#black stones for Go are formed from slate

[a-queer-little-wombat]

Lovely craftsmanship and the outcome is gorgeous.

The number of sets made like this on an annual basis is likely quite small, tho. Which is just as true of similar items made in any other country.

And so, since I've been seeing a huge influx of these types of very staged, very traditional methods and items, very visually aesthetically pleasing and ASMR-generating, very minimal explanation captioning (and always in English), usually from user discoverchina, videos *all* from China and about traditional Chinese methods/items ... every time I see them, I think "this is propaganda".

Yes, they are beautiful and soothing and the items made are beautiful. But also, what is the goal? What do these videos encourage you to think about China? How much do these videos reflect modern China, their manufacturing, their culture, etc?

holy shit is this gorgeous.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

A NOOSE TO HANG ONTO (III)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IV

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 7.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking & stalking behavior, talks of death, weapons, violence, suggestive thoughts/comments, toxic modeling standards, food issues, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Sometimes you wonder if meeting your soulmate would even matter—it would never fix the void in your heart, you know. It would be foolish to think that it would. 

But there is such a drug attached to being loved as you are, despite your flaws and failings, destined to be tied in a game of commitment. Yet the simple fact showed that, while soulmates were able to bring you color, that didn’t change people's nature. 

Even among those tied pairs, divorce was rampant; assaults, and murders as well. 

Soulmate Psychosis, it was called. When your mind broke from having it all figured out, or even when you knew it was falling apart. 

It happened to your father and it happened to millions of other spouses too. When your entire life is already decided when you look at someone, it can be…a lot. 

So, part of you was happy that you’d never know who yours was unless they told you themselves—you can hope and pray that they stay their tongue and give you a chance to fall for them naturally. Because it scared you, truly, becoming like all of the rest. A statistic. 

Lord, don’t let yourself become a statistic.

Nikto silently walks at your heels as you push through the front doors of your penthouse, taking off your ball cap and stuffing it into your jacket pocket.

The man at the front desk calls to you, and you raise a hand in greeting, sliding a soft smile his way. 

“Seraph!” Isaak has been working at this building for as long as you can remember—the man with grayish hair and dark eyes. A face that was sharp and a nose crooked; like a chocolate-chip cookie, dark splotches along his face led to the impression of freckles. 

The man was slightly older than you, lanky, and always dressed luxuriously.

“Having a good day, Isaak? Has that girl come back and given you her number yet?” You slow your pace to the elevator, digging into your pocket and peeling out one of the keys from your lanyard for your floor. You nearly drop the thing before you snap and catch onto the metal quickly. Nikto lets off something like an annoyed growl behind you at the interruption from the man across the room. 

He’s impatient, you hum and send him a little glance over your shoulder. Light eyes dig with a warning. You only chuckle and shake your head calmly. One would think that for a PMC he would have all the patience in the world. 

“You know I keep trying to get her to go away,” Isaak smiles at you. “The only woman I’d accept a number from is you, my Little Angel.”

Where the flirtatious comments had gotten you into bed with the man before, now they just didn’t strike you as they had before. Not…anymore. 

You clear your throat and blink away for a moment before you school your expression back to an easy malleability. 

“Good try.” Your focus goes back to the keys, fingers jerkily sifting through them.

Isaak’s brows furrow at your form, perhaps a bit of offense making his face twist—dark eyes slip down your body; pupils dilating. 

A black form steps slightly forward, a large shoulder blocking you from view in one firm movement. Like some wolf with its neck fur standing on end, Nikto’s head is lightly bent down; eyes so intense that they render Isaak frozen in a sense of internal instincts warring with one another.

Nikto doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound—only stares and doesn't blink, immobile as a stone.

The soft music of the lobby blurs to the sound of a heart pounding.

You don’t even notice, humming when you find the correctly marked key from its slate mass and moving forward to press the illuminated button of the elevator. 

“Oh!” Your mind pulls itself back to the present and away from letters and fire. “Isaak, this is Nikto—he’ll be…” A pause, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Are you okay?”

The man looks like he’s about to piss himself. 

Without another word, Isaak scurries into the backroom, the door hitting so hard closed behind him that you flinch slightly and blink in shock. Standing for a moment, you tilt your head slowly right before the elevator dings, signaling you can enter. 

Nikto suddenly grabs the meat of your arm and moves you inside.

“Woah!” You call, huffing. “Careful!” 

“Inside,” the PMC grumbles, eyes tight and beady. 

Your feet stumble when he lets you go, having to steady yourself on the back railing so you don’t fall over and hit your face on the floor. A sharp look is leveled at Nikto as he drops his duffel bag to the ground and hooks his arms at the collar of his rig, grunting and shifting his legs to set himself. 

Blinking rapidly, you sigh out a fast breath.

“You know,” you begin, slotting your key into the plaque that says your floor number, twisting, and then taking a step back. Eyes darting to your side, you ease out slyly. “I’m sure people would like you more if you had the ability to articulate what you’re feeling. I’m getting the sense that you carry your emotions around like you’re trying to choke someone out.”

Nikto glares ahead, a brick wall of nothing but a harsh breath. 

You smile softly and chuckle. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get you into shape in no time.” Pale eyes slowly slide to your face and Nikto’s dead gaze stays there—brows in such a straight line it’s like looking at a statue. “I always do.”

While being around your mom led you to a subdued state, you had no trouble easing back into your usual route of subtle flirting; it was natural to you, even after traumatic events. A cushion, if you will. It felt good to still be able to regulate yourself and have some level of control over your life. 

The three bodies and the Stalker, that senseless shadow, still haunt the back of your eyelids but having a distraction in the light was helping. Something new to focus on. 

“We need copy,” Nikto glares at you, ignoring your soft tone.

As the elevator rises incredibly high, you hum in question, smile flicking to a confused frown. He grits his teeth under his mask.

“The key, Whelp, да?” Your eyes spark.

“Oh, sure,” you shrug. “I don’t have one.” 

Nikto’s shoulders move back, blinking at you quickly. “You…” he trails off into a snarl of Russian. A hand comes up from his side to harshly dig into the bridge of his hidden nose.

You have to restrain a wide smile, the muscles in your face twitching. 

When the doors open, you’re led into the sight of your safe place—an entire world away from the one outside the half-closed blinds of an opposite wall of all windows.

“I’ll order you one,” you try to reassure Nikto, sending him a side glance as you let all of the tension leak out of you as you step inside. “No worries.”

The man follows, jaw tense, as he stoops down and swipes up his bag. 

“How is it that you do not have a second key?” Nikto’s eyes dart around the living room, not showing the slight way he’s taken aback by the size of everything and the design choice. 

It was certainly…unique. 

High mass, there were knickknacks on nearly every surface—a far-off ceiling due to the open second level where the rooms must be. There were hanging beads from the stairs, and plants that grew large and verdant; Nitko blinked at paintings on nearly every surface of the visible wall. A hanging chandelier that emits light over the antique-looking furniture of wood and velvet. 

Even a taxidermy deer head, with its antlers holding jewelry that glints rich and luxurious. Books and painted bits of the walls that were near sheer fabric draped as an accessory from the top of bookshelves. 

“Sorry for the mess,” you utter, sincerely, “if I’d been told that you were going to be staying here, I would have gotten the spare room ready.”

The kitchen is simple and mixed in with the living room in the form of a large island piled with magazines and notebooks. 

You sigh and look around, wrapping your arms around your waist as you glance around the space. Not a stranger to the confused looks you’d get from your style.

Aly described it as a fairy tale. A hut in the woods holding secrets and magic. So different than what AMA had you displayed as—a cold angel of white and sharp feathers.

A product of some great lust machine.

“Just wait until he sees the loft,” you murmur, thinking about all of the various fabrics and tailored clothes you’d had in the open space directly when you walk up the stairs. The Dress Form torso mannequins wearing dresses you’d made with pricked fingers and shaky nerves. 

You hoped he hadn’t met his Soulmate, because you’re sure it’s a hideous mess of colors up there. The thought makes you pause, and you realize you haven’t asked that question to yourself yet. 

Did Nikto see color? 

“No need,” Nikto immediately returns to his stoic monotone at your concern over the state of things. “I make do. Step aside.” 

Slipping off your shoes, you place them in the old claw foot parlor table you’d made into your entryway storage, glancing at the void as he walks around your creaky wooden floors with his heavy boots. 

“Shoes,” you remind, voice light. 

The beast halts, his back to you halfway onto your handmade Persian rugs. You watch his fingers twitch around his duffel bag straps, as you go to close your secondary door; hiding the gaping wound in the building as the elevator leaves. A soft click emanates just as the man grunts lowly and lets his bag slam to the floor. 

In one movement, the Russian bends down and unlaces his boots in firm and quick motions, grabbing them and turning like a puppet on a string. He plants them next to yours on the parlor table and sends you a tight look with hard eyes.

Nikto’s accent flares in his quick comment. “You are strange, Girl.”

You hum and shift out of your jacket, folding it and placing it atop the shoes. 

“Oh, so I’m strange because I don’t want you tracking dirt on my clean rugs? The people you live around must be slobs.”

“We do not live around others.” 

You blink, staring into his eyes as your skin pulls lightly. “Then I’m sorry. That must be very lonely.” 

Nikto’s muscles tense under his gear, great thighs hardening. He growls low after a moment of stiffly watching you. “I do not need pity, certainly not from you,” and then stalks off, leaving his bag in the foyer. 

Lips slightly parted, you let him walk away and snoop, taking account of the rooms and the layout for his own needs. Sighing, you rub at the back of your head before letting your hand drop back down, pulling at the fabric of your turtle neck. 

You couldn’t deny that you found Nikto physically attractive—the large stature and built frame made your neurons fire, how he loped along with his bulky gear. Sure, that was natural, and despite the attitude, you did feel secure around him. He had an extensive record for a reason, and your mother would only include the best in her decisions. 

It also attested to the fact that you didn’t find his aggression at all fear-inducing if that made any sense at all. To everyone else, he would be the pinnacle of an axe murderer, but, for some reason, he didn’t feel like that to you. A bit loose, sure, but the knowledge that this man was entirely mission-driven sat well with you. 

It confused you—why did you not entirely mind having him around?

I can live with this, you tell yourself, brushing off your sweatpants and telling yourself not to think of the bakery or about Sergi, Yefim, or Petya; Aleksandr. 

But when all that’s moved away like a curtain in front of the window, the view still remains. 

The Stalker. 

You still couldn’t rationalize it. How could someone do that? Be so bold and brute-like? And it was all over you. 

Never had you been overconfident in yourself—you knew you had the looks and the money, the ability to do what few people could, but that had never gotten into your head. It was common knowledge that every model had a shelf-life and yours would probably end sooner than later if this kept up. 

Any damage to your flesh that left long-term scarring was an instant dismissal. No negative press for AMA, either. 

In all of this, you were walking a very thin path of horror and reality, like a show at a circus. And you of all people know you can’t walk in a straight line.

The overwhelming feeling of being hunted was setting in and you were entirely in the woods with blood poured over your body; weighing down a dress of linen and calling the beasts to feast upon your flesh with a ravaging appetite. 

Swallowing the bile in your throat, you quickly go to find where Nikto had slinked off to, suddenly very cold and not liking the silence. On the way, you flick at your record player, and the old rusty thing spits out Clair De Lune as the glass sun catchers shaped like stars glimmer from the loft’s beams. 

“Nikto?” You call in question, looking around before you murmur to yourself. “Where did you get to?” 

Carefully grabbing the railing to the stairs, you watch your feet as you slowly ascend, piano music in the background; fingers tight and hard as you slide it up one at a time. You only knock your foot once, two steps from the top, but quickly recover with only a huff and a tiny chuckle. 

Nikto walks through the top seating area filled with your materials and fabric, glancing at every book and measuring device that you have; the half-finished pieces. You blink and watch, wondering what he’s thinking as he clicks his tongue before walking to the first door and pushing it open. Your eyes slightly widen at that. 

“Well, you sure do like making yourself at home,” your voice calls to the dark figure, and you shake your head. You begin following as if he is showing you around your place and not the other way around. 

“I am doing my job.” Nikto’s voice spits out from the opening as you shuffle in. He glances around the small guest bedroom quickly. “Your home is cluttered.” The Russian mutters. “Messy.”

“I call it controlled chaos.” You ease, hands slipping into your pockets beside your phone and wallet. “You’ll find I’m fond of shiny things.”

“We can tell.” Head tilting, you restrain yourself from asking why he keeps referring to himself in the first person like that.

“You’re free to take this room if you want.” There are three doors that make up the separate walls—the one you’d both just walked through, one to the adjoining library and joint bathroom, and the other to your master bedroom with a respective master bath. 

All connected to one another like a train car. 

Nikto grunts and slips his eyes to the bits of personalization you’d left, though not as much as the rest of the penthouse. The bed was a Full size, there was a desk with bits of lush greenery coming off from a planter, and storage for clothes in the form of a large wardrobe you’d found in an antique store. 

Classy, you thought, however, your standards for decoration weren’t the pinnacle of design. A set of Russian nesting dolls from your mother was put onto shelves, and in one of the corners, a hanging oil lamp sat above a nightstand. 

Gray plush duvet and a fluffy rug you were told was purple when Alyona stayed over, with large pillows that looked like bear fur.

“Again,” you send a glance to the blank stare that Nikto keeps on you. “I didn’t know you were staying over.”

“It is… sufficient.” Gruff and final, though with an air of annoyed disgust, the Russian goes into the library second to last and then heads into your room with his broad back expanding; leaving a trail of authority in his wake. 

Under your breath, you quietly mock him before rolling your eyes and following. For all this, you ended up being correct. Nikto was a good distraction. 

The first thing that he notices is the stuffed animals.

They take up most of the window nook, some incredibly large and fluffy while others are small and could be crushed in his palm, even sitting atop one another if the space allowed. Nikto blinks at the sight of a very large bear plushie with a small bird on the head—little felt feet sticking out in front of it. 

You clear your throat, the hot embarrassment flooding your face as your smile turns sheepish. 

“Just…uhm…it’s just a little bit of an addiction.” Like the rest of the house, that fairy tale feeling emanates here as well—fancy curtain holders, old tea cups holding palm-sized pewter statues, paintings, and stained-glass lamps from the nineteen hundreds. 

Pale eyes tilt their gaze down to you, silent as always.   

“But at least it’s not drugs!” You push out quickly, awkwardly chuckling and shrugging your shoulders. 

Your feet shift from under you, the large room that you call your own not something you planned on having to describe today. There was something incredibly intimate about letting someone into your house—someone you didn’t know especially. 

Nikto puffs a bit of air in something akin to a scoff, turning his head away from you but not after a slight quirk of his brow. 

“Are you sure you are not on drugs?” You snap up to stare at him, falling silent for a moment as he turns and leaves. 

Gaping, you stutter, slightly amused, “W-was that a joke, Nikto?” He doesn’t answer and a slow smile grows on your lips. “Hey! C’mon did you just make a joke? Awe,” you coo, “I really am good at this!” 

“Stop talking.” Nikto snarls, glaring as he goes down to the ground level. “You are making my ears hurt.” 

You hurry to the stairs, following after with a steady mood, chuckling. 

“If you’re going to be my glorified roommate, I think talking is part of the—” A sharp gasp rips from you as your leg hits on the banister, your foot locked through the metal as you yelp loudly at the sudden pain. In a quick tilt your vision slides, a swift sensation of gravity taking over as your body takes you tumbling backwards. 

You tense mid-air, mind already made up about the incoming pain of your head knocking off the hard material, your skull rattling and splitting open; blood and brain matter spilling out to coat the—

Arms snap around your waist, legs still on the top half of the stairs and back hitting a large chest as you grunt in surprise; eyes blinking wildly. 

Heart hammering, your head quickly looks up only to find the piercing eyes of Nikto burning down into you. Your nose brushes his face mask, the harsh fabric of the lover half pressing into yours. 

You both stay there for a moment, Nikto’s blazing gaze unphased, it seemed, by the close contact. Inside of your gut, your stomach flips, and a tightness flares in your lungs. 

Upon the air, your voice stutters out, tiny, “M-my bad.” You accent it with a helpless chuckle.

Nikto’s breath brushes over your forehead, and with a quick jerk of his arms you’re set back up on top of the stares. Even here, you meet the man’s height perfectly—him a few steps below you yet still a giant. 

“This will be a problem, yes?” Nikto barks out. You steady yourself on the railing and take a deep breath. “You. You are…” His eyes twitch as if trying to find the correct word in English. He grunts to himself, fingers twitching.

You tilt your head, still calming down. Your throat is tight at the heat that still emanates from where Nikto’s hands had wrapped around you.

“...Shaky?”

“Hm,” Nikto doesn’t seem like that word fits best, but he nods once firmly, folding his arms over his chest and never once releasing you from his stare. Studying you as a monster does a maiden. “Да.”

You jerkily shrug, rubbing at your neck with one hand. 

“Well, I guess brain damage will do that to you,” your lips tilt in an amiable smile—trying to play off what you say as you continue. Nikto’s body goes still, yet his attention never leaves. His eyes narrow. “I should have told you when we met, but you were, eh,” you chuckle, looking away for a moment. “Pretty quick with wanting to leave.”

A strained silence falls; an unknown emotion in the air. 

“I—” Your voice is cut off by your phone vibrating from inside of your pocket, and with your hand snapping to that general area, you blink in surprise. “Oh.” 

Fishing it out with awkward fingers, you find the illuminated screen and a text from Alyona calling up to you.

‘Video call w AMA & managers. 5 min. Be ready!’ 

“Shit,” you mutter, immediately going into your professional headspace. 

But before you can rush off to grab your computer and slap makeup on your face, Nikto’s hand yanks your phone from your grasp. Blinking at your empty palm, your face darts up with a swift offense growing. 

“Nikto!”

“Quiet.” The man taps into your contacts and you watch helplessly as he begins slashing in his own number with his digits firmly pressing in hard intervals to the keypad. 

Huffing, you shake your head and leave him there to do what he needs to do, not overprotective of a device and more concerned with the time constraint that was leveled like a noose around your neck. 

You had to look somewhat good for the call, after all, they could be waiting to tell you you’re fired. 

They wouldn’t do that with Alyona there, you reason as you narrowly dodge running onto a side table before you enter your room again, though this time from the main door. Not the managers either. 

Your lips pull straight. 

But if the CEO was on call, then you’d have to worry. He had no problem being ruthless about policy and public image, always so pretentious with his power over all of the men and women employed at Allurement. 

But then again, he had always seemed to take an interest in you, anyway. 

You slip out of your turtleneck and pull on a silk top that seems either white or a very very pale color—either way, they always put you in something near to white, so it didn’t matter. Since it was a video call, there was no need to show your bottom half; the sweatpants stayed. 

Makeup was the hard part. 

With your nerve spasms always showing up at inopportune times, it took a long time if someone else wasn’t doing it for you. You had ways to combat it, sure, but none you could get ready in five minutes. 

Three, you tell yourself. 

An idea hits your head like a rock.

“Nikto!” You call, rushing to your vanity and pushing aside a plush raccoon to snag your mascara. There wasn’t time for anything else. “I have a favor!”

“No,” the man materializes in the opening of your door, the backdrop of your fabric mess in the loft behind him; the clashing of shades momentarily confuses you, blinking quickly, but you recover with a huff and a plea.

“I need you to put my mascara on—my hands are too unpredictable right now.” He’s growling in the way you’re already accustomed to. This must be one hell of a day for him. “Your job is to protect me right? I need you to protect me from public humiliation.”

“Then humiliate yourself.” Nikto’s narrowed eyes lower even farther, face turned sharply to you as you walk over and hold out the stick. “This is not my job.”

You dig hard into his eyes, serious if not a bit willing. “I’d owe you.” Your tone is hard but true. 

The Russian bear’s shoulders roll slightly, getting higher and more irritated. He grunts at you. After a long and heartstopping moment, he grabs onto your pocket and slips your phone back inside, jostling your body into his as you make a noise in surprise. 

In that same movement, the mascara stick is yanked from your hand and fingers grapple onto your chin. 

Your eyes go wide; body instantaneously tensing, as the unyielding grip moves your chin to the side and one hand unscrews the mascara with a slight pop of the seal. 

“You are dependent,” Nikto’s digits are tight, but you don’t blink or pull away as the stick spreads pigment. “I do not like it, Girl. Like child running with a knife.” 

“Aren’t you such a ray of sunshine?” You grumble but stay deathly still. Nikto’s body is tight against yours, leaning over you. 

The guy certainly didn’t mind getting handsy if he needed to. Thinking like that makes your feet shuffle tinily under you, a heat emanating from your cheeks and your thighs momentarily becoming stiff. 

His body warmth bleeds through his bulk; the grating press of his chest plate to your upper body.

“Stop breathing,” Nikto hisses and your cheek is moved to the side, knee knocking into his leg. 

You feel and see the stick descend and move your lashes delicately, quite adverse to the attitude you’re getting. The Russian is attentive and set on getting his task done, even if he despises it.

“What kind of a request is that?!” 

“Hush!” He barks and you both try to glare at each other as the last of the mascara is bushed on. “Get out.”

You pull back and frown up at him.

“I’m sorry you think that your attitude is appropriate, Nikto.” With your nose in the air, your hands grapple for your laptop on the way out of your room and sit at the desk out in your loft. Tossing a stack of fabric to the floor and brushing down the surface. 

Behind you, there’s a plain-colored sheet hung to the wall for conferences—and you make sure it’s in place as you plop down to your seat. 

Nikto’s angry eyes bore into you from the doorway, which he slowly leans against and crosses his arms heavily. 

He mutters under his breath in fast Russian, shaking his head as you unlock your laptop and log in, easily clicking where you need to go and pulling up your video call with twenty seconds to spare. 

Alyona’s face appears first, looking to the side, and you send a soft smile before you unmute yourself. 

“Feeling better?” The woman perks up, eyes coming to you. She beams.

“Солнышко!” You laugh, tilting your head. “No, no, forget about me, how are you?” Aly gives you her full attention. “I need to come over and visit, yes? We should have a girl’s night again. Just us.” 

“I’m…alright,” you simply say, fast to reassure her of her worries. There was no need to burden the model with your fears. Not when she’s still living with her own. “And that might be a bit difficult on the ‘just us’ part, unfortunately.”

She sighs but is serious in her concern.

“New bodyguard, Seraph?” Nikto listens to everything from across the loft, and you glance up at him before you open your mouth to speak in the affirmative.

“Live-in.” Alyona thins her lips, but, surprisingly, doesn’t seem off-put. 

“Perhaps that is good, hm? If it’s to keep you safe, I would be willing to deal with it.” Before you can admit that it’s not the worst idea in the world, though draining, three others pop into the call.

Yours and Alyona’s managers, and, of course, the CEO of AMA. 

You have to hide your curse before it sneaks out of your mouth. Everyone greets one another, and you send polite smiles and hellos in return. Corporate professionalism a virus that sweeps your features into a mask of compliance and brain-dead agreements. 

Kliment Fedorov, CEO of Allurement Modeling Agency, shows his large and round face in the very center of the screen; with tiny eyes like a fly and a bald head. He’s in his office.

The man calls your name and smiles wide, pure white teeth leaning more towards fake looking than just the results of frequent brushing. 

“It is good to see both of my best girls getting along. No lasting marks, I hope?” You and Aly dart look. 

“None, Sir.” You both answer, still smiling and falling in line. They only speak in English for your comfort—in your manager’s box, you see his translator lean into his ear and relay the words being let out.

“Good, good! This is great news. Seraph,” you perk up, Nikto from the back shuffling while looking around his surroundings. He picks at a piece of reflective fabric on a side table with his brutish fingers, twisting it before huffing and tossing it away. He snoops as if put off by the high-mass areas, used to order and cleanliness. 

Not that it wasn’t clean, but outwardly it gave off a certain impression of clutter.

“How soon can you be back? We have had even more propositions offered because of this event.” Your lungs stutter. “Mrs. Solovyova and yourself are very profitable for the company at the current time; this only made your popularity better!” 

Your manager, Kostya, spits off into his native tongue with its harsh edges. Nikto’s head shifts back your way but says nothing. 

Profitable? Wanted? You can’t say you’re overly thrilled at the comments. Just like you can’t say you want to get back to work when the Stalker knows exactly where you’ll be. 

Who could say when he would strike again? A day? A week? Going back to AMA would make the target on your back as large as a damn elephant.

Kliment waves a hand and your manager falls silent at the sheen of anger in his fly-eyes. He continues.

“Of course, AMA had to take precautions, Ladies.” Alyona shifts in her box on the screen, glancing to the side. “We were very close to having to terminate your deal with us. Such events are…ah, dangerous for our image.”

It’s like a punch to the gut you knew was coming. The only reason you were still employed was because of companies trying to profit off of the girls who beat the odds and survived a direct attack on one of their own. 

You could already see the headlines—had seen the headlines. 

Aly and you know the response you need to give.

“Thank you, Sir.” Smiles are stiff, but a sheet of pleasure washes Kliment’s face.

“Well, of course, my girls! I would never get rid of such beauties, no, no. This agency is your home—I love my women like my own.” His eyes stay on you, and your body shivers even miles away. “But lovely Seraph, again, when can we have you back? Everyone has been asking, yes? Photographers lining up! But of course, you’ll keep your assigned one.” 

Everyone? You swallow down saliva thinking about crowds and the peering eyes. 

“Uhm,” Nikto openly stares, and you glance up at him. He offers no help above a tilt of his head; arms over his chest. “W-when would you need me back, Sir. My calendar is always free for you.”

“Good! Tomorrow, then. Mrs. Solovyova?” 

“...That works for me, Sir.” 

“Perfect!” You sigh and close your eyes for a moment before the CEO jumps into business—your managers taking notes in preparation for scheduling and locations. “I will send the details over to your departments and good wishes to the companies, I’ll expect to hear of you both being in tomorrow.” 

He leaves the call, but not without a smirk forming on his face. 

The managers talk for a few moments, getting almost everything in order before they too leave. 

Aly and you release a deep breath, both sagging. The other woman is first to speak.

“Bastard.” Nikto scoffs from across the room. You peek before you rub your head and nod in turn. 

“A creep, one hundred percent.” Alyona sighs, and her palm acts as a headrest as she lays her chin on it. She licks her lips, face going hard.

“You don’t think that he…” Your brows tilt in confusion before you catch what she’s trying to say. 

“No, Aly, it can’t be him.” She frowns. “T-that would be,” you force a laugh, hands beginning to spasm. Swiftly you move them under the desk. “That would be insane.”

Nikto takes his phone out of his pocket and taps something into the screen, feet spacing themselves in a display of a perfect soldier. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, Солнышко.” You turn away for a moment. “Anyone could be at this point.” 

“My mother said there was a break-in at the bakery before the explosion. Someone planted that bomb because they guessed on an off chance that we would go out.” You breathe sharply. “Do you know how insane that is? Anyone could have,” swiftly stopping your sentence, you shake your head to clear it. “It’s…the person who’s doing this can’t blend into normal life. It has to be obvious, and everyone’s missing it.”

“Easy, Little Seraph,” Alyona eases, showing you a hand to get you to come back to her. “We will figure this out, yes?” 

A hand rubs along your face and you whisper out, “Okay.” 

“I’ll see you and the new man tomorrow—you know you can call me with anything. Nikifor and I worry about you. Yekaterinburg is a dangerous place, regardless.” You have to smile at that, lightly chuckling. Aly tilts her head as her hair brushes her shoulders after a moment of quiet thinking. A lighter air spreads out like her voice from the speakers. “...Who did your makeup in so little time?” 

“See you tomorrow!” You grab the end of the laptop and slam it closed as the woman yells out to you.

“Don’t fuck him on the first day!” Wanting to shrivel up and die, you avoid Nikto’s suddenly brutal gaze and quickly push a smile to your lips.

“S…she’s joking.” His pale eyes aren’t amused. 

Nighttime is a strange affair between the two of you.

You jump at every strange noise—like Nikto rearranging his room better to his standards—as you think of dinner for two. Laying on the couch, back in your turtle neck, it’s hard to focus above the scrape of hardwood and the low grunts from above; the distant rhythmic stomp of feet.

You rub your eyes and groan low. This was going to be a task, even for your usually placid attitude. 

“What the hell does a monster eat?” The comment is directed at the taxidermy deer on your wall as you move to stand. “Liver? The souls of my enemies?” You blink, pausing before you mumble. “Maybe that’s not so bad, now that I think about it.” 

Your pantry was already sparse at best. 

Tapping the cupboard, you settle on something that Alyona had taught you to make with her mother. Cabbage Soup—Schi or щи—low overall in calories but still filling when you know your limits; healthy as well as hardy. You mess with the bag of potatoes and peel out a few, turning and setting them down on the island. 

With the dark night soon setting in, you push the automatic button on your wall and watch the curtains close the rest of the way with a soft buzzing sound. Sighing, you flick on the lights and get to work as the gray blobs of potatoes fall apart under your knife, set to the side. 

Cooking, while you still had a complicated relationship with food, did truly make you calm down. The tremors eased up, your feet stopped moving so much—you even felt yourself getting hungry as the ingredients were roughly chopped and dropped into a pot to boil. 

If you allowed yourself it, you wouldn’t have minded growing up to be a cook instead of some form of greed and envy. But the thought of that now made you lose your appetite entirely.

When you’re half done with your tiny bowl, water on the side with nothing else, Nikto stalks down the stairs. 

He takes one look at your bowl and speaks lowly. 

“Щи.” You hum, recognizing the word that Aly’s mother had said. He grunts, chest jerking as he comes around the island to the boiling pot; his back now to you. “You will starve with that small of a portion, Whelp.” 

Blinking, you sip down some of the broth from your spoon and furrow your brow. That nickname still makes your eyelids narrow in slight disapproval, but you let it go.

“I don’t think so, Nikto. It’s the last bit of calories I need for the day.” Pale eyes watch over his shoulder, pulling smaller.

“I find that insulting.” His hand grabs the ladle, bringing it up to stare. The Russian’s shoulder blades pull out at the motion, the line of his spine most likely showing through his skin under all that gear. You should tell him it’s okay to take it off, but you highly doubt he ever does outside of sleep. “Pointless.”

“You try being a model,” you remark. “You’ve got the body for it, at least. I know a few people that would swoon over the height alone.” 

Nikto’s visible skin pulls, biceps tense. “Swoon, Girl?” The accent makes it sound like a bark from a dog. 

You take your last spoonful, covering your mouth with your hand as you speak. 

“Like,” pausing, you swallow, “actually I don’t know what that means. Become emotionally affected, I guess?”

“I do not care if people become ‘emotionally affected’ by my height.” Nikto pulls a bowl from the cupboard—a large one. “Such things are below me. All that matters is the mission.”

“Sounds boring,” you huff. “Sour cream is in the fridge.” 

The light from the machine greets you as the condiment is taken out and emptied into a nearly overflowing bowl of cabbage soup. Blinking at the amount of food that would burst your stomach if you ate it, you shrug and clean out the last of the broth by bringing the lip of the bowl to your mouth. 

Nikto huffs, looking down at the soup. He pauses.

“Where is баранины?” Your confusion must be plainly stated on your face because he seems to clench his jaw and say through his teeth. “Lamb.”

“Alyona never made it with meat,” you answer, hopping off your stool and moving to put your dirty dishes in the sink. “But I’ve heard everyone makes it differently depending on where you grew up. Was that how your parents made it?” 

When you turn back around he’s already walking away from you. Watching, wide-eyed at how silently he cleared the room, you make a small sound in the back of your throat as he disappears upstairs.

The silence wafts back in, only the small noise from the record player dancing in your ears. 

You lick your lips for the remaining taste of food and clean up with a still-growling stomach, shaking your head at the strange character living with you. Hoping this doesn’t drag out any longer than it has to and you’re able to find the stalker soon, you hear your phone go off on the counter as you mull over your predicament. 

After you put the last of the leftovers away, you pat your hands on your pants and reach for your device, flipping over the screen and reading what will probably be a text from Aly for tomorrow. 

You pause. 

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

‘Why won’t you let me love you?’ 

Staring, whatever sense of normalcy you had from cooking was snatched away. The blood in your veins halts with a blockage of iron and fear. Instantaneously, adrenaline spikes, making your pupils go small and your jaw clench. 

Hands shake. You almost drop your phone. 

With a quick punch of your fingers, you delete the text and block the number—tossing your device back to the counter and moving away from it until your back hits the cupboards. 

Spasming palms slap to the stone countertop, grip tight. 

You stare at the phone for a very long time, hearing nothing but the dull drone of the piano, the sounds of the city outside, and the pulse of your veins. Static was in your ears. 

Gasping for a sudden deep breath, you clear your throat and turn away to finish cleaning, your body unable to stay still.

That night, like the ones previous, you find trouble sleeping. 

The room was only illuminated by the fairy lights you’d strung from the ceiling, a soft fade and reentry like twinkling stars hanging in a black sky. You stare at them with open eyes, laying on your back surrounded by a multitude of quilts and blankets—pillows that crowd with doughy insides. 

Nikto was turning in his bed, and the movement was setting you on edge. 

The PMC had ordered you to keep the door between your rooms open at night, in case something was happening he would hear you better. You held your tongue on the fact that if this creep managed to get into your penthouse then it was already over for you. Regardless, now you could hear every shift and grunt—every huff of annoyed air. 

No doubt the Full bed in the spare room was too tiny for him, nothing compared to your King. 

Sighing and covering your eyes with your forearm, you call out sleepily. 

“Are you sleeping alright?” The shifting stops. You wait for a response but get none. “Nikto?” Nothing. 

Sitting up, your large silk pajamas hang off one shoulder as you yawn; covering your mouth you stand and steady yourself on the oak bed frame. Standing so you can get your bearings, you decide to do what you normally do when you can’t sleep. 

Grabbing your phone’s flashlight, you flick it on and head to the kitchen—being extra careful and taking the stairs at half the speed you normally would. In the kitchen you grab at the stacked teacups and pick one with flowers on the sides; giggling to yourself at the thought.

Magnolia Tea. 

Its smell burns into your nostrils as you prepare it in near-darkness, like a beacon of light the liquid shimmers. You remember your mother making it for you after the accident—helping you to sleep and stave off the nightmares; the insomnia. 

You finish your cup in the kitchen but bring the second back up with you. Spilling only a little onto the tea plate, you go through the main door to your room and then turn to the blackened opening of Nitko’s doorway. 

“I made tea,” your voice echoes. But no sound. 

Maybe he was already asleep now. 

“No need to drink it, but it helps me when I can’t sleep. Magnolia, if you’re curious.” You chuckle, fairy lights illuminating your face. “Sorry, I’m keeping you up. I’ll leave it in the doorway, okay?”

Silence, but perhaps a tiny huff from inside the lion's den. Good or bad, you have no clue. Slipping back into bed, you try not to think about what you’re sleeping above—the letters from the Stalker’s gifts. 

You’d never opened them, and you never would. Inside that lockbox is where they would stay.

Your phone vibrates on your nightstand, and even with the tea in your stomach, it is a long, long, time before your eyes flutter closed. 

Yefim’s body dances like a puppet on a string, a shadowy figure pulling the cords and letting his decimated corpse sway; jewelry stapled into his burnt neck like a collar. A noose that your desperate fingers try to hang onto.

How long could you keep this game up?

TAGS:

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[constantlymisspelled]

Mandalorian Armour Colours

Armour Colour meanings and Classifications

Perhaps it's a little ridiculous, but with more and more fans wanting a full comprehensive guide to colours, and my own frustration at not being able to find the fanon colour charts of old, here we are. For both your sake, and mine, please don't be upset if anyone doesn't utilise this guide, it is after all a guide, and only a fanmade compilation. If anyone has any criticisms, that's what edit is for, and if you want further definition, do not hesitate to let me know in the comments.

The Classicly Accepted;

[This section is the clolours accepted by Canon Media, both Disney and Legends. I will include a colour swatch and the Taubman's pallet code for ease of use. If there are colours you wish to see evaluated, or meanings you wish to infer, let me know.]

[The tiles above are literally the closest I could find to Jaster's colour, and to Boba's visor colours. The left is Red Alert, T12 26.H5, and the right is Crossfire, T15 196.6.]

Red - Ge'tal

'Honouring a parent.' This colour has been seen on the edge of Boba Fett's visor for years, and has been a staple Mandalorian colour for a long time. Honouring a parent is considered acceptable in most forms of Mandalorian Society, hence its widespread use. Honouring does not have to mean morning, and when some Mandalorians move past the grief of a lost loved one, or parent, they move to change the greys to reds, or oranges, in remembrance not of their death, but the life that family member - usually a provider in this case - had lived.

White - Cin

'A new start/Clean slate.' The literal translation for the phrase describing white on armour (Cin Vhetin) is 'White field,' or 'Snow Covoured Field.' It creates the notion that you are starting over, as winter has come, and it covers all that you used to be, allowing you to completely restructure yourself before spring arrives to thaw it, as a totally new person, with new honour and oaths to fulfil. Often associated with adult adoptions, or redemption vows completed, signifying new life.

[The image above features Jaster as he was in the first issue of Jango Fett - Open Seasons. It is accessible (the pic) on wiki, and I'm pretty sure the comic is available on most comic archives. Jaster's colour are, famously, dark grey, black, red and the yellow Haat Mando'ade Crest.]

Black - Ne'tra

Justice - the colour of Mandalorians whose moral code is unshakable. A notable wearer of this colour is Jaster Mereel himself. Most kute are often this colour, or dark blue (navy) and in most cases that is for cost reasons, and to prevent staining. However, black is the colour of night, and of Death - an important concept to all Mandalorian Sects - and creates a sense of uniformity amongst even the most visually different individuals. Justice, Death, and all that this might entail is a corner stone of Mandalorian culture and perception. One cannot live if they do not accept that Death is a possibility. Black can denote serving of justice, seeking justice, or preserving it.

Grey - Genet

'Honouring lost love, or mourning a lost loved one'. The separate shades of Grey have meaning in some Clans and Houses, but across most of Mandalorian Space, Grey is to signify the passing of a loved one. It can even be worn if either a Clan has been lost, or if a member has been excommunicated. There are also occasions of possible ven'riduur wearing the colour when another warrior gets there before them.

[The above image is the reverse of the New Zealand Free State of Niue's reverse coin. Gold does not promote prestige in Mandalorian culture, but danger. If dressed in gold, one is to be weary.]

Gold - Ve'vut

Vengeance, a common place, and important part of Mandalorian Culture and Law. Methods of vengeance are protected and controlled by Mandalorian Law. Acts that go from vengeance to Revenge can face serious consequence. Outsiders that meet warriors in this colour are warned to practice caution. A Mandalorian's wealth is not decided by the colour of their armour, but of their actions, and gold denotes a thirst for vengeance, in a control, personal manner.

[The image to the left is Nocturne Shade, T15 139.6, and the image to the right is Bright Cerulean, T15 138.7. I included a vivid and deep blue to show the scope of what is considered baseline, before entering Light Blue, Sky Blue, or Navy. I chose as close as I could to Jango Fett's armour, and both Paz Vizsla, and Vizsla House.]

Blue - Kebiin

Reliability, a warrior and Mandalorian who is secure in who they are, what they are capable of, and what they have to offer the galaxy. Warriors in their prime often wear this colour. It is often taken as a show of subtle faith and loyalty to whichever leader these particular Mandalorians serve. Blue is also often worn by mercenaries and Journeyman to create a sense of calm and trust between them and their charges. Blue is often seen as a solid, and dependable colour, and associated with leadership, and their support. Blue is the colour of the Mandalorian Protectors Universal Sigil. Parents who are raising children alone also wear this colour, as a way of reinforcing the belief that they can care for their child alone - a rare occurrence in Mandalorian Space.

Orange -

lust for life, shereshoy

[The colour to the right is literally as close as I could get to Boba Fett's armour. The image on the left is Irish Stone, T15 164.7, and the right is Deep Veridian, T10 54F-2.]

Green - Vorpan

Duty - often considered the workers' colour, green represents hard work, and deep commitment to a cause, a task, an ideal, or an action. Many members of the Fett House predominantly wear this colour as a nod to their humble beginnings, and many farmers and tradespeople wear some small segment of green to denote their occupation. The kind of green, and the way it is worn can also denote different trades and employment types, although like with most colours, each mandalorian is ultimately able to make decisions for themself on what their colours mean to them.

The Observed and Official Greater House uses;

[This section is for Fanon, or non-official colours. The Mandalorian Mercs and other cosplay groups have commonly accepted colour codes, as do some sections of the Fanfic writing community. If anyone has any colour ideas, do let me know, and feel free to leave a link to other colour charts in the notes! It's my ambition to make sourcing knowledge on Mandalorian culture easier and easier for newer fans.]

[Image for Beskar Silver was taken from the Etsy Adds for Beskar Ingots. There are multiple companies and craftspeople that make these - vey cool! I can not let myself buy any. I can not!!!]

Silver - Beskar

The Colour of unpainted beskar, the associated meanings are either that you have not had the chance to paint it, or if you are in full, evidently in use armour, that you have no right to wear paint. It is the assumed non-colours of the Silver Children (An Elite Group of Mandalorian Ori'ramikade) and the Naasaade (the Nameless Society, a group of Mandalorians who have either been put towards the path of redemption by order, or by choice) and of many bounty hunters of the Outer Rim who seek to keep their clan affiliations a secret. It is widely believed that if any Mandalorian is to have honour, it is one in silver, as it infers that this particular Mandalorian will do all that is possible to be seen as honourable once more by themselves, others, their clan, and the Ka'ra.

[The image on the left is Blue Booties (I know right?), T15 142.1, and the image on the right is Reflection, T15 142.2. I included an eggshell blue, and a powder, almost greenish pale blue. I even checked the definition of Cyan for you. Essentially, really light teal, like, really light.]

Cyan, or Sky Blue -

'New Love', often used as the symbol of engagement. Most Mandalorians cannot afford to exchange and modify pieces of their armour from one partner to another, and so instead of this practice from the eras of battlefield weddings, most unmarried warriors are encouraged to carry a small vial of this colour paint instead. This is a practice seen more amongst the traditionalists, who believe in earning armour on your own merit, and not upon the backs of others. Other methods of using this colour is in Cyan Beads upon your kute, or the addition of decorative cord upon a warrior's shoulder to denote engagement, or new marriage.

The Two Shades of Purple

[Purple is a difficult colour. Caught between red and blue, and having so many varied shades and meanings across both Mandalore, and the fandom, I've done my best to create the general feel of what purple means to a culture obsessed with living life to the fullest, and honouring your oaths.]

[Image on the left has Imperial Violet, T15 211.4, and the image on the right has Purple Statice, T15 210.5. I grabbed both a warm and cool variety for those of you with colour schemes to match. Purple is a colour often associated in fandom with chance, hope, and luck.]

a) Lavender, or Violet

The colour of luck and chance, Violet and Lavender are supposed to be a sign of recognition and faith to the old Mandalorian God and Spirit of Luck, and although belief in the Gods has long since faded, folklore still holds most shades of lighter purple as the colour of chance, change, and good futures. It is a common colour for new parents wishing to do right by their children.

[Image on the left is Imperial Purple, T15 213.7, and the image on the right is Royal Indigo, T15 130.7. Again, I have used both warm and cool shades to allow as much versatility as possible with colour palletes.]

b) Indigo

Often considered the colour of hope, Indigo and its shades are often used to mean the same things as other shades of purple, and when paired with colours such as Cyan, and Teal, or even most forms of blue, is meant to inspire a sense of gratitude, or gratefulness for victory, present peace, currently good fortune and such, whilst lighter shades are meant to bring said fortune.

[Image on the left is Tapestry Teal, T15 153.6, and the image on the right is Lagoon Teal, T15 153.5. Both Teals are on the lighter side, but you can absolutely go darker in this colour and have the same meaning.]

Teal -

Considered the unofficial colours of the New Mandalorians, the colour was originally worn only by medics, emergency workers, and those who had retired from active combat. It was supposed to be the colour of those who had seen violence, and stood up to atrocities in the name of peace. It is now considered a cowards colour amoungst Kyrtsaade circles, and New Mandalorians forbade its application in armour as a falsehood and a breaking of the Healers Code. However, Traditionalists and Way Followers still view it as the colour of choice for more reserved, shrewd verde who fight as a last resort.

[images above are to the left, Minty Green, T15 165.3, and to the right, Sherbet Lime, T15 167.3. Once again, included a warm and cool option.]

Light Green -

'Lust for peace', 'The Guardian', or 'Peace Keeper's Colours'. Often used by warriors who practice non-lethal forms of combat - guards that utilise stun batons and blanks instead of live ammunition. Under the New Mandalorians, it became indistinguishable from Teal and its meanings, but in all other forms of Mandalorian culture, Light Green is used for warriors and guards of sacred r special places, such as schools, hospitals, or the water ways. Light Green is a deeply respected, and widely used colour, even if its meaning has been watered down and misinterpreted by the galaxy at large.

Yellow - Shi'yayc

Dark Green

Dark Blue

Tan

Brown

Cream/Beige

Maroon and Burgundy

[I couldn't pick one... Image above contains Baby Girl, Pigtail Pink, River Rouge, Spring Pink, Jaguar Rose, After the Dance, Flamenco Fire, Turkish Delight, Pink Flambe, Pink Clay Pot, Bold Flame and Strawberry Splash. The codes are found on Taubmans website.]

Pink -

Respect, Knowledge, and Respected. Interestingly, pink in Mandalorian Space is a colour of status, as a unification of white and red, it combines the ideas of horouring those that raised you, and your new beginnings, and the outcome became the colour pink. Different shades mean different things in the more secular coverts, but it is important to note that field archivists, officers, and journalists have a tendency to wear at least some pink.

Additional Colours and Varieties;

Metallics

Mattes and Gloss

Patterning

Symbols of the Mandalorians;

The symbols used in Mandalore are vast, and complicated, and often the colour can change the meaning of the symbol. Colour is, as always, up to the discretion and particular tastes of the Mandalorian in question, but there are common associations, and symbols mandated for use by specific beings.

[Extrapolation will be added]

--------------

[Wrote this for my own use, and as a guide on mainstream Mandalore and the subsects we might actually see in Disney media (can you see me distancing their bizarre writing from myself? can you??) after all, the official website lists Din's armour as grey? What?? Bro, no.]

Resources;

The only copy of the old Fan Canon List I could find:

[Fanon List in image is as follows; Purple - Luck, Pink - Respected or Respecting Someone, White - Purity, Brown - Valor, Maroon - Power, Light Green - Lust for Peace, Scarlet - Defiance, Silver - Seeking Redemption, Yellow - Remembrance, Teal - Healing.]

Found on Pinterest. It used to part of one of the cosplay forums, but I can no longer find it. It runs off old canon. There are some issues with the list, but ah well.

Mandalorian Mercs Forum; [here]

They're rather official, and a great deal of their stuff is incredibly helpful, but I find their website hard to navigate. Probably just me though.

Mandalorian Wikipedia Colours; [here]

It doesn't have any of the extended fanon colours, but it dos have an in depth expose on what colour canon and EU Legends has provided us with.

Mando'a Translator; [here]

Not entirely sure how well it works, but it does simple words fine. Its sentence structure is terrible, just like all translate apps, so be warned.

Mando'a Dictionary and Forum; [here]

This Mando'a dictionary has got to be the most comprehensive I have found, however there are still mistakes. The only reason I know that is I printed the whole thing and read it like some kind of nerd.

Mandalorian Colour Definition found on Tumblr;[here]

This one is made by another user, I am unsure of their sources, but it matches closely with a great deal that I have found, so it’s pretty accurate so far.

Another Handy Mando'a forum; here

If there are any other helpful websites and links you can think of, let me know. The Codex will have reference to this chart at some stage, but I'll get to that later. I'm just religiously ignoring the Mandalorian Cookbook I started whilst sick last year. You never hear of it, it never existed.

[I will update this as I make further research.]

[horsegirlwarcrimes]

Hi Bury. If you’re still doing the WIP game, what is Taker, Devil Maker? Because all of them sound awesome but that is such an amazing title

omg hello and thank you!! (´∀｀)♡

this one is for MDZS/CQL! i honestly keep forgetting about it even though its like. fully outlined and i have a good chunk written, oops. its also pretty old, so pardon the slightly weird writing haha

summary: Wei Ying never had a lucky encounter with a sect leader on the streets of Yiling as a child. Instead he teaches himself cultivation from nothing but dusty scrolls and wandering masters, tracing talismans on the walls of alleys and practicing sword forms with tree branches. When he hears of cultivation lectures hosted by the Gusu Lan, he just has to find a way to attend.

Wei Wuxian smoothed his robes, ran carefully scrubbed fingers over the faint embroidery on the fine fabric. The layers of cloth lightened from black to slate to steel and violet and lavender in sheets of soft cotton, with tasteful designs of swallows and oak branches stitched into the sleeves and lapels.  They were the second most expensive thing he’d ever owned. The first was tied in pride of place at his hip. Wei Wuxian sighed as the lines of neat stitching caught on the calluses of his hands. It made nervousness flutter in his stomach. Could someone look at these clothes and know they’d taken every last penny of savings their owner had to buy? Would someone take his hand and just from the feeling of the skin know that these weren’t the hands of a young master, even one who practiced often at the blade? Fine clothes could only do so much. He was, after all, planning to single-handedly break into one of the Great Sects.  On the path ahead, a cluster of purple-robed disciples stood at the wooden gate set into the pale stone of the mountain. From his convenient and super dignified position hiding behind some rocks, Wei Wuxian could peek around and observe them without even needing to crouch behind a bush like a particularly pathetic deer-slash-burglar.  “My sister knows Sect Leader Lan,” a young-ish one was saying to the gate guard, who looked deeply uninterested in who his sister may or may not know. Then new Lan cultivators were arriving, carrying stretchers with strange figures on them, and in the commotion Wei Wuxian was able to get a little closer still to observe the Jiang and the configuration of the Cloud Recesses wards.  As the handsome disciple leading the group with stretchers headed through the gates, Wei Wuxian couldn’t help a little excited shuffle in place. Even these young cultivators could look so cool!  His foot made the faintest sound against the stones where he was hiding. Wei Wuxian froze as the leading Lan’s stony face turned towards his hiding spot. He quickly went flat against the rock, perfectly still, and counted his most silent possible breaths. A moment, two, and he could hear footsteps going up the steps into the Cloud Recesses, then fading into the background murmuring of the Jiang. Wei Wuxian slumped and let out a quiet hiss. Way too close—he’d come much too far to get caught now.

[dracarialove]

Secret Desires

*Check the 'secret desires' tag if you haven't read chapter 1

[Chapter 2: Luminescent Beauty]

In the new cave, they found hundreds of lime green mushrooms and sprouting fungi along the walls, all glowing vibrantly to brighten what would normally be pitch blackness.

Their light made visible the countless shards of blue crystal embedded in the stone, which sparkled in contrast with the gray slate.

Rouge was dazzled at the gorgeous natural beauty of the abandoned cave. She stood staring at it all, completely entranced, even while Shadow stepped forward.

"I can guess what the people up there were using this cave for," he said, running his hand along the flatter parts of the bejeweled wall.

His echoing voice brought Rouge out of her daze, her mouth forming a grin as she darted towards her partner. One arm linked with his and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder while she gushed over the discovery.

"I can't believe we actually found something! I mean, of course I never doubted our gem-scouting skills, but this place is beautiful! And we might not have seen it if not for that hole! Oh, Shadow, I can't wait to chip out some of these pretty little crystals!"

The hedgehog smiled, treasuring her passion, but he couldn't bring himself to do more than that. A hug would be nice, but it would also be… too much right now. Too much for them.

Likewise, Rouge caught the impulsive urge to kiss her friend on the cheek for how helpful he'd been, but she reined in her excitement. A kiss would be too much for Shadow, even such a small one. She wouldn't do that to him.

She pulled away and approached the wall, giddy to get a closer look at the gems and even the mushrooms that glowed so alluringly. The crystals shimmered and sparkled under the green light being projected across their smooth surfaces.

Different shades ranging from light teal to royal blue boasted from angular segments embedded in the dull gray rock around them, waiting to be collected.

As for the plants, Rouge wondered if they had some sort of mystical quality to them. Their otherworldly light suggested they were far from ordinary mushrooms.

Some were solid green while others had splotches of darker patterns along their surfaces; along with tiny holes dotting the dark spots. Their larger size also implied they were more mature than the solid-colored buds.

"Careful," Shadow muttered as he walked past her, reminding her not to get too close to an unfamiliar plant.

Rouge reached out and grabbed his wrist, making him stop, then retrieved one of her jewel-hunting tools: a small pickaxe, little enough to chip away at a surface one-handed. "You should worry less about me and more about getting these gems out of the wall!"

She pushed the axe handle into his grip and let go of his arm. Shadow quirked a brow at her while she produced another pick from her supply stash, inquiring, "You keep a pickaxe on your person, but not a flashlight?"

"Hey, I can't carry everything with me," she countered, approaching the wall. "And I'm a bat. I can see fine in the dark."

She raised her tool to ready a strike, but his voice echoing again made her pause. "So you don't need light, but you need two axes?"

Annoyed, Rouge let out a sigh and fixed her partner with a serious stare. He was smirking at her, seeming to get a bit of enjoyment out of teasing her – as she often did to him.

With her hand on her hip, she snipped, "Yes, in case one breaks! Now would you go back to being helpful so we can get out of here?"

Neglecting to say more, Shadow honored her request and turned to claim a different section of the cave wall, leaving Rouge to work on her side. The sound of metal clanging steadily against stone rang through the cave as they chipped into the slate surrounding chunks of sapphire.

Piles of bold cobalt and light blue gathered at their feet on opposite sides of the enclosed space, and once they'd claimed all the jewels in the immediate area, they stopped for a break.

"Look at all these beauties!" Rouge chimed lovingly as she scooped up a handful of jewels. They glittered in her palms. "And they're so small, I bet we could stash a ton more! It's not like anyone will miss them."

"Hm, good thing this cave isn't much deeper," Shadow commented, looking at the second half of the stone room they hadn't yet excavated. "I fear you'd keep me down here for days if there were many more of these gems."

"Feeling claustrophobic?" her womanly voice teased, long lashes fluttering as she leaned close to him.

A deep scoff echoed off the walls. The hedgehog stared her down, feeling his heart rate rise as the thought crossed his mind that he could never be too close to Rouge. He said, "I don't have such a fear."

"Ooh, nerves of steel," she teased again, and left his air space to return her jewels to their pile. "Well, I'm glad I chose you to come gem-hunting with me, then! No one else would brave risky terrain under a massive mountain and let me keep all the riches for myself!"

Shadow enjoyed the happy bounce she gained in her step when she was excited about collecting shiny new things; it rubbed off on him, and he felt more in a mood to banter with her. "Did I say I would let you keep all of these?"

She turned to meet his gaze again, her eyes wide and mouth dropping open. One hand flew to her chest. "Shadow! Are you saying you'd take a cut of the loot? I thought you agreed precious jewels are my thing!"

He trailed his vision over the collection of crystals at her feet and grazed his fingers over his chin in contemplation. "I'm considering changing my mind."

When he looked at her again, the bat squinted her eyes, pursing her lips as she read his expression. It brought a smile to Shadow's muzzle, and he couldn't help but let out a chuckle, breaking the illusion.

He surrendered, "Alright, I'm bluffing. There's no tricking you, is there?"

Her glossy smile charmed him when she replied, "Not when I can read you like a book! Granted, you are getting better at that. I almost believed for a second you might be serious."

"Worried you, did I?"

"Of course! You know how I feel about sharing my bounty!"

Shadow laughed, his smooth, dark voice dancing along the stone and rumbling lightly in his partner's sensitive ears. The pleasing sound of his laughter had a warmth to it that sent goosebumps rushing over her skin, and Rouge grinned at the handsome smile that graced his face, his pearly fangs flashing in a show of joy she rarely got to see.

It was like a special gift only she had the privilege of receiving, in times like these when their back-and-forth was lively and playful. She just wished it happened more often.

They chose to rest a minute before getting back to work. Shadow decided to sit and gather his crystals into a tighter pile for easier pickup.

Rouge, after stretching a little, once again became intrigued by the glowing fungi clinging to the walls. It was odd to her that they were growing nowhere near any kind of dirt or grass, instead seeming to sprout directly from the stone.

She took a closer look at the tiny holes dotting the more mature mushrooms, a little creeped out by their irregular placement but unable to shake the strange urge to stare.

She was in the middle of wondering if there was a chance they could be edible when the bud she was staring at deflated a bit, and a cloud of spores exploded from its holes.

They sprayed into Rouge's eyes and invaded her nose, also getting sucked into her mouth when she exclaimed. Shadow's attention drew to his partner, who stood with her eyes clenched shut, grimacing and spitting out the earthy-tasting spores. He sprung to his feet.

"Rouge!"

"Agh! Ew!" she cried out, rubbing her eyes and spitting again.

The hedgehog rushed to her side and put a hand on her back, asking, "Are you okay?"

"Damn shrooms… yeah, I'm fine." She blinked her eyes, feeling the initial sting fade away. "It doesn't hurt much, just stings a little. Tastes terrible, though."

Shadow glanced at the little cluster of plants and saw a small dusting still slowly escaping it. "Let's get away from these mushrooms."

He found a spot near where they'd entered, where no fungi was growing, and led Rouge over to it. She was holding onto his arm and trying – in a ladylike manner – to gently blow the spores out of her nose.

"Sit down," coaxed the hedgehog, returning the hold on her arm and helping her rest on the ground. "We don't know what effects these mysterious plants can have on you."

He sat next to her, their shoulders touching, and kept an eye on the disgruntled lady. The assault from nature didn't seem to have left any sort of rash on her face, nor were her eyes bloodshot or tearing up; but she was leaning against him, likely for support from whatever she was feeling, so he wanted to be aware.

"We shouldn't stay here," he stated. "It might've been poisonous, and if so, I want you to get treatment as soon as possible. I'll only wait long enough to make sure your vision is okay, then we're going."

The seriousness in his tone implied to Rouge that he wouldn't be letting her gather more jewels. "Cutting our expedition short just for that? I feel fine enough…"

She trailed off because she knew he would contest her, his red eyes sticking to hers while his natural frown deepened. "You're smarter than that. I know it's disappointing, but we have an entire cavern to go through before we get out of here. It's too risky to keep mining."

The subtle implications of his words didn't go unnoticed. Shadow wasn't merely being safe in the face of danger; if it was anyone else, he likely wouldn't be so vigilant.

He certainly wouldn't be this staunch about leaving if the dusting had happened to himself. This was a level of worry reserved for his best friend.

Rouge's brows upturned a bit, but not in disappointment at their adventure ending. Rather, she felt endeared that he was taking her health so seriously, and her shiny pink lips curled at his concern.

She playfully bumped her arm into his and said, "You must care a whole lot about me if you're not budging on this."

His gaze wavered from hers, the Ultimate Lifeform reserving himself from the strong feelings that filled his chest when she looked at him that way.

"You know I do… I shouldn't even have to say it. Nothing is worth letting you get hurt. Besides, I think we have an abundance of gems to add more than enough shine to your collection."

Rouge never took her eyes off him, turquoise irises scanning over Shadow's face with adoration. He'd gotten much better at being more open with her over the years, though there were still some moments when it seemed he couldn't handle committing physically to the affection he verbalized.

Even saying one of the kindest things she'd ever heard, he couldn't make eye contact at the same time. But in this cave, the bat didn't care about the walls he still kept raised around his heart.

Dismissing the unspoken boundaries they'd established, she wrapped her arm around his chest to drape it over his shoulder, pulling him in for a hug and letting her other arm occupy his back.

Shadow's eyes widened, his reflexes freezing when she tugged his body close to hers. Their cheeks brushed together and the side of her face rested against his. He didn't pull back, letting her hug him and considering wrapping his arms around her, too.

"You're sweet," she said, her voice soft and loving.

Shadow didn't know what to say. His tongue felt heavy with all the possibilities that could come out; like just how much he cared about her, a compliment to turn her appreciation into his, the insistence that his 'sweetness' was more akin to common sense, or the thanks she deserved for not hesitating to treat him like someone deserving of intimacy.

Instead of settling on one, unable to decide what should be said, he let the moment become silent. His arms slinked around her. He accepted her embrace, however unexpected.

But he also assumed she would pull away soon. As occasional as a hug between them was, he thought it wouldn't go on, the physical contact doomed to make one of them feel awkward after a little while – awkward enough to reject the emotions that'd brought them together in the first place.

And he would accept that, as he always did, because he respected her. If his teammate-turned-confidant decided they shouldn't get too cozy in each other's company, he wouldn't argue. He wouldn't beg for it.

However, he wouldn't be faced with that disappointment this time. Rouge didn't pull away. Unbeknownst to him just yet, she wanted to get even closer. And she would not fight her feelings anymore.

[thecatchat]

The Creation of Quarry

In the beginning, there was nothing. A nothingness so complete that there was no light or darkness. Only nothing.

Then there were two somethings.

Two gods, a dragon and a mask, came into existence. They did not know of each other at first as there was nothing else. Not until the dragon took their first breath, creating sound.

The mask was curious about what made that sound and created light to illuminate the nothing. The dragon, overwhelmed by the sudden brightness, created shadows so they could shield their eyes of it and dim the light.

The two gods finally saw each other and introduced themselves.

"I am The Maker," said the dragon.

"I am The Muse," said the mask.

The Muse quickly got bored with the nothing surrounding them, and lamented to their companion about it.

"Let us make something to fill it." The Maker replied. "I will fill it below us and you can fill it above us. Then we will have something."

And so The Muse put the source of all light directly above the two, to allow them to see when they worked. They created the first color, blue, and put it everywhere above, creating the sky. To fill in the space, they added clouds.

The Maker created the ground, made of black stone called obsidian. Deciding the ground was much too hard for them to rest on, they created white dirt to rest on.

They came back together and talked. For seven days and seven nights, the two shared ideas for their new world: colors, day and night, plants, animals, and more.

They created it all.

After some time, The Maker decided to add a touch of purple to their scales. They added it easily to the underside of their body but found they could not reach their back or wings. Feeling foolish, they created a cave and hid from The Muse. For thirty days and thirty nights, they hid away from their companion, who searched tirelessly with increasing worry.

Finally, The Muse found the entrance to the cave.

"Do not come in," warned The Maker, "or I shall hurt you."

"Okay." Replied The Muse, who reached up into the night sky and created the moon. The moons light shined into the cave, revealing The Makers half colored form.

The Muse almost made fun of The Maker for their predicament, but they realized that was exactly the reason why The Maker had hid away from them.

"Would you like help finishing your scales?" They asked instead.

The Maker accepted.

The Muse added purple in beautiful patterns all along The Makers back and wings. In full, the complete art was so beautiful and soul touching that just seeing the edges of it on their wings had The Maker cry from the overwhelming beauty of it. They cried so hard and for so long, it created the oceans.

In thanks, The Maker decided to create a body for The Muse, as The Muse was only a mask. They created a headless humanoid body as the base. They added countless arms so that The Muse may have an easier time creating their ideas. The final touch was a long flowing white cloak, a blank slate to be added to by The Muse, so they may note down or sketch their ideas before creating them.

The Muse was touched and inspired in equal measure by the gift. They created life called Actors in the image of the body they had been gifted. They became the favorite creation of both the gods. The Maker enjoyed watching the plays that The Muse would have the Actors put on, sometimes going on for centuries. They would lay just inside a cave at the top of the tallest point in the world and watch the stories play out.

One day, The Muse had one of their Actors go up to speak directly to The Maker. It was a long and dangerous climb, but the Actor eventually made it to the top. As they looked upon The Maker, they glimpsed the patterns in the glimmer of the scales. Instantly, the Actor gained free will and went off script by dying from fright.

The gods were confused and intrigued in equal measure by this. The Maker leaned in close and gently breathed upon the body. It revived the Actor and created the first soul.

The Actor, frightened and filled with knowledge that it could not understand, pleaded with the gods for its life.

The Muse was initially upset at this change in script. Until they realized that the Actors could create their own plays and inventions. Maybe even things that The Muse would have never imagined.

So The Muse declared that all should look upon The Maker and receive a soul, so that all Actors could think and create. The Maker asked them if that was a wise thing to do. The Muse reassured them that it was a great idea.

This Actor, first given soul and thought, became the first worshiper of the two gods. They spent the rest of their life spreading word of them, bringing people to them, and worshiping them. They created paintings of the gods image, wrote plays about the stories that the gods shared with them, and prayed to them both every night and day.

As free will and souls spread, The Maker and The Muse noticed changes in themselves. They could feel the power given to them by worship. Hear the prayers whispered by all those that prayed. It fed them and in turn made them grow in power.

This went on for a long, long time.

The area around The Makers cave became a sprawling metropolis, filled with all that would worship the gods. Plays would be put on in front of the cave every day for The Maker to witness. In turn, The Maker would give them knowledge on how to make things better as more and more Actors were born.

The Muse, on the other hand, would go out and see their creations everywhere that they went. Answering prayers that caught their eye or amused them. Sometimes taking the form of an Actor and experiencing life among them. Spreading tales of their own life and of their fellow god, The Maker.

The two slowly spent less time together. First a week. Then a month. Then a year. On and on it went, until the two had not seen each other in many centuries.

The amount of power given by worship was unfathomable in its levels. The Muse used this power to move around and grant prayers. The Maker sat and watched and gathered power without ever stepping out of their cave, causing them to grow with it. They had grown so much, they they could not leave the cave through the entrance, only able to stick out their head and watch the plays being put on for them.

The power, running out of room to grow the god, started to grow a new one.

The Maker suddenly felt hungry and requested that they be given fruit. The Actors brought carts upon carts of fruit to be eaten. The line is said to have stretched to the edge of the city miles away. The Makers teeth were said to become stained in bright colors from the amount of fruit eaten.

But they were still hungry.

The Maker requested that they be given meat. The Actors brought as many animals as they could to be eaten. Some say the line of Actors with animals was so long that even The Maker had trouble seeing its end. Entire species of animals were given to them, causing them to go extinct.

But they were still hungry.

The Maker was stumped as to what they were missing, and confessed their troubles to some of their closest and most dedicated worshipers. An Actor nearing the end of their life, volunteered themselves to be eaten, in an attempt to help their god be sated.

Initially, The Maker refused, not wanting to eat one of their favored creations. But as the days went by, the hunger continued to grow, little by little. An ever present feeling that could not be ignored. Until they finally relented and agreed to eat the Actor.

And they felt a little less hungry.

The Maker was torn. How they loved the Actors, who had done nothing but worship them for countless centuries. Who they had helped to develop technology and inventions to better all their lives. They felt the prayers of every Actor giving them so much. Could they really ask for them to give their bodies as well?

But they were still hungry.

The Maker asked to be given a dead Actor to eat.

It did nothing.

Reluctantly yet desperately, The Maker asked that they be given a living Actor to devour. Then another. And another.

Actors devoted to The Maker gladly gave themselves to their god. As word spread, people traveled from other cities and towns to allow themselves to be eaten by The Maker.

One by one, the souls gathered in The Makers body, mixing with the prayers and power from worship. Something started to develop.

They became hungrier.

They ate Actors, faster and faster, until the amount of willing Actors could not keep up with their hunger. Those condemned to die for the highest of crimes were fed to them. The stories of The Maker had changed. No longer were stories of a quiet god who shared knowledge and instructions told among the masses. The worship started to wane. Instead, there was fear.

They were given a new name. The Dragon. The Beast That Will Consume All.

It made them hungrier.

The Muse, who had been gone from the city for so long as to be considered a myth, began to hear whispers of prayers to them. At first they payed no mind, for they could hear countless prayers from countless other places that had other prayers to be heard.

But soon, they took notice of the desire to kill a beast. A beast that lived in a cave in the tallest mountain. A beast so large that people whispered that the mountain itself was hollow to hold the beasts size. A beast that ate nothing but living Actors. A beast with a dazzling purple sheen in its scales said to have once given knowledge, but now only inspires fear.

The Muse decided to start heading back to their fellow god, stopping along the way to spread good word about The Maker and inspire worship.

As worship for The Maker slowly started to rise, an egg grew inside them. Not in a womb, but inside their gut. As the shell formed, a pain began to grow in The Makers body. It grew steadily. With every newly inspired wave of worship, the egg grew faster. As the egg grew, the pain grew with it.

The Maker already half mad from the ever persistent hunger that had haunted them for several centuries by now, reached a tipping point.

The Muse became alarmed when they received prayers for them to save the Actors from The Dragon, who had broken from the mountain and was now devouring all that it could reach. They stopped inspiring others and rushed straight for the city. Even with all their power, it took them seven days and seven nights to reach the city. Or more accurately, what remained.

If any one witnessed the two meet, they did not survive to tell any one what was said. When The Muse is asked today what happened, they will not reply. The only thing they say on the matter is "I defeated The Dragon." Nothing more, nothing less.

What is known is that the two battled. So violent and for so long that they destroyed the rest of the world around the place where the city used to rest. It shaped the world into a sphere and made the world from an infinite plane to a finite globe. A single landmass surrounded by an ocean.

It is said that by the end of the fight, both gods spoke to each other, exhausted and with only a few tiny prayers of worship to keep them going. It is known that The Muse asked The Dragon, "Why?"

The popular version is that The Dragon snarled and insulted The Muse in some manner and that it was so terrible, The Muse gutted them for it.

The version that was only written once and lost to time, the true version of events, goes like this:

The Muse asked The Maker, "Why?"

"It hurts." The Maker whimpered in reply. "I was only hungry for so long and then it started to hurt. I needed to eat the souls. I would have starved otherwise. I finally don't feel mad with hunger. But it still hurts."

"What hurts?"

"My guts. I couldn't think for so long. I was so hungry. I was in so much pain. But I know what's inside me now."

The Maker wavered and laid down around the last remaining land, part of the base of their mountain and a small part of the city that had been reduced to rubble.

"There is an egg inside me. It grows with every prayer and worship sent to me. It hurts. We can not exist together. We both feed on the same prayers."

The Muse thought for a few moments.

"Do you want me to help you kill the egg?"

The Maker laughed a sad, sorrowful laugh.

"I will not survive, egg or no egg. I have been in indescribable pain for so long. In so much hunger for so long. I have destroyed nearly everything. I would go mad with hunger again eventually."

They laid their head down and rolled onto their side. Pining one of their wings below themselves and resting the other on their side.

"Take out the egg and hide it. For no surviving Actor will have any love for the beast they believe they will become. I will die, yes, but at least my child will have a chance at life. Let my body give this land resources so that the Actors that remain will survive the following years. I have been dying for a long time, my friend. I wish for the peace that death may bring."

The screaming roars of pain drowned out the sobs of mourning as The Muse dug into The Makers gut.

The Egg was small compared to the sheer size of The Maker. Only as big as an Actor was tall. It was a dark black color, with the barest hint of a purple sheen covering it.

"They'll live." The Maker gasped through the pain. "Make sure they fly, once they can. Make sure they move, once they can. Make sure they live through this, unlike me. Can you do that?"

"I can." The Muse whispered quietly. "I promise you that I will."

"Good," gargled The Maker through the blood in their lungs, "and name them this for me."

The Makers voice at this point grew so weak, that only The Muse would ever had heard it.

"That's a beautiful name."

The Muse watched as The Maker took their final dying breath. Leaving them with an egg, an island, and a civilization to rebuild.

--------

okay, I actually wanted to write more, like where The Muse rests and wakes up and realizes that everything has changed because of the magic of the dead god. but also I've been writing this for 5 hours straight and I need to stop for my mental health.

I have not reread this at all when I post this. I do not have the brain power to do so. Enjoy.

[paperandsong]

Le Follet d’Ep-Nell

From Légendes rustiques, illustrated by Maurice Sand, written by George Sand, 1858

Original French at Project Gutenberg

English translation:

Beneath the stone of Ep-Nell, a bad kind of follet is curled up. A follet with a tail: the worst of all. Instead of tending to the horses and walking them, they frighten the horses, mistreat them and wear them out.

Maurice SAND

Georgeon was the devil of the part of Berry called the Black Valley. I say was, because he is very much forgotten today and one would have to go back to the memory of old men, thirty years dead, to fish out from that river of oblivion - which passes so quickly today - the mysterious name that was never to be written, “not on paper, nor on wood, nor on slate, nor on any stone, nor on cloth, nor on earth, nor on dust or sand, nor even on snow fallen from the sky.” This terrible name, which presided over the most effective and most secret formulas, was only to be entrusted to the ears of the practitioners of sorcery, and telling them more than three times was not allowed. If they forgot, too bad for them. One had to pay to hear it again. 

This name was, under no circumstances, to be revealed to non-believers and must never be spoken aloud, except in the darkness of night and in complete solitude. The one who confided it to me had surprised himself and did not believe it. However, he regretted telling me and came back to beg me not to repeat it. “I had bad dreams last night,” he said. “Three times my window opened wide without anyone but myself having entered my room.”

What was Georgeon's rank and title in the hierarchy of evil spirits? That's what I could never find out. It was he who had to be called out to at crossroads, or under certain old trees of ill repute, to make the mysterious spirit appear. Did he have his own power over certain things in nature, or was he only an intermediary messenger between hell and its followers? I would believe it: a man named Georgeon had once been taken to Montgivray by the devil. It is perhaps the work of this evil soul to lead other souls to perdition.

Georgeon was semi-invisible, in the sense that he only appeared on moonless nights or through thick fog. One saw a human form larger than life; but the dress, the features, the details of this form always remained elusive, or so vague that it was impossible to remember him or to recognize him, even by voice, even after various encounters with him. Each time he had to be called by name, it had to be said: “Is it you with whom I spoke on this or that night and in such and such a place?” And if he didn't answer “It's me,” you had to be on guard and tell him nothing about what had happened during any previous encounters with the devil, either because Georgeon hid his identity to test the discretion and prudence of his followers, or that the peasant pushes prudence to the point of distrusting the devil, even after having turned himself over to him.

It is certain, at the very least, that the peasant claims to be as cunning as Satan and that in every country there are marvellous legends full of malice attributed to good guys who know how to fool the demon and catch him in his own traps. Among the best, we must cite that of the fairy-lover reported by the author of La Normandie merveilleuse, which has all the grace of rural language. The fairy fell in love with a beautiful country woman. Every evening, while she was spinning thread by the fire, he would come and sit on a stool at the other corner of the fireplace. The woman, having noticed his presence and his covetous looks, informed her husband, who put on her clothes, took her place and her distaff, and pretending to spin, waited for the pixie. The fairy arrives, looks askance at the strange spinner and says to her: “Where is that beauty, that beautiful woman from yesterday evening, who spins, spins, and is spinning still, because you, you turn, turn, and yet you don’t spin?” The husband makes no reply and waits until the fairy sits down on the stool from which he used to devour the housewife with his eyes, and where a red hot cake pan[10]  had been treacherously placed. So the fairy sits down and, indeed, outrageously burns its tail, and utters a loud cry, saying: 

“Who has committed this wicked wickedness against me? Is it that beauty, that beautiful woman who is always around?” 

“No,” replies the husband. “It is I, myself, who never spins!” 

The exasperated fairy flies up the chimney to call his companions who were cavorting about on the roof. 

“What are you shouting, shouting about?” they say.

“I am burning, burning!”

 “And who burned you, burned you?” 

“It is me, myself, the one who never spins.”[11] 

This answer seemed so stupid to the other fairies, rude spirits that they were,  that the beautiful spinner's husband heard them laugh like mad, booing, fooling around and driving away the poor lover, which made the husband very happy, for he had been afraid of drawing the whole band of pixies against him, and never again did his wife's lover dare to come to his house again.

This Norman legend has a kind of counterpart in Berry, or rather, it is the same legend with variations that capture the local spirit.

Here the follet or fadet, the story does not say precisely what type of cunning spirit, did not have love on his mind. Just like a Berrichon Devil, he thought only of enraging the spinner, who did not spin linen on her spindle but rather spun wool on her wheel, and, instead of gazing upon her with tender eyes, he maliciously tangled and broke her strands, so that while she was mending them, he was able to slip into the arche (the bread box) and steal the cakes that the housewife had saved for her children. 

Having noticed this trick, the good woman pretended to know nothing and, bending down, she subtly picked up the fine end of this character's long tail, tied it to a strand of her wool and began to twirl it, twirl it on her spinning wheel, as if it were a skein.

The fadet didn't notice it right away, busy wallowing in the cheesecake. But when the spinning wheel had rolled five or six lengths of tail, he very much felt it and began to shout: “My tail, my tail!” The spinner ignored him, and, still spinning, began to sing: “Pelotte, pelotte, ma roulotte!” with such a good voice and making so much noise with her wheel, that the other devils, trapped on the roof, did not hear the moaning and cursing of their comrade, who was forced to surrender, and to swear by the name of the Big Devil from Hell that he would never set foot in her house again.

According to some versions, the pixie who enjoys tangling up a spinner’s threads is a female spirit, a bad fairy. In my childhood, I heard an old woman say on such an occasion, “The jouillarde got into it!” and she made a cross in her hand to ward off and chase away the diablesse.

What elsewhere is called the goblin, the fairy, the pixie, the farfadet, the kobbold, the orco, the elf, the troll, etc., etc., in Berry, is most often called the follet (wisps). There are good ones and bad ones. There are those who groom the horses in the stable - all farmhands hear their whips and the call of their tongues; and there are those who gallop the horses in the pasture at night, and who braid horses’ manes to make themselves stirrups (since they are too small to stand on the animal's rump and always ride on the neck); they are are quite good little children and run away when approached by men. Their malice consists of causing death or miscarriage to the mares who allow them to cut their mane whenever they please, to braid and knot for their own use. The favourite mounts of the follet are called chevaux bouclés (shaggy horses), and in the old days they were esteemed as the best and most fierce. The groomed follet mares were sought after at fairs as good broodmares.

This follet of the stables still exists among us in the belief of many people. All peasants forty years of age, who have devoted themselves to raising horses, have seen them and swear to it with a candour impossible to doubt. They have never been afraid of them, knowing that they are not mean. They all describe it the same way. He is as big as a small rooster and he has a bright red crest. His eyes are of fire, his body is that of a fairly well-made little man, except that he has claws instead of nails. The tail varies; according to some it is made of feathers, according to others it is an inordinately long rat's tail, which he uses, like a whip, to make his horse run.

In the north of France, some of these nains (dwarfs) are very wicked and take pleasure in leading travellers astray. In La Marche, around the dolmens, all spirits are dangerous and hostile to man because they are in charge of guarding the treasures hidden under the large stones. Woe to the curious and especially to the ambitious who prowl around these monuments at night, where the eternal mystery of tradition reigns. They jump on horses’ necks, knock the rider to the ground and beat him up. However, we can protect ourselves from them in several ways, when we have been bold enough to study - at all risks - their habits and fancies. In general, they are not intelligent and speak the human language with difficulty. Like those of Normandy and like the korrigans of Brittany, they have the mania or rather, the infirmity, of repeating the same word twice, without being able to reach three, or if they exceed this number by doubling it, they can't say it a seventh time.

A treasure hunter, who saw a dwarf jump in front of him, dragging him into a magnetic circle and repeatedly saying to him in a sharp little voice: “Turn, turn,” stopped him short by answering him: “I turn, I return and I turn away.” The dwarf did not understand, and, thinking that this was a formula beyond his knowledge, let go of the man, jumped on the stone and made it dance so hard and turn so quickly that fire came out of it. The man dared not approach it, but he was able to draw back without being followed. Only the dwarf had given him such a spinning motion, making him waltz with him around the devilish stone, that he returned home, still spinning on himself like a spinning top, and went to collapse from fatigue at the door of his house.

George SAND

[tarithenurse]

I see fire

Fandom: D&D 5E/homebrew campaign. Warnings: None A/N: Any questions are welcome. Please comment and like and reblog. Let me know if you want a tag. Header by @firefly-graphics

II

[Age 17. Dejected, heartbroken, frustrated, fidgeting. Despite the blow to the family’s reputation and the mother’s demotion as a punishment for Zilvra’s transgression, Allaunira didn’t seem to resent her daughter for the rash actions. Instead, she threw herself headfirst into getting to know her own child.]

“How was school?” mother asked as soon as Zilvra stepped in the door but all she got in answer was a noncommittal grunt. Not to be deterred, Allaunira continued in a light tone: “Please go and change to something practical and meet me and our guest out back.”

The Shadowsong household was among the richer ones and as such was a freestanding building with a walled enclosure where the mother had taken up tending to their own mushroom and lichen. Still, there was ample space to move about and as a child, Zilvra had often fought many imaginary foes there. It smells of fungus of course, but also of rich earth and stones and fresh water from the aqueduct that’s been routed through the garden to form a little pond.

Now, Zilvra entered the “garden” dressed in her favourite clothes: the subtle leather trousers and silk shirt that made it possible to move about easily and quietly. It’s not that she didn’t like the fancy dresses her mother preferred her to wear...it was just that it was easier to move and climb wearing this instead. Soft leather boots to finish the outfit made her silent as a shadow (at least in her own mind).

“Ah, there you are,” her mother preened, “I’d like you to meet someone.” Motioning towards a similarly practically dressed woman who stepped out from behind a taller mushroom, Allaunira continued to explain, “this is Ellara Loth’Kar...listen to what she teaches you and we’ll talk when you’re done for the day.”

Alright, to call it an explanation was an exaggeration, but it was at least enough to calm Zilvra’s nerves a bit and rather instill curiosity.

The woman before her was lithe and short (even for a drow) with slate grey skin and shoulder-length white hair that had been tied back carefully and tightly. She was dressed all in black which made her violet eyes stand out more and for a moment reminded Zilvra of Filandrin’s eyes – it made her gut tighten at the thought of her lost friend.

“Here.” The woman, Ellara, tossed something to Zilvra who caught it: it was a wooden dagger, carefully carved to mimic a real one and undoubtedly costly considering the material. “Now defend yourself.” And Ellara launched herself at the young girl with a vigour that she didn’t expect.

The battle was (very) short, finishing in Ellara’s favour, of course.

“You’ve got much to learn, Zilvra, but there is potential. Now I ask you...is the wish to learn there?”

Rubbing her ribs, the younger woman took a moment to consider what might be implied and how she could use this to her own advantage and thus answered with conviction: “Yes. Teach me.”

---

[Late 23 years old, close to finishing school, starting to formulate an idea for the future.]

There was a soft knock on the door to alert Zilvra of her mother’s arrival. “Darling...I think it’s time we talk,” Allaunira began, immediately making her daughter’s mind streak off in every direction as to what she might have done wrong this time...not that she always got into trouble but lately the tasks from Ellara had been the more serious kind and it had gotten Zilvra to neighbourhoods in Menzoberranzan that she was sure her mother would not approve of.

She attempted an innocent demeanour. “About what, mother?” Turning on the chair, she watched as her mother crossed the room and sat down on the bed.

“About you and your future, dearest.” A deep sigh preceded what came next: “You are getting applications.”

Right away, Zilvra knew what Allaunira meant. Although her heat undoubtedly was a ways off, both she and the other girls in her class were maturing and she knew that some of them had also received notifications of interest...she just didn’t expect to get any herself.

“That’s...uhm...” she found herself at a loss for words.

Allaunira was differently capable of stringing together a proper sentence. “It’s early, is what it is...and there are bound to come more. When I was your age, your grandmother and I sat down and decided on my course of action. As you know, I waited a while but when it finally was time, we sorted through the applicants and your grandmother also sought out a few males we deemed suitable for me. After a series of interviews and trials, I picked one...your father.”

“What was he like? You never talk about him.”

Noticing the way Zilvra had perked up at the mention of her father, Allaunira relented: “His name was...is...Kalannar. He was at least back then a captain. A fine – and a bit younger – male.” For a moment, she was lost in the memories only belonging to herself then she shook herself out of them. “But the question remains. You are young and frankly I do not see you settling down with a child yet...am I wrong?”

“You’re not wrong.” Reaching for her wooden dagger, Zilvra began to pick at the invisible dirt under her fingernails. “I’m not...it’s just...there’s so much to do, still!” As if realizing the implication of her words, the young drow held up the hands in defence. “I’m not saying that life is over once you have kids!”

Allaunira smiled. “I know you’re not, my child...and I did not expect you to wish to settle down...in fact...what do you want to do? I have an idea.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“No, dear...you first.”

The mother patted the bed beside her, indicating for Zilvra to come over and she did. Still fidgeting with the dagger, the young woman sat meekly for a moment while gathering her thoughts.

“I need to finish school first, I guess...”

“That would be smart.” Allaunira began to re-braid her daughters hair.

“Hm. Then I need to finish training with Ellara...if that’s possible...she’s still much better than I am...”

The mother’s hands hesitated for half a heartbeat but Zilvra didn’t notice. “That probably comes from experience.”

“Probably.” Bringing the wooden knife to rest in her lap, Zilvra had closed her eyes at the feel of her mother’s fingers through her hair. “I’ve considered the university...”

“Really?” The question came out with a bit too much surprise, making the daughter quirk an eyebrow. “I mean...you have improved greatly with our sessions...but I hardly expect you to aim for the Sorcere? And the military school...?”

The girl shrugged. “That’s the thing...I don’t know what else I should do...”

There was a deep sigh that made Zilvra turn her head to watch the mother as her hands fell to her lap. “Perhaps...perhaps you’ll find your answers Topside?”

“Mother!” Zilvra was equally thrilled and scared of the idea that she silently had harboured too.

“I know...it sounds like I’m sending you away....uh, I’m a terrible mother but darling you’re not at peace here! You never have been. Maybe the solution is to see more of the world before settling down.”

Zilvra grabbed her mother’s hands. “No, it doesn’t feel like you’re sending me away! But where would I go?”

“Would it matter? Anywhere, where the society is different and you can see the stars. Am I wrong, my dear?”

“If only I knew...” Zilvra stopped herself. Then a new steely glint stole into her eyes. “No, mother, you’re not wrong.”

Allaunira freed her hand to tuck a loose strand behind her daughter’s ear. “But as you said...finish school and Ellara’s training, will you not? Let me have you for a bit longer?”

“Of course...and know that I’ll miss you once I’m away. Every day.”

They hugged tightly before the mother extricated herself from the embrace and positioned Zilvra to finish the braiding.

---

[She’s 24 years old and restless like never before.]

”Gotcha!” Still panting, Zilvra wiped the dirt off her knees while waiting for Ellara to get back up from where she had pinned her a second ago.

The tutor got to her feet and took a moment to examine the gash in the vest: just a few millimetres more and the student would have drawn blood. “Not bad...not bad at all. This is, what, the fifth time you’ve bested me?”

“Sixth, but who’s counting,” came the answer with a cheeky smile. “Go again?”

There was a beat of silence, then Ellara shook her head. “No...this was the last time.”

“What?”

“You heard me...” Ellara stepped over to her dumbfounded student and patted her shoulder, “and you knew this day would come.”

Zilvra nodded, handing back the dagger that she had been borrowing for training. “I know...it’s just...sooner than I expected.”

The look she received was knowing. “Let us tell your mother, hm?”

Anticipation began to bubble in Zilvra’s guts as they entered the house: this was what she had been waiting for. School had ended weeks ago and all there had been keeping her from leaving was the training with Ellara and now...now she could set out. It would be a journey without destination, one meant for bettering herself and learning as much as she could until the day where she returned with a vision of how the drow world could be. And who knew, maybe along the way she could find Filandrin too?

“Zilvra?” Allaunira’s voice brought the young woman back to reality. “Ellara? Why are you not training?”

Ellara smiled her crooked smile. “I have no more left to teach her...your daughter has excelled and what she lacks now she will have to learn through experience.”

“I guess it’s time I give this back,” Zilvra began to pull the wooden dagger from her belt where she always kept it.

The teacher’s hands shot forward to stop the motion. “No, that was a gift. Keep it.”

“And speaking of gifts,” Allaunira explained, “we knew this day would come and we got you something.”

Pulling out a chest, she held it out for her daughter to open. With trembling hands the latch was slid aside and the lid lifted to reveal a set of beautiful daggers.

“Thank you!”

Hugs were exchanged (even between former student and teacher) before Ellara took her leave for the last time.

[tnc-n3cl]

How about The Long Nightmare for the ask game?

Oh! @readwritebeawesome asks for the darkness! Very well...

The Long Nightmare is basically a prequel to The Azure Phoenix, and The Amnesiac Hero's Quest and The Ballad of Kass technically. This fic starts with the day the Calamity strikes, Revali falls to Windblight and is possessed by Ganon, and things just get worse from there. I haven't had the chance to work on it an while, but I have a scene in mind. Note that Vah Medoh's "spirit" is projecting an image of herself to Revali, taking the form of a Rito woman with black and gold plumage, glowing blue eyes, and the Vah Medoh emblem on the ornaments holding her braids together.

Revali gasps, “No,” as he works Medoh’s controls, “Where should we go?” She tilts her head to the side for a moment. “Well?!”  He asks impatiently. She narrows her glowing eyes at him, “In case you were unaware, I was inactive for 10,000 years.  The information in my databanks is out of date, and what little Director Purah and Robbie supplied about the current Era was woefully inadequate.” His crest twitches, “What’s that supposed to mean?” She sighs, “There are lands beyond Hyrule’s borders and I would rather not bring Secondary Target into another kingdom.” Revali blinks hard several times, “So, the legends are true…” She nods, “Yes,” she closes her eyes a moment, “Set and lock our course for northeast.  With the limited data I have available to me with the Tower Network down, I estimate minimal chances of encountering a populated region with that course.”  Revali looks around, there’s Mount Rhoam to the west!  They’re over the Tanagar Canyon, which means… Revali’s eyes widen, “If we go northeast, we’ll pass over Tabantha Village.  It will–” She cuts him off, “It is fine.  We can disable my weapons as well.  Besides…” Revali’s crest collapses in anguish, “It’s already fallen hasn’t it.” He doesn’t need her to answer, he saw it, a Guardian attacked it.  A flight group led by Nanri of all people managed to end the machine but, it’s likely everyone retreated after that.  There were no doubt hordes of monsters following close behind that damned machine… Revali traces his fingers across the stone pedestal and Medoh screeches as she changes course.  He recalls how he’s instructed her to circle his home, “autopilot” she called it, and his fingers dance across the panel for a moment. “Good,” Medoh’s projection tells him, “Now, do this.” He follows her movements, tracing three triangles connected to each other across the panel.  His Sheikah Slate chimes and he takes it from his belt and unfolds it.  The top screen displays, “Enter Password,” while the bottom screen displays the Hylian alphabet. He looks at Medoh’s projection and asks, “What should I put?” “Something only you would know,” she replies, “Your favorite color, a grandparent’s name, the day your mother hatched, your favorite food, the name of your… first love.” Well, that last one’s a no go…  Sure, he’s had… experiences, but he wouldn’t exactly say he was in love with any of them… “This is no time to be lying to yourself, Master.” Medoh’s projection fades as she speaks in his mind once again. “You must pick something now.” Revali quickly types something into the Slate as he hears the ominous gurgling approaching him.  The control panel changes to a pale yellow.  The beast is right behind him now, so he takes a deep breath and turns to face it.  As he stares into that blindingly bright, pulsating mechanical eye, he digs deep into his soul to find the strength not to flee. He very much does not want to be taken by the creature again, but…  The Princess must have had a plan when she confronted the demon on her own.  What of that knight?  Did he truly fall at Blatchery Plain?  Is he somewhere having his injuries treated?  Goddess, Revali hopes so... otherwise the Princess is just delaying the inevitable. The creature grasps him with its lone arm and lifts him up to what passes for its face.   It squeezes him tightly and brings him right up to its eye.  He’s practically touching it, Revali would peck it out if he could! “You… haven’t… won…” Great now the beast is speaking to him in his mind!  A pale shadow of Ganondorf’s voice, but still enough to make his skin crawl and feathers bristle. “We… are… connected…  I… will… break you… eventually…” Malice oozes from the beast’s hand and Revali screeches in pain once again.  It’s not as bad as the first time, but still, agony is agony…

(Nanri is loosely based on a Philippine Eagle. He'll be showing up more as this fic progresses, he also makes a short cameo in Shifting Tides of Fate, leading Link to the landing just before the "Revali's Flap" memory.)

Thanks for the tag!

WIP game

[inscrutable-shadow]

Whumptober 2023 Days 4, 18 - wasn't what you wanted (but i had something to give)

@whumptober-archive

No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”

Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”

No. 18: “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.”

Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.”

contains: gore, captivity, vampire whumpees, immolation

too long? read on ao3!

Avrae thought she really should have expected something like this. Waking with the red-hot sensation of silver blistering against bare wrists and frigid air tickling her ribs, perhaps not exactly, but some form of capture or another. One could only be public enemy number one of most of vampire-kind for so long before someone succeeded in kicking the shit out of you. What she genuinely didn’t expect to see was the bruised and battered face of one Thanatos Iuventus, being hauled around by his hair and generally looking worse for wear. He was also shirtless, and covered in what was presumably his own blood, red as it was. Their captors were Daxerine, and everyone knew Daxerines had black blood.

“Well, well, miss Angel of Death. Looks like we’ve caught two birds with one stone. I must admit, when your Harbinger was spotted in the area, I was quite worried, but once we’d caught him, my fears were quickly dispelled.” Avrae recognised this man from the briefing documents: Edric Godfrey, the current Lord Viarossa and the target. He and six of his scions were slated for elimination, leaving the two remaining members of the Viarossa bloodline to be folded into the new House Penumbrae, which was eagerly waiting to seize assets as soon as Avrae reported mission success. Lord Godfrey shook Thanatos a bit, which only served to increase his dishevelled appearance. The limp strands of dark hair clinging to his face, caked with blood and sweat, made him look a bit like a damp raven. Did he always look so wretched? Honestly. Typical Iuventus.

Thanatos’s breathing scraped raggedly from his throat and his eyes (faintly glowing red, a telltale sign of a hungry vampire) darted wildly around the room. He got his mouth halfway around “Ten- ugh…” before his face hit the floor.

Godfrey, who’d dropped him, stepped over his body into the room. “He hasn’t been of particular use to us, I’m afraid. I can’t imagine what you use him for.” The answer to that was obvious, even from here. The runic sigil tattooed onto Thanatos’s chest could be easily read by anyone who understood the magic as a planar focus. It was what let her shadow-walk over long interstellar distances to carry out the hits. Thanatos would go the slow way, and as soon as she was in, he’d take his leave and head for the next destination. She rarely saw him, and to be honest, that was just fine with her. “Fortunately, he brought you right to us. I trust you’ll be of much more use.”

“What the fuck do you want, anyway?” Avrae asked, ignoring Thanatos’s quiet whimpers. 

Godfrey leaned over her, careful not to touch the silver chains. “I want your list. Everyone slated to be executed. Everyone your new council of feral mongrels has deemed unnecessary.” His voice dipped to a malevolent growl as he spoke, and he cleared his throat and swallowed the emotion. Quite a bit of vitriol there, ‘feral’ was an insult vampires reserved for the most absolutely despised.

“Look in a mirror. You’re priority one, asshole.”

Her neck snapped to the side as he backhanded her across the face. This was enough to rouse Thanatos from his stupor of self-pity and put the fear back into his eyes. He pressed himself into the wall, hoping Godfrey would forget about him. Avrae couldn’t tell if he was putting on an act to appear non threatening or if Lord Viarossa had just put the fear of God into him. No time to ponder it, though. “Don’t get smart with me. If you don’t talk willingly, I’d love to convince you. Your friend here can tell you just how much I enjoy it. Get him up,” he ordered, and two other men stepped in to chain Thanatos to the opposite wall in a reflection of her own restraints.

Thanatos didn’t even flinch as the silver closed around his wrists. He was clearly used to it, and the scars on his arms confirmed that. Silver was the only thing that could scar a vampire, and its use was considered taboo for intraspecies disagreements. This ‘Culling War’, as it was being called by people on the wrong side of it, had seen all of those conventions thrown out of the nearest airlock. It was clearly meant to send the message that nothing was off the table, probably not even sunlight. She didn’t see the pale scarring of previously sun-scorched flesh anywhere on Thanatos’s exposed upper body, though, so that was a mercy. Meant they hadn’t been pushed that far yet. For the best, really, even the strongest stomach could turn watching charred skin slough off of muscle. 

“You remember this, don’t you, Harbinger?” Godfrey crooned, tipping Thanatos’s chin up with his left hand and bringing the right up toward an already red mark on the man’s side. The pulsing crackle of an electric baton drew both Avrae’s and Thanatos’s wary attention. “Why don’t we show her what we’ve been doing for the past few days?”

Thanatos went rigid and averted his eyes from the implement, his breathing settling into an uneasy rhythm. He didn’t flinch away as Godfrey brought the arcing electricity teasingly close to his skin. Avrae swallowed. She wouldn’t do him the dishonour of looking away, but it had been several centuries since she’d watched someone be tortured in front of her. That much disuse could make even the most hardened killing machine go soft. Though she’d never been as hardened as others had hoped. She’d always taken too greedily to peace, ached too desperately for normalcy. She would sand off her own sharp edges if it didn’t happen quickly enough on its own. Maybe that’s what had made her brittle, caused her to shatter, a hopeless, broken thing. (She just wanted to be like them.)

The contract had reforged her, made her a weapon again. She’d almost expected it when they’d approached her and offered a new assignment. It had been odd, not being wielded. It had felt good doing what she was made to do. Somehow, it didn’t feel good to watch Thanatos (delicate, rail-thin, craven Thanatos, whose greatest pre-vampiric hardship had been paternal pressure into an annoying career and who’d looked as if he were one cough away from an early grave every time she’d seen him) go through something she would have been expected to withstand as a child. It was just electricity, just pain. It was impossible for it to damage him permanently. Physically, at least. The sunken, haunted eyes told a different story.

The first scream was cautious, curated. Clearly intentional, gauging the atmosphere, probing Godfrey to see how far he wanted to go this time. Hoping that would be the end of it. The second had a bit of despair to its edge.

The third was real.

Long, drawn-out wails of utter agony rang through the small room. Red Lichtenberg figures blossomed across his side, like grasping fingers stretching toward the sigil on his chest. There was nothing Avrae could do to help Thanatos. They would just have to wait until Godfrey got bored. Asking him to stop would be a display of weakness, and she didn’t have the information that would theoretically save him. She didn’t even know who the target after Godfrey was supposed to be yet. Thanatos might, but if he did and wasn’t telling, he had more iron in him than she’d given him credit for.

Minutes pass and Godfrey shows no sign of slowing down. Thanatos gives no suggestion of wanting to beg for the pain to stop, either. His cries are entirely wordless and stop as soon as the prod is moved away from his skin. Either he’s already tried and knows it’s pointless, or it’s his own brand of defiance. Avrae’s tired of it either way.

“Is there a point to this or do you just like hearing him scream? My hearing’s very sensitive, so if it’s the latter, could you move this show somewhere else?” She made a point of ensuring her expression was as bored as possible, something she’d had quite a bit of experience with since becoming nocturnal.

Godfrey rounded on her, shaking the baton under her nose. “It could be you next. Ruin that pretty skin of yours. Unless you have something to tell me?”

“Nope.”

He growled in frustration and tipped her chin up with the end of the prod. “I don’t think you understand the severity of what I’m asking you.”

She smirked, shifting against the silver chains. “No, I think I get it. You think I’m the only method the Council has of getting this done? I’m the merciful route. You could kill me right here and it wouldn’t save you. You could know every name in the ledger and you couldn’t do jack shit about it. Either the High Council does this, or the Galactic Council does. They won’t be kind enough to leave two of your scions. They will gladly exterminate every single one of us. If my options are you kill me or they kill me, I’ll take silver over the stake or the sun.”

Lord Godfrey’s expression hardened into a scowl. “I’m going to leave you two to talk for a moment, and when I come back, I’ll immolate him.” He said the last few words slowly, leaning over her position sitting on the floor. Thanatos’s eyes flickered with some emotion, but quickly returned to glassy diffidence. “Let’s see where we stand after that.” Godfrey indicated to the other two men to leave the room, and the iron door scraped shut.

The room was silent for a few moments, then Thanatos made a sound that might have been a sob, but was stunted and malformed. He took a shuddering breath. “I… don’t want to die, Tenebrus.”

“Well, yeah. Expected as much.” She sighed. “I suppose you want me to get you out of this.” Thanatos said nothing. “You’re nothing but trouble, you know that?”

He blinked slowly. “I apologise.”

It wasn’t really any fun poking at him if he wasn’t going to fight back at all. “Do you have the info he wants?” Godfrey probably had cameras in here, but there wasn’t really any point in bluffing about this. They’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

He shuddered. “No. They give me the next location once they’ve confirmed you’ve reached the destination correctly. I’ve been here since before then, and I’ve got nothing through the datastream. I don’t know if signals can get through here.”

“Mm. I used your locator to get through, popped into an ambush. These assholes’re lucky I didn’t walk through them. If signals have trouble getting through, the Council might not even know I got here.”

“Would they send someone for you? If they knew?” Both of them knew Thanatos was a bit of a sacrificial lamb for this enterprise. If something untoward were to happen to him, he’d be replaced, simple as. Avrae was a bit more difficult to substitute. The Council might make an attempt at recovery rather than giving her up as lost.

“Dunno. Any chance of your uh… partner?” Most of the rumours about Thanatos, if you heard his name at all, centred around the idea that he was banging an extremely powerful magical being. Avrae didn’t quite believe it, but far be it from her to understand a fae’s sexual preferences.

He hesitated, then sighed. “No. None at all.” This sentence seemed to drain him more than even the torture had.

“They wouldn’t stop you burning to death?”

“Ae’s not available. Won’t even know what’s happened to me for a few years.” Oh. That was… awful, actually. Did this partner of his even know he was out here fighting a war?

“Okay. So we’re on our own then. I can break the chains, but the manacles won’t let me shadow-walk. I’d still be trapped.”

“You’re strong enough even with the silver? I suppose your physical enhancement must truly be S-class.” Sure. Whatever. If that made it easier to believe.

“Door’s silver-lined too. If I can get out of the silver while it’s open, I’ll be able to teleport and it’ll be easy to get you out then.” He had no reason to believe she wouldn’t just leave him there once she was free, but also, if he could have got himself out, he probably wouldn’t still be here.

Thanatos’s brow furrowed. “The only way to get you out would be if he- ah. I may have a solution.” She waited, but he failed to elaborate further.

“And?”

“Trust me. Play along. Let me show you what purpose a Iuventus serves.” His eyes had never looked defeated, except for the brief moment when he’d thought of his partner, but now she detected a glimmer of defiance or even mischief. What was he planning? She nodded, willing to let him take the lead.

He was quiet for several seconds and then raised his voice. “I want to confess! Please! You can’t silence me, Tenebrus. I won’t die for this cause!”

Godfrey immediately opened the door, much too eagerly. “Oh? Finally changed your tune? I almost thought I’d have to use this.” Behind him, his goons wheeled in what Avrae recognised as an ultraviolet spotlight. That thing could render a vampire to ash almost sooner than he could scream. She’d be astonished if Godfrey could watch that without vomiting.

“No, please, I don’t want to die!” Thanatos’s pleading was fervent, almost fanatical. “She can do what she likes to me. I… I can’t die. I’ll give you the information.”

‘She can do what she likes to me,’ eh? Avrae thought she might be picking up what he was putting down. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, you pathetic coward, I’ll make you fucking wish I’d immolate you. You think silver hurts? I’ll flay you and sun bleach your organs. Keep you nice and well fed, so you keep regenerating. You’ll beg for death by the time I’m done with you—”

“Promise me you’ll protect me! If you’ll protect me from her, a-and from the Council, I’ll tell you anything you want to know!” he begged Godfrey, on his knees at the man’s feet, or as close as he could get at the end of his chains.

Godfrey grinned. “Of course, anything you like. We’ll set you up with your own private estate, far away from all of this messy business. The Council will never find you, not even with their bloodhounds.” He shot a glance over toward Avrae. Oh, that was rich.

Thanatos’s laugh was almost manic. “See, Tenebrus? You have no hold on me. You would have to rip the tongue from my mouth to silence me now.”

Oh, okay. “Maybe I will, shitstain!” She pulled hard against the chains, and Godfrey’s eyebrows raised, momentarily alarmed. Yeah, get scared. “Maybe I’ll rip your larynx right out of your throat, see how much you spill then! I should have known when they assigned you to me it’d be something like this. You’ve never been anything but a liability.” It probably wasn’t necessary to drag him this badly, but she really wanted to sell it. “I’ll send you right back to your lover with no eyes, no tongue, and no dick.” One sharp pull, and the silver chain disintegrated.

Thanatos’s shrieks and chokes as her hands wrapped around his neck sounded pretty real, even though she wasn’t actually trying to suffocate him. She hoped he had a plan for this, cause she’d be obligated to actually kill him pretty soon if she didn’t want to lose face. Godfrey’s men were trying to pull her off of him at least, though they weren’t being very successful. She checked behind her quickly, and to her astonishment, they’d abandoned the spotlight blocking the door from closing. If she could get out of the manacles, they were free. The split second her eyes were off of Thanatos’s face let her also be surprised when her wrists erupted in pain.

“What the fuck?” she yelled and immediately dropped him. He’d bitten her, he’d actually fucking bitten her! Hold on. A green substance that was definitely not the typical vampire venom was eating through the metal around her hands. It was melting her flesh too, but that could probably be fixed. She held her arms toward her body to hide what was going on and let Godfrey’s men pull her back.

“Oho, looks like our Harbinger has a few thorns of his own. Don’t worry, Angel, we’ll take good care of him. And you. Once we don’t need you, I’ll take great pleasure in making you answer for what you’ve done.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Avrae murmured as the shackles hit the floor. One blink, and one of Godfrey’s men had a hole through his heart. Another, and the second went down. They were in the dossiers anyway. She’d have had to do it eventually. “Tell me all about what I deserve. I’ll make sure to take note of it. Don’t think you’ll get the chance to do anything about it, though. Why don’t we see what this thing does?” 

She kicked a gobsmacked Godfrey into the path of the spotlight and threw one of her shadow blades at the switch. The spectacle was just as horrifying as she’d imagined. Every inch of the vampire’s skin melted, then charred, then turned to ash, revealing new flesh which then did the same, his whole body bursting into white flame and rendering down to a pile of fine grey dust in seconds. Thanatos whimpered behind her, probably imagining himself in that position.

She turned to him. “Well. That was something. The fuck did you do, anyway?” The only response he gave was a moan, and she realised his lips, fangs, and tongue were being liquefied by the same substance he’d put onto her wrists. He probably couldn’t talk at all. “Were you keeping that acid in your fangs the whole time?” He nodded wearily. “Shadow’s fangs. You’ve got more balls than I thought.” He huffed and looked away. Shit. He was going to need to regenerate, or more likely, some kind of medical care.

She snapped him out of the shackles and heaved him over her shoulder. “You really are no end of trouble.” Thanatos made a sound that might have been a cough and might have been a laugh.

taglist: @albatris, @milkshakes-lust-and-chiral-dust, @thethistlegirlwrites, @athenswrites

[arcane-abomination]

This is a ritual to be used right before an intense meditation or other form of third eye work. It’s purpose is to empower your third eye with extra energy so that you don’t feel completely drained by the end of it.

I call on the power of Yog Sothoth for this ritual but you may call on whatever spirit, deity, universe energy, or elemental energy that you wish. Feel free to edit any words in accordance.

Preparation

Its always good to make sure you are in good health mentally and physically. This ritual isn’t recommended for those who are currently suffering from headaches, migraines, or any sort of head or brain injury. It’s best to allow for complete recovery before continuing. It’s also imperative that you be in a good place mentally. The third eye is also apart of your subconscious mind after all and empowering it during times of anxiety, stress, or unhealthy thoughts may only aid in giving more power to those thoughts. Remember, your health always comes first! So use exercise appropriate caution!

If you’re in the right head space then I recommend some sport of purification ritual before you begin the main ritual. A smoke cleanse or a salt bath cleanse are great examples. Everything works best when all the negative and residual energies for that day are gone. That way you empower yourself with a clean slate sorta-speak. I find the empowerment takes much better that way. Once you’re completely cleansed, go somewhere you won’t be disturbed so you can begin.

The Ritual

Technically all you will really need for this ritual is a crystal. It can be any crystal type you feel is connected to third eye work, but I would recommend black quartz, amethyst, or clear quartz respectively. I typically use black quartz myself because I feel it ties to the void and thus connects more with Yog Sothoth than the others. However Black quartz can be hard to find since it’s not to common of a mineral. Remember it’s different from Smokey quartz, but if black is the color you really want any other black quartz will do. You can also tailor the crystal type based on the kind of meditation. So for example if you’re doing a meditation that involves communing with ancestors or other spirits of the dead you may want to use labradorite, as it’s a great stone for spirit working.

The next step would be calling on any deity, spirits, or other energies to be present. As stated above all you really need is a crystal but if you wish to add any additional representations now would be the time to do it. This is also where some people world purify their tools. Others may purify their tools regularly after every ritual so if this is you you can skip right ahead to the actual beginning of the spell itself.

Take a moment to open the circle if you choose. Feel that the energies or spirits you have called on are present. Then set the crystal before you and cover it with your hands connecting your energy to it. When you feel this connection is established call on the spirits or energies to empower it. I like to say something like:

“I call to you great Yog Sothoth. As you are the key and the gate to all places, empower this Crystal with your energy so that it becomes a tool to empower my third eye. By this I beseech you.”

Now wait a moment feeling the energy envelope you and thus move into the crystal. Visualize a light entering it if you must, it may start to feel warmer to the touch. Its energy may pulsate. This is a good sign. If not you may need to call again or wait just a bit longer. Everyone empowers in their own unique time, but I would say is shouldn’t take longer than a a few minutes.

When you finally feel that energy connection take the crystal and raise it to your forehead. Draw the symbol of an eye, again visualizing if you feel you must. I like to see a glowing light where the lines are drawn, typically purple or red in color but that can change based on my mood. Whatever you visualize be sure you see how your third eye is represented to you! It can look like anything you wish. It doesn’t have to follow the laws of nature. What symbol works here for you is all that matters.

Once you have done this immediately tell the crystal and energy it’s purpose. It’s very important to use the present tense at this time as it directs the energy to do so that moment. I like to say something like this:

“With this I am empowered. My third eye is open. It is strong and it is powerful.”

Now, take another moment to feel the energy. Again it may pulsate or even give you a small headache. This is why it’s necessary to be pain free at the start. Sit comfortably while your body becomes acclimated to the energy. This typically only takes about a a minute for me but everyone is different, however I don’t think it will be that long. Once things have calmed down you may move on to whatever meditation or third eye work you needed the empowerment for. Just remember to show gratitude to the spirits or energies you called during that time and give any offerings you wish.

[voidismss]

"You feel my touch. What is left of it. I am a ghost after all. The void personified." He shut his black eyes for a moment. Always starring. Watching and studying. Observing what could be observed and nothing to the outsider was off limits.

The overseers despised him for what he gave. And was also merely a excuse for them to beat the woman who wanted to learn more. Or the boy that dressed differently than the others. It was HIS FAULT. And all he could do was sigh, roll his head and move on. Though to think at one point during the Empress' childhood he tried to give an overseer his mark. One of which so happened to be High Overseer Martin.

A smirk crossing his lips towards remembering the very man who looked him in the eye and refused his gift. A man who was desperate and at his lowest and still refused his gift to the very end. Even without it he watched Martin. And thus lead to Corvo and the assassination of Jessamine Kaldwin.

"My dear Empress..its a shame. Trapped within the confines of the void. I have a story to tell.." the walls around them changed as he raised his hand. Walls turning black to reveal the void among them. The air cold, but calm. Undead whales swishing their tails to stay moving in the endless darkness. As a familiar sight revealed itself to Emily. The sight of Daud.

"Daud intrested me one day. Much like you. His choices were...interesting at first and yet..he slowly began to bore me. Till that fateful day he killed your mother for the man who wanted to control the city with an iron fist. But behind the scenes.."

Waving his hand a new picture around the blank slate was formed. Daud in a sneaking stance overlooking Delilah Copperspoon. Painting what looked to be a picture of a young ten year old Emily." Daud went through many things. Many paths that lead to pain. And for some reason for what he did..he decided to save you by setting Delilah up in a trap. She originally was going to take over your body. Live as you with no one being none the wiser. And switched her painting of you..out for a painting of the void."

His hand waving over the landscape once more. As Delilah stood still in the statue like pose. Hands raised as if preaching to him. But no. While behind her. Daud tore Emily's picture from the canvas. And replaced it with that said painting.

"But now it seems after fifteen ears she's not fully given into the void. Her hatred and jealousy towards your mother and you seemed to have given her the strength to push forward. And with the right ear to listen..? Your kingdom gone. And corvo trapped in stone. Truly Facinating. But I digress."

"You prove so many wrong. Its interesting to see the empress practice such forbidden things under the OVERSEERS EYES." the Outsider cocked his head. His black hues laying on the back of her hand. His brand. His mark of eternity upon her delicate skin.

"Your just like Corvo..making choices that always seem to peek my intrest just that little bit more. Tell me..does Corvo know of your choice?" Corvo since Delilah attacked had his mark removed with his powers stripped away from him like a bandaid. Where Emily took his place at his side. Baring the mark he's given to many others in the past. His hand was cold. Touching the back of her hand as the mark began to glow brightly with a surge of power. A piece of him lied with her.

He was oh so curious. Corvo still being his favorite but even so, he was trapped in stone leaving Emily to clean up after Delilah Copperspoon. A perfect replacement. As if Corvo never left and only transferred himself into the life of his daughter.

[bvccy]

Forbidden thoughts | 1. Daydreams of affection

— PAIRING: soft!dark!Bucky Barnes x female!Reader

— SYNOPSIS:  For one of his last missions to make amends, Bucky tracks down the daughter of a man he killed when he was the Winter Soldier. He follows her from a distance at first, then slowly gets to know her. Affection turns to love which turns to lust which turns into something darker. Bucky tells himself he’s stalking her with good intentions, but he knows that isn’t true anymore.

— CHAPTER NOTES: Here we go, babes! Setting up the scene with angst and fluff. Also introducing the new little country, and a few other characters we'll see a bit more of later. It will still be a while before our hero and heroine actually meet. Our Bucky is a sad boy who needs some love :(

— WORDCOUNT: 2.5K

⸻ [MASTERLIST] [AO3] [PLAYLIST]

The sky was deceptively clear every day, a uniform slate grey that betrayed nothing, carrying the indifferent scent of dust and dampness of a continental climate. Illusions seemed to form in the uncertain mists it made, shadows and colours that mixed among themselves, lights hidden in the fog, and every hour seemed the same until night fell and everything was black until tomorrow. It wasn't the best of conditions to track someone, but he'd been through worse.

She was part of his list of amends, that's why he ended up approaching her — he never would have otherwise. Unassailably aloof underneath that shy façade, mortiferous blend of pride and modesty — Bucky wouldn't even know where to begin with her. He went halfway around the world to find this young woman, secured around seven thousand dollar's worth of funds for a three-month stay plus expenses, came without his weapons and didn't even travel incognito but, complaints aside, it was a welcome break from the mess back home; no dumpster fires in the streets, trash everywhere, drunk vagrants sleeping in the open; no sight of his old streets or longing looks at his childhood home — now expensive way beyond his means — nor calls for favours from old friends who got in trouble. It was just like old times: just him and his mission, and a new unknown terrain.

This far off country named Cathonia, formed in valleys cut by rivers and kept safe by its obscurity, was locked between a dip in Italy's mountains and the edge of Switzerland. The local people, there since prehistoric times, merged mostly peacefully with the Roman colonies that formed along the routes of trade and war out of the peninsula. They still bore signs of the Imperium, as if it had never died: massive buildings in white stone with sharp pediment over the windows, alcoves hiding busts or statues of ancient statesmen, or poets, or philosophers, dated in old Roman numerals and none more recent than the 1800s. Their flag of black and red and white stripes arranged on the horizontal fluttered high above the doorways.

Smaller residential places, tiny villas all iron gates and crawling ivy, looked out of place against the modern cars outside. Marble urns lined the roads, white flowers flowing out, while heavy oaks and sycamores and elms grew wildly all around, their branches hanging tiredly toward the ground to form green domes above the narrow streets and pathways. Men and women walked arm-in-arm, and children played outside with balls and bikes and all sort of self-made toys, like wood-carved horses or dolls sewn out of tablecloths.

Bucky watched all of these things curiously during the ride from the airport — he'd found a cab driver and they managed to communicate between one's broken Italian and the other's. He was in the capital city, Ixum, but it looked more like a ghost town than any other place he'd ever seen. A river ran beside it, bearing the same name, but he only caught a brief glimpse when the car crossed a bridge.

He had a room booked at a hotel called Morfran, the building squat and cracked around the edges with the paint worn out in places, pallid grey chipping away to reveal the blood-red brick beneath. The stairs squeaked and the shower pipes shuddered, but it was warm and dry, and so cheap he thought he stepped back in the 40s for a minute.

After a couple of days, as he got to know his target, he requested to change rooms. Bucky's new 2nd-floor suite had a broad balcony that faced the nearby park she favoured on her evening walks, and this early in the autumn, the sun did not yet set too late. He watched her from a distance for a while, prowling around her usual haunts and keeping track of patterns, habits, a way to catch her someplace that felt natural — just to talk, of course.

And so a new glum afternoon found Bucky standing at the balcony, sipping his bitter coffee more out of a desire to just hold something. His hands were more unsteady lately, perhaps because he was so close to finishing his list — she was the last one on it that was still accessible, not dead or in a jail or gone insane — or perhaps it was the weight of his debt to her that did it. Can't have been easy, losing her father when she was 10 years old.

He seemed a quiet man, tall and wiry with a sunken pallid face and deep grey eyes, and although he worked in journalism, that wasn't what got him into trouble. It was his hobby of birdwatching that had him out that evening, camera at the ready in the worst place, at the worst time, to catch the Soldier stepping out of the forest under the echo of the sound of gunshots. In the end, he wasn't very brave, but neither did he beg.

The wind sounded the same as it did years back, and there was the same scent of wet pines on the air, and a shiver ran through his body as it, too, remembered. The nausea he felt, already a steady companion, was drowned out by another sip of coffee.

Bucky wasn't even sure whether he should follow her home yet, he still had a bit of reading to do on the girl's background, but he already had most of what he needed. She had studied abroad and worked now for some artsy publication, lived alone on the outskirts of the city, and took her evening walks in the nearby park almost every day.

In spite of the monsters his mind produced, within only a few days he'd started to feel at home in this strange place. He had an old mattress that creaked under his weight, a television set that seemed as old as him, wooden desk in aged shades of brown, threadbare carpet in dark colours, and a tiny little bathroom in porcelain and brass. And in this land of strangers, Bucky found he could be anyone: a mystery man on a business trip, the odd tourist, a novelist, a detective on a case, a criminal on the run.

He'd even made friends with another guest at the Morfran. Mr Eugene Daimon was a portly Englishman who stopped there to see a nephew on his way to a health resort — he was going there to take the waters and some mud baths that, he said, worked wonders for arthritis.

"You may not need it now," he spoke as he loaded a plate with sausages and eggs that morning, "but when you get older, you'll see…"

"Past a certain point, everything hurts, right?" said Bucky, smiling at the man who was about half his real age.

"That's right."

When asked what he was doing there, he didn't have the heart to lie.

"I'm looking for someone."

"Are you a policeman?" Mr Daimon asked with suspicion as he sipped his tea, grey whiskers going in first.

"Not exactly…"

"You're not some scummy journalist, are you?"

"Oh, no," he laughed, cheeks aching with the unusual strain of it.

"In that case, James, whatever you are, I hope you find her."

"How did you know it's a she?"

"You just confirmed it, haven't you?" chuckled Mr Daimon.

Hours later, down below, the girl snuggled in her coat and tried to read a book. She kept getting distracted by her thoughts and looking up, seeing people walk their dogs around the park, or children with their parents, before she started reading the same page over and over again.

Bucky's eyes didn't leave her figure: tracing a lock of hair curled around her coat collar, the dip of the waist as she leaned sideways on the bench, the stretch of one calf in its creamy stocking as she sat cross-legged, then back up to the fingers curled around the book as if it were the edges of a cliff. Then upward still toward her lips set firmly in a line and pale with tiredness, and those eyes that were reading without moving — pretending, dreaming, thinking — looking liquid as if her soul could drip out at any moment; lazy remnants of eyeshadow were smudged around the corners, rubbed a little during the day, wetted by a few involuntary tears.

If he hadn't tracked her down for his mission, she could fade into the background, a silent part of the scenery, painted in shades of red and white and black and brown, cold and damp and trembling like the autumn all around her. He wondered what it would be like to know her, really know her… He could sit by her side, talk about his day, listen to her talking about hers, and look down to see how nicely her hand fit in his.

In his daydreams, they would be neither here nor back in New York City. In an in-between world of their own, he could take her to places where nobody else went, hold her in his arms and let her lean against him, his heart racing at just the feeling — just the thought — of what the angles of her body felt like through both their autumn coats. He could bring her flowers — white roses first, then move to pink and red — and watch her smile, and blush, and bite her fleshy lower lip as she looked up at him.

She'd take him to the cinema and he would take her dancing, her fingers interlinked with his, little nails like claws digging in at every twirl, and by the end he'd have her laughing, giggling into his chest, her own heart beating away right next to his as he held her close.

Bucky's stomach was in knots by the time the girl went home, feeling full and fluttery, but he went to dinner anyway. Mr Daimon was already there, sitting with a tall thin lady with a golden mane, and though Bucky waved politely and tried to keep on walking, he could not escape his new friend's beckoning.

"We just got here, haven't even ordered yet. You don't know each other, do you?"

"I don't think so," the lady said.

Bucky gripped the back of the empty third seat as he waited to be introduced.

"This is Mrs Lucile Aster, a good friend."

"Only sometimes," she said, smiling with an acid air.

"My dear, this is Mr James Barnes."

"How do you do," he nodded, and finally sat down.

"You look oddly familiar…" the woman spoke as she took a closer glance at him.

"I guess that's likely, maybe we've seen each other around the lobby," said Bucky as he tucked the metal hand between his knees.

Mrs Aster had a full round face, but there was something famished in her eyes. The accent placed her somewhere in the south of France.

"So what was that about only being friends sometimes?" Bucky asked, hoping to distract the two.

"We're professional rivals," Mrs Aster chuckled. "I hate him occasionally, but he's too fun to not speak to."

"Nicest thing she's said about me in five years," Eugene mumbled.

They chatted and laughed a little over dinner, but something about the conversation struck Bucky like a memory from a dream: endless, repeating, distant. He went back to his room as if sleepwalking and let the desk lamp on his bedside table burn into the night as he stayed awake and tried to find a way out through this fog.

A darkness so thick it felt material fell over his room and by his side that single golden light, a little sylph, shone while his thoughts circled and were pulled toward the girl again. It was easy to pretend that she was by his side, laying there, just out of reach, curled up with her back to him, and any minute now he'd start to feel her body heat. He wanted to lay on his side and wrap his arm around her, but knowing he would not find her there and to protect himself from disappointment, Bucky instead closed his eyes and pictured it: arm curling around her waist to pull her close, face buried in her hair and smelling the perfume, and maybe then she'd turn around and hold him in her arms and fall asleep with her tired face resting right against his chest.

He couldn't tell when it was he fell asleep. It was deep in the night because the moon had almost set outside, stars shining in the cloudless sky, and with heavy limbs, Bucky stretched toward the table and finally turned the light off. He was alone, the small part of him that was awake knew as much, but at the back of his mind, she was there — as a desire, if nothing else. She'd sigh when his motions woke her up, and he would pet her head, apologise, and tuck them both back in. It was too dark to see, and she was far away, but Bucky knew she'd smile.

The morning sun woke him up next morning. Around the edges of his mind floated the remnants of a few dreams, but they soon slipped from his grasp. His eyes adjusted to the light but he neither moved nor stretched, he just lay there listening, feeling the bed, his body, the soft sheets tangled around his legs, the air coming from the open window. The metal arm was a bit warm from where he'd laid on it. Bucky gradually remembered what he was thinking of last night, and in the clarity of day, a sense of guilt washed over him.

"You're losing it, old man," he grumbled, suddenly angry with himself.

She was just a young woman he hadn't even met yet, why was he imagining a life with her? If she knew this nutcase was watching her almost every day, and now was soothing his lonely nights with lurid dreams of her, what would she even think…?

"Occupational hazard," Bucky sighed as he turned his head toward the balcony.

After all, it wasn't his fault he could imagine what she felt like, what her perfume was, how soft her body would feel after a good night's sleep…

He would love to kiss her in the morning, just chastely on the cheek. Her lashes, soft like bird fluff, would leave a shadow on her skin, and her lips would look a little swollen maybe… He turned around and threw a leg over the duvet the way he'd curl it over her, to pull her closer. He hoped his girl would like to cuddle, like to rub herself up into him until he felt her whole body from the chest down to his legs, felt her curled up fists pressed into his ribs, the warm breath of her nose fanning on his neck, her moan as his hands travelled from her waist to her lower back and drew circles on her skin.

With a troubled sigh and growl, Bucky turned and heaved himself out of bed. He didn't, shouldn't want to have these thoughts about her. The metal hand came up to rub down his heated face, but it couldn't wipe the shame away.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 56: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A collection of occult scrawlings written on what looks like stretched and tanned human flesh.

A bamboo scroll tube with strange geometric designs on it. It is quite heavy and rattles with metal ball bearings that can be poured out when one end is uncapped. There are 24 ball bearings each with similar geometric designs but forming stylized glyphs.

A small piece of parchment with a list of how to say “You’re beautiful, let’s go back to your place” in six languages translated from Common.

A small slate with mathematic formulas written on it in white chalk. The notations change each time they’re observed.

An artistic painting of two hamsters locked in mortal combat.

A wormwood flute carved with coiling centipedes along its length and lacquered to a warm color. When blown, it produces a deep, earthy tone which attracts crawling insects.

An anatomically correct serpent heart, made of black jet stone and veined with quartz. A horrendous item to behold, ethereal green blood pours from the open vessels, only to disappear before hitting the floor. Those who watch the heart swear that it beats in time with their own. Serpents in the presence of this artifact are hyper aggressive. It causes them to writhe and strike out at random, spit venom and flare their hoods at any who approach.

An unsigned contract with an otherworldly entity that grants the undersigned a favor at the cost of one returned, anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

A scrap of leather folded several times with roughly scrawled on it. "I said 500 gold. No happy family reunion until then!" PC’s proficient in calligraphy would be able to compare the handwriting to other writings in order to find the author.  

A red knit cap that is covered in stains and smells as if it has been repeated dunked in blood and never washed. It once belonged to a vicious unseelie fey whose sole purpose was bloodlust.

—Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A collection of occult scrawlings written on what looks like stretched and tanned human flesh.

A bamboo scroll tube with strange geometric designs on it. It is quite heavy and rattles with metal ball bearings that can be poured out when one end is uncapped. There are 24 ball bearings each with similar geometric designs but forming stylized glyphs.

A small piece of parchment with a list of how to say “You’re beautiful, let’s go back to your place” in six languages translated from Common.

A small slate with mathematic formulas written on it in white chalk. The notations change each time they’re observed.

An artistic painting of two hamsters locked in mortal combat.

A wormwood flute carved with coiling centipedes along its length and lacquered to a warm color. When blown, it produces a deep, earthy tone which attracts crawling insects.

An anatomically correct serpent heart, made of black jet stone and veined with quartz. A horrendous item to behold, ethereal green blood pours from the open vessels, only to disappear before hitting the floor. Those who watch the heart swear that it beats in time with their own. Serpents in the presence of this artifact are hyper aggressive. It causes them to writhe and strike out at random, spit venom and flare their hoods at any who approach.

An unsigned contract with an otherworldly entity that grants the undersigned a favor at the cost of one returned, anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

A scrap of leather folded several times with roughly scrawled on it. "I said 500 gold. No happy family reunion until then!" PC’s proficient in calligraphy would be able to compare the handwriting to other writings in order to find the author.  

A red knit cap that is covered in stains and smells as if it has been repeated dunked in blood and never washed. It once belonged to a vicious unseelie fey whose sole purpose was bloodlust.

A blue knit hat that looks a bit like a bottle folding in on itself.

A silver lapel pin of a finely detailed gorgon's head with ruby eyes.

A painted wooden key whose teeth change configuration every day at dawn.

A bloodstained dreamcatcher made from fishing line, sinew and snowy owlbear feathers.

A fletcher’s kit that contains various items needed to make and repair bows and arrows such as knives, a whetstone, a pair of pliers, sandpaper, additional bowstrings, glue, and feathers.

A sealed, one-gallon keg containing a liquor known as “Fireflare Schnapps”. It has a gentle orange flavor at first with a sudden fiery spicy burst. Fireflare Schnapps clears the nose, ears, and waters the eyes with a bold burning that will make even the strongest cry. One swig of this daring beverage will cure the common cold.

A wooden gavel that when pounded, emits the sound of a judge yelling “Order! Order!”

A bottle of expensive wine (Based on the label) that was emptied and is now filled with rich soil and growing a single flower.

An oar, made of driftwood with a multitude of seashells and waves engraved along its length.

A tri-folded flag for a country which no longer exists.

A scrap of paper inscribed with a haunting elvish poem.

A small compartmentalized enameled box containing a set of fine pigments, dyes and colored powders. The hinged lid has a mirror on the underside, and the exterior of the box is decorated with images depicting a harem of dancing girls.

A hefty iron paperweight in the shape of a fist.

A tiny iron anvil, used in certain religious and civic ceremonies among the dwarves.

A charcoal drawing of an elven goddess shooting a dragon with a bow.

A recipe for mushroom ale, carved into a wooden plank.

An inordinately heavy and unwieldy, bronze ceremonial staff.

A small, amber colored glass sphere covered in repeating runes, written in celestial. It reads “I am with you. Relax and be calm.”

A wide earthenware jug protected by a wicker frame and stoppered with a large cork. The one-gallon container is filled with high proof rum, an alcoholic drink distilled from sugar. A stained leather tag around the jug’s neck proclaims the contents as “Alvarado's Bathtub Boot Screech: If you can read this, you haven't drunk it”.

A small grey silk pouch containing nodules of raw silver and polished finger bones.

A brass toy duck enameled in garish colours that flaps its wings and quacks when wound up with its key.

A pair of wool socks that randomly tickle the bearer's feet.

A whale-shaped candle holder made of blue stone.

A potted plant that only thrives and flowers during winter.

An expertly tanned reptilian hide sporting keeled, glimmering scales like those of a mammoth carp. The hide is as large as one might get from a sheep and glows softly in the dark with a multitude of colours.

A violet bedroll covered with rude scenes. It can easily expand to fit two people.

A peacock feather that repairs itself if damaged.

A toy flumph that floats gently to the ground if dropped.

A tiny bronze sundial with numbers marked in infernal.

A lidded basket woven from black rose briars and filled with dried bracken and mushrooms.

A bloodstained black porcelain statuette of a rearing pegasus.

A metal flask containing a milky mixture which bubbles and sizzles when unstopped.

A yellowed and cracked tooth of a hyena, hanging from a leather thong.

A fetish made from a giant spider’s mandible suspended on a braided silk cord.

A small rectangular bookmark crafted from the tanned wings of a bat and embossed in gold-leaf with an arcane glyph.

A large crystal orb that appears to have been crafted with wild, twisted glyphs that glow with their own inner radiance.

A shawl made of black wool and sewn with small crystals that glitter and shimmer in the light.

A rod almost as long as a staff, made from smoky quartz that sparkles with flashes of light; some brilliant white, others blood red. When gripped, a thin wisp of smoke trails from the tip.

A metal spinning top that never tips over when spun.

A set of sheet of music that goblins find upsetting when they hear it played or sung.

A leather bag containing a black silk shirt with eight silver buttons.

A one-foot tall hourglass encased in a frame of dark chestnut wood. The frame itself was carved from an extremely hard wood found only in the Sword Fens. Images of hounds, foxes, tortoises, hares, cheetahs, and other animal life grace the slender curves of the frame.

A wax candle that roars and crackles like a bonfire while lit

A music box that plays a sprightly tune you remember from your childhood.

An aberrant fiddle that quite simply looks wrong. The geometry is slightly off-center, the interior looks non-euclidean while the color scheme is disgustingly sickly. Only a madman would own this instrument. And from its strings, an equally horrid tune plays. The music cannot be described as anything from this realm, but is nevertheless truly ghastly.

A stone fertility figurine of a Random Humanoid woman sitting cross-legged.

A drum crafted from gorilla skin whose sound carries for miles in the jungle.

A shed snake skin that slithers around on its own when not observed.

A painted stone that makes a loud frog's croak when thrown at something.

A one gallon cask filled with an alcoholic beverage known as “Chasind Sack Mead”. It is a brutishly strong honey liquor, reminiscent of warm summer days, apple blossoms on the wind with an unexpected aftertaste of father going off to war, never to return. Bitter, to say the least.

A small iron box, engraved with drawings of tornadoes and towering cyclones.

A smooth, shimmering crystal the size of a fist that seems to shift colors as one gazes upon it.

A black cat’s eye marble with a hint of blood red. A fleeing convict once slipped on it and broke his skull.

A sleeveless leather vest possessing several pockets and pouches. A small emblem is etched in a golden thread along the collar.

A lacquered tarot card entitled “The Lotus”. The tranquil card depicts a pleasant grove where five naiads play lyres and feed fruit to weary adventurers resting on satin pillows.

A silver talisman resembling a winged humanoid, holding an opalescent kiteshield as they fly upwards.

A canteen made from hammered copper, decorated with a snake motif.

A glass orb filled with water and bubbles of other liquids. It becomes cloudy before a storm.

A terracotta stamp used to imprint patterns on cloth. It's stained from blue paint.

A single palm-sized golden coin bearing an unfamiliar emblem. Unknown to the bearer, the gold has been enchanted by a local group of bandits who can seek it out with a paired magical compass and will ambush whoever is carrying the coin at the worst time for the coin’s bearer.

A scroll in a waterproofed leather case. Written on it is a melancholy poem about drowning.

A sealed clay jar containing a bone fragment from a deceased angel, bound in linen.

A burlap pouch filled with sea glass in a variety of blues and greens. Cloudy shapes seem to move under their surface.

An articulated wooden hand, with jagged lightning-like patterns along the fingers.

An offering bowl, coated in dust. The surface bears circular patterns of lightning.

A bright green cap of ettercap silk lined with black linen.

A sealed bottle of wine known as Blood of the Raven. Knowledgeable PC's have heard rumors that this drink is produced by the members of The Cult of the Raven, an old and secretive organization. The wine is black in color, salty to taste and is consumed communally among the worshipers of the deity only referred to as the Raven. The wine had the ability to pass dream-like visions of the Raven's will to its worshipers, although that happened very rarely and only to the favored individuals.

A lightweight walking stick that glows in the dark.

A rough chunk of stone that is perfectly black, reflecting no light on any of its surfaces.

A wooden fife that cannot be heard by humans.

A slender wine glass made of stained bone, rimmed with gold.

A small magic wand that commands the flight of a tiny illusory butterfly.

A sealed glass bottle labeled “diamond dust” that is actually full of crystallized sugar.

An ornately decorated skull made of hardened sugar.

A set of four wicker dolls in the shape of winter animals. They're attached together by a small chain.

A brass collar engraved with ancient hieroglyphs.

An oil lantern with crystal sides, which show shimmering faces when lit.

A sheaf of wheat made of gold wire, marked with sigils of healing.

A small pouch containing the shattered iron pieces of a sun-shaped medallion.

An amber wand that end in an eagle's talon.

A bright red flower kept alive by a minor enchantment.

An ancient bronze coin given to the dead to use to cross into the underworld.

A torn out piece of parchment that has a new story every morning, the ink still wet. The story always builds great tension before leaving out the ending.

A broken hand mirror that shows the user with older and frailer features.

A glass paperweight in the shape of a lobster's claw.

A skein of Randomly Colored yarn so light that it almost floats.

A skirt that shifts colors through the day, from bright blue, to black speckled with silver dots.

A tea bag that causes any liquid it’s placed in to taste like pure honey.

A feather far too long and colorful to belong to any bird you’ve heard of.

A small piece of salt stained wood that smell of sealing pitch and seawater. It is heavily damaged and was obviously splintered off of a much large section of a wooden structure. The wood rattles when creature sing near it and Knowledgeable PC`s suspect that the item was once part of the Songbird, the mythical boat belonging to a minor God of Seas and Songs. 

[bokettochild]

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones

Angst! My Beloved!

Not a lot of whump here, but I put Wild through the wringer!!! Lots of BotW2 ideas and concepts here, but nothing really cannon.

Also, disclaimer: I think Flora is a wonderful person, a bit harsh and sometimes unkind, but I feel for her a lot. The prompt submitted to me however asked for her as an ass, so that's what's here, for angst reasons. THIS IS NOT HOW I PLAN ON WRITING HER NORMALLY!!!

When Wild left the Chain behind in the woods, it was with a soft smile and a hesitant wave of his right hand. It was with a gentle ‘See y’all later’ that made Warriors shake his head with a sigh while Twilight offered a wobbly grin.

He would join them again, he knew that. After all, Hylia wouldn’t have chosen him to go with them in the first place if he was only supposed to leave before they’d even really started to know what it was that they were meant to be doing.

He’d see them again, and he’d fall back into a routine with all of them, sparring with Warriors and teaching Hyrule to cook and shield surfing with Wind and learning to carve from Sky. He’d go back to sewing with Legend, to exploring with Hyrule, to learning the Ocarina with Time and teasing Twilight about his terrible singing. He could work with Four on the Sheikah Slate and experimenting with different plants he’d gathered. He would see them again, and he’d go back to being busy and smiling nearly every day.

For the time being however, he had to square his shoulders and harden his jaw as he stepped through the swirl of black that had repulsed all the others every time they tried to enter. He had to tame his mind and wild spirit and come to stand before the Princess of Hyrule in all of her stern glory and receive the scolding he was due for wandering off without permission.

He never had time to question what she meant by being gone for ‘two whole weeks’ before she was marching off towards the labs and explaining that there was a new task for them to complete.

Such a task was one that left in his mind no time for thoughts of his brothers save on the lonely nights in the sky when the islands above the clouds were silent save for the birds about him that reminded him of Sky, or when he ran across the forests and was reminded of the wolf that once ran at his side. And, alright, the tiny people in the grass and the fountains reminded him of Four and Hyrule. When the wind sang strong in his ears as he dove towards the earth from the highest places in the sky, he couldn’t help but envision a small hero whose laughter danced like the sea and who’s fingers mastered the currents of wind and sea both.

It was a lonely quest, just like his last before it, but somehow it was more painfully so, now that he knew what it was to have brothers at his side to catch a monster’s blade when he was too slow or to help him patch himself up afterwards. It was quiet when the Princess and he sat around the fires as night, she studying him as he sat still and stonelike as she worked.

The hand that had waved goodbye to his brothers now flickered green and ethereal in the night shades, iron bands clinging to the wisping appendage and acting as a bond to hold its form together. It was nothing like what he’d known or studied in the Sheikah technology, or even what he’d seen from the many worlds he’d traveled with the other, and it earned many a stare and twist of the lips from those he met and traded with during his journey.

The arm was only the first of many changes, it’s power seeping through his body and altering him before he even knew what was happening. He’d hated it at first, disliking how it changed him, made his eyes glow and his hair touch with the same ethereal shades, red bleeding through at the roots and earning him even more wary looks.

Ganon, in all his terrifying power, had been a surprising comfort during the quest, an aid to discovering his new abilities and training them to bend to his own will. The Princess had been wary of their relationship, but had accepted it when she saw what he learned to do, and every evening she would require a report of his newfound skills, as well as the occasional demonstration or examination.

It all came to an end both too soon and not soon enough.

Ganon was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, and the Princess was as cold as ever even after their second adventure at each other's sides. And now there was no use for the abilities that had fused to his soul like the arm had to his flesh. He’d asked Purah if there was something that could be done to restore his body to its normal Hylian state, without the glowing limb that earned his only stares and insults from the village people, but the Princess had overheard it and declared that such a thing should not even be attempted.

“You don’t understand, Link. Don’t be foolish! We have here a scientific marvel ready for our investigation and exploration and you want to get rid of it just because it looks odd?”

He’s shuffled his feet slowly, resisting the impulse to rub at his chest where the Hylian part of him ended and the eldritch horror began. “I can’t live like  Hylian anymore.”

“Because you aren’t one!” Her Highness rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Sir Knight, after everything I certainly doubt that Hylian even applies to you anymore! Hylians do not possess the qualities that you now do, and they most certainly do not travel through stone or time or any other such thing at will. Think would you! You’re something else entirely, and I intend to find out what that is!”

Purah had frowned at that, eyes full of sorrow as they met his own with an apologetic sigh. But there was nothing the de-aged scientist could really say against the royal Sovreign of Hyrule, not as a Sheikah sworn to the service of the royal family. The woman/girl had offered him a sympathetic pat on the head later after climbing up to reach high enough to do so, as well as a few dumplings that Paya had sent on her grandmother’s behalf the day before. It was a welcome gesture, but amounted to so little on the grand scale of life. Not when so many others he had once called his friends had so blatantly rejected the mere sight of him.

Bolson and the other carpenters shied away from him with harsh whispers as they spat insults across the distance.

‘Half-blood’.

‘Gerudo Bastard’.

‘Freak’.

‘Demon’.

There were favorite insults spread from stable to stable and up and coming village to up and coming town and slowly all of Hyrule knew of the monster that had once been the hero. Gossip abounded, and he couldn’t even turn to shield his face with his hood without drawing attention to his arm.

It was only the koroks that welcomed him, themselves all too accustomed to the strange and ethereal. Them and the blupees.

Maybe it was the knowledge of how it felt to be shot at for his oddness that allowed him to ease into the graces of the flighty animals. And maybe it was his lonely heart crying for comfort, but when nestled in their midst, it almost reminded him of how it felt to be hugged by the salty veteran, on the rare occasional that the pink-haired hero had let down his guard.

The fairy’s tangled themselves in his hair and the blupees gathered at his feet, koroks dancing around him and flying to his side as if he was some sort of forest god, but the strange rise of his spirits in their presence shattered the instant a traveler caught sight of him.

Arrows and fire, once his favorite of weapons, were turned against him as words in every language of the New Hyrule had burst from the mouths of its people, and like his namesake, he ran before them, darting through the forest and fading in amidst the trees, hiding, incorporeal and translucent within the halls of the forest as those he’d once seen as allies pushed him away.

He’d begged the new Queen for aid, for relief or even just a word to the people that he wasn’t the evil they had come to think he was, but she only waved him aside with a purse of her lips. “You are not meant to be here without first asking.” The Child of Hylia declared, eyes as cold as the Shrine’s waters themself. “And why should I make a declaration on behalf of a man who refuses to even speak to me properly? You come groveling like a worm, yet for years it was I who you ignored. See how it feels, Sir Hero, to be the one left helpless at the hands of the country. Know what it is to be scorned by those who you thought would love you.”

He’d barely made it out of the window before the trainee guards of the newly repaired Hyrule Castle had caught him and Queen Zelda Diana Hyrule had stared after him with eyes colder than Hebra’s tallest peaks.

It was the Father Tree -the Deku Tree as the Queen had called it, but the koroks laughed at him for using the name, so he’d adjusted in kind- who suggested that he hide the changes, and he’d begun to wander Hyrule as much as possible to find the materials he would have needed.

The Queen still required his presence regularly so she could inspect him; her love of science no ways tainted as to stop her from ordering him to appear regularly, as there was now no need or safety in his acting as her guard. The Queen sought her people’s respect, and to employ such a being as himself, not Hylian and not quite mortal, would be to spark fear in the people. Indeed, when he skirted villages, he would wince at word of ‘the queen’s monster’ as gossip was traded. Those who didn’t see him themselves knew him as a beast of feral nature who lived amid the lost woods and destroyed any who came close.

“A specter that glows with the light of the shrines.” They would tell each other over campfires. “It has eyes like a ghost, empty and lost, with no care for humanity or Hylia’s chosen. They say it was once the Hero of this world, but he died ages ago.”

“I heard it’s the body, possessed by a being beyond this realm, a monster escaped from the edges of reality that tried to hide in our midst but corrupted it’s host so that it only scares away others, leaving it roam the earth in a shattered body. If you get too close to it though, it’ll take your instead.”

He’d stayed away from towns after that.

The blupees and koroks had been happy to help him to find what he needed to hide among the Hylians should he wish though, and two in particular guided him; the korok swinging little twigs like they were batons and humming swinging little shanties as it hopped along the path, the blupee snorting softly and nipping at his heels when he wandered too far, unnatural purple eyes staring up at him with something that was fondness and a reprimand all at once, and in their care he’d made his way across the land of Hyrule to find what would be needed to return to his once life.

The fairies and their Great cousins had been welcome help, and in time, he’d been able to walk amid the populace of Hyrule like any other, as long as he kept a long cloak about him and his hair pulled back to hide where the roots would begin showing again in gold and ethereal blue.

Once Hyrule had talked about needing to hide in his world, about the curse that followed him and made the Hylian people afraid. He’d thought it bizarre and ridiculous of the people at the time, but now he understood what it was to live it.

When the portal opened beneath his feet the day that the Queen had reprimanded him for concealing and potentially damaging the strange limb, startling the Skeikah scientists and Queen both, he’d nearly cried tears of relief.

He was going away, somewhere where he wasn’t a science project and where, unless they traveled to his world’s future, no one would know how much he had changed. His copy of the slate had enough hair dye to last him a few months, and he was certain he could make more over time, and as long as he continued wearing the tunics and gloves the fairies had helped him to adjust to hide the glow the others would probably never catch on. Or well, he could extend it anyway.

His brothers greeted him with open arms and teary eyes, and in a strange parallel to his adventure, he found himself thinking of blupees when Legend had curled against him, stiff and cold on the outside, but with fingers that clutched his tunic just a bit too tight to really be reluctant. And Four, Hyrule and Wind’s exuberant hugs and chatter brought to mind tiny forest people and koroks with twigs for batons.

It was good to be home.

It was good to cook for other people again, and they were glad to have him cook for them, even if his fondness for both Gerudo spiced dishes and fae like sweet things had increased exponentially during his newest adventure. It was good to fight at their sides, even if it was strange to once again have to take others into account before he could select a weapon. It was good to sit around a fire and talk with the others too, but that was perhaps the hardest one; it had been ages since he’d had a proper two-way conversation with anything other than a tree or a korok, and neither of those was good at either staying awake or staying focused for very long.

There were some harder things to adjust to though. Fire, for one. Unlike before when he’d have been happy to burn an enemy camp to the ground, now he was wary of using faming weapons or spreading heat further than necessary. The same went for hunting; he couldn’t bring himself to shoot an animal unless it attacked first or they needed the meat it would provide, and even then, he felt a bit bad for doing so. Is this what Twilight had felt like? Is this why the rancher never liked hunting? Because he too knew what it was like to be on the other end of the bow?

But the hardest thing by far to readjust to was his name.

‘Wild’ they had called him again, and after months of ‘the wild one’, ‘wild beast’, ‘monster’ and every other insult, slur or title that had been used on him, it made him flinch ever so slightly at the words. And unlike the other things where his brothers dismissed it as a change caused by his adventure or an increase of maturity, it was something that the others seemed to either not notice or to excuse as situational.

He had adapted though, learned to keep a smile on his face where blankness had once been required in his knightly duties, and the more he wore the mask the easier it was to put on again.

He’d reveled in traveling across time again, in dancing through battles and exploring the world without the Queen reprimanding him in her cold tones to stop wandering off. He’d pushed himself to learn more music in the last adventure, and even if his experience was more with what few instruments Ganon had had time to help him learn, he’d enjoyed sitting down with the others and borrowing one or another instrument to play a tune and sometimes he even got to sing.

He fell to comfortably into his role though, even with the changes, and he hadn’t even noticed when they’d come back to his world. To be fair, it was different in the daytime, and Hyrule had changed so much in the absence of her hero as he hid himself away from the eyes of civilization. Towns and roads had sprung up where there had only been fields before, and the Guardians that had littered the land had all been dug up and hauled to the castle to be either restored or destroyed by the Sheikah, depending on what Queen Zelda decided after she looked at them herself. The world was so different to him, so unlike that which he knew, that he’d failed to keep as alert as he ought to have been when he wandered about an open market with the others, laughing and chattering away with the other younger ones as Time and Legend herded them towards the needed stalls.

It was a traveler that was his downfall, a man who’d seen the Monster Hero and had been among the first to discover the disguise he wore.

No questions were asked when the word spread, and Wild hadn’t caught on to the whispers until a stone had struck his cheek and he was stumbling forwards on the path.

“Wild!” Twilight was at his side in a minute, Time right after him as Legend launched a barrage of insults at the guilty party who’d thrown the thing.

“’m fine.” He was careful to wipe the blood away with his cloak, holding the fabric to the wound to prevent bluish blood seeping down his face and exposing him to his brothers. He wanted to keep them as long as possible and proving himself to be a monster, not even Hylian, would surely have them turning their backs on him.

“Get away from him!” A woman scolded, grabbing ahold of two of the younger heroes while several other shoppers had like ways grabbed Legend and Sky. “Are you dears alright? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Freaking what?” Legend shrieked. “Who’s the injured party here?”

“I’d avoid that thing, son.” A man huffed through a frankly walrus like mustache, eyes hard as they trailed to where Wild stood, cloak still pressed to his cheek as he attempted to wave off a fussing Twilight and Time. “It’s not natural. Sure, it looks like a normal Hylian, but that’s just an effective ruse.”

Another villager nodded. “It’s one of the Calamity’s puppets, a Gerudo-Bastard set on destroying the kingdom!”

“He’s the freaking hero!” Legend shrieked, barely being held back by a steely eyed Sky. “He saved all your freaking asses and all you can do is insult his flipping guts? Who’s the-”

“Enough.” There were few times that Sky’s voice reached levels worse than Twilight’s growls, but the stern command, regal and firm, froze all present as the man stiffened with a cold nod towards the villagers. “I see we are unwelcome here, and with that being the case it would be wise to spend our rupees elsewhere. Legend,” A tug to the boy’s shoulders. “Let’s join the others and be out of their hair. If they cannot be welcoming and kind to our brother than they will not receive our patronage.” And like a swan gathering it’s cygnets, Sky swept down the street, cape fluttering as he ushered the rest of them out of the town and back to the safety of the wilds. The village stared after them with wide eyes, as if they’d just been judged by a breathing god.

The stiffness in Sky’s shoulders faded as they neared the edge of the forest, and instantly the Chosen Hero been tutting over Wild, gently but firmly prying his hand away from his face with a kind smile that almost set Wild at ease. Almost.

“It’s fine, it’s just a scrape.”

“Still.” Sky crooned softly. “I’d rather we clean it up now and make sure it’s nothing worse than let it sit and get infected later.”

And though he’d tried to fight, his single Hylian hand was no match for the firm grip of the Skyloftian, and within minutes his face was exposed to the shocked faces and flickering eyes of his brothers.

“It’s blue...” Wind breathed as Hyrule darted forwards, hands already glowing softly only for them to stutter to a stop over Wild’s skin.

“It’s... Wild, why is your blood- why is-” The healer’s eyes had flickered golden for a moment, wide as they stared up at him. “What happened to you-”

“What the freak!” Legend had startled, blinking in surprise as he stared. “Your eyes are glowing!”

Shit! The healing properties of the arm had already taken affect and it was making everything act up all weird! He shot a glance down at his arm, one hand raising to tangle in the long hair he couldn’t even see at the moment, praying silently beneath his breath that nothing was showing through. It wasn’t, but that didn’t change how Hyrule had come to fixate on his right arm, or how the healer's fingers hovered over it sparking and eyes twinkling as he whispered softly under his breath.

“Wild.” Time had sighed. “I think this one is going to need an explanation.”

All the breath left his lung in instants.

He’d panicked to say the least and Time had eventually shooed the others away to make camp as the eldest hero had sat at his side, waiting silently for him to regulate his breathing. Touch was too much right now, and any attempts from the others to ease him down or help him level out his breathes had only made him panic more. But when at last his blue eyes blinked back to clarity it was to see Time sitting at his side, a gentle tune wafting from the Ocarina at his lips.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, trying his hardest not to startle Time or otherwise make the situation worse. “I should have said something, I know. I just- missed being Wild and I wanted to come back and be normal and I didn’t want to-”

“It’s alright.” Time’s voice rumbled softly, a single blue eye turning to him with a pained look, even as the man offered him a hint of a smile. “None of us talk about our adventures either.”

“Yes, but you’re people.” He sighed, rubbing the fingers of his glove together. “You’re allowed to choose things.”

There was pain in Time’s voice when their leader answered. “And you’re not?”

“I’m not Hylia anymore.” He whispered. “I don’t count.”

“You count to us.”

“That’s because you don’t know.”

Time shifted, turning to face him fully as the ocarina was set firmly in the grass. “That’s because you’re family and we care. Wild, I don’t care if Demise himself named you the king of the dead, you’re still my kid and Nayru knows I’m not going to let you go without a fight. If that means fighting you, alright, but you’d best better believe that no amount of physical or mental changes will break the bonds we all have with you.”

Something, something damaged and crushed and stitched up and torn open again clenched inside of him, tears pricking at his eyes as he stared up at Time’s royal blue gaze. “W-what?”

“You could be granted godhood, made a monster, I don’t care. You’re ours and you’ll have to deal with that.” Time smiled, warm even with the pain in his eyes as he looked down at him. “So how about you start again, maybe with the facts rather than the insults. Or,” Time softened, brows furrowing lightly. “If you want, we can just sit here and you can choose to talk about this later. We do need to know, so we can help you and keep you safe, but you don’t have to tell us right now. You can take some time to figure out what you want to say if you need.”

And, well, shoot him, but Time’s arms had always been a safe place and there was one thing he’d wanted more than anything since he had come back. Wild threw himself into his grand-mentor's arms with a soft sob, clutching tightly to the other, ignoring the armor and its sharp points and awkward shapes as he tried to hold back all the emotions swirling in his chest.

Time’s arms folding around him broke the floodgates though, and when the man’s hand had stroked through his shortened hair, he’d had to bury his face in Tim’s neck to muffle his sobs.

“There, there,” Time hummed softly, rocking slowly as he held the broken wild hero. “Let it out, little one. I have you, I’ve got you and I’m not letting anyone hurt you.”

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Even Stars Burn Out

As he enters the Jedi temple, reinvigorated by a new, unspeakable purpose - Anakin Skywalker feels nothing.

There are no thoughts in regards to the countless lives he is about to snuff out in his mind. There are no feelings of remorse or hesitation in his heart. He has already decided, he has already weighed the lives of his former fellow Jedi against Padmé’s. It was never a contest, there was never any question as to whose life mattered more. Anakin keeps his lightsaber in his hand, his loyal 501st battalion have his back. Order 66 is nigh, the termination of each and every Jedi the rule which he must obey.

Do the Jedi deserve such a grim fate? Anakin thinks being part of the order, a constitution that has molded and used him for years, is crueller.

Do they deserve to die? Anakin thinks death will bring relief, as the misled become one with the Force.

He strikes down the first meager padawan, and still he feels nothing. No guilt, no remorse. Only anger.

His rage burns red hot, his hatred thrumming like the rhythm of a drum within his chest. The pounding of his heart is the only beat he follows, as he strikes down another familiar face. And another. And another. Until the faces all blend into one, until blaster fire and the buzz of clashing plasma blades overpower his senses.

They fall. They all fall.

Anakin is powerful, he has always been powerful. Talented, the Force syphoned within his very cells so much more than that of his peers. He has less training, yet he outmatches each and every one of them. Master Cin Drallig proves to be some competition, but even he must fall at the swipe of Anakin’s blue saber.

Master Jurokk stands no chance.

Shaak Ti is caught meditating, unaware of the one time hero of the Republic coming to end her life. Anakin stabs her in the back, and she slumps limp to the side as her light burns out. Anakin keeps no count, he has no idea how many bright eyed young men and women he has struck down. They seem to him like spider-roaches; like an endless flood of vermin pouring from each and every entrance like spider-roaches from a damp crack in the wall. He deals with them with the same dissociation, with the same emotional dissonance. His master's words echo in his head; his praise and his promises. The Sith Lord will aid Anakin in his crusade to save Padmé, and Anakin is desperate.

The hall seems serene, a clean slate save for the heaps of fresh bodies stacked along the ornate stone floors. Their hollow eyes stare at Anakin, locked in horror and what he feels might be accusatory glares. They will judge him, and he accepts that fate. Their thoughts of him matter little.

Anakin closes his eyes, senses further life forms. Senses Force signatures that are unstable; some weak, some fluctuating. Some reeking of fear and confusion. Youthful. He knows what must be done.

Only now, does Anakin take a moment to weigh his options. Only now, for a brief second in which clarity finds him, does he stutter. The moment passes, almost as casually brushed aside as if the doubt was naught but thin air. He ascends the grand stairway, makes a well aimed leap to the second suspended level. The pale, tear stricken faces of the hidden younglings greet him as he enters the juvenile training hall. They have hidden behind the scarce furniture provided. Anakin senses their terror, and he tries to relish it. He takes a deep breath, steadies his trembling hands.

Do these children deserve to die? Anakin knows they will be hunted relentlessly by the clones, and by his master, should they be left alive. Him killing them is a blessing, it's a mercy that he will take such pity on them.

Sors Bandeam approaches, the blonde boy barely even a toddler. He speaks, but Anakin hears none of it. He shuts out the hushed whispers and murmurs, and acts. He thinks of Padmé, of the child she is carrying. He tries not to picture the face of his daughter or son in the place of the younglings' as he strikes them down. Padmé must live, nothing else matters. These younglings would have grown to develop the same traitorous, poisonous views as the Jedi council. They are merely the next generation. His master asked him to spare none, and Anakin obeys. He will always obey.

When it is done, he doesn’t linger. He doesn’t dwell upon his heinous crime. He exits the chamber, leaving the children as they lie. Helpless, hapless, innocent and forever suspended in time. They shall never age, they shall never reach adolescence. They have found peace.

When Anakin exits the smoldering Jedi temple, there are no survivors. Thick black smoke billows out of the giant construction, his trusty platoon of clone troopers left behind to guard the tattered remains of what was once Anakin’s home away from home.

Bodies litter the exterior stairway. Anakin steps over them with little reverence. He smells only the ashy, pungent stench of death and embers.

He thinks he can sense Padmé’s distress from afar. Something in him tells him to go to her; to reassure her, to feed her any lies necessary in order to soothe her pain and fear. She is distraught, as he comes to her. He is disheveled, still numb and empty and hollow inside. He thinks only of her, as he kisses her lips and strokes her cheek, and offers her what he hopes is an affectionate smile. She is unconvinced, fretful, and he cannot stop her wandering thoughts. He tries, he explains what little he can. He has further duties, his master expects him to follow through with his mission. He can’t stay, despite her pleas.

The flight to Mustafar is quiet, solemn, and stifling. Anakin blocks out his barrading thoughts, thinking only of Padmé’s beautiful but sad face. He thinks of her swollen belly, thinks of the baby kicking as he presses his palm to its curve. He does this for her, for their child. For them. Only them. Only her. He lands, resolute. The separatists must fall, like Count Dooku before them. The war must end, a new era is about to dawn.

The heat of the lava planet is pressing, sweat pouring down Anakin’s furrowed brow. His reception party is confused, and he smirks at them. He quips, voice dry with sarcasm as he adds two more lives to his conscience. He is focused, clear headed and determined. His strides are fast, and the Neimoidian viceroy Nute Gunray of the Trading Federation appears bemusingly shocked as Anakin interrupts the meeting. Whatever his master promised Gunray was a lie, and the viceroy realizes this. Anakin hates Gunray, he hates the Trading Federation, he hates everything they stand for. That unbridled hatred feeds his rage, and steers his saber.

If Anakin felt nothing killing his fellow Jedi, he feels even less slaughtering the ring leaders of the faction he has spent years of his life battling. War has changed him, desensitized him and he slices through their hideous bodies like butter. Like paper, they rip and tear and break. Gunray pleads for his life, and if Anakin were a cruller man he might have relished in it. Instead, he finishes the job.

An eerie silence once more overpowers him, as he reports to his master. The now Emperor Palpatine praises him, but the compliments ring hollow. They are meaningless, and Anakin knows this. He accepts this as par for the course. His master has never been honest, and deep down, Anakin has always known this.

Still, the solitude is claustrophobic. The walls seem to be closing in.

Anakin finds himself desperate to move anywhere at all. He paces the room, avoids making eye contact with the dead as they glower at him - mocking him, just as the fallen Jedi had. The balcony suspended sixty feet above the rivers of scalding lava below becomes his refuge. He fixes his eyes upon the mesmerizing molten rock; yellows, browns, reds and oranges capturing his attention. The river twists and warps into random shapes and patterns, and its roar seems to bring to mind cries of agony and misery.

Anakin shakes his head, the anger dissipating bit by bit. In its wake, there is pain. Clawing at his insides, clutching at his heart. Padmé must live, he thinks. Nothing else matters. But Anakin knows he can never go back. The moment he agreed to aid his master's vicious scheme, he was lost. The stricken faces of the younglings flash before his eyes; little Sors' big blue eyes full of admiration. Expecting to be saved, to be taken away and kept safe by one of the biggest heroes of the Republic. Instead, his frail body now lies cold and lonely lightyears away.

What might Padmé think, if she knew?

What might Padmé say, if he ever told her?

Anakin’s hands tremble, and he wraps his arms around himself to still their treachery. The Sith yellow of his eyes, a sickly hue that had overtaken them as he allowed darkness to engulf his being, fades. It is the last time it will ever fade.

Pale blue eyes regard the lava river, even as they are clouded with tears. Anakin thinks of his mother. He thinks of her kindness, her love, and her demise. He thinks of how heavy her withered body felt in his arms as he brought it home, thinks of how he failed her. He will not fail Padmé. He will not bury Padmé.

There is guilt now.

Guilt so raw, so blunt, so immense that it tears Anakin’s heart in two. He feels conflicted. He feels lost. He feels alone, and afraid, and disgusted. He feels hurt, and used, and enraged. He feels small, and helpless. He feels powerful, and untouchable. He weeps, and he allows himself to mourn the Jedi. He weeps for them, and for himself.

Cin Drallig.

Shaak Ti.

Jurokk.

Sors Beam.

Anakin will forget them, eventually. Their features will fade, as his memories disappear into oblivion. Only Padmé remains a beacon of hope, only Padmé can save him now. Anakin cries, and he sheds a piece of himself with each scalding tear. He cries, and he willfully suppresses the disappointed, horrified faces that comes to mind.

Mother.

Qui-Gon.

Yoda.

Windu.

Ahsoka.

Obi-Wan.

Padmé.

Anakin dries his tears, holds his head high. There is no use in weeping over what has been done. His future lies ahead, bright and open wide. He forces himself to believe in this mantra, forces himself to discard rationality and reason. What else can he do?

Then he loses everything.

He loses the battle. He loses his limbs. He loses his sight, his hearing, his voice, his soul. He loses Padmé.

And for what? What was his sacrifice all for?

Master was right, it is ironic. Anakin never betrayed the Jedi for Padmé. He did it for himself, and he loathes himself for it. Anakin is alone, locked in a prison of his own making. Anakin is but scraps of the man he used to be; a traitor, a coward and a monster. He suppresses himself, relying solely upon his hatred. There is an endless supply of that, now. He is despicable, and thus, there will forever be a steady stream of loathing to feed off of. He needs no one, he deserves no one.

Does Anakin deserve such a fate? Yes, his brain whispers. He deserves all of this, and more.

Does Anakin deserve to die? No, the same voice concludes. Death would be relief, a sweet blissful slumber to save him from his demons. He deserves no such relief, he must be punished and tormented.

Anakin killed Padmé, and this is his reward. He knows this. He accepts this. Anakin burns in his own flame, he has flown too close to the sun. He has snuffed it out by his own hand, and all he is left with is an endless night. All his fears have been realized. All his dreams have been crushed. He has done it himself.

Anakin feels nothing. He is a husk of a man, more cybernetics than living flesh. He has no autonomy left, he lives only to serve his master. He locks away his past, refuses to look at it, refuses to sifle through it. It brings only agony and suffering. He refuses to retread his steps, to reconsider his choices. If he did, the guilt would eat him alive. If he did, he would succumb to his own unbearable, irrefutable remorse.

Anakin Skywalker is consumed by regret. In his heart, he knows this.

Anakin Skywalker deserves no less.

***

You can probably tell I was very much inspired by Matthew Stover’s writing style in the RotS novelization, though much less poetic. I had fun however, and it was nice exploring a different style. Hope you enjoy it too! It’s an addition to The Mask of Death  series on Ao3, link below.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049894/navigate