#abacination

[astaldis]

Chapter 4: Sometimes I fall to pieces

@cake-shop-rarepair-bingo

@witcher-rarepairs

Chapters: 4/5 of ‘You're brave because they broke you ...’

Bingo Prompts: Bedsharing, temporary or permanent blindness

Challenge Prompt: Write a disabled character

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Pairing: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Fringilla Vigo

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Witcher_Rarepair_Prompt_Fest Prompt: Post Season 2: After their lie is uncovered by Emhyr var Emreis, Cahir and Fringilla are arrested and thrown into the dungeons - in the same cell. With only one bed. First they bicker and bitch and blame each other for their failure, but this changes drastically when Cahir is tortured, and badly so, and Fringilla has to take care of him.

"Cahir, you have to tell me exactly what happened," Fringilla urges. "Was it a curse? Curses can be broken. I'd only need the exact wording of the spell and as soon as—" She does not finish the sentence as he is shaking his head. Not a curse.

"How then?" she asks, puzzled. Fringilla has not detected any visible damage to his eyes. Definitely not gouged or cut or burned out, she would have noticed drastic injuries like that even in the dim light of the dungeons. No, both eyeballs seem perfectly intact. What can do something like this besides a curse, or the black sun? A potion? Some kind of poison?

"My sword. The one they took from me when we were arrested. They heated it in the fire," he starts to explain, his voice hoarse and shaky, the words slightly slurred. Talking about this must be painful, and not only because of the traumatic experience but also because of the physical anguish it causes. Still, Fringilla needs to know. Only then there might be a chance for her to help.

"They - they held it in my face and made me look at it. It was brighter than the sun burns. It - it hurt like hell." He swallows. "Then everything went dark." The last words are hardly more than a whisper. More tears come and trickle slowly down his cheeks and into the rag that is supposed to be some sorry excuse of a pillow. He gives a hiccoughing sob. And another one ...

Continue reading on Ao3: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47540179/chapters/120025675

[drwernicke]

abacinator -> drwernicke can't believe this wasn't taken ngl

[xdevilrushx]

[joz-yyh]

I have no idea if you’re even still into him but I’m trying to befriend all the Miles Upshur fans on this website lol

Hello, there! 👋 Yes, I am always into him! Great see more fans of his. You have amazing taste~ 😄 👍 💕

[zeorigir]

the sketch i got carried away skljaf

thank you @abacinator for the request!!

[carcosa-commune]

Oedipus complex? actually i understand Oedipus unwittingly bringing doom to his family and city at the whims of inexorable fate and self-inflicting abacination on realizing his role in fortune's macabre weave very easily.

[sharpestlives-mp3]

so tragic that i never get a chance to use my favorite words. abacinate my beloved…

[chubby-aphrodite]

well folks, it's official: i'm on page 5 of my list of fun words; triple column, single space, 11 point arial; my 517th word is "karambit"

choice fun words include:

magnanimous - generous or forgiving

blatherskite - someone who talks about nonsense for far too long

abacinate - to blind someone as punishment, esp. by usage of hot metal

gyre - a spiral or vortex

cotton (verb) - taking a liking to someone or something

orotund - describing a loud, imposing voice; or describing pretentious or pompous writing

vicissitude - an unwelcome change in fortune; or, the juxtaposition of opposites

ribald - vulgar, especially in an amusing way

zaftig - having a round, full figure

agravic - of or relating to matters of zero-gravity

and many more!

[ao3feed-weddie]

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/oBR76Uy by abacinator A sketchy, probably kind of upsetting comic. Words: 0, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Outlast (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Categories: M/M Characters: Miles Upshur, Eddie Gluskin, Waylon Park, Father Martin Archimbaud Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park Additional Tags: this is actually a really silly sketchy comic, the tags probably make it sound worse, otoh the style probably does make the subject matter worse, this was spawned from a conversation with alterboyx on tumblr, Leg Breaking, implied forthcoming weddie consummation, something has been done to waylon, miles must witness the horrors, sorry about my handwriting read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/oBR76Uy

[dubiousduskwight]

Dusk Pt. 1

A story about the death of a salesman. Minor spoilers for the middle of the plot of Endwalker.

I should note that this was originally posted elsewhere because I foolishly thought Revue would make a good writing alternative, and it did - shortly before the Twitter purchase drove a spike into it.

Since I have to repost this, I've taken the liberty of revising parts of the text for readability, errors, and to remove moments of "Why the hell did I think this was good when I wrote it." It should otherwise be as originally presented, apart from all of the parts where it isn't.

“Bad choice to drop by, Bellveil.” In all his life, Verad had never heard his surname spoken with such contempt, but it oozed out of the old man’s voice like gravel mixed with bile. Yet Verad had to agree with him: while he had made trips to Gridania here and there on business and for entertainment, he’d avoided going into the back paths of the city, where the Hedge mingled with regular hedges and thickets and shrubs were less carefully trimmed, and into the vicinity of the Sleeping Boar in particular, precisely because he knew it was a bad choice, and it was a bad choice based on the old man's presence alone.

“I know,” he said, taking his seat in front of the old man. He dropped a few ilms lower than was typical for Gridanian chairs, such that his knees poked out at awkward angles beneath the corner table. The discomfort was a measure of protection and intimidation, an effort to tell people like the Duskwights that shorter folk were welcome – and the occasional Wildwood, but those chairs were pointedly not where he could reach them.

Such was all moot, of course, as few Duskwights would willingly go into a tavern meant as a refuge for Wailers and the Gods’ Quiver. Verad had chosen a quiet bell near the middle of the day, when most of the regular clientele were on their duties and unlikely to crowd the place. Nevertheless, he could still see a few members of both esteemed organizations, still bearing their livery as if they had no need for any other clothes, and casting him glances that said exactly what they would have liked to do to him if the old man hadn’t waved them off once he’d heard Verad’s voice. Likewise the barkeep, a stout figure with a face obscured by pipe smoke wjocj never seemed to air out of the room, made a nod of understanding that the old man couldn’t see, and went back about his business. All it would take, Verad knew, was for him to raise his hand once more to show the Duskwight exactly how bad an idea it was.

And yet he kept his seat. “But I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion, Hearns. I didn’t know when I’d get another chance.”

The old man didn’t look up. It wouldn’t matter if he did: the Wailer mask that covered the top half of his face, cracked and worn, had its eyes filled in to prevent people from looking too closely past them. Scarred flesh was visible past the mask's sides, wrapping in and with the wrinkles and liver spots on his face such that the unaware might mistake the injuries as marks of age and not abacination. “Huh. Think I’m going back t’the spirits any minute now, do you?” He patted the table until his hand found his bottle – something weak, but cheap, the sort of small beer that let a man drink for days – and took a swig, followed by a long and exaggerated sigh of relief. “We’re the same age, nearly. I’ve got a few years yet.”

Verad inspected Hearns’ face as if he could see the past the mask, as if he wanted to. It was true that, in a manner of speaking, they were close to the same age: he was fifty-two summers, and the old man was fifty-five, with a few decades more spent in an unending realm of nightmare in which he didn’t age at all while being tortured at the hands of a peculiar and malevolent presence. Very nearly the same age. But the last time Verad had seen Hadrian Hearns in Ishgard, he had still looked himself even though his spirit had been broken – a sharp-jawed and lean Hyur who, though his sight had been taken from him, had left Toto-Rak with his body whole and healthy.

Now, time and drink seemed to be eating him alive from the inside, his body withering in on itself. His hair gone sickly white and unkempt, his face sallow and spotted once one looked past the scars, and his spine was bent and neck drooped like a vilekin curling up all its legs in anticipation of death.

“Nearly, yes,” said Verad. “But that’s not what I mean.”

Hearns snorted. “You believe that end of the world rot? Something worse than the moon dropping on us all?”

“The towers were quite ominous, Hadria –“

He was stopped by the sharp crack of the old man slamming his bottle onto his table. “You don’t call me that,” said Hearns, his voice dropping back into a tone of noxious inntent. “You get that? I don’t call you by your name, and you don’t call me by mine. Bellveil and Hearns. That’s it. Anything else, we have a problem.”

Keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead and his neck straight as if chastened by a schoolteacher, Verad dipped his head. “Just Hearns, then,” he agreed. The old man sat back, mollified.

Giving a quick glance around the room, Verad espied an old poster on the wall nearest the bar, faded and curling from smoke. It showed a portrait of a beach on a bright and sunny day, with the flag of the Twin Adders planted into the surf. A buxom blonde Highlander woman, clad in a too-thin two-piece swimsuit bearing the Grand Company’s color and little else, faced the viewer, an open smile on her face and joy in her bright blue eyes, still visible despite disappearing colors and tears in the paper.One such rip in the poster ran down the length of the woman’s left forearm, raised up to her hair, as if a gash had been carved in her and exposed the wood paneling of the wall.

At the sight of this, Verad’s stomach churned. He quickly turned his attention back to Hearns. “Well, they were quite ominous,” he repeated. “And they’re gone, now. Just like that. And they say that the sky is burning in Thavnair. It does feel…different. Worse, somehow.”

“Wouldn’t recollect,” said Hearns. “Hadn’t seen them.” He chuckled without mirth. “Just say what you need to say. Did that damn demon crawl up out of its hole again? Or out in Ishgard?” Hearns tightened up as he said this, his shoulders tensing in anticipation of bad news.

“No, nothing like that.” The old man immediately relaxed again. “It’s gone. Gone as we can make it gone. You’ve nothing to fear.”

A youth approached the table, holding half-empty mugs in each hand. Some lad serving under the owner of the Boar, Verad supposed. He was about to ask his drink when Hearns waved the kid away, alerted by the clinking of pewter and glass. “Nothing for him,” he said. “He won’t be here long. So what is it, then?”

The old man grinned as Verad swallowed in discomfort. He'd brought his daggers, usually worn at his belt for fashion's sake, and his hands drifted to their hilts on either side of his waist. It would have been easier, Verad thought, if the demon that had claimed the old man and other lost souls of Toto-Rak so many years ago truly had returned. That would have been a better conversation than this.

“When last we met in Ishgard,” he said, “You asked me a question, and I couldn’t answer it.” His eyes dropped to the table and the cracks in what had once been fine furniture of the glad style, rustic and round. “I couldn’t think to answer it well at the time. My engagement had failed, and there was the business with the Dowager, and, well. You know. You were there.”

He pressed on before Hearns could get out another barb. This had to be done quickly. “You wanted to know what was so special about me. Why Corwin - “ He stopped as Hearns looked up again. The old man hadn't warned against using that name, but there was anger behind the mask, as if its brow could furrow. “Why my uncle,” he amended, “Left you behind for my sake.”

“Yeah? And?” Hearns’ bottle had gone empty, and so he punched it down on the counter, a loud crack alerting the barkeep. He groused to himself in sounds without words before gesturing for the old man to get a new bottle. “You figure it out? Did you have a great destiny? You the Warrior of Light all along, and we never even knew it? What was the swiving import of a grey babe he found on its dead mother’s back?”

And now they were getting to it. He’d prepared for this, at least. For the introductions and preamble, Verad had been forced to improvise, navigating his way through all that bitterness to reach his point. He hadn’t even been sure that he would get past the front door. But here he was, and everything he’d been thinking came to the fore. Relaxing, he bent his back and leaned in his chair as much as its awkward lack of size allowed.

“No, none of that. There wasn’t anything special about me. I’ve had that question in my mind for moons, now, since the first those towers were sighted. Burrowing and digging away and making me think I failed. And I have failed rather a lot of people, Hearns. Rather a lot. I’m sure you know some stories.”

Here was the only true mirth the old man had displayed, laughing to himself while he waited for his bottle to be uncorked beside him. “Got the Silver Bazaar to fund its own failure, I heard. That was a good one. And that time in Ishgard. Both times in Ishgard. I heard you got kidnapped up there again?”

Verad flinched, and he was thankful he couldn’t be seen, the confidence dropping from his expression, his chin lowering and beard drooping. “I was. It wasn’t pleasant.” He cleared his throat. “I’d gone there to do a favor for a friend, and some things went a bit awry.” He looked past Hearns to the poster on the wall, and the earnestly cheerful expression in the model's eyes. “But it wasn’t her fault, nor mine. Just ill fortune.” After a moment’s silence, he squared his shoulders. “Yet still, I thought I failed. And then with your question, I had the inkling that there was some greater purpose I was missing.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “But there wasn’t, really. Not to uncle, anyway. I was just a baby grey about to enter Toto-Rak and nothing more. I think if the end is nigh, then that is something I ought with which I ought to make peace.”

“Oh, is that so?” Hearns sneered as he laid back as much he could in his chair. “Twelve bless you for knowing.” A scowl passed his face, twisting an already-twisted mouth, and there it remained. Silence passed between them, marked by the clatter of cups and the quiet conversation of the Boar’s other occupants.

“You ought to, as well,” Verad lowered his voice in kind, the better to balance what would soon be unkind. “You asked what made my uncle choose me over you, but that wasn't it. That wasn't what was happening at all. He was only choosing not to cross a line. And to break ties with you. For once, he was trying the right thing."

When the old man didn’t respond, and only drank, Verad continued. “He did try to explain things to me when I was younger. Not well, as he wasn’t, as I recall, very good at expression outside of a sales pitch. But he saw a line in front of him that day, and if he was willing to give up an infant for sake of you, then that was too far, and he didn’t want to cross it.” Feeling his voice begin to rise in a swell of ire, he forced himself to lower it. “So, he sold you out. Gave you up to Wailers who would try you properly.”

“Quiet,” said Hearns, but he continued.

“You needed it to be my fault, did you not? Maybe It was worth all that time, all that suffering, if there was something worthwhile about me – no, you’re not kind enough for that. If you could blame me, then you didn’t have to look too closely at yourself. Blame an infant. Come now, Hearns, a child would find that dubious.”

“Quiet.”

“You were selling out a cave clan! Men, women, children, all for the sake of contraband. How could it possibly have been my fault? Where did he err, hm? By not being as tight under your thumb as you hoped?”

Hearns’ bottle smashed into the table, glass and ale spilling out over its surface and onto the floor. “He loved me! Gods damn you, he loved me! He left me to rot there!”

For a moment Verad thought to flinch again, and yet the ire from before remained. He slammed his hands on his edge of the table and rose to his full height, towering over the old man. “And you deserved it. Do you understand? You deserved it! And he knew it. It was fine to run around with you for all those little crimes in his youth, but that was too far! Left you? You would have left me all the same!”

“What’s one more grey in a gaol, hm? What’s one more grey?!“

“Gods, you really did hope he would think the same way, didn’t you? But no, he did the one decent thing he’d done in his life and put you where you belonged and gave me over to his brother. He didn’t think I was so special, but he saw you were rotten. And no matter how much he loved you, you rotted further than he could follow – than he would follow.”

While the boar had few occupants, by now they had the attention of all of them, all other chatter having ceased. But those groups did not yet move. Despite his age, Hearns lunged across the table at Verad, grabbing the sides of his shirt. Verad stepped back, pushing his chair aside, and the old man’s grip faltered. Verad let him collapse.

His hands fell to his knives again, and behind him he could hear the Wailer and Quiverman rising from their seats. Hearns was curdled. In his youth, he had been all the worst that both orders had to offer. But he was one of theirs, Verad supposed, and that counted for free drinks and a quiet place to waste away in old age. “You need to make peace with that,” he repeated, raising his hands up from his knives and stepping away. “Please. If the end really is coming, then we haven’t long. I’d rather spend it happy. I hope you can…” For the old man, “happy” didn’t seem like the right word. “I hope you can at least come to terms with the truth. Find some solace in it.”

The old man struggled to rise from the table, planting his hand in spilled beer and slipping, his mask threatening to fall from his face. “Get out, getoutgetout,” said Hearns, his words collapsing into curses and, Verad hoped, sobs.

Surely, he thought, there was some kind of last word, some final thing he could say. If there was one thing that Verad rarely lacked, it was words. But in searching, he found there was nothing more. He gave an apologetic nod to the barkeep and turned to leave, walking slowly to avoid startling the clientele.

With his back turned to the old man, he could hear the continued sobs, but could not see him struggle and crawl to rise again. With his back turned, he could not see the wisps of black smoke that began to form along Hearns’ body, nor could he see them coalesce into a larger form until they enveloped the man complete and whole and the change that took place in that instant.

The frightened scream of the serving boy, however, did alert him to a possible problem. Never a calm man when it came to unexpected screaming, he stopped and turned with his foot to see the matter.

[kuriouskobold]

I'd like to attach a few of my own here:

Armageddon

Aggregation

Agastopia (Look it up)

Abacinate

Abasia

Abduct

Abiogenesis

Abraxas

Ambrosia

Autocrasy

Acharné

Achromatopsia

Acultomancy

Aerobiology

Amphibology

Anemocracy

Axinomancy

There's more, but I didn't want be here for an hour writing this.

Incomplete list of things Kelsey grammar must have collected hands on experience with:

acting

accounting

agriculture

airplanes

adventure

adoption

affair

alimony

aggression

arson

acquittal

[astaldis]

Chapter 6: As we lie here in our bed

@witcher-rarepairs​  @cake-shop-rarepair-bingo

Rarepair Bingo Prompts: Bedsharing, Temporary or permanent blindness, Write a disabled character

Witcher Rarepair Prompt Fest Prompt: Post Season 2: After their lie is uncovered by Emhyr var Emreis, Cahir and Fringilla are arrested and thrown into the dungeons - in the same cell. With only one bed. First they bicker and bitch and blame each other for their failure, but this changes drastically when Cahir is tortured, and badly so, and Fringilla has to take care of him.

Rating: Mature, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Relationship: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach & Fringilla Vigo

Additional Tags: Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sharing a Bed, Major Character Injury, Friendship, Witcher Rarepair Summer Bingo, Title from a The Amazing Devil Song, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Trauma, Fluff and Angst,��Aftermath of Torture, Abacination, Mental Breakdown

From Chapter 6/7:

As time passes, Cahir gets better, at least physically. The swelling goes down and the bruises change colour and slowly start to fade away. The cell is small and with the pallet and the bucket being the only items in it, it is not difficult for Cahir to internalise its layout and navigate around it even without being able to see. In contrast to Fringilla, he can touch the dimeritium rods in the walls and feel his way along them, which helps. He soon manages to do most things on his own, although there is not much to do, really, beside eat and drink, use the bucket, and sleep. And talk. It is really funny, Fringilla cannot remember ever having talked that much to one and the same person within the span of just a few days. Truly remarkable how this involuntary, forced by circumstance proximity, this sharing of a bed, a blanket, even a bucket, has altered their relationship. Before, Fringilla was not even sure whether or not they were friends at all or just competitors for the White Flame's recognition, favour and praise. Now they talk about all kinds of things, about politics, the war and their failed mission, but also about a lot more personal matters. Fringilla once mentioned to Cahir how jealous she was of Yennefer during their years at Aretuza. Now she tells him everything about her time there. She tells him about her stupid timidity, her loneliness, her self-doubts and fears, about how she tried to please everybody, about how hard she worked, so much harder than Yennefer ever did. And still, there was this persistent feeling of never being enough for Tissaia and her Uncle, of always being overlooked and outshone by others who were both less talented, less diligent and far less well-behaved. It was not fair, not ever. She even tells Cahir about her shrivelled hand. Nobody at all seemed to care about it then although it was not only horribly painful for her and shocking when it happened - by no fault of hers, mind you, for how should she have known, Tissaia only told them afterwards that the flower had to die for the stone to move, not beforehand. What teacher would do that to their students? - but she had to live with it for years until, finally, her transformation fixed the ugly deformity. There are fond memories to share, too, a few nice ones from her school days at Aretuza, but mostly of her childhood in the beautiful fairytale Duchy of Toussaint, which ended so abruptly with the unfortunate cat incident. Sometimes, Fringilla wonders what her life would have been like if that had never happened, if she had never shown any signs of chaos and led an unremarkable, non-magical life as a Toussaintois noblewoman, probably married away to some baron or count and with a whole swarm of children. Well, she would be either dead or an ugly old crone by now if she had not become a sorceress. So, perhaps, even if her current circumstances are far from enviable, it is for the better despite everything. If Cahir is right and she will be released soon, there is still so much she can do. And this time she will not disappoint the White Flame ...

Continue reading on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47540179/chapters/120413242

[infraredmag]

VOIDSCAPE: Metal Injection Premieres “The Unsaved” Video From Melodic Death Trio With Members Of Tombs And Replicant; Odyssey Of Spite Debut Out Now On Nefarious Industries

photos by Michael Ximenez Metal Injection is currently hosting the exclusive video premiere for “The Unsaved,” the newest visual accompaniment to New Jersey melodic death metal trio VOIDSCAPE’s debut EP Odyssey Of Spite. VOIDSCAPE was formed in 2017 by guitarist Rob Torres, drummer Justin “Ninja” Spaeth (Tombs, Abacinate), and frontman Michael Ximenez (Replicant, Windfaerer). The band…

[lofihipbot]

lofi hip hop beats to abacinate to

[remythologise]

extremely salty misha collins said:

here’s my montage :)

rancid nuts

abacination

[triste-guillotine]

SLAYER “Reign in Blood”, LP 1986 (THE unbeatable masterpiece of ultra Speed and merciless brutality & surely THE most ultimate holocaustic Thrash Metal album EVER !)

“Auschwitz, the meaning of pain The way that I want you to die Slow death, immense decay Showers that cleanse you of your life Forced in Like cattle you run Stripped of, your life's worth Human mice, for the angel of death Four hundred thousand more to die Angel of death Monarch to the kingdom of the dead Sadistic, surgeon of demise Sadist of the noblest blood Destroying, without mercy To benefit the Aryan race Surgery, with no anesthesia Feel the knife pierce you intensely Inferior, no use to mankind Strapped down screaming out to die Angel of death Monarch to the kingdom of the dead Infamous butcher, Angel of death Pumped with fluid, inside your brain Pressure in your skull begins pushing through your eyes Burning flesh, drips away Test of heat burns your skin, your mind starts to boil Frigid cold, cracks your limbs How long can you last in this frozen water burial ? Sewn together, joining heads Just a matter of time 'til you rip yourselves apart Millions laid out in their crowded tombs Sickening ways to achieve the Holocaust Seas of blood, bury life Smell your death as it burns Deep inside of you Abacinate, eyes that bleed Praying for the end of your wide awake nightmare Wings of pain, reach out for you His face of death staring down, Your blood running cold Injecting cells, dying eyes Feeding on the screams of the mutants he's creating Pathetic harmless victims Left to die Rancid angel of death Flying free Angel of death !”