#Smoldering corpse bar

[madcat-world]

From WingBuffet

The 'Smoldering Corpse', a bar in the planar city of Sigil from D&D's upcoming 'Sigil and the Outlands' book (and originally from Planescape Torment)

Never have I painted so many NPCs in such a big scene, with so many little stories going on :D

[angel-with-paper-wings]

The Magician’s Prelude

This is a gift for @erik-carierre posted with permission! Many thanks for your feedback and support!!

Summary: Erik’s morning routine while working as a magician in Russia prior to his recruitment by Nadir. Based on Kay!Erik.

Cover art and title by @erik-carierre

Content warnings: PTSD-like trauma flashbacks, bloody/gory imagery, slightly graphic descriptions of violence, body negativity (Erik is an angsty teenager)

Now on AO3 here!

Blood. There is always blood.

It oozes around the shards of mirror buried in the skin of my hands…it drips in thick crimson blobs onto the bundle of golden fur…it spatters in hot torrents against my chest and sticks to the open buttons of my shirt…

And it is there again that night. In the rooftop garden, I stand paralyzed staring at the gap in the crumbled balustrade. My chest feels hollow—I cannot breathe, I cannot scream—all I can do is watch as the gap yawns before me, pulling me closer. Against my will, I peer over the edge to view the sight I know is there.

I wish I could blink. I long for even the tiniest respite from what lay before me, but all I can do is look. Her body is small amidst the shattered rubble, her thin delicate limbs laying at odd angles, her soft barley hair matted with flecks of blood and gore. And her eyes…her pale eyes snuffed of all fire that had once bubbled inside of her like smoldering lava. They stare blankly up at my unmasked face, looking but not seeing.

All she ever wanted was to look at me…and now all I can do is look. Look at what I have done.

I awakened with a jolt, my eyes flying open and clenching the thin woolen blanket to my chest. One skeletal hand flew up to my face, and only once I felt the smooth hardness of the mask did I relax. After a moment of composure, I opened my aching jaw and heaved out a sigh of annoyance. The nightmares were as persistent as they had always been.

I sat up in bed and fumbled to light the oil lamp on the nightstand. I had no difficulty getting prepared in complete darkness, but I simply preferred not to after a night of haunting visions. A small clock beside the lamp told me it was early in the morning—earlier than I typically rose, but I was already resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be sleeping any more if I tried.

I flung the woolen blanket to the side and felt the floor creak beneath my bare feet. The inn’s modest wooden room was comfortable enough for my needs: a bed with sheets, a chamber pot, a pitcher and washbasin, and most valuable of all, privacy. There had been a mirror, but I removed it soon after arriving.

I yanked off my nightshirt, letting the room’s warm air graze the scars slashed across my back. Russia had intriguingly hot summers; the books I had read as a boy only bothered to describe the harshness of the winter months, so I confess to being slightly bemused upon my arrival three years ago to a city with a climate only moderately cooler than the one I had left behind in Italy.

Her twisted body flashed before me again, the broken masonry wet and crimson from the split in her skull… I closed my eyes and angrily shoved the image back into the shadows of my mind. No. No more thoughts of that place. I poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and dunked in a bar of perfumed soap. Once it had worked up a lather, I soaked a clean cloth and derisively began to wash myself.

The dawn of my body’s maturity had proven to be a dismal affair. It took my bones the full extent of my nineteen years to finally cease their growing, leaving me wretchedly gaunt and pitifully covered in pasty yellow skin. I had the strength of a man twice my age and triple my weight, but my frame still refused to resemble anything but a corpse. In my frustration, I scrubbed harder at my own flesh, attempting to cleanse it of its rotten color. But it remained as it always had, pulled tight over my arms to display veins and tendons, with the only thickness found in the old silvery scars adorning my wrists and hands.

Once I had scoured myself raw, I slung the cloth over the rack of the washstand to dry and stared down into the bottom of the basin. Silence screamed in my ears and my stomach twisted with dread. I turned my head to glance at the door behind me; the lock was securely in place, but the familiar prickle of eyes stung my skin all the same.

With trembling fingers, I removed the mask. Warm air rolled across my bare skin like a caress, or what I imagined a caress to feel like. I set the white sculpted shard aside on the stand, and after a heavy sigh, I bent over the basin and scooped handfuls of water over my head, scrubbing the soap’s lather deep into my thick black waves of hair. Droplets ran down the edges of my face, as if even they were afraid to touch the horror that was there. But I forced them to touch it, rubbing the water into the cracks and distorted furrows of my skin, smearing it around the protruding bones and into my eyes’ sunken pits. I braced myself with a grimace before carefully wiping the dried mucus away from the edge of the hole that was my nose.

The torture ended when I finally buried my repulsiveness in a towel. I held the soft cloth against my face as my other hand reached for the mask, slipping it back into place with a relieved sigh. I squeezed my dark hair free of water, then picked up a comb and worked it through the curls until they attained sufficient softness. I laid the towel and comb to the side and stepped over to the tiny wardrobe, withdrawing one of many black satin shirts and slipping it on. After dressing myself, I left my room and slinked down the stairs as a soundless shadow.

The empty tavern on the first floor simmered with the savory scent of shchi. This early in the morning, the only other soul awake was the ancient innkeeper preparing the first meal of the day. I scattered a handful of kopecks onto the bar, letting the clattering sound echo into the kitchen. A minute later, the shawled woman doddered forward and set a steaming bowl of cabbage soup and a chunk of crusty bread before me. No words or glances were exchanged, no questions were asked, as was our routine.

I suspected she found me strange—indeed, I have yet to encounter a soul who didn’t—but she seemed to tolerate me well enough. After her defective coal stove found itself repaired the day following my arrival, I was able to convince her to let me use her inn’s far room as a flat for several months. Unlike my fellow tenants, I paid precisely on time, never returned drunk or belligerent, and there was no risk of women being snuck into my bed. After all, what woman would be desperate enough to lay with a corpse, regardless of the payment offered to her?

With this bitterness lingering in my head, I ate my meal quickly and slipped out into the morning’s haze. It was a rare day; the air was pleasantly cool and the clouds had chosen to don a color besides their usual dismal grey. I assured myself that no one was watching before I lifted my head to admire the way the branches of trees cast their dark silhouettes against the paling sky.

The western quarter of Nizhny Novgorod was largely deserted, making it easy to dart through the city’s shadows unseen in my black attire. Once the day hit its sweltering peak, the cobbled streets would resemble the Volga river with rushing currents of wealthy merchants and colorful travelers from Europe and India and Persia. By that time, I would be waiting for them in my magician’s tent, where they would be shown more wonders than their feeble minds could possibly comprehend.

I rounded a corner and walked along the silent boulevard, until the trees bordering the street gave way to a wrought-iron fence. Beyond the fence, majestically imposing against the northwest horizon, stood the blinding white structure of the Spassky Cathedral. Pink wisps of sunrise stretched across the sky and barely kissed the golden spire atop its great dark cupola.

As I so often did on clear mornings like this one, I felt compelled to stop and gaze up at the splendid piece of architecture. My eyes danced over its fine pillars and elegant façade, admiring the expert carving and delighting in the exquisite use of symmetry and proportion. I had snuck inside once in the dead of night to glimpse its interior—what beauty! It lacked the scale of greater cathedrals, but in golden grandeur it did not disappoint.

There was a time when I had imagined building such great works myself. Beneath the creaky bed back at the inn lay several journals filled with sketches of the spectacular monuments I saw when I closed my eyes. The pages overflowed with details of magnificent marble façades and great towering pavilions, gilded figures in copper and bronze, ornate mosaics with details that dazzled the imagination. My architectural creations would be shrines of worship, not to any one god but to all forces that stirred the spirit and awakened man’s deepest emotions—art, geometry, magic, and most of all music. Oh, how I missed music.

Often this fantasy crossed my mind, and with every day and every kopeck in my purse, it seemed less and less like a child’s dream. After all, I was still very much in my youth…perhaps that day was still to come.

Once I had admired all I could bear, I tucked my masked face back down between my narrow shoulders and trudged off through the neighborhood of shops and teahouses. A smattering of humans were beginning to converge on the street that I walked: small groups of traders bickering in foreign tongues and leading wooden carts filled with wares to sell. Like me, they trampled up the soggy road to the shadow of the large red and yellow stone building, beyond which lay a great courtyard overlooking the bank of the Oka. It was here in the summer months that the great Markaryev Fair was held, where tradesmen and entertainers alike earned their gold.

I proceeded underneath the building’s archway and entered the city’s courtyard. Vendors were already busy erecting tents and unloading their goods in designated sections around the square. Past cotton bales and crates of tea and spices, I spotted the oval shape of the familiar black yurt tucked in its corner, untouched as always. I never worried about the tent’s safety during my absence, for a rumor of a deadly curse had found its way amongst the traders that effectively warded off potential burglars.

As I walked, a warm breeze wafted through the market’s open air, carrying a strain of musical notes to my ears. My heart jumped and I whipped my head towards the sound. On the other side of the courtyard sauntered a muzhik fiddler, beard scraggly and legs stumbling as if drunk, the bow screeching as it was dragged across the rusty strings. A couple passing by threw a few coins into the hat that lay at his feet.

Under the mask, my lips pulled back in a snarl. How dare these fools reward such a tuneless, insolent mockery of music! That drunken bastard did not deserve the right to place his filthy hands on an instrument and spoil its sacred beauty for the whole city to hear. My bony form seethed beneath its black clothing, but I successfully fought back my fervid rage and stomped off towards the yurt. I clenched my shaking hands at my sides, imagining the feeling of the man’s throat beneath my fingers; a sharp snap from his neck and those dreadful notes would finally fall silent.

A crunch against the stones. The heavy tumble of rubble against the ground dampens the sound of her skull cracking open…

I entered the dark tent and pulled the fabric flaps closed behind me, blessedly muffling the horrid noises. A deep breath steadied my hands, and with practiced precision I navigated the small space and lit candles tucked in little red lanterns, banishing the darkness and revealing the blood-red of the yurt’s interior. Swooping red curtains hung from the concave ceiling; samples of shyrdak hangings formed the walls, weaving in swirls of black and gold into the otherwise scarlet room. I kicked off my shoes and felt the luxurious softness of the thick Persian rugs buried beneath velvet cushions.

I ignited the small charcoal stove to boil water in the samovar for tea. While it brewed, I reclined back against the cushions and turned my attention to the long wooden box tucked near the back of the tent: the trick casket. My fingers deftly pranced over the mechanism to open the box, and I withdrew the materials for my magician’s performance: decks of cards, stacks of silver coins, hand-carved trick dice. I arranged them all in neat rows upon the central rug with a small grin.

I struck another match and lit a few sticks of incense to flood the space with their heady, sweet fragrance. I had learned over time that it was beneficial for the minds of my audience to be stripped of their defenses—that way, they found my tricks more dazzling and dropped more rubles into my bony hand. Sometimes this state of enchantment would make them too bold, and bring out their insatiable nature that they otherwise hid from their gods during prayer in the temples and cathedrals. They became ravenous, foolishly curious; they would grope for my mask and demand to see what lay beneath…

All she wanted was to see me.

My hands curled upon themselves, extinguishing the match’s flame between my fingertips. The wretched visions played through my mind again and numbed the burn on my skin.

A mirror shard clenched between the tips of tweezers…bloody hands furiously digging at the grassy dirt…the heavy clunk of a knife’s hilt as the belt dropped to the floor… It was difficult to understand why I remembered certain details so clearly, while others merely faded into murky shadows.

Over the course of three years, the girl’s living face had become fuzzy in my memory. Indeed, I had only dared to look at her a handful of times while living with the master stonemason. Every time I did, my chest would fill with an uncomfortable constricting sensation, and I would be forced to look away or else stop breathing altogether. Her eyes had a heat that scorched all the way to my soul. She was fire—bold, passionate, all-consuming—and I knew better than to risk being burned. Or perhaps I was afraid.

But it was the moment I finally gave her what she pleaded for, the moment I ripped off the mask—her expression of pure horror, anguish and primal fear, grief for love she had never truly felt. That image would always remain in my memory perfectly in focus.

I slowly opened my hand, and I stared down at the two spots of black soot left upon the pale skin of my thumb and forefinger. Temporary scars, easily washed away. That’s all these dreams were to me…but still the pain they carried hurt more than the deep wounds left on my body.

With a harsh huff, I flicked the remnants of the match away and reached over to the samovar to pour myself a cup of tea. The earthy liquid seared down my throat and revived my senses, kicking the brooding memories away in favor of my present enterprise. Outside my tent, I heard the growing clamour of the fair coming to life—my audience awaited me.

A familiar pang prodded at my heart. Was this all? Would this pitiful life, shrouded away in a performer’s tent, forever be my purpose? In my heart, I longed to use my skills to create the majesty that filled my mind: grand palaces, ingenious machines, symphonies without equal. If I had to be confined to mindless magic tricks for greedy imbeciles, then they would be the best magic tricks ever conceived. In a way, I thought to myself scornfully, I had not left that traveling fair…perhaps I never would. But at least things were different now. I was my own master, and no one would ever cage me again.

As the incense swirled its sickly-sweet aroma through the air, I slipped further back into my tent and drew a sheer red curtain across my masked form. I laid back in my trick coffin and heard several soft clicks as the mechanism closed the lid and cloaked me in darkness—the one place I have ever truly belonged.

Long ago, I had accepted my place as prince of darkness, and I would reign over my realm with proud finesse. So let them in now, the merchants and peasants from all corners of the world. Let them think they are the kings and I am their fool. Let them believe they know what it is like to be afraid.

Let them in, and let them look.

[saintrabouin]

The Chant of Sigil : a normal day at the Smoldering Corpse Bar

PS : as you can guess, full of PC and NPC

[godihatethiswebsite]

Desert Oasis

✽ Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x f!reader (The Mummy AU)

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part 10 - Intoxicating distractions

It's been a bad mixture of circumstances that made this take as long as it has. Normally it's just a matter of having to write between lengthy bouts of brain fog and fatigue, but unfortunately this summer hasn't been the best for me and I'm only now getting pseudo back in the swing of things.

I was planning on finishing up all of the Hamunaptra arc in this chapter, but I got tired of wanting perfection for the second half and the couple of you who stick around for this one deserved to not wait any longer.

So, here I am - breaking my own weird internal chapter flow rules. For the first time since May, have a healthy portion of 4.8k words~

Point of note - there's some Gaelic written in this chapter. Please don't google translate it as it gives you the wrong meaning. Just paste it into a search bar instead. It's from a very lovely song~

Shock, it seemed, was your body’s default response to trauma.

The aftermath of the chaos was a lead weight in your gut, sitting heavy and churning the already upset bile in your sensitive stomach. There wasn’t a direction you could turn that wasn’t the embodiment of wanton destruction and needless massacre. Trampled tents and belongings were either pulverized or in a state of disarray. Lifeless bodies like discarded toys amongst the rubble, flayed open and strewn across the wreckage as if tossed aside carelessly by their former masters. Charred remains smoldering in the sand, the smoke making your eyes sting almost as much as the odor, outer layer of crispy skin still bubbling long after the corpse was cooked. 

The cold distance of disassociation shifted into an unsettled queasiness at full force, giving you only moments to recognize the acidity racing up your throat before collapsing to your knees in the dirt, the bitter mess splattering between your hands unfortunately not out of place in this setting.

Maybe your reaction might have been different if you’d been forced to witness the fallout of that eerily similar night on the ferry. Maybe you wouldn’t be bent over hurling up rations behind a broken pillar that felt as collected as your emotions. But the souls of the deceased had been lost to the bottom of the Nile and you’d been spared the horrors up close. 

There was no such luck this time. 

Kyle must notice you first, calling out your name with rattled urgency as you rise on shaky legs from your hiding spot, grateful your clothes had at least been spared from your embarrassment. There was an instant relief at seeing your cousin standing before you, hands firmly grasping your shoulders keeping you at arms length while taking in your disheveled appearance for any sign of injury or impairment. At first glance, he didn’t seem any less worse for wear himself, something you were entirely grateful for.

“Jesus! You alright, dolly?” The hands on your shoulders slid to your upper arms, gentle stroking motions ironing out the lingering chill in your bones, concern evident in eyes that raked over your frame in detail.

You weren't confident with your nod, still processing the last few minutes of wanton bloodshed. Your cousin’s careful touch was a blessed balm for your struggling nerves, taking in a few deep breaths in time with his own as he worked to ground you. 

How someone could get used to this violent lifestyle you’d never know.

A startled gasp left your throat as you were promptly whirled around to face a fuming pair of cerulean orbs, blue waves turbulent as his emotions consumed him raw. You could almost be washed out to its churning Mediterranean Sea if not for the tight grip his fingers dug into your flesh, nostrils flaring, each word emphasized with a jarring shake. 

“Bloody fuckin– the hell ye doin’ out ‘ere, lass?! Huh?!”

The second time staring down the Scotsman’s wrath was no less intimidating than the first. Here you were smack dab in the middle of another hazardous situation - at first glance having apparently not learned your lesson from last time - surrounded by corpses that could’ve so easily been you. What savage fury had once been loosed upon the men responsible for this carnage was now pinpoint fixed on your trembling form. 

Lips parted like a gaping fish, opening and closing as you struggled to explain the circumstance that led you here under the riptide of his ire. He didn’t even allow you time to formulate a coherent response before he was promptly shoving your face in his chest, catching you off guard while bulky forearms wrapped around you to an almost crushing degree. Your hands braced on his sternum were the only things keeping your nose from getting smashed and giving you some minor space to breathe.

“Ye were supposed tae be safe, ya daft hen...” There was palpable anger in his tone, but also a weary frustration as he unconsciously squeezed you tighter. “Wha’ part of don’t move did ye not comprehend?”

“I’m sorry…” your voice soft, teetering on wobbly, “One of the camels–”

Johnny cut you off again with a growl. “Dunnae care about no damn beast, hen. Only you. Ah say stay, ye stay. Got it?”

There was nothing you could say to justify your actions to them. You hadn’t meant to end up in the thick of it, truly. Kyle might be your cousin, but there wasn’t an ounce of fighter in your side of the bloodline. If the adrenaline hadn’t kept you singularly focused on your goal of retrieving the runaway animal then maybe you’d have noticed its intended path earlier and could’ve turned tail, avoiding this whole fiasco.

Instead, you made yourself appear foolish, something that tugged on your chest with a bright blossom of shame.

Johnny realized himself at the sound of your unbidden quiet whimper, his stance relaxing marginally as he forced a steadying exhale from his lungs, tugging on his own reins. Hands turned from smothering to cradling, next words spoken tersely but with much more self-control.

“Ah cannae protect ye if I dunnae ken where ye are - neither of us can. Ah’m thinkin’ yer tucked away from danger when ye’ve really been right next tae me the whole time. Cannae so easily take the offensive when ah’m forced ta do the opposite. Make sense, lass?”

Humming your affirmation with another soft apology, you closed your eyes against the gruesome visions surrounding the three of you, his lessened grip allowing you to maneuver yourself more comfortably in his hold, arms reaching around his stocky build with fingers groping into the back of his shirt like a lifeline. Kyle’s tender touch joined his, knuckles stroking soothingly down the back of your arm as they each placed a chaste kiss to your crown.

His arms were still around you as the remaining members of the other expedition hesitantly approached, a pregnant pause as they shifted and looked between themselves awkwardly as if silently debating who amongst them would be the one to speak, eventually settling on Hutch.

“Whaddya fellas say to a small truce…?”

It was almost an insult when the offending camel came trotting back a short while later, as if it had merely gone for a casual midnight jaunt rather than almost costing you your life chasing after it in the first place.

What remaining tents could be salvaged were moved farther into the city towards your thankfully untouched encampment, the few remaining workers left behind to scavenge through the rubble and properly dispose of the bodies of their slain brethren. You held a slight disdain for the Americans sitting comfy on their cushions nearby, content to let the hired help do all the heavy lifting while they gloated in their sorting of their precious valuables, inspecting for any minor cracks and dents that could cost them even a fraction of a pound off their eventual asking price.

The majority of their group had just been killed in cold blood. The least they could’ve done was help pile the corpses, something even your boys had assisted with after seeing you back to your tent with pointed looks not to wander off this time. 

Besides their uncaring attitudes, it was less tense than you thought seated across the blazing fire from the others. Even Graves seemed to have been whipped into his best behavior after everything that went down, gracefully keeping his mouth shut and facial expression free of sneer. No one wanted to really converse, retreating to their own corners to try and forget the night's events.

“Bastards are like fucking cockroaches,” Roze spit out, violently ripping into a piece of jerky with her bared canines and more gusto than needed.

“Thought we taught them enough of a lesson last time,” chirped Oz with an air of self bloating. “Showed them they picked the wrong crowd to tango with.”

“They chased us off the boat, mate,” Kyle snarked as your pair returned from their labors, intent to settle down for the night. “Hate to break it to ya, but I don’t think we were the ones who made off with the upper hand there.”

Even the glowers directed towards him for contradicting their senseless beliefs didn’t stop your cousin from nicking a bottle of something strong from the Americans. 

“You mind?” Oz spoke up as Kyle brazenly yanked the dark glass from his hands, trotting over to plop down next to Johnny who’d taken up residence to your right.

“Call it a tithe for savin’ your arses and letting you stay the night over here with us.” The bottle uncorked with a coherent pop, a subtle fizz releasing into the dry air before Kyle gave it a quick swirl. Whatever contents he sniffed inside must’ve been good enough for his palate, tipping his head back to take the first swig with a satisfied groan, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

That reaction was good enough for you.

“For once, dear cousin, I find we are in agreement.” In lieu of a soothing cup of chamomile, if there was one thing you could use after the excitement of the day, it was a stiff drink to help clear out your ruminating mind. 

Leaning across the space with your arm outstretched for the bottle in question, he happily handed it over to you with an encouraging chuckle. “Good on ya, dolly.” 

Johnny merely raised an eyebrow at you in question, not having seen you as anything other than proper since your first introduction in the prison cell.

You ignored it as you inspected the label, squinting to read the smudged ink on crinkled paper, clearly water damaged from its previous dip in the river. Shiraz from a vineyard in Khollar; written out in simple scrawl. Peering inside you found a light pale liquid, a flavor profile comparable to that of an old sherry - dry and nutty. At first taste it parched your tongue, settling on the back of your soft palate, different from the sweeter aged varieties you preferred but not an unwelcome tang. 

If you could share a brandy with your cousin in your father’s old smoking room then you could certainly down a bottle of dry wine in an ancient forbidden city.

The evening progressed with not much shared conversation between the twelve or so of you still remaining, both sides opting to chatter amongst themselves despite the close proximity. It certainly wasn’t any skin off your back, losing yourself in the strong ABV as if it was a more succulent port, in a place far more rose tinted than here amongst the wafting smell of camels.

You rarely - if ever - allowed yourself to indulge, noting only a small handful of instances during the last decade you’d ventured past the point of tipsy over a game of cards with the other noble women of society. It was ‘unbecoming’ of a lady, a twilight activity best left to gentlemen's clubs where the rich white men of the ton congratulated themselves on being masters of the universe.

Whoever said men were the only ones permitted to have all the fun hadn’t been privy to the goings on behind closed parlour doors.

Still, you ended up just as sloshed as your cousin for a change, grateful for the way the warming alcohol buzzed in the back of your brain and loosened the tension from your shoulders. It was freeing having the ability to shut your brain off for a few scant hours, granting a short reprieve from the all too real worries the night sky had brought with it. You could forget all about the bloodstained granules you’d traipsed through on your way back to camp, trading coppery cabernet for nutty shiraz.

The pale waning moon hung bright in the dappled sky, nestled amongst a symphony of speckled jewel tones and painted galaxies that glistened like bioluminescent mermaid scales. A sight like no other; your wayward imagination was easily lost in the spiraling fractals of cosmology, floating above like kicked up stardust from the twirling of dancing deities. It was one of many things you’d come to appreciate outside the realm of the bright Egyptian cities. Too much of it was hidden by the industrial glow of a bustling population to be visible from the balcony of your estate. Out here with only flickering firelight to illuminate the space, the heavens were on naked display.

The rattled snoring from your cousin provided an added ambiance to an already jostled night, having curled up into a ball some minutes ago despite swearing to only resting his eyelids. Perhaps if he hadn’t needn’t to be saved only a few moments prior from a less-than-dignified face planting into the spitting firewood then you might’ve been more inclined to believe him, having yanked him backwards a hair’s breadth from the flames, his self imposed vertigo doing a better job impersonating a tilt-a-whirl than a man.

Johnny, meanwhile, hadn’t partaken despite the badgerings of your cousin. An oddity considering what you’d known of the man. Though, you supposed, someone needed to retain their sobriety should another event befall your troupe. 

Didn’t stop him from delighting in your own inebriated state, bullying your full attention now that the others had bid their goodnights.

“Yer oot yer face, lass,” he chuckled at your expense, his thumb wiping away a dribble of spilled wine from the corner of your mouth as you fought to keep in the intoxicating liquid from a previously made humorful comment. “Right mad with it, ye are.”

You watched in a hazy rapture as he brought the thick digit to his mouth, tongue swirling around the calloused pad, lips sucking off the taste with a bit more zeal than necessary and far too much eye contact for what was appropriate.

Swallowing the shiraz in your mouth, you wiped your chin with the back of your hand before addressing his remarks. “Apologies for breaking the illusion of primness and propriety.”

“It’s yer own stomach ye’ll be boakin’ up,” he shrugged with an air of teasing, still keeping an eye on you should the urge come to pass. “Haven’t ya hurled enough fer one night, lass?”

You glowered over the rim of the bottle, face struggling to remain flat and unamused despite the twitch in your lips stating the contrary. “Low blow, MacTavish…”

“Ah, so it’s MacTavish when yer cross with me, aye?” 

God, he was an insufferable bastard. Lounging there all smug with that mischievous twinkle and those prominent laugh lines. Why you just wanted to lean over and lick them clean off his stupid face–

No.

“You’ll hear me saying ‘Johnny’ again when you do something to earn the privilege back.”

“Oh, ah plan tae earn it alright.”

The subtle innuendo wasn’t at all subtle, but in your current state it was hard to distinguish between what was mere banter at this point and the fervid looks he’d been doling out since your second meeting.

You scrambled for a change of subject, hoping for a much needed distraction from the steady pulse between your thighs.

“You did something earlier that caught me by surprise. In the temple,” you prodded. “Curious for a catholic boy to worship at the altar of another god.” It was an honest question if not a bit ribbing, reflecting back to his quiet presence next to you in the inner sanctuary of Horus, head bowed in silent reverence towards a figure not affixed to a cross.

“Havnae been a good boy in a long time now, lass. War will do that ta ye.” The shrug he gave was nonchalant, as was his tone. But there was something strained to his words that spoke of deeper issues held towards his faith. “But ah see no harm in honorin’ a sacred space, ‘specially in such a desolate place like this. If the old gods wanna grant us safe passage fer a kindly visit then ah won't be sayin’ no tae a helpin’ hand.”

That hadn’t been the kind of diversion you’d been poking for, and you weren’t far gone enough in your cups to keep prying at an open wound. Somber didn’t suit him and you desired to have your playful companion back.

Instead, you set about grabbing at his weathered journal, snatching it up from its unattended spot near his bedroll in hopes to garner a more lighthearted reaction.

The leather binding was well worn, skin lightened where the natural oils of his hands rubbed off on the spots where he frequently cradled the book. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it - no engraving or even simple initials embedded on the spine marking it as his. But it was clear that it had gone with him to the edges of the world and back. Large water splotches warped the hide. Dark blood stains you couldn’t be sure were his. The curled edges of the pages crinkled and dirtied from muddy fingertips. You could even detect the faint smell of cigarette smoke and musky cologne, something similar to the fragrance currently attached to his skin.

“Gonna pry into mah deep dark secrets now, hen?” Johnny quirked a brow in intrigue, though he made no attempt to halt your endeavours.

“Well now it’s not nearly as much fun if you’re letting me do it,” you grumbled good naturedly, causing a light hearted chuckle from him before flipping to the first of many pages.

You expected to find clever writings and gossip upon turning the cover, illegible chicken scratch venting at the harshness of life abroad. Maybe a few rambles here and there at certain spectacles of particular enjoyment. What you hadn’t envisioned was a book filled with detailed illustrations and odd sketches that told the stories he'd witnessed without call for an alphabet; words made real taken shape on the page. Some were more juvenile in form - stick figures and rough outlines, half formed thoughts in a hurry - while others were artistic renderings he'd taken particular care with in their recreation. There was no need for written word when he so eloquently laid bare his inner thoughts with practiced technique of shading and highlighting.

“Not wha’ ya thought ye’d find, eh?”

The question itself was rhetorical. It was clear he’d known he would catch you off guard, possibly used to the same reaction garnered from others in the past. Could you blame them though? I mean, who would expect a stalwart soldier like him to possess such artistic skill?

But was that… that small shake in his voice when he cleared his throat… was he…?

Turning the pages, a London skyline greeted you, sketches of back home amongst civilian life, a cute critter peeking out near the bottom corner of the page you recognized as Julius from various trips to the picture palaces during sweltering English summers (you’d seen a handful of the Alice Comedies yourself, the mixture of live action and hand drawn animation enchantingly brought to life by a young artist named Walt).

There were a handful of times the journal was plucked from your fingers and turned from view, certain secrets best kept hidden as he searched for a more appropriate page to let you explore. Whether the contents were too personal for you to engage with or even something deemed too grotesque for your comparatively innocent gaze, you weren’t sure. But you didn’t push the subject when he handed the item back to you, accepting the bits of his private thoughts he offered up willingly and with a grateful smile.

The pair of you spent an unknown length of time combing through the catalogs of his adventures, continuing to sip at the dark glass bottle, though far more occupied with the details on the page to really maintain any sort of solid buzz. Some depictions required more elaboration, you pointing at different sketches with all the enthusiasm of a child being read aloud from a favored picture book, eyes bright and inviting of the stories he was all too happy to share.

The tranquility of a small farmhouse backdropped against a sea of rolling meadows particularly captured your attention. It reminded you far too much of your youth spent exploring the wilds beyond your cousin’s childhood abode. “And this one? Where was this sketched?”

Wistful pride lit him from within. “That there’s mah home, lass.”

You inspected the illustration a bit more thoroughly at the revelation, brushing careful fingertips over the smudged graphite, imagining the scene with brighter colors and a warm gentle breeze rustling the long wild grassland. A modest barn was implied towards the west end of the property, the shadows of a fence winding a perimeter. Flipping to the backside of the parchment revealed the scene in more detail, tools stacked neatly along the inside of an open swing door, highland cattle grazing amongst the feed troughs within the confines of their pen. 

A bust of the fluffy beast stared you head on with hairy concealed eyes on the accompanying page, bumpy wet nose glistening and mouth open mid chew of its sweet herby meal. You could imagine long hours spent caring for its herd, the scritches his bushy mane must’ve received.

“Grew up a country boy, huh?”

“Ah ken mah way ‘round a tractor,” came the boasted reply.

You snorted. “Well, aren't you just rich.”

Johnny patted the small leather pouch secured to his belt, bursting with coin from your early morning victory and kept safe on his person. “Ah’ve earned mah keep.”

Lingering over the page a bit longer, you unexpectedly changed course, flipping from the very back of the journal, curious to see his most recent works. “Let’s see what you’ve been making of our current adventure, shall we?”

Blank pages waiting to be filled gave way to remarkable hieroglyphics embedded in your retinas as clear as day on the page before you, given far more detail than you would have otherwise given him credit for. There was no need for going back to create charcoal rubbings of the reliefs when you had all you needed right here on the page. Skimming further uncovered lifelike renditions of various statues housed within. 

Giant obelisks outside the temple of Hathor. A bust of Amun-Ra. The remains of the boat docks. Tiny replicas of ivory treasures. Hatshepsut’s stone sarcophagus. Pharaonic headdresses. A small ceremonial altar.

When had he even had time to put pencil to paper?!

“Jesus Johnny–”

“There we go,” he interjected with a smirk at the return of his name, though you continued unimpeded.

“–do you have a photographic memory or something?! These carvings are immensely accurate for someone who can’t even read the language!”

“Not quite tha’ remarkable unfortunately,” he added. “Cannae seem tae recall the direction some of ‘em were facin’. Ah ken that’s important tae the syntax.”

“Damn near close enough…” you trailed off, muttering under your breath. It spoke volumes that you were having no trouble at all forming sentence structures from what little he had jotted down. The fact that he could remember the preserved paintings better than you�� 

“All this from memory…”

“Gotta have a good eye fer detail if ye dunnae wanna get killed,” he explained. 

You hummed at his words. “Was wondering why a soldier like yourself had been taking such an interest.”

“Ah may be a brute, lass, but ah ken art when ah see it.”

You went unnaturally still halfway through flipping the page. Breath caught in your throat like a mouse in a cage, heart pounding in your ears drowning out the grumbled snorings of present company. You wondered at the drawing that took up the full span of parchment. Of all the things for him to–

A figure. 

You.

You’d seen others littered across his journal; learned their names and heard their stories. Comrades in arms, random strangers in pubs. An older woman who shared his same broad nose. 

But this was different. 

There was no mistaking the care and attention that went into creating the likeness of the moment. You recalled sitting by the fire the other night, the long winded conversation between you, sitting position reflected on the paper from his vantage point. At the time you’d assumed his pencil had been scrawling out notes - perhaps quiet confessions of the encounters that turned this expedition into something very different. Words that if spoken aloud and given life would reveal a man who regretted stepping foot outside his cell.

Who knew this admission would be the most damning of all.

“...you drew me?”

“Like ah said.” 

Ah ken art when ah see it.

Words escaped you at that. What were you supposed to say when faced with such a declaration? Thank you didn’t seem right, but making no comment at all felt even worse. 

It didn’t help that even in your inebriated condition the burn of his stare sent scorch marks flaring across your cheek like a flash grenade. Caught up in the well of emotions at the etherealness he used to portray you, you all at once became hyper aware of the scant few inches separating you and him, all but in his lap as he at some point scooted closer to peer over your shoulder.

Johnny smoothly pulled the remaining alcohol from your grasp, trading a heavy waterskin for your near-empty bottle of wine with only slight fuss from you at the loss. “C’mon, m’eudail. Let’s get ye soberin’ up so yer not dead on yer feet come mornin’.”

“That’s the third time you’ve called me that,” you remarked, handing the pouch back over after a few refreshing gulps. “May-doll. What’s it mean?”

“Means yer a right pain in the arse.”

You heavily considered calling his bluff, but on the off chance you were wrong you didn’t need to look any more stupid than the nickname implied. “To be expected from such a harsh dialect,” you countered instead.

There was that glimmer of trouble again. “Ye think mah native tongue barbaric, lass?”

“Well it’s certainly not a romance language,” you chuckled in response, rising to your feet and nearly tipping ass over tea kettle until his firm grip yanked and manhandled you right into his lap. It was on the tip of your tongue to break out in a fit of giggles at your clumsiness, but one look from him with those deep passionate eyes kept you spellbound and tongue tied in a chinese knot.

“Ye want a gent that’s soft and eloquent, or a man who kens how tae get the job done?”

The heated furnace in your belly blossomed at the suggestion in his words. While your maidenhead was still intact, by no means were you a stranger to the pleasures one could bring themselves in the secret of the night. Your fingers knew best the way your body curved and constricted around delicate digits. Those same feelings stirred like a famished beast, gulping down thick buckets of desire, your fervent gaze made bolder by shiraz darting briefly down to his lips in what you hoped was quick enough to sneak past his purview. 

The way his pupils dilated told you you'd failed. 

“How about a man who can do both? Does the art of courtship die with the fall of chivalry?”

A calloused hand stroked over your face, the rough pad of his thumb brushing over the sliver of skin beneath your bottom lip. He held your chin the way you held your breath as he leaned forward to softly graze his nose against yours. There was no way he didn’t hear your heart pounding out of your chest, the way your lungs rapidly gulped in shallow gasps of air. How you had to adjust your legs to take the edge off the burn.

His words were a mere whisper against your lips, tasting his breath as melodic phrases flowed from a silver dipped tongue. “Ged nach eil sinn fhathast pòsd’ tha mi'n dòchas gum bi. Fhad’ ’s a mhaireas mo dhà dhòrn cha bhith lòn oirnn a dhìth.”

Johnny must be one of the fae, you surmised, the way he ensnares you so easily like a siren’s call with foreign words only your heart gleans the meaning of. The vocalizations are rough - yet delicate and sensual in the enchanting lilt of his homeland. There’s witchcraft winding its way around your spirit, sent from heather covered mountains and babbling brooks; crafted by dwarves and perfected in sacred mushroom circles. It’s the only logical reason as to why eyes as soft as his have taken complete control over the lifeblood thrumming in your veins.

There’s a moment where you’re all but certain you’ll meet in the middle, where the dance the two of you have been skirting around will finally come to a head and you discover how much sweeter the shiraz is when tasted from his mouth. 

But when his lips settle on your brow, you fight not to let the disappointment show. 

“Off tae bed with ye, lass,” he murmurs softly, “dunnae want yer cousin tae skelp me fer keepin’ ye up too late.”

<< ✿ Previous ✿ <<

[astrangeraccoon]

Tmagp first listen : ep 18!

Finally up to date

Teddy! Why was he trying to ignore Alice?

He sounds very tired and like colder? Than we ve seen him before

Okay this whole conversation make me think one of my theory about leaving this work being more complicated than we think is correct

The audio scratch when he says maybe, he has nooooo intentions of contacting her

"In a hot way" Alice your bi is showing (also not at all projecting with that "obsessions w sam" comment

Pretty sure the audio scratchs again when he says he ll text her back, but why doesn't he want to do that? Like they clearly were friends what is blocking him?

Sam is so akward in lena s presence and I feel that so much, like same my guy same

Oh I hope Jack's okay, but I feel like Sam shouldn't have given his name to lena

"I hope you enjoyed our talks" yeaaah I'm suuuure he did

Ooooh it's an Augustus case! Grandpa is back

Oooh this one is very very recent like happened less than 2 weeks ago recent

"I hope she stays silent" who? The corpse?

Yes the corspe

That s our second talking corpse

À house equivalent of the spiral corridor w bonus spider?

"fog and smoldering yellow" lonely and corruption y/n

That one is kinda confusing me ngl

I appreciate Sam immediately warning Alice about it

I respect Alice decision to refuse to touch all that W a ten foot bar BUT I don't think that s gonna work

Alice is asking the right questions honnestly

This is just the latest flavor of awfull

You have no idea how right you are Alice

"if there's one thing I noticed [...] is that it's curiosity that get you killed" that explain so much of Alice behavior actually (wish Sam would follow her footsteps)

Oooh lena and Gwen are angry again

Alice please stop being an asshole for 5 second

Gwen is opening up!

Shit gwn s just broke my heart here. I have tears in my eyes she sounds so broken up

I'll go into Sam reaction in another post but the guy really accidentally went right into her trauma

Alice ignoring anything and everything supernatural... I approve of the technic but I hope she ll stop doing that before it get her or any of them killed...

Georgie!!!!! She s here!!!

"who keeps taking Georgie s face" ISTG if this is foreshadowing I'm gonna throw hand

Is it me or was there definitely a audio distortion when celia says "she s been all over town to find somewhere in stock"? That's feel like a weird thing to lie about, also which part was a lie?

The way the more she s lying the bigger the audio disturbance is...

"you don't need to lie to me" Georgie what do you know?

Oooh that s paranoia about being spied on by the government, soooo she can feel fear? She definitely can

Oh celia was lying bc she slept walk/teleported again!

Oh that episode was something there's so many interesting point!

[saltpotion]

can you imagine being a hive thug whose territory is outside the smoldering corpse bar, famous for its smoldering corpse (who, for as long as you can remember has been trapped at the center of the bar unable to move), and watching the famous smoldering corpse exit the bar behind a group of people you’ve decided to beat up and rob, but before you can even get close the smoldering corpse one-hits you with a fire spell?

[dragonnwriter]

Inviolable Bindings

Aemondxfem!OC and Aegonxfem!OC

All Chapters Here!

Chapter 49

**NSFW 18+**

The tension could have been cut with a knife, even through such darkness. 

“​​Ribazmoqitta riña.” One of the dragonkeepers spoke from behind her. Foolish girl.

“Kostilus, nyke nūmāzma daor ōdrikagon,” she spoke with desperation in her voice. Please, I mean no harm.

“ Emā ribazma ojūdan,” he seethed. You have lost your mind.

The disgruntled sounds of more than one dragon reverberated through the stone walls of the Dragonpit and two of the dragonkeepers began heading towards the building chaos. A spear was kept level to her chest with focus, the man’s eyes staring sharply through her as he weighed the consequences of her presence.

A bright flash of light came with the heat of dragonfire, lighting up the space down the ramps. The sound of yelling mixed with others shouting commands was evidence that whatever was happening below seemed far from under control.

“Skoros ēdas ao gaomagon?” He demanded, his voice rough with frustration. What have you done?

Viserra met his eyes, narrowing her own. Truthfully, she hadn’t done anything. She was not even sure what he was talking about but whatever it was, she intended to use it to her advantage. “Ñuha zaldrīzes āeksio iksan,” she replied.  I am my dragon’s master.

Another dragon was heard louder and more forceful than the last. Smaller ones began screeching and squawking as well. The dragonkeeper grunted in frustration, his grip tightening on his spear as he seemed to be struggling with how to handle both her and the uproar beneath them.

It wasn’t until one of the other dragonkeepers rushed back up the ramp, that he seemed to budge on his initial intention of keeping her barred from the dragons.

“Zaldrīzoti rȳbagon gaomagon daor,” the man shouted, his face soiled with soot and eyes wide with panic. The dragons will not listen.

The heat of another blast of dragonfire warmed the already hot air and illuminated both of their faces. Finally, with a reluctant nod, the dragonkeeper signaled something to the other and the sharp prod in her back urged her forward.

Viserra focused on keeping her breath steady as she walked between the two men to where the dragons were housed. The heat intensified and though the chaos had lessened some, it was evident that many of the beasts down there were still quite agitated.

When they reached the bottom of the ramp, Rhyn’s cry echoed through the cavern. This time, however, it was filled less with frustration and rage, and more of desperation. Her eyes darted around watching the dragonkeepers stationed at the entrance to each dragon’s cave. They all continued to shout out commands with their spears drawn, attempting to calm the uneasy beasts.

They took her down one of the largest corridors where two charred corpses lay still smoldering on the ground. A smug sense of satisfaction crossed her mind, knowing that her dragon was not afraid to inflict such a fate on those who kept him chained. She knew that as soon as she could free him from the bindings that kept him imprisoned, they would have no problem getting out.

As they came upon the cave where he had been held, Viserra’s breath caught in her throat. The beast began to thrash wildly against the chains that bound him, his large body straining against the restraints and crashing into the wall next to him.

Without warning, a sudden blast of dragonfire filled the air, the force of it all so intense that it drove the dragonkeepers and Viserra to the ground. They all held still for a moment as the heat took its time dissipating from above them. Slowly, each of them uncovered their faces to see the wild dragon before them.

“Udrāzma zirȳla!” One of the dragonkeepers shouted. Command him!

For a moment, Viserra froze, her mind reeling from the near miss that had almost incinerated them all. She could still feel the heat of the fire on her skin, the sight of her dragon so wild and furious, made her realize just how out of control the situation was for all of them. Was it truly her presence there that caused him to act like this?

Carefully, she stood, looking over to the dragonkeepers whose faces were equally as full of rage as her own dragon. Her breath heaved in and out of her chest, struggling to steady herself. “Jikagon mērī kesan,” she managed to say. I will go alonelone.

The dragonkeeper hesitated briefly, torn between his duty and what that truly meant in this moment. But eventually, he nodded, signaling for the others to step back and give her space. “Mērī,” he confirmed. Alone.

Viserra approached her dragon once more, imagining an invisible tie between them in hopes that she could help him feel she meant no harm. “Lykirī,” she called out. “Ōdrikagon ao kesan daor.” Be calm. I will not hurt you.

Rhyn’s eyes still flashed with fear, fixed on her as she walked closer. He let out another loud roar, but this time, there was no fire. She kept her pace slow, each step finding it easier to tuck away her own fear. Her bond with Rhyn was strong, but he was both wild and fragile from their separation and incarceration.

“Kesan dāez ao yn istia lykirī,” she promised. I will free you but you must be calm.

Viserra closed in on him, reaching up to hold his snout in between her hands. His sharp eyes softened with the connection, both feeling the tension ease. After a moment, it hit her. She had come there to not only find her dragon, but to successfully leave the city with him as well.

Turning back towards the dragonkeepers, she suddenly felt a wave of anger pour through her. “Zirȳla dāez,” she demanded. Free him.

But they did not move nor make an attempt to act.

“Dāez zirȳla istia,” she repeated again. You must free him.

Finally, one of the men stepped forward. “Lo gaomagon issa,” he spoke, his tone relaying the seriousness of his words. “Henujagon adhirikydho istia. Se māzigon arlī ȳdra daor” If it is done. You must leave immediately. And do not return.

Initially, Viserra had not realized he was complying with her demand. “Ñuha udir emā,” she replied, her own tone softer now. She had never wanted her dragon housed there in the Dragonpit, no doubt she would uphold her word in keeping far from there. You have my word.

Slowly and cautiously, the dragonkeepers moved to turn a large winch built into the stone wall. It was difficult to adjust, requiring more than one pair of strong hands. After a few seconds of the combined effort, the chains that had bound her dragon came clanging down to the floor around them.

Though they were no longer holding him in place, he was still burdened with the heavy metal links connected to his tail, feet, and a bow shackle around his neck. But he was free enough to move now, and that was all he needed.

Viserra avoided the chains as he shook his large body, testing his newfound freedom. She rushed to his side, quickly climbing into the saddle and without even giving it another thought, urged Rhyn forwards. He carelessly barreled through the corridors to free them both from the Dragonpit. The dragonkeepers scrambled to get out of his way, throwing themselves flush with the walls to avoid being crushed under his feet.

“Gīda!” Viserra yelled. Steady!

She struggled to fasten herself to the saddle as Rhyn’s erratic movements made it difficult. She was just as desperate as her dragon was to flee, but she needed him to listen and not injure them in the process.

The stone walls of the Dragonpit flashed by in a blur, the cool air hitting her face as he launched them hard into the skies. The elevation change took the breath from her lungs, the force of the takeoff itself was quite overwhelming. Viserra took a moment to be thankful for the straps that helped her stay secured in the saddle and for herself for making it a priority to fasten them.

King’s Landing quickly shrank behind them, Rhyn flew fast and hard to distance them as quickly as possible. The last time she had been in the skies with him, they had been ambushed by Daemon not far from where they were now. The thought brought shivers down her spine that was only relieved when they had completely cleared that area, but with each mile behind them, her nerves began to settle.

They followed the river north, right back up until the God’s Eye was barely visible beneath them underneath the heavy fog. The familiar sound of Vhagar resonated in the air before the massive fortress came into view.

Rhyn responded immediately, his own greeting echoing off of the water below them. He did not need to be guided, making his descent to the ground next to the other dragon his next priority.

“Valītsos sȳrī gaomagon,” she called, speaking of the entirety of the last few hours. Well done, boy.

Without hesitation, Viserra dismounted from the saddle the moment Rhyn settled down. Her feet barely touched the ground as she quickly began to make her way back to Harrenhal’s gates. She raced to the castle doors, impatience growing as she waited for them to be answered and opened. And as soon as she stepped inside, she found Aemond waiting right there.

It seemed that the sound of his own dragon had stirred him from sleep at this hour. Though she did not care why he was there, just that he was. As soon as she could, she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face against him and taking in the familiar scent.

“Nyke gōntan,” she breathed.  I did it. 

Aemond tightened his arms around her for a moment before pulling her back just far enough to look her in the eyes. “Did you come across any others once you fled the city?”

“No,” she confirmed. “But it caused quite the commotion just to get to him.”

Aemond stared at her with a thousand thoughts behind his eye. “We must assume they will counter such a breach to their walls.”

Viserra nodded, knowing this to be true. Though she had successfully done what she set out to do, she would be foolish to think there wouldn’t be repercussions on the horizon. In the time it took to get back to Harrenhal, she had thought of a few ideas of what to do next. They had the strength of the two dragons there, plus Daeron’s mount back with the Hightower army. And now that she could travel much faster on dragonback, she thought it might be time to search Dragonstone for any traces of Aegon.

They would need to act and plan quickly, with fear of the Blacks coming before they were ready to face them. Right now, however, she would not bring it up. Part of her knowing it would most likely end up in another disagreement.

“A bath,” she suggested softly, her words pulling them both away from the other more serious matters. “I know there is much to discuss, but it can wait another hour.”

Aemond took in the whole of her with his eye. “A bath,” he repeated, the corner of his lips pulling into a smile. He too, welcomed the momentary distraction, trading in her concerns for the ability to enjoy her warm touch before diving back into it all.

The bathing was made  to be readied, one of the few servants there scurrying off to ensure it was done. They walked at a much slower pace, Aemond listening intently as Viserra recounted the last few days of events. She told him that there was a point she did not think she was going to succeed, from being found by the dragonkeepers to her own dragon lighting up the caves and almost burning her there.

When they finally reached the bathhouse, the familiar scents of oils hung in the hot, humid air. The steam rising from the water was telling of how hot it was and Viserra did not need any more convincing to get in. She reached for her sword, unfastening it from her hip and setting it against the wall.

Aemond’s hands gently stopped her own before she began to work on the rest of her clothing. “Allow me,” he murmured, leaving no room for an argument.

Viserra let out a small sigh, her shoulders relaxing as she felt him reach around and take over where her hands left off. She closed her eyes, feeling every movement of him untying, unbuckling, and pulling off each clothing item that covered her.

As soon as the cool air hit her shoulders, it was replaced by a pair of warm lips that slowly marked their way down from her neck. His touch brought her into the moment, grounding her and forcing her to be present.

Piece by piece, her clothing fell away. Now completely baring herself before her Prince Regent, she could feel that there was a degree of admiration in his gaze. It was as if he took pride in having someone he deemed worthy of flaunting their Valyrian blood by his side.

“Get in,” he urged, starting to free himself of his own clothing.

Viserra did not hesitate to step down into the bath. The water was just as hot as she hoped it would be, the oils pulling the dirt and sweat from her body as soon as she had submerged herself within it. She watched Aemond remove his undershirt and breeches with movements that were both unhurried and careful. He was quick to join, the water rippling around him as he tread over to her.

“I was worried you would not return to me,” he confessed, carefully wrapping his arms around her and pulling her onto his lap.

Viserra leaned back into him, his breath warm against her ear. “Did you think I would flee after reuniting with my dragon?” She asked, unsure of the meaning of his words. “Or were you afraid I wouldn’t survive while attempting it?”

Aemond did not answer for an uncomfortable amount of time. But she would not prompt him further, wanting him to elaborate on it all on his own. “Both,” he finally admitted. “I feared you might not survive it, knowing what they would do to you if they had gotten their hands on you again. But if you succeeded, I feared you might leave here, seeking your freedom back in Essos with your father.”

“Aemond,” she replied quietly. “I am too far involved in this all to just flee without consequence.” she felt his hands come up to her arms, running them down her soft skin as his lips met her shoulders again. He would not explain himself further, but his silence showed he dwelled in his unspoken worries.

Aemond’s fingers trailed down to her hands, tracing the bones on her wrists. Slowly, they moved to cup the soft curves of her breasts while she let out a long breath. She could feel that there was no mistaking how eager he was to be touching her after a few days apart. She let him continue to kiss at her neck while his hands took their time exploring the body he already knew.

When he gripped onto her hips to turn her to him, she eagerly obliged. Aemond’s hands then pressed to the small of her back, bringing her closer until they were again pressed together. She met his mouth with hers, claiming him with a hungry kiss as her fingers tangled in his hair to keep him there.

The heat of the water already had beads of sweat forming on her hairline and suddenly she wondered how productive this bath was even going to be. Breaking the kiss, Aemond’s lips trailed down the untouched front of her neck. His hands moved to her thighs, lifting her just enough to position her over his ready cock.

With a gentle but insistent push, he guided her down onto him and the feeling of him filling her brought noises from them both. Viserra arched her back as her hands gripped the edges of the tub to keep herself steady. She let herself move the way her body told her to move, feeling Aemond finding each of her nipples and pulling them gently into his mouth one at a time.

The noises from each of them and the water sloshing with the movement echoed around the tiled walls. Her breath came in short gasps as she continued to ride. Eventually, Aemond’s hands moved back to her hips and he began to meet her rhythm with his own.

Feeling as if her body was on fire, she leaned down, taking his lips with hers. She had wanted to taste him as she let herself go, something that was building quickly as he aided her in the process. It hit her like a wave as she came, moaning into his mouth just as he gave himself permission to take his own pleasure.

Aemond held firmly onto her hips until he had spilled himself within her. Their lips remained locked until they were both finished riding the aftermath of it all. Sensing a natural pause, Viserra pulled from him and slid into the middle of the bath. She submerged herself slowly, enjoying the feeling of the water and oils working to cleanse herself from the last few days.

Aemond did not reach for her, instead he leaned back to wait until she resurfaced. As she came up, she took in a breath of air, hair clinging to her skin and a smile spread on her lips. For a moment, he only watched her without anything else on his mind.

Viserra quickly broke their eye contact, continuing to wash herself off without saying a word. There was something reverent in the way he was watching her, something she did not see in him in their day to day interactions. She realized there was a certain, unexplainable intensity that happened when they were reunited, as if the fire in their blood only strengthened after being separated.

Aemond was the first to rise from the bath, quickly working to dry himself off while tying up his hair and dressing in the clothes he had worn previously. Not long after, Viserra followed in suit before heading back to the tower.

The chill of the hallways was unpleasant and Viserra was relieved to see the large fire burning in the room as they entered. Immediately, she took herself over to sit in front of it while she finished drying off.

He poured them each a cup of wine before joining her. Viserra found herself pleased with the rich drink, which was very welcome after the bitter ale of King’s Landing. For a while, they sat comfortably beside each other, sipping their wine in silence.

“You spoke of seeing my brother’s dragon on Dragonstone,” he began, completely unprompted. “Tell me again what you saw.”

Viserra was taken aback, having wanted to bring this up herself but sure he would not be pleased to hear as such. “It was Sunfyre without a doubt, climbing up into the side of a volcanic mountain,” she recalled. “I did not see Aegon, but I believe it is possible he is there.”

She watched Aemond closely, searching his expression for clues on what his reasoning was in bringing it up. “Now that you have your dragon, you wish to go there to see for yourself?”

“I feel it is important to know if Aegon is there or not. Knowing if he is alive and well, and if he is able to ride,” she explained. “And if the three of us can join Daeron and his dragon, we would most certainly have power in our numbers.”

Aemond’s eye darted from the fire to her. “I have thought this over,” he finally spoke. “Yet I believe that luring out each one of Rhaenyra’s dragons out and attacking them one by one would more likely ensure our victory.”

Viserra understood the logic, but she herself felt as if there was too much unknown. “There is too much at play. And they will most certainly go for Aegon if they suspect he is alive. They will pick us off one by one.”

“You wish to find him,” he stated.

She hesitated for a moment, sensing the potential trap in his question. “Yes, of course,” she answered with caution. “I believe it is worth the risk.”

Aemond’s expression hardened. “I knew that this would come once you had your dragon back. Have you thought about the risk it would be to chase after Aegon, who may not even be in any condition to help us?”

Viserra felt a surge of frustration at his words. “Aemond, you speak as if my priorities are misplaced when this is not only your brother, but a true asset to have another dragon on our side. Are you so blinded by your jealousy that you would disregard this?”

Aemond tensed at her accusation. “This is not about jealousy, Viserra.”

“And yet you hesitate to make a decision that might bring us considerable strength,” she argued back, her voice rising with the intensity of the conversation.

Aemond stood abruptly. “We have other matters at hand,” he fumed.

Her brow furrowed as she watched him and his suddenly erratic reaction, trying to piece together what he wasn’t saying.

“It is something we can consider,” he continued on, his voice cooler than it had been a few moments before. “But right now, Daeron has reached out for help.”

Though he had reeled himself back in considerably, Viserra still felt quite unsettled. “What for?” She asked.

Aemond swallowed before answering, his expression hardening again to hide whatever he was feeling inside. “He spoke of an ambush that involved our nephew as he was to be taken to safety.”

Viserra’s heart skipped a beat as a brief wave of nausea hit the back of her throat. She recalled the last time she had seen Maelor, safe in the tunnels being taken away with Jaenaera and Aegon. “Ambushed?” She choked out. “They were to be taken to whenever Aegon was to be hidden.”

Aemond’s jaw tensed. “I have not been privy to the workings of Aegon and whoever has been orchestrating things on that end,” he replied sharply. “But what I know is that the child is dead.”

[caranelguild]

December 2 - 7, DY 26

The party does not look back as they leave the campsite that Farthybüt once filled with varied music. Only Zilybar feels their absence as the caravan travels southeast, following Sven and his dogs to the village of the sheepherders. The trek occupies a full day and then most of a second. When they arrive at the base of a winding path up a ridge and are told the hamlet is just beyond the top, Zilybar sets off to prepare the halfling shepherds for the caravan’s arrival.

The bard crests the ridge and looks down at a shallow alpine valley through which a gentle stream winds. Coils of smoke rise from the little grass-hill homes of the shepherds, and beyond the river Zilybar can see a pair of shepherds leading a flock of sheep to town from wild pasture. He heads down into town - where he discovers the coils of smoke to be rising not from little brick chimbleys but from mounds of coals, unrecognizable as the trees, gardens, carts, furniture, and bodies they must once have been - still smoldering despite the light rain.

Zilybar hails the shepherds, but as they approach and the sheep begin to cross the wide bridge, one of the two - always indistinct in the rain - is suddenly not there, leaving behind the one, a tall stranger in a cloak riding upon a dappled palfrey.

For a moment, the shepherd wonders if Zilybar is responsible for the wreckage of their peaceful hamlet, but the damage is easily identified as more than a day old - and besides, the gnome is as shocked as the shepherd. When the bard introduces himself, the rider only says that they are a shepherd - would Zilybar mind helping them wrangle the sheep into their pen?

By the time this task is finished, the caravan has come over the ridge. Zilybar runs up to inform the rest of our adventurers of the situation. They decide to leave the caravan to camp up here, to avoid disturbing the travelers by passing through another desolated village (remembering the orc-razed town at the foothills of the mountains some days ago).

Our adventurers, along with Sven and his dogs, head into the hamlet, where the shepherd has begun digging a grave for the burned and - they discover - gnawed-upon corpses of their fellows. Zilybar and Ainsley assist in this task while Roy and Sven explore the village to piece together what might have happened.

Sven’s dogs yip and bark outside the round door of a home, and when Roy hears a faint moan from within he busts through the barred entry with his hammer. Inside, he finds a fatally wounded halfling woman, the blood hardly spilling anymore from the gruesome wound where the bottom half of her leg should be. Roy quickly assesses the damage and expends the most powerful healing spell in his repertoire to seal the wound and infuse the halfling with needed blood - magically conjured until her body once more produces its own.

The woman’s tale is harrowing. The village had been attacked by giant, flaming wolves who breathed fire and attacked not to devour but to maim and kill. This happened some two days ago. The strange shepherd looks through the busted open doorway and is relieved to see a survivor - “Mari!” they cry.

“Nur!” says Mari. “I am so glad you made it! Is there anyone else?”

Nur is not sure, but Roy and Sven, seeing that Mari is in good hands, head off to explore the rest of the hamlet - and quickly, Sven’s dogs are barking at the door of a large barnlike structure.

Inside are found an aged halfling dressed in improvised armour (a wok as breastplate, a colander as helmet, and a shepherd’s crook with a knife strapped to it) caring for two infants in a bassinet. 

This turns out to be the village hetman Monoe, who had been babysitting twins Aspen and Edel when the hounds from hell had attacked in the night. He had initially barred up his own home and dressed in his armour before remembering that the barn was a mustering point. He has been in there, terrified, since - still smelling the brimstone smoke from the smoldering mounds and not being able to see through the slots of the barn door.

As Zilybar and Ainsley finish the burials, the village residents gather together to decide what to do. Nur has learned that the strange adventurers are on their way with a caravan of refugees to Alfomb through the mountains; if Mari and Monoe wish, Nur will accompany them and the twins as they join the caravan as a protector.

Our adventurers are happy to offer this joining to the shepherds. But what to do with the sheep? Over the remainder of the day, Nur’s flock is shorn and a few are butchered for meat. Five are chosen to accompany the caravan; the rest are left to wander wild. Roy sends a magical missive to Farthybüt at the orc village, mentioning the empty hamlet and its healthy flock.

In the morning, the enlarged caravan sets off on the southern road, once again following the wanderer Sven on paths known only to him.

That night, while heavier rain catches up with the travelers and Nur is on watch, the itinerant shepherd sends up an echo of their self to watch from above - some expression of their own unique magic - and this echo spots a caravanner resting against a tree a ways away from camp.

The echo swoops through the trees, and when close can sense that this body is no longer alive, though a heat emanates from the corpse’s chest.

Nur’s echo returns to them and they investigate with a burning brand, finding the oldest member of the caravan - Old Teethy - stone dead, with his throat and collarbone torn out, the wound burning hot.

Nur wakes Roy and informs him of this. Roy doubles on watch, and shortly observes an orange flash in the distance through the trees. Later in the night, Zilybar sees movement in the trees, but it is only one of Sven’s dogs, urinating before returning to its master.

In the morning, the location of this flash is investigated. A smoldering patch of ground, where the snow that began falling in the night melts before landing, is discovered, along with a collection of slush-filled pawprints leading towards it. It is assumed the hellhound, then, after committing the murder, went here to vanish back to hell or whatever is in its nature. A broken bone, split by sharp teeth, is found among the ashes of the undergrowth.

The next night, tripled watches are set. On the second watch, Trak (of the turnip gnome family) suddenly cries out in pain from the other side of the camp from Zilybar, who rushes over just in time to see a flaming wolf race off into the trees, leaving behind the gnome youth with a horrible, but not fatal wound in his hip.

Shortly, an orange flash is observed up the slope.

Roy heals Trak, and in the morning the caravan is informed of the threat that faces them. After a long day’s travel, noise traps and five-person watches are set . . .

In the middle of the night, the entire caravan is awakened by a deep laughter from within their circle. The watch swings their torches inward to illuminate a tusked giant, throwing back his head and laughing. The monster is at least fifteen feet tall, dressed in clattering armour. In a voice that rumbles the ground, he says, “Well, too bad! You’ve made it too difficult, now, for my pets to get their nighttime snacks!” and he casts a handful of bones, each with a rune in its shaft, at the six dogs at his feet.

The dogs leap to their feet and grasp the bones in their jaws. With terrible cracks, the bones split between their teeth and devilfire suddenly erupts, obscuring the giant and his beasts - until stepping from the lapping flames of hell come slavering hounds as large as the biggest wolves, their hides flickering with fire and liquid fire dripping from their open jaws . . .

[thecreaturecodex]

You mention on your Ulgurstasta post that you had an Age of Worms soundtrack when you ran the AP in High School. Any other tracks for other encounters/areas?

I actually still have the whole playlist put together! I'll stash it under a cut in the interest of saving space, but some highlights:

The Hellboy soundtrack by Marco Beltrami was sort of the backbone of the piece. The Main Theme was what I used as the main theme for the campaign as a whole, and the themes used for the Nazis in that movie were the cues for the Ebon Triad.

The Full Metal Alchemist soundtrack was also a major role (the original 2004 anime, not Brotherhood). The Homunculus theme was used as Lashonna's theme, in many variations.

Lots of Nobou Uematsu, particularly FFVI and FFVII. I used OC Remix versions of many of those tracks for fights.

The Hall of Harsh Reflections, appropriately, used music from The Thing by Ennio Morricone

Balabar Smenk's theme was the Jabba the Hutt music from Return of the Jedi

The music used for the Kyuss Knights was Spiders and Vinegaroons by Queens of the Stone Age (who were formed from a band named Kyuss)

Musically, Alhaster was Russia. Lots of Russian folk songs for its characters.

The Library of Last Resort was themed around Philip Glass music

Every time they found an artifact, I used The Ecstasy of Gold from the soundtrack to The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

Kyuss himself got One Winged Angel for his fight music, so I gave the JENOVA theme to the Harbinger of Worms, who created him.

The full list (all six discs worth, including bonus tracks!) is below the cut.

Age of Worms OST

Disc 1

1. Main Title – Hellboy Main Title (Marco Beltrami)

2. Sasha –Time’s Scar (Yasunori Mitsuda)

3. Trinton – Gilderoy Lockhart (John Williams)

4. The Whispering Cairn – Winds of Neo-Tokyo (Genioh Yamashirogumi)

5. Vincent – Nonki (Michiru Ooshima)

6. Dinner with Balabar Smenk – Jabba the Hutt (John Williams)

7. Filge the Necromancer – In the Theatre (Philip Glass and the Kronos Quartet)

8. Relics of a Lost Time – El Amor Brujo (Manuel de Falla)

9. Battle with the Wind Warriors – Battle with the Four Fiends (Nobou Uematsu and the Black Mages)

10. Into Dourstone Mine – Overture of Destiny (Michiru Ooshima)

11. Three Faces of Evil 1: The Temple of Theldrick – Evil-Doers (Marco Beltrami)

12. Three Faces of Evil 2: Maze of the Faceless One – Soul Sucker (Marco Beltrami)

13. Three Faces of Evil 3: The Eyes of Grallak Kur – Alley Fight (Marco Beltrami)

14. Diana – Dark Eyes (Moondog)

15. Escape from Dourstone Mine and The Thing from the Pool – Juurin (Michiru Ooshima)

16. Allustan – Avenue (Michiru Ooshima)

17. Clyde – Mystic Mysidia (Nobou Uematsu)

18. An Encounter at Blackwall Keep – Opening/Bombing Run (Nobou Uematsu)

19. Damon – Greed (Michiru Ooshima)

20. Into the Lizard’s Lair – River Cruise (Danny Elfman)

21. Battle with the Turtle Rider – High Above Chaos (Nobou Uematsu, remixed by OverCoat)

22. The Shaman’s Sad Tale – Land Governed by Beasts (Nobou Uematsu, remixed by OverCoat)

23. The Dragon’s Egg – Brett’s Demise (Jerry Goldsmith)

24. Blessings of the Shaman – River Cruise 2 (Danny Elfman)

25. Another Encounter at Blackwall Keep – Element’s (Yoko Kanno)

26. Those Who Have Fallen – Sad Resolution (Michiru Ooshima)

27. End Title – End Credits (Nicholas Pavkovic)

28. Bonus Track – Worms (The Pogues)

Disc 2

1. An Ominous Beginning – Beyond the Wasteland (Nobou Uematsu)

2. The Prophet – The Fall of Neo-Kuja (Nobou Uematsu)

3. Meeting Dr. Thanatos – Revelation of Fire (Claado Shou)

4. The Crooked House – Music TCC (Michael Hoenig)

5. Doppelganger Chase – Spider Dib (Kevin Manthei)

6. Mimics! – Contamination (Ennio Morricone)

7. The Hall of Harsh Reflections – Eternity (Ennio Morricone)

8. Cathar – Rider’s March (Russian folksong, performed by the Red Army Choir)

9. Zyrxog the Illithid / The Death of Damon – Mutation (Geinoh Yamashirogumi)

10. Kysom – Heavenly Spirit (Michiru Ooshima)

11. Puli – The Dragon’s Eye (Jeremy Soule)

12. Battle with the Kenku – Russian Sailor’s Dance (Reinhold Gliere)

13. Filge Unveils His Undead Army – Carriage Without a Driver (Philip Glass)

14. The Weavers – Shelob’s Lair (Howard Shore)

15. The Painter’s Madness – The Belgian Circus Episode (John Morris)

16. Maskarovka! / The Champion’s Dinner – The Kitchen, The Orgy (Basil Poledouris)

17. The Champion’s Games – Wheel of Fortune (Hans Zimmer)

18. The Shrine of Kyuss – Dog’s Attack (Jerry Goldsmith)

19. Zahol, the Cleric – Davy Jones (Hans Zimmer)

20. The Final Battle – Algiers, November 1, 1954 (Ennio Morricone)

21. The Apostle of Kyuss – The Kraken (Hans Zimmer)

22. Victory! – L’Arena (Ennio Morricone)

Disc 3

1. The Dragon Ilthane – Riddle of Steel, Riders of Doom (Basil Poledouris)

2. Falth – Jungle Dance (Max Steiner)

3. Cosgrak the Lewd – Castle Damcyan (Nobou Uematsu)

4. A Gathering of Winds – The Promised Land (Nobou Uematsu)

5. Riverof Blood – The Decisive Battle (Nobou Uematsu)

6. Rescuing Allustan – Illusory World (Nobou Uematsu)

7. Moreto – Space Station of the Ancients (Nobou Uematsu, remixed by Mazedude)

8. Battle with the Ten Thousand Year Old Demon – Fire Cross (Nobou Uematsu, remixed by Luiza)

9. Gifts of the Wind Dukes – The Ecstasy of Gold (Ennio Morricone)

10. Return to Diamond Lake– Death Rides a Horse (Ennio Morricone)

11. Ambushed by Devils – Pandemonium (Hector Berlioz)

12. Magepoint – Misha (Yoko Kanno)

13. Tenser Manzorian – Averro Reinhold (Yoko Kanno)

14. The Spire of Long Shadows – Seven Notes in Black (Vince Tempera)

15. A Dragon took the Spire! – Minas Morgul (Howard Shore)

16. Fallen Angels – Anakin’s Dark Deeds (John Williams)

17. Visions of the Past – Summer Overture (Clint Mansell)

18. Serai Keeneye – Saber Dance (Gayane)

19. Knights and Swords of Kyuss – Spiders and Vinegaroons (Queens of the Stone Age and Kyuss)

20. Ascension Interrupted – Monolith (Immediate Music)

21. The Harbinger of Worms – JENOVA for Classical Piano (Nobou Uematsu, arranged by Eric Barker)

22. Battle with the Harbinger – Piano Quartet Boss Battle Medley (Nobou Uematsu, arranged by Reu)

23. The Final Vision – Father’s Funeral (Marco Beltrami)

Disc 4

1. Heroes – Space Marines’ Theme (artist unknown)

2. Journey to Alhaster – Song of the Plains (Red Army Chorus)

3. Ilthane’s Brood – Godzilla Comes to Tokyo Bay(Akira Ifukube)

4. The Acidwraith – Ghidorah’s Theme (Akira Ifukube)

5. The Deluxury – Theology, Civilization (Basil Poledouris)

6. Adalbert Childermass – Castaniets (Yoko Kanno)

7. Blessed Angels of Hextor – Yuukoku (Michiru Ooshima)

8. The Ebon Overgod – Aw, Crap (Marco Beltrami)

9. Twenty Years of Joy – Song of the Volga Boatman (Leningrad Cowboys)

10. Macabre Feast – Smoldering Corpse Bar (Mark Morgan)

11. A Dance of the Dead – Butou (Michiru Ooshima)

12. The Prince of Redhand – The Infernal Dance of King Kaschei (Igor Stravinsky)

13. Lashonna – Homonculus (Michiru Ooshima)

14. Disciples of Darkness – Grievous Speaks to Lord Sidious (John Williams)

15. The Library of Last Resort – Facades (Philip Glass)

16. The Wild Watchers – Koyaanisqatsi (Philip Glass)

17. Trials – November 25: Morning (Philip Glass)

18. Battlewith Curwen – Black History (Yoko Kanno)

19. Heroes of Time – Symphony 8, Movement 1 (Philip Glass)

Disc 5

1. Battle with Warduke – Position X (Yoko Kanno)

2. Lashonna’s Tragic Tale – Meimyaku (Michiru Ooshima)

3. Kings of the Rift – King Kong (James Howard)

4. A Flight of Dragons – Ride of the Valkyries (Wagner)

5. Gazzilfek, the Ominous Fabler – Cefca (Nobou Uematsu)

6. Citadel of Weeping Dragons – Last Blank Spot on the Map (James Howard)

7. Dragotha’s Phylactery/ Brazzemal the Burning – Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla II Opening (Akira Ifukube)

8. When Three Spirits Become One – The Bad Color (James Howard)

9. Into the Wormcrawl Fissure – Circle of Hell (Brian Tyler and Klaus Badlet)

10. The Mighty Undone – Those We Don’t Speak Of (James Howard)

11. Thesselar, the Lich – October is Eternal (Of Montreal)

12. Zulshyn, the Angel – Dancing Calcobrena (Nobou Uematsu)

13. Cults of the Wormgod – Fithos Lusec Wecos Vinosec (Nobou Uematsu)

14. Kyuss’ Divine Blood – Full Tense (Clint Mansell)

15. Dragotha’s Revelation – Secrets of Shizuma Drive (Masamichi Amano)

16. Battle with Dragotha the Dracolich – I Don’t Think Now is the Best Time (Hans Zimmer)

17. A Treasure Unseen in this Age – Ecstacy of Gold (Ennio Morricone, performed by Yo-Yo Ma)

18. The Age of Worms Has Begun – Blasphemy 2.0 (Immediate Music)

Disc 6

1. Tenser’s Desperate Plan – Sign (Nobou Uematsu)

2. Saviors – Church Windows: Saint Michael (Respighi)

3. Alhaster in Ruins – Tragedy Occurs Again (Masamichi Amano)

4. The Traitor’s Graves Rise – Black Water (Nobou Uematsu)

5. Filge Betrayed – Dr. Van Helsing and Dracula (Philip Glass)

6. Riggby the Patriarch – Forward to Time Past (John Williams)

7. Lashonna’s Sanctum – Kaichou (Michiru Ooshima)

8. Vampire Attack – Shingun (Michiru Ooshima)

9. Accountant of Mephistopheles – All Hell Breaks Loose (Immediate Music)

10. Broodfiends – Tadarida (Hans Zimmer and James Howard)

11. Lashonna Triumphant – Keiji (Michiru Ooshima)

12. Battle with Lashonna – Symphonie Fantastique: Dreams of a Witches’ Sabbath (Hector Berlioz)

13. Ascending the Spire – Divinity I (Nobou Uematsu)

14. Kyuss – Advent One Winged Angel (Nobou Uematsu)

15. The Wormgod Defeated – Divinity II (Nobou Uematsu)

16. The New Prince of Redhand – Guardian of the Motherland (Michiru Ooshima)

17. A Happy Ending – B. P. R. D. Suite (Marco Beltrami)

18. Bonus Track 1 – Icarus (Jason Webley)

19. Bonus Track 2 – Swelling Itching Brain (DEVO)

20. Bonus Track 3 – Dance While the Sky Crashes Down (Jason Webley)

21. Bonus Track 4 – Dragon Attack (Queen)

[delimeful]

or set your teeth against my throat (1)

warnings: vampires, blood, injury, violence, abduction, non consensual blood drinking, depressive thoughts, mild hypnosis, murder mention

-

Vampires, Roman was finding, seemed to have an even more shit sense of hospitality than he’d previously assumed.

Maybe it was ungenerous of him, considering this was the only coven he’d interacted with up close and personal, but he wasn’t really feeling particularly generous at the moment. When he’d been cornered, isolated from the rest of his pack, he’d expected a quick and valorous death, fighting to the last. Not… this.

Another rock made contact with the bars of his cage, the clang of stone on metal vibrating around him. His ears twitched down to flatten against his skull without his input, and he snarled low in his throat as a jeering laugh rose from the crowd.

As if it wasn’t bad enough, being taken hostage for whatever nefarious purposes they had in mind, bound and muzzled like some common animal, no, they had to parade him through the streets and batter his cage with pebbles and glass and whatever other projectiles the bloodsuckers thought fitting to torment their captive audience with.

None of it could get through the enchantment on the bars, so he wasn't struck, but it was still rough on the ears. And his feelings.

Not that they cared. That was probably the point, actually.

Gathering his resolve, he forced himself to remain still and unflinching as another shard of rock hit the cage and spun away, clenching his hands to keep them from trembling. None of this mattered. It didn’t matter what they did to him, because he would not break. He wouldn’t tell them a single thing about his pack, not one scrap of information.

He would die first, and without regrets.

-

As it turned out, the coven-- Kin of Æternam, they called themselves-- didn’t seem to care for information. Not a single vampire spoke to him as he was moved further and further into the town, and he couldn’t exactly initiate a conversation himself with a gag in his mouth.

Instead, he watched, and found to no surprise that he didn’t like what he saw.

He’d known many vampires were nomadic, but it was one thing to distantly know and another thing entirely to see the human town around them, half the houses smoldering and the other half looking uncomfortably ransacked. He could see the dark splatters of dried blood along walls or among the dirt, though mercifully it seemed like it had been long enough since their invasion that any remaining human bodies had been cleared away.

Roman didn’t risk interacting with humans often. He knew the tales that were spread about werewolves, and the last thing his tiny pack needed was an angry mob on their tails. Even with his reservations, though, he would never wish something like this upon them. Upon anyone.

The Æternam vamps walked among the ruins casually, as though this was everyday scenery, and Roman supposed that for them, it probably was. Simple routine; find a human settlement, feed to their unbeating hearts’ content, hold revel, and then depart again. Rinse and repeat.

It was enough to turn his stomach, and he was almost grateful when his view of the town was blocked off by their entry into the large stone fort that loomed over all else. Almost.

His opinion of the place went downhill as soon as he saw the ostentatious throne and the vampire sprawled across it, both placed on a literal gilded pedestal. Dark raven hair, corpse-like skin, and glowing red eyes painted the picture of the archetypal tyrant vamp. He found himself strangely disappointed by the lack of originality in the man’s presentation. If he was going to die to a bloodsucker, couldn’t it at least be one with a sense of style?

One of the attendant vamps pulled the door of his prison open, and Roman lunged against his restraints with all his might, snarling past the muzzle. The attendant flinched back, but the iron cuffs that bound him held firm no matter how hard he strained. The vampire on the throne laughed, the way one might at a child throwing a tantrum.

“Oh, you are a spitfire, aren’t you? All the better.”

Roman tried to convey how much this guy’s villain aesthetic sucked with his heated glare alone. He was pretty sure Virgil could have created a better evil persona than this guy in his sleep. At age twelve. While feverish. It was sad, really.

The platitudinous prick-- Roman instantly decided to alternate between very clever and very rude nicknames for the guy in his head-- beckoned, and the attendant unlocked the chain keeping him bolted to the floor of the cage. They proceeded to grab the connecting bar between the cuffs locked around his arms and maneuver him up the steps to the pedestal with probably more force than strictly necessary.

Roman had been riding in that cage for hours, and as such, had time to prepare for a lot of potential scenarios. He grew more and more tense the closer he got to the trite enthroned bastard, mentally readying himself for what was likely to be at best an assault on his person and at worst, a horrifying and gory death.

Instead, he was steered to the side of the throne, and then shoved to his knees, at which point he realized that a horrifying and gory death might not be so bad after all. Because now the attendant was locking his cuffs into a new platform, one that was designed to force him to stay hunched over and kneeling at the side of the throne. He growled, prying at the restraints, but there was little give in the cuffs. He was stuck like this, practically on display for the world to see.

“Perfect, right where a mutt like you belongs,” Vlad the Contemptible smiled sharply, as though proud of his pitiful insult.

Were all vampires this insufferably smug? Like, was it part of the package, along with the dumb looking fangs and the tacky glowing eyes? He was glad that werewolves had eyes that merely reflected light, like the respectable, well-designed creatures of nature they were.

It was possible that Roman was rambling, mentally, a little bit. He wished desperately that he could protest the indignity of it all, denounce these freaks and their humiliating tactics, but in this state, there was little he could do but glare impotently.

The bloodsucker seemed entirely too content to ignore him and his glaring hatred entirely for the next few hours, which confused Roman at first. Clearly, he was still alive for a reason, and he felt as though he’d done more than enough waiting to learn about his fate at this point. Plus, his knees hurt.

At the very least, the pain in the neck on the throne next to him seemed like the type to gloat, so why wasn’t he?

As dusk fell, Roman got his answer. More and more vamps filtered into the wide stone hall, filling the space with their corpse-cold bodies and idle chatter. Once the last bit of sun had faded over the horizon, the Toothed Tyrant slowly straightened up in his seat, drawing all the eyes in the room to him. This was what he’d been waiting for.

What was the point in gloating about your evil deeds without an audience to lavish you in praise for it?

“Kin of mine. As I’m sure many of you have noticed, we have a... guest with us this evening.”

Roman shivered as those icy, glowing gazes moved towards him, jeering or morbidly curious or hungry. He pulled at the chains once more just to have something else to focus on, the shift and clink of the metal drowned out by his rapid heartbeat in his ears. He wondered if the vamps could hear it, too.  

The pitiful excuse for a villain was still talking. “... fullest potency once the full moon hits, and our hunt will decide who claims such a reward.” His half-lidded gaze slid over to Roman. “A beast like this one has engaged in plenty of hunts before, I assume? Though, probably not as prey. I’m sure it’ll get used to the sensation eventually.”

Even with the gag, Roman could snarl as fierce as any wolf, and the rumbling growl emanating from his chest made some of the closer vamps lean away.

It didn’t seem to have any effect on the worst human leech of them all. He just smiled in a satisfied sort of way before rising to his feet. “What a rebellious spirit. Perhaps you should save that for the hunt, mutt?”

Think up some new nicknames, you absolute bore, Roman thought at him, just in case those rumors about vampires reading minds were true.

The vamp walked closer, until he was at the edge of the platform and Roman had to crane his head back to see his face.

“Let’s give us both a taste of what’s to come, then.”

Without pause, there were suddenly hands on his shirt, dragging him upwards until the restraints threatened to dislocate something. One moment, he was nearly face to face with the vamp, meeting those eye-searing red pupils. In the next, his vision blurred as sharp pain shot through his neck.

The vamp had sunk its nasty fangs in on either side of his jugular, not deep enough to kill him, but enough that it would only take the slightest twitch of the head for his throat to be ripped right out. His body kept frozen even as he began to choke, his mouth tasting of iron and salt.

There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t escape, couldn’t attack, couldn’t even die until these monsters allowed it. The more he fought and resisted, the tighter their grasp on him would become, and the more he would suffer. It would be better to just give up now, save himself the trouble.

(Why am I… That’s not right--)  

Roman only realized the vampire was withdrawing when those sharp teeth finally pulled away carelessly, causing a new wave of pain to roll through him. He automatically tried to reach for his throat, to stem the bleeding, but his bound hands could barely rise a few inches. He bent his head down instead, his pride stinging silently as a cacophony of mockery sounded all around him.

Once his fingers touched flesh, however, he could only feel shallow cuts rather than the gaping wounds he knew should be there. He coughed wetly, and red splattered across his hands, but he could breathe once more. However bad the bite had been, it had healed near instantly.

Of course. It was beginning to sink in that they wouldn’t let him perish that easily.

The vampire king was speaking again, eyes brighter than before, and his words blurred together and slipped away from Roman’s understanding. He could only notice the smear of deep red on the vampire’s face, and shudder where he lay as a chill set into his bones.

-

Time passed in a haze, marked by the constant flurry of vamp activity in the fort around him, the occasional meal to keep him alive, and his connection to the ever-waxing moon.

He felt a faint sense of concern about the way days seemed to slip away, and also about how far away and hard to grasp the concern itself felt. There was something seriously wrong when the growing light of the moon felt more like an approaching deadline than a relief.

The one other thing marking the time, he would much rather forget. Every night without fail, no matter how he fought, the same vampire would drag him up and plunge dagger-like teeth into his throat, leaving him drained and weak on the cold floor afterwards.

Roman wasn’t a fool; he knew that the bites were the reason he felt so exhausted and fuzzy. He just couldn’t do anything about it. The feeling of helplessness only grew stronger and stronger after each night, and slowly, he began to lose the will to fight the dreary feelings off.

By the time the night before the full moon hit, hope was hard to find.

He was slumped awkwardly against the ground when the door to the chamber creaked open, and the noise jolted him out of his dozing as quick as anything. His muscles went rigid and tense.

The head vamp hadn’t drank from him yet today, having left in the middle of the day with an  extensive entourage for… something. It had probably been mentioned in earshot-- they weren’t very careful about what he did and did not hear-- but Roman hadn’t been paying enough attention. Maybe they were scouting out new territory?

Regardless, he had sort of been hoping it would keep the bloodsucker out of his hair for long enough that he could recover even just a bit before… before he ran out of time. So much for that.

To his surprise, there was no trace of the vamp’s normal arrogant strides. In fact, there was barely any sound at all. Roman could only tell that someone was approaching by the shifting of shadows and that dusty undead smell.

Suddenly, there was a cold palm on his arm, and he jerked up with a jagged snarl, his mind screaming at him to do anything to prevent being bitten again. The palm was yanked away instantly, and Roman could see the silhouette of the vamp before him.

It definitely wasn’t the head vamp. Smaller, and with curled hair that reflected the torchlight. He couldn’t see his expression, and his mind still screamed dangerous. His growl increased in intensity as the vamp extended a hand again, but he’d called Roman’s bluff: he had no way to defend himself in the restraints. Whatever the vamp was going to do, he couldn’t stop it.

The vamp’s other hand rose, and Roman couldn’t stop himself from flinching.

It made it all the more surprising when he heard the clank of a key in a lock. His eyes shot open, and to his disbelief, the chain connecting his cuffs to the platform went loose, no longer attached. A moment later, the vamp’s hands were on his cuffs, but rather than grab them and drag him, there was another clank.

For the first time in days, fresh air grazed his wrists. His hands were free.

A surge of adrenaline hit him, and he twisted quicker than the vamp could react, pinning him to the ground with a knee to the abdomen and a hand over his throat. It would keep the creature from getting enough air to call out an alarm. With his other hand, he immediately tore at the muzzle, his nails going claw-sharp to tear through the straps. He spat the remnants of the wretched thing out, and turned his attention to the vamp.

Cold hands curled over Roman’s own, like he wanted to pry the hand off his throat, but other than that, he wasn’t struggling against Roman’s hold. Oddly enough, his chest was rising and falling in an uncanny mimicry of panicked breathing, and even his eyes seemed oddly dark for a vamp. Roman would have thought him a human if not for the unmistakable fangs.

His grip tightened at the reminder. “You’re not getting any more blood out of me,” he growled, his voice rough and crackly. His whole body felt out of practice. If he stood up and bolted, he risked falling flat on his own face, and if he turned and the vamp lunged…

No. Easier to just… just vanquish the vamp so he couldn’t do anything. One less thing to worry about during his escape.

He lifted his other hand, claws pinched together as a makeshift stake. The vampire twitched once, his mouth opening briefly as though to speak, and then seemed to slump. His hands stopped tugging at Roman’s fingers around his neck, and he pinched his eyes closed, bracing for the blow.

Roman frowned. Was this a ploy for sympathy?

He could feel the way the vamp trembled under him, unnaturally lifelike.

… It was an effective one. Shit.

He lowered his hand slowly, loosened his grip, waiting for the moment the stranger dropped the ruse and lunged. It didn’t come. He just kept waiting for Roman to hurt him.

He abruptly felt a little sick to his stomach. He let go of the vamp’s throat. The guy opened one eye slowly, like he thought it was a trick.

“If you get up from this spot, if you even twitch before I’m out of this building, I’ll make sure you regret it,” Roman threatened, a growl under the words and his lip curling up slightly to bare his teeth. “You won’t get mercy twice.”

The vamp’s expression did something complicated (Confusion? Relief? Disappointment?) but when Roman scuttled back, he stayed laid out on the floor, not moving a muscle. Roman let a breath out slowly, some of the tension fading from him. “Well… good. Keep doing that.”

He could practically hear Virgil sighing as his awkwardness overwhelmed any menace his threat might have instilled. It wasn’t his fault he was off-script, okay? This vampire was… weird.

Roman shuffled back a few more steps on weak legs, and then, once he was sure he was far enough away, he let the shift wash over him like a warm breeze. Four unsteady legs were better than two, and if he leaned a little on his instincts, his inner wolf would make his gait mostly smooth. It was a small but invaluable aid as as he sprinted down long, musty halls until he was finally, finally out of that cursed fortress.

Roman was so relieved he could have cried. He was still weak, and his head was still foggy, but he didn't stop until there was finally trees around him and dirt under his feet. As he collapsed, the night air still tasted like victory.

[yannasunflower]

Chapter One | Kuroo x Reader | Zombie!AU

Rating: M Warnings: gore, violence, zombies, a fair amount of angst. still not sure about smut, but we'll see. characters have been aged up, but not all of them. eventual character death. Genre: angst/hurt/comfort, romance, survival-is-all-we-have Pairings: Kuroo x Reader Word count: 2.8k

i decided to actually expand this and make it a full story. not sure how long it'll be, guessing around 5 chapters. please reblog, like, comment, show some love! will be cross posting to AO3 as well!

Chapter One

There was a time, not so long ago, you would have killed to have a man on his knees before you just like this. But this man is bloody and bruised and the rancid scent of rotting flesh is heavy in your mouth. You resist the urge to spit. The unnatural corpse to your right was once a person. A man, you think faintly. Who may have once had a family. A home.

It’s been months now, but it’s still a fight to push the images of sun-drenched gardens and trips to the grocery store away.

The gun you have pressed to his temple is doing its job well. He is meek, eyes darting across the tile floor blankly. The way his shirt hangs from his tall frame and his wrists tremble make you lower the gun. This is a man who hasn’t eaten a meal in days. And his dirty clothes are covered in dry blood, none of it fresh. He managed to avoid getting bitten before your people swooped in. The sight of Daichi wrangling a nighstalker off someone is almost comical compared to his everyday activities – going on jogs and reading a book.

The stranger finally looks up at you and his dark, dark eyes are too dull. They are framed by a face that was once handsome, traces of good humor and vivacity still embedded in the lines around his mouth and eyes. Black hair forms almost a halo around him, the thick waves obviously in need of washing and trimming.

“Daichi,” you call and the man steps forward, baseball bat slung across his broad shoulders. “Get the man a snack. We’re taking him with us.”

Daichi nods, a question in his eyes that you ignore as you turn away, issuing orders. You sweep the shelves with your eyes, trying to find something of value. A forgotten box of cold medicine is swept into your bag without a second thought. A can of chicken noodle soup falls in after it. You hear the man huff a silent thanks as Daichi heaves him to his feet.

Heave might be too strong a word. The man looks thin enough for wind to blow through. You swallow, hard.

“Do you mind coming with us?” you hear Daichi murmur to him, always the graceful one, unable to keep the motherly concern out of his voice. The man must shake his head because Daichi sighs with relief. “Don’t mind the Captain. She’s got a lot on her mind.”

His conspiratorial tone makes your skin prickle. You turn just enough to shoot Daichi a venomous glare. He cheerfully ignores it.

“What’s your name?” you think to ask, turning fully to face him once more.

The man offers a weak smile. His lips tremble and his face wrinkles uncomfortably.

“Kuroo. Kuroo Tetsurou,” he answers. There’s a beat. You realize five seconds too late he’s expecting you to announce your name.

You remember your name, for a moment. It brings with it memories of fresh air and your parents, singing a silly birthday song to you, glee lighting their faces. A lurch in your gut nearly makes the world spin. You turn away from Kuroo again, hair framing your face.

“Just call me Captain, or Cap. Either will do,” you reply, far too nonchalantly and much too late. “We can offer a place to stay and some food, at least. Protection from the nightstalkers.”

You can’t see the look on his face and you wonder how long it’s been since he’s slept easily, deeply. His black eyes are too sunken to tell.

“It’s not much, but it’s something,” you admit.

Daichi huffs.

“She’s being modest,” he assures Kuroo. “We have running water and a water heater, as well as enough people to keep guards on rotation, and electricity and beds.”

“It sounds,” the man, Kuroo’s, voice grates, like it hasn’t been used in weeks. You realize it probably hasn’t. “It sounds too good to be true.”

Daichi laughs his big, booming laugh and someone, Sugawara you think, hisses at him to shut up. Daichi grins at the silver haired main, whose golden eyes are spitting venom at him, pointing gleefully at Kuroo as he says, “The poor man hasn’t slept on a bed for who knows how long, let him have a little joy.”

“You were the one laughing loud enough for every nightstalker in five blocks to hear you.”

That shuts Daichi up with an apologetic wince, although he still shoots Kuroo a wink.

“Let’s get you a granola bar and some water before we start moving,” Daichi whispers. Kiyoko steps from the shadows, more liquid than solid, more shade than human. Her glasses flash in the faint light and she is a cat, lithe and silent. She says nothing, just slings Kuroo’s arm around her shoulder and places a steadying hand on his chest. If Kuroo is surprised by the slender woman’s strength, he doesn’t show it.

She catches your eye and you see approval there, which warms your chest. Kiyoko has the best instincts in the group. She’s also your only nurse – if she doesn’t think the emaciated man will take up too many resources, you’re inclined to trust her. Her seal of approval settles the twinge in your gut, the one that screams to protect the people at the Pit at all costs.

Up from the ground, you realize with a jolt that Kuroo is taller than you thought, at least a full head taller than you. And you sense, in the same instant, that he is turning his eyes towards you, and that you are still looking at him.

You glance away, spying a pack of batteries in the back corner of a shelf. With a triumphant grin, you shove them in your pack. A lucky find. You make a mental note to thank Suga for suggesting the group drop in here. Trust him to be worried about their toothpaste supply at just the right time.

His fretting is the most likely reason Kuroo is still alive.

After the group, a small scouting party with just four people, packs as much as they can, you pull your mask back up over your mouth. The black cloth serves a few practical reasons: the smell of rotting flesh is much less likely to make you sick, and the color is useful. Nightstalkers have awful vision — it’s why scouting during a full moon can be dangerous and you are thanking the stars that the sky is dark and the moon nearly absent. Kuroo is in no condition to travel, which means you’ll have to move slowly. More slowly than you’d like.

His own dark clothing receives a nod of approval from Daichi, who supports half his weight still.

You watch as your group lifts their own masks, Kiyoko thinking to offer Kuroo one. A familiar thrall runs down your spine. You run through the route in your mind. Flashlights click off and for a moment, you stand, breathing in the taste of fear, growing thicker every moment.

“To the Pit,” you murmur.

“For the Pit,” Suga answers and the rest repeat it. The terror abates.

Outside, the air is cool, no bite to it, the fresh March night almost pleasant enough to forget for a brief second. But the smell of the nightstalkers chases after it and the illusion isn’t even fully formed before it dies. Your chest heaves.

The walk through the city is uneventful. The nighstalkers are thin in the city now, partially culled by the survivors who skulk the streets. Signs of human life are small, but everywhere. Fresh cigarettes, a pile of nightstalker corpses still smoldering. A child’s truck, lights still flashing. Your chest tightens again.

You take only a few seconds to leave a strip of yellow cloth tied to a signpost. Below it, you leave a smaller strip, this one purple, and scrawl Kuroo’s name on it as well as you can in the dark. With a knife, you cut off the old blue one that had been left a week ago and shove it into your pocket. The color blue used to be your favorite and now, seeing it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

There are two other survivor groups that you know of in the city. With an array of color coded messages, your three groups communicate important information. Yellow for all is quiet, red for in need of emergency supplies. Blue for the death of a human.

It’s a courtesy to let them know you’ve taken in another survivor, but you know if you don’t try to show the other packs a little bit of trust, the system Daichi and Kiyoko came up with won’t do anything to help your people.

You’ll be damned if you ever let another group into the Pit without a blindfold and ropes on their wrists, however. They showed you the same hospitality when you were in desperate need of medicine three weeks ago. Sometimes, you still feel the ropes around your wrist. Iwaizumi, Oikawa’s sturdy second, had been gentle about it, but it still chafed.

Out of the city, your entire group breathes a little easier. You do a quick head count, feet never slowing on the dirt path. The Pit isn’t far, just a few miles outside the city limits. Still, the lights don’t reach here, and you are too afraid to click on a flashlight or speak out loud. You keep your ears straining for any noise at all. Nighstalkers aren’t the only danger out here, outside the uneasy truce that exists in the city limits.

Kiyoko is still helping Daichi support Kuroo’s weight; as you watch, Suga slips to her side and taps her elbow, taking over for her. She relinquishes gratefully, stepping away to walk beside you.

Kiyoko rolls her shoulder and you lean over to rub it for a moment with your fingers. She flashes you a grateful smile. You still remember the night she got the injury – she had saved your life and nearly lost her arm in the process.

It only takes half an hour filled with Kuroo’s gasping breaths and the quiet footsteps of your crew for the guard towers to come into view. Someone flashes their light three times, the signal, and two shadowy figures pull the gate open. You can see the two figures perched in the parallel watchtowers peering down at the group curiously. They’ve kept their lamps low, as instructed, and you make a mental note to praise them in the morning.

They left with four and came back with five, which is a welcome change, you think.

Kuroo’s eyes are wide, mouth open.

“A prison,” you see him mouth and Daichi shoots you an amused glance.

It’s not pretty, especially at night, with its gray stone walls and barbed wire. But it’s fortified and in the day, you can see the beginnings of your garden just starting to break the earth and the children being taught by a patient Suga to help.

Tanaka lifts the pack from your shoulders, dipping his head in greeting to Kiyoko. Yamaguchi is already at Suga’s side, lifting both his and Daichi’s pack to his back, murmuring in hushed tones.

“A stray?” he asks in a quiet, crackling voice with one eyebrow raised, facing toward Kuroo, who is still staring in wonder at the tall stone walls.

You watch Daichi offer him water, explaining the watchtowers, the gate. His hand gestures in the direction of the gardens, Suga struggling to look proud and humble at the same time. Kuroo’s eyes are gleaming and you look away.

“Even strays deserve a bed to sleep on at night,” you murmur.

“If people hear we’re taking in –,”

You cut him off quickly, growling, “Who’s going to spread the word? You? We couldn’t just leave him there to die, Tanaka.”

There’s only a moment of silence, Tanaka’s dark eyes roving over your face before he backs down with a single nod.

“Grab Noya and get him to the showers and a cot,” you order, brushing past him. Kiyoko lingers, waiting to fall into step beside you again. “And see if Cook has any hot meals to spare.”

You feel more than see Tanaka approaching Kuroo, Suga and Daichi introducing everybody. Your entire group shuffles through the entrance, following you down the hallways to the cafeteria where they will drop their packs off before finding their friends or families.

Kuroo is still staring hard enough to pierce the walls and you hide a smile.

“Tanaka will show you where to shower and then bring you back here for some food,” you tell him. His eyes snap to you and you have to look away from them again, unable to keep looking at those dark holes. “After that, you can get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

You don’t give anyone a chance to respond. The worn heels of your boots hardly make a sound against the polished floor. The cafeteria is deserted at this time of night, when most people are in their cells. Kiyoko trails after you, Daichi just one step behind her.

“Daichi, get me an itemized list of everything we got tonight. I need to do inventory in the morning with Ukai and Takeda, let them know for me.”

He nods, hesitating where the hall branches off toward his own cell.

You wait. Daichi sometimes needs a moment to gather his thoughts, or maybe his courage. His lean, strong body doesn’t shift nervously, however. He looks thoughtful.

“Kuroo mentioned he was a doctor in the before. And a chemist,” he finally explains. You can physically feel Kiyoko come to attention next to you. Her body thrums with tension.

The information takes a second to sink in. The little boy with a bad cough in cell block B and his younger sister with a fever dance before you.

“He needs to get his strength back before going on any forages,” you point out, frowning. Daichi nods.

“Just thought you should know,” he answers easily, waving as he strides toward his cot.

Kiyoko follows you all the way to your cell. She leans against the cement wall as you light a lantern, keeping the light low, before sinking to sit on your cot. She folds her arms over her chest.

“Kuroo could give us a list of medicine to get,” she points out, voice barely above a whisper. You nod, lacing your fingers together and resting your chin on them.

Your mind is already churning with the information, only a slight congratulatory tone to your thoughts. A doctor is invaluable, a prize worth risking one journey home for. A chemist, too…

“I’m hoping he can help us grow our own herbs, as well,” you murmur. “Eventually, the medicine will run out at the stores.”

Kiyoko’s eyes narrow.

“There’s something else,” she challenges you, mildly but directly. Just her style.

You spare her a grin, shaking your head as you pull your hair from its ponytail.

“Can’t let me get away with anything,” you hum, waving her off, a dismissal. Because Kiyoko is Kiyoko, she doesn’t ask questions. She hovers at the entrance to your room, eyes flickering from you to the small window on the other side of the hall.

“You can lean on us, you know,” she says before she’s gone, always needing the last word, always right.

The pillow is a cloud beneath your head as you collapse, barely reaching out to extinguish the lamp before your eyes fall shut. But sleep doesn’t come easily. Your thoughts race, plummeting towards one inevitable conclusion. Kuroo’s face can’t be shaken, his sad eyes burned into the back of your eye lids.

But with his face comes the possibilities. You hadn’t lied to Kiyoko. Growing your own herbs, knowing how to properly use them, will be invaluable. A true asset.

Yet, the gleaming ideas don’t stop coming, the ways you could protect your people now. You can see them, laid out before you, like a map. Your fingers twitch, itching to pick them up, examine them all one by one. You almost can’t stop yourself from just considering what this could mean.

There is one person these people trust to make the hard decisions, the difficult, life and death ones. The quiet sounds of them sleeping, breathing, living, they surround you. Your heart beats in time to the little girl’s cough in cell block B. With every hitch of her brother’s chest, your own heart stutters. Thinking of their little faces is almost enough to make your eyes open again.

These are the people who are depending on you. Children, sick people, even more people who have nothing to live for anymore. Time is wearing them all down, you can tell.

The pressure doesn’t make your shoulders droop. Your back remains unbent, your stride unbroken as you mentally explore all avenues of thought.

The moon is low in the sky before you finally let yourself drift off, three plans beginning to form in the back of your mind.

[spookyold-saintjm]

The Pilot

Mandalorian x female reader

Warnings: canon-typical violence and blood.

Word Count: 2,674

Using prompts 11 (“I regret nothing. Except for maybe this.”) and 42 (“I’m going to marry him/her/them”) from my prompt list.

This is my first time writing the Mando (and second time writing anything Star Wars ever) so yeah.

This ended up being long because it stemmed from something I’ve been wanting to write for a while anyways, so anon I hope this is a treat for you!

Update: This is now part one of an ongoing series of one shots! Check out the rest in my masterlist.

—

A small squeak at your feet pulled you away from your thoughts.

You continued to clean the dirty glass in your hands with a faded towel as you looked down to find the source of the noise, now a little louder than before. “What the…”

It was one of the smallest creatures you’d ever seen, yet the wrinkles set in its face suggested it might have been far older than it appeared. Its tiny green hands were folded in front of itself as it stared up at you curiously, dark eyes sparkling and long, green ears pointed slightly upward.

You couldn’t decide if the tiny thing was charming or terrifying; you’d seen your fair share of both wander through this place. But you’d never seen anything like it. What you did know, however, was that it definitely didn’t belong alone in a cantina like this.

“Hey there,” you started. What language does this thing even speak? “You…uh…you thirsty?”

The creature squeaked again, its huge eyelids drooping in a slow blink. You took it as a yes.

“Well…” you glanced around the room, hoping that, as usual, no one was paying you any mind. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way but ah…you got anybody with you? I don’t think I can just—”

You flinched when a towering figure suddenly swooped up the tiny creature and tucked it near his chest with one arm. You slammed down the glass in your hands and defaulted into a defensive position, but froze when you saw the little green thing cheerfully reaching toward the concealed face of the person who had lifted him off the ground.

Not just any person. Mandalorian. 

“Sorry.” You weren’t expecting him to speak, his voice deep as he looked to you, then down at the creature he held in his arm. 

“Thought I told him not to run off.” The sentence was more directed toward the apparently male creature, whose ears drooped slightly at his words.

“Probably not a good idea to have a kid in a place like this to begin with,” you stated, moving back around the counter. You started on another dirty glass.

He didn’t answer, but sat at the nearest bar stool, not releasing his hold on the child. “Can he get some water?” 

You looked up, studying the man for a moment before reaching down to grab the smallest, clean glass you had, and turned to fill it with water from the tap. You placed it carefully on the bar within the thing’s reach. Its small hands reached out to grasp it, but it was still a bit too big for him, and the man’s hand shot forward to keep the glass steady while the creature gulped down the water. It gently placed the glass back down on the table with a contented sigh, looking up to you with a tiny, toothy grin.

“You know how to fight.” The Mandalorian stated simply as you took back the cup. You refilled it, this time offering it to him. He showed no intention of taking it, but you could feel him peering down at the swirling black tattoos covering your hand before you pulled away.

“What of it?” You kept your voice neutral, your senses suddenly heightening in response to his discovery.

“That stance when I grabbed the kid. That’s training.” He paused when you were called over by a twi’lek male several seats down. You gave the warrior a hard side-eye as you moved down the bar and retrieved a drink for the other male. He slipped a few tip credits across the counter towards you once you’d slid his drink towards him, and you dropped them into a container underneath the bar, not missing but choosing to disregard the eyes that lingered and danced along your body when you strolled back over to the Mandalorian and his…pet?

Mando hadn’t missed the male’s gaze at you either. And found that he didn’t particularly care for it.

“Pilot. That’s it. Nothing special. Just some extra combat training in-between assignments.” You said simply, not looking to him again. He didn’t entirely believe that last bit, but let it slide.

“Whose pilot?”

“Does it matter?"

The warrior silenced his questioning. He understood the importance of privacy. But also, he knew his current situation could benefit from an extra set of hands. A pilot would be helpful. A pilot who could fight? Even better.

His ideas halted when you suddenly jerked your head toward the man on the far side of the bar that you’d just served. “Hey, buddy, this isn’t a show. Buy another drink or get out.”

The male’s eyes hadn’t left your body since you’d walked away from him, and you’d finally had enough. He snorted, tipping his head back as he met your glare, but before he could speak his friend sitting next to him grabbed his arm to get his attention, and shook his head in silent warning. The male sent you a snarling grin before standing and turning to leave with his friend.

Underneath his helmet, Mando blinked between you and the now-departing men. That was…interesting. Clearly, you had some sort of reputation. One that said you weren’t to be trifled with.

“I could say the same to you, you know.” You turned your attention back to him. “You want something, or not?”

He stared back at you, considering for a moment before simply answering. “No.”

“Alright.” You shrugged, your attention going back to your work as you forced back the surprising blossom of disappointment that crept up inside you. The Mandalorian rose from his chair, and the little green thing whimpered as he turned away from you and left just as quietly as he’d come. You stared at the doorway for perhaps a moment too long after he’d gone, with one elbow rested on the counter.

Then you noticed the hooded figure slipping out not far behind them, a gloved hand rested on the blaster at their thigh.

Oh, mother of a kriffing— Yep, you were going after them.

You told your coworker at the opposite end of the bar that you were taking your break, pushing the glass you’d been cleaning into their hands without even looking in their direction as you made a direct path for doorway. You forced yourself through the crowd and shoved yourself outside into the planet’s hot, dry air. 

You scanned all directions for any trace of the soldier and the mystery figure, but saw no trace of either.

Then your ears picked up a familiar sound coming from the nearby alleyway; the shrill squeak of that tiny green creature.

You sped toward the source of the noise, and once you’d rounded the corner down into the alley you found the armored man at a standoff with the hooded figure from the cantina.

“Really, Mando? The kid’s got you soft, huh? Never saw you as the type.” A deep, gravelly voice emerged from beneath the stranger’s cloak.

The kid. Your eyes bounced around until you spotted it, it’s long ears peeking up from behind a pile of abandoned supply crates. 

“If it’s the reward you want, you can have it.” Mando replied, unmoving as his blaster pointed right between the eyes of his pursuer.

The stranger chuckled. “I don’t care about the reward, Mando. I care about the reputation. The credit.” They paused, “Although, the reward seems nice too.” When there was no response, you heard the click of a blaster prepared to fire at the twitch of a finger.

“Hand over the kid, you lousy Mandalorian.”

You yanked the hood from the stranger’s head as you shoved a bone-shattering kick into their lower back with your heavy boots, forcing him to falter and spin around to face you. You grasped the arm that held the blaster, twisting at the wrist and forcing the bounty hunter to emit a sharp cry as he forced you backwards, nearly knocking you to the ground with a brutal shove. You repelled back, your hands wrapping around around his throat long enough to suck a long sharp breath from his lungs. 

He rammed his blaster into your ribs, causing you to release one of your hand’s grip on him and cry out from the sharp pain. The hand that still held onto him clasped around his neck harder, nails digging in harder as you used your now-free arm to attempt to yank the blaster from his grasp. 

Your struggle continued for a fleeting moment before he managed to shove you away, hard. You managed to stay upright and shoved back, harder, this time practically growling as you decked the human male directly in the jaw. He sputtered, backing away long enough to spit blood onto the dirt before grinning devilishly at you and aiming the blaster directly at your chest. You heard the all-too familiar sound of blaster fire. Then, the man collapsed at your feet, to his knees, then completely face-down, a still-smoldering hole through his spine.

You stared down at the man’s limp body, then up to the end of the alley where the Mandalorian was slowly lowering his own blaster. He stepped over to the corpse, digging through his bag until he found a small device that frantically flashed red. He tossed in to the ground and stood straight again to crush it flat with his boot, grinding it into the dirt for good measure.

Despite not being able to see his face, his stare felt hard when he looked to you. A long moment of silence passed before he spoke.

“I had it under control.” 

You shrugged. “I never said you didn’t.” 

“Why’d you follow us?”

You crossed your arms as you stared back at him, suddenly aware of the throbbing in the cut on your lower lip that you didn’t remember receiving.

“You were loitering in my cantina. Scaring off my patrons. I came to tell you to not bother coming back until you were willing to pay up.”

Clearly a lie, but if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t really sure why you’d followed. Maybe it was because someone had taken notice of you as more than a body, a face. Maybe because you knew there was something peculiar going on here. Something peculiar, and dangerous. And on a backwater planet like this, you had been missing dangerous. And maybe because there was some strange, yet familiar energy radiating around that kid that you hadn’t felt in a long, long time. 

Mando could see it in your eyes, the adrenaline rush behind your composed stance. The thrill that flowed through your veins.

“You looking for a new job?” He didn’t tip-toe around the matter.

Your eyes tilted skyward, your arms still crossed, and you released a short, heavy sigh.

“I’m done with that kind of…work.” 

“Doesn’t seem like it. Looks like you regret ever stopping.”

“I regret nothing.” You were too quick to reply, cursing yourself in your mind and cursing him for his nerve to try and read you like that. “Except for maybe this.”

The Mandalorian fell silent. He remained unmoving until the kid finally emerged from the shipment crates it had been hiding behind and waddled over to him. Its head tilted upward, peering up at the towering figure above him. The warrior slowly knelt down, lifting the kid from the ground and again tucking his arm under its tiny body.

“Alright.”

Alright? THAT was all he had to say? Before you could think of a retort, he was already vanishing around the corner, headed toward the end of town.

Your feet were moving, it seemed, without your mind controlling them, against far better judgement than you were currently displaying when you caught up to the armored male and called out to him.

“Hey, wait!” 

His footsteps halted, but he made no further movement to address you. You stood a couple feet behind him, your fists clenched and your toes feeling as if they were digging holes through your boots and into the dry dirt.

“I don’t know what your game is, Mandalorian. But I’ve been waiting for years for an excuse to get off this planet. And I really am a pretty good pilot…” You nodded in determination, your chest heavy as you spoke again. “If you’re hiring, I’m in."

He said nothing. Didn’t even turn to look at you. But you knew when he continued walking toward the outskirts of town, that he wanted you to follow. So you did.

— “Who’s this?”

The broad-shouldered, dark-haired female who stood at the top of the ramp leading into the Razor Crest studied you with unblinking, harsh eyes as you followed behind the Mandalorian, a bag of the few belongings you found worthwhile of keeping slung over the shoulder that wasn’t sore from you recent scuffle. 

“A pilot,” came Mando’s answer as he passed by Cara and stepped inside the ship. You paused once you were next to her, meeting her stare. 

You introduced yourself and extended an arm toward her, which she hesitantly grasped in greeting, her grip strong on your forearm. You didn’t miss the black ink wrapped around her bicep; shock trooper. Well, former, obviously.

“Cara.” she replied simply, also not failing to miss the markings on your hand. If she recognized the symbols, their purpose…aside from a glance toward Mando so slight that you almost weren’t sure it happened at all, she showed no sign.

You gave a single, firm nod as you released your grip, at which Cara then gestured toward the inside of the ship.

“After you, pilot.”

Cara showed you to a spot to leave your belongings, along with a place you could sleep before Mando led you into the cockpit of the ship to let you browse the controls. You eagerly stepped forward, your hands spread softly over the panels in reverence; oh, how you’d missed this. How you’d craved it. Your almost worshipful reaction to just seeing the controls wasn’t lost on Mando, who simply watched as you studied the features of the ship. The light that seemed to reflect off your eyes, your composure, your sigh of relief at the realization that you were going to be in the skies again…none of it lost on him. And it was something that he couldn’t stop thinking about for the rest of the night.

— “I’m going to marry her.”

All was quiet as the Razor Crest steadily made its way through the stars to its next destination. You had been eager to get behind the controls, but knew that you would need to ease back into it, and you needed to rest even before that. You opted to nap while Mando piloted this leg of the journey, and were passed out asleep in another part of the ship as he muttered the words under his breath.

“What was that?” Cara’s voice suddenly rang through the space, although the sudden straightening of the Mandalorian's posture, the tightening of his grip on the controls, gave her a pretty good indication as to what, who, he was still thinking about. Despite the helmet and heavy armor completely concealing his every emotion, it was clear his mind was somewhere away from the cockpit of the ship. Cara didn’t bother withholding the sly grin creeping up the corner of her mouth. Who would’ve thought, metal man’s got a crush.

“S'talking to the kid,” he answered flatly, not turning his head away from the open space in front of them. The ex-trooper glanced over to where the child was seated, peering around the pilot’s chair to gaze at Mando with wide, sparkling eyes as his tiny claws grasped some insignificant piece of metal that he’d been grudgingly permitted to suck on.

“Sure,” Cara replied, stepping around to playfully nudge the man in the ribs with her elbow. “Whatever you say, Mando.”

[the-original-b]

Just a bit of fun screwing around in Photo Mode

V brought his Avenger to a stop at the opening of the alleyway, just like he’d done a thousand times before on thousand different nights. Any other time he’d have ignored his gut feeling that something was terribly wrong there and kept driving, but he couldn’t walk away this time. He’d just beaten three teeth out of a ripper who’d pointed out this exact corner of Arroyo as the epicenter of something rotten. It hit his nose the moment he stopped the engine and stepped out of the car--the stench of neoamphetamine. The 6th Street Gang was up to no-good.

They made him the moment they saw him, and drew their guns to greet him with a hail of bullets. V replied with his own, each pull of the trigger sending shock waves up the metal bones of his mechanized arms and waking the night sky with flash and thunder.

It wouldn’t be long before all of Santo Domingo was on him. He had to move quickly--not a problem given his implants and augmentations.

But eventually that wouldn’t matter. Eventually his luck would run out, and it wouldn’t matter how durable the armor in his coat was. He would become a statistic, just one more in the pile of bodies Night City claimed daily.

When it was over he scanned the barrels of raw material around him, and identified several sporting Arasaka’s logo. Why would they supply 6th Street with the materials, V thought to himself. Do they even know? Dumb question, of course they do. But nobody who can do anything about it would believe it anyway, or confront them. He needed something more concrete, something physical he could touch and present as irrefutable evidence.

And after his most recent dance with death, he needed a joytoy on Jig-jig Street.

Not just any toy, he needed her, a pretty thing named Amber who’d entertained more than her share of drug peddlers and corpo-rats. He knew better than most that Amber had a way with people, getting them to spill their deepest secrets, and if anybody could get him reliable information on a corporate-sponsored drug trade takeover, it was her. She was the only person he could trust in this city.

He passed the usual merchandise on display to head to where he’d always seen her before, but she was gone. Still, for as long as she’d been working that corner, she’d have had friends there.

Friends who could point V in a direction.

Dark Matter. The upscale lounge that just opened up half a kilometer south, a stone’s pitch from Corpo Plaza. Amber had come a long way from shaking her tail in some Watson sin bin.

He spotted her, beside the main stage where the more seasoned patrons knew the upper-tier merchandise was on display. They locked eyes from across the atrium and V made his way toward her, a smirk pilling at his lip.

“Vergil,” she charmed, crossing her shapely legs as she placed her champagne flute on the bar. “Good to see you again.”

“Amber...” he said. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

He was right about her, and whatever feelings were left were mutual. She freely divulged everything to him--Arasaka, Militech, Kang Tao, they were all in bed together, funding the lower gangs and their illicit activities to pit them against each other, then taking over whatever turf is left from their skirmishes bit by bit. She even named an ex-Arasaka employee who had all the details written. 

“You sure I can’t convince you to stay?” she offered with a libidinous smirk.

“Any other night,” V said.

“I’ve got a job to do.”

He’d gotten there five minutes early, the rendezvous point in North Oak where she said he’d be waiting, to find nothing but a smoldering wreck and half a headless corpse. Arasaka had gotten to him first, eliminating the mole and erasing the evidence, and framing it as an accident. Or cyberpsychosis, V thought, whichever the media can better sell. He sighed and turned back for the Avenger; in his mind’s eye, he could see Yorinobu Arasaka’s smug shit-eating grin grow wider as his best chance to take them all down shrunk into his rear-view mirror.

V reflected on all he’d lost, the friends, family, and lovers Night City took from him. He remembered how an old friend once described this place as a “machine fueled by people’s crushed spirits, broken dreams, and emptied pockets.” The good guys seldom win here, and if they do Night City just comes back stronger and swallows them whole. He was born here, figured he’d probably die here. But before that he’d make sure Night City--no, the world, remembered him.

This was just a quick yarn I spun in the spirit of fun, my attempt at a pulp noir one-shot with no real beginning or end. I have no intention of continuing it or doing it again, I was just screwing around in Photo Mode here. 

B out.

[subwalls]

WHUMPTOBER 2021 - 4/30

No. 4 - TRUST FALL “Do you trust me?” | taken hostage | pushed

Also available on AO3!

 Sapnap’s day starts off with his shitty apartment flooding ankle-deep in unidentifiable monsterly fluids, which sucks.

 It’s not as dangerous as that one time the whole building came alive and tried to eat its residents, but it’s definitely messier, which is arguably worse.

 This is the kind of thing most people usually take as a sign from the universe that they should go over to a friend’s place and sulk for the rest of the day. Anyone who’s survived more than a week in this clusterfuck of a city knows to trust their instincts on that—which usually means getting the hell out of dodge.

 Unfortunately, Sapnap has kind of garbage instincts.

 Oh, they’re fantastic at keeping him alive, sure. He’s coming up on his one-year anniversary of being here, and he’ll definitely be celebrating that at one of those dubiously legal and definitely non-human bars, but the fact that he’s      still     here, squelching through monster goop and all…

 Sapnap wrinkles his nose as he sidesteps the still-twitching corpse in the lobby. Some idiot with an organ graft from the End, probably, which explains the goop seeping into everything. Shouldn’t the drawbacks of End tissue be common knowledge by know? Specifically the fact that it implodes at the first hint of water?

 Most apartment complexes these days have sprinklers installed on the doorstep for the explicit purpose of enforcing their dumb Huma-only policies.

 Sapnap, with his Netherborn lungs, counts himself lucky. He looks Huma,      is    legally Huma, and can hold his breath when the sprinkler douses him. So his landlord’s none the wiser.

 Probably.

 Eh, if he was going to be evicted for that, it would’ve already happened. Work comes first, and if Sapnap’s lucky, he’ll be too worn out to even notice if they’ve cleaned up the mess by the time he comes back.

 He pats the left side of his face, checking that his eyepatch is in place like it should be, and walks out into the thoroughfare of SMP City.

 Immediately, the world drops out from under him. Sapnap whirls around, reaching out for the wall that should be right there, but the thin clouds slip through his fingers without so much as a whisper of substance.

 The wind forces his good eye shut. He forces it open again, squinting, all too aware of the warmth smoldering in his chest. His vision blurs weirdly in a way that could’ve been from wind pressure or because he’s been out for longer than he thinks. After a few seconds of blinking furiously, it clears.

 Oh. That’s not the sky.

 That’s the void.

 Those are two very different things. One is up, and the other is… well. All around the city, truthfully; it swallows the ocean and heaven alike into the dragon’s maw, marking out the abyssal boundary of where the other worlds bleed into this one.

 It’s part of what makes commute in and out of the place troublesome, because too-big vehicles that get too close end up attacked by the aforementioned dragon—not that anyone’s every seen the whole breadth of the thing, just an errant wing or tail that swings up to demolish a plane or ship, black scales iridescent against the darkness.

 The fact that Sapnap is standing on a platform in the middle of this beast’s territory is, as they say, Not Good.

 Leaning over the edge, Sapnap sees no support holding up the square of rock he’s somehow ended up on. It’s just floating over the misty emptiness. Looking up yields nothing of note either; he must be pretty low in the void if he can only see the wispy fog instead of the surface.

 Something silver flashes at the edge of his vision, and Sapnap ducks out of the way of a shattered blade. His cheek flares, and he slaps a hand against it, wincing.

 The metal tumbles into the void. Sapnap pulls his hand away, and blinks at the smear of blood left behind.

 “GREETINGS,” bellows out from somewhere overhead. A long scythe of a blade lowers from the fog, and Sapnap backs up to the edge of his floating rock as its tip comes to a gentle rest over his throat.

 “Why am I here?” Sapnap demands. He slouches backward, sticking his hands into his pockets like the perfect image of a begrudged student. If it’s to hide the trembling of his arms, that’s a secret between him and the phone in his pocket. “Who are you?”

 “I AM UNKNOWN, COLLECTOR OF DIVINE INSTRUMENTS, PROSTHESIS MADE BY THE GREATER POWERS,” the voice booms. “I AM HERE TO COLLECT YOURS.”

 “Uh, divine what now?” Sapnap says. He presses his thumb against the cool screen of his phone, making sure it’s facing towards himself so the light doesn’t bleed out. “I don’t know what those are. You’ve got the wrong person.”

 The scythe jerks upward, nicking open his chin, trailing up his face.

 And comes to rest directly over his eyepatch.

 Sapnap stills.

 “THE ALL-SEEING EYES OF THE GODS.”

 “What about them?”

 “YOU HAVE THEM. OR SO I THOUGHT,” the voice adds, and the scythe withdraws a little. “I DID THINK YOU FELL FOR THAT TRAP TOO EASILY FOR A TRUE WIELDER… IT WAS EITHER YOU OR YOUR SYNDICATE FRIEND, THEY SAID, AND THE FANG HUNTER IS MORE TROUBLE THAN I’D LIKE.”

 Syndicate friend. Fang hunter.      Dream.     Sapnap's heart plummets to his heels, but he tries to keep an even keel. “Who’s they?” he asks over the sound of his phone unlocking. As subtly as possible, he drags his thumb across the screen.

 “AH, NOW THAT WOULD BE TELLING, WOULDN’T IT?” A low cackle rolls through the fog like thunder, ruby light flashing faintly in the distance. “OF COURSE, IF YOU GIVE ME WHAT I WANT, I WILL GLADLY TELL.”

 “You… want to take the Eyes,” Sapnap says, slowly.

 “I DO.” A metallic      click     echoes overhead, and two more scythes descend, grinding against each other in a thin shriek of metal on metal. “BUT IF YOU ARE NOT THE ONE WHO WIELDS THEM…”

 Inhale, feel the air warm in his throat, embers into flame. “What’re you gonna do,” Sapnap says, “kill me?”

 “AND WASTE SUCH A RESOURCE? NO, NO. YOU ARE BEST KEPT HERE,” Unknown says, amused. Another blade comes low, and clinks against the phone in his pocket. Sapnap freezes. “GO ON. ASK YOUR FRIEND TO SAVE YOU. CALL THEM HERE. THESE THINGS ARE ALWAYS EASIER TO NEGOTIATE FACE TO FACE.”

 Well now he doesn’t want to do it.

 Sapnap snorts, and a tongue of flame washes over the back of his teeth. “I’m not going to be your good little hostage,” he spits.

 “BUT YOU ALREADY ARE,” says Unknown, and the scythes all turn to slam into the rock.

 Ruptures tear across the surface of the stone, and Sapnap swears as he quickly shuffles onto the biggest piece. The edge crumbles away; far below, the fog shifts. A dull purple glow starts to brighten in the abyss, a tell-tale sign of the dragon waking, and Sapnap throws himself at the scythe in preparation to climb up the weapon-limb if he must—

 His vision      sings.    

 Suddenly, the world takes on a blue tint. Everything jumps into high-definition, and the fog might as well not exist, and Sapnap can see the arching crimson light of a      fucking Blood Breed     looming above him, Unknown is a      Blood Breed,     Sapnap doesn’t stand a chance even if he can read out the letters of their true name from the red aura surrounding them—he looks away, and notices for the first time the golden threads spanning the width of the void, glittering with magic.

 In the back of his mind, he registers that he’s looking at the spell that stopped the Great Collapse, the one that saved the worlds from folding in on each other into utter destruction.

 The rest of his mind is a little busy      screaming,     though.

 A displeased snarl rips through the air as another set of scythes cleave down towards him, and Sapnap exhales a spout of flame that slows them down only barely enough to dodge.

 “OH,” says Unknown, “OH, OH! IS THAT AN EYE? YOU      DO     HAVE ONE! I DIDN’T KNOW YOU COULD HIDE THE GODS’ GIFT LIKE THAT—YOU MUST LET ME HAVE IT, HUMA, IT IS WASTED IN YOUR SOCKET!”

 Sapnap shouts, “You can take it over my dead body!” and throws himself at the ground when a blade tries to cut him in half at the hip.

 “GLADLY!” Unknown dives, now, their nebulous aura now a very clear and vivid blood-red glare into Sapnap’s vision, ruby light spinning down their bony weapon-limbs like latticework.

 Sapnap doesn’t flinch, and even swings his head upward to let the Eye watch and watch and watch—thinking      this is what I go through for you     with only half the bitterness he really feels—which is the only reason he notices the other one.

 Two Blood Breeds in a single day. Fan-fucking-tastic.

 A blade pins him through the shoulder in a burst of hot-eyed pain, but the rest all      miss     as a thin red string wraps around Unknown’s limbs and yanks them upward, into the low-hanging mist.

 Sapnap blinks. He can still see them, thrashing against a thread that yanks Unknown around like a plaything before throwing them aside. It’s connected to the second Blood Breed, which is descending towards him now.

 Okay, okay, it’s fine, he has a little time. A Blood Breed’s weakness is their true name, so if he can just extract that, he might be able to… burn it, or something.

 Sapnap takes a deep breath, gives his vision the middle finger just so the other end of the Eye can see it, and then focuses      hard     on that deep red aura.

 For the most part, it’s just a storm of crimson, red and red and ruby and blood, but Sapnap keeps      looking     and his one working eye whirs like a machine as it narrows, cutting through the noise, piercing down until he can see the heart and the core and… at the very end, a thin string of letters in a language he shouldn’t know.

 The All-Seeing Eye of the Gods pours it all into his head:       red red crimson-winged elder ⍊𝙹╎ᓵᒷ↸╎⍊ᒷ ᓵ∷ᔑℸ ̣ ╎リᒷ ⍑||!¡╎ ̇/ᒷꖌ ℸ ̣ ᒷᓵ⍑リ𝙹ʖꖎᔑ↸ᒷred blood red red war red—  

 “Tech—” he begins, and promptly chokes as a hand slaps over his mouth.

 “Shush,” says the Blood Breed, calm as anything, quite suddenly right beside him. “Yeah, I got there in time, of course I did. Hey, you’re Sapnap, right?”

 Sapnap tries to melt him on pure force of will alone.

 “I’m gonna let go of you now. Maybe don’t be rude and expose me in front of an idiot like that, alright?” The Blood Breed exaggeratedly steps back, and Sapnap immediately flings himself to the opposite side of the very tiny floating rock they’re standing on. “Great, cool, nice talk. Not awkward at all.”

 “What do you want?” Sapnap demands, bristling.

 “You don’t recognize me?”

 Sapnap pauses. He gives the Blood Breed another once-over, taking in the plush red cape and royal garb. Looks at the name again. Nothing rings a bell. “Should I?”

 “Eh. Guess not. We’re a little short on time anyway, so introductions can wait, I guess.” As if on cue, the void begins to rumble. The dragon must be      inches     from rushing out.

 Sapnap waves his hand through what he’s sure is a gear of light blue energy rotating in front of his face, trying to tell his friend to let it go. He doesn’t want him to watch him die.

 The Blood Breed interrupts him with a hand on his wrist. “Hey. Do you trust me?”

 “Hell no.”

 “Smart,” the Blood Breed says, and shoves him off the edge.

[dapper-wings]

D&D First Session Shenanigans

Alright, so I’m part of a D&D group of 4, all new players. We had our first session the other night and it...did not go as planned. We may have actually made our DM cry at the end. This is what happened. 

We all start out in this friendly tavern in the woods called the ButterBread Tavern. We don’t know each other yet, but our characters are: 

me, an angsty wood-elf sorceress who is still learning how to control her magical powers

a cheerful, blissful half-elf cleric with a wicked good crossbow. 

an energetic time-traveling human ranger from the future named Ghost, who’s trapped in our time. He’s got awesome futuristic weapons and items, but thinks he’s way cooler than he is (eg-they don’t always work the way he plans them too). 

Skultar the Pulchritudinous, a hulking goliath fighter who’s entire character is based on smashing, hitting, and firing impossibly huge weapons. However, he’s also got the best moral compass and is actually a bit of a fraidy cat sometimes, despite being the most powerful and strong member of the team. It’s hit or miss, really. 

So we’re all in the ButterBread Tavern and Ghost goes first. He spots Skultar and decides to introduce himself, but accidentally collides with a villager along the way. 

Being the short-tempered fellow that he is, he immediately threatens the villager. This trips Skultar’s sense of justice, but for some reason he ends up siding with Ghost. Like I said, hit or miss. 

Both threaten the poor offending villager, who’s buddies support him.

A bar brawl is in the works and we haven’t even properly started the game. 

Then it’s the half-elf’s turn. She sees the bar brawl brewing, wants no part of it, and also is just kind of tired of dealing with people in general at this point. 

So, she walks up to the other end of the bar and orders ale. 

A lot of ale. 

And proceeds to drink. And drink. And drink. 

Meanwhile, the bar brawl situation is escalating and my character overhears Ghost and Skultar threatening to actually kill that one villager. 

Now I’m neutral, but also pissed at having my peaceful pub afternoon interrupted. So I move to cast a spell that’ll settle things down.

I stand up and cast Thunderwave. 

Unfortunately, as stated, my character does not yet have full control of her magical abilities, AND rolls super high. 

I cast the spell, but it’s so powerful that it accidentally kills the three villagers closest to me and knocks Skultar and the half-elf cleric back several feet, spilling her drinks. 

Oops. 

Chaos reigns. 

Villagers flee screaming, the Bartender is yelling that he’ll bring the authorities down on us. 

Ghost chases after that one villager who pissed him off in the chaos.

Skultar goes with him, while simultaneously yelling to convince the other villagers that they mean no harm. 

This doesn’t work 

Their running and screaming just causes more panic.

The half-elf regards her spilled drinks for a moment, then steps over prone bodies, around fleeing people, goes behind the counter, and calmly refills her ale and continues to drink. 

I spot the Bartender leaving by the back entrance. I’ve got loads of charisma, so I move to convince him that the murders were an accident and please don’t call the authorities. 

Unfortunately, he’s too far for me to approach directly, and he’s outside the tavern while I’m still inside. 

Which means the only way to talk to him is for me to shout at him from the nearest window. 

This did not reassure him. 

Charisma totally failed. Bartender keeps fleeing.  

Skultar chases several villagers away. He returns sullenly to the tavern. 

Ghost, however, is back behind the tavern, near where the Bartender is fleeing. His argument with that one villager forgotten as he realizes the Bartender will bring down authorities on us. 

He also tries to convince the Bartender we mean no harm. 

He fails. So, so badly. 

The half-elf continues drinking, now splayed out in a puddle of ale she’s pouring directly into her mouth from the cask above her. She’s getting progressively more drunk. 

My character’s at the back of the tavern watching as the Bartender runs; obviously, he can’t be allowed to get away now. 

But he’s too far away to reach which means: long-range fire spell.

I shoot it 

It’s a critical 

The bartender burns alive on the spot

Ghost sees this 

Oops

We reconvene in the now-empty, silent tavern. Overturned tables, three corpses, spilled food, the works. Ghost and Skultar regard my character warily. I try to explain to them what actually happened. Neither believe me. 

The only sound now is the half-elf’s messy slurps. 

It’s her turn. 

We all look at her because what can she possibly do at this point??? She’s drunk and her crossbow is of no help. 

She looks at all of us, staggers over to the fireplace and says, “I’m gonna torch the place. No proof, no crime.”

Turns out, that’s what she can do. 

She rolls to torch the tavern and rolls so high the place explodes into flame. 

Screaming, we flee through the nearest entrance, miraculously not getting burned. 

We all stand outside the tavern and watch as it blazes to the sky. 

Skultar sits down and picks his teeth, keeping a careful eye on the half-elf. 

My character has a pipe and lights it, then sits down and watches the flames, morosely reflecting on her actions. 

The half-elf happily laughs, sings, and finally passes out, utterly blackout drunk. 

And Ghost? Ghost brought a bag of marshmallows as one of his items from the future, puts them on a stick, and roasts marshmallows in the flames of the smoldering tavern.

He does not share them with us. 

So that is how our very first session of D&D began

and we haven’t even reached the part with the chicken-thieving goblins