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doompunkdispatch · 1 year ago

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Feast on God’s Flesh

Hard-hitting junkies went missing soon after the Pharmacyst came to town. Rumor was they went to live fulltime in his bunker, completing the irreversible metamorphosis enforced by his eldritch substances.

A small dose doesn’t enact a noticeable difference, so you wouldn’t fear having a second hit, then a third. Something stronger than addiction takes hold. The user’s biochemistry transmogrifies into impossible directions. Eye-drops distend the iris. Inhaled smoke colonizes the bronchioles. Liquid injections taint the blood. Snort the powder and feel its crystals vivisect your gray matter, opening up wounds for infection by a macroscopic foe.

See them now. Sink past dreariest dungeons and discern the gruesome machinations: organs harvested from twisted junky cadavers, hormones siphoned to synthesize new compounds for fresh generations of victims. Sallow survivors wander aimless corridors until their time arrives. At the behest of the Pharmacyst, ghoulish orderlies squeeze jellied brains into pillcaps, sieve amber pus into hypodermic needles, and crush bone into dust to cut with cocaine—the customers may be right, but they never know any better.

You spot skin, hard as petrified bark. Fauna gives birth to flora and fungi. Three bodies hang from ceiling hooks, intertwined via splintered twig arms. Leaves and flowers, reeking of odious rot, unfold between their fingers. Mushroom caps sprout from gnarled toenails, ripe for the plucking.

An undercooked fetus elongates into a symbiotic vine, enwrapping its parents’ trunks. The perverse family unit bears physical fruit; a jaundiced mesocarp drips sweet juices from splitting tumescent flesh. One subject tastes this pome, and feels a figwasp ovum rapidly developing in her belly. Parasitic visitors from innermost realms burst into our sliver of reality, celebrating the open-ended orgy that is All Creation.

Near the bottom, we find a ward housing xeno-amphibious forms, formerly human. The transfiguration left them with skin akin to earthly frogs. This gelatinous surface breathes Earth’s air, metabolizes various gasses, and secretes fluid coveted by only the most perverse addicts. Emitting froglike croaks, the tsathögguans must be kept in tanks tuned to binaural beats. Any naked eardrum that absorbs its vibration begins transmuting the surrounding skin to an exogenetic structure matching the source. Word is Virus.

Things get darker. Woven cocoons quiver in the grimiest guts of the citadel. Furtive nostrils ponder our astral scent as we pass their cells. Chitinous hairs chitter in anticipation of a meal. Curious third eyes gaze brightly from the tips of protuberant pineal glands. Slavering mandibles lunge out—

—and snatch you from the metafictional air.

Digestive enzymes pull apart the essential cogs of your mental machinery. Vicious biochemical troops rip through protofilaments and pillage delicious proteins from your doomed neurons. Curious stomachs digest juice sickly rich in consciousness. You feel yourself melt into them. Ovipositors plant eukaryotic yolks between your sulci and gyri. Your undiscovered carcass will sustain families for generations to come. Great-grandchildren will chew on your flickering subliminal sewage. Slurp up scumpunk soup.

“Open wide,” smiles the Pharmacyst, “and swallow your medicine.”

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heirbane · 1 year ago

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She reminded him of his mother, he realized.

It had been... fifty and odd summers since the Baelsar matriarch fell ill and did not recover. She was not unwell of body but of mind, something a boy of five hadn't understood at the time.

Something a man of fifty and six hadn't realized until he looked at the Warrior of Light's sallow features and hollow eyes and saw not the adventurer that had felled him. He saw his mother.

In Alta's round shoulders and faraway expression he thought of a woman with greasy, unkempt hair the shade of oversteeped coffee. In her short answers and closed posture he saw a widower, a lady who had laid a partner and an infant to rest and simply wished for the same.

That was what had pulled him to act, he knew. He had not been able to do anything to help his mother: nothing would pull her from despair's embrace but death. Gaius had not the words nor the means to do much for her, the waves of grief much louder than the begging of her remaining son.

He could not do anything for his mother. But he could do for her, a subconscious attempt to repair, to redo, to try again.

Gaius stood against the furthest wall in Alta's living space, steering clear of the Astrologians that worked around her. They would try to heal her aether, ticking back the clock bell by bell, hoping that her astral toxicity would unwind with it, too.

They could heal her body. They could fill her with potions to cease the fevers and the uneasy stomach: they could cast spell after spell to help her sleep.

But the Astrologians would not simply be able to take the light from her body and put it back into her eyes.

He had tried to do it for his mother. He had grown and learned in the fifty summers since, Gaius hoped.

(He had failed his children. He had failed Midas and Varis; he had failed his mother.

Maybe - just maybe - ... he could try. Just one more time.)

#wips.#illness tw #shb spoilers #injuries tw #ⅩⅣ fritillaria imperialis ( a/g. )#me adding another tidbit to the longfic i will never finish bc writing things beginning to end is torture #id rather spaghetti about and do scenes i want to do that end up not working together anyway! :)#suicide ideation tw #death tw

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tanjirou-no-au · 2 years ago

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RWBY/BNHA: CLASS 1B

SILT

Shiwei Ziteng-Kendo

Weapon: Zanshin-Dust Imbued Ringlets around her limbs

Semblance: Astral Body-Manifest enlarged constructs of body parts around her.

Emblem: Spectral Hand

Iago Currant-Monoma

Weapon: Phantom-Naginata/Hunting Rifle

Semblance: Imitation-Allows him to temporarily copy Semblances

Emblem: Tragedy/Comedy mask

Peony Lourdais-Pony (Cow Faunus)

Weapon: Drillhorn-Drill Gauntlets

Semblance: Linebacker-Turns herself into a living rocket

Emblem: Longhorn with drills in the place of horns.

Tetsu Farran-Tetsutetsu

Weapon: Tetsu-A combination sword/axe

Semblance: Ironcoat-Condense Aura into a flexible, steel like coating.

Emblem: The kanji for iron.

BASL

Gunter Brun-Nigenreki

Weapon: The Pugilists-Dust infused boxing gloves

Semblance: Doubletap-Mark and remotely detonate aura with double the force of the initial strike.

Emblem: Twin boxing gloves

Bister Astrom-Yosetsu

Weapon: Crucible-Flamethrower/Sword

Semblance: Weld-Fuse materials together at the molecular level, and detach them.

Emblem: A welding torch

Ashley Sallow-Reiko

Weapon: A collection of throwing knives, bombs, and two shield disks.

Semblance: Poltergeist-Telekinetic control over a mass of small objects.

Emblem: A ghost face.

Lusine Redmonton-Kodai

Weapon: Ruler-Double headed axe staff/Double smg hatchets

Semblance: Resize-Alter the size of inanimate objects.

Emblem: A silver upturned chevron.

OIYL

Osseus Clay-Juzo

Weapon: Mudjumper-Sniper Rifle/Assault Rifle combo

Semblance: Softening-Pretty much the same as canon

Emblem: A melting skull

Ibara Arrowroot-Shiozaki

Weapon: Guiding Light-Lantern crook/dust mace

Semblance: Overgrowth-Creation of tendrils from solid material (ie plants)

Emblem: Crown of thorns

York Blanchet-Tsuburata

Weapon: XHale-Axe & Shield/Handcannon

Semblance: Solid Air-Pretty much the same as canon.

Emblem: Crossed hatchets surrounded by a cyclone

Russet Linen-Jurota (Wolverine Faunus)

Weapon: Gevaudan-Hunting Rifle/Axe

Semblance: Berserker-A secondary, monstrous berserker form.

Emblem: Snarling mouth.

MRKR

Ventus Marfield-Kaibara

Weapon: Spiral-Dust loaded spear

Semblance: Gyrate-Rotation of objects/self to increase striking power.

Emblem: Upwards drill

Raoul Goldberg-Manga

Weapon: The Ideophones-Twin Megaphones/Hand Cannons

Semblance: Onomon-Manifest holographic words and infuse them with Dust.

Emblem: Cartoon bubble with a sound icon

Umbra Kuroiro-Kuroiro

Weapon: Wax & Wane- Twin Khopesh/Staff

Semblance: Shadowmeld-Travel through shade/dark places, including Grimm.

Emblem: Waning crescent moon

Paula Redcap-Komori

Weapon: Shiitaker-Dust mist sprayer/electro baton

Semblance: Bisporus-Manipulate fungal spores

Emblem: Red cap mushroom

As for Setsuna, Kamakiri, Rin, & Bondo...they have their own roles to play

#BNHA #BNHA AU #RWBY #RWBY AU #Class 1B

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therealvagabird · 3 years ago

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The Maw-Spawn

A little monster profile I made a while ago for a terrible Langolier-style creature. Thanks to a fantastic commission by @foulserpent I finally felt compelled to post it. These beasts come in two main varieties and are servants of the Void - an all-consuming nihilistic force I frequently like to feature in my various fictional universes.

Maw-Spawn are but one of the many terrible monstrosities birthed from the malign body of the Maw. The Maw is an incarnate of the Void – a monstrous entity as large as a planet, imbued with the dark intelligence of a timeless Voidborn soul, which travels throughout the astral planes consuming entire worlds, stars, or anything else that is unfortunate enough to come within its malevolent sight. This godlike being has legions of attendant servitors, but notable among them are the Maw-Spawn, for having forms said to be made in the image of their master.

Spawnlings are comparatively diminutive creatures, being spherical in shape and a little smaller than a standard humanoid, being about one meter in diameter. Though they may resemble more conventional alien lifeforms, they are not living beings, but rather semi-biological constructs made for a singular purpose: destruction. Each Spawnling has a lumpen, round body without any limbs, and skin colors in a dark metallic range from dull bronze to black iron. Their mouths are formed as a vertical slit lined with several rows of jagged, razor-sharp fangs, which opens on a full-body hinge held in place by the central muscular digestive organ itself. On either end of the being, on an axis perpendicular to that of its mouth, are two eyes of a pure black coloration, about 7cm in diameter. Embedded in the skin of the creature are numerous pustules of similar size to the eyes, though tending to be of a sallow coloration. The Spawnling’s corrosive blood is black, while its internal tissues are a translucent white hue when drained.

Maw-Spawnlings, sometimes referred to as Lesser Maw Spawn, are creatures of minimal intelligence and singular drive. They spread across entire ecosystems, consuming and reproducing at an exponential rate, until they have formed swarms able to process entire moons into nothingness. Their motivation is to devour everything they come across, though they place priority on living or organic material. Barring this, their vision is highly reactive to movement, and they will target anything that their instincts determine might run the risk of escaping or fighting back before they move on to consuming inanimate objects. They have the ability to digest almost anything thanks to their hyperactive metabolism and powerfully corrosive bile, coupled with the strength of their jaws, which make up the majority of their body. This combination of anatomical traits allows them to consume flesh, metal, stone, soil, and even volatile energy sources with little issue. They may also consume each other if one is found to be injured and operating at substandard levels.

Spawnlings are built more akin to single-celled organisms despite their multicellular appearance, containing a decentralized tissue structure which is geared entirely towards the unending task of metabolizing matter. There are two lattices of tissue types within the creature – one devoted towards information processing and locomotion, and the other devoted to rapid metabolic processes. Despite lacking sapience, their locomotive tissue is highly advanced, allowing for the control of psychokinetic fields which let the Spawnling hover freely outside the bonds of gravity. The center of the monster is dominated by its stomach, which is a digestive sac of permeable tissue and powerful muscle which breaks down any residual matter not processed by the mouth for quick absorption into the bloodstream. Despite their efficient digestive system, Spawnlings will cough up a thick slurry of waste material from their mouth – itself a form of cloaca – when too much has built up within their stomach.

More developed Spawnlings will have a greater amount of the distinctive pustules on their body. These pustules are in fact amniotic sacs which allow for the birth of new Spawnlings when enough nutrition has been taken in. Said sacs may burst at any point once their developing sub-spawn has reached maturity, and this process is ongoing due to the goal of the creatures to multiply and consume their environment with as much haste as possible. The developmental fluid within these sacs is also toxic to most conventional lifeforms that do not share Voidborn biology, and physical attacks against the Spawn may result in the fluid contaminating surrounding areas. In addition, older Spawnlings will be in possession of more pustules due to having a greater surface area, and this increase in their amount of “wombs” allows for faster metabolism and motion, as the tissue systems of the developing sub-spawn inside are slaved to that of the “mother”, allowing it to bolster its own digestion and psychokinetic power with that of its young.

The eyes of the Spawnlings are not so mundane as they may appear, and have two distinct powers which also increase the deadliness of these monstrosities. First is their micro-antimatter projection ability: this is a taxing offensive mechanism that requires a Spawnling have enough excess energy to temporarily divert to its psychokinetic powers. The creature channels a portion of its own dark animus to launch a microparticle stream of antimatter at its prey, which will instantly react with the matter around it to take the form of a powerful atomic beam which can cleave through most conventional barriers. Second is the Spawling’s ocular ability to inflict mental damage to any sapient foes by syncing the psionic vibrations transmitted from its eyes with the gravitation vibrations from its body, disrupting space around it and causing an indescribable, disorienting effect in any who are exposed to the phenomenon.

All tissues of the Spawnling are highly toxic and risk spreading Void corruption if left unchecked. Mere contact with any element of Voidborn biology may be enough to cause infection or severe damage to any being which possesses a nervous system. It is preferable to kill a Spawnling through systematic tissue damage rather than any sudden or catastrophic means, as excessive damage to the creature’s nervous tissue my result in a sudden expulsion of its anathema animus, causing an antimatter explosion. As with most other servants of the Maw, the presence of Spawn is often accompanied by an incursion of multiple other Voidborn strains, and the establishment of an unliving hive to begin decomposing local astral bodies in preparation for the Maw’s arrival.

While the Maw-Spawnlings are little more than bestial automatons purpose-built for sinister ends, the Maw-Spawn themselves are beings of terrible individual power. A “juvenile” Spawn, sometimes referred to as a Greater Maw-Spawn or Greater Spawn, will demonstrate similar behavior and motivations to the average Spawnling, though with an increased set of abilities at its disposal, foremost among them its predatory intelligence and expanded size, being around 3 meters in diameter at the smallest. In all aspects they resemble a Spawnling, save for their mouth. Instead of operating on a conventional hinge, the Greater Spawn is split clean down the middle, kept together by a mix of amorphous connector-tendons and psychokinetic power. The Spawn is able to move its equatorial mouth in an adaptive manner similar to a starfish’s digestive canal, with all it consumes feeding directly to the dark heart of the Spawn – a micro-singularity suspended at its core, which through some miracle of arcane craft provides the creature with its life force even as everything from matter to pure light are fed into the all-consuming black hole.

The Greater Spawn also possess the distinct pustules around their body, though unlike the Lesser Spawnlings these are not used as a means of reproduction. Rather, within each amniotic sac is a permanently gestating mass composed entirely of the psycho-reactive tissue of the Spawn. The larger a Greater Spawn grows, the more pustules it is able to grow, and the more “brains” it is able to form allowing for increased intelligence and psionic power. More ancient Maw-Spawn may reach diameters of up to 6 meters or larger, possessing vast mental capabilities that allow them to bend spacetime, dominate entire populations, and direct the endless hunger of their attendant armies towards more coordinated offensive actions. Thralls of the Void tend to hail these Elder Maw-Spawn as physical proxies of the Maw itself, for obvious reasons.

Most terrible of all the psionic powers at the Greater Spawn’s disposal are those stemming from its eyes. In addition to similar abilities as the Spawnlings, amplified to greater magnitude, Greater Spawn are able to utilize the dark power of the Hell Lights. This arcane ability allows the Spawn to radiate a blinding light from its eyes. All who are caught within this light are subject to visions of unspeakable horror, causing everything from permanent psychological damage to immediate death by shock. The signals broadcasted within the Hell Lights are even enough to cause degeneration within simulated code, posing a threat to any sapient beings. Despite their vast potential for higher thought and power, the motivations of the Greater Maw-Spawn remain the same: consumption of everything they come across.

#fantasy #sci fi #worldbuilding #monster #creature #void

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verumking · 5 years ago

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⚔️ *:･ﾟ✧┆the mouse in a bear trap // a boy mistaken god. ❪ plotted starter. ❫

The stygian halls of SHINRA’S HEADQUARTERS– obsidian floors gilded with LIQUID GOLD– did more to turn Yozora’s STOMACH than the Wall Market sewers. For DESPITE its corporate elegance, it was a GOSSAMER VEIL over its twisted operations: irreverence IDENTICAL to the tyranny of GIGAS CORPORATION back on his home dominion. ( The DEITY was an unfortunate victim of such TRANSGRESSIONS. His chest: still AGAPE, his previous encounter with Shinra’s most sadistic agent near EXPOSING his otherworldly origins. ) DEATH INCARNATE quickly learnt to employ the KINGDOM he ruled, stalking office corridors with the SPIRITUAL REALM to guise him. INVISIBLE to the corporeal eye, Yozora had the LUXURY of eavesdropping, the CONVERSATION of two passing guards garnering his ATTENTION:

❛ ... You guys captured him again? ❜ ❛ Yeah. ‘Twas weird though, weren’t as slippery as the last time… ❜ ❛ Maybe th’kid accepted the inevitable. ❜

KING’S INTRIGUE about their hostage was no sooner DISPELLED: by the exchange of their prisoner’s POSSESSIONS. A pistol, a cell phone… and a baseball cap. GUILT quickly flooded stoic features, PROFANITY slipping from between gritted teeth. ( They caught him. The REAL Leslie Kyle. ) Over fifty flights up the headquarters’ EMERGENCY STAIRWELL, and the reaper king finally reached Shinra’s LABORATORIES. Hesitance sunk DEEP as the stench of MEDICAL SUPPLIES swelled his nostrils, HURLING Yozora back thirteen years, when he was an INVOLUNTARY SUBJECT to scalpel and shears. ALAS, despite the paralysis overtaking his BONES… the Verum Rex pressed FORWARD. ( The least he could DO, was prevent another from suffering the SAME FATE. )

Grimace swept a SALLOW VISAGE as Thanatos phased through LOCKED DOORS, veins searing with his rapidly depleting ASTRAL ENERGY: like a rusted engine, BURNING through the last drop of GASOLINE. Fortunately, no one was there to WITNESS Yozora’s lurching… just a disturbed boy, with UNCANNY silver hair, sealed in a CYLINDRICAL CHAMBER. Night sky was cautious in his APPROACH, removing his own baseball cap to GREET the stranger he shamelessly STOLE from: ❛ … Leslie. ❜ Vermillion-blue irises GLINTED, almost apologetically. ❛ We need to leave, now. Can you stand? ❜

❪ @rcunionpromisc ❫

#rcunionpromisc #⚔️ *:･ﾟ✧┆a heart’s relapse. ❪ queue ❫#⚔️ *:･ﾟ✧┆he was the monster you created. ❪ replies ❫#⚔️ *:･ﾟ✧┆averting destiny beneath midnight’s shroud. ❪ au: final fantasy vii ❫#( okay you absolutely do not have to match this length whegwhe )

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hannah-writes · 5 years ago

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we are such things as dreams are made of

I missed WIP wednesday, technically, but here. Since I haven’t written anything for a while, here’s a WIP that’s been languishing in my gdocs for months. Definitely AU. Definitely.

Everything Alex had ever read about magic told him one thing: it was better with a partner. Casting with someone else, someone of the opposite gender, was an experience unlike anything else. Magic is in his bones, he knows it. It had been in his mom's too - his snatched memories of her had her shining with a radiant light he'd never seen replicated in anyone else, the way she could soothe his aches with a touch of her fingers and a brush of her lips against his forehead. But magic... Magic is a rare gift. Alex's soul is made of intangible starlight, whispers of the ethereal that allow him to do things that should be impossible.

When his mom left he was ten. He didn't realise that he was magic until one summer with Kyle, they were building a treehouse and Kyle hit his thumb with the hammer. Distracted by the pain, he'd tripped over himself and fallen, hand landing on an upturned nail which went right through his palm. Alex had run his fingers over the skin after the nail had been removed and they watched the ragged edges of his palm stitch together. Jesse Manes beat him the next summer, tried to stomp down the sparks of otherworldliness that ran through Alex's blood right after dragging him to the Registration centre in Santa Fe where he got his name and Manifestation stuck into a database.

It doesn’t stop him. The jealous jibes from his siblings - that fade as they move to follow their father’s footsteps into various branches of the Armed Forces - and the regular beatings from the man who contributed to giving him life aren’t enough to stop him from Casting. He Casts like he plays, music and magic inextricably linked in his mind, the strumming of his plectrum over guitar strings and the positioning of his fingers on the fretboard helping his mind calm and letting the power flow through him. When his fingers move in small, practised spells, he watches a campfire dance, he watches things move through the force of his will. He never tests his potential, only doing enough to piss his father off to show him that Alex’s gift wasn’t his. It had nothing to do with him.

When his father catches him watching Kyle, flush high on his cheeks, the defensive magic that he’s learned for just this situation fails him, his shield dissipates in a firework of shattered slivers of Will that dissolve around him as Jesse Manes’ creative torture techniques hit their mark. Bloodied and battered and bruised, Alex never heals himself; the pain he feels is worth the brief respite he gets from the brutality of living under his father’s roof. He tells himself one day he’ll leave, he’ll graduate high school and move to LA. He’ll become a musician, weave melodies like Casts. He tells himself one day he’ll watch the light flowing from his fingers like liquid gold and he won’t feel ashamed. He won’t feel the sallow shuddering ache of his father’s words and hatred crawling across his skin like a Refraction. One day he’ll be free.

***

The first time he sees Michael Guerin, wild curls and sharp features, something inside of him feels incandescent. The world flares in ripples of magic that ache to be nearer to him, to respond to the subtle pulse of power pouring from the other teen. He’s lanky and angry, tied by an invisible string to the Evans twins and carries a chip on his shoulder that Alex can feel whenever he looks at an authority figure. Michael’s magic is soft and broken but it’s there. Alex can <i>feel</i> it. And it’s a gravity well that pulls him in.

The Evans twins have their own kind of magic. It pulses and passes between them but Alex has always felt like it was Empty, like a part of them was missing. They never Cast, their echoes are small and stronger when they’re together. Alex has always had a radial awareness of them, felt them tugging on the edges of his consciousness and he wonders if they can sense him. Sometimes, even those without the Gift can sense Alex. It pours out of every part of his soul and sometimes reacts instinctively to the way that Alex is pushed around. The thread of mischief that’s buried deep within Alex creeps out sometimes; Kyle pushes him against the lockers too hard - somewhere stuck between being jealous of Alex’s Gift and afraid of being thought of as gay - and Alex’s fingers cross and uncross twice, resulting in Kyle’s shoelaces tying themselves together in math class. Sometimes the water in the locker room will drop temperature sharply after he’s been rat-tailed by one of Kyle’s asshole jock friends, the icy chill of freezing water a balm against the lingering sting against Alex’s skin as the rough-and-tumble jocks all shriek and screech and complain.

When Michael comes to the school and settles in, together with the Evans siblings, but also entirely separate, Alex feels their magic flowing like a three-way filter. Energy passes between them and when Alex concentrates he can see it, astral beauty and cosmic radiance that makes him think of those clear nights in the desert when he can look up and see the Milky Way painting the sky, stretched and staining the stars overhead, a benevolent window into the unknown. He’s caught watching them on more than one occasion, eyes glazed as he tracks the power that rolls between them, stretching with distance but never breaking. He wonders what it is that they can do, how their Gift manifests. He’s never seen them Cast, or even felt it. He’s attuned enough to the shifting energies of the town that he can feel when Maria or Mimi do a Read. It thrums through the air like a soft caress along Alex’s jaw and down his spine; a warm touch of homesafehome.

Liz nudges him in the side playfully, chewing on a Red Vine and watching Alex watching them. Watching him. Alex can always pinpoint the Evans twins in a crowd by their nature; they stand out like he does. But Michael… Michael is a lighthouse beaming and bright and brilliant. Alex has seen him scrawling ahead in physics and calculus, an absolute genius behind the attitude and carefully crafted cockiness that keeps everyone but the Evans twins away. Alex wants to gently push against those walls he can see, prod and poke and find a crack that he can slip in and learn the guy behind the attitude. He wants to see Michael trusting in him. He wants to see Michael Cast. He wants to be there when magic wraps around them, blazing and burning, roaring in the space between and shuddering to a crescendo that he knows would be unlike anything else.

But he doesn’t know how. Michael doesn’t look at him and if it’s not Max or Isobel he isn’t even the slightest bit interested. Everything Alex has ever been able to find about magic, about Casting, about how to find out his Static, has been in battered old books and in dark corners of the internet where fact meets conspiracy theory. No one wanted to teach him anything, even if they could Alex wasn’t sure that it would help. Most people could hardly Cast outside of their Static, not without having some serious firepower behind them.

But Alex… Alex has always been Different.

#malex fic #wip wednesday #we are such things as dreams are made of #malex #no beta we type into tumblr like men

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dnd5a · 3 years ago

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Chronicle Entry XX001 - I Am Eternity

The sky cracks, splintering like glass, as a baleful light pours in from beyond. The cracks spider out all across the sky, before the horizon itself shatters into dust, revealing the source of the light beyond.

A titanic form looms over the entire fortress. Cloaked in a sky’s worth of glimmering stars, the creatures stretches out its immense wings, casting a grim glow that reaches out for miles in every direction.

While few in history have ever laid eyes upon her, there is no mistaking her: Stardust, Grandmaster of the Starblade Company.

All around her, shadows plummet from the world above: other dragons. Immense in their own right, but infantile when compared to Stardust’s impossible scale.

Looming high over the fortress, Stardust looks down upon you all and speaks.

After aeons of waiting, I am complete.

I must thank you, my brave soldiers, for bringing this reality into being. Without your aid, perhaps this end would never have come to pass.

But now this universe must be rendered asunder, its every molecule obliterated and made anew. In my image will all things be reborn, as it was always meant to be.

The beings that arise from your ashes will know nothing of what came before, but I will be sure to remember you fondly, for you were my beloved instruments, knowingly or otherwise.

Now, my pawns, your long march is over. Sink to your knees and rest, for the epoch of eternity is upon you.

As Stardust speaks, she draws in her arms and latches her claws deep into her chest. Then, with one motion, she wrenches open a gaping hole at her heart, revealing a swirling orb of darkness within. Surrounding the orb are three concentric rings of light: one a sickly white, one a pale viridian, and the last an oozing, liquid crimson.

The orb pulses, its power felt to the very bone, as a great force washes over everything around you, pushing to the edges of the Astral Sea before vanishing into the beyond.

There's a moment of silence, just enough for a single breath, before a horrific groaning fills your ears. It surrounds you on all sides, as if the fabric of reality itself is creaking like rotten wood, before a chorus of destructive noise fills your mind. As you look around, like cloth and skin meticulously pulled apart, the boundaries between the planes is broken and each and every world that touches the Astral Sea is laid bare before you in macabre honeycomb of failing realities.

The pulsating, black heart at the centre of Stardust’s chest begins to draw in power from these other worlds, rending apart whatever it touches atom by atom and drawing their power into Stardust herself.

The fortress begins to break apart, with streets splintering and buildings collapsing into the Astral Sea below.

As many of your fellow Starblades begin to bear arms against the astral dragon, she speaks again:

You reject your purpose, pawns? Perhaps you are unworthy of being unmade so painlessly. Your twitching corpses will be fuel enough.

Bringing a claw down to the earth, Stardust traces a great ring of white light in the air. Upon its completion, the ring becomes a glowing portal, from which a horde of undead charge, their skin sallow and empty eye-sockets aglow with the same harsh light of the Tomorrow. Some bare familiar faces. Those honoured in statues of officers, while others bear the faces of fallen comrades that were once lost to the endless march.

Moments later, a series of draconic roars reach your ears, as five dazzling comets fall from the broken sky: one white, one blue, one black, one red, and one green. These glimmering, chromatic arrows plummet to the earth all across the fortress, and word quickly spreads of who needs them: Feather.

_______________________________________________________________

Through sea and sky, Under moon and sun, The blades fall, And foes rise.

Boots march, Through sweat, blood, and tears, Nameless warriors, Unmade anew.

Through this act, I cast all away, Tomorrow a memory Nothing today.

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goodlucktai · 7 years ago

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lying in the gutter, aiming for the moon

final fantasy xv pairing: gladio/ignis/prompto (mentions of ot4) word count: 1331 summary: Prompto is better when he’s busy, so he pours all of his time and energy and care into relief efforts, and hunting daemons, and helping displaced refugees make a new home in fortified Lestallum. Ignis and Gladio don’t have much to say to him anymore, but that’s alright -- he can take care of himself. And if this little kid has nobody else and nowhere to go, then Prompto can take care of him, too.

read on ao3

chapter 1/?

There’s a light ahead, filtering through the trees, that looks like it belongs to thunder bombs.

Prompto gives his partner a nod, watching after him as Ace moves ahead soundlessly to take point. Then he turns to face the group of world-weary refugees he’s helping escort through a once-idyllic countryside to the safety of Lestallum.

They’re clustered beside an outcropping of rock, as much shelter as there is to be had out here anymore, and their lights and voices are low -- strained with exhaustion, and the worry bordering on paranoia that’s kept them alive until now. Every one of them has noticed the light ahead, too. At this leg of the journey, Prompto doesn’t need to tell anyone to be still and quiet.

He can afford to give them a few more minutes. The terrain is rough for civilians, and as much as he wants to get them behind city walls as soon as possible, he doesn’t want to deliver them half-dead on their feet.

It’s the work of a moment to sweep through a quick headcount, to make sure everyone’s accounted for -- and then Prompto pauses, frowning, and counts again.

“We’re missing someone,” he says. His voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the absolute stillness like a knife anyway. He shelves the immediate alarm, refusing to act on it just yet.

Sometimes this happens -- someone steps away for a moment of privacy, to be sick or catch their breath, despite the endless warnings Prompto will have given them along the way to never step away without letting him or his partner know.

But no one pipes up with a “my sister is just over there,” or “my husband needed a minute, he’ll be along right away” and that means they have a problem. Prompto watches as the people react to his words -- some of them look alarmed, and reach out reflexively to seize their friends, or their children, or their lover, and hold them close against a similar fate.

But some of them don’t react at all, staring hard at their hands or away at the ground. It’s those people that Prompto moves in on.

His heavy boots step soundlessly through the forest litter, in the way that was ruthlessly trained into him by necessity and survival, and Prompto crouches in front of a sallow-faced man with a teen tucked under his arm.

There’s a cold pit opening in Prompto’s chest, at the idea of one of his people hurt or lost or gone.

“It’s my job to get everyone safely from point A to point B,” Prompto says plainly. “You really don’t want to get between me and my job.”

It’s as much of a threat as it needs to be. The man swallows once, twice, throat bobbing. Then he says, “The little Niff boy hurt his ankle. He fell behind a little while ago.”

Prompto jerks upright, and turns on his heel to scan the group again. His earlier alarm is crawling down off its shelf and taking up shop in the middle of his chest.

There should be a little boy, with hanks of uneven blond hair and big reproachful gray eyes. He had been walking with a little girl his age, and Prompto had assumed they were friends or siblings, that the girl’s mother would be keeping an eye on him -- but when Prompto’s gaze finds the woman, she’s clutching her daughter with a look of horror on her face.

“I didn’t realize,” she whispers. “I didn’t know.”

Ace is at his shoulder the moment Prompto spins around to look for him. He says, “Go ahead,” and his voice is as tight and angry as Prompto’s probably would be if Prompto could even speak. “I’ll call you back on the radio if I need you.”

So Prompto lifts his gun and plunges away into the dark, back the way they came. He’s searching the ground so hard he would probably walk right into an iron giant before he noticed it was in his way. He hasn’t prayed to the Astrals since they took Noctis away, but he finds himself throwing words up to any of the Six that might listen -- please, he’s just a kid, please, I’ll watch him closer next time, please --

Gladio says Prompto cares too much. Prompto doesn’t know why he says it like that, like it’s something Prompto can change, like it’s a dial on his personal settings that he can turn down.

But after hardly ten minutes of backtracking, he finds the boy -- tucked up under some foliage, his back to the trunk of a tree. He’s clutching his ankle, and his eyes are wide and terrified, but he’s alive. Somehow, all on his own out here in the daemon-infested night, he’s okay.

Prompto feels lightheaded with relief, closing his eyes for a second and breathing through it.

Then he shoves his gun back into its holster and kneels, offering the little guy his hands.

“Sorry,” he says, scraping up a smile. “It must have been scary. How about you walk with me from now on?”

The boy hardly needs any coaxing to spill forward into Prompto’s arms, clutching at him with shaking fingers. He’s cold, and Prompto manages to maneuver his jacket off without dislodging him, wrapping it around the boy’s thin shoulders.

The ordeal must have worn him out, because he dozes off there against Prompto’s chest as they pick their way back to the group.

Whole pounds of tension go out of Ace’s shoulders when he sees Prompto and his little charge, lines of worry easing out of his dark face.

“Thank the gods,” he murmurs.

“Or something,” Prompto replies. Then he turns sharp eyes on the people behind him, mouth working furiously as he tries to come up with a way to explain to them succinctly just how fucked up he thinks this whole thing was.

“It’s not our job to babysit orphans,” someone pipes up. They don’t sound cruel, they just sound tired. They have a little boy of their own on their lap. “We have to look after our own family first, don’t we?”

Maybe Prompto would have said something different two years ago. He was kinder back then, he thinks. Or the world was kinder.

But that was two years ago, and Prompto says, “None of you are my family. Should I leave you behind when you slow me down?”

The silence that greets the question is heavy and heaving. If he left them, they would be down to one protector where even two doesn’t feel like enough. He’d never do it -- and he’d never do that to Ace -- but these people don’t know that.

But at the stricken looks on some of their faces, the plain horror on others, Prompto relents. He looks down at the dirty blond head nestled against his shoulder, and says, “It can’t be like that anymore. There’s nothing left. All we have is what little we can give each other.”

He thinks of Ignis and Gladio, and how little they have to give each other anymore. How they seem to have nothing to give Prompto anymore. But when it starts to hurt, he thinks of Noctis, and what Noctis would say if Prompto gave up on them, too. What Noctis would say if Prompto gave into the bitter gray feelings always creeping in around his periphery.

And he manages to summon a smile instead.

“So shape up,” he commands without any heat, “and let’s get a move on. Lestallum’s only another hour west. You’ll be home before you know it.”

Ace gives him a companionable nudge as they fall into loose formation again. Most of the civilians don’t seem able or willing to make eye contact. The mother from before approaches Prompto with her hands out, a clear apology and a clear offer in her eyes.

Prompto shakes his head, holding the bundle of boy and coat a little tighter.

“It’s alright,” he says, “I got him.”

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #prompto argentum #ignis scientia #gladiolus amiticia #polyship roadtrip #my writing #ffxv fic #aiming for the moon

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akikocho · 2 years ago

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Here's some dialogues I thought featuring my HPHM OCs and canon characters that I thought:

*Astral's first date with Talbott at Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop*

Astral and Talbott: *awkward af*

Tonks: *whispers* how long are they going to stare the ceiling and the floor?

Charlie: A couple of hours maybe?

Maya: *huffs* I'm getting impatient!

Castor: If Winger makes a move, I'm going to jinx him!

Charlie: That's brutal mate. Let your twin sister be happy.

Tonks: Yeah!

Malachi: Be quiet. They can hear us!

Talbott: Yes, we can hear you clearly.

Astral: *facepalms*

Rowan and Maya during their 2nd year:

Rowan: Out of all people at Hogwarts to fancy, you chose our prefect!?

Maya: But...look at his jaws-

Rowan: Are there any other features of Felix that you like instead of his jaws?

Maya: ... Nothing...

Rowan: ...

Maya during her third year:

Maya: *casually enters the Hospital Wing*

Madam Pomfrey: Miss Avery, this is the 10th time you visited this week. Did you get another injury again from bumping the walls?

Maya: Yep...

And that's how Maya learned she got myopia

Third Year Rowan and Maya conversation at the Great Hall during their free time:

Rowan: *sees Bill and sighs* Look at Bill, Maya. Isn't he so charming?

Maya: Yeah, he's okay to me?

Rowan: I'm not impressed with your answer, Maya.

Maya: What? I'm being honest!

Rowan: Right. Do you ever see someone so attractive that you compliment them other than "okay"? Or do you fancy someone other than our prefect?

Maya: Woah there, Rowan. What type of question is that? And no, I don't have someone that I fancy nor I will not try to date someone. My crush on Felix Rosier is just a childish play. End of discussion.

Rowan: I don't believe you. Everyone falls inlove.

Maya: Not for me. I don't fall in love anymore.

Rowan: *sighs* If so say so.

#aki's hphm dialogues #hphm #harry potter hogwarts mystery #maya bell avery #malachi brett avery #castor sallow #astral sallow #nymphadora tonks #charlie weasley #rowan khanna #i have a lot on my mind #I have a mental block lol

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blackwinged-soul · 4 years ago

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Might as well write out Specifically What I ?”Remember”? from H|arrow.

It’s all from canon so far.

1.) Memories of the “pulpit”, the... religious gathering place. Can’t remember the verbiage for it right now. It’s the very specific, pale sallow greenish quality of the light that convinces me it wasn’t just the book’s descriptions that gave me such a vivid image. My imagination functions very poorly on the visual level. I can imagine General Splotches of things and MOTION very well, I’m kinetic-touch dominant in this life, after all. But pure static visual details, like colors and light quality? Highly, extremely unusual to pop into my head so immediately as it did when I was reading that. There is also consistency in how I imagine it, it doesn’t shift and change.

2.) The line to the effect of, “I wish the nint|h house would do something more interesting than bones.” Now, I’m far more auditory than visual. But the CLARITY with which I hear that in my mind’s ear, the certainty of tone it was said in, and the CONSISTENCY of which I imagine it sounding like tells me there might be a connection.

3.) Gid|eon’s... Decision, at the end. That tied me in knots. Still has me tied in knots. Emotionally. This was the moment I realized I felt personally connected to what’s happened in the book.

As of right now, I don’t know if these are memories, a cameo shift, or pure empathic absorption. I can’t yet rule out intense synpathy the likes of which I have with Rav/en.

The connection and certainty has remained for over 24 hours.

Again, being an empat|h with a long history of synpathy, not to mention an astral shapeshifter that has a history of mimicking the shape of beings I connect to and “sharing their experience”, it’s hard to discern the SOURCE of these certainties, noemata, and sensory knowledge.

#rwt tlt

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magnetar1 · 7 years ago

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Gravedigger of Caravans

Sworn but empty dweller, cadaverous as desert. Riddled by an opium haze; cauterizing doubt, instigating weightlessness . . . Gazing at those who lied about him, tapestried in the flickering candlelight. Many of them died the night before, lying perfectly still; others fornicating in lazy turns. Might he get up to join them? And become totally lost. Already he’s forgotten the ways of Kath: dismal capital of holy thoughts that touched the membranes of stars. One thought creeping away, distancing itself from those others . . .

Entering the desert at nightfall. Following the road of Malachim until it fades & is no more – Something the Elders urged against. Touching him with their sallow skin; foreboding stare of leaking sockets & the rancidness of their breath.

- - -

Any road or temple. He wrote the words on the papyrus. Tucked inside his mottled garments, alongside his worn brushes . . . This is the road, writ in concurrent blemishes. A bloody parchment at times, but also golden & true. Even if it leads to that place inhabited by Animals of Darkness.

Head growing heavy in his head, the dweller shifts with the sands. Roads are serpentine, many with poisonous ends . . .

Everywhere is death & contempt – It is easier becoming a ghost or shadow. The Elders, who had stately things to say, could not see the cloud of pestilence hovering above the land. Towering over the gulfs of centuries, imbued by celestial orbits. Settled between God & man, indifferent to the plight of each. Once harboring a mania for attaining godhood, they were now very old men. Alchemical measures taken, prolonging their madness to the brink of extinction.

- - -

The dweller, awakened, could hear terrible cries infiltrating his dream. The opium has worn off so it is like being stabbed – Killers that followed him here, shrouded by a dream’s edge. Cutting limbs from his waxen torso as the fog in his mind worsens.

Awake but not awake; real but not real. Desert of a thousand deliriums, arresting with a fixed eye. Metatron, the faded One – Receiver of transmissions, droning off.

He wrote down: the time is now. Secrets buried long, from before the pride of Tiphareth, revealed in a burst of luster – Dweller that he be, burdened no more. Obliterated becomes the caustic star, one whose influence is grave . . .

Road leads through its ruined shell where kings made dour promises to architects of the world. Heretical infrastructure, grafted on the bones of a sleeping giant. Of which they lost their minds, unannounced & irreversible. Finally , erecting a tower to greet the sky: bane of logic, signaling decadence, swoon of Heaven & Earth.

- - -

Understanding none of it transpired, the dweller continues adhering to its design. Golden outlook amidst the ruins. Faith in belated transmissions. A trail of dead left behind in hovels adjacent to its sacred force. Where terms of oligarchy do not reach & that which, far older, is non-compliant . . . Distanced from the crematorium. All that remains is void: without substance, yet perceptibly dense like matter.

He sees one up ahead, on the path. Strayed from oblivion, it fills the sky. Like a flame, or lapping water, tinted blue & silver. Scrying astral rector whose fane is the desert itself. Snaking over the surface of its cracked bearing. Taking form of a dragon called Syd whose scales crystalize into deadly knives. Peering at the dweller with a thousand eyes, into the heart of his shattered essence. Unclaimed by death or the hollow trap, made to roam with his own poet’s eye.

The beast also gazes into his mind, feasting on its golden memory . . .

The Elders had never come so far. Beyond the Animals of Darkness who coveted the trials of Adam. Rifts between nature & god. The path darkens even as it fills with light. But now he was through all that & there was only light. That’s where the beast coiled, nestling djinn & other desert spirits in its scales. Yet when the sun is risen the vision is gone.

- - -

Writing furiously until empty; trembling, hypostatic, molecular gestalt. The dweller goes in search of a fix when he is done. Reeking of sulphur & blood. Having clawed through night to the door of the Great Pyramid . . . Entering with no exit in mind; seeking in bowels of its hereditary mutation, a chain leading down into the percolating lore . . .

Chaining the beast & dragging it back down. Illumined harvesters, corrosively unsympathetic, replace all signs & seals. Order of the universe moving like a stone over the living apparatus.

In truth it is the only thing that lives. Pumping metals with an undivided aim: to influence the amending or sacrosanct fool. The dweller, who was raised by fools, now dwelt alone. Gathering bits of information for years, carefully ordering them in a series of hieroglyphics. Nothing to gain save the satisfaction of knowing. Dispelling unions with false or greedy servants, who wormed their way to the dragon’s door.

- - -

Lying with the dead until their rot is his own; with blackness in his veins, the dweller goes to sleep. Suspended above the chasm he knows well, awakened to the sound of flapping wings. In the final dream, an ugly realness exacerbates with nullifying clarity: form without form looks back. It seems to say: don’t look, don’t see, don’t come any closer! While the urge to write it down fades . . .

Desert no longer burns – Paths no longer twist as their is only One. Fields of vision merge; a knife bearing down, extracting chromium salts. Time unchecked in the process: as man’s domain, his grinding crepitus, turns to dust. While desert, unmournful, brushes away its worm-like fealty. All but the memory of a ghost; dwelling, djinn-like, in the company of beasts . . . From the far end of the universe, to the convex of Aralim’s Throne. Desert ends & night begins. Time stalls & immortality lingers. A dying dream nonetheless: amaranthine view.

#CCParker #poetry #dark art #occult

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blarrghe · 5 years ago

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A bunch more bands have joined this. Updated list of participating bands under the cut!

A Flock Named Murder - https://aflocknamedmurder.bandcamp.com/

Astral Witch - https://astralwitch.bandcamp.com/

Azath - https://azath.bandcamp.com/

Black Knife - https://blackknife.bandcamp.com/

Blood Star - https://bloodstarslc.bandcamp.com/

By Fire and Sword - https://byfireandsword.bandcamp.com/

Cemetery Filth - http://cemeteryfilth.bandcamp.com/

Cirkeln - https://cirkeln.bandcamp.com/

Citizen Rage - https://citizenragehardcore.bandcamp.com

Concilium - https://concilium.bandcamp.com/Culled - https://culled.bandcamp.com/

Cultist - https://cultistcanada.bandcamp.com/

Destroyed in Seconds - https://destroyedinseconds.bandcamp.com

Emblem - https://emblem709.bandcamp.com/

Tales from the Ezra Brooks cycle - https://ezrabrookscycle.bandcamp.com/ Falsehood - https://falsehood.bandcamp.com/Feminazgûl - https://feminazgul.bandcamp.com/

Fer de Lance - https://ferdelancemetal.bandcamp.com/

Flavortoun - https://flavortoun.bandcamp.com/

Haunt - https://hauntthenation.bandcamp.com/

Häxan - https://haxanto.bandcamp.com/Hitter - https://hitter.bandcamp.com/

Hoove Child Records - https://hoovechildrecords.bandcamp.com

Horrendous - https://horrendous.bandcamp.com/

Horror Vacui - https://horrorvacuilegion.bandcamp.com/

Hyperia - http://hyperiametal.bandcamp.com

The Isosceles Project - https://theisoscelesproject.bandcamp.com/Knightmare - https://knightmarenc.bandcamp.com/

Lady Beast - https://ladybeast.bandcamp.com/

Lightning Born - https://lightningborn.bandcamp.com/

Locust Leaves - https://i-voidhangerrecords.bandcamp.com/…/a-subtler-kind-of-light

MALDITA - https://maldita.bandcamp.com/

Malleus - https://malleusheavymetal.bandcamp.com/

Mandible Klaw - https://mandibleklaw.bandcamp.com/

Megacolossus - https://colossusmetal.bandcamp.com/

Midnight Priest - https://midnightpriest.bandcamp.com

Mount Cyanide - http://mountcyanidemetal.bandcamp.com

Nomadic War Machine - https://nomadicwarmachine.bandcamp.com/

Nucleus - https://nucleus.bandcamp.com/

Oath - https://oath1.bandcamp.com/

Obsequiae - https://listen.20buckspin.com/album/aria-of-vernal-tombs-2

Olórin - https://olorin.bandcamp.com/

Pale Mare - https://palemareband.bandcamp.com/

RAVENSIRE - https://ravensire.bandcamp.com/

Ravenous E.H - https://ravenouseternalhunger.bandcamp.com/

Ripped to Shreds - https://rippedtoshredsdeathmetal.bandcamp.com/

River Jacks - https://riverjacks.bandcamp.com/

Rough Spells - https://roughspells.bandcamp.com/

Sallow Regent - https://sallowregent.bandcamp.com/

Sauvage - https://sauvageqc.bandcamp.com

Septuagint - https://septuagint666.bandcamp.com/

Smoulder - https://smoulder.bandcamp.com/

Spectral Lore - https://spectrallore.bandcamp.com/

SYRYN - https://syryn.bandcamp.com/

Third Chamber - https://thirdchamber.bandcamp.com/

Thorazine - https://thorazine-deathgrind.bandcamp.com/

Thronehammer - https://thronehammer.bandcamp.com/

Throne Of Iron - https://throneofiron.bandcamp.com/

Völur - https://volur.bandcamp.com/

Vulgarite - https://vulgarite.bandcamp.com/

Yovel - https://yovel.bandcamp.com/

Zealotry - https://zealotry.bandcamp.com/

5¢ Freakshow- https://5centfreakshow.bandcamp.com/

Following the murder of George Floyd by a police officer on May 25, protests have erupted across the United States decrying police brutality and decades of institutionalized racism. As an act of solidarity, ‪on Friday, June 5‬, 41 heavy metal and punk bands will be donating proceeds from sales made on Bandcamp to the National Bail Fund Network.

The National Bail Fund Network organizes to end all forms of detention, criminalization, and surveillance. The charity uses community bail funds as organizing tools to free people and push to abolish detention. For more information on bail funds, please visit: https://bit.ly/WhyBailFunds

To get involved, head to the Bandcamp pages below and buy! More importantly, you can donate to the National Bail Fund directly here: https://secure.actblue.com/donate/bailfundscovid

Bands:

Astral Witch - https://astralwitch.bandcamp.com/

Azath - https://azath.bandcamp.com/

By Fire & Sword - https://byfireandsword.bandcamp.com/

Concilium - https://concilium.bandcamp.com/

Culled - https://culled.bandcamp.com/

Cultist - https://cultistcanada.bandcamp.com/

Emblem - https://emblem709.bandcamp.com/

Ezra Brooks - https://ezrabrookscycle.bandcamp.com/

Falsehood - https://falsehood.bandcamp.com/

Feminazgûl - https://feminazgul.bandcamp.com/

Fer de Lance - https://ferdelancemetal.bandcamp.com/

Haunt - https://hauntthenation.bandcamp.com/

Häxan - https://haxanto.bandcamp.com/

Hitter - https://hitter.bandcamp.com/

Hoove Child Records - https://hoovechildrecords.bandcamp.com

HORROR VACUI - https://horrorvacuilegion.bandcamp.com/

The Isosceles Project - https://theisoscelesproject.bandcamp.com/

Lady Beast - https://ladybeast.bandcamp.com/

Lightning Born - https://lightningborn.bandcamp.com/

Locust Leaves - https://i-voidhangerrecords.bandcamp.com/album/a-subtler-kind-of-light

Maldita - https://maldita.bandcamp.com/

Mandible Klaw - https://mandibleklaw.bandcamp.com/

Megacolossus - https://colossusmetal.bandcamp.com/

Nomadic War Machine - https://nomadicwarmachine.bandcamp.com/

Nucleus - https://nucleus.bandcamp.com/

Obsequiae - https://listen.20buckspin.com/album/aria-of-vernal-tombs-2

Olórin - https://olorin.bandcamp.com/

Pale Mare - https://palemareband.bandcamp.com/

Ravensire - https://ravensire.bandcamp.com/

Ravenous - https://ravenouseternalhunger.bandcamp.com/

Ripped to Shreds - https://rippedtoshredsdeathmetal.bandcamp.com/

River Jacks - https://riverjacks.bandcamp.com/

Rough Spells - https://roughspells.bandcamp.com/

Smoulder - https://smoulder.bandcamp.com/

Spectral Lore - https://spectrallore.bandcamp.com/

Third Chamber - https://thirdchamber.bandcamp.com/

Thorazine - https://thorazine-deathgrind.bandcamp.com/

Thronehammer - https://thronehammer-cwr.bandcamp.com/

Throne of Iron - https://throneofiron.bandcamp.com/

Völur - https://volur.bandcamp.com/

Vulgarite - https://vulgarite.bandcamp.com/

Zealotry - https://zealotry.bandcamp.com/

#metal #blm #black lives matter #important

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setaripendragon · 8 years ago

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One Grain of Sand

So, a friend made me watch Doctor Strange recently, and it blew my mind. I wasn’t expecting it to be that good, but it was amazing. I rewatched it yesterday, and then this happened. A little post-movie scene between Strange and the Ancient One. (So beware SPOILERS if you haven’t seen the movie yet.) This is absolutely my headcanon, and I’m sticking to it.

If there was one thing in the whole world that Dr Stephen Strange had discovered was more complicated and fiddly than brain surgery, it was brain surgery via magic. Okay, so there was no real need for him to be trying to figure out just the right application of dimensional energy to the pathways in the brain to stimulate cell regeneration without breaking the natural laws, but it was his pet project. Something to work on in the momentary lulls between extra-dimensional threats.

His study at the New York Sanctum was quiet, filled only with the sounds of his own breathing and the faint rustling of the Cloak of Levitation hanging in the corner. He had books stacked up around him, some of them propped open, others discarded in piles, but the central part of his desk was clear, to make space for the complex spellwork he was trying to weave. Not to activate, but just to see if the concepts would hold together, or if the spell would collapse outright on him.

“Really, Strange, you should know better than to try and combine opposing hexagrams.”

Stephen would forever deny that the sound that escaped him was more like a shriek than anything else. It was not high-pitched and terrified squeal, more like an… alarmed but very dignified yell. A strong, if vaguely startled, kiai.

Confusion and questions flitted across his mind like agitated butterflies, swiftly followed by the only rational explanation that occurred to him. I must be hearing things. He had to be, because the owner of that voice – that sorely missed voice – was dead.

He turned to look over his shoulder, just to make sure. He was hearing things. Grief – and possibly some wires rattled loose by his time-loop trick – was warping his perception of reality, and there was no one behind him, never mind the Ancient One.

The Ancient One was standing behind him.

Well, no, Stephen realised. She wasn’t standing, she was floating, about a foot off the floor. She was also transparent. Transparent, and smiling at him. Smiling in that way that had been so severely annoying when she was alive, and so easy to miss once she was dead. The smile that said ‘I am laughing at you, I’m just enjoying this too much to do it out loud.’

Stephen cleared his throat. “Ancient One?”

“Hello, Dr Strange.” The apparition – the hallucination, she had to be – said warmly.

“You’re dead.” Stephen informed her. It occurred to him a moment later that that was a very unhelpful thing to say, but he decided to cut himself some slack, given that he was talking to the ghost – overactive figment of his imagination – of his deceased teacher.

The figment of his imagination tilted her head, as though she was considering that inane statement quite carefully. “In a manner of speaking.” She agreed eventually.

That was not what Stephen had been expecting to hear. “Only in a manner of speaking?” He echoed incredulously.

“Well,” the Ancient One began, looking quite sanguine about the subject, despite that subject being her death, “I don’t feel particularly dead, but I don’t seem to be very alive, either. Is a thing truly alive if it can’t die?”

Stephen just stared at her. She stared back, smiling faintly again in that annoying way she had, waiting patiently for his slow, constrained-by-modern-paradigms mind to catch up and process and come up with an answer that wasn’t trite and ignorant, and appearing very amused by watching him struggle. “Great.” Stephen sighed, running a hand over his face. “A figment of my imagination is asking me existential questions at… two o’clock in the morning. I need to get more sleep.”

That seemed to stall the Ancient One for a few moments, and she blinked at him in surprise. It felt… weirdly satisfying, if Stephen was being honest with himself, catching even his own projected version of her off guard. Then she laughed softly, and smiled at him with genuine fondness. “I’m flattered you missed me that much, Stephen.” She told him.

Well, that was… that was just not fair. He needed to deflect before this conversation – with a piece of his own mind – got any further into the terrifying territory of feelings. “Still seeing right through me?” He asked awkwardly.

“You are a bit transparent.” The Ancient One agreed lightly.

Stephen opened his mouth, stopped, and squinted at her. She grinned at him, bright and cheeky. “Was your sense of humour always this terrible, or is my poor deluded mind making that up?” He wondered, and then got caught on the inanity of asking a fragment of his poor deluded mind that question. There was no way to get an answer that clarified anything.

“If you really doubt the answer to that question, I suggest you think back to our first meeting, Stephen.” The Ancient One answered, her voice shaking slightly with restrained mirth.

Of course, right when Stephen thought something was impossible, she had to go and prove him wrong, didn’t she? He shook his head, a reluctant smile threatening to spread across his face. Then it dawned on him, what he’d just thought, and the implications of it. He blinked, smile falling away as he studied the Ancient One more closely.

At first, he’d thought she looked just as he remembered her, ageless and serene, her yellow robes flowing in an unfelt breeze. But when he looked closer, he could see that, despite the lightness of her demeanour and the steadfast calm in her gaze, there were stress-lines around her eyes that he never recalled her having in life, and while she had always been pale, now she looked sallow and drained. It was hard to tell, given that she was translucent, and the dark of the window behind her coloured her, but Stephen was sure she had never been quite that pallid. And then his eyes caught on the most damning detail. Right in the centre of her forehead, square between her eyes, the red lines of the mark of the dark dimension blazed against her flesh like poison. It was more visible than he’d ever seen it on her before, and the lines extended out, fading into veins that crawled across her pale skin.

Right when he thought something was impossible…

“You’re… not just a hallucination, are you?” He asked slowly.

The Ancient One looked, just for a moment, so tired. Then she smiled again, wry and a little self-deprecating, and the moment was gone. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what are you?” Stephen demanded, turning fully to face her and standing to put them more at a level. She was hovering a little above him, but it made him feel better to be on his feet to confront this, whatever it turned out to be. “A ghost?”

“I suppose that’s as good a descriptor as any.” The Ancient One replied.

“No.” Stephen huffed impatiently. “No, that is not an answer. What- How?!” He pressed. He wanted to grab her and shake her, but he knew well enough that it would be a futile attempt. Whatever she was, she was clearly more astral than physical right then, so attempting to grab her physically would only serve to embarrass him.

“A better question,” the Ancient One acknowledged, tipping her head to one side in a quasi-nod, “with a much more complicated answer.” She sighed, her shoulders bowing like he never remembered them doing in life. It was disturbing to see, on a strangely fundamental level.

“I can handle complicated.” Stephen gritted out.

“Yes, you can.” The Ancient One agreed, smile returning.

Stephen waited to see if anything more was forthcoming, but the Ancient One looked lost in thought, her eyes focused somewhere on the middle distance, her smile turning vague as her mind wandered. “It’s got something to do with Dormammu, doesn’t it?” He prompted, when the silence stretched too long for him to bear.

It earned him another sigh. “Yes.” She confirmed. “I took from his dimension, to prolong my life in order to watch over our world and protect it where I could, and now I have a very large debt to pay.” She explained with a wry twist to her lips that was almost a grimace.

“The bill always comes due.” Stephen muttered, grim and darkly amused. The Ancient One blinked at him, looking pleased and surprised, and Stephen shrugged in answer. “Something Mordo said, about breaking the natural laws.”

“Ah, yes. It does sound like him.” The Ancient One agreed, her smile growing and then dimming as worry filtered into her gaze. “How is he?”

Stephen sighed, and her worry turned to resignation. “I don’t know.” He admitted frankly. “He left.”

“I see.” The Ancient One murmured, bowing her head and closing her eyes. Stephen couldn’t tell if it was regret or worry that weighed on her, but he didn’t much like adding to whatever stress she was clearly under.

After giving her a moment, Stephen cleared his throat. “I still have questions.” He told her, trying to convey with just a look that she was not getting away with leaving him this confused. He wanted answers, not cryptic riddles and metaphysical philosophising. “How are you here, if you’re meant to be… paying back your debt? Whatever that means. What does that mean?”

The Ancient One huffed a small snort of laughter, but it was a tired sound. “Have you ever wondered what it might be like to be a desert?” She asked him. Stephen rolled his eyes, and the Ancient One raised an eyebrow at him, pointed and on the verge of patronising, so he relented.

“No.”

“Imagine the breadth of it, stretching out to from horizon to horizon; the heat of the day and the chill of the night your only way of assessing your relativity to the rest of the world; the slow, flowing shifts of the dunes as the wind scours, relentless, across the surface.” The Ancient One mused, her voice slow and melodic enough to be almost hypnotising. Stephen, well used to her bizarre teaching methods, tried to imagine it. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. “Now imagine that you can feel every last grain of sand, each individual tiny presence that is you, and the entire scope of your being is so far beyond those tiny parts that the whole of you is incomprehensible.”

Stephen blinked his eyes open without knowing when he’d closed them, feeling a muted sort of horror crawling up the back of his throat. The Ancient One met his gaze, and offered him a smile that was just as wan and pale as the rest of her. “What-?” Stephen asked, not sure how he was going to finish the question, but needing to say something to push back against the weight of her words.

“That is what it’s like, being a part of the dark dimension.” She told him, her tone perfectly matter-of-fact and her expression drained but steady. It cracked a moment later, showing the strain, the bitter ache. “Endlessly.”

Stephen swallowed hard. “Hope Kaecilius is having fun with that.” He managed to get out.

“The entity that was once Kaecilius barely exists anymore.” The Ancient One told him, and though her words were heavy, his dark joke did seem to have put a little more strength in her spine.

The thing was that Stephen was not an idiot. He was, in fact, very, very clever. And he might have been slow to start learning the mystic arts, but once he got going, he was a quick study. “If Kaecilius barely exists anymore, in a state that is definable as Kaecilius, how are you… well, you?” He asked, a touch warily. Because if the dark dimension had turned Kaecilius into something that was barely recognisable, then the fact that an astral projection of the Ancient One could appear before him so identifiably herself, even if the mark on her forehead was brighter than he’d ever seen it before, was questionable.

“I have been fighting the dark dimension’s hold over me for more than six hundred years, Stephen. It may have a greater advantage now that I have no physical form to cling to, but a few months is not enough to wear me down.” The Ancient One stated. Stephen couldn’t help but smile. He had really missed her ability to take such devastating odds, such an important fight, and face it with steadfast serenity. She didn’t fear, and she didn’t rage. She simply drew a line in the sand, planted herself there, and refused to be moved.

“Gathering the strength to project myself back into this dimension took time.” She went on, easy and matter-of-fact, as if she wasn’t talking about preserving her identity among an all-consuming universe hell bent on absorbing her into ‘the one’. “And it’s quite draining. I won’t be able to visit often, but I will check on you, when I can.”

Stephen had to roll his eyes at that. “I’m not incompetent.” He protested.

“No, you are not.” The Ancient One agreed, and Stephen found he didn’t know what to say in the face of her simple, honest praise. “I am looking forward to seeing how you grow.” She went on, and Stephen was horrified to feel himself abruptly on the verge of tears.

He took a moment to get himself under control, and then found that words weren’t that hard to come by, after all. “I’ll do my best.”

The Ancient One smiled at him, proud and pleased. Then her expression shifted, so subtly that Stephen almost missed the wicked gleam in her eyes. “Your best is certainly better than mixing your hexagrams.” She informed him, nodding towards his desk. Stephen glanced over his shoulder and groaned when he realised they were back to critiquing his spellwork.

#Doctor Strange #Stephen Strange #Ancient One #MCU #Avengers #(sort of?)#I have no idea how to tag this #student teacher relationship #(I mean that literally)#grief and loss #(that makes it sound much darker than it is)#not really dead #(except she kinda is)#ghosts #transdimensional astral projection #(because she's a badass that way)#existential philosophising

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