believed her. I believed everything she said and loving Cadmus came easy too because he was kind and he’d done more than anyone else ever had for us. Calling him dad happened that first Christmas in Rome, it wasn’t an accident because I’d been thinking about it for a while. I had planned it like it was some secret gift I was going to give him, I offered it and he smiled and then he hugged me. Dad and father, he was also there at every stupid event with my mother and he wore those silly little pins that she gave him. I believed him. 

I had my choice of schools after that, I could have gone anywhere but I wanted to stay in Rome. I wanted to be close to my mom and my dad. That was also the year that I stopped being so repressed, I started university and any inhibition was kicked down. My first time was with someone I’d been stalking for weeks, he’d bumped into me in the hallway and before I could call him some rude name he was already helping me pick up his books. I knew him from one of my classes and I knew that he had a girlfriend, but I didn’t care because in my head we were going to be together forever. A single act of kindness and all of a sudden I was convinced that it had to be love. In the bathroom of some house party came the great romantic climax that every young homosexual man dreamt of (not), it was after that I realised he didn’t know my name because he said the wrong one after he’d finished and I was left wondering if it was supposed to hurt as much as it had. Better came when I found one of his friends that same night and opted to, rather poorly, use my throat instead. He at least remembered me as being the guy that was really good at Super Smash Brothers after I’d kicked his, and everyone else’s ass, at one of the game nights hosted on campus.

When neither of them responded to my subsequent DMs the next day I felt rejected and hurt, I cried because it was in my nature to cry everytime I projected my selfish need to be loved onto people who couldn’t and wouldn’t ever reciprocate my feelings. I’d thought then that if I kept giving myself over to people who weren’t deserving then maybe one of them would step up to the plate. I got better at interpreting what people wanted and what they liked, my candour was abrasive but I made up for it by being forward and pretending like rejection didn’t phase me. It did, it always did. It didn’t stop me from trying to find myself in any man that would spare me a shred of kindness, or any unworthy guy that I saw fit to welcome into my body. I was popular both on campus and off but not for any reason that I was particularly proud of, my mom always laughed when I told her and insisted that I be safe. That I do whatever I have to do to be happy. She’d make a joke at my expense but when she did it it felt good, natural, and I found I didn’t mind it so much when it came from a place of kindness. 

My mother got sick that year, very sick, very quickly, and overnight Cadmus was gone. The name was a fake one, the police had never heard of him, and while my mother sat with a monitor on her arm a doctor pulled me aside and turned everything upside down. They were breaking a law by telling me, some ancient creed that I was yet to wrap my mind around that kept humans like me in the dark. Humans like my mother, a woman that had been made the victim of a witch’s spell. A witch who’d funnelled away her soul and left her an empty shell. It wasn’t meant to be long but all this came with a cost, a cost that meant I had to leave school, and a cost that meant I had to pick up the slack. It hadn’t been quick, in fact my mother suffered in her bedroom for years. Nurses, medications, constant pain, and her dignity stripped away as she lost control of everything from her bowels to her own breathing. Not-so-selfishly I wished she had died quickly, I wished that the doctor was right and it would have been over in a month or two because I found it hard to remember her red hair in the sunlight and that ridiculous vest. Instead I saw how she had thinned and paled, how her hair grew sparse and her eyes sunk low. I remembered her ragged breathing more than the deep laughter that she was best known for. I remembered her sickness, not her health, and I remembered the man that did this to her. 

When she died I felt myself take in a breath and I’ve been holding it ever since. 

Present Day

The basement was dank, it smelled of earth and iron. Mildew crept along the walls of the concrete foundation below the abandoned factory. There was nothing but the drip of water against old pipes and the distant scurrying of rodents scratching at the walls. Metal grinding against metal as the chains that bound the witch rubbed against one another. Atlas had Eoin to thank for this, a surprise text, a brief meeting, and at the druid’s insistence he’d been left alone with the witch who’d once gone by Cadmus. 

Light filtered through the grimy windows as specks of dust glowed within the golden hue of the morning sun. Blood lined what Atlas remembered as handsome features, a swollen eye obscured what the druid had once known, but at Atlas’ core he knew who this was. He could tell by the line of Cadmus’ jaw and the slope of his nose, the cant of his brow and the soft groans that fell from his unconscious frame. This was him, this was the bastard that had killed his mother. The witch that tricked them and deceived them, the man that was responsible for destroying the one person who’d always been in Atlas’ corner.

People said that vengeance didn’t make you feel better, there were quotes about the need for two graves, for the emptiness it left behind, and for how it was so much better to choose forgiveness instead. That wasn’t Atlas’ experience, killing Cadmus didn’t hollow him out, it just felt good. Dawn’s light faded to dusk’s twilight and the witch’s screams never relented, they felt good, better than Atlas would have thought possible. He remembered every night he’d gone to bed with tears in his eyes and every night that his mother had sat up stroking his hair, he remembered her ragged breaths and the fits that came to follow any laughter. He remembered the first time she’d put on that stupid vest and waved around those shiny enamel pins, and he remembered packing them all away and trying to decide what to do with her leftover medication. He remembered how hard he had to work to stay afloat and remembered what it felt like to be reborn in flames.

Bit by bit and nerve by nerve Atlas let himself be transformed. His minted azure flames that exposed the truth at the core of the witch’s being: a flailing coward who emptied his bowels over a concrete floor while he begged for his life. Somehow Atlas had expected more, he expected the slurs and the mockery that Cadmus started with, but the begging felt unnecessary. First the witch pleaded for him to stop, then he begged for death. It was hours before the sun came up when Cadmus stopped pleading entirely, nerves exposed and dead, his mind seemed to be doing whatever it could to protect him. By dawn Atlas got tired of torturing burnt meat, following Cadmus’ death rattle, Atlas reduced whatever remained of the witch to ash.

He was glad it was over though, the adrenaline had left a long time ago and he felt tired now. His hands were bloodied and burnt, they reminded him of Knossos and that feeling of being so broken he couldn’t recognize himself. For Atlas, this was different, because he’d come a long way from the pathetic cat that was still learning how to sharpen his claws. When it was over the druid caught his reflection in the grimy window. He didn’t recognize himself anymore, this person that he’d started towards ever since he stood over his mother’s slab in the funeral home. 

That was the thing about cremation though, they made you look at the body one last time before they turned it to ash.

[mischiefxmuses]

self para - Iorveth finding Lexi ( @vcndetta )

tw: death, blood, grief

Iorveth had been searching for her. There was little else he needed to do right now. He wasn't one to show emotion or really let himself care so finding her was his priority. He was trying to use his tracking skills but tracking in concrete was basically impossible to leave tracks or any traces. He would have to rely on hopefully sheer dumb luck. He kept looking, asking people if they had seen her but mostly got nothing back. Nothing useful anyway and he was beginning to lose hope. The little that he had anyway.

He kept looking, until he arrived to a small park, the tree covering it. Not much could be there. But some greenery in the city. His heart stopped, and eyes went wide. "Lexi..." His voice quiet as he spoke but his feet carried him into a run. He hoped to all of his gods he was wrong but he had this sinking feeling. Which was just confirmed when he saw her lying there on the ground. Blood pooling around her from a gunshot wound. He sunk to his knees beside her. In complete shock and horror. He was too late. He failed her. He should have been there to protect her. Carefully he took her into his arms. Not caring about the blood that was now on him.

"I am sorry." He brushed her hair from her face and looked at her. "I am so so sorry." He rested his forehead against hers. He could feel some tears in the corner of his eyes. Iorveth didn't cry. Last time he cried was tears of rage when Roche took his eye. But he felt it coming on, rage at the person who killed her, pain at her loss and guilt that he couldn't protect her. He needed to get her out of here. He carefully picked her up off the ground, even if she was dead, he would be incredibly careful with her. She could wake up at any moment if he knew the magic of this place but decided getting her home was best.

He pushed all his emotions deep inside him as he focused on the task at hand. Carefully he navigated the streets. He felt this pit in his stomach, she was dead. He couldn't believe that she was dead... was there something he could have done?

He carried her all the way back to her home, kicking down the door as he didn't have the keys and brought her to her room. He placed her down on her bed. Taking a step back. Looking at her. The pit was growing. The tears threatening to fall more and more. He knew that she'd likely not know who he was when she woke. So he shouldn't be here. "I am sorry, I should have protected you." He stepped back towards her for a moment, placing a kiss on her hand. "You won't remember but I hope one day you will. I love you very much, Lexi." He left a little note with his phone number on it on her bedside table and left. A stranger in her room? He wouldn't have a good explanation. Outside her broken door, he just sunk to the ground. Hands covering his face as the tears finally fell.

[netteliax]

Archdruid.

You're used to hearing that you're something above the ordinary, golden You want to be the one and only Doesn't it get lonely

content warning: violence and death.

They were coming. 

There were hundreds at first, on two, four, or more legs they crawled or they ran. Nettelia stood amidst a field of corpses, men and women that she’d been working alongside only moments prior, soldiers that she had been trying to heal, innocents that the archdruid was giving everything to protect. Beneath her feet the ground rumbled like thunder, growing louder hundreds became thousands as demons crawled from the bottom of the Abyssal pit while the Inferno collapsed behind them. 

Death had long become comfortable to her, He was an old friend in which the archdruid was painfully familiar with. She’d met him more than once, he was there when she bid farewell to nieces and nephews, he stood at the ready when Nettelia said goodbye to friends or acolytes that were taken far too soon. The nymphs that used to braid her hair, the fey that used to fill her life with so many songs and so many fables. He had not come for her husband, and selfishly, Nettelia had been grateful. 

These demons were coming for her, they were coming for her home, and thousands grew further, middling, lesser and greater: half a million with the monarchy of Hell toted above them. Charon, Alecto, Minos, Rhadamanthus, an Aeacus in cages and chains, they’d be dead already if Death had not opted to turn a blind eye. Lucifer with their six present siblings, an army that grew as it continued to rumble from below, not only did they march, but they dug as well into the ground beneath her feet. Nettelia the mad, the deranged, the heartbroken woman who’d given everything and lost just as much for a man who couldn’t look at her without cringing. 

She’d brought Epimetheus here to protect him, if nothing else Nettelia thought that she could shelter him but the force of the blast had been too quick and too great. Too sudden, Nettelia was immune, but still she had taken the power that came her way and hoarded it like the glutton so many had taken to see her as. The woman who couldn’t let go, the mad creature who’d slaughtered a hundred just to save one. Selfish to her core. Unforgiving, petty, relentless, and ruthless. Maybe it was true, maybe she was all of those things: but if she had forced Epimetheus away from the beginning like she should have, her brother-in-law would still be alive. He was a comforting thought, Epimetheus reminded her of one of the last times she’d been happy, and in her greed she had kept him at her side. 

His lifeless body next to her, stripped of flesh, the feathers of the avariel strewn about- Nettelia shouldn’t have been able to recognize him. It was the macabre nature of the archdruid that was half death and half divinity to know a person by the shape of their skull alone, by the width and breadth of their ribcage and how he’d coiled his arms in front of his face in fear of the end. Nettelia had failed him, she’d failed so many, now the hordes of Hell sought to wash the earth while the book still lived and breathed at her back. She couldn’t allow that, whatever time she could buy for them, Nettelia would: gladly, and hopeful that if it was nothing else then it could at the very least be enough.

The demons felt like fire, a great rise of hellfire over the horizon that looked at the vile archdruid as an easy meal. Among her siblings there were none with a knowledge so intricate in the ways of healing as her, the healer always had the bloodiest hands, and those most apt at repairing the body were most apt at destroying it as well. Elements of the earth: what else was a body if not a composite of oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon, calcium, and phosphorus? Sulphur, potassium, sodium, chlorine, and magnesium? She’d come to understand each as she had knit them neatly together to create the necronomicon in the first place, bindings of flesh and bone to infuse magic and creation itself. From the bedrock of the Otherworld itself Nettelia pulled the power from the foundation of the shifting realm, let it sing under her veins as the murkiness of the swamps desiccated, the trees petrified and shattered. The air itself became still and quiet as the clouds above evaporated. Into the archdruid their power was pulled until there was nothing but a barren, trembling earth beneath her feet. 

Nettelia’s hands touched the ground at her feet, the dark gift of transference, of life and of death was a weight that Oztalun had saddled her with. A blessing and a curse, she’d used him once to create the necronomicon, and the Asphodel had used him a second time to further their means. This had begun with her and this would end with her. 

Tendrils of magic threaded their way into the corpses and the devastated, ripped apart at the seams, shredded by the necronomicon’s insatiable appetite, the parts of the Allies’ bodies that were torn away were patched up with rocks, with water, with fire, and with air. Nettelia sewed them together as she stitched their bodies, amalgamations of flesh, bone, and the ephemeral elements of the Otherworld beneath their feet. Necromantic golems of the fallen Allies stood in the path of the great force, some in the shape of serpents, others as giants, or dire wolves. Teeth, claws, and breaths of concussive air, flames, or torrents of highly pressurised water that could cut diamonds. 

The demons broke against her wall, violet eyes blazed, and Nettelia screamed.

[theoseong]

The Runaway

Date: November 2017 and July 2021 Location: Rungung and Different City Characters: Theo Seong and Charles Seong (Robin and Ryder Astrea mentioned) Description: Theo leaves Rungung and goes back again. Triggers: death, grief and mentions of starvation.

November 2017 - Theo is 23 years old

Theo’s gaze shifted from the bus ticket in his hand to the packed bags and guitar in his bedroom, leaving his room the barest it’d ever been. It was now or never. His bus for Different City left tomorrow at seven in the morning, and he still hadn’t told his dad he was leaving. It got more and more tempting to just leave without saying goodbye. That way he wouldn’t have to face his dad’s disappointment. 

A bitter part of him thought his dad might deserve that. All his life, it felt like the damn diner meant more to him than Theo did. He never gave a shit what Theo wanted–never even bothered to ask. He just decided he was going to take over for him one day. Maybe, Theo should’ve told his dad the truth from the start, but it felt like his only real option was to just leave, because he was never going to accept the truth. His dad would have to now though, because Theo was going on that bus even if it broke his heart.

Sighing, Theo forced himself to stop stalling and left his bedroom, heading for the kitchen where his dad was sitting at the table, balancing the books. Without a word, he dropped the ticket directly on top of the book. His dad gave Theo a confused look and set down the pen, lifting the ticket to examine it closely. 

“Different City? You didn’t tell me you’re going on a trip…” He said slowly, and Theo could practically see the gears turning in his head.

“It’s not a trip, dad. I’m moving there. I know I should’ve said something earlier, but–”

“Hold on, son. Slow down. You’re moving there? What are you talking about?” His dad asked in rapid succession, pushing himself out of his seat to look at his son directly. He didn’t seem mad yet, just completely lost. Theo couldn’t blame him. He went about this all wrong.

“I’m twenty-three, I have all my certifications, and I have money saved from the diner. I’m leaving,” Theo listed off in a flat tone. For some reason, it felt like if he kept emotions out of this and just sprouted facts it would avoid the inevitable explosion, but he knew that wasn’t true. He could see it brewing in his father as his expression shifted from confused to betrayed.

“Leaving? What about the diner, Theo? I need you around here to help–to take over one day. This isn’t the plan.”

“Your plan, dad. This isn’t your plan,” Theo snapped, immediately losing all his sense of cool. “I hate the diner. The last thing I want is to spend the rest of my life flipping pancakes and mopping syrup off the floor. That’s your dream, not mine.” 

It was probably the worst thing he could ever say to his father, “I hate the diner,” but it was the truth. Theo held so much resentment for so many years that it festered into an ugly, hateful thing. His dad’s pride and joy felt like a prison to him, and he couldn’t stay here anymore or else he’d go crazy. 

Theo’s dad reeled back like he’d been slapped, his eyes narrowing into a glare. His cheeks started to flush red the angrier he became. He and his dad never fought, and he never saw him lose his temper, but he had a feeling that was about to change in a few seconds. 

“This is–this is ridiculous, Theo. You’re not making any sense. You never said any of this before. What’re you going to do in Different City? You barely passed your certifications,” his dad countered, his voice practically raising with every word.

“When was I supposed to tell you, dad? It’s all you fucking talk about! It’s all you care about. This stupid place is your entire life, and you just force it onto me. You didn’t even ask,” Theo yelled, his chest heaving as he got more worked up, “and I want to play music, by the way. You would’ve known that if you actually paid attention to me.” 

“Music!?” His dad shouted before letting out a humorless laugh. It stung more than Theo expected that he acted like the idea was a big joke, and it caused his shoulders to sink, but he refused to back down. He wasn’t giving up. 

“So, let me see if I understand this, Theo. You’re running away from home, abandoning all your responsibilities and your family, to play music? Do you know how many people actually make it as musicians? Do you know how much being a struggling artist pays? On top of rent, food, basic needs. You’ll starve.” 

Theo faltered for a beat, swallowing roughly around the lump forming in his throat. He knew it was a risk, but he spent so much time planning this out, and it was one he was willing to take. He couldn’t just stay here forever, because he was afraid of failing. 

“I won’t,” he shook his head. “I’m good at this. Someone will sign me. And if they don’t–well, I’d rather be a starving artist than a diner owner.” 

Theo’s father never hit him before, but he looked like he might as he took a step forward like he was squaring up to him, and he braced himself for the potential impact, but it never came. Instead, he pointed a finger in his face, his voice dropping low.

“I’ve never been so disappointed in you in my life, Theo.”

Theo knew it was coming. It was why he waited so long to tell him. It didn’t soften the blow though. His dad was the only close family he had left, and Theo just destroyed that. If Theo left, he didn’t think they’d ever come back from it. As selfish as it was, that was a decision he made a long time ago, and he accepted it. 

“Yeah, well,” he began with a feigned nonchalant shrug. “You don’t have to like it, but it’s happening.” 

Falling silent, he reached around his dad and grabbed his ticket from the table and stalked towards his bedroom to grab his stuff. His bus wasn’t until the morning, but there was no way he was staying here tonight. He’d stay at a friend’s house or find a hotel. His dad called after him, but Theo steadily ignored him as he shrugged on his guitar case and picked up his duffle bag. 

Theo had to push past his dad as he left the bedroom, avoiding his gaze as he walked towards the front door. His dad shouted after him the entire time, until he slammed the door shut and muffled the sound. Theo didn’t pause once as he jogged down the steps, afraid if he did he’d turn back and change his mind. 

July 2021 - Theo is 26 years old 

Theo woke up to the sound of one of his four roommates banging around in the kitchen, prompting him to let out a groan and bury his face in his pillow. He was still hungover from the night before after his band celebrated their gig with many, many shots. They probably spent more on drinks than they were actually paid, but that was pretty typical for them. These bars barely paid anything.

Cracking an eye open, Theo reached for his phone and checked the time, grumbling to himself when he saw it was almost two in the afternoon. His stomach rumbled loudly, but he ignored it for now. All he had left in the pantry was a few packs of instant ramen, and he was trying to make it last. He tried to distract himself from the headache and hunger by scrolling idly through social media, stalking a few old friends and exes. His profile was under a fake name, so he could look into people from his past without being discovered. There was a post that was a few days old from Robin and Ryder’s birthday. He let his gaze linger on Robin for a second too long, murmuring “cute” to himself before he moved on. 

Theo paused when he landed on a post from The Sunrise Diner. Most of their posts were just aesthetically pleasing photos of breakfast food to promote the place, but this was a picture of his dad with a lot of text underneath. It took Theo to realize the words at the top said, “In memory of Charles Seong.” 

His entire body went numb suddenly, all the sound from the apartment drowning out to a dull roar. He read the rest of the post without really processing it. His gaze landed on the words “passed away,” “heart attack,” “will be missed.” Theo didn’t know how long he stared at his phone. It felt like time stopped and his body slowly shut down, everything coming to a complete standstill. 

His dad died. His dad died, and Theo just found out through a social media post. His dad died, and Theo just found out through a social media post, because he ran away from home, changed his number, and never spoke to his dad again. One of the last things Theo ever said to him was that he hated the diner and he’d rather be a starving owner than a diner owner. Which was exactly what he was now. 

Theo’s hands began to tremble so violently that his phone fell and landed with a “thud” on his bare chest. He had no idea what to do. He’d been so stupidly stubborn over the years. No matter how much rejection he faced, how little money he had, and how poor his living conditions were, he refused to go home. He refused to prove his dad right. His dad died being disappointed in Theo.

It all felt so fucking stupid now. 

Without fully processing what he was doing, Theo picked his phone back up and checked his bank balance. He only had enough for a one way bus ticket and nothing else. Taking a deep, trembling breath, he opened the transportation website and hastily paid for an overnight bus ride to Rungung.

Whether he was a failure or not, he had no choice but to go back home. There was nothing for him in Different City, and there hadn't been in a long time. No family, nothing that really meant anything--just a band that wouldn't go anywhere and a shitty apartment. He should've done this years ago, but he let his pride get the best of him, and now it was too late.

Theo's dad was gone, and the only thing he had left of him was that damn diner.

[dantekidd]

Swimming in a Clouded Haze | Selfpara

TW: Death, gore Mentions: @greysnkidd @kpmatthewskidd @sawyerxwinston @adeehayag @arabellareyes @zekaiarslan @luciacarrera

Kaia. . . his thoughts coming through despite the heaviness and waves of pain on his head. His child. . . would she ever know who he was? He got so little time with her, and now it would all be done. He wouldn't see her grow, wouldn't see her ride her first bike, go to her first school dance, wouldn't be there ever again. . . he hopes she knows that he loves her unlike anything else. That he would have given anything and everything in life to have seen her born. To have held her against his chest and felt the tight hold of her baby fingers around his.

Arabella. From the first moment he'd seen her Dante knew he wanted no one else but her. Knew he wanted to marry her. Give her everything that she deserved out of life. He'd run home to his mama and talk about her for hours. Like a loved drunk puppy. To this day, he couldn't get her out of his head. Out of his heart. He loves her. It didn't matter all the pain he endured being with her, then watching her with another, his heart knew no bounds. He yearned for her still. Loving her til his last breath.

Greyson. Throughout all of his life he's been there for him. As annoying and loving as Dante always was, Grey never made him feel unwanted or different. He didn't have brother's or sisters', but he's always had Grey and that was enough for him. It was due to him that Dante became more social around people. He had been such a quiet kid for most of his life, and his cousin never let him stay behind. Never let him sulk or bury himself into his music and forget about the rest of the world. There was no way to describe the gratitude and love that he felt for his brother. Because no matter who their parents were, Greyson would always be his brother.

KP. Despite only having met them in his late teens and not entirely liking them at the time, Dante was grateful that he took the time to get to know them. Originally, he didn't want to so that Greyson wouldn't be angry at him. He knew the effect that KP had on Grey, and that alone was enough to make Dante step away. But over the years his relationship with KP grew. He became more comfortable accepting them into his family despite what felt like endless fights between Grey and them.

Sawyer. Another person that despite now being his sibling had always felt like it. There was no way to describe his love for her without sounding like a mad man. Ever since the two were younger he'd watch her go through life and somehow always seemed to tumble. The only thing was that he was always there at the bottom waiting to rise her back up. Ready to wipe away all signs of struggle, and show her that love could and could heal anything. She would forever be a part of him. Her presence engraved into his soul.

Papa. . .

Earlier that night. . .

Dante yelled a goodbye to Arabella on his way out her home. “Don’t forget to lock the door.” He said before closing the door behind him. He had spent a couple of hours over playing with Kaia, reading her a bedtime story before making his exit. Over the past couple weeks, he’s been switching between calling her over the tablet to say goodnight to coming over and reading her a story. He didn’t want to impose too much on Bella’s home, specially when Zekai was more often than not always there. It was uncomfortable to witness, and even more awkward feeling like he had to sneak out just to avoid passing a couple words. It was as he’d said before- he didn’t harbor any ill feelings towards the dude, but also didn’t care to entertain pointless communication either. 

Dante was really kicking himself in the ass now for having opted out of taking his car. The day had been beautiful, so he figured why not just walk on over to Bella’s, but the air had turned a bit chilly since he’s last been outside. Dante hurried down the street trying to measure the fastest way to mama’s. He had avoided having dinner so he could spend a bit longer with his Jellybean, and now he was paying for it. Ugh, he brought his hands down to his stomach as his intestines screamed at him. 

Pulling out his cellphone, Dante sent Lucia a quick text.

D: Been missing you, love. I'm heading to mama's if you want to stop by and have a shake with me.

After the whole situation with Sawyer, Dante had taken a step back from bombarding his friends with too much of him. He understood that he loved a little too much, and that he sometimes failed to see when he needed to step back, so he's been working on that. Giving them the time, and space that he believes they need. It's why he hadn't really been around Sawyer lately, or even Lucia despite how similar the two were emotionally. Instead, he had chosen to spend most of his time between his child, his music, and Adee. Speaking of. . .

D: Can't wait to see you tomorrow. I got a surprise for you.

Over the past few weeks, Dante had been talking to Adee almost religiously. He knew it was selfish to run into something when his heart still needed mending, but she knew about it all. She didn't seem to worry, and didn't even bring it up so it felt good. Almost as if the two just met and were still getting to know one another. It was fun, and exciting something he hasn't really felt in years if he was honest. Yeah he had many of girlfriends, but his mind had never really been in it. This time he planned dates, and brought her flowers, and sent goodnight and good morning texts like some high-schoolers.

They weren't too different, the two of them. Both wore their hearts on their sleeves. He wore his for Bella, whereas Adee seemed to wear it for anyone willing to have it. Not that it was wrong, and he didn't think her less for it, she just seemed to be looking for someone to love her and be accepting of her love in return. . .

What the fuck happened? Dante's head was pounding, his body limp as if he couldn't move from the spot he laid on the ground. Was he being jumped? He tried his best to turn his head, or even lift an arm but there was almost no movement reaction from his body. "Bro, just take the wallet." he wanted to say to them. He could hear their whispers not far as if they were wondering what to do with him. As if someone was trying to figure something out. "Yo!" Dante finally was able to make out but it didn't seem to alert anyone. . . just as quick though he blacked out.

At some point he woke up again, still unable to fully open his eyes or see anything for that matter. Bringing his hand up to his forehead, Dante could feel a liquid on his fingers. But it wasn't raining. Was it? Slowly his breathing became panicked, and he started to feel all the sore-spots throughout his body. Was he cut? He felt pain on his arms, his shoulders, his head, his cheek. Blood trailing down his face almost comically after he began to panic, and he curled into himself. The air was so cold, and his stomach was empty. It was ironic really.

If anybody asked Dante what was the worst day of his life he wouldn't have had to think twice. His mind immediately traveling to that night his parents passed and the two days he laid with them. Their bodies pressed up against the cold ground, and a little boy Dante hanging onto their stiffness to warm them up. I'm so hungry he would say to his deceased mother, but she didn't move. He remembered tugging at them, and pulling only to be met with silence. They never responded. Never talked. . . just laid there. His young mind immediately thinking he had done something wrong, he'd made his bed that first day. He had gotten up, made himself breakfast that consisted of watery oats, and even cleaned up after himself. Not good enough though. He couldn't reach all the spots.

Dante had spent days going through everything that they had. Had spent hours looking, and cleaning, and putting away his toys. He didn't want to be in trouble anymore. "Please mommy, I'm sorry." He would shout at the top of his lungs. He had done so much. He didn't know what else to do. What else to clean. Where to get more food. The fridge was empty now. . . there was nothing for him to eat. He was so hungry. So thirsty. . . All he could do was beg and hold onto them. "I'll be good, I promise" he's say to them over and over again. Taking turns between them, hoping his dad would respond. "Daddy, I'm so sorry." he cried, with no response. "I can take out the trash again." He'd forgotten to once. Too busy playing with his toys. "I'll take it out, and then it won't smell in here anymore." Not truly grasping the stench that circled the air wasn't due to the trash.

He had never wondered how he would die. When, or even where it would take place. Dante didn't really know where he was anymore. He had been walking to mama's at some point, but time was also stretched out in his head. The pain didn't let him put two and two together so who knew how long it's been since he left Bella's home. How long has it been since he sent those text messaged, or if he ever got a reply back. He lost consciousness once more. . . but it didn't last long. He felt his torso jolt up as a sharp pain entered his chest. Pain traveling down his body but he couldn't do anything. Both his body and mind in shock, it was as if he'd detached. He knew what was happening, but he couldn't feel any of it. His eyes opened wide but all he saw were the stars, his breathing becoming lighter and more silent.

Please, mommy. I'll be a good boy.

[astralyavie]

Heart's on Fire

Tagging: Yavie, mentions of Hayliel, Farenduil, Meryasek, Somniar, Robin, and Fen'Harel.

Timeframe: Oh gosh oh gee oh wow

Location: Adrift in the Astral Sea

Notes: How Yavie got his space groove

Content Warning: Death and Depression TW

A spectacular fight. The illithid N'ghathrod and his crew had been relentless, their pisonic prowess was crippling, but in the end Yavie destroyed the crew and the captain. There had been no way to win without destroying the ship in the process; so amidst the wreckage he drifted - magic depleted in its entirety. The Astral Sea bent Yavie’s most ephemeral being as he was pulled in every direction imaginable, the creatures of this realm brushed past him but the fey could sing no song to stop them or greet them. He thought that this would be his end, that the final pages of his story would be written into an infinity of timeless floating. A thousand years in this Sea while only a day would pass back home. Each day was another day that Hayliel would wait for him and each day was one that Yavie had to remember what he’d given up so that the others might escape.

Infinity stretched before Yavie’s mind’s eye with agonising force until there was nothing but quiet light. It was the stillness of dawn before the rise of expectation, a baby’s first breath and the death rattle of the old. Why are you sad? Came the soratami’s voice, though when Yavie spoke it was to the open Sea, stars that crept across his tongue with every word.

“I’m always sad.”

Atar had died shortly after Amille. Yavie rarely said their names anymore, names had power and speaking them felt like iron in his chest - fire in his veins. Atar the warder and Amille the fall noble, Queen of the Amazonian fey. A protector. She’d wanted a daughter and the son that she was given took her life in the process. Yavie was told by the satyrs who’d attended his birth that in her final moments Amille had held him, whispered in his ear, and then passed on.

You’re always sad. He heard the soratami again, reiterating what Yavie already knew to be true. The eladrin had gotten very good at lying to himself, unending confidence as he ran fearlessly into battle. Fearlessly into confrontation. Danger implied loss but Yavie couldn’t remember ever being afraid of dying. If nothing else he might feel unfinished, his last brush had brought that feeling to the surface. Yavie thought that chasing after Theneras’ dreams might somehow fill what felt so broken in him but it never did.

“I’m always sad.”

Atar told him often how being Amille’s warder had been the great privilege of his life. King in name only, he receded further and further into himself. Yavie remembered growing up with the nymphs and the fey of Amille’s court, those who, like her, had not given up on the mortal realm and had hidden away in the Otherworld. Atar was hardly present, the satyrs would play and sing while the young Yavie grew over the course of a decade, then another. Small, thin arms that twirled his mother’s sword as it bent like a ribbon without losing its edge.

Clairvoyance came with the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, Yavie sought out Atar and found him weeping once more. Crying as he so often did. Atar was always sad. The great and proud warder, a ruin of the warrior that he’d once been, a palace overgrown by grief. Yavie saw the stone that grew slowly over Atar’s frame, touched his hands to his father’s cheeks, and begged him to stay. Small hands that were too little to hold the man in place. Too small to keep him from disappearing. The small eladrin called out and pulled at his father, even as the man petrified completely, but Atar had stopped listening. Rock blanketed skin and while the eladrin had escaped the Underdark, death had come for him just the same.

“I’m always sad.”

Yavie felt the tears before he knew what to do with them, it wasn’t as if he never cried, it was more like they felt… Foolish. Silly. Why was there water on his face? The fey’s fingers brushed against his cheek and gathered some of what fell across his index. In the Astral light they shined like diamonds, lethal and sharp. Yavie saw the petrification now, how it inched across his fingers; he couldn’t be sure how long he’d been drifting, forever is what it felt like. Fear slipped away, worry as well. Here in the Astral Sea it didn’t matter how quick he was, it didn’t matter how much he had trained, it didn’t matter how bright or inquisitive he was, and it didn’t matter how badly he had wanted to make it home.

Petrification inched at his throat as he thought about the god-isles that floated in this place, a spark of power remained but they were dead mounds cast adrift for eternity. It felt poetic that he should follow in Atar’s footsteps, who knew - maybe something else laid beyond. Yavie’s mind hadn’t stopped for as long as he could remember, the quiet of the Astral was terrifying, but it was also peaceful. While the fey had not aged or breathed, neither had he slept or felt any real pain, sorrow wasn’t so bad, if nothing else it was a very old friend. It hadn’t been there his whole life, but certainly for most of it. The sorry excuse for a man he’d first fallen for was a testament to that, maybe the next said a great deal as well, but people could change and just as surely as the fey had shifted the heart of the fallen, Hayliel had done the same for him.

Stone fed Yavie’s lungs as the eladrin opened his mouth, closed his eyes, and welcomed the Sea within. Life played itself for him in reverse: Yavie’s perch within Sky Home, wonder and fascination dancing in his heart but confliction as well. The way he’d laughed as Cloud conjured stones. Travelling by Farenduil’s side once more as he’d done so many times in the past, walking backwards on his hands if only to make the prince smile. How he’d come running when he heard his old friend was going off into danger. Manic scribblings on parchment he left for Hayliel, betraying Hayliel before falling even deeper in love with him. Meryasek’s disapproval. The dedication that came to his pursuit of Theneras’ works and Severon’s tutelage but neither had ever quite been to Yavie’s shape. The way The Tinkerer’s lights filled the sky, the intense training Yavie had undergone after the drow’s blade had almost taken him. That feeling of indelible failure. Fen’Harel’s betrayal.

Making up with Hayliel, the argument that divided them for decades, that feeling of pride when Titania told him to kneel as she appointed him Farenduil’s warder. Meryasek’s beaming face, they were friends: best friends back then. Yavie saw the people that he lured into the forests, laughing alongside Mery as they turned them into beasts and watched them roll around in the mud. Meeting Hayliel on the cusp of heartbreak, Somniar’s death which felt more joyful than anything, and then of course the time spent with the former eladrin himself. Cruel and cutting, even as Yavie trained it was impossible to feel anything but inferior. Still, back then the fey was just grateful to be told that he was loved. Seasons within the Amazon, training among beasts, fey, and nymphs alike: a self-appointed protector of the wilds.

Atar’s death.

Yavie’s story played in reverse as his life flashed before his eyes. He remembered the listless days that his father had laid in bed, eyes open but fixed on some part of the wall or on the ceiling. Yavie would pull at his arm or his tunic, too young to understand that no matter how much he begged there was no tearing Atar out of the pit he’d fallen into.

“Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.”

Nestled in his mother’s arms, her breath ragged and ruined; despite this there was a smile on her face and hopeful optimism in her eyes. Yavie had no memories of her, but she looked down on him now just the same, more beautiful than any portrait that had ever been conjured or painted. They said that she’d been born wild, a Queen in her own right that refused to abandon her home in the mortal realm, mirthful and strong all at once. As he grew up they said that he was just like her, and that when she’d held him for those few moments she’d spoken something to him, not a spell or a prayer, but a wish.

Amille had whispered to him: set your heart ablaze.

A hum reverberated from within the petrified fey as stiff limbs cracked: after so long without the eladrin’s song to propel him every joint and ligament protested. Adrift through the Astral Sea rocks shifted and fell from his tunic as Yavie quietly shed the earthen skin. Slowly at first, then all at once, Yavie drew his mother’s sword and turned with a great flourish, a ribbon of stars danced around him. An eladrin no longer, Yavie was reborn.

So many years he had stared at the stars and wondered what waited for him beyond the realm that the fey left behind. Mortality and anguish, expectations and promises: the eladrin was beholden to no one now but himself.

An Astral Whale swam near, Yavie smiled, and grabbed hold of its fin as he flew within its jetstream. Where was it going? What was it doing? Where did it come from? Did it have any friends? Did it have any enemies? Had his friends made it to Arvandor okay? He wanted to know, he needed to know, and now time and space opened up in front of him.

[theygh]

morning jams.

yoo gyuhyun goes on an adventure

Era o meio da semana, mas Gyuhyun já estava no metrô sem saber onde apoiar a cabeça pra dormir. Se fosse pra trás a boca dele ia abrir acidentalmente e não tinha nada pior do que acordar de um cochilo em público e descobrir que todo mundo tava vendo sua boca aberta. Se fosse pro lado, ele ia encostar a cara no ferro de apoio, e sabe-se lá quem andou pegando nesse ferro. A pose final foi a pensativa, aquela com os braços cruzados e a cabeça caindo pra frente, o cabelo escondendo o rosto.

A tranquilidade pra cochilar no metrô é porque ele não tava levando nenhum instrumento pra casa do amigo, que era mais afastada do centro. Ele tinha todos instrumentos lá, uma casona mais no meio do mato com estúdio no segundo andar e tudo. Gyuhyun adorava ir pra lá quando era convidado, o ar era tão menos denso de fumaça, vizinhos moravam longe um do outro e eles podiam tocar música e fazer barulho sem preocupação, mas acima de tudo ele gostava de passar aquelas horas socializando com os amigos de longa data sem se sentir exausto no final. Amigos desde a época de escola, nossa, faz tanto tempo. Na época o Gyuhyun era só cabeça e dentes, hoje em dia ele deu uma melhorada considerável. 

Um dos amigos já era casado e tinha duas filhas, ele passava um tempão mostrando fotos e vídeos das filhas e todo mundo se animava com o paizão. Ultima reunião daquelas o pessoal até compôs uma música de ninar pra ele cantar pras meninas, e o pai disse que elas amaram. 

Momentos como esses eram valiosos demais para Gyuhyun, que era sozinho em mais de uma maneira na vida. Era como passar algumas horas numa caixinha de lembranças com as pessoas que ele ama, que pensam nele assim como ele pensa nelas. Como uma prova de que sim, Cho Gyuhyun existe. 

[nazli-ersan]

Rage Against the Machine

The jail cell was a world of its own, a microcosm of all the pain and suffering that lay outside its walls. The air was thick with the stench of fear and hopelessness, the faint echoes of footsteps and whispered conversations a constant reminder of the world beyond. Nazli's eyes traced the outlines of her tiny cell, taking in the peeling paint, the rusted bars, the flickering light that cast eerie shadows across the walls. It was a place that seemed to exist outside of time and space, a place where the only thing that mattered was the crushing weight of confinement.

Nazli felt the cold, hard metal of the bars against her fingertips as she gazed out at the grey walls that enclosed her. The rage she felt was threatening to consume her. Starting to pace back and forth in her cell, glancing at the cold metal bars, an unwelcome barrier between her and the world beyond. The Turk kicked the wall in frustration, feeling the jolt of pain shooting through her foot, but she didn't care. She needed an outlet.

They’d been under the Rutherford thumb for so long now, she’d accepted it as normalcy that whatever heinous crime she’d commit, the police would always, without a fail, look away. Indeed a golden chain it was, and ironically, their fight for freedom had landed her in a jail cell. This time, the invisible Rutherford hand hadn’t intervened, and it hadn’t made everything magically go away.

This was a clear message that couldn’t have been clearer. 

Touching their shitty lieutnenant would not go unpunished. 

Perhaps, Naz wouldn’t have been so fucking angry if she’d been locked up for the countless crimes she’d commited in her thirty years of life, but instead the Ruthford irony was far bitter - the charges were completely false.

Attempted murder of Ayaz Ateş - when she was informed why the police were dragging her to the patrol car, her first instinct was to yell “I fucking wish”, still dumbfounded it was really happening. There was no way they’d confused her with Emine, this was absolutely intentional. Naz wasn’t quote sure why she had to suffer for that little brat’s actions, but she knew enough about the Rutherfords to know it was no accident.

So this is how the life worked - when the puppet masters dropped the puppets, they ended up in the ditch, discarded, stowed away like useless peices of shit. The thought of spending more time in this room, where the stale air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and sweat, and the only sounds were the distant echoes of voices and the occasional clang of metal doors made her skin crawl.

Berat was her first call, obviously.

“...so yeah, I don’t know what kind of twisted fucking game they’re playing. Don’t worry though, you know I’ll make prison my bitch.” It was more to reassure herself, than Berat, possibly, but Nazli didn’t want him to spiral into feeling bad for her. He had enough shit going on.

“I mean, sure, we could try bail, but I don’t think Ruthercunts would allow that. You know every judge is eating out of their hands,” the anger was starting to morph into despair in her voice.

“Listen, my minutes are up. Need to go. Don’t do anything stupid,” Naz said in hurried sentences, “but.. do punch Emine for me, would you? Okay, hanging up n-”

Well, she’d always known and accepted the fact that most of times, she behaved like an animal rather than a civlised human, but this she naively didn’t expect - to become a caged animal.

[chrysacr]

Tagging: N/A Timeframe: Early Spooktober, 2023 Location: Eichen House Notes: short and sweet, just cute banshee things.

"Let me in!"

It hadn’t taken long for the senate to come. Marshals from the three covens had appeared within the hour, all the windows to Chrysaor’s apartment were blown out, the neighbours in the apartments that surrounded him weren’t dead but they might as well have been. The banshee’s wail had torn their souls from their bodies and scattered them across The Otherworld, in their wake were people who’d needed immediate hospitalisation. Death rejected them, but sepsis came back again and again in a repeated and vicious cycle. The wind howled as the ground beneath Chrysaor’s building shook, violent and ceaseless the banshee’s wail did not cease. Words that echoed on the wind came with unending repetition, a wail that joined the others of his kinds in their scattered places within Rome and its countryside. Control was something that any banshee was used to losing, for all that Chrysaor could do he prided himself on the fact that he was mostly kept in check. 

“Chrysaor!” 

This marshal had to be well informed, but even as the banshee’s name tore through the wind, Chrysaor could not stop. 

Continuously he shouted: "Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!"  

Explosive wind tore apart the wall, Chrysaor was a writhing mess of anguish as he heard the fists that beat upon the doors and saw the faces of those that shouted on the other side. He had to tell them, he had to warn them, but he could say nothing but the words that were ripped from his throat again and again. Too torn to even think, the banshee was an echo of a marionette as his strings got caught up and twisted in Fate’s hand as it curled over the city. There were so many people, there was so much death; Chrysaor had spent centuries in undeath and even before then had walked this world as a faiman for a long time. He had watched the light fade from the eyes of monsters and men alike, he had been at his master’s side as the necromancer rained fire upon Rome the first time the senate went to battle against the Asphodel. 

If that had been a whisper, this was a scream. 

Witches suppressed the wind while others attempted to shield the banshee’s wail, one was struck and their soul was flung away but the rest managed to muzzle him with something. An apparatus magically designed from an Amaranthian origin that Chrysaor was too inexperienced to know. Powerful as it was, the banshee still yelled behind it, his wail was self-contained and echoed only within himself as the garbled words continued to pour through the other side: "Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!"

Vitriol sorrow streaked his limbs, anguish so profound that it made the spirit’s bones feel numb. Static under his skin that burned against the ice in his veins, they had to know, he had to warn somebody. Even as the tears streamed the banshee’s anguished face there was nothing that any seemed capable of doing. The wail continued as Chrysaor’s body reacted responsively, his limbs flailing as he thrashed and clawed at the muzzle in an attempt to get free. Madness. Some whispered, but Chrys was not alone. An attack? Others questioned, the breadth of power the necromancers wielded was formidable, this could have been them. A sign? Because what else could the wail of so many be? 

Institutionalised under the senate’s watchful eye, restrained in a jacket with a muzzle over his mouth, the padded room made it so Chrysaor couldn’t hurt himself by accident. Not that he could anyways, he was a spirit. In truth it was a secondary precaution in the event that he broke free, the padding was designed to cushion the wail and stop him from breaking out the others as well. Because there were more, many more. Someone will come, but who? They won’t just leave me here: but how many years had he been trapped before? Ragged wails stripped thought and freedom from his mind as his throat tore itself apart to keep prolong his unrelenting cry.A level above the senate’s prison and anyone within could hear the yelling, it didn’t matter how many restraints were in place, and it didn’t matter how many levels of security were there to cushion the cries. The same three words rang out all day and all night without rest: "Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!"

They won’t leave me in here, they can’t leave me in here.