#birth of tradegy

[thedarkestrivernymph]

A Heart Of Gold pt.2

Y! Noble Child Nicholas x Mother! Maid! Reader x Y! Maid Maria x Y! Baron Charles

word count: roughly 10k

warnings: heavy angst, mentions of abuse (both physical and verbal), mentions of death, murder, violence, gore, blood, yandere tendencies/behaviour, weird relationship dynamics, anger issues, morally gray reader, child loss, mentions of alcohol addiction, domestic violence, breakdowns, morally grey yanderes, creepy behaviour, generational trauma, religious themes, reader in this is christian, cursing, not accurate depictions of history!

©Copyright - 2025 - thedarkestrivernymph - All Rights Reserved

Author's note: Phew, this turned out a very different than the initial idea I had. haha Still, hope you enjoy it!

“God, let me repent in your name. Allow me to witness the beauty and grace of nature, to cry and scream and know of my faults and erase them in your name. Let me love my neighbours, like you loved me. I will do only good, I promise, just grant me my new golden heart. Please, I beg you, free me.”

The seasons shifted again.

They morphed into the other, faster than you could blink, quicker than you could run after them and plead to stay, swift and merciless.

Death was the same.

Breathing in ice particles for air, snow crunching under the weight of your boots, you made your way down-hill. The sun hadn't come out yet, not that she really planned to anyways in the middle of winter—but the villagers were hopeful, at least tried to be. But you weren't. You knew frost had crusted the earth and left only destruction in its wake. The others were simply to optimistic. A bunch of idiots really, thinking this winter could be different, that the nobles would care about you, at least somewhat more, after the new baron had taken over the lands.

A new head only meant one thing; trouble and higher pay. The already scarce crops which were salvaged would only serve to fill his pockets. If you commoners were mindless worker ants, then the nobility sure enough were bloodsucking mosquitos draining you all until nothing but dust remained of your crumbling bones.

Perhaps you wouldn't have had to worry about any of this—not about your frozen solid fingertips from the worn-down knitted gloves nor about the burning in the bottom of your stomach from the lack of anything edible, if you just had not married him.

At first he had seemed promising, a nice clean face, good salary, stern tone—he had been a baker for god's sake, what could go wrong!

Oh how naive you had been.

Before you knew, heavily pregnant with your second, his bakery was in ruins, all the customers avoiding his bakery specifically like the plague. At first you were confused—he was a good baker and kept everything neat. Then he came drunk the first time. Reeking of cheep booze, he completely blacked out on your shared martial bed—which at that time at least had possessed a bedframe. You were furious with him, after all you were an only child and your parents had carefully picked him out, because of his financial status and now here he was wasting his money on alcohol while his baby was growing in your womb.

You couldn't break free from him, even after the birth of his second child, even after the tradegy of your first. Your wings were clipped—you were married, you had duties, responsibilities, children. Running away would only bring pain and shame upon you and your whole family. You didn't even want to imagine what the villagers would do to you if they found you after fleeing. All the blame would be placed on you—you the cruel mother, the miserable daughter, the horrible wife. Much rather, you would pluck your own hair than experience any of such shaming.

But death was a constant threat. And one that terrified you at that. After having closed down his bakery, you had been forced into work, anything you could find, really, anything that paid. Yet even that seemed to have not been enough for the monster your husband unraveled to be—because soon enough his explosive episodes started. He would roar and cry, stagger from wall to wall in your shared home, pant like a beast as he hunted after you, just to reach for your hair, clutching it as if he wanted to rip it out for you, before—

You hissed, digging your blunt nails into your scarf, this was in the past, he no longer could terrify you so. Keeping your gaze on the road on the pearly white snow reaching up to your knees you remembered to breathe, to calm down. You needed a crystal clear head for the interview.

No matter how much you wanted to melt away like the snow under the sun’s rays—which never seemed to grace you—you couldn't. Your life meant something to others, if you weren't there anymore, if you would actually choose to travel with the wind and disappear, then you would allow that man victory. But you just could not after having managed to slip through his grasp and land an opportunity at a new life.

So you walked, pushed through, even as you grimaced from the odd sensation of needles pricking your toes—your shoes not suitable for the weather, because nothing would stop you from at least trying for a better life. A life without him.

The estate was huge.

And admittedly, you were frazzled on how you managed to even land this job in the first place. If it weren't for Aunt Jane, you probably would've never even laid eyes on something so majestic, dressed in soft brown, winged windows and with elaborate woodwork and sculptures; it was a mix of everything you could only ever hear tales about.

Not that you minded, you did resent the nobility and the royals with all their spendings as if they didn't bleed you and the others dry on a daily to finance their overindulgence that was slowly leading the empire to ruin. Or at least you imagined it to be so.

Nevertheless grandmother surely would've scolded you for being so cynical. The only other person besides your aunt that you had known to be humane and she was six feet under your childhood home’s apple tree.

You sighed, shaking your head. This wasn't the time to be sentimental. She was dead, for years now. And you had moved on, like everyone did. So brushing over your skirt for the last time, you stepped even closer to the gate. God, even the gate was twirly and whimsical; something one could only achieve through the hands of a master with years of experience—or so you imagined, you had no clue actually.

“You—you the new maid?” you flinched, eyes darting to meet the eyes of a gruff man, armor covering him.

You nodded, eyes fixed on his face—really the only feature bare to the sight of others, which did make you wonder if he wasn’t cold with nothing protecting his nose or throat. Bennet, your little boy, if he had stood here instead of him, he surely would’ve caught a cold by now.

“Come. I ain’t got all day woman.” the stranger’s voice was as harsh as sandpaper, which did make you wonder if they provided him with meals or water at all. Odd. Weren’t soldiers—also guards usually the most well-taken care of? But also what did you know, really.

So scurrying, with a soft sigh and enlarged eyes you stepped past him and immediately you felt so out of place.

Carrying scars of a past similar to that of a lot of commoner’s yet pushing through a gate meant only for the elite—it felt wrong, illegal even, as if you were committing a crime. You looked over your shoulder hastily, suddenly overcome with trepidation, with the image of being tackled and shackled by the very guard who let you in. What if he had mistaken you, accused you of trespassing, what if your aunt had messed things up and your children would be left motherless and—

“Just follow the cobblestones, then turn left.” he grumbled, and you calmed again. Seems he got lazy with you, sensing you were not a threat—see, you didn’t need to worry. You weren’t a criminal, like some others commoners vying for the riches the wealthy withheld, you were just here for a job you desperately needed, no one had ever been thrown into prison for this, right? At least you hoped so.

The freshly fallen snow crunched under your shoes again, the same ones you always wore—with a big hole under the left heel. If you had more of what others had, such as the lord (even if you still resented the aristocracy) you hopefully would be working for, then you wouldn’t have to worry about this, in fact then you wouldn’t need any of this—no begging, no pleading, no kneeling. You would be independent, no need to rely on your fool for a husband, you could just cut him out of your life, or cut him off. Shivering at the thought you pulled your scarf much tighter, clenching your hands around eachother.

Little did you know that all of this was the starting point for a life of sin your soul had sworn to repent from.

The interview had went well—as well as it could for your circumstances that is. They wanted you to live here, in the servant's quarters, and nothing you did could change the old woman's mind. That meant leaving your child in the hands of your Aunt Jane.

You loved your Aunt, she was truly a saint—albeit overly strict at times and very ignorant, but she was old, too old for your liking and could never emate the same warmth your grandmother had. Sometimes, in rare cases such as these, you did wish your own grandmother would crawl out of her grave and fix everything for you—like how she used to when you were a child, brewing you tea from pines during the cold winter months while telling you tales of all kinds. You wished that she now would stand in front of you, promising you that everything you were doing would benefit your darling and that he could truly flourish and live a life he deserved.

Because your sole reason in life was your child—your little pearl with his red runny nose, sniffling with each spoon-fed of his soup. You just craved to abandon all the shadows of the past.

Yet life wasn’t gentle with you neither then nor now—God seemed to really not favour you as one of its pawns, because why else would you be assigned to take care of the most bratty child you had ever met?

“Water.” the new heir, to pratically everything, snapped, voice smoother and deeper, not betraying his juvenile features and his childish antics you had learned and grown accustomed to in the few weeks you had been working here.

Swiftly, you poured him a cup of water, handing it to him with a somewhat strained smile. It was a warmer day than usual, which was why the window of his study was left wide open—and your teeth made to chatter the whole time you tried to serve and appease him.

Only, it seemed, that nothing could appease the brown-haired young man this morning, because in the blink of an eyes a glass shattered next to your head, making you jump up in surprise. Suddenly your pulse was pounding in your ears and for a moment you were back in that small hut again next to the river, with the face of your husband red from anger and the shattered bottle laying at your feet like the pieces of your broken heart, as your baby was crying. Why was he crying? Unconsolable and—

“Are you trying to poison me?” you snapped out of it as he spat out the words. Swallowing you tried to come up with an excuse, something to calm the storm in him.

“Master Nicholas of course I wasn’t—”

“Then serve me water instead of lukewarm piss!”

Silence.

Your face fell—you weren’t sure if it was due to exhaustion or just having to endure his childishness or it was the possibility that if he continued to complain about every single thing you did, you would lose your job. And you couldn’t have that, no matter how much you resented him for being as explosive as the man who's name you refused to utter, he was an aristocrat and not him.

So sighing, collecting the remains of yourself, you did what you always had done when your own mother used to have meltdowns due to delirium in her old age—gift her with love she didn't deserve but this time it was directed to a (man)child who you at least assumed to deserve it—because a mother's love was something sacred.

You hugged him.

It wasn't really a conscious decision per se, you had just wanted to show him some love; but to pull him into your embrace—you hadn't thought that you actually would dare to; not just out of courage but be able to stomach touching one of the upper class, who most definitely thought commoners and even servants were on the same level as pigs; stupid and dirty, probably carrying some time of diseases.

That's why you had dreadfully expected him to push you away, to scream to cry out in revulsion, perhaps even raise his hand against you; he was allowed to after all—yet nothing.

He froze instead.

“Maid—” he didn't even know your name, didn’t need to. You were just a fly; someone he could swat away with the back of his hand and no one would bat an eye. And you had the audacity to hug him, you, how dare you, you vile, little, tiny ant. His hands raised, clenching into fists, teeth grinding together in absoloute annoyance and yet he couldn't find it in himself to push you away.

Your arms, your beating heart; something about you was human. Oddly human. Much more human than he ever could be. And then your scent engulfed him. Moss and wet—like the open fields. Warm and motherly—like her.

He failed to take notice of you pulling away. His gaze was glossy, something was pinching his chest and he was disturbed. It hurt. Your touch itself and also the absence of your touch was agonizing.

“I apologize, I overstepped.” anxiety rung in your tone, lips pressed into a thin line. He knew that look, the fear of losing something precious—the fear of having ruined another banquet because he had smashed a teacup to the ground. And the fear he felt now, as you slipped back to being a remote figure; a background character, you wanted to fade away from between his fingers like sand, disappear in the billions of your kind when he had finally sighted something of his liking.

“I—” he cleared his throat, scowl moving back into place—the noble façade returning after the too often happening slip-ups. “I will excuse you this once.”

Yet no matter how much he tried to hide it, you took notice of the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, but you didn’t give it much thought, much more relived to be allowed to continue working here.

If only you had suspected something— if only you had known what you had awakened in Nicholas on that fateful day.

You met the lord of the house some time after.

It was an accident really, you hadn't even meant to be on the staircase at such a dubious hour—it all had been just for Nicholas; he requested you to bring him warm soup and bread after refusing to eat dinner with his aunt, for reasons that made your chest ache and tighten in guilt.

Still you froze, clutching the tray in your sweaty palms, hoping and praying that he wouldn't demand of you to know who you were rushing the tray to—you were beyond exhausted, just having returned from the village; travelling by foot took up time and patience and it only broke your heart every single time to leave your baby behind in the hands of someone else; especially in the hands of a woman as old as Aunt Jane was. You were guilty of being a bad mom, you knew as much, but Bennett was so easily frightened and you weren’t allowed to take him in and—

“Are you new?”

You froze.

Just having passed by him, in hopes he wouldn't take notice of you, you truly had believed he would just let you slip by. At least you had wished he would. You didn't want to converse with another soul, especially not a man with a voice similary deep to that of your deadbeat husband's.

Still you had to say something. You couldn't just flitter away.

So you opened up your mouth.

“Yes, your lordship.” you recited the title you had been taught.

“Who hired you? I have never seen you before.” his tone was demanding, clipped and stern, but there was a soft edge to it, that made you take a peek back over your shoulder, only to startle at the sight. He was standing a few stairs below you, stoic as a statue and with a face hidden by the shadows of the night, the castle only dim-light by the tea-lamp in his grasp held too far away from his features to make anything out—except the penetrating stare you could feel slicing through you; judging and scrutinizing you.

Calm down, you're not a criminal. You're just doing your job.

You turned around, bowing your head and glancing away—somehow showcasing submission felt the right thing to do.

“The head maid, your lordship.”

“Ah.” you could hear some tension slip. “Good.” he probably nodded and you assumed he was finished with his questions until you heard him clear his throat, stepping closer.

“Do you work in the kitchen?” he took another step up, until you both stood on the same step.

“No, your lordship, I serve the young lord.” you answered while feeling his breath blow at your forehead—was it just you or was he standing too close?

“I see.” again with the stern yet awkward answer, as if he himself wasn't sure what more to ask—as it already was obvious that you weren't a robber nor a thief, just a servant working dutifully as he expected of them.

Yet there was something about you, a certain something emanating from you that just made him—

Time seemed to stand still and he with it after he leaned forward, nose so close to your crown it nearly bumped into it.

Sniff.

Was he—was he sniffing you?

You face immediately morphed into abject horror, worried that you stunk, you had been travelling all day and that mostly by foot. You gritted your teeth, cheeks flush with colour, ashamed; not having considered the possibility of sweat sticking to you like a foul-smelling perfume.

“Unbelievable.” he murmured, mumbling more to himself than you really. You could see his right hand, the one without the lamp, twitch as if he was tempted to reach out to you.

“You smell exactly like—” he cut himself off, and his features morphed into something unreadable as you stole a few glances at his face.

And before anything else could unfold he was gone, having sprinted down the stairs to god-knows where, having left you puzzled and confused by his reaction. Finally continuing to climb up the stairs you started to conclude that the entire nobility had to be weird people that were oddly obsessed with smell.

Life slowly but surely took some shape—as some sort of routine settled.

Even with how often you were stuck between work as a maid and being a mother, pendling between the manor and the village as often as you were allowed to, you still somehow felt more put together than before. As if each piece of you was slowly glued back together; as if God slowly saw you too and each of your prayers, one by one, would slowly be answered by him. And all came with the arrival of Spring; endless hope bloomed in your chest for a better world—for a less burdened life.

Yet your momentary happiness was ripped away again, replaced by somberness because what the fuck, god?

What was, she doing here?

Your childhood nemesis, as childish as it sounded—the girl who was always smarter, prettier, better than you, so much so that your mom couldn't shut up about it; Maria.

“(Y/n)!” she chirped, voice like nails against a chalkboard.

She repeated your name again—chanted it like a prayer that would be whispered under one's breath in sermons on sunday mornings. Only hers sounded like she was trying to summon something evil that would split the word apart—or at least your head, because it was buzzing in pain from her nagging tone.

“For God's sake Maria! What is it?” you clutched the edge of the kitchen table, huffing in exasperation, having just spent the last five minutes listening to her call your name while you were busy preparing the Master's dinner. A vein was surely about to pop out of your forehead, because this woman just giggled in response and painfully stupid at that.

“What’s with the sour face?” she chuckled, resting her cheek on her palm, black streaks of hair falling over her shoulders because she—like everyone else besides you and the lord's son—was already ready for bed.

“I am trying to haste! And you're chatting my ear off again—.” you quiped, gaze narrowing at her like you usually did when you were disapproving of something—hoping you managed to look as intimidating as your grandma did back then when she had caught you with your entire fist in the jar of strawberry jam. “Besides, why are you still up? You should be off to bed, shift starts early as always.” hopefully she would take the hint and leave.

Instead, she laughed.

Of course she would. Like she laughed when she stole your favourite red ribbon when you both were eight.

“You’re still up and I don't see anyone scolding you for it. So why is it wrong when I do it?” she snickered, truly the bane of your existence, especially because she slipped off of the chair, in her nightgown—shamelessly; she was not worrying about one of the others, let alone the lord, seeing her like this. Actually, scratch that, she probably wanted him to see her like this.

“Come on, you're so tired all the time, I thought I would offer you some of my company.” she drew closer, until her breath rung loudly in your ear, and her piercing blues for eyes slithered over you like a serpent’s tail.

“Laughing keeps young. You should laugh more.” she observed and it almost felt like a threat— she wanted you to react, to show visibly whatever it is that she managed to evoke in you.

You recoiled from the proximity, almost spooked by the sudden closeness. If it weren't for the wooden crucifix dangling from your neck, you almost would've feared that she was a demoness with those piercing eyes of hers. But even if she wasn't, her eyes still betrayed evil buried so deep in her core that you could only shudder and the snappy words you usually would retort with died on your tongue. She always had been weird, but it somehow was only more unsettling seeing her act the same way as a grown woman.

“I—I really should haste.” you were quick to pick up the tray you had finished preparing and even quicker to leave, without looking back at her even once.

Well, perhaps it had been for the better, because if you had looked back you would have seen the wet muscle of her mouth flicking out of its enclosure to lick over where you just touched on the counter.

You, the girl who's ribbons she had stolen, who's knitted scarf she would inhale when you weren't looking—just another kid from the neighbourhood but you were so much more than that, so much more to her. You the woman who clung so pathetically to religion, hiding behind it, when you both knew about the kiss at nine. Only you seemed to have forgotten—but she hadn’t.

Often times dealing with the young lord was bone-scraping work. Hard, exhausting, as if you were plucking weeds from the crops instead of following him like a shadow.

Somehow at some point, you had migrated from being just a maid to being only his personal maid, aiding him with everything. Truly puzzling, yet somehow endearing—because maybe you were too prideful and cocky, but you liked to imagine your own little Bennett growing into such a fine young man as Master Nicholas (only appearance-wise). He was lean, tall with a fair face and soft brown curls that were reminiscent of your own child’s wild locks (even if it was the one feature his father had passed down, you still found it endearing).

But truth be told, maybe that's why you were so inclined to serve Master Nicholas with more softness than you usually would—not just out of fear and respect of the wealthy, not because the thought of losing this job would send you spiraling into a meltdown.

“Maid” his voice was startling, as usual. Maybe it was because it did not match his youthful face or maybe he would bark at you like a dog to command you around.

“Yes, Master Nicholas.” you addressed him, staying put on your spot next to the window overlooking the estate—the snow had melted by now. You wondered if Aunt Jane would allow him to play in the snow before it completely faded. Bennett would surely be upset if he had to wait a whole year to feel the ‘potato milk’ he had called it as a two-year old. The term still made you crack a smile even now.

“What are you looking at?” he startled you again; you hadn't notice him getting up to his feet and dragging himself closer to you—steps heavy against the creaking floorboard of his study. “You seem so—” he continued only to quiet down and come to stand an arm length away from you.

You glanced at him, waiting patiently for him to finish—even when all you craved to do was think about your little baby. But even as you gave him all the time he needed, the end of his sentence never came, instead he huffed and leaned against the wall joining you in on your habit of looking out the window with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

His eyes darted over the landscape—noticing the returning of the splendor of birds in the garden.

“Ugly birds.” he spat, “they're thieves.” he was glaring down at the magpie’s dancing around in the garden, flying from branch to branch and picking at the grass.

Your eyes flicked to him, then they averted back down. “At least they're free.” your muttered and your finger instinctively touched your ring finger—it was a simple band of metal, something cheap but something so binding it felt suffocating, as if you dared to pull it off of your finger you would be cursed, even if you hated the burden marriage laid on your shoulders.

“Free?” he looked over at you—really looked at you, scanning you from head to toe, then scoffed. “So you aren't free, maid?” he still hadn't bothered to learn your name, perhaps never would, but his eyes belied real softness underneath his constructed politeness.

“I thought father was more lenient with you servants.” he furrowed his brows, green eyes a shade darker—growing upset at the lord.

“No, Master Nicholas!” you quickly cut in, not wanting to cause dispute between father and son, startled that he was even able to make our your senseless mumbling.

“His lordship is a fair in his handling with us servants. You needn’t to worry.” you claimed surprising even yourself—but to some extent it was true. You never thought you would side with a noble, but here you were defending the lord’s honour; because truth be told he geninuely didn’t seem like a bad man, but he seemed like a strange man.

“Are you certain?” he blurted, insisting oddly enough. How atypical of him when he was usually apathic to everything not concerning him.

“Yes, Master Nicholas.” you nodded, a strained smile on your face, when you only could smile at Bennett earnestly with a clear conscious—and without betraying god. Still some things had to be done. It gets the job done. You could recall your grandmother saying each time before she whipped out the same old rag to clean the floors, that was barely on; only throughdreams and prayers alone. So yes, it wasn’t truthful, but it got the job done.

So stillness took over you both again and you truly believed he wouldn’t initate a conversation with you again.

“Call me Nicholas.” it seems you were wrong.

“Master Nicholas I can't—” your eyes had grown wide.

“Call me by my name.” he demanded again, his narrowed.

You swallowed thickly. This was definitely crossing some sort of boundaries—nobility and commoner's shouldn't mix, shouldn't be too familiar you both knew that, yet he still asked of you the impossible, insisting even. But seeing his softened gaze—the longing and craving for affection, the same way Bennett would look at you whenever you had to part from him—begging you to stay with him, you couldn’t let a word of protest slip from your tight throat. Your heart felt scorching hot in your chest and your tongue heavy as lead. God, please don’t let me lose this job.

“Nicholas.” you let his name slip—it felt odd, it was bare without the title.

He didn't say anything anymore after. And you would've assumed it was because of indifference if it wasn't for the cocky smile that spread across his lips.

Oh, if you just had known that he didn't just feel satisfied at the little trick that he played on you—that actually his heart beat a drum faster when you called him that. That he felt little shocks of electricity zap at his skin and run down his spine.

You just had confirmed it,

—that you were like her, his deceased mother, but so much better. You were like the mother he had always wanted, the one that was quiet, loving and nurturing, who was there for him, showed emotion, behaved like a human rather than someone with a stick up their ass. You may have smelled like her, like the open fields and woods she so loved more than anything else, including him, but you weren’t her and for that he was forever grateful, because—

you were beneath him.

You would have to do whatever he wanted. Whether it was accompanying him, bringing him dinner, calming him down from one of his meltdowns or sleeping together with him in his bed like he always wanted his mother to do.

He could keep you here with him.

For him you were just another dog on a leash anyways.

A week had passed by now, and you had grown accustomed to calling him by his first name, albeit only in private, for obvious reasons that is.

Only it seemed that his father still caught wind of it, because why else would the lord of the house specifically request you into his study, a frown on his face, his scrutinizing dark brown gaze travelling over your form.

“So,” he cleared his throat and you were screaming internally—you couldn't lose this position, you needed it, desperately so, your child need it. You couldn't start from zero again, being a servant for a noble paid better than most other jobs and even provided you with the meals and the housing—the Baron couldn’t just throw you out because of the request his child had made! At least you hoped he wouldn’t.

“—I heard my son favours you.” he blurted out, his words felt like a good lashing with a belt that made you want to recoil.

“I wouldn't know, your lordship.” you were quick to answer, hot in the face, blunt nails digging into your palms, hoping, praying, pleading with God that he wouldn't throw you out. That he was as nice as you thought he was; that he would continue to prove you wrong about the secret evil of the wealthy.

He paused, looked at you and the longer the silence between you stretched on the more you felt stifled by the threat looming over you like a shadow you couldn't shake off.

You couldn’t stand it anymore, so you spoke up.

“Please I—”

“Your presence is doing him good.” his voice cut yours down and you lowered your head, heart beating against your ribcage rapidly, he was going to— Wait.

What?

“Your lordship? Pardon?” you blinked. It seems that the years spend on this earth hadn’t made you much wiser because you were baffled by his comment.

He sighed, ascending from his seat to step in front of his desk. Clad in his usual sade suit crossed his arms over his chest and let his eyes were stray from your figure.

“I want you to continue as you are. You know, his mother passed away when he was young and it has,” he paused, “affected him since.” he finished putting emphasis on the last words while leaving out that affected meant Nicholas’ emotions being all over the place; so much so that one moment he could be calm and the next he would trash his entire study. But you didn't blame the lord for not elaborating, admitting such a thing was probably ashaming.

“I understand, your lordship.” you replied, heart heavy now for another reason as the fear faded—every child deserved a mother. Your own hadn't been the one for you, emotionally neglecting you, yet your grandmother had. So you sympathised with him; perhaps nannies had tried to fill the void, but they never quiet could've, not like a mother could at least. Maybe that’s why a part of you had been searching for something more—maybe that’s why a piece of you had been missing until Bennett was born.

“I will be there for him.” you replied. No matter how insufferable you had assumed the upper class to be— and truth be told they were — there were still human, as you, nothing but your worth differentiated you from them. They were just born better; richer, with more possibilities at hand, but Nicholas' life of hardship proved to you that even born with a golden spoon in one’s mouth, one’s soul could harbour hunger.

And somehow this made you feel closer to him. Initially you had feared him because he had reminded you of your dreaded husband you had fled from, but slowly you realized that he was like you in a sense; of your childhood self. His gaze would often mimic Bennett’s disappointment everytime you had to leave. In a way, you felt relieved at the lord’s encouragment, seen and acknowledged but to also supported to offer a fraction of your love to Nicholas too.

A smile stretched across your lips—not a fake one this time.

“That’s—”he exhaled, slumping sideways ever so slighty, with gentle curls slicked back, “that’s good to hear, (Y/n).”

You let your smile widen and eyes soften. His visible relief felt rewarding and his words bordering on praise were flustering. Everything about the lord was stern but gentle, a walking contradiction some might say, but somehow it just made sense for him to be this way—a baron, a lord to his people and servants reigning over his land with a firm hand yet a loving father, tender in the way he would speak about his heir’s battered soul. He would’ve been a man grandmother would’ve liked.

As the words died down on the both of your tongues, you awaited him to dimiss you. However he didn’t, in fact he didn’t even move—still as a statue. So you took it upon yourself to inquire whether you should leave him alone in the privacy of his study.

“If that was all, shall I take my leave now, your—”

“Do you—”he paused, “do you wear perfume?”

Your brows scrunched up.

Oh God no, not again. Did you perhaps stink again like that night. Hopefully not, because if you did, you would start to scrub every layer of your attire—from chemise to the outer layer of your skirt.

“No, your lordship.” you answered thickly. God, you hoped you didn’t smell of sweat.

“I see.” he answered ambigously, not comfirming nor denying your worries. Besides, he should know that you as a servant could hardly afford such a luxury—so was he actually mocking you, telling you to wear perfume? You hoped that it was just an odd fixation that all nobles beheld and not the latter.

“You’re dismissed.” he finally exclaimed and you felt relief. Quietly you stood up, nodding politely, before turning on your heel and exiting his study.

Oh, only if you knew how enticing you actually smelled to him. Like Juliane, but with something motherly and tenderly sticking to you, a better version of his deceased wife. A commoner, so ignorant to the life of nobility, that wasn’t even aware of how her features tugged into different directions every second, so unsued to using titles that he could tell you sometimes were about to slip-up and not address him properly.

You were remisicent of his first love; love that was fiery and strong, but you were like the spring, a budding rose with dull thorns. He felt the aching pang of love in his chest whenever your startled gaze met his and that scared Charles. To think his heart would start beating again after a decade—and that for nothing but a maid. He knew he had to be sensible, love was fictious in the life of the upper class and to experience such a gift for the second time was laughable.

But if that love was you — someone so sweet, even his own son started to soften around the edges— then maybe he could induldge himself a tad; enjoy life a little with you by his side.

Yeah, Charles would like to enjoy this life together with you, after forced to experience this perputel loneliness for nearly a decade. Maybe you two could even gift Nicholas a little sibling in the future, only after having slipped a ring of your finger that is.

Yeah, he would like to indluge. After all, one was only born once, right?

Life was sweeter now—not as sweet as the cherries you would pick in secret from the neighbour’s tree at seven or the first taste of sugar you ever had at twelve, but it was worthwhile.

Especially with your little toddler sticking to you like glue; Aunt Jane had brought him here to visit you, after having whined the entire last week because of you failing to visit him again. So your clever little boy had suggested that he just visited you.

“Mommy, you live here?” you chuckled softly at the awe in his voice.

“I work here, Ben’.” you replied, smiling at the familiar face of the guard, nodding at you.

“So that's the little lad.” the man you had learned was Jonathan and surprisingly younger than you by a few years—which his broad shoulders and gruff voice would never hint at.

You nodded looking down at your child as he babbled a greeting to the guard. Now you were standing a tad straighter, eyes softening as your grandmother’s always used to and as your mother’s never had for you.

You were transfixed with your own little one; standing there next to you, finally close to you with a heart you knew hadn’t felt agony the same way yours had. So your mind wandered off and you questioned if he ever would experience what you had, but you knew he wouldn’t, because you simply wouldn’t allow fate to be this cruel to him as it had been to you. God was still listening to your prayers afterall. And suddenly you couldn't help but imagine Bennett grown up, flourished into a strong man as Jonathan with broad shoulders and biceps that could make anyone shudder in fear or perhaps like the lord himself, with a clipped tone yet a soft gaze and presence that was overwhelming.

“Good day to you too lad.” he nodded at your little extension, watching how proud you were of him—and he had to admit he liked it. The smile on your face was sweeter than the scent of flowers hanging in the air and your little buddy was shyly adorable. He offered you another one of his own smiles that inevitably ended up looking grim, while you both passed by him to disappear into the manor and leave him to sigh to himself again.

“Mommy—Mommy look that looks like a person!” was the first thing that left Bennett’s mouth, brown curls bouncing up and down with his jumps, big-eyed fascination clear across his face as he stared at the oil painting of the lord and his son hung up on the staircase. Even though you were feeling bleak from all the unfortunate circumstances, your soul ripping apart that you had been forced to neglect your son for so long— you couldn’t help but chuckle at his enthusiasm feeling warmth spread in you from the fact that your baby was with you in the moment.

“Shh, quieter Ben’.” you scolded him as you grabbed his tiny fist, leading him towards the kitchen, worried someone might take notice. You didn’t want to get yourself into trouble—and because you knew how strict the head maid could be, you lead your little boy into the kitchen.

However the moment you entered you wished you hadn’t because for the love of god, what was she again doing here, just loitering around; doing absolutely the bare minimum.

“If that isn’t my most favourite person ever!” she immediately chirped, as she usually did, stopping chewing on the piece of pastry in her hands to round the courner of the counter, adamant on annoying you on her short lunchbreak as always with the fattest grin anyone could have on their face—only to gasp.

“What—” her eyes widened, almost dropping her meal.

“What, what is that?” she pointed at your child as if he was a weirdly coloured bug that had slipped in. Unbelievably crude and rude.

“That's my son, Maria.”

“Your son? That's Ben you can't shut up about?” she grimaced and you felt your eye twitch, because you had mentioned him once in her presence.

“Bennett for you.” you were tempted to roll your eyes, picking your son up to sit him down on one of the many empty fruit boxes, perfect to be used as a chair. Maria just stared at you funnily.

“Do you want something Ben’? Mommy can make you anything you want.” you smiled at him, and somehow, in some way this just felt right. And for a moment you fantasised that this nice kitchen was yours—that this home was only yours and Bennett's. That you were free.

And then Maria’s obnoxiously loud stomping snapped you out of it again and you threw her a dirty look as she left the kitchen to do god-knows-what.

Only unbeknownst to you, not only the black-haired little snake and a few other maids, which were either adoring or annoyed caught you, but also the lord's heir—the one searching for you almost frantically, because you had not come when you usually would.

Where were you?

He was hurrying down the stars, frenzied, desperately searching for you—you were practically promised to him now; promised to stay by his side day-in-day out. You were just a servant for fuck’s sake—you didn't and shouldn't have autonomy to just anything. Could a dog walk without its owner? No. So where the fuck where you—

That's when he caught sight of you in the kitchen, with a little demon by your side, making you smile and yap so sweetly that it could rot teeth.

Straining his memory to figure out what that leech was that made you beam in a way that you never had at him before in the entire year you had been working here—his anger only heightened the moment he finally remembered.

”Oh, my little Ben absolutely loves..”

That's your kid.

Your child; this little ant.

How dare he, an insufferable brat, who probably still shits himself from time to time, dare consume your attention so entirely that you would neglect your duties and dote on something so tiny and powerless compared to him.

Why was it him, this fool, this insufferable little devil that took you—why couldn’t your eyes soften as much as when they laid on him. It was unfair, criminal. He was the heir to the entire land his father had inherited from his grandpa and to think with all the influence he held you would still go and pick a toddler over him was maddening. To think that you another insect scurrying around together with all the others could dare to be picky.

No, he was lying. You weren’t just another insect, you were his mom-to-be.

“Mother.” he spat under his breath, knuckles white from how tightly he clutched the pearls of his actual deceased mother's in his hand—he had specifically fished them out of her jewellery box that sat abandoned in one of the many rooms of the manor to gift you them but now here he was watching you betraying him.

“I have lost a mother once.” he was slowly ripping the poor necklace apart—the band holding on for dear life.

“I won’t lose one twice.” the pearls all spilled to the ground like blood.

So he laid a curse on you; one so cruel that you wouldn't have any other choice but to accept your rightful position as his dog.

Just you wait and see.

---♡---

Life sometimes developed in strange ways, did it not? Because you never would've imagined to sit with Jonathan under a cherry blossom tree.

The summer was fading and cold, cruel days were arriving, but somehow everything felt much better this way. It felt right. This fragile understanding of affection—you were glad the colder days would put some distance between the two of you, force you to part, because after the young man had confessed to you, you couldn't help but feel the flattery get to your head—allowing yourself to wish and long for something unattainable.

“I—” awkwardly clearing his throat he looked over at you, “I want you, m’lady.” scratching the back of his neck, he looked down.

“I am big and strong. My position is stable—my salary isn't half bad. I am quite a catch.” he declared cockily, with his chest puffed out proudly, trying to feign arrogance, when you knew he was nothing but a puppy in love.

You couldn't help but chuckle, “Jonathan, you're sweet, but—” you protested half-heartedly, more amused than anything. Mostly because you both knew you were officially still married.

“No—no, lady! I am serious, as I am about my feelings for ya.” you found his drawl endearing and found your fave heating up the moment he leaned closer, the lines on his forehead deepening.

“Stop laughing m’lady!” you couldn't help but laugh more—it was comical how he kept on addressing you as if you were noble yourself, as if you were above him.

“Just tell me what to do, so you'll believe me.” you didn't say anything anymore, instead you just smiled bashfully as he kissed your knuckles before fleeing inside again.

But, it seems luck despised you because father like son, Charles was glaring down at the scene from his study, feeling his heart rip at the sight of another man vying for your hand, while another already had bound you in marriage.

It wasn't fair, why was everyone getting a piece of you, why were you giving everyone something to cherish but you let him starve?

He so desperately wanted you, he craved you, but unlike his son, he would never take anything forcibly, especially not you a delicate rose with blunt thorns. Rather he would wait for all the flies around you to die by themselves so that your soul could find its way back to his, where it rightfully belonged to.

---♡---

No.

You refused this reality.

This couldn't be happening.

Crying nor screaming changed what had occured; you had murdered your child with your own two hands. All because you couldn’t take him with you, make him stay close to you.

Still you had tried to lie to yourself. To believe and to fantasize that your baby somehow could be well without you. You had hoped that your husband—as horrid as he was—at least would never reach him; never get too close to your treasured pearl, but he did. He managed to tear everything down and he took Bennett with him; he dragged him back into the lion’s den only to let his own son rot like a beggar out on the streets.

You had hoped. You had prayed daily, trusting god. But trust alone just wasn’t enough.

It never was.

He had died because of you—because you were stupid, foolish and worse than your own mother. Your grandmother would’ve died a second time if she had witnessed you now—a vile excuse for a human; picking up the cold corpse of her child, of a toddler with chubby cheeks that now were icy to the touch.

Tears brimmed at your eyes and you wondered if they would wet your cheeks first or your heart would shatter first—frail like glass. Memories flushed back into your head. Willow had died in your hands too—sick and frail as a baby, but Bennett, he had been a lively child, sticking to you like glue no matter how lithe he was. He was alive—had been alive for god’s sake! And now—now his chest didn’t rise anymore.

He was gone.

And it was your fault.

Until you sighted the man who had driven you away from your babies—who had inevitably caused their deaths.

So who could blame you now? An eye for an eye—wasn’t this what priests preached; wasn’t this god’s holy words? So as any good mother would do, following nothing but instinct, you followed the path of the holy to succumb to sin.

You tackled him—it was easier than you thought it would be. He was still weary; having just awoken from a drunken slumber, peacefully snoring away while your baby had lost the battle to a fever, that would’ve needed care and attention to heal; but it could have subsided, he could have lived. The only reason he was dead was this monster under you, now starting to struggle—roaring at you to get off. But the knife was already secure in your hand.

You had found it in the kitchen; it was a big butcher’s knife, one that your mother’s mother and her mother had owned to slice through a chicken’s neck like butter.

“Hey—what are you doing? Get off me you madwoman!” he yelped and cried, nearly managing to throw you off and tumble forward before you could swing. Nearly.

But as you had been too late, he also was, and the blade sliced through his neck without any resistance, tearing almost through everything.

He was dead before he could blink.

Still, you dropped the blade on his throat a few times more—just for good measures really—until his head rolled off; empty as it was, spilling all it was worth on the ground.

For a moment all you did was pant and stare, now he was just a shell spilling crimson in gallons, his blood your tears.

You stared until you couldn't anymore, until bile rised in your throat and you scrambled to your feet gagging.

Stumbling over him, skirt drenched in red and the floor slippery you crashed back to your knees, clawing your way back to your child like a mole, trying to navigate through the blurring of your sight. Yet the moment you felt his cold hand you cradled him, clutching him like a lifeline—like if you pressed him close enough to your own heart, his would start beating too like a match sharing its flame with another.

Even if all you wanted was to embrace and mourn your little boy, there was something inside of you—a certain fire, a nagging in the back of your head that screamed at you to get up, to get moving, that not all hope was lost yet.

And so you were quick to scramble to your feet, disoriented like a lamb but staggering forward and out the door. The wind whipped at you—untangled your scarf from you. It was winter, the north wind bitter cold, yet he couldn’t affect you, nothing could and the snow that had risen to your ankles inevitably bloomed in red with each of your steps as you continued to push through, to drag your feet forward, agains the bellowing howls of the wind. Your hands were red too, everything was, but what made you cry out was the filthy colour staining your baby. How dare he. To dirty him even in death, monster.

You were going to safe your son from the paw’s of his father that extended even death, you would bring him to safety and that safety was the manor—the only place where you once had felt warmth blossom in your chest that had beheld a functioning heart.

The walk was long, it took an hour. A whole hour out in the cold, ice nipping at your skin, and snowflakes decorating your hair—but all that didn't matter, it couldn't matter if it meant a way to save him. The lord was a powerful man, he could summon a doctor knowledgeable enough to save Bennett—you were sure of it. He would save your baby.

Yet, by the time you arrived, having left terrified figures behind you, the guard at the gait immediately jumped forward.

“Fuck (Y/n)!” Jonathan spat in surprise, eyes round in terror.

“What happened to you? Are you hurt? Did someone attack you? What is it him?—” and he would've demanded more, already reaching out to touch your shoulder, if he hadn't seen little Bennett in your arms—pale as snow and frozen on the spot. Something was deeply disturbing about the picture of the little boy in your bloodied arms and the longer he stared the more his hand trembled.

“He—” he started but cut himself off with a look at your face. He was worried, terrified for you.

While he could do nothing but stare in shock —like all the villagers you met on your way had looked at you—you slipped into the garden, striding forward to the manor, only hearing panicking behind you accompanied with heavy stomping after you slipped through the front door; already inside. And nothing could stop you from bringing your son back to life.

Fear was a stranger now.

So you climbed up the stairs and burst into the baron’s study unprompted, with no use of the usual manners you portrayed.

“Please—” you were quiet, so quiet you feared he wouldn’t take notice of you.

But it wasn’t just the lord, Nicholas was also standing there consumed in a lively discussion until you entered and both of their heads whipped towards you, eyes immediately widening.

“He’s stopped breathing. I don't know why—he was just laying on the floor without moving. I have tried everything, but he just doesn’t want to wake up, please, I don’t know what to do anymore and—” you were a broken machine, only able to repeat yourself over and over again, in hopes they could read between the lines of your anguish; that they could decipher your pleading for a doctor, even if you were just a maid. And even if your life was worth nothing compared to them, Bennett’s life was something worth to you and you hoped that they could see that. That even if your child was a commoner as you, he was worth the world.

“What happened?” the lord was the first one to speak up. He stepped close enough to look at the boy in your arms.

“Why are you drenched in blood? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you? You look pale as a ghost. Where are you bleeding—” Nicholas questions rained down on you, yet you could do nothing but stare into his father's eyes, ignoring his fuzzing.

Slowly, the lord outstretched his arms.

“Come. I will help. Give him to me.” he urged, shutting Nicholas up.

You didn’t want to. This was Bennett, your little boy, a seed that had sprung from you and had grown under your wing and to hand him over to someone else, while the same blood pumped through our veins seemed odd; cruel even. But this was the lord, wasn’t he—he was kind, understanding and your only flimmer of hope. Only he could save your baby, your Ben.

So you let him take the one thing of value in your life; your child.

And that's when your world’s edges blurred and foreign arms wrapped around you.

“Mother—” yor sweet baby was talking to you. At least you heard his voice one last time.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe now mother.”

Only you didn't pass.

But your soul had.

“Bennett?” you were calling out for him until your throat was raw, but he never came.

“Mother, calm, I am here. It's alright mother. Your son is here.” Nicholas muttered again, chanting the string of words like a mantra, as if they would ring true when reached a certain number of repetition, as if you would magically start believing in them after a certain time.

“We’re here for you, love.” the lord muttered, calling himself Charles, telling you it was fine to mourn to cry and rage, but that you had a new family now. And that this new one would ensure your utmost happiness till the end of time. Everything was so bizarrely confusing—and all you wanted to do was scream.

Maria was ominously around you too; always in the shadows, serving you, whispering to you when she would hand you a glass of water and wipe your sweat-covered face, trying to awaken from yet another nightmare.

Yet no one mentioned Bennett. No one even spoke his name; it was like a taboo, almost like his mention would curse you all.

You prayed harder and stronger, yet no one ever heard you, or seemed to care. Nicholas' grip never loosened on you, he never stopped calling you mom and the baron not once failed to call you his beloved—and both expected you to wear it like a badge of honour when all you wanted was to be reunited with your child.

Finally you concluded that God had abandoned you long ago.

Just this time, please, don’t let me be reborn again.

[soundkiller0017]

This story was inspire by this post

Of @howlingday

The birth of a Baron.

It haven been years after the defeat of Salem. In that years after the defeat, Jaune Arc and Weiss Schnee got married. After there marriege a tragedy happen. Jaune's 6 year old nephew, Adrian Cotta-Arc was left alone after a terrorist attack in Jaune's hometow that killed the Arc family. After that event, the Arc-Schnee couple adopted Adrian as he was there own son. Adrian was happy. He was trained by his uncle and aunt to become a hero like them. Adrian fell in love with the art of swords. The duels, the fights. Everything about the majestic clash of mights. Adrian grow up to look up to the Huntsman. A team that her uncle and aunt were part of, before the retired. That team was comformed of The Red Reaper, The Man of Irion, The silint Shadow, The Sun Dragon, The Mighty Valkirye, The Lotus Warrior, The Gentleman and The Android. They were the biggest heros. But his biggest insperations where his uncle that was called back in the day The Sword Master and his that was called The White Witch. But when he was 15 years the real tradegy struck. Argus, where he lived with his uncle, aunt and many cousins was destroyed by the crashing of some sort of gigant airship. He rember his uncle shielding him, his aunt and cousins. But he die in the act of doing that action. His aunt was struck by a metal stick in the heart dieying. His cousins where forever burried in the ground of the house. He was traped in that death trap for days. He was traped with the bodies of his family. Of his heros. He was then rescue not by the heros he admire, but by first responder service. He stayed in the destroyed city waiting to see if he could spot one of the friends and ex teamed of his aunt and uncle. The never apper. They din't even apper in the funeral. He was alone in that graveyard for hours, until he saw a old man in a suit aproach to him. He named was just Zemo. He was some sort of Baron in the distand londs of solitas. He told me that he was a relative of my aunt and that he would adopt him. Adrian then told him his goal of killing all of the heros. The Baron smiled him and told him that he would help him. He them gifted Adrian a sword that was in his family for generations. Pulcra Mors. The Beautiful Death. That sword could break every defence and armor. Then Adrian was trained by the Baron for years until the death of the Baron. The Baron left everything to Adrian. Adrian in honor of the help of the Baron he change his name to Zemo. Now Adrian Cotta-Arc was long gone. And there was only Baron Zemo.

[nyaamaoutofreddit]

Meet Ianthe Chróma, Koda’s Mother

Made two versions of her. Her younger, party animal self (left), and her more gentle and calm older self (right)

She was an adrenaline seeker in her youth, and loved all kinds of fun, though when she gave birth to Koda, something In her awakened and she gradually took on a more motherly personality, her focus was now on being a guiding hand to Koda, a gentle but firm guide

Unfortunately, in her 40s, tradegy would soon strike when an unknown illness hit her, and despite all efforts, she would soon pass away, leaving Koda to fend for himself

[powerofthesunau]

Queen's Right

(Pictured Rainflower on the left and Mapleshade on the right)

The Queen's Right is not officially part of the warrior code but its word can be held above if used correctly. It has been adapted from a rule used in many cat colonies. It gives the mother protection from discrimination and persucution as well as keeping the clan gene pool healthy.

The Queen's Right's Aspects:

1. Not forced to disclose kits' parentage or circumstance

2. The kits cannot be taken away from her or moved to another clan. If she wishes to leave or move clans, the kits go with her. If her kits are stolen or kidnapped StarClan calls on the clan to return them to her side

3. The kits names can be changed until apprentice age. Their mentors can be suggested by the mother

It gives the mother ownership over her kits until apprentice age. However some cats do not use the right to protect their kits' parentage such as Rainflower. A notable exception is that medicibe cats cannot use the Queen's Right.

The right must be sworn within the first moon or half-moon (depending on clan) of the kits' birth, accompanied by the medicine cat to verify as well as some witnesses.

Clan attitudes are different to the Queen's Right. In ThunderClan it is allowed however is seen as taboo, a cat broke the code or made a mistake and is trying to hide it (causing a scandal whwn Squirrelflight used the Queen's Right). ShadowClan cares little about parentage and clan purity in general. In RiverClan the Queen's Right is automatically given to all queens but some queen's like to confirm it anyways. WindClan honours the Queen's Right with less suspicion than ThunderClan, seeing it more as a mother's trust in StarClan.

Mapleshade's Vengeance

Mapleshade chose not to use the Queen's Right. In the aftermath of the kit's deaths and Mapleshade's murders, ThunderClan's attitude of the Queen's Right hardened while Darkstar made a blanket policy that all queen's are entitled to it to ensure a tradegy like that never happens again

Special Case - Adoption

As the Queen's Right states that the parentage of the kits does not need to be disclosed, a few cats have used this to also conceal the identity of the mother.

Squirrelflight swears the oath to hide Crofeather and Leafpool as the parents of the Three to protect her sister

Greypool confirms the oath at the request of Oakheart, not officially announcing herself as his mate but this protects Mistykit and Stonekit from being discriminated or possibly taken back to ThunderClan

[class1akids]

Hey! I always see ppl saying that there's no time line in which the todorokis are happy from the start that shoto would exist in which confuses me a little considering the marriage between endeavor and rei was bc of endeavors greed and selfishness

A happy todoroki family wouldn't ever exist bc their existence in itself is a tradegy

If endeavor wasnt power hungry he wouldn't have married rei and wouldn't have had kids so I don't understand why This applies to only shoto?

No, you are right - it applies crucially to the entire Todoroki family.

But there is an important fork in the road for Enji - notably, when Touya and Fuyumi are born and he says that he was happy. When the doctor who examined Touya warns him to stop, he could have stopped. Back then, he hasn't started to abuse Rei yet, and Touya was young enough to find a different future for himself if Enji gave him unconditional love and support.

So a happy Todoroki family could have existed in this timeline.

When Natsuo was born, the family situation was already pretty tense and Shouto's birth broke it fully apart.

[myrcxlla]

Of Killers and Devils

PROLOGUE

Driven by a tradegy that has haunted her for most of her life, after the death of a notorious clan leader, Nakai Tanako rises to the top with just one goal in mind. Vengeance.

Saturo x Fem!OC character, (mentioned/assumed) Nanami x Fem!OC character

Warnings/triggers: angst, murder, mentions of cannibalism, cheating, violence, death/gore, dub con, non con, forced pregnancy, miscarriage. This story does not have a happy ending.

"2 years before Yuji Itadori"

AFTER ALL, KILLING HIM WAS THE PEACE SHE NEEDED. Her knuckles tightened as the twist of her wrist arose deadly thorns of gore from her fingers, and when her eyes widened, blood gushing from his neck and dousing the skin of her forearm, she was hit with a wave of satisfaction that she chose to hook her technique’s sharp blade into his carotid artery. Fatal enough to ensure his death, but slow enough where she got to enjoy watching every last second of her father’s miserable life drain away, taking one pathetic breath with him.

She knew it would take mere seconds for him to fade into dust, pleading, but that's all she needed.

Just a few seconds.

Long enough for the wretched man to stare into the eyes of the monster he, and every other member of the clan birthed by the dark intentions and desires of others, helped create. The living incarnation of sins coming back to sow justice for a girl who once dreamed, and another who loved.

He begged for mercy once more. Just loud enough to send birds flying and the ruins of a home creak in pity. She stood crouched on top of him long enough for the high of his bloodshed to fade. Her hand wrapped around what was left of his neck, the other lengthened in long ropes of thorns, slowly dispersing around her entire body, waiting. Waiting for something. Waiting for an apology. But the only thing that came was the chill as his blood cooled on her skin and the knowledge that not even toward the end, her power was cheered. 

“Tanako-sama,”

It wasnt until the door behind her creaked open that she released him, the weight of his guilt and control lifting away as his corpse dropped from her arms. 

“Do come in, Celeste.”

“I’m sorry, it was not my intention to interrupt. But, everyone has already settled in the Grand Room, and they ask for–” the foreign girl of pale blue eyes stared at the body beneath her friend’s feet, “--Mister Tanako. Should I explain to them?”

She grinned. “There's no need. They came at the request of the clan’s leader.”

“So, was it true then? Your plan, Nakai?”

She walked through the empty space of the office and onto the en suite. “It was never a question.” She turned the water and waited until swirls of warmth embraced her skin and began rinsing the blood spatters from her arms. “Of course it was always true, my dearest.”

Celeste nodded. “How did it feel?”

Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, and she leaned forward to stare at herself in the mirror. In the corner, Celeste could see the small smile gracing her lips. “How did it feel?” Her heart did not skip a beat while at it. No sudden fire emerging from her fingertips, no stronger power surging from her. “Not as emotional as I thought. Rather boring, I'm afraid. How much did you hear?”

Celeste reached for a towel and dried her arms clean, chasing behind as Nakai walked back into the office and reached for a brand new Haori. The pink one, one her father had gifted her not long before his macabre death. 

“I didn't hear much, just enough,” Celeste chuckled. “It is not surprising, you are the hardest person to please.”

She smirked as she allowed Celeste to place the garment over her bloody kimono, before she headed back to stand over her father. She gazed down at him, his black eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, his mouth opened and petrified, much like he always forced hers to be. 

She laughed, a great, silly laugh. “Funny is all.”

She kicked his leg out of the way, his hideous crocodile boots splashed in the blood that pooled beneath his body. “Things go a little messy, though.” Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Will the head of the Gojo clan show up this time?”

“Saturo Gojo is here, and he wishes to speak to you, privately, afterward.” Celeste answered, following like a lost puppy behind its master. “Don't worry about the mess, I'll take care of it. Will you speak to him this time, or will you have me do it?”   

A spark of hope shone in her eyes, but the sudden chuckle from Nakai made the smile on her own face disappear. "I will speak to him. In the meantime, I need you to find Geto for me, tell him I will support his cause."

Celeste seemed to stop, breathing only sightly.

"Support?"

She nodded, without responding, and allowed it to sink that this was the last moment she would ever spend in the presence of her father. His little girl, innocent, naive, Nakai, is at fault for his death. Closing her eyes, she breathed deep, searching for a silver string of regret. 

There was none.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The sound broke the silence and it made her gag, repulsed, scratching from her insides and the vile she was forced to hold down in the back of her throat. “Celeste,” she called. “Hand me that.” She pointed to the golden watch on her father’s limp arm. 

Celeste did not hold for a moment. She kneeled down and pulled the handkerchief from her breast pocket, then reached for the shiny, date watch. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

Nakai placed it around her wrist, despite the anger surging from the pit of her stomach, she embraced it as her own. Once a little girl who admired the godly thing, now wore what her father most loved. It was a final ‘fuck you!’ to him, at least. She straightened her back and took a deep breath, then stroked long locks of black away from her face. 

In the peak of it all, with gentle pulls of her hair and the braid that formed behind her neck and caressed her back, Celeste watched her. Their relationship was often mistaken, but never by them. To Celeste, Nakai Tanako, daughter and heir of the Sacred Clan, was her beloved and trusted friend. 

To Nakai, however, Celeste was only her servant. 

A simple monkey at her command.

“What should I do with the body?” 

Her features were covered by the shadows of the cold room, but the smile on her face seeped through with a horrifying resplendor. “Don’t care,” her voice was too sweet as she began to walk out the office. “Leave him to rot. Erm, better yet…” she singsonged, “Feed him to those pigs in the Grand Room. Save the best for Gojo.” 

[amusingmusie]

Hello Musie! I hope you are doing well on this out of touch Thursday. Would you be comfortable with sharing what inspired you to begin writing? Do you have a muse of your own that inspires the way you build dynamics between your characters? I was curious if you had anything that you had outside of source material (ie Hazbin) that helped motivate you?

I've always loved to write, but always burned myself out before the ideas manifested into something more substantial than daydreams. You have inspired me to at least focus that energy into comments and questions! I just wanted to say that you have a fresh approach to building meaningful conflict between characters and developing background YT. You've got me researching New Orleans history so I can further the immersion as I read! I still cannot get over how fleshed out Nel is. I can absolutely go on, but yeah!

Thanks a million :)

Hello! Sorry I answered this so late (it's Monday for me whoops!). I can't lie, I got really excited to answer this so I can nerd the hell out and YAP PROFUSELY.

What inspired me to write- With every single piece of media consume, I immediately (and I mean immediately) begin to construct some kind of OC to throw into that universe, and Nel was no exception! I got very attached to human Alastor since one of my favorite things about Hazbin is the tradegy of the human lives the characters lived, and Alastor's death in particular seemed incredibly tragic (but deserved) that I ended up fixating on it. I think something I asked myself was "Goddamn, I wonder how people who knew him reacted to his end?". That, combined with how much I loved Al's dynamic with Husk/Vaggie (the sterner characters) birthed Nel pretty quickly after I watched the pilot.

I NEVER thought I'd post a fic. Like ever. I did not think I could do it. I've been writing for myself for years and I would write on the job (I was doing secretary work at the time), so this story slowly started building and building until I had the whole thing drafted. It wasn't going to be posted until I started casually going through the Al/reader tag and saw that there was BARELY any human Alastor. And I sorta thought weeeellll I guess I gotta be the change I wish to see, I've got the whole thing drafted, why not? I'll see how long I stick with it. The fandom was super dead at the time, so I figured my fic wouldn't be exposed to a lot of people anyway, so why not?

Then you insane (/pos) people got invested in my silly shit and I am still in fucking awe that everyone is so supportive!

As for other muses (heehee) that give me inspiration- READ DEAD REDEMPTION 2. I love the RDR series, I am obsessed with it, and I think the storytelling is so beautiful. The setting gave me a small amount of inspiration (the wilderness and the country, rugged characters) but mostly the impact of the story and writing has had a lot of influence on my creativity if that makes sense? The dialogue feels insanely natural, they use old-timey slang without it dominating the conversations, and the story flows deliciously. Like, the game has had a huge impact on my life and I think if I had half the effect on you guys with my fic as that had on me, I could die somewhat happily.

And finally, I'm glad my work has a bit of a motivator for you! I'm not the best at giving advice to get motivated to start writing (I live in hyperfixation hell), but what I can say is that when something sticks, nurture it :) Try writing for yourself and see what feels right first. You never know what it can turn into!

[automatismoateo]

Horrific tradegy stuck this year. Sister struggling with faith while our parents are being too faithful and being offended by morbid reality my sister and I now both share (I'm atheist) via /r/atheism

Horrific tradegy stuck this year. Sister struggling with faith while our parents are being too faithful and being offended by morbid reality my sister and I now both share (I'm atheist) t's our first Christmas without my brother in law. Earlier this year he suddenly collapsed and discovered that former skin cancer he took care of years ago came back. They were expecting a baby (suragote) later in the year. Had surgery but it wasn't enough. He pushed and was strong until the birth of my nephew and then straight decline. He passed within two weeks right before my dad's birthday. He was atheist. She was raised Catholic and has always been somewhat close to god. After all this I can see she is struggling with understanding why and is loosing that faith in god because why would a loving god poison your soulmate and leave you to raise your only child you'll ever have by yourself. She talks very morbid and is very depressed but knows she has to keep on going. While she does seem to be too morbid, I can understand where she is coming from. She is grasping the fact that we all die and that life can be cruel for no reason. Now our parents the other hand are still having faith and bombarding my sister with "it's okay it's gods plan" "god needed a angel and that's why he took him" "yes everyone dies but we all go to a better place". She is just fed up. She doesn't care about "gods plan" she just wants her husband and yet my parents clearly do not understand her grief. I tried to explain to them that no she is not okay with life right now but will be eventually and they took offense saying they are uncomfortable with her words and she is disrespectful for thinking that people just die cause they die. It's sad to see that when someone has endured such tradegy people choose to express their beliefs even if it goes against the person they are trying to support. Fuck religion. Submitted December 26, 2023 at 06:29AM by Tecnero (From Reddit https://ift.tt/MPi5bXQ)

[holly-natnicole]

That's why Sora being the heroic Protagonist for most of the K.H. videogames works so well. The sadness and tradegy hits hard coz Sora is usually a cheerful, happy kid who simply wants to hang out with his friends and is excited to befriend new people. If Sora (or, in K.H.:Birth by Sleep's case, Aqua) was some angsty brooder most of the time, none of the bittersweet endings would have felt impactful; it all woulda been Heart-crushing.

You ever think about in almost every kingdom hearts game, it's a sad or bittersweet ending? Like pretty much every game ends on a low note. The characters are lost, or away from their friends, or just straight up die.

Kingdom Hearts is such a sad, tragic story.

[evilelitest2]

Why do Nazis even love Nietzsche? Isn't he the guy who said something akin to "only someone who is worthless person by himself would find pride in his country of origin" or something like this?

He also made fun of antisemitism, disliked Germany and wanted a version of the EU to emerge.  There is a reason why Nazis stan Nietzsche, but lets be honest here, most of them haven’t read Nietzsche, or maybe they read Will to Power and a few segments of Thus Spoke Zarathustra) so its not entirely Nietzsche fault that Nazis like him, they haven’t actually read him.  This is compounded by the fact that Nietzsche really loves to write super provocative statements whose meaning isn’t entirely clear out of context of his larger philosophy, so its super easy to read a Nietzsche quote and think its one thing when there are many quotes actually put it in a different perspective.  This isn’t helped by the fact that Nietzsche philosophy is deliberately contradictory and he likes saying statements that don’t match each other, which does make his point but does mean he is super easy to quote to support your position, which is gold to Neo Nazis.  

So most of this is Nazis not understanding the things that they like (I mean a lot of Nazis liked Tolkien) but its not just that, Nietzsche is kinda special because he was co-opted by them during his life time, and Hitler personally was attached to his writings so lets talk about specifics in Nietzschian world view that Naizs find attractive ( @afriendtokilltime you might want in on this) 

1) An interest in violence

Nietzsche himself as far as I know, never did a violence, he mostly just stayed home and played video games, but he is super into violence as an aesthetic, he finds violence fascinating and he thinks that pacifist or non violent moral worldviews are hypocritical, sentimental, and pathetic.  And unlike most people who dismiss pacifism, whose critiques tend to be super easy to dismiss, Nietzsche is one of the like 3 philosophers ever who have actually managed to argue in favor of violence in a way that is at least compelling.  Possibly because he didn’t do violence, he just watched Hellraiser 83 times in a row, so he is approaching the subject more philosophically.

Problem is that Nazis LOVE violence, and are basically a violence worshiping death cult that prefer murder to sex (Umberto Eco was right) so their is a logic to them loving Nietzsche 

2) Fetishization of force.  Nietzsche is really into power and specifically the aesthetics of power, which explains both his popularity with teenage boys and Fascists.  Now that isn’t inherently wrong in itself, there are are ways to appreciate force and power that doesn't necessarily lead to fascism but Fascists LOVE this shit. 

3) A fixation on Will.  Nietzsche is really into the notion of will and the power of the human spirit in overcoming adversity, and its relationship to fate, with this notion of human will power overcoming obstacles, even those of a cosmic nature.  This can be a very interesting theme on its own, if you’ve ever read the manga berserk that is super Neitzsche in design, it kinda servers as a primer on Neitzsche philosophy.  Fascists don’t take this idea as far as Nietzsche does, with their love of conformity and authoritarianism, but they do love the notion of WILL and the “Great Man”.  This is made worse because both Fascists and Nietzsche define themselves by conflict 

4) Romanticism.  I can write a whole essay on the influence of Romanticism on fascism, but Nietzsche, while not a romantic, is clearly influenced by it. Nietzsche would eventually back down on, but there is a reason why he  was super into Wagner before eventually being like “wow fuck that guy” 

5) Hatred of Modernity.  Nietzsche wasn’t impressed with the modern day  world, far prefering the Ancient Greeks, though he wasn’t as much of a conservative as some he had a reactionary disposition even if he is actual world view was more complicated than just reactionary posing  

6) Hatred of Christianity and sympathy for Paganism, which aren’t fascist beliefs in themselves but will win you points with a lot of fascists 

7) Dismissal of Democracy.  

8) Disbelief in human equality.  Nietzsche doesn’t believe people are equal or even have equal rights, he thinks most people are sheep except for a few exceptional individuals.  This would be corrupted into Nazism and Objectivism both of which I think Nietzsche himself would find abhorrent and stupid  

9) because he watched Fight Club too many times, Nietzsche is really into Machismo and not that into women. There is a lot of masculinity focus in his work which is basically the gateway drug to fascism is problems with women and focus on macho culture

10) He has a very...Neo Classical fixation which Fascists also like, though so do liberals.  

11) Finally, Nietzsche rejects most forms of morality, thinking them hypocritical and mostly followed out of peer pressure rather than true ideals.  Fascists like his rejection of conventional morals, though unlike him they still stick to their own nonsensical ethic structures.  

So there are some similarities but lets not go too far.  Despite sharing a lot of assumptions, Nietzsche was hyper individualist, anti militarist, anti nationalism, rather ashamed of being german, he didn’t like patriotic attitudes and valued art more than anything.  Also  Nietzsche, while having some issues with jews was not as anti Jewish as you’d expect from a German in the late 19th century.  Even his attitudes towards women got less shitty as he grew older.  

Finally its important to understand, Nietzshche is basically the most intelligent 15 year old boy in history, who eventually morphs into a 16 year old boy.  SO he is really creative, has lots of interesting ideas, he has a ton of interesting perspectives and is probably the best writer of all the philosophers  but like...he is also a 15 year old boy at heart.  

[mountphoenixrp]

We have a returning citizen in Mount Phoenix:

           Dakota Kim, a 26 year old son of Centeotl.            He is the owner of Honeypot.

FC NAME/GROUP: Cho Seungyoun, a.k.a WOODZ, soloist CHARACTER NAME: Dakota Valeria Ruiz Kim AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 26yrs. Young, 30th December, 1995 PLACE OF BIRTH: Los Angeles, California OCCUPATION: Owner of Honeypot Brewery & Tapas HEIGHT: 182.88 cm/ 6’0 WEIGHT: 68kg/150 lbs DEFINING FEATURES: Interior palm of left hand marked with tally marks totally to five, several ear piercings, left side labret on the lower lip, tongue piercing, frenum piercing, and a healthy littering of tattoos (including one on inside of bottom lip)

PERSONALITY: At one point of his younger years people would consider Dakota as vibrant, giving and altogether a fun individual to be around. He had a knack for easing people through their worries with food, good conversation, and careful attention to their needs and was nearly always involved in the community in some way. Dakota’s life in Mount Phoenix was colorful and despite an internal struggle with the monster that is depression, he seemed happy.

   Tradegy loves it’s ruin though and it wrapped cruel arms around the youth’s life with a jilted marriage proposal, a new flame, a deeper depression and then drama when old and new flame met. The result left the youth shell shocked and more quiet before his departure from the island. Now, over a year later, he returns and we see how the demigod has changed into a man.

HISTORY: For some people the streets of L. A are a dream- busy with the wanderings of foreigners and locals, rich and poor alike. For others, they are the hub of business, and for others still, they are a home in themselves. For ‘Ornah’ they are all of that and so much more. They are the roads that lead to bigger and better spaces, the winding connections and traffic jams of relationships of all kinds. They are his business and his business is making his way through them day and night either in his casual garb or the excess of the fancy clothes that he gets to keep from random generous photographers when he does a shoot or two. They’re the home that he can rely on when the one he was left in fell apart and he walks them with the greatest pride that a true Californian does.

   It’s on these streets that Ornah makes his living by selling odds and ends. He’s got no shame in his position, frequently bouncing from place to place but remaining in the city and neighborhoods that make him feel like family. As he grows and the world becomes a bit more clued into things that coexist alongside humans, rumors of safe havens spread. Dakota doesn’t pay them much mind at first rolling it off his shoulders. But as more and more gods and demigods start to crop up from around the world he starts to pay attention. So there were others like him- others that might know what it’s like to not entirely understand how things “just happen”. Soon enough he meets, befriends and even takes jobs with gods and demigods like himself.

   Why not go away to one of those safe havens? The idea gets more and more interesting as each day rolls by, but it takes an incident with a certain god to make the haughty young demigod finally decide to go to one he heard most mentioned. Mount Phoenix, or as they called in the streets, La isla de los dioses.

If there was anywhere that the god Kota was looking for it would be there. And he had more than a few bones to pick on arrival.

Years Later

   The letter is crushed to his chest and it does nothing but seem to amplify the drumming of his heart. He had thought he had left everything behind, let the dust of time slowly settle over memories until he’s not even sure they are real anymore of that place. Dakota had slipped beyond the veil that separates the mortal space and Mount Phoenix and thought he had molded into a happy life. Yet, when he lay awake at night, he can feel it. That something is right. Some part of him isn’t fulfilled and is left to wonder, what if?

  Now all those questions that keep his tongue like lead in his mouth and the smile from fully reaching his eyes stand a chance to be answered. The edges of the letter he cradles to him cut into his skin and remind him that this moment is real. He could run. He could learn what’s been itching at the back of his mind for years.

  He could run…… and so …. He does. Right back to Mount Phoenix because for once, he has cause to look back.

PANTHEON: Mayan CHILD OF: Centotl - God of Maize POWERS:

*The gift of the harvest; he can grow corn from any soil, naturally talented chef; can learn to craft any dish in a matter of minutes and is able to create dishes using minimal ingredients,

*Gift of Dance; as customary for the harvest of the corn there is a celebratory and ritual dance, the moves have altered with the times but the intensity of the dance causes the harvest to spring forth greater, and much more filling.

 STRENGTHS:

*Quick-witted

* Generous (esp. To the hungry)

* Brave

* Severely and unapologetically opinionated, especially about the respect that women deserve.

* Polyglot

WEAKNESSES:

*Swears so much it could make a sailor blush

* Quick-tempered when confronted & holds grudges

* Blunt to a fault.

* Very good liar (says “I’m fine.” more than he should when he’s not)

*Smoker with expensive taste in tobacco.

[sunder-the-gold]

Take 2 on [Arknights] enemy-force composition through the lens of [Magic: The Gathering] Colors

Link to the first post. Covers enemy forces in Episodes 1-6 and all events before "Who Is Real?"

Patriot's Guerillas (Episode 7: "Birth of Tradegy")

I hadn't faced Patriot's "Aegis of the Infected" before I wrote the last one. At the time, people told me they would be White/Red.

No, they're very thoroughly White. Sure, they seem aggressive, but in a tower defense game all enemies will seem aggressive, because they're literally the attacking side. The difference is in how they aggress.

Patriot's forces have the typical weenie units everyone initially throws at each other first, but except for the dogs and the Shieldguards, all of Patriot's guerrillas gain specific and dangerous advantages the moment that a Herald arrives to provide them with their customary organization and coordination, in addition to the Herald's global inspiration effect.

And while the Shieldguards don't gain a specific power-up, that's because they ARE the specific power-up for the whole team. They draw fire away from both the frontlines and the vulnerable and vital Heralds, doing everything they can to maintain the working order of the whole.

White is also one of the better Colors for aerial support, and Patriot commands a number of paratroopers ready to drop behind enemy lines.

Where you might begin to argue any other Color is in regards to Patriot himself, his Sarkaz Altars, and his Sarkaz Guerillas who rely more on their brute strength and Arts than on modern equipment or tactics. The Sarkaz Guerilla Fighters and Casters both know how to protect themselves from the Altars and draw strength from them, making the Altar zones especially dangerous to their enemies who wither under the pulse waves.

But to me, that all seems possible within the bounds of White. As a defensive Color, White knows how to punish others for transgressing its territory.

Ursus Imperial Army (Episode 8: "Roaring Flare")

Thoroughly Red. Their military organization and discipline seems rather loose, as none of the units support each other or take real advantage of the openings or opportunities provided by their fellows. They simply seek to crush with personal strength and sheer numbers, without much regard or any real counter for enemy tricks like FrostNova's Originium Ice Crystals or Patriot's Sarkaz Altars.

Their disorganization is also seen in how they'll opportunistically attack harmless targets (like fleeing civilians) rather than actual threats, and how they'll be herded by roadblocks.

The most coordination or cooperation (White) seems to come from the Artillery Corps. Ironically for the most destructive force, their spotter drones and artillery strikes offer the most aid to the soldiers on the ground by creating safe zones where enemies dare not approach and attack Ursus infantry.

Talulah/Kaschey fits right into the Ursus forces. Both puppet and puppeteer, both ally and enemy... there's no real cooperation or unity, there's only self-interest briefly working in the same direction.

Dusk and the Ink Spirits ("Who is Real?")

"Who Is Real?" is a Blue horror show.

As an illusionist who fights primarily by trapping people within fantasy worlds and attacking them with their worst fears and regrets, Dusk herself is thoroughly Blue.

Then there's her Ink Spirits. Normally, Blue is the least creature-focused Color, preferring to rely on spells. But when fighting Dusk, you're already caught within her spell, and the sheer number and strength of the Ink Spirits is really the least of your problems.

The Ink Spirits have a number of ways to screw with you. At first it seems like the earliest and weakest Ink Spirits are weak, since you can use Dusk's own environment against them, but this is a trap.

Once Dusk tricks you into using the ying/yang zones of her painted world, she unleashes the stronger Ink Spirits which are designed to fuck with you. Those that specifically focus-fire on opposite-attribute targets, those that inflict greater damage against opposite-attribute targets, those that can only be blocked by the same attribute, and those that can flip attributes on their heads so that what seems like a winning scenario becomes a total defeat.

Of course, even if you outsmart and beat her monsters, you're still trapped in her illusion, which was the real threat the whole time.

Sargonian Redmark Assassins ("Originium Dust")

In my opinion, the Redmark assassins and the sandstorms are a single enemy, since at least some of the assassins are native to the region. Indeed, the Eradicators are explicitly and thoroughly specialized for operating in the sandstorms.

The Infiltrators, by contrast, could be foreigners or assassins who travel beyond Sargon -- their holographic decoy technology is explicitly Columbian, but they didn't necessary need to come from there or go there to buy it. Regardless, the Sandstorm slows the Infiltrators down but doesn't otherwise harm them.

Altogether, they seem Blue to me. The sandstorms reflect a sort of battlefield control and denial that Blue spells could achieve, and which definitely reflect Blue's reliance on spells over creatures. The Eradicators are invisible within the storm and the Infiltrators hide behind illusions, which are both very Blue. The Eraditor's ability to instantly delete any Operator or bomb deployed out in the open could almost be considered part of Blue's banishment/unsummoning spells.

The irony that Blue is normally associated with water and oceans rather than landlocked deserts just goes to show that a Color should be more than its environmental trappings.

Originiutants ("Originium Dust")

The Originiutants are a simultaneous but separate force from the Redmark Assassins. They're not native, not natural, and make no real use of the sandstorm, nor do they interact with the sand-barrier walls.

Most of what we fight are creatures or corpses puppetted by parasites, used as meatshields and discarded as soon as they die, with the parasites trying to flee to safety. And both puppets and parasites are thoroughly weak.

The diseased horde is Black, whose cheapest creatures tend to be weak sacrifices, and whose strongest tend to come with high costs.

The strongest Originiutants -- the ones actually called Originiutants, neither puppet nor parasite -- are the rarest ones encountered. Of course the strongest are the rarest, but even by that metric, the true Originiutants are rare. There's basically only one stage that features many of them, and they don't appear at all in the boss fight. They were simply too expensive to make, even for a monster who gladly resorted to human sacrifice.

The Essence of Evolution either killed its creator unexpectedly or required him to die to become the threat we actually faced, and that definitely fits Black's M.O. of sacrifice for power. It's constantly spawning parasites to make more zombie slaves, it spams waves of extinction energy, and in its own efforts to make itself stronger and invulnerable (tearing itself apart and putting itself back together without regard for nature), it ends up sacrificing its own life for transient power. A self-consuming, self-defeating abomination.

Rhodes Island ("Arknights")

Someone asked me to categorize Rhodes Island, and initially I politely refused, on the grounds that Rhodes Island doesn’t have faceless classes of Operator like the enemy factions do.

But, if one were to try to see Rhodes Island from the outside, and homogenize its Operators into a collection of faceless units…

Kal'stit, Amiya, and the Doctor are all loathe to throw away the lives of their Operators to achieve their goals, and the Doctor in particular is supposed to be a tactical genius who can figure out how to make a bunch of weenies work together to become greater than the sum of their parts. So, there’s a lot of White.

As a pharmaceutical company, Rhodes Island also attracts people who practice healing Arts, which is also White.

On the other hand, most of Rhodes Island combat Operators are Infected, either because Rhodes Island is the only place they can call home or because fighting for Rhodes Island is the only way they can pay for treatment. Together with the fact that some of them are badly Infected, and some will abuse their Infections to gain power at the cost of their lives for the sake of protecting Rhodes Island, and…

Well, rather than representing Black, that just might play into some of the more uncomfortable parts of White, such as martyrdom effects. No one is being sacrificed for anyone’s personal gain as with Black (Amiya very explicitly orders her Operators not to sacrifice themselves for The Cause), but rather the harsh realities and self-sacrifice are about individuals bowing to the needs of the community (Frostleaf nearly killing herself to protect everyone from FrostNova).

So, appropriately for an organization that hearkens to the Order of the Knights Hospitaller, we’re probably looking at a predominantly White organization.

In general, Green would be the largest supporting Color (for community, healing, strong Elite Operators, and virtually no air support).

Other Colors would step in depending on which internal faction of Rhodes Island (Followers, Mudrock Squadron, Sweepers) takes the field, or which of their allies (Glasgow Gang, Penguin Logistics, Blacksteel Works, Kingswand, Abyssal Hunters) are present.

[soundkiller0017]

Shame (Sequel of "Birth of A Baron)

After the destruction of Argus and the death of there proctetors. A massive ceremonial funeral was held in New Atlas to honor the heros that die and the people. Adrian Cotta Arc was in first line with the sister and brother of her aunt Weiss. He was still in shock. Whitley and Winter tried to make him smile once in the last month. But the failed. Winter still was mad with Whitley and espacially with his wife Ruby. She called herself many times the best friend of her sister and brother in law. But she never came to help to look for Adrian. Ruby was still not present. Winter didn't hate her brother, because he was out of Remmant testing a way to go to space. But Rose, Rose was no even a hour awy from Argus. Same for that excuse of hero that only cared of fame Neptune Vasillias and his "free of hate" Sun Wukong. They where in the border of Mistral and Argus. They never came, because they were in a local brothel having sex with hookers. Ren and Valkyrie were in his hometown killing grimm. Sustrai was nothing more than a bretayer that still worked with the Grimm Circle. Winter then heared a sound. Looking to the door she HER, Rose. She came to where Adrian was.

Ruby: Hey kid. I'm sorry for what happend. But accident hapend.

That phrase made Winter go berserker and punched Ruby across the face with so much force that it broke her aura and made her hit thw floor.

Winter: ACCIDENT!? YOU COULD SAVE THEN. YOU COULD HELP THEM! BUT YOU WHERE BROTHERS KNOW WHERE! YOU ARE BITCH AND A FALSE HERO! I DON'T KNOE WHAT MY BROTHER SAW IN YOU! YOU MONSTER!

Winter then storm out of the church with Adrian. After they where out of the church, Winter breakdown and start crying. Adrian tried to give her aunt (Adrian concider Jaune and Weiss like they were his parents) until some came to help. He was a tall man wearing a beautiful suit. Then Winter saw him

Winter: Uncle Helmut. You came.

Helmut: Yes I did. Why would a miss the final goodbye to my snowflake and her hudband. It was a tradegy.

The man looked genuely sad. He then looked to Adrian

Winter: Adrian dear. This is Helmut Zemo. He is my uncle of my mother side. He always helped us with the pfoblem that our bastard of a fthee give us. I can't help you train. I'm already old for that. So I ask my uncle to help.

Helmut: Well Adrian. You are ready to start a new life?

Adrian: Yes.

(In the scene in the church I got inspire by Aunt May slapping Ultimate Captain America in Peter's funeral)

[gellavonhamster]

No, but that hug between Agnes and Silja, though. The time they spend together in the post-apocalyptic future is the only time they have together (and we don’t even know how much time it is, with both of them having to perform tasks for Adam). Agnes only knows her mother as a girl who hasn’t had her or her brother yet, hasn’t even met their father yet. Silja only knows her daughter as a grown woman, already a mother herself. And they both know (at least Agnes definitely does) that Silja is going to die giving birth to Agnes. And yet there’s so much tenderness in that hug. So much of Dark is about the tradegy of people not being able to stay with their loved ones, especially with their family. So much, if not all of it.

[ofwondersandhares]

Hush little children, don’t say a word...

       .... what you are about to witness will be quite absurd.

* * *

What was the beginning of any story? Tradegy and hardships, adventures and romance, trials and tribulations, the strong survived and the weak perished. Sean had seen his share, his life, up until that point, had been through all of those things. Heartbreak, dangers whispered that had seemed unbelievable. He was a Wonderlandian after all, the magic coursed through his veins since birth. But everything he had done, everything he had been through, it almost seemed worth it now.

        .... now that he had a family, now that he had HIM. 

Almost. 

   No. Not almost.

              It simply WAS.

A lot had happened to bring them to the point they were at now. From the day Seti was perched in a tree with an arrow aimed at his heart, to the day he told Seti that he had loved him, to the day Seti turned into a woman, had a child, eventually killed him - well, it was just a part of who they were, it was just a bit a part of their story, to their marriage, Julian’s birth, and now raising their boy together. Life, dare he say it or even think it, was almost perfect.

Sean had been deep in slumber, those very thoughts racing through his head, bringing a smile to his face even as he slept. In his sleep he had mumbled, rolling over and reaching an arm to rest against Seti’s body and pull him closer. Only when he reached out his eyes had opened to nobody in the bed beside him. 

--- it really wasn’t like Seti to be up before him, and it really wasn’t like Sean to have a sudden foreboden feeling creep up his stomach and cease around his throat. “Seti?” His name. Two syllables, one word, Sean could hear the uncertainity, the fear and the worry in his own voice.

--- where had his lover gone?

[worldsmostdangerous-archived]

// a new verse:

//v;fantasy (temporary tag)

Long explanation, because this is a completely open verse:

Realm: Similar to Skyrim, Witcher, Lord of the Rings and The Kingkiller Chronicle, including a large variety of races like humans, elves, sorcerers, witches, orcs, dwarfs, nagas, ghouls, different reptile based races, werewolves - almost anything you can find in folklore, except vampires or creatures similar to vampires.

A sorcerer, Delilah, slept with Garp, the god of strength and mischief, and became pregnant. The pregnancy lasted unnaturally long and after 31 months she gave birth to a creature the world had never seen before; a scaly black and red egg, like one that an impossibly large bird would have. Three months later the egg hatched and a black spiky body, tail, wings and green eyes, the size of an adult cat, was revealed.

At four months the baby shifted into a half form with more resemblance to a human. At six months it breathed fire for the first time. The people around them shunned and threatened Delilah and the newborn, thinking it’s a demon. For the safety of her son, she left people and civilization, and hid away. Few places were secure from monster hunters, though, and before long Delilah got wounded gravely during an escape. Her wounds healed, miraculously so, and she realized that she had become immortal, courtesy of her child’s divine father.

As years passed by, the child, whom she named Dragon, grew. She was alarmed at first at the slow pace, but eventually understood that, considering her own state, her child also most likely would have a long lifespan. It made sense for his growth to be slow. His appetite, being that of a growing child, was incessant, and he needed larger prey than a single area could provide. Thus, they kept moving around, never settling for long in one place.

One day a group of patrolling soldiers saw Delilah, and having heard the reports of her and her child potentially being in the area, they attacked her. Taken by surprise, Delilah was late to react and blood was drawn. Although she couldn’t die, and Dragon knew this, just seeing what happened made him rip three of the soldier’s heads off, chasing down two others, with one managing to get away before he rushed to his mother’s side.

The surviving soldier returned to the capital, bringing horrible news. Traumatized by having seen his friends’ fate, he exaggerated the creature to have eaten them. The king, outraged, wanted to sent out his army but was discouraged from doing so by his court sorcerer who convinced him to end the menace of the creature once and for all. Ambitious, the king gathered a task force that was set out to hunt the creature, and kill it. Because of complications, and the interference of Delilah, the hunters failed in their mission, but captured Delilah instead. They brought her to the kingdom, in secret, in the hopes of setting up a trap for Dragon that would turn the fighting in their favour.

Dragon raided the capital, killing half of the population and military forces by 70 percent in search for his mother. Eventually she broke free, instantly calming down her son. This event came to be known as the Tradegy of the Nalfheim Kingdom, with the creature and the sorcerer painted as the villains.

Dragon reached the age of maturity at 70 years old, getting his first rut the same year. Because no others of his kind existed, he went for other species. Many of the female ones bore him offspring, the number rising the more the years went by.

Now, almost three thousand years later, those offspring have become the ancestors of fire breathing creatures with almost impenetrable skin and with the ability to fly. Monster hunters have only 50 years ago figured out methods to kill them, their numbers dwindling slowly day by day. These creatures came to be called as dragons, with the existence and stories of Dragon and his mother forming into legends that you tell your children.

With age Dragon matured and learnt self-restraint and began to sleep around less and less, growing tired of no one sincerely caring for him. They stopped wandering and settled into one of the highest mountains in the world, creating their home inside it and refraining to solitude. Sometimes, though, Dragon goes for a flight.

Dragons: the species

Description: 

Scales or spikes, no fur

Four legs, with sharp, long claws

There are different shapes and sizes of heads and necks but the tail is always long, suited for flying and defending

Any colour scheme. Rarely a dragon is one colour only. Eyes are green, red, yellow, golden, silver or violet

Two eyelids; a normal one and one that pulls in and out on the side opposite of the muzzle

Large bat-like wings with claws at the end of them

Some have spikes on their back, others less so

Some have horns

The older, the bigger. A 300 year old would be the size of three four room houses. The exception is Dragon, who is bigger than any dragon seen since

Because of their fire breathing ability, their body temperature is four times that of a human’s

Males are smaller than females

Two forms; a full dragon one, and a human one. In the human one they keep their complexion and eye colour, but gain large, odd pointy ears

Lifespan: 

120-300 years. At the start of their evolution some lived only 50-80 years. The only exception to this rule is Dragon, the first of his species, who is currently closer to a three thousand year old.

Diet:

Carnivores. Some subspecies eat fish, others larger animals like horses. Prefer mammals

Humans and other species similar to them have been rumoured to be part of their diet, but most often dragons only kill humans, not eat them. Eating humanoid creatures is incredibly rare

Dragons burn their prey before consuming them

Mating habits and reproduction:

Dragons reach maturity at age 45-65

Females go into heat once every 5 years, with males going into a rut at the same time

Mating season is usually September - January. In warm climate it’s May - July

Because of simultaneous heat cycle, females often clash with each other, and over the evolution of the species this has come to be considered part of the mating process. The prevailing female will not definitively win the favour of the male despite having been the strongest, and the male might choose to mate with one that lost

Mating can take up to 7 days, after which the nest is built by both. Gestation is 20 months, with 4-6 eggs being laid

The parents take turns incubating the eggs, and often heat them up with their breath

Eggs hatch after 4 months

The parents stay together until the offspring are 3 years old, after which the female leaves

Sometimes dragons bond for life

The children stay with their father 10-15 years before they leave the territory

Living environment:

Territorial

Males hold permanent territories, females wander most often

Dragons can be found in any corner of the world in any climate

Some species prefer ground level caves for their homes, others high mountains

There used to be water dragons, but the species has since evolved to earth only

Behaviour:

Most often active from late afternoon to midnight, sleep and rest the rest of the time

As sparse as any other species’ with no special inclination to any specific universal tendencies apart of the above

Mentioned because I feel this needs to be emphasized