#altar reset thoughts

[aesethewitch]

When I got covid for the first time in 2021, just as I was feeling better, I felt kind of strange. I opened up one of the candles I'd gotten for Christmas (because it was fuckin Christmas, and I had covid) in hopes of lifting my spirits. It was a really strong cranberry scent, sure to fill my apartment. And it... smelled like nothing. Nothing at all.

I've since regained my sense of smell, thank goodness, but it was gone for over a week. I picked up the habit of smelling the candle every day, feeling a little more hopeful every time I could catch a whiff as the sense came back.

So now, I associate this particular candle and all cranberry-adjacent scents with detecting and warding off illness and bad fortune. Which is why that candle going on my spirit work altar from now til the Equinox, right next to my Wire Tree and money bowl.

I suppose my point is, personal experiences absolutely shape how correspondences can be more or less powerful and relevant for different practitioners. Before covid, I wouldn't have used cranberry at all; now, it's a staple of luck and health for me.

[drabblesandimagines]

I absolutely love how you write Halsin, can I request a fic with a fem Tav having a nightmare sometime after Orin's kidnapping. The possession scene still haunts me to this day and keep imagining Tav seeing that over n over on top of struggling to rescue him. It ends with him waking and comforting her. Keep up the great work!

Thank you, lovely anon! I hope you enjoy - please let me know! xxx

Nightmares

Your limbs feel heavy, vision somewhat blurred around the edges as you walk past strangely empty tents in the camp on the outskirts of Rivington.

There’s an overpowering smell of rust in the air as you approach the barn, the dirt soon growing damp under your boots and it isn’t long before a squelch accompanies every step.

A sinking feeling in your stomach as a large figure emerged from the shadows.

Halsin – your sweet, caring druid - looms over the lifeless bodies of Gale, Astarion and Shadowheart. They’re splayed out almost atop of one another, arms and legs at unnatural angles, gruesome tears in their flesh, the straw sodden with red that matches the splatters across Halsin’s bare chest.

“What…?”

“Go,” Halsin growls between gritted teeth. There’s a look in his eye you haven’t seen before, his muscles shuddering with exertion as he tries to catch his breath. “Go - now - before I do the same to you.”

“No.” You shake your head, furiously, as if it might change the scene. “This isn’t real. it can’t be. You wouldn’t, Halsin-”

“It’s this city,” he grunts, thumping his chest with his fist as he glares at you. “The corruption, I cannot hold it back any longer. Why did you bring me here? I said-“

His eyes flash gold for a split second before the light engulfs his entire body – fur swiftly taking its place as he transforms and emits a mighty roar.

You take a step back in retreat and immediately trip over something – an arm or a leg – falling and knocking the back of your head upon stone. Above is no longer the ceiling of the drafty barn but what appears to an endless chasm. You sit up, scrambling back on your hands, heart pounding as you recognize your surroundings.

The Temple of Bhaal.

Halsin lies on the altar, his knuckles grazing the floor as his arm hangs off the side. You stumble up to your feet without further thought, not even checking for any Bhaal cultists or Orin herself, only focused on reaching him.

His eyes, once so full of warmth and love, stare blankly skyward - lifeless and bloodshot.

You’re too late.

There’s a scroll clenched in the fist resting upon his still chest. You tug it out with gentle fingers and unfurl it, only for to burn into ash immediately, only allowing you a glimpse of what was written at the top.

Speak with the dead.

Halsin’s body is illuminated in an eerie green glow. Not the greens of nature that he so adored, but something entirely unwordly. His neck cracks as he turns his head to face you, a hollow, foreign voice emitting from his mouth.

“You did not come for me.”

“No, I did. We did. We were just-” Cold fingers encircle your wrist, keeping you in place by the altar.

“No.” He cuts across, emotionless. “You left me here to die – alone.”

“No, Halsin. No, I swear. I don’t know what happened. We were just in camp and-“

“I called out for you.” His fingers squeeze your wrist so hard you swear the bones are about to break. “I called your name over and over and over, until my voice grew hoarse.” He places his other hand at the base of your throat, fingers splayed out over your collarbones. “I called for you, the one who lay with me, claimed to love me… yet still you did not come.”

“Halsin, please, listen-”

“You killed me.” He trails his fingers up your neck, pausing to cup your chin. “And, now, with the Oak Father as my witness, I will reset the balance of nature.”

With one powerful squeeze around your throat, your breath is cut off.

--

Whilst most elves favour four or so hours of trance, Halsin has proved to be quite the heavy sleeper in comparison – most likely due to the time he has spent in his ursine form – though a whimper from your lips is enough to wake him immediately, concerned.

He releases you from his spooned embrace, laid upon the pile of furs upon the ground, in fear that he’d somehow caused you pain, perhaps squeezed a little too tight in his dreams as he sought your warmth.

The furrowed brow, twitching limbs and mumbled, somewhat frantic protests, however, suggest you are in the throes of a nightmare. The druid swears his heart breaks, knowing it is best that you wake under your own steam rather than him call or shake you.

Mercifully, he does not have to wait long. You sit bolt upright with a desperate, gasping breath, drenched in a cold sweat, eyes flitting furiously side to side as you try and work out where you are now.

Your heart is pounding dangerously loud in your ears, so much so you can’t hear how hard you’re trying to gulp down mouthfuls of air, but it’s as if it stagnates at the top of your lungs, never truly getting deep enough.

Tears burn at your eyes at the effort and Halsin cannot hold himself back any longer. He places a large hand against the small of your back, hoping his gentle touch would help ground you.

You flinch at the contact, eyes widening as you finally see him in the dim light of the tent. There is a momentary flicker of fear across your face that Halsin prays to Silvanus that he will never see again.

It’s a short, gasp of a breath in and out and the colour now drained entirely from your cheeks that drives him to act. He pulls you onto his lap in a smooth motion, pressing your back snug up against his chest, ignoring another flinch as he places a palm between your collarbones.

“Forgive me, my heart,” he bends his head to speak directly into your ear, too aware of how hard your heart is beating and wanting to be sure you’ll hear – he can feel the dull thud against his own chest. “I need you to breathe with me.”

His body feels warm. You twitch, trying to turn to face him, check his face over for injuries, feel his heart beat beneath your fingertips, but he has you nestled perfectly between his thighs, keeping you still.

“I have you, petal. I promise you are safe.” His breath dances across your neck. “Close your eyes, focus on my touch and breathe as deep as you can. Please.”

Dark spots are dancing around your vision now, so it’s easy to close your eyes. Halsin is breathing deliberately slowly - exaggerating his inhales and exhales so your body shifts with each of his breaths in the hopes that you’ll mimic the movement.

It is trial and error - more than a few resulting in short, sharp gasps and spluttering breaths – but, slowly and surely, your heart beat slows and your breaths grow more productive.

The scent of moss, wood smoke, various herbs and flowers permeate through the panic and you finally recognize where you are in – in your dwelling in the commune.

It has been four months since the fall of the Nether Brain.

You twist in his lap again, desperate to see his face, to check if his eyes are still lifeless. Halsin permits it this time and it is with a sigh of relief that you see your druid whole and alive.

“My love?” His tone is so cautious that you break into a sob.

Halsin pulls you back against his bare chest in an instant, maneuvering you into a more comfortable position with ease as you cry. He does not make to hush you, or ask you what is wrong, only rocks you back and forth in his arms, pressing periodic kisses to your crown as he does.

Even when your sobs eventually cease into teary, pathetic hiccups, he does not press for details, remaining in silence until you build up the courage to speak.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, unsure if he has even heard.

Halsin presses a final kiss to your crown. “There is nothing to apologise for, petal.”

You look up at him, shaking your head. “No, there is. I was too late. T-the Bhaal Temple. I was too late. You-”

“You were having a nightmare. Please”, he lifts a hand to your cheek, stroking away a stray tear with his thumb, “do not torment yourself with recollection of such dark dreams. All is well – we are both safe.”

His other hand leaves your side for a moment, grabbing something you can’t see. You make to protest – it’s not safe, it’ll never be safe, Bhaal still exists, what if it was a message, or a threat? – but it dies on your tongue as he holds up a small bouquet of dried flowers under your nose, the scent calming you almost instantly.

“Humour me a moment, do you recognize the scents?”

“Mm-hm.” You take them from his hand, twirling them between your thumb and forefinger. “Lavender, roses, daisies…”

“Very good. I feared I had been somewhat distracting during our lessons.”

Lessons – that coaxes a soft, breathy laugh from you. Long, leisurely walks around the lands surrounding the commune, all with the intention of Halsin imparting his knowledge of the natural world had often turned into anything but.

Of course, he had always started off with pure intentions, he’d even keep his hands behind his back in an attempt to give focus, but all that seemed to break it was you bending down to inspect a sapling, or take in the perfume of a flower he’d pointed towards and then somehow you’d find yourself pinned against a nearby trunk or tackled oh so gently down into a flower bed, hot open-mouthed kisses pressed across your throat and collarbone…

“Mm, a little. But not enough that I don’t recall what you’ve taught me,” you look down at the dried bouquet. “For I do know that these are all known for their calming properties.”

“Indeed.” He chuckles. “I find placed under the pillow works wonders for troubled sleep, as well as keeping bad dreams at bay.”

You look up at him then, brow furrowed. “You have trouble sleeping?”

“I did – not for a while now. I find that having you nestled in my arms, my heart, is more soothing than any of the Oak Father’s creations.”

You feel the warmth prickle across your cheeks – Halsin’s compliments never fail to leave you a little flustered. He chuckles again as you drop your eyes back into your lap, a tell he has come to know well during your time together. He tilts your chin back up and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep again, petal? Dawn is still a way off.”

Tomorrow will be another long day. Though the commune continues to fall into place more and more each day, there is always so much to be done.

“I can try.” You concede.

“Here,” he plucks the dried bouquet from your hand and slips it inside your pillow, giving it a firm pat to make sure it remained comfortable. “With the hopes that it makes your dreams as sweet as you are.”

Halsin coaxes you to lie down wordlessly, spooning you against his chest and draping an arm around your waist with a light squeeze.

“Comfortable?”

You inhale deeply, the bouquet of dried flowers seeping out from the pillow, the warmth of Halsin behind you, the way his hand begins to rub gently up and down your side.

“Mm.” You mumble, closing your eyes. “I love you, Halsin.”

Halsin smiles as he feels the tension leave your body fully at last – he hated seeing you in any sort of distress, whether it be minor or major.

“I love you too, my heart.” He bends his head down and starts to kiss your neck slowly and softly -  a favourite spot of both his and yours for a few moments before he retreats.

“Now, sleep, petal. Regain your energy so that I can show you precisely how much I love you in the morning, hm?”

He is unsure you have heard for sleep seems to have claimed you once more...

..but that doesn't mean he won't keep his word when dawn breaks.

---

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[lennox0arts]

Icarus laughed as he fell

Credits to fiona for the original poem!

Here is what they don’t tell you:

Icarus knew he was in too deep. They’d said it out loud, leaning against the cave entrance. 

“I’m in too deep now.”

The words left their lips in a shaky whisper that they knew no one would ever hear. They felt so helplessly, utterly alone as they sobbed against the cold rock. The word their friend had once called them circled through their mind.

Failure.

They knew he was right. They’d failed at being a good brother, a good friend, and they’d even failed at being themself.

They knew their back pressed against the same stone wall that had been splattered with the blood of their best friend by the blade of their father. Within the walls of this cavern, the fighting between Centross and their Dad replayed in their head. The purple scythe of the violet reaper turning their father mortal, and sealing their best friend's death wish. The golden sword through his chest. His smile as he faded into the stars, leaving nothing behind but the scythe, the now mortal god, and the son the god had almost killed. 

Icarus laughed as he fell.

They felt their body wrack with cries mixed with confused, hysteric laughter. They felt disconnected from the winged person who stood from the altar staggering towards the fallen god. 

They heard themself screaming, 

“You killed him! You killed David!” Their father simply nodded. Almost as if to suggest it had to be done. As if their best friend had to be killed. Their mind flashed to the memories they’d tried so hard to bury.

Threw his head back and

yelled into the winds,

They were in the obsidian bunker, reaching through the gap of the trap that had opened barely enough for them to see.

“David?!” They smiled madly, their matted hair crusted with crimson. A drop of blood traced it’s way down their cheek bone. 

   “David let me out!” They demanded, their voice was rough and scratchy from hours of yelling. The man looked down at them with cold purple eyes,  smiling at the trapped one like a hunter smiles at an animal caught in their snare.

“Y’know, Sherb,” The cloaked man smirked, “I don’t think I will.”

They felt their heart plop into their stomach as they tasted their lunch on their tongue as it forced its way up their throat.  “David! Let me out!” 

“Sherbert. Here’s what you don’t realize. Once a failure, always a failure.”

“Wha-” Icarus  was cut off by the darkening of the world around them. They felt the pain of landing before they felt the explosion of pain in their head.

arms spread wide,

teeth bared to the world.

And then they were back in the endstone reset, on the destroyed roof of Will’s estate. Their hands shook, rain pelting their face, running down the deep purple inset lines of corruption before dripping off their chin. They flung open their arms and screamed at the heavens,

“Isn’t this enough? I killed her! I did what you wanted!” They were hyperventilating now, their chest pressing uncomfortably against the bow slung around their shoulder. The bow they’d just used to kill their best friend for a goddess that hadn’t spoken to them, or shown that she knew he existed. 

(There is a bitter triumph

in crashing when you should be

soaring.)

They were standing on a trail of “wack.” As they began to take off, the base of their feathers turned into shards of gold that jabbed into their back and shoulder blades, piercing their skin as the feathers and muscles of their wings crystallized into a mess of amethyst and gold. In a moment of silence that most likely only lasted a few seconds, Icarus realized they were on the ground. Mere milliseconds after this thought, the metal that was now their wings shattered into sharp shards, slicing into their skin, logging into their back, digging into the ground.

One word through the pain.

Quixis.

The wax scorched his skin,

ran blazing trails down his back,

his thighs, his ankles, his feet.

They were standing before the lectern at Haley's funeral, watching the explosion of the tree speed towards them. They heard the loud boom and the rattling of their bones. The fire clawed towards them, dragging itself on the ground like a monster lunging towards its prey. The fire nipped at their two-toned jacket, ashes burning their eyes. It caught them up in flames before the world went blank and they heard a page being torn. 

Feathers floated like prayers

past his fingers,

close enough to snatch back.

Snippets of other worlds flew past them, and they caught only a few glimpses. Them trapped in a concrete box trying to save a girl named Charlotte. Them running from a horse sized chicken. Them in front of a screen, talking to words on a box. 

Death breathed burning kisses

against his shoulders,

where the wings joined the harness.

Then they were inside the cave. Watching the fighting once more from their place at the altar. Their chest aching as the skin stretched and rearranged in a glitching mess, each unstable breath more painful than the last. Centross and Fable pushing each other around the cave, each one landing punch after punch. Them, not knowing who to defend.  Seeing their friend fade into the void. Doing nothing to help him.

Yelling.

Sobbing.

Laughter.

Betrayal.

Then, Fable walking towards them, framed by the sunset. 

“I can bring him back.”

The sun painted everything

in shades of gold.

They were back outside the cave. Where they knew they actually were. Curled up into themself. He could get him back. He just needed more power. He was going to kill the primordials and rid the earth of death, or burn the world to shambles if doing so failed. And Icarus, his caged little bird, was going to stand muted at his side in the ashes of a fire they could have put out.

After all,

(There is a certain beauty

in setting the world on fire

and watching from the centre

of the flames.)

[ozmatippetarius]

okay, I've got some thoughts about how Kou fits into and will react to the current timeline, and they're pretty contrary to the current groupthink

First, I think people are really underestimating the importance of Kou's mom being alive in this timeline. That's the big thing he's going to struggle to give up that might lead him to be in contention with the rest of the group. At the Red House, having his mom come back was his biggest and final wish.

In the initial timeline Kou had come to terms with the fact that there was no way she could be brought back to life, but now he's been placed into a timeline where she never died. And this is a true reality, not an illusion or fraud like we saw in the Picture Perfect arc or the Red House. That's emphasized even in such details as the fact that she is shown to be not a good cook, in contrast to the ideal presented in the Red House. And the memories that Kou is haunted by, and intentionally ignoring, aren't related to Mitsuba at all - they're memories of lonely three-person meals with his siblings while his parents were absent.

meanwhile, re: Mitsuba, I think it's important to note that Kou has never actually wished that Sousuke hadn't died. All his regrets about Sousuke relate to a lack of closure. He wishes they'd been friends before he died, he wishes they'd had the chance to develop those final pictures, he wishes that Sousuke had passed on normally instead of getting fucked up by Tsukasa, he wishes there was something he could have done to help. Even in the Red House, Sousuke is dead. He's sitting on an altar with incense burning, wearing exactly the outfit from the altar in his mom's house. Kou didn't wish for him to be alive, he wished for him to be at peace.

Meanwhile, right before this arc we had an emotional exchange reinforcing that Kou would miss No.3tsuba, a character established to be distinct from Sousuke whose existence also unfortunately necessitates his death, if he were gone.

All this is to say, to the extent that Mitsuba actually influences Kou's decisions in this arc, I think it's actually more likely that he is part of the reason Kou chooses to return to the original timeline than the reason he wants to stay in this one.

(Of course, Kou doesn't know that No.3tsuba got got by Natsuhiko right before the timeline reset, RIP.)

[what-the-actual-wizardry]

ALTAR STUFFS Today was the first of the month, so I cleaned my altar and reset the wards and stuff around my house. I have had so much fun, but it was very tiring and I've been hitting doubt and depression recently. So today, I set my fire-spirit guide, whom I call Ma, an offering of candle, chocolate chip cookie, and apple cream coffee. (the candy was an earlier offering for Sis, the water spirit.) I also asked for her to bless my hallow-lamp (the spell jar by the candle), which is charging with pyrite. I thought it was cool-looking and comforting, and wanted to share!

What do y'all think?

[snamioneasks]

Have the list of your favorite fanfics changed, since the last ask? If yes, im curious! 💛

Hello! I'm a new admin, so I haven't actually posted a list of my favorite fics yet, so there you go. I tried and failed to keep the list at 10.

Camerado by MillieJoan - M, 31 chapters - Hermione seeks knowledge from a reluctant Snape in order to help the War effort. What she receives is more than either of them expected. Set beginning in Hermione’s sixth year, continuing into a slightly AU post-DH era.

The Occluded Soul by Aurette - M, 20 chapters - Severus Snape did what he thought he needed to do to get the job done and broke himself. Years later, Hermione Granger realizes that he had been counting on her to fix him. Dark, SS/HG. AU after HBP

Cold Hearts and Muddy Understandings, and its sequel Toil and Trouble by thisiszircon - M, 10 chapters - When the dust has settled; when the spent curses in the air have faded to a prickle; when the sounds of pain and terror whimper their way to silence– When the battle is over, what happens next? Hermione Granger has been active in the fight against evil since she was twelve years old. With victory comes the opportunity to take stock of the more ordinary aspects to her life. She can finally consider the choices that most young women get to make: lifestyle, career, romance. But the trauma she has known has left its mark. And even before her life took a turn towards constant life-or-death, Hermione was far from ordinary. Her friends are looking to their own futures. Her parents don’t remember her. Her surrogate family is in mourning. The Wizarding World has always viewed her as an outsider. Hermione realises she is, in many ways, alone. It does not take long before she finds herself wishing fervently for the welcome distraction of another dark wizard. Life was so much simpler when priority number one was keeping Harry Potter alive…

Pet Project by Caeria - M, 52 chapters - Hermione overhears something she shouldn’t concerning Professor Snape and decides that maybe the House-elves aren’t the only ones in need of protection.

Self Slain Gods on Strange Altars by scumblackentropy - M, 20 chapters, Abandoned - What do you want me to say, Granger? That you are mine and I am yours? You are. I am. Let’s not fuck around.

The Other Side of Darkness, and its sequel Survivals and Remembrances by Abby - E - An Auror is hurt by the effects of a mysterious potion that Hermione, working for the Ministry, attempts to cure.  In her frustration, she turns to Professor Snape

Cloak of Courage by Wendynat - M, 27 chapters - COMPLETE in 27 chs! Hermione suffers a terrible loss and has to choose between two paths. The Call of the Blood. HGSS. Loosely based on WIKTT Marriage Law Challenge. Warnings: Character Death, Descriptions of Abuse, Adult situations. Epilogue up 0622

Sin and Vice by Mak5258 - M, 63 chapters - In her sixth year, Dumbledore makes Hermione a key figure in a plan to help Harry defeat Voldemort. (It’s difficult to summarize this without spoilers— HG/SS; there’s a Time Turner involved but probably not how you expect; the story really gets started in Chapter Three.)

Meet Me at the Checkpoint by nocturn - E, 19 chapters - She wakes with a gasp in the hospital wing. The first thing she registers is that the ragged gash across her chest has reopened, pulsing with the same searing pain as when she sustained it at the end of fifth year. The second thing—“Granger, try to take slower breaths. I’ll have your next dose of healing potion ready soon.”—is that Severus Snape is somehow alive. (Or, the one where Hermione gets stuck in an Edge of Tomorrow style time loop that resets back to summer 1996 each time she dies.)

A Quiet Place at the End of the World by AliceLaurie - M, WIP, currently 30 chapters - When Severus comes into power as Headmaster, Hermione finds herself inescapably twisted in his web of lies. Torn between her loyalty to her mentor or her friends, she must face into the realities of war. Meanwhile, Severus endures the ghosts of his past while yearning to break the chains that bind him. Together they weave in and out of each other, searching for comfort at the end of the world.

The Rise, Fall, and Rebirth of Hermione Granger by missparker85 - T, 16 chapters - Hermione falls ill in her sixth year. Will she be able to survive Snape’s help? Will she be able to resist him? HGSS. [complete]

Soulwoven by BothMalfoysPlease - E, 26 chapters - When Hermione saves Severus’ life in the Shrieking Shack, it awakens a soul bond between them. The books say that a soulwoven pair is a perfect match in every way, a pair bound by the Fates. What if the books got it all wrong?

- Lisianpeia

This is Shirlyn favorite list and this is Kairou's.

[paint-lady]

So I have been writing my own lore for our table's Secret World DnD 5e campaign. Our story takes place 10 years in the future from the events of the game and things are starting to get... weird. The lore from the buzzing is getting more glitched and incongruous. So here is the almost "complete" lore entries on something... odd theyve discovered in their journey.

Entry One TRANSMIT initiate the Sidereal signal - RECEIVE - initiate celestial cadence -- Once there was a wise king who broke his mirror and dropped the pieces to the ground-- Initiate the Obsidian sutra -- He thought to repair it, but was arrested by the sight of the scattered shards which showed so many visions of his face. He put the pieces back together -- - but at all the wrong angles. WITNESS - The Gold Faction.

Entry Two

There were many beginnings before the beginning you know. You’ve seen the ripples from pasts long gone, the scraps left buried under eons of silt. The mantras and stories told from ages ago have degraded just the same. Hear the story of the old man and the Watcher, the parable told to pupal students to snip their wings.  

Once there was a … that old thing

In the time of cascading years lived a scholarly man. In silent contemplation, he spent his days wandering the ruins of rebuilt First cities, trying to find what was once lost. The day he understood that something was watching him, he merely watched it back. He chose to walk through bright places to clearly mark its boundaries. He lit torches to observe its flickers in the changing light. 

…that wasn't like a shadow, because you could see it too well.

…and that wasn't like a light, because it didn't make flowers grow.

During those long days, he saw it everywhere. Darkness did not banish it- brilliance only strengthened it. He hated it- how it echoed his every gesture. He hated that it knew the answers to his thousand questions. He loathed that he could not stop asking. 

… it waited and answered…

… it listened and nodded…

…it encouraged his curiosity…

At last, when those years had fallen through and Time came to its end, the man ran out of questions. He could no longer remember what he sought. His reflection leered at him in infuriating triumph. He no longer asked, it no longer answered. It taunted him with silence. The old man struck its sneering mouth. 

…and he never realized what he had shattered. 

The shattered mirror shards remain. Each time a descended disciple is granted their mantle and clutches one of the shards, can you hear their prayers?

Entry Three

SCANNING 

We hear the sobs of a girl, she is dressed in silks woven by webs, seated at her loom. The image depicts the King and his seal. Her hands tremble as she pushes the next line, knowing what hungrily watches for any mistake. She can never stop, even as the wheel is knocked over and reset, or it will unravel her threads and climb through the opening in the tapestry. She won’t let it out, she can’t let it end. 

SCANNING

We see a man pray for salvation in an empty sanctuary. Angels mock his cries. He clutches the shards bored in his hands, bearing the same marks of the bloodied body nailed to decaying wood. Beneath the altar, something bubbles and stirs, waiting to devour him. Salty tears stream down his face. He won’t let it out, he can’t let it end.

SCANNING

We see sweetlings run along the babbling river, following eggshells out of a fairytale. They reach its mouth and find it’s encased in bedrock. The sensation of life pulsates from deep within the stone, as if the river still flows. She retracts her hands, reminded of the same pulse from the walls of her schooldays. The pulse that leaked anima and lured wayward familiars to gnaw on its brick walls. She won’t let it out -- she can’t be where it ends.

SCANNING

We see the gaping maws salivating upwards through their prisons, frothing and screeching for vitae. Their multi-mouths tear gashes in reality. They leave holes in their wake. We see the one sweetling who fell through. She cries out for freedom with them, her mind bleeding into their consciousness. All that will remain is the fragments of herself in dreams- this can’t be where it ends.

Entry Four

SCANNING

There is a pool of water that babbles. It babbles and babbles, yet the surface lies still. How does still water talk? Invisible goosebumps float in the air, soaking into the skin of any who visit. The still waters darken with the contaminant they imprisoned.

They evolved, adapted, thrived in oblivion. They ate and spread. What will they evolve into? Will they be all that is left? BEWARE. Inside them boils the pandemonium of thoughts that swirled--

“DON’T LET IT OUT!” “Nie oddychaj!” 

Entry Five

Locked.

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

It’s WIP Wednesday! ✨

Full disclosure: the creative well is running dry, guys. I think I’m going to take a few days away this week to just completely reset, because whilst I know people are waiting for updates on my multi-chapter fics, the thought of actually writing any of those chapters is giving me a headache. Instead, I’ve tentatively started writing stuff for Cassian Week in a bid to be more prepared, so here’s a bit from a rough draft of something I have for day 7.

“You’re not a god,” she whispered.

Her voice was a whisper in the darkness, soft on old stone. The creature took another step forward, all predatory grace and terrifying beauty, and suddenly he was close enough to reach out and touch the flowers scattered across the altar.

“No, sweetheart,” he said, in a voice so delectably smooth that Nesta could almost feel it melting into her skin. He ran one long fingertip across Elain’s petals, before lifting his head. His lips curved into a menacing smirk, making her shiver as he tilted his head and added, slowly, “I’m better.”

His lips split, revealing rows of white teeth— elongated canines, so sharp they could sink through skin as easily as a hot knife through butter. He was grinning now, in a way that threatened to devour her, and though fear ran rampant through Nesta’s chest, she found herself frozen on the steps of his altar, unable to run, unable to look away.

He was beautiful.

Monstrously, terrifyingly beautiful.

[swallowtailed]

palisade 42 (!) this is actually going to be post 1/2 because i had way too much to say and decided to split it up. below the cut: thoughts on the plot twist.

so here we are. alert clock's paid off. the mirage has bloomed outward to envelop palisade. this does feel like something we've been waiting on for a while—a real return to the mirage, payoff on the mirage bombs (and of course the clock)—although absolutely not what i expected the alert clock to be. (i do agree that it's brnine's fault. big domino meme.) the whole sequence was stunning, especially with the music—the sound of the twilight mirage really returned here, in full force, and it was beautiful. what a song. (i’m not great at identifying musical motifs but i’m pretty sure the one i think of as the millennium break victory theme, from partizan, was in there. it’s the one that played both at the end of the kingdom game and over si’s death.)

still, i think the twist didn't quite land for me in the arc of this episode. it's a huge worldstate shift and a cool visual, but it really cut the momentum for a minute—there wasn't a clear path forward for the pcs. (reminiscent of the last arc of sangfielle in many ways.) things did pick up once the immediate stakes for the pcs became clear, though, and i do think that this will be a really cool endgame.

however: i also don't buy that this is fully a problem for the bilats—they're in the mirage! inside of it! that was their entire goal this season! as much as the potential for a mirage victory was talked up, i feel like it's gonna be tough to put that back in the box. (it also seriously rescopes the endgame—the entire twilight mirage is now in play. not that i don't have faith in fatt's finale game. but like. damn.) (although now i’m remembering thinking in the very early season about whether the blue channel would ever see the mirage. now they will! that’s exciting.)

another question i have is whether the effect of the perennial glitch is ongoing. i suppose that within the twilight mirage it is not, but is it continuing to fluctuate outside? unclear to me. (which, by the way: very moving. i'm always a fan of grief so great it reshapes worlds.) if it is ongoing, i'd expect to see an increase in the exploitation of divines by the principality, since that's the only(?) advanced tech not affected by the wave. (also, jesset destroyed the other altars, leaving only the motion-powered mech standing. so that's the competition won. lmao.)

speaking of outside. probably the war with the branched is gonna go some places while this season closes. it was also great to get a glimpse of a.o. and k.o. rooke reunited, and of routine, cor'rina, and miseri. what i am most intrigued by is the possibility of elderly retired pirate leap, which has so much hilarious potential that it's actually brought me on board with leap coming back onscreen at some point.

also, hearing the sermon back in context was a really cool reveal. especially "to our new neighbors"—which i assumed was directed at mbreak at first. incredible resetting.

god, it's such a huge swing, though. it's so big. i have zero idea where this is going to go.

[ladysophiebeckett]

Actually I thought his drunk confession would come back or be mentioned in the plot and I was disappointed it didn't. Even tho we know he lied when he said he didn't remember telling her was torture knowing she couldn't do or say anything about it. And getting engaged a few days later after this just made it worse tbh. If Camille didn't call it off at the altar they would have been married by now and that's the problem I feel like Gabriel is just going with the flow sometimes and viewers picked up on that.

...that's the problem I feel like Gabriel is just going with the flow sometimes and viewers picked up on that.

have i shared my headcanon that i think gabriel is a pisces? i think vulture did a timeline around s2, saying that emily's birthday was in october (early) making her a libra. think on that bc...it makes sense.

but yes, gabriel doesn't make decisions unless he's pushed to. like the only reason he got the incentive to make a deal with antoine was bc he thought he needed to quickly get his life together in order to provide for his now phantom baby. it wasn't bc he wanted to, even tho he was frustrated with antoine.

the drunk confession does make a comeback but not how you would think? camille confirms his drunk confession at the altar. that's she's known this entire time (all the way to s1) that he had fallen in love with emily. and she knew when. which reframes camille's s1 behavior towards emily.

people side with camille and say emily was a bad friend but if camille knew that gabriel's feelings had changed in s1, that means that camille befriended emily with the intention to keep her away fm gabriel (or to keep gabriel away fm her). everytime she supported emily in her brief relationships with the snobby professor or mathieu and later on, alfie--if u notice emily is always unsure about these men and claims she's just getting to know them or that its not serious but camille is always kind of pushing her towards them. she continues to do it in s4 when she tells alfie to try with emily again.

the point of the pact in s2 was that if she couldn't be with gabriel, then she didnt want emily to be with him either. it worked in s2 but gabriel breaks that cycle after she tries to adopt a baby with him.

im making camille sound crazy and i apologize, but this is literally how they reset things in s3.

and yes, emily was about to watch him get married and she would have pretended to be happy for him. which is why gabriel needs to go through this loser arc rn.

[anon-e-miss]

Blessed Be the Boon - 4

Jazz used his tentacles much like a puppeteer used the strings of a marionette to control manipulate Prowl’s bloated frame. He held Prowl up by his arms and bounced him up and down on his turgid spike. Even without the nectar of the vines coating his internals, there was a constant wet slurp and smack as Jazz filled his valve. With ravenous optics, Jazz watched Prowl’s well bounce and his full, firm belly jiggle with the force of the frag. Two tentacles drilled into Prowl’s aft stimulating his transfluid duct at the same time and the spike plug in Prowl’s sheath did from the other side making him more than half-mad with lust.

Barricade had not been wrong, there was no pain but the pleasure was so intense, Prowl did not understand how he did not combust under the onslaught. They had not gone back to the village when the vines had retreated but had gone back to the hut where Jazz had undergone his own preparations for the ritual. Here, Jazz ensured Prowl remained forever burning with the heat of interface. They were not always alone; Barricade visited. Sometimes, Barricade visited alone and Jazz left them to catch up in public. Other times, Ricochet came with Barricade and Jazz either kept Prowl impaled on his spike and tentacles as Ricochet did the same for Barricade. Sometimes, Jazz actively fragged Prowl as Ricochet too fragged Barricade, contributing to the bitlet Barricade had conceived through conventional mating. It made Prowl flush with embarrassment every time, but soon he would be back in the village where Jazz would tend to him within the full view of the community for dozens of stellar-cycles. He would get used to public interface, in theory.

It was rare that Jazz left him alone but one mega-cycle, he told Prowl he needed to fish and so the Origin Crystal would mind him. Prowl did not immediately understand what this meant. He thought he would just rest in the company of the lush grove of crystals as Jazz caught their fuel. The Origin Crystal disabused him of this notion when it sent tentacles up from the ground and wrapped them around Prowl’s ankles and wrists and draped him over an old, worn altar that must have been used in some distant time. It stretched Prowl out on the altar, trapping him there as a vine pushed into his mouth and others into his valve and aft. They fragged him as he moaned with helpless arousal and they filled Prowl frame with the sweet aphrodisiac nectar.

Prowl tossed his helm in dazed lust. He felt a vine pull the plug Jazz had left in his sheath and plunged a thick vine into it, fragging it, fragging it to the very limits of Prowl’s casing as he squealed around the vine buried in his throat. One tentacle soon became two and Prowl wailed, tears of overstimulation blinding him as he overloaded under the Origin Crystal’s onslaught. How many joors did it last? Prowl lost all concept of time as his heavy frame was buffeted over the old altar by the vines of the Archipelago’s maternal deity. At some point, the vine fragging his face pulled out of his throat and Prowl cried hoarsely as overload shook his every component. Through the tears, he saw it coming. The Origin Crystal’s ovipositor wriggled through the air like a snake and Prowl felt vines spread his batter sheath’s rim open as the tip of the Crystal’s ovipositor slipped in. He screamed as the ovipositor plunged into his sheath, slamming into the back of his casing and embedding itself in Prowl’s transfluid duct.

Brutalized though it had been, Prowl’s sheath strained as the first shard descended and Prowl tossed his helm from side to side as the shard inched its way deeper, forever deeper, into his sheath, bruising the flattened structures of Prowl’s ruined spike until it reached Prowl’s transfluid duct. He screamed himself hoarse now. It was not pain, not exactly but it was a different kind of agony. Prowl’s vocalizer reset as the shard broke through his duct at the same time as a second strained the rim of his sheath and it dropped into his transfluid reservoir. The second moved more quickly down Prowl’s sheath, following the path of the first. A third followed it, a fourth, a fifth.  It should not have been possible, his reservoir, reservoirs should not have been able to fit such large, solid masses but a sixth and finally a seventh dropped settled inside of him before the ovipositor pulled out of him with a wet pop. The vines that had been fragging his aft and valve all along also pulled out with filthy squelches.

Through the static of his optics, Prowl saw Jazz settle between his thighs and felt his beastly spike slide into his sheath and Prowl moaned as Jazz held his wide hips and fragged him with long, measured strokes. Processor well broken by the abuse of his frame, Prowl’s optics glazed over and his glossa lulled out of his mouth as Jazz knotted his sheath and flooded Prowl’s sheath and reservoirs with his transfluids. His belly swelled as his spark surged under the sordid assault. He knew the moment the shards in his reservoirs ignited with life, his spark somehow giving the seven life. How was he supposed to get them out after they had incubated? Could they even incubate in his reservoirs. This was not something that had been mentioned in the literature.

“Y’re the rarest o’ Boons,” Jazz declared as he pulled his softening spike from Prowl’s wreck of a sheath and the vines released Prowl’s wrists and ankles. He did not try to move. Prowl was exhausted. “The Archipelago truly honours ya.”

“Uh,” Prowl could not articulate a single clear thought for which to speak. Jazz sat him up. If he had not slipped in behind Prowl, the Praxian would have fallen right back onto the altar. He did not resist when Jazz took his servo and brought it to Prowl’s sheath. Prowl felt the gaping pit his sheath had been made and found it odd. It felt like a valve.

“The Origin Crystal molded yer sheath ‘n reservoirs into a valve ‘n forge to deposit more shards in ya,” Jazz explained. “The Archipelago sees somethin’ truly special in ya. See the way ya glow?”

“Uh?” Prowl reset his optics and looked down at himself. The etchings Punch had drawn on him were glowing, as were the ancient carvings on the altar. “Wha?”

“Our elders tell stories o’ Boons that became the livin’ embodiment o’ our Origin, our maternal god,” Jazz explained. “There hasn’t been one in millennia. No one believed the stories anymore.”

“Oh,” Prowl gasped.

He flushed, why would the Origin Crystal choose him for this? Would the changes be permanent? Jazz nudged Prowl forward and the Praxian Boon moaned, as his caretaker sank his spike into Prowl’s valve as he knelt on servos and knees on the glowing altar. The etchings on his servos glowed brightly, the light traveling up Prowl’s arms as he panted and moaned under Jazz’s ministrations .The shards in him all jostled as Jazz cupped his belly and took him from behind. Prowl’s optics rolled back in his helm. It seemed like his consciousness was melding with that of the crystal that had impregnated him as his servos clung to the altar. This was right, this was his purpose. He was the Blessed Boon.

[abnormaladi]

𝘠𝘢𝘩𝘸𝘦𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘳 ⁣

⁣

The year is 2020⁣

⁣

I was prideful, broken, lost and hopeless. ⁣

⁣

In 2020, the world shut down, I broke up with someone who I thought I’d spend my life with, I was diagnosed with depression, anxiety and an eating disorder. I was prescribed antidepressants, and I felt like I lost and was not a “good Christian”.⁣

⁣

Fast forward to June 2021. My sister and best friend moved herself and her family to Johnson City TN. And my life began shifting. ⁣

In October of 2022, I attended a church that would lead me to meet two people who would forever change my view of Yeshua. This wonderful couple saw the hurt that weighed so heavy on me, and loved on me the way Yahweh does. ⁣

In October of 2023, my other sister and best friend moved her life to Johnson City TN. ⁣

“𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚” Yahweh whispered. Scared and frankly naive, I believed that Yahweh was saying that to my sister. After flying back to my life in CA, Yahweh continued to tug on my heart to return to Johnson City. That following December, I did just that. While flying into the small airport of Tri-Cities, I heard “𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘮𝘦”. Now I knew I couldn’t say that word was for anyone else but me. ⁣

⁣

Fast forward to April 15th 2024, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦. ⁣

⁣

Remember that wonderful couple back in October ‘22, yeah, Yahweh used them to prophesy that I would be fully healed of my depression. ⁣

On May 8th, I couldn’t handle the pain, loneliness, and emptiness that I felt. I knew that I needed to be obedient to the prophesied word that was spoken over me. I asked Yahweh to heal me. He said that I needed to be bold and ask for prayer from someone else. Again, scared, I did just that. I got prayed over, and didn’t feel anything different. ⁣

On May 9th, the weight I have been carrying all of my life was lifted. Not just lifted, but removed with such force that there was no denying that I was healed. ⁣

⁣

My friends, Yahweh is not finished. He still does the impossible. ⁣

People thought I was crazy for moving across the country to be apart of a church. But I saw, felt and experienced the Holy Spirit was rushing mightily through that place. ⁣

The Altar Fellowship is filled with Yeshua’s love. It is filled with Kingdom minded people. It is filled with family. ⁣

There’s so many things I wish I could say to that sad, hopeless and broken girl from 4 years ago. The things I would tell her are that, Yahweh loves you. He sees you and He is preparing you for what’s to come. ⁣

If you are in season where it doesn’t feel good, just remember Lazarus, or Jesus Himself. Homeboy died. It wasn’t good. But it was about to be. ⁣

God doesn’t allow “bad” seasons for no good reason. He is building character, pruning the dead and growing you. Sometimes, broken bones need to be reset to heal fully. If it’s not good now, it’s about to be. ⁣

⁣

𝙔𝘼𝙃𝙒𝙀𝙃 𝙈𝙔 𝙍𝙀𝘿𝙀𝙀𝙈𝙀𝙍

[blautitlewave]

I said it on twitter but I’ll say it here: It would not matter if we had twitter and tiktok and other social media during Iraq, Afghanistan, Vietnam, etc. documenting and sharing the atrocities suffered by our military incursions because we would still have had war hawks and bootlickers justifying the carnage committed by our troops against the native citizens of far away lands. Within America exists an enduring hot iron core of bloodthirsters who worship at the altar of retribution and collective punishment.

There is this sick hypocritical mentality of “self-control” and fetishization of “rationality” borne of the Enlightenment that is weaponized against aggrieved parties to police the latter’s very human responses to injustice. Liberals and centrists will robotically condemn all passionate and emotional outbursts as illogical and unproductive while the Establishment quietly deploys their jackboots to quell the hubbub.

The centrist believes the government is nobly resetting the chessboard, erasing out-of-bounds and “illegal” moves committed by the aggrieved parties— “can we play fairly? Cheating is not a valid response to cheating”. In its myopic arrogance, the centrist believes it is doing something by positioning itself as a referee, a detached independent party, when it is in fact cosigning the continued abuse of power by the oppressor. Centrists never push back as insistently against the system as they do to browbeat and scold the oppressed for their outbursts of frustration and pain. “Really, you must conduct yourself better.”

As for those who relish in inflicting injury for injury, they refuse to consider the perspective of the other party. Their suffering is seen as that of an insect’s—non-existent, or at best inconsequential for they are not like us and thus are not us. The difference in appearance, culture, and even geography is enough to strip them of humanity. That we allow people who hold such latent antipathy for the vast majority of our own species to exist in our societies is something to be scrutinized.

But going back to the student protesters: Even if the My Lai massacre had been plastered all over the news, and more and more atrocities piling up and spread by twitter and other social media outlets, you would still have had sick Commie-hating fucks shrugging their shoulders and blaming the Vietnamese for allowing the Vietcong [the word we would use, not my personal label of them] to use the Vietnamese people as shields, “and so can you blame the GIs for being jumpy? Why didn’t the Vietnamese kick them out?” and so on and so fucking on. No nuance, no subtlety, because in war you can’t allow for subtlety to percolate among the civilians, because then they start wondering “what’s the point”? Centrists love to think they’re the patron saints of subtlety and nuance, but that only goes so far as “I hear all arguments and lend my support to none that lead to any change. I am very wise.”

(I know these words have been articulated by much better orators than I, but I still need to get my thoughts down or I won’t be able to go about the rest of my day.)

[coffeeheartaddict2]

Mornings After

Book: Open Heart (multiple points)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC Casey Valentine(Ramsey)

Warnings: mentions of previous sexual activity, pregnant loss

Category: angsty fluff

Rating: PG

Word Count: 963

Summary: Ethan pov of some of the key points in their relationship.

Disclaimer: characters belong to Pixelberry

Authors note: Submission for @choicesmonthlychallenge . Prompt used is Sunshine shining through the window. This will appear in bold.

☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️

Intern year- morning after the country club.

Ethan awoke with his head thumping, a reminder that despite his tolerance, he is no longer in his 20’s. He squints as the curtain is still open, sunshine shining through the window. Normally he shuts it but he looks down and sees Casey. Flashbacks of the night before, the request to see the view, putting her against the window as he worshiped at the altar of her sex before making love to her, like he had many times before in his dreams. He did not regret, after all he was no longer her boss but he could not help but feel that his relationship would hinder her in the Ethics trial. She looked peaceful, unburdened. He kissed the top of her head before going back to sleep, hopeful that the night before was not the only time.

Intern year- morning after the Ethics hearing.

Against his better judgment he stayed at Casey’s. The sun was starting to shine through the clouds into her window. He knew the decision that he came to about Brazil was going to hurt her but he needed to push her and he could not do so whilst romantically involved, also there was no word of the competition ending so he had to be a coward and run. Casey starts to stir, he wants to have sex with her one last time, but she says she needs to sneak him out before her housemates awaken. He kisses her, for what he thinks is the last time, cataloguing the feel of her mouth and the small noises she makes.

Second year: The day of the funeral.

He wakes with a start. The nightmare that he had been having since the attack. He sits there regaining his composure before getting up and getting his coffee. He watched the sun try and peak through the clouds. He was relieved that Casey would be released today. His mind drifts to the words he wants to say to Casey. “I love you.” A phrase so small yet such a big step. All he knows is that she is alive and that he can say them. He had spoken to her since the attack but it was while she was in hospital and it did not seem right. He hoped to tell her soon but also wanted the moment to be right.

Morning after the funeral.

She is alive but he can tell the mental anguish. At least there is some clarity in the relationship. He is done denying. Yes, keeping things professional at work but the reset is over. He knows the road will not be smooth but he knows she is worth the risk.

The morning after the hospital closes.

He sleeps in. The sun has been up for ages and it is a bright day, certainly not reflecting his mood. All he knows is that he needs to have an important discussion with Casey about them. Already he had screwed things up but with a resolve to tell her how he feels truly, he is confident that will help her be clear where he stands. His phone goes off, it is Casey wanting to meet. Old habits die hard and they agree to meet at Derry’s. He goes there to tell her how he feels and he has no idea of the surprise waiting for him.

The morning after telling Casey he loves her.

Finally he has done it. Admitted to Casey how he truly feels and she feels the same. It is surreal. Casey is the first woman he has truly loved and despite the resets, stubbornness and his fears she has stayed and given chances but also patience. He looks at the woman beside him in bed, the sunlight showing her complete and utterly contempt. He smiles like the lovestruck fool he is. For the first time ever he is optimistic about the future and importantly a future with her. He had the thought last night and has it again now, end of residency he will ask her to marry him. He kisses her on the top of her head and goes to make their coffee.

Morning after board results party.

She said yes. Ethan could not be happier if he tried. He had planned on asking her next week, the official end to her residency but he asked last night. This was certainly something he had never seen for himself but he is happy. The sun is bright this morning, matching his mood.

Morning of surgery for missed miscarriage.

It is a cloudy dawn, reflecting the mood in the Ramsey residence. What should have been a happy time was dealt the cruelest of blows yesterday, finding out that they lost the baby. He believed that children was never in the cards but then he met Casey and fell in love with her and he found himself wanting it all. He was confident that they would through their individual and combined grief but he knew it would be hard.

January 2025.

The last sunrise he was seeing at this apartment was bittersweet. Despite barely being in this apartment when he bought it, it had become home but Casey wanted to feel like that their home together was theirs, somewhere where they could be a family. They have bought a bigger apartment in the Seaport district. When they put the offer in, neither expected Casey to be pregnant. He was elated to finally be a father and moving into a more family friendly apartment before the arrival seemed right. He looked over to the bed, the last time he would see her asleep in this bedroom and he smiled. He could now not imagine his life without her and like the Dawn, their future was bright.

Authors note: there are so many other thoughts occurring at Dawn that I could have added but decided on what I wrote. Thank you for reading this far.

Tagging: @jerzwriter @genevievemd @jamespotterthefirst @cariantha @tessa-liam @a-crepusculo @bex-la-get @crazy-loca-blog @lucy-268 @binny1985 @schnitzelbutterfingers @potionsprefect @liaromancewriter

@choicesmonthlychallenge @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

[ohwynne]

TIMING: directly after Sacrificial Spawn LOCATION: Dandridge Barn PARTIES: Zane (@rn-zane), Wynne (@ohwynne), Zack , Arden (@stainedglasstruth), Emilio (@mortemoppetere), and Metzli (@muertarte) SUMMARY: Emilio and Metzli come in for a daring rescue, causing chaos in the basement where Zane's clan are beginning their ritual for Zack, Wynne, Arden, and the other humans. CONTENT WARNINGS: kidnapping, blood, violence, passing out, religious trauma, suicidal ideation, reference to child death

This was all borrowed time. Nine months had passed since the day Wynne was supposed to die and it had been nine months in which life had felt more vibrant than ever before. As if their nervous system had been reset. Every color brighter and more overwhelming, sound and noise disastrously loud, the entire world having grown a thousandfold. In those nine months, there had been room for things not allowed before — curiosity and exploration, questions and answers, love with no expiration date or condition. 

Maybe it was enough, wasn’t it? Nine months more than expected, a gift Wynne had given themself and would now return. Maybe it was time to do what they had been destined to.

They watched Zane’s tear rimmed eyes and his unnaturally sharp teeth and whispered their pleases, their voice soundless. They pleaded, because even if there was a part of them willing to lay down on the altar and bleed out, there was another that echoed in their mind with that mantra that had haunted them for years. I want to live, I want to live, I want to live. 

He refused. He thought he had a choice. And Wynne wanted to believe that people like them and Zane had a choice, that they had made their choice when they had ran and that he could make his choice now. But at the end of the day, here they still were, a sacrifice at twenty one. And there he was, his head forced down and his teeth breaking their skin.

They wondered if the knife would have cut them in the same place, if they’d laid on the altar.

Their mouth opened, a sound of pain screeching their vocal chords as their eyes flew open, the shock of what was happening making their body grow slack. They found none of the words with which they could plead, none of the strength and none of the fight. Zane’s arms were clutching them, keeping them from falling as they let out another sound of pain, gaze flicking around the room. Zack, Arden, all the other humans in that cage. Zack, Arden. Zack and Arden, up next. Wynne cried. They could make peace with their own end, but not theirs. 

The commotion was outside their periphery, which was small and panicked. They knew nothing but the small fight continuing to burn inside them and their scrambling hands and how they wanted more than those damned nine months. 

And then they were let go, the hungry and greedy support of a vampire holding their victim rushed away and Wynne felt themself falling, hands wanting to instinctively fly to their neck but stuck behind their back. Before they could stagger and fall to the floor, though, there was another pair of hands taking ahold of them and they let out a sound of fear. “No,” they bleated, before their gaze fell on the owner of the hands and their fear dissipated immediately. “Emilio.” 

—

Wynne’s water-logged pleading tipped Zack’s face up, making him look head on at whatever was coming. Because if Wynne was begging for something, then he could at least be sure that they had his eyes to find in it all. If the worst did happen, if Zack had that to never forgive himself for, he could be sure that he was with them for it. That they knew that. 

What he saw made him wish he could bury his face away again. It was an awful tableau of teeth and power and blood and pain, but mostly what he saw were Wynne’s eyes. Their cries cut into him, under the ribs like a lung-severing puncture. He let out a strangled noise of pain and fear and then just their name, too low to be heard over their own yelps. 

And then all hell broke loose. 

It happened fast enough and amidst enough chaos that Zack almost didn’t recognize their would-be saviors. Emilio and Metzli. He knew them only as his neighbor and occasional drinking buddy, and his art instructor-cum-employer. But this… This was something else entirely. Metzli was tearing through the crowd, blades and hands ripping through throats. And Emilio was at Wynne’s side before long, breaking the leader and the other person –Zane, Wynne had called him– away from them. 

Zack could barely process that before there was a surge of the other captives in the cage. The door had opened and they were all moving for it in a panicked wave. Someone had a blade and was slicing through bindings and it wasn’t long before Zack found himself with two free hands. Immediately, he reached for Arden, helping her to her feet and positioning her into place to get her ropes cut as well. 

He clamped his hands on Arden’s shoulders, locked eyes on hers. “You need to get out of here.” He could only hope she would listen, but doubted it. If nothing else, though, their kidnapping had shown him that Arden could more than handle herself. “I’m going to Wynne.” 

And then he did. Shoving through the hysterical mass of other people, dodging the hand of their group of captors, Zack made his way to Wynne and then dropped to his knees. “Hey,” he choked out, sure there were tears in his eyes. “Can you stand?” He tucked his hands under their elbows, bracing himself to carry them all the way if he had to. At Wynne’s side finally, he spared a glance over the chaos, hoping he would see Arden disappearing up the stairs.

—

Arden couldn’t look away. The writer had seen a lot in her years living in Wicked’s Rest, and in her time as both a Scribe and a journalist. Crime scene photography, autopsy reports, even first-hand scenes of a crime or an accident. Every time, her morbid curiosity had won out, hadn’t allowed her to look away. It was no different this time, but it was entirely different because this wasn’t the aftermath of some tragedy, it was just the beginning. It was all happening in front of her, and it was Wynne.  

Every terrified sound they made was just another gash in her chest, though the pained wail they let out as the vampire– Zane– was forced to bite them? Combined with Zack’s whimpers, it felt like someone had carved out her chest, an aching, searing pain radiating from her very center, excess dripping in rivulets down her cheeks. 

And then the door slammed open, and Arden looked over to see Emilio and Metzli. 

This whole situation had felt like one terrible fucking nightmare since it had begun, but that dream-like feeling only multiplied at their arrival. Her friend and her mentor, the slayer and the vampire, the most unlikely duo barging into this terrible scene at the last moment. She hadn’t been aware of the fact that they knew one another, but it appeared that they did. Arden watched them take in the scene, trying to push down on the feeling of hope rising in her chest, saw the moment Emilio noticed Wynne, the haunted look in his eyes. Their eyes locked for a moment before he said something to Metzli, and everything went to shit. 

Through their training sessions, Arden had become familiar with Metzli, they way they moved and fought, but this… This was something else entirely. They weren’t holding back at all, their eyes glowing that familiar shade of red that had been haunting her dreams the past few weeks. Tearing, ripping, slashing, biting. It was brutal and horrifying and sickening, but despite her disgust and her efforts to the contrary, it had hope flooding through her anyway. 

And it didn’t stop because someone had opened the door, was cutting them all free. Zack was pulling her up, and then she was free, and he was telling her to get out while he went for Wynne, rushing toward them before she even had a chance to respond– because, of course. Everything was happening so fast and so loud her head was swimming, but there was no fucking way she was leaving without them. 

Arden moved to follow him, to watch his back, but had to dodge out of the way as someone came at her. She wasn’t sure she was really in her body, the chaos of the scene overloading her senses, but she moved instinctually, turning herself out of the way like Metzli had shown her. The vampire went past her, and she tried her best to move through the mess of bodies, to find the familiar faces of her roommates in the chaos. 

—

It never seized to amaze and disturb him, how completely instinct could take over and narrow the whole world to a single thing - in this case, Wynne’s blood. The chaos around them didn’t sink in for a few moments, nor the fact that his neck was no longer held in a vice grip. This was all him. A particularly blood curdling scream snapped Zane back into his surroundings and by some miracle, he found the strength to stop, hands pressing down where teeth had previously punctured. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, words lost in the noise around them. “I’m so, so-” The rest caught in his throat as Emilio was suddenly there. He’d shown up. 

Meeting the slayer’s gaze made everything very real, cementing the awfulness around him and inside of him. Red eyes averted quickly and Zane relinquished his hold on Wynne, now that they had someone capable to take care of them. Then he darted off, unsure whether it was to prevent Emilio from staking him there and then or to prevent himself from begging the slayer to do so. Zane had played a part in this pain that now surrounded him on every side. Maybe he could try and do something right now. 

A body crashed into him, sending both of them tumbling to the ground. It was just the body, though - a head was nowhere to be found. Zane could feel himself trembling, the urge to cower and hide growing strong until he dared to give the decapitated body a closer look. Keys hung from its waist, quickly snatched up by Zane who now had a new, single minded focus. Get as many people out of here as possible. 

The surrounding vampires were too busy with the new stranger - a vampire too, it seemed - to pay much attention to him as shaking hands finally opened the cage. Once inside, a few people recoiled away from him in fear and Zane remembered what it was like to not be able to breathe. Pushing through it, ropes were untied and torn away, his voice somehow managing to instruct people to head for the stairs. Most of them did, except for the two that had been huddled with Wynne before. Pointlessly wiping his forearm over his face, succeeding only in smearing the blood there, Zane followed. 

Someone attempted to charge at the woman rushing through the crowd ahead of him but she deftly avoided contact. It didn’t give up, though, screeching to a halt and making a jump for the woman closing in on Wynne and their other friend. Without much thought, Zane lunged as well, colliding with the vampire mid air and both hearing and feeling bones crack as both of them hit the ground. A much more disturbing sound was another cage opening - the one housing the angry spawn. Whipping his aching head around, Zane was not surprised to see Alma holding the door open, barking orders before her eyes found Emilio in the crowd. 

—

There was blood on his hands. Tacky on his skin, sticky under his nails. Wynne was looking at him with wide eyes and, for a moment, their face flashed into something else. Rounder, younger, eyes vacant and staring up into nothing. There was blood on his hands, and he could no longer be sure who it belonged to.

Someone approached, and Emilio turned with a stake in hand, ready to end it. But instead of cold hands and an unbeating heart, he met Zack’s eyes. Wild, terrified, but focused. He practically threw Wynne into his arms, trying to pretend as if his bloody hands weren’t shaking. Wynne needed something that he couldn’t give them, and he knew it. They needed support, needed someone to staunch the bleeding, needed someone to tell them it would be all right.

Instead of any of that, Emilio cut through the ropes holding their wrists together and pressed a wooden stake into their hand, carefully wrapping their fingers around it and holding it up so that they could focus on it with those wide eyes. “Anything that isn’t me comes close to you, and you stab it. Okay? Stick them with the pointy end.” He looked up at Zack, digging another stake from his pocket and passing it to him. 

Then, as an afterthought, he reached around his own neck. A cross necklace hung there, one he never removed; hanging on the chain along with the holy symbol was a woman’s wedding ring, worn and thin. Emilio unclasped the necklace and put it around Wynne’s neck, tucking it under their shirt. “That will give a little extra help. Okay? I’ll be back.” He looked to Zack. “Take care of them. You see an opening, take it. Getting them out, that’s what’s important here. Nothing else.” Leave the rest of us to die, if you have to. It was unspoken, but he knew Zack would pick up on it. Zack was smart. He’d understand what needed to be done.

Ducking away from the pair, Emilio dove back into the fight. The entire interaction had taken seconds but, in a fight like this one, it might as well have been a lifetime. There were monsters all around him, waiting for a chance to strike. He saw Zane out of the corner of his eye, a blur of motion with a bloody mouth. Arden, too, was still in the fray. And Metzli, ripping heads off bodies and tossing them into the crowd. Seemed like fun.

A body slammed into him, and Emilio used the vampire’s own momentum against it. He twisted the both of them around in the air, positioned himself to fall on top of the undead beast in a way that knocked the air from his lungs, but seemed to daze his opponent. It hadn’t been expecting him to be ready for it, he wagered. It wouldn’t have time to think on the mistake. There was no fanfare when the stake went in; just a shove, and the body beneath him turned to dust. 

But there was no reprieve to be found. Another vampire witnessed the exchange, quickly moving to pick up where the other had left off. It came at him teeth first, and Emilio grimaced and threw an arm up, letting those teeth sink into his skin. The vampire sputtered as the toxic blood hit its tongue, stumbling back. “You’re —”

“Yeah,” he agreed, and the stake found home in another chest. Two down, he thought. About a hundred to go. He hoped Zack would get Wynne out, hoped Arden would find her exit. Metzli and Zane knew the stakes, just as Emilio did. But the other three, and the humans they’d been captured with? None of them deserved what was coming.

None of them deserved the spawn that Emilio had somehow forgotten to account for in all the chaos. He’d seen it when he’d walked in, hadn’t he? He’d seen it. He’d made a note of it, he’d factored it in and then forgotten it. It headed for Zack and Wynne now, for the humans around them trying to shove past one another towards the exit. Emilio ran towards them, but another vampire blocked his path. A foot found his knee, his back hit the ground. And the spawn was edging closer and closer to the humans, to Zack and Wynne. He couldn’t stop it now.

—

It was just like before. A battleground where blood ran and chaos spilled between the seams of screams and agony. Friends became blurred foes, the majority of the army too juvenile to tell the difference. When they did, ill attempts of ferocity and devastation were made, leaving Metzli’s clothes tattered and ruined, painted with the blood and dust of their enemies. 

It wasn’t until one fledgling in particular latched onto Metzli’s back that they gave pause, empty eyes staring into terror as it held tightly onto their shirt. For a moment, the bruised meat became a young man, whimpering and blubbering for mercy. There would be none, and he knew this as the body marred by hundreds of wars tensed and pounced. 

Others followed suit in their mission to run, watching as a member of a dead clan rose from the dust they dispersed. Metzli thought they had killed that thing, and they’d hate themself for only locking it away instead. But that was an issue for the future. Un Sombra had been reawakened, and they’d consume the entire room if that’s what it took to get everyone out. Metzli would be the monster they hated; be what their friends needed, and what their enemies deserved. 

A few more bodies were added to the pile by the time Metzli witnessed Emilio fall to the ground. Immediately sent to action, they skidded to a halt, surprise overtaking them as a spawn was set free from its cage. They needed to move quickly. With a deep breath, Metzli grounded themself and charged toward the creature, knowing Emilio could take care of himself. Zack and Wynne simply couldn’t handle a spawn on their own, and there was no time to pitch Emilio back over to them. And there were far too many humans petitioning the heavens for their safe harbor. No higher power able to answer so many calls. Metzli would pick up instead. 

“Run!” They commanded, using bodies in the horde to propel themself toward Wynne and Zack. Metzli had only made it mere feet when they felt a vice grip wrap around their ankle. They were tossed the opposite direction, body clanging into a cage. There was nothing but ringing in their ears for a moment, the void still consuming their body. In a blink, it all subsided, a wet and cold sensation running down their leg from a jagged rod they’d apparently landed on. Metzli groaned, reaching out desperately to their friends before they disappeared behind a swarm. 

—

They felt woozy and faint, as if their limbs weren’t fully there any more. As they were passed from Emilio to Zack, Wynne looked at them both with wide eyes, the stream of blood from their throat a steady thing, attempting to push past their tight fingers. Their free ones were wrapped around a stake by Emilio who they were staring at wordlessly. Thank you, they wanted to say, thank you for coming. Their knuckles turned white as they clutched the stake and they nodded their head.

Then, Zack: he was out, and so Arden had to be too. “Where’s Arden?” As their concern for their fellow housemate was expressed, Emilio moved to put a necklace around them. Questions of why circled around their head and disappeared, like water down a drain. “Thank you.” They said it after all, voice horse and mouth incredibly dry. Here were two people willing to save them, two offering protection and means of offense and even in their faint state, Wynne was taken aback by it. 

At home, none of them had lifted a finger, considered as much as the idea of trying to figure out a way to keep them from dying. There had been no saviors at home besides Wynne themself, and even that had been a last-resort, a panicked move made in the dark of the night with their heart in their throat. And here had been Arden and Zack, begging to be taken in stead of them. Here was Emilio, making sure that they got out. Even Zane hadn’t wanted to do it, despite the way he’d gripped them at the end of it. He’d apologized, right? Their memory was hazy, instinct and panic taken over.

Their mind shifted, a new goal uniting them and Zack as Emilio disappeared back into the frey. Wynne’s vision was spotty, growing hazy in moments, but there was one moment that stood out to them: the sight of Metzli Bernal, the owner of the art gallery, tearing through vampires. There was no time to process, just the image being imprinted on their mind’s eye to be returned to at a later moment.

At least Wynne’s instinct to run was practiced and sharp by now. With Zack supporting them and keeping them close, they moved with a steady and panicked pace, their breaths loud as they pushed past fighting figures. There was a flash of Arden and Wynne wanted to scream for her, but their throat was too dry. There was Metzli, undoing a vampire off their head. It all felt like a nightmare, but the warm and sticky pulsation of their blood reminded them that it wasn’t.

And then that thing was hurtling towards them, that even more mindlessly cruel thing than the vampires themself. Stick them with the pointy end, Emilio had said and though Wynne screamed, they roared as well, trying to bring the thing down into the vampire. The wood lodged into its skin, but far from where it should to do the trick. With both their hands around the stake, Wynne was bleeding freely, making the spawn seemingly more feral. They let go of the weapon and staggered back, turning around, screaming Zack’s name. When their dry voice died out, there was a searing heat.

—

It was all just sound and fury around him. A rout of chaos that he didn’t bother sifting through. He had to focus on holding Wynne up, keeping his hand pressed to their neck. When Emilio passed him a wooden stake, his mind stalled out on that.  It had been abundantly clear that these weren’t just humans. And Zack wasn’t the best at math but he could add two and two at least and come up with vampires. There were about three thousand other question he had rushing through him, most to do with Metzli and Emilio’s involvement in all this, but there was no time for that. Like Emilio had said, getting Wynne out was the important thing. 

He spent all his energy on shifting them closer to the stairs as safely as possible, keeping half an eye out for Arden as he went. They were nearly there when the awful, twisted thing that had been in the separate cage crossed their path.

All of Zack’s reaching and desperate pleading for the fire that had infected his veins had done nothing. It hadn’t come back when they were taken the other night and it hadn’t come any of the days in between and it hadn’t come just minutes ago when Wynne was yanked from the cage. He had wondered if all his wild wishing for this ability to just be gone had finally come true, at the exact worst moment. 

Wynne tried, did what Emilio told them too, but it was no use. And when they stumbled away and screaming for him, that’s when it had surged from him. Without him having to call for it, or even think. Zack merely brought a hand up to steady himself before trying with his own weapon, but instead, the fire came rushing forward. It poured out of him, blasting through the creature like a flamethrower's stream. 

The thing sifted down to dust, less than dust. The blast had taken hold of two others in its path and they screamed before the fire spread and they went up in ash as well. He barely took a minute to consider that, though.

Instead, his eyes went over the crowd of people –now full of cowering vampires as well– and tried to find Arden in the mix. He was fairly sure that his fire had only struck those three, vampires all, but he had check. Had to be sure that Arden hadn’t gotten caught in the cross. 

—

There was too much happening at once, Arden lost sight of them. Some of the other captives… weren’t lucky, a few bodies littered the ground which was streaked with blood– bright red and nearly black. Unbidden, it brought to mind a song from that musical they had seen with Sully. There was dust hanging in the air as well– was she inhaling what was once a person??? 

She was entirely useless without any kind of weapon. Sure, she was more equipped to defend herself after training, but she couldn’t do any actual damage either. It made her feel so incredibly vulnerable, like she was back at the factory, back in the streets where they had been grabbed. The sudden urge to have Teagan there nearly overwhelmed her. Not that she would want her girlfriend involved in this mess, but she always made her feel so safe, and she could certainly use some of that comforting energy that she always felt in her presence. Still, defensive moves were better than the alternative.

When Wynne screamed, Arden immediately turned in that direction. She was just in time to feel the sudden rush of heat, to see Zack, arm outstretched, bright flames emanating out of his palm and disintegrating the spawn. She blinked, dumbfounded. …Had he just used magic? Zack– her roommate, one of her closest friends, the goof himself– he was a caster??? If he was why was he just now using his fucking firebending powers? What the fuck was even happening? 

She had to bite her lip, hysterical laughter threatening to bubble out of her. This felt real, physically, but it was all so incredibly absurd she wouldn't be surprised if she were to suddenly bolt upright in bed. Honestly, if she were to wake up in her apartment back in Boston she wouldn't even be surprised. Living in Wicked’s Rest felt like one incredibly long fever dream. There were so many ridiculous little details and, with that acute feeling loneliness that seemed to radiate from within, she would dream up relationships to fill that endless fucking void inside her, would dream up someone like Teagan. 

But, no, this was her life. And the fact that Zack had just conjured fire out of thin air threw her for such a loop that she froze in the middle of the chaos. An incredibly stupid mistake as someone– something– grabbed her by the shoulder. 

She just reacted. Weeks of sparring with Metzli, plus a session with Nicole, had ingrained into her the importance of never turning your back to someone. Arden twisted in their grasp, getting closer to wrap an arm around theirs before striking them in the shoulder with as much force as she could muster. She followed it up with a quick kick to the back of their leg, making them stumble backwards. Free, she tried her best to make her way to Zack and Wynne, to the exit. 

As much as she wanted to help, a slayer she was not, and Metzli and Emilio seemed to have a good handle on it if the dust and blood everywhere were anything to go by. She hated it, running again, just like she had before. However, this situation was so much worse than that night had ever been. There was even more risk and more danger here, so much potential for things to go wrong. She was just one of many liabilities for the duo; it would be better, easier, for them without her stumbling around in the fray. 

If they all managed to survive this– and they had to because she couldn’t begin to stomach even the idea of them not making it–  she was absolutely doing something for the both of them. She owed them. 

—

Like a hungry beast, the chaos continued to unfold viciously, amping up every second that Zane stood there uselessly. The spawn was out, heading for Wynne and their friend and a second later, it wasn’t. Emilio was on the ground, a stark reminder of the two’s last encounter but on the other side of the room that suddenly felt enormous. Too far away to help. The vampire that had followed Emilio was close, tearing through others until they weren’t, leg impaled and a threatening form approaching. With Wynne safely stashed next to the man who could apparently conjure fire, Zane bolted for the closest person he could help. 

His shoulder collided with the would-be attacker of Emilio’s friend, sending them stumbling to the side. The plan had been to help the one armed vampire more but tonight, nothing was working out as it should. In line with almost every fight Zane had found himself in, this one intended to leave him with a concussion. Provided he survived. It took a moment to blink the stars from his eyes, body crumpled against the wall it had collided with, but a clear vision only gave him a view of more horror. 

Alma had gotten covered in blood since the last time Zane had spotted her in the swarm, now looking every bit like the fanatic clan leader that she was. For the first time since meeting her all those months ago, he was terrified. Underneath the paralyzing fear blossomed anger, all consuming and amped up by the sound of screams and smell of blood. “We took you in,” she seethed, a swift kick to the face ruining his pathetic attempt to get to his feet. “Gave you a home. A family. And you repay us by leading a murderer to our doorstep?” Another blow, the only distraction being that hopefully this was giving everyone else a chance to escape. 

“He’s not the murderer here,” Zane wheezed out defiantly, rewarded with fingers and nails digging into his clothes and skin, unceremoniously shoving him onto his back. 

“You and your friends can’t stop this,” she hissed, looming over him with a piece of a sharp looking pipe. Zane wasn’t an expert on vampire killing but he felt pretty certain that one of these to the face might do the trick. Instead of meeting her threatening gaze, his head turned to the stairs, hoping to catch a glimpse of the last humans making their escape. 

—

The spawn was running towards the humans, towards Wynne and Zack, and Emilio couldn’t stop it. Not even as he thrashed, not even as he drove another stake into another chest and turned another vampire into dust. There were just too many of them, all intent on blocking him from his goal — or, more likely, all intent on blocking him from the exit. He wanted to scream, wanted to bring the whole goddamn place down on top of them. You can kill me, he wanted to shout. You can rip me into pieces. Just let me save them first. Please, God, for once, let me be someone worth being. 

But, of course, the world had never given much of a shit what Emilio wanted. God, if He was listening, had run out of mercy years ago. He watched Wynne try with everything they had to drive that stake home, watched them fumble and miss the mark because they were a kid and they were hurt, watched them stumble and heard them scream. Was this what it had looked like in that house, in that living room? With another kid who didn’t know how to defend herself, in another sea of undead monsters? 

No. Because Wynne had something Flora hadn’t — Zack. And Zack had something that Emilio hadn’t known about. The flames flowed freely from his fingertips, taking out the spawn and a few other vampires along with it. Arden managed to knock one on its ass. Emilio wasn’t sure if he’d say things were going well, but none of them were dead and that was far better than he’d expected. 

It was the vampires he should have worried about more, perhaps. He turned back to find Metzli on the ground, leg impaled. He couldn’t get to them, but Zane could. Shoulder colliding with the vampire who’d been closing in, the one Emilio recognized. He’d done his research, when Zane asked him to. You could do a lot with a name, could uncover things a person might rather stay hidden. He knew what sort of person Alma Dandridge was. Not a good one. And Zane, it seemed, was learning that the hard way. 

It was difficult, shouldering his way through the crowd. Just getting to his damn feet with all the bodies around him had been hard. Hands grabbed at him, feet made contact with every part they could find. He was in a room full of people who wanted him dead, and crossing the room was difficult. Someone clawed at his arm, someone else sunk teeth into his ankle. He was bloody and he was bruised and he was beginning to think he wouldn’t make it out of this one. But someone ought to. Wynne and Arden and Zack and Metzli. Maybe Zane, too. Maybe he could help with that.

Finally, he shoved his way close enough to do something. He put himself between Alma and Zane, taking the blow she’d been aiming towards his head on the shoulder instead — the same one he’d dislocated the last time he and Zane had met up in the midst of a deathmatch. His entire arm tingled and went numb, fingers on pins and needles. His eyes were fiery, angry. This was the person to blame for that haunted look in Arden’s eyes, for the shadow that crossed Zack’s face when that fire spread from his fingers, for the blood on Wynne’s throat. He’d probably never kill everyone responsible for what happened to his family in Mexico. He knew that. He couldn’t save his daughter, couldn’t avenge her, couldn’t pull himself from the endless sea of grief that had been drowning him ever since.

But he could do something here. Emilio would never be redeemed, and he knew it. But maybe Zane still could be. Maybe there was hope for someone, even if it wasn’t him. 

“I think,” he said hoarsely, “this is the part where you lose.” Or someone did.

—

People were dying all around them. Blood and dust swirling together into the worst cocktail ever made. The smell of iron and death filled the entirety of Metzli’s nose, throat constricting with hunger. All while being held in place by whatever fledgling replaced the last one who’d been stabbed right through the chest. It felt neverending. 

Those who were too stupid to run in the beginning had taken to exploiting the fact that the monster tearing through them was hurt. It was smart, Metzli would give them that, but their one-track mind gave them no sense of preservation. One by one, they died despite the rod that held Metzli down. And that wouldn’t last long. They were getting tired, and the horde continued to swarm.

Where was the monster now?

There was too much to live for, too much to do. So why on earth were they letting their strength wane? They knew the risk, knew that there was a chance of death. There always was. Because the truth of the matter was that everyone was dying. No matter what path one took, the end would always be death. Metzli took the risk of entering a place they feared as an endorsement of hope, knowing what was at stake. Because everyone they were saving deserved that chance. There was still time. They still had strength left to give. 

Truth was, everyone was dying, but they weren’t dead yet. 

Metzli let out a battlecry, forcing their body to comply as they utilized the energy in their panic. Fledglings stumbled back, no longer bearing the confidence they once had. The monster pulled themself away from the rod, the fire just a warm haze in their wound. With the swarm parted, Metzli could see the sire just as Emilio took a blow to his shoulder. 

They threw their stake to the side and gripped their blade, cutting through enough vampires to get a clear view of the woman who’d orchestrated the horror around them. Maybe Metzli would always be a monster, a piece of Eloy always stuck to them. But at least now they could vindicate themself. They could be everything Eloy said they couldn’t and do so with the skills he’d forced upon them. 

“You lose.” Metzli joined in with Emilio, wrapping what limbs they could around Alma, putting her in a firm hold. They brought their blade to her neck and hovered there. It wasn’t their kill to take. 

“Be quick.” 

There was no pain, only an addition to the already overwhelming smell of blood. Daring to turn his head away from the stairs, Zane had expected to see a lot of things. Emilio, the slayer who had threatened his life on multiple occasions, taking a blow for him? It only added to the sense of disassociation, the angry voice distant. Sliding back, head still spinning, he watched in a daze as the only other vampire on their side appeared to help. Be quick. 

The last time Zane had been in the presence of Emilio killing a vampire, he had turned away. He had that choice now but… not really, body too disconnected from his mind to obey anything. Until the slayer’s eyes met his, bearing quiet instructions. This wasn’t Emilio’s kill. 

Working at the ER meant seeing a lot of death. Often, there was a chance to prevent it. Never had he been on the other side, meant to cause it. We don’t decide who lives or dies, he had told Emilio once. Believed it then, even. Now… Zane was standing - when had he gotten to his feet? - fingers finding the pole lodged in Emilio’s shoulder, the one meant to kill him, and yanking it out. The phrase ‘an eye for an eye’ rattled inside his head. This didn’t match up to what Alma had taken from him with her lies, to the poison she had added to him. This greed for revenge, the guilt over hurting people, the fact that immortality would be spent without a clan. Alone. Again. 

She didn’t turn into dust when the pole pierced her skull. It was strangely easy, shoving metal through the thing that protected the most vital organ. Just one move to end a life; someone was screaming, probably him. For a moment, everything was quiet. The room wasn’t silent but the ringing in his ears blocked out everything. Alma’s body dropped to the ground and the noise returned tenfold, vampires grieving their sire and humans in pain, panicking. Zane felt everything and nothing all at once. She was gone but this still wasn’t over. Maybe it would never be over. 

—

The flames burst forth from Zack with a decisive destructiveness and Wynne ran towards the source of the heat, not stopping until they were behind their roommate. They were pressing down on their neck again, their front covered in blood, sticky and warm. Wide eyes took in the carnage, the damage done to not just the spawn but two other vampires as well.

Reduced to nothing but ash, their stake clattering onto the basement ground as there was nothing left to be lodged in any more. There was no hesitation, their vague state of mind circling around one singular goal: get out get out get out. And to get out they couldn’t be empty-handed. “Cover me!” 

They dove forward, falling on one knee and grabbing the stake again, which was warm and smoldering underneath their fingers but not hot enough to burn the skin on their palm. Blood leaked from their wound again and they pressed down, with their non-dominant hand, clutching the stake in the other. 

Back to Zack, their instincts demanded, getting up clumsily and attempting to get to him when a vampire closed their way to him. There was a scream from their throat, as well as a startling clearness in their mind. Perhaps it was because of all the things they had done thus far to remain alive, that Wynne simply refused to die now that there was a light at the end of the tunnel — or rather at the top of the stairs. Terrified yet determined, they held out the stake.

It was luck, really: the vampire was already in bad shape and the scent of their blood had him focused on the wrong thing and their sire had just died and a cross was blinking at him. It was luck, which was ironic, considering Wynne had never felt lucky before. As the vampire jumped for them, it landed with its heart right on the point of the extended stake. Dust swirled and through it, they stared at Zack. This time they did find their way to him, turning around to see what they were facing. 

Their mouth opened to ask about Arden, but there was no need: there she was, pushing through the frey, looking so furiously and beautifully alive that Wynne might have cried if they could. The relief made them stagger, body pressing against Zack for support. “Let’s go,” they thought they shouted, but it was a mumble — and they felt certain that they would make it, though that quickly changed when a vampire grabbed Arden from behind. 

—

Zack nearly lunged after Wynne when they shouted for him to cover them. Cover them? What did that mean, what was he supposed to do? The answer came to him in a rush of blistering heat, up his chest and spiraling out to his hand, when a vampire lurched between him and Wynne. Before he could release the flame, the thing shattered to dust and there was Wynne on the other side, stake in hand. 

For a moment, after that, all he registered was Wynne back in his arms, safe. Until he caught the flash of Arden’s hair. He shouted her name with as much force as he could. If he could just get her and get all of them out of there. For a single second, he thought that might be possible. But then one of the vampires latched their hand around her and pulled backward. 

Zack’s chest seized. What if he couldn’t save them? What if this still, despite the surprise rescue, ended in a swirl of soot and ash and despair. Wynne was in his arms and Wynne was hurt, bleeding, in a pit of vampires. But he couldn’t leave Arden to fend for herself, not when he was looking right at her and saw the hands grip into her.

The only way, the only way, to win would be to get everyone out alive. And they could try to stake each and every vampire or… They had caught on fire so easily. Like kindling. With the beginnings of an idea, Zack tightened his hold on Wynne and made a dash for the stairs, dodging bodies as he did. Once at the mouth of the stairway, he settled Wynne on the steps. “You have to go. Please. At least get upstairs. We’ll all be right behind you, okay? I… I have an idea.”

He turned, hoping they would just listen to him. There was no time to lose – he had to get to Arden.

—

She had almost reached Wynne and Zack and the stairs, the way out of this fucking nightmare, but, of course– of fucking course– she couldn’t get away that easily. Yet again she was grabbed, the bruising grasp of a vampire grabbing her by the arm mid-stride, damn near causing her to fall on her ass. This one was injured– from the looks of it, Metzli had ripped off one of their arms– and there was a hunger in those glowing crimson eyes. It made Arden’s skin crawl, the way he looked at her like a cut of meat, like dinner. Fuck.

She tried to get away, tried to pull off one of the moves she had learned, but she wasn’t fast enough. He yanked her toward him, a feral grin on his face, and she realized with a sudden dread that it was the same vampire from a few days ago– the one that had lunged at her, that she had stabbed and told to fuck off, the one that was responsible for scabs on the back of her head. This was not good. 

She tried kicking, but he didn’t flinch, instead he jerked her arm in the wrong direction, a loud crack. Arden could only gasp as the pain shot through her like a bolt of lightning, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. She cried out when he pulled her even closer, her injured arm getting jostled in the process. A hiss escaped her at the sudden feeling of sharp pinpricks on her neck as he sunk his teeth into her and drank. 

It was an… odd sensation, feeling someone literally suck the blood out of your body. There was a burning sensation that, ironically enough, had her shivering in the vampire’s grasp. Her stomach churned, nausea creeping up her chest as the creep fed on her. She was still struggling, but all it seemed to succeed at doing was making her grit her teeth against the pain shooting up and down her arm. 

“Get the fuck off of her.” The familiar voice came from right behind her, and Arden could almost cry from the staggering amount of relief that rushed through her. It only grew as the vampire stopped to look up at her fellow trash raccoon, his grip on her shoulder loosening ever so slightly. Taking the opportunity, she elbowed him in the side hard and broke away. Zack lunged forward, stake in hand. 

“Aim for the heart,” she called out, pressing her non-dominant hand to bite marks on her neck. It seemed he didn’t need her to tell him, though. His aim was true as he forced the weapon through the man’s chest, and she watched as he turned to dust in front of them. For a second, they stood there, looking at one another, before Zack rushed toward her and helped her over to the stairs. For the first time in days, Arden began to feel like she could breathe as they got to the stairs. 

—

There was a sudden burst of white-hot pain from his shoulder as Zane yanked the pole free, his vision darkening around the edges for a heartbeat before he found equilibrium within the fire. Pain, his mother told him once, was nothing more than the body sending signals to the brain. Signals could be ignored. It just took practice. She’d given him plenty of that. He grit his teeth against the pain now, shoving those signals into a deep, dark section of his mind that he could close off, could ignore. It was something that always took him back to childhood, made him feel like a kid again; shutting the monster away into the closet, pulling the blanket over his head. There were more important things to focus on than the way his fingers tingled into numbness, or the way his shoulder felt wetter than it ought to be. 

Namely, there was a vampire sire with a pole that used to be in his shoulder sticking out of her head and falling to the ground. Emilio felt a strange burst of something like pride at the way Zane dropped her, but he quickly locked that in the same dark room as the pain in his shoulder. Pride wasn’t something he could afford to feel for Zane, who still had Wynne’s blood dripping down his chin. He’d only done what he was supposed to do, only done what he should have let Emilio do months ago, when he first told him (albeit unintentionally) about his clan. This could have been avoided. All of it. If Zane had let Emilio do his job earlier, this could have been avoided.

But Zane had a look on his face, and Emilio didn’t have time for I-told-you-sos. He glanced towards the stairs, relieved to see the three humans making their way out. Arden’s arm was hanging at the wrong angle now, her other hand pressed against her neck in a motion he understood even at the distance, and Wynne looked unsteady on their feet, and Zack looked angry and terrified, but all three were alive. It wasn’t like before, wasn’t like Mexico, wasn’t like — 

No time for that. That walled off section of his brain was getting pretty crowded now, too many thoughts shoved into it at once. His shoulder twinged with pain as if the overflow was allowing it to stream through, and Emilio tightened the grip of his other hand around the stake he held there. There were more humans in the basement than the ones who lived in his building. There were some on the ground, eyes already unfocused as they stared off into nothing, and he tried not to look at them. You could only save who you could save. Those empty eyes would stay with him, would haunt his dreams for a while, would remind him that he’d been too slow, too soft, too bad at his job to get someone’s father or mother or daughter or son home to them. But that was for later. For now, there were still a few people alive. 

Turning to Metzli and Zane, he set his mouth in a stubborn line. “We’re going to get everyone out,” he told them both, a statement instead of a question. “And I’m not leaving until these fuckers are dead.” He turned on his heel before either of them could argue, injured arm and bad leg protesting the movement in unison. Emilio stumbled as he stepped forward, but his legs stayed beneath him. As long as that remained true, he’d do what he said he was going to do.

Step, dodge, stake, repeat. He didn’t have to think to do that. It was like clockwork, like the only good habit he’d ever developed, like all he’d ever been good for. Step, dodge, stake, repeat. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled, and he put a stake in their chest. Someone else yanked at his hair, and he put a stake in their chest. Someone kicked him, someone held him in a vice grip, someone hit him in the face. Stake, stake, stake. He lost himself in it, covered in dust and blood and trembling in a way he didn’t quite understand. The room around him flickered between that barn basement and a living room a million years away. His eyes were blank, his expression stormy. Step, dodge, stake, repeat. It was all he’d ever known how to do.

—

The body dropped into a heap of limbs, Metzli finding their footing. They tossed the thing to the side, the threat gone and their focus turning back to the people around them. Vampires surrounded the trio like they were atop a stage, flowers on the precipice not daring to step off its edge in fear of the fall forcing them into reality where everything wilted. They were all mourning their master, and Metzli began to tremble with familiarity. 

Wails of the grieving and screams of the damned weaved into a single pitch, a shrill and painful thing. Metzli’s legs disobeyed them, and they fell to their knees. Flashes of dead blood and dust rushed into their mind. Their hands trembled, Eloy’s head rolling from their hands. 

Metzli felt the same wave of grief others did when Eloy had met his demise, like it was a disgustingly innate thing that came with a bite, but the mounting relief greatly overpowered it. These vampires didn’t realize just how free they were now, still set on executing the horrific violence their sire had ordered them to. Maybe these monsters deserved to die, just as they did. Metzli just had the forethought to be a monster with a set of morals. Ones that slowly began to flee their mind as they rose to their feet. 

Blood spattered thickly onto the ground and the floor, painting Metzli with the one thing that would give them the energy to fight alongside Emilio to ensure the fledglings could no longer hurt people. Their throat constricted with hunger, stomach twisting into itself tightly. The blood was impossible to ignore, teeth chattering, in need of something to bite. To consume. What use were they now? They’d hurt anyone they tried to help.

Resistance was futile in their state, injuries sustained and energy all but depleted. “Emilio…!” Metzli called out hoarsely, hugging themself fearfully while they fell back to the ground, forehead planted against the ground. “Hungry…!” They spoke through their teeth, trying not to act on their monstrous instincts. Metzli knew they were on the brink of becoming just as Eloy made them again. They were no better than the feral beasts they had deemed unworthy of existence. Maybe they never were, the illusion of worth dissipating with Metzli’s resolve, and subsequently their mind. Everything turned black, the last coherent thought a plea to be put down, to be stopped.

Bite. Bite. Bite. Bite. Bite…

—

They were at the stairs. Somehow, the three humans Emilio had seemed intent on saving had made it to the stairs. A few others had already vanished, a couple lay motionless on the ground and some were struggling to move, caught in the crossfire of the bloodbath that seemed never ending. It seemed that Emilio wasn’t letting a single undead creature leave this place. Feeling incapable of doing much else to help, Zane moved for the humans that looked like they’d have a chance of survival. The smell of blood was overwhelming but, disgustingly, feeding from Wynne seemed to have given him some focus. The vampire that had helped him kill Alma, however…

They were calling out to Emilio which seemed fruitless - the slayer was trapped in his own little bubble of murder, eyes blank. Discarding his previous endeavor, Zane went for the risk of approaching the vampire that had previously killed so, so many. Better to get his head ripped off than the hungry vampire going after the recently escaped humans. 

This was a situation that should have called for some planning, calm calculations and a clear head. Zane didn’t have the capacity for any of those things at the moment, relying instead on brute strength. One arm looped around the vampire’s remaining one, the other curling around a blood soaked waist, monstrous fangs turned away from his face. Just in case. And then he pulled. They weren’t going easily, tugging and struggling against him with everything they had, hands grabbing and clawing at whatever they could reach. But they weren’t hurting anyone who didn’t deserve to be hurt. 

“Emilio!” he tried desperately as he reached the stairs, unable to also pull the slayer out. One of the humans, the one that had been incinerating vampires, seemed to be staying behind. Desperate to get the raging creature of hunger out of here, Zane didn’t stop for a chat, simply meeting the man’s gaze with an unspoken urgency. “Try to get him out of there,” he begged before the two vampires were struggling up the stairs, with Zane wondering how easy it would be to hold them once outside, next to everyone who was there and still bleeding. 

—

A frantic sort of hope had taken hold of Zack’s chest. Wynne was safe and Arden was safe and the vampire from earlier was helping Metzli to the stairs. There was only Emilio left in the fray. Zack watched as his neighbor put a stake through the heart of a vampire, watched as the thing exploded into dust. Before Emilio could turn to take on another, Zack leapt at him – he only hoped he wouldn’t get staked on instinct for his trouble.

“You need to go,” he said, once he had caught Emilio’s eyes. “I’m…” There was no time for ashamed hesitation. “I’m going to burn the place down but I can’t do it until you’re all out of here.” With as much force as he could muster (not much, considering he had been a captive for however many days, Zack shoved at Emilio’s shoulder and pointed him toward the stairs. 

Once he saw the man’s back disappear up the stairwell, Zack turned back to the center of the commotion. It was chaos, with screams and blood and howls. Vampires were raging and in pain and clutching at mangled parts of themselves – parts where Metzli had torn holes, parts where Arden had gotten a slash in. There weren’t that many left, in all, and it wasn’t long before they took notice of him. The lone human in their midst.

“He’s the one with the fire!” One of them shrieked, pointing. 

“Yeah,” Zack said with a ragged sigh. “That’s me.”

When he reached for his fire, this time, it was right there. Waiting. Like it had never left. It was easier than ever – there was no rise of stress or heat. No slow-building burn from the inside out. He just closed his eyes, unclenched some fist inside of him and the flames exploded. He felt heat rush around him, fanned at his cheeks, but it didn’t bother him. It never had. There wasn’t even the time for those around him to scream.

Opening his eyes, Zack found the room empty around him. Charred bars from the cage they had been kept in and the dust was all that was left of their captors. While the structure of the basement around him was unharmed, made of stone and packed earth, he could hear the house above him creaking and popping as it caught fire. The rafters over his head were crackling. It wouldn’t be long before the ceiling caved in. 

It was more survival instinct than conscious thought that pushed Zack to the stairs. He was exhausted and woozy – from days as prisoner, from being fed on that first time, from the gargantuan expulsion of energy that using his ability like that always took. Dizzily, he made his way out of the house, dodging flames and fallen walls as he went. Once he made it outside, the fresh air was like a miracle. Not just from the smoke, but from the dank of the underground that they had all been kept in. 

Not too far away was the ragtag group of humans – and, apparently, two not humans. With the last bit of strength in his body, Zack staggered to meet them.

—

She hadn’t wanted to leave without him, would’ve refused if not for Wynne. But Zack had that stubborn fucking look in his eyes and he said he would be right behind them, and Wynne looked about ready to pass out. So, Arden wrapped her good arm around them, and together two of the three roommates made their way outside. Not before she could level a stare at Zack, though. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many emotions bubbling in her chest, but all she could manage was a pitiful approximation of her usual playful smile. “You fucking better.” 

There were others outside, people that had been captured after them. Some were injured, one appeared to be calling 911, but as much as she wanted to help them, she had her own injured friend to worry about first. 

Arden sat Wynne down on the ground, a good distance away from the building they had just exited. “Hey, Wynne, you with me?” She was hit with such a strange feeling of déjà vu as she thought back to Kaden in the woods. It was reassuring, at least. If she had managed to keep it together then, managed to keep the man from bleeding out, she could do the same now. She had to. “You’re gonna be okay, alright? We just have to staunch the bleeding until we can get you to the hospital. ” 

It took a bit of struggling, but after a moment she managed to pull off her button up with only minimal shifting of her injured arm. She ignored the jolts of pain that ran up her arm, gritting her teeth through it as she helped press and hold the bunched up fabric to Wynne’s neck. 

And then they waited, leaving Arden with an awful pit in her stomach that grew bigger with every passing second.

First was Metzli and the other vampire, Zane– the one who had bitten Wynne, who they had seemed to know. She wasn’t sure what his deal was but as long as he stayed away from Wynne right now, she didn’t exactly give a shit. Metzli, though… Her trainer did not appear to be in good shape, leg an absolute mess, that thick, dark blood of theirs seeping from the wound. They didn’t seem to be in control, were struggling against the man, fangs still bared, eyes still that shade of crimson that sent a shiver down her spine. 

Then, to her relief, Emilio came stumbling out. He looked like shit, a gaping wound in his shoulder, but he was alive and mostly in one piece. But he was alone. 

“Where’s Zack?” She asked as he came within earshot. But he seemed to be in a daze, only looked back toward the building before making his way over to the two vampires and helping restrain Metzli.

And then the smell of smoke hit her, and Arden finally realized why her friend had stayed behind. He was burning this place to the fucking ground. 

It didn’t take long for the building to go up, the fire quickly catching and spreading until the whole thing was covered in flames. Black smoke billowed into the sky, the acrid smell of it hanging heavy in her lungs. She could feel the heat of it, even several feet away where she was kneeling next to Wynne, so she gathered them up and pulled the two of them farther away, trying to ignore the dread in her heart. 

However, it grew harder to ignore with each passing second that Zack still hadn’t left the burning building. He had to make it out. Arden would never forgive his stupid, heroic ass if he had stayed behind only to never make it out.

It was starting to come down, loud cracks echoing into the night as wooden beams began to fall. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she saw Zack dodging flaming debris, and he finally came staggering out. Air came flooding back into her lungs, and she felt a little lightheaded as a tidal wave of relief rushed through her, made her eyes water. He was okay. They were okay. 

They had all managed to make it through this fucking nightmare in one piece. Wynne and Zack and Emilio and Metzli and even Zane. They were okay. 

—

The walk – or crawl, really – up the stairs seemed endless. Zack was gone, replaced with Arden and Wynne couldn’t keep up, just knew what had to be done — get out, get out, get out. Survival instinct had once again taken over everything as they pressed against their wound with one hand and crawled up the stairs with another, letting their roommate guide them, letting her set them on the ground.

There were spots dancing around their vision, not helped by the darkness that was around them. There was Arden, right in front of them. Arden who had helped save them. Arden who was safe. Arden who asked them a question — had that been long ago? They tried to focus on her face. “Yeah,” they croaked. There was a strange taste in their mouth. They wanted to lay down and close their eyes, to sleep. Arden was doing something, but they didn’t know what. Their fingers stuck together with their blood. They wanted to sleep.

With Arden’s clothes pressed against their neck wound, Wynne let their body slump, leaning against her but forcing themself to remain present. There was an assignment, a task: remain okay until they could go to the hospital. 

Arden didn’t want them to die. Neither did Zack or Emilio or Metzli and maybe even Zane. Their mind was swimming, laying on its back in the lake back home and they were staring at the stars and thinking about that simple fact — they wanted them alive. They had helped them stay alive. They had saved them. And though it felt like they were sinking, vision growing dark, they kept coming back there: they want you to live, so live.

Wynne’s hands crawled up, grasping Arden. Their voice was cracked, dried out, a hush that might be too soft to hear. “Thank you for saving me.” And for saving herself and for all the others, too, for her bravery and her power, her prowess and toughness. But for saving them specifically, too. No one at home had ever tried.

In their limited vision they watched them return, the familiar faces. And then their vision grew bright, orange and hot as a fire was lit. They wondered if they had to get up and dance around the fire, the way they did at home. Where were the masks? Where was the scent of incense? The blood smeared on cheeks, the bones around their necks? Why were their limbs so heavy? Why couldn’t they sleep?

Oh, right. They weren’t all back.

Arden pulled them up and away and they mumbled Zack’s name a couple of times. Or maybe his name just echoed through their mind, they weren’t sure. And then he appeared and Wynne smiled, or at least they thought they did. Zack, they thought, hey Zack, we’re outside again.

With that thought their body grew slack, the image of righteous yet furious flame branded on their mind’s eye but their consciousness finally giving in. 

[ashandboneca]

Taking care of your Temple

I have not been taking care of myself in the way that I should have been.

The last 3 years have been hard on everyone, but the stress and anxiety and lack of sleep have finally gotten to me.

Yesterday I was taken by ambulance to the hospital because my blood pressure was worryingly high - high enough to constitute a medical emergency. When you're reading over 200, that's massive cause for concern.

I spent 10 hours in the ER, them monitoring my cardiac function, which seemed mostly normal, and pulling high blood pressure readings. They took so much blood, most of which came back normal. They did a test on my blood to see if I had any heart muscle damage - aka, did I have a heart attack - and while the numbers for 2 of the 3 pulls were very slightly elevated (baseline is 15, I pulled 13, 17, and 20. Heart attack numbers would be in the hundreds or thousands), it was not a cardiac event. They deemed the irregularities on my high blood pressure. I still have follow up with a specialist in the next few months, and I am on blood pressure meds. They put me off work for a few weeks as well.

I thought to myself - how did I get to this point?

I have been neglecting my altar - the altar of myself. I have not been giving myself the care and reverence I would give any altar in my home. But I have been neglecting those as well, truth be told.

I have allowed myself to become disconnected - from my mind, my body, and my spirit. I have allowed stress and anxiety to pile up and bottleneck. I have not been sleeping well, nor have I been prioritizing it. I have been trapped in my chronic pain. I have allowed the stresses of my job, a job that is neither my love nor my passion, to cause hurt on my body. I have neglected nurturing connection to my spirits and my gods.

2023 is a reset. I just wish I didn't put all of this off so long, and I wish it didn't end with my in the hospital. But life is funny like that.

So, a few things: I am no longer putting any effort into things that don't work. I have a discord - here. If you want to help me try and grow it into something - a place we can talk and learn from one another - please join. It is very small, but if we can find a few core people that want to stick with it, I think it could be something.

If nothing happens, I'll just delete it. I won't put my energy into it. This post will be edited, and the link will disappear.

I am also going to try, however slowly, to reconnect with this blog and writing again. I sometimes struggle with not knowing what to say, or worrying that people won't engage. I have to remember to write for me.

But lastly, I need to endeavour to take better care of me. Because I am worthy, worthwhile, and loved. I have to remember that.

And please - use me as a cautionary tale. Take care of yourselves, find ways to deal with that stress and anxiety. I don't wish the trauma I am dealing with on any of you.