#and then they open their maw and humans are like 'hot damn that's horrifying <:)'< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[krysmcscience]

There are different variants of impostors in Breach, so here's the four out of ten I've actually designed, LMAO

Human variant - Humans are the only sapient hosts outside their own species that impostors have used. Humans don't much care for it. :) (Pictured human variant: Daniel "Ghost" Fulton, lead infiltrator of the First Vessel.)

Stalker variant - Humans call them dragons, because of course they do. Stalkers are stealthy bastards, which sometimes lets them eat inattentive impostors, so obviously they are also the impostors' favorite choice for hosts. (Pictured stalker variant: Red's layer)

Base variant - The original, all-natural impostor form, and what other variants look like in their larval states before they molt into their variant proper. Base variants are born from sick or older impostors who want to contribute to the next generation before they die. They can be just about any color, which is determined somewhat by genetics, but mostly by their host's diet, environment, stress levels, and general temperament, as well as the degree of care with which the host is prepared and tended up until the birth. (Pictured base variant: the Grand Elder)

Swiper variant - Little thievery bois that humans insist look like some kind of fucked up deer that fused with a raccoon and then learned how to skitter around like a lizard. Impostors like to eat swipers more than use them for hosts, but they're fast and flexible, so they'll do in a pinch. (Pictured swiper variant: Shio's sibling, and only other surviving clan member.)

sometimes it's kind of inconvenient that impostors don't typically bother with names

The maw, tendrils, and slit pupils are all purely impostor traits, and can be masked to blend in properly with the variant species. Most of their preferred hosts have claws and sharp fangs, save for in the case of humans, in which case those traits can also be masked.

Technically the human variant tendrils reach down to the floor, but I got lazy here, lol.

And now, some more aliens:

Save for the last alien, which is Brand Spankin' New, these species show up in basically all of my stories, and Breach is no exception. They'll likely only be referenced, though, because otherwise I will probably get very easily distracted. It tends to happen. Anyway, here's the deets:

Krylochan - Symbiotic plant species in empty husk bodies cloned from a favored host species (my art does not show specifics because it’s a pain, but their ‘hair’ is more of a thin, straw-like fringe – the main sign of being fully combined with a Krylochan). They have very powerful psionics, and used to be very warlike, as well as far more parasitic than symbiotic, but they're starting to chill out a bit due to social pressures from other alien species. (Pictured Krylochan: Salim Yveri.)

Elmaatian - Tribal species of furries who learned to use the energy of the universe to traverse the stars, without any tech whatsoever. They like to meet new people and experience new things (not so much *learn* – just experience). Though they give off a very chill, peaceable vibe, they know their way around a fight and can wreck your shit in a heartbeat. :) (This species was derived from a creation of @pigeonfeather - go check their stuff out, they are Neat) (Pictured Elmaatian: Rensi of Ezeralt)

Mottimite - Goofy spider folks who love tech and trading, but will often make what other species view as garbage trades. As in, top of the line tech for literal dirt, because look, they don’t need the tech at the moment, but they definitely need that dirt right hekkin’ now. Very fun to hang out with, if you can keep up with their jargon and how ridiculously fast they talk. (Pictured Mottimite: Trivitt'k)

Ascenti - Centaur-like species who maintain galactic peace through incredible diplomatic skill and a vast library of information. Unfortunately they have found humans to be Very Resistant to listening in...specific instances (re: impostors). Ascenti have creepy fucked up limbs they can shift in basically any direction - they think it's graceful and elegant, which is Very Important to them, but it mostly just skeeves everyone else out. (Pictured Ascenti: Orator "Pex" Mitarussi)

For reference, humans are the same general size as Elmaatians. So Mottimites are kinda shrimpy, Krylochans are kinda big, and Ascenti are Fukken Hyuge

There's also the Conduits, which are not a single species, but rather single chosen individuals from just about every species in the universe; so, technically, the individuals above could also be Conduits (they're not, tho). The Conduits carry and can use a strangely large share of energy from Creation, who (perhaps obviously) created the universe, and who is otherwise presently inert for reasons They never bothered to share with anyone, much less properly explain. Also strangely, but perhaps fittingly, all Conduits seem to share the exact same mindset despite their many differences, and tend to hang back from the various goings-on in society. Here's a couple Actual Conduits:

One of these Conduits is very much not like the others, but I won't say which one or why~ ;)

Pictured from left to right: Skuveis, Ushul, Dratheia, and "Gazer"

In other news, I am so so SO fucking close to escaping this shithole town. Maybe one or two more weeks and then the moving and trailer conversion process can get started...!

[scarletooyoroi]

Strange.

In a moment like now, of all times, weightlessness captures him despite his mind tucked into the folds of rest, a sweet brand of darkness, familiar and kind welcoming him.

What captures the 'strange' in such a moment however is just how aware he is of such a state. Unconsciousness, for all its wonders, didn't normally build such a bridge for him. It would be this very awareness that compels his eyes to open, to welcome sights and scenery that are normally tucked into the deepest pits of legends and the unknown. For when the great, boundless Sky parades above, ivory spires following in their wake, helplessly reaching to that impossible horizon better known as the heavens.

A roaring stir within his heart, the burning ferocity tucked within his memory made manifest, the sensation of flawless brickwork beneath him instantly causes the warrior of flame to jolt up into a sitting position. The emotions that swam within him in this moment couldn't be easily discerned as an idle glance is cast upon the rolling waves of clothes down below..

Up to the intricate towers embellished with gold that radiates power. An endless, horrifying scale of power that finds itself cast free from any chains better known as time.

For someone who found their being within that river that holds calamity and harmony alike, this stillness is truly what gets to him as he rises to his feet. Surrounding him feels less like the tethered unity of the elements and.. a being, a scale of a living lifeform that holds magnitudes above the scale of natural disaster. No matter how much his steps guide him across this network of mysterious constructs, leading him deeper into the abyss of endless blue.

Celestia.

For an odd reason, that voice finds itself echoing within his mind in the form of a sharp hiss. It briefly stuns the Inazuman better known as Thoma, causing his body to instinctively tense..

As if he's entirely aware that this realm garnered some branch of friction with him.

"...Just who's there?"

A question so drenched in humanity, of that latent, boundless curiosity that is at the very fault of wisdom itself.

For an instant he could feel this whole realm tremor with a latent branch of distaste. A sensation so palpable, one that thrives in burrowing into flesh and blood as if material concepts of a toy, it immediately causes the divine flames from his Vision to flare up, a vigil sign of light that sparks rebellion within the heavens.

Within that following moment, hell finds itself wrenching free from the depths of his very utopia. Just trying to peer ahead towards the thin slitted line that crinkles and edges open upon reality itself, more like a gaping mouth that wrenched itself free from a binding, the yawning void within, etched with bloodied darkness, scarlet and black, roars with life as a furious stir of winds begin to shake the surroundings.

Proud towers are sent flying, the ground ahead of him hissing with fissures of dust while the constructs themselves whine in protest, leading to a rush of the ivory bridge being ripped asunder as if it were hot knives through butter.

Thoma decides to advance against this very storm. There.

Solidifying himself with the firm defense of his shieldcraft, the staff of burning purity better known as Homa is drawn into his grip, twisted and held firm as he launches ahead in a broad jump. Even with nothingness above and below, he'd brave the conditions, facing that boundless void that managed to tear into a wider maw, exhaling more of those corrosive winds that damned any and all who bore the fate of Time.

Each firm leap against the flying debris was intention and true, only leading him closer to his foe, a mysterious force that caused his vision to blur, for his eyes to nearly boil within his skull as his perception could only discern so much, the flame forged to protect snarled bravely within his chest, knowing without a single doubt in his mind.. In his Heart of Hearts.

Whatever this veritable Hell was, it had to be stopped.

"If that's your only answer--!" His words began, only to find themselves being stiffly paused as if an invisible force encroached upon him, weighing a hellish burden upon muscle and sinew as everything, including himself comes to a pause leads to the oddest anomaly by far as the unknown being managed to tear itself free from that void, seething in a scale of agonies that could easily induce madness a thousand times over.

Before a single word could be spared, before any glance beyond that streak of ivory hair stirred before his eye sight..

He awakes with a start.

Each breath is pained, heavy and ushering out a thick coat of steam with every exertion. His death grip upon the bedding below had been sparked aflame, that very authority that knew better than to senselessly abide by the natural function to render any and all to ash outside of those who basks within its warmth. Even as tinges of sweat drifted down his now slicked shirt, even bits of that moisture found itself fizzling to more of the smoky shroud.

Questions, there were too many questions that actively ran within his mind. ..For a dream, it certainly felt on a similar scale compared too..

....

"Just what was...?"

[zerokogane]

I need to scream about certain fics so here are some of my favorite persona 5 fanfics (be warned most of these of not all are going to be shuake and ongoing)

Pt 2 https://zerokogane.tumblr.com/post/652917516478349312/lappel-du-vide-xov-persona-5-archive-of-our

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995579

Ongoing, shuake, rated M, 300k+

Description:

What do you mean?” Ryuji tilted his head.

“It’s called Just Die. It reduces the SP needed for Insta kill skills like Mudoon or 'Please Die for Me' to zero.”

Ryuji and Ann blinked and blinked again trying to figure out what Morgana is trying to say. He watched as the gears churn in their head and they come to an epiphany, their faces growing horrified at the implications.

“Wait, you are saying. Joker can insta-kill literally everything in this palace. WITHOUT using SP at all?!” Ryuji clarified in astonishment because there is no way there isn’t a catch to this. “Without repercussion?!”

“Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.”

Or the NG+ au where Akira knows more than he lets on, the Phantom Thieves start to suspect one of their own, and Akechi is in for a wild ride.

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767610

Series 6/7 completed, no ships, ratings vary per part. 700k+(all 7 parts)

Discerption or first part in series :Forewarned

When Akira Kurusu is ten years old, his parents die in an accident.

One year later, he comes to Inaba. He doesn't expect to find family there, and he doesn't expect to find a hidden world of monsters inside the TV.

He finds both.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21227510

Shuake, ongoing, rated T, 300k+

Discerption:

In the Present...

...Akira and Goro are the famed Detective Princes of Tokyo! They've solved countless crimes and brought justice across the city, gaining allies and confidants wherever they've roamed! As election season approaches in the distance, and ominous warnings are whispered into their ears, will they be able to weather the storm to come?

In the Past...

...two young boys, abandoned by society and family alike, find each other. Will they be able to handle everything else they find, in the years to come?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989186

No ships, ongoing, rated T, crossover with bnha(sorta ? jokers in their universe but he doesn’t know why ) 280k+

Discerption:

“Foolish mortals!” Yaldabaoth’s shadow fell over them like a death shroud, “The sin of rebelling against a god is severe. As punishment, I banish you to other worlds unknown!”

Something changed in the air, like the snap charge of electricity after a thunder strike. No, this was more than that. The world shifted and changed and contorted, the weave of fate was unnaturally pulled by the God Of Control, creating fractals in the flow of time and space.

Joker’s teammates gasped as bizarre, otherworldly doors came into existence.

One, a pair of silver doors with alien markings, cracked open just a hair to reveal a large, terrifying eye. Another, a glowing paper door that would be at home in any vintage Japanese mansion. The third, a grand golden gate decorated with eyes and horned demons, bubbling black sludge dripped from its maw like tar. The final one was a fluctuating cloud of purple and black mist.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656152

Shuake, ongoing, rated T, 250k+

Discerption:

From a young age, Akechi Goro was forced to accept that life is not fair. When the world is full of injustice and seems determined to throw that in your face at every chance it gets, what are you supposed to do? Sometimes you just need to tear the whole damn system down.

Meanwhile, Kurusu Akira just wants his friend back. He never meant to become a delinquent, much less the leader of the Phantom Thieves, but he supposes he’s never been very good at staying out of other people’s business.

(A soulmate au where writing gets transferred to each other’s skin. As a result, they become long-distance friends… until Akechi lets his jealousy and anger get the better of him, that is.)

( if you turned off by soulmate au’s trust me it’s good and it’s not as big part of the story as you would think, or not used in the “normal” way....idk your just gonna have to trust me one this one if the story sounds interesting cause it’s really good rant over)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26781733

Ongoing, shuake, rated M, 300k+

Discerption:

"Love is knowing your target, putting them in your targeting reticule, and together, achieving a singular purpose against statistically long odds."

In which Goro Akechi joins the team during Kaneshiro's palace arc instead of Makoto.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30827231

Ongoing, will be polythieves but we don’t know the specifics yet, rated M, 29k+

Discerption:

Yaldabaoth had been told of the Mythical Trickster. He had laid out the plans for his game expertly, all the pieces and threads in place, ready to pull the Trickster into the trial that would determine humanity's fate.

His plan, however, did not account for what he actually received: Twin Tricksters.

No matter... surely, this would not lead the game too astray. Would it?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19818682

Ongoing, no ships with Akira but there is ann/shiho, rated M, 44+k

Discerption:

When Suou Akira is arrested for a crime he didn't do and sent to Tokyo for probation, all he wants to do is live as quietly as possible and return to his family in Sumaru City. Of course, things don't work out the way he wants them to.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31362848

One-shot completed, shuake, rated T, 7k+

Desertion:

'Akechi takes back his initial thought about this being an absolute pleasure to watch as the man, who was only a few mere feet away from Akira, whips his hand and flinging the freshly brewed two hundred and five-degree boiling hot coffee straight into Akira’s face.

Directly hitting Akira’s Glassless bare face.'

Or the one where Akira deals with a nasty, entitled customer and Akechi is perpetually in denial.

(For Akeshuake Hurt Comfort Week, Day Three, prompt: Illness/Injury!)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30837995

One-shot completed, Shuake, rated T 21k

Discerption: Pretending is part of Goro's daily life, masks hiding his true intentions and feelings are things he uses very often.

However, the idea of lying about his relationship status never occurred to him.

Yet, now he is in a "relationship" with Leblanc's barista to trick his colleague and the therapist who doesn't know that they don't know each other.

And between medical appointments, dates, and his personal investigations, Goro must now manage the storm that is his emotions when it concerns Akira Kurusu.

Where is the line between pretended and true love after all?

or

A Fake dating couple therapy story where Goro and Akira use lame excuses to date.

[undertale-rho]

Multiverse Saga: Taken!Altertale - Chapter 3

"Toriel!? Frisk?!" Asgore shouted as he ran out the door. "Are you two okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine." Toriel said, still trying to get the box to appear while still clutching at her stomach. "What about you?"

Asgore clutched his own stomach. "Well, to tell you the truth, there's a sudden... gnawing here in my gut."

"So do I." Toriel said. "What do you think it means?"

Asgore shook his head. "I have no idea."

Toriel looked back at Frisk, finding that her eyes seemed to be wide with... something.

Frisk shot off, running further into the town.

"Frisk!" Toriel shouted. "Wait up."

Frisk didn't slow down, at least not until she got in front of the Snowed Inn. Once there, she stuck her hand out into the space between the Snowdin Shop and the Snowed Inn.

Nothing happened.

Frisk's eyes widened further as she continued to try and do something.

Toriel finally reached her. Not wanting to lose her again, she grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her in such a way that they were face-to-face.

"What's going on? What did you do?" Toriel demanded.

"I-I-I don't know!" Frisk stammered out. "I... I can't SAVE."

Toriel's grip loosened slightly.

"What...?" she asked.

"I can't SAVE or LOAD." Frisk said again. "I can't even RESET!"

Toriel let go of Frisk's wrist. Her face felt cold; not from the biting air, but from... something else. She looked back at Elysium, the source of the tolling bells.

"Sans." she mumbled.

At that point, Asgore finally caught up with them. Before he could speak, however, Toriel shot him and Frisk an authoritative glare.

"Frisk, go with Asgore back to the house and lock it up. Don't answer it for anyone but me, Undyne, or Sans."

"What? Why?" Asgore asked. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Elysium to find Sans and Papyrus. That... wave, or whatever it was, came from there."

"Well then I'm coming too." Asgore said defiantly.

"No!" Toriel shouted.

Both Frisk and Asgore stepped back.

"Gori, please. I'll be fine. It'll only be a few minutes."

Asgore sighed. "Fine, but I expect you to return in the next hour!"

"Deal."

And with that, Frisk and Asgore retreated to the house they'd emerged from only a few minutes earlier.

Toriel watched them disappear through the front door. When the door closed, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, focusing on Elysium. But when she opened them again, the sight of her still being in Snowdin Town surprised her.

"Wha... what am I still doing here?" she mumbled to herself.

She closed her eyes again, focusing harder on the palace.

"I... I can't feel the shortcuts anymore."

Toriel opened her eyes and looked back to Elysium. Her jaw tightened.

"Damn it..." she swore as she began running across the town, past her house, and into the mouth of the Waterfall Caves.

The Waterfall Caves were a dark, dank maze of tunnels, bogs, and caverns, and also the only safe way from Snowdin Town to Elysium. Toriel ran as fast as she could, past numerous disgruntled Monsters who'd been questioning why the bells were tolling or who'd been clutching their stomachs in pain.

Upon reaching the Quiet Village—the second largest single settlement within the Caves—Toriel nearly ran right into Undyne, who was in the process of calming the townspeople down.

"Toriel!" Undyne yelled when she saw her running. As she got close, Undyne wrapped her arm over Toriel's shoulder, whispering "What's going on? Are the Humans invading now that we've broken the Barrier?"

"I don't know." Toriel responded. "I was just heading to Elysium to find out why the bells were tolling."

A smile spread across Undyne's face.

"Great!" she said. "I'll come with you."

"No, I need you to head back to Snowdin and make sure Asgore and Frisk are okay."

Undyne looked back over the small crowd.

"Nah," she said, "Asgore's good on his own. He's got this, I know he does.

"Besides," Undyne said before Toriel could raise protest, "I'm... I'm worried about Papyrus."

Toriel looked down at the ground, thinking on this. After a minute, she simply sighed.

"Alright." she said. "But we gotta be quick."

Undyne's smile returned. "Right behind you!"

The remainder of the Waterfall Caves passed quickly, and Toriel and Undyne soon arrived at the base of Mount Hot. Near the place where the Caves transitioned into the Hotlands stood a great metal laboratory. Cutting to the left of the laboratory, into the dark maw of the mountain, Toriel and Undyne found that the L1 elevator—an elevator that could take them straight to the summit—was broken. With nowhere else to turn, they both returned to the laboratory and walked inside.

"Alphys?" they both called upon entering.

"STAY BACK!!!" a desperate voice screamed as soon as the automatic door closed.

Toriel and Undyne looked around the lab. There, in the far corner, sat Alphys. She fidgeted with her hands wildly.

"Alphys, are you okay?" Toriel asked, slowly stepping closer.

Alphys screamed again as she approached, shooting up from her corner and sliding along the wall to the nearby door.

"Alphys, calm down!" Toriel shouted, running and grabbing the Monster. "Undyne, help me."

Undyne sprinted over and grabbed Alphys's arms. Alphys, in turn, began freaking out even more.

"LET ME GO!!!!" she screamed. "HE'LL KILL US ALL. BUTCHER US LIKE ANIMALS. I SAW IT, I SAW IT ALL. ALL OF IT WITH MY EYES."

"Let's get her up to her room." Undyne said.

"Alphys," Toriel said. "you need to calm down. Nothing's gonna hurt you."

"NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" Alphys continued to scream. "HE'LL HURT ME. HE'LL HURT ALL OF US. I SAW HIM. THEIR MANGLED BODIES ARE BURNED INTO MY EYES, THEIR SCREAMS ECHO IN MY HEAD. LET ME GO!!!"

Alphys sent out a wave of electricity, which shocked Toriel and Undyne, forcing them to let her go. Taking this opportunity, Alphys ran away from them, towards the door.

"Alphys, come back!" Toriel shouted, running after her.

"NO!" Alphys shouted back. "I won't sit here and wait for him to come. I won't wait for him to tear me apart like he did to all of them."

She ran through the door. By this time, Undyne had begun running again. When both Toriel and Undyne had run through the door, Alphys was standing near the cliff to the river of lava below.

Before their very eyes, Alphys leapt from the rocky pathway into the boiling magma, screaming as she fell. Upon entering the river, she burst from the surface, her skin melting off and showing off the bone beneath. After a few seconds, she sank back in, never to return.

"Wh... what the hell...!?" Undyne worked out. "Why?"

Toriel, wordless, stepped back into the lab, towards the screens she passed on the way in. They were all shattered, their electronics ripped from their core and scattered along the ground.

"Why did she do it?" Undyne asked Toriel when she approached.

Toriel simply stared at the broken electronics before her.

"I think... she saw something on these screens. Something that horrified her so much, she..." Toriel tapered off.

Toriel and Undyne stood, silently, in the lab for a few minutes longer. Eventually, Toriel stepped back towards the door Alphys had run through what felt like a lifetime ago.

"Where are you going?" Undyne asked.

"We need to get to Elysium and find Sans and Papyrus." Toriel answered.

Undyne, still in shock from Alphys, slowly nodded and followed Toriel out. Together, they both climbed up the face of the mountain.

Taken!Altertale : The Bells of Hades

Previous Underearth Prologue First of this book Next

[bumblingbrujo]

Blood Brothers

Miguel can only run from Lilo for so long. 

@ianncardero, @lilo-el-lobo

Night was starting to fall again, but Miguel just couldn't bring himself to stay inside. There were plenty of people out there who needed help. And he could help. So he kept wandering, fresh out of potions, feeling all the tumultuous fear and confusion and rage that he tried to ignore or stuff down deep into his stomach. He knew at least a few people were safe at the Savin Estate, though he didn't know where Iann and Lilo were. Both worried him for very different reasons.

Lilo was ashamed and licking his wounds quite literally. The deep shame hanging on his shoulders wasn't over his actions, chasing friends, turning neighbors into enemies and prey; it was that he failed. He let them escape. If it wasn't for his damn leg he'd have the taste of fresh magic blood in his mouth, quench this painful need for destruction. His breath came heaving and strained as he pulled himself up and waited for the bruises to heal. Nose pointed in air, catching a hint of fear and familiarity he stalked out into the streets, keeping to the shadows and corners of alleys. Edging and silent as he looked for his prey.

Miguel didn’t have a course of action so much as restless legs. He walked, healing anyone he saw that needed help. Although there were more bodies than injuries. If this was a normal occurrence in Soapberry Springs then how did they keep the population up?

Lilo finally caught sight of what he wanted. Head lowering for his eyes to fixate on the prize, the man who blinded him. His brother, weak thing that he was, it was insulting the pitiful healing magic did so much to deter the predator. Now he'd get even. That meant ignoring the easy targets... or maybe they could prove to be useful.

It took only a few minutes for Lilo to find what he was looking for, someone injured unable to move but still conscious. They recoiled in horror as he came near. The werewolf held his finger to his lips and drug the wounded weakling into an alley before giving his final instructions. "Call out for help, wail and cry and whine you are injured but if you don't want to die, don't tell the healer I am here." Lilo slid to hide behind a dumpster that would mask his scent, not that Miguel could tell. Instinct was instinct, and the trap was set.

Miguel heard a cry and it sounded desperate. He ran toward the voice and found someone with a broken leg and a stomach fat too open. He knelt immediately and checked their insides for moisture. If they had been laying out there like for for too long... “Easy, easy, I’m a healer I’ll help you.”

The human whimpered, but out of fear kept from mentioning the werewolf that dragged them there. His eyes only widened as a hulking figure stepped out from it's hiding place. Creeping ever closer behind the preoccupied witch. Tears fell from the humans eyes as they continued to stare and try to work up the courage to say anything.

The fear in Miguel’s stomach bubbled up to his throat where he couldn’t fight it and he turned around, just a glance at first but that was enough. There was his monstrous brother, half transformed and angry. “Lilo-!” He skittered away from the injured man, he wished for a moment that he could help but the severed intestines spoke otherwise.

Lilo rumbled deep in his chest, what passed for laughter with the werewolf that was stuck halfway between animal and man. "Hey little brother." Lilo pressed in close, cutting off Miguel's potential exit. His head cocking to the side. "You look well."

Miguel's (metaphorical) hackles rose. "I'm older than you," he snapped. He was done with the warnings, Lilo had been tracking him, had set up a trap for him. Miguel didn't think there was much of sweet protective Lilo in there to reason with. So instead of trying to talk his hands lit up with the radiant fire and he grit his teeth.

Lilo tossed his head back, the rumble returning with little yipping gasps of air. He was having fun with this and it was terrifying. But he snapped to attention, jaw set and teeth bared. His claws dug into Miguel's shoulders, ignoring the fire that singed his fear. "You're still so tiny though. Hermano." He growled, snapping his jaws toward his pinned prey.

Iann couldn't stay up on the roof of Stonefruit with Wendy forever. He was getting antsy even up there, and listening to the groans and threats from the selkie was driving him nuts. He almost killed her, and that was when Iann knew he needed to get away from her. Making sure she was well-shaded and she'd been fed and taken care of between himself and Ruby, Iann then headed out. But this time, he didn't head out bare-handed. Despite Iann hardly if ever using weaponry in his life, Iann did gather a bunch of equipment from his basement, things he kept mostly for rituals and 'just in case' scenarios. For other people to use. For fighters to use, if needed. This time, Iann equipped himself. It didn't even take him long to find company though - in the form of his two apparent brothers. The yipping from Lilo was repulsive, horrifying, and yet Iann just snorted derisively at it. The wolf was going to kill the witch...and somehow Iann couldn't bring himself to care. This was Miguel's fault, after all. Miguel swept into town, some sort of mini-Iann, and proclaiming them all siblings. It made Iann sick to think about sharing blood with them.

Miguel winced and sent a shot of healing magic through his own shoulder, it dulled the pain and closed the wound as Miguel scampered away from Lilo. He couldn't get far. "We're both short. At least we usually are." He was starting to get tired, and the exhaustion pushed back the anger. "Lilo what the fuck are you doing? What would Addie think if she saw this?" He went back to the talking plan, if Lilo hadn't tried to kill him yet, maybe he could be reasoned with. Or maybe he was just playing with Miguel before killing him.

Lilo growled in a rage, his prey slipping from him again. He lumbered toward Miguel, not bothering to all out chase. His heavy muscled shoulders swinging as he lashed out. "Don't you talk. Stop." His claws aimed for his brother's throat. "Get my daughter's name out of your mouth." Reason was gone, as were any familial ties that had been so freshly woven between them. Miguel was enemy, prey, food. Lilo wanted no more twisty words or spells coming from the witch's mouth.

Miguel narrowly avoided getting his throat ripped out, but in the process he fell on his ass with a thud and a twist of pain through his spine. It would have been nothing if there wasn't a werewolf above him. He tried to muster the anger he needed for the fire, but all he had was fear. He felt like shaking apart, not like the divine witch he would need to be to keep doing radiant spells. "You stop! Why are you doing this? The moon? You're better than the moon Lilo!"

Iann came closer, almost eager to see what would happen. He didn't care if Lilo scented him, or if Miguel saw him. Unlike Iann normally, who balked at violence, Iann now looked hungry for it, eager to see it inflicted on others. Not River, she was already dead and there was nothing he could do about that now. But seeing the young selkie covered in blood - seeing that man with his guts hanging out, seeing all the death and destruction around him, Iann was completely desensitized to it. And he just wanted more. Also maybe to have sex in that gore, because that would be kind of hot in the dirtiest possible way.

Lilo growled in triumph. Falling upon Miguel, one hand out to pin him against the ground. "You don't really know me brother." He knelt, prosthetic splayed outward to the side. He lifted the other arm up so his sharp claws were illuminated by the red light of the moon. They were blood soaked and ready to be used again. "I've killed plenty before this moon hermano. I've tasted blood and loved it. Years I have forgot myself and it's only now that I remember what I am. I am a wolf." He breathed, face drawing close to Miguel's. "What are you?"

Miguel was vaguely aware that whatever came out of his mouth next may well be the last thing that came out of his mouth ever. It was a lot of pressure to come up with last words that might mean something. And even if they didn't mean anything now, they might mean something once the blood moon set and things went back to relative normal... when Lilo had enough functioning brain to think about what he'd done. He thought briefly about the obvious, which would be stating his witch-hood. Something that he didn't need to do when he lived the way he did. Instead he closed his eyes and sighed. "Soy tu hermano," he said softly before falling backward into acceptance and gritting his teeth, waiting for a lot of pain or oblivion.

Lilo howled, long and foreboding before it trailed off into a snarl. He bent his head down and down. Maw open and closing around Miguel's throat. It was like a perversion of a lover's kiss; out all the little love nips he peppered Cassie's neck with this felt far more satisfying. Sharp teeth drove into the skin, warm red blood bubbled up around the seal Lilo made with his mouth. He clamped down and tore, sinews and strings of the vocal chords ripped away. A stringy gorey mess as the raw wound filled with deep red blood. In the moonlight it all looked black.

[valdim-heyworth]

Hunting Samuel Teague - Strahnbrad

     Vladim Heyworth left Pyrewood behind, having witnessed each of the memories throughout the night, each experienced them himself through the magic of those arcane orbs. The man stashed them away, tucked into his bags. These were Valteric memories, not to be stolen away by strangers. In his terrible bestial form, fierce claws tore into the earth, powerful arms and legs each launching himself forwards at a rapid pace, traveling like the animal he'd transformed into.

    He headed east of Alterac, deep within the once-kingdom of Lordaeron, now belonging to the Forsaken. His destination was Strahnbrad, a town, somehow surviving both Blackrock Orc aggression, and the plague of the Scourge. It now belonged to the criminal organization known as the Syndicate. Whatever deal Samuel Teague had worked to remain unbothered by the thieves there, it'd had been a perfect place to hide.

   Feeling the fur stand at the back of his neck was his only warning. The Mage spun, canine dagger-like teeth outstretched, maw opened in a fierce challenge. A Thief, likely one of the Syndicate himself, leaped from the shadows. In his hands, a cruel short-sword, shimmering in the evening light. The bastard was lucky, the weapon burying into the left of his massive chest, cutting through his thick hide and fur. Valdim's claws tore at the attacker, throwing him aside with inhuman strength, a blessing of his curse. Summoning up the strength, the Arcanist fired an explosion of violet and blue, erupting upon contact with his attacker.

    Whoever his attacker had been - he was dead. Young, only a teenager, likely, and dead. Blood pooled, staining the front of his robes, a sword still buried within his raising and falling chest. Feeling faint, the Worgen fell, dizzied from the loss. He fumbled with a potion at his side, clumsy, enormous fingers struggling with the cork stopper. The world spiraled into a cold blackness.

    He remembered the soft smile on her face. A hug of a very-pregnant woman, welcoming him back into her life with nothing but love and joy.

    He remembered the face of another mage, one he'd shared drinks with only a few days prior. That smirk - so similar to his own, in ways. "Would hate for you to throw your back out, Old Man..."

    Claws tore the stopper from the bottle, fluid spilling across his lips and terrible fangs. More faces now. Family. Friends. The love he'd so often callously under-valued.

     No. Not yet. Not a failure. With a roaring growl, the Worgen ripped the sword free from his chest, wounds rapidly pulling shut. Valdim was a good Arcanist -- he was a better Alchemist, his injuries beginning to heal from the magical brew. He breathed with heaving breaths, hot and clouding the air. The Worgen pulled his horrifying form up, stained with blood and weak from the nearly life-ending blow. Strahnbrad must be close.

   Samuel's next study was on the outskirts of town, and it seemed Valdim had dispatched with the guard. Another home, another study for the Forsaken Necromancer. On weak feet, wavering and motivated more by will than well-being, Valdim blasted down the doorway blocking. The oaken door shattered into splinters.

   Valdim found old bones, several corpses horribly contorted, and shriveled, tossed aside. "Likely th' first trials..." His first attempts at his dastardly plans. His eyes trailed over two large tables set near each one other. There was, yet another human corpse on the leftmost table. It seemed... Very recent, not killed due to spell failure but a more mundane death. "'E's figuring this out. Light damn it."

   His eyes turned left, noticing the family. There was a collection of herbs, ingredients kept in an alphabetical order. The wolf-like eyes scanned over those available regents, noting the various ones missing. His dug through his packs, looking over the aging texts, the journal belonging Samual Teague, stolen back from the Warlock Percival.

    "Damn!" Valdim roared, losing himself to a rage within him, knocking aside the table with the corpse, the body falling unceremoniously to the ground. "E's summoning a soul back from th'beyond. E's summoning 'er soul back. An' he's going t' use his family t' do it." The voice was deep and rough, the sound like gravel coming from his throat.

   His not-unimpressive mind was racing through the possibilities. Samuel would need a place of great power to accomplish that feat. Something caught his eyes on the table, the body no-long hiding a note. It was etched in her handwriting into the wood, ‘Karazhan Library. Forgive me.’ Of course. Where the lay-lines met. "Elizabeth." She was alive, almost certainly.

    Valdim stormed from the doorway, back into the evening light, the purpose clear. He needed to get to Karazhan. Medivh, the Last Guardian, had made his home in Deadwind Pass, in that once-bright tower of Karazhan, almost dooming Azeroth. It'd become a place of terrible reverence. It was an apt place for the confrontation.

  Not twenty feet from the doorway, though, he felt his strength falter. He'd need a period of rest for the potion to work, yet time was running short. The Arcanist, stumbled, in Worgen form. Only just beginning to dry, the blood stained the front of his robes, red with ichor. He almost fell, looking out into the woods. A familiar shape, although his vision was blurring, perhaps a familiar face, too. "Theron?"

   Lofting a brow as he spied the Worgen figure near the decrepit home, Theron started to raise an arm and give a shout until he saw the figure stumble. The static of arcane pulled from the air and in a glimmer, his was body gone and suddenly near, a hand moving to brace Valdim's side, "It's me, old man..." He offered a light teasing tone though it was concern that weighed heavily on his features...

( @rian-kestavin @theron-valteric @serelia-evensong @mender-emilia @valerie-shadebrook for mentions or references. )

[ladyvialana]

hey there! could you do 112 gen with hunk if you're still taking prompts please and thank you!

You are reading my mind anon! I was already halfway through another gen Hunk prompt when I got your message. But I am also of the firm opinion that you can never have too much Hunk.

So, have some fic!

(EDIT: this turned out longer than I expected. So have part 1 of 2. Enjoy!)

Prompt Fic: The Price of Freedom (Part 1)

Prompt #112: “Why are you bleeding?”

Voltron Legendary Defender

Notes: 5+1 format, set vaguely post season 4, gen, descriptions of blood and wounds, little bit of humour, little bit of fluff, little bit of action

(Part 2 here)

Also on Ao3

“Whoa! Hey, why are you bleeding?”

“Hm?” Hunk looked up from his recipe book (an actual book with paper-like pages, homemade and full of his meticulous handwriting and photos Pidge had somehow managed to print from the castle server) to see Lance staring at him in concern from the other side of the bench. More specifically, staring at the bandage on his arm that was starting to leak through again.

“Dammit.” Hunk untied the loose knot by his thumb joint and started unwinding the cloth. “You remember those blue fruits back on Kavik?”

“The ones that taste like cinnamon? Didn’t the ambassador give you a supply after the party?” Lance grasped for the edge of the bench, knuckles white, as he watched Hunk uncover his wound.

“Yeah. Turns out, peeling them is a lot more difficult than most fruits. They have a defence mechanism: these spikes that shoot out of the pores of the fruit when you pull back on the skin.” Hunk unwound the last bloodied coil of bandage to reveal five slightly inflamed puncture wounds near his wrist still oozing blood.

Lance hissed and turned away from the sight. “Man, I was not expecting evil space fruit.”

Hunk shrugged. “I’ve had worse. And it doesn’t even hurt.” He frowned as he pressed on the skin near one of the puncture wounds and a fresh steady stream of blood started flowing. “Though I am worried they might have had an anti-coagulant in them.”

“Right. You’re done here.”

“What?” Hunk watched Lance in confusion as he rounded the bench, closed Hunk’s recipe book and started tugging on his apron strings. “Lance, buddy, what are you doing?”

“If I leave you here, you’re just going to wrap that back up again and start in on something else.” Lance managed to wrestle the apron off Hunk without jostling his injury.

“Well, I was planning on trying to make that dish the rebels cooked up on Olkarion for the festival. Everyone loved that mushy whatever it was.”

“Dinner can wait.” Lance pushed Hunk towards the door.

Hunk resisted. “Lance, I’m fine. Seriously, I’ve had worse cuts in my mother’s house and she fusses way less than you.”

Lance arched an unimpressed eyebrow. “Isn’t proper hygiene your first concern in any kitchen.”

Hunk opened his mouth to protest then closed it and groaned. “Damn you and your use of my impeccable reason against me.”

“I learned from the best.” Lance clapped him on the back, still shuffling Hunk towards the door. “C’mon. Coran’s probably got some sort of slave that smells like sweaty socks that’ll fix this right up.”

Hunk let himself be led out the door towards Coran and his awful (but actually quite effective) tonics.

***

“Hunk! You’re injured! We must get you to the med bay at once!”

Hunk stopped with a sudden jolt at the threshold of the control room causing Lance, who was running up behind him to run into his back with a faint “ow” when he couldn’t skid to a stop in time. Allura was rushing towards him with a concerned look he didn’t understand.

“But I’m fine?” He looked around the room at the others gathered to see what had Allura so worried. Shiro pointed towards his nose in clarification.

Hunk sniffed, feeling a slight tickling sensation, and swiped his finger under his nostril. It came back red.

“Damn allergies.” Hunk sniffed harder, rubbing at the skin beneath his nose to clean the blood away. “I’ve been sneezing and sniffling all day. This was bound to happen.”

Lance passed him a tissue (or the slightly spongy sheets that passed for tissues in the castle). “Could be worse. You could be Pidge.”

Pidge, like Hunk, had been caught unawares by the pollen-heavy atmospheric conditions on the planet they’s just visited. Unlike Hunk, who just started sneezing in the middle of every sentence, she had been struck down within a varga by swelling, headaches, and dizziness and was still recovering that morning. Despite having gone through quarantine procedures as soon as she boarded the castle again and the rest of the castle being scoured for contaminants during the night, she was still swollen and aching. Hunk had been the one to deliver her food that morning, full of sympathy from his own congested night. It wasn’t a pretty sight. She threw a pillow at him.

(He’d returned it to her after fluffing it up and she grumbled a thank you before passing out again.)

Hunk blew his nose in the tissue and used another one Lance passed him to see how heavy the flow was. Just a few spots of blood. “It’s already clearing. Must have just been residual from the sneezing during the night.”

“You mean this is normal for humans?” Allura looked horrified.

“Not exactly normal, but I always got nosebleeds from hayfever.”

The assurance didn’t alleviate Allura’s wide-eyed disgust. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the med bay?”

Hunk shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for worrying princess.”

“Of course. I’m glad you are not injured.” Allura cleared her throat and returned to her station as though her overreaction to a mostly harmless human bodily function was completely normal.

Lance bumped his shoulder into Hunk’s as he passed and shot him a grin. Hunk shook his head at Lance’s antics and took his own seat, ready to continue with paladin business.

***

“Dammit Coran! Give a guy some warning about the whirly bladed maw he’s sticking his hand into.”

“Oh, did I not disable that function?” Coran sounded blithely unconcerned over the communication channel, causing Hunk’s pained frown to darken further with his mood into an actual scowl. “Sorry Hunk. It should be fine now. Are you all right?”

Hunk let out a breath at the question. It wasn’t really Coran’s fault. He, like the rest of them, had been up almost two quinants trying to fix the sudden cascading failures affecting the entire castle. They’d spent almost twenty vargas frantically patching up the life-support system before having to move directly to the navigation system in order to steer away from a black hole. Then they almost crashed due to hypothermic-affected attempts at fixing the heating. (Why the castle’s internal heating system interconnected with the thrusters Hunk could not understand.)

Needless to say after all that time, it was just surprising that they only now had a significant injury on their hands. Or rather, Hunk’s arm.

(At least they weren’t still floating in zero-G. Dealing with an injury then would just be messy.)

“Yeah, I should probably get this looked at.” Definitely get it looked at: the wound was almost the full length of his forearm and, even if it was shallow, blood was still constantly flowing from the cut.

But on the other hand:

“You said this was the last adjustment, right?”

“Hunk, I’m already on my way down. You should just get yourself to the med bay.”

“Coran, I’m already here. Let me just fix the stupid thing.” 

Hunk was already reaching with his uninjured hand into the space he’d previously had his other arm, cautious of the (no longer spinning) sharp blades lining the walls of the crevice. His fingertips brushed the warm crystal he needed to set back into alignment. He peered through the tiny gap between the wall at his arm to make sure the crystal’s colour changed from sickly yellow to bright blue as he nudged it gently with his fingertips back into the right setting.

The crystal and all the electronics surrounding it lit up with bright Altean blue.

Hunk let out a huge breath as he carefully pulled his arm out of the castle wall.

Coran skidded around the corner into the hallway Hunk was stationed in, arms full of jars of salves and bandages that were starting to unravel and spill from his hold.

Hunk stayed on the floor, leaning on the wall next to the open panel, exhaustion and satisfaction of a job finally completed overtaking his body. He smiled at Coran as Coran knelt beside him and cleaned away the blood that was starting to drip from his arm onto the floor.

“Tell me that’s all the emergency stuff done.”

“Indeed it is, my boy.” Coran didn’t look up from where he was patching up Hunk’s arm. “You can rest now.”

“Awesome.” Hunk relaxed further as he felt the healing salve cool the hot edges of his wound. The skin around it started tingling pleasantly. He closed his eyes and let Coran do his thing.

Coran huffed, a tiny laugh escaping through his moustache. “Indeed you are, my boy.”

On to Part 2!

[scarlet-shattering]

Dreams: Part 1

So, later on in the campaign, the party is going to meet my self-insert character, Lady Rosalind. She’s a modified Divination witch, with the power to grant other individuals vivid dreams about a person. These dreams are essentially how I plan to exposit the backstories of all of my NPCs, and also holy shit it’s a fun writing exercise, so here we are. I’ve written out the first four dreams that the players may choose to have, the ones for Edna VanLee, The Stranger (aka Adrian Drake), Darius Drake, and Jason Drake. These dreams pretty much completely encompass what the character has done before or during the party’s adventurers and encapsulates who they are while retaining a very vivid and storybook-like format. Edna and Adrian will appear to have the same text, but there are important differences in their perspectives, and their dreams soon completely diverge from each other, so don’t skip one after reading the other. So yeah, here they are, lengthy and vivid descriptions of the formative moments in these characters’ lives that my party had better damn well appreciate. Also definitely read the blurb descriptions of at least these four made in the previous post because this will be wayyyyyyyyy less impactful otherwise.

Edna VanLee: Your vision clears and immediately, one thing consumes you: fire. It surrounds you on all sides, washing over you like a wave. As it passes, you get a glimpse of the toothy maw that exhaled it, and you realize that you are face-to-face with a gigantic red dragon. The dragon quickly turns to face a figure you can just barely make out, a lithe silhouette in a black cloak. Next to them is a tall man in gleaming armor brandishing a platinum greatsword. He quickly aligns his back with the cloaked figure, seeming to take reassurance in their presence. Both adjust their stance, used to fighting together. They leap at the dragon, who claws back in anger. You watch as the pair dance with this massive beast, the cloaked figure constantly seeming to vanish from sight even as you concentrate on keeping track of them, only to appear again, dagger sunk into the dragon’s hide.The man in gleaming armor heavily swings his greatsword, parrying the dragon’s gigantic paws and teeth with its flat before striking powerfully back. The two appear to be winning, inexplicably, despite the absurd power of the creature they face. However, as the dragon seems to be weakening, it tosses its great head back before exhaling red-hot flame at the cloaked figure just before they land. Time seems to slow as the man leaps toward the figure, pushing them out of the way before the gout of flame completely immolates him. The figure’s hood falls and you can see her face: It’s a much younger Edna VanLee. Her hair is jet-black, without a hint of grey. Her features are without wrinkle, and her eyes seem centuries younger. However, you can see the anguish within those eyes as she watches the man who saved her burn. The fire jets for what feels like eternity until finally, a blackened corpse, holding no semblance to the human that once stood there save for the sword still clutched in its near-skeletal hands, crumples to the ground. Edna fills with rage and reaches for her belt. She throws a dagger towards the creature, and vanishes in a puff of smoke. The dagger enters the beast’s skull and immediately Edna reappears, with it, twisting it and driving it into the beast. The two wrestle momentarily, but the dragon soon falls dead.

Immediately, Edna leaps from the dragon’s head to the charred corpse of the man. She rips open a bag at her side, and, hands fumbling, she manages to pull out a piece of parchment. From the treasure horde that the dragon was sitting on, she scoops up a big armful of gold, and begins to chant. The paper glows, the gold vanishes. The man stays dead. She tries again. And again. The parchment burns up in her hands. Throughout the whole process, the man’s corpse hasn’t moved in the slightest. Edna pounds on his chest over and over again, visibly sobbing. Finally, she stands, resolute. She climbs up onto the dragon’s head and retrieves her dagger, where it had been stuck this whole time. She stands tall, the tallest thing in the room, staring at the small sea of gold surrounding her. She opens a bag.

Your vision distorts, and refocuses on a different, dark chamber. This time, you recognize it: It’s the Brinewater Undercity. However, unlike when you visited, it’s clean. The walls lack rot, the floors are dry. Your vision focuses on Edna, once more, a little bit older than your last vision. She stands, confident, in front of a horrifying creature… a beholder. The monster points its huge, unblinking eye at her. The beholder is, almost amusingly, “sitting” behind some kind of gigantic desk. You begin to realize that this is some sort of office. Edna smiles sweetly at the creature, and it seems to pay her little heed as they apparently converse. It’s difficult to tell, as you can’t hear the beholder’s telepathy. It turns to a window, away from Edna, apparently deep in thought. The instant that its large eye isn’t facing her, Edna vanishes into smoke, reappearing atop the creature. Several of its eyestalks whip towards her, but they are all far too late. She’s already sunken her blade into its flesh, ripping the creature open. The two crash to the ground.

Your vision changes once more and you gaze upon Edna, once again just slightly older. She sits at the same desk where the beholder had once sat, feet up. She leans back into a very peculiar chair-the same one you saw in her new office in East Brinewater. The only difference, though, is that this version of the chair isn’t finished yet: you can tell that it’s only halfway carved. And, at last, you realize, it’s being carved out of a beholder’s skull.  

The Stranger (Adrian Drake): Your vision clears and immediately, one thing consumes you: fire. It surrounds you on all sides, washing over you like a wave. As it passes, you get a glimpse of the toothy maw that exhaled it, and you realize that you are face-to-face with a gigantic red dragon. The dragon quickly turns to face a figure you can just barely make out, a lithe silhouette in a black cloak. Next to them is a tall man in gleaming armor brandishing a platinum greatsword. You look closer at his face, and you somehow see the resemblance. Though his back is not hunched, his beard is not a wisp, his skin is not green, and his armor is not rusted, you can tell: This is what the Stranger looked like back when he was human. He quickly aligns his back with the cloaked figure, seeming to take reassurance in their presence. Both adjust their stance, used to fighting together. They leap at the dragon, who claws back in anger. You watch as the pair dance with this massive beast, the cloaked figure constantly seeming to vanish from sight even as you concentrate on keeping track of them, only to appear again, dagger sunk into the dragon’s hide.The Stranger swings his greatsword, parrying the dragon’s gigantic paws and teeth with its flat before striking powerfully back. The two appear to be winning, inexplicably, despite the absurd power of the creature they face. However, as the dragon seems to be weakening, it tosses its great head back before exhaling red-hot flame at the cloaked figure just before they land. Time seems to slow as the Stranger leaps toward the figure, pushing them out of the way before the gout of flame completely immolates him. The figure’s hood falls and you can see her face: It’s a much younger Edna VanLee. Her hair is jet-black, without a hint of grey. Her features are without wrinkle, and her eyes seem centuries younger. However, you can see the anguish within those eyes as she watches the man who saved her burn. The fire jets for what feels like eternity until finally, a blackened corpse, holding no semblance to the human that once stood there save for the sword still clutched in its near-skeletal hands, crumples to the ground. Edna fills with rage and reaches for her belt. She throws a dagger towards the creature, and vanishes in a puff of smoke. The dagger enters the beast’s skull and immediately Edna reappears, with it, twisting it and driving it into the beast. The two wrestle momentarily, but the dragon soon falls dead.

Time seems to rapidly speed up: in fast motion, you watch Edna move all over the corpse, trying everything. She pounds on his chest, moving around him, staying near him, sobbing, but it all seems so ephemeral. She is but a drop of motion in his eternal stillness. Eventually, she leaves his side, and the chamber darkens, brightens, and darkens again. Days are passing by almost instantly, and the corpse begins to stir. Dull, green light begins at the feet, intertwining streaks of light seeming to knit new flesh over what was burned away. The process is painfully slow, even though the days are passing like seconds. Finally, the corpse beings to rise off of the ground, and it now looks like you remember it: Pale, green skin that gives off a faint glow. Soft, glowing yellow eyes. A wispy memory of a beard on his chiselled face. His “resurrection” finally complete, the Stranger falls onto his feet once more. The instant he hits the ground, a wave of green energy radiates from him. The dragon’s corpse, now only bones, instantly disintegrates. What little gold is left in the chamber instantly rusts and twists out of shape. The Stranger seems to suck all the light left in the chamber into his being. He walks over to his beautiful platinum sword, now rusted from his transformation, and rips it from the ground. He turns, dragging it against the ground as he walks, and leaves the chamber.

Your vision shifts again and you find yourself in an area somehow even darker. A graveyard. The Stranger meanders forward, still dragging his former blade. However, the tombstone he carried when you met him is now on his back. His shovel is slung over his shoulder. He now wears his purple cloak, which fades into mist at his feet. He shambles forward unerring, walking past grave after grave. Shadows cling at his feet, his shoulders. Specters lazily float past him, whispering. Tempting. A wraith slides her finger under his chin, teasingly. He ignores them all. The path he walks finally dead-ends, and he stops before the only marked grave on the whole path. He hefts the rusted greatsword up in his hand, and unceremoniously jams its blade at an angle into the flat piece of stone. He looks upon it for a moment. Then he turns away. However, your vision remains focused on the grave, and you can just barely make out what it says: “Here lies Adrian Drake.”

Darius Drake: Your vision blurs and is drenched in white. As it clears, you see a young man in full armor, wielding an ornate longsword. He has dark hair, and is clean-shaven. He seems to be training with another man, a bald man with a jovial expression. Their blows are careful and calculated, but made without the intent to seriously injure. Eventually, the dark-haired man disarms his bald-headed opponent, who laughs triumphantly and claps his student on the shoulder. Darius Drake looks up and grins.

Suddenly, Darius is in an inn. In fact, he’s in a bed. He stares up at the ceiling, smiling, arms behind his head. A blonde-haired woman rests her head on his chest, asleep. It feels as if you have blinked, and the scene changes. This time, it’s a man’s head on his chest, in a different bed. Darius is in the same exact position as before. One moment it’s a lithe elven man in a sunny inn with fine white linens, the next it’s a dirty blonde dwarven woman in a dark stone chamber. The scene changes this way numerous times. The bed, the surroundings, the time of day, the bed’s second occupant and where they lie with Darius all change over and over again. The only constant is Darius himself.

Your vision fully blurs this time, the constant of a young, smiling Darius fading at last from your view. He appears again, a few years older, sporting a relatively new beard and wearing black plate armor. All around him is a blistering white. Ice. Darius isn’t alone, though; several humanoids surround him as together, they face a white dragon. A huge, grey-skinned goliath man wearing almost nothing despite the frigid environment swings a warhammer at its skull. A tiefling woman in a robe points a wand at the creature as a lightning bolt erupts towards it. Darius’s blade swings triumphantly towards the beast as the image fades.

A tall, man-shaped shadow looms around the corner of a crypt. A creature with rotting flesh and glowing eyes creaks its head towards the sight. Darius Drake, older still, confidently turns the corner, the tiefling from before in tow. You don’t recognize his other two companions. Darius’ shadow grows, suddenly shaped like a raven. He charges forward, his blade somehow glowing black.

Darius kneels before a crude tombstone made from sticks and twine. Hands clasped, he seems to mutter something, and places the wand that the tiefling woman had held next to the mound. Solemn, he picks up his blade and walks away, three young adventurers watching from a few feet away. They follow him.

Darius rides a chestnut horse with full saddlebags. His armor is gone, but he still wears a longsword on his back. He waves at two adventurers, whom you recognize from the last vision. The third is nowhere to be seen. They seem older now. They wave him off as his horse canters away.

Darius holds hands with a young elven woman in a white dress and veil on a beautiful sunny day in a garden. A dwarf, smiling, reads from a small book, standing between them. He looks up and gestures, and the two kiss.

Darius holds an infant in his arms, his wife clinging to his side. Both look into the infant’s blue-gold eyes, its ears ever so slightly pointed.

Darius holds the hand of a half-elven toddler as they stare together at an ornate marble tombstone. The toddler squeezes Darius’ hand, and Darius picks him up, walking back toward a black castle.

Darius Drake sits, bored, at the head of a mahogany table, dressed in a fine robe. The other guests are all dressed even more ornately, and they seem to be shouting, gesturing intently at one another. A very young half-elven boy waddles into the room, chased by an embarrassed dwarven woman in a maid uniform. The boy reaches his father and manages to grab his hand. Darius looks over at his son, tousles his hair, and waves him off with a wan smile. The attendant scoops up the child and rushes him out of the room.

Darius wakes up alone, covered in sweat, in a large four-poster bed. He looks himself over in a mirror, runs his hands down his face, and takes a longsword off its display above the cold fireplace. He has a shadow, despite the fact that there is no light source in the room, and it coalesces into a raven. Darius, grim, merely nods in its direction.

Darius stands atop a mountain, pelted by freezing rain. He’s wearing his black plate armor once more, and his longsword clangs against the hilt of a shovel. Darius has the low ground in a duel against a figure with a purple cloak and glowing green skin. The Stranger. Darius loses his footing for a moment, and the Stranger’s shovel pierces his stomach, breaking his armor. He falls on his back. The Stranger does not move for a finishing blow. He plants his shovel in the ground and opens his mouth, speaking to the wind. He gestures at Darius’ prone form. It almost appears that he is bargaining with something. He grants Darius one last look, apologetic. He then turns with a flourish of his cloak and continues scaling the mountain.

Darius, shirtless and bandaged, offers his cracked breastplate before an altar in a darkened temple. The shadows coalesce into a giant figure, its face a porcelain mask. The mask holds no expression, but the offering is accepted. The formless figure grows a hand that reaches towards Darius. It caresses his face, gentle. The mask itself nods, and the gargantuan entity fades. Darius gets up from his knees, smiling faintly. He clasps his hands together once more and leaves the temple.

Darius Drake once again sits at a mahogany table, more patient this time. Noblemen speak and he listens. He speaks rarely, but when he does, the rest of the table’s occupants quickly fall silent.

Darius watches his son, now an adult, train with the same balding man as he did. The boy’s golden hair bounces gently as he deftly outmaneuvers his aging opponent. The bald man hugs the boy, and they both turn to wave at Darius. He smiles back, wanly.

Darius stands at the castle gate, packing saddlebags onto a white horse. His son, Jason Drake, looks his father in the eye. The day is cloudy, but a ray of sunlight almost seems to focus on the younger man. He claps his father on the shoulder and mounts the horse, galloping away from the castle. Darius reaches a hand out, but Jason is already on his way. Darius crosses his arms and watches his son ride away, masking his worry with pride.

Jason Drake: A tall man in dark hair stands solemnly before a great marble tombstone. A very young boy, perhaps three or four years old, clutches his hand. The boy’s golden hair covers his eyes as he looks down towards the ground. Tears silently run down his face. As soon as one hits the ground, the man next to him looks down, smiling wanly. He, too, is crying. He gets down on one knee, and embraces the boy. The boy seems almost surprised, not sure of what to do in this situation. He tentatively hugs back, his tiny fingers barely reaching his father’s muscular shoulders. They breathe together. The man stands up, ending the embrace. For the first time, the boy is able to read the chiseled marble: “Amnestria Drake. Mother, Wife, Queen.” The boy tugs down on his father’s arm, and he is quickly scooped up. The two walk away, Jason’s eyes fixed on the stone until they enter the pitch-dark castle together.

Your vision distorts and changes, finding Jason older, but far from grown. Moving easily under his own power, he races throughout the drab castle, messing up its fine red carpeting and bumping into tables as he goes. Far behind him, an exasperated dwarven woman, dressed like a maid, chases him, arms outstretched. Presumably, she intends to yank the boy off of the floor as soon as she catches him, but judging by their respective paces, that won’t be soon. Jason rounds a corner, half-opening a heavy wooden door by simply slamming his body into it. He nearly trips as he makes his way to a man in a fine black robe, sitting idly at the head of a grand mahogany table. He leaps up to grab his father’s arm as it rests against the chair. The stoic face turns, gazing down upon the bright-eyed, bright-haired child. Darius smiles halfheartedly at his foolish son. Jason is suddenly acutely aware of everyone else in the room. Tall, scary noblemen dressed in finery all scowl down at him, apparently angry. Shame washes over Jason’s tiny elvish face. Suddenly, a pair of arms wrap themselves around his waist as he is unceremoniously yanked off of the floor and practically dragged out of the room. Jason watches his father turn away as the door is slammed behind them.

Jason Drake lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is ornate, boasting a king-sized four-poster bed. The walls are covered in bookshelves, tapestries, and all other varieties of noble finery. Despite all this, however, the room seems dark. Jason lies on his back, not on the bed, but on the floor. A tiny rectangle of light shines on his face, courtesy of one lonely window, very high up on the far wall. He seems to bask in its glow, the one tiny strip of brightness in his ornately morose surroundings. Jason’s golden hair drifts gently around his head on some impossible breeze. He stands up in place, the sunbeam still lighting on his face. He seems to draw that light into himself, letting it radiate off of his skin. Jason Drake looks around his tiny world as if he’s seeing it for the first time. The incumbent gloom of the chamber seems to almost press in around him, but Jason confidently strides towards it. Like a sea, it parts for him, the darkness disturbed and forced aside by his radiant presence. He tosses open the heavy wooden door to his chamber with a flourish and strides through the gloomy Castle Ravenloft. People stand aside for him, and their faces brighten as he passes. Singlehandedly, he cuts a swath of light through the lazy darkness that seems to coat his father’s castle. He reaches his destination-the castle’s temple. The room is dusty and undisturbed. Jason passes the symbols of the other major deities on Tora before settling upon his quarry: The six-pointed sun of Pelor, god of light. Jason rests his hand on the god’s small shrine, and he seems to grow even brighter.

Jason watches his dark father pack up his last saddlebag as he mounts his white stallion. Darius’ eyes are misty, but he stands proudly before his now adult son. Jason claps his father on the shoulder, his fingertips creating small wisps of light against the taller man’s dark attire. He then kicks the horse’s sides and it rears up, taking him in the direction of the dawn.

[elfnerdherder]

Dread and Hunger: Ch. 3

Chapter 3: Sauvignon Blanc

           When another body was reported on the Tri-Delta lawn, the school had a meltdown. Classes were cancelled –much to Beverly’s dismay since she was right in the midst of a fiber analysis breakthrough –and everyone hovered in groups in order to make plans for vigils and for better security. Will sat at one of the benches nearby, watching the spectacle of teachers attempting to console and wrangle in the hysteria, all the while their own sat perched just underneath their chins.

           This time, he had no doubt this kill was for him.

           “They said it’s the Chesapeake Ripper,” Alana said, arms folded across her chest. She was one of Will’s few friends, in the midst of her graduate program, her backpack stuffed so full of books it was a wonder she didn’t topple over.

           “It is,” Will said, staring at the corpse through cuts and breaks of the living bodies milling about.

           “What makes you say that?”

           “He’s a poet –can’t you tell?” Will glanced at her wryly, and she cracked a tense grin. She was no more comfortable around dead bodies than other people were. “This is Hades tricking Persephone to Hell.”

           “I’m familiar with the story,” said Alana, and when a teacher managed to lead a group of students away, she sat down beside him. How she wore heels in the middle of campus, he didn’t know, but he did commend her for it. Struggling through wet soil in that sort of shoe seemed a punishment to him, but to each their own. He studied the patent leather for a prolonged moment before looking back to the woman posed in such a grotesque fashion.

           “Behind her, he planted flowers, but the gaping black maw he created between those two trees represents Hell. The branch in the shape of a hand reaching through is Hades.”

           “Why did he use a branch for Hades' hand rather than another human hand?” Alana wondered. Will shrugged.

           “I think that’s his hand. The branch was moved and trimmed but not killed from the tree. He says he represents the life in the darkness, so I don’t think he’d want a dead hand for that. He’s leading Persephone into what, to mortals, is the worst of places to be, but we all know she ruled Hell after getting there. Hades paved the place before her to be a queen.” Will swallowed heavily, his palms clammy against his jeans. Nervously, he drummed his fingers.

           “So you think that one psychiatrist was right? Dr. Chilton claims the Chesapeake Killer is in love.” Alana wrinkled her nose in disgust at the thought, and Will twitched his shoulder in a shrug. He noted the FBI agents moving about, and that was even better confirmation than his own thoughts or Dr. Chilton’s news analysis.

           “He even found the right dress to put her in. The right floral crown, the whole…set-up. He’s detailed. A romantic.”

           “Are you impressed at his care, or are you horrified you can see the care he put into it?” Alana asked lightly. Will tensed, looking to her knee cap, then to the ground where her foot rested. Although they’d never talked about his mind very much, out of her respect for their friendship, there was a reason Alana was the top of her class. She knew without him ever having to say a damn thing.

           “Both,” he admitted, and he scratched the back of his neck.

           “Seeing and understanding doesn’t make you the same,” she assured him, and she lightly patted his shoulder, squeezing it.

           “I know.”

           “I know you know, but as your friend I’m making sure that you know I know.” He laughed at that, standing up when the sight of Persephone’s curly brown mop of hair was too much for him. That was the only inaccuracy to her appearance, and it was enough for him to solidify the kernel of truth that he’d been wrestling with for a few weeks now.

           The Chesapeake Ripper was interested in him, for reasons he was too terrified to know.

-

           There was a letter waiting for him when he got home, and he snatched it from the floor of the apartment hall with a vengeance. He let his bike fall onto the middle of his apartment floor as he hurriedly locked his door behind him, and when he sat down at the table, he opened it with shaky hands, the heavy paper supple and smooth. Out of the envelope, seven seeds fell, and he stared at them on the cheap wooden tabletop before he unfolded the letter, swallowing convulsively.

Dear Will,

You bring the light clasped round you, and although I knew you’d bring it, knew it as I waited, Knew as you’d come that you’d come cloaked in light I had forgotten what light meant, and so This longed for moment, so anticipated, I stand still, dazzled by my own delight.

I see you, and you see me, and we smile And your smile says you are as pleased as me With everything and nothing still to say All that we’ve saved and thought through all this time Boils down to affirmation now as we Stand here enlightened in my realm of grey.

                                                                                   Yours,

                                                                                   -C.R.

           He shook his head, but the words remained the same. A steady thrum of pleasure snaked down his back and, with a groan of disgust, he tossed it to the center of the table where the other poem lay. Poetry? The Chesapeake Ripper was sending him poetry? Two bodies could now be said to be equally his blame, since something about him had made the Ripper want to…well, rip. He dragged his fingertips over his eyelids, rubbing them until galactic spirals churned in his vision.

           He couldn’t stay in his house like this. Like Dr. Lecter said –friends were supposed to be your stability.

           Perhaps that was what had him out at a club that was certainly not his style that Friday night, seated at the bar while Beverly, Alana, and Alana’s girlfriend, Margot, danced to a syncopated and too fast beat. Beside him, Brian Zeller took a rather large gulp of his beer, spinning on the stool to watch them.

           “This was a great idea,” he said to Will, motioning towards Beverly. “She’s pissed they won’t let her finish her work, so it’s going to sit there all weekend because the school insists we aren’t there.” Brian was a good friend of Beverly’s since they were both studying forensics with sights on the FBI. While sometimes Brian found Will to be all but intolerable, Will found that his presence was certainly tolerable enough. He wasn’t Beverly, but he’d do. He needed the noise, the alcohol, and the feverish high that places like this brought in order to get rid of the image of Persephone reaching for Hades’ hand on the middle of the Tri-Delta lawn. He wondered if they’d dig up the flowers the Ripper had planted, or if they’d keep it as some odd memento. He wondered if they'd give him one to put into a terra cotta pot.

           “I thought she could use it,” he said over the beat. He sipped his whiskey, pleased that he’d caught the woman in time before she’d given him bottom shelf well water instead of something smooth. Once he’d told her he bartended, she was quick to give him middle shelf, which was all a guy could ask for.

           “This isn’t your scene, though, right? I mean, you’re not going to go try and…” Brian laughed and motioned towards the dance floor where several men lurked, attempting to find ways to ingratiate themselves to the gyrating bodies. Will shrugged, eyes leaping to the flashing, seizure-inducing lights.

           “You can, and I won’t judge,” he promised Brian, and that’s all that Zeller needed to hear. He was gone after he chugged his beer down, and he worked through the crowd in order to get to where their friends were, moving to the beat.

           Time crawled, though. While they moved and shifted and bounced about to the ever changing songs and sounds, he took drink after drink until the sweaty air became too hot, the stool beneath him too unstable. Will paid his tab and stumbled from his seat, unable to find his friends but more than able to find a side door out into an alley. He gulped in the cool air, and he wiped his forehead, leaning back against the brick and closing his eyes to make the world stop spinning for just a moment.

           It was at that unfortunate moment that he was grabbed, the world lurching about him wildly as he was spun and slammed against the brick wall face first, making spots of starlight explode in his eyes.

           “Fuck, what are you-”

           “Sh,” the person said, and Will froze as the assailant pinned him against the wall from his knees to his shoulders, their body flush against him. He thought to shout out, to resist, but against the side of his ribs he felt a thin, deadly pressure, and his drunken mind said that yes, Will, that was indeed a knife. People with knives pressed to their skin didn’t shout or resist because they weren’t stupid, and you’re drunk but certainly not stupid.

           Right?

           “Don’t move.” The voice was low, gravelly. Will froze against the wall, although he had it in him to nod so that the man knew he was going to comply. Was he being robbed? He didn’t have much since he deposited his tips into his account as soon as possible, but there was at least twenty bucks in his wallet.

           He didn’t go for his wallet, though, pressed so close as they were. Will knew that he was burning up from the alcohol, but that paled in comparison to the heat that radiated from the man, something that scalded his skin and pierced deep. Against his back, the man’s heart beat at a steady, regular interval, and Will knew this wasn’t the first time he’d handled another person so violently.

           The man's hands began to move slowly, leisurely. They trailed along the side of his thighs, his waist, his ribs. When they reached the juncture between chest and arm, they slid over his back and splayed across his shoulder blades, the small bump in the spread informing Will that he was dragging the knife along, too. He held as still as he could, breaths turning into gasps, transforming to wheezes. He was going to die. He was going to die drunk outside of a club in an alley, then what would the Chesapeake Ripper say?

           The man’s hands glided over his shoulders, then jerked him from the wall enough that he could slide his hands down his chest, across his ribs. Even with the space provided, he didn’t feel like he had an out. The man’s chest was pressed flush against him, his arms an iron cage. In the darkness of the alley, he could only see shapes, distinctions of where the knife was separate from the hand, and when he paused on Will’s heartbeat it doubled in time, alerting his attacker that he was utterly, utterly terrified.

           The hands continued their investigation, gliding across his stomach and abs, hesitating at the waistline, pausing just above his jeans. He gulped, and the man’s hands drifted down, stopping just at the point where his hand rested right on top of Will’s member.

           “Please don’t,” he said quietly, and the man applied pressure, rubbing the area in slow, massaging circles. Will shuddered and his head fell forward so that it could press into the brick, a sharp breath hissing from his lips. The man behind him hmm’d thoughtfully, and he pressed his nose and mouth against Will’s neck, inhaling deeply.

           He felt when it began to become aroused, tightening the material of his jeans, and the other man felt it, too. There was a disconnect, a whisper in his mind that reminded him that physical reaction was not a true sign of arousal, that the body naturally reacted to stimulation. When the man bit down on his neck and sucked lightly, though, the thought swept away from him, disorganized and chaotic in the rush of pleasure that made his knees weak. This wasn’t right; this wasn’t right.

           It felt pretty damn good, though.

           His breaths became pants, his member straining against the material. The man gripped it tightly, squeezed, and he moaned, leaning back against him. The man’s free hand wrapped tightly around his chest, holding him back against the erection he could feel pressed tightly to his rear.

           A door slammed to the side of the club.

           The man shoved him, and he fell against the brick wall, his breaths escaping in quiet, muted gulps. Footsteps rushed away from him, and when his mind made the connection to turn and look, there was no one there. He blinked, stared at the empty alleyway, and when he finally got his legs to cooperate, he found his way to a taxi and slid into it, rubbing his neck where the assailant had left their mark.

-

           The next day, well after he’d dry-heaved into the toilet and scrubbed the taste of day old whiskey from his mouth, he savagely tore open the letter that waited on his doorstep, innocent and lovely with its curling script and cream paper. This time, it was gravel that fell into his palm, and he knew without having to truly know just who had assaulted him in the middle of an alley in DC.

Dear Will,

           You really must be more careful where you go so late at night. What if I had not been the only killer in the alleyway? What would you have done, then?

                                                                                                                                                                                               Yours,

                                                                                                                                                                                               -C.R.

-

           “You look far more tired than usual, Will. How was your weekend?” Hannibal saw all, it seemed. Will set his drink down, a Sauvignon Blanc, and he rubbed the lack of sleep out of his eyes.

           “Pretty hellish,” he admitted, then rebuked himself. That wasn’t something Hannibal Lecter had to know. He was a customer, for Christ’s sake.

           “More letters from your admirer?” At his gesture to sit down, Will took it, glancing about to make sure no other customers were about. Sangre wasn’t a popular place on a Monday at 4:00 P.M., which is probably why he was stuck with the shift. New blood got the worst shifts.

           “And what I suspect is a body, but I can’t confirm that,” he said, and admitting it out loud was like spitting acid onto the table before them. His fingers tapped out a tuneless beat on the server tray, and he held his breath. Should he tell Hannibal that he’d been sexually assaulted? He’d considered going to the cops, but his classes and experiences told him just how futile that adventure would be. Women who’d been raped or assaulted faced a gauntlet of horrifying and accusatory statements, and men were faced with a blank stare of utter disbelief. Men weren’t sexually assaulted. Women mostly lied about being sexually assaulted.

           He’d firmly decided against filing the report.

           “It is interesting that this person has chosen you,” Hannibal said, tilting his head. “Why do you think that is?”

           “He thinks…I can connect with people on a level beyond human interaction,” Will said slowly. Don’t give it away. Don’t give it away. “But I’m sure that I upset him the other night, so I may not hear from him ever again.”

           “How did you do that?” Dr. Lecter asked, intrigued. His eyes lightened perceptively.

           “Are we going to start calling these therapy sessions, Dr. Lecter?” Will replied dryly.

           “These are mere conversations between acquaintances,” Hannibal replied genially. He inhaled the bouquet and smiled appreciatively at Will, nodding his approval. “Some would argue this a more of a summer wine, but I enjoy the freshness of it.”

           “I thought something light for the day,” Will said. Something light while discussing something dark.

           “A lovely thought. But do go on.”

           “I went out with friends to a club they like, and I got a little drunk,” Will revealed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He basically informed me that he didn’t like that.”

           “Are you so sure it’s a he?”

           “If the murders that are correlating to the letters are him, then yes.” He thought of the muggy, cold air that’d collected in the space around them, the heat that’d burned his skin. That was no woman that’d pressed him against the wall.

           “He feels entitled to where you go and what you do, then,” Hannibal observed. “Why do you think that is?”

           “Obsession,” Will replied automatically.

           “So you believe this person is obsessed with you?” Will shrugged, a non-committed gesture.

           “He’s obsessed with some part of me that he thinks he can see, but he doesn’t really know me. He’s never spoken to me, but he’s made assumptions, and he’s obsessed with those ideas.”

           “By your logic, then, if he did come to know you, would it cease to be an obsession? Would it transcend to something more?” Hannibal wondered. “You who looked at the murders that you feel are linked to this admirer, you assumed to know of them the way this admirer assumes they know you. In your own way, does that make you obsessed in some form or other?”

           “I only looked to see after their deaths correlated to me, though,” Will protested.

           “Then perhaps the obsession is with yourself, that you see someone kill another and suppose it has anything to do with you,” Hannibal replied with a sly smile.

           “…Maybe,” Will said reluctantly.

           “Are you, perhaps, upset that he didn’t ask permission before sending you such letters?” Hannibal inquired when Will didn’t add anything. “I should have asked permission as well before engaging in any sort of conversation –my mistake.”

           “It’s different with you,” Will said, looking up to his face. “You aren’t running around town killing people just to get my attention.”

           “Thankfully,” Hannibal replied gravely. He maintained an intense, searching stare, and the longer Will looked, the more he found his breath coming somewhat short, wanting.

           Wanting what?

           “And…I like our conversations,” he added a beat later. He looked out of the window where passersby hurried through whatever errand sent them scurrying so quickly. He felt Hannibal’s stare on his skin like a stain he couldn’t quite scrub off, and he wasn’t sure whether he should elaborate or slink back to the bar where he’d pretend to wipe it down for a little while. Hannibal busied himself with enjoying the wine, and that was enough compliment for him.

           “I enjoy our conversations as well, Will,” Hannibal said at last. “Despite your reluctance for any interaction with others, once you put aside a refusal to be anything more than professional, you’re quite adept at socializing with people, as adults are wont to do.”

           “My refusal to be anything more than professional?” Will asked, eyes flickering to Hannibal’s lips. They twitched.

           “Oh, yes. I could see the fear in your eyes, at first; God forbid we became friendly.” It took him a second to realize that Dr. Lecter was teasing him. Will smiled wryly, and he looked to the bar, giving a start when he saw his boss. He stood and held up the server tray, akin to a shield, and he nodded to Hannibal, as professional and aloof as he could make it.

           Whether his boss bought it or not, that much was uncertain. Hannibal left a generous tip, and Will was left with an odd feeling that made his bones press tight against his skin.