#and it might just be another hell bent loyal creature

[st-hedge]

*flops some papers onto the table* I made myself very sad thinking about how onikage comes to Gyoubu when he falls and then I kept thinking what would happen if onikage didn’t disappear into ash

[justinewt]

Blood Stained Memory Loss - BALDUR'S GATE 3 FANFICTION Chapter One

[BALDUR'S GATE III FANFIC-MASTERLIST]

Next Chapter (SOON)

Summary: A drow, abducted and infected by mind flayers, fought her way out of the nautiloid ship she was stuck on. She had forgotten who she was and her past, but remembered two names, though she was unsure which was actually hers... She quickly understood she had to get rid of this parasite in her head, and figured having travel companions wouldn't hurt, after beginning to travel with a high elf and a human mage. She didn't trust them, but would make sure they grew loyal to her.

Words: 7k

Warnings: Baldur's Gate III Act One spoilers, blood

She half-opened her eyes, in-and-out of sleep, suffocating in this pod. She thought she was in hell for a moment. It was warm. Too warm. She was looking through her eyelashes, and in her blurred vision, she saw a figure fall to the ground, get up, struggle to keep their balance, and walk away before falling to their knees, but a second later, everything disappeared again. She blacked out completely. A great breath of fresh air tickled her nostrils and dashed into her lungs suddenly, pulling her out of her sleep. She gasped, sitting up in the pod, realizing that the lid had opened, hanging over her head. She leaned on the edges and jumped out of what she thought would be her coffin. It felt good, standing on her two feet, feeling the unevenness of the ground under the soils of her leather boots. A squishing noise behind her made her turn around and she watched the pod close. The blood in her head thrummed and pounded and she shut her eyes for but an instant, frowning at the headache with a groan.

That pounding blood obscured who she was. An overwhelming loss of memory. A sense of emptiness washed over her, and she looked into the void, pouting her lips. How she ended up amidst these hellish flames was just as hidden as her memories. She had nothing in her skull, besides her name and a headache. But she was in danger. She peeped around her. Phy’raena. No… Balfryn. She realised two names collided in her mind. Which one was actually hers? She was certain she remembered at least her name but now, she didn’t know who those monikers belonged to. Maybe none of them was hers. But she thought it couldn’t be both. It wouldn’t make sense for her to have two names, and they both had a different feeling to them. But it was yet too vague for her to decide on one. She would claw back the truth, but first, she had to claw her way out of here. She glanced back at her pod.

Mumbling, she recalled the crash of the ship, “Might still be stuck inside if we hadn’t been attacked.”

She walked around the room in which her pod stood on its tentacle legs. Next to hers was another empty pod. She figured it was the one from which she saw someone fall before blacking out. But not everyone made it out alive. There was a couple of burned corpses in ruptured pods. Walking in the middle of the room, through the fires burning here and there, she approached the very pool where that thing came from – the parasite now writhing behind her eye. The casing was fragile. The top was cracked, and the slightest touch could cause it to crumble. She bent forward, reaching out to the pool and widened her eyes, suddenly thrown backwards. It exploded in her face and went up in flames.

Destroying it was her intention anyway. She stood up and right at her feet was a corpse of one of those creatures, a mind flayer. A humanoid octopus with tentacles instead of lips and claw hands. She walked to the sphincter separating the room and entered another one. A dead goblin lied on a table in a pool of its own blood, and she stole gold from its corpse. Gold no longer was of any use to the dead, so she might as well relieve them of it. Looking at a rune slate on a desk, a schematic of a nautiloid flashed into her mind. Nerves, sinews, as much living being as a ship. Nearby was a sort of mind flayer horticulture. All to make more and more parasites. An eldritch table made a thousand years of humanoid history – elves, dwarves, humans and more – flash before her eyes. She, she was a drow. A dark elf. Her own memory was as dark as the history of her people.

A neural apparatus on a platform at the centre, a burning inferno right below, lifted her to the upper floor. She could oversee the whole room from there. In front of her, a dozen of brains floating in bubbles like containers and a body on a chair at the center. She walked around the dead elf, slowly. His skull was open and his brain, out in the open. She instinctively stopped in her tracks when the body twitched. A strange, high-pitched voice rose, but it didn’t come from his lips, his mouth wide open and his head titled backwards.

“Yes! You’ve come to save us from this place, from this place you’ll free us!” The drow looked at the brain with morbid curisioty rather than disgust. The exposed brain quivered in expectation. It begged her. She took a closer look. Never had she seen a brain talk. Blood and guts and corpses were far from unsettling to her but a talking brain, that was strange indeed.

“You sound afraid. Why?”

“The enemy. So many enemies.”

“Who am I talking to – a man or a brain?” She asked.

“A newborn. Born new from this husk.” The creature’s speech was in fact, unsettling. When she realized what it was, only then was she somewhat disgusted. She was talking to an intellect devourer, a minion of the mind flayers who abducted her. She violently dug her hands into the open skull and gritted her teeth, squeezing as hard as she could, blood spurting from the head, staining her already stained clothes and skin. It made a screeching noise. She took a step back and shook her hands, blood dripping from her slender fingers. She used the neural apparatus to get back down and continued to explore the ship. Maybe there were other survivors who could help her get out of this place. There was an opening. She followed the path. There was so much noise outside. The dragons flying by and the ship’s tentacles moving around. She couldn’t see far ahead. A thick fog covered dark mountains, but she could tell they weren’t in Faerun. It was a different plane. So, the ship could travel through worlds? She was lost in her contemplation until she felt a presence and turned around, only to see a githiyanki in armor leaping from a ledge and landing in front of her, threatening her with the sharp blade of her long sword.

“Abomination. This is your end.” There was a smirk on her face. The nameless, or two-named, drow didn’t even have time to say anything, she frowned and tilted her head, hands close to her face as she was about to grab it, fingers clenched. Her head throbbed and her skin tingled. Visions rushed past: a dragon’s wing, a silver sword – and a flash of her own face seen through the strange woman’s eyes. It was so brief that the memory of her face didn’t linger in her mind. She only remembered her red eye – or rather, bloodshot eye, as if its veins had bursted and spilled into the white – and the other, milk coloured as though a veil covered the iris, and the thick scar across her face, from her cheekbone to her jawline, and the fine tattoo of an upside down cross in a small circle on her forehead. The gith was panting as the connection between their minds broke. “My head. What is this… ngh. Tsk’va. You are no thrall – Vlaakith blesses me this day! Together we might survive.” She put her sword on her back, seemingly quite pleased to have an ally.

“What made you think I was a thrall?”

“We carry mind flayers. Unless we escape – unless we are cleansed – our bodies and minds will be tainted and twisted. Within days, we will be ghaik. Mind flayers.”

“We are turning into mind flayers? There must be something we can do!” The drow exclaimed, her panic growing, although her face didn't betray her anxiety so much.

“We can do nothing until we escape – that must be our priority. First, we exterminate the imps. Then we find the helf and take control of the ship. We will address the matter of a cure for this infection once we reach the Material Plane.” She followed her as she went back inside, and they looked at a bunch of those lesser demons feasting on a corpse. They sensed the women’s presence and as the gith pulled out her sword, ready to fight, she imitated her, taking off the blade from her back. The creatures screeched, their little, glowing red eyes staring right at them. They were easy to defeat. One strike and their winged, emaciated bodies fell to the ground in a thud. The warrior was pleasantly surprised with her new ally’s efficiency in battle. The latter was somehow just as much surprised with how effortless it felt to draw blood. She was covered in it and didn’t even care. They then ran through the room but Phy’raena – or Balfryn – she was still unsure what name to use, stopped the gith. “Not now – we must go to the helm.”

“Wait – who are you and why are you helping me?” She asked a question that even she wouldn’t be able to answer, would the very same question be aimed at her. Maybe Balfryn, the name reeked of blood in her mind, bringing a metallic taste to her mouth, though she had no idea why. It made her want to kill, to slaughter. She shook the thought without flinching on the outside.

“Who am I? Your only chance of survival. Now move. You are wasting time.” They jogged up the path, going through the rooms and sphincters, never stopping to catch a breath. The ship would never be able to take another dragon attack. They had to hurry and get out before it was too late. She was dead set on not dying in this hell. Climbing up arterial meshed, they reached another room, one yet to be explored. It was higher up in the ship so there was no fire inside and no monsters. But there was machinery. A control table with buttons on it, tables turned towards a red glowing beam at the center, some empty, others holding bodies. Balfryn took a look around, as she couldn’t make sense of the control table they came across, and not wanting to mess anything up by randomly pressing buttons. She stopped by one of the bodies. Life flickered in his eyes, but he seemed totally unaware of his surroundings. A fleeting image washed over her… An unwashed operating table… her innards without. The headache grew worse. She stepped back, walking away. Another control table, slightly different – no buttons, but slots, one of them empty – next to a closed pod. Someone was stuck inside thumping furiously on the lid. The woman called out to the drow.

“You! Get me out of that damn thing!”

“We have no time for stragglers.” The gith reminded her the urgency of their situation as she stared at the trapped person. Balfryn – she settled for that name for now – stood there, looking for a latch that might open the lid, but the construction was too alien. Nothing looked familiar. “This ship is crashing. Do you intend to die for a stranger?”

The gith was right, and Balfryn was too bothered to help and shook her head, “You might as well be trapped in Demonwebs. There’s no helping you.”

“Wait! That can’t be. There has to be another way. Please!” She cried out to them, begging for their help but they ahd their back to her and walked away, and continued their rushed exploration of the place, in search of the helm. Balfryn walked into an adjacent room. The sphincter opened as she approached. A mind flayer pod sat in the middle of the room, a four-legged brain walking around. It was what the brain that she crushed under her fingers would have been like. A dazed woman was trapped in the pod. She didn’t notice their presence. Walking around it, she approached a control table and put her hand on the console. As she placed her hand on the pod, she heard something: A presence to the pod, commanding the person inside to… change. She heard the woman’s muffled screams and rushed to see what was happening. Her skin became tainted, her eyes glowing red and her jaw cracked in multiple places, tentacles bursting out as she transformed into a mind flayer, smoke filling the pod. Once it was gone, there was nothing left of the red-headed woman she saw a moment prior.

“Kaincha! Changed at the pull of a lever? How? If we are not purified, this may be our fate.” The gith was right, and Balfryn felt a sense of dread fill her body. She had no idea who she was, but she wanted to remain herself, whatever that meant. The newborn mind flayer stared at the drow, weak and dazed. She walked out of the room, passing by the stranger trapped in her pod, who yet again cried out to her, and they took off. The next sphincter that opened led them straight to the helm, but tieflings, with dragon-like wings which was quite rare, were in the midst of a fight with two mind flayers dressed in leather capes. The beast wrapped his mouth-tentacles around his opponent’s head and crushed it. Imps flew right at him, slicing his tentacles and throat and he dropped dead. The one still standing turned to the newcomers, his voice, commanding and deep, sounding like an echo in their skulls.

“Thrall. Connect the nerves of the transponder. We must escape. Now.”

“Do it. We will deal with the ghaik after we escape.” Balfryn listened and while they stepped into the fight, the drow ran to the helm, dodging a few hits, reaching the transponder unscathed thanks to her ally, protecting her on her way there, taking down the imps coming for the dark elf. A few steps away from her goal, she stopped in her tracks, seeing a dragon fly through the air like a fury, right outside. They were about to launch another attack. The gith urged her to hurry before they struck the ship. An imp flew in her way. She dashed toward it and before it could attack, cut off its head. The body fell to the ground with a thump and the head rolled on the floor while she ran to the transponder, stretching her arms with a groan, her fingers brushing off the nerves as she leaned on the console to grab them but she did it, and as she connected them, she saw the dragon put its claws on the ship, peeking his head through the broken window. He spat fire and she fell to the ground, although shielded from it by the console.

Luckily, it was the only attack there was as the ship disappeared into thin air, teleporting away. Back home. Failing to remember who she was and where she came from, she still knew what world she belonged to. As it travelled through the planes, the ship flew vertically and Balfryn slid on the ground, her back crashing against the wall. She grunted at the shock and winced. Her body was tossed in the air by gravity and she barely held onto the edge of the helm, her legs hanging in the air. She stretched her arm, trying to pull herself up in order to reach the two nerves that she had connected. She grabbed it and the ship finally teleported to the Material Plane, bringing them back to Faerun. For a moment, she stood on her feet, but an explosion occurred on the ship and it nosedived, making her stumble and lose her balance, falling back to the ground and sliding to the edge of a broken window. She noticed, right across from her, on the other side of the window, the mind flayer stared at her. She looked back at him and didn’t see the large shard of metal that detached from the console and flew right at her head. The creature mentally pushed her aside and she flew out of the ship, losing consciousness during her fall.

Balfryn was awakened by sunlight, high in the sky, warming her skin, heating up her body through her brown leather clothes. She squinted her eyes, using her hand so as not to be dazzled by the sunlight as she looked around. She somewhat expected her memories to return once you were free of the mind flayer ship, but her past was still an aching void. If she didn’t find a way to remove the tadpole burrowed in her brain soon, her future would be as blank as her past. She frowned, tilting her head. It whispered vengeance: she couldn’t wait to slive her way forth, seeking whatever wrought this tragedy upon her. Stepping towards the water, she kneeled and cupped her hands to gather some to wash the dried blood off her face – and drank some, she was dying of thirst. Would she run into anyone, she wanted to at least have a try at getting them to trust her, and it wouldn’t be so easy if she was covered in blood from head to toe – she couldn’t do anything about her clothes though, or the fact that she was a drow. She would just change into something else when she found clean ones later.

There was a corpse nearby. Since she awoke on the ship, her mind had been cold and empty. But something stirred, with her hands close to this body. She sighed, knowing nothing of why. But she found a half-smile flittering across her face. She tried to remember the last time she stood above a corpse like this, but all she saw were flashes of flesh, all lumped together in a mass grave. No single image stuck out. Her memories would come back, eventually, but for the moment she ventured forth, pacing through the ravaged beach. In the distance, she saw the front of a building – a crypt – built in the cliff. There were bodies and blood everywhere and someone was pounding on the door heavily with a sledgehammer. She recognized the stranger trapped in the pod, who she chose to taunt and leave behind. If she was the one to have killed those people, the drow wondered if she would try to get back at her.

“Blasted door! I—what? Stop! Not another step or I’ll… Wait… you’re the one who left me to die on the ship.” Suddenly, Balfryn saw what she saw. Felt what she felt. Anger. Bitterness. A will to survive. “…agh! Did you feel that? You’ve got the same thing I do – in your head.”

“Yes, I felt this before, with another escapee from that ship.”

“If I were to guess, the things they put in our eyes. I assume that’s what caused our minds to… cross. But that’s the least of our problems. These things are going to consume us from the inside and turn us into mind flayers.”

“But I feel fine, all things considered… are you sure?”

“I’m sure enough. This is how the mind flayers breed. We host their spawn, and once they’re ready, they’ll tear right through us. I’m not sure how much time we have left, but I’m not going to wait to find out. You and I need a healer. Finding one won’t be easy. But first, we’ll need to survive the wilderness, I’d hopes there might be useful supplies through here. But I’ve merely made a dent in it so far.”

With one hand, she motioned for her to move out of the way, while searching her pockets with the other, “Stand aside – I have lockpicks. And the skills to match.”

“By all means. I’m going to see what’s at the top of this cliff. Hopefully, there’s no more of these creatures along the way.” Their glances brushed over the four-legged dead brains on the ground. The drow nodded to herself at the sight, shooting up her eyebrows.

“Quite some carnage at your feet. You have an admirable talent for violence.”

“Well, these things have been giving me plenty of practice. But I’d rather get out of here than push my luck.”

“Yes. I’m leaving before more things crawl out of the wreckage.”

“Likewise. Try killing a couple of these monsters before you die – lessens the load for me.” The young elf jogged away, Balfryn watching her before stepping towards the thick wooden door, patting her pockets again. The mind flayers might have snatched her from wherever she was when they raided the city, they didn’t take her things – most of them anyway. She still had a couple of lockpicks and her sword. She put one knee down and inserted her tools. The lock clicked and she pressed on the handle, pushing the door forward with her elbow and it hit something on the other side. She peered through the opening and didn't see anything other than a wood panel – a tall and large shelf was blocking the way. Better get moving, there was nothing else to do here. She wasn’t sure what was on the other side, who put a shelf in front of an already locked door. Whoever did that really didn’t want anyone to get in, and being on her own, she would rather not try her luck and instead come back when she had some allies, in case the place needed to be cleared of its occupants. As she backtracked, walking up the path around the cliff, she saw a strange symbol on the stone – an ancient sigil circled. Taking a closer look and putting her hand on it didn’t do anything so she observed it in silence before moving on. On second thoughts, maybe she should have asked the other survivor to stick with her. But she would have probably declined, more or less amicably, given how Balfryn left her to die on the ship.

There would be no reason for her to believe that the drow would have her back in the future. Maybe she was selfish or had a high sense of self-preservation. She went back to the ship’s wreckage. Upon stepping inside, she was faced with some more of these walking brains and it took her less than a minute to clear the area. She wasn’t at her best, but the creatures were small and weak. There was nothing interesting to loot from them as well, so she took off quickly, walking along the shore and up the cliff, where she heard seomeone crying for help. She didn’t rush to their aid, instead she observed them from afar before approaching. A pale skinned; white-haired man dressed in classy, richely adorned clothes. He must have had some money, if not just straight up rich. Nothing to envy to her rose ebony dress, made of fine leather, embracing her slender body like a second skin, giving her a lot of freedom in her movements with the double slits, one long piece of fabric in the middle. Less noticeable than the golden designs on his garment, there was embroidery in silvery thread which formed rosettes all over. Despite not having any memories, she could tell she herself was from the city, which was unusual for a drow. The man saw her approach.

“Hurry, I’ve got one of those brain things cornered. There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.”

“Kill it yourself – you look capable enough.” She turned around but as she stepped away, she felt him move behind her and he brought his dagger up to her neck, dragging her to the ground with him. She gritted her teeth, holding the handle to keep the blade away from her, her eyes staring into the man’s – two red orbits. “Do elves often have red eyes like this”, she wondered. She knew of Lolth-sworn drow with red eyes, but not high elves. Balfryn herself had a red eye – her left – while the other was as white as seldarine Drow’s, but she had no connection to the evil spider goddess. There was no clear explanation as to why she had different eye colours, but there must be one, deeply buried somewhere in her mind. She tightened her grip on the handle, struggling against him and managed to twist his wrist, switching the power balance and taking the knife away from him as she pushed him on his back and swiftly sat up and rolled on her knee, throwing her leg over him, the soil of her boot digging in the sand as she bent over him, strands of her white hair falling in front of her face, holding his very own blade to his throat. He struggled against her but didn’t push her away. Her words were sharp. “What do you want? Speak, elf, and I might spare you.”

“I saw you on the ship—strutting about while I was trapped in that pod. What did you and those tentacled freak do to me?”

“What—agh.” She closed her eyes shut, holding her face with her hand as she got off him, stumbling backwards. He exclaimed as well. Their minds twisted. She was looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. And in this unfamiliar feeling, there was something… familiar. She tried to hold the memory, wanting to see more of this place whose souvenir lingered in a dark corner of her mind, but it faded to the worm. The light. The fear. The connection stopped and she opened her eyes to the elf standing in front of her, just as distraught.

“What was that? What’s going on?”

“Honestly, I have no idea.”

“It’s those tentacled monsters. Whatever they did – whatever they put in us – just created a connection. They took you too. I saw it during… whatever just happened. And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.” He smirked and she couldn’t help but let out a scoff, crossing her arms, still holding his knife in her hand.

“Huh, more like I was going to decorate the ground with yours. You didn’t have the upper hand for long.”

“Yes, I must admit – you’ve got me there. My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.” She slightly parted her lips, about to say that she thought her name was Balfryn but she changed her mind and simply gave him a nod. “The strong and silent type? All right. Please tell me you at least know something about these worms.”

“Yes, unfortunately. They’ll turn us into mind flayers.” The gith she escaped with seemed quite sure of this at least. He bursted into laughter – a bitter laugh.

“Of course it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect? Although it hasn’t happened yet. If we can find an expert – someone that can control these things – there might still be time.”

“Right. You should travel with me. Our odds are better together.” This time, she wasn’t going to pass up on having an ally. They seemed to be kindred spirits. Another rogue – a cunning soul.

“You know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea. And you seem like a useful person to know. All right, I accept. Lead on.” He ended with a bow, and she returned his knife to him. The soft smile on her face didn’t betray how, as he joined her side, her mind danced with thoughts of a perfect pretty corpse. She shook them away and they set off. As they walked, she questioned him – asked who he was. Though he didn’t get into details, he did mention he was once a magistrate back in the city, which confirmed what she thought – he was a magistrate, so he did in fact have money. It got her wondering how she got such well-made clothes – maybe she was someone too, she just forgot. In any case, he knew better than to return the question. She wouldn’t answer, but it was solely because she couldn’t give him any. Strange thoughts twisted her mind while two names were as if fighting a duel.

The duo ventured through the shipwreck, quickly passing by the corpses she left behind after her fight earlier. On the path outside, she saw footprints. There may have been even more that survived the crash, or it was the other girl’s footprints. Just a few feet away, there was another ancient sigil but the rune looked unstable. She approached the sigil on the stone. Magic glittered and swirled from it erratically, as if malfunctioning. It looked slightly dangerous. She stretched out her hand to touch it but a bolt shot at her hand, making her take a step back. A forearm than stuck though the circle and a voice rose, souding like an echo.

“A hand? Anyone?” Looking at the limb, Balfryn fantasized about hacking it off, but she fought against it and ignored the urge to maim whoever was on the other side. She grabbed the hand and pulled him out of there, losing her balance and almost falling on her butt if it weren’t for Astarion being right behind her and catching her. A tall man stood before them, his beard neatly trimmed, and his wavy hair elegantly swept back. By the looks of his outfit, he was a mage or wizard. And given how he just came out of a portal he was stuck in, this was most likely what he was. Balfryn watched him shake her hand with a frown on her face. “Ooft, hello, I’m Gale of Waterdeep. Apologies, I’m usually better at this.”

“At introductions?”

“At magic. Say, but I know you, don’t I? In a manner of speaking. You were on the nautiloid as well.” He was the second person to say he already knew her, but with him being a wizard, she felt more threatened than by her elven peer. Also, the stranger was a human, and even though she had no memories of her past, she remembered how humans came second when it came to discriminate her for her race – high elves coming first and by far, being the most judgmental and creative win the matter of making up derogatory names to refer to her, but it seemed as if Astarion was different. She didn’t trust him, and didn’t like his friendliness so she drew her sword. “Whoa – easy does it. You really, really don’t want to do that. Not a threat, just an observation.”

“And why would I really, really not want to attack you?”

“Ten years of bad luck if you kill a wizard. Why take the risk?” He still gave her a smile and she began to think she might be a tad ridiculous, overreacting like that. She sheathed her weapon. “Much obliged. Besides, I suspect the real villain is one we have in common. Back on the ship, you too were on the receiving end of a rather unwelcome insertion in the ocular region, were you not?”

She crossed her arms, “Couldn’t have phrased it more repellently myself.”

“No use sugarcoating it, is there?” He wasn’t wrong really. “The insertee we speak of, this parasite – are you aware that after a period of excruciating gestation it will turn us into mind flayers? It’s a process known as ceremorphosis and let me assure you: it is to be avoided. You don’t happen to be a cleric, by any chance, do you? A doctor? Surgeon? Uncannily adroit with a knitting needle?”

“I’m no stranger to high-stakes extractions, but these tadpoles are beyond even my light fingers, I can’t cure us.”

“I suppose few enough can. It’s not exactly a common affliction. We’re most certainly going to need a healer, and soon too. How about we lend each other a helping hand once more and look for a healer together?”

“Uh, okay. Sounds like a plan. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Most excellent. A parasite shared is a parasite halved. Or something to that effect. Oh! But before you think you’re about to embark on a journey with most ill-mannered a man: thank you for pulling me out of that stone. It was an act of foresight kindness I assure you, for I have the feeling ample opportunities will present themselves for me to return the favour.”

“Right.” She mumbled under her breath, just nodding as they resumed their walk. She wasn’t too fond of her companions just yet, a high elf and a human. She was waiting for the moment when they would end up being hostile towards her. The two men followed the drow east towards the ruins, whose door she couldn't open. The other dark-haired girl said there might be supplies in there, or anything really, so now that she had some backup, it was time to check the place out. She and Astarion remained silent while the wizard kept on introducing himself – his name was Gale apparently and he went on about how he sailed from Waterdeep, that he had a cat, which he seemed to love an awful lot, a library, and a fondness for wine.

He quickly quieted down but just a minute of his monologue was enough for her to see his character – he was no threat, and she could easily nurture his loyalty towards her. The chapel’s entrance overlooked the ravaged beach and Balfryn took a second to watch the wreckage from afar. They turned around and walked up a flight of stairs, glancing at a tall statue – the only thing not in shambles, standing proudly at the center. As they proceeded to explore the ruins, they ran into two men arguing loudly – one a high elf, and the other a gnome.

“…You’re both twice as tall as me but have half the bloody backbone!”

“But we don’t know what that thing even is! And what about the crypt?”

“I’m telling you, it’s a ship! And the crypt can wait! Mari and Barton have been trying to break in for days. Now we—Stop!” The gnome held out his hand upon noticing the trio approach. “Got ourselves competition already! That’s our ship!”

“I don’t want to hurt you, but provoke me, and I’ll keep stabbing long after you’re dead.” She stated, coldly.

“Well, uh, in that case…” He turned his head toward his companion. “C’mon, you lot, no point in getting’ killed. Second worm gets the cheese, an’ all…”

“Uh, second mouse gets the cheese, no?” The elf corrected, as if getting the saying right was of importance right now. The gnome yelled at him, and they ran away before the drow put her threats into action, which she would if they kept testing her patience. A cracked stone caught her attention, and she kneeled, leaning forward on her hands to investigate the hole. It was completely dark inside, but she could see an empty room with rubbles in the corners, a bunch of empty boxes and two single beds. She heard voices echo in the crypt also, though very low. She got up and glanced at her peers – they would get in one way or another. They walked to a door, a few feet away and someone inside must have heard their footsteps get closer because a muffled voice spoke to them through the door.

“That you, Gimblebock? Everything all right out there?” Balfryn saw an opportunity to get the door open and infused her voice with a false sense of urgency.

“Gimblebock triggered some trap. He needs help – now!”

“I told him it wasn’t safe out there. Get inside, and I’ll rustle up some bandages…” A satisfied smile dawned on her face, and they pushed the door open when the lock clicked. The man they encountered inside barely had a mace as a weapon, he was struck down by Balfryn’s blade in less than a second. She searched his pockets and took a key from him. If there was a locked door or chest, she would try it out. A dust-covered plaque hung on a wall in the chapel’s refectory. Ancient, indecipherable text covered the plaque. A dead tongue. Whoever worshipped here must have been long gone. A fire was lit in the fireplace, and she grabbed some food from the table – no need to let it all go to waste. Gale offered to put the rest in a magic bag to take it with them before they set up camp later. Having a wizard by her side might prove useful afterall. They pulled a lever by the door and someone else was in the chambers. A single blow from Gale, throwing a fireball at her, and they could wander around freely.

On their right, they found a door was locked – no lock, no handle. They continued to the end of the hallway and stepped into another room. They killed all four people inside and moved on – aside from dusty books, there wasn’t much to see in there. At the very end of the room, there was a second statue, like the one on the surface, by the entrance. The text on the plaque at the front was written in the same language as the one in the refectory – none of them could read it. Walking along the walls, she found a skull carved out of stone with a large ring hanging from its mouth. She touched it, and it seemed to activate a mechanism. The party returned to the door without a lock or handle and found it wide open. They stepped into a dank crypt; the humidity in the cold air was palpable. Something about this place made her think it wasn’t built for the living to begin with. Two heavy oak doors faced each other on either side of the room. One of them was locked so they turned to the other. On the other side was what seemed to be a sort of tomb, with an imposing coffin carved in stone – a sarcophagus.

The two rogues stopped Gale from walking into a trap. They would need to be cautious around here, there would surely be more. Balfryn approached the coffin and observed it closely. If she was to try to open it right now, she would trigger a trap, and something would blow up in her face. With Astarion, she proceeded to disarm it so they could take a look at whatever might be inside. A spear lied next to the skeleton and the magic in it tingled her fingers as she bent over to take it, along with an engraved key. Maybe this one would prove more useful than the first. And hells, it did. It opened the other oak door to the other side of the crypt. A huge opening on the right led to a cave and light from outside flooded into the crypt. This would be their exit. Here and there, skeletons lied on the ground – armed scribes, but no sign of a struggle.  

 “Jergal? This must be ancient - no one worships The Final Scribe anymore.” Astarion looked at the statue at the center of the room.

Balfryn stepped over a few decrepit bodies, still clad in their armor and helmets, damaged and eaten away by time, “Hey, there’s something over there.” She climbed a flight of stairs to the left as she noticed a button on the wall. She pressed it and a stone wall rumbled slid open, dust and rubbles falling. They didn’t even have time to peek at whatever was inside the secret room, the half a dozen skeletons in the dank crypt rose, as if back to life and attacked them. Balfryn rushed towards them, tightly holding the spear she ditched her sword for with her two hands and knocked a couple of the undead to the ground while the other rogue and the wizard took down the rest. Unsurprisingly enough, once their bones were scattered across the floor, they didn’t get back up and the trio moved back to the room the drow had opened a moment earlier.

Inside sat a large, richly adorned sarcophagus. She went to push the lid off but retracted her hand and took a step back when it slid off on its own and a bunch of greenish flames lit up all around the sarcophagus. Her eyes widened when a corpse flew out of it. Unlike the other he wasn’t a literal skeleton, but a decaying body, pale-brown, desiccated skin, lacking a nose and with clothes turned to rags by the passing of time, much like the other undead in the crypt. Her eyes went to the elaborate gilded strips of metal adorning his face, arms, and collarbone. He came down to the ground.

“So he has spoken, and so thou stands before me. Right as always. What a curious way to awaken. Now I have a question for thee: what is the worth of a single mortal’s life?”

“Quite the question. What’s the reason for it?” She wondered.

“Curiosity. Nothing more.” He did seem genuinely curious. “Will thou answer my question?”

“Yes. Ask away.”

“So I ask again: what is the worth of a single mortal life?”

“Mine seems worth little, as my blood calls me to harm others.” She confessed, though her companions must not have understood why she said what she said, or what she meant by it. They weren’t in her head to live and feel those urges. There was something beyond her – something that controlled her and yet she tried to control it. And it didn’t have anything to do with the worm.

“A life and how it is lived are different equations. Very well. I am satisfied. We have met and I know thy face. We will see each other again at the proper time and place. Farewell.” She followed the undead towards the cave mouth. He turned around, “We have nothing more to discuss. Continue on thy way, as if I were not here. I must attend this place, after so many years away. We will see each other again soon.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, “You seem very certain of that. How?”

“The mechanics of fate would be difficult to explain to one such as thyself. Regardless, it will occur.” And on these words, the cryptic individual walked away.

[To be continued…]  

Next Chapter (SOON)

Published (12/01/2024) by Andrea

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was DAMIEN WARD, a HALF DEMON loyal to the cause of the DEMONS. He is said to be IMMORTAL and uses HE/HIM pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as the LEADER of the VICES. Blessed be his name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

Damien Ward’s advent had been wrought long before he had entered the world. A slice of carnage, the Antichrist would be spat out into the earth, falsely draping himself over God’s ethereal throne; though he would never quite fulfil this prevision, he is a force feared nonetheless. The Son of Lucifer was tucked away in Hell’s mouth when he was only a child—there, his providence burgeoned beneath Judas’s watchful gaze. Since razing his father, Damien has served as the self-anointed Vice of Wrath and Leader of the Vices, positions counterpoised not merely by his birthright but also the throes of fidelity he is capable of stirring. Woven by sublime beauty and lurid horror, he is able to enchant most to his wicked will, a sense of torment and unease washing over all those who dare venture close, and as he moves, a hollow cold moves with him. One seems to understand him as a creature cut from calamity. His touch causes things to rot by subjecting it to an expeditious ageing process: anything his fingers brush over is reduced to ash. Just as God had forged the world, pulling his Creation from his rib, Damien is its ruination, the ability to rend apart God’s cosmos his own. Angels are immune to his touch, fashioned as they are from divinity, though this does not diminish his power. The prodigiousness of his abilities often wander beyond his command, and thus he has resolved to wearing protective gloves, forged from crushed angel’s wings collected in the first wars on earth, to maintain control of his skill. Unlike his hordes of beasts, Damien wears no wings, but instead has the red mark of Ouroboros branded into his neck: a symbol of rebirth and death, marking out what might once have been his world to come.

THE HISTORY.

DROWNING TW, GORE TW

Monstrosity is a necessary ingredient in beauty. So the woman who would be his mother had always believed. Everything beautiful was also dreadful, because it was twisted and full of fear. Wild from violence, it demanded your horror; it needed you to be afraid. This was what had brought her before the dais of the Morning Star: though there was something crooked in the angel, there was also sublimity, that filial breath of God still curled timelessly around his rib. She mouthed a prayer, not for the beast entombed in Hell, but the changeling, half-angelic, his ancient wings spread so wide that they swallowed up the sun. The worship of Lucifer was hardly extraordinary, dipping hands into black rivers and coming up with gold, but falling onto your knees for the Light Bearer was a marvel. As if by some numinous draw, God’s dwindled torch tore his way up through the earth, she was that much of a wonder to him. The woman understood him; when she gawped into his eyes, she appeared to seize something masked in him; she seemed to know precisely who and what he was, far before that secret had betrayed itself to him. His ambition hooked itself around her worship, and though she hoped he would stay with her, he refused. Instead, he parted from her with a gift. From their courtship grew something entirely unexpected: a child. Lucifer cradled the boy in his arms, a creature that should not exist, but nevertheless did. Such was Lucifer’s power. Yet, a prophecy girdled itself around him. The portent held him captive. The Son of Lucifer will eat the world, the soothsayer foresaw. He will put his mouth to the earth, skies, and ravines deep below. He will chew up and spit out all things, even the Morning Star. Though he could not bring himself to kill the child, a seed of strife spread like sickness in Lucifer’s chest. He fled uneasily back to his caves, leaving mother and child behind. He hoped never to see them again.

Though Damien seemed to be an enchantment of his own, his mother conceded she found him, at times, quite strange—yet that, she supposed, also made him beautiful. That was what she had come to love in the Morning Star, no? Beauty, like a breath of winter that climbs your spine. But when she held Damien in her arms, tickling his feet or cupping his cheek, he would not laugh, he would not blink, and the feeling dug deeper. When they walked together in the forest, his cold hand in hers, savage beasts and ferocious animals seemed not merely allayed by his presence but, by some odd providence, drawn to him. Slowly, the woman began to imagine the rot that spread from the centre of her child’s heart. She saw how he had inherited his father’s blasphemy, which before she had refused to see, and she watched as the final morsel of divinity ebbed, wave-like, away from him. She winced as it buried itself beneath the soil. She could not escape his unblinking gaze, the muscles in his face refusing to jerk upwards, even when the child had cause to smile. Damien Ward looked always like a cold creature who never changed. His parentage hung above his mother like a dark blanket, and after eight years of contrite motherhood she finally found herself at the end of her thread, the yarn red as blood. Fog wound itself around the trees, and when the mist had cleared a scene of terror washed over her: there lay a body lying limply in the moss; she watched as the wolves walked meekly to join Damien at his side, their bloodied mouths licking gently at his fingers. Something evil had revealed itself to her that day and, unable to bear the plague she’d wrought, she stepped into the river and felt its waves wash over her.

Her death seemed to stir something powerful below the ground and, its summon extending a dark, claw-like hand beneath the soil, Judas answered its call. Something primal began to knot itself together then: if Damien could run with wolves and bend them to his will, emerging high above them, then perhaps he could also do the same in Hell. Lucifer’s progeny was a source of wicked admiration to him, but he was also, he remembered, his ruin, and thus the impassible ravine grew between them. Damien let his father drape his dark divinity over him, all while his stare burned through bone to reach the throne. After all, Lucifer hadn’t carved his crown to create a legacy. He’d carved it to rule. Damien wouldn’t find a father in the Morning Star, but he found the mite of one in his Right Hand, Judas. He guided him like a beast untethered through the orbit of Hell, ingratiating themselves with all the spectres they might one day cup in their palms. Judas taught Damien how to whittle a lie with his tongue and when to loosen the knot; how to inspire conjoined loyalty and how to galvanise a legacy of fear. Ruinous, the demons flocked to him and, mantled from Lucifer beneath their shadowy veil, the Antichrist began to steal carvings of his father’s kingdom. After an epoch of collusion, the soothsayer’s words attached themselves to Damien like marionette strings and, feeling their strange movement, he felt compelled to follow them. Razing his father from his throne, Judas’s cadaverous hand behind him, hordes of beasts gnawed hungrily at his split kingdom—chewing his father up in his maw, he spat him out, an umbral crown resting on his brow. At Judas’s own encouragement, the Antichrist shaped his infernal army and, curse-spun, a score of ghosts turned their teeth to earth.

Their scourge lasted what must have felt like a millennia: Damien took the world in his teeth and shook it violently, chewing until he reached bone, while Judas built. Always, as he was tearing and grinding, spoiling and shattering slices of the world, there was Judas lingering, wraith-like, behind him—sculpting the wreckage. The Son of Lucifer stood vanward at the front of a legion of terrible monsters, turning their blades and claws on those who had once been God’s heavenly servants; loss or victory, Damien made relics of them, towed by his coven of beasts. He ate away at cities, pulled down what remained of civilisations, making ruins of things that once held fast—before long, the torrid Southern Lands were firmly clamped within his grip. When the demons were done carving their kingdom from the ground, the threat of the Heretics was stiffly dissolved, and Damien Ward settled himself in an invisible throne, a mass of angelic vestiges displayed deliberately around him. As his father had done once. At last pleased with the empire, which was his in all but name, he sighed; the Antichrist yawned out a new age. And yet, the shadows around him have begun to stir. Black-mouthed, they threaten to gorge themselves on pieces of him. After all, what are you to do when your divine purpose is stolen from you, when your reason for existence is, at last, fulfilled? Are teeth not made to chew? What remains for the howling stomach to sate itself on except a dull sliver? Though Damien continues to be feared as much as he is revered, the needle-prick of his claw begins to lose its hold. Stomachs churning with something dark and vicious, a listless hum starts to burn through his kingdom—and at its centre, something new begins to sprout.

THE CONNECTIONS.

ABADDON, AZAZEL & JUDAS: Dynasty. He was not made to be loved, but he is anyway. On earth, the Antichrist had run with a pack of wolves, far more attuned to their monstrous mores than that of humanity, and in Hell he was no different—all devils, they love each other like animals. While the demons were bent on tearing their king from his throne, they seemed happy to bow reverently to another monarchy which naturally grew in its stead; though Hell had cast out its crown, it seemed to return, ghost-like, to settle itself on each of their brows—and Damien felt he was above them all. He spoils Azazel wildly; though they fight as often as they show affection, he has no scruples about answering her every whim. Though there are times he finds her almost too spoiled to bear, he recognises his share of blame in that. Thick as thieves, it is practically impossible to tell her no. In Abaddon, he finds a strangely distant sort of maternal figure capable of embracing the parts of him that his biological mother never had been. Though she tends to abstain from passing comment, he often feels her cold, tender judgement on him. As for Judas, their relationship is infinitely more complicated: he is at once the closest thing he has ever had to family and his severest enemy. Everything he is flows directly from Judas; peeled behind his dark eyes waits every shred of advice he has ever been offered, every word of comfort, every strategy, suggestion, scheme. It is due to Judas that Damien can settle himself over their kingdom and silently call himself king—yet, is Judas not king too?

RAUM: Vassal. He doesn’t always have such personal relationships with those who promise to serve diligently under him, but Raum, he is willing to admit, is the exception that proves the rule. Damien had given something to each of his Vices: a common enemy to sink their fangs into, a kingdom to take up the cudgels for—yet he had offered Raum something more. He had offered her a purpose. The two have spoken at length over her hope to repossess that lost flake of her past, and while he’d first sympathised with her hollowing plight, he offered an alternative. Instead of searching for your history, why not cut out your future? Like stars, he plucked her dreams from the sky and offered them to her, turning them over in his infernal palms; ever since, her loyalty has hardened like alloy. It is to Raum that Damien most often turns for advice, feeling the heavy ambition of his Right Hand eat like plague at the room; having put her energy into the future they might sculpt rather than the fragments of the past she could never know, they make a decidedly visionary pair. Though whispers of dissent begin to girdle around his leadership, Damien knows well that this is a fealty that cannot be broken. Raum, after all, has made a home of his shadow.

ESTIENNE WICKEN: Little Echo. Estienne is unimpeachable evidence to the world that those who are exactly alike do not always get along. Sometimes, a likeness shared is often the cause of intense dislike. With a huff of insolence, Damien acknowledges that the tale of the Antichrist is well-known, whispers of the dark and ruinous monster that chews on pieces of the world, and thus he supposes that the emergence of an imitator is only natural. An imitator, after all, is all they are: an impressionist, an echo, a morsel of his wicked self. Estienne thinks of themself as something like a god; both beastly and beautiful, they arrange a thousand mirrors around themself and drink up their image. Full of malice, this only causes Damien’s lip to curl. At the Antichrist’s fingers waits the power to eliminate all life, taking what is gold and turning it to putrid rot, but Estienne is only the dulled shadow of a shadow—and there were already plenty of those in Hell when he’d left it. Damien tells himself that they’re hardly worth his time, that once you ignore a pest it inevitably fades from view, but Estienne draws his hatred nonetheless. He may think of them as nothing more than a splinter of the profanity long settled into his bones, but there is evidently something in them that causes him to recoil. Rotten, he makes sure Estienne knows of his disdain.

NERISSA: Agenda. It is to Judas that he has always turned to for schemes, but Damien delights in the fact that this is a plot he has hatched entirely of his own accord. Like cadaverous, wandering ghosts, the Horseman are a deep pool of limitless potential: like dipping a hand into an unfathomable milky void, it is possible to touch them and still learn nothing new about them. They are entirely without definition. In Nerissa, however, he has identified a point of recognition; they are a beast, and they feed on it. She gives way to aggression and wrath in a way similar to himself—while his is a cold outrage, like the breath of winter, theirs is hot as coals. There’s camaraderie amongst monsters, and while they have yet to coax out all of each other’s secrets, they have decided that they must stick together; after all, in times of peace, monsters are so few. What Damien hopes to gain from the relationship is less clear, though—a bloodied ribbon binds them together, but since the fall of Lucifer, Damien has found himself reneging on his promises of desolation and wastage. Nerissa, on the other hand, was wrought from calamity; perdition follows their every step. Though there is much they share, there is also much that sets them apart.

Damien is portrayed by Woo Do-hwan and was written by CAS. He is currently TAKEN by MAL.

[lynchgirl90]

TwinPeaks #While you were watching summer’s biggest TV show, you missed summer’s best TV show

By Hank Stuever TV critic

A curious thing happened on the way to television greatness this summer: The highly anticipated return of a critically revered show that some viewers might avoid because of its reputation as a melodramatic, even lugubriously indulgent mess of complicated story lines instead turned out to be a stunning rumination on heroic good and innate evil, told through a refreshingly coherent, expertly paced plot that managed to keep its loyal fans and curious newcomers guessing the entire way.

At the same time, another show, also feverishly awaited and already occupying its rightful spot on the list of TV’s most provocative and original series, sacrificed nearly all of its slowly divulged, carefully constructed mythology in the name of predictable plot and implausible incident — so much plot and so much incident that its biggest fans groaned in mutual misery every week, wondering if their favorite show had, after so long, turned itself into a cheap and even pretentious facsimile of the original material.

So, which show is “Game of Thrones” and which show is “Twin Peaks: The Return?”

In terms of pure satisfaction and elevation of the form, it’s no contest: Showtime’s “Twin Peaks,” David Lynch and Mark Frost’s 18-part sequel to their long-shelved ABC series, has been a quiet yet profound triumph, splendidly fulfilling a promise made 27 years ago.

A two-episode conclusion will air this coming Sunday with Lynch’s daffiest ducks lined up in neat precision and ready for their swan song, perhaps at the possibly interdimensional roadhouse called the Bang Bang Bar on the outskirts of fictional Twin Peaks, Wash. I find myself truly sorry to see “Twin Peaks” go, and even apologetic for the doubts I’d cast upon its revival during the hype that preceded its May premiere. (My only excuse? Reboot fatigue.) And I note that for all its greatness, “Twin Peaks” struggles now to get more than a few hundred thousand viewers to watch each week. Ratings-wise, it looks like an expensive disaster.

“Game of Thrones,” meanwhile: Yeesh, right? After Sunday’s season 7 finale on HBO, there’s little need to list the gripes of its 16 million viewers, except to boil down the biggest criticism, which have to do with pace. Although it has one season left, “Game of Thrones” this time acted like a show in a terrific hurry to be done with us.

Characters who’ve never met — or who haven’t seen each other in years — were suddenly visiting one another all the time. Journeys and story lines that used to take months to complete (whether during entire seasons of the show or within hundreds of pages of George R.R. Martin’s thick novels) now seem to take a few minutes, as if the imaginary medieval continent of Westeros had acquired a system of bullet trains, or perhaps a wooden version of Elon Musk’s people tubes. That, or Westeros was suddenly reduced to the size of Rhode Island.

In its rush, “Game of Thrones” laid bare its most obvious weakness, in that it is now two seasons ahead of where Martin stopped writing his most recent book. Although the show aptly avails itself of the richness and backstories that exist in the “Game of Thrones” blueprint, it has unfortunately given in to the temptation to be just another hit TV show — specifically, a soap opera. Thishappens, then this happens, and then you’re not going to believe it when thishappens! It all happens faster than even superfan Leslie Jones can tweet about it.

Don’t waste your last bit of ice flame in defense. “Game of Thrones” is still one hell of a soap opera — and perhaps that’s all it ever was beneath all the texture and time, even back in its more glorious stretch of the slow build. Many of us, having bent the knee years ago, will remain loyal to the show until it ends, no matter who gets killed off or who sleeps with their aunt or nephew or brother or sister. And the point of a slowly built drama is that it must eventually reach a frantic, breathless climax, no? Isn’t that the point of good sex? (I mean, good television?)

Watching the show devolve, it’s funny to think back to 2013 or so, when “Game of Thrones” was on its third season and a converted critic had to counsel (i.e., beg) the doubters to only give it a shot; to not worry about its layers and characters, the many locations, the impossibly huge scope. The promise was that once you watched enough of it, “Game of Thrones” would take you and transport you; once you gave in to it, it would magically cohere, and, in addition to feeling entertained, you would feel the adrenaline breakthrough that marathon runners tend to go on about just before they pass out from delirium. The journey supplants the suffering; the miles become transcendent.

***

That’s what good TV is all about — and it’s the very experience that we happy few get by sitting still and letting “Twin Peaks” patiently insert its epic strangeness into our minds. By the time Part 8 aired in July, Lynch took viewers on a hypervisual (and hyper-aural), hour-long trip back to 1945 and the first detonation of an atomic bomb, in New Mexico. As the camera delves into the split atom, the viewer senses, through sound and image, an unleashing of evil that personifies itself in the elusive “Bob,” who now occupies the corporeal form of one of two Dale Coopers; followed by the suggestion that other forces can temper such occurrences by creating virtuous creatures (Laura Palmer, perhaps?). Confounding, marvelous, unforgettable: That episode alone would be a hit as a video installation in a contemporary art museum, played on a constant loop.

I realize that doesn’t sound like everyone’s idea of a swell time (are there dragons? Battle scenes? Rapey incest?), but “Twin Peaks” actually did what “Game of Thrones” used to do: It took us somewhere entirely new, on its own creative terms and using its own visual language. Like “Game of Thrones,” it required that we pay attention and even do our homework (“Siri, who is Tycho Nestoris?” “Never mind, Siri — who is Phillip Jeffries?”). It rewarded expertise while rewarding a more casual viewer with a thrill ride.

This season, “Game of Thrones” abandoned those traits and became just another TV show — some color-coded index cards arranged on a bulletin board in a writers’ room, each card representing its own holy-crap moment in a season overburdened with holy-crap moments, rather than honoring the whole of the work.

And yet, despite this muddying of the brand, this summer was the where we showed up in droves for “Game of Thrones” — stood in lines to get into “Game of Thrones” pop-up bars, spoke in “Game of Thrones” shorthand, tweeted up a storm and aggravated uninterested colleagues to the point where they started penning backlash essays with such titles as “No, I don’t watch ‘Game of Thrones,’ so please stop asking.” This is the summer we GoT’d ourselves to death. And who could blame us? Poke out of your bunker for a moment, have a look around at the world, and crawl back down and close the lid.

And so it happens that while America spent its summer watching TV’s biggestshow, it unfortunately missed TV’s best show. While “Game of Thrones” chose simple paths and explosive set pieces, “Twin Peaks” promoted and celebrated every quality we TV purists say we most want from the medium: It challenged us, surprised us and rewarded the minds that were the least inert and the most open.

Here, the art of the slow build was very much in force, making viewers wait nearly forever for one of its most satisfying and stirring scenes, when — and if you’re not caught up, stop reading now — at last, in the most recent episode, the real FBI Agent Dale Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan, who has given an above-and-beyond performance this time) snapped out of his Dougie Jones fugue state in Las Vegas and started giving orders and plotting his return to Twin Peaks, ostensibly to face down his evil doppelganger. (“Finally,” said the poor One-Armed Man from his vantage point in the Black Lounge.)

The goose bumps? The thrills? The astounding visuals? The thematic crescendo? The supernatural uses of magic? The epic payoff?

Yep, it was all there — same night, different channel.

Twin Peaks: The Return (two hours) concludes Sunday at 8 p.m. on Showtime.

LINK (TP)

[takadasaiko]

The Fallen Series: To Hell and Back for Him

FFN II AO3

Series Summary: One-shots following Robert Svane through his journey to becoming the Revenant Bobo Del Rey. Not written in chronological order. Pre-canon through current events in SyFy's Wynonna Earp.

One Shot Summary: Robert Svane rides to Purgatory after trying to convince Doc Holliday to help their friend take down the demon sheriff Clootie.

To Hell and Back For Him

He had ridden hard the whole way, the urgency of the situation weighing on him. Wyatt had asked him to bring Doc Holliday and he'd failed him. It wasn't like he could have forced Holliday to come. Robert had stayed in town for nearly three days trying to get a word in to him and wasting precious time doing so. The man was stubborn and drunk, never a good combination even for just a civil conversation, but for a fight? No. There had been no reason to waste another day trying to pry a more positive answer from the man. He'd already lost enough time and the situation in Purgatory was desperate from what his friend had said.

He found Wyatt at a saloon waiting for the padre that had initially contacted him about the issue with the sheriff. Robert moved to join him at the table and waved off the offer of a drink as he passed by the bar. Wyatt was bent over some notes of some sort, but looked up as he approached and his expression lightened just a little. "Robert, glad you made it," he greeted, reaching a hand out to him.

"Sorry it took so long," the other man answered and shook his hand before sitting with him. "Spoken to the padre yet?"

"He's on his way. I take it you couldn't find Doc?"

"Oh, I found him." Robert cleared his throat, finding Wyatt's gaze steadily on him, trying to gauge the reaction.

Finally Wyatt sighed. "He was too ill to come then."

"Or too drunk."

The lawman laughed, the sound surprising Robert a little. "That never stopped him before." His mirth faded as quickly as it'd come as he glanced towards the door where the priest was entering. He nodded to the bartender and stopped there just a moment before continuing over to the table. Wyatt tipped his hat. "Padre."

"Deputy Marshal."

"Robert just brought word from Doc that he won't be making it. I left him pretty sick, but it was worth a shot."

"You a gunslinger too, Robert?" the padre asked and Robert cracked a very small smile in response.

"Not like Wyatt, but I do know where the trigger is."

That pulled a chuckle from the old priest and he thanked the woman who delivered his drink over.

"Now, I understand that Sheriff Clootie has been a terror on this town," Wyatt prompted. "In your letter you called him-"

"A demon," the padre cut him off, his voice flat and serious. "And I meant it."

"Ain't no such thing as demons, Padre."

"There are, Marshal. Demons and angels are as real as you and me. Clootie's three wives are nearly as dangerous as he is, his favourite being the witch of the three, but the other two…." He shuddered and his gaze shifted from Wyatt over to Robert who was watching him carefully, keeping his own thoughts carefully concealed behind an even expression. He'd read the letters that had been written and he knew Wyatt's reservations. He shared many of them. Rarely did a person cry demon and it be true, but that didn't mean that they didn't exist. He was certain angels did.

Wyatt didn't look convinced. He shook his head and stood. "Well, demon or man, he's not above the law. It's time we met and settled this."

"No time like the present," the padre said as he took a long drink of his whisky.

It was like he knew what was about to happen, and as the doors to the saloon kicked open and a chill swept through the establishment Robert found himself wondering if he did. An unnatural sort of hush fell over the place and all eyes turned to the man that entered. He was tall and imposing, his sheriff's badge shined and prominent for all to see. His boots hit the wooden floor of the saloon hard, the sound echoing over the silence he brought with him. He was alone, but there didn't seem to be a person beyond their own table that didn't tremble at the sight of him.

"Padre," Sheriff Clootie called out, "I see you invited friends."

"Evenin'," Wyatt greeted, straightening at his place by the table. Robert and the padre remained in their seats, Robert watching the situation carefully. He might not be a gunslinger like Wyatt or Doc, but he would do whatever he needed to to help his friend. "I'm Deputy Marshal Wyatt Earp, US Marshals. There've been some-"

"Get." It was a single word, but as soon as it left the sheriff's lips every last person in the saloon - barkeeper included - ran over each other trying to leave. Robert watched them scurry out like rabbits running from a dog and he thought he saw the sheriff's eyes flash red momentarily, a strange sort of smile tilting his lips. "Now what were you saying, Marshal?"

It was an intimidation tactic, and one that didn't work on Wyatt. Doc Holliday had been right about one thing at the very least: Wyatt never appeared upset. That didn't mean that Robert didn't see the signs that the lawman knew that this wouldn't be easy. It was in the way his eyes narrowed as Clootie spoke and how his left hand brushed back his coat casually as if he were readying himself for the worst situation and giving himself easy access to Peacemaker there. Robert found himself joining Wyatt on his feet, ready for whatever would come next.

Or he thought he was.

Clootie's laugh echoed through the empty saloon, causing Wyatt to frown. "You're facing some serious charges, Sheriff. Most wouldn't find that funny."

"This is plenty funny," Clootie chuckled, still smirking. "I heard you were coming, Deputy Marshal, but I had expected a bit more of a fight. Instead of your usual crowd you show up with this pup at your feet, desperate for a little of the great Wyatt Earp's attention. You've never even killed a man, have you? What good do you think you're going to do against me?"

Robert saw it again, that flash of red, and this time the sheriff flicked his wrist. A gust of wind hit them so hard that it took them up and off their feet as if someone had grabbed them by the front of their lapels and sent them stumbling. Robert hit hard, crashing into and over a chair and he grimaced at the landing.

Wyatt was back on his feet quicker, gun drawn and shots fired, only clipping the man whose eyes were glowing dangerously as he moved at an unnatural speed. The sight was enough to cause Robert to freeze for just half a beat before he pulled his own weapon, but he didn't get a chance to fire before it was pulled from his hand and Clootie turned a terrible snarl in him.

There was no questioning it now. The evil was evident, painted across those dark red eyes and the unearthly powers that flowed from him. He extended his hand, fingers outstretched, and Robert was being dragged up. His feet dangled, toes barely touching the wood floor as an invisible hand wrapped around his throat, choking off his airway and he found there was no way to fight it. Nothing was there, yet it was.

"Robert!" Wyatt called out and he was being dragged forward until he was face to face with the demon.

"So the pet means something," Clootie murmured. "I do have to wonder what the infamous Wyatt Earp sees in you."

The grip had loosened enough that he could take shallow breaths and fighting was useless, so he leveled his best glare. "I've been told I have a quick wit," he managed and the demon chuckled.

"A wit won't shield you," he warned. "But a friend? A friend makes quite the shield. Gun down, Deputy Marshal. Humans really are such fragile creatures. I'd hate to break him." There was a sudden jolt of pain and Robert tried to swallow the cry that escaped him, his back arching at it tore through him. He remained suspended, Clootie spinning him around so that Wyatt could see the pain played out across his features.

He forced his blue eyes open, meeting Wyatt's gaze. There was disappointment there, an understanding that things were not turning out as expect and…. that they would have if it had been Doc Holliday at his side instead of Robert Svane. Robert was a fine, loyal friend, but he wasn't useful like this. He wasn't sure what had ever made him think that he could be. He had only gotten in the way.

"Alright," Wyatt said at last, lowering his weapon a little.

Blue eyes closed briefly as he heard Clootie make a triumphant sound behind him. This was bigger than him. Bigger than that moment. If they didn't do something here and now, more innocent people would die. He would not be the reason they were hurt. "Wyatt, take the shot."

"Robert…"

Clootie was laughing now, entertained by it. "It sounds brave when you know he won't."

Blue eyes snapped open again, catching Wyatt's gaze and holding it. Willing his friend to hear him, to do it. "Take it."

It all seemed to happen at once. The small nod, Wyatt raising his gun, and the shot going off. The bullet tore through Robert, into his left shoulder through his chest and out the back, and suddenly he was tumbling to the floor, the demon releasing him.

He laid there a long moment before the pain hit, and it hit hard. Robert gasped as he curled around himself as he tried to gain his bearings and think through the it. He felt hands on him and he started to fight until he heard Wyatt's calming tones. "Easy, friend. I've got you."

He looked up, finding Wyatt on the floor with him, easing him up just a little and he found the change in position helped lessen the pain just a little, making it easier to breathe. "Did you-?"

"We got him. It struck him in the heart. He's not long for this world."

Robert blinked hard, hearing Clootie cursing and hissing out some sort of threat he couldn't make out. He focused in on his friend. "Good."

"You're going to be just fine, Robert. Padre is fetching the physician and you'll be whole in no time."

His vision was blurring, but he could still see the hints of worry played out across his friend's face. "Wyatt?" The other man didn't answer, distracted by something, and Robert winced as a fresh wave of pain stole his breath from him. "I'm sorry. I meant to help you and I… got in the way."

That pulled him around just a little, at least enough to offer the injured man a thin smile. "Nonsense. What other friend do I have brave enough to do what you did? Thank you, Robert. I…. I'm going to make this right. Somehow, I'm going to make this right."

Robert loosed a long breath in the form of a sigh, desperately trying to focus on the words, but he was losing the fight with consciousness. Wyatt was there, though, and he wasn't angry with him. Somehow, he almost seemed proud of him, and that made it worth the pain.

Robert woke to voices. At first they sounded like they were down a long tunnel, distant and garbled, but as he broke the final layer of consciousness he finally made the padre that he and Wyatt had come to see. He shifted, grimacing hard at the painful reminder that he'd taken a bullet to the chest…. He wasn't sure how long ago.

"I wouldn't move too much," the padre said and Robert could smell the alcohol on his breath. Juan Carlos. He wasn't sure that he'd ever given him his name directly, but it had been in the letters that Wyatt had received. Father Juan Carlos.

"Wyatt," Robert choked the name out, his throat dry and painful.

Juan Carlos motioned for him to stay put for a moment before grabbing a glass with what looked like water in it from the bedside table. "Take it easy, Robert. You've been sleeping for a couple of days. Wyatt couldn't wait."

"What?"

"Told me to tell you that he'd gone looking for an answer he thought John Henry had. The doctor assured him that with rest and treatment you have a good chance of pulling through."

"Do I?"

"I imagine so. You seem like the stubborn sort."

"Padre, we need to go. They will find a way to bring him back if we don't seal him in the ground. We've waited too long."

Robert squinted at the new voice from the door, realizing for the first time that his glasses weren't perched on his nose, and the padre reached for those as well, fitting them there. A woman at the door came into focus. Blonde and beautiful, but there was something about her that didn't set well with him. Nothing about Purgatory set well with him anymore. The sooner he could get out of here, the better.

"You said we need three, and the town's torn up enough without finding someone to help with that."

"He can."

"The doctor said he needs rest."

"I'm right here," Robert snapped. "Don't talk around me like I'm not. What can I do?"

The woman stepped forward, her gaze studying him carefully. "You were with Wyatt Earp? Helped him to kill my husband?"

One of Clootie's wives. The witch, Robert thought. He set his jaw. "I did my part."

"Then do the next. Help us keep him in the ground."

Blue eyes shifted to look at the priest, the unasked question hanging in the air and Juan Carlos nodded. "We can't hold the other two without her help."

"It's in my best interest to make sure all three never come back here. Wyatt's bullet never should have been able to kill him, but I slipped him something that made him vulnerable. If he comes back, I'm a dead woman."

Robert nodded solemnly, shifting again until he was able to sit. It hurt like hell, but he thought that if he could get on his feet he'd be alright. "What is it you need me to do?"

"I need you to be bait," Constance Clootie said, her voice far sweeter than her words. "They'll smell the blood on you and they'll come. We'll be ready for them. Do this, help us secure them and my demon husband, and they won't be able to go after your dear friend Wyatt. He might even escape with his life."

"Robert," Juan Carlos warned, but he shook his head.

He'd told Doc Holliday that he'd be willing to ride to hell and back for Wyatt, and he would. He'd be willing to die for the man if need be, and right now, Wyatt needed him to make sure that he remained outside of the demon's grasp. "I'll rest when it's done."

Notes: I have such mixed feelings about Wyatt. I want to hope that there was more to him than fleeing the curse and then trying to track down Doc while Robert lay dying. Maybe he went looking for Doc because he'd known about the demon and Wyatt hoped he had an answer for him? One can hope. I also hope we get more information (and flashbacks!) in the third season. I'd love to see Wyatt and Robert flashbacks and get a better feel for that friendship.

Hope you guys enjoyed this one. It's a bit longer than usual.

[texanredrose]

Wrong Side of Heaven (Pt 5)

Almost there.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 (here) / Part 6

The light only lasted a second, but it felt like the second drug on for a small eternity. It was the difference between being among mortals and being in the blessed land above, where time marched on mercilessly and where time was merely a concept. After spending so long among the mortals, the once familiar sensations now felt almost alien, entirely strange- the weightlessness, the muffled sounds, the lack of wind, air, pressure... it was almost unwelcomed.

"You always have to do things your way, don't you?"

Blake opened her eyes, reacting to the bright light out of habit rather than because it was painful. Like stepping out to greet the morning after a long night tracking her quarry, she squinted against the harshness for a moment before everything came into focus, and only then did she realize that she felt no pain, no stinging from the sudden exposure. Of course she didn’t- there was no pain here, in the land of the Angels. She thought she'd be brought to the pearly gates, but no; apparently, the Highest had something else in mind. She stood now well within Heaven’s bounds, among the white expanse that shifted to suit the whims of the Angels who dwell there, the place she might once have called home. Marshaling her thoughts, Blake did her best to recover from the moment of disoriented surprise, ignoring the way her broken wings refused to be hidden away. "I suppose you expected me to learn a lesson."

"Come now; I'm not quite that foolish." Ozpin stood at the top of a white hill, great grey wings flapping as he turned around. The Highest looked the same as always, silvery hair framing his face, brown eyes peeking over the top of his shades. He used the cane in one hand to point at her, a small smile on his lips. It was all for show- no Angel needed glasses or walking assistance- but one he’d maintained for countless centuries for some unknown reason. One of his quirks that she’d thought, once, might be the sign of weakness, or the loss of his sense, but she’d learned much since then. "Your fault, your great sin, was being led astray, not for wanting. I think you see that now." He chuckled. "We all yearn for more, for higher or lower, for greater things- this is not a mortal complication, but one even our creator shares. Otherwise... why create anything at all?" He started walking towards her, descending along a little path that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. "Walk with me."

Although the motions felt much different than in the mortal's world far below, Blake turned and walked beside the Highest, her shoulders feeling far too light, absent the burden laid upon them when last they spoke. She also had her full wings the last time she walked through Heaven, not the broken shells currently framing her shoulders, but that was a fleeting thought among it all. "Is there a reason you're dragging this out?"

"Suddenly impatient, are we? But I suppose I can't feign surprise." He gave her a sidelong look, those eyes searching her expression and deeper still all at once. "What are you expecting to happen?"

"You'll banish me to Hell, the lowest circle, where all those who have Fallen eventually land." She tilted her chin down, lips pulling into a tight line. "I didn't accomplish the mission you gave me."

"Didn't you, though? Let me think." He tapped his cane thoughtfully. "I said to you, 'Blake, you have one year in the mortal world to stop fifty Demons from plaguing mankind, and only then may you return to grace', did I not?" Ozpin looked at her, that perpetual half smile on his lips. "Isn't that what you did?"

"Forty-nine," she replied, wishing he wouldn't string her along like this. The Highest favored his games, true, but she never had. "I had one stake left."

"Stakes are not how I intended to count the ones you stopped." He brought them to a halt, parting the white expanse before them to allow a glimpse into the mortal world below. She shouldn’t be surprised that they were looking over the city Blake and Weiss had spent the past few months in, hovering just above the neighborhood where the apartment was. "They were helpful, yes, and you did use almost all of them, which makes the task of counting even easier, but you're forgetting one." His eyes flashed to her, a secretive smile on his lips even as their view of the world below centered on the familiar apartment building. "One Demon you never staked, no matter how close to you she got."

Her shoulders tensed, panic lancing through her. "Leave Weiss out of this."

"And who are you to make demands of me?" Ozpin chuckled, shaking his head and clearly anticipating her reaction, his attempt to provoke her showing fruit. Mentally, she kicked herself for always walking into his traps even when fully aware of them.

"Not one of your Angels," she said, the furrow to her brow detracting from the sharpness of her words. "Not for much longer, anyway."

"You're so sure of that. How amusing." The Highest laughed, using his cane to point down upon the world below, the city they gazed upon still dark with night and awash in the street lamps’ glow. "You see, when you first met this Weiss, this Demon of Hell, did you stop to consider the sort of creature you'd allied yourself with? Some part of you did- yes, of course you did- but you saw an opportunity and took it, shunting that little voice away until it died out completely." He nodded to himself, a small frown on his lips. "I can’t say I would’ve done differently in your position. But here, bereft of a need for an alliance, we could see what you did not. We were tracking her movements for a while before the two of you crossed paths, and while she never caused too much of a ruckus before your little run-in... she was still a Demon, through and through.” His expression twitched, as if he wanted to grimace but put conscious effort into keeping his thoughts in line. “She used her powers when it suited her, and dispatched whoever crossed her path in much more... violent means. Other demons and humans, too, though very few of the latter. She didn't care for the collateral damage or drawing attention or anything of the like, and while Angels may not be able to kill Demons outright, dispatching their own kind is much easier. Personally, I think some part of her relished it." His gaze slid towards her. "But then you two began traveling together, and she made the conscious choice to bend to your manner of thinking just as much as you bent to hers. I think she did even more. It limited both of you... but her most of all, being a full fledged Demon. How easy would it have been, do you think, for her to amass a small army? Where she could not tread, her minions could, and they would wield weapons just as powerful as your stakes to protect her." Ozpin turned towards her fully, seriousness in his expression. "She never needed you."

"I'm well aware." Their 'arrangement', as they'd come to call it, quickly became a lopsided affair- or, rather, she noticed such shortly after they started traveling together. Blake had never mentioned it and the Demon seemed intent on pretending they'd made an even trade, so she let it go. But even now, she wondered why herself. "Personally, I think she enjoyed my company."

"I can't fault her tastes in that department," the Highest replied with a smirk, though he tilted his head after the words left his mouth. "I still find it odd, though. For all her talk of leaving behind chains, she never seemed to see your presence as being just a different sort, holding her back from unleashing her full strength." His brows rose as he tapped his cane at the space between his feet. "Or perhaps she did, yet she stayed with you anyway. This Demon who broke the chains of Hell. She would take neither collar nor halo, but you?" Lips pressed into a thin line, he shrugged. "She chose you."

Blake remained silent, trying to beat down the hope rising in her chest. Would that she could take joy in such thoughts, that her companion had seen something in her that existed in neither Heaven nor Hell, something that held her interest longer than anything in the mortals' world. She'd considered, perhaps a time or two, that the Demon could've left at any moment and been no worse for wear, yet she'd stayed for some reason, even offered herself up to save Blake from a terrible fate, effectively sacrificing all she'd done to just get to that point. Tears stung at her eyes as she remembered the look Weiss gave her when she refused to turn the stake on her companion, that helpless expression that should never belong to one so powerful. It shouldn’t be possible to feel this sort of heartache in Heaven, yet it hurt all the same.

She hoped the Demon wouldn't lose her love for the mortals' world any time soon. Above all other things, more than gaining her wings back, she wanted Weiss to be happy. Perhaps, in time, she'd find another soul to keep her company until they could be reunited... if they could be reunited at all. In the back of her mind, she kept that thought on a constant loop, that no matter what horrors she experienced once the Highest cast her down, it would all be worth it, so long as Weiss was happy.

"I'll admit, towards the end, she might've needed assistance. Nearly every Demon in Hell was riled up, searching for her, trying to hunt her down, but the thing about Demons is that even the 'loyal' ones are more inclined to save their skins than carry out orders." Ozpin shrugged, intentionally ignoring the melancholy that descended upon the Fallen Angel beside him. "Alone, she might've triumphed. Your presence perhaps made it easier, but it wasn't necessary, and the prospect of bringing down a shamed Angel brought more exuberance from her kind than her own escape did." He leaned towards her, lowering his voice. "Demons are a strange bunch."

"You're telling me." She'd thought as much several times during the past year- especially when Weiss became briefly enamored with putting strange things on the human concoction known as 'pizza'- but that didn't change the exhaustively long turn the conversation had taken. "What's your point?"

"My, my, you are in a hurry, aren't you?" Ozpin chuckled.

"Eternity seems like a long time... but the last year passed too quickly." She allowed her gaze to drift towards the world below, a frown tugging at the corner of her lips. "I'm just... tired."

"Tired? Even here?" He waved a hand. "Even restored?"

For one second, she felt a sharp sensation, like a needle separating skin from muscle but without pain. In the next, the nearly forgotten sensation of her wings in their full glory returned, flapping gently.

"My wings..." she smiled, feeling whole again for the first time in so long... and just as soon as she felt that sense of completion, it vanished. She reached out and touched the lower feathers, the ones that had been ripped away, but it didn't bring the feeling back.

She knew why. Her first impulse after the realization hit was to turn and find Weiss, show her what those broken images couldn't measure up to, but that... well, that wasn't possible, of course. She'd felt this before, the compulsion to share a discovery or development with her companion so they could react together- there was a period of time when they'd both become disturbingly addicted to a few 'television shows' the mortals created- but being denied that actually hurt.

They'd hardly been parted and already it felt too long. How did mortals stand this sort of separation?

"The way I see it, you met the quota." Ozpin spoke, keeping his gaze focused on the world below. He must've sensed her disappointment and decided to stop playing his game, for the moment anyway. "You've earned your way back into Heaven... but you know I can't possibly let you return to the mortal world.” Her shoulders sagged. “It's a privilege, one you may never have again." He tapped his cane. "There's... other options, though."

Blake perked up. "And what are they?"

"Well, you know that, strictly by the rules, I should banish you to the bowels of Hell for failing to meet the exact specifications, so that's one option, but I find it distasteful.” He turned one hand over, conjuring a blessed stake from thin air and holding it up between them. “We banish Demons from the mortals’ world when they become too powerful, when they sow too much discourse, when they step over the line, because balance is as much our responsibility as protecting the mortals’ at large. I find it difficult to believe the Pride Demon will revert to her old ways, despite your absence, so in that sense, she’s as good as banished anyway.” He tossed the stake up, allowing her to catch it herself. “The second, of course, is you staying here in Heaven, where you belong... but I suspect you care as much for that as I do the former, especially considering the constraints that come with it. I can’t very well have you rebel against the higher orders, fail to meet the requirements to their fullest extent, and then let everything go back to normal." He looked at her, something twinkling in his eyes. “Unless, of course, you go back and-”

She could see exactly what he was going to propose. “Not happening.” Blake threw the stake down, allowing it to stab into the white space beside her boot. “Weiss is not a threat. Just leave her in peace.”

Ozpin sighed. “Yes, I did say you would find it distasteful, did I not? On the one hand, Heaven becomes your prison, and on the other, you betray the very creature who helped you return in the first place.” The corner of his mouth pulled up. “Truthfully, had you attempted to stake the Pride Demon, I’d have banished you to Hell anyway.“

“Your games never end, do they?” The Fallen Angel rolled her eyes.

"That was my last test, actually,” he said, his expression turning serious. “I wanted to be sure you would take the third option seriously.”

Blake tried to hold in her frustration. That’s all Heaven seemed to be, when it wasn’t idle nothingness: tests, trials, and lectures. “And what’s the third option?”

“That you remain Fallen, bound to the mortals’ world for all eternity.” He held her gaze steadily. “You’ll keep your wings but you’ll remain unable to reach Heaven's gates no matter how hard you try. You’ll never regain your Halo or your Heavenly light. You can only exist among the mortals- you can fly their skies and swim their seas, but you'll never be one of them... or one of us. You'll be neither mortal nor Angel nor Demon- for all eternity, you’ll be this... anomaly, walking alone through existence."

"No." Her wings fluttered, a hope she'd thought had died flaring to life once more. "I won't walk alone."

[feynavaley]

Pottertalia Next Gen AU – Hetalia Characters’s Sorting

There is this Hetalia/Harry Potter Crossover that I’ve been thinking about a lot, but I don’t have a clear plot in mind, mostly snippets and backstories, so I think it’s quite unlikely I’ll ever actually write a fic… but I had fun sorting the characters, so I’m going to write this down.

(This is set in 2024. It ignores completely The Cursed Child since I refused to read it…)

Gryffindor

2nd Year: 

Michelle Mancham (Seychelles)

3rd Year: 

Alfred F Jones (America): I mean, he’s, like, the living embodiment of Gryffindor. He’s brave and wants to be recognized as such (looks for glory), but at the same time he’s also helpful and with a strong (even if probably too idealistic and somehow self-entitled) sense of justice. He has a very strong magic but is only average because he doesn’t like studying or exercising properly. As the son of a muggle-born and a squib, he actually went to muggle grade school before Hogwarts as his father recognized the technological and scientific advancement that makes muggles superior. Alfred is strongly interested in that, too. In summer, he studies the muggle school program and he’s excellent at Maths. He’s the beater of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team.

Matthew Williams (Canada): Alfred’s brother, but he lived with their mother (their parents divorced) and took her surname. He’s actually one year younger than Alfred but got sent to school a year earlier because he had a very powerful magic and could only partially control it. His step-father didn’t like him using magic and lashed out at him, which is why Matthew often made himself invisible. He still has trouble controlling it. He also has a familiar, Kumajiro, given to him by a powerful winter spirit that saved him as a child, when he got lost in the woods and almost froze to death. Matthew’s very diligent, he’s a gifted student who takes the most challenging subjects. He used non-verbal charms from the very start (nobody will ever convince me of the contrary). He begged the Hat to be sorted in Gryffindor with Al (the Hat was more oriented towards Hufflepuff) but sometimes he regrets it since he ends up being completely obscured by his brother. Like Alfred, he studies muggle school subjects during summer. He’s the Seeker of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team.

Lien Nguyen (Vietnam)

Lily Luna Potter

Hugo Weasley

Roxanne Weasley

4th Year: 

Fred Weasley

Lucy Weasley

Louis Weasley

5th Year: 

Mikkel Densen (Denmark): Chaser in the Quidditch team, general troublemaker. Decent at Charms, but doesn’t really apply himself.

Rose Weasley

6th Year: 

Laura Janssens (Belgium): She might look like a sweetheart, always nice and helpful – she is, most of the times. But people who have gotten on her bad side or accidentally hurt somebody she cares for know that she’s not one to be angered. Ever. She’s also quite competitive.

Sadik Adnan (Turkey)

Carlos Machado (Cuba)

James Sirius Potter

7th Year: 

Erzsébet Héderváry (Hungary): Good grades and very strong magic. She takes Care of Magical Creatures. In spite of her proficiency with magic, she’s not the head-girl because she’s too bad-tempered and gets in trouble for lashing out at the BBT. The other beater of Gryffindor’s team – she and Alfred are amazing. People say they might be as good as the legendary Fred and George Weasley, even if they tend to be a tad overenthusiastic (read: too violent).

Slytherin

2nd Year:

Leon Wong (Hong Kong)

3rd Year: 

Natalya Arlovskaya (Belarus): Everybody is afraid of her. She doesn’t do any harm if she’s left alone, she’s just extremely cold and basically doesn’t interact with her peers, but insult her family, in particular her brother (step-brother, actually), and you should fear for your life. She knows an impressive (and frightening) variety of curses, she’s a gifted spell-caster. She has pretty good grades, in general.

5th Year: 

Ivan Braginsky (Russia): An average student, but can cast the strongest shield charm ever seen. Tries to befriend people but ends up scaring them because he tends to come across as creepy and is very self-serving. Beater in the Slytherin team – he and Alfred have a huge rivalry going on. They basically end up forgetting about the game and try to hit each other with the bludgers, if somebody doesn’t remind them that the aim of the game is actually another one. Yet, they both always end up with at least a bloody nose.

Albus Severus Potter

Scorpius Malfoy

6th Year: 

Arthur Kirkland (England): Extremely gifted student. He takes all the most difficult subjects and with never less than an ‘E’, his spells are very strong. He only has some problems with potions. He also has the Sight – basically, no magical creature can make itself invisible to him and he can see through invisibility cloaks and disillusionment charms (with the exception of the Hallow’s cloak, obviously. Matthew is an exception as well because his magic isn’t a physical kind of invisibility, it’s something more like messing with people’s perceptions and mind so they will fail to realize his presence and forget about it immediately after). Seeker in Slytherin’s Quidditch team, and pretty good, too. He’s Alfred and Matthew’s half-brother (same father, but he took his mother’s surname because she’s from an ancient family and wanted her children to carry her surname).

Vlad Popescu (Romania)

7th Year:

Julia “Julchen” Beilschmidt (Nyo!Prussia): Mostly the reason Erzsébet is in trouble. Part (and mind, actually) of the BBT, aka the biggest troublemakers of the school. She has strong magic but she prefers to spend her time coming up with new pranks. To stay true to her image of troublemaker, she pretends that she doesn’t study even if she actually applies herself quite a lot, especially when it comes to practical applications of magic. She’s in strong competition with Erzsébet, they have this frenemies thing going on that is driving all the professors crazy – literally. There’s not a moment of calm when the two of them are involved. The other beater, and the other part of the reason every Slytherin-Gryffindor match turns into a bloody fight.

Hufflepuff

 1st Year: 

Raivis Galante (Latvia)

2nd Year:

Elsa Steinsdóttir (Nyo!Iceland): A very reserved, maybe even aloof girl who doesn’t understand why she’s in her house, in denial about how loyal she is and how much importance she places in her family. She has a talking familiar (Puffin). She has the Sight as well, but it’s quite faint and nowhere near comparable to Arthur’s level.

3rd Year:

Tolys Laurinaitis (Lithuania)

4th Year: 

Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany): Probably the most hard-working student in the entire school, and hell-bent in following the rules, too. Takes difficult subjects and is very good at them. He just needs some extra time to learn his spells (he tends to rely a bit too much on theory and technical execution, not putting himself into it), but when he does they’re perfect. He’s also good with transfiguration. Keeper in the Quidditch team.

Lorcan Scamander

5th Year:

Mei Lin (Taiwan)

6th Year: 

Lovino Vargas (Romano): aka ‘the meanest Hufflepuff ever’, but he’s nice with girls and argues with anybody who doesn’t respect them. He may seem lazy, but actually isn’t – and has a strong sense of duty. Excellent at potions, probably the best student in the school.

Timo Väinämöinen (Finland): Always nice and helpful, no matter what, but strong-willed. Won’t let people put him down. Seeker in the Quidditch team. He has a familiar.

Astrid Oxenstierna (Nyo!Sweden): a silent, broody girl, but she’s actually a softie at heart. And an extremely good tutor – people are intimidated by her at first, but as soon as she starts explaining something they get it without any difficulty. Good grades. Beater in the Quidditch team.

7th Year: 

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo (Spain): He’s extremely nice and helpful, but not without a more mischievous side… He’s part of the BBT, and this tells everything. A genius in herbology, Professor Longbottom’s favourite student. Chaser in the Quidditch team.

Iryna Braginskaya (Ukraine): Nice, motherly girl. Hopes that her siblings can be happy and make friends, everybody loves her because she’s always so helpful. Always around to diffuse tense situations.

Yao Wang (China): He’s basically the school’s mother. He’s very smart and with good grades, but also spends his time taking care of younger students and giving them instructions, as well as ensuring that they follow the rules. Head-boy. 

Ravenclaw

1st Year:

Erika Zwingli (Liechtenstein): One of the sweetest Ravenclaw ever existed, very studious. May seem a bit cold at first because she’s shy, but she’s actually really nice once you get to know her.

2nd Year: 

Eduard Von Bock (Estonia)

Henri Janssens (Luxembourg)

3rd Year:

Sylwia Łukasiewicz (Nyo!Poland): I think she has some sort of peculiar intelligence. A bit like Luna, maybe. (Not so over-the-top, though.)

4th Year: 

Felicia Vargas (Fem!Italy): she’s probably the laziest Ravenclaw to have ever existed – everybody was surprised by her sorting, but she’s way too lazy to be a Hufflepuff. She has, instead, some kind of quirky intelligence – she just ‘gets’ things. While she isn’t very good at subjects that require studying and essays, she’s excellent at the practical part. Her magic is very strong and she’s strongly in tune with it, she can cast any spell without much difficulty. She has also unconsciously learnt some healing magic and can cast wandless spells.

Yong Soo Im (Korea)

Lysander Scamander

5th Year:

Sigrid Bondevik (Nyo!Norway): Silent and aloof, very studious, prefers to stay alone but hell-bent to look after her half-sister, Elsa. She has the Sight, but not as strong as Arthur’s.

6th Year: 

Kiku Honda (Japan): Strong magic, his strong suit are non-verbal incantations. His spells are always very accurate, and he always researches on the dynamic behind them. Somehow, he became one of Felicia’s best friends. He still doesn’t understand how.

Hesper Karpusi (Nyo!Greece): Just as lazy as Felicia, but without her enthusiasm. She sleeps through most of the classes – and still, somehow, manages to turn in long and insightful essays. Not that good at spells, though, since she can’t be bothered to practice. She has somehow managed to smuggle tons of kittens inside Hogwarts.

7th Year: 

Francis Bonnefoy (France): The third member of the BBT. People think he gains his good grades thanks to his charm, but he’s smarter than he lets on, he can always read people and situations perfectly (he’s also quite gifted at legilimency) – and he’s very helpful, too. Just a bit too overdramatic and flirty, which can put people off. He’s Matthew and Alfred’s cousin from the mothers’ side.

Abel Janssens (Netherlands): Has a knack for marketing. Somehow managed to put up a delivery system for illegal goods – anything you may be looking for, he has it. Catcher in the Quidditch team.

Roderich Edelstein (Austria): Head boy. Always sticks to rules, and doesn’t want to get in trouble or be bothered. His cousin Julia takes full advantage of his short temper. Fascinated by muggle music, plays the piano. In spite of being in the last year, he still gets lost every day – every professor knows and the portraits have been alerted so they can guide him to the classroom. If he’s still not there twenty minutes into the lesson, somebody gets sent to fetch him.

Basch Zwingli (Switzerland): He and Erika are Ludwig, Julia and Roderich’s cousins too. Roderich’s and Vash and Erika’s mothers are Ludwig and Julia’s father’s younger sisters.

Then there is also Clarisse Bonnefoy (Monaco), who’s Francis cousin form his father’s side and is at her second year at Beauxbatons, and Jeanne Darc, in the sixth year of the same school.

Jones-Williams Family | Kirkland Family

[fandomlife-giver]

His Maid, Merrymaking: 1

Summary: My young master has been ordered to develop a certain village into a recreational estate for the Queen. Maybe there is something to that nickname of his, "the Queen's guard dog." Perhaps it's truer than I thought. Wag your tail, fetch, good boy.

Next time on Black Maid: "His Maid, Merrymaking." You see, I am simply one hell of a maid.

Pairings: Eventual Sebastian x Demon!reader

@wintersdoll

Warnings: Nudity, death, violence

Word Count: 3192

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4 hours.

4 hours submerged in water, surrounded by darkness and warmth. Your body felt as if it were floating with your arms and legs cold, yet the rest was completely warm.

After the incident with Jack the Ripper and Madam Red's funeral, you have been more distant and cold towards the servants, Sebastian, and Ciel, however you do continue on being one hell of a maid, just one with very little patience.

A knock on the door made your red eyes snap open. You heard the door open, so you rose up from beneath the water with your hair slapping against your back.

You turned to see Sebastian, staring down at you with a smile.

You glared at him. "Is there a reason why you are wasting my time by interrupting me with your presence?"

He chuckled. "What rude language for such a refined and proper lady."

You ran your fingers through your H/C hair, lightly scraping your skin with your sharp nails. "I am no lady and I am certainly not a proper one at that." You said as you stood up and faced him.

As you stood up, Sebastian's eyes raked over your nude body, but he locked eyes with you once you faced him. "I am only another heartless and sadistic demon, serving my master." You coldly stated.

He rose an eyebrow with a smirk. "How curious. You never cease to surprise me, Y/N." He reached behind him and held out a towel to you.

You snatched the towel from him and wrapped it around yourself, before stepping out of the bath. "You still haven't answered me." You said as you walked out of the bathroom and into your room with him following you.

"The young master has called for us." He informed as you removed your towel and wrapped it around your head, walking to your bed that already had your clothes laid out.

"More dreadful, irritating and impossible deeds, I assume?" You inquired as you began to get dressed.

He tilted his head in curiosity at you as you pulled up your stockings and corset. You removed your towel and bent over to dry your hair.

You straightened up and dropped the towel on your bed, before suddenly wincing by the strings of your corset being pulled.

You turned and glared at Sebastian, who only smiled and pulled them tighter.

"This new tone of yours seems to only increase my infatuation of you." He stopped to pull your strings tighter. "However..."

He suddenly grabbed you and turned you around to face him. "Most likely, the young master will not tolerate it, so I recommend you remain neutral in his presence." He stated in a serious tone. "We wouldn't want him to get upset, now would we?" He smiled.

. . .

"A holiday, young master, in this season?" You questioned as you stood next to Sebastian in front of Ciel's desk in his study as Ciel sipped his tea and ate his Charlotte cake.

"Yes, indeed. Tell me, have either of you ever heard of a pastime known as bear-baiting?" Ciel asked as he put down his cup.

You shared a look with Sebastian, then looked back at Ciel. "The notion does sound entertaining, but I'm afraid we've not heard of it. Indulge us, sir?" Sebastian asked.

"A bear is chained to a fence. It is then surrounded by vicious dogs which slowly bite and kill it." Ciel explained.

"That sounds like something that only a human would dream of." You said with a forced smile.

"It was banned back in 1835 when the Cruelty to Animals Act was instated. However, there was still a loophole: the attack dogs they used were not banned. So a new game developed." Ciel stated.

You put a finger under your chin. "They use dogs to attack dogs. Let's see... Would that be 'dog-baiting'?"

"There's a village in which it's quite popular, known as Houndsworth, It has long been known for raising fierce hunting dogs, but they take it further." He said as he took a bite of the pie.

"It breaks her Majesty's heart. So we'll secure the village as land for a royal estate, a simple pretext to end the atrocities." Ciel informed as he sat back in his chair.

"A village full of dogs?" Sebastian asked.

"Yes, why?" Ciel questioned.

"Well, please forgive me, master, this seems a rather insignificant task for one of your station to take on." Sebastian said with his hand across his heart.

"Sebastian." You scolded, making him look at you in surprise. "You should know by now that he has his reasons. This is indeed a task fit for a Phantomhive."

He gave you a look as Ciel smirked.

. . .

"Holiday, holiday, we're going on holiday!" The servants all cheered as they rode in the cart behind the carriage Ciel rode in and you and Sebastian were driving.

"This is so exciting! I can't believe it!" Finny exclaimed in disbelief.

"Spectacular! He's actually bringing us! We get to go on holiday at the Queen's own resort!" Mey-Rin said in excitement.

"Looks like the young master can be quite generous when the spirits move him, eh?" Bard said.

"Mmm-hmm!" They hummed in agreement.

"Do you hear how happy they are?" Sebastian said as he drove. "They're very grateful to you. Such a kind young master." He smiled.

"I couldn't leave them there alone. I might come home to find the manor in shambles." Ciel stated.

"Yes, indeed." You agreed just as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a sign reading 'Welcome to Houndsworth'

"It seems we've arrived at the village, everyone." You announced as you looked back at them.

"All right!" They shouted as they leaned forward, only to scream in horror at the sight of the large, dead tree with dog collars on it and cow skulls surrounding it.

"Oh yes, I forgot to mention something: the resort that the Queen is planning has yet to be constructed." Ciel informed.

"Yes, master." They said with frowns on their faces.

"Ho ho..." Tanaka laughed from the driver's seat of the cart.

. . .

It seemed the deeper you got into Houndsworth, the more foggy it got as the scenery became more and more gloomy and creepy. "Look, somebody actually lives here!" Finny exclaimed as he pointed towards an old woman on the side of the road with a baby stroller.

"Tanaka, stop!" He shouted, which Tanaka did, making Sebastian also stop. "Let me help you, Granny!" Finny jumped out the cart and ran to the woman.

"No, you shouldn't do that, Finny! If you aren't careful, you might hurt the baby!" Mey-Rin warned, but Finny had already lifted up the stroller in the air.

"What did you say?" He asked, before his eyes widened.

"I'm so sorry!" Finny apologized as he put it down.

"Oh, this is awful! Is the baby okay?!" Mey-Rin frantically asked as she and Bard leaned over and looked inside.

Their jaws dropped as they stared at the cow skull that was wrapped in a blanket inside the stroller.

"There is no baby. There is no baby anymore. The child was eaten by it." The old woman muttered, before walking off with the stroller.

♪The white dog is a good dog, a good dog, good. The black dog is a bad dog, a bad dog, bad.  He'll eat your flesh down to the bone, down to the bone♪ She sang as she disappeared into the fog with you all staring after her.

"That's why we're here. Apparently a lot of the villagers have been violently killed or gone missing. The village has shrunk to a third of its size in the last ten years. A part of my task is to find out why, then put an end to the problem." Ciel stated as he looked away while you and Sebastian stared at the fog she had disappeared in.

. . .

Once you all got through the fog and approached the actual town, a large lake came into view with clear blue water, making the servants gasp in awe. "Oi, it's startin' to look like a place we're stayin'!" Bard said with a grin.

. . .

As Sebastian pulled into town and the carriage ran across a bridge, you passed by a man who was training his dog. "Sit." The dog obeyed. "Lie down." It did. "Who's the good boy! My good boy!" He said as he pulled the dog into his arms.

"Oh my! I'd let him pet me, yes I would!" Mey-Rin marveled as she blushed at him.

"He manipulates the creature with rewards and punishments. He commands the mutt's obedience, but the dog isn't blameless either. It fawns on its human, and welcomes the chain around its neck." Sebastian listed as he directed the horses though the town's streets. "I can't understand it."

"If you're trying to get at something deeper, just say it." Ciel said in slight annoyance.

"No, it's nothing of import, my lord." Sebastian reassured, before looking at you.

"Simply that while I love cats..." He began while smirking at you, but you ignored him and look away. "I'm not especially fond of dogs." He said, before turning to look back at Ciel. "To be completely frank, I hate them." He smiled while saying this, making you raise an eyebrow.

Ciel stared at him for a moment. "Woof."

Sebastian's smile dropped as one formed on your face.

"Do you share the same hatred as well, Y/N?" Ciel questioned.

You looked back at him. "Actually, I find them quite interesting."

He rose an eyebrow at you with a smirk. "Funny that you would say that."

"Well, in a way, we are quite alike. Obedient, loyal, as long as we are rewarded, we remain obedient...like a good dog." You stated as you looked back at Sebastian, who focused on the road.

"Besides, like cats, dogs are very lovable and get along much better than you think."

. . .

Sebastian pulled into the path of the mansion you were heading towards and drove to the main entrance just as a woman wearing a purple maid's uniform walked out and stopped on your side as Sebastian stopped.

"I presume this is the Earl of Phantomhive?" She inquired.

You looked down at her. She had short white hair and purple eyes with a sweet smile plastered on her face.

"Yes." You replied.

"Welcome to Barrymore Castle. My master awaits your arrival." She said with a bow.

You and Sebastian stared down at her in slight suspicion while the servants all marveled at how pretty she was.

The one type of person you never trust is someone who is too nice. That, and she seemed familiar to you, somehow.

"Hey..." Bard said with a smirk.

"She's lovely, yes she is!" Mey-Rin exclaimed while Finny only gaped and blushed at her.

You and Sebastian climbed down from the driver's seats. Sebastian went and helped Ciel down while you kept staring at the maid.

She smiled at you again. "Hello, my name is Angela Blanc, I am the head maid here." She said with another bow.

You didn't smile back, but you bowed. "I am Y/N L/N, head maid of the Phantomhive household."

Her smile widened. "Y/N, you have a lovely name and I am glad there will be another head maid here. Things do tend to get very hectic."

You hummed. "I wonder why that is."

The sound of someone clearing their throat made you turn around to see Ciel looking at you with a bored expression. "If you are quite finished, perhaps we can move this along before more time is wasted." He said with a hand on his hip.

"Apologies, young master." You said while bowing your head.

"Unload the cart until we return." Ciel ordered towards the servants, who all nodded.

"Please, if you would follow me." Angela said as she walked in front with Ciel, you and Sebastian following.

You all followed her through the manor, until she stopped in front of a door. "This way." She said as she opened it and allowed you all to enter.

You all stopped inside and looked around the room that had different dog heads mounted on the walls.

You turned your attention to the sound of Angela whimpering. She was on the floor with a man, presumably her master, standing over her and hitting her with a whip. "Who the hell is this Chihuahua?! I told you to bring me the Queen's guard dog when he arrived!" He yelled as he continued to hit her.

"'Chihuahua'...?" You questioned as you looked at Ciel.

"Can't you... do... anything?!" He whipped her with Angela now starting to cry.

"Move, Y/N." Ciel ordered.

Just as he went to hit her again, he was stopped by your hand tightly gripping his wrist. "What are you doing, you filthy Dane?! Somebody should train you better! Let me go right now!"

"She's acting on my orders." Ciel spoke up, making him look at him.

"Who are you?!"

"From the sound of it, you have already received the letter I sent. My name is Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive." Ciel said as Sebastian pulled out a chair and Ciel sat down, resting his arm on the back and twirling his cane.

He pulled himself from your grip with you releasing him with a smile.

"Do you mean to tell me a toy poodle like you is the Queen's emissary?!" He questioned as he rubbed his wrist.

"You don't like small breeds, Lord Henry? Now that's hardly fair." Ciel said with a smirk.

. . .

You and Sebastian stood behind Angela who had wheeled in a cart of tea while Ciel and Lord Henry sat across from each other.

Angela picked up the tea cup with shaky hands as she also picked up the tea pot. Noticing this, Sebastian leaned forward "Please, miss, allow me." He whispered. She handed him the pot and cup and moved aside.

Lord Henry threw down a stack of papers on the table. "There's nothing to discuss. Under no circumstances will I sell Barrymore Castle to anybody." He said while crossing his arms.

"Why is that?" Ciel asked.

"Because of the curse."

"Oh, what curse?" Ciel inquired.

"This village and its dogs have existed for centuries. Anyone who interferes with us will be cursed, in a most horrible way." He stood up and slammed his hands on the table. "Even the Queen cannot lift the curse! Your mission is pointless! Anyone who acts against the wishes of the Barrymore family is destined to meet an unimaginably terrible end!"

Ciel only smiled. "My, how interesting."

"What?!"

Ciel leaned back in his chair. "You've piqued my curiosity. I'd like to see this dreadful curse of yours, Lord Henry." He seemed to growl at Ciel in anger.

. . .

*Later that Night in Ciel's room*

"For the last time, I said no!" Ciel yelled as he tried to focus on reading his book.

"Come now, my lord, don't be so difficult." You said as you stood behind his chair.

He shook his head. "I don't see why it matters so much. It's already late and it's fine the way it is, I don't need it "softly stroked" or whatever it is you said."

"It wouldn't hurt, sir." Sebastian agreed from the other side of the room as he brushed Ciel's clothing for tomorrow.

Ciel sighed in annoyance. "Fine."

You smiled and picked up a brush and ran your hand through Ciel's hair, until a knock came from the door. "Come in." Ciel answered and the door opened to reveal Angela.

"I apologize for calling so late."

"What is that you need? Our young master is about to retire for the evening." You asked.

"I have a request to make. Leave the castle, leave the village completely! You mustn't stay here." She warned.

"Why is that?" Ciel asked, not looking away from his book as you brushed his hair.

"I can't say..." She said, before you suddenly heard a loud howl from outside.

"No! The demon hound! It's coming!" She exclaimed while shaking in fear.

"The what?" Ciel questioned as he stood up. You all turned to see a shadow of a large dog behind the curtain covering the window.

"Y/N!" Ciel yelled, since you were closest. You ran to the window and opened the curtain, but it was gone.

Ciel and Sebastian ran up beside you. "What was that thing?" Ciel questioned.

"Master, look there." Sebastian pointed at a figure of what looked like a glowing animal running in the distance.

. . .

You all went outside and Ciel bent down to inspect the trail of glowing, shimmering tracks. He poked it with his finger and sniffed it with a hum.

"Master! Angela!" You all turned to see the servants, all in pajamas come running outside.

"What's goin' on here?! What's all the fuss about?!" Bard exclaimed as he held his pillow to his chest.

"The demon hound is here." Angela said.

"Demon hound?" They all questioned.

"It brings great catastrophe to the village. Anyone who dares to defy my master will be punished by the demon hound. That's the law here; there is no way to stop it." She stated.

"Angela!" You looked to see a mob of villagers come up. "Please wake Lord Barrymore at once. The demon hound has come again." One of them said.

"Who was the punished one?" She asked.

. . .

They lead you all over to a body of the man you saw training his dog earlier, only now he wasn't so happy.

"How awful." Bard commented as Ciel bent down and examined the body.

"Stand back, don't touch!" Lord Henry yelled as he walked up behind you and looked at the body.

"I see it was James then. He was the bad dog."

"Yes. He broke the legal restriction on dog ownership. He had six dogs, one more than is allowed." One of the villagers informed.

"A sixth dog. Then this was inevitable." He stated.

"That's all you can say?! Really?!" Bard questioned.

"This village is under my rule and no other. The demon hound protects that rule. As the guardian of the Barrymore family, it punishes anyone and everyone who dares to challenge me!"

♪ The white dog is a good dog, a good dog, good. The black dog is a bad dog, a bad dog, bad. He'll eat your flesh down to the bone, down to the bone. He'll gobble you up until you're gone, until you're gone. Lullaby, the sun sets, lullaby and good night ♪ The villagers chanted as they picked up the body and all walked back to town.

"I was sure you outsiders were going to be its next prey...You were lucky to have escaped." Lord Henry said before he and Angela followed after the villagers.

"Well, master?" You asked as you glanced at him. He only watched them leave with a smirk.

[elasticrevenge]

Biography

Series name: DC Comics Canon notes: Post Infinite Crisis Species: Metahuman. History: The daughter of the infamous Madame Rouge, Gemini was deliberately kept at arm’s length in American boarding schools as she grew up, so as to avoid her mother’s frequent brushes with insanity, but also to give her daughter a better life away from the Brotherhood of Evil. Gemini therefore grew up mostly in ignorance about her mother’s criminal activities, an ignorance that was shattered by her mother murder at the hands of Beast Boy. Although Gemini hadn’t seen much of her mother, Laura de Mille had always lavished affection whenever she’d visited and the two had always kept in contact. Gemini therefore felt devastated, a feeling that was compounded when the Brain had Madame Rouge’s body delivered to Gemini along with the explanation of who had killed her. The trauma and raw fury that Gemini felt were enough to cause something to snap inside her, and the powers she had inherited from her mother activated in a much more potent form. Reduced to a shapeless puddle of rubbery protoplasm, Gemini’s whole life collapsed and she suffered a psychotic break that she still hasn’t really recovered from. After several weeks spent trapped as a puddle, unable to process what had happened to her, she was visited by the Brain and Monsieur Mallah and was ‘rescued’ and brought under their tutelage. Gemini spent the next few years training with the Brotherhood of Evil and mastering her powers, becoming one of the most deadly weapons in the Brotherhood’s arsenal. However her desire to take revenge on Garfield Logan lead her into attempt to frame him while he was attempting to revive his acting career in Los Angeles, an attempt that failed with the intervention of Nightwing and Flamebird. Following her failure Gemini returned to the Brotherhood, fighting Batgirl in an attempt to smuggle weapons into Bludhaven and later assisting when the Brotherhood dropped Chemo onto the city, destroying it. Since the events of Infinite Crisis, Gemini has been hiding under an alias while accepting occasional contract work. Personality: Have you ever been given the news that your mother, the only family member you have, has been murdered by one of the so-called good guys? While you were crying your eyes out has your body melted into a mass of goo leaving you deaf, blind and screaming in terror without a mouth to vocalise it? All of these things have happened to Gemini. That trauma changed her from being a normal girl living a happy life with friends and a bright future, to a slightly unhinged sociopath, hell bent on gaining revenge for her mother’s murder. Driven by anger and bitterness and so often sadistic and vicious, Gemini is at heart a lonely young woman, desperately trying to live up to the barbed legacy of her mother Madame Rouge. That desire for revenge has led her down a very dark path, becoming a heartless killer who enjoys taking the lives of others if it will help to ease her inner pain and anguish. Her bitterness is ironically fuelled by the very thing that makes her so proud, her powers. While she views her talents as making her a force to be reckoned with, they have also stripped her of her humanity. She can never take pleasure from the attentions of a handsome man no matter how much her mind wants to because her body will never respond and she knows full well that she is incapable of ever having children. It’s a constant source of despair and frustration and makes it hard for her to form a stable relationship. It took Gemini years to train herself to take a fully human form and by the time she had her teenage years were nearly behind her. Her adult appearance therefore is manufactured from a mixture of old photos and guesswork and is a look she’s very proud of. She quite likes enticing good looking men, although she seldom takes things far considering her physiology, preferring to string them along for her own amusement. Mostly when meeting others, particularly people without powers she maintains an air of aloof superiority. She’s often quite solitary, but if she happens upon someone she’ll entertain herself for a bit trying to manipulate them or pry secrets from them. She might possibly pass herself off as someone else so that she can briefly enjoy healthy emotions and gain a kick out of fooling another. Sympathy and empathy are not strong points, but she is loyal to her friends and is very much out for her own survival. If she thinks someone could be useful to that end or a threat to her, then she might try to charm or ingratiate herself, although she often falls back on intimidation…because really she quite enjoys it. Overall Gemini’s a dark character, prepared to kill casually and inflict pain to get what she wants. But what does she want other than to survive and gain revenge? Living in luxury and getting to do whatever she wants are definitely important, but without a Beast Boy to kill and a legacy to live up to is she just a lost soul with a chance of mending her evil ways? Only time will tell. Abilities: Gemini’s body is made up of a rubber-like protoplasm which lets her change shape into any human animal or object that she desires. While she may look and sound exactly like someone, she does not actually become them as her shapeshifting is purely cosmetic. She may liquefy herself if she wishes, but by far her favourite forms are monstrous creatures taken from her imagination or movies she’s seen. It is possible for Gemini to split herself into multiple forms, but this is something she doesn’t often do, being very taxing on her concentration. The other main application of her powers is stretching. She can extend her limbs or any part of her body to great lengths, often using her elasticity to coil around opponents to subdue them or redirect their own attacks against them. She often attacks from metres away, stretching powerful punches at speeds faster than a bullet. An amorphous being, Gemini is very resistant to injury. Bullets simply bounce off her rubbery body, whilst only the very sharpest blades can pierce her and if they do it won’t hurt her; she can be sliced into a thousand pieces and still pull herself back together with ease. Her principal senses can be enhanced by her to a degree, and she is able to see or hear with whatever part of her body she wishes. Electrical attacks are useless considering that she is made of rubber which is an excellent insulator. Her body doesn’t need food or water or even rest, and because she lacks a brain her mind is hard to access via telepathy. Skills-wise Gemini is skilled in hand to hand combat, often using her elasticity to get past an opponent’s guard. She’s several times stronger than a regular human and almost infinitely flexible, and will use her stretching powers and resilience to overwhelm or simply outlast others in combat. She is a trained spy, assassin and saboteur, but has only been active for a few years and can make mistakes. Gemini is a gifted actress and mimic and is always working on honing her observation skills so she can better impersonate others. Weaknesses: Gemini’s powerset comes with a clear Achilles heel. When rubber is heated it melts, and when it’s cooled it becomes brittle. So blast her with intense heat and she’ll melt into a helpless puddle, expose her to extreme cold and she’ll seize up. The attack must be kept up or she will quickly recover. Hit her with a flamethrower or corrosive chemicals on the other hand and she’ll scream what passes for her lungs out. Those with enhanced senses can often detect Gemini, as although she can fake a heartbeat and raise her body temperature, she cannot hide her scent, the subtle odour of rubber. In terms of character weakness Gemini’s powerful abilities have made her arrogant and over-confident and she can sometimes go into a situation without properly assessing the risks.

[theroseandcrown]

The Rose & Crown: Chapter Twenty-Two (Part Two)

Rating: M Chapters: 22/24

Summary: Quynn discovers the real price she had to pay at the cost of unravelling the truth.

Read this story on another platform: Archive of Our Own Fan Fiction WattPad

New Sparta, Arcadia 3135

The night’s absence of moonlight piercing the darkness foreshadowed the fate of every living soul behind the once impregnable walls of the armoured city. The inevitability of its much-anticipated downfall had become the most sought after achievement of more than a thousand warrior races in its extended history. Though none had ever succeeded. The knowledge of this realm’s often celebrated immortality stretched far beyond the stars, bringing with it significant temptation to those hell-bent on witnessing the fortress’s destruction. Passed down from generation to generation, the tales of its victory told throughout the centuries had become that of legend to the citizens of this metallic kingdom. And yet, like the fall of Troy in the infamous Achaeanian war, it was only a matter of time before the city’s defences had worn thin with age and weakened by the continuous sieges against it. Whether it be due to the hubris of their species or by the will of the Gods, sooner or later all great things must come to an end.

The resonating cacophony of defending gunfire drowned the screams of defenceless women and children fleeing for their lives as their beloved sanctuary burned all around them. The breached city walls groaned and creaked loudly with objection, their integrity now compromised by a force far greater than anything they had ever been met with. Those of the highest-ranking status and stature were shown to be of no greater value than their livestock ripe for the slaughter. Anyone still fighting to stay alive was forced into retreat deep inside the underbelly of the city’s most sacred grounds. As the air grew thick with smoke and ash, the countless pleas for help from those left abandoned on the surface began to die out leaving an eerie quiet in its place.

From the shadows appeared a legendary creature of great power. Her black cloak drifted over the fallen debris like the cold touch of death as she passed. Behind her, a loyal army of ten thousand strong accompanied their commander deep into the ruins of the shattered city. The earth shook beneath their feet as they marched forward. Their ballads of victory stretched far beyond this foreign kingdom bringing horror and despair to the hearts of their enemies.

Approaching from the easternmost section of the city’s central square, a lone scout made his way towards the familiar form of his superior standing before him like a God. “Sir,” he addressed the Raven, bowing respectively.

Turning her attention to the soldier, she glared at him from behind her shaded mask. “Report,” she instructed, her voice feigned and distorted.

The scout cleared his throat and presented a battle-ready server pad containing the data he had gathered of the city’s structures and garrison. “Our artillery was successful in disabling nearly all of their main defences both inside the city and along the perimeter walls. Their remaining forces have retreated just beyond the borders of the capitol building. They’ve taken defensive positions in at least three known locations throughout the city,” he informed her, highlighting specific areas on the map’s interface for her to observe. “It has come to our attention that a large number of their legions have been concentrated in one area in particular,” he continued, enlarging the map to a digital rendering of a massive columned building. “The temple of Hestia. According to our scanners, there’s a series of tunnels running underneath the city that can only be accessed from inside. It has been suggested that they are utilizing the tunnels and crypts to offer sanctuary to the women and children seeking refuge there. We’ve discovered the temple grounds to be heavily armoured and well-defended. Those still fighting to protect it are proving more difficult to eliminate than we originally anticipated.”

“How admirable,” she replied, allowing a small snicker to escape through her mask. “And here I was beginning to think we had come all this way for nothing.” Though pleased at how effortlessly the city seemed to have fallen under her control, she expected to find greater resistance from those who so boastfully claimed to be forged from that of legend. Before their departure, she had become just as well-versed in the tales of triumph told throughout the land as she had of the trials and tribulations of her predecessors. All of which had attempted to take the city by force and failed. Their misfortunes on the battlefield had become quite the tactical advantage when it came to paving the way for her own army’s success. If it hadn’t been for their downfall, this day might have been awarded to another. “Never fear a challenge, my friend. It only makes our victory that much more rewarding in the end.”

“What are your orders, sir?”

Returning her attention towards the direction of the sacred temple, she almost pitied them. Their refusal to accept their place under her command was the sole cause of their demise. And now, as they faced certain death, the only thing they had left to cling to in this world was hope for their species. Where were their Gods now? Where was their heroic knight in shining blue armour so tirelessly determined to set things right in the universe? He had abandoned them. And yet, they would still choose to sacrifice themselves waiting for a coward in a box to save them rather than accept their fate. She felt her face furrow in a sudden fit of resentment and loathing, though she wasn’t entirely certain it was them who were to blame for it. “Obliterate them,” she instructed.

“What of the women and children?” he inquired, holding his intimidation of her at bay.

Taking a moment to consider her answer, she became lost in thought as if she had been pulled into the void of her contemplation. Somewhere deep inside her mind, she felt as though every cell in her body had slowly been poisoned over time ever since the day she first regenerated. Where she once strove to mould and shape the universe by way of order and destruction, a larger part of her could not help but feel her purpose had become monotonous and unfulfilling. There were times when she found herself yearning for something much greater than what she spent her entire life hoping to achieve. This was the only life she had ever known. She had caused more pain and suffering in her lifetime than her memory of it could ever recollect. By her reasoning, it was far too late for her to become anything else. Perhaps the Doctor was right. Perhaps the day would come when the countless number of lives she sought to destroy had finally weighed heavy on her soul. But until that day, there was still an army to command and a war to be won.

“Sir?”

Regaining her mind, she peered at the scout and confidently delivered her answer. “Leave no one alive.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, bowing in compliance.

As the scout took his leave of her presence, she sensed something of a rather unsettling nature beginning to form around her. Something she could not have anticipated. Quynn, a voice suddenly whispered to her with the passing breeze. Her gaze was pulled towards the direction of a large columned structure left modestly unscathed by the surrounding siege. Being drawn to the sound, she removed herself from her stagnant position on the street and made her way towards the building alone. Slowly approaching the colossal entrance, she observed a figure stirring amongst the shadows from within. She paused just outside and listened in for the voice’s return, only to find silence in its place. Perhaps she simply imagined it. Or perhaps it was unworthy of any further investigation on her part. The thought of abandoning her curiosity in favour of the building’s destruction had crossed her mind when the sound of someone’s footsteps was heard originating from somewhere inside. Silently drawing her sidearm, she cautiously stepped foot onto the marble tiles and proceeded into the room on a mission to locate the source.

“I know you’re here,” she called out, her voice echoing back to her from every direction as it reverberated off the walls and high ceilings. Advancing into the uncharted expanse, a long row of variously sized bronze statues depicting the old Gods of Earth could be well observed between every structural pillar on either side of her. Her senses remained on high alert as she made her way deeper into the meticulously designed space. Her tactically trained skills of observation helped her to scan every possible niche and cavity in search of potential threats concealed within. The farther she strode into the unknown, the more she could feel the familiar presence of someone she knew all too well lurking in the shadows as if they were watching her. “There’s no use in hiding. You’ll only prolong the inevitable,” she called again, attempting to lure them out. Beyond the next area, the distinctive sound of footsteps from someone retreating farther into darkness was followed by a series of hushed whispers. “If you think you can save them, you’re too late. You’ve already lost,” she expressed with confidence as she tentatively followed the voices into the adjacent room. In the centre of the columned chamber sat several long tables between accompanying rows of hand-crafted wooden chairs. A dining hall perhaps.

A rustling noise from somewhere beside her drew her glance towards the dark spaces of the room. Her eyes observed the silhouette of someone quickly passing behind the columns. She caught a glimpse of crimson red shining brightly from the lining of their coat as the light welcomed it. “Come out and face me, Doctor,” she called to him malevolently, slowly stalking towards the shadows as if hunting her prey. Another noise from the opposite side of the dining hall claimed her attention. Her pace quickened as she strode across it towards the sound. Just before reaching another doorway, she stopped in her tracks. From the shadowy centre of the next room stood the familiar form of a man. His hands were tucked into his pockets. His face was shrouded in darkness, but she knew it was him. Though she couldn’t see his face, she was sure he was smiling at her. Raising her sidearm, she aimed it at his hearts with the determination that this time she would not miss. Her finger upon the trigger, she observed as he stepped forward into the light and looked at her with his piercing green eyes. An eerie silence fell between them as they stared at each other. In her hesitation, he turned and headed out of sight towards the other side of the room before she could fire. “Stop!” she commanded, rushing weapon first through the doorway after him. As she entered what appeared to be a small kitchen, she was prepared to find him waiting for her just inside. But what she discovered there was not what she expected as her eyes met with the frightened faces of a mother and her young boy cowering in the corner against a solid wall. In her arms, she held a newborn baby girl close to her chest. Quynn stared at them in disbelief as it suddenly dawned on her that there were no other doors aside from the one she had come through, making these creatures the only other life forms in the room. Bewildered by the sight of them, she took aim. The mother softly pleaded for their lives and held her children tightly. As Quynn attempted to grasp what was happening to her, her glance lowered towards the small baby.

She’s beautiful, isn’t she, the Doctor’s voice whispered as if it were calling to her from every wall and corner of the room. She quickly spun around and aimed her weapon towards the shadows, only to find them vacant of any life. She felt her hearts beat even faster at the sudden disturbance, becoming frightened by her mind’s apparent rejection of all reason. The sound of her accelerated breathing resonated from inside her mask as she continued to search for him. Her thoughts began to betray her the more she tried to convince herself that this was all an illusion, just a trap masterfully designed by him to weaken her defences. And yet, what if it wasn’t? What if it was far worse than that? Her story has yet to be written, he spoke softly from behind her. She turned around towards the source, her weapon aiming blindly into the darkness surrounding her. The sound of the infant’s whimpering forced Quynn’s attention to the family cowering before her. Her weapon instinctively drew itself towards the terrified faces staring up at her. Her gaze returned to the small girl being protectively cradled in her mother’s arms. She can grow up to be anything she wants to be, he called again, this time from the centre of her mind. His words were so very clear and possessing, it was as if she had spoken them herself. She glanced at the young boy. The sight of his tears triggered her memory of the child lost within the sea of screaming faces as he cried out for his mother. The image of his city burning all around him had stained itself in her memory ever since the Doctor gained access to her thoughts. Whatever he’d done to her, it was clear that no matter how strong she had become, no matter how many people had fallen for her to succeed, there was no army in the universe large enough to defeat him in the battle against her mind. He knew exactly what he was doing.

An explosion originating from somewhere in the city caused the building to creak and groan, suddenly breaking her of her trance. The sound of the walls shedding centuries worth of dust and sand between its cracks was heard hitting the floor as the structure became increasingly unstable. From somewhere within the boundaries of the massive building, she could hear the faint voices of her soldiers making their way inside. Their footsteps drew closer to her location. It was only a matter of time before they were inevitably discovered. Her weapon trembling in her grasp, she lowered her arm and allowed it to fall to her side. Taking one last look at the faces of her enemies, she inhaled a deep breath and offered them the single most important advice they would ever hear. “Run.”

Making the solitary journey back to her ship through the mass of decaying bodies, she finally arrived at the base camp just outside the city’s outer defences. She hadn’t even remembered leaving. All she could think about was getting as far away from that place as possible. Once on board, she made her way down the corridors in silence. The doors to her battle-room opened as she approached. Inside she discovered several of her lieutenants hovered over data schematics and tactical protocols. Their heads raised at her entrance.

“Leave me,” she instructed, her demeanour fierce and threatening.

“Sir?” one of the soldiers asked, confused by the sudden interruption of her presence in the room.

“I SAID LEAVE ME!” she screamed, removing her sidearm to point it  at the next highest-ranking soldier in the room.

Without further argument, the soldiers gathered up their materials as quickly as they could and made their way towards the exit. She found herself now completely alone within the confines of her battle-room. Replacing her weapon at her side, she removed her gloves and placed them on the console table in front of her. Lowering her hood, she unfastened the cloak from her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the ground behind her. She raised her hands to her head and removed the mask from her face before clipping it to her hip. As she did, her mind was suddenly flooded with the screams of her victims as if they cried out all at once. She grasped the sides of her head as their voices pulsated through her mind and shattered her from the inside. The returned visions of their horrific deaths were so powerful, she screamed in agony in an attempt to make them desist. She felt her nails tearing at her flesh as she tried to escape from them. The thought of killing herself just to end her pain had entered her mind when the voices suddenly stopped. She gasped for breath and braced herself against the surface of the table as her mind began to reset itself. No matter how hard she tried to deny it, she knew this was the price she had been forced to pay at the cost of uncovering the truth. As the Doctor’s confession filtered into her thoughts, her reflection continued to stare back at her.

Returning to her natural stance, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the device he had gifted her so many years ago. Having kept it with her all this time, its purpose remained a mystery ever since the day she could last recall being in his presence. So small a thing, she thought. And yet, important enough to have risked his life just to give it to her. When you’re ready to know the real truth, you’ll know what to do with it, his voice echoed into her thoughts once more. Twirling it around in her hand, she noticed the green light lit up on one side remained unchanged since last she saw it. Examining it more closely, she discovered a small round opening located at either end. A charging port or data link perhaps? She instinctively slid her finger over the opening as if searching for a clue to its meaning. Before she could question its purpose any further, she was suddenly startled by something sharp piercing her finger. She winced aloud at the pain, allowing the device to fall from her grasp onto the console table. A pool of blood began to form at her fingertip. A few seconds later, another green light appeared atop the device opposite the first. Without warning, the table’s view-screen flickered and switched on as all of its internal systems fully activated to the technology being presented. Scanning the device, the interface quickly began to download the stored data onto its memory drive. Her attention shifted to the console as the words download complete flashed upon the screen. Though afraid of what she would discover once she chose to follow the path of uncertainty in search of answers, deep down, she already knew what she would find. She could not turn back now. After a brief hesitation, she opened the file and expanded its contents to display in the form of a holographic projection in front of her. The image revealed two separate yet nearly identical triple helix DNA strands, both originating from the same source. The readings indicated that the first blood sample had been procured from that of a half-human female, extracted on the very same day that Quynn had last seen the Doctor. The second more concerning sample was her own. The scan showed the same blood type and species as the first with only one noticeable difference. Of the two specimens, only one of them had gone through a complete cellular regeneration.

Quynn leaned against the table and hung her head in deepened contemplation. After all this time, the truth had finally been revealed. The thoughts tearing through her mind were so vastly overwhelming that she found herself laughing aloud with spiteful cynicism, her voice striking the walls of the ship with ferocity. Taking a moment to compose herself, she lifted her head and returned her attention towards the image floating before her. As the devastating truth about her existence began to set in, she could feel her fury forged from the fires of her mother’s betrayal rising from within her. She clenched her fist in a fit of anger and slammed it upon the table, shattering the glass beneath it. As her hatred began to boil and fester, she knew there was only one thing left for her to do.

[raeliyah]

Quickburn

A thing I might finish. 

Caleb’s exaltation story - what he remembers, and what he doesn’t. Why would the gift of Sol Invictus drive a man to ride the pale horse - to suicide? Caleb’s always known that power comes with a price. He didn’t want to pay this one. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Bzzz….

A horsefly landed on his hand.

He stared at it, uncomprehending. The creature rubbed its legs together, the bristly hairs making tiny scritching sounds over its shiny green carapace. It cast long spindly shadows over his skin as it skittered up the red-washed length of his arm, undaunted by the heat.

Bzzz…

The horsefly buzzed away and circled back, landing on his wrist with a flick of surprisingly delicate wings. He stared at them, tracing the veins through the translucent membranes. Everything else seemed trifling to the point he didn’t even bother to note it - the rank stench in the air, the scorch on the wood steps on either side of him, the numbness of his rump.

The horsefly bit him.

Caleb came back to himself with a yell. He jumped to his feet, shaking his arm to dislodge the vicious creature, and nearly fell down the temple steps he’d been sitting on. He stood there for a moment after it had gone, panting, taking stock. Last he remembered was riding into his hometown with his gang at his back and the promise of a fight before them.

And a fight he’d had, judging from the state of his hands. He peeled blood-glued fingers off one by one from a flame piece he’d been holding so tightly the etchings on the grip were pressed into his skin. It wasn’t his. Wasn’t one of his gang’s either.

His knuckles were scraped and bloody - that made sense. Caleb always preferred using his fists - a brawler, not a swordsman or a gunslinger. His arms were covered in gore, all the way up to his rolled shirtsleeves. He couldn’t tell if it was his, or someone else’s. He didn’t feel hurt - tired, certain, and his skin was tight in places he knew would be burning later. But not injured, really.

Made no sense. Caleb scrubbed at his head, realized even his hair was sticky with… foulness. What in the hell kind of fight had he been in? He’d rode into town on the first few rays of the dawn, and the sun was sinking now, coloring the landscape the same as the blood on his hands.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound, a background constant, finally penetrated through to his wits. Caleb turned. Shit.

Bent backwards over the stone plinth before the temple was the ruin of a man. It was his blood, dripping off the broken curve of his skull and puddling into the pale dust of the square, had been making the sound. The corpse was clothed in fine silks and an overabundance of gaudy, expensive jewelry - the kind someone wore with no taste but for impressing and intimidating folk with wealth. The barrel of another flame piece, a brother to the one Caleb now threw at the ground before the corpse, rose from the body’s wrecked face. The butt had been smashed clear through the bone, over and over.

Mezir. So he’d done it then. Killed the bastard.

Caleb turned away and retched.

Nothing but bile came up. Once the spasms in his throat stilled and he climbed back to his feet, Caleb stared at the place where the body lay. Mezir’d had the blood of the dragons and Hesiesh’s fire marked the place. Scorch marks patterned the dirt, the rock, the steps of the temple - everywhere within ten long paces of the body. Smoke rose from the town beyond, and there were still fires burning within the temple itself. Mezir had not gone down quietly, to all appearances.

Caleb left the body behind and started walking.

“Baz? Han? Fellas? ...Anyone around?”

🔆 Eighteen Hours Earlier...🔆

The Rattlegorge gang made no secret of their entrance into Clearstone, galloping in amidst whoops and hollers. Behind the last rank of them dragged the corpses of Mezir’s sentries, bouncing on ropes tied to saddle bows.

Caleb led the gang, two score strong, wheeling and skidding to a halt in the first square just past the outermost buildings of town. He pulled his flashy little paint mare to a stop and hopped up to stand on her saddle, feet braced, and looked over his posse with pride. Rattlegorge was a good gang. Strong, well-armed, loyal - and smart.  He’d led them through some slim times, and they came out the other side richer for it. Caleb reveled in it, in their trust in him.

“String ‘em up, boys!” Caleb hollered. Ropes arced upwards, snagging on lamp posts and Mezir’s sentries swiftly followed, swaying ominously over the main street. The gang jeered at them, throwing handfuls of gravel and salt. Caleb had to yell over them to be heard.

“Awright! Awright! Y’all know why we’re here. I ain’t gonna belabor the point--” He whirled his mount, staying upright through the mare’s dancing, and pointed at one of the strung-up sentries where a dagger clearly protruded from the corpse’s chest. Laughter rippled through his gang. “Stick close, aye, an’ lissen to what I say, an’ we’ll all get through this a damn sight richer!”

The boys cheered again, loud and raucous and fit to scare demons back to Malfeas with the sound of it. Caleb dropped back into his mare’s saddle, ignoring the usual way she laid her ears back and danced at the theatrics, and waved to his seconds. “Han. Take your boys and go roof walking. See what we got. Baz, you and Granite and Tasso and sweep the area. Get the women and the kids out if they ain’t already - they got no place here today.”

Baz whistled an affirmative and ambled off, tapping Joyous Granite and Tasso as he passed. The three of them were some of the scariest men Caleb had ever met. Baz and Granite were mountains of muscled flesh, and Tasso an Immaculate-trained martial artist. And yet they were, all three, some of the gentlest souls he’d ever known, too. None of them wanted to fight, poets and scholars’ hearts the lot of them. No one ever told them no when Caleb sent them to “explain” something, and they much preferred explaining to beating in heads. They’d have any noncombatants cleared in minutes.

Han, on the other hand. Han and his small group were a mite different from regular folks, but Han had been his right-hand since Caleb broke him free from Gem’s gaol and a death sentence a number of years ago. Caleb had an inkling they’d been child-slaves trained as assassins, or worse, but he’d never pried. Han saluted him with a crisp, “Yessir,” and left, vanishing over the rooftops with his men.

“An’ the rest of us, boss?” Shade came up beside him, reining in her little grey.

“The rest of y’all come with me. We’re gonna say hello to my Ma.”

...to be continued...

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was GABRIEL, an ANGEL loyal to the cause of the ANGELS. He is said to be IMMORTAL and uses HE/HIM pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as THE SUN. Blessed be his name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

When the Holy Land was instituted and claimed in the promise of sanctuary for mortals, demons, and angels alike it was clear that they trusted in Gabriel to don the responsibilities and title of The Sun. Michael was perhaps the most vocal in his support, likely due to the leverage that he thought would be offered to him if someone so close to him were to be in such an influential position. That has not been the case, as Gabriel keeps his intentions rather close to his chest, illuminating his intentions to the Moon and the Stars of the Tridium. Much of his time is devoted to helping his brothers-in-arms or those undergoing great suffering, particularly on the battlefield, so that they might ease into death’s awaiting arms. No one has witnessed the darker aspects of his ability, which is to render them completely incapable of their senses; no longer can they see, hear, or taste -- the faculties that they once had are no longer their own, but Gabriel’s. It is something he deliberately chooses not to wield, having only utilized it for those awaiting execution, moments before their death. There are those who wonder if he even has abilities granted to him at all. But Gabriel does not much mind the rumors that mill about, let them wonder at his power -- or lack thereof. He, and he alone, is the one that wields it.

THE HISTORY.

What was God thinking -- creating an angel filled with such irreparable longing? Perhaps longing was too kind of a word, too soft at its edges and too warm at its core. If Gabriel were to sit and think, which he was rarely idle enough to do, then he might admit to himself that it was hunger that he was suffused with. Not a hunger that was ever meant to condemn him to hell, as some of his lesser brethren were, but a hunger to protect the innocent that God seemed content to let wallow and suffer. It was what stripped the tenderness that was once shining in his eyes, the revelation that such unnecessary suffering and punishment was meant to be doled out to the sinners and saints alike. Being the herald of God, he was able to traipse across the earth, unfettered by the constrictions of heaven - was able to bask in the liveliness that the mortals were known for and witness, with keen interest, the way that they slid into sin’s suffocating embrace. The more time he spent with God’s creations of flesh and bone, the more palpable he began to feel the hunger, until he tasted its bitter tinge on his tongue. A hunger for justice to be given to the mortals who knew not the mysterious workings of God, who only knew to follow the tenets that Gabriel himself heralded on blind faith and infrequent miracles. Why, father, fill me with such hunger and let it burden me with anguish and discontent? He asked God upon one of his returns, the world burning beneath them. Because, my son, he answered wearily, it is only with an insatiable hunger that one would want to protect the children that I created, no matter their misdeeds. 

And with that answer, he made peace with his perpetual hunger, knowing that with it he might defend and protect those mortals that were deserving and undeserving of a champion such as he. It was with an almost manic tirelessness that he sought to defend the mortals whenever their necessity came into question. It was he who convinced God to save Noah when the great deluge swept across the earth, it was he who wept for the souls that were lost and punished time and time again - in the great land of Egypt when they refused to listen to Moses, in Sodom and Gomorrah when they were seen as irredeemable. But still, his hunger riled and rallied him to take up his arms in their name, not in God’s, time and time again. As he wandered the earth, taking their prayers and petitions with him whenever he would be called back to the kingdom of Heaven, creating for himself a number of personas that might let him tie his heart to theirs, might let them feel and think as they did. It was not long before it reached heaven that an angel walked among the mortals, that they had learned to love him and revered him as nothing less than a saint. A saint with a shrewd tongue, a sharp wit, and an innate inability to enthrall all those who encountered him that liked to play mortals’ hearts like a harpsichord -- merely to have them as enraptured with him as he was with them -- but a saint nonetheless. 

And God did not like to have one of His sons revered more so than he. It was difficult to ignore the way that they spoke of Gabriel -- with such warmth and ardor, as though he was the one to thank for the blessings and protections that were bestowed upon them. Gabriel did not think much of it, and was skeptical of the glint that seemed to creep into his Father’s eyes whenever they would thank him for his deeds. He was fulfilling the duty that he was given since his inception, was he not? Was he not doing as was expected, honing his hunger into a shield so that the mortals might join them in the great kingdom that had been created? His trust in the sanity of God was his folly, and his faith in his Father became the shackles by which he was imprisoned. It was his own siblings that grabbed him by the wrists and tore off his wings to keep him from descending to the earth again. They dragged his limp body and threw him into the farthest corner of heaven, hoping that God might forget about his transgressions and punish him no further. The celestial army could not afford to lose another brother to God’s wrath -- especially not one that was as beloved as Gabriel. And so he let his anguish overcome him, let the numbness of defeat sweep over his torn frame, but still on his lips was a prayer of forgiveness, not for himself but for the innocent mortals that were still able to recall his name. 

And when his prayers were answered in the form of Michael, he was ready; his brother-in-arms shoving a blade into his hand, the word retribution on his lips -- a rallying war-cry for an angel that has perpetually hungered for it. Though his wings were torn and bloodied, though he knew he would have to slay his own brethren, nothing would stop him from gripping God by the throat and ripping him from his throne. And nothing did. When the world was remade, Gabriel sought to make it better than the world that had been smothered in God’s fist, there would no longer be the divisiveness between mortal and immortal, the world might know a semblance of peace -- though there was no doubting that many would have to die and bleed for it still. But in the newness of this world there was hope to be fostered and still innocents that needed those who were stronger - who remembered the cruelty of the Old World - to shield them from the onslaught of those who sought to take advantage of the weaker. But, even as he bent his knee and bowed his head to receive the title of The Sun of the Holy Land, he knew without a doubt that he would not be so blind as to allow those who wielded absolute power to dictate the whims of his heart again. The worst deeds mortals had committed against one another that he had borne witness to were done in God’s name, they could just as easily be done in Michael’s; he was no longer the naive little angel that once had shone so brightly in his eyes. God had made an irreparable mistake when he created Gabriel with that abyss of hunger for righteousness -- not a single creature could strike down an innocent before him, and hope to live another day.

THE CONNECTIONS.

MICHAEL & RAPHAEL: The Archangels. They were known as the three Archangels in the old world - famed and venerated. A soldier, a messenger, and a healer. They are brothers in every sense of the word: bickering over the smallest of things, needling one another, but loving one another all the same. Though, as of late, Gabriel has noted a rift between them, the root of it lies within their differing loyalties -- Gabriel’s in particular, being the most outspoken of them all in his determination to ensure the sanctity of the Holy Land. Perhaps chasm is a more accurate word to describe it than rift. Before, their arguments would end in jest, but now Gabriel can only ruminate on the biting words that seem to dig deeper each time they do anything other than recall their days of glory and revelry. What causes an ache in him is the fact that, since the dawn of time, they have been at one another’s side - have been the wards against his own weaknesses. In truth, though, he is excited to know what it is like to be completely and utterly free. 

REVNA VOLK: Reprieve. When one has lived through as many ages as Gabriel, one grows used to the weariness of the world -- novelty becoming a far-off idea, growing more and more distant with each passing year. Imagine, then, how utterly beguiled he was by the mortal that could weave everything she dreamed of within little more than a careful pull of her fingers, an artful arch of her brow. Whenever he has had the pleasure of her company, he has always been allowed another glimpse into the gears and cogs of her mind. Sometimes it is in an enjoyable silence that they indulge one another, other times it is only when he has carefully baited her into an argument that always leaves him grinning. There are times, though, when he finds the moon high and stars bright, that he wonders whether the moments that they have with one another -- in the quiet of one another’s company -- is something to be ashamed of. Whether he has fallen under an enthrallment that renders him incapable of seeing another other than the novelty of their connection. Everyone vies for the benevolence of The Sun, why should she be any different? 

MAMMON: Abyss. There is little in the world that unnerves Gabriel -- he has seen too much of its darkest corners to not arm himself against it. He had thought himself thoroughly prepared to look chaos itself in the eyes until he encountered them. Their gaze slides over him, assessing every weakness that he has seen within himself, and going even further to look into those flaws that he dare not see. When they enter the Holy Land, it is as though a shadow falls over it -- or perhaps the shadow falls over Gabriel and Gabriel alone. He has spent so long cultivating creation, being the harbinger of it, that the notion of living without strikes terror into the very core of his angelic soul. Mammon is nothing more than an empty hunger whose existence only serves as a reminder of the parasitic sickness that stains the world they have bled to protect. Who would miss a creature that has nothing to offer, save leaching from the universe all the color to be found within the world? 

RAHMIEL: Agent. Within the pearly gates of heaven, not many had taken note of the friendship that had been fostered between Rahmiel and Gabriel. The two of them had been rather intrigued by the indulgences that humanity had taken for themselves, and had thought to mirror it within the serene kingdom. Upon that penchant for mischief they had built with one another a partnership that has lasted the test of differing loyalties and the overthrowing of monarchies that were thought to be eternal. Rahmiel had resigned himself to the notion of solitude, being God’s confidante and scribe, and yet within Gabriel he had found kinship -- and within Rahmiel he has found a wealth of knowledge that seeks refinement and utilization. Since his ascension to the throne of The Sun, Rahmiel has offered to be Gabriel’s eyes where they can no longer reach, to armor him with intelligence so that he might do as he swore when he shouldered the burden of power. What greater power can one have, than being able to have eyes within the darkest corners of the kingdom?

Gabriel is portrayed by Marlon Teixeira and was written by ROSEY. He is currently TAKEN by CLAUDIA.