#Swamplands of the Soul

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Wise words from James Hollis on loss, grief, and betrayal.

[Thea]

[bjbjbjbjbjk]

Most of us have been conditioned to be nice rather than genuine, receptive rather than honest, agreeable rather than assertive.

Swamplands of the Soul: New Life in Dismal Places _James Hollis

[thepeonysbackup]

◇Satisfaction◇

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Summary: THE LAST PART TO DRY HUMPING??? Thank you guys for liking my dumbassery? Craaaaazy to think any of you would liked this weird brain shit I got goin on in this blog.

Warning: Smut, pure, unadulterated smut. Smut smutty smut smut smut! (Just enjoy-)

Word count: Noneeee! Just made this

“I really am impressed,” Al hissed into your ear as his lips trailed down your neck, fingers working deep into your clenching heat as his other hand kneaded the flesh of your breast from underneath your knitted button-up sweater, “You lasted far longer then I believed you would, but alas you didn't meet my true expectations.” His fingers curled, two digits rocking into the spongey spot right near your entrance, drawing a cry from your lips at the teasing. “I fear you haven't earned me inside you just yet.” Finished with a nip to your ear, tweaking your peak with a roll of his forefinger and thumb as your ground down into his other hand, whines and soft gasps continuing to climb in volume as fireflies hummed and blinked around you both. He'd brought you into the swamplands of his pocket dimensional room, his tie, belt, and cane strewn halfway to where he had worked you up from at the door. Your body relaxed flat against the deer demons chest upon his lap so he could have his way with you as he pleased. It was torture though, the edge that was just close enough to reach always furthering itself as he'd slow his movements or move his thumb from your swollen clit to stop that thread from snapping in two. “N-no- I- But!-” You writhed, hands feverishly trying to find a place to rest as the repetitive edging was starting to become to much. “No, Al.. I'm sorry, I never- I didn't mean—” He hushed you, grinning lips placing another kiss on your skin before he managed to switch your position on his lap, making your legs straddle a single thigh so he could see that begging expression.

That pleading look in your foggy eyes, “I'm afraid I won't be going back on my word, Darling. But I will let you have the release you crave.” He explained while moving his hands from your chest and wet, squelching cunt to your waist, from there he drew your body forward and watched as you jolted and squirmed with a noise of embarrassment from your enjoyment of the feeling. His wicked grin grew, eyes narrowing as his smile twitched until you able to see the blackness that was his gums, “Mm-” Your hips jerked against him, hands coming up to his shoulders as a brace as you began to move yourself, no longer needing Alastors help in the matter as strings of moans and blubbering gasps started up again. Satisfied with your eagerness to please yourself from his teasing attacks on your most sensitive area, he leaned further away, back falling flat onto the grass as his ears flattened against his hair and he growled at the feeling of your wet juices flowing over his pants, your knee grazing his bulge that was oh so noticeable. But not to you. “Fuck- Al.. ‘S not enough.. It's not- I can't..!” You whined, body bending forward so that you were hovering over him, hair coming undone from its once firmly tied place, framing the two of you like a curtain as the radio demons claws slipped behind your head to bring you further down. Your body was laying atop his, hands gripping the grass near the sides of his head as his lips caught you in a kiss that broke your mind in half from the unexpected action and surprising amount of affection placed behind it. He plunged his tongue as far into your mouth as he could, his other hand continuing its guidance of your lower half as your eyes rolled back into your head, and your body began to twitch harder. You were right there, and all he had to do was push you all the way. How lovely for him, to have you in this bind, and not even one with your soul but with your mind. Your leg hiked up and slung over his other thigh, your heat pressing firmly on his straining bulge before you finally could hear a noise bubble from beneath Al's static that crackled. A noise resembling a glitched moan left him, noise transferring into your mouth which you reciprocated as he bit down onto your tongue, blood falling onto his lips which he lapped desperately up before you both flipped over.

You felt the soft grass, hair messy against it as you panted against the man above you’s lips, your legs being tugged upwards as he broke the kiss and buried his face into your shoulder so he could rut down between your legs at a quick pace. “How..” He breathed heavily, eyes failing to focus properly on your blissful expression, “How dare you do this to me.. You filthy thing..!” Those words were dripped in malice, anger from the pleasure you were providing for him when he had only wanted you to break for him. You had, but at what cost to his own pleasure. This grotesquely marvelous feeling he'd detested with his entire soul finally feeling as it should, like he needed it to feel as his hips pushed harder, the throb becoming nearly unbearable. He was there, the gooey warmth finally adding to the damp spot that had nearly dried and then some as it seeped slightly through the fabric, the white stickiness gently coating your lady lips as he continued to rub against you until your own climax hit you like a truck. With a groan of sorts, hands holding him into your chest while your body arched, you came undone against him and allowed your mind to fade as he pulled himself flat down against you with a sigh before darkness consumed you.

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Pairing: Yandere!Alastor x Fem!Reader

SFW

Word Count: 1'882

Warnings: Yandere, Abuse, Abusive relationship, Choking, Degradation, Manhandling, Threats, Possessiveness, Alastor is a massive asshole and mean as shit. Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Hindsight was always 20/20.

A bit of an understatement, really. Looking back it was hard to believe just how much one decision could impact your entire afterlife, and you wanted to kick yourself.

Desperation was the excuse you gave yourself whenever you thought about why you made a deal with Alastor.

What he proposed wasn’t something you thought too much of at the time. In exchange for your soul, he offered you security - solidarity in a realm where most were keen on focusing on the weakest among them and tearing them to shreds. Not only would you be protected on a daily basis, but you had, essentially, a guarantee that you would survive extermination day whenever it inevitably rolled around.

Seemed almost too good to be true, but knowing the risks involved in refusing, you had accepted.

He never asked much of you in return, much to your surprise. Nothing that ever seemed too unreasonable, at least. If anything, the things he asked of you felt more like exchanges that would occur between friends - taking on small tasks he’d otherwise find too boring to entertain.

Sometimes you’d even go as far as to call them domestic.

Oh, but you knew better than to assume your relationship fell anywhere close to friendship. Amicable was a better word, not good nor bad, but certainly nothing to be overtly confident about - which made what you intended to ask so much worse.

The very thought of it made a shiver go through your body as you walked through the Hotel hallway. A voice in the back of your mind, your conscience perhaps, whispered that it wasn’t too late to turn back. To do a complete 180 and march right back the way you came.

You didn’t listen.

By the time you came to a stop, the hairs on your arms stood completely on end. The door in front of you looked exactly like the others that lined the hallway, deceptive in its mundane simplicity. It only made the feeling of foreboding that much worse as you held your breath and raised your hand to knock, knuckles barely grazing the polished wood at first but connecting more solidly the second time around.

A part of you prayed there wouldn’t be an answer, nails digging further into your palms as the silence extended onwards.

Please don’t answer, please don’t answer-

All hopes were dashed by the dark wood swinging open to reveal a wall of red.

Alastor bent slightly at the waist when greeting you, bringing his eye level slightly down to yours, “My, my, what a pleasant surprise this is!~”

The smile you could muster in response didn’t even come close to matching his own, and your greeting not nearly as jovial.

“Hi.” You said, pausing briefly between words. “I was wondering if you had a few minutes?”

The signature clicking of his vertebrae accompanied the tilt of his head as he stared down at you intrigued. “Whatever for?~”

You began to pick at your nail beds. “Just to talk.”

Alastor hummed, amusement dancing behind his eyes before he opened the door to his suite a little bit wider.

“Oh, I suppose I could spare a moment or two for somebody like you.~”

The way he said it made you unsure whether such a statement was a compliment or an insult, but regardless you followed him inside.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you…” You began to say, looking around the space. No matter how many times you’d been inside, you’d never get used to it.

“Not at all, sweetheart!~” His arm came around your shoulders, leading you further into his suite and towards the table he had set up in the swampland that seamlessly blended in with the decor.

With a flash of green another chair appeared beside his own, and he gestured towards it with the end of his microphone staff.

“Have a seat.~”

You complied, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you did so. Foolishly, you had hoped to stay standing for this conversation in order to keep it as brief as possible. The cool metal of the chair dug into the skin of your thighs despite your clothing and you found yourself staring at the tabletop rather than at Alastor himself.

“Now,” There was some rustling of paper as Alastor picked a newspaper back up off the table, half paying attention to you when he spoke. “What can I do for you, my dear?”

This was it. No going back, no cutting corners, better to rip the bandaid off than to beat around the bush.

You bit your cheek harder and you could already taste the blood on your tongue before you opened your mouth.

“I want out.”

Alastor barely looked in your direction, but the subtle twitch of his ear was hard to miss once you spoke.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow but never took his eyes off the paper in his lap as he turned the page. “Care to elaborate?”

“Our deal.” The words felt thick when you spoke them. Heavy. “I want my soul back.”

Alastor’s pause made the atmosphere feel nothing short of dreadful as he turned his head to look at you directly. His ever-present smile widened while his eyes narrowed.

“Now what makes you think you deserve that, sweetheart?~”

“It isn’t about deserving anything.” You stated, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. “It’s… renegotiating.”

Alastor snickered, the sound accompanied by a pre-recorded laugh track.

“Well, aren’t you simply adorable?” He placed the newspaper off to the side and rapped his claws against the table. “Unfortunately for you, that’s not how deals work.”

Your hands curled into fists in your lap as he continued speaking.

“While the deal we made was a fairly simple one, the end result is the same.” He crossed his legs and leaned back in his seat. “I own your soul. There aren’t any take-backsies on the matter.”

Nails bit into your palm at the syrupy condescension in his voice. It made anger brim in your chest, but acting on emotion was not a smart move here.

You took a deep breath. “Our deal has run its course, though.” You did your best to ignore how his eyes narrowed further at that. “Now that I’m at the Hotel… it offers what you originally did, so your part of the bargain is no longer necessary.”

His eyes flashed, glowing a brighter red and illuminating the space between the two of you for a moment.

“Ah, I see. You think our deal is now void because I’ve been replaced in a sense.” His smile was anything but reassuring or kind. “And therefore you shouldn’t be expected to uphold your end of the bargain, am I correct?~”

You swallowed thickly. “Yes.”

Alastor tutted. “My dear, who are you to get to decide when our deal is void in any way, shape, or form?”

The question was clearly rhetorical, but you answered anyway.

“Because it’s my soul.” The firmness in your voice did little to cover how weak of an answer that truly was. “I should be able to get a say in when we’ve reached the end of our contract-”

A green flash and the cold snap of metal around your neck cut off any further words you had to say. You barely had any time to register your air getting cut off as you were yanked forward harshly into the dirt - leaving you coughing when the chain slackened enough for you to breathe once more.

“It seems to me that you are forgetting a few things, darling,” Alastor said, pulling sharply on the chain once more to force your face back up to his.

Green stitches lined the seams of his clothes and wove at the edges of his smile - antlers growing with each word he spoke, and it took every bit of courage you had to bite back a whimper.

He was pissed.

“Firstly, the Hotel,” He cooed sweetly,” is the sanctuary you rave it to be because I keep it that way.”

Alastor stood from his chair and stalked towards you, wrapping the end of the chain around his microphone as he went.

“Secondly, might I remind you that it was you who approached me.” He hissed, faux kindness mixing with the barely contained anger you could see in his eyes.

“You,” He nudged your chin with the end of his microphone, “ came to me with the proposal of offering yourself in exchange for my services, not the other way around.” His eyes scanned over your form - lingering on the way your chest moved rapidly to accommodate your breaths before returning to your face.

“I've grown... accustomed to you, my dear, and our deal stands until I say so. Since you are seemingly incapable of understanding the subtleties of that, I’ll put it in simple terms so you can understand.”

The cool metal of your collar was soon replaced with the warm, smooth texture of his glove as he kneeled in the dirt and wrapped his hand around your neck. The gesture made you gasp, reflexively drawing in as much air as possible before he could choke you, but Alastor didn’t squeeze. Instead, he let the weight of his hand do the work.

“I own you. Every breath you take, every little thought in that empty head of yours belongs completely and solely to me.”

The black of his gums peeked out as his smile - which felt more akin to a snarl - widened. “Besides, what would you even do if I gave your soul back?”

Another rhetorical question, but the humiliation and inequity of the situation caused you to answer once more despite everything inside screaming at you not to.

“That’s my business.”

The sheer volume of emotion that passed through Alastor’s eyes told you that was the wrong fucking answer to give.

He snickered and leaned closer to the point you could smell the rot of his breath. “See, you might think that, darling, but since you’re mine, it’s my business too. So here’s how this is going to go.”

The hand around your throat began to squeeze.

“My business is to keep you. You’ll keep doing each and every little thing I ask of you, and you certainly won’t voice complaint when doing so.”

You choked and sputtered again when he hauled you to your feet by your throat and pushed you back into your seat - the armrests catching you directly in the funny bone, causing you to yelp. He placed his hands on either side of you and leered over you. It was the smallest you’d ever felt in your life.

“I’m more than willing to speak to you about anything you wish, darling, I truly am.” He said, inhaling deeply before continuing, and you swore his smile dropped the most you’d ever seen it.

“But if you ever try to speak to me about this again, you’ll learn just how easy you have it with me, is that clear?”

You felt yourself nodding before your mind could even register it. “C-crystal.”

A mixture of relief and dread sunk in your stomach when his smile returned to its normal state and he reached his hand up to pat you twice on the head.

“That’s my girl.~”

© absolute-flaming-trash 2024. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.

[justafellr]

Now that I got the main emotions out of the way, I can finally talk about the revamped emotions that were scrapped. I am incredibly eager to talk about one in particular since I have a very interesting interpretation of them Let's at long last talk about the swamp creature themself, Shame

My Shame is completely different from the concept version of the character. The Shame in the concept version is very antagonistic, hostile and not very loving compared to the other emotions. No wonder she was scrapped. I never liked this read of the emotion since 1, the character never really felt ashamed and 2, I felt this more so reveals how psychologists and the public look at Shame, that and the current description of the feeling as a purely negative, self deprecating and maladaptive emotion that makes one feel worthless and subhuman, to the point that some hesitate to call it an emotion due to how seemingly purely destructive it is, and those who try to apply positives to it make it sound to similar too Embarrassment and Guilt, creating even more confusion and debate. But Shame is a very different emotion from them and I feel looking at it through a different and compassionate lens is essential to see the value in the emotion So the original definition of Shame means "to hide" and what does Shame often hide away? Aspects of ourselves, our actions or behaviors that would be considered scorn worthy by the social group/society or was scorned in the past, which is very different from emotions like Embarrassment and Guilt, where the former acts more like an appeasement gesture for a silly mistake or foolish behavior and the latter makes one want to make up for and fix present/past mistakes or moral transgressions. It protects u from being ostracized Shame would be a reclusive, secretive, semi anti social and soft spoken emotion. They often tug their long hair out of insecurity or fear and tends to hide behind their hair when they felt like they did something scorn worthy and has a tendency to shut down and hide away. They're very inhibitory and often holds the other emotions back and reminds them of the social consequences of their actions, and also of what happened the last time they did the thing. They keep a veil of "parts of us that the world mustn't see" and or "parts of us that was seen with unloving eye's". To put it simply, they a keeper and a protector of one's most vulnerable aspects of oneself, and keeps them low from any potential scorn or ridicule I love the idea that instead of Shame being an antagonistic and harsh critic of their person as most people tend to associate with Shame, they are an emotion that arguably loves their person THE MOST out of all of the emotions since they keeps the deeper and more vulnerable aspects of their person with them and to themself only, protecting them with all of their might and only revealing them when they think they are accepted or acceptable

Their design is inspired by very specific concept art of Shame. I always preferred the swampy look of the character since Shame is often referred to by psychologists as "the swamplands of the soul". I love how they would have absurdly long hair, perfect for hiding away out of, well, shame lol

[the-old-mayhem]

"So far, I've written the lyrics to all the songs after Deathcrush: "Funeral Fog", "Freezing Moon", "Buried by Time and Dust" and "Pagan Fears".

Mostly they deal with how I felt when I wrote them. It's hard to explain, and they are very different too. I can explain "Funeral Fog", it's about the legendary place in the middle of the Carpathian horseshoe. A swampland called Shurlock Basin which is surrounded by fearful superstitions and the weirdest beings are said to haunt the place.

That's what I thought about when I wrote that song. l imagined a heavy fog lit up by the full moon. This fog oozed up from that place. Drifting woefully in silence to extinguish the lives of the local people and bring their souls to Lord Satan." - Pelle, Slayer mag X 🦇

Part 1/4 of Pelle explaining DMDS lyrics

@the.old.mayhem on instagram

[gatheringbones]

[“Many psychodynamic therapists understand that they must work with how their patients’ pasts play out in the present. In this way they attempt to help them secure a better, healthier, more focused, effective, and vibrant future. However, without a working understanding of how trauma becomes inscribed as memory imprints in body, brain, and mind, as well as in psyche and soul, the healer is sure to lose his or her way in the labyrinth of cause and effect. For effective therapy, it is critical to appreciate just how trauma becomes riveted in the body’s instinctive reactions to perceived threat; how it becomes fixated in certain emotions, particularly those of fear, terror, and rage, as well as in habitual affective mood states such as depression, bipolarity, and loss of vital energy; and finally, how it plays out in various self-destructive and repetitive behaviors.

Without a firm grasp of the multidimensional structure of traumatic memory as it is stored in the brain and held in the body, the therapist is often left floundering in the swamplands of ambiguity and uncertainty. Indeed, misconceptions about so-called recovered memories have caused much unnecessary pain and suffering for patients and for their families, while also creating confusion and self-doubt for the therapists who treat them.

Perhaps more than we might wish to admit, many therapists are influenced by common misconceptions about the nature of memory. Traditionally, both academic and clinical psychologists have tended to study what has been called “verbally accessible memory.” This “declarative” form of memory is called upon and rewarded in elementary, middle, and high school, as well as in undergraduate and graduate studies. No small wonder then that psychologists and psychotherapists, as products of academia, tend to reflexively identify with this particular kind of conscious memory. However, conscious, explicit memory is only the proverbial tip of a very deep and mighty iceberg. It barely hints at the submerged strata of primal implicit experience that moves and motivates us in ways that the conscious mind can only begin to imagine. But imagine we should, and understand we must, if we are to work effectively and wisely with trauma and its memory traces in both mind and body.”]

peter levine, from trauma and memory: brain and body in a search for a living past, 2015

[hazbintrashbin]

“I’ve got a little SQUISH on you!” (Aroace/AAspec ft. RadioRose (Alastor x Rosie) Pt. II

When did they realize they had a 🦑 squish 🦑??:

Part I 🌹 | Part II 📻

Alastor 📻:

📻 You could pull every tooth from its bed, tearing the nerves from its nestled dens within the depths of his gums...

📻 But you could never, ever get Alastor --

📻 The ever-elusive yet dangerously strong Radio Demon himself --

📻 To admit his woes.

📻 They will always and forever remain in his back pocket. Better yet, it'll remain in the little tin cookie container, tucked among all of the bobbins of thread and needles and scraps of fabric, hidden beneath the cluster of shoes and clothes and miscellaneous items in Alastor's large, dark closet.

📻 It was an early morning in Hell. About four in the morning.

📻 Alastor ambles across the swamp, wearing nothing but a loose cotton shirt and simple pants, a long rifle strapped across his back. On his shoulder, he hauls a limp hog.

📻 "Oh, a pitiful creature you are!" Alastor says as he approaches the end of the swampland. There, his dining table awaits this fresh lump of meat. Tossing it onto the table, Alastor doesn't bother to change apart from poofing himself a clean cotton shirt.

📻 "But how delicious you'll be!" Alastor sits, grabbing a nearby fancy box. He pulls out a large knife and a rod. Idly, he rakes the knife across the rod.

📻 And he rakes, and rakes, and rakes. The metal shavings begin to glitter across his lap.

📻 Slowly, his eyes trail toward a thick cord, following it up a ladder heading toward the door in his ceiling.

📻 The trapdoor is cracked open --not because he left it that way, but because of the damage it received (along with the rest of his studio) from the epic battle between them and the Angels.

📻 Alastor's raking hand slows to a stop.

📻 Up in that room amidst the debris is his microphone. The stand's been fixed, but the mic's damaged. Alastor's been making it work as he attempts to fix it, but...

📻 He sighs, his smile growing small.

📻 If he could've beaten that damn Adam, he'd be an even stronger overlord than he already is. Perhaps even stronger than many hellborns. He'd probably even be able to fight himself out of that shitty deal...

📻 Ring, ring!

📻 Alastor's ears shoot up in surprise.

📻 Ah, yes! He'd gotten a personal landline from his dear friend Rosie not very long ago!

📻 Without realizing it, Alastor stands from his seat to swiftly move toward the phone, grinning wider than before.

📻 It's an elegant candlestick-styled landline encrusted with golden swirls and molded from a beautiful, shimmering red.

📻 A gift that could be from no one other than Rosie...

📻 "Hello, Alastor speaking!"

📻 "Alastor," Rosie laughs heartily, and Alastor's cheeks press into his eyes as he basks in her moment of amusement. "You don't need to answer the phone that way, you know!"

📻 "Oh, but I simply want you to know that you're speaking with me, my dear!" Alastor says cheekily.

📻 "I see... so, does that mean the Radio Demon himself has an imposter on the loose?" Rosie asks, matching Alastor's sass. He can almost feel her signature sharp grin growing ever wider.

📻 "Of course not!" Alastor chirps. "Because I'd have already tracked him down and killed him!" Instinctively, Alastor's free hand pulls itself into a tightly balled fist, a green glow suddenly shooting from his being as he feels the souls swirling within buzz with life, his horns stretching across his torso.

📻 Truthfully, the very thought of someone imitating him and potentially tricking Rosie pisses him off. Perhaps he should go out and make an example of someone... you know, just to keep the record straight.

📻 Rosie laughs even harder. "Oh, Alastor! I wouldn't have believed it for a second!"

📻 "Hm. Is that so?" Alastor's horns shrink, and just that quick, he's calm. He sits at his dressing table, leaning into his hand as he presses the earpiece further into his ear.

📻 "No, what do you take me for, a fool?" Before Alastor can say anything, Rosie follows up with, "I could never mistake anyone else for you, hun."

📻 There is a short pause, and Alastor hums. Rosie continues...

📻 "I have a peculiar feeling, though. It's the reason I called you today."

📻 "Oh? And what would that reason be?" Alastor asks. He lifts his head from his palm, preferring to twirl the earpiece's cord at the moment.

📻 "I haven't seen or heard from you since that crazy battle two days ago. I know you're still healing Alastor --"

📻 "Not at all!" The words shoot through Alastor's teeth, and Rosie falls silent. The quietness between them grows as Alastor tenses for a moment. His smile feeling quite forced now, he clears his throat.

📻 "I'm doing just fine, Rosie. Is that all you wanted to say?" Alastor's ears remain pinned down, and he drags his pointed nails across the table's surface, making light scratches in it. There's a low, rumbly sound on the other line. Rosie's humming.

📻 Finally, she says, "I know you too well, Alastor."

📻 "Really?" Snarkily, Alastor says, "I think there's more to know, my friend!"

📻 Rosie asks if that's a joke or if he seriously believes that. Alastor replies but doesn't necessarily answer the question.

📻 Honestly, he doesn't know if he's joking or not either.

📻 "You're irritated." Rosie simply says.

📻 "Not so --I feel quite well this morning!" Alastor insists.

📻 "You're not usually up at four, nearly five in the morning. Your day starts at six or seven, maybe seven-thirty going on eight if you're sleeping in late." Rosie says firmly. The tightness in her voice makes Alastor's grin slowly pull back into some kind of snarl, his nose crinkling. Heat rises within him, his face going from a purplish gray to a deep magenta.

📻 "Rosie," Alastor chuckles, but nothing's funny. "What do you know of my schedule? No one knows my schedule."

📻 "I know you usually start your morning with a hunt and a cold meal." She says.

📻 "Many people do!" Alastor replies.

📻 "Usually, you're already dressed, but given the time, I bet you're in your drabbier clothes."

📻 "Hah! I'm fully dressed!" Alastor says, awkwardly glancing elsewhere at the blatant lie.

📻 "With a smile? Sure. In your day clothes? Absolutely not!" Rosie huffs.

📻 "Well, what does it matter to you, Rosie?!" Alastor snaps, his fist slamming onto the table. Rosie laughs a little. It's adorable, but it only pisses him off more.

📻 "And losing your temper? Now, that's really not like you, Alastor." Rosie says. Alastor grunts. Being taunted into acting out of his character... is unlike him.

📻 And pretty embarrassing, actually.

📻 Especially on the phone with Rosie...

📻 Trying his best to regain control, Alastor slowly lets out a laugh of his own. It's a little weird-sounding --not entirely forced and not entirely genuine...

📻 "Come on, Alastor," Rosie finally says, "Tell me what's wrong."

📻 Alastor remains silent, however. His lips purse into an uncomfortably tight smile.

📻 "You know how I know something's wrong with you?" Rosie asks.

📻 Alastor remains silent. After a while, Rosie says...

📻 "You're speaking without your radio voice."

📻 Somehow, Alastor's brows furrow even more. His spirit shrivels into a tiny ball, and if he had a tail --truthfully -- it'd probably be tucking itself beneath his behind by now.

📻 "Alastor the Radio Demon has a very distinctive voice, you know!" Rosie says, "But every now and again, when it's an odd hour of the day, and there hasn't been any broadcasts, or those baby overlords aren't complaining about a certain radio demon on their little picture boxes or tiny telephones..."

📻 "When I don't even hear a Cab Calloway song or a ragtime piece playing on your channel... I know there's something wrong with my dearest friend." Rosie finishes her explanation, now going silent. Alastor remains silent as well.

📻 A few moments pass.

📻 "... Alastor? Are you there, Alastor?" Rosie asks.

📻 "... Of course I am, my dear."

📻 With his refusal to say anything else, Rosie sighs deeply.

📻 "I suppose you don't want to tell me." She says.

📻 "Well --" Alastor is interrupted by Rosie.

📻 "Ah, ah, ah! Don't worry about it. I won't push you any further." She says this so sweetly, a smile evident in her tone.

📻 After a moment, Alastor can't help but think to himself, "She's the only person in all of Hell who could get under my skin like this and yet survive."

📻 Does she realize how special she is?

📻 Then, Alastor shifts in his seat, leaning into his chair and tucking his free hand into the sleeve that is his arm and torso.

📻 Indeed, she's a special demon after all. How could he ever stay mad at one of his closest friends?

📻 Alastor's spirit slowly lifts and expands inside him, and before he knows it, his mouth moves on its own.

📻 "You have always been so earnest, Rosie," he says, "It has always been the spirit I've admired in you."

📻 "Oh!" Rosie seems caught off guard, and Alastor finds himself laughing. For real, this time.

📻 His ears lift as do his shoulders. Everything's brighter just that quickly.

📻 "You've always been so charming, my friend!" He continues. "A one-of-a-kind demon belle."

📻 This time Rosie gets to laugh.

📻 With half-lidded eyes, Alastor shifts to lean into his hand again. He takes this moment to simply enjoy the sound of Rosie's laughter this early hellish morning.

📻 "Oh, Alastor," she coos between her giggles, "You're the most!"

📻 "And you're the mostest."

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

WOO!! Finally done!!

I did NOT intend for Alastor's part to be so long! Like, BRO, when I finished writing it (FINALLY!) I just sat back and checked the time… it went from 11PMish when I started to damn 2, goin’ on 3 o’clock!! I was like “WTH??!!” 😭😂😂

Plus!! I feel like the beginning is kind of slow, but, BUT I think y'all gonna survive based on the rest of the story!

That said, I kinda feel like this part of the “Squish” collection leans a lot more platonic as compared to Rosie’s part, but I thought about it and was like: “You know, that’s not necessarily a bad thing!” After all, while I personally HC Rosie as someone in the grey area of aroace, I always imagine Alastor as someone who is romance-indifferent (based on how he behaved in the comics when some of the ladies of cannibal town were swooning over him, otherwise, I don’t know if there’s been any other info from the creators about his feelings toward romance (not smex!!), but I don’t get the impression that he’s disgusted or completely put off by it —just disinterested, if nothing else). As such, I felt like someone like Alastor, while not seemingly as bothered by the idea of intimacy/romance as much as he is seggs, would probably not think romance or even behave in such a way when dealing with someone he’s especially close to. At the same time, with the kind of chemistry he has with Rosie, I can easily see an intimate bond between them. Is it sexual intimacy? Absolutely not. Romantic intimacy? … Ehhhhh, so-so but not quite, especially on Alastor’s end. Is it simply a deep, emotional kind of intimacy? Slightly blurring the lines between platonic and romantic?? Well, yeah, kind of like that!

All and all, I’m still deciding what kind of quasi-platonic relationship I want them to have. I feel like it would be a kind of intimate relationship where certain forms of intimacy are welcome (cuddles, hand-holding/arm-linking, hours specifically reserved for each other (dates, lol), innocent kisses here and there, etc), but in honor of Alastor’s sex-averse nature, I imagine sex, for example, isn’t really something they would engage in —if ever at all, honestly.

And I think I feel fine with that. There’s plenty of Alastor content that completely ignores his sex-averse nature for the sake of a spicy fanfic, and to each their own I suppose, but I do think there could be at least a fair amount of content (shipping or otherwise) that still at least tries to respect Alastor’s orientation.

Although, at the same time I feel like for those who challenge Alastor being paired with anyone, many of them are starting to imply (or flat-out say) that bc of his aroaceness he couldn’t possibly be in a relationship of any kind?? That he’d be utterly repulsed by it??

On one hand, if that’s your headcanon, do what you want! Plus, there are def aroace folk who don’t want to engage in relationships of any kind, and that’s valid, too. On the other hand, I’m a little concerned that a lot of people are starting to (once again) associate all ace, aro-, and aroaces with this inherent disgust or disinterest in intimacy! I feel like this is snowballing into the “aces/aros/aroaces are emotionless/can’t love/robots” kind of thing!! And this time, it’s being perpetuated by other aroace/aspec people!! Which is crazy!!

All in all though, I just feel like —bottom line —if you’re gonna ship Alastor, at least try to be respectful of his orientation. However, let us all keep in mind that being aroace/aspec does NOT mean you “can’t love”/care about some intimately. That may not include sex/romance, and if it does, it may not look the way it’s depicted in allo relationships, but that doesn’t make it any less valid. Idk. It’s just something I’ve been noticing lately… IDK!!! It’s complicated, lol.

Anywho, I’ll finally get off my soapbox again!! lol. I believe I said I’d follow up on this miniature RadioRose collection with a few HCs?? Like a traditional HC list?? Soo…. Yeah!

Hope you guys enjoyed the post, long as it is —and all of you stay tuned!!! 📻

Part I 🌹 | Part II 📻

[dailydemonspotlight]

Day 11 - Pyro Jack / Jack-o'-lantern

Race: Fairy

Alignment: Neutral

April 3rd, 2024

On the streets at night in the cold, deep darkness, a candle flickers. You know this means only one thing. Hallow's eve is right around the corner. Introducing the second of the Jack Bros, Pyro Jack!

In Ireland since the 1700's, it's been a tradition to put up Jack-o'-lanterns as the month errs towards Halloween, inspired by the legend of a man known as 'Stingy Jack.' According to the story, there was a tricky drunk in an Irish town with the name Jack, a man who would sell a soul for six silver coins or break into a bank in order to fuel his ever-growing reliance on booze. He was hated, by even the heavens itself, yet soon he found himself at death's door. That is when the Devil came to him, to see if he was truly as terrible as the stories painted him out to be.

One night, Jack wandered the cobblestone roads before coming to a dreadful sight- a body, laying smack-dab in the center of the road. However, it had a face not of death, but rather, devilish envy, as the Devil himself made his presence known. Jack had one last request, one typical of a drunkard- to get one last drink in before the end. The Devil obliged, likely finding it foolish, and took him to a pub, where they both drank the night away. Jack, then, asked the Devil to cover his tab. His idea? To turn the beast into a silver coin. Impressed by his trickiness, the Devil did as asked... only to be slipped into a pocket with a crucifix, held captive by slippery Jack, who had now fucked with the devil himself. Baffled and trapped, the two made a deal- Jack would be given 10 more years on the earth.

Unsurprisingly, when the time came, Jack yet again tricked the Devil, and was granted eternal recompense, as the Devil was forced to make him never go to hell. Ever. When Jack's time came, however, his life of deceit and fraud only gave him a ticket out of Heaven's pearly gates, and the Devil wasn't one to give up on a deal either, so he was eventually forced back to earth, forever to roam as a lost spirit held alive by the flickering light of a lantern within a turnip. Ever since, Jack-o'-lanterns have been a popular tradition of Halloween, originally starting as incredibly freaky looking rutabagas before eventually changing to the far more iconic autumn fruit of a pumpkin.

The idea behind the lighting of the Jack-o'-lanterns is scarcely known, but it's mostly thought to be a tradition to help guide Stringy Jack along the roads and to help his soul find peace in his eternal roaming of the plains of earth.

Pyro Jack, unsurprisingly, is based on Jack-o'-lanterns, though mostly in his pumpkin head. The lantern he carries is likely an allusion to Stringy Jack, lighting the way for his soul to wander aimlessly in the megaten world. Being the second Jack Brother, Pyro Jack is also his counterpart, representing the flame to Jack Frost's ice. Pyro Jack is also based on the phenomenon of Will-o'-wisps, flickering lights that appear in the dead of night with no real explanation, typically around swampland and forests.

He typically appears in every SMT game, mostly as an early game demon, as well as a component to his big brother, Black Frost. Overall, Pyro Jack has a fun and festive Halloween design, some really fun folklore, and, while simple, works as a perfectly effective little spooky spirit in the smt series.

[shellem15]

The Nine Hells of Baator

As a devil fangirl, I finally decided to write a basic overview of the Nine Hells, which has consumed my brain since forever. While most of this is taken straight from forgotten realms lore (shoutout to the wiki!), I've put my own spin on things and emphasized certain details I found interesting. The list of sins associated with each layer (Wrath, Fear, Greed, Lust, Deceit, Gluttony, Sloth, Envy, and Pride) is taken from the Enneagram sins, because I needed 9 of them instead of just 7.

I might decide to go more into depth for each layer/archdevil, but no promises!

Overview:

The Nine Hells of Baator is a plane of pure law and evil, a place where tyranny reigns supreme. Devils, or Baatezu, make their home here, crafted from the souls of the damned and eternally bound to serve their betters. The Hells consist of nine descending layers of sin and punishment, connected by the flowing waters of the river Styx. Each layer is ruled by an Archdevil, a devil of immense power and influence who exerts total control over their domain. While the layers are distinct, they are still interconnected, each serving a purpose to further the Hells' agenda.

Devilish society is centered around power, hierarchy, and order, with those without power seeking to claim it and those with power seeking to keep it. The Blood War, the endless conflict between Devils and Demons, keeps the Hells running; an eternal enmity that keeps the populace from turning against their masters. Everything in the Hells ultimately serves to further the goals of Asmodeus, the Lord and Master of this dark domain.

Avernus:

The first layer of Hell is Avernus, a blasted plane of endless trenches and rivers of blood. It is a war-torn battlefield, the Hells' first line of defense against the ceaseless hordes of demon-kind. This is the layer of Wrath, of eternal bloodshed and unending hatred. The armies of the Hells are stationed here, ready to be thrown to the crushing wheel of the Blood War.

Avernus is ruled over by their fell general, the Archduchess Zariel. A fearsome warrior—a fallen angel—who lives for the kill, for the next great conquest.

Dis:

The second layer of Hell is Dis, a plane of those who watch, and those who are watched. An iron city, one of smoke and steel and hidden eyes. This is the layer of Fear, whose denizens live in terror of those beyond the walls—and of those within, as well. Dis acts as a multi-tool for the Hells: it is a hub of interplanar trade, a great titan of industry that produces the arms and means needed to fuel the Blood War, and, most critically, it contains the greatest surveillance network in the outer planes. Knowledge is as valuable as souls in the streets of Dis.

The overseer of this foul city is the Archduke Dispater, an old devil, paranoid about usurpation despite the tight grip he keeps over his domain. He locks himself away in his iron tower, a panopticon from which he monitors all dealings in his realm.

Minarous:

The third layer of Hell is Minarous, a plane of those who have, and those who have not. It is a thick swampland, home to monstrosities that slither and crawl through the muck and mud. This is the layer of Greed, of crushing poverty, sinking debt, and grabbing hands. The heart of this fetid realm is the Bank of Minarous, the center of all commerce in the Nine Hells. This is only bank allowed to mint soul coins, the official currency of the Hells. The Blood War runs on the souls of the damned, and all souls pass through Minarous' coffers.

The master of the bank is the Archduke Mammon, a miserly, serpentine devil who sits upon a hoard larger than any dragon's. He is a devil loved by none, but money speaks louder than words, and power is oft bought rather than earned.

Phlethegos:

The fourth layer of Hell is Phlethegos, a plane of flame and rock, pleasure and penance, judges and those who whisper in their ears. The great courts of the Hells reside in this volcanic realm, and so too do the pleasure houses and casinos. This is the layer of Lust, of tipped scales and weighted dice, of burning passion underneath cool indifference, of great rewards and dire consequences. Law and order is the backbone of Hellish society, and it is here where "justice" is served.

Reflecting the dual nature of Phlethegos, the rulers of this place are the Archduke Belial and Archduchess Fierna. Belial is the original ruler of the fourth Hell, the great Justiciar who presides over the court system. Fierna is the newcomer, Belial's daughter and rising challenger, the Lady of Lusts and Pleasures. On the surface, it seems that father and daughter are at odds, each vying for power over the other; Much like their realm, however, their interests are more entwined then one might think.

Stygia:

The fifth layer of Hell is Stygia, a plane of lies and exaggerations, of truths distorted in icy reflections. A frozen ocean of dark waters and bright glaciers blinding those who gaze into the ice. This is the layer of Deceit, of endless news cycles and lies sold as truths. A war cannot be fought without support, and the broadcasts of the fifth ensure the thirst for blood among Hell's populace is never sated.

The chief of this artic bureau is the Archduke Levistus, a handsome, silver-tongued devil frozen in a vast glacier. The conniving charlatan was trapped as punishment for his own treachery, and now can only speak though the forked tongues of his servantry.

Malbolge:

The sixth layer of Hell is Malbolge, a twisted plane of cushioned cellblocks, of iron bars and shackles disguised as sweet salvation. It is an endless labyrinth, a prison of luxury and extravagance which traps its inmates like flies in honey. This is the layer of Gluttony, where excess and indulgence bind souls tighter than any chain. Even the Hells have its lawbreakers, its criminals and traitors, and here is where those souls are sentenced, forced to pay penance for their crimes and misdeeds.

The warden of this dreadful prison is the Archduchess Glasya, Princess of the Hells and daughter of Asmodeus. While she oversees the Hells' penal system, she is also the Hells' greatest criminal, bending Baator's laws and rules as far as she can while skirting her way out of consequences.

Maladomini:

The seventh layer of Hell is Maladomini, a once-bustling plane now fallen to rot and ruin. It is a place of the lost and forgotten, of decaying cities, crumbling infrastructure, and long-abandoned ghost towns. This is the layer of Sloth, of malicious negligence and crushing complacency, of rusted factories and strip-mines long since dried up. Bureaucracy is the bane of progress, and here, where all the records in the Hells are kept and stored, bureaucracy reigns supreme.

The chief executive of this putrid domain is the Archduke Baalzebul, the Lord of the Flies. Once a beautiful angel of the Heavens themselves, he is now as grotesque and wretched as the realm he rules.

Cania:

The eighth layer of Hell is Cania, a plane of melting ice and rapid development, of forbidden knowledge and those who wield it. It is a frozen mountain range, one where vast glaciers and snow-capped peaks hide secret laboratories and great libraries, where "progress" is made at the expense of morality and reason. This is the layer of Envy, of the relentless strive to be greater than your peers, of the pain one feels at others' success. The Blood War demands bigger weapons and greater firepower, and Cania is at the forefront of these advancements.

The mastermind behind this frigid realm is the Archduke Mephistopheles, the Hells' greatest wizard and second-most powerful Archdevil. In his resentment of his fellows, the Lord of Hellfire has thrown himself to invention and experimentation, creating new and terrible magics that melt the very foundations of his icy domain.

Nessus:

The ninth and lowest layer of Hell is Nessus, a plane of those who rule and hold themselves above all else—a plane of power itself. It is a wind-swept wasteland scarred by endless chasms and ravines, where grand citadels and fortresses light up the darkest trenches in the Outer Planes; where the greatest deals are struck behind closed doors. This is the layer of Pride, of great hubris and unwavering conviction—the mother of all vices. It is here where laws are made and authority is unchallenged, where power is held as most sacred and holy. All the Hells are beholden to the will of Nessus.

The Lord of this realm, and of all the Hells, is the Archduke Asmodeus. The greatest of all devils, the Lord of Lies and Prince of Evil, the mastermind behind the Hellish Project. He is ancient and powerful, unchallenged in his dominion, and a being of pure, unfettered arrogance. A tyrant who seeks absolute domination over all of reality, and one willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that goal.

[qogoist]

Jae x Alethea 14

Heinrix x Alethea 25

Marazhai x Alethea 35

14. ...casually.

Alethea had spent the last hour or so meticulously disassembling and cleaning every part of her rifle, her pistols, and most of her armor. After wading through swampland and fighting several entrenched battles, during their last mission, they certainly needed it.

Now, she stared at it all blankly and wondered if she still had the energy to reassemble everything.

It was for that reason that she didn't hear the quiet steps of Jae as she approached her, and almost drew a knife when she suddenly hugged her from behind to press a kiss on her cheek, then, as Alethea turned towards her, another one on her lips.

"Are you still at it, shereen?" Jae's eyes flicked to the weapon parts laid out on the table. "You know you do have servants for exactly such a thing."

"And you know that I don't like other people touching my weapons. If you want something done right..."

"...do it yourself. I know, I know." Jae grinned at her and pulled one of the nearby chairs closer. "At least let me help."

25. ...as a "yes".

Interrogator von Calox was not a man ruled by emotion. That was what he kept telling himself, at least. In fact, he had spent the majority of his life trying to purge every sense of emotion from his mind until nothing but cold, calculated logic remained.

Still, he found himself here, late at night, in the quarters of the Rogue Trader von Valancius - Alethea, he reminded himself - sitting on a rather uncomfortable couch next to her. Only inches separated them.

The impropriety of the situation was not lost on him.

"Lord Captain, I..."

"That's Alethea. We've gone over this before." She regarded him with inscrutable green eyes, her lips a thin line.

"Alethea... I... We... This cannot go on. I am an Agent of the Inquisition and you are, well... " He motioned towards her. There were many things he wanted to say, yet none felt adequate. "... you."

Her eyes narrowed and jaw tensed ever so slightly, the only signs of the emotions boiling underneath the surface. Still, her voice stayed cool and measured. "So what is it you propose?"

"I will inform the Lord Inquisitor of my progress and request to be reassigned. I can find passage on the next imperial voidship we encounter. I will be gone before you know it."

She tilted her head to the side and simply kept silent while her deep green eyes bore into his soul. His heart quickened as she moved closer and he inhaled her scent - floral, yet earthy. It reminded him of his ancestral home on Guisorn III.

Then, her voice barely a whisper, she asked: "And if I asked you to stay? Would you?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he simply closed what little distance was left between them and kissed her.

35. ...to gain something.

She was still nursing several cuts and bruises, as well as at least three broken ribs, when Alethea followed the Drukhari that had brought them here.

She swallowed bile, and a portion of her pride, as she schooled her face into a pleasant, yet commanding smile. She patiently listened to Marazhai explain his plan, no, his fantasies of vengeance, nodding along and asking questions whenever necessary. Men, whether human or xenos, it seemed, very much enjoyed feeling important.

When he removed the bent plate from his shoulder, revealing the pale skin and taught muscles underneath, she was painfully reminded of her own throbbing wounds. She pushed the thought aside. There were more important things right now.

Marazhai, it seemed, had mistaken her expression for interest, and had seized her chin with a clawed hand, regarding her with dilated pupils as he leaned close.

"I can show you that world, Alethea. I can teach you. If you do as you are told."

Anger burned through her veins and made her heart beat faster. She was no pet to be handled like this. Not ever again. And yet... She needed him if she wanted to escape this place. And she had come too far to die in this abhorrent place.

She leaned in, closing what little distance remained between them, and hungrily pressed her lips to his. Much to her relief he returned the kiss eagerly, after a moment of surprise.

She could taste copper in her mouth and see blood - her blood - on Marazhai's lips when he finally drew back. He licked her blood off his lips, tasting it with predatory satisfaction. "What an eager little pet. Good."

His smile turned sinister as he pushed her back, finally releasing her chin. "Go carry out my orders. And don't forget, if we meet Yremeryss, she is mine." He picked up the plate again and slapped it back into place with a swift motion. "Go now. I am finished with you. For now."

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Roller Coaster At Chippewa Lake Park :: [Verocska Kosch's Art Corner]

* * * *

“Again, we are daily forced to choose between depression and anxiety. Depression results from the wounding of the individuation imperative; anxiety results from moving forward into the unknown. That path of anxiety is necessary because therein lies the hope of the person to more nearly become an individual. My analyst once said to me, “You must make your fears your agenda.” When we do take on that agenda, for all the anxiety engendered, we feel better because we know we are living in ‘bonne foi’ [good faith] with ourselves. Courage is not the absence of fear. It is the perception that some things are more important to us than what we fear.” — James Hollis, Swamplands of the Soul: New Life in Dismal Places

[alive on all channels]

[ciquery]

"In Jungian circles, shame is often referred to as the swampland of the soul... The swampland of the soul is an important place to visit, but you would not want to live there. What I'm proposing is that we learn how to wade through it. We need to see that standing on the shore and catastrophizing about what could happen if we talked honestly about our fears is actually MORE painful than grabbing the hand of a trusted companion and crossing the swamp."

Brown, Brene (2020). The Things That Get in the Way. The Gifts of Imperfection: 10th Anniversary Edition (pp. 49-50). Random House.

[monstersdownthepath]

This might be something of a crazy ask, but I've been running a campaign for over a year where the players have been working against the schemes of Szuriel herself, and there's been mentions of knocking the door down and taking the fight to her with a continental alliance. So I have to ask, how absurd would a mostly mortal invasion of Abbadon be, how closely would the rest of the four work with Suzy, and what more interesting challenges would Abbadon present?

I've never seen a group of players knowingly ask to be slaughtered so gleefully before, but I admire their boldness, at least! So here I am to offer the smallest look at what a direct mortal attack on the fortress of the Horseman of War would look like:

Are you familiar with No Man's Land? It was the name given to the stretch of blasted desolation and sucking mud that dominated the space between enemy trenches in World War I. ANY forward progress by either party was met with hails of automatic gunfire, distant rifle shots, and even artillery barrages from both tremendous cannons and mortar shots alike.

This is what awaits mortal forces attempting to attack the Cinder Furnace, home base of Szuriel. Abaddon itself is dangerous enough, as the (literal) soul-sucking swampland means that, without magical assistance, movement through it is glacial, taxing, and often fatal as pests, disease, and ambushes from the daemons who know how to navigate its waters and mud come from every side. But we're not focusing on the swamps of Abaddon, we're focusing on the hellscape surrounding the Furnace.

The tech level on Golarion is wibbly wobbly; everyone uses swords and full heavy plate is the top of the line in armor, but automatons and guns exist. There's even one nation, Alkenstar, who specializes in crafting firearms and war machines and exporting them. They're ahead of the technological curve by quite a few centuries because they live in a gigantic dead magic zone. It's said that if Aklenstar fully revved up production, they could probably introduce enormous quantities of firearms to the whole world!

And it won't come anywhere close to what Szuriel has at her disposal. Golarion isn't the only world Szuriel has a presence on, not nearly. There is at least one that's extremely important to this discussion: Earth. Bringing up No Man's Land and WW1 was important, because at the time of several Adventure Paths on Golarion, there is a war of terrific scale going on on a far-flung planet where magic has all but disappeared, forcing its inhabitants to embrace technology. These distant humans have created weapons and machines the likes of which technology enthusiasts on Golarion can scarcely envision; titanic metal vehicles with cannons that can cause unheard of damage, canisters of toxic mist that kill with even the smallest breath, artillery cannons that can fire from so far away that even a solider aware of them cannot possibly prepare for their incoming shots, and guns that fire more rapidly than anything Alkenstar has ever made.

Szuriel has these at her disposal.

Locked up in her fortress, she has alien weapons of war that can inflict death and pain on a scale a medieval warrior could not possibly comprehend. And if you attack her directly? She doesn't believe in fighting fair or holding back, she believes in winning a battle at any cost and inflicting as much horrified despair on her enemies as possible. She'll unleash all of it, and any weapons held in reserve are only held so because she wants to bask in your terror. She may not even need the help of the other Horsemen, including fellow inventor of death Charon, though a direct mortal invasion of Abaddon may move the other Four to send their forces in, if only to teach you a lesson about staying on your turf.

And this isn't even going into what Szuriel herself can do on her own, and you know she's NOT going to be on her own. History's most depraved generals and warriors serve at her beck and call, the most violent of the Harbingers submit to her rule, and she has legions of daemonic servants that nearly match the numbers found in Pestilence.

This is, of course, assuming that you're only going in with mortal forces. There are more than a few gods across the whole alignment spectrum who'd love to see Szuriel toppled (those four I listed are just the major ones; there's plenty of demigods and gods from beyond the Inner Sea who'd like her gone, too), and if you're going to be gathering a force of thousands from across the entire world, you'll absolutely have access to a means of gathering assistance from each of them. If you wanted to give players the option, going on major quests to gather the ingredients for a massive Gate spell to invite, say, the armies of both Heaven and Hell alongside whatever forces Gorum has at his disposal, could help... well, not level the playing field, because Szuriel never fights fair, but it would definitely put her on the back foot.

Beware, though, because such a massive invasion would absolutely attract the attention of the other Four, as well as the other gods in Abaddon... though they're absolutely wildcards in this battle. Urgathoa would never violate her treaty with the Four Horsemen by moving against them, but Zyphus? Zyphus has a reason to buck against Szuriel, specifically. because his territory happens to be surrounded on all sides by hers. He may not help overtly, but his penchant for causing accidents and sabotage would be quite the boon against Szuriel's overwhelming industrial advantage.

The battle your players are asking for operates on a scale Pathfinder will struggle and chug with, though if you're up for a challenge, I suggest studying up on the Mass Combat Rules.

[tales-from-nocturnaliss]

Snippet: Hurt

As per the usual, a single vignette turned into a long story sprawling a few different PoVs...

... but this time, I got to visit one of my fave characters in the world without him merely glaring at me and refusing to let me near him because he's just that kind of asocial partypooper.

More seriously, writing Death incarnate is a rare treat for me, and I thoroughly enjoyed exploring him and his encyclopedic mind just a little more :3

---

There had always been something about the swamplands of Korinda that made Zool's makeshift skin crawl. A sensation. A vibration. Something, nameless and insubstantial, yet perceived all the same.

Long before the rise of the Necrolore, he had already known. Yet he had done nothing. Seen nothing. Not until one day he'd come to sever souls and found them steeped so deep in this perversion of death that he had struggled to sever them free.

Times had not changed, albeit the Necrolore had. Where once it had been but a whistling silence, now, in this area of the world, it possessed a will of its own.

[fractal-quadrilioquy]

Swampland

Westwatch Patch, Auric Basin. 1328 AE.

In the Heart of Maguuma, down twisting paths and deep crevices, where the light of the sun would struggle to reach even if the overgrowth above was destroyed, seven entities pretended to exist on the world they had assumedly abandoned.

“Should we… stop them?” One said, at last.

The ‘them’ in particular was currently assessing a particularly toxic corpse, left preserved by the toxic fumes pervading the corrupted jungle. The look in their eyes was hungry, in more ways than one – The need to know and experience the world warred with their common sense, which was hovering dangerously at an all-time low.

“No, no, I want to see what happens,” Lyss said, peering intently. Beside her, Ilya was staring, transfixed. Even the most wondrous of illusions couldn’t hold a candle to the sight playing out before them.

The Commander pulled out a sword. The calculating gaze that often scoured the battlefield, assessing the flow of battle and the minutiae of tactics, were laser-focused on the sorry excuse for a boar. The boar, unable to defend itself on account of being dead, continued to lie there, motionless.

“I would like to say, for the record,” Kormir said mildly, “That I have no idea what’s going to happen.”

Grenth smiled.

It was not a particularly comforting smile.

The Commander cut a slice out. The toxic fumes wavered a sickly green in the air, drifting languidly, menacingly, out of the little alcove. Ten meters away, a patch of grass withered and died.

Dwayna made a strangled noise, arm outstretched as if to stop them. Beside her, Melandru sat serenely on a particularly large mushroom, watching the situation play out. She pat Dwayna on the shoulder, and if anyone could have seen them, they might have mistaken it for caring. The other gods knew better. Melandru was vicious when she wanted to be.

The other gods also knew better than to acknowledge Balthazar, whose spiritual form flickered and sparked like a light refusing to catch, or a lightbulb refusing illumination.

“I would love to know what’s going through their mind,” Lyss breathed. 

“I doubt anything is going through it,” Grenth drawled.

Kormir raised a hand. “I can confirm that.”

“Kormir can confirm that.” 

“Kormir can also speak for themselves,” Kormir said.

“Kormir can, but should Kormir?” Ilya said, eyes dancing.

“Kormir hates all of you,” Kormir said, because she did.

“Kormir’s just going to have to deal.”

Melandru nodded sagely. Dwayna absently gathered the sage and blessed it, casting it off to Queensdale.

The Commander raised the meat and held it, and for the first time, doubt flashed upon their face.

“Maybe they won’t do it after all-“

The Commander ate it.

Dwayna broke down. Melandru gave her metaphysical shoulder another metaphorical pat, and sat back to watch the show. Lyss and Ilya gave twin squeals of glee and awe. Kormir laughed at the sight, delighted at having seen something she couldn’t predict. Grenth grinned, a grin with far too many teeth and far too much hunger.

Balthazar was beginning to smoke.

Dwayna sobbed. “They are an idiot.”

The idiot continued to chow down.

They weren’t looking amazing, but they sure were trying their best.

Grenth hummed. “This is actually rather impressive. Resisting death for so long.”

Melandru sighed. “Please don’t kill the wayward Commander.”

“Their death will be their own fault, I promise.” He grinned wickedly. “Hell of a way to go though.”

“They’re so stupid,” Ilya breathed. “I forgot how much I loved humans.”

They were all studiously ignoring the rising flames surrounding the God of War.

Thirty seconds stretched on, simultaneously feeling longer than an eternity and passing in a blink of an eye. Dwayna resigned herself to their fate, and went to lean against Melandru; then quickly thought better of it, and leaned on Kormir instead. Ilya was standing behind the poor soul, shouting “Chug! Chug! Chug!”, not that the poor soul in question could hear it. Grenth snapped his fingers, and eyeshades appeared on six of the seven gods, the first blatant acknowledgement of Balthazar’s seething hatred.

A minute passed. Then another. The Commander no longer looked like they were struggling, and gazed at the preserved corpse as if it were a particularly interesting puzzle.

“Holy shit,” Melandru’s voice rumbled, speaking up for the first time. “They actually did it.”

Balthazar exploded.

---

Two years later.

“You DARE to DEFY the DIVINE?!” Balthazar roared, swinging at them wildly. His movements were sharp, wrathful, and the Commander wondered, not for the first time, if they were in over their head fighting a god.

Still, they persevered. “You will not harm Aurene-!”

“No.” Balthazar cut them off, both literally and metaphorically. Their sword shattered in their hand, and they cursed, drawing another to parry the mad god’s next attack. “I’m talking about you, you damned mortal, they who would defy the rules of nature and consume that which is tainted beyond belief.“

“What are you talking about?!”

“I AM TALKING ABOUT THE HOG.”

“The- the what? What does that have to do with this?!”

“Your Injury Is Personal To Me.” Balthazar intoned.

The Commander could only stare, slack-jawed, at the deity.

Then Aurene came soaring in, and suddenly they had a lot more pressing issues to worry about.