#This is technically still Accursed Ones

[sodascribbles]

okay so this piece is from april of 2022 but like. Look at Her !! ill probably redraw it soon ngl.

created april 13th, 2022, time spent, uh... 20hr and 44min. it um. it took a while.

don't repost or ill come for your knees. reblogs are chill! <33

[bunny-lily]

Tether Me - Prologue

Pairing(s): Geto/Gojo/Reader Summary: You ran.

It's what you did in life. It's all you knew how to do. You ran, ran, and kept running and never stopped, because if you stopped, it meant you were trapped, chained, a bird with shredded wings in a gilded cage.

So, how did you end up here, tucked away into a little village in rural Japan, falling into the depths of two black holes with no way to escape?

How could you run from this? From them?

…Would you? CW: No y/n | polyamory | slow burn | slice of life | alt au - no curses | fluff | light angst | eventual smut | forgive me, there's internal monologues | I like using big words... | Gojo & Geto are whipped for you | emotionally constipated reader | (most of the tags have been condensed, you can find the full list on my ao3 here) AN: this is just the prologue chapter, sort of exposition. No bois in this one (technically), but I'm posting chapter 1 at the same time as the prologue. As a heads up, my most comfortable place for posting my longer fics like this is ao3. You can find more of my blurb thoughts on there. I'm not the best at tumblr posting, so forgive me pls ;-;

Ch: Prologue | Ch: 1 | Ch: 2 | Ch: 3 | Ch: 4 | Ch: 5 - 1 | Ch: 5 - 2

WC: 9.4k

You’ve always likened yourself to a kite, but less pretty and enjoyable.

Every time you glanced at a kite in the children’s toy section, or watched as thousands flew in the sky during festivals, your eyes stung and something bitter and uncomfortable twisted in your gut. In a way, you saw yourself in them; fragile little creatures tethered to the earth by no fault of their own. So easy to snap – to break.

They were always trapped, chained down, forever bound to either get reined back in after one had their fill of fun, or to fall like tragic angels to the ground when the winds died, and they would once again be unable to travel free amongst the stars where they belonged. All thanks to the threads wrapped around their very bones, far too strong for something that looked so thin and prone to fraying.

Yet nobody ever did release the chains. Who would willingly free their prized, imprisoned bird?

Of those pretty, unfortunate kites, you lamented with them. 

You, too, were pinioned to solid ground. Your wings were clipped, feathers torn from flesh one by one until you were born in a body that could no longer fly. Responsibilities, duties, relationships – they all kept you drowning in a suffocating pile of down-stuffed pillows, filled with plumes that were once yours. They progressively got heavier and heavier, locking your limbs between illusions of comfort and safety, sitting on your chest and flooding your mouth until you choked and gagged and couldn’t breathe.

You were different from kites, sure, beyond the very obvious things. You weren’t a pitifully flimsy, inanimate toy, left forgotten in some closet, awaiting the one day you’d be remembered, taken out, and allowed to taste the breath of deities themselves again. But if you could glide in the wind like they could, oh, nothing would bring you more joy, more solace, even if you were still tied down. All for just a kiss of freedom.

You ached to be detached from everything and everyone. An untethered kite, a fledgling bird learning to fly, a paper lantern that glowed its very joy from within for all to see.

Paper lanterns.

You couldn’t stand paper lanterns, because you yearned so deeply to be one. How wonderful it would be to have a warmth alight inside you as you rose to the heavens, lighter than air. 

You envied them. 

They made you nauseous with longing.

They made you want to stretch your fingers high and try to catch one within your palm like a cascading star.

They made you want to reach your fist past your throat and rip out your heart barehanded, just to make the accursed thing stop pounding so goddamned hard in your stomach as it sank lower and lower with each additional candle that got to join their family of stars beyond celestia. 

Because, for fuck’s sake, you belonged up there, too. Free, flaring, blazing and flickering so spectacularly that philosophers would wax poetic about you for ages to come.

It wasn’t fucking fair for you to be stuck on Mother Nature’s spine like this, burdened by the neutron star in your body that just grew more and more dense, urging you to dive into the ocean and let it snare you into its depths. You didn’t choose to spawn with a spirit disconnected from the flesh that acted as its prison, you didn’t choose to be jailed like this.

So, why?

Maybe that’s one of the reasons you were drawn to kites. You pitied them. You pitied yourself.

You weren’t a kite. You didn’t want to be one, to have your boundless form fettered down. But when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, that’s all you could ever see staring back at you. A kite with faded, worn out paints that barely clung to the tattered paper, feebly held together by thin strips of bamboo that had been aged and mottled from the inside out by time.

You hated paper lanterns. You hated kites. You hated yourself.

As the years dragged on, from the moment your brain snapped into your body with the sudden realization that you were a conscious, living, breathing person, those ugly feelings festered and spread like a fungus that refused to abate even a trace, just a second so you could catch a breath of fresh air that didn’t reek of mildew.

The seconds spanned on for eons without prejudice, destroying your cells at the molecular level with each passing birthday that trudged reluctantly along.

In the back of your mind, the sensation of being asphyxiated by your own feathers that had been shorn away from you etched itself deeper and deeper into your psyche. You became restless, antsy, the variegated world around you fading rapidly. Colors you once saw as a child, before you could latch the inherent sense of wrongness in your chest to a concept, gradually dulled until all you were left with was a world tinged heavily in gray.

The streets you were raised on grew denser, despite the amount of people living on them never actually changing noticeably. The verdant grass of your backyard turned into a dominating presence everytime you laid your eyes on it, unruly and all-consuming, demanding an undivided attention you did not want to give. The orange beams that hung over black asphalt instilled a sense of panic in you that wasn’t there before. 

You used to be fond of walking around your neighborhood in the middle of the night, when you rightfully should have been sleeping. An inverted circadian rhythm suited you well when you were young, unaware that the crushing sensation under your sternum would only get worse. 

Now, though, the thought of straying out where there wasn’t enough light to see straight ahead made sweat form on your chest and palms while your teeth clattered from a nonexistent chill.

Everything caved in on you. Not in a rush, not in a cataclysmic flood. No, you didn’t discern you were fighting for air until you were already gasping fruitlessly. Lost, terrified, unsure, you could only bear witness to the collapse of your own mind.

Then, one day, a soft voice whispered in your ear.

Run.

It wasn’t a threat, not some ominous warning of death looming over your shoulder. It was a suggestion, an offering, an olive branch towards that freedom you coveted. It was salvation. 

Who were you to ignore the hand of deliverance?

The first time you changed your scenery, moved elsewhere, even if it was only a few streets away from your childhood home, felt incredibly liberating. After so long that you had forgotten how it felt, you got the chance to gulp down air as if you had surfaced from beneath the perdition sea after spending your whole existence beneath it. 

Color returned to your world, excitement formed anew, everything felt right. Achromatic wastelands turned into kaleidoscopic meadows, fulgent and lucid. You savored it, reveled in it, frolicked and danced and lived.

…It didn’t last. 

Not long. You exhaled, and it all vanished, sand swept away by an uncaring and spiteful hand.

Once you had become used to the environment, when you no longer had to actively remember where your flat was, or how long it took to get to the store, everything was washed out; water dumped on a painting that had yet to form defined shapes.

That crushing sensation had returned, and with it the reminder that, as much as you wished you weren’t, you were a kite. Tethered, perpetually confined, worn bamboo strips and thin paper threatening to rend under the drag.

Thus, you ran again. A new town, a new city, a new skyline. Euphoria nestled cozily under your breast like a second heart, purring contentedly as it curled up on the nest of blankets it created for itself.

New places, new faces, new people. All of it was fascinating to you beyond measure. It interested you to no end to learn about other human beings; their thoughts, their perspectives, their preferences. What they despised with grit teeth and barely restrained anger clenched in trembling fists; what they loved so dearly that they could never drown beneath the same waves that followed your heels, tide rising progressively. 

They glowed from within, bright and budding and vibrant. Their eyes flickered with life, glazed so clearly that stars sparkled in the depths of their hues. You were drawn to them, a moth to mesmerizing fire.

You felt free. You rode that high as much as you could, for as long as it would allow.

Until a realization struck you with the force of a bullet train one night. A man hung onto your arm, easy laughter shared between the two of you as you let him take you home. Alcohol tinged his breath, but not enough to give him anything more than a slight buzz. He was a total gentleman through and through, and you listened with eagerness as he spoke about his upcoming work project, his excitement palpable with every word. 

His hand linked with yours, fingers intertwined, his warm palm engulfing yours. There was a comfort in that transient window of time, one you held to your heart. It was so unfamiliar, so addictive. And as you stopped before your door, having completely forgotten of your lack of wings, you waited with bated breath for him to slant into you.

A pair of infirm lips, minutely chapped and tasting of wine, pressed against yours, and dread exploded in your gut.

He pulled away from you, lovestruck in the way his eyes shone as he looked into your own, and reality crashed down on you with horrors in three measures, shattering like broken glass in the vortex of your conscious thought.

When you stared at him, watched the way he opened his mouth to speak, you made the connection.

“I really like you,” he had murmured to you that night, nearly shy. Yearning. Hoping.

Paper lantern.

“I want to ask you out properly.”

Tether. 

His words sank into your skin like ice, digging deep, burrowing into your marrow.

Kite.

The illusion of pellucid skies of the richest shades cracked, the lush plains you fantasized of often turned to barren heaths, and all those tormenting feelings came back to choke your breath with a vengeance. Sickly fingers wrapped around your throat, sunk into your mouth, dug past your gag reflex, wrapped around your ankles and wrists until you could barely lift your feet just to move forward. 

You remembered with great disdain what you were. You had managed to sever your thread by running off from the pod you were born in, but it wasn’t a clean cut. The string hung off your fragile wooden bones loosely, just waiting for somebody to grab and yank, to shred your freedom away from you once again, to leave you knotted around a pole to sit like decoration and stay.

You were not free.

You were not a paper lantern. You did not gleam from your soul like he did. You did not pour light from your heart and words and touch.

You’d do anything to forget that, to prove that sentiment wrong, to show the world that you weren’t a rock thrown into a pond. You’d do anything to change the narrative, to force a rewrite. So, you did what you always did.

You ran.

You found somewhere else to live, blipping off the radar unannounced. One moment you were there, the next you had cut your lingering thread an inch shorter, following the wind blindly like a duckling to your next destination.

Each time you settled down somewhere, you had this silent hope: maybe this is where I’ll be happy.

You clung to that hope, fervently ignoring the screeching whisper in your ear that said otherwise. The next place was never the final one. It never would be, no matter how hard you tried to delude yourself into believing you weren’t a lost soul, unable to move on. Some pathetic ghost you’d make, if you weren’t one already.

Whenever you let yourself rest for a heartbeat too long, the rope you had trimmed ever shorter was skimmed too close by too-warm fingertips, and you fled again, and again, and again.

That’s all you seemed to know nowadays.

Perhaps proven now, as you sat on a train in a foreign country, absentmindedly watching rural landscapes race past the window. Your knuckles pressed indents into your cheek, the sensation unpleasant and nearing on painful, though you had stopped paying any mind to it a while ago. Your thoughts laid scattered at your feet, and you couldn’t be bothered to pick them up.

Rather, the white matter of your brain was being filled with the empty, buzzing tune of songs you’d heard a hundred times over playing through your earbuds at the loudest volume possible. It made things easier to manage during this grand, several-thousand-mile-long trip. The less thinking you had to do, the better. It was the absolute last thing on your bucket list, loitering just under the cutoff line, hoping to sneak in a few words you refused to listen to.

You couldn’t let yourself regret this. You wouldn’t.

Not now, not after you’d already dropped everything and dissipated beyond the welkin’s gaze. You had only one place you could go to at all now, and you were already on your way there.

So if you had to blast your eardrums out to bridle the whisper-shouting voices spurned by overthinking, so be it.

Rice paddies blurred by, blending in from one farm to the next. The sun reflected off the waters the stalks soaked in, absorbing the warmth the light provided and feeding the plants with the fruit of life. Somewhere along the way, you had begun counting each field you passed for no particular reason.

You thought it’d lull you to sleep like counting sheep, subconsciously desiring to sink into a dreamless abyss and catch up on the hours that had been eluding you every night for months up to this point, given how far away you still were from your destination. But your cerebrum was not kind to you, and your body refused to succumb to the tempting allure of nothingness.

Thus, you remained as you were, counting paddies as the day never quite moved forward. The sun dwelled high, trying to glare down on you, but it couldn’t get the angle right to invade the shade of your tiny cabin room on the train.

It stayed stuck to the center of the sky, mighty and proud. But then, after what seemed like only a few seconds, you blinked, and suddenly it was hanging off the horizon’s ledge.

With a slight jolt, you realized the train had decreased in speed, and was continuing to lose momentum as it approached an isolated station, all alone in the countryside. You checked the time on your phone, your eyes feeling unusually heavy and sticky. It was only early night, but you were worn down to your sinew.

Right. Jet lag. You had hopped on a plane and traveled to the other side of the planet on a whim, another desperate attempt to grab onto the concept of freedom you craved. It didn’t take you longer than a week to find a small house deep in the pastoral lands of Japan, where mountains wrapped around the valley like a scarf. You chose Japan, if only because you learned the language when you were studying abroad some years ago.

It resided in a town of such a low population, blissfully around 600, it was a wonder you could even find a train that took you this far to begin with. Of course, that meant the house was decently rundown, with a community small enough to consider it unnecessary to repair. You couldn’t care less. All that meant to you was that it was cheaper to buy it outright than rent a more maintained structure. Buying it was a risky move, given your track record of up and ditching the last bed you slept on without any hindrance, but, at this point, you were tired.

You just wanted to be somewhere for longer than a month or two. Maybe owning a house was contrary to your desires to be unbound, with no board to pin your tattered and thin wings to, sure, the pros far outweighed the cons.

Cheap shelter, little to no people, far, far away from anywhere you’d been before. Three for three.

It’d still be a 45 minute drive or so before you actually got to your new residence, but you weren’t in any particular rush. You chose the most isolated place on purpose. Less people, less deafening sounds, less claustrophobic, brutalist structures that loomed higher and higher.

Less chance of being tied down.

With a hiss and a loggy wheeze, the train settled into place, jostling you as you got to your feet and stretched your arms above your head. The muscles in your back and shoulders twinged from sitting in the same position all day, and your legs stung like sparklers, but it was nice to work your joints properly again. After tucking away your phone and earbuds, you tugged your luggage down from the overhead rack with a grunt.

You were hopeful that there’d be taxis outside the station, and that you wouldn’t have to walk to the village. Who knows how long that would take. You’d probably keel over after the first mile. The thought made you snort while you squeezed down the aisle, suitcase with your bag stacked on it rolling behind you, purse strapped across your torso. The conductor – a sweet, older man – nodded silently to you as you disembarked, waving a farewell to you, which you returned. He was nice, you remembered him greeting you when you first boarded. 

He didn’t talk much, just a polite, “welcome aboard,” while the ticket collector pointed you in the direction of your cabin, which you greatly appreciated after hopping off a plane and hurrying your ass over to your required station. You were too spent for conversation.

Leaving the station was much easier than you expected. Unlike your home country, where you could get lost just by turning 45° to the left, Japan seemed to prefer neater environments that were easy to navigate. And, upon stepping out of the building, you rejoiced at spotting a few variously colored cabs waiting along the curb. Outside of one stood a man, roughly in his 50s or so, who waved you over.

“Need help getting somewhere, miss?” He questioned, and you nodded as you pulled out your phone, scrolling through your emails to find the one confirming your purchase of the listing. 

“Yeah, could you take me here?”

He glanced down at your screen when you showed him the address and chuckled quietly. “Well, that’s a surprise. Last time I visited that house was some twenty years ago to take the owner to the station, rather than from.”

You blanched nominally. Twenty years? Had your house really been abandoned for twenty years? The listing claimed it was only ten max, that estate bastard. A sigh left through your nose. Too late to deal with that now, you figured. “I just purchased it.”

The man nodded as he popped open the trunk and assisted you in slotting your luggage inside. “You look like you’ve come from far away. It’s rare for foreigners to choose to live in such a distant location. Not a fan of the city?”

I fucking hate cities.

“Something like that, yeah,” you assented, thanking him as he opened the back door for you. 

You appreciated his efficiency as he wasted no time dilly-dallying around. As soon as he was buckled up in the car, he was on the road, taking you down the last leg of your trip. The world outside the window streaked by in shades of violet and blood orange as the sun hovered on the edge of the skyline, reluctant to rest for the night.

“Ah, apologies. I’m Hayato Kazuhiko, you may call me Kazu, if you prefer,” he quickly introduced himself, and you followed suit. “Why’d you choose this little village of all places? It’s very small.”

You hummed. “That’s exactly why I chose it. I’m not a big…people-person, if you know what I mean.”

The older gentleman chuckled lightly. “My wife is the same,” he nodded as he peeked at you via the rearview mirror. “She had to visit the small town I used to live in one day, and it was love at first sight for us. She was immediately drawn to country life, and we’ve lived out in the neighboring town here ever since.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Twenty-five years,” he nodded, and you could see the pure love and devotion in his eyes as he spoke about his spouse. It was wholesome, and softened your heart a sliver. 

He was surprisingly relaxing to listen to. Pleasant voice that didn’t grate on your ears, a few stories shared about his wife, the occasional tale about some significant structure or location. It was calming, in an odd way. He’d point out a shrine or hiking trail you’d pass by, and offer to take you to them one day to teach you its history and meaning, and you actually considered it.

It could’ve been the harmless nature about him. Even as night descended and you could only really see his silhouette, inspecting him reminded you of your father, but…better, for lack of an accurate word. You weren’t afraid that he’d suddenly raise his voice, or take you down a suspicious road – or, hell, back to the train station to send your sorry ass right back to where you came from.

“Mr.–” you cut yourself off and cleared your throat, mildly embarrassed about slipping back into your mother tongue. Japanese honorifics were something you continued to struggle with. “Hayato-san, do you have children?”

He gave a mellow laugh and shook his head slightly. “Please, just Kazu is fine. And I do, three of them, in fact. A younger son, and twin girls about your age,” he estimated roughly.

So the fatherly air to him you picked up on wasn’t imagined. That brought you a form of reassurance you couldn’t distinctly name.

“My twin girls are all the way up in Tokyo,” he continued, chest puffed with pride, “and my son is still in highschool, causing chaos.”

“Chaos?” You raised a brow.

“Yes, but not the type you’d think,” he hummed. “He’s a gentle child, but his kind nature means he’s unfortunately quite gullible and gets himself into trouble.”

A voice, the faint echo of a memory long lost, intoned in the far reaches of your lucidity; someone shaming you for getting caught up in an issue that wasn’t even your fault. Your stomach twisted with dread, and your head snapped to peer at Hayato, expecting to find disappointment shining in his eyes when you studied them through the rear-view mirror.

Except, there wasn’t any.

Concern at most, a crease in his brow as he warred within himself between protecting and helping his kin, or letting the kid learn on his own. There wasn’t any disappointment, or anger, or exasperation. You could see him reminiscing as he stopped talking, focusing more on the twists that followed the mountain’s curve, and all you saw was just…love, and happiness.

The churning in your gut settled, instead replaced with a sense of hollowness. Not the kind that made you sick; rather, it was like you had a gap in your chest where a puzzle piece was missing, while his was filled with a perfectly fitted heart.

Bittersweet, possibly, but only distantly so. You felt happy for someone who was borderline a complete stranger to you, someone you shouldn’t even care about beyond tipping him well for driving you to the middle of nowhere in the dead of night, but you did anyway. 

Maybe I could have had that too, your thoughts mutedly supplied, if I was normal.

Then again, you didn’t want that, not really. Though you couldn’t tell if that was just who you were as a person, or a result of the coals perpetually under your feet, it didn’t change your mind.

Nothing could.

You were sure of it.

Smooth concrete eventually became a densely packed dirt road when Kazu turned off the main path, the car vibrating as the wheels rolled over loose stones and gravel. It didn’t last long, thankfully, as the shabby looking pile of wood came into view, albeit dark since the stars overhead were too dim to illuminate anything much.

“Where we are, miss,” he spoke as you both climbed out of the vehicle and met at the trunk. He opened it to retrieve your luggage, and you pulled your wallet out of your purse and counted off a few bills, wondering what the right amount to give to him would be.

It was hard to translate currency worth when things were valued differently in this country. Your trip abroad was a long time ago.

“Is this enough?” You peered up at him and held out the bills.

He took one glance at them and chuckled deeply. “That’s far too much, really,” he replied as he pulled only two of the strips out of the small stack you were holding. “Be careful with your money while you adjust to the currency of this country. Do you need assistance with your luggage?”

“Oh,” you analyzed the remaining money in your hands before tucking it back into your wallet. You really hoped he took the right amount needed and didn’t undersell himself. “No, I’ll be okay. You got me here in one piece, that’s all I could ask for.”

“Are you sure?”

Your head bobbed as you inspected your suitcase and bag, popping out the handle. “Yes, I am. Drive safe, Kazu-san. Thank you for taking me here.”

His chest rumbled with a laugh. “Please, it’s my job. You are pleasant company.”

“Likewise,” your lips rounded into a smile as you bowed politely. It was small, and you were tired, but it was genuine, the first one you’ve had for a long while. “Goodnight.”

Kazuhiko waved his hand in farewell, bidding you good dreams as he climbed back into the taxi and drove off, leaving you alone.

Your lungs deflated.

The air here was crisper, stinging your throat in a pleasant way as you inhaled slowly. Faint hints of pine and sap drifted across your senses. Nothing indicated any heavy stenches of smog or gasoline or gods know what litters the streets of every downtown city you’d been to before.

It would probably take you a while to get used to, and you oddly didn’t want to, if only so you could admire the fresh fragrance every time you stepped outside. Your muscles relaxed, surprising you as you hadn’t noticed just how tense you were until you were perched outside the front gate of your brand new (old) lodging.

Turning to face it, you groaned upon the realization that it was on a hill. Said hill was tiny, mind you, but a hill nonetheless. You found you couldn’t give much of a shit right now, just yearning to lay down and pass the fuck out for a while. Maybe the rest of tomorrow, too. A few weeks, actually, if you were allowed to choose. A coma sounded wonderful.

“Home sweet home,” you mumbled to nobody in particular as you pushed open the gate and virtually jumped out of your skin at the near shriek it gave. Okay, it had to have been longer than 20 years, that was loud. 

With your heart fluttering rapidly, you made a note to deal with it (and everything else) later and trudged up the incline, almost eating shit and dying when the toe of your boot caught on the edge of a stepping stone. Another thing to add to the “deal with later” list. You had a feeling it would just keep growing exponentially.

Finding the key was easy, for better and worse. It simply sat in the door knob’s lock, very safe and secure and definitely not putting your house at risk of…what?

There was nothing in there, evident when you pushed open the front door, which wailed just as loudly as the fence gate. You felt the blood drain from your face. Sure, the interior was empty, but the house was a wreck. Peeling walls, strange, crusty scent, and a sticky floor at the entrance that made you grimace when your sole pulled off it like velcro. You knew that it was custom in Japan to take off your shoes at the door, but fuck that. Absolutely not. You were not walking in any part of this house either in socks or barefoot.

Everything was virtually pitch black as you delved further in, so you depended on your other senses, and the ability to smell was one you wished you didn’t have. Your nose wrinkled as various rotting odors welcomed you, making you immediately regret going through all this.

Morning. You’d deal with it all in the morning.

Practically sneaking on your tip-toes, you explored the open space, trying to find the room that smelled the least and was passable to sleep in. Granted, there were really only two actual rooms down a hall going opposite of the kitchen besides the restroom and washroom, but the bigger one seemed decent.

At least you had a sleeping bag and wouldn’t be conking out on the bare floor. You went through the motions of prepping for bed mostly by habit, doing the bare minimum seeing as you didn’t have much of a choice. You brushed your teeth with the water from your tumbler, located and unrolled your sleeping bag, and climbed under the rustling top after yanking your shoes off, zipping it up as far as it went. 

Admittedly, the setup was kinda janky, but it got the job done. 

You couldn’t be bothered to change into pajamas.

With your head plopped on probably the least comfortable pillow you had found to bring with you (also the only one that would fit in with the rest of your shit, it was practically a pillowcase filled loosely with sporadically placed lumps of stuffing), you closed your eyes, and your body finally let sleep take over.

─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────

Morning was not pleasant. Surrounded by the musty scent of gods-know-what, back aching from the restless sleep you got from your pitiful sleeping bag and the hard floor, you were groggy beyond belief and desperate for fresh air. And a massage. And a cigarette.

You didn’t smoke, finding the heavy and pungent funk nauseating, but the temptation was there. You felt you gained a little more understanding of smokers.

Brushing the thought aside, you pushed yourself up into a sitting position and rubbed the heel of your palm against the sore spot on the side of your skull. You would have believed someone replaced your pillow with a rock if you hadn’t intimately known that lump of fluff. Or, rather, lack thereof.

Red lines, tender to the touch and tingling a little, were pressed onto the arm you laid on for most of the time you slept, causing you to hiss when you traced your fingers against them. It seemed to be barely past dawn when you reviewed what was out your window, leaving you questioning just how long you slept, if at all.

Figuring you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep anyway, you shoved yourself out of ‘bed’ and groaned when every joint in your body popped and every bone creaked. Hell, you weren’t sure you’d be able to sleep tonight again. Not here, anyway. More problems for future you.

She’d certainly be happy about that. She already had so much shit to handle.

The growl of your stomach reminded you that food was something you needed to consume to continue living. 

Reluctant as you were to do anything, you figured going out by starvation was 1) probably not the best idea, and 2) you wanted to be out of this dingy torture shed.

What was unfortunate was that you, like a smart person, didn’t bring anything more than snack bars and those weird trail mixes with the fruit cubes that you just threw into your bag without much care. It was really the only motivation you needed to walk your sorry self out the door. 

After you brushed your teeth and changed your clothes, of course, being very careful to not let anything touch the floor.

Stepping out of your home through the shabby and creaky door with your purse slung across your chest, you were met with the grandiose sight of mountains surrounding you on every side. They rose high, aching to brush the sky and touch a star, just one, just once, just for a second. Covered in thick greenery, you figured the faint yet present scents of cedar, pine, and other woodsy tones were carried down into the valley from the steep inclines.

You couldn’t see any of these details nearly as well when you were dragging your tired ass to this place with ink covering the sky in a thick veil, but it truly was breathtaking.

Had nature always been this green before?

Having only done some cursory research on the village – namely, population – you didn’t bother giving yourself time to actually inspect photos of the tiny rural town. From what you’d seen anyway, pictures could never do it justice. A velvety breeze brushed against your cheek, prompting you to tuck your hair behind your ear and pivot towards the direction the gale came from.

Your breath left you in a silent ‘oh’, mesmerized by the incredible view of the rising sun you had. It shone valiantly and radiantly through the gaps it had carved out between the towering peaks itself, illuminating the land in shades of brilliant gold with its splendor.

For perhaps the first time in your life, you felt…nothing.

Not a sense of hollowness, nor a void in your chest, no.  A peaceful kind of nothing, as if not a thing in the world could take your mind away from this newfound elysium you found in sharing the morning’s shine with its source.

Invisible fingers caressed your jaw, threading through your hair with the gentle touch of adoration, as if you were delicate.

You hated to be treated like you were easily breakable, as fragile as glass, but this sensation was consoling, rather than degrading. The wind cherished you, not akin to a brittle figurine, rather as someone who was beautiful and worthy of gentleness unsullied by pity or licentious intentions. As if you were someone to be worshipped and revered.

A mother combing her fingers through her daughter’s hair, humming a lullaby only she knew the tune of.

Perhaps it wasn’t impossible to find what you were searching for. You didn’t know what it was exactly, a question without an answer, but it gave you a place to start.

With a deep breath swelling behind your ribcage, filling your soul with air untouched by sickly city pollution you were so accustomed to, you turned and began heading down the beaten dirt path that led into the heart of the village. The early summer warmth was pleasant on your skin, not too hot given the time. It seeped into your cold fingers and made them ache a little less with each minute going by.

While the town you had chosen was visually quite a bit older in style, with smaller structures dotted about reflecting traditional Japanese designs, there were some modernities. Electricity was, fortunately, one of them. 

Based on the fact that you found and bought the listing online, you figured there was likely a way for you to get your hands on some Wi-Fi here, too. You’d probably die without it.

The nearer you drew to the center of the population, the denser the structures became. Not to say they were rubbing walls, but neighbors were only a short few steps away, compared to the distance between your own house and the one closest to it.

Minka houses in significantly better condition than yours spanned either side of the road as the terrain shifted from soil to asphalt. They were beautiful, and you bet that living in that kind of house in this kind of place was either absurdly expensive, or dirt cheap, with no real in-between. You were personally on the latter end of this, which probably wasn’t a good thing. 

Doomed by the narrative once again.

Off in the distance on an elevated surface, you could see what you thought was a Wayo Kenchiku temple, if you had to guess. Its overlapping roofs were a deep green in shade, nearly black. They protected the desaturated brown walls of the building, and you were taken aback by how easy the temple was to see from where you were.

It sat across a wide river, one surprisingly calm as you approached it. It rushed along, springing with glimmering waves that shimmered under the light and frothed white around raised boulders. Despite it coming across as fairly deep, you could see clear through to the bottom, with the water itself being a refreshing shade of clear blue. A bridge spanned the rift, made of sturdy wood that had dark railings protecting either side of you, matching the aesthetic of your surroundings.

The bridge whined under your weight, but didn’t shift, giving you some reassurance that you wouldn’t go crashing through the planks. It led into the most packed section of the whole area, with structures built closer together, bearing a more modernized likeness, while retaining its unique characteristics.

In truth, though you remained apprehensive, the voice that scratched at the back of your skull everywhere you went and pestered you to run, run, run, had quieted. You hadn’t registered it, the silence, too focused on taking in your new surroundings as a serene blanket covered the thoughts that usually pranced wild and free in your cranium, putting them to rest with a whispered mercy:

This feels right.

It didn’t take you long to spot what you figured was the local grocery store. The bell above the door chimed as you stepped inside, peering at what products you could see on the shelves and aisles from where you stood. Being an anxious little creature, you double-checked to make sure you had your wallet, as well as the translated bills within. Last thing you wanted was to embarrass yourself in a place where everybody knew everybody.

Reassured, you chose a random aisle and headed down it, skimming the products to see if any of them appeared even vaguely familiar to you. Besides cans of soup and tubes of Pringles, there wasn’t much for you to grab onto. Sure, there was ramen, but you didn’t have a way to boil water. Cereal and milk, maybe?

Shit, no, you didn’t have any cutlery or dinnerware. Unless you wanted to be a sad raccoon and eat raw cereal straight from the box, but you weren’t that desperate.

Yet.

Mentally crossing out your options as you went through them, you nearly knocked over an entire row of items when you almost ran into an older lady who stood in the middle of the strip, watching you.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” You hopped back a foot, raising your hands in front of you placatingly. “I-I didn’t see you there, am I in your way?”

The woman laughed and shook her head, her smile reminding you of a grandmother that’d sneakily give her grandkids candies while their parents weren’t watching. “You’re quite alright, I was actually wondering if you need help?”

“Oh, uh…” Bashfully scratching the back of your head, you glanced at the various bags of foodstuffs beside you and debated your choices. Say no, when it was painfully obvious how green behind the ears you were, or set down your pride and ask for assistance.

Your stomach chose for you, warning you to suck it up and get food before it began eating itself.

The woman’s chuckle was heartier the second time around, her eyes glimmering with mirth as she motioned for you to follow her. Feeling a bit like a scolded child, you trailed after her while she wove her way around her store towards the produce section at the back. She pulled a random fruit from the thunder-rain-shelf-thing (you honestly had no idea what it was called) and rubbed it against her apron before handing it to you.

“Eat,” she insisted.

You blinked rapidly, peeping the fruit, the sign for it, then her. “How much…?”

The lady waved her free hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Eat, I insist.”

You were going to argue further, but a deep cramp in your gut had you sinking your teeth into the sweet and wonderfully-textured treat. As embarrassing as it was, you borderline moaned as you chewed, quickly taking another bite. Whatever it was, it tasted divine.

This time, when she directed you to move with her, you followed without hesitation. “Thank you so much,” you mumbled as she pulled out a chair from behind the counter and urged for you to sit on it.

“It’s nothing, I can’t let you go hungry, now,” she swept away your worries. “You’re new here,” she stated, rather than asked.

You nodded through another bite, waiting until you swallowed before continuing the conversation. “Yes, I got here last night.”

“Oh? Are you visiting someone?”

“No, I moved here.”

Her brows raised. “Really, now? Who are you staying with?”

Mid-bite, you stopped to address the matter. “Oh, no, I’m not living with anyone. I purchased the house just outside the village.”

The way her eyes widened was nearly comical. “That place? Now, that’s a surprise.”

If you had a nickel.

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that now,” your lips tugged into a frown and you stifled it with another chomp into the sweet object in your hand.

At that, she simpered mutedly. “I apologize. I’m merely awed that it was still standing, let alone that someone had bought it. Last I heard, there hasn’t been anyone living there for, oh, maybe 20 years or so.”

The realtor, that dog. He did lie to you after all.

You scornfully hoped he was enjoying spending your money.

Picking at your cheek with your free hand, you looked away with a nervous giggle. “Yeah, it’s…not in great shape. I have a lot of work cut out for me.”

“You’re going to try to repair it?”

“Yeah. Keyword being try.”

“I’m not sure that’s a wise choice.”

You sighed. “Me neither, but I don’t have much of a choice now.”

The woman shook her head, smiling regardless. “You let me know what kind of help you need. There are plenty of handymen in this village of ours, I’m sure they’d be happy to help.”

“Oh, that’s very nice of you, but…I’m sorry, I didn’t ask for your name,” you pouted, hurriedly introducing yourself.

“Just call me Granny. And I won’t take no for an answer, missy,” okay, now you really felt scolded. “I won’t stand for you trying to fix up that cluster of wood by yourself, it’s far too dangerous. And you shouldn’t be staying there while it’s in that condition, either. Give me a moment, let me find someone you can stay with.”

Panic rose up in you and you waved your hands frantically in front of you. “N-No! It’s fine, I’ll– I’ll figure something out, really, don’t worry. Please.”

Granny eyed you suspiciously, her hand hovering over the landline on the wall. “Are you sure?”

“Yes! It’s fine, I’m fine, I promise.”

Her eyes remained squinted, even as she lowered her arm. “Alright, if you say so. But if you need any kind of help, big or small, come to me right away, okay?”

Relieved you wouldn’t have to interact with more strangers, you nodded and deflated. “I will.”

“Promise me, young lady.”

“I promise.”

She grinned brightly and ruffled your hair. “That’s a good girl. Let me pack you a few things to take with you so you have something to eat.”

“Ah– wait, I…I’m not very good with currency yet,” you halted her sheepishly. The prices were still confusing as fuck to you. Man, how the fuck were you going to manage this when you get a job? If?

“Nonsense, it’s on me. I won’t charge you.”

Sorry, what? Did she do that for every person she met five minutes prior?

“But– but that’s not–”

“Finish up your peach,” she asserted as she was already walking away with a bag in her hands that wasn’t there a second ago. What was it with grannies and having some weird, innate magic?

Your eyes darted down at your half-eaten peach, surprised to learn that it wasn’t some foreign fruit you’d never even heard of before, let alone tried. It was an exceptional blend between succulent and rich; easy to bite into and chew without pouring juice all over yourself.

The fuck kind of peaches have you been eating before?

Sensing you might be buying these often if they were this good, you had well-nigh inhaled the rest of it by the time Granny came back with a stuffed bag.

“Here you go, dear,” she held out the shopping bag to you, which you took graciously after tossing out the peach pit into the small trash can by the counter.

Glancing into the bag, your lips shifted downwards. It was filled with a few different fruits and veggies, a couple bags of snacks, but mostly packaged food that looked like it could be eaten as is without needing to worry about cooking it. Your guilt skyrocketed. “Granny, this is too–”

“Don’t worry about paying. Save your money for the repairs of that home of yours.”

Your head shot up, eyes widening. “I can’t–”

“You can because I say so, young lady,” Granny puffed out her chest proudly, using a motherly tone that easily put you in your place, much to your bafflement. You didn’t even listen to your own mother like this. “Come back in the evening, I’ll have something cooked up for you.”

“You really don’t–”

She made brushing motions with her fingers, shooing you off the chair. “Off you go. There’s a lovely little pergola in the park, go have breakfast there. Just turn right when you leave and keep walking straight.”

Flustered, you let her push you along out the door, your confused brain trying to catch up. “Granny–”

“I’ll have a list of handymen for you when you return,” she informed you right as she managed to get you out the door. “Explore the town while there’s still daylight!”

And just like that, she was back in her store, sweeping with a broom that you swear materialized out of nowhere. You stared at the shop for a good minute, blinking dumbly until you processed whatever just happened.

You still weren’t wholly sure. You went in, expecting to grab a bag of something random to ‘feed’ yourself with, and left with a bag full of free food from a woman who spontaneously decided to give it to you. 

The fuck. She’d go bankrupt if she just kept giving strangers sustenance off her own back.

Your own feet seemed to carry you along as you exhaled through your nose and took her instructions to heart. Too late now, you’d feel bad if you went in and returned everything. It’d be insulting at this point, and you were hungry, anyway

A cooked meal did sound lovely as well, discomfited as you were. You had never met your own grandmothers – not in person at least, so you had no idea if grandmothers were simply like that or not. Regardless, you had a feeling she was going to fill that role in whether you liked it or not. 

Luckily, you were drifting towards like. She did give you free food, after all, and was going to find help for you. That part you were more apprehensive about, however, stubbornness and introversion making you want to be stupid and attempt to pick up carpentry out of nowhere.

All you could do was try to accept it and sigh, taking in the sights, stores, and dwellings as you walked past them and towards the park. A couple shops caught your eye, particularly a clothing boutique, and what could possibly be a hardware store. You weren’t certain, and didn’t want to find out yet. The prospect of entering one and facing the big ass sign that said ‘you don’t know what the hell you're doing!’ was too daunting to approach for now.

It didn’t take you long to get to the park. In fact, it was such a short walk that it bemused you. A population of 600 people seemed larger on paper than it was in reality. Most of the town was behind you, granted, but the uncanniness was uplifting, in a way.

It didn’t feel claustrophobic. The trees in the park were closer together than some of the buildings outside it, and they smelled so good that it knocked you back a step. The entire wild garden carried the fresh perfume of sweet and fresh vegetation, from blooming flowers scattered about and the grass underfoot, to the rustling leaves above. You couldn’t recall the last time you were in a park, let alone one that was as vibrant and alive as this one.

The pergola was easy to find. It resided in the center, right beside a large pond that you saw was filled with koi fish when you got close. 

They swam to-and-fro, carefree, intermingling, playing, and searching for food. 

Your stomach twisted when you made an unintentional connection in your mind. They reminded you of kites. Pretty, ultimately trapped.

The koi fish, however, didn’t seem to mind one bit. Not that you could understand fish language. They just went about their business calmly. It perplexed you, didn’t spending their lives in a single body of water bother them? Didn’t it make them depressed?

Could fish feel depression?

Shaking your head to rid it of the peculiar journey your mind had gone off on, you set the bag down on the table under the pergola and settled into one of the chairs, reaching to dig through your options. Of the items present, you opted to munch on a sandwich Granny had tossed in with everything else, bundled in saran wrap and clearly made by her.

While you were skeptical of pre-made food bought in a grocery store like this, one sniff had you biting into it ravenously. You were way hungrier than you thought as you devoured it, trying to will yourself to slow down enough to at least savor the taste of it. Your earlier guilt and trepidation disappeared three bites in, and you were now very much anticipating Granny’s handmade cooking if this was the kind of sandwich she was capable of creating.

You questioned again if all grannies were like this, or if you lucked out. Either way, if it meant you didn’t have to struggle with food for the time being (or ever, if Granny let you mooch off her forever), you didn’t mind getting spontaneously adopted by her at all.

About halfway through your meal, the koi fish in the pond caught your attention again. They were gorgeous animals, graceful and sleek with scales that twinkled iridescently when the sun flickered over them from between the gaps in the canopy above. They had you mesmerized, sights focused solely on them as they showed off.

Maybe they had managed to hypnotize you, because you decided to tear off a piece of the ham, rip it into tiny pieces, then throw it towards the pond. There was a large splash as all the fish rushed towards the food, making you snicker.

A sort of childish glee bloomed within you, persuading you to indulge them a smidgen longer before you finished off your food. The park seemed like a sacred place where nothing could touch you, where the lands would remain lavish and healthy, and where you could let all your worries fade away.

Arcadian – that was the best way you could describe it. Placid, halcyon, grounding, mellow. You could go on and on, really, but you–

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled when you sensed that someone, or something, was watching you. Heat grazed against your nape, slow, measured breaths right behind your ear. A kiss from a pair of soft lips that never reached your skin. A demanding presence wrapped around your figure, a prey caught in the trap laid out precisely by a steadfast and salivating predator.

Ghostly fingers slid down your shoulders, crept over your forearms, and encircled your wrists, holding them in place with a deceptively lax hold. Something firm and wide pressed against your shoulder blades, keeping you between it and the table.

Your heart kicked in your throat, preventing you from swallowing anything more than a tiny gasp.

And, like the cornered quarry you were, you shifted slowly to peek from the corner of your eye, avoiding any sudden or abrupt movements. You expected to find a beast hovering over your shoulder, eagerly anticipating your reaction. 

There was nothing. 

Only foliage greeted your wide-eyed inspection, expansive and untouched since you came here. The feeling of being hunted on had evaporated as soon as you checked, and though uncertain of this verdict, you chalked it up to being in totally unfamiliar territory. A result of a soundless, featherlight brush of wind, a critter in the foliage envying the fish you fed, lasting no more than a sigh.

Your brow furrowed as you searched through the plant life, seeing not even a hair out of the ordinary. That dovish sensation the park carried returned like it had never left to begin with, coaxing you to let it go and relax.

Maybe that was your cue to leave.

You shook off the lingering sensation with a shiver. Everything was okay in the wooded pasture, and as tranquil as your surroundings were, you knew you’d have to face the elephant in the room eventually.

You dusted yourself off as you got up to dislodge any lingering crumbs, carefully packed everything back into the bag, and took one final look around. This place would become your safe haven, you determined. Already, you were thinking of coming back, the memory of your adrenaline spiking fading rapidly. Imagining returning here gave you that minor push you need to fill your lungs with courage and turn to head back out the way you came.

You could explore the town later. Right now, you needed to address the state of your new stead and gauge what laid ahead of you first. Maybe it’d give you at least an idea of what you required to get started on all of this, though you doubted you’d come out of witnessing it in the full glory of the sun knowing more than you did now.

Absentmindedly, the milieu filtered into your subconscious, automatically noting small landmarks here and there to assist you in finding your way around the streets while they still confused you, until you had learned to traverse them and knew every path and alley like the back of your hand.

(Just in case, you assessed the back of your right hand. You know, to reacquaint yourself with it.)

Glumness overtook. You knew you probably wouldn’t stay here for too long, no matter how much you liked it. You could fix up the house, flip it, and head off someplace else again in pursuit of something that probably didn’t exist.

It’s always been this way for you. The same old pattern, the same old story, the neverending book that looped in on itself over and over, caught in a wormhole where the exit was the entrance.

So it was easy to convince yourself to not get attached to the valley, nor the people, nor that damn sticks-on-bricks abode. Not even the grass filled with flowers and protected by tall trees you had already found yourself longing for.

It was easier this way. This was all you knew, after all.

You had it all figured out.

Didn't you?

banner by cafekitsune ♥

[magnuficent76]

Just remembered how to draw hi. Meet my Vault Beastie, Bearer of curses Koci-Ascleri... Or just the Accursed if you're her friend <3 (It/Her) oh and Mephisto is also there. Info on her under the cut !

'Accursed', 'Bearer of curses', 'Blight of Eyes', these are all things she has been called by puny flesh-puppets and feeble eridian-trappers alike. All of them wrong, of course– Koci-Ascleri is only a wish granter, in the grand scheme of the universe, someone whose magical gifts and curiosity for the galaxy that surrounds it have been misinterpreted to make her cruel, a master manipulator of minds below her who utilizes them for both entertainment and for her own nefarious purposes... which is technically true but, it's only because Her definition of Fun is not widely accepted by most creatures, which is lame in her opinion.

The Accursed is a creature from eons before the six galaxies became what they were ever discovered by both humans and Ancient Eridians alike, and who quickly had to be quarantined due to the chaotic nature of her powers being able to bend the universe to her very will... and due to also being bored enough to indulge the whims of whatever poor souls try to bargain with her. She was imprisoned on the shadowy and unknown planet of Phobos, underneath a special vault with no entrance, but even with all the safety precautions taken to ensure such a beast would never escape, nozy fuckass humans still managed to crack open the interdimensional cell that holds her juuuust enough to keep exploiting its potential. Which ends great and totally not with a curse that lasts millions of generations and makes people cannibalistic. Don't worry about it 👍

The Accursed isn't necessarily malevolent in all its general enjoyment of suffering, it's just that she is a deeply bored creatuee that is actively indifferent to the lives of creatures she doesn't comprehend. To her, the universe is more or less just a playground, where fellow beasts are participants and mortals the attraction. It has a fascination to observe how things play out in all its possible varieties, and is determined to find ways to make such things happen because she believes it would finally sate its need for constant enrichment. In other words it would be Cool for her to see a creature pop open like a grape after learning too much about the 8th dimension.

Fun fact's about her !

- Although Koci-Ascleri is the closest her name can be translated to, it's technically just a combination of letters that all individually mean eye. People saw this thing and thought Yup thats Eyes

- Used to be capable of sprawling its long wings across the cosmo and fly between dimensions. They've since been clipped and tightly bound together once it was thrown in its vault.

- The large eye on its 'face' isn't a real sight organ ! Her real eyes are the tiny ones on the sides <3 The 'eyelashes' are antennae that vibrate for communicative purposes

- Can understand language and regularly talks. All the other both imprisoned and shattered vault beasts think shes really annoying for that.

- In a nigh-permanent dormant stage after being pushed back into her vault, waiting ever patiently for when it opens again and she's freed. Time doesn't matter when you're just as old as stars itself, so it's only a matter of playing the waiting game until the bindings that hold it down wear thin, just as they did for others.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Hello again.

From my understanding (quick read of the wiki ahem), Bhaal was just sort of floating around as an essence in the Winding Waters since 1358. His progeny went around killing each other right until 1482 when 'the last two' battled and released all his essence back unto Bhaal.

Did this 'essence' build up in the bhaalspawn from each kill they made, or was it returned to Bhaal each time, giving him more power back?

I'm trying to make my Durge a sort of parasitic twin to Shadowheart which means she was born around 1452. But I can't reconcile how Bhaal would have created anything if he was just... swishing around?! Was part of him still active on another plane?

Thanks for any of your input!

Gods are annoying bastards who exist on multiple dimensions in bits and pieces that separate and reform at will. Such as having entire alter egos who are kind of entirely separate people but also are not (Tiamat and Tchazzar, Selûne and Bright Nyrdra, quite possibly Jergal and the Dead Three, Bhaal and all his kids, and so on)

Which means the divine essence gets scattered, especially because gods - the Dead Three and Jergal in particular have been noted to do this in particular, as per word of god - make failsafes and hide their divine essence in various places.

Here are the ingredients available to make your own impossible godspawn:

• Bhaal was a corpse on the Astral Sea. • He was the pollution that makes the Winding Waters run black and accursed. The essence in the river seems to still be there, incidentally. • He was also a few hundred various beings wandering around Toril (the Bhaalspawn technically are Bhaal). When they died their body eventually dissolved and they skipped the Fugue and Kelemvor's judgement altogether went to Gehenna (outsiders returning to their 'plane of origin'), and their essence was gathered in the Mana Forge, an artefact built into the Throne of Blood (why they made it the Astral Plane in BG3, I have no idea) that would channel the divine essence back to Bhaal's corpse on the Astral as per 'how to resurrect a deity in Faiths and Avatars (ok so I kind of get it, but the thing was explicitly in the Throne of Blood in BG2) There's been some mention that the power within the surviving Children concentrates as their siblings die - which iirc has been attributed both to some of it collecting in them, and some of it being due to the fact that Bhaal's divine essence is an inherent part of them down to the very fibres of their physical being: as they grow in strength, so does that part of Bhaal. • There has been some talk of some of his essence remaining in the Moonshaes since 1346 DR, where the Ravager was slain. • His divine essence - joint with Myrkul's and Bane's, and apparently tied to something Jergal did - formed a magic storm that gave rise to the Kir-Lanans who prey on clerics of other deities. • Bhaal is also supposed to be worshipped on other worlds according to the Moonshae Trilogy, and these aspects would be unaffected by his Torilian aspect unless somebody actively killed every single one. But aspects of a god whose Torilian aspect die effectively lose power over the Realms and are counted as vestiges there. • Following the timeline BG3 is using, his essence taken from all the Children who died was moved into secure storage on Mt Celestia in an attempt to keep it from being used to resurrect him. No idea what that's up to right now.

The argument of how the ever loving hell he could create anything (which requires him to be an intermediate deity to copy an entire being (which he would need to physically hold and have access to Toril for materials, none of which he could do), or a greater deity (creating a whole new being from divine essence alone) - he hasn't been greater for a while and would need the help of an allied greater deity, which means Bane, who was available after 1372 DR).

If you follow a timeline for BG3 where Charname/'Gorion's Ward' becomes a god at the end of BG2 and becomes Bhaal (effectively being v2 of the guy using his name for clout with worshippers, or is overriden by Bhaal in the style of Bane being reborn through his divine son) and they somehow climbs the ranks from a fledgling rank 1 demipower to intermediate/greater deity (or makes somebody else do it for them) then Durge can be the 'child' of Bhaal/our previous protagonist.

Aiming for 1452:

If you're tying Durge to Shadowheart; Shar is a greater deity and also part of Bhaal's clique ('the Dark Gods.') Shar also hasn't died at any point. She and Bhaal have had no interactions of note, and are neither allies nor enemies, but you might be able to think of something? They do share a hatred of everything that dares live, which could be a starting point.

Notably Bhaal created the Bhaalspawn in advance of his death. When he still had the ability to act, because after the events of 1358 he was so far below intermediate deity. (If he hadn't made the Bhaalspawn in advance they'd all be 10, or younger, when the game starts).

Word of god from Ed Greenwood says that gods can put pregnancies on pause, so it's possible that Bhaal could've frozen a fertilised egg from one of his various breeding partners pre-Time of Troubles and set it on a timer to be born in 1452 (you need an elf, dwarf, gnome, or elderly half-elf or halfling who has miraculously avoided menopause as the mortal parent for this though (or a mage with access to immortality/life extending magics)).

Orin was conceived prior to Bhaal's resurrection and is apparently a true Bhaalspawn, so the divine essence within Bhaalspawn is enough for Bhaal to make himself part of their reproductive process and sire more true demigod children through his own bloodline despite being dead, so in theory a surviving Bhaalspawn/their descendant - or their partner - could've given birth to Durge in 1452.

There's also freak accidents in the form of Abominations, where a god accidentally creates a divine horror that should not be, but it sounds like Bhaal intended to create Durge, who is largely not that different from their siblings. Also being dead probably prevents him from making any of those between 1358-1482.

His priesthood could likely have had something to do with it, at least, and Bhaal was noted to have some small ability to influence things, what with his priests having their divine spellcasting and instructions returned to them after 1369 DR:

'Small cults dedicated to the resurrection of one lost deity or another appear everywhere in Faerûn. Sometimes the deity is beyond the reach of such cultists or never existed except in myth, and its adherents receive no divine backing in their endeavours, Other times, a dead deity retains enough power to provide divine backing to a handful of worshipers. Occasionally, another deity masquerades in the guise of a dead deity, in hopes of expanding its portfolio. Some dead human deities -who retain a handful of adherents include [...] Bhaal...'

[ridreamir]

My grief addled heart wanting to draw parallels between Dagoth Ur and the Nerevarine to the Last Dragonborn and Nebarra... This is overly complicated I understand if you don't want to read it lol

Warning: Some Morrowind and Skyrim spoilers/ lore ahead, mumbo jumbo I'm sorry if I'm not making sense. Same for Nebarra's backstory but the spoilers are very vague.

Nebarra, descended from the true Aldmer, potentially mixed somewhere along the way with the last of the true Chimer.

(The Chimer: Dagoth Ur's and Nerevar's extinct race, closely descended from the Aldmer) that could account for Nebarra's so called 'racial impurities'. The irony there being he'd have a close genetic link to the original Aldmer that the modern Altmer wish to emulate. (The Chimer were cursed by the Daedric Prince Azura and are now modern day dark elves, but they used to look like Altmer with fair hair and skin.) His quest is rooted in Solstheim. Maybe his soul is called to the Heart of Lorhkan still. Maybe it still longs for their past lives in Morrowind. The Last Dragonborn, bloodline unclear or sullied in reincarnation like the Nerevarine. Given a bad lot in life. Always the toy of higher powers.

They are both ill-fated individuals, reincarnations. The Dragonborn containing the essence of 'divine' dragonblood. Perhaps Neverar was also a dragon-hearted individual, drawing parallels to the divine heart of Lorhkan that corrupted Dagoth Ur. Much to do with hearts which pump blood, and divinity.

Many mortal incarnations that come in times of great strife.

The previous outside lover that prevents the two souls from connecting, once Nerevar's wife the betrayer, then Nebarra's grief-stricken heart who lost his first love to a tragic death. Again the parallel of the broken and betrayed hearts. Big emphasis on hearts here.

The parallels aren't a perfect one to one but all the elements are there. Mortals desperately wishing to return to divinity. Reincarnation. Betrayal, death, obstacles. Man and Mer. Lorhkan as a good and evil force. A betrayer. A life giver.

The accursed realms of Mundus and themes of the dead rising to life. What if this has been the tragic love story (friendship? Longing?) of two souls fragmented from before the world of man and mer, meant to incarnate and find each other again and again? Aspects of the dead divines now incarnated to haunt the divine corpse of Lorhkan that is now the Earth they walk on?

Same seeds, different soil. Different times, different places. Same souls, different bodies. The horrific part about this is that they're always separated. Sometimes not even born together or surviving long enough to find one another. In the tragic one in a million chance they do, often they'll eventually have to wrench themselves from the other in order to fulfill a prophecy and sacrifice themselves by the will of the divines (or the daedric lords as their toy puppets.) The Aedra are dead. You are in spirit the whispers of their corrupted dream. In flesh, he as an Altmer is what has become of their blood. Two halves of the same coin. Mortality and Divinity.

I could really stetch this so far, but I see how I'm kind of dragging Nebarra out of his intended role. Just an AU thing I thought of. You could technically place anyone in his role but I wanted to write more Nebarra content lol

I could definitely write a quest that hints to past lives forgotton and the karma/shared fates of these two tortured beings as a romance storyline if we're being honest here. Big emphasis on broken hearts.

They are so sad and love each other your honor.

[the-priestess-of-dawn]

Actually though now I AM getting the urge to essaypost about the sacrifice ending because... it occurs to me that perhaps "For once, I'm glad you and I are the same." might be a more significant line than I ever realized... If the Chrom ending represents Robin fundamentally changing as a person, then the sacrifice ending represents them NOT changing... but Chrom is insistent in both endings that Robin will always belong with him and the Shepherds. In the sacrifice ending, Robin comes back from death because of the strength of their bonds... but what does that mean?

You know, if you look at Medeus's death quotes in Shadow Dragon and New Mystery...

“Nngh… Defeated again… by humans! Know this, Altean prince… That light which surrounds you is only a temporary respite. So long as the darkness in your hearts continues to sustain me… I cannot be… destroyed…… Rrraaahhh!!!”

“GWAH…! WHY……? WHY… HAVE I… BEEN DEFEATED… SO EASILY…? IS THIS… THE POWER… …OF NAGA'S… Binding Shield…? KNOW THIS, HUMANS… THIS LIGHT IS ONLY A BRIEF RESPITE… SO LONG AS EVIL LURKS WITHIN THE HEARTS OF MAN… SHOULD THIS ACCURSED SHIELD BE LOST, WE SHALL RISE FROM THE DEPTHS OF HELL… DO NOT… EVER FORGET…”

It seems to me that Medeus is saying that human hearts have the power to bring him back. I mean, yes, it could very easily be a metaphor. In fact, I think it largely IS figurative, but... The point is that this shit keeps happening because humans want it to happen, right? Like, Medeus was resurrected by GHARNEF; he basically just seized the opportunity this human gave him. Why wouldn't he expect it to happen again someday?

And Grima, of course, was revived by the Grimleal. We've got no word on whether Grima wanted their followers to do this after their original defeat (in fact, technically we do not not even know whether Grima consented to giving any humans their blood. It COULD be that they bestowed it on their followers as a show of favor. I also absolutely would not put it past the Grimleal to have collected Grima's spilled blood after the final battle with the First Exalt and used it for their own purposes... Especially because I do think that's most likely what Forneus did with Naga's blood to create Grima in the first place.). Regardless, Grima answered their followers' call and did exactly what they were asked to do.

And then we have Robin coming back. I think most of us presume that there was no specific revival ritual, but... still, fundamentally, isn't the same principle at play? The Shepherds called and they were answered. And Robin came back as Robin, Brandless and free from the power of the fell dragon, because that is who their loved ones asked for, and that is who Robin wanted to be, and I think in a world where magic exists then it makes perfect sense that a strong enough wish could literally manifest as a spell. (Tharja says in her supports with Ricken that "Curses are a kind of magic that gives life to dreams." so I'm inclined to think that this is very much how magic is intended to work.)

So the sacrifice ending becomes a twist on the cycle. Because the thing is, Robin chose destruction. Robin chose to use their power as Grima to bring about a final end—only in this world their conclusion is not that the world is unable to change and therefore must be destroyed, but that THEY are what cannot change and must be destroyed. "For once, I'm glad you and I are the same." They are embracing it. They are the fell dragon and they can't change but they can do the one thing they always do and destroy. This OUGHT to be a tragic ending where we're all left with the bitter feeling that nothing the hero OR the villain did ever truly mattered at all.

But we're challenging fate, right?

And the thing that Robin has that their future self did not is, of course, all the Shepherds reaching out for them. The original timeline Shepherds thought that Robin betrayed Chrom and then... presumably ran off to serve Grima or whatever (since nobody knows that Robin BECAME Grima). And so there was no one to beg Grima to come back and be with them. No shared wish strong enough to create a miracle. The tragedy played out straightforwardly.

But it was never inevitable. The tragedy didn't happen because there is something inherently wrong with Grima's being. Of course it didn't. They were not alone because they were unlovable but because Validar and the Grimleal had everything set up to ensure that Grima could not do anything but turn to them. ("These followers of Naga will spurn you now that they've learned what you are. Kill me, and you incur the wrath of the Grimleal as well… Would you truly choose to be so utterly alone?" Validar knew exactly what he was doing.)

So with the sacrifice ending... perhaps we're really saying that Robin never needed to change. That even if they never give up this perspective of theirs—that they're a no-good and repulsive being, that they're powerless to change anything, that all they can do is destroy—they're loved anyway, and there is room for them in the world no matter what.

[halfdeadsacrifice]

[For a lovely thematic halloween post why don't I elaborate on the chosen one/sacrifice post. Because especially in his main verse, Vayu is technically a chosen one.

Lalanika's domain is a dark place, full of corpses and ghosts. No funerals have been performed there in a very long time. Everything is covered in a deathly miasma. The gods haven't abandoned it, not willingly -- their light has been violently snuffed out there.

And then, one day, the latest unfortunate, slightly-hardier-than-usual victim of Lalanika gets dragged out of the tower, a corpse with a chest ripped open and nigh hollowed out, carried by Mycaed, the fungal sage. She lights a funeral pyre.

In Hindu/Vedic mythology, Agni is the god within every sacred fire, who takes sacrifices and the souls of the cremated up to the gods. Suddenly, for one blazing moment, he can reach this accursed place. But the only thing he can reach is the dead boy on the pyre.

He could save this one wretched soul. It's better than saving none of them. Or, he could set something in motion.

So he brings the boy back, sealing his ribs shut with burning firewood and sending sacred embers coursing through his veins, and hopes one day, this will be enough to end the monster for good.

And then, the fire fades away. Lalanika's latest victim lives, and will live for years longer before escaping thanks to those divine embers, and years more still before finally killing her, but he lives.]

[corvuscorona]

do u have any advice for switching to linux? im admittedly intimidated but so tired of windows ads.. and i've had to reinstall windows 3 times this year because updates have just. broke. so i'm done w all that.

takes your hand. the first step is getting so fed up with microsoft's bull shit that you start thinking to yourself "fuck, maybe I DO want to see what linux is about actually". and you are already there.

I typed a lot again but let me boil it down real quick so you know what you're getting into:

A "linux distribution" is an operating system, basically

Most of the common ones are easy to use now, tho ymmv with the Software You Need and what you use computers for

Start with a virtual machine; troubleshoot until delighted; install

Back your files up regularly so you can un-fuck-up if needed (<- general life advice, but very helpful here for peace of mind)

Windows : IKEA :: Linux : wood + hardware + tools. kinda.

here are 3 other things:

I'm not an expert I'm a very lost new user with a chainsaw and a can-do attitude

Experts don't generally keep the "new user" feeling close to their heart so what the fuck do they know about anything anyway

I don't know what you know so, like, bear with me.

...but also if you have more specific questions I'm around and hate my day job so feel extremely free to jump back into my inbox and be like "hey what the fuck is up with ___". or not. I typed so much.

anyway here's some stuff that would've helped me :3

ime, the most Intimidating thing about going from "god I hate the accursed Window" to "linux desktop user" is wrapping your head around what distros are. I overcame this hurdle by recklessly abusing duckduckgo and youtube, but you don't have to.

think of a "linux distribution" as an "operating system". there are one morbillion of them, but if you pick one out of the Big Fucking Pile you can download it, and it will be one (1) file that you can put on a USB drive, and then you can plug that USB drive into your Windows Machine and make the file install itself, and then the machine will have a new operating system. and if you don't like that one you can pick out a different one. off the pile. simple.

now that I have established this: you will have to Choose A Distribution. I have advice on this topic.

it is way easier to make the INSTALLING LINUX ON YOUR WHOLE COMPUTER jump if you use it in a virtual machine first. probably what this will teach you is that it mostly works like you expect a computer to work, but if you encounter any Problems, you can deal with them in your own time because your existing operating system is still right there. this tutorial will get you there. do not use ubuntu, though; use MX Linux. it is better. instead of "download an ubuntu image," go here and download one of these two mx linux images:

standard one (red) if your computer is old, or

"ahs" (blue) if your computer is not very old.

use your judgment. then proceed according to the tutorial, basically.

I am giving you direct instructions instead of general advice because linux is a vast landscape of choice paralysis, which is also one of the things that has tripped me up before. once you have Used Some Linux, you'll start to Learn which things you want to have be different, and once you have some Preferences you can start tailoring your whole situation. unlike the accursed Window, where you can think "I kind of hate windows explorer" and then spend all afternoon on reddit learning that other file explorers for windows TECHNICALLY EXIST but none of them do the stuff you want. anyway.

once you have a working VM of mx linux, here's some stuff to think about or do:

+ what's your impression of the desktop immediately after installing? click stuff and see if you hate anything or can't figure out how to do something simple you can just Do on windows. then go into the settings and see if you can change something you hate, or open firefox and look up how to do the thing you can't do. rinse repeat.

+ tbh maybe this is me being a little freak but I spent like hours collectively in the settings just messing around. there's a new thing in MX tools where you can change the colors of your folder icons to literally whatever color you want; click that. enjoy the unadulterated aesthetic power.

+ log into your mozilla account on firefox. if you don't have a mozilla account, make one and then log into it. if you're on chrome, import all your chrome shit into firefox and attach it to a mozilla account and then log into it on your regular OS and in the VM. now you can blog from linux.

+ (you can also install chrome if you want (I have it in case a website belligerently doesn't want to work on firefox + have had to use it for, like, bills or whatever once in a blue moon). or any other browser. set up your preferred stuff everywhere!! go download a desktop wallpaper!! download these images and put them on there. home sweet home.)

+ you will encounter inconveniences as you try to use the VM for your Everyday Computing Experience, mostly because all your shit is already set up and stored on your windows computer and you're gonna be like "fuck I need [file]" and it's kind of a pain in the ass to directly get files from a host onto a VM and cloud storage sucks and none of your stuff is where you expect it to be on the desktop etc etc etc. deal with this as it comes. idk, write stuff down. solve 1 problem at a time when you have spare time. your goal at this point should be "I can use the VM instead of my actual computer for everyday tasks". but you can get there slow.

+ if you run into something that you USE on windows and CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO USE OR REPLACE on linux, now you are asking the big questions. go down a research rabbithole about it.

here is where I start saying generalizations again:

linux will teach you to Find Solutions For Stuff. the difference btwn windows and desktop linux is that windows will be like "here's how it is. don't worry about it" and you can either go "okay <3 yay <3" or you can get pissed off and go see what linux is about. and linux will be like "well here's like the entire breadth of human UX proclivities and a lot of power tools; I'll be on the forums if you need me; good luck, champ" AND THAT'S AWESOME. p.s. keep the forums for your distro close at hand when troubleshooting. they do good work in there.

uh basically my advice is: step up to it. do not stop trying stuff. become a gun that's full of bullets that are questions, and eventually you WILL be A Linux User. also, write down any command line stuff you learn in like a notebook or whatever so you can remember it without looking it up again next time you need it.

here's one: "./filename.whatever" runs the file. this is useful for when you download something that's not in your distro's package manager and have to run it like it's an exe or something and there's just a .sh file in there and you don't know what that means. it means "right click the folder -> 'open terminal here' -> type './filename.sh' -> program is now running". here's another one: "~/" stands for your home folder. which is where all your stuff lives. on mx linux I can hit f4 to bring up the dropdown terminal, type "featherpad ~/Documents/linuxes\ advice.txt" and it'll open this document in the default text editor. the \ is an escape character so it knows you mean the space is part of the filename. now you're 1337 :)

finally: if and when you reach a point where you can do all your normal computer stuff on your virtual machine, back up ur files off your windows machine and do one of the following:

take a new image of your working copy of mx linux (mx tools can help you do this) and install that on The Real Machine

get a clean .iso of mx linux and install it and re-set it up from scratch. pg 17 of the user manual, "2.2.3 Create LiveMedium", will tell you how to set up the USB drive, btw.

pick a different distribution and install that.

if you are 100% happy with mx, fuck yeah keep it. if you want something shinier, may I suggest Garuda? I fucking love Garuda Linux with my life.

SECTION FOR IF YOU PLAY GAMES ON YOUR COMPUTER BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT TO SAY ABOUT THIS:

if you play games, during your "what do I do with this VM" phase, go get them + try to run them. if you play games via steam, the store page for a game will have a "system requirements" field for linux if the game runs natively on linux. it usually says "ubuntu" but that doesn't actually mean you have to be running ubuntu; try it anyway. if the game does not run natively on linux, you can go into the game's settings and go to compatibility and "force the use of a compatibility tool" and a lot of the time that will just work ("proton experimental" is fine, or whatever the newest one is). if you have trouble, go protondb you and see what people have said about running the game. IF A GAME HAS MULTIPLAYER MAYBE GO TO PROTONDB FIRST and check to see whether anyone says anything about anticheat; this is the only thing that can have actual permanent consequences (sometimes anticheats will trigger if you try to use workarounds that let you run a game on linux). you can also look up a specific game on the r/linux_gaming subreddit; they are very helpful sometimes.

I'm officially out of arguably relevant sentences now, but I hope this helps some. Linux is fun + I like it a lot; you should try it !!!

[voidscarredadjudicator]

Hey guys. Sorry for being quiet for a month. Hopping on here to let y'all know that I do still have a pulse. Things have been... fine? I guess? Here's a bit of a wordy update on my situation right now, but the tl;dr is, I'm good, HE is still on hiatus, but I'll get back into the groove soon hopefully. Also happy holidays!

The mysterious and vague 'personal life stuff' is still ongoing, and I really don't know how long it'll be something that I have to deal with. I'm continuing to not elaborate because it is very much a personal life thing, but I can assure you that nobody's dying or anything grim like that.

On an only somewhat related note, my expendable income has shrank dramatically in the past few months, so I've been having to get a lot more stingy with what I spend money on. I'm not poverty stricken; I can still afford rent and bills and groceries and whatnot, I just gotta cut corners where I can so I can actually build up my savings.

What does this mean for Humanity's Endling? Well, it's... still on hiatus, technically. But really it just means I'm picking up more shifts than I'd usually care to, which means less time to actually work on it. If work were being done on it to begin with. I'm also cutting out my NSO subscription, which unfortunately means I will not be playing Splatoon 3 much at all anymore. Granted, I was kinda taking a break from it already, so it's not like I've been getting my money's worth of the subscription anyways. So if you were curious about my absence during this most recent Big Run, or the lack of a lengthy season observation/headcanon post like last time, that is why.

All of that said, it's not like I haven't been writing at all - just been hard focusing what creative juices I'm still able to generate given my situation on the accursed TTRPG I've mentioned in prior rambles, as that's an actively running thing that I kinda need to constantly pump stuff out for.

Speaking of which, I pulled a Super Mario Galaxy and wrote a whole ass children's book for the players to find as a lore thing. It was written with the intention of just being a normal children's book in a bubble, but when viewed with the context of the entire campaign thus far, takes on a completely different meaning. Which is to say, you don't need to know a damn thing about the campaign to appreciate the story - a theory I tested by having two people who aren't players read it.

One almost cried. The other actually cried. And when the players found it in our most recent session, one of them also cried, and we had to take a breather after the fact.

Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but I feel like that's one hell of an achievement. So I am pretty proud of myself for that. If you guys are interested, I might clean it up a bit and post it either on Ao3 as an original work or just straight onto this tumblr. It's only about 2k words, so it should fit nicely in a single post.

That's all I can really think of to say at the moment. Again, even though I might seem a bit quiet, I am still here. I take a peek at tumblr at least once a day to see if anyone's sent any asks or anything like that, so don't be afraid to toss something into my inbox if you have a question.

Oh, and for the anon who sent an ask suggesting me to upload what I have of Act II done already - I don't exactly plan my stories in a linear fashion, nor do I write them as such either. It's closer to me thinking of the major moments I wanna do, plotting out how to connect them, refining, refining, refining, rearranging, refining, scrap half of what I have done, rearranging, suddenly having an epiphany, scrapping another chunk... yeah, it's a bit chaotic. I see what you're trying to say though, and I do appreciate the suggestion, but it can't really be done with the way I go about writing.

That's it from me. Happy Holidays. Play Cyberpunk 2077. It's a good game, I swear. Or Undertale Yellow if you own a toaster. It's me, I own a toaster. I played Cyberpunk on my brother's computer. Thanks, bro. Love you.

[desalvar]

 . I'VE DIED EVERY DEATH I COULD .

    and i have survived each one ( MAIN VERSE. )

He is more myth than man. So happens to creatures with lives unreasonably long and caprices insolently frequent - they exist in endurable fractals. At once Nikodemos and Undying, for a time Octavian, for another Matteo, then Wolfslayer, Giver, Eris, Lucien; the Necromancer has been much and many, and will be many more. A self-contained legion of selves and lives lived.

Much like his history, his nature is vague and indistinctly capricious. Once upon a time a human, as human as his accursed kin of feeble, hollow-souled demonfood 'sensitives' could be, he fights the hand dealt tooth and claw long enough to become a thing transcendental and ineffable - neither living, nor dead, nor human, nor quite witch. The void at his core goes from inborn burden to weapon when he wrests control over what he can take unto himself and swiftly takes to taking souls. Magical talent he steals from the naturally gifted, mortal coil he trades in for manufactured immortality, his grimoire he writes in blood atop his very skin and in ink into his soul, and at last emerges from his doomed fate a terrible creature of his own creation - the first Eater.

And the Eater surely goes on to taste all he can of the world. From early antiquity onward one can encounter him in many places as many things. Amongst creature kin the terrors he once sowed still echo in certain places. Quiet about his dealings, his reputation as killer-eater have earned him few allies, even fewer friends and some of his more abhorrent titles. Where the esoteric and magical can be studied, he studies it, where it can't, he hunts it down. All for want of crafting his own perverse version of it. Magic is one thing, necromancy another, but a thief is a thief no matter the scale. Amongst humans where lies are far easier, he wears kinder masks. Covers himself in glory in battle and jewels in castles, becomes pauper, rebel, noble, knight, king, kingslayer. Becomes priest, saint, martyr, god. He crafts and sells the sweetest lies and seals the cruelest fates. Most of all, he eats. Gorges himself on meat damned and divine alike, morsels from any rare and rotten and terrible thing if he finds he can chew it (he finds he can), feeds himself in fists of human herds or handfuls of great big beasts. Swallows power too, and knowledge, adoration, love, all things a man may hunder for, he devours in excess. Most of all, he eats.

CHARACTERIZATION NOTES.

he can be played as far back as early antiquity where Nikodemus began his journey, all the way up to modern times

there is a time before he was Nikodemus - that history is available only upon extensive plotting

most names he's taken are self-contained lives he's lived. and while he doesn't always abandon those names and has allowed historical records of them to survive, connection rarely exists between them and one would find themselves hard pressed to find one. at best, the notion would count as a conspiracy theory. as a rule of thumb, only the preternatural and immortal tend to be aware of more than one of his reputations. otherwise, muses should know him only as what he introduces himself to be

despite the ironic title the undying, nik can in fact die, does it often, very well and rather casually. after each death he resurrects to full health, regrows all physical structures and then 'wakes up' back to square one - a reset of sorts. on the flip side, he feels the pain normally and experiences death like a human would. he just doesn't entertain it long (unless something interrupts his renimation).

he's something of an undead creature in technicality. he breathes, eats, has a pulse et al, but his soul and metaphysics are unnatural, his blood is rotten and his flesh performs odd processes. to blood-drinking creatures his palette would be disgusting or, in some cases, deadly.

he can sense souls. nothing whimsical like colors or anything, but he can metaphysically feel their energy and, after millenia of contact with various creatures, has learned to tell some apart. humans, spirits, undead, shifters, demonic and celestial he can pin down fast, while the outliers of the preternatural world are trickier. still, more often than not he can tell what caliber of power he's facing.

he can also eat souls. says it on the tin and everything. most times he can't do it freely and necessitates physical touch to put his binding mark down, through which he syphons out lifeforce. this ability won't be forced on any muse unless specifically requested and thoroughly plotted out, and may only appear connected to miscellany NPCs.

around the time of the early medieval period henceforth, Antonín Cainhurst may be mentioned in threads.

out of touch accents in everything he speaks.

notable liar.

HEADCANONS.

where i'll link all metas n studies i do of this bassard in his main verse ♡

On immortality

[a-lonely-dunedain]

thinking about Corunir again and I think I finally understand exactly why he didn't send word to Esteldin about what befell the Lost Company until years after the fact, and it was actually a lot more reasonable than I initially thought.

so at first his decision to stay behind and not try to send a message back seems, well, a bit foolish to be honest. after all, his orders were to send word to Esteldin in the event that something went horribly awry, which it did, and he didn't send anything. isn't that kinda going against Golodir's orders?

well, technically, yes. but consider this: what would have happened if Corunir had sent for aid right after the crossing of the Rammas?

Most likely, more rangers would have come, more rangers would have tried to cross the Rammas, and more rangers would have died. Corunir had just witnessed a company of his close friends and probably some family die horribly under the power of the Stones, do you really think he was eager to send more of his kinsmen to the same fate? I don't think so. This guy is known for being extremely concerned for the well-being of his friends after all, and after something that traumatic it's totally understandable that he would be afraid of seeing the same thing happen.

But still, his orders were to send for aid! So he would have to do that eventually, but I think his plan was to find a way to master the Stones before he did that. "but why would that be important?" asks the doubtful strawman in my head "shouldn't he at least have told them that some of Golodir's company was still alive? what good would it do Golodir to let the others think he was dead"

well, what was he supposed to say??? was he just going to tell the guys left at Esteldin "hey things went horribly wrong but there's a bunch of evil statues that kill you if you get close, so there's nothing anyone can do for the others. peace and love! <3" yeah, that wouldn't have helped Golodir much either.

And do you remember how Dagoras said the messenger falcon Corunir sent to them was gravely wounded when it arrived? the journey was treacherous for his poor bird, and I doubt he had a surplus of them just hanging around. He only had one shot at getting a message through, and he had to make it count.

That's why it was so important that he find some way to cross the Rammas first! He had to find some way through, to prove that it could be done, so he could tell the others how to get through and aid could actually come to Golodir, so he could know he wasn't just calling more of his kin to their deaths in that accursed valley.

He had one falcon that might make it back to Esteldin, if he was lucky. He had to make sure that he could actually provide them with information that might help Golodir, and it was reasonable for him to think the best way to do that would be by crossing Rammas Deluon. Both so that he could tell the other rangers how to overcome the Stones, and so that he could tell them what they should expect to find on the other side.

Also, something I always found interesting about his wording in the quest is when he says he didn't send a message back because he "could not abandon his captain." I had always wondered how sending a messenger falcon would be "abandoning" Golodir. after all, he didn't go anywhere, he was still in Angmar, as near to Golodir as he could be. But now that I think more about it, I think I understand. If he wasted his only shot at sending a message back, and aid was still unable to make it through Rammas Deluon, in Corunir's mind it would be no different from abandoning Golodir to whatever fate awaited him in Angmar.

So that's why he continued to risk his life trying to get through, that's why he did it until it broke his spirit. He needed to prove to himself it was possible, that he wasn't needlessly risking the lives of more rangers. He needed to know his message wouldn't be wasted, and that when he sent for aid, aid would actually be able to come. And he thought that the only way to do that was by crossing himself.

maybe pride had something to do with it, maybe he thought that if he wasn't able to overcome them than no one could, so sending for help would be a waste. But to me, it's more likely a stubborn refusal to see anyone else die in that valley, a willingness to martyr himself so that no one else had to. I mean, if someone must risk their lives to find a way through, might as well be him right? (alas, such is normally the outlook rangers have on life, and guardian-rangers most of all)

But all that fell away in the end. All those notions that his struggling could do any good, that he had any hope truly helping Golodir, were eventually shattered under the weight of the Fell Watching Stones.

And in the end, he did send a brief, hopeless message.

Not one telling them it was possible to cross the Rammas, for he now saw it couldn't be done. At least, not by him. He had no hope left, but maybe these heroes from the south still do. maybe they could succeed where he failed.

idk if this is coherent at all my brain is deep-freid atm but. blorbo thoughts. I'm love him. hugging him rn. he tried so hard. he loves so much. it wasn't enough, and that's what broke his heart.

[angeldrawsstuffs]

Akira

Another thing for @kittydemon9000’s Puppet AU! This time focusing on his a-freaking-amazing OC: Puppeteer! He’s very squishible and angstable.

Also I apologize for this one being a tad shorter than my other snippets, but here we go!

Another lifetime, another 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵 gone. So is Puppeteer’s curse: to live forever as a monster

Sometimes he wondered why it was him who had to be the one. Why that cursed magic had to hit *them* specifically.

He may not remember much from his youth, but that day, that accursed day is forever burned into his memory. The words of the spell, the flash of light, the screaming townsfolk, all of it. But, the thing he will forever remember the most was Akira.

Kind, loving, sweet Akira. He was the first of their dancers he encountered after the spell.

And Akira didn’t scream. Akira didn’t run in fear.

He held Puppeteer.

He let him cry.

He held his hand while they explained what happened to the others.

Akira was the older brother Puppeteer so desperately wanted from his blood family.

Akira was 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽.

His dancers- his family, were all oh so 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽.

They were all set to spend the rest of their lives together, them dancing in the spotlight while Puppeteer stayed in the shadows, guiding them from afar with the technical aspects of the shows. They were supposed to dance together until they grew old and spend their final days by each other’s sides

But the curse-

The First Master forsaken curse-

It made him forever twenty-three.

Forever a 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻.

Forever ��𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓮.

So, he learned to take in 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓼, lost souls who wouldn’t be at all 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 in their former lives.

But they all left him too. One by one they would wither away until Puppeteer had to send them off once more to live the rest of their lives in peace.

He never did hear from most of them.

He likes to think they’re still out there, living peaceful, happy lives. Dancing and dancing and dancing away.

Yes, it’s a lovely thought.

A thought that came to mind once more as Puppeteer finished cleaning up the last doll room of their carriage. After all, he was in town to find another lost soul to be his newest 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵.

Perhaps this one would be more obedient than the last. More willing to listen.

As Puppeteer exited the room, he heard the strangest noise:

Someone is entering the carriage.

Hmph. How 𝓷𝓪𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽𝔂, it’s not even showtime.

Nevertheless, Puppeteer must certainly 𝓽𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓱 this intruder that no act goes without 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓮𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮.

Quickly and quietly, Puppeteer strides down the corridor, lovingly crafted purple cape fluttering behind them as they approach the entrance to the backstage.

“I know you’re in here!” Shouts a youthful voice, one that can’t be older than seventeen at the most, “Just come out and maybe I’ll try to put in a good word with Skales for you! If he’ll listen to me…”

Curious. The intruder doesn’t seem to be looking for Puppeteer, seeing he they do not know who this “Skales” is or why they hold significance.

But an intruder is an intruder all the same.

However, given their presumed age…

They might just make a nice new 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵.

Slowly Puppeteer opens the door and enters the backstage area just next to the cyc, using the sightlines of the curtains to get a better look at the intruder, who appears to be-

Who-

Who appears…

To…

Be…

“𝓐𝓴𝓲𝓻𝓪?”

The intruder pauses.

“Who just said that? Who’s there?! Show yourself!” 𝓐𝓴𝓲𝓻𝓪 They declare, drawing twin, golden katanas from their back.

It can’t be-

But they look so much alike. The brown hair, the tan skin, the lovely, vibrant red they wear-

But 𝓐𝓴𝓲𝓻𝓪 is dead! 𝓐𝓴𝓲𝓻𝓪 was one of the first! 𝓐𝓴𝓲𝓻𝓪 is gone! 𝓐𝓴𝓲𝓻𝓪 is-

As if guided by their own strings, Puppeteer finds himself onstage, face to the with 𝓐𝓴𝓲𝓻𝓪 the intruder.

And suddenly, their world goes black.

Puppeteer can’t quite remember what he did or what he said next.

But the next memory they have is attaching their lovely new 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵 to the cross brace he was prepared for after shows on stage left.

They’re kicking, they’re fighting, they’re shouting…

But they look just like 𝓱𝓲𝓶.

Yes… this 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵 will do 𝓷𝓲𝓬𝓮𝓵𝔂.

[cf8wrk4u-us]

Also, forgot to ask this with my other question and i apologize, how has Rung been doing with the tributes so far, or at least there been any progress at all? And how is Ratchet reacting to the rest of the tributes health in general? I know that apparently the male district 8 tribute had a broken leg before the games even started. Again, apologies for the influx of asks I just love the plot!

Rung is a great support to the tributes, given the Reaping, the overall experience of being taken from their Districts with the express purpose of killing to survive or just dying in the Hunger Games can leave a lot of mental and emotional toll to the tributes. He tries to offer support to all of them just letting them get out their emotions, their fears, and grief.

Because even if Rodimus stopped the Hunger Games there still that trauma of being essentially being prepared to fight and even kill other to just be able to go home. And you, family, and even your mentirs being helpless to stop it.

But the person that Rung spends the most time with is Cato. The District 2 tribute is a mess of nerves and is extremely agitated during his stay on the Lost Light. With him even lashing out at his fellow Carrier tributes. And while he knows the young humans termpermant and actions haven't made him very sympathetic to the rest of crew, he doesn't make such judgment on the teen and tries to help counsel him and talk him through his anger as best he can. Even when Cato lasshes out verbally at him, he keeps a calm and understanding demeanor.

Cato: This is all your fault! Everything is ruined because of you all!

Rung: What was ruined Cato?

Cato: THE GAMES!!!! The Games were supposed to happen! But you stopped them!

Rung: Okay Cato, could you please explain the significance of these games too me? I've never been to Earth, in fact I've never even heard of the Hunger Games until a few stellar cycles ago, so I think I really appreciate it if maybe you can explain its significants too you?

Cato: The Games are the most important thing to my district, I was supposed to play! I was supposed to win!

Rung: Hmmm, by killing the rest of your fellow tributes?

Cato: That's how it's played! You survive, you win 😤

Rung: But what about your fellow District tribute...Clove was it? Wouldn't it mean she would have had to die for you too win.

Cato:.....that's how it's played....

Rung: Okay, Cato, I have a thought here. Despite Rodimus ending the games, you still technically survived it. Doesn't that mean in a way you've won?

Cato: .....doesn't count.

Rung: Huh, why not? You're still alive, Cato. I'm sure your family and your district would be happy that you survived and were able to return safely, wouldn't they?

Cato: .....wouldn't count.

Now, moving onto Ratchet.

You better believe he's angry that Rodimus came back with an injured human and a part of him felt guilty for not pushing to go to that accursed arena. But given Earth, the Earth he once considered a second home planet at one point, was now a hostile territory he understood the team needed warriors in case things turned ugly. Humans could be incredibly dangerous given the right tools.

But he does his best to treat Peeta with Katniss help, then once he's sure that the District 12 tribute is stable he does his best to look over the other tributes.

To no one's surprise, the tributes were all skittish to be looked over by the red and white Transformer but Ratchet did his best to be patient with them.

As for the District 8 tribute with the limp leg, Ratchet was careful to look over him and advise both the human and the crew not to let him put any pressure on it or move around on himself too much.

It made him sick though, a tribute injured and practically lamed still expected to fight for his life in some death game? That was barbaric and the medic would do anything to to have the Capital made to ruin.

[whentherewerebicycles]

well today was a true Alexander day (terrible horrible no good very bad) but I think it’s partly just that time of year… I start feeling absolutely starved for break right about now and the fact that it’s so (relatively) close almost makes it harder to push through the last stretch. I’ve given myself permission to take a small dose of my meds tomorrow for the first time since I found out I was pregnant… I don’t want to make a habit of it but I feel like I lost most of the last two weeks to brain fog and I could use one (1) day of feeling like my work brain is mostly functional. plus honestly I can’t think of any other way to get myself to finish this accursed tutoring blog post. despite feeling incredibly bad in my brain/body I did manage to self-soothe a bit by listening to baby’s heartbeat for a long time. I think I will also make a big batch of stovetop popcorn and maybe start a new novel as I keep getting bogged down in my current one (rereading the likeness). I have another long day tomorrow sigh but then friday is totally open and then it’s the weekend and then it’s just one! more! week!!!! before I get to fly home (I’ll technically still be working but let’s be honest everyone is going to log off around 12/20 and not resurface until after new year’s). I can do it!!!!!!!!!!

[mask131]

With all that is going on and happening since last year, there is something I have grown very angry at. How people use the term "Western" or "West" left and right without even understanding what it means - or worse, using it knowing what it means but hoping others do not.

Take every time people start saying on this accursed website "Do not trust Western media" or "Do not listen to the media of the West". What do they actually mean? That's something you should ask them.

Because the terms such as "West", "Western", "Western culture", "Western media" are now frankly outdated and meaningless terms. They were here for the colonial era and for the Cold War - but somehow, whereas nobody uses "East" anymore, everybody keeps using "West".

I remember how someone online kept referring to the West, and since I'm from France, excluded it from the conversation. I was a bit baffled so I asked them what they meant by "West" - and in their mind, the "West" was a term for North America exclusively. I had to explain to them that, technically speaking, Europe was also part of the "West" - because when for example Muslim etxtremists from the Middle-East or Putin's propagandists said "The West is the enemy", they definitively included Europe in it, and because of all sorts of reasons and past events and the way things are taught worldwide, the "West" usually designates America and Europe.

And yet things are not so easy - because in Europe itself, there are still leftovers of the old Cold War divide between Western Europe and Eastern Europe. In fact, it is a point of contention - some considering we should keep this old Cold War divide to highlight the cultural and political differences, others preferring to treat Europe as a whole. And take Southern America - not many people today who speak of the "West" think of referring to Southern America, and yet... It is located in the "West" and its countries are part of the "Western" countries.

So you already have this whole mess where for some people the "West" only means the United-States, for others it means all of North America but nothing else, for some it means the whole American continent and that's it, for others it means United-States+Western Europe, for another group it means North America and Europe... Everybody has different limits and considerations for what is the "West".

And even beyond that - while one can agree that in terms of history, politics and culture there is a sort of common ground or common link between all those countries (thanks again to events such as colonization and the Cold War, which strongly divided the world), in truth, in the actual matters, in reality... To treat the "West" as a sort of single-minded one block sharing one same culture and one same goal is completely stupid and very ignorant. Everybody knows that North America and Europe do not share the same culture or the same laws. North America is not just the United-States but also Canada, which is definitively NOT the USA. Europe is comprised of dozens and dozens of countries with their own national specificities, and if all European countries were alike, there would never have been all those wars that kept dividing the continent between East and West, North and South, Center and the rest, Latinized and Germanic, Catholic and Protestant... And Australia is also technically the West! Try to tell me that Australia and Italy or that Canada and Spain are both acting the same way, out of the same goals, with the same views of the world and the same culture, and you become a laughingstock.

It is identical to if someone starting re-using the term "the East" or "Eastern media". Are you ready to mix together and mash into one Arabian countries, Russia, India, China, Japan, and more? Are you going to tell them the media of all these countries are saying the same things, spreading the same lies, sharing the same truths? Are you going to tell me that they all are similarly aligned in a political way, or that they have one shared culture? I mean come on! Think, people, before using stuff like that.

I can accept people using terms such as "East" and "West" when it comes to describing historical events or the development of cultures in the past - again, these words are needed to describe for example how the Cold War unfolded. But they are definitively not working in any way to describe the actual realities we are living in, and the events we are going through - and only self-centered ignorants (like those Americans who claim that if the USA fell the West would stop existing - hello, Europe is still there, and we're still considered the "West") or those paranoid fanatical extremists of religion or politics (like Putin's crusade against the entire "West", aka everything that is not Russia, and his desire to restore the "East", aka invade and control all neighbor countries) keep using these terms as if they still had an actual reality.

[narcoticwriter]

sleep headcanon for itto + old age headcanon for beidou

Thanks for the ask! Response is below.

Arataki Itto - Sleep

He’s either conked out at 9:00 or living it up until after midnight.

Snores loudly. Almost deafeningly. Granny Oni can’t really hear it though as her ears are mostly gone.

Ushi is usually tucked under his arm as Ushi himself likes this.

You know he sleeps with his eyes open, but the sleeptalking enhances the already unusual experience.

His sleeping position is mostly spread eagle on his belly, but he also moves around in his sleep a lot.

Good luck waking him up. Mans sleeps like a rock.

(I’ve technically done this once, but I was more than happy to do it again!)

Beidou - Old Age (Oh, this got a little long actually)

The first thing that’s going is her ears, so jot that down.

She’s not the type to retire by choice, in fact if she’s not going down with the Alcor, the Alcor will either be docked or handed off to the successor of the fleet.

I cannot see Beidou willingly living on land for her twilight years, so she’ll have a smaller boat she lives on and travel with.

In those latter years, her body doesn’t hurt and is in great condition.

However, the years of hard work, rough fighting, and general circumstances took it’s toll as she cannot perform at the same capacity she used to.

You can bet that Ningguang is still alive at this point, so most of her days are spent with her, either playing whatever edition of her accursed Shadowrun or bickering over lunch as they always have.

It is a whole event when Beidou finally steps down from her position (she literally cannot do it anymore) and she really doesn’t get what the big deal is.

Just about every merchant worth their salt shows up to pay their respects and they come from everywhere.

Kazuha visits more frequently than you’d expect from him and usually brings small gifts as well as stories.

You will mostly find her at the Southern Wharf, surrounded by children who are the less fortunate ones.

As she recounts her adventures and stories to them, she can’t help but see a bit of herself in their eyes as they’re captivated by it.

Her residence is never empty as there’s always at least five kids sleeping there at any given time.

She takes care of them when no one else would and they love her fiercely for it.