#Unhallowed Ground

[biblioflyer]

Old Gods of Appalachia is amazing live.

Had an absolutely incredible time seeing the traveling show.

I want to call out some people who may or may not get the attention they deserve: obviously Cam and Steve are Level 20 Bards, but Betsey Puckett's Granny White had me squirming in my seat and the redneck Waldorf & Statler: Jacob Danielson - Moore and Jon Charles Dwyer are a delight at the merch table and then proceed to squeeze all of your emotions out of you musically like a dirty sponge, leaving you fresh, clean and in need of a hankie.

[hartshorn-and-isinglass]

UNHALLOWED GROUND

(CHAPTER 1: Bring Me to Life)

CHAPTER 2: I Don't Drink... Wine

Whoops my hand slipped and I wrote more vampire fic. I will apologize but I also won't stop writing. Sorry.

Word Count: 1.4k Content Warnings: alcohol mention.

(Really Marve, are we doing this again?)

What a strange night this has been thus far. But my discomfit is easily soothed by the prospect of more good music. I sit down on the edge of the tomb next to his case, eager to hear him play again.

With a sharp inhale he puts bow to string. Bold sweeping strokes evoke the sound of trumpets, serious and regal, like a grand procession. I’m surprised; I assumed this would be something light and sweet when I asked for a piece that was dear to him. Instead, this feels rather fantastic, like tales of old–full of knights and their ladies, or maybe even strange creatures. I suppose tonight he is something of a knight-errant himself, testing his mettle against a strange creature like me. 

The procession gives way to some courtly dance, but only briefly before the melody lapses into weeping and sighs, then grim determination at the call of the trumpets once again. I’m struck by how dark a tune this is to keep close to one’s heart. And as the thought crosses my mind, his eyes meet mine for the briefest moment, blazing with a startling fire, before he dives into the last somber, ringing notes of the piece. 

At last I can applaud him, for it is well-deserved. “Truly, you should be playing in Paris, not in this silly half-forgotten backwater of a town.”

Monsieur Chagnon bows graciously, and grins. “I have played in Paris before, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, how glamorous! But why on earth would you ever forsake the big city for this wild place?”

“That… is a long story, Mademoiselle.” For the briefest moment a shadow seems to cross his face, though it is quickly replaced with a wry smile. “But wherever Frenchmen go, there will be a need for wine and good music–thus even the farthest corners of the empire require musicians. I have found my home here, where I am needed. Alas, I cannot do anything to remedy the short supply of good wine.” 

“Indeed. I can’t recall any of the wine ever having been decent. Although, after all these years, my memory of the taste of wine is no longer reliable.”

He frowns. “Is that so? Does one forget the pleasures of life when one crosses over to the realm of the dead?”

“I may not be the person to ask about such things, since I am not truly dead. Or I am and I am not; my current state of being was never meant to be at all, it seems. But whatever the case may be–no, I have not entirely forgotten what it was like to be mortal… though sometimes it seems as if those memories belong to someone else. No caliber of wine would suit me now, for my tastes… have changed.”

“And the dead–or the un-dead, rather–they do not eat or drink?”

I hesitate. “Not as the living do.” 

“Yet there must be some manner by which you obtain the vital power that allows you to speak and move,” he says with sudden animation. “You confound the entire field of natural philosophy, Mademoiselle. For you are no mere figment of the infected imagination; nor the spirit of one who is deceased; nor a corpse that moves but has no ability to reason. You are soul and body resurrected–a Lazarus of a kind–though presumably not resurrected by our Lord but by some natural process we do not yet understand. What would Dom Augustin Calmet have made of you, I wonder!”

I raise an eyebrow. “Certainly, if God had anything to do with my current predicament He did not see fit to show His face. But do tell me, how does a fiddler like you come by such an interest in natural philosophy?”

“Ah! The nature of life itself and the possibility of un-life were constant topics of conversation in the salons and coffehouses of Paris. Can you believe it? My companions there were a rather morbid bunch.” He laughs as he sits down next to me. “Personally, I had always been inclined to doubt. But-” he says, leaning in a little, “-here you are, in the flesh. At last, I cannot refute the evidence before me, not when I can see it with my own eyes-” here he clasps my hand again, “-and touch it, as well.”

The soft warmth of his hand envelops mine once more. The hairs on my arm stand at attention as the heat travels up and into me, and I reflexively gasp again as the chambers of my heart fill with warmed blood. I feel that deep ache of longing in the pit of my stomach, though this time it is also accompanied by a more familiar need that pushes up against my eye teeth and turns my breath ragged. My head swims a little with the pleasure of it all, the sweet pangs of anticipation-

Monsieur Chagnon watches me keenly. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “You mentioned stealing warmth from the living. Is that what you do with the men who come here?”

“Among other things...”

A poor choice of words. My mouth longs to be latched onto his flesh; there is less room for other thoughts in my mind as I am carried along on the tide of my own hunger. Yet there is some part of me that is made uneasy by his calm demeanor. 

“What else do you take from them?”

The uneasiness grows. “Why must you press me on this matter? You have heard all of the stories.”

“Indeed, I have. And of the seven who have come here before me, five of them have trouble recalling the exact sequence of events that transpired before they found themselves stumbling back out the gate, terrified and confused. What is it that you have done to them?”

“Do not ask me this.” I withdraw my hand from his. “I have been careful to minimize my harm to these men, to take only what I need to survive.”

His voice grows yet more quiet. “But do you harm them?”

I nearly hiss at him before I catch myself. I can see him staring at my eye teeth with that calculating stare again, the same one he gave me when he first took my hand. 

He is asking too many questions–questions which I cannot answer if I wish to let him live. I do not like any of this. I must have Monsieur Bouchard continue to believe I am some garden-variety ghost who will merely give his victims a good scare, nothing more. If any man were to know-

“I have a theory, Mademoiselle. I wonder if you would like to hear it.”

I would not, actually. 

“Go on.”

“There are legends of the restless dead from all times and places; I have read a great many of them. Most of them are stories of spirits, incorporeal beings who do not have the same material needs as the living. However, the revenant who comes back in body, not merely in spirit, is an entirely different creature, for he must abide by the laws that govern matter. And living matter can only function if it feeds itself, no?” 

Monsieur Chagnon pauses for a moment to observe my reaction. I desperately try not to give him one, but I have the feeling that I have already failed.

He continues. “There are reports from the lands of Hungary and Bohemia about a kind of revenant corpse that appears to consume the essence of life itself directly from the living. Have you heard any such stories before, Mademoiselle? It is said that a man who returns from the dead there will attack his relatives and neighbors by strangling or suffocating them–stealing their breath–or piercing their throat and drinking their blood. Victims of such attacks will then fall ill, and often die-”

“Enough! I have heard enough.” I get up to leave.

“But am I wrong, Mademoiselle?”

“I have not killed any of the men sent here by Bouchard-”

“So you have never killed anyone?”

“You must stop asking me questions!”

"May I not know the least bit more about this game that I have been asked to play?"

"No. No more questions!"

“Or else… what?” There is that cold look once again. 

“Or else you doom us both. Good night, Monsieur Chagnon.” I retreat to the mausoleum.

He rises after me, but I am too quick for him to catch. I shut the door in his face.

(To Be Continued... Unfortunately.)

[rawliverandgoronspice]

trying to assign instruments to gerudo characters for thralls' soundtrack. Nabooru is getting the sitar so far, as I think she's good at representing the gerudo side that's closer to the Wild Era in terms of long-term vision for gerudo prosperity, not to mention that it works great for a more laid-back character; though Iftaah could also get that aspect, even though her perspective is a little bit more desperate and a little less actually strategizing about diplomacy and commerce in the way that Nabooru's is... not sure I have nailed down the perfect instrument for her yet though? Maybe a duduk, for its plaintive quality and capacity for softness? But I don't know, I feel like there could be something better out there. Saeruk and flamenco guitar seem pretty great fit for the versatility of the instrument, both harsh and defiant, playful at times, but also extremely sad if needs be, and the fact that she represents more the "older" kind of gerudo works well with more hispanic/romany inspirations. And then there's Aveil, who I feel represent the best the connection of the gerudos to their land, and I'd love an instrument that really represents that. Still looking for that one.

There's a bunch of fun things for Ganondorf that can be done, but I think he'll get... bigger instruments, in general. And church organs are quite versatile too it turns out. :) I like the marimba from his first phase boss battle, but it's a little too... I don't know, I feel like it lacks the roundness and depth and imposing quality that we could get with other picks. But Ganondorf so far has about *eight billion* leitmotifs going on with what I have selected for him (him and Ganon's, as they are... not exactly separate entities in the story, but sort of, it's kind of weird), so it might be more a case of actual melody rather than instruments, or maybe on top of instruments that swap in and out depending on what we want to invoke...

Sorry, rambling, but I would really love to compensate for my lack of voice actors with a pretty meaningful stab at the soundtrack. I feel like I kind of have to honestly. ;;

[smieska]

I ALWAYS WONDERED HOW DRACULA CHOSE LUCY IN THE BOOK, BUT THANKS TO THIS DRACULA BOOK CLUB YEAR 2 I FINALLY GET IT :D

[idylliumfield]

FREE OLD GODS OF APPALACHIA LIVESHOW TICKET

weeks ago i bought a ticket to tomorrow’s show at Union Transfer in Philadelphia, but things changed and i won’t be in philly (i’m going to the DC show on friday dw)

philly ogoa fans!! i can transfer the ticket to you for free on the AXS app, i can’t get a refund so i’d rather somebody use it

show is thursday september 5th at 8pm!!

[onlyhurtforaminute]

PUTRID EVIL-MORBID SLAUGHTER

[flagellant]

Doing some research for a video essay on horror's preoccupation with unhallowed ground (specifically Native American Burial GroundsTM) by watching the original Pet Semetary and.

THIS JUST IN: THESE NATIVE AMERICAN BURIAL GROUNDS WERE NEVER USED TO BURY A PERSON IN, SOMEHOW?

[kaiserin-erzsebet]

I enjoy the way the Whitby section builds up the hints of where the Count is hiding.

We know he doesn't have his boxes now because of the whole mess with the shipwreck. So he needs somewhere else to sleep.

We know the grave that the bench is on is the grave of a suicide, making it technically unhallowed ground.

And today's entry shows us that there's something about the grave that is so sinister that even an obedient dog will not approach it.

And something was so frightening that it killed Mr. Swales

And Lucy is sitting right on top of that grave...

[jollmaster]

trivia: Niffty as mortal

• real name: Nadia [hope]

• region: northern Albania

• period of life: first half of the 19th ct.

• illiterate villager from a poor family

• however, she was pretty, cheerful, able to run a household and wasn't particularly mad (bipolar affective disorder became evident only after physical death), so from her age of fifteen guys started to woo, and after a year there was a wedding

• wasn't interested in marriage because of youth + relations with mother-in-law weren't good, but didn't complain because it wasn't customary

• a year later girl became a widow when husband was shot at a spring

• when she found out who did it, she took a gun, came to the murderer's yard and shot him, breaking the rule that it was taboo for women to carry out blood feud

• Nadia's death was passed off as a grief suicide (she was killed by murdered's relative at the same night, but it's not righteous to kill women out of revenge, u'know); if Niffty finds out once that she was buried in unhallowed ground, it won't upset her much

• cause of death: strangled with her own braid

main gang, actual designs: Vaggie, Charlie, Angel Dust, Niffty, Cherri Bomb, sir Pentious, Husk, Alastor

as mortals: Vaggie [María de la Vega], Angel Dust [Antonio Costa], Cherri Bomb [Saoirse], sir Pentious [Spencer], Husk, Alastor

+ Charlie in full-human form

[nosferatini]

AO3 Ask Game

Thanks to @addledmongoose for the tag and @cheeseplants for the game!

What fandoms do you write in?

Good Omens. Although I have some Good Omens crossovers with other fandoms. One of my works was a multiverse one-shot with characters from GO, Doctor Who, OFMD, Buffy and Batman.

How many words have you published in 2024?

According to AO3 (which I just learned does statistics by year? lol) I published 435,127 words.

What is your greatest achievement this year?

Well...

I could either talk about fics or podfics here. But if I'm going with fic I'll talk about how far I've come with The Season of Nightingales, my main longfic, which has only two chapters to go.

But I've made some major strides with voice acting and making podfics for some of the wonderful folks in the Good Omens fandom, and I think that's more of an "achievement" than simply something I'm proud of, like progressing my longfic :) I'm especially proud of finishing both my Factory Settings Podfic and Someone is Calling Him Shorewards earlier this year.

What are your top three fics you’ve written this year?

The Season of Nightingales (Good Omens Post S2 Plot-with-Fluff Fix-it, currently at 168k with two weekly chapter updates to wrap it up)

Reversed Veil of Worlds - A Little History (Good Omens Angst, 2/5 chapters published based on @daneecastle's Reversed Veil of Worlds comic series, which if you haven't read you should totally go check out! [Starts HERE!])

Unhallowed Providence (Reverse Omens Gothic AU based on @theonevoice's GORGEOUS demon Aziraphale and angel Crowley art—I've published one chapter and have the story pretty well plotted for the rest, just need to finish Season of Nightingales first!)

What was your biggest pit of despair moment?

There was no one moment... not related to writing or Podficcing. Just the slow and steady realization that I was booking myself for too much stuff and in no way have time to keep up with it all lol.

What have you learned?

....I have a really bad case of FOMO.

What fic did you want to do but never made it off the ground?

I have a little side fic started about Crowley saving the runaway unicorn, and a Coney Island (excuse the period typical term "freakshow") human AU that I have a plot for and no time to write, especially not now that I've signed up for two wonderful artist collabs that are going to be my priority once I finish Nightingales.

Did you beta any fics? Any favs you want to shout out?

Yes! I've beta'd for @dbacklot99, @wingsofopal, and more short one-off projects for various GOAD Writers Guild writers than I could remember at gunpoint lol.

What three fics have you read this year that you love?

If I have to pick three, I'll name the longfics, because there's no possible way I could choose between them and all the incredible one shots and short series that I've read this year. I would recommend anything that I've podficced (which is the vast majority of my AO3 Profile right now) but I'll shout out these three longies in particular:

Someone is Calling Him Shorewards by @harlotofupdog (podfic)

2. A Little Life by @gaiaseyes451 (beware the angst tags... but damn it's good)

3. Friday I'm in Love by NooRose93 (podfic - wip)

What ideas are percolating for next year?

Fics in my queue:

I gotta finish Unhallowed Providence and A Little History first. Someday maybe I'll get to the Coney Island AU...

Podfics in my queue:

Stuck on You by @zin-lynn-c

Mon Horrible Chéri by @mrghostrat

And the Podfic for The Season of Nightingales

there might be a chance of me looking into doing Or Be Nice and maybe a couple of others that I was recced and haven't read yet, but I haven't actually asked the author(s) so don't quote me on that lol.

Who do you want to thank?

@paperclipninja for the absolute knockout musical compositions she has created for some of my podfics!

My beta readers: @addledmongoose, @dbacklot99, @wingsofopal @demonsandpieohmy and NooRose93 (aka blackjeans93)!

My beta listeners: @theonewiththeshippinggoogles and @firstvisittoearth @wingsofopal and others from the various chats who have added their comments after listening!

@daneecastle and the @theonevoice for inspiring me with their comic and/or art and for being wonderful friends to collaborate with!

@elenthyaolyenths for making me pretty logos!

@outrageousring5655 for making prolific podfics so I can absorb more fanfiction than I ever could on my own!

All of my amazing friends from the @goodomensafterdark Writers Guild and @whickberstreetwriters

All of the people who have taken the time to leave lovely, encouraging comments on my fics and podfics. I keep the best comments in my inbox even after replying, because some of the things you've said have warmed my heart, inspired me, or are just generally something to treasure.

A fond, no pressure tag to @gaiaseyes451, @wingsofopal @lemon-tart-221, @adverbian @paperclipninja and @dbacklot99 if you would like to play :)

[zarvasace]

I'm thinking of sharing some more original work, art and lore mostly, but I have... a lot of it. Do any of these sound interesting to you? More detailed descriptions beneath cut, but I tried to capture vibes!

In a slightly more high-tech modern world, the fey live in a floating city. They are aloof and have a policy of non-intervention... which means that the only fey people see are the mischievous, villainous kind. Through fey gifts, curses, and blood, various heroes rise to the challenge. This is a fairytale/superhero/modern fusion!

Original works!

Fairytale Superheroes

Characters include Pine (from The Ugly Duckling), Dawn (from Sleeping Beauty), Blythe (from Snow White), Andrew (from Snow White and Rose Red), Kala (from The Little Mermaid), and Dave (from Aladdin).

Random pieces written, mostly focusing on Blythe's angst.

Unveiled

In a modern, like-ours world, a secret community of magical people thrives: fairies, vampires, shapeshifters, centaurs, selkies, you name it. Their government and organization is scattered, but comes to a critical conclusion one day: to reveal their existence to nonmagical humans worldwide. Cue product placement, social media handles, trending tags, accessibility concerns, new legislation, new controversy.

Story focuses on Vivelle, a vampire, her kidnapped fiance Zachary (she didn't kidnap him, bad guys did), and a huge cast of side characters with different origins and approaches to the new order of things.

Lots of random pieces written focusing on different characters, some plot bits with Viv and Zach, some longer whump-y angsty ones.

Into Technology

The city of Scindite rises a mile above the ground on a massive stalk, built on a disk that turns a full rotation every day. It's protected and policed by graduates of an Academy, which is doing under-the-table research to give people superpowers. Successes are celebrities, elite soldiers and operatives. The Academy's failures are held in a long-term care facility... Except they're actually memory-wiped and dumped beneath the disk of the city, left to fend for themselves among the jungle and gangs of the city's underside.

Characters include Damian, Renna, Bee, Wyatt, Elden, Cosmina, and Cole. They each have little superpowers and are doing their best to survive on the underside.

A whole short story written, other pieces and backstories too. I wrote a FS story in this world once for Febuwhump.

Lucite

Ankifrah is a demon princess of hell, and just a little rebellious. After an incident involving a volcano, she's sent up to the mortal world to go to a year of high school. She's grumpy about it, but it IS just one year. She makes a friend named Will, and together they try to solve a string of violent murders before the killer can sacrifice everyone on prom night.

Maybe half of a novel written?

Vacea

Sci-fi trappings. The planet Vacea has a complicated system of magic that allowed it to withstand attacks from neighboring warring planets. Now they thrive... until the youngest prince, a shadowchild with stigmatized powers poisons a noble, starts a failed revolution, orders the king and queen to be assassinated, and is captured. Behind the scenes, though, is a radical group from a neighboring planet utilizing abandoned technology from before the treaties that would have given their soldiers access to Vacean magic.

Characters include Slyn, Mattie, Rinter, Gin Ha, Emmeline, and Vath, people with a variety of -child magics and expertise. This was whump before I knew what whump was.

Some random scenes and also maybe a third of a book written

Unhallowed

The Unhallowed Lands are their own brand of magic, vibes aiming for a high-fantasy feel without the elves and dwarves of lots of fantasy. Lots of worldbuilding and new humanoid fantasy species! There are the Terrible Royalty, who are more plant than animal; the Saihrwn, with colorful hair and a literally musical language; the Cobbs, immortal Frankenstein-ish people with an eternal outlook; the Lialts, magic-touched humans with a huge variety; the giants, with their agriculture specialties and unique martial styles; and the small folk who don't have a special name (yet.)

Main story follows Ward, the kingdom's heir, Laurel, a giant, and Rike, a Saihrwn, as they try to work through the kingdom's traditions and establish friendly contact with the non-magical people, all while fending off cosmic forces and evil kings.

Big story half-written, but aimless, some smaller pieces written. I also did a FS oneshot in this world, if you remember!

Disabled Princesses

If I only ever get one thing published, I want it to be this. Considering adapting one of my above worlds (Vacea or Unhallowed most likely) for this series. I want to write some middle-grade novels about princesses with disabilities doing cool things. I have a few characters in mind but haven't actually pinned much down yet.

Literally nothing but notes written at this time.

[hartshorn-and-isinglass]

UNHALLOWED GROUND

CHAPTER 1: Bring Me to Life

(I'm not committing to a specific year and location with this setting. Ironically that's probably because I know how much research it would take to actually do that and this is just what I want to write when I don't have the spoons for real work.)

Word count: 2.8k Content Warnings: none for this chapter, but it'll get spicier if I keep writing this. Unfortunately.

(Abandon all hope, ye who click "Keep Reading")

The full moon rises above the treeline, casting her silver-blue light on the grass and the stones in the clearing. It is a lovely spring night, with clear air and a full complement of stars twinkling in the sky. I am walking barefoot next to the fence, listening to the frogs and crickets and enjoying the light breeze—when I hear a small commotion near the cemetery gate, a trio of jocular voices now quite familiar to me. Ah, yes. The merchant has tempted yet another wretch to try his luck tonight. By this point, perhaps he's even convinced his drinking companions to start a betting pool on how long the poor man will actually stay.

I know very little of this old goat who has taken to playing the role of procurer for me; he has yet to speak to me directly or ask anything of me in return. His reward seems to be his own amusement and the stories the frightened men tell when they return to the land of the living. I am usually happy to play his game, as it has its own rewards for me. I even let it be known to the first few victims that I would much prefer to be awoken by the sound of music rather than rough shouting or banging on the mausoleum door—and remarkably enough, the merchant has obliged me since then by sending men here with their instruments. There was even a singer one time, though he was too frightened to sing particularly well.

I am already awake tonight, but for the sake of our little game it would not do to have them all see me so early in the evening. I slip back behind the door, propping it ever so slightly open so I can watch the proceedings from out of view.

In the distance I recognize the outline of the merchant and two of his friends weaving their way between the headstones; all three of them are rather top-heavy from their time in the tavern, and though they have hushed their voices now that they've entered the graveyard I can still hear nervous laughter between them. By contrast, their recruit for the evening looks to be stone-cold sober and remains dead silent, carrying a wooden case at his side. As they approach the mausoleum the merchant leans in to whisper the usual instructions to his mark, reminding him that though I am some manner of unearthly creature now, I appear to have once been a gentlewoman and ought to be treated with a measure of courtesy if he wishes to last the night here (...ha!)—also that he and his chums will be waiting at the gate until sunrise, and he will not part with his twelve livres' worth of silver a moment sooner (so he has increased the prize as well!). The poor singleten looks like he might be ill, but he sets his jaw and nods assent. With a shout of encouragement, the merchant claps him on the back and he and his friends retreat to the gate, leaving the man of the hour to his doom.

To me.

He stares at the door for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. This one is not so young as the last fellow who came here in the fall, but he has a fine-featured face and a sturdy frame. Looking about him, he spies the low tomb to his left and very slowly and deliberately sets his wooden case down, then his cloak next to it. He unlatches the case to reveal a fiddle, much to my delight. I am partial to fiddlers, and it seems the merchant has now intuited as much, as this is the third one in a row.

As he picks up the instrument and puts it to his shoulder I can already detect a certain elegance to his movement that tells me he is well-practiced in his art. He briefly tunes his strings, and glances again at the door, swallowing hard, before he raises his bow again to play.

I suppose I was expecting something in the vein of jolly tavern fare, but the first few notes are slow, mournful double stops that gradually expand into a melody that is by turns wistful and anguished. What breathtaking sadness, so skillfully played! At some point I realize my mouth is hanging agape, and I am thankful to be hidden behind the door.

I will not show myself just yet, for I must hear more of this fiddler.

The next movement seems to sparkle and shimmer as it is released into the night, a bright and twisting thing that at times almost threatens to lift the fiddler himself off the ground with it. I cannot even believe my good fortune tonight. How in the world did the merchant find this man?

Onto a sweetly lilting sarabande, tastefully ornamented. Oh, but how I wish I could dance to this one. Burial shrouds are not conducive to dancing, however, and besides there is no room to dance in here.

Now a fast-paced finale that rolls and swirls like running water. I can almost hear sunlight dancing on the stream of notes as they reach my ears, and for the briefest moment I see in my mind's eye the creek next to my childhood home, the golden light of day glinting off heads of barley, the bright blue sky and rolling hills in the distance—what is a musician like him doing in this Godforsaken colony? The man should be playing for concert halls in Paris!

He lets the instrument down from his shoulder to nothing more than the faint sound of crickets in the distance. I have never wanted to applaud so badly in my life—but surely that would not do, not for the game.

I slowly push the heavy wood door open a little ways, just enough to cause the hinges to creak. He freezes in place, gaze riveted on the space between the door and the frame. There is a wild look in his eyes. Though he was afraid before, I am certain that he, like all the others, had hoped this was all mere hum and nonsense and nothing would come of it.

I would tease him a little more, but I myself cannot stand it any longer. I throw open the door and saunter out of the shadows in superbly dramatic fashion.

"Alas! I have awoken once again from my slumber in death to unholy unlife!" I stare deep into the poor fiddler's eyes and extend my hands towards him. "O mortal, is it you who has recalled me from the land of the shades with sweet music, just as Orpheus did with his beloved Eurydice?"

This is usually enough to set a man to running, but the fiddler remains stock-still. I feel a bit deflated—here is where the chase is to begin!—why does he not fly from me? Am I... am I somehow not terrifying enough tonight? Should I have let my hair down this time? Delivered my lines with more of a growl?

I try again, with a little more menace in my voice. "Who has serenaded me back to life? Was it you, O fiddler?"

No response.

I don't think he has even blinked.

We've lost all dramatic momentum. Will I simply have to take my prize like this? It seems so unsporting. I weigh my options on how to proceed.

"Er. Boo."

He at last moves to cross himself, bow still in hand. His thin voice quavers. "In nomine Patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen-"

I laugh with relief as much as amusement. "Ah my dear, good to know you are still with us! I thought for a moment I had become Medusa and turned you to stone with my gaze!" I begin to walk towards him. "I must commend you for your bravery. Most poor souls who dare come here have fled upon seeing me. And I must also commend you for your musicianship, for no one else has played the fiddle half so fine as you."

He musters up enough courage to quickly doff his hat and bow, though he does not take his eyes off of me.

I am now close enough to sense the heat of his body radiating into the cold night air. I can hear his heart beating wildly and smell the perspiration evaporating off his skin; I can practically taste the fear oozing from his pores, mingling in confused dissonance with the cheery notes of bergamot and amber from his eau de parfum.

I grin at him, letting him see the length of my eye teeth. "How much longer will your resolve last you, though?"

To my complete surprise, he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin in defiance.

"I put my trust in God. Whatever happens, I shall be in His hands."

"Oh, bless. How far in arrears must you be to care so little for your own safety!" Good heavens, is there really nothing I can do to make him run? I have nowhere left to step forward except straight into him. I raise an eyebrow. "Or perhaps your debts aren't the only thing that keeps you here tonight?"

For a moment, he looks more mortified than terrified. It is easy enough to guess that a musician in this town might be dipped, as so many are these days, but I suppose I have embarrassed him by saying as much out loud. He gathers himself, and his brow furrows slightly as he chooses his words. "I was... curious. I... well, I wanted to know for myself if all the stories were true. Some say that you can walk through walls and disappear into thin air!"

"And they are sadly mistaken. Though I am no longer human, I am still made of flesh, same as you-" and here I reach towards his hand. "Only I am not warm—at least, not most of the time." He flinches, sucking in his breath as my ice-cold fingers make contact. But he does not remove his hand from my touch. There is a certain look in his eyes as he recovers, one that catches me off-guard though I cannot pinpoint its exact significance.

A long, awkward silence ensues before he quietly clears his throat.

"Mademoiselle... do you... do you wish to be made warm? Let me lend you my cloak."

I can scarce believe my ears. But I suppose he was told to treat me with courtesy...

"That is very kind, thank you. But I cannot be made warm that way. For your cloak does not produce its own heat, nor do I. What heat you have given the cloak will not last a minute on my shoulders before it dissipates. No, I must steal my heat directly from the living."

In a graceful single motion, he passes the bow to his left hand and wraps his fingers around mine, infusing my hand with a pleasant warmth. There is just enough energy in this small gesture that I can feel it travel up my arm and into my chest until it reaches the chambers of my heart, where it causes me to involuntarily gasp. I am aware of my own pulse again; a wave of gooseflesh ripples across my entire body. I glance down, and realize that I am squeezing the fiddler's hand, just a little bit.

He observes my reaction carefully, saying nothing. I can hear and feel his pulse still hammering through his veins, but there is also a glimmer of something rather calculating in his probing stare.

I am accustomed to taking what I can from the living, be it their heat, their breath, their tears, or their blood. I now find myself at a loss as to how to respond to being given one of those things freely. I look at our clasped hands, then back into his wide brown eyes—intolerable!—then back at our hands. His warmth continues to diffuse through me, and with it comes a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach—not mortal hunger, nor the hunger of the undead, but some other long-forgotten need.

The fiddler's heartbeat begins to slow; he is nowhere near calm, but he is no longer terrified of me. Alas, I have failed in my role! Perhaps I should just bite him now and be done with it, if for nothing else than to save myself from the scrutiny of his gaze. Ah, but where to bite this one? Though I am careful to close the wounds with a drop of my own blood when I am done, his flesh will remember the insult, and to do such a thing to his neck or arms would hinder his beautiful playing. I suppose there is always his thigh, but then I would have to—well. I do not believe the merchant and his friends can see much of anything from their post at the gate, but if they can at all, it would certainly be the end of him telling anyone that I am a lady of good breeding.

Do I even care about reputation anymore? Does that much matter at all when you are no longer of the living? And for heaven's sake, will he stop looking at me like that—what are we even doing here?

"My apologies. I fear we have gotten up on the wrong foot," he says at last. "May we try again?" He steps back, still holding my hand. "My name is Philippe Chagnon. Pleased to meet you." He bows his head to meet my hand and lingers for a moment, long enough to exhale a warm breath on my knuckles—before gently pressing his lips against my skin, all the while gazing up at me with a positively smouldering look.

Oh.

I do not possess enough vitality to blush. Nonetheless, I am keenly aware that, were I alive, that is exactly what I would be doing.

I open my mouth to reply and nearly forget my own name.

"...Margaret Young. Pleased to meet you."

I see his eyes briefly flick upwards to the French surname engraved on the mausoleum, though he says nothing.

"Mademoiselle Young, I suppose you must be aware of Monsieur Bouchard's challenge by now. I regret that our acquaintance has been made under such awkward circumstances, and had I known better I would have insisted that he at least introduce us properly."

"Actually, I have never even been introduced to Monsieur Bouchard, nor any of his acquaintances. We are but strangers playing a strange game, and we have only communicated indirectly, with his recruits acting as go-betweens. I suppose he has not half the courage that all the rest of you do."

"A most strange game, indeed. One that I seem to have agreed to play without fully understanding the rules! When a friend of Bouchard's first sought me out for this purpose I thought he could not possibly be serious. I flatly refused. But when I encountered all of them at the tavern later in the week, they regaled me with so many fantastic stories... and they explained that they were looking for fiddlers in particular, as you seemed to like them best of all. I refused them twice more over the next two weeks, but they have been very insistent that they must have me, and—much to my shame to admit to you now, though I suspect you already overheard as much—they did manage to sway me by offering more money, in real silver coin no less. So at last I relented this evening, and was promptly led here."

I smirk. "Ah, so he does know I am partial to fiddlers. I doubt they will ever find me one better than you, however."

"That is very kind of you, Mademoiselle."

"I mean it with all sincerity. You have moved a dead heart—can there be any higher compliment than this?"

There is a pause. I see his brow knit for a moment; his gaze breaks from mine. "Thank you, Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur Chagnon, will you play for me again? We have the rest of the night before us, after all, as you seem determined to claim your prize. And of all the musicians who have come through here, you are the best, so I would like to see you win it. Please, play for me!"

"But of course, Mademoiselle. And what would you have me play for you?"

"Play for me a piece that holds a special place in your heart."

He smiles a warm, wide smile—again I feel that ache in the pit of my stomach—and he tucks the violin back under his chin.

(To Be Continued)

[rawliverandgoronspice]

Re: Descant and the rest of that series:

Is there a scene or idea you'd really-really love to include in it but can't, for whatever reason?

;__; I cherish this ask in my little hands like a soft bird, thank you so much for asking!!!

I mean, the answer is existentially horrifying, because: I have a full whole another story that goes into the "Child Timeline" version of the events of Descant (so the one that goes to MM's and Twilight Princess). I am unbelievably giddy about some of the ideas that are in there in terms of character development and just, Moments. It is the main daydream I am cursed with right now.

I have written test scenes and like, monologues and stuff that I just reread yesterday and went "shiiiit that goes haaard", so, pretty into it. It is roughly outlined.

The outline is 5k long.

So, beyond not really thinking it is realistic for me to dive into a 100k epic dark fantasy story about the nature of power and survival and responsability when I *already* have a series of science-fiction that I really love and want to finish going on, my ideas for this story are often incredibly visual, which is pretty rare for me; and so I have a lot of trouble imagining it as anything but a comic or a series, because of the external point of view and everything it allows that internal PoV (even multiple PoVs) can only approximate. Both options are literally ridiculous.

So I am indeed cursed to writhe about this story in my heart and be reasonable and *not* commit to it.

:(((((((

[smieska]

Yeah that part of telling the women that they attracted Orlok is a bit like in Dracula 1992 where Van Helsing goes on a rant saying that Lucy wasn't a random victim but she had it coming because she attracted Dracula with her horniness

EXACTLY???? when OG Dracula, (from what I've interpreted thanks to Dracula Daily people explaining things way better than I can) is that he chose her (and by extension, Swales) because she was sitting on her favourite bench which was the grave of a suicide, aka unhallowed ground(denied a Christian burial), aka where Dracula could hide out while people unload his dirt boxes from the crashed Demeter.

No psychic powers because you're a wild changeling fairy woman, just Lucy sitting on her fav bench :( that's the tragedy of it all.

[dcdreamblog]

I know this may be outside your wheelhouse, but Grundy.. Grundys? Is it one schmuck getting back up over and over again or just any reanimated Gray Buff bag of bones get the 'Title'

It's all the same man. The same poor, poor man.

On the eastern side of Old Gotham, there's an area that has never been fully reclaimed despite the industrial growth of the islands over the centuries. Low lying and soft it's a sponge for stagnant water and disease. In the city's oldest days it was used for the purposes of both disposal of diseased animals and public execution, gaining it the moniker of Slaughter Swamp.

(Map of Slaughter Swamp from Gotham's first Digital Atlas, 1990)

In the late 19th century, 1894 to be exact, a merchant of ill repute by the name of Cyrus Gold was murdered on that unhallowed ground. Stories differ as to why, a business deal gone wrong, killed by a pimp he was in rivalry with, on the wrong end of an angry mob with no evidence and no one else to blame.

The body was left there, unclaimed for exactly 50 years down to the day. Only when two escaped convicts attempted to cross the swamp away from police pursuit did Gold rise into undeath, having been physically transmuted by something in the swamp into a creature of half human and half wooded material.

Finding his way to a nearby homeless encampment, he was christened Solomon Grundy after a popular nursery rhyme of the age as the only fact about his life he could remember is that he was "Born on a Monday"

He was defeated and seemingly destroyed when the original Green Lantern managed to wrestle him into the path of an oncoming train. He was soon proven wrong, Grundy continued to rise, again and again, his personality slightly shifting with each incarnation, each one totally amnesiac of all previous actions before each rebirth.

(A "mugshot" taken by STAR Labs during one of the few times Grundy was in some kind of extended custody. STAR still has a program attempting to find a way to permanently end Grundy's life as a medical mercy)

[ficandkaboodle]

Papa’s Favorite Ghoul: Primo

Banner Credit Goes to @saradika-graphics! Word Count: 3281

Man, where do I even begin? I guess by stating that there’s two tropes I like: AUs where characters switch dynamics, and when characters or people go by titles that don’t traditionally align with their gender identity. Like woman kings or, in the case of Star vs the Forces of Evil, Jushtin the Boy Queen. Admittedly they’re more so applied to align with the importance placed on patriarchal and/or matriarchal power but we’re not getting into that. Nor are we getting into the kind of weird patriarchal traits of the Catholic Church the Church of Ghost keeps hold to — there are real-world explanations for them, I suppose, and this is fanfiction.

What we are getting into is my blending of the two aforementioned tropes to create this…Well, I guess it’s a series of sorts now because each character segment got too hefty to belong to one singular post. My bad. But I digress:

Somewhere out there, there is a universe where you were a part of the bloodline that has long reigned the Satanic Church as a dark papal dynasty. And now the title of Papa, for better or worse, has fallen upon you. You’ve trained your entire life for this — mephistophically, that is. But few things can prepare someone for dealing with ghouls more than actual exposure can. And now with the task of utilizing music to corrupt and recruit falling upon you, you’ll have plenty of time to become familiar with these literal hellions.

Don’t worry, though: If there’s one thing that has remained consistent throughout the millennia, it’s that a Papa almost always finds that one ghoul form whom they develop a fondness for . . .

You had not, in fact, been the one to summon the ghoul known around the Ministry as “Primo”.

He had been walking these unhallowed grounds since before you were born. A ghoul having an extended tenure topside wasn’t unheard of, but the implications set by his humanoid appearance of a very tall old man seemed to punctuate that point. Was he genuinely that old? Did he use a bit of ghoul magic to influence his appearance? You weren't going to ask.

Coupled with the way he carried himself, his presence commanded respect, something which the Clergy had been surprisingly willing to oblige despite his species.

Primo was, for all intents and purposes, the ideal ghoul: He had an intense work ethic, he was loyal, and he was tame enough to be of use while also posing a threat to anyone who did the same towards the Clergy.

Even something as simple as his horns seemed perfect for his position: The four horns of a Jacob sheep’s spiked warningly from his flesh, the perfect sort of horns for a ghoul of the Satanic Church to bear if there ever was any!

Even though his original summoner had long since passed, they never asked him if he wanted to return to the Pit. And, to their credit, Primo never expressed any desire to. It was that kind of dedication that endeared him so and kept him at the ready to be a conduit for the Old One’s message.

It was also probably the only reason why he’d involved himself in the “Ghost Project” you had recently proposed in a board meeting, even though he had made it extremely apparent that he did not see you as worthy of the title of Papa. If anything, he did so in order to keep an eye on you.

Primo had served many Papas in his time topside. Suffice it to say, you were nothing like any of them! Where your ancestors commanded their dark flock, Primo felt you merely timidly nudged them. Where the Papas of yore spat promises of the Dark One's ire and the rot of man, you seemed to more so focus on concepts of personal principle. Not entirely incorrect, but it certainly felt like a watered down method of leading.

Where was the damned soul made of brimstone and hellfire? Where was that penetrating glare that could freeze the doubters? All the old ghoul saw when you assumed the mitre was a soft-spoken slip of something or other that had fumbled their way through the bloodline. Had it not been for The Mark that paled your left eye, he might have more vehemently – more violently – questioned your ascension.

But the Clergy made no movements to dismiss or discard you, and Primo had never been one to take impulsive action. So here he began to find himself: Sitting at a drum set for rehearsals, battering away whilst his peers made fools of themselves as they writhed about, mimicking sexual proclivities or just plain goofing off.

But for as much as he would glower at them, his true poison was always fixated on you: You, who clearly just wanted the attention the Dark One was supposed to be receiving. You, who was just plain wasting his time – time that could be put to more use around the Ministry instead of spending hour upon hour listening to you warble the same cheesy lyrics, bastardizing unholy psalms passed down through millennia.

But he was nothing if not a professional, attending all rehearsal sessions, barely speaking unless it was to keep the more juvenile bandmates in line. Though more often than not, need only shoot them a sharp stare with those magma-red eyes of his and they would stop immediately.

That was all you needed when, surprised that he would pick something as raucous as the drums, you attempted to offer something not as physically demanding or requiring of too much movement.

You had meant nothing by it, of course. If anything, it was an attempt on your part to at least try and build a communication with one of the people (?) you would be working with indefinitely. Your peers and predecessors as a whole weren’t known for extending much kindness to the ghouls under their power; that was something you wanted to change during your reign. The rest of the ghouls, bandmates and Ministry-established alike, seemed to appreciate that well enough but Primo . . . Well . . .

Weren’t earth ghouls supposed to be less . . . intense? Stubborn and a twinge terse, perhaps, but usually they still had a bit of gentleness to them after a point. But then again, Primo was in a class of his own. Or maybe he’d just been a fire ghoul at some point? Might explain the eyes . . .

Really, though, the praise you’d heard regarding his dedication towards Papas past had yet to make any real appearance beyond him not taking you out. And perhaps volunteering to participate in your brain child, though you felt that was more so out of obligation to the Church rather than out of any real reverence.

Given how blatant he had made his dislike of you from the get-go, you decided to accept his (admittedly impeccable) drumming skills as the closest thing to respect you were going to ever get out of him. Much like the Clergy, you weren’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth too hard.

Your magnum opus couldn't afford it and for as confident as you were in the prospects of it, you knew you would need all the help you could get. Even if some of it came from an ancient earth ghoul who wished you would keel over so the next guy could take over.

If Primo could grit his teeth, then you sure as shit could to get the results you were looking for. Even if the results meant enduring painstakingly awkward rehearsals, right up until Ghost's very first performance.

Primo knew not to expect much in the way of venues. After all, bands that merely copied their principles never had an easy foothold in the world, never mind an actual band representing the Church. In the end, it did make the most sense to perform in lowly places, places inhabited by those most vulnerable and willing to lend an ear. Still: He had not anticipated this . . . “Whiskey a Go Go” place to be your debut. Oh well. The crowd here clearly looked susceptible enough; he could handle it.

He didn’t approve of you donning your chasuble for such an event but at that point, what did it even matter? He just needed to literally play his part and get this over with. Maybe then this tomfoolery could be put to bed and you would be reprimanded for wasting the Ministry’s time and resources, sullying their trust.

At least, that had been the idea when the first song was signaled in.

But as the setlist progressed, Primo couldn’t help but note how his expectations weren't being met. In fact, quite the opposite was beginning to take hold. Like how the words sounded different even though they were the same ones he’d heard ad nauseum.

Snippets and verses clipped from corrupt hymns made themselves right at home in the measures, something he’d internally protested the first times he’d recognized their presence.

Rhythms sounded more coordinated against the acoustics of the venue, far different from the way they resonated in the makeshift practice room back at the Abbey. This was what they were meant to sound like? Not a tangled mess of notes and words struggling and biting and fighting for dominance, but actual music stretching to the rafters? Huh. Who would’ve thought?

And all the shenanigans his peers had participated in – back at the Ministry, it seemed so juvenile, so distracting. They weren’t taking this shameful display with any kind of seriousness. But in that moment, the jumping, the showboating, even the gyrating all seemed right at home on the stage.

But above all else, it was the response to it all: Audiences loved it. They loved the words, the chords, the riffs, the "ghouligan" behavior. And, perhaps most of all, they seemed to love you. Who you were, in this moment, was far from whom Primo had been seeing – whom he thought he saw – in the pulpit and at rehearsals.

All that had been apparent child's play. Or perhaps they were simply the wrong environment for your fullest potential. Here, on the stage, you positively bloomed, transforming into something radiant, something filled with infernal fervor. A little hell flower decked in infernal regalia, your chasuble catching the stage lights like petals collecting sunlight.

During the few times you would turn your back to the audience and faced him, he could see it even from his furthermost position in the back: That fire he thought you lacked, blazing from your every pore, brightening your eyes and casting long, dark shadows upon all before you.

Primo had been right: You truly were unlike any Papa he’d ever served before . . .

From then on, Primo was to decidedly keep a closer eye on you. No more having the rug pulled from beneath him. Clearly you were like a mystery seed: He had no idea what your potential truly was, having not quite encountered something like you before. As such, you needed to be . . . studied. If at a distance, for now.

However, it's a bit difficult to go unnoticed when you're a 6'1" ghoul with large horns when out of a glamour. Never mind that you had grown so used to his stare being fixed on you that you always knew when it had reappeared. Only, you couldn't help but feel that something about it was . . . different. Somehow.

It was normal enough to feel them during black mass because everyone's eyes were on you. But to feel them when you would go to the library to request old tomes even most Clergymen did not seek; when you slipped members of the Children's Ministry candy to perk them up after a particularly boring Latin Studies class with Bishop Malicion. Even in what should have been the sanctity of your office, you swore you could feel those red-hot eyes affixed to your person!

But the heat of them was gone now, and hadn't quite been there since the Whiskey a Go Go. Instead, they felt more curious. Maybe like a cat? Ghouls were often likened to cats above all other manner of beast but Primo had only resembled one in the way he composed himself. A trait like intrigue just seemed bizarre to picture him exhibiting, let alone so obviously.

However, you were still Papa throughout all this: Best not to dwell on it and instead keep focusing on keeping your project afloat. You would deal with whatever was going on with old Primo later.

(Though you couldn't stop yourself from feeling slightly giddy at the possible improvement. Having him give you the slightest hint of a nod while passing in the hallways was leagues better than having him radiate bloodlust or disdain!)

Later, however, came quicker than you had prepared yourself for. In fact, it arrived one curtain call during the band’s slow creep towards notoriety.

In hindsight, the fact he willingly held your hand for the final bow should have been a sign that something about tonight was going to be different. Normally, if he had to join hands with anybody, he made sure to position himself at the very end so he need only spare one hand and with another ghoul. Being virtually in the middle with you would have required effort on his part.

But you were abuzz, the performance having gone splendidly with a highly receptive and interactive crowd. You were quite proud of yourself and your ghouls if you said so yourself. Maybe the energy that evening was just enough to make Primo feel less rigid than usual?

You’d only just risen up from your bow, ready to release his hand when you noticed that he himself was not letting go of your own. Odd, considering he’d done so with the other ghoul he'd been holding. You tried not to look perplexed when you spared him a glance; maybe something was wrong and he needed you to be on high alert? Though, no, that wound up not being the problem – in fact, there was no problem whatsoever.

He just needed to keep your hand in his so that he could raise the back of your hand to his mask – where his mouth would be.

It was a pantomime of a kiss, sure, but the gesture was still very evident. Screeches of delight erupted from the audience below as heterochromatic eyes widened against black paint, staring at scarlet ones peering through the eyeholes of a mask.

Suffice to say, what fans Ghost had already garnered had a field day. Soon, fanzines featuring the visage of their new favorite band's lead singer and drummer would appear in grungy coffee shops and to be swapped at both Ghost shows and shows of other bands. It wasn't Time Magazine but the marketing practically handled itself, and that was good enough for the Ministry to quietly applaud Primo's forwardness.

Clearly the Ministry's favorite ghoul knew what the people wanted and took it upon himself to stoke the flames to drum up further intrigue and popularity.

So surely it made sense to continue fostering this relationship, right? For the good of authenticity, of course.

It wasn’t long at all before you found yourself confiding in Primo, bouncing lyrics off of him. Lyrics turned into discussions, dissections of your faith’s principles and even a few misconceptions that most were too tired to correct at this point.

And he, in turn, used his many, many, many years of wisdom in his services to you.

Even divulging into his life before the Ministry, what little there was worth recounting. There was good reason he’d stayed up here so long after all: Life topside was just so different, so brightly-lit when compared to the Pit. Sure, he might’ve been built exactly for the life infernal, but that didn’t mean that a ghoul lacked a capacity for more.

The biggest example in his case was the garden he’d kept during his time here. It was almost funny: You’d walked these grounds for so long, so used to the presence of the greenhouse that sat towards the back of the garden. The brightness of the vegetation and bushes stood out from its darker, more gothic-leaning surroundings in an almost silly way.

Really, though, your only real interactions with that section of the Ministry could be boiled down to times spent in your office. The window there allowed just enough of a view of the little land below, one you couldn’t help but look at when the tensions in your poorly-postured back traveled into your skull, or when a delivery ghoul delivered more heaps of papers for you to look over and sign. (Suddenly, feeling Primo's intense gaze on you even when you thought you were alone made sense.)

Your path to the antipapacy was basically carved out for you, it ironically left very little room for extracurriculars such as gardening. But you could always count on catching a Sibling or earth ghoul or two, hauling heavy sacks of soil and carting that season’s harvest in a wheelbarrow.

Their decision to spend their time on such a long-term task that demanded constant attention and dedication was admirable to you. You could relate to focusing in on a project that would take time and focus.

And to see their efforts be rewarded with something brilliant and fortifying, something that caught the eye and could be used to nourish both the body and mind . . .

In way, perhaps seeing the hardships that produced flowers and fruit might have served as inspiration and motivation for your idea to entice the masses with music. Just a twinge.

To learn that the very things that refreshed you in your moments of exhaustion had grown under the same watch as the one that had once wished you ill initially amazed you. And amused you.

The idea of ever having been afraid of Primo seemed so silly now, you couldn’t even remember what the heat of his ire felt like. If anything, the pierce of Primo’s gaze had softened into something . . . Well, the proper words escaped you any time you tried to settle on one. "Passionate" mixed with "admiration", but still with its tenderness.

As it turned out, that warmth earth ghouls were often characterized with did exist in the old curmudgeon. It was exhibited as the years marched on and as you both grew closer.

It was there even in small moments such as this, with you kneeling in the soil, planting your umpteenth flower. You had learned under his watch years ago and no longer needed instruction, but it still felt lovely to share this type of thing together. Even after all this time.

A grunt escaped you as you wobblily stood back up from aching knees, another when you cracked your back.

“One of these days, Primo,” you sighed, “I’m gonna get down and not be able to get back up. You can just bury me here, then.”

It was a joke, of course, and you were totally prepared to not get a laugh from the old ghoul. Primo’s sense of humor, you’d long since learned, was as mysterious as it was strange. It was frankly a wild guess as to what would make him laugh on any given day. What you hadn’t prepared for, though, was the way the ghoul’s eyes stared back at you. You didn’t feel unsafe or anything, but you certainly felt . . . observed.

There was that curious cat vibe that had started it all from way back when. But, knowing Primo as you now did, you knew he was simply collecting thoughts. He would eventually reveal them to you in due time.

In the meantime, though, it served you better to shake it off. Supper would be served shortly, anyway.

“Remember to wash up,” you offered, standing as high on your toe tips as you could just to place a peck on the soft, weary flesh of his neck. To that, you received a quiet grunt typical of your partner.

As you left, though, Primo kept his eyes on you, tail thoughtfully swaying behind him. He remembered seeing you sparingly in your youth, which was impressive considering how unimportant you’d been back then. You weren’t Papa, you weren’t anything, really. You weren’t important to him.

But now, years later, here you stood: Wrinkles that weren’t there before were beginning to carve their permanence into your features, standing out even through your papal paints. Just the other month, you’d noted an increase in silver strands popping up in your hair. You sighed something about the stresses of dealing with the next projected tour or an onslaught of paperwork, but Primo knew that soon, more silver would come sprouting out at your temples. More than you’d probably bother dyeing, if he knew you. If he knew the people before you.

He'd seen this all happen before, many, many times. You may have been different from all other Papas he’d known, but all Papas were alike in this one way.

A heavy sigh broke him from his stagnation, and Primo began to trek back to your chambers to wash up. Before he even entered the building proper, his mind was made: If and when your time came, Primo would finally request to return back to the Pit.