#blood drinking rituals

[awesomecooperlove]

MOST PEOPLE LOOK BUT CANNOT SEE… WHAT DO YOU SEE?

🤔🤔🤔

[childrenofthesun77]

The C3 lady who came to kuro and gear to request from the servamps to kill the count:

Seems to be the same female head of the alicein family we saw when the two barriers meant to seal melancholy, envy and sloth were discussed:

(Which I guess should have been obvious from her flamingo walking cane, it's a reference to alice in wonderland).

After the reveal that lily was pretty much behind freaking everything else already I guess it's not really a suprise, but at least to me this sounds like he could have been the driving force behind C3's request to kill the count as well.

Edit:

Yeah, that's also her and the man with the brooch and his hair in a side ponytail...is lily:

[brain-rot-central]

"Hello! I'm Dorian, and I like men!"

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

It Might as Well Happen! Life is Already So (Old) God(s)damn Weird!

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Cruz here. You can find more information about Penn and LeviathanPat–who is only mentioned here, but he still gets the clarification because I said so–here. EldritchPlier and Illinois belong to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)

(I wrote this as a birthday present for my amazing friend @sammys-magical-au! So, of course, we’ve got another special guest appearance by their badass OC! Please go reblog Sammy’s ideas, check out their Wattpad, and show them some love for being such a great writer!)

(Also: the awesome @inkbedou has created some lovely artwork of the main character here! Please go check out their stuff and give them a follow!)

(Trigger Warnings: body horror, implied murder/death, blood/gore, knives/blades, implied animal death, occultism, mentions of ritual/sacrifice, mentions of eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.) 

(If you’d like to use distorted fonts like the one you’ll be seeing in this story, then I recommend going here).

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Anything and everything came with its own sets of Give and Take. A lot of people—more than your mental health would probably be prepared for—had trouble understanding that sometimes, but not Cruz. 

For example: it was difficult to hear crimson splattering over the notes of his violin, but the small pool of blood at the head of his room was very much noticeable. There was that strong, infamous metallic scent of course, but it’d also be pretty hard to ignore how droplets were slowly but surely floating up to give his ceiling an impromptu polka-dot paintjob.

(Which, to be fair, was pretty damn cool to watch if you were in the right headspace. Yeah, it’d be so much harder to clean, but still.)

Honestly, this blatant middle finger to gravity wasn’t even the strangest thing that had happened tonight. Or even several past nights, in fact. 

The more time you spent with sentient crimes against reality, the more reality warped around you. 

Especially the creature Cruz was waiting for right now: among his many horrific titles, he was nothing if not the personification of Fuck You I Do What I Want.

The blood began boiling and churning on its own accord. It was a little louder than the dripping chorus, but that still didn’t quite break through the violin’s voice. 

And then. . .the red started to drain.

The blood itself wasn’t drying up, the puddle wasn’t shrinking or evaporating at all. 

No. That rich, organic color started seeping out of the fluid, slithering into the air past the veils of rising steam, leaving the small pool to resemble liquid silver. . .or the skin of someone who was just about ready for putrefaction. 

The red seeped its way under that tiny gap of space between the floor and the bottom of Cruz’s bedroom door. It then spread to outline the door from the other side entirely, a white-hot glow mixing into it. The new light was impossible: dark and vibrant at the same time. Almost like an eclipse.

A low, echoing growl rumbled from the other side, announcing the arrival of the same guy Cruz had made a bargain with a few years ago.

It quickly evolved into a guttural, keening roar that made the door shake in its threshold and the air feel like it was blistering. If not for how much time and effort Cruz had put into adjusting, his ears would’ve started to bleed. 

Always up for collaborating, Cruz pulled the bow across his violin’s strings at a new angle, eliciting an evil HSSSSSS from the instrument. 

After about fifteen seconds, the monstrous cry transitioned into a voice, deep and smooth and tinged with grating, surreal venom.

“Heͪy͉ͬ͝ t̄̊he̖̪̬r̹e͍̽͢.̬ͥ Ho͈ͣ̂w͂̓ h̑̀a͖̖v̪͈̽e thi̷̾ͨng͖s͢ ḇͭ̉eͬ̇͞en̶̢?ͮ”

Cruz offered both a nod and a shrug, knowing that the abomination could see him through the wooden barrier. “Pretty alright. Can’t complain.” 

The voice hummed thoughtfully. “W͕ͧ̀el̲̑l̜͑ͯ,̖̿ I don't̾̈ͦ mea̲̓n̾ ṯo ål͈a͊͡r̭͖m̬̅̕ y̬oͤ̊̓u͚ͦ,̋͛̋ b̎ͮut̺̹ͅ th͇̗er͔̔eͪ'̶s͐ͅ s͗̓o̘ͧ̃m͙e̘o̞̼͆n̖ͥ͌eͥ ś̚tͪ̕and̋̓͢í̈́͞n̘̔g̃͊̚ o̅n̶͒ͤ t̏͑͝h̳͑ͮe f͗r̦o̓n͠t͍ p̩͗̚o̗r͛ch.ͯ́”

Cruz felt his hackles ever-so-slightly rise—

“O̘̼ṙ, d̴̎id̼͒̈ y̶ȍ̗̺u_̫ aͮ̓ļ̲ȓ͓̏e͒a̫̘͐dy̋ kn̻̹͗o̦͗̄ẇ̊ thͬa̷ͩͧt̉?̑ͥ” The voice continued. “I m̰ͅean,͈ͬ̀ iͮͨt_̨'d̙ͬ̿ b̩͋eͫ̔̒ pȓ͕e̒ͣ͞t͊ͯty̰̠ͬ ha̕͟r̭̺̃ḋ t͔ͦ͛o̴̫͎ mí̼̭s͚̈s̼ͧ him, ŵ̙h̛̄a͘ţ͍ͨ w̛̥it̖͖͠h̝͋ t̬h͙̊̽e̷͔ ća̜ͪͣmͮer̢̚a c̴̃͞r͜ȩw aņd̍̒ t̓h̨̫̾aͦt̯̚ u̯̍͢n͇̊n͈̱eͫ̄c̵̝͘e̢s̪̮̒sͦa̅ri̩͑͆l͗ý̛̅ lạrg̜eͤ c̀h̢̔ͯeͯc̦̓k͖̫̭ i̵n̚ h̠̎͗iş h͋̚͟a͔nḋ͓͝s͉̓͟.́̈́̎ . .̏̀͆”

—and almost immediately flatten back down. Cruz sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah-yeah, sure-sure. We both signed that contract a long time ago. You know you don’t have to keep trying those tricks on me, right?”  

A booming chuckle rattled through the house, carrying the scent of sulfur. “Aͥ͋h͗ͯͪ,̧͚͌ c̢̍'m̸͔̼on̤. I͞t̨͔̔'̙s̤ͪͅ go͇͓ỏ͎̿d̨͚ pr̲ͨa͇͜c̥̤̈ti̚_́c̗͖͞e͋ tͭ̅͊o̥ k̝̭̅e̩̙ep̮ f̯̥o̢͊͛l̹l͍̀ow̳̘e̛͔r̊̌s̿́ o̥ͥ̾n t̅̒́h̳̖̀ei̮ŗ͒̑ toę̳s̝.̵̦ B̺͗e̹͘s̶id͖͠e͌s̭̋͌,̰ o̥ͮld̃̇̽ h̾̋ä͔́ͭb́ͩ͗i̤t̛͔͟s j̝us̯t die̾́ h͑a͠ȓ̴̚d͖͂̋.͍”

Exasperation lingered in his features, but Cruz’s energy had never left. “And speaking of dying, you see what I put together?”

“I doͅ,ͯ” the abomination–whom Cruz had learned to call Plier, as it was the only part of his title that could be pronounced by a human tongue—replied. A faint sloshing noise followed his words; he was inspecting the large, ornate bowl that Cruz had prepared with tonight’s offering not even half an hour ago. 

Cruz nodded, grinning. “Everything should be nice and fresh. I mean, apart from the blood, since you said it's better when it’s aged a little.”

A thoughtful hum oozed under the door and into Cruz’s ears. A slick, grotesque, near-bubbling sigh came along, the type of sound that could only come from a (once) internal organ as it was sliced apart by something with razor-sharp edges. 

“W͖ͨe̖ͪl̨l,̽ šo̅ f̀́͡ar, n̤͕ͫo̢ͪ̽ v̧̩ir̠̾g̱ͪ͢in͉̍͋'̧͔s͚͜ t̪é̤͂à͑rs oͮ͘͟r͊ ć͘͠a̧̰̥pt̩͢u͒̐r̼͊ed mo͈o̸͉nͦl̿i͕͒g̟͖h̰̎t̠ i̪͌n̠̔ h̏e̶re.͆ O̵r̽, a̫̳͂t l̪͍͠e̹a͔̒̓ŝt, n̨̉ot̖̟ͦhing I wͮͯoͧͮ͋u̦lḏ̈́̿ ć̄å̹l̻͔̋l͍ a m͆o̲̚ṙ̶e̎̄̀ sͨ̔͛p̕į̩ͥrituaļͫ iͅn̰̼͆gre͙ͯd̪͆ͯi̫̾̑enͮtͪ͐͊.̀͞,” Plier announced. “M̬ayb͓͉̚e y̡où'̋̀v͙̈́eͩ̔͛ l̜os̘t̃̀ y̳̌ó͖̾ȗ̮͙ṛ̙ͅ t̥ouc͌h͚. .̨ͫ̕ .͜”

Cruz raised an eyebrow, unable to keep from sputtering a bit. This was done in jest, of course. He’d been working for Plier long enough to have built up some genuine trust; he knew how to dissect the monster’s words, how to tell what he truly felt or thought about things. 

For a centuries-old Stephen-King-wet-dream-come-to-life, Plier had a typical juvenile meanstreak. Sure, he saw most other humans as pitiful little playthings, but when it came to the rare few he found interesting enough to be worth his time, he was big on unconventional motivation.

His critical and condescending jabs were meant to be taken as a challenge, an open invitation to keep going and impress him.

At least, that’s how it was half of the time. . .

“M̛̀̐ȧy̨͇̬beͬ̅ y̼̰ou'v̥̍é̱ l̐̉ọ̔͑s̈́̈́t y͕̝͈our̎̌̕ touch̴̫͋,̠͊̈” Plier repeated, raising his voice just a bit after pointedly clearing his throat. “T̀ͬ̾his̝̆͡ d_́o̱eş͎̍n'̡ͨt̀ h͖̕ͅa̩vë͟͠ e̎̂ve̮̘n̒ h̗̞av͋ͧe̎ͪ aǹy̛͊̇ w̸̦a͘ṭͬ͞e̮ͨͪr͝ th͖͂ͭã̤̕t p͞ëo̯̦̽p̝ͧ̆l̜̂ͯe̞ͧͭ d̝͙̱ŗ̥̌o͟wn̬ed̔ i͔̳n!͟”

“Oh, you’ll get some in the future. Count on that,” Cruz assured, folding his arms across his chest.

Plier hummed again in a way that just screamed of how he was pursing his lips and mutilating those lips in the process thanks to the multitude of too-long, too-sharp teeth in his maw. But then, it wasn’t like pain was really a problem for him, considering he’d had a hand in creating pain itself as a concept.  “I sh̋oͩ̍uͥl̷dͤ gͤͭī̀ṿ̩̎ẹ̽ i̵̧ͅt t̿́̕ḧe̯ b̒ͧe̲ͪnef̧̛̖ịt o̿f t̗̃h͙̭e d͗ǫ̶̩ù̢btͦ. Ẃ͉oͥ͟ul̛ͬdn͖̆'̏͡t̺͟ w͗ȧ̖̒nͯt̄ t̾͗̓o͊ͤ̐ h͊_̹u̓ͫrt͛ yo̘u͉̝r̠͘͢ f̠r̈ag̵̑̎i͟le hum͍a̖n fe̷̵e̩͗_li̍ͬň̎gs.̷̼”

. . .And the other half was him just being a facetious asshole because it wasn’t like any mortal could dare try to stop him.

Cruz clicked his tongue, a dry chuckle seeping through his gritted teeth.

And with that, a mind-bending symphony of crunching bones, snapping tendons, and tearing flesh filled the air, all leaking through the door.

Cruz rocked back and forth on his heels.

After a moment, Plier gave pause with a bitter, sickening gulp. “Oh̯͔͟, g̈́o͆̆͌atͨsͧ͞ a̪͍̎g̒̃͢a̍in̞̔̈.̤̰͇”

“I thought goats reminded you of the Wars,” Cruz said, tilting his head to the side.

In fact, he knew they did, since Plier had regaled him with so many tales of the days when he’d first started climbing the eldritch hierarchy, of abhorrent conquest, of the streets in twisted cities in various dimensions running red (or green, or blue, or whatever colors non-mortal blood could be). 

“I̽́̚ s̴ͦ̈ee̴̵͆m͔̟̈ ẗ́͐͊o r̦e̟m͔͢e̜m͛ͯbe͌ͮ͟r̻͙̣ y̧̬ͬo̹u͘̚ te̍l͔̣͞l͂́͊ing̒͢ m͉͌̍e t̷͂̈h̨̎a̓ͮ̈t͚̖͊ I c̷̋oụ̬͠ldͥ̎͋ exͣp̷e̵̼͢c͍̀ͮṯͤ̚ ṡ͉o̢͘ͅm̤͘eͨ h̛u̙m̷̸a̷͕n̪ ř̫em̍̚ͅa͉i̸̬̯n̷͎ś s̒o̯o͍n̸͋,̧̠̟” Plier mentioned. A steady drumbeat murmured as he spoke–those had to be his claws tapping against the hallway’s floor. “P̰̕lͩuͣͦs̠̀̿,̢̞͐ ǒ̧̤b̅͌v̓îo͆us͍̯̫ḻ̆̽y͊̍ a͘ ni̒͜cë̳́,̨̞ raẁ͔ so̢ú̠̒l͉͙͡ to hạ̻̌r͂v̮es͕͐ͣt o̢͙̒n t̯o͓̾p̩ of͎̀͑ ț̊ͮḣ̿aͭͫ͗t̶͍.̈̏”

The upcoming retort died a quick-yet-brutal death on Cruz’s tongue. He chewed at his lip, then heaved a sigh and trudged across the room to flop down onto his bed. 

This elicited a startled, layered mrowh! from one end, where a vaguely cat-shaped creature with five piercing eyes and dark carmine fur that almost looked fluffy. . .almost, so long as you were a safe distance from it. When the small monster got to its paws and stretched before wandering over to its owner, it became more and more clear how that “fur” was a coat of spikes that could easily flare up at a moment’s notice.

Fortunately for Cruz, plenty of bonding time had passed by now, and so Macaroon was content to just nudge at his forehead and stick out a disturbingly long forked tongue to give him a classic kitten-lick.

Cruz reached over to gently scratch his pet’s tattered ears. He knew Plier was still watching him, still waiting for an answer. “. . .I tried, okay? I really did! I lined up five patsies for this month’s initial plan. Five! But for whatever reason, none of them ended up taking the bait! And after that, the goats were all I could afford to get!”

A long-suffering sigh echoed from the door, doused in oil and disappointment. “Y͐ỏ́u̶̡'̈́v͌̍ͨe̾͐́ t̘̿͢r̈́i͌̎ck̾̇͜ē̶d ḑ͙̓o̪ͮ̇z̛eͣͯnsͤ̄͐ ô̩̠f m̜̗o̵̬͐rͧt͆a̼͙ͥlͨ͠s̙͛ͨ,͓ Ċruz͚.̜̹ Wh̩ǎ͓͢ţ̎͟ c͐͛͞o̧ͥuĺͦ̇d'̢̐ve pͮ͑ǒ͘s̜̹͝s̻̃i͈̟̔b̑l̪̦̃y̫̞ b̻̆̽e͗͞en͊ so d͎̃i̵f̌ͦf̹͇͢ę͚̓rͬe̹̊nt̬̔ a̮b͗̚o̜ͤut̀́ t̫̽h̺ͨ̐ośe͊ o̓ṅ͙es̴̯ͫ?̠”

“I don’t know!”  Cruz threw his hands up in empty air. “I have no idea how or why it even happened! I acted my ass off for all of them! I thought I’d given more than enough charm and last-minute-guilt and likeable awkwardness!”

Memories of the recent past came rushing through his head. The quartet of nights he’d spent in a cheap motel just a few miles away, using the dingy little bathroom mirror as a makeshift scrying station. 

The phone calls he’d made each night to five “friends” he’d recently made, each one hailing from a different cleaning company; the way he’d requested they stop by this very house, one after the other, to tidy up on his behalf. 

The way each of them had just. . .not. Doubled. Back, even though human survival instinct was pRETTY MUCH ALWAYS IGNORED IN FAVOR OF CURIOSITY BUT APPARENTLY NOT THESE TIMES BECAUSE SCREW ALL THE PLANNING AND LURING AND EFFORT CRUZ PUT INTO HIS PROJECTS!

“Aͤͤ̉ndͤ̒ y̸̮̱óu̅ s͚u̓mmö́ͥͪn͕e̳͆d a̠̙ Mả̰nͣͣè̸ foͧr͂ͥͮ t̶̘ẖ̐̒a͓̬ͪtͥ,̳” Plier added coldly. “O͔ͫn̸ͨe̩ͭ o̿̑ͤf̨̌͜ t̵͎ͨḫ̷͠e̙͐ͯ Te̜̭k̗̿e Teͦ̈͆kͮe v̦͖̬a̙̓ȑ̋̄i̖̺anͬt͐ͦͮșͯͩ,̕ ri̋͞͞g̛͋hͮt̮͚̆?̺̲̒ W̆ė̽ak a͎s̭͖ͦ t̩͂̇hey͚ aͤr̢͂͘e͕̽͜, th̥͢os̨͛e t̍y͖̑p̛͓͟es̵̰ͨ a̝re̽͝ s͍̘̾t͈̙i̞l̊̀͟l̬͋̈́ pr̰̔e͋ͬ͢t̟ͯt̪y͗ d̩à̘ͬmnͪ ŗ̯ͬar̡͕̒e̤̪͈.̕”

“Don’t remind me,” Cruz begrudgingly agreed, muttering a few colorful phrases in Portuguese under his breath.

 Manes were the lowest of low in abyssal environments, but they were never in short supply, so they could still be somewhat useful for anything demon-related. So long as you were ready to deal with their tantrums or the invisible bile that drained through their pale skin like sweat. . .(The fluids that had leaked from the exposed, dangling guts of the one Cruz had used hadn’t really helped.)

“Y̭oͨu c͚̫̕o̙u̘̚ldn̻̗'t͇̣́ h̓͑ä͂̕v̝̆ȩ͍̮ j̲̉ͬù̽̄s̟̺ͫt͈̃͢ c̝ͨ̾a̜p̟̐̕t͠uŗ̮͟e̘͂d i̠̝t̊̈ aͥ͐͘n͋dͫ̔ͤ h̶͐ȇͥľ̬͘ḏͩͅ i̟̊͂t f͚͔ȍr̫̟ͮ t̡̯o̍͐n̨͊͗i̖͍̳g͉h̸͍̽t?ͯ͘ F̨la̐y̛͑̐ingͮͮ it́ͅ wŏ͖ͣȕ̓̕l͉d̴͇̄'̤́̅v̫e͟ b̈́̈ȩ͎en s̀u͖̲i̤taͩ͐b͐l͇̪̄e̽ en͈̉͜t̽͘̚e̮̪̒rtai̓ņ̣ͯm̂̓͛e̛̽nt̞,͔ s̯͘in̛̛͘c̶͔̾e͞ t͟h̺ͨͩẽÿ̰́͞'r̭̈́̿e â̮lwaÿ̯s̝ ŝ̤ͯǒ̴̟ d̉͘e͕̐͟s̡͔p̀͘eͫȑ̐͡a͋͟t̽e̽͜ t́̋o eͯx͒iśtͅ.”

“That was my Plan B!” Cruz insisted. “I knew it would do if I couldn’t get any people, but. . .”

He trailed off, cringing in spite of himself. 

“B̤̠̬ut. . ?̹ͫ” Plier echoed in the deadpan to end all deadpans. 

“. . .One target in particular sort of. . .scared it off,” Cruz reluctantly finished, remembering the last of his intended victims. A tall, lanky man in his thirties with fair skin, chocolate eyes to match his hair, the aura of a not-so-new father, and a Midwestern accent with a laugh that could only be described as the most adorable goddamn thing. 

He hadn’t done the task alone: throughout the staged cleanup job, a ginger-haired friend had followed along, chatting so brightly and casually. 

Loathe as Cruz was to admit, it’d almost made for a pretty wholesome little spectacle. . .well, until Mr. Dad Reflex had realized that Cruz kept two different types of trash cans in this house. Or, from Mr. Dad Reflex’s perspective, trash cans and hampers, the differences of which he had vehemently ranted about for at least five whole minutes.

The Mane, as they usually were, had been brazen enough to show itself. . .only for Mr. Dad Reflex to nearly smack it upside the head with the mop he’d brought along from his company’s storage warehouse. 

Hell, it’d gotten to the point where Mr. Dad Reflex had even found the bloody mess of Cruz’s summoning ritual for that particular exploit, only to clean it up and give a worrying amount of legit knowledge on cleaning bloodstains.

(As well as rant some more about how the wax residue from the candles was a bigger issue and. . .something about cleaning knives?!)

So, yeah. Even if Cruz had only gotten to know the basics in order to gain some of Mr. Dad Reflex’s trust, he now had a feeling that Mr. Dad Reflex would’ve been a powerful enemy that he decidedly did not want to make.

Plier was silent for a very long, very uncomfortable couple of minutes, no doubt reading Cruz’s mind to validate the claims for himself. Cruz didn’t bother trying to shield his thoughts; he’d read every single term of that contract. Letting Plier see into his head was just standard business. 

Eventually, Plier heaved a groan. Outside the door, the floors creaked and the walls trembled as the monstrosity shifted in place.

“Y͇o̪uͨ'̷ͥͯre̊ lu̓c͓̿͞k̭̣̇y̷ͪ th̄ͫ̽á̝̉t̻͂͐ yo͎͜uṛ̯ͣ ḿ̵ͪi̴n͇̊͛d̼͉͞ h̷̩ͭa̦s s̙̞͋o̮̿ͣme̓ a̦̖c̣̤͒t̆ͪṳͥ̈́aĺ͉ ș̔̉ù̥̙b̊́̎ş̏t̥́a͐́n̆ce͈̥̕.̟͝ O̺ͣt̛͕ḫ̺́eͧr̘̔͒wͥi̱͑̊se̾,ͪ̎̇ I̵̾ w̑ó̫̦u̇ͭ̈́ld'̻͘ve͇͚ jụ̵s͂͛t̤̒̅ tà̴̒ke͠n̟ tͥͯ_h̢ͣoͬse̫͆͠ p̅̇r̢e̴̬͘t͚͠ṱ̱̇y̸͖ l̀i̪t̸ͯt̅le̯̗ ē̾��yẻ̢ͨs̸ of͛̾ͫ y_̩̀ò̧̅u̙rs̪ a͇ͩn͇̆d ȑͨe̶p͊l̠͕̬a͍͐c̨eͯ́ͨd̛ the̯_̘m wiͬ͢t̏hͥͪ ba̽͌͠by h̡̍ͤe͎a͌ds͓ s̡̿͠oͨ͒ I͗͡͠'͖͗d n̫̍ẹͩ̒v͓ͭ͌ȩ͡r̓̀ͤ h̠ͧ͠a̵ͤ͆v̪̀͜e̙̞͊ t̞o̭̱ l̦̭̺i̇͠s̲͟teǹ t͈͆o w͉̣eir̢̹͝d̺̲̑-̞͔ͬa͝s̑s̺̄ ẽ̳͡xc̝ͬus̡̏ͩes lͭ̋ik͎̩e ťhͬ̑i͔͜s̬̃.”

A smile etched its way back onto Cruz’s face. He lifted his head, fluttering his eyelashes in a very theatrical manner. “D’aww, you think my eyes are pretty?”

“Do̢̰͜n'͛tͩ p̷͛̈́u̳ͮͫshͧ̌ i̘ͮt͕,” Plier warned, but the new calmness of his voice betrayed him. The gnashing and chewing chorus resumed; he was focusing on Cruz’s offering again, greedily eating the corporeal parts and harvesting whatever emotions lingered from the goats’ departed souls with gusto.

Cruz sat upright, relief washing over him. Even with his and Plier’s contract, eldritch wrath was nothing to sneeze at. Besides, entities like Plier tended to have very special and very serious diets.

Cruz may or may not have learned the hard way that if even a spoonful of spleen-juice was missing from tribute after the stroke of 1:45 AM, the ensuing migraine from the consumer would quickly graft itself onto the offerer.

(Please read migraine as a literal tiny demon appearing out of nowhere, wielding a literal tiny ice-pick, and trying to crawl under your eyelids to reach your brain unless you add a layer of tinfoil to your ceremonial protection mask.)

A plume of fleshy-looking steam curled from under the door, gliding around Cruz’s violin from where he’d left it on the desk before fading into nothingness. 

“.̋ .̸ .̣̐̚Y̌ou̚͘ c̆̐͐aṅ k͙̉eͅe͕p̙̘ͅ p̹l͕̦a̼y̻̪̅in̸̓g̰ͫ if͉̌͘ y͇ͪ͋ou͇ wa̲ǹͅt̓͟,̇” Plier mentioned around all the horrible snaps and crackles and pops going on between all his teeth. He then huffed and hurriedly added, “Ah͚,̂ j̔̂̾u͖̼͍s̗̆t̞̤̐ s͞ơ͒̚ th̝i̚n̞̂ͥgs̨ a̷͋r͞ẹn'̄t̐͆̓ s̀͋o̺ͬ͝ d̸̏͘aͮm̯ͪn̡̗ͩ a̕wk̩̘̗w͍a̮̎̉rd̶̟ͥ to̸̹ͯni͌g̈h̞̊͠t̅̃.̹ Ca̝͘n̮̊̓'t͇ b̀̎͘eli͌_͛e̵̘̓v̏ͪe͡ yóu̡̱ t̪ͨhi̊̿nk I͕'ͭM̎ g̜o͕͝ṅͨ̿n̳̺ͭḁ̰ d̰̏o͚ all t̊hͤē̵̬ co̙ͩn̎vérsá͉̄t̷ì̝oͩn̎ͫͬ-̈c̙̜͟a̱ŗry̑͛į̑͒nͪͦg̣̽ h̗̽e͢rͤ̇e.̘”

“Right, right. How dare I,” Cruz chuckled softly, knowingly. It was just nice to know that even abominations beyond comprehension appreciated music.

He hardly even felt the violin’s weight against his collarbone as he started pulling the bow back and forth, back and forth. Once he found the right rhythm, he settled on “Mx. Sinister.” He still couldn’t believe it’d taken so damn long for him to discover IDKHOW, let alone all the covers of their songs. It was hard to download stuff onto his trusty mp3 player, but that was the price to pay for having a device that couldn’t be tracked. 

Cruz began absent-mindedly pacing the floor, swaying in time with his notes. Macaroon watched curiously, pawing at the air and trilling to the tune, the pitch of his meows a bit all over the place. 

Plier made for a mostly courteous audience. He listened to the beginning, then hummed along as he sucked the marrow from glistening bones at the bottom of the bowl.

He even murmured the lyrics of the last chorus in his hideous native tongue. . .at least, until he cut himself off with a loud gasp. A subsequent thump called from outside the door, rattling on much longer than it probably should have. 

The music came to an unsteady halt as Cruz froze, his eyes snapping back open.

“What? What is it?” 

“S̙͞h͡ù̆̚t̲̊ͧ u͍p̩!̹͇” Plier snapped, his voice suddenly so much more hollow than Cruz had ever heard before. “I n͈̪̓e͋ed to̷̞ c̜̗o̠͇̿n̩̿͋c̰e͊n̳̆t̻ͨr̝aͥͩ͢t̟ͩe!̹̲̓”

The air itself quivered and went numb; any sort of heat or coolness was drained right out of it before Cruz could even register the change. A vein tried to burst somewhere under the skin of his face, but years of adjustment pushed that natural response aside. 

Macaroon’s head jerked up, ears flattening and spikes puffing up as he let out a low, cautious yowl. That made something clammy grip at Cruz’s ribcage.

Obviously Plier’s senses were far more advanced than his own, even with all his practice, but Macaroon was a simpler creature. Yes, he had his own type of monstrous power, but he was still a cat at the bottom of each of his six (or was it seven? Cruz had such a hard time remembering) hearts. If he was picking up on something and responding like that, then it had to be serious.

Cruz approached and sat back down beside Macaroon, carefully stroking his pet’s back. Macaroon’s only response was to lean against him, still shivering as his too-long, too-elastic tail wrapped around his waist. 

It felt like an hour had passed before Plier finally piped up again, his voice now much louder and sharper than before as he seethed.

“Ḧ́̾ E̡ͩ '̓̚ Š͑͡  B A C Kͥ̚ .ͦ”

Cruz swallowed a lump in his throat, hesitating before he wondered aloud, “. . .Who?”

Instead of an answer, he got to watch the pool of color-drained blood blink out of existence, no stench or stains or anything left behind. Not even the spots on the ceiling remained. 

“Pǎ͈̩cͦk ỳ̳̍o̢̎ū̩͢r͕ͧ̑ t͕̑ͦhi̵͆ń̛̥g̤͓̓s̶̗͢,̨̲ͮ” Plier demanded. A cacophony of scraping and scuttling pounded at the walls around him in the hallway outside. “Y̘̑͘ȯ̹̹ŭ͕'̇͠r̴e̋ mo̕͢vͧiṇ̸̿g̳ͭ̔ ou̘t. Rͯĩ̪ǵhͣ̃̀t̝ͬͅ no̻̞̿w̆.”

Cruz fidgeted in place, a shiver racing up his spine. While he was no stranger to home-hopping—you could never afford to truly settle down and get attached to a place when you did the stuff he did—there was something in Plier’s tone that he didn’t recognize. And, as open to change as he was, he did not like it. Not one bit.

“But. . .wait, hold on—”

The air around him rippled again, and his lungs suddenly felt like they were melting from the inside. Cruz shook his head, grinding his jaw as he steadied himself. 

“I̸̔ s̑a͜i͍͌͛d,̲̐̃ S̪̾H̸UT̸̘ͪ U̖̽͑P̬ͪ,͈̲” Plier hissed. “T̘h̼̪eŗ̼̌eͯ̑'ͣs̢͚͊ nͭͭ̍o t̵̢̛i͌m̗e̩ͫ̓ t̹o éͪxͬ̃͋p̸͓̓lͦ͜a̢̗͑in̤̎͠, a͒nd̝̖ͥ ḙ̥ͩven̥ if̄ t͟h́̎͌er̸̨͊e̽ w̠̎͑ä̼̟s, I̞ w͓̞ǒ͌̇u͌_̡l_̵ͩd̼̹n't̩̱́ h̵͙a̷̬v͚̚e tͭo̚.̯ Yȍͧ͡u'̒ḻ̐l̪̄͝ f̷̌ö̫́̈́l̰͓l͛͛o̹��ͩw̒ a̓̀̚lo̎n̖g̝̞ ḁ͇ͤn̲͂dͨ k͒̿̕eè̩ͬp͚ ȕp wį̪t͕̙h ṁe.̖̓ Ğot͔͊̿ i̅t?”

Cruz nodded, and the melting sensation vanished from his chest. 

“Gọ̑o̤͟ḋ̫͟.̛̱͌ No̴̰ͤw, y̶̡o̩̞͊u n̯ȅ͈ed t͙́ͨo͇̒ get͇ o̱ͬ͡u̮t o̴ͮf̑̆̚ h͎eͤͮr͎e A̲̍̃Ṡ̗A͎P̻ͦ.́͊ I alͅr͔e̾ady̡͂̋ hä͘v̪̋ͧe a ne͗w͐ pͣ͝l̡ͭa̸̐̐ce̞ f͍o̢̞ͦr yo̠u̡̖̰ t͂o̫ g͟o̜̜̍.̾ O͋̕n̡ce̥̅ ýo͂ǔͫͬr̤͆̃ car̸ͨ ì͎͞s̏̓ lo͉a̴͗͌d̆̀e̢͓͜d̗ͬ u̞p,̮͒ I̶̱'ͬ̓ͬl̽͆̚l ğ͇̀ui̺̤d̉̃e you th̩́̿e̴̫ͤrḙ.̫̙”

Unlike many times before this, there was no snark or unconventional chipperness to be found on Cruz’s end. He was quiet and efficient, fishing spare boxes from his closet and filling them up with everything in his collection. 

All the old books with yellowed pages bound in slowly-decaying leather, all the various artifacts he’d managed to buy on the Dark Web that reeked of old blood or curses or pieces of stubborn spirits. It didn’t take long before the trunk of his car was full. The bare essentials—his mask, his robe, toiletries, etc.—were quickly crammed into his leather messenger bag, which soon found its place in the backseat.

The driver’s side door was halfway open when Cruz froze, sentimental panic wracking his stomach. Cruel irony, like the absolute bitch she was, struck. Something important was missing, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where he’d put it even though he’d been holding it just a few minutes ago!

Cruz was just about to turn on his heel, to rush back into the house and tear it apart from the inside out. . .when a muffled yip rang in his ears. He glanced back at his car to find Macaroon sitting in the passenger seat, the well-worn fabric handle of a violin case between his jagged teeth. 

Cruz just about collapsed right there, a helpless laugh leaking through his lips as he got in and buckled up. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, reaching over to tuck the case back with his other bag. “You’re a real lifesaver.”

Macaroon rolled his shoulders, raised a paw to preen at his ears with a very smug air as if to say, Damn right I am.

And with that, he was off, making sure to keep his headlights out as he left his latest burner-house behind. Macaroon rose up on his hind legs, bracing his paws against the window to watch the world pass by. 

True to his word, Plier’s voice was in Cruz’s head the entire time, nearly palpable as a tumor as he gave directions. 

Hours came and went, but Cruz never felt tired. He’d grown accustomed to a more nocturnal schedule anyway, but right here, right now, it felt like volts of electricity were thrumming in his blood. He just kept driving, kept following instructions, kept telling himself that things would (hopefully) make sense again sooner or later. 

The stars were still glinting when Cruz blinked and found himself pulling into a parking lot. If not for the distinct lack of bars or casinos nearby, he would’ve assumed he’d driven all the way to Las Vegas.

The building now in front of him was enormous, decorated with patterns of blinking lights. They all gave off a red-tinged glow; some were darker—like rusted metal lying just beyond a campfire. Others, meanwhile, were a much brighter, pale-yet-warm…fleshy hue—almost reminiscent of how a flashlight’s beam could still manage to shine through your skin if you pressed it hard against your palm. 

Large posters adorned the outer walls, set in metallic frames and too far away for Cruz to make out any details in the pictures. Plus, they were all so glossy that the various shades of red illumination from above glared against them.

“Ȧ̜a̷͍̎a̱̾͞aằ̖à͇̥a͠n͙ͤͩd͓ h̍͠ẽ̱͐reͣ wͫ̚e a̵̐͟r̯̦e͈!͊” Plier crowed. “Tr͕̳̉y͉̣̘ n̵̘ͭo̬͑ͅtͯ t̮̬͈ó t̖͔ä́͞k̘̚é̷̤ i̘͠tͫ a̟ͮ̕l̼l̛͚̔ in̠͇ at̖͎̽ õ̩n̍c̖͢e̴̵̛.” His voice was still comparable to molten lead as it poured into Cruz’s mind, but it was a little more calm than earlier, so he took this as a good omen.

“Where’s here?” Cruz asked, squinting. 

At the very front and foremost spot on the roof, glaring down at everything, was a sign outlined by glowing wires and cables. They all worked together to form the shape of a sphere—no, a planet. A crater-lined planet that shone with a pinkish-white color as it hung over a body of scarlet water. 

Cruz immediately thought back to all the times he’d gotten a chance to stroll along a beach during sunset, to watch the moon slowly rise out of the horizon and climb its way into the sky. 

But as he kept looking, he realized that the sign was not depicting something so simple and natural. The likeness of that planet wasn’t just floating and casting its reflection against that crimson ocean. Rather, it was actually sitting in the glowing water—no, not water. 

Blood, a voice in Cruz’s head insisted. It was just too red to be depicting water, and too dark to be depicting wine or anything somewhat less sinister.

In fact, the crimson waves seemed to be in the middle of wrapping around the planet, trying to pull it under, staining all its craters so much that they resembled open wounds. 

Underneath the huge picture, deep scarlet words set in a sleek, intriguing font: THE DROWNED MOON

Just below the name, slightly smaller: Horror/Thriller Cinema

And lower than that, another luminous sign stood to the left of what had to be the entrance: COME AND WATCH WHEN SLEEP IS HIDING FROM YOU

And on the right, another greeting(?): CONSUME AND DREAM WHERE THEY CAN’T FIND YOU

“T̩̄h̞̔͢e mͯa̫î̥̈n pͬar̦t̳ o͘f͕͎̿ mŷ te̸̚ṟ̆r̖̚i̘̪t͉ͥ̎o͚r͈y̡͛ o̲̜̐n͛̚ È̷̤arͥt̤h,̨̮̏” Plier explained, pride boiling. “Ȉ̮t̕ u͞sͧ̔͜éd͙̯̂ to b̜eͣ ḁ̳͞ t͊̑h̻eateŕ̘̹ t͍̉͝h̖̬at̊͒ s̨pecif̗ͨ̎i̠c̸̾a͟l̝ͤl͌y̤ s̍̓ͯho̮͚̓w̟̅e̐d͛ͧ́ à̛̺l͖ͧl̉̚ s̛͙or̸͇̉t̛s͔̍͠ o͑f̤ͪ c͇u̚ḽ̈́̈́tͨ c̣͓̑l͉ͧasͅsi͚̜ͤc͐ͪs̳̐͊,̴̐ p̖ͭ͠lu̵̗s ťͥh̛ͫę̢͝ ẅ͆͞ĕ͉͐írd̙͂͗ u̩p-̢ͪa̠͍͙n̶̗d͆ͩͦ-͉̓ͤco̦̘m̈́i̓nͨͨg̃́͞ f͕_̈il̮̹mͧ p̎ͤ͞ro̧j͎̟̣e͘c̲t͖͕ͥs͢ ṭ͔̽ȟ͡a̟͙͜t͌ th̛ͦ̈ë̵́͌ l͍̙̈a̍r̃gͯ͢͝ĕ͝ṙ̢̇ c͜ȯm̛͎paͧn̷̢i͎̦ͯe̕s̼ a̦r̵͓͢e to̻ỏ̱͇ b̆it̅c͊̏̀h̖ͬy̵̮ t̳͢ơͮ͗ ac͞c̥̉ep̫̉̂t͜.”

Cruise nodded, humming. “And ever since you got your hands on it?”

A shrug was evident in the monster’s tone. “O͛̏h̨ͯ,͋ it̸̲̐'̹s b͑̔͠a͚̽s̸͛ic̲̚a̦ͭ̐ll̤͗y̌̿ t̤h̸́ḛ̠ sa͆͑ḿ̙̹e̺ͧͪ t̛̑͞hin̑g̶.̲̖ I̚ jù͈s͞t̰̰ maͬ͂͠d͙͌͡è͉ á͘ͅ fe͈̣w.ͪ .̼͌̓ .̒s̷ͥ͒p̫͠e̜c̰͈̑i͙̥a̗l re̿_nnov̸̰̆a̷͕t̳̑̀io̡nͨs,͉ ĺ̡et'ͨs̡̎̾ s̵̏a̷͈̐y.̼”

A sinister chuckle slithered around Cruz’s skull.

As soon as Cruz parked, the glass doors at the front swung open. A small group of people filed out, walking with a stiff-jointed gait. 

Acting on instinct, Cruz tightened his grip around the steering wheel, but Plier only laughed again. 

“R̰̥͊ȇ̎l̷ȃ̖̖x̗.̢̤ͧ T͍̂h̎͠i̲ͬ̑s pͫ̃͡l̙̥̘a̱c̓ĕ̆ d̺̉͡o̍ͪu̴̧͔b̬̊͐l̏é͗̔s a̢̖͗s̀ a̵̯̞ hò̏l̛dḯ͇̃ng̘ pͫ͞ȩ͟n f̖̓͞ǫ̵̪r͌ s̩̼̎ome o̤͐͊f̷͉̚ m͇̲͕y̮̓̓ ṭ̉͂h͈ral̑lͬ̎͑s͔ͪ̀. T̘h͔ͨ̇ĕ̏͡y c͑a̛̗͛n'̗t h̳urt y̦͞o̳ͅu u̶ͥ͌n̛̐le̙̐s̼̽́s͉ I̪ t̥̿e͂͟lḽ̄͒ t̝h͒͡eͯm_ ṫ̼̅ọ̬_,̼ͤ ạͪň̒d y͋o͑u͇'ͨ͘r̐e͙͎ s͌t̡̀̆i̶͐͢lͫl͝ to͔̍̕o̷̜ͥ uͦͥș̇͠e͔f̒ul fo͕̰͈rͪ an̷̢̚y̷t̿ḧ̖̽i̜̜n̲͎g l̅͗ike̝͆ th͜_à̵̝t͖̏.̯̫”

Cruz pursed his lips and offered a half-nod. Even if Plier always insisted on mixing potential threats and potential promises together, it was still nice to know that, by process of elimination, he still didn’t (completely) consider Cruz a puppet who needed an internal lobotomy in order to work. 

Cruz hopped out of the car. Macaroon followed suite, quickly growing to the size of a large dog. He stayed by his owner’s side, tail slowly lashing and shoulders arched in a protective warning. 

The thralls barely even seemed to notice; their eyes still blinked and moved and saw, but whatever was behind them had been dead for a long time. The wide, unmoving smiles on their faces didn’t do them any favors. One of them popped Cruz's trunk, allowing the others to each take a box and wander back into the building. 

Cruz hummed, taking his messenger bag and sliding it over his shoulder. Keeping a gentle hand on Macaroon’s head, he trekked along behind them, approaching the now wide-open doors. For all the glow and glam on the outside, it looked like there were only a few flickering lights on further inside. 

“Y͐̿òu͖ l̛͈ỉ̤̂ve͎ h͛e̻ře͈ͣͅ n̬ͦǫ̽w,” Plier declared. “Y̜̮o͍͖u̴̻ cͬǎ̛̹n̤ͤ sͧt̘͆ȉ_l̺͟ĺ̿ f͎͋ind̫ d͈ͥ̉eĉ̷o̔yͤ p̛ͩ͝lͣaͣͦ͞c̽̒e͛̽͝s̤ͥ̂ f̪̰ͅor̿ ce͎̚r͛ṭͬ̏ai̯ͪn r̙͞it̎u͍͙̓al̮_̈ş if y͗́͡o̬͒u_͌ l̢i̗̦ke,̐ bu̙ͩ͞tͯ t̵͊̍h̸͐̕i̛̫̊s î̛s p͉ͥͣe̓̇ͅȓ́̕m̤e͉͞n̮͛ā̱̄nt̒ͬ.͗͢ I͉̋f͝ y͙͋ò͈u'rͯe̪ ģo͟ͅnn͠a̤͐ w͚ͤͣơr̶͎k͆ ḟ̯ǫ͕r̢͜ me̡͉̘,̠ t͇͡h͢en̴̤̿ y͑͝o̟u͡ m̝͓i̛ģ̴̈́h_̾t̙ ás̆ weͪll be͚ a l̪̕itͣ̓t̘͈͎l̫ḛ̵̡ c̎lo̗͆͟s͗̄ͅe̤̥r. Fͅor͊ m̼o̟ṟ̛̙à͖̩l̂éͤ.͚”

Cruz stopped in his tracks, his heartbeat suddenly thundering in his ears. “. . .Really? You mean it?”

“I̾͆ m͙e̒a͐n iͭ́t̝̝.” Plier’s voice was suddenly softer than silk, having tapered down to a whisper. His smile was evident: malevolent yet, somehow, genuine. “Y̾o͡u̢͐'̮̽r̢e̖͍̽ ǹͩ͐o̴t͠ q��ũi͇͐t͜e̼ͮ r̷̭̐e͂̏͜ady͇̗̕ f̝orͪ t̉he ne͇x͖̦́t̥̄ͅ st̝ͩe̜̼̖p̷̧̀s,̧̢ b͐ut̛̯̃ y̔̎̕o̡ͣ̒ŭͤ̉'̖͉ͬr̅e gé͚́tti̘̣̠n̗̊g̣̫͠ t͐h̝̄͠e͞r̼͇e.̺ͤ́ It̷͕ͮ'̩ͥs̙ o̠nly̵̅ a m͊at̼̅ẗ̡́e̪͐ȑ̬̣ ǫ͔̞f t͚ͧi̵̅͐m͛e.͂_”

Cruz’s eyes wandered up to the full moon. For the next couple minutes, all he could do was stare at it. In fact, the longer he did, the more its cold, pale glow seemed to shift, just barely lifting a veil to reveal. . .something else. The illusion was gone in an instant, but Cruz could’ve sworn he’d seen veins, seen an iris, seen a pupil. . .

“Thank you,” he breathed, his lips stretching into a new, excited, hopeful grin. “You won’t regret it.” 

“Y͡eą̢͝h̤̀,͚ w̨͔ẽl͈͐l, y̸̻͒ou'ḓ͊͐ b͐́et̸tẻrͪ n̽ot m̗áͬͧk̦͉̰e͟ me̼̿,̣” Plier snorted. “Ñ̦_o̽̈́ͣw̿ hu̸͔r̯ry u̧̫p and̎ g̩ͮe͇ͥţ ì̤͠n̸ͧs̺̔̂i̭de͍̞̍.ͯ́̚ W͚͛ë͔̹́'v͙̎̀e st̼̄īl̨̑l̜̉ got́̚ s̥̬̈́om̫e͈̤ͧ w̨͍͖o̢rk̅ͥ͘ to̻͕͘ dͬ̒͂o̶.́”

“Yes, of course.” Cruz quickened his pace.

As he took the first steps into his new home, all the anxious joy buzzing through his head dredged up something else. 

“Hey—” Cruz blurted. “It looks like there’s a little more breathing room than earlier.” 

That seemed to catch Plier a bit off-guard. “Ú͉̻h. . .̵̮̑Ȋ͖̹ g̜ͭue̦ss t̠̙ͬh͗e̜͙̓r̞̹ͯe i̟s̻̈́.̖ Ẇ̧̇hy?͉̺”

“Well, can you tell me anything about what happened now?” Cruz inquired. “You said that someone was back. So. . .who are they, exactly? How do you know?” 

“O͕ͣh̲͡. R̫i̼g͍̋̾hͨ͜t͡.̡̯͘ H̒ I͐̑ M̴͒ .” Plier seemed to growl deep in his throat, aggravation sparking into a flash-boil. “T̅͟h̳a̵̓ͪnk͙̋s,ͯͫ y̩̅̀o͜u ĵ͢ủ͓̂st̶̹̘ H̾A̭D to_ ru̥in my̶͈ mo̩͊̌o̦̿d̢̛͒ a̺̪l͕͍͟l̢̓ o͘v̪ͭeṙ̻ äg̺ą̎ī̯̃n.̖̀̾”

Cruz held up his hands in a defensive lame gesture. “Hey, it’s only a question. I just feel like I’m owed some explanation after all the rush, don’t you think?”

“Ma̞ͤy̒b͝e,̪̙̍ ma͔̫͝y̋b͜è no͆ͅ_t̟͓,ͧ̃” Plier snipped, his cryptic nature watered down by how obvious it was that he was now sulking. “L̗ͅo͓õ̹k͎̿͋,̈ t̢ͨh̨a̫͎̕t̞̦ͤ'̖̱s̑ a̻̽ͨ w͜h̤̠ͤol̝͖ë̢-͖̔a͞ss s̥t̂̓̆or̻͎͗y̴͝ fͦ̚or̍̂ a͐n͘otͭ̔h̶̫̙e̹ͩ̚r͊ d̩̓͘a͑y͕͡. Ri̭͖g̥ͨh̬t͉͉ ň̠͡o̮w̸̹͝,͖̠͝ ả̵̏ll͖̱̾ ÿ́̍̇ò̮̾ư̼̇ n̳̣e͎̘̐ȩd͎̞̓ t̷̓o̎ k̥̺̀n̼o͂ͅw is̽ th͋͞at͛ an old ri̻͞v͖̾à̢͈l̶̈́ o̱̕fͦ̎ ṃ̣͜iń̰e i̘s̓ A͑P̞̂̔PͬḀͧͅR̶̤͊E̶̵N̯͆̓TL̬̻ͪY̶͇ͦ o̤̰̊u̳ͮt̿ o̵f h̍̓ib̆e̝ͧͫȓ̑͆n͎aͩͤt̿̕io̒n̡.̧ͨ”

He paused as though wondering if this rival in question could hear him. Cruz sympathized, since there was a decent chance that really was the case. 

“Ạn̵̘͓d̓̊ a̒l͍ͬ͟s̲̀̌o̬͚͎ t̸ͤha̩̳͑t HͮEͮ̇̕ C̎A̝͇͊N̪̿͡ S̗͋ͧÚ̢C̮ͮK A̺ͨ VHOC̪̐T͎ͬ͜Ȍ E̞͓̿G̽͂Ġ̥ͨ!̷̸͟”  Plier added, raising his voice enough to make ancient church bells crack. “A̭̮͔ W̹ͪHÔ̸͙L̦̥E CL̡̻U̢̞͛T̅ͨĆ́H̙ͣ O͖̿̐F̰ͨ '͐ĘM̦̼̺,ͥͦ Ș̸͖O̚ Ḭ̗̼ C̨A̪͇Nͭ W̯͐ͦA̛͎̫T̋ͭͥCͦH̱͠ H͚̯IMͪ T͈R̙͞ͅỲ͈̐ T͐O Ṟ̷ͦU̮̙̺N H̷̛͔IS̈ M͌ͫO͇ͣU̘͗TH̘͜ WĨT͜H͟ H̯̏͠I͓S̞̀̆ B̡͌UĻ̓͂L̤̃S̀͗H̤Į̛̺T̳ P̮Ŗͯ̊O̷P̦̋̚HͭE_C̗͎IES W̄̿͞H̞͟E̝̣͘N͡ T͕Ḫ̌E̤̎ S̸͝H̴͉̳E̠͓͑L͇͚͜L͜S M̭͇͍AKE H̴̝̪I̜̮̊Ş̑ TƠ̭͝N̒̚G̤̋͟UÈ͓̙S̗̏ ŚHR̴I̙ͪVE̥̓Lͤ́ U̔̀P̑̆!̤”

“. . .Well, alright then,” Cruz murmured, now digging through his pockets in search of his mp3 player.

___

As adaptable as they always tried to be, Sam Ryder was not in the best mood right now. 

To be completely fair, not many people would be too thrilled at having to track energy signals, drive day-and-night to some middle-of-nowhere desert, sneak into a motel at the heart of some rest-stop town and lockpick their way into a specific room only to hide out in the darkness of its little lavatory and wait for what felt like FOREVER for the occupants to return. 

Ah, yes. Just another questionable charm of the industry built on stealth and secrets that most people were probably better off not knowing. 

Sam shifted from side-to-side, muscles tense, bored and impatient from having to be so still and so quiet. But this current, last-minute mission was important.

If those energy spikes the team back home had picked up were anything to go by. . .if there was even the slightest possibility that something out here was related to the Rift—

The door swung open.

The room’s main light clicked to life.

Two figures trudged inside, their movements exhausted yet shaky. 

Sam held her breath as the duo passed by without even glancing in her direction. She could hear them shuffling around the room, hear something heavy and solid being dragged along the floor, then lifted up and plunked onto a mattress. 

She set her jaw, cracked her knuckles as quietly as possible, and then waltzed out like she owned the place. There were a precious few more seconds for her to study the duo, as they both still had their backs to her. 

That changed the very millisecond she cleared her throat.

“Professor Jenkins—” she greeted, looking at the one with raven hair that nearly tickled his shoulders and features that seemed to point to some kind of Asian background. 

She glanced at his companion, a brunette man with fair skin and warm eyes that quickly grew to the size of dinner plates. “ —and Doctor James, I presume?” 

Part of her had expected a scream or two, but the most they were given were strangled gasps, as well as flinches so bad that her own stomach almost started churning with that cold, infamous type of shock.

“H-How. . .how do you know—?” Dr. James asked, stammering badly as he held up his hands and backed away, clearly trying to put something, anything between him and this surprise guest. 

“What, you think cable is dead or something?” Sam rolled her eyes. “Your reputations proceed you, and all that jazz.” Indeed they did. While she honestly preferred YouTube for entertainment these days, she could remember catching a few news stories about ancient tombs being explored, as well as at least three new species of dinosaur being discovered. 

All accompanied by respective photos of the men who stood before her. 

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Prof. Jenkins demanded, quickly moving to stand beside his companion. 

“That’s not important right now. Don’t try anything stupid, and you might get a little information for your trouble.” Sam took a few steps forward, making sure the authority was clear as crystal. “I have some questions of my own for both of you, actually. And you’re going to answer them. Honestly. One way or another.”

The two archeology buffs exchanged concerned glances. Prof. Jenkins’ brow furrowed, but confusion shifted into understanding at breakneck speed. The same went for Dr. James, though he started shaking again, mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. 

That made Sam pause. Now that she could finally see their faces, it was clear how they’d both been wracked with fear long before she’d surprised them. 

They’d both already seen something. 

Something very, very bad.

Sam couldn’t help but cringe at herself. This had to be handled carefully.

You caught more flies with honey than vinegar, after all.

(Even though she’d definitely laughed very hard at sentiments like that more than once in the past.)

“Listen, I’m not looking for any trouble. I’ve just here because I got word that whatever is underneath this area might be extremely dangerous. And, unfortunately, it seems you guys have gotten way too close to it,” she reiterated with a sigh. “I can tell that something big happened around here today, but that’s just it. For the sake of my work, I need to learn more.”

As they listened, the duo seemed to ever-so-slightly calm down. Their adrenaline and fear was still very obvious, but it looked like they were at least considering trusting her now.

Sam spotted a desk near the corner of the room. She slowly approached and settled down onto the swivel chair set before it. She motioned for her two new conversation buddies to take their own seats. “As long as you cooperate, nothing bad will happen. I promise.”

Another moment of painfully awkward silence dragged by. But just as Sam was about to add a little more force to their elevator pitch, Prof. Jenkins heaved a sigh.

“It’s a bit fucking late for that,” he announced, hesitantly crossing the room and sitting down on the corner of the other bed; that must’ve been the one he’d claimed after check-in time.

Dr. James’ face kept twisting with stress and anxiety, but he, too, eventually took a seat on his own mattress. “Not sure how things could get any worse,” he agreed, reaching up to knead at his forehead, his hand still trembling a bit.

“Nice job tempting fate,” Sam said with a mirthless chuckle. She glanced between them. “So. What’s apparently worse than anything right now?” 

“. . .We’re not entirely sure ourselves.” Prof. Jenkins fidgeted in place. “There’s a few underground cave systems just half-an-hour away. The only reason we came out here was to check one of them for fossils, or gems, that kind of stuff. We—we didn’t mean any harm.” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve seen shit that would turn anyone white, but. . .he was something else.”

Sam blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. That certainly didn’t sound like anything to do with the Rift, but they’d been wrong before. “I’m sorry, ‘he?’ You’re saying you found a person in one of those caves?”

“Not a person,” Dr. James argued, fear quickly spilling onto his features all over again. “A monster! A goddamn monster! O-or a demon, or a spirit, I have no idea. But whatever he was, he was not human! And now he’s somewhere out there and no-one else can go into that place and it’s all our fault!” 

He curled in on himself heaving a combination of sob and sigh. “So many teeth and eyes and moving skin. . !”

Prof. Jenkins was back by his side in an instant, grabbing one of the paleontologist’s shoulders to help him stay steady.

Sam, meanwhile, felt their heart sink. While they were now at least eighty-five-percent sure that the team didn’t have to worry about the Rift. . .it looked like different-yet-just-as-horrible option was on the table.

After a long few seconds, Dr. James straightened his back again, though his eyes were still so full of pain and panic. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just been such an awful day. One traumatizing thing after another.”

Sam nodded, a generous dose of empathy worming its way into her features. “Well, that’s a good summary, but it’s still not quite enough.” She sighed again, then leaned back in the chair. “Start from the beginning, please.”

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedou @mostlyghostly42 @safe-hayven @sunny011387 @heichoublack @m0naca @beomjunniz

[july-19th-club]

one of the fairly funny parts of s3 is watching eric in his own weird way attempt to make up for traumatizing lafayette in the previous season like. yeah i know i locked you in a basement for three weeks and got you shot but . on the other hand how do you feel about having a sugar daddy? you're a mediocre drug dealer but if you like, need it at all i'll come get you from sales that go bad. here's a car. some money. the blood from my veins . what the fuck ever and the whole time lafayette is like . i fucking hate your guts and i keep having flashbacks because of you. yeah of course i'm taking the car . preciate it

[redlyriumidol]

Mad respect to fade hawke-leavers but that could never be me 😔🫡 I'm simply too weak to do a thing like that to my beloved Isabela and Varric....I simply do not have faith that whoever you leave behind will ever return like they were pretty clear about the fact that they'd probably die and it's been 10 yrs... I left Alistair too, sorry to him as well very sad etc but I don't regret it at all lol

[enchiiridion]

[[ kind of feeling like making volo suffer ( forcing them to realise their alcohol tolerance has lowered dramatically ) so uhhh like this and I'll put drunken volo in your inbox ]]

[evermorethecrow]

can i please hear abt his cult and freaky blood powers

YOU CAN HEAR ABOUT HIS CULT AND FREAKY BLOOD POWERS BUT I WARN YOU....

it will involve

SOME EXPOSITION

so in my little au there are multiple different types of vampires

fuck all of them for now cause only one type is relevant and that's the demon vampire guys (i know it sounds edgy as hell but bare with me)

notable things about these guys is that they are descendant from demons, as such they have quite a few abilities and i could go more into depth about the sub species and all that jazz BUT not right now cause i wanna keep this short enough

fyodor is a demon vampire who can control and be connected (somewhat) to people who drink his blood (in a specific way where he can't fully control them but he can heavily influence their minds and decisions to the point its basically full control if you get me?

now sorry to overuse the cliche but think of it like hes a puppeteer and anyone who consumes his blood is a puppet

now it also means if he gets hurt anyone whos under his influence will as well

store that info THE CULT

I don't wanna give away too much but fyodor has a cult based around the premise of how pain can free you (they use a lot of rose symbolism showing how the pain can be beautiful but i'll explain that another time)

while i wont bring up how it formed i will say is the cult members don't know fyodor is a vampire and instead believe he is some kind of angel . he feeds the members of the cult his blood and so he can influence them further, not getting into his motives rn BUT i will say it works double because it means no one can kill fyodor without killing hundreds of innocent people

there's more to that but i wanted to bring up fyolai in this

due to unmentioned reasons nikolai is the only person in Fyodor's cult who is in on the fact it's all a lie, hes fyodors right hand man

and sigma is supposably just an ordinary member who happened to realise the place was a cult and discover the truth behind it and has been appointed next to fyodor and nikolai so he can be watched over (supposably)

[naoa-ao3]

Fodder for Dreaming

John is in between stays at Ravenscar. Weirdness finds him no matter how hard he tries to toe the line and when two skinheads proposition him to get rid of a demon infestation, they're really not asking. John goes along but get's a whole lot more than he bargained for at the worst time.

The gate slams behind him and John opens his eyes.

He's laying down and there's thunder outside his windows.

Bad weather and bad dreams again.

He's in his bed.

He's in a bed.

Another nameless motel.

Another stained ceiling.

He reaches for his cigarettes and already the thoughts come tumbling back to him.

He's a month out of Ravenscar, mind frayed and bed sweaty from another nightmare. Another memory he can't chase away.

More bad dreams he can't help.

He's trying this time. He really doesn't want to go back and he's being good. No friends, nothing weird.

Not even any drugs. . .

His hands shake as they light his cigarette and he's faced with another aimless day.

Bad weather and bad dreams all day and all night.

He has nothing to do and nowhere to go, nothing but to think and no one to take him from his thoughts when he can't stop them.

Cheryl has a baby and Chas is in London.

His other friends are in the wind.

No band and no guitar, not that he was really good at it. He'd just been pretending. . . like with everything else.

He get's up and goes to the store, spends some of his last few quid on another pack of Silk Cuts and walks around with his hands in his pockets and his head full of broken glass.

It's been like this for a month.

Nowhere to go, no one to see.

No one that visits and no one to visit himself.

Just him and his head.

Him and his glass.

He ends up at a pub.

He always ends up at the pub these days.

He want's to get drunk.

Wants to forget but never can.

He drinks and drinks and doesn't hear the music.

Someone puts on ABBA and he doesn't hear it.

Doesn't hear it when the song changes and Barbara Streisand takes over.

He stays, sits, drinks and braces for another night all the same as the rest. The same thoughts and the same dreams all in the same putrid, little room.

Nothing changes and he's only just holding it together.

He's not sure he wants to live like this and the cracked bar in front of him is screaming that this is as low as it get's.

No faces he knows in the crowed, no voices shouting over the din and the music. . . no one to call and nothing but the thoughts in his head to keep him company.

They scream at him.

He doesn't think he's ever been so alone.

He can't hear the music over the screaming. . .

Astra's screaming. . .

He can't hear anything any more except her.

So he doesn't hear when two men call out to him and he jumps when they sit down on either side of him. He isn't used to people any more.

They slide onto stools and smirk, heads shaved and shining.

"Evening, mate." One of them say's and his heart hammers between them.

One is gangly and tall and the other is broad and dense.

They're both skinheads.

"Don't think I know you." He say's, trying to play it cool. Whatever it is they want it isn't going to be good.

They order their drinks and they order one for him too, pushing it towards him like they're old friends.

The gangly one lights up.

"You're Constantine, right?" He asks.

John hesitates. "You wanna tell me your name first?" He asks.

"Nigel." The man say's.

Nigel.

Right.

He snorts but the man doesn't thump him for it.

Warning sign number one.

"This is Tom, we've been looking for you." Nigel continues. "Heard about you and some friends of yours having a gig in Manchester some years ago." He reads John's face. "Now we don't want music you understand. . . we want the other thing. We've heard you know about the Arcane. Heard you know a lot, actually."

John feels himself break out in sweat . "Lot's happened since Manchester." He say's. "I'm not sure I'm the man you want."

Nigel nods and Tom say's nothing. "Well now that's not what we've heard. We've heard you're the guy to talk to. You're the guy who knows stuff."

He thinks of Newcastle and suddenly almost can't see.

He's blind and deaf and flailing.

"We've got a problem. One of our friends was. . . well he wasn't the careful type, you know? He brought something into the house but. . . it won't leave. Won't bloody get out. Do you understand?"

John thinks of all the arrogant, somehow lucky stuff he's done and shakes is head. "Can't help you." He say's, voice shaking more than he'd expected.

He tries to get up but Tom plants his hand in his chest and pushes him back onto his stool.

"Drink your pint." He say's.

John drinks his pint. "Look I can't help you." He say's again.

He can barely help himself.

They don't blink. "We're not asking." Nigel say's, mouth turned down in a frown yet somehow still smiling.

He has a freckle under his left eye.

John stares at it. "I'm telling you I can't help you." He say's again, feeling strained.

There's smoke in the air and Nigel doesn't listen. "Anyway, it's small time but Paul, that was the poor chap- he got eaten. Since then it's been wrecking the place. You can't even go into the drawing room."

John stares at him wildly.

It doesn't sound that tough.

He's dealt with weirder shit. . .

It's only fucking up a drawing room. . .

He stops himself and shakes his head. "Mate, I'm telling you. I can't do anything about it." He say's, desperate for them to listen.

They shake their heads.

They don't listen.

"See you keep saying that but you took care of that thing in Newcastle, I heard."

John think's he's going to vomit but he doesn't. "Heard that did you?" He asks, voice horse.

Voice cracking.

Nigel shrugs. "Dunno what I heard but I heard something. Anyway, we need it gone and we need the proper sort to do it. You know what we mean?"

He doesn't and Tom grunts.

"Don't fucking make a problem." He say's.

John looks around the pub and considers splitting but they're right next to him and he doubts he'll make it. "Look. . . maybe you tell me what it is and I can help you from here." He says, hopping Nigel think's it's a good offer.

Nigel shakes his head. "No deal." He say's.

They drain their pints and he finishes his as he plots his escape.

He has to get away.

He can't do this shit again.

He isn't ready.

He never was.

His mind is already running through what the hell they could have summoned.

They usher him out, Nigel standing close, too close and Tom lighting a cigarette.

They take him to a car.

A beat up Admiral with a dented driver's door.

He want's a cigarette too.

He frowns and get's in the back, feeling like a prisoner or someone in a movie, ready to make a run for it.

"Don't do it." Tom say's, lowering his head to look in at him like he knows what he's thinking.

John thinks of the orderlies who beat him and the nights in Ravenscar and doesn't run.

Tom nods his head.

He nods too.

The car starts up.

The seat is cracked and old.

Nigel is humming.

John can't name the tune.

They head out of town, away from the city and into farm land but it isn't so far and they pull off at a black hulk before he's calmed down.

John's eyes adjust and he see's it's not a black hulk after a moment.

It's a manor house.

He looks around uncertainly and there's no lights showing from within.

"Alright, we're here." Nigel say's, fishing a copy of 'Candour' out from under the seat, glancing at it and throwing it in the back where John think's his heart is finally going to explode.

"I can't do it." He say's again, more weakly this time.

Even if he could he isn't prepared.

Nigel tuts and then suddenly there's a fist in his hair, dragging him over the back of the seat in front of him and Nigel is in his face, nose touching his cheek, breath foul.

"You're gonna fucking do it." He say's.

John isn't right in his head and he starts to shake but then the hand lets go and only a few hairs leave with it.

He sits back, bile twisting in his throat.

"Right then, out you go." Nigel say's.

They get out and he looks up at the manor house. It's crumbling front steps and boarded up windows. The missing masonry and the broken bricks littering the front walk. . . It looks derelict.

Tom pushes him and Nigel laughs.

He walks and they take him inside.

Maybe if he does what they want they'll take him back and he can go to bed.

Maybe the same every day isn't so bad.

He wants to see his stained ceiling again.

He stares around and then see's lights down hallways and knows suddenly that there are people here. His one hope that the place is abandoned. . . that somehow Nigel and Tom brought him to the wrong fucking house is dashed.

They pass rooms with collapsed floors and ceilings.

John doesn't like the holes that lead to nowhere, up and down. . . promising things and pains he can imagine only too well.

He looks at Nigel.

The man has stopped humming.

"It's in here." The man say's, stopping at a closed door.

John stares at him.

He stares at the door.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

He doesn't even know what's on the other side of the door.

Tom raises his eyebrows. "Well?" He asks.

John shakes his head. "What the bloody hell do you want me to do?" He asks. "You brought me all the way out here. . . I don't. . ."

But Nigel is smiling.

He puts his finger to his lips and then opens the door.

There's light inside.

There's fire in the grate and people all around.

Tom shoves him and John stumbles inside, raising a hand to shield his eyes for a moment before turning wildly and seeing a room filled with people.

There's a red banner with a black double S hung over the mantle. Back on red on hate.

SS.

He see's a dozen shaved heads and black boots and people are laughing all around. Girls with their hair bleached and faces hard. . . men and boys with smirks and brown bottles in their hands.

He turns to Nigel and Tom and opens his mouth.

Nigel hits him. "We needed the right kind." He say's. "Proper English lad. Figured that was what it'd want."

It?

There's a table laid out and John stares and see's food.

There's cake even.

He turns and balls his fists. "What the hell is this?" He shouts but they all laugh and he think's maybe he's gone round the bend again except he's definitely here and this isn't his usual brand of crazy.

"A worthy sacrifice." A figure say's rising out of the masses, his head nicked and shaved.

His eyes triumphant.

John's are bulging out of his head.

"We summon a god tonight. A god of the ancient Britons. We who call ourselves British, English, we here have taken pains to reclaim the glory that was our England! To take back our jobs and our government from outsiders. From Pakis and Nogs. . ." The man looks around as the others clap and cheer. "Is this not our homeland? Is this not our place? Is this not our fucking land?" He points downwards and receives cheers.

It's a lot of bullshit but one word stick's in John's ears: sacrifice.

He has a sudden, horrible feeling that he knows what they're sacrificing.

Who they're sacrificing.

He tries to run for the door then but Nigel catches him and drags him back, laughing.

The crowed closes in on him.

He turns again, wild this time and scared.

He's a cornered animal so he lashes out.

People are laughing, black boots and shaved heads.

Bleached blondes with their hard faces.

Nicks along their lovers' scalps.

Hate in their hearts.

People are pointing at him.

He's thinking of Astra.

When is he not?

He puts his hands over his head and cowers.

They grab him and drag him along, Nigel singing.

"When I was a lad, I hadn't any sense. I bought a flute for fifty pence. The only tune that I could play was-"

He stares ahead as they drag him to a circle they've drawn on the floor.

White chalk on ancient brown wood.

He doesn't know what it's supposed to be.

Maybe he doesn't know enough, maybe they don't.

He looks up and the man who'd risen from the crowed is there. He's older but not by much and his head looks like a skull.

There's a black, double S hanging behind him.

An evil herald.

"Blood of an Englishman. Proper red." He say's.

John stares up, heart hammering painfully.

Nigel is grinning.

Tom watches.

They're all watching.

Hungry and waiting.

His eyes water over and he tries to draw air, looking again for an exit that isn't there.

Nigel is in his ear.

"We sacrifice you and we get what we want. You see? Heard about that botched job in Newcastle." He clicks his tongue while John's heart does a somersault. "Don't reckon anyone will miss you."

There's candles burning around them.

People watching.

He can't breath and Nigel and Tom are on either side of him again.

Even Tom looks pleased for once and he's holding tight.

Hurting him.

John thinks this might be it and almost accepts it.

Almost except he doesn't want to be murdered by these people.

The cake has a red 88 on it.

Enough candles that he can't count them.

Who's birthday is it?

No.

Not here.

Not like this.

He struggles and they hit him, Tom's fist is big and meaty against his ribs.

He gasps for air and Nigel coos and takes over, holding him up. He wipes away his tears. He smiles and looks into his eyes and John feels his whole body shake.

Nigel searches his eyes and see's what he wants.

Nigel nods and let's go of his face.

John panics and kicks, desperate this time.

He hears an 'oof' and hits something soft.

Nigel doubles over, hands flying to his balls.

It isn't enough and the rest of them don't pause.

A knife joins them and he's still in the circle and blood get's out.

It sears when the knife cuts and he can't stop it or what follows.

Something changes.

The air changes and his breathing. . . he's only just started again but suddenly everything tastes bad.

The air around them is putrid and stale.

The others sense it too and something shakes the house.

They're on the ground floor but everyone looks uneasy.

The knife has stopped moving and John is just as uneasy as all of them.

The shaking stops and when nothing happens he and Nigel both go for the knife.

He grabs it but Nigel rips it away again, lashing out with his little cutter.

John throws them to the floor and Nigel screams out, yelling for the second time that night.

He's fallen on the knife and John stares in horror as the house begins to shake again.

Collapsed rooms finally devour the caverns above them.

Rot taking hold.

Rot winning.

He braces himself like a crab against the floor.

People are shouting.

"It comes! He comes!" The leader shouts, head shaved and nicked, arms waving frantically.

The SS overhead flutters.

The fire flares.

Something large is in the room.

Large and taking up space nothing can possibly fill.

John can't make sense of it and crawls away into a corner.

Whatever it is, it grabs up jackboots and devours them whole.

it eats and it feasts and it kills.

It licks the things it calls fingers and tears flesh and leather alike.

John cowers, everything he's recovered gone and then the thing looks at him.

It sniffs.

It waits.

He waits.

"Kon-stan-tyn." It breaths.

He opens mad eyes, not knowing if he's even alive still.

He wants to grovel.

The thing has horns.

Too many to count.

"No. A Constantine. A different one." It say's.

He doesn't know what it means.

It has no mouth.

He doesn't know how he's hearing it speak.

He can hardly look at it.

"A debt is paid. I spare you."

He stares back and then it's gone.

Ancient and primordial.

Some forgotten deity he doesn't want to know the name of.

He can't feel his legs and all around him is carnage.

It's like Newcastle all over again and he screams but there's no one left to hear him.

No one to care.

He wants to die.

He claws at his face and shakes his head against it but there's red everywhere.

The house is weak and he hears it creaking around him.

He get's up and tries to find the way out, slipping and sliding in what were once people. Bleached blondes and shaved heads.

There are lights down hallways just out of sight.

He doesn't know what he's seen.

No one left to tell him.

No money.

He closes his eyes and makes it outside, vomiting among the crumbling masonry and broken bricks.

He's in the middle of nowhere now and shivers in the night.

The beat up Admiral is in the grass but the keys are inside, mired in puddles of what were once the shapes of human beings.

His mind is shattered glass.

Blood and cities that aren't the same. . . little girls and skinheads. . . he can't sort it out.

Screams sounding all the same.

People all the same.

Blood everywhere and all of it red and just the same.

He wanders his way back to civilization.

There's a score of dead neo-Nazis behind him.

They had mothers too once. . . probably.

Not like him.

He's seen their mangled corpses.

He can't get it out of his head and he can't get Newcastle or Astra or Nigel's freckle out either.

He walks and mutters to himself, trying to make sense of it.

Trying to understand why it's all happened again.

Over and over.

Everything going wrong and him walking out. . . unscathed. . .

Nigel dead. . . Tom dead. . . their leader dead. . .

Astra and all the rest. . . all dead.

A siren eventually stops him and the police take him for a crazy.

He is and they take him back to the nick and process him and in just a few days time he ends up back in Ravenscar even though he tried to do the right thing.

Even though he stayed away from the drugs and the magic and all his friends who've disappeared.

He ends up back in the padded cell with the orderlies who hate him and the doctors who don't care.

He has new nightmares now.

New horrors to keep him up and play before his eyes, over and over and over.

The gates locked behind him.

[awesomecooperlove]

‼️👹‼️👹‼️👹‼️👹‼️

⚠️👿⚠️

[dethtale]

@klaeus asked: 🎲 for cami KISS ROULETTE .

RESULT: 11. A kiss to the neck

affections  are  not  rare.  at  least,  when  it  comes  to  what  cami  values  the  most.  affection  of  the  mind,  being  respected  with  ehr  ideas  and  thoughts  and  have  enriched  conversations,  that  for  her  is  enough.  and  yet,  sometimes,  the  psychical  affection  is  very  much  wanted,  or  needed.  there  is  always  a  theory  that  connection  of  the  mind  makes  the  connection  of  the  bodies  feel  stronger.  for  her,  it  seems  to  be  true.  a  sign  of  trust  is  her  exposing  her  neck  fully  to  the  hybrid,  a  sing  that  she  knows  he  won't  hurt  her,  that  he  will  make  it  good.

 her  breath  gets  caught  on  her  throat  and  heartbeat  quickens,  beating  against  her  chest  as  his  lips  ghost  through  her  skin,  over  the  pulsing  line  of  her  neck,  and  camille  has  to  bite  down  on  her  lip  to  stop  herself  from  making  any  embarassing  noises.  "klaus."  his  name  escapes  her  when  she  feels  lips  press  down,  a  chaste  kiss  in  comparison  to  the  sensation  she  remembers  years  ago,  of  sharp  teeth  against  her  neck.  a  part  of  her  wants  him  to  bite  down,  to  see  how  different  it  would  be  now.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 2: Self-Mutilation

(Disclaimer: the character in this story does not belong to me. Phantom is the property of Nathan Sharp and Give heart Records. Also, please note that this scenario happened sometime before the events of the Phantom music video.)

(Trigger Warnings: body horror, knives/blades, gore, blood, exposed bones, ritual, implications of illegal business, drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1  Day 3   Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13

The cane didn’t seem like anything special at first. Oh sure, its wood was a glossy shade of black, and its hilt had been crafted to resemble a set of three curving, silvery talons.

And while that did set it apart from more standard walking-sticks, it still looked. . .cheap. Fragile. Like something you’d find in either a gas station or a sidewalk vendor’s booth, alongside bootleg toys and the like. (The claws weren’t even grasping anything! They were just clutching empty air! What was the user supposed to do, intertwine their fingers with it? Because if that was the case, then that was just sad.) 

Even so, Phantom had wanted it. He knew he hadn’t been drawn to it like some fantasy B-movie might suggest. He just so happened to be in the market for a personal talisman. No magic-user could fully conduct their power without a talisman. Not even one with an eldritch-level status like him.

He’d visited numerous antique stores and curiosity shops and what have you. He’d already come across a few interesting candidates (a rainbow-steel switchblade, a fountain pen with an abalone-esque pattern, too many rings and necklaces to count, etc.) but none of them stood out to him quite like the cane did. 

It didn’t matter how the cane had probably been slapped together, how the metal of its claws would potentially turn pink wherever it was most often touched, how it’d likely been sheer dumb luck on the manufacturer’s part to include quality wood. 

None of those things mattered, because Phantom took pride in being a creative bastard. 

He’d transformed a handful of condemned buildings into places anyone would like to visit on their nights off, hadn’t he?

He’d managed to keep his underground empire safely under the radar centuries now, hadn’t he?

He’d earned a reputation for having one of the largest soul collections on earth, hadn’t he?

Shaping this cane into something stronger, something better, something real. . .how hard could that possibly be?

___

As it turned out, improving his new talisman might be just a wee-bit harder than Phantom had thought. 

Not like that was going to stop him, mind you. He’d already paid a sum that was more than this cane was actually worth. (For now, at least. Once he was done with it, the price tag would be much, much higher than any measly amount of dollars. . .)

Phantom murmured a song in his monstrous native tongue as he paced, carefully pouring a jar of white powder on the floor at the center of his personal den. The powder in question was a mixture of ashes and ground-up bones, courtesy of the last idiot who’d tried to steal something from him. 

The shape he was creating almost resembled a mandala, if not just a piece of abstract art. With how he had to constantly shift his hand in order to get each part right, his wrist honestly might’ve snapped if he was human. 

Even with whatever was festering in his gut right now, Phantom still appreciated the irony of that thought. 

Once the symbol was finally complete, Phantom set the now empty jar aside and surveyed the purple-stained shelves that made up one of the four walls here. His eyes settled on two glass bottles. 

The first was a wine decanter that he’d cleaned out a few weeks prior. (Just because he was a horrific abomination didn’t mean he was ignorant about reusing and recycling, Karen.) The liquid now residing inside of it was the same color as a bruise, churning of its own accord. Phantom had brewed it and poured it into the bottle to cool about an hour ago. 

The second was a much smaller vial that had been molded into the shape of a human skull. This one contained an emerald-green oil; the way it glowed looked radioactive and appealing at the same time.

Phantom took both of them into his hands and strolled back across the room. He sat down in the center of the bone-powder symbol, setting the bottles down beside him, then peered at the table in the corner. He bared his teeth in a sharp whistle, and the cane came soaring like an over-eager dog. It stopped to hover before its owner at a horizontal angle, waiting silently for his next move. 

Phantom had already popped one of his spare orbs into the space between cane’s three silver claws. (Not only had it been such a perfect, satisfying fit, but it could also give him an excuse to cause some hell-raising if his rivals ever tried asking him about how he pondered it.)

But, of course, that wasn’t enough. 

Making a talisman required a lot more sacrifice. 

With that in mind, Phantom decided to stop with the dramatic effect and just get this over with. 

He glanced back and forth between his legs. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t decide which one to use for this ritual; they were just part of his disguise, after all. Whatever damage was done would be minimal. Still, as he leaned forward, he specifically rolled the right pant-leg up to his knee. (Humans always made a big deal about things being on the left.)

He then uncorked the skull-vial, pouring some of its contents into his cupped free hand. Once he decided there was enough, he reached up and slathered it all along the cane’s stem, leaving no square-inch untouched. After that, he drained a little more of the green liquid out and applied it to his partially-uncovered leg. He had to be more careful with it this time, tracing a network of jagged, spiraling lines onto his false skin. 

By the time he was done, there wasn’t much of the potion left. Then again, that wouldn’t be much of a problem: it was a simple concoction of ink, tears, and blood. He’d have a fresh batch ready in no time.

The stuff in the wine decanter, on the other hand. . .it was one of the few things that beings like Phantom struggled with. He cringed as he raised the bottle closer to his face. The odor leaking out was almost similar to the fresh, distinct scent that always followed a good rainstorm—geosmin, if Phantom remembered correctly. Except if geosmin had an oily bite to it, as though some idiot thought it’d be a good idea to mix sweat with Pure Evil 13 Million hot sauce for a YouTube video.

Phantom stared down the elixir for a few long seconds, then screwed his eyes shut and took a swig. He had to really commit to the whole Bottoms Up thing, craning his neck all the way back in order to force himself to not immediately spit the fluid out. Worcestershire sauce was already the bane of any eldritch’s existence, so it wasn’t much of a surprise that adding spleen milk and apple cider vinegar to it made it even worse. 

It tasted like it was insulting him. 

How the fuck did that even work?!

But that didn’t change the fact that this particular mixture proved so effective for most self-involved rituals.

So, Phantom drank about half of the decanter. Once he knew he’d consumed enough for his plan, he set it down beside the skull vial (it took some effort not to instinctually chuck the decanter across the room). 

He could already feel the emerald oil tingling on his skin, as well as the Fuck You Juice starting to boil in his stomach. However, he knew from experience that potions were a bit similar to computers: they almost always seemed to need at least three and a half days to start working.  

Phantom shifted to lie down on his back, stretching his arms and folding his hands behind his neck. It was his turn to wait as he stared up at the cane. 

Sooner or later, something manifested inside the orb it was holding. That something flickered at first, like indigo embers at the bottom of a firepit. But as he watched, it grew larger and brighter. It transitioned from energy to a solid mass, and it writhed similarly to an octopus in a cramped aquarium. 

There was still barely anything to prepare Phantom for what came next. 

The muscles inside Phantom’s right calf began twitching, much more violently than the occasional spasms humans typically experienced. The ensuing sNaAaP was as sickening as it was muffled. The lower half of Phantom’s leg buckled, most definitely not bending the correct way. The involuntary movement suggested that he’d just been hit with a reflex hammer that was somehow on steroids.

Phantom’s dark, toxic blood sprayed out as a glistening shape tore its way through his flesh. Considering how hard it really was to break bones (especially with how resilient Phantom’s disguise was), it was no surprise that both the tibia and fibula looked a little worse for wear. The ends that had formerly been connected to the patella were now jagged and splintery, tangled with strands of skin. 

Phantom’s ankle effectively dislocated, which sort of felt like all the times it’d just randomly rolled when he walked for no reason. Except this was worse, because the talus didn’t seem ready to be snapped like a gory KitKat bar. 

The partially-exposed bones bucked and shook like an animal in a trap. In response, whatever amount of Phantom’s blood that hadn’t spilled yet decided to grow claws. The layers of Phantom’s skin shredded themselves apart. A few pieces were sent flying as the gash grew wider and wider.

Finally, with an awful Strrr-cRaCk, Phantom’s lower leg bones rose into the air. They twisted around the cane to a chorus of popping and clicking, like a strangler vine growing around a thin tree. 

A sharp, sizzling hiss buzzed through Phantom’s ears as the bones started steaming, starting melting. But they refused to drip down onto the floor below. No, instead, they just kept sliding all over the cane, slowly but surely soaking into its material.

Phantom wasn’t sure how long it took for the absorption phase to be complete. His pain receptors weren’t active, of course, but something about watching your own body parts be mauled and repurposed by unseen hands just seemed to make time slow down. 

Eventually, the cane appeared clean once again. Aside from the remains of Phantom’s leg, there was no evidence that anything had happened to the cane at all. 

Phantom raised one of his arms, holding his hand open to the air above. The cane faithfully drifted toward him. The wood felt like snakeskin as Phantom closed his fingers around it. After a few seconds passed, he sat up on his haunches, holding the cane a bit closer for examination. 

The metal hilt was hot to the touch. Its trio of claws were sharper than before. 

The orb now appeared empty, but Phantom knew better.

A satisfied grin etched its way across his features—way more satisfied than it probably should’ve been for a guy whose leg looked like it’d been shoved into a garbage disposal.

But that wasn’t a problem. His disguise’s bones had grown back before, so they’d grow back again. In fact, the healing process would probably be even faster than usual.

Phantom’s new talisman was ready for service, after all. . .

@that-bat @sammys-magical-au. @captainrose35 @th3w00ds @thelittleautisticgirl @ineedallofthehugs

[flygefisk]

Sorry if you've answered this before, but I'm interested in how werewolves work in your lore? I love the new guys so much!

i don't think anyone's asked! i use fr as like.. a creative playground, so there aren't a ton of hard-and-fast rules on how just about anything works. (no matter how much i overthink things)

the werewolves in my fr lore are kinda based on my werewolves in the ttrpg game i run so this kinda goes for both lol

tl;dr it varies wildly! essentially its a magic disease family with a multitude of slightly different presentations.

there are two main groups of lycanthropy: genetic and contracted. genetic strains are only passed from parent to child, and children almost always inherit it.

there are fewer genetic strains, and they tend to have more in common with each other than contracted strains. different genetic strains can interbreed with each other and create hybrid strains as well.

contracted strains are passed via fluid contact when the sire werewolf is transformed (usually saliva in a bite wound, but also things like, say, ritual blood-drinking. not sexually transmittable.) but from there it varies wildly.

some strains only transform under the full moon, some can do it at will, some turn with extreme emotion. some look like full-on feral wolves, some turn halfway, some look like the universal wolfman. some are just human under the fur, some revert to animal instinct, some become aggressive. the fur color and texture always matches the human/dragon form's hair, and body types usually match. any given strain can have any combination of symptoms.

a couple examples: hawthorn was bitten, he can turn at will and unwillingly with extreme emotion, his wolf form can stand on two feet but otherwise looks like a massive wolf, he retains thought but is much more instinctual, and is not affected by silver. rosie, one of my npcs, is a genetic strain, she turns under the full moon and with strong emotion, her wolf form walks on two legs (and looks like a giant poodle- her human form has curly blonde hair), retains full faculties, and is allergic to silver.

there are treatments and a bite doesn't guarantee infection. if someone is treated immediately after exposure, their transformations can be easier to control or stopped altogether. there are also medications to prevent passing it to others. lycanthropy cannot be cured and most don't want a cure.

on the fr lore side, werewolves are a known factor and aren't as rare as one might think. dragons, being innately magical, are more susceptible to lycanthropy than beastclans, some of which are totally immune.

gaolers in their fourfooted form are sometimes mistaken for werewolves. views on lycanthropy of course vary- they're seen as almost lucky in some parts of shadow territory.

this was. long and rambly and im sorry if it didnt make a lot of sense lol

[daisychainsandbowties]

the anatomy of the shoulder girdle is all the proof one needs to know that the human body is deeply and fundamentally fucked up. the articulating surface that "cups" the head of your humerus is the equivalent of the support a tee provides to a golf ball, so a shit ton of tissues get slapped on top of it to keep your arm from falling off. every joint in the body is a teeter-totter between stability and mobility, and in the shoulder stability is sacrificed to the extreme in order to allow for the absolutely massive range of motion of the shoulder. fun facts with -

mood. my shoulders make a crunchy sound when i shrug because my scapulae have never heard of personal space. when poets say shit like ‘this ridiculous flesh’ yes they are just playing adjective + noun whack-a-mole but they’re also correct

bones are so stupid. if you’ve never done it then you might not know that breaking a finger is as easy as snapping a chicken bone, & also you can cause a person to legit freeze in place with a good liver-punch. floods the body with it’s own toxins and makes it have a little bout of existential dread. mm also if anyone tries to strangle you there’s a little spot under the arm you can pinch & it’s hilariously efficient at making them let go, but you should also kick them at the same time. that little trick saved my life once

[fanaiceach]

why did geoffrey consume arthur’s blood knowing it was vampire blood? how did no one in the guard have that figured out? or was there some kind of elaborate cover up scheme in place among the leaders of priwen knowing their successors would all turn eventually by consuming it?

simple. no one knew it was vampire blood because no one before geoffrey had been stupid enough to DRINK it.

[iamonlyhereforthefreefood]

One of the most annoying things about conspiracy theories is that most of them contain a kernel of truth so when you say “X thing is fake” all the supporters of that conspiracy theory will be like “what about *one true thing*?” and it’s like “yes that specific thing is real but it doesn’t prove all your other claims”.