#and thus the dark urge is doomed

[animentality]

Larian has some kind of beef with the dark urge and I wish they'd just stop talking about them at all.

I can talk about them. People who write fanfic can talk about them. People who draw depraved art can talk about them.

You need to stop.

Please just keep adding Astarion lines, don't give anyone else any, and let the game be.

It's past the point of fixing, simply adding scenes won't fix the structural problems, and there's no use in being bothered by any of that now. Best selling game, and it's deserved and all, but.

This is your bed.

Lie in it.

And leave the dark urge be.

[lonepower]

FGHKDGHJDHGJHGLJFDKHG

[rivilu]

i meant it when i said quick btw, consider the poll closed, here they are:

quick! in the (more) fucked up and evil timeline where a durge joins the party,

[cenorii]

Complicated things between Birkin and Wesker

Here I'll try to get to the bottom of why Birkin condemned his friend to death and why, through his fault, Wesker is doomed to be HIV (Progenitor) infected even if he stops using PG67A/W. Dealing with canon and delving into the dark side of lore...

Let's start right away with what I've intrigued you with - Wesker's infection. I compared his infection with the prototype virus to HIV for a reason, because there are many similarities. When Wesker became infected and mutated, he became a perpetual carrier of the virus in his blood. Every particle his body carries the virus. And for some reason this fact isn't brought up at all in the fandom… I haven't seen anyone discuss how infectious Wesker actually is. Like HIV, Progenitor strains are classified as retroviruses.

Wesker is just as contagious as any other creature that has been under the sway of any strain of Progenitor, because there are no exceptions in this case. Thanks to a successful symbiosis with the virus, he doesn't attack humans and has only gotten positive attributes from it, but that's the only thing that makes him less contagious than normal infected.

Even if he stops using PG67A/W, which stabilizes his abilities gained from the virus, it won't fix his situation, because even without PG67A/W the virus will continue to exist in his body, there is no connection between this injection and the virus in his blood, it's just a stabilizer supplement.

Getting his body fluids (for example, blood) into someone else's body would cause an immediate reaction and infection. Knowing what a small survival threshold the prototype virus has and how selective it is, the person would probably just die on the spot. The prototype is not capable of creating random zombie-like mutations, it has only two outcomes - death or success. So the precautions here are the same as for HIV positive people. I wouldn't recommend Chris with open wounds to shoot Wesker up close, because if his blood gets on the wound, it could cause irreversible effects. Of course, such a battle tactic is beneath Wesker's dignity, but I would recommend that he bite his opponents. This would prove to be much more effective than a hand punch, as even Chris can easily dodge that punch. However, I'd like to see him try to dodge someone who wants to claw at his flesh at breakneck speed…

Now let's talk about Birkin. He knew the effects of the prototype virus because he had personally worked on this particular strain. He lied to Wesker about the survival rate after injection (File "Virus Memo" from "Umbrella Chronicles"). His information is a lie because out of 13 Weskers, only two survived the injection of the prototype virus. The survival rate is clearly not 90% as he said, but about 15.3%. Birkin knew that his comrade was at risk of dying, so he could have given him the fake injection and lied to him along the lines of "it's something special, but you can't be injured after the injection or you'll die", thus safeguarding Wesker from the urge to throw himself on Tyrant's claws and also safeguarding his humanity. But Birkin was afraid to go against Spencer, however the old man would never have known whether or not Wesker had injected himself with the virus if Birkin had said he had handed him the syringe. I also think that Birkin was unaware of Wesker's immunity, so by giving him the virus under the guise of a panacea, he was sending his friend to his death. You could say it's a cruel and selfish act on his part.

Although, there is a slight possibility that Birkin could have taken tests from Wesker beforehand and calculated that he was immune, which is why he attributed such unrealistically high survival rates to the prototype virus. In that case, his act has a modicum of nobility, since it's unlikely that anyone took tests from the other 12 Weskers. But that's just a theory, we don't know if he really knew about it and if Birkin could have really selfishly thrown Wesker to his fate, turning him into one of his (and Spencer's) test subjects.

[astarionposting]

tell us more about ren she’s so pretty i need lore

Hello anon!! I am so flattered u want to know more about her! Ren is an alternate universe version of my usual Tav. I’m much better at storytelling visually, so I’ll explain some of my visual choices I’ve made for her character, which contains a bit of the lore I have created thus far. (also thank u for the excuse to just create a character dump post for her lol - i spent way too much time on this)

content warnings: mentions of dissection, scarring one's own face, unhealthy obsessions, stalking, religious trauma... just general fucked up Bhaalist things. + spoilers for BG3

EYES

A keypoint in her design are her eyes; Ren has the same eyes as The Dark Urge's Fiend butler, Sceleritas Fel, reflecting her origin as a creation of Bhaal Himself. Similar to other creations like her and Sceleritas, she was made with the purpose of serving and assisting Bhaal's Chosen.

SCARS

The right side of her face is deliberate scarring of her own doing during her priestess "training". Her body scars, however, are the result of the experimentation performed on her in her early training days. These experiments are often done with the purpose of making unnatural "improvements".

HANDS

I really love how Scarlet Witch's fingertips will stain black as a result of her use of the Darkhold's chaos magic spells, so I took that inspiration and headcannon that Ren's hands/arms do something similar from her "training" as a priestess of Bhaal and her use of necromancy/shadow magic and rituals.

For her general aesthetic, I was mainly inspired by the concept art for Bhaal for BG3 and this art of a priestess of Bhaal. She often wears a large dusty cloak over her usual gown. Placed on the top of her cloak, she will also sometimes wear a crown of thorns, mimicking the "spiky" style of common Bhaalist attire. During their time in the temple, before the events of BG3, she often adorned her face with a broken piece of a human skull. Since her coat is quite heavy, she walks a little hunched over… kind of like a creepy gremlin. Additionally, she will wear a small Bhaalist charm at the collar of her cloak.

Underneath, she wears her typical black gown; the top half resembles Orin’s carapace and blends into her skirt, with leg slits for better mobility, of course! When she isn’t wearing her cloak, her hair is loosely tied back and styled into a collection of braids, accessorized with Bhaalist jewelry.

*Keep in mind I am not a lore expert in terms of D&D deities or Bhaalist lore in general. I took some stuff from the forgotten realms wiki but also just made some stuff up lol, so this NOT D&D or BG3 lore accurate.

Also, again, warnings for unhealthy relationships/obsessions, as well as brief mentions of torture but not in detail.

THEY ARE BHAALISTS THEY HAVE ISSUES!!!!

Similarly to Sceleritas Fel, Ren has a lot of "care" for The Dark Urge. She favours him over Orin, and often clashed heads with her... but of course I have to have some doomed yuri content too!!!!!! so maybe they kissed once or twice >:) (but waaay before the events of BG3) Her "training" as a priestess of Bhaal consisted of torture, religious indoctrination, and extreme mental corruption/manipulation, especially by Orin. As implied before, she faced experiments in order to "improve" her usefulness to Bhaal and His Chosen. As a result, she is not the most stable person you'll meet. She is mainly chaotic evil aligned, however, her final loyalties will always lie with The Dark Urge, and she is accepting of his resistance/redemption path, as well as his acceptance/murder hobo path. She is essentially a certified Real One (also doesn't rlly vibe with Bhaal after he kills her evil Dragon boyfriend yk). The tadpole in someway also helped "release" her mind of Bhaal's influence, and while she is still an obsessive and violent girlie, she can be persuaded to not be a total murder hobo and sometimes even decides on her own to go against Bhaal's wishes (she still cool with murder though). As I previously mentioned, Ren was created by Bhaal to assist His Chosen in his duties and leading the temple, as most priestesses/priests of Bhaal do. She is more of a companion and advisor to The Dark Urge, rather than a servant like Sceleritas Fel. She is deeply (obsessed) "in-love" with The Dark Urge, and supports him over Orin. A while before the whole tadpoles, absolute, blah blah blah stuff, her and Orin had a brief history, but it was moreso Orin's jealousy of what Durge had. Her in-game class is a Bhaalist class mod! It is very fun so far, and she just levelled up to level 3 and can now has the ability Verminous Metamorphosis, so she can turn into a… RAAAAT!! 🐀 sorry, Astarion :( However, I see her as a combo of this and a death cleric of Bhaal. In terms of how her story is going in the BG3 campaign, i still haven't fully fleshed anything out yet! I would assume she would have a large impact on Durge's memory loss. Maybe she will have her own gaps in memory, but knows they have a reason to go to Baldur's Gate. As for other durge events, I believe she would be proud of The Dark Urge for such a "beautiful display of gore!" after Alfira night lol. I'm still undecided if I want to do redemption or murder hobo durge... I don't want to kill Isobel so I'm probably going to headcannon that Bhaal tasks The Dark Urge with killing her, as a way to test if he is "losing his way", or if he cares more about the life of a "mere servant of Bhaal" than his own "birthright" as Bhaal's Chosen.

For now I am just going with the flow of the game and doing some fun photo and gif series of Ren and Durge's adventure in my Durgetav playthrough!

Face preset | hair | scar | eyes | makeup + bloody lips | body tattoo & autopsy scar Orin top, arms + legs | dress + accessories | cloak | hood + crown/mask | lingerie

♡ PLAYLIST

dividers made by me with canva; graphics by @/brand314195326 and @/dhtgip. screenshots by me ♡

[stygiusfic]

Timeline: Bhaal's return & Durge's birth

There is a lot of content about Bhaal and the city of Baldur's Gate in Forgotten Realms lore— including several adventure modules set around the same time as BG3 that feature both. Of course, The Dark Urge doesn't feature in them, as that character was a later addition to the city's history made when BG3 was created... so it can be hard to reconcile Durge's BG3 canon with pre-established Forgotten Realms canon. 

Unless, of course, you become obsessed with making it make sense, and fall into a rabbit hole of lore research and speculation for weeks on end. Which is what happened to me!

So here is my best approximation of a timeline that would integrate Durge within their world, without breaking either BG3 canon or pre-established Forgotten Realms canon (as far as I know, anyway... D&D lore is a tangled mess). Spoilers for BG3 abound, of course, and some for BG1 and BG2 as well.

Big shout-out to @nonbinaryeye for bringing this subject up in a fic comment and motivating me to finally put all this together!

(You can just scroll to the bottom of this post for an abridged version of this timeline, or keep reading here to get the detailed version!)

First, a brief recap of Bhaal's whole situation leading up to the game:

Baldur's Gate 3 takes place in the year 1492 DR. 

Well over a century before the game, in 1358 DR, Bhaal was killed at Boareskyr Bridge by Cyric, who took his portfolio as Lord of Murder. But Bhaal had foreseen his own murder, and he prepared for it. He spread his essence by impregnating a score of mortal women (many of them his priestesses) to sire the Bhaalspawn. 

These murderous children grew up to kill each other, with the winner usurping from the loser their share of Bhaal's essence, and consolidating his power. The wise Alaundo's prophecies about the Bhaalspawn said that Bhaal would be reborn from his spawn. The one who won out over all others, who had collected his scattered essence, would be a conduit.

The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom, he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sown from their passage. [...] The deaths they bring shall awaken the father, and through them he will rise.

(The statues leading down to the Bhaal Temple say a bit of the prophecy! There's also an account you can find of someone quoting Sarevok's old journals.)

The "through them he will rise" bit was believed to have been foiled by the protagonist of BG1 and BG2, Gorion's Ward. He was the Bhaalspawn who eradicated all his evil siblings, and chose to be good and resist Bhaal. He rose to prominence in Baldur's Gate as Marshal of the Flaming Fist (with Ulder Ravenguard, Wyll's dad, serving directly under him) and a member of the ruling Council of Four. 

But in 1482 DR, a decade before BG3, during a speech in the Wide (the market in the Upper City), Gorion's Ward was attacked by another Bhaalspawn who had somehow escaped the purge, and the winner gained all of Bhaal's essence in that moment. They were overtaken by that essence and became the Slayer, slaughtering many of the citizens gathered there. 

Thus, Bhaal was at last reborn as Lord of Murder.

...Okay, but what does that mean for Durge?

Well, let's look at what we know about them. 

Durge's exact birthdate is unclear. However, we can safely assume that it happened within a few decades before Bhaal's rebirth in 1482 DR. I estimate it to be in the 1450s, no later than 1458-ish. 

This is because we know Sceleritas Fel found them "at the age of majority" (which doesn't necessarily correspond to real-world majority, but we'll assume it's in that ballpark). Sceleritas is canonically already with them in 1477 DR (the year that Larian's browser game Blood in Baldur's Gate takes place, which the butler features in). So Durge must have been, at the very least, 18-20 years old when that game takes place. 

That said, the vibe I get from Blood in Baldur's Gate is Sceleritas has been with them a while by that point, so I imagine them a few years older. 

But they could be entire decades older, too, if you prefer. Bhaalspawn do not age at the same rate as other members of their apparent species, so they could look youthful regardless of how many years they've been around. Gorion's Ward, a human, was pretty spry in 1482 DR, at around 130 years old! This trait would be even more salient in Durge, who is not just a Bhaalspawn but a titan, a demigod born without a mortal parent.

Durge was not born from Bhaal's seed, like all the Bhaalspawn before them, but from his flesh and blood. Sceleritas tells us as much in the game.

Going back to my Bhaal recap, in 1358 DR, Bhaal was slain on the Boareskyr Bridge above the Winding Water, a river that flows down to the Sea of Swords some distance north of Baldur's Gate. 

Forgotten Realms lore tells us that part of Bhaal's divinity and his blood spilled into the Winding Water when he was slain. So the most likely explanation for Durge's birth "from Bhaal's blood and gore" is that this gore gathered in the eddies of the river over a long period of time, and eventually its inherent divinity gave rise to a titan: baby Durge!

Though it's on the younger end of the spectrum, it's fun to imagine Durge was born from this gore in 1458 DR, a perfect century after Bhaal's murder. Poetic!

Durge "wandered" for a time before Sceleritas found them. The Winding Water runs relatively close to Baldur's Gate in the map, but immediately nearby there's not a whole lot of civilization. And Bhaal loooooooves Baldur's Gate! 

Ed Greenwood, who crafted a lot of Forgotten Realms lore around Bhaal, tells us Bhaal's lingering essence within Gorion's Ward drew him toward Baldur's Gate, instead of his native Candlekeep where he'd retired after his adventures. So it's easy to assume that this same impulse moved baby Durge to travel to the city, and along the way (or perhaps once there) acquire the "unique" skills they possess that aren't a direct result of their lineage (essentially, their D&D class). 

Durge was taken in by a family of humble means in Baldur's Gate, and eventually was compelled by Bhaal's influence on them to murder that adoptive family.

We see that in a flashback in the game (if Heal is cast on Durge either before being freed of Bhaal's influence by Withers, or after accepting to become Chosen). They seem to have been quite young when this happened; it was perhaps the first manifestation of the Urge within them.  

I have to assume that this was a traumatic experience for them. (Trauma would not be a hindrance to their indoctrination into Bhaal's worship—in fact, traumatic experiences are used to strengthen bonds within cults in the real world. But that's a long post for another time.) In any case, at some point, Sceleritas reveals himself to them and starts to lead them along the path Bhaal wants for them.

Whatever Durge's fears and misgivings, by 1477 DR, they've embraced their murderous inspiration, at least enough to follow its call a good handful of times. 

In 1477 DR, Durge commits a series of shockingly grotesque murders in the city, as shown in the browser game Blood in Baldur's Gate. They are never caught, as the player character investigating (Tav, as named in the game) is killed by Durge themselves.

At this time, by the way, Gorion's Ward is already Marshal of the Flaming Fist. We know he rose to that position after the previous Marshal was killed in a coup by Duke Valerken.

(No exact date is given for this coup, mentioned in the adventure module Murder in Baldur's Gate, which revolves around Bhaal's rebirth. But from information given within the module, we can place the coup between 1440 and 1460 DR, at least a decade and a half before Durge's murder spree).

So Gorion's Ward did not recognize the work of a fellow Bhaalspawn. Perhaps he thought the curse of the Bhaalspawn had been ended through his own victory over the rest!

It is unlikely that Durge was in contact with Sarevok's cult of Bhaal in the city at this point.

The reason why I think this is because the lair that the investigator Tav is led to for their murder at the end of Blood in Baldur's Gate is not the Temple of Bhaal, but rather seems like a personal dwelling in the tunnels of the city. 

I like to imagine that Durge committed those murders to impress and prove their value to Bhaal, guided by Sceleritas Fel's advice. It's possible that as a result of proving themself so, they became known to Sarevok's cult, and established contact that way—but that would be the earliest likely moment of contact. 

Wow, this is long! If you're still here, go stretch and drink some water! 

Okay, great. So, this post all came about because I had Gortash in my Hall of Wonders heist fic wondering how come Durge could be a Bhaalspawn, when all Bhaalspawn were supposed to have died out at Bhaal's rebirth in 1482, to return his essence to him.

(This is the question that was driving me mad before I lost my mind and many many hours of my life to the research you just read.)

The math, as I see it, is:

Bhaal gives out his "essence" ("his seed") via fathering a ton of Bhaalspawn with mortal women. You know how people are 2/3rds water? Let's say 2/3rds of Bhaal is the seed he gives out. He did get busy.

That leaves the 1/3rd that's his actual body. Which is where Durge comes from (his blood and gore).

So the "essence" that Alaundo's prophecy talked about, that had to be gathered again for Bhaal to be reborn, is those 2/3rds, the seed, the original Bhaalspawn.  

So Durge exists outside that math!

Presumably, Bhaalspawn with a very diluted degree of his essence could be excluded without the resurrection failing. (If he's missing 0.1% of what he gave out, well, it's not a big deal, right?)

This does also mean that Sarevok's Bhaal essence must have gone back to the Throne of Blood when he got killed by Gorion's Ward and the gang in the first game. His bit of essence got added to Gorion's Ward's at that point. 

This would explain why Sceleritas is such a hater about Orin's legitimacy as a "Bhaalspawn". She would have the dregs of Sarevok's dregs—but Bhaal's favor since she was a child, when she killed her mom, may have accounted for the bulk of her bloody obsessions. 

And there it is! Believe it or not, I did cut out some stuff because I couldn't face the length of this post. So there will probably be more, because this is where my brain lives now.

[fkitwebhaal]

I’ve said this before in the tags but man does the Orin and Dark Urge dynamic fascinate me.

Like, they’re both doomed by the narrative, but the Dark Urge is the favorite and thus, more doomed. Like, could Orin leave and do her own thing? I wouldn’t say that, all the odds are against her, but she’s not Bhaal’s favorite weapon.

When she “kills” Durge, it’s to take their place as Bhaal’s chosen, but story wise, she’s essentially taking Durge’s place as the being doomed to fall by the party. She’s doomed to become the slayer and be slain. If you tell her the truth of her parentage, she actually hears you out before Bhaal forces her into the Slayer form. She doesn’t get a choice otherwise.

When Orin tries to kill Durge, she ends up freeing them from their doomed narrative (if Durge decides to take advantage of that freedom is up to the player) but unknowingly taking their place.

[twistedtummies2]

Top 12 Edgar Allan Poe Stories

October has come ‘round, everyone! Usually I have some kind of big Event for this month, but this year, I decided to take things a bit easy on myself and instead do a bunch of single-post lists throughout the month, which are thematically tied to the time of Halloween in some form or another. With that in mind, we’ll kick this month off with a tribute to my favorite author: that Master of the Macabre, Edgar Allan Poe. Poe was the quintessential “tortured artist.” His life story is a tragic and strange one, just as dark and filled with despair as many of the things he wrote. But for all of its pitfalls and distressing points, there was more to the man than doom and gloom: his writing reflects that, as Poe not only was and still is considered the master of the Gothic horror story, but also was a gifted romantic poet, and even wrote many pieces of humorous satire. One of his greatest contributions to literature was the invention of the modern detective story! Works like “The Phantom of the Opera” and characters like “Sherlock Holmes” simply would not exist if it hadn’t been for the prose and poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. Ever since I was young - perhaps too young to fully appreciate the intricacies of his work - I’ve always admired and adored this writer, and so I figured now was as good a time as any to show my appreciation for all this fellow gave to the world of literature. Most of the stories on this countdown will be Poe’s classic horror stories, but there will be some other pieces as well. I WON’T be including any of his poems, however; I’m saving a separate, shorter list for those. With that said, let’s waste time nevermore! These are My Top 12 Stories from Edgar Allan Poe.

12. Descent Into the Maelstrom.

Many people credit Poe for the invention of the modern detective story, which is true and good. However, there’s one thing I think people could credit Poe for creating that has yet to be officially stated as his invention: the creation of what might be called modern “Survival Horror.” These are stories where the fear comes from the protagonist being thrown into a perilous situation, and the audience - usually in the role of said protagonist - just has to go through it and survive, plain and simple. The horror comes from the helplessness of the situation, and the desperate urge to escape, combined with the perspective being done in such a way that the readers (or viewers, or players, depending on the medium) are the ones who are put through it. “Descent Into the Maelstrom” can sort of be seen as a precursor to this style. It is a story within in a story, told largely from the perspective of a fisherman, who relates to a young friend about how he survived an encounter his ship had with a monstrous whirlpool, out in the open sea. It’s revealed that the sailor’s experience was so shocking, it has turned his hair white and made him appear older than he really is. There’s not much else to the story beyond that, but that’s really all it needs: while we know the fisherman obviously survived, the tension remains as we wait to see how he did it, and learn just how close to his own end he nearly got.

11. Never Bet the Devil Your Head.

Like I said, Poe didn’t just write gruesome tales of the macabre and morbid. He also had a sense of humor, and wrote several works of satirical comedy. “Never Bet the Devil Your Head” is my favorite of his comedic works, partially because it is one of his darkest satires; it’s one of a few stories that feel almost like he’s spoofing himself, in some ways, and strangely reminds me of the work of another great author I love, Washington Irving. (Whether this was intentional or not is anybody’s guess.) The story spoofs the idea that all good short tales should teach some kind of moral lesson, as it begins with the Narrator expressing frustration at the fact his critics have judged him for apparently not including a moral in any past works. He thus relates the tale of a friend of his, Toby Dammit. (Yes, you may laugh at that name as much as you like.) Toby is a man who likes to make rhetorical bets, and is particularly fond of declaring, “I’ll bet the Devil my head!” whenever he does so. One day, the Devil himself comes calling, as he stops Toby and the Narrator at a bridge. Toby, not recognizing Old Scratch, makes the rhetorical bet he always does, claiming he can leap over a turnstile in the center of the bridge. The man makes the jump…and has his head lopped off by a hidden blade (“what might be termed a serious injury,” Poe writes), which the Devil then carries off. As a final indignity, after the bill for Toby’s funeral expenses are paid, the Narrator is forced to have his old friend dug up and turned into dog food. This story is as ludicrous as it is morbid, and while the satire is not by any means subtle, it is pretty funny. It’s the only direct comedy tale of Poe’s on this countdown, and not without good reason.

10. The Black Cat.

Many consider this one of Poe’s most noteworthy masterworks. While it doesn’t sit as high for me as some of his other stories - it feels a bit too similar to some other works of his that came both before and after it, which I feel did the concepts involved much greater justice, personally - I do still very much enjoy this story. The tale is told from the perspective of a murderer, awaiting his date with the executioner. The killer relates the details of his ghastly crime, which began when he murdered a black cat that he and his wife once owned, named Pluto. Sometime later, a second black cat came into their lives, which the killer believed was the reincarnation of the first pet, and feared. One day, when trying to kill this second feline with an axe, the narrator accidentally murders his wife in the process. To cover up this heinous deed, he attempted to brick her up behind a false wall in the cellar…but needless to say, things didn’t exactly go the way he expected, once the police showed up. Extraordinarily brutal and highly disturbing, “The Black Cat” is one of Poe’s most ambiguous and unsettling stories, and deserves all the recognition it has garnered over time.

9. Murders in the Rue Morgue.

I have said a couple of times now that Poe is credited with inventing the modern detective story. Poe referred to these tales as “studies in ratiocination;” he treated them more like essays than typical pieces of literature, where the focus was on showing the power of deductive logic in an otherwise inexplicable situation. There were three primary stories in this bunch, two of which are on this countdown. “Murders in the Rue Morgue” was the first and arguably the most well-known and beloved of the bunch, as it combines the elements of a classic piece of what we now recognize as detective fiction, with the trappings of Gothic horror and an almost satirical absurdity, which are so uniquely Poe. The story focuses on gentleman sleuth C. Auguste Dupin, who is called upon to solve a mysterious slew of hideously brutal slayings in Paris. The solution to the crime - SPOILER ALERT - turns out to be that the killings were the work of a sailor’s wayward pet orangutan, who accidentally killed the victims while attempting to shave their faces, the way it saw its owner do numerous times. I love how the solution to this crime is honestly kind of hilarious (in a very twisted way, mind you), as well as totally bonkers, yet the story goes out of its way to make such an utterly insane answer sound surprisingly plausible. You can easily see where future great writers of murder mysteries and sleuth stories, such as Arthur Conan Doyle and G.K. Chesterton, might have taken inspiration. It was a great start to a great genre, and is more than deserving of recognition for that fact.

8. The Pit and the Pendulum.

Yet another example of Poe arguably inventing the “Survival Horror” genre, and honestly, this is probably the very best said example one could have. Once again told from the point of view of the narrator (as most of Poe’s stories were), this tale recounts the experiences of a poor prisoner, being tormented by the Spanish Inquisition. He relates all the ways he was physically and mentally tormented by the Inquisitors, and his cunning attempts to escape his captors. The most notable examples of his torture are a seemingly bottomless pit in the center of his cell, and then later, being stuck under…(pauses)... “Oh. Look. There’s the pendulum of doom! What’s the pendulum of doom doing there?! I did not order the pendulum of doom! It’s overkill! Get rrrrid of it!” (Ahem…sorry, I freaking love that line. XD ) In all seriousness, I can’t recall if the “Pendulum of Doom” concept ever even existed before Poe wrote this story; to my knowledge, it wasn’t a real method of torture/execution, and I can’t remember it being brought up in fiction before this. So, if nothing else, Poe created the original supervillain death trap, and showed just how scary it could be in the process. Doesn’t that earn placement in the Top 10, if nothing else? I thought as much.

7. Hop-Frog.

“Hop-Frog” was Poe’s final story, but you probably wouldn’t guess it from reading this violent tale of vengeance. The story - for once NOT told by an unnamed narrator - focuses on a wicked king and his courtiers, who delight in mocking and abusing their servants. Most notable among their victims are the King’s jester, a hunchbacked dwarf named Hop-Frog, and a dancer by the name of Trippetta, whom Hop-Frog is in love with. The King and his cabinet are fans of practical jokes, so, one day, Hop-Frog offers them an idea for a prank: the King is to host a masquerade ball, and he and his friends are to dress as a horde of orangutans (wow, Poe really liked those, didn’t he?), to scare the other partygoers. The King and his cronies take the jester’s advice, thus falling for Hop-Frog’s trap: the harlequin gives them costumes made out of flammable materials, and, as part of the prank, chains them up and hangs them like a chandelier over the assembled partygoers…before setting them all on fire. As they are burned alive before the horrified revelers, Hop-Frog escapes with Trippetta, pronouncing his vengeance with the words: “this is my last jest!” There is great irony in the fact that Poe probably had no idea this last great declamation against cruelty and prejudice, with a side of Gothic chills, would, indeed, be his last great jest.

6. The Purloined Letter.

This was the third of Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin mystery tales, and it’s the second of the two I mentioned would be on this list. While “Murders in the Rue Morgue” is certainly the most iconic of these tales, I actually think this story is even better. It lacks the sense of Gothic horror and slightly satirical humor the first story has, but it makes up for it by being…well…a darn good detective story! Dupin is called upon for help by the local Prefect of Police, referred to simply as “G.” G wants Dupin to recover a stolen letter, filled with incriminating information, belonging to none other than the Queen of France herself. The police know who is responsible for the theft - an unscrupulous minister simply referred to as “Minister D.” who is using it to blackmail Her Majesty. The problem is that they can’t seem to find the evidence to convict him, nor the incriminating document, even after searching the man’s house. SPOILER ALERT: Dupin later reveals that the letter was in plain view all along. Minister D. had presumed that G. would be searching high and low, so he hid the letter by making it simply seem like junk lingering around in the room, instead of tucking it into some super-secret hiding place. Dupin simply arranged a distraction to make sure Minister D. wasn’t looking, then switched the incriminating letter with a phony, before giving the document to the police. Simple but utterly brilliant; definitely one of the best detective stories ever made, in my books, as well as one of the first.

5. The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar.

This is arguably the single most gory and explicitly grotesque of all of Poe’s stories, as well as one of the most unnerving. I can’t help but feel this particular tale had to be an influence on later writers, most notably H.P. Lovecraft, for its combination of surreal, nightmarish, and viscerally deplorable elements. It’s also one that taps into some primal fears and questions, regarding the eternal mystery of what really separates life from death: a concept that forever fascinated Poe in his works. The story tells of M. Valdemar, an old man who agrees to allow a friend of his - an expert in hypnosis - to induce a state of hypnotic slumber on him while on his deathbed. Valdemar dies while under the hypnotic influence - unnervingly, he is able to speak to the investigators, even after he is dead - but as long as the hypnosis is left in place, his body remains totally intact, as if he is arrested in a state of suspended animation. It is hinted that until his soul is allowed to pass on, his body cannot pass, either. After conducting several experiments on the man, the hypnotist and his colleagues attempt to wake M. Valdemar…and - this is the disgusting part - the man suddenly rots away and decomposes in a matter of seconds before their eyes, literally falling apart at the seams and being reduced to a gory mass of decaying flesh. So gross, so unsettling, and so utterly, utterly horrific…I LOVE IT.

4. Fall of the House of Usher.

This is one of Poe’s earliest horror stories, and it’s widely considered to be the first truly great piece of Gothic literature he ever wrote; other stories before this, such as “Ligeia” and “MS. in a Bottle" do have their values, but “Fall of the House of Usher” is widely regarded as the first actual masterpiece Poe wrote. It is a story that has been adapted and reimagined countless times, and is widely considered one of the author’s most definitive pieces of work. The story focuses on - you guessed it - an unnamed Narrator, who goes to spend some time with a childhood friend, Roderick Usher, as well as Roderick’s beloved sister, Madeline. The Ushers live in a dilapidated mansion, situated on a tiny island in the middle of a murky lake, perpetually surrounded by long-dead trees. Roderick claims to suffer from a medical condition that heightens all of his senses to an alarming rate, while his sister spends much of her time in bed, fighting a terminal illness. The events that occur inside the spooky old mansion will forever traumatize the Narrator, and leave both Roderick and Madeline dead. This is one of Poe’s longest and most complex stories, plot-wise, so I don’t want to give too much away. Suffice it to say, this story has a lot of the hallmarks of later Poe pieces: the themes, motifs, and phobias present are among the most frequently visited in his works following this one, and one could easily make the argument that the House of Usher itself was the inspiration for many a famous haunted house and haunted house story in more modern times. I actually like this story more today than I probably did when I was younger, and it has more than earned its place in my personal top five.

3. The Cask of Amontillado.

This was one of the first pieces by Poe I ever read, and it remains one of my favorites. Once again, our Narrator is a killer, only this time he’s actually given a name: Montresor. It’s indicated that Montresor is a nobleman who lives in Italy, and he has vowed to gain revenge (for reasons that are never made entirely clear) against a former friend of his: a wine-loving gourmet by the ironic name of Fortunato. One night, during Carnival time, Montresor entices Fortunato into a wine cellar with the promise of tasting a rare vintage of amontillado. Montresor claims he wants Fortunato to assure him of the beverage’s authenticity. Once there, he shackles a stupefied Fortunato into a shallow alcove, and proceeds to brick up the place, effectively burying Fortunato alive. The murder plot and the way it is carried out are deeply disturbing, but perhaps the thing that makes the story so particularly fascinating is Montresor himself: Poe leaves some subtle implications of what might be at the heart of this feud that has turned so deadly, but he never gives a clear answer as to why Montresor is not only so intent on revenge, but on using such an extreme method as immurement for his vengeance. It invites the the reader to play detective themselves, in a way, pondering the circumstances around the crime, even as the confession is laid before us.

2. Masque of the Red Death.

In many of Poe’s stories that involve supernatural elements, it’s left ambiguous how much of them are real or imagined. This is not the case with “Masque of the Red Death,” and if that’s not unnerving enough, the actual subject matter of the story will be. To a greatly unsettling degree, this story is arguably more powerful today than it’s ever been. Unlike so many other Poe tales, this one is written in the third person (much like “Hop-Frog”), and tells the legend of a horrible plague that swept across a far-off kingdom. This plague was called The Red Death: it caused its victims to sweat blood, and killed within half an hour. To try and escape the scourge, the “dauntless and sagacious” Prince Prospero has himself, his courtiers, and many of his fellow royals and noblemen take refuge in his castle, where they party and cavort, even as the populace beyond the palace walls are left to die from the epidemic. One night, while holding a masquerade ball, however, the Prince and his allies are visited by a mysterious stranger, who is ultimately revealed to be the Red Death itself. You can probably guess how things go from there. The story is a cautionary tale against the inevitability of death, and how no matter what one tries to do, no one - however smart, rich, or powerful they may be - can truly escape it forever. Haunting and unsettlingly truthful, it is easily one of Poe’s most iconic pieces.

1. The Tell-Tale Heart.

Believe it or not, I first learned of this story because of - out of all things - an episode of Spongebob Squarepants. No, that is not a joke: there’s an episode of Spongebob that directly spoofs this short story. Naturally, of course, I prefer the original, but I figured that was worth sharing for the amusement of it. ANYWAY… “The Tell-Tale Heart” is considered one of Poe’s darkest and most delightfully ambiguous pieces (and that’s saying a lot), and for good reason. Once again, our unnamed Narrator is the protagonist…and also, much like in “Cask of Amontillado” or “The Black Cat,” they’re a murderer. However, the killer has a specific agenda in this case: he’s trying to prove that he ISN’T insane. How does he do this? By telling the reader the story of how he murdered and the dismembered a helpless old man that he cared about (it’s left unsure if they are his father, his employer, or something/someone else), because the old man had a weird eye that gave him the heebie-jeebies. (pauses) Yeah. Great way of professing your own sanity there, big shot. In all seriousness, though, that’s the brilliance of Poe’s story: as the tale goes on, it becomes clearer and clearer to the reader that the protagonist is absolutely out of their mind…and that makes the big event - when he swears he hears his mutilated victim’s heart beating under the floorboards - all the more ambiguous. We can reasonably presume it’s a hallucination, but it’s not directly stated to be so. There’s also the possibility it’s a manifestation of his guilty conscience. On another note, just like Roderick Usher, this narrator claims to once again have heightened senses; could he be hearing something else and making a mistake? Or perhaps…just perhaps…it’s the old man’s ghostly specter, haunting him and forcing him to admit to his crime? None of these answers would be out of the realm of possibility where Poe is involved, and all of them are interesting to ponder. However you read into it, “The Tell-Tale Heart” is a gripping and profoundly troubling tale of madness, murder, and many strange, unanswered questions…in other words, all the things that make this author’s work in the fields of horror and crime so renowned. It is no surprise this takes the cake as My Favorite of the Works by Edgar Allan Poe.

HONORABLE MENTIONS INCLUDE…

Morella.

The Gold-Bug.

The Oblong Box.

The Premature Burial.

[fadedsweater]

Six Sentence Sunday Monday

Thank you @thebookworm0001 for tagging me! I am so behind on tag games but I actually have a wip to share for this one!

Today I have some very angsty Dark Urge content (spoilers for the Dark Urge story), and I'm including a bit more than 6 sentences because I'm proud of these two paragraphs 😤

Senna saw her family.

She saw Sarevok and Helena and Orin and the whole sorry lot of them. And Bhaal -- always, always Bhaal. Her father. Her father, her shared flesh, and in any other world the sheer injustice of it would have rendered them all to dust. It should have. The world should never have allowed it. She should never have existed at all.

But such was the world's way: Bhaal was a god and his spawn were doomed to murder and madness. Thus was the truth of it. Senna was a story mothers told their children to scare them to bed. The world did not care; it moved on. Children listened, and they slept, and they dreamed, and meanwhile Helena Anchev wrapped her hand around her daughter's throat. 

Gonna tag it forward (with 0 pressure!) to @darethshirl, @broodwolf221, and @dragon--sage.

[meldingintheunderdark]

I've been reading your metas. While I do agree with some of your points there is one thing I can't help but strongly disagree on. I think Halsin enjoyers are aware of Halsin's faults, his trauma, his struggles. We don't all think he's "a healthy partner devoid of problems" but I believe in my opinion, that Halsin has the potential to heal, to do better, and maybe this commune can help him and help others, not fully per se but help heal in some way. It's not going to be smooth sailing, there will be bumps along the way, Halsin does need support, there's no denying that. I don't think Halsin enjoyers are naïve to that, we just want to see him happy as well. But reading these metas feels like... there is no hope for Halsin, the children in his care are doomed and I don't think that's the case. It won't be easy but not hopeless, it won't be perfect, there is still room to grow and learn (though I am following a more tav mindset than a dark urge mindset)

Thank you for reading my metas!

It's embarrassing but English isn't my first language, therefore I might not be as clear as I thought.

This said, I've mentioned many times my headcanons are my own. I don't believe Halsin's dream will explode in a great ball of fire but it'll most certainly not be as happy and lighthearted as it is in game. There will be consequences and not all of them will be positive.

Reading your comment, I fail to comprehend the issue.

Isn't it obvious there is no correct way to interpret Halsin's actions? Isn't it evident our perception and understanding are heavily influenced by our own life experiences, our knowledge, our fields of study, work, mental health, etc? Everything I write is inherently subjective.

From my point of view, when you read my metas, it's crystal clear I have a colossal obsession with fatherhood, unhealthy coping mechanisms or even avoidance regarding mental health, and the pain they cause to oneself and loved ones. I relate so intensely to Halsin, thus I'm extremely critical of his choices. You prefer to focus on him partly healing thanks to nine wagons of children. To each their own. I relate to him because his hurt hurts others unintentionally and I want to talk about this.

I also have every right to voice my thoughts, to be upset for dumb reasons and to share my questionable opinions. I haven't done any proper case study of the Halsin-centric fandom. Nevertheless, it's hypocritical to pretend the fandom isn't overwhelmingly focused on a positive analysis of Halsin and his ending, hence your reaction. It's just how fandoms work. Some opinions are overly represented, therefore an echo chamber is created and maintained. It's also very human to yearn for a comforting character who does good, tries his best and succeeds. I find comfort in a character who is hurting, hurts others and, paradoxically, is so very selfless, good-hearted and caring. I'm not saying Halsin is abusive or so foolish he'll doom the world. I've not claimed Halsin won't learn to live with his trauma, won't be happy or won't help people. The commune seems filled with traumatized adults and kids, Halsin is no therapist. Good intentions don't magically lead to solely good outcomes. Some may be fantastic. A few neutral. Others damaging. It's life.

Every content created is not made for you specifically either. If my posts are unpleasant, and I'm aware they can be, please spare yourself and block me.

Last but not least, I am a Halsin enjoyer. He's my favorite character. My tumblr is about Halsin and my Durge. They'll have their well deserved happily ever after. I simply imagine more heartache and pain than you do.

[animentality]

something something, Gortash was doomed to die, no matter what choices you made, but so was the dark urge.

they died before the story even begins for the vast majority of players. they die, and return to life, but as someone completely new, thus erasing that previous person more completely than death.

and even if they are good, they die in the end too, they're torn apart by Bhaal. they're doomed to wander the fugue plane.

I know some people don't like stories where their favorite characters die. I know people want happy endings and they lived forever and ever endings.

but sometimes it's nice... even in grimdark stories...tragic stories... to know that hardship and suffering and death at the end still have meaning.

the stories you tell can be sad and gloomy and hopeless, but to ensure that there is some catharsis or relief for those who are following along...

you can still assert quite boldly that death as the end of the story does not make the entire story pointless.

after all, we all die in the end.

but our stories still have meaning.

[elevenelvenswords]

Cross-posted on AO3.

The night seemed quiet to Celegorm. Despite the clamor raging on in Tirion, the chaos and utter dismay rising like dreadful clouds of smoke, all noise seemed drowned out around him. He should be grateful for it, for it was with clear intent that he asked Curufin to follow him, to leave that engulfing atmosphere and the people gravitating to it behind. It felt like too much, too soon. The ill news of their grandsire’s passing were not yet gone from his mind, nor the numb shock that they had caused. The sight of his father mourning- the way he tore at his hair, plucking strands clean off the scalp, growling in grief and such bitter anger that it was almost painful for others to behold it. The defilement of their homeland, the strife emerging with violent promptitude between the great Noldorin houses, the ceaseless doubts and fights festering within them all. It felt like impending annihilation. Like a winged shadow it followed their every step now.

Too much, too soon.

Sick to the very core he grew of the preparation for their departure. Of his brothers’ bickering, of his mother’s tears and his father’s foul moods of late. He wished for nothing more than a brief respite. He wished to leave it all behind, even if it was for a little while. Air seemed insufficient in the midst of the city and its mayhem.

Thus he and Curufin saddled their horses and galloped away. Celegorm led, bidding his horse make haste and fly over obstacles rather than go ‘round them. The faster he could get away, the better. Wind whipped across his face and his eyes watered. He blinked the tears away. Saliva frothed upon his horse’s mouth. He patted it on the neck, whispering encouragement to it. His thighs ached with the effort of riding so relentlessly, so recklessly. He squeezed them tighter to his mount’s sides. Resolute in his purpose, he soon left his brother lagging behind.

Climbing atop a hill bordering the northern forest that looked down on the peaks of Tirion, he halted his horse. Curufin joined him soon after.

They talked for a while, filling in the devouring silence. Useless nonsense it was; something about the supplies and how they might ration them on the road, something about Caranthir’s horse growing restless lately and how he might need a new steed that wouldn’t throw him from its back. Nonsense that served as a much welcomed distraction. Celegorm was glad for it. But before long, Curufin wished to depart.

“Safe travels then,” Celegorm said to him, absently poking at a patch of grass with the tip of his boot.

“You shouldn’t linger for too long,” Curufin replied, throwing the reins over his mare’s head. “Father will start to ask questions.”

Celegorm snorted in derision. “Yes, I am sure he’ll be sick with worry. I’ve always been his favourite son, after all.”

Curufin watched him in silence. Seconds trickled by in solemn stillness, a soft wisp of cold air setting the leaves above in bashful motion. No bird song could be heard anymore, nor the comforting buzzing of insects crawling among the foliage. Celegorm suddenly wondered if the hunting grounds he so loved had become a misshapen mirror of his soul. Perhaps the deadness of his heart pulsed out its hatred, and the darkness pooling like hot magma into his chest was infectious, corruptive. Returning to a place of laughter and delight before embarking upon the dreadful journey ahead might have been a mistake, after all. He did not wish to remember those lands as such- quiet, hopeless, engulfed in lengthening shadows and brisk despair.

By the time Celegorm deemed to turn his mournful gaze back towards the road whence he had come, Curufin was already nudging his horse forward, urging it down the slopes of the hills. Perhaps he had bidden Celegorm his farewell, or even asked him to join him, but Celegorm was unhearing.

He turned his attention to the tall trees. Dark and twisted they seemed to him now, heedless of his sorrows and worries. Towering over him like reminders of doom, turned from protectors and guides to beacons of the Great Powers’ scorn. Even so, he walked amongst them. Dauntless or simply uncaring, he couldn’t quite tell.

He walked lightly, pushing branches out of his way, but the purpose of his own pursuit he knew not.

The soft yet indistinguishable crack of a twig made his ears twitch, straining in search of the next sound. Slowly he flexed them, drawing them back towards his nape, intently listening. No other sound followed, but he knew the first one had come from somewhere above, and the culprit lay concealed by the thick branches arching their slender fingers upwards and inwards. Something pressed down upon his fëa, a heavy burden threatening to crush and devour, licking hungrily at his skin. Though no wind blew there and his raiments were thick about him, goosebumps prickled across his skin and he shivered. Malevolence seemed to seep through the tree barks, trickling even by his boots. Like tendrils of dark power it slithered up his feet, his calves, and disdainfully he watched as the thin tentacles probed at his trousers. It seemed to him that they searched for a way in, for a way to reach him. Celegorm considered kicking at them, pushing against them with the strength of his own will, for what further hurt could they truly inflict upon him, after all that had come to pass? But as one frozen in time he stood, and he watched them, and they hurt him not. Carefully he extended his fingers, allowing one of the stretching tendrils to lick at his fingertips. Where he expected cold, warmth pierced through, and the things coiling about his feet squeezed in what felt to him like encouragement. A strange feeling of familiarity rang in those touches, as though intent coursed through their feeble existence.

The ruffling of leaves above stirred him from his curiosity. He still did not turn around. Not at the off-putting scraping sounds upon wood, not at the uneasiness that suddenly coursed through him. If anything, it bound him to his stillness. The slithering vines wriggled at his feet, they clutched at his trousers, and their touch was suddenly all-too-familiar. It bore the will of another, a greater one than himself, and nothing about it appeared harmful to him. No, there was tenderness behind it.

The gnarled arms of the trees above shifted, parted, exposing the clear sky above. A stray ray of starlight glimmered down but by its grace Celegorm was unmoved. The things at his feet withered and perished, withdrawing with alarming quickness, but Celegorm heeded them not. The branches moved once again, and behind him something –no, someone- dragged its body weight.

Celegorm inhaled deeply as that presence and all of the things emanating from it bled away into recognition.

“You may show yourself now, lord,” Celegorm said flatly. His eyes stared straight ahead, darkened, his gaze unfocused and aimless amidst the cold mass of the forest. “I am not yet deprived of my senses.”

Silence settled in for a few moments and Celegorm looked behind him, at long last.

From high above, the creature regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and longing. A ridged beast skull covered its face, white and slender, its curves looping around the wearer’s features. Two twisted antlers curved their way upwards where they divided into lopsided, bony extensions. Akin to a stag’s head it seemed to Celegorm, yet sharp incisors gleamed in the starlight, set within the jaw left slightly agape. In spite of the crudity of that body part, the thing’s gaze spoke nothing of cruelty or ill-intent. It spoke nothing of scorn. Burrowed within two slanted cavities of the skull, a pair of soft green eyes peered down at him, slowly blinking.

A sudden twinge of sorrow stabbed through Celegorm’s chest. Thickly he swallowed as the creature’s two sets of arms moved to grab onto the tree, as claws left their marks upon the bark in its passing. Down it slid, with feline grace descending from its hiding place. The angles at which its body bent and contorted set uneasiness throbbing through Celegorm, but he feared it not. He had seen it do stranger things. He had known its touch and voice, and safety at its hands had always been guaranteed. No matter how terrifying the form it chose. No matter how immense and powerful and wild.

Slowly it discarded the mask; embedded into its very flesh, the skull retracted into the skin and muscle. Visceral and violent seemed that shift in appearance, the metamorphosis of the hröa, and Celegorm watched with the same fascination as ever.

He had told himself that, if the fates wished to grant him one last meeting with the thing he most loved in that realm, his heart would be closed and well-guarded against any assault by the common sentimentalities he used to fall prey to. But oh how sorely mistaken he was.

For there upon the places he ardently wished to escape, before the face of his soul’s dearest song and curse, he felt his heart quiver –and perhaps only for a moment, stop-. How he wished to simply crumble to his knees and leave the tears flow freely; how he wished to take and beg and smash himself bloody upon the shores of the traitorous love that grappled him.

Resolutely he pushed those things aside. Proud and tall he held himself before the huntsman, even as he approached Celegorm.

“Well-met, Fëanorion,” he murmured.

“Oromë,” Celegorm greeted him in return. The name tasted bitter upon his tongue and hard he fought the urge to spit the remnants of it to the ground below.

“I had hoped for a more joyous reunion.”

Celegorm scoffed. Mocking that remark sounded in his ears. Shifting his weight from one leg to another, he frowned at the Vala.

“I had hoped for that too. Yet denied we are in our wishes and prayers of late.” Oromë watched him with calmness that seemed to transcend into mute passivity. Celegorm wondered whether it was intentional or not.

“Each may wish for what they will, yet the fates play their ironies unawares,” Oromë said. The first hints of irritation drove their barbs beneath Celegorm’s at the utterance of such words. “As you may well know by now.”

Apologetic was Oromë’s tone, but to it Celegorm was unhearing.

“Yes, as I well know,” Celegorm hissed, his voice steeped in vitriol. “But do tell me, o’ great Vala, who ever daubs his hand in how the fates turn: how empowering, how exhilarating does it feel to watch little puppets wail over their grievances from the warmth and comfort of your throne?”

The Vala held his silence for a few long moments, tension and resentment overflowing in all of their unpleasantness. Celegorm felt like he might choke on it. Silence would not do; no, not this time. Not when his blood ran hot and perilous in his veins, anger simmering and scorching him from the inside. Disdainfully he held Oromë’s gaze, breathing heavily –in and out- in a fruitless attempt to hold onto whatever shreds of composure yet remained to him.

When the silence stretched on for too long, Oromë infuriatingly still –as though he was a mere statue carved in cold stone, ill-suited to emotion-, Celegorm stepped haughtily forward. And “You will speak to me,” he snarled, “I shall receive answers long overdue.”

Pain and defeat and a myriad other nameless things coiled their way within his chest. How they burned, how they smashed their violent protest against his ribcage. How unfair it seemed to him; Oromë simply stood there, a strange expression clouding his face; something like pity, or something like yearning. Celegorm felt polluted down to the very core, yet guilt swiftly gave way to blistering, blinding fury.

“Speak!” he bellowed, chest heaving and eyes burning in the wake of shameful tears. Oromë did not reply. “Speak, incorrigible fiend! Stop standing there like that, stop staring and fucking talk to me-“

Please.

Hard he panted, but he bade his tears stay. All of those traitorous emotions –sadness, grief, loss, desire, love- he reshaped into rage, revulsion, hatred. He thrust them before him as a shield, impenetrable and fierce.

“What does it feel like to watch me burn whilst you stand unhurt, untouchable as ever upon the summit of your own righteousness?” His voice was quiet now, barely more than a whisper.

“I am not untouchable,” Oromë began in an even voice that had Celegorm on the very verge of bursting into inconsolable tears, “Nor do I partake in the marring of those I hold dear to my heart.”

At that Celegorm laughed; mirthlessly, miserably, he laughed. He tipped his head back and sent his laughter to the mocking stars above as his brows knitted together almost painfully. Oromë swallowed in apprehension.

“You do not partake in marring, say you?” Celegorm scoffed derisively as he stepped closer, until his chest almost brushed Oromë’s. More spitefully he continued then, “How dare you say that to me after all that has come to pass? After all that your brethren have done, after all that you have allowed? My grandsire, our king, lies dead, and my family’s legacy teeters towards ruin. We must endure whilst you sit idly.”

Venom dripped from his words, such was the malice with which he spoke each one of them. Vehemence ignited his eyes and fey was his mood, yet if he expected angry protest in return, or some violent rebuke, Celegorm was left sorely disappointed. For Oromë was seemingly serene; his eyes flickered over Celegorm’s face sadly, as though searching for something that was no longer there. And good, Celegorm thought to himself, let him see that his old friend is dead, let him see that it was he that killed his young, jubilant spirit. Any shame that might pierce underneath Oromë’s skin would be well-deserved. Whatever grief Oromë might experience at the fleeting prospect of loss would be but an insignificant fragment of the raging abyss that yawned open before Celegorm. Betrayal was too small a word to encapsulate the hideous uproar of emotions that screeched inside of him; the enormity of the wound Oromë’s inaction had wrought could not be contained in any earthly language, and Celegorm knew many.

His hands closed into trembling fists at his sides, and though his eyes were glossy with tears, he did not let them fall.

“Was my life truly that unimportant to you?” Celegorm slowly asked, his eyes locked with the Vala’s, “Did you weigh the value of my life and found it worth nothing?”

“Tyelkormo…” Oromë raised a placating hand to the elf’s face, in the same manner he did when Celegorm shattered his humerus after he fell from his saddle in his early youth; in the same way he reassuringly stroked Celegorm’s hair whenever the elf came to him with red-rimmed eyes, claiming that his own father loved him no more. In the same way he let his fingertips gently trace Celegorm’s flushed cheeks as he lay naked and trembling beneath the Vala, a serene smile plastered over his face in the soft afterglow of their passion.

How Celegorm wanted to let himself crumble and simply shriek against the unfairness of it all. Let me stay with you, he wanted to sob. Touch me and let our bodies never part, skin to skin and heart to heart. Yet he violently batted the hand away.

“Do not presume to touch me or utter my name!”

At the abruptness of his voice Oromë flinched and retracted his hand, but it was not without a significant effort that he resisted the urge to ignore Celegorm’s abject fury and draw him into his arms anyway.

“My name is forbidden for treacherous tongues.”

“It is the name that I love,” Oromë replied truthfully. Nausea rolled in Celegorm’s stomach, wretchedly his jaw spasmed as he sought to keep his temper in check. The Vala’s audacity was appalling – “It is, without doubt, your name. The name I called for in my forests and in my halls. My Tyelkormo. Whatever might transpire, your name shall forever be spoken in reverence within my halls. And if my brethren will speak it spitefully, in reverence still my heart shall whisper it.”

“Your Tyelkormo?” Celegorm spat through gritted teeth, “What would you know about me?”

“I know much of you, my wild one.”

Oh, the gentleness, the fondness behind those words sent Celegorm’s spirit tumbling towards ruin. Acrid bile rose in his throat and balefully he looked upon the Vala, wondering how much easier it might have been if Oromë would have just struck him, yelled at him, cursed him a thousand times over. He could have simply turned away then, telling himself that there was no reason for him to stay or look back. Like mantra he would turn the feeble pretexts in his mind- I am not wanted here, he despises the very sight of me, there is nothing left between us, whatever threads still endure glisten red with blood. Over and over he would repeat it, like clockwork, until he became sure of it. Yet now it was difficult to pretend. And it was this, perhaps, the cruelty that Celegorm abhorred most.

Fretfully he pondered Oromë’s words, I know much of you, and quickly found that they rang true. For how could the Vala not know Celegorm when his words flew like arrows and struck their mark effortlessly? When Celegorm followed the Vala’s horn without hesitation, making his way through the murky forests with nothing but quivering excitement and unflinching loyalty to guide his way, who could doubt that Oromë had completely, irrevocably enraptured the young prince? In awe he always watched Oromë, be it as he walked down the ballrooms adorned in ostentatious garments during celebrations, or as he eviscerated a beast. Celegorm could still recall what it felt like to grasp a warm, beating heart with his bare hands at Oromë’s bidding. Viscera steamed in the winter’s chill as he pulled it out and found his way to the stag’s heart. So delicate and slippery it felt; blood dripped through his fingers and soaked his sleeve, arteries ruptured as he twisted the organ to pluck it free. And what pride swelled in his chest at the benevolent smile Oromë bestowed upon him.

My wild one.

Celegorm drew in a hitching breath before softly saying, “I will depart from Tirion tonight.”

Oromë’s shoulders seemed to relax –or tense, Celegorm couldn’t quite tell- by a fraction.

“I would tell you that I do not wish for you to go,” Oromë sighed, “but I know past affections won’t move your heart. I know your ears will shut out any claims of love-“

“You are right in your assumptions,” Celegorm interrupted.

“-but I will tell you this,” Oromë continued patiently, “This is folly. You are marching to your own death, far out of my reach. Your voice I won’t be able to hear, your prayers will go unanswered. You trifle with powers that are beyond your darkest fantasies. Hear me now, Tyelkormo, and take heed: go not thither. Step not where I can’t follow.” A pause followed then, and true melancholy rippled through Oromë’s voice as he added, “I don’t want you to suffer.”

The first seeds of doubt sprouted inside of him then, driving their roots through sinew, thin yet firm.

“I will not be daunted by omens and portents made stupendous by those that would see me and my kin diminished,” Celegorm grimaced. “I pledged my loyalty to my sire and his cause, our cause. I have sworn to follow and never turn my back on my family again. My fealty is not a feckless thing.”

“And yet you cast it aside in favour of precarious promises and vengeful ambitions.”

The snide remark made Celegorm bridle. Oromë couldn’t understand his motives, such accusations were untrue. Streaks of pride might swirl amidst the many reasons why Celegorm chose to walk that path, but other things ran deeper than that. More viciously they waged their war beneath his flesh, they ached in his very bones and bound him to that decision. Yet no longer did he possess the strength or patience to defend himself, to offer explanations that would merely earn him a condescending chiding.

“As I chose to follow you out of my own volition,” Celegorm slowly said, “freely I shall go. My fate is my own and the very heavens will shake and weep at the sight of my wrath if someone seeks to withhold that freedom from me.”

Whatever reaction Celegorm might have expected, it was definitely not a smile. And Oromë did just that- he smiled. Not a cunning, vicious smile, but a warm one.

“There is fire within you, Tyelkormo. I have taught you well. I won’t count this as a sorrowful parting as I don’t want to remember it as such.”

“But I am expelled from you heart,” Celegorm pointed out.

“Nay,” the huntsman shook his head as one of his hands came to gently hold Celegorm’s chin. “I have marked you as mine, and mine you shall remain. The ink needled into your skin will remind you of it. My words, my power, my love thrums through it.” Calloused fingers trailed Celegorm’s lips and it was almost enough to make him sob. “We won’t be so easily parted, you and I.”

With that he released the elf’s face and stepped back, appraising him. A question itched upon Celegorm’s lips, where Oromë’s touch still lingered.

“Will you wait for me?”

It was childish and he was being petulant, Celegorm knew, but he couldn’t quite help it. The Vala looked questioningly to him, so Celegorm pressed: “Will you wait for my return? Will you expect me to come crawling back to you?”

“I know you will. Though whether it is your body or your houseless spirit that will return, I cannot tell.”

Anger flared in him, pride and hurt forced a dark chuckle out of his throat, and Celegorm knew that he had made up his mind then.

Let us see then.

He brushed past Oromë.

I will prove you wrong.

His hand clutched the hilt of his dagger painfully tight.

And even if you are right…

Away he walked, away without further glance or regret.

“Do not wait for me. I will never return to you.”

[herrlindemann]

Sonic Seducer - 2015, Interview with Till

"Rammstein is my life. My job, my family."

Sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. A truism that no one knows as well as Till Lindemann. For more than twenty years, the 52-year-old muscle man has been playing as Rammstein's frontman on records, stage and paper with the Neue Deutsche Härte-Feuer - after several postponements, the time has finally come: with his solo debut 'Skills In Pill’s announced at the beginning of the year will be released in mid-June, the most discussed album of the year!

Outside of the limelight, Till Lindemann tends to be the introverted, taciturn type who likes to avoid public appearances and feels much more comfortable in the rough wilderness night fishing than on red celebrity carpets. After one or the other time in the recent past at least raised eyebrows - on the one hand through the rather bizarre guest appearance of pop singer Heino during the last Rammstein show at Wacken Open Air 2013, on the other hand through Lindemann's songwriting work for Roland Kaiser's new album, also keep your fan base in suspense with the collaboration with Hypocrisy/Pain mastermind Peter Tägtgren: On the joint album 'Skills In Pills' Till Lindemann rolls his enigmatic lyrics in English throughout and thus causes divided reactions within the metal World.

«Writing in English is a kind of a new start,» says Till Lindemann, explaining his discovered affinity for foreign languages. « A whole new field in which I can let off steam. It has become very difficult to write German texts today because I have already said almost everything in some form. Everything has already been covered. With Lindemann I'm starting from scratch lyrically. Free choice! An unplayed place waiting to be deflowered. »

The themes dealt with by Lindemann on 'Skills In Pills' don't really differ that drastically from those in his Rammstein texts or his two previously published books: Dark passions, the curse and blessing of various pills, and of course sex in all conceivable ways or form. This time, however, not in German, but with a double dose of deep black humor. « At first I wasn't so sure if the lyrics were really good because they came together so easily. It was too easy compared to the German texts. At Rammstein, six people work in their designated areas. Everyone has their place and their fixed area that they work on. However, you still have to reconcile six different opinions. Of course, this is not always entirely without complications. Nevertheless, we of course also learned a lot from each other. »

Knowledge that Lindemann brings to his solo project today. Until recently, the Berliner focused almost exclusively on his work with the Berlin pyro-metallers, but his urge to express himself seems to become stronger and more unpredictable with each passing year.

« I think it's normal to express yourself in different ways over the years. When you're young and you start a band, you put all your energy into that band. Music, stage shows, artwork, everything. Today everything is better divided so that each of us can concentrate our energies elsewhere. I can already say that this project will be a big part of Peter's and my future together, but my priority will always remain Rammstein. Rammstein is my life. My job, my family. I spend my vacation from this family with Peter. »

Holiday fun with a difference: With loud widescreen guitars, electronic programming and dark, erotic doom prose - switching off in Lindemann style. « It was also nice to travel up to the countryside to see Peter again and again. It only takes about three hours from Berlin and you're there. I visited him 20 or 25 times; even if sometimes it was just for a day. Sometimes he called and said I needed to come in for a quick recording. Then I quickly got on the plane and was there straight away. »

The result of these spontaneous excursions can be heard in the form of the Lindemann debut 'Skills In Pills' from June 19th, 2015. The continuation of the interview with Till Lindemann and Peter Tägtgren can be found in the next issue.

[blackjackkent]

So apparently there's actually Durge-specific narration for taking the Blood of Lathander without the crest (and thus triggering all the defense mechanisms).

Narrator: An ornate mace hovers before you, suspended in a shaft of brilliant light. A fist-sized piece of amber flecked with crimson is set in the handle, emitting a radiance all its own. [HISTORY - FAILED] This mace certainly has a very unusual design.

Reach into the light and take the mace.

Narrator: The glow around the mace sparkles with beautiful disaster. You recall all the measures meant to keep you from reaching this place. The brutal aches in your body yearn to take it, though you sense it will spell misfortune.

-----

Rakha HAS the crest and could take the mace safely if she wished, but I actually kind of really like this for her regardless.

We've already established pretty thoroughly that one of Rakha's greatest strengths is extrapolation. She was initially very curious about hearing about this special "blood" that the monastery kept locked away - because the Dark Urge in her always craves blood - but she is definitely easily able to make the leap that this is what those notes were talking about instead.

She also fully understands all the messages we've read indicating that anyone trying to take the mace without permission will trigger defenses that will flatten the place.

She also suddenly has a whole creche full of githyanki who hate her.

The connections seem pretty obvious, really. Take the mace, flatten the monastery, eliminate the angry gith.

(That it will be a triumph of chaos and death and deeply sate the beast in her brain is, of course, a side benefit. She would like to think that's not what's driving this decision... but she would be lying.)

Claim the mace and delight in its danger.

(LOL. Nobody liked that!)

The mace comes free with a sharp jerk from its moorings; she watches the dim snap through the Weave as it releases its hold on the artifact. The mace's handle feels oddly warm in her grip.

"What are you doing?!" she hears Wyll call from behind her - but it's muffled.

With rhythmic thunks, a piece of machinery switches on from somewhere underneath her. A forcefield sizzles into being, cutting her off from the others.

Powerful beams of light erupt from pillars around the room. The low thunks settle into a pulsing hum of energy. Rakha can feel the magic at work surging along her skin and through her blood.

A central beam of that pale light lances out through a portal at the end of the room - connecting into the dormant weapon Rakha saw on the monastery's roof.

Rakha can hear a new low whine added to the sudden cacophony as the weapon begins to realign itself, its mouth pointed downward into the stone of the monastery itself.

Narrator: Everything is in motion. All within these walls are doomed to destruction unless you act.

------

Hehehehe whoops. :D I literally didn't plan for Rakha to do this until this moment but it's kind of perfect. Simultaneously logical and batshit crazy which is basically Rakha's tagline.

We have four turns to figure out what to do here and get the fuck out. I gather from the state of play and a quick glance at Google that we can either destroy the pillars, disabling the weapon, or we can shoot out the power source for the forcefield, which is under the platform, and then make a run for it out the portal. (Rakha could also misty step or dimension door out of the forcefield but she doesn't have access to either of those.)

In the spirit of wanting Rakha to successfully continue her reign of chaos, we will have Wyll eldritch blast the power source for the forcefield and run.

This uh. Didn't work out so well the first time. Everyone got crushed because we need to get them not only out the portal but off the monastery building entirely before it explodes, and I lost a turn figuring out how to get Rakha out of the forcefield.

Second try!

Safe! Nope apparently this isn't far enough either. WTF.

[googles] OK apparently there's a different pathway out the front of the monastery that we should be taking instead?

Third try!

This time I managed to get Lae'zel and Wyll out and Rakha and Shadowheart got flattened.

I actually kind of like this as an end state, because Lae'zel is PISSED about the whole situation and and shouts about it as soon as the game is in a state to allow the cutscene. So it ends up reading like she dragged Rakha and Shadowheart's fried corpses back to camp, had Withers revive them, and then SCREAMED at them as soon as they woke up:

"TSK'VA! GITH M'ZATH'AK!" she bellows as Rakha blinks at her blearily, the resurrection magic slowly bleeding off her body. "Girtar'rac ne toruun! 'One theft consumes all'. Protocol four-hundred-two! Our greed reduced Creche Y'llek to rubble. Vlaakith, absolve my sin or skewer my heart! In each you might make me worthy!"

Rakha stares at her, utterly baffled by this anger, still dizzy from the resurrection and having trouble settling back into her body. "The creche has turned against us," she says bluntly. "Why should I care about them?"

"I care!" Lae'zel snarls. Rakha can hear the surge of pain under the words, the confused blend of loyalty and anger and despair. "Just because the zaith'isk failed, because Vlaakith has marked us, makes this no less of a tragedy. I do not expect you to mourn - but I will not tolerate your rejoicing either." She spits on the ground next to Rakha's feet. "Shka'keth. Next time, think twice before getting grabby with powerful relics in mysterious places."

She stalks off. Rakha looks after her with bewilderment. She is too confused even to feel the beast urge's satisfaction at all the death they have caused. She had thought, on some level, that Lae'zel too would see it as a killing with purpose. Lae'zel, after all, was betrayed by those people, by her entire race.

"I am not rejoicing," she mutters, though Lae'zel is now out of hearing range. "It was necessary."

"Was it?" Withers asks placidly at her side.

Rakha glares at him. "Do not test me, skeleton," she mutters. "I will yet find a way to end you as well."

[heranubis]

Maybe something with grell and an older reaper SO ?

you have excellent taste so yes <3

grell is a woman who knows exactly what she wants, and she won't settle for less. from keeping her chainsaw in perfect condition and her hair brushed to silk - she strongly believes in only wanting the best for herself.

and thus, when william pairs her with a reaper a few centuries older - please excuse her for thinking it might be a dreadful experience.

while not as old as undertaker, you have a few centuries under your belt and with that comes experience. from how to deal with reapers who like to ignore the rules to reapers who follow the rules a little too perfectly.

at first glance, she doesn't really think much of you. a traditional scythe and quiet attitude, you seem to be the exact opposite of her. she thinks you'd look ravishing in red but... maybe blue is more your color?

the relationship between the two of you is slow to grow. while she won't hesitate to reach out and grab what she wants, she also wants to be courted and pampered like a proper lady. she's a jewel that shines its brightest when polished with care.

the first few dates wouldn't technically count as dates by human standards... but to grell they're undeniably romantic. everyone looks good in red, but you? oh you look so divine she can just barely fight back the urge to pull you away to some dark corner and show you how passionate she can truly be

one might think you'd be above schemes and pranks, perhaps due to your seniority - but they would be so terribly wrong. in fact, its a weapon used expertly to your advantage whenever grell gets that scheming grin on her pretty lips and looks at you over the rim of her glasses. no living creature with a love for all things beautiful would be able to resist her smile - and there have been such stronger souls before you.

grell herself has been alive far longer than any human could claim to be, yet this doesn't stop her from teasing you about your own age. once, she even asked if she could dye your hair the same shade of red as hers if it ever went gray.

(the look of pure joy on her face was well-worth saying yes.)

as chaotic and passionate grell can be, she knows when to step back and appreciate the little things. a part of her wishes she could have known you as a human, to experience the mundane with you - but the greater part of her heart is thankful that she has you now.

nothing can last forever, and even reapers are one day doomed to die - but grell loves you. and that love fuels her to find the answer to a question she is too afraid to voice aloud.

which is stronger - the inevitability of time, or the strength of love found after death.

[rudie-wr1tes]

Endless Passion- A Sandman Fan Fiction

II. Hush

Synopsis: To rid her anxieties of impending doom and the Dreamstone's possible side effects on her patients so far, Sabine Kanaka is treated to a night out with friends. All seems in good folly until her path crosses with a strange man in the dark club... With a much darker purpose...

The afternoon blurred between phases of sleep and consciousness, with Sabine’s mind obsessing over the fears of something being deeply wrong with her sister. But perhaps Quinn was right all along, she thought to herself. She had been working too hard. It must’ve been her own deprivation from researching the Dreamstone’s capabilities and obsessing over the worst case scenarios. She delved too deep to find the Dreamstone, now was the time to celebrate helping a client. The first of many- or so she thought. 

When evening came, Sabine found herself seated in a crowded booth with Quinn at her side, laughing over the live DJ playing. She was enjoying the set thus far, her hair pulled back still, her romantic body pulled into a velvet ruched black thing with studded sequins carefully spread across, like a night sky. She was most definitely overdressed, enjoying a martini next to her best friend after spending an hour dancing, trying to ignore the tension forming around her neck from the Dreamstone’s metaphysical weight. It was dark enough to resemble normal jewelry, to her relief, as she took another long drag of her second drink. Compliments were common for the whole night, but many kept their distance. Quinn tittered a giggle, mufflign behind the back of her hand. 

“Oh bitch.” She muttered to Sabine, “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” 

Sabine snapped from her trance, “What? What are we looking at?” 

Quinn’s full pout curled into a cheshire grin, her stiletto nail pointing across the room, “Mr. Shades over there is giving you the eye.” 

Sabine scoffed, “Be for real right now.” Her eyes scanned the crowds, as she squinted to find who she was referencing, “Who are you referring to?!” 

Quinn snickered, pinching both sides of Sabine’s jaw in her hands, directing her head to the speakers, “Right there! He’s really cute, Sabine!” 

Sabine’s heart sank at the sight of the blonde man from earlier, watching her again. The tall, blonde man with rounded sunglasses from earlier seemed to have found his way into the same club, as if he wasn’t in the same area earlier. Sure, he was charming, there was no doubt about it in that upturned smile and brow that flicked upward. He opted for a darker shade of khaki to pair with his rimmed sunglasses, but refused to pull them down. 

“Well?” Quinn remarked, “Are you just gonna stand there like a deer in the headlights or are you gonna go say hi?” 

“He looks weird.” Sabine groaned, “I mean, look at him.” 

“Exactly!” Quinn teased, checking over her shoulder again, “Oh, I think he’s coming over here!” 

The man approached in lean strides. Quinn motioned to him with a swift hand, while Sabine’s knuckles turned white under the table. 

Sabine began to shake her head at Quinn, “No, he isn’t. No he isn’t actually-” 

Quinn wheezed, thumping Sabine’s arm like the bass did in her ears, “Yes! He really is! Look at him, oh he’s so your type!” 

Sabine’s face grew hot. Every hair began to stand on end up her arms and the nape of her neck. A bad feeling grew in her core at the sight of him, wanting to run far away. She made quick attempts to soothe her thoughts with rationality- turning once to down the second half of her martini in hand, before turning to face him. She put on a brave face, feeling the urge to be kind for survival coming over, assuming Quinn would stick by. But alas, Quinn inched away as the gentleman stalked closer. Sabine’s pupils widened, a silent last plea for support. 

“It’s been three years!” Quinn mouthed behind his back, “Get some!” 

Sabine’s lips curled into a frown of rage as she mouthed, “If you don’t get your ass-” 

“Evening, ladies!” The gentleman’s sucrose southern drawl fell over Sabine’s ear. She couldn’t lie- it was sweet to listen to, making her relax. 

“Uh, hi!” Sabine disarmed her own thoughts with a nervous laugh, “Sorry, those words weren’t directed towards you, I swear.” 

He chuckled, “Not a worry, darlin’. I’m sure whoever it was deserved it. And may I just say, you look as lovely as a Hunter’s moon.”

“Thanks!” Sabine looked up at him, her dimples poking through her cheeks, “You’re not so bad yourself.” 

“Heh, well, perhaps I should be taking notes from you ladies around here. I fear I might be a tad underdressed.” He motioned to the grey tshirt beneath his jacket, an odd combination with sch vintage glasses. Sabine giggled, shaking her head. 

“The hair and shades make up for it.” She remarked, “Don’t you worry.” 

He leaned against the bar, looking down at her with expressive brows, “Ah, there’s that pretty smile. Do you come here often?”

Sabine was starting to feel flushed again at the compliment, “Well, sometimes. I’m not a regular though, my friends behind you are, but they dragged me out of work for this. It’s been a while.” 

“I find that very hard to believe.” He said suavely, “With your graces I’d figure you’d be painting the town red every night.” 

His compliments made her head fuzzy, almost as if she had another shot just talking to him, “Aren’t you just a southern gentleman?” 

He shrugged, “Comes with the deal, I suppose. I juts came into town myself for a personal project of mine. There’s going to be a convention for my line of work coming up soon, but the stars pointed me in your direction tonight.” 

“Really?” She beamed, “I could’ve sworn I saw you near my work today!” 

Something clicked in him, as he nodded, “So that was you! I beg your pardon for my prying eyes.” He paused a moment, as if to hold back laughter, “My driver took me to the wrong end of town, and I stuck out like a sore thumb out there looking for directions. You seemed a little tense, and I didn’t intend to frighten you.” 

“Oh.” Sabine sighed, “I’m sorry. I don’t trust a lot of men, usually. And it was an intense timme at work… You’ll have to forgive me for my rudeness.” 

He pulled a chair under for Sabine to have a seat, ushering with his large hand, “It seems we’re all sorts of shaken up today. Something in the planets must’ve gotten to you, sugar. How about a drink, on me?” 

Sabine glanced back at her wing woman, silent eyes looking for approval. Quinn was actively ignoring her gaze, talking between her group of girls in shades of gold and orange hues. He leaned in, breaking her focus. 

“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” He insisted, “Trust me. I don’t bite hard.” 

Sabine softened, seeing something desperate in his suave front. His focus neared down her neck a moment, trailing up. Maybe tonight would be different. She hoped Kaela would stay asleep through their ruckus if it escalated. He was too sweet to turn down, and she tossed better judgment out the window. 

“I’d love to join you for a drink.” She nodded, a little rusty in this game of cat and mouse. The man leaned over to the bartender, motioning him to do the work. 

“Another french martini for the lady here.” He crooned, “As many as she wants.” 

And he was serious. She had three after that, letting herself become spoiled by her unnamed charmer. He whisked her away on the dance floor, hips fluid with respectful hands guiding her arms in gentle sways as she stumbled around and about. And yet, he never once touched his own drink. She became addicted to the free feeling, losing sight of Quinn and her girls as the night moved on. Things became more crowded, as he pulled her to the balcony of the club in a dark corner, pulling her into his arms against the brick wall. She was laughing dizzily, looking up at him with a red face and hair falling otu of her updo. 

“Slow down, now.” He mused, “You’re going to cause a hurricane here with all that spinning you did on the floor!” 

“How can I not?!” She laughed boisterously, “You’re just too good of a dancer, I can’t keep up!” 

He smiled, keeping her steady, “You’re smart, you’re gorgeous, and you’re an excellent dancer on top of that? Are men that foolish not to flock to you?” 

“You’d be surprised in this era.” Sabine panted, running a hand through her hair, “It’s hookup culture and the longest relationships last under  a year. There’s all this talk, and no… Well-”

He leaned in closer, moving hair out of her eyes with a gentle fingertip, “No what?” 

Sabine froze a moment, chills going across her collarbones. Her lower lip twitched, as his cold hand pulled away. 

“I’m listening, darlin’.” He purred, titling his head, “Come on, call out humanity. Is it these men who chase after one thing?” 

She nodded, “How did you know?” 

“I’ve worked with people all around the world.” He muses, “Selfish, all of them. But, I can help. I can make things happen for them. Look into their futures and tell them what to do. It takes a bit of soul searching, but-”

“Like a counselor ?” Sabine hiccuped, blinking to focus on his words. Her head was spinning, she could barely focus on him as he spoke to her, his words gummy in her ears. 

The man scoffed, rolling his tongue across the inside of his lower lip, “Uh, sure. You can say that. But that’s not what I wanted to say.” 

Sabine nodded, looking up at him, “Maybe you can help me too?”

He softened, “Of course I’d help you, sugar doll. What’s the matter? I figured you’d have everything a lady could hope for.” 

Sabine’s smile downturned into a frown, “I don’t, Shades.” The nickname rolled through her mouth like vomit, “This is the first time I’ve said this to anyone... But I’m afraid. I’m in over my head at work. I’ve made such a development trying to help people, but something isn’t right. Everyone looks to me for answers, but now I think I’ve made an error. Do you know what I mean?” 

Sabine rubbed the side of her face that flushed bright beneath her palm, feeling a tear escape. He reached forward to wipe it with the back of his hand. 

“Oh- sh, sh, shhh…” He sighed, “Don’t cry about it, Sabine. You poor thing. Has it gotten that stressful? I’m sure your brilliant mind has something wonderful for humanity. What is it, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Sabine shook her head, “You’d think I was crazy if I told you.” 

He grinned, the smile not meeting the top half of his face, “Try me.” 

“Well.” She hiccupped, still crying, “I’m a psychologist, and these clients come to me about nightmares. I’ve tried studying them for years to prevent them, but it;s so bad, It gets to the point where people don’t eben want to fall asleep!” 

He pursed his lips, nodding in agreement, “Poor bastards. I can’t imagine.” 

“And-and I found something, that can help.” She babbled on, “And I used it. A powerful, ancient thing, but I’m in over my head. And I need so much help. I feel liek this wasn’t meant for me, and-” 

Her head clicked in the direction of a grinding noise behind his jaw- at least, she thought it was his jaw. A slow, strange chattering that sounded like teeth. He popped his neck, nodding. Sabine’s eyes focused, senses sharper at the sensation, ringing in her ears like nails on a chalkboard. The skin along her arms crawled into goosebumps, nausea slowly seeping its way up inot the base of her esophagus. 

“I see what you mean.�� He agreed, “No wonder you’re so wound tight. I figured it was just the corset in your dress.” 

“.... That too.” Sabine admitted, “But you…. You said you could help?” 

“That I can.” He reassured, “But my services don’t come for free. You will need a price to pay in return.” 

“How much do I owe you?” She asked, “I don’t have my checkbook, but I have some cash-” 

Her hands began to dig in her clutch, but he pushed her hands to her sides laughing,  “No, no. You can keep all that. My payment is something far, far more precious.” 

He pulled her close, almost too close for her comfort- gaze narrowing near her lips, over her face. Her knees went weak under his arm, as she nodded. 

“And you promise to help me make it right?” She asked, “It’s…. Not here.” The lie cracked in the back of her throat, “It’s back at my apartment. I can show you my notes. Everything.” 

He nodded, “Pinkie promise. Now look at me again, no more tears. Let me see those pretty eyes in a smile again.” 

He wiped them away with his sleeve, looking down at her. Sabine leaned into his hand, forcing a small smile. Then it came again, that grinding noise. Something was very, very wrong. She wanted to run. Sabien tried pulling away, but he was too strong. Her body felt like rubber, as her shoulders jerked back. He caught her again. But she had to think fast. A slow, sultry exhale rolle dout of her chest, eyes relaxing uo at him.

“Who are you?” She asked, “You came here at the right time.” 

He sighed, as if almost irritated, “Why are you so curious about my name? Isn’t this moment enough?” 

That chattering, ear ringing sensation that made her bones grind against eachother. It snapped from her fantasy as he leered closer. She anticipated a kiss, but the sound of grinding teeth sobered her to death. Those damn shades were still on. It was beginning to piss her off, his lips only inches away from hers. Somemthign was not right and it wouldn’t be wise to pretend it was nothing. She brushed his suspicions away with a giggle, her fingertip tracing the outline of his sunglasses. 

“Then show me your eyes first.” She pleased, “I have to know. I have to remember. Let me guess, you have those eyes with opposite colors. One blue, one green.” 

He was humored by her efforts, “Nice try, but keep guessing…” 

Her arms wrapped around his neck, as she neared closer, “what about brown? Green? No, wait, hazel! I think I know.  You’ve got one blue, one brown. I bet it looks so pretty, so pretty and large-” 

The mosquito lights flickered on overhead. His head was at the right angle, just enough to see behind his sunglasses. She anticipated something human like curly lashes and dark eye circles, or dilated pupils, but her blood ran cold. In place of eyes, were two mouths of hungry, white teeth, curled and chomping at the bit behind their concealment. Sabine froze in his arms, her jaw slacking in silent horror at the sight of his unsightly trait. 

“All good guesses.” He said, “How about you go ahead and take them off for me?” 

Sabine’s throat wobbled at the sight, bliunking once, but the sight wasn’t going away. It as real, then, or perhaps she had too much to drink. But as he grabbed for the end of his glasses, she launched herself from his arms. She stumbled back, faking a dry heave. 

“Oh, fuck.” She wretched, coughing, “I’m so sorry, I don’t feel so good-” 

He furrowed his brows, stepping closer, “Habe you had too much to drink? Here, allow me-” 

“No!” She cried, “I don’t want to puke on you!” 

But he ignored her interjection, grabbing her roughly. Sabine flinched, thrashing herself out of his arms, but it was futile. He lifted her from the ground. She screamed out loud, thrashing her limbs about. The creature dropped her, as Sabine attempted to stumble away, but he yanked her back into his arms whilst pressing a blade into her throat. Sabine gasped as a cold blade pressed into her throat- he had her pinned against the wall, his body pressed into her back. 

“Now listen here,” He said in an excited, breathy tone, “You can either make this easier for me, or bloodier for you. Give me the dreamstone around that pretty little neck, and I’ll let you go.” 

“You won’t.” Sabine hissed, “What makes me think I can trust you? You’re not even fucking human.” 

“.... Good point.” He sneered with a shit eating grin, “You’ll just be collateral damage to me.” 

His pale wrist was pressed near her face. In one swift motion, she bit down onto his skin, hard. Hard enough to puncture skin and draw blood. The being cried aloud, letyting loose juts enough for Sabine to break out of his arms and make a run for Quinn. She fled on fast feet, refusing to look back. His footsteps clapped agains the pavement close behind her, but a convenient crowd of clubbers shrouded her- for hwo long, she didn;t have a clue. 

Sabine’s eyes filled with tears, her heart was racing. It was no good to show she was afraid now- whatever that was preyed on hers, for the dreamstone. It was a mistake to be here tonight. Quinn was at the bar again alone as she ran up to her. 

“Hey bestie!” She smiled, “I was wondering where you went off to.” 

“Quinn!” Sabine yelled, “Quinn, we have to go, right fucking now!” 

Quinn’s content expression turned to sober confusion, “What? What’s wrong? Is it Shades?” 

“He tried to fucking kill me!” Sabine cried, “We need to leave right now. Come with me, I don’t know how much time I have before we lose him-” 

Her head snapped around the room, unable to zero in on where the man went. The lights were too obscuring. She failed to see him directly across the room, about to make his way to her. Quinn stood up, grabbing a beer bottle. Two men were arguing beside them, a fight brewing and overshadowing the music. 

“When I say run, we run.” Quinn said in her ear, “Do you understand me?” 

Sabine nodded. 

Quinn gripped the neck of the empty beer bottle and chucked it at the two men in their argument. The shattering glass was enough to get them snapping at eachother- a flurry of fists that had a domino effect on the rest of the club, trickling crowds tyring to push and shove their way into the action. Yelling and screams filled the air, but only one voice rang clear. 

“Run!” 

Sabine grabbed her best friend’s hand and ran head first out the club door, with Quinn on her heels. The crowds were chaotic enough to leave the eyeless man trapped in the chaos. She refused to look back again, her hand gripping over the dreamstone. Sabine ran faster than she ever had in her life, towards an open taxi door. She lept into the taxi, followed by Quinn with a slamming door. 

“Go, go!” Quinn yelled at the driver, “Please, it’s an emergency!” 

The panic stricken driver’s tires screeched as he listened, driving off. Sabine’s jaw ached from becoming so tight with fear. As the car sped off, she looked back over her shoulder to find the man barely running out of the club’s exit doors. Quinn shoved her head back down beneath the seat level. 

“What the fuck happened back there?!” Quinn hoarsley whispered. 

“He tried to kill me.” Sabine swallowed, “I think I’m seeing things. He wasn’t right, at all.” 

“Okay, we’re going to the police station, right?” Quinn asked in a short tone, “Right?” 

Sabine shook her head, “They won’t believe us. He was after something.” 

“What? Was he an old client of ours?” 

Sabine removed the Dreamstone from around her neck and showed her friend. Quinn’s expression dropped into one of awe, as she looked at the relic closer. 

“... Fuck.” 

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A/N: Hello, readers! Sorry for the one-day delay in posting this chapter. The "one chapter a week" is a lot more challenging than I thought. For next week's post, I'll give it another shot before changing it, and see how I feel. Thank you for understanding! I am considering starting a tag list. If you've come this far and would like to join, please comment "hourglass" in the comments with your feedback. Thank you, and tune in next week! - Rudie