#The dark patron

[satoshy12]

Why it's impossible to summon the Ghost King (or King of Olympus)

John has just told them that there is no way that summoning can work. At all! As he was asked why, because well, to summon him. you have to do 9.999.999.999 things, in a special order, if you fail 1 or forget 1 thing, you are back at the beginning.

And you only have 1 hour to finish all of ot.

The summoning is made in such a way that you fail. Since the last ones are pretty dark and cruel in a way, no one would do it.

Captain Marvel laughed, "Yeah, you can forget it. The later ones will make sure that you and everyone around you who knows the final rituals will die. That way you will be taken to the afterlife."

Billy remembers the conversation with Phantom when he complained about how Pariah Dark always complains that his summoning is so easy.

And well, since Zeus was Billy's patron, as Pariah's is Phantom, he knows how easy it is to summon Zeus. Well, for him.

He decided to help him with how to do it, just like he did with Zeus.

[soullessseraphim]

Is this even Arcana related anymore ? -

[angiemaniac]

Thank you for a fantastic year!

The Durge Companion AU is continuing into next year!

Here's some DurgeTav for the holidays

[lizaoverlord]

Warlock powers may come at a price but, DAYM what a rush! Deimos successfully carried out a mission for his patron Vannatir, and I am so happy to dedicate a drawing to it.

So here's what happened:

Deimos had to place an arcane sigil at a 'place of power'. Getting into the location was a very difficult challenge. At the end it all came down to several straight dice rolls that had to go perfectly in a row. As Deimos started placing the sigil a moment of truly channeling Vannatir occurred. Being as one.

The mission was a SUCCESS! (A BIG thank you to the entire party as well! ♥)

Deimos is still feeling torn/angry about his current type of relationship with his warlock patron(/lover). But there was definitely a moment of pride that this mission was carried out successfully. I'm sure that channeling more power from this sigil to Vannatir won't become an issue later!

Vannatir: "I no longer care much for the material plane, and soon you won't have to either."

[devotionfm]

The son (moomin) the father (snoopy) and the Holy Spirit (miffy)

[benisbeaaaaans]

I know you said the beasts have varying degrees of involvement but I love the idea of Grandma Silk Flour Cookie and her grandson Dark Choco. I didn’t know I needed it.

Thank you so much for this ask.

[ghostbsuter]

The house of Nightingale & Constantine ( P. 3 )

> previous

.・゜-: ✧ :-

"Why are you avoiding me." Green eyes, sharp and unflinching, locked on Danny.

Startled, he turns to the younger boy, Damian? Bruce's only blood kid, he reminds himself.

"I'm not avoiding you." He denies, shaking his head, eyes trailing off.

But Damian knows, he learned and memorised the movements, signs, and behaviour of human kind.

"Do not lie to me, Nightingale."

The use of the name triggers something, and both Damian and Danny jump back, startled and cautious.

"What's the meaning of this!" The boy demanded, snatching his sword from the hilt.

The other raised his hands, pleading. "Look Damian– put the sword down and let me explain, please?"

They stood in tense silence, the sword pushed down reluctant and swiftly tugged back in.

"Explain."

Danny sighs in relief.

"You're more than aware of your parentage, yes?"

A nod, if not slightly confused. "Wayne?"

"No, al Ghul."

He keeps his facial expression and body language closed, obviously trained, and tilts his head to the Ghost. Listening, assessing.

Danny swallows as the air takes on sparks, dangerously close to one another.

If only Dick was in the mansion, maybe he'd cut the air with a knife followed by laughter and help him escape.

"The al Ghul line is in a delicate balance that can be toppled any time," he explains. "it's an old house, new compared to the houses of ancient, but powerful."

"You're saying," Damian drawls, carefully placing the words to form the sentence. "that the line of Al Ghul is... magic." He is studying the older, eyes narrowed and focused.

He knew such accusation would be called ridiculous by the younger. It would definitely earn him a few attempted kills.

"Not all dark houses are magic, just magic adjusted. The reason al Ghul is where it is today is that the founder, your grandfather, is still alive."

"You're aware such claims would have your head."

A wince.

"Fine." Damian scoffs. "We will go back to that after, tell me of the name triggering then."

"Names have power, but family names are more powerful, especially those of dark houses. If another dark house calls—"

"It registers as a warning and summoning." He finished, unfazed at the owlish blinks received.

"You were taught."

"I was, you're right, the al Ghuls are not magic. I haven't taken it seriously back then, I now see the error of my actions." The boy simply states, arms crossed.

"Calling another house of dark by name and immediately pulling a weapon is a declaration of challenge." Dannt adds after a moment of quiet. "I would rather not fight and make an enemy here."

"Not an enemy, but neither an ally?" Is quickly thrown back.

The Nightingale shrugs. "I'm not fond of your grandfather," he admits. "but it's known that every generation changes the house, I would not mind being the ally of the al Ghuls, if it meant you did the contract."

"Being an ally to my name only and to the al Ghul if asked." Green eyes, borderline neon, it reminds Danny of the zone. "Bold."

A grin cracks through, and Danny gestures to the door. "We can discuss the terms during snack time, if you wish, al Ghul."

A spark and Damian scowls harder. "Stop that." He says. "Let's do so, Father would be quite pleased knowing I've made more allies."

As he stomps to out, Danny follows with a jump in his steps, very pleased.

Nightingale 1, Constantine 0!

[inkeyjay]

🫀 Eucharist of the Ravenous 🫀

It started out as a bellyache, guts rumbling after two days of barely eating. An unfinished visage, featureless, fixing the blurry sockets it had for eyes into his soul.

The humble priest dropped his brush onto the cold floor of the chapel and stumbled backwards. The walls, towards the ceiling, all full of still fresh perfect faces framed by golden halos, that he had been carefully painting non stop for days. Faces of dead saints and prophets, long gone, commissioned by the high church as a display of power and opulence in an age of religious and political crisis. And this last saint, the one that still had some loose and tired brushtrokes for it's face. There was something about it that made the priest flinch out of his creative trance. He swore the paint moved, vibrated with anticipation at the touch of the brush.

He laid tired in the center of the chapel, exposed to a hundred pair of eyes that almost felt judgemental, knowing of the priest's internal thoughts. "Why am i doing this" "Why do i have to over exert myself with work to survive while i use pure gold to embellish... You. This" "Why"

And the faces remained still and silent.

"Why all this for long gone martyrs that had the fortune to die for their for their beliefs, or to let their God speak through their lips, bestow miracles through their fingers"

"Why this for a God that let them die at the heretical hands of the non believers. That leaves hundreds if not thousands of people to die of the pestilence outside this golden, rotten, WALLS"

The bottle of turpentine exploded and its contents dripped down the wall, dragging hours of work with them, dissolving like acid false flesh and gold leaf alike. And then blood, through the priest's hand, holding the neck of the bottle. He panicked and kneeled towards the wall, trying to undo the mistake with cloth, only to make a bloody mess. Red running through the gold, ichor like.

The priest cried holding his hand, a deep wound running through his palm, burning because of the chemicals. But the pain was not the cause of his tears.

"A sign" "I just need a sign"

But the faces remained still and silent.

The priest got up, slowly, and turned around towards the door. Why be here then. Why remain hungry, at the mercy of a dying church that kept their riches safe in mausoleums and layers of paint upon gold leaf upon stone, while its believers died in the streets famished and sick. The priest saw it clear now. If God did ever exist, it was long gone, uncaring for its creation. He might as well die outside, with his people. It would be like inviting the sickness into his chest but at least his last breaths wouldn't taste of incense. His steps echoed through the chamber, determined, reaching for the doors.

But the faces opened their lips. And with a cacophony of voices, each one vibrating with a torrent of beating wings, It spoke. No.

It sang.

Super happy to finally be able to show you this illustration i made for Tome of Pacts, a zine about warlocks, patrons and their pacts! There's a leftover sale going on right now! This is Pantheon, a shapeshifting entity that impersonates long absent gods and feeds on the faith of their followers, always hungry for more. But it's not for me to tell you.

! First of all, credits to @/gothhoblin, the writer of our team, for helping shape out this Patron "...and it spoke with a cacophony of voices, each one vibrating with a torrent of beating wings, a thousand or more." Is a marvelous line of her creation.

Tome of pacts has 11 more patrons and 24 warlocks for your enjoyment, all beautifully depicted by teams of artists and writers. Im super proud to have been able to participate in this project 💛

This short story is about an original character i created after the patron, just as an appetizer, pun intended. You get it right??

Hungry for a copy?

[drathe]

Hunger of Hadar

[lucyskywalker]

Just thinking that Anidala - or VaderDala in that case - is very Orpheus and Eurydice coded.

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

This probably isn't going to go any where, but it was a fun evening, lol.

Okay but if I did:

Premise would be working in the bordello version of 79s... Guess what I called it? Anywho, it would mostly just start out as a brothel simulator with clone smut.

I'd begin by just making some shiny's (various personalities, part of the challenge would be feeling them out and deciding how to act for them) but then slowly add in named clones, romance story lines, special event characters and hell, other OCs if its wanted.

These are the only assets I have for this lol.

-----

Some tastful lil'tags

@feral-ferrule @cloneflo99 @thecoffeelorian

[therealslimshakespeare]

I demand you and Ash to share more of the Dark Rosie story 😤

*whispers* pwease

Why of course we can share…or…ya know, how about I just share with you what may end up being the first part of the first chapter? These entire vibes are hard for me to blandly describe when me and Ash have so much lore to this and nowhere to begin to tell it except by telling the story itself, so here, have a Autumn of 1945 scene:

To hear Jean Crosby tell it, Rosie owes her his insurance policy, his new flat on tenth and his goddamn firstborn all because she managed to convince her babysitter to not babysit tonight but come instead as Rosie’s date. If it were any other woman, Rosie would let fly with a smart comment about just how snazzy and sexy babysitters are, how they really get him going and he can totally see some spit-up-covered nanny shimmering in a place like the Stork Club. How he’s sure little Stevie’s best friend and diaper changer will really shine bright here, probably bust some killer moves, grind real good and suggest gettin’ outta here right when Rosie wants to get it wet.

But it’s Jean Crosby, so he holds his tongue and lets his smile do the snarking for him and she weathers it with the ease of a woman utterly sure of herself and her designs.

Rosie really only has himself to blame. Or maybe Croz. If Croz hadn’t blabbed like such a loose lipped, cock drained, well fed husband to Jean about Rosie’s morose desire to marry and settle, to be socially respectable, live the life they went through hell for, and do it quick before the bottle and the temper and the ghosts got to him- then maybe he wouldn’t be at the Stork Club, looking pretty dandy if he says so himself, and waiting for a nanny to show as his date.

She’s probably gonna wear calico. Hopefully remembered to take her apron off. Rosie supposed there could be some charm to an apron, in another setting, with nothing else underneath.

She’s not exactly late but rather, they’re early, because jazz clubs don’t have a time for arrival besides sometime after dinner and after the old fuddy duddies go to sleep, leaving the hot tickets and the wild beats to the ones who can feel it and move to it and enjoy midnight as a sorta youthful carnival.

She’s not here yet, and really it’s making her sexier, the fact she’s fifteen minutes past eight and not in bed, shocking for a nursemaid. Close to scandalous. Rosie lights up his cigarette and puff it to the side, sending Croz a look that says it all and Croz stares back at him, arm thrown comfortably around the back of Jean’s seat, tracing the divets of her spine with his fingers as far as as the plunging back of her party dress will allow him. Croz’s smile turns from something ironic to smug, he’s not focused on Rosie and Rosie’s humiliating date anymore, no, he’s focused on his pretty wife allowing him this and swaying in her seat to the music and getting just the right amount of tipsy she’ll probably let him try it in the car tonight.

All in all, Harry is living the sorta vision Rosie has for his own immediate future. He needs a wife, but until then, he downs his second whiskey and prepares to make bad conversation with a fucking nanny.

“Stop looking like that.” Croz apparently is paying enough attention to Rosie to take exception to his expression, “It’s the other way around, you won’t deserve her. She’s sweet.”

Rosie is sure she is. Sweet. He watches ruby lipped women in tight velvet wrapping with promising faces and knowledgeable hands and well trained thighs shimmy just beyond their table, so attuned to the liquidy brass they’re pouring out of themselves onto their partners. Rosie knows about sweet, he’s never tried it but he doesn’t doubt it’s just that- sweet, the pink heart of a strawberry you press your thumb into and it turns to mush, dribbling pink, dribbling sweet, so airy and light you could toss it up into the clouds and it wouldn’t come down, sweet, not a thought in the head just kindness.

“Don’t doubt she is.” he assures Croz, not so sure he’s actually wiped his offending expression off completely. He hasn’t, to judge by Harry’s upset little sigh and the way he looks to Jean to see if she sees what a bad idea this was, to introduce Sweetness to Rosie when all Rosie wants is-

-Jean isn’t looking at him though, Jean is rising up from the table, hands outstretched, face delighted. There’s a girl weaving her way to her with all the bug eyed timidity of a newborn foal. No calico, but the most homely lace collar right at her throat on top of a basic, broachless, pleated navy dress. (((More exposition please)))

Rosie thinks for a split second of staying the course, playing the cad, ruining her night, making himself a funny little memory by absolutely wrecking her little facade of social experience. Instead he finds himself standing up, smooth and gentlemanly, a gallant hand outstretched and persuading, because for all that she’s sickeningly demure, Rosie finds endearment curdling with the disdain in his gut. She paints a terrible picture here, utterly out of place, no credit at all as a date on the dance floor even though that poorly styled watch suggests a pretty decent allowance from papa. What she’s missing is any clue of how to be worldly, alluring, confident even.

She’s sweetness incarnate and it’s really off putting and Rosie gets a desperate thrill from it, when her hand timidly lays in his for a shake, he gets a thrill imaging the appalled shock on her face if he were to take advantage of her. The thought shakes right down through him, a lewd and perverse fascination with how poorly she handles even the clasp of his fingers and the twitch of his mustache, an easy rumbled “and you must be Ruthie.”

Ruth Steinem, actually, but nobody that pale and shaky and doe eyed deserves to be called Ruth and she certainly won’t be getting a Miss Steinem out of him and so, Rosie tacks on the endearment, because she’s a silly little thing and deserves a silly little name and it passes for an attempt to make her comfortable even though it has the predictable and intended effect of making her flush well past that stupidly high collar. It’s already fun before time is up to let her hand go, he holds it longer than necessary because technically they’re still greeting each other, a process taking longer due than propriety suggest entirely due to the fact she can’t manage to stammer out a reply for a few moments. It’s in her if they’re stuck here, hands molded together, hunched over a white table cloth. He takes advantage of that, keeping hold as any polite man would and smiling her through it.

“M-Major, Major Rosenthal it’s- it’s an honor, really, such an honor, sir.”

Oh it’s like that is it? An honor? Sir?

He feels his interest pique, not intellectually, at least not much more than when observing an insect or a cloud pattern, and not in his heart because when he’s straight with himself he’s aware he hasn’t felt much stirring in that quarter for some time now. Somewhere lower, his gut, maybe, but that’s likely the scotch. Lower still. Somewhere positively disgraceful. Something about it must show in his eyes, Miss Ruthie’s earnest hero worship morphs to some embarrassed form of concern, half for her own virtue’s safety and half for the propriety of the surrounding club members, subjected as they have been these last fifteen seconds to a lengthy hand hold between unmarried members of the opposite sex.

He gives her his most practiced, most podium worthy, medal receiving, exemplar of heroism embodying wink before letting go. He sees her old admiring image of him as The Major collect again behind her saucer wide eyes, fragmented and never quite fitting right again but there all the same; Rosie gives her a most urbane smile before pulling out her chair for her. When she goes to sit, bashful and appreciative, he puts his toe in the under-slats and slides it nearer his. She almost misses her seat due to it but his gallant arm makes up for her clumsiness, the pitying yet assuring look he gives her chastens her against suggesting the chair moved at all. He takes his seat again, now beside and quite close to her’s, and while offering her the light now wedged between his own lips, is tickled pink to find that hunted little bunny look has returned.

Oh Ruthie, maybe not too good for him as Croz says, but definitely too good for this mucky little world of theirs. She oughta be kept in a hutch somewhere.

That intrigues him, not intellectually, somewhere lower. She declines the light.

[lizaoverlord]

Pride is fragile. Or, what could possibly go wrong for the dark elf Deimos when you turn your high elf lover into a warlock patron? I wanted to experiment with shape design again for this drawing, so that I can show more of Deimos' psyche: Prideful yet starting to shatter.

The bright side of this situation being the warlock powers he gets from the high elf Vannatir.

And hey, Vannatir has feelings too! And he's never done anything wrong, ever.

Vannatir ending up trapped on the outerplanes? Arguably Deimos' fault. Vannatir returning as a powerful warlock patron? That was more of a collab of these two elves haha. Deimos was the one that carried out the ritual without knowing all the details. He just trusted Vannatir completely and wanted to save him.

[benisbeaaaaans]

what did Blueberry Milk Cookie do when Pure Vanilla was hiding as Healer Cookie? Was he in on the secret or did he think he was missing? Did he know his son lost his memories?

Blueberry Milk was bound to the castle and was what kept it hidden for so long for the period of time after the Dark Flour War and before Gingerbrave and the others were searching for the ancients. He was not aware that Pure Vanilla cookie was Healer Cookie until he came to the castle and they were able to connect again.

In fact, he was fully prepared to be Dark Enchantress' prisoner until the end of time if it kept the complete Light of Truth out of her hands, as it could not reform with Pure Vanilla "dead'.

[pinkdeath6]

[chvoswitch]

═━─ ❩ᱬ❨ ─━═ ❩𖤓❨ ═━─❩ ҉❨ ─━═ ❩𖤐❨ ═━─

❩ 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑶𝑳𝒀 𝑴𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 ❨

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

e-offering / devotion to the goddess hecate.