#bloody body parts and mass graves

[quercussp]

this is my yearly rant and one of my truly unpopular opinions is that i hate halloween with my entire heart and i cannot wait for the "spooky season" to be over

[swordgrace]

𝐀𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘.

༺ aemond targaryen x fem!reader.

SYNOPSIS: in the aftermath of rook’s rest, you seek aemond out to inquire about his wellbeing. instead, you find him somewhere else — somewhere unexpected. (set after S2 EP4).

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested.

༺ WORD COUNT: 5.2K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni) , spoilers for s2 ep4, public sex / risk of getting caught, knifeplay, imbalance of power, rough sex, darkish!aemond, dom!aemond, p in v sex (unprotected), oral (f!receiving), fingering, brief tiddy sucking, groping, biting / marking, hair pulling, choking, fucking right in front of the iron throne, inaccurate high valyrian, brief dirty talk, lots of aemond’s inner thoughts, breeding kink if you squint, aemond is extremely possessive of the reader to an unhealthy degree.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: to preface, I am working on requests, this just happened to make its way out of my brain before anything else did. This was inspired by the single shot of Aemond standing in front of the Iron Throne in the S2 EP5 trailer, you can tell how desperate I got as soon as I saw it. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! There will be a Jace fic dropping tomorrow, too! ❤️

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐄 — a seat of power constructed by Aegon the Conqueror in the aftermath of a bloodied war, forged from thousands of surrendered swords.

In the days of Aegon the Conqueror, it was said that the Throne was sometimes too high to climb, a jagged labyrinth of blades melded by dragon’s fire, a throne fit for any ruler. Men impaled themselves upon one another’s blades for it, turned against one another, endless betrayals and treacheries ensued all for the sake of the endgame, to see themselves upon the Throne.

Brother turned against brother — you didn’t expect anything less from Aemond, whose desire to exact revenge boiled just beneath the surface. The Battle at Rook’s Rest had proved a slaughter on all fronts, between the decimation of both Cole’s armies and the castle they laid siege upon, to the death of the Princess Rhaenys and her dragon, Melys.

Whispers spread through the Red Keep in regards to King Aegon’s condition, bones crushed beneath the weight of Sunfyre, who plummeted from the skies in a ball of fire. His flesh was scorched, half of his body melded to the Valyrian Steel armor he wore, burnt beyond recognition.

If they were to be believed, King Aegon was gravely wounded — and if a fatality ensued, who would then bear the mantle of King?

A restless dusk gripped King’s Landing as the surviving soldiers from Cole’s armies arrived at the city gates, King Aegon amongst the wounded. In what you considered to be a mass panic and hysteria, Maesters rushed to diligently attend to their King, who seemed to be meeting a simmering grave inside of his armor — it would be his tomb if they weren’t careful.

Merely a handmaiden and servant to nobility, the antics of your masters didn’t interest you — you were wholly preoccupied with your own survival and self-preservation, amongst other things. It was said that Aemond and Vhagar had swarmed the battlefield and come to King Aegon’s defense, but by the time they had, Aegon had been swallowed by dragonfire.

Part of you had difficulty believing that Aemond truly attempted to save his elder brother, given Aemond’s embittered sentiments. Your relationship with the Prince had transcended all bonds of propriety — and if anyone were to find out, they would likely have your head for sullying his virtue.

Nevertheless, as chaos swarmed around you, you knew exactly who to seek out. Queen Alicent had little desire to be hounded by handmaidens while her eldest son struggled to hang onto his own life, something you could understand. Instead, you made for Aemond’s chambers, the route embedded into your mind.

You sought him — all of him. His lilac hue, a maelstrom of forlorn emotions, and his silvery tresses, like cascading silk, embedded themselves into your mind. His cunning countenance and beguiled expression were like hot-iron brands cast onto your thoughts, tormenting you with each waking moment.

As you stepped closer to the Throne Room, no longer guarded by Kingsguard, you saw the great door ajar — no King atop the throne. You wondered if he would live, Aegon — a drunken, broken man who preferred his cups and whores over ruling — or if he would perish.

You knew who would sit the Iron Throne, should Aegon fall.

A heavy darkness had befallen the throne room, fitting for the many tragedies, like the gloom of a shadow haunting all who dared to enter. Curiosity gripped you as you stepped inside, a place well above your station, yet you wondered if there was anyone inside.

The doors remained shut, save for the one you slipped through, the gap slim. Flickering braziers provided some illumination to such a grandeur hall, but it seemed so dour and lifeless without the presence of the day, without subjects fluttering in and out. Instead, it provided an ominous sense of dread, as if luring those inside with dark omens and false promises.

A familiar crown of silvery tresses stood at the very center, before the throne — he didn’t need to turn around for you to know who it was. He seemed entirely unscathed by the battle at Rook’s Rest, hands carefully folded behind his back, posture poised and dignified.

Aegon’s dagger flashed within his right hand, clutched tightly at his side. You wondered how he had acquired the blade so swiftly after a tragedy — but you knew. You had always known of Aemond’s nature, of his restrained resentment towards his brother, the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Aemond.” Your voice reverberated throughout the throne room, carrying a fair distance as you closed the door behind you. The studded mahogany groaned in protest, yet bent to your will as it closed with a noisy thud. Admittedly, you were surprised to see him here, and not in the comfort of his chambers.

He didn’t move, rigid and still as you quietly approached, dresses sweeping across the smooth stone beneath you. His violet hues remained transfixed upon the Iron Throne, a throne that would soon be his, if fate favored him. So many swords, so much strife and conflict that forged such a chair — so much bloodshed.

Aemond often wondered what the weight of the crown would feel like upon his brow — and even then, he knew he would wear it better than Aegon ever could. He had stood by the wayside for far too long, learned in his studies and a talented swordsman, wondering if it would all have some reward, some payoff.

Now, his opportunity was swiftly approaching.

Whatever anger he’d often kept leashed, it had struck out, like the bite of a poisonous viper, sinking into its prey with all its bitter viciousness. It was the same tempestuous rage that had lashed at Lucerys Velaryon, and now it had struck his brother, Aegon the Magnanimous.

A stupid sobriquet for a stupid man — a drunken fool. Aemond would simply pass it off as an unfortunate accident, with Aegon carelessly stepping into the line of fire whilst tangling with the Queen Who Never Was. Swift decisions had to be made on his part, his brother a victim of such action.

Any silver-tongued words that would placate his Mother, he was prepared to let them fly. Aemond knew enough to know that the consequences would be slim, and those of true action and cruel intentions would take Aegon’s place — men like himself.

Soft footfalls fell across black stone, and you called his name again, like a siren’s song luring the sailor into deeper waters. “Aemond.” It was saccharine, dripping with genuine warmth that the Prince was simply unaccustomed to.

The unexpected lull of your voice broke his fixation, and he looked to you with a gaze full of desire. It was a farcry from the frustrated, despondent man you’d encountered days prior following the incident at the brothel. There was a newfound fire within his eyes, a confidence restored — a sense of triumph.

Admittedly, you were rather perplexed by this invigorated side to Aemond — that wild gleam within his lilac eye only seemed to grow in intensity as you approached him. “I heard the news of what happened to your brother,” You began, pondering his reaction. “You have my deepest sympathies.”

The admiration he had for you only seemed to blossom, knowing that you were simply keeping up appearances for his sake. Aemond’s mouth tilted into the ghost of a smirk, feigning melancholy despite the truth of his own actions. “It was a horrible thing, what happened to the King,” He uttered, glancing toward the throne. “I wish for his swift recovery.”

A facade was a mere understatement — you could almost taste the smug bemusement that rested within Aemond’s tone. The slight quirk of his mouth, the manner in which he spoke — his sympathies for Aegon were nonexistent.

“As any good brother would.” You replied, stepping closer until you stood before the Iron Throne, gaze falling upon the thousands of swords swarming the seat, blades of many shapes and sizes. You wondered about the people behind each sword — who swung it, what their lives must’ve been like.

A brief hum escaped Aemond, who observed you hawkishly as you approached, violet hue greedily drinking you in as he had many times before. You had stood so faithfully by his side, never admonished him for the brash actions taken against his family, never deemed him pathetic for what happened at the brothel.

He cared little for your station, little for your status as a lowborn — if he sat the Iron Throne, he could have whatever he wanted. It didn’t matter if you were a commoner, Aemond could envision you as his wife, a Queen — no longer bowing to the whims of greater men and women who cared little for you.

“Did my Mother dismiss you this evening?” Aemond questioned, digits tense around the pommel of Aegon’s knife — now his. Seeing as he was no longer fit to carry the weapon, it was only just that it pass to his brother, his next of kin.

“She did,” A gentle exhale escaped you, one that allowed you to maintain your composure. Being in Aemond’s presence seemed to make you dizzy with desire with each passing moment — not a new sentiment, but an intoxicating one. “I was coming to find you, to see if you were well after the battle.”

Shamelessly, Aemond became quite aroused at the thought of you wandering about the Red Keep with the single-minded desire to see him. His blood ran hot after the battle — the surge of adrenaline did not lessen in your presence.

His jaw tensed slightly as he appraised you, taking a step closer, brazenly closing the distance between you both. He could smell your perfume, the warm bouquet of flowers and a touch of honey. “How thoughtful.” His voice dropped to a low purr, dripping with the first inklings of lust.

Your breath hitched, words turning to ash upon your tongue as your fingers curled into your dress. Aemond enticed you in ways that no man had before — and he saw you, a woman beneath the gowns of a servant. The hammering of your heart within your chest had stirred something powerful — your want for him consumed you like a tidal wave.

Before you could utter his name, he descended like a starving wolf to kiss you, open-mouthed and bleeding lust. You shivered, wanting to coax him into returning to his chambers before things became heated. His hand dropped to seize your hip, hauling you closer to him until no space was left between your bodies.

You reciprocated his kiss, able to hear a faint growl of approval building up within his throat. It was fiery and hot, with little concern of who might see you. Aemond was growing emboldened, brazen knowing the power he now held within his grasp.

“We should return to your quarters,” You whispered, a strained whimper tearing past your lips as Aemond kissed your jaw, sucking at the flesh of your neck. “Aemond, we can’t — not here.” Your breathy pleas fell upon deaf ears — what better place to claim you than before his new throne?

“We can,” Aemond murmured, pushing your tresses aside as he claimed your throat, laying waste to your flesh in his rabid kisses and hungry bites. “The rest of the Keep is preoccupied.” His reassurance was threadbare at best, but you were beginning to slip off of the deep end, fingers clawing at his tunic.

“What if someone sees?” Fear trickled into your voice, a subtle fright that Aemond found to be enticing. You worried for your own skin — he could understand that. A moan escaped you as Aemond nipped at your jugular, squeezing at your hips.

You failed to comprehend that he would protect you, shield you if needed. He did not need to justify his obsession for you, just as Aegon never offered any justification for his nightly whore hunts. Aemond seemed quick to soothe your worry, hand clasping at the nape of your neck.

“Then I will have their head,” His delectable purr dropped an octave, scratching the itch within your head. “You needn’t worry, ñuha dōna. I can do whatever I wish.” Aemond assured you, a great fire burning within his lilac hue. The leather of his eyepatch concealed the listless sapphire beneath.

He only needed to serve himself — his family cared little for him, and the world was often against him. He looked forward to facing Daemon whenever the time came, should he be bold enough to challenge him. Aemond dismissed it all — Aegon, his mother, Criston Cole — the only thing that mattered were the both of you.

Aemond’s streak of possessiveness had grown into something uncontrollable, a festering desire to keep you close, spiraling into obsession. You were many things to him, many things he coveted for himself.

After a moment of hesitation, you decided to make things tempting for Aemond, loosening the bodice of your dress. His breath hitched, the noise subtle if one wasn’t observant enough. He seized the back of your head once more, hungrily pressing his lips to yours, consuming you in another heated kiss.

A dour portrait of dusk hovers around the Red Keep, its shadowy tendrils slinking into the throne room. Only moonlight and dying braziers are your guide, and Aemond is at his prettiest whenever he’s touched by the silvery rays. It strikes his narrow visage, paints his silky tresses in pale light.

He is closer to a god now than he is a man — fortunately, you were willing to return to religion if it meant that Aemond was who you worshiped. As much as you liked to believe it was the foundation of your relationship, he thought of it alternatively, the roles reversed.

Your digits slip beneath the overcoat he wore, marred by speckled dirt and brimstone. His broad, sinewy shoulders are concealed by his tunic, and he seems vastly overdressed compared to you, still wearing your servant’s clothes. Aemond had gotten you a dress to wear with him before — you never wore it otherwise.

There is a certain intensity in the way he kisses you, as if each embrace might be your last. In the aftermath of a battle, you understand such sentiments, given the fate of the King and the Princess Rhaenys.

A growl reverberates within the depths of his throat as he pries his mouth away from you, gesturing toward the flight of obsidian steps that ascend toward the Iron Throne. “There,” He uttered, more of a command than a suggestion. “Lay down.”

A shudder rolls down the length of your spine, followed by an onslaught of goosebumps that snake across your flesh like a fever. Your stomach churned with anticipation, filling with the sensation of sloshing heat, burning brighter as each moment passed.

Without question, you step toward the throne, noticing the sharpness of some blades, the dullness of others. You find your footing upon the last step, feeling Aemond stalk closer. The rustling of his belt makes you shiver, only to find the steely chill of the Conqueror’s knife pressed against the dip between your shoulder and neck.

Aemond closes in behind you, caging you against his chest, like a predator swarming hapless prey. His narrow nose brushed along your soft tresses as he dragged the tip of the knife from your shoulder to ribcage. “Shall I cut this from you?” He uttered, digging the Valyrian steel into the fabric of your dress.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you brace yourself for the bite of the knife, for the unruly tear of fabric, but it never comes. Instead, Aemond’s mouth pressed vigorous kisses against your neck, hand seizing you by the throat.

“Ao sytilībagon naejot nyke.” Aemond purred, feeling you turn within his grasp. Desire oozed between you both, an onslaught of carnality soon to follow. His lilac hue flickered over your countenance, drinking in your beauty with unrestrained rapture. You belong to me.

From what little High Valyrian you’d learned in the time you’ve been with Aemond, you strung enough of the sentence together to know what he meant. “Iksan aōhon.” A soft whimper emerged from between your parted lips, noticing the way his pupil dilated with amorous intent.

I am yours.

A flame of obsession roared within his gaze, enough to burn you alive where you stood. Aemond reveled in your submission to him, drank in your devotion — a devotion that would prove fruitful, should he ascend the throne. The tip of the knife prodded into your sternum, and you absentmindedly leaned forward.

Aemond captured your mouth once more, laying claim to you — his paramour. There was nothing sweeter than your desperate mewls and reciprocated passion, the succor of your mouth, the saccharine scent of your perfume.

The both of you descended to the floor, icy and stony as it prodded into your back. He knelt between your legs, gaze momentarily flickering between the shadow of the Iron Throne and your mesmerized visage. Aemond kissed you again, nipping at your lower lip before rucking up your skirts, pushing them toward your hips.

With one knee, he bullied his way in between your thighs, breaths heavier, wrought with anticipation as he lowered his mouth to your collarbone. In one smooth tug, he loosened your bodice, wrestling with the coarse material as he buried his face into your silky skin.

The throes of passion filled the air — short gasps and labored pants accompanied by the constant shuffling of fabric. “Aemond,” You moaned, watching as he bit the leather of his glove, removing the garment in one jerk of his head. Flesh to flesh, he moved to drag his digits along your weeping slit. “Aemond.” Urgency crept into your voice, strung-out by need.

“Hm,” His cajoling hum sent shivers down your spine, heat sloshing around within your stomach. Arousal pooled between your thighs, nectar sticky and gathering swiftly. “What a delicious gift you’ve given me.” Aemond uttered, slender digits continuing to stroke at your cunt, his pace agonizingly slow.

Lifting his fingers to his lips, he let them rest upon his tongue, gathering your juices to taste. A satisfied grunt of approval escaped him, one that made you meld into the floor. It was an uncomfortable surface, yet any thought of discomfort dissipated the moment Aemond’s lips pressed against the inside of your knee.

Instinctively, your hands flew toward his crown of silken tresses, digging in with an ironclad hold. Aemond released a low hiss of satisfaction, pressing hot kisses along the inside of your thigh. He dipped lower, breath fanning across your cunt.

His tongue raked hot embers across your aching core, delivering a series of deliberate strokes that were sure to make you squirm. Aemond preferred to savor you, consuming every drop of your nectar as if it were the finest of wines.

“Aemond!” Your voice rose above the cacophony of lewd noises ensuing below, noisy enough to reverberate throughout the throne room. It worried you, the potential of someone finding you with the Prince-Regent between your legs, but pleasure began to outweigh logic.

His name felt sweet from your mouth — if Aemond had it his way, he would make you say it a thousand times over. The sharp bridge of his nose buried itself into your mound, cock twitching within the leather of his breeches.

Another breathy moan left you, stomach pooling with a rush of molten heat. It oozed between your legs as your arousal fell upon the Prince’s tongue, much to his delight. He did not waste a drop, mouth traveling wherever he pleased, lapping at every inch of your cunt.

The Iron Throne overshadowed the both of you, a jagged mess of swords surrounded by dusk. Slats of moonlight trickled in from the stained glass above, falling across his visage, violet hue sparkling with lust. His lips greedily kissed at your clit, causing your hips to lurch forward.

“Look at me.” A pointed demand spoken from an edged tongue, one that commanded your attention without wavering. With a strangled moan, you turned your head to him, furthering the fire within your belly. Your doe-eyed stare locked onto him, lips falling apart.

As your eyes flickered over his poised features, your hand tightened within his tresses, coaxing him closer toward the apex of your thighs. Aemond wasn’t sly at suppressing the delight he felt in that moment, greedily lapping at your cunt.

You watched, enthralled by the ministrations of his mouth, the flick of his tongue, the tantalizing efforts made to draw you back in. His features were carved like marble, by the steady hand of a sculptor — godly, in the best way possible.

Aemond hoped that your blissful cries would alert the guards — perhaps, all could bear witness to his carnal delights, know that you belonged to him and him alone. His lips crawled to a sluggish pace, made only to torment you as he peppered feather-light kisses against your clit. The lack of pressure nearly made you wretch, digits curling into a fist.

Every fiber of your being felt as if it had been set ablaze, washed within the fires of his affection. He knew your body well, as well as he knew his own, tongue dipping to have a taste of your core as it lightly jutted against your entrance. You whimpered, the noise pathetic and pitiful, yet overwhelmingly eager.

“Please,” You moaned, breathy and clawing for some shred of release, canting your hips forward. Aemond retreated, just enough to leave you writing upon the steps before a sly chuckle reverberated between your thighs. His torture of you was playful and intimate, intended to make you beg. “Please, Aemond!”

How could he deny you when you sounded so sweet?

With a soft hum, Aemond returned to devour your cunt, drink from the nectar that oozed between your legs. His hands situated themselves against your thighs, nails digging in enough to leave behind traces of angered crescent marks.

The heat between your legs intensified, arousal stinging your bones, body bent underneath Aemond’s will as he lapped at your core. His lips were accompanied by his spindly digits as two fingers prodded at your entrance, feeling the crescendo of your whimpers before sinking themselves into your tight cunt.

Squelching intermingled with that of brazen pants and your myriad of moans, a cacophony of lust that permeated the throne room. It felt sinful, to defile the steps of a seat of power, but that shame swiftly contorted into bliss — it felt good.

It felt good to be desired, for Aemond to feel not an ounce of regret or remorse for being with you or for the carnage his actions wrought. The darkness that festered within his eye only grew, once a flickering shade, now growing into something sprawling.

At last, his lips pursed around your clit, stimulating that sensitive clutch of nerves. Your back arched from the stone, thighs rattling like falling leaves as he brought about your ruin. His digits viciously pumped in and out of your cunt, preparing you for the act that was to follow.

His tongue lashed across his lower lip, not wasting a drop of what sweetness you provided him with. Aemond’s mouth hastily abandoned your cunt, yet the curling of his fingers seemed to make up for the loss of pleasure. You felt his wet lips purse around the pebbled peak of your breast, suckling like a greedy babe.

Aemond’s senses drowned in desire, cock throbbing within his trousers, desperate to be inside of you. It wouldn’t be much longer now as he bit and kissed your chest, letting the work manifest as love bites, evidence of his carnal want for you.

“I need you, Aemond. I need you inside of me.” The suddenness of your words left him reeling, a snarl stirring within his chest as his teeth gnashed into the soft flesh between your breasts. You longed to feel his cock lay waste to your cunt, for him to fuck away his anger, his frustration.

Hastily, his hand flew to the ties of his breeches, loosening the threads of leather. You grabbed the front of his tunic, enough to effectively grab his attention as you pulled him in for a hot kiss. Passion bled through, and you could taste yourself upon his tongue as it danced with yours.

The warmth of his cockhead prodded against your folds, already slick with your cum and his own. It was messy, an entanglement born of desire, of the will to possess one another — a claim eternal. Aemond’s hand snaked toward your hip, the other keeping himself afloat before he snapped forward.

His cock invaded your cunt without any sluggishness to it, the deliberation gone entirely. A wild shimmer glistened within his eye, a domineering edge that seemed to wrestle with itself. Aemond wanted to submit to you, but in the wake of Rook’s Rest, adrenaline and a desire for power simply wouldn’t allow it.

As he fucked you like a hound, as Aegon had colorfully put it, Aemond could see you seated beside him, a crown upon your brow, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A commoner, crawled from dirt and from nothing, into his arms — into a seat of power that none would dare challenge.

Fantasy consumed him, making him mad with lust. He wanted to crawl beneath your flesh, reside there, hear your heart hammering within your breast. He seemed pleasantly surprised when you claimed his mouth, your tongue advancing past his parted lips.

With your skirts having fallen to the swell of your hips, you hitched one leg around him, hand clawing at his back, between his shoulders. “Aemond,” You moaned, overwhelmed by his barrage of erratic thrusts. His stamina was something to witness as he kept a rather vigorous pace. “My King.”

A low growl stirred within his throat, a stark warning not to continue with your current line of thought. Aemond bit at your lower lip, prompting you to moan into his mouth, but you surprised him again when you reciprocated. Things were intense, far more fiery than they ever had been before.

Battle made him hot — such a sensation wasn’t aided by your presence, intensified tenfold. With Aegon wasting away inside of his chambers, steel melting into his flesh, swarmed by flocks of Maesters, Aemond felt no remorse — none at all as he fucked you before the Iron Throne.

He felt no remorse when he ordered Vhagar to burn his brother, he felt no remorse when he brought you into his bed — and he would feel no remorse when he ascended the throne and made you his Queen.

His cock furiously battered away at your cunt, the lewdness of flesh and intermingled breaths being the only sounds that mattered. That lilac hue of his studied your countenance, the devotion and rapture that rest upon it, your complete and utter joy. Aemond had been blessed with the loveliest creature — you.

The stretch you felt as Aemond invaded your nethers was a pleasant one, your walls tight around his length as he continued to fuck you. Face to face, chest to chest — there was no room left for deception, nowhere left to turn to. With a groan, Aemond kissed you yet again.

“Kesan mazverdagon ao ñuha dāria.” I will make you my Queen; he growled into your ear, biting at the shell, the act enough to make you whimper. He filled your cunt with his cock, the only one that it would ever take. In the heat of the moment, he bit at your neck, hand gripping your thigh so hard that it was bound to leave bruises.

Darkness swallowed the hallowed halls — braziers flickering out completely, leaving only moonlight. Even through the silvery haze, Aemond’s face remained a picture of living perfection, his brow creased with concentration.

The fervor of his pace began to slow, cock throbbing with an onslaught of arousal, one that flooded his body with waves of bliss. He wasn’t neglectful of your needs, swiftly placing a hand between your bodies, thumb rubbing circles around your clit.

Heavy footfalls of guardsmen resonated from outside of the sealed doors, a nightly patrol, prompting you to shiver from worry, but Aemond did not stop — and he wouldn’t. His blazing eye bared down upon you, glistening with the sheen of lust, of obsession, a man starved of the love and devotion he so desperately chased.

Your lips felt swollen, a byproduct of Aemond’s biting, of the many shared kisses that had turned into hunger. You were ravenous for him in ways that you had little knowledge of, scraping the surface of what desire truly meant.

Silky, pale tresses fell through your digits as you threaded them within his hair, gripping it in fistfuls as you continued to kiss him until every wisp of air was stolen from your lungs. Aemond did not relent, continuing to adopt a rhythmic pace of fucking you, cock halfway out before he thrust forward again and again.

As the both of you approached the precipice, falling into a white-hot abyss, you could hear him murmuring something in High Valyrian, strings of sweet praises and compliments. His thumb continued to circle your clit even after you had your release, milking his cock with an onslaught of your nectar.

Aemond grunted, forehead nudging against yours as he snapped forward one final time, cock sheathed inside of you as he found a warm place to spill his seed. The recklessness of it was of little consequence to him — an herbal tea could remedy it, yet the thought of filling you with an heir became tantalizing.

Not yet — not now.

If his seed were to take, it would sow discord across his house, and there was enough of that already. Aemond huffed, gathering his composure as your whimpers dwindled into soft pants. His claws sank so deep into you, talons wrenched into your heart, your body, everything.

He placed a kiss upon your brow, a subtle gesture that reminded you of his lingering duality. Aemond pulled himself out of you with an onslaught of stickiness, a mess that would only be remedied by a long soak in the bath — something he would need you for.

Your chest felt tight, both from exhilaration and the intensity of it all. As you adjusted your skirts back into place, Aemond gently coaxed you to your feet, pressed close against you as he stared at the throne. “Perhaps, once I ascend, we will have to make use of the throne.” His salacious purr made you shudder.

“There is no law forbidding us from acting upon that now,” You challenged, and Aemond had to restrain himself from acting upon such a lascivious impulse. For as coy as you could be, you were just as lustful as he was at times, a quality that he greatly adored. “Your Grace.”

As much as the teasing title seemed to provoke him, Aemond grabbed your hips, lips twitching into his familiar smirk, a near-permanent expression. “Aemond,” He corrected, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “For now, I will need assistance with drawing a bath.”

The Throne’s harrowing shape cast its shadow as the both of you abandoned the dark halls and into the light of Aemond’s chambers.

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not attempt to steal or translate my works onto other platforms or claim it as your own.

[flowerandblood]

The Man with the Pearly Hair

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, fingering, smut, angst, obsession, symptoms of the disease such as fever and convulsions ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, verydark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

Part 1 - The Man with the Black Mask | Part 2 - The Man with the Empty Heart | Part 3 - The Man with the Lost Soul | Part 4 - The Man with the Cold Lips | Part 5 - The Man with the Deep Scar | Part 6 - The Man with the One Eye | Part 7 - The Man with the Golden Gift | Part 8 - The Man in the Black Crown | Part 9 - The Man with the Bloody Sword | Part 10 - The Man in the Black Gloves | Part 11 - The Man in the Death Cloak | Part 13 - The Man with the Fiery Gaze

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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Her husband did not let her experience any peace or rest the night after the ball, informing her that he did not mind if she fell asleep while he was rooting into her sore core. They would fall into sudden, deep slumbers, his arms embracing her tightly.

As soon as he awoke she could hear his murmur of satisfaction caused by her presence and the closeness of her body – his length throbbed inside her, and with tentative, slow movements at first, he would begin all over again.

She felt stunned by the intensity of the sensations, feeling as if they had truly become one flesh, his scent filling her nostrils, her cheek nestled against his chest. After their intense rapture, they fell asleep again, and when she regained consciousness for a moment, she told herself that she couldn't open her eyes, as if Vhagar was lying next to her and not her husband, her King, the man who killed for her.

She would then open her eyes and lift her head, gazing with bliss and peace at his sleeping face. She stroked gently his cheek and hair, afraid that she would wake him. She was only answered by his hum of contentment, his arms clasping around her tighter, pressing her closer to him, his hand sinking into her hair, hugging her cheek to his heart.

She could hear his slow heartbeat, feel his warm breath, and thought she had never felt truly happy before him.

Truly peaceful.

Truly safe.

When, during one of the evenings they spent quietly in his chamber, each sunk in reading a book, sitting by the fireplace, Ser Criston walked in and announced that the bodies of the royal family had finally been found, decisions were made very quickly.

Her husband had ordered the tombs for his family to be made much earlier and they stood empty under the great temple next to the graves of his ancestors, waiting for their burial place to be discovered. She could see the pain mixed with anger on his face when he found out that the bodies of his parents and siblings were buried in a mass grave under the kitchen cellars.

She lowered her gaze with a clenched throat, thinking only of how humiliating it must have been for him, that her father had treated them worse than the murderers, who at least had the opportunity to be buried with prayers and any dignity.

Her husband ordered the work to be expedited and decreed that within the next two days everything was to be prepared for this grand royal funeral, unable to bear the thought that the bodies of his loved ones were lying and rotting, waiting for justice.

He did not speak, he did not eat and he did not sleep, immersed in his own thoughts, sitting for long hours in front of the fireplace and gazing into the flames, joining her only in the morning, seeking refuge in her embrace, tired and distraught.

Even though her father had done all this, she felt complicit.

"My Queen, the dressmakers have not managed to sew a suitably thick gown and cloak for you. It is freezing and snowing outside, why not wear a different gown, such as this one, a brown one?" Suggested one of her servants a few hours before the ceremony. She shook her head without even bestowing a single glance on her, looking in the mirror.

"No. I must wear black, wear mourning by the side of my King. Bring my gown and the cloak I wore at my mother's funeral." She said dispassionately, she heard the women look at each other with concern.

"But Your Grace, you will frown, the material is too thin. Let us at least put your furs on underneath your cloak." Mumbled one of them. She sighed and nodded.

As she rode behind her king-husband, past the row of coffins in front of them, the cold winter air pierced her body like daggers. She closed her eyes, trying to curl into herself, knowing that she faced hours of standing during the funeral ceremony in the cold temple and thought that this would be her punishment for what her father had done.

For the fact that his treacherous blood flowed in her.

Therefore, she hid the quivering of her body by standing behind her husband rather than at his side, wanting to bear it with dignity, thinking of lying down in a warm bed as soon as they returned to their stronghold.

Already on the journey back she felt an excruciating pain in her bones, her head heavy as if someone was squeezing her skull – it seemed to her that the world around her was humming and blurred, struggling to maintain a straight posture.

When they reached the courtyard of the fortress Ser Criston had to help her off her horse; he looked at her for a moment, apparently seeing her pallor, however he said nothing.

He did not trust her knowing who her father was.

She did not resent him for this.

The most important thing for her was to know that he was completely devoted to her husband.

Her King no longer commanded her to come to his chamber, simply disregarding the possibility that she should spend the evening and night anywhere other than with him.

For this reason, she followed him into his quarters feeling her whole body shaking – everything around her seemed blurred and painfully loud, she had the sensation as if someone was breaking her bones.

She swallowed with difficulty, stripping out of her cloak and gown with the help of her servants, one of whom seeing her pale face leaned over her and asked in a whisper.

"My Queen, shall I summon a medic?"

She shook her head, raising her hand in a gesture that informed them that they could leave – all she dreamed of was to lie down and sleep. Her husband only hummed under his breath when she told him she'd already gone to bed, sitting with his back to her by the fireplace, staring into the flames completely absorbed in his thoughts, memories and regrets.

When she lay down she finally felt some kind of relief – she didn't have the strength to turn or move so she just closed her eyes and after a moment there was silence and darkness all around her.

"My love?" She heard as if through a fog someone's voice, his voice, her King, her husband, her death, her beloved shadow. She felt his wonderfully cold hand on her inflamed body – even though she was drenched in sweat, she got the impression that she was freezing all over. "My love, wake up."

"I'm cold." She mumbled out with difficulty, unable to stop her body shivering, each breath made her struggle.

She felt that her lungs and nostrils were on fire.

She heard him swallow loudly and then he was gone, her mind drifting away again. She awoke with difficulty lifting her eyelids, suddenly noticing that the chamber she was in was filled with the light of candles. She could hear conversations all around her, as if there were several people inside, someone's hand washed her forehead and her chest with a cold cloth, bringing her relief.

"My King, we asked her, but she said she was choosing this gown and this cloak and that she would not bring shame to the king, that she must look proper on such an important day, we could not force her." She heard someone's terrified voice and recognised her maid, answered immediately by her husband's cold, mercyless hiss.

"You fucking fools! I'll hang each of you in turn as soon as…"

"− my King −" She muttered quietly, wishing he was by her side, terrified that she couldn't see anything clearly – her head was spinning and she had trouble keeping her eyelids open.

"− I'm so cold − yet at the same time my body seems to be on fire −"

She heard his quick movement, a moment later he was already beside her, his cold, familiar hand caressing her every night touched her cheek – she sighed in relief as she smelled his scent.

"− you have a fever, my love − brother Albert will prepare a decoction at once, which you will have to drink − rest now −"

She lurched as he forced her to drink the disgusting decoction she was nauseous from, the taste of ginger and garlic so intense that her stomach twisted all over.

"− drink − that's an order − you are to obey your King and husband −" He exhaled, holding her cheek painfully tight, tilting her head back so she wouldn't choke, forcing her sip after sip to drink it all to the bottom.

When he finally let her go she cried out loud, terrified and weak, not fully aware of what was really happening to her, forgetting where she was and who she was.

She felt her husband holding her in his arms throughout the night, his hand touching her forehead again and again, checking if her condition was improving. She had a feeling, half asleep, on the verge of consciousness and lack of it, that she heard him praying quietly, lying on his side behind her, his face pressed against her hair.

Gods, who watch over justice in heaven and on earth, have mercy on us.

Gods, who intercede for the poor and despised, have mercy on us.

Gods, who have brought this woman before me and bound me to her for eternity, have mercy on us.

What was empty is full.

What was broken is whole.

What was separated is one.

She tightened her hand on his arm which embraced her hearing his words, feeling a squeeze in her throat. He flinched at the gesture, lifting his head, she felt his anxious breath on her hot cheek.

"− my love? − how do you feel? −" He asked quietly and she swallowed loudly, feeling that she was still hot, her head was spinning and she was in pain all over, but she was no longer trembling.

"− tired, my King − tired and sore −" She whispered, and he sighed heavily, embracing her more tightly, putting his face where it had been a moment before.

"− sleep, my love − your husband is with you −" He whispered, rising after a moment, taking the cloth from her forehead – she heard him dip it in the water and squeeze it out, only to lay it again on her hot skin. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief at how pleasant it felt – he slipped his ice-cold hand under her nightgown and placed it over her heart.

The next day her husband had to attend a meeting and her mother replaced him at her side. She was forced to drink another dose of the medicine, but this time she was able to drink it alone, falling into a restless sleep again afterwards.

Brother Albert found to everyone's relief that her fever was slowly lowering and her body was beginning to fight back, that the worst was probably behind them.

Despite her mother's objections, when she felt a little better in the afternoon she asked to be allowed to take a bath and to change into a new chemise.

Washing her hair and body all drenched in sweat and then putting on a new undershirt made her feel fresh again, and although she felt like her head was going to burst and she had to go to bed again immediately, she regained her appetite and her mother personally went to see to it that everything she needed was brought to her.

She was surprised when one of the lords loyal to her husband since their conspiracy days, who was among his closest advisors, Lord Malet, entered her chamber. He had not announced himself beforehand and surprised her completely with his visit.

"My Queen, I know this is not the right time, however, there is an urgent matter I must discuss with you." He said standing away from her bed. She lifted her gaze to him and sighed heavily, having great difficulty concentrating, everything around her was spinning.

"Speak, my Lord. I am listening to you." She said in a hoarse voice and coughed quietly, sighing heavily. The lord shifted from foot to foot, swallowing loudly, clearly aware that he had to brew words.

"The King has decided today to marry my eldest daughter to an important dignitary of a neighbouring kingdom, to strengthen our alliances. However, I have already promised her hand to someone else. The King will not listen to me and I have come to beg you to intervene in this matter." He said lowly looking at his feet, embarrassed apparently by his request and by having to beg the traitor's daughter for help.

She let out a quiet breath, recognising that this matter required great delicacy and forethought – her husband was like a burning flame and all it took was a moment's inattention for him to set everything around them on fire in his rage.

"− I will try, my Lord −"

Her husband walked into their chamber as her mother was helping her eat the broth. Something about the sight pleased him; he hummed, coming closer to them with his hands clasped behind his back, his forehead lightened and smoothed.

"− my wife −" He said softly, and she nodded, not having the strength to do anything else.

"− I will take care of her now, my Lady −" He directed his words to her mother, and although the tone of his voice was calm, one could hear that he was not giving her any opportunity to object.

She nodded, handing him a half-empty plate of soup and stood up, stroking her head, telling her to rest.

As soon as the door closed behind her, her husband pulled the eye patch from his face, accustomed to not wearing it in her presence. He sat down next to her on the bed, putting on a spoonful of soup and placing it under her mouth. This time she did not stand up to him and ate slowly even though she was already full.

"− I'm glad you've got your appetite back −" He said lowly, relief and weariness in his voice at the same time – she knew he hadn't slept through the night, exhausted after the funeral and terrified of her condition. She swallowed quietly, gathering herself with difficulty to get out what she wanted to say.

"Lord Malet paid me a visit today." She began hesitantly, lifting her gaze to him. She saw that he looked at her surprised, vigilance in his healthy eye, his brow furrowed.

"What did he want from you? Why was he bothering you in such a state?" He asked with an air of annoyance and displeasure. She pressed her lips together, feeling her heart pounding fast.

"He came to ask me to help him in a matter concerning his daughter." She said slowly and saw him lick his lower lip furiously. He chuckled under his breath, however there was no laugh of amusement – he ran his hand over his mouth and chin impatiently.

"I see. Do not think about it." He said dryly, indicating to her that he intended to end the subject, putting another spoonful of soup on her.

"He is her father, Aemond." She made another attempt – he saw his jaw clench, his lips forming thin line, his nostrils moving restlessly.

He tried not to explode.

"And I am her King. She lives to fulfil her role for the kingdom." He said harshly, coldly, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

She could see in his gaze the threat that one more ill-considered word from her and he would lose his temper.

"If your father had told you to marry another woman instead of me, would you have done it?" She asked quietly, feeling her words hang in the ether; she saw the shock and fear in his gaze, his lips twitched – she could see he hesitated.

"…yes."

She looked at him with her lips slightly parted, feeling a tightening in her heart and in her stomach, some horrible, cold kind of disappointment flowed through her body, the realisation of who she was in his eyes.

A favourite, but still, just a pawn.

She answered nothing more, lowering her gaze, feeling only a terrible headache, only fatigue, only resignation.

"However, I fear she would soon meet with an unfortunate accident that would make me a widower." He added after a moment and she looked at him in disbelief, feeling her heart pounding rapidly.

He stared at her, his healthy eye wide open, focused only on her, a certain, cold, piercing gaze that would see every lie and hesitation, every weakness.

"The daughters of lords in the kingdom would die until you were the only candidate to become my wife. You know very well that I am very patient." He added in a half-whisper – she swallowed loudly as she saw him set the bowl of the soup down on the table next to their bed.

"You and I are like the sun and the moon. Like north and south. Like day and night." He hummed with delight, grinning uneasily to himself, his fingertips running over her warm cheek.

"Do you think I would let any other man take you as his wife? I'd let anyone else touch you? Hm?" He asked softly, but there was a sweet threat in his voice that sent a shiver through her. She shook her head, despite her fatigue and weakness feeling the throbbing between her thighs at his words, so dark, threatening, certain.

"And you? What would you have done if I had not come to you that night? If your treacherous father had married you off?" He asked lowly, quietly, looking at her vigilantly, more like an animal than a human being, searching for any signal of hesitation or falsehood.

"My husband would find me dead in his bed before he had time to touch me, to bruise me of the only thing left of my dignity." She whispered with a certainty from which he licked his lower lip quickly.

He began to breathe involuntarily through his mouth as he stared at her with wide-open eye, his sapphire gleaming mischievously in the moonlight streaming through the window into his chamber.

She sighed quietly as she felt his hand slide from her cheek down her neck to her breasts and lower abdomen, lifting her nightgown with an impatient motion, his fingers sinking into her hot, soft womanhood.

Her lips parted in a quiet, dreamy moan as he began to explore her condition, meeting her wetness between her slit – she saw a smirk appear on his face from which her walls pulsed hard around nothing.

"Destroy me. Leave me with nothing. Those were your words. Weren't they?" He gasped, his fingertips trailing between her folds, teasing her bud, her thighs involuntarily spread wider, the pleasure and tickle she felt in her lower abdomen making her feel even more stupefied.

"Yes." She mumbled quietly, innocently, with a sigh, as if the very memory of the intense, brutal act that was their first physical intimacy when he took her maidenhood brought her some kind of relief.

She shuddered as she felt his finger begin to slide tentatively inside her, teasing her opening with a click of her moisture, looking at her with some kind of intrigue.

"You didn't know who I was, and yet you let me take you. You longed to become my wife. Why?" He asked low, his voice deep and resonant, and she realised that this was the first time he had ever broached the subject of his or her feelings in any way, that he was allowing her into places of his mind that no one else had access to.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus, feeling weakened and at the same time distracted by the tickle she felt between her thighs, the tension that grew in her with each passing moment as his fingers dug harder into her throbbing heat, sliding out of her only to slide back in.

"− because you were like death − like a dark veil, a shroud, a coffin, and I felt dead − it seemed so right −" She whispered and she heard him draw in the air loudly, as if her words had startled him, his thumb beginning to run over her pearl and tease her as his fingers pressed the spot inside her hidden in her folds with sure, circular motions.

"− do you still feel dead? −" He exhaled in a trembling voice, as if there was something in the sight of her, in the way she moaned softly and wriggled helplessly, without the strength to resist him, from which he was losing his temper.

"− sometimes − but not with you − never with you −" She mumbled, glancing up at him wearily – his face looking different from usual, breathing loudly along with her, his full lips parted slightly, his eyebrows arched as if in worry, his eye misty, full of affection and longing.

"− if I will not be violent − will you let me? −" He asked in a quivering voice, and she nodded, knowing what he wanted, knowing what he needed.

He undressed, allowing her hand to untie the ribbon in his hair as he leaned over her, gently stroking her face with his fingers. He lay down between her thighs looking down at her, lifting the material of her nightgown only over her thighs, not wanting her to get cold.

She felt the head of his cock pushing against her slit and she sighed softly, spreading her thighs wider, wanting to make his task easier. He rooted into her surprisingly tentatively and slowly, sliding out several times, as if he wanted her insides to adjust to such intense filling.

It was such a surprisingly pleasurable and tender sensation that she began to moan quietly beneath him, stroking his cheeks and hair, their mouths meeting with each other in a sticky, hot, slow kiss, then another and another, their lips trailing over each other, their hot breaths surrounding their faces.

She ran her fingertips over the skin of his scarred cheek, feeling his thrusts begin to grow deeper and more confident, they both started to pant as a thrill of pleasure shuddered through them. She clasped her hands on his bare buttocks, rubbing against him so that he pressed the wonderful spot inside her each time he slided inside her.

"− yes − oh, yes −" She whispered, tilting her head back, his lips slid down to her neck, placing small, greedy kisses on her skin, leaving a wet trail on it, sucking and licking her naked flesh, rooting into her with the sure, deep thrusts of his hips, her walls clenching against him steadily.

"− am I causing you pain? − do you want to stop? −" He muttered between his pushes, with the remnants of his strong will trying to remember that she was still weakened and sick, that just a few hours ago she had a fever and should now be resting, not exerting herself.

However, he had never done this to her in such a gentle way before and she shook her head quickly, breathing loudly along with him.

"− n-no − please − please, husband, it feels so good −" She mewled, massaging his neck with her palm – she heard him groan low, his manhood throbbed hard inside her. He immediately sped up his pace, taking her hot hips in his hands, pounding confidently and deeply into her, slapping his thighs against her buttocks with a loud click of her moisture.

"− fuck − so good −" He exhaled looking down at her with his lips parted wide – she clamped her hands on the pillow on either side of her head, feeling her walls suck him inside, soaking his cock, his pace increasingly intense and fast.

All that came out of her mouth was a mumble as she came suddenly, pleasure shook her body and she just began to moan helplessly, trying to push him away, but to no avail – he pressed his hands against the bedding, slamming into her like mad, panting and groaning loudly, allowing himself to be more vocal than usual, his forehead pressed against hers.

"− just a little longer, my love − I'm so close − oh, gods, fuck, fuck, fuck! −" He gasped loudly, with a few final, desperate thrust filling her with his seed, his face expressing fulfilment and bliss. They panted for a moment with their eyes closed, still rocking their hips, trying to calm themselves.

She stroked his soft, long hair as his body fell gently on top of her, completely without strength, making sure he didn't crush her with his weight.

"You have possessed my body and soul." He whispered in her ear, his large hands still stroking her thighs and buttocks in a soothing, calm motion.

"You have broken into my mind. Into my heart. I feel that I'm losing my mind. That I have crossed the line leading into madness." He muttered in a trembling voice and, without knowing why, she felt herself smiling, her lips placing a tender, warm kiss on his bare, sweaty shoulder, her fingers running over his back.

"We both crossed it long time ago, my love."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu

[slyvester101]

Soap didn’t think falling would be so quiet.

Oh, it was painful. Every part of Soap burned as he soared through the sky.

No. Not soaring. Not anymore.

He can’t feel his wings.

Maybe the descent into hell is his eternal punishment.

No noise.

No flying.

No people.

Just an empty, endless sky for Soap to fall into, unable to move or scream. Just stuck in a freefall to an inevitable doom.

He still doesn’t regret it.

The angels in heaven have been… bitchy, to say the least. So high and mighty, smug and prideful over their place in the skies. They hardly cared about doing good, just looking it. Carefully crafted faces with perfectly picked words with so many double meanings that Soap would get lost translating it into the insult it was supposed to be.

He was never good at that, faking for fortune or a higher position. He was always his loud, unapologetic, maybe a bit “too much”, self. And heaven had thrown him out for it.

For calling out their bullshit. For standing up for the values they claim to hold.

Yeah. They’re bitches. Whole ass motherfuckers.

God, it feels so good to curse again.

Soap hangs in freefall for what could be forever before the skies change. A red smoke covers the blue, swallowing the world Soap was prepared to live in for the rest of time.

Ah, so this really is his hell.

Soap just about adjusts to all the red, prepares to only see this deep, bloody sky until he turns to madness, when the sky darkens again. This time looking like hardened rock, black and bumpy with glowing cracks of-

Oh fuck, he’s going to hit the ground.

Soap winces as he wrenches his wing to twist him upright. Most of the bones in one wing are broken, the other sliced to all hell but he really doesn’t give a shit as he flaps them as hard as he can.

He eventually catches the air, wobbly gliding down to the ground at a speed that probably won’t kill him. It hurts like a bitch when he hits the ground, dirt and rocks digging into his wounds. Soap blacks out from the pain for a moment, groaning and heaving for breath as he fights for consciousness.

He lies there, forcing himself to keep awake, to stay alive.

Focus. Push through.

When he feels like he won’t pass out at the attempt, Soap pushes up, feeling his wings, which are surprisingly still attached to his body, drap limp over his back. He doesn’t even need to look to know the amount of pain he’ll be in for the next eternity.

Fuck you, Graves.

Fuck you, Shepherd.

He grumbles and swears and cries as he slowly, agonizingly shifts himself up to lean against a pillar.

Pillar?

Soap looks up and around. Yeah, pillar. One of several leading to a massive door with sigils and demonic markings covering it. Walls shoot out in every direction, another infinity that hurts Soap’s brain.

He blinks at the door for a moment, his brain a little slow at processing what a giant door in the middle of a giant black rock field would mean.

Soap grumbles when it clicks and curses at whoever put the door so fucking far from him. “Bloody hell.”

“That’s a bit redundant, don’t you think?” Soap jolts, grips onto the pillar in pain, and turns to, painfully, lean his back against his pillar and peer at the newcomer.

The man, demon? is massive. He’s easily bigger than Soap in height, mass, and, well, everything. He’s covered head to toe in long sleeves and pants, a skull mask resting firmly over his face. Soap thinks he sees the tip of horns poking out of his mask.

Soap growls at him, low and dark, glaring at him as he shifts up into a more defensive position. His legs are already giving out and he’s sure he is about to pass out from blood loss, but he refuses to look any weaker than he has to against a demon.

The demon throws his hands up, takes a step back to show he means no harm.

Hah. Soap isn’t that gullible. He’s heard enough horror stories about what demons do to angels if they fall. He’s not about to fall into a false sense of security just because the man doesn’t come at him teeth bared.

“Hey. It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The man looks a bit startled at Soap’s cursing, but shakes it off quickly before making careful steps towards him.

“Stay the fuck away! I’ll fucking gut you, you piece of shit.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I might.”

The man stops, looks over Soap carefully. His hands drop slowly and Soap can feel the dread creeping into his bones as he watches the demon catalogs every one of Soap’s injuries, all his weaknesses, all the ways he can’t do anything if the man in front of him decides to attack.

Soap’s wings twitch, trying very hard to not spread them on the instinct to make himself look bigger, to put the fear of god into whoever dares touch his precious angels.

…Soap isn’t really much of an angel now, is he?

The reality of it all sinks in.

Soap’s been thrown away. Soap’s not an angel.

He’s all alone.

Soap drops to the floor, sending shock waves of pain through him, almost making him crumple completely.

He knows he’s breathing hard, maybe even hyperventilating but he can’t really tell over the ringing in his ears and the bile that threatens to come up his throat. His eyes burn and his hands ache as he grips the floor.

He’s all alone. No one is going to come save him. He’s at the mercy of this random demon outside the gates of hell.

He sobs a little, tears falling down his face and onto the coal black floor. It’s only when a hand is placed on his shoulder that he pulls out of his misery.

The demon is now crouched at his side, hovering with an air of concern that feels so genuine.

Damn, this fucker is good.

“Don’t fucking touch me! I’ll bite yer head off!” He kicks the demon away, landing poorly on his side and absolutely writhing at the pain it causes.

Fuck.

“Okay! Okay. I won’t touch you. I’m sorry. Just. Take it easy, please. You’re really, really hurt and I can’t exactly fix you up.”

“No. Really? What gave you that bloody idea!” Soap winces and whimpers as he sits himself back up, keeping the demon in his line of sight at all times.

The demon sighs and sits back, crouching on himself a little to appear… smaller.

Why would he do that?

“Look. I get it. You’re an angel in hell with a bunch of preconceived notions about demons and shit. But there’s a lot of things heaven got wrong. There’s a lot of things heaven is doing wrong. And the fact that you’re here means that you know that too, right?”

He’s not… wrong. Soap has been a very vocal protester about all the shit angels and heaven have been pulling. He’s been calling out their bullshit on justifying means with the end even when it costs millions of souls.

Soap knows that heaven has got a lot wrong. And maybe, just maybe. They got hell wrong too.

Maybe Soap should be a little bit more apprehensive in trusting a demon, maybe he should think about everything a bit more before coming to a decision that risks his safety.

But Soap trusts his instincts and trusts the head on his shoulders and despite it all…

I mean, the demon doesn’t look like the gory, aggressive beasts the other angels have described to him, doesn’t seem like a tempting vision of sex and sin. He just looks like… a guy.

A tall kind of intimidating guy, but a guy.

Soap takes a minute more to examine the man next to him, really looking over him this time. He doesn’t seem all that big up close. Sure, he’s bigger than Soap, but not by massive proportions. His limbs are buff and meaty but not like any of the comically large depictions he’s commonly seen in heaven. His horns have been sheered off, only the stumps remaining at the base of his skull, poking out from the balaclava he has pulled under his skull mask.

The demon-man-person-whatever shifts slightly under Soap gaze, clearing his throat as he does. It doesn’t seem like he’s doing it because he’s nervous. Well, maybe he’s a little nervous, but Soap would compare to more to someone who’s trying to get someone’s atten-

Oh, Soap has just been staring at him this whole time, hasn’t he?

Did he say something? Was Soap supposed to respond?

“What?”

The man huffed, more amused than annoyed. Soap isn’t used to that. “I said, do you want me to bring someone here?”

Soap blinks. “What?”

“To heal you.”

“Hah?”

Soap can feel the other man smile under his mask before responding. “I’d prefer to keep my head. And I don’t think we’ll get very far if I can’t help you up. So unless you are a lot less injured than you look, I think the safest option would be to bring a doctor here.”

“Ya want to bring a doctor here.”

“Mhm.”

“To heal me.”

“Yep.”

“Because I told ya not to touch me.”

“Glad to know your brain is still intact.”

Soap lets out a snort and shakes his head softly.

Fuck it. He’s already in hell. He might as well take advantage of the offer of some medical help. He’s honestly shocked he’s stayed up for as long as he has.

“Yeah. Okay, fine. Take me to a doctor, please.”

It’s the man's turn to be confused as he looks blankly at Soap. “Wha?”

“You said ya wouldn’t hurt me. You promised ya wouldn’t hurt me. I’m holding ya to that so ya better come get me before I keel over.”

The man hesitates, but Soap encourages him forward by lifting his arms up. “C’mon mate, haven’t got a whole lot o’ blood in me left to bleed.”

That pulls another amused huff from him as the man finally moves up to help Soap. Now that he’s not running on adrenaline, Soap can feel the gentleness of his grip as the man picks Soap up into his arms.

“Bloody hell, do I even weigh anything to you?”

He only gets a grunt in response as the man carries Soap towards the large gate doors, not all that effortlessly, Soap notes.

“‘M John Mactavish, by the way. But folks usually call me Soap.”

“They call me Ghost.”

“Nice to meet ya, Ghost.”

“…It’s nice to meet you too.”

[angelic-dew]

Hiiiii! I really love your recent works and I kinda stalk your posts, [i am so sorry.] but I've never gotten enough courage to interact with your blog before!

so if it isn't too much can I be known as 🍄 anon?

But besides my aimless rambling, can I please request some mini headcannons of giyu, rengoku, muichiro [and others you can think of!] with a s/o who died? [cause of death: demon]

Thank you so much!! if it isn't too much of a bother, drink water please! <33

# deceased s/o headcannons !

୨ 🫧 ୧・author's note :: no problem at all, I tried my best to keep these short, I failed! And I hope yk to take care of yourself as well! I tried my best with these lol, but this will unfortunately be in 2 parts.

୨ 🍚 ୧・pairing :: Muichiro T. x g/n reader ⁞⁞ Sanemi S. x g/n reader — {you/your pronouns | separately done} pt. 2 here

୨ ✖ ୧・trigger warnings :: death. grieving. body mutilation. cannibalism. vengeance. angst. grammatical errors. manga spoilers. || proofread.

𝐌𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐎

꒰☁️꒱. Muichiro can't cope at all with this, in short. In fact, he doesn't even want to believe that you're dead, despite your corpse being mangled and mutilated beyond recognition. Blood painted the floor around your lifeless body, crimson streaks flowed slowly by the masses to create a bloody pool in which you rested in.

꒰☁️꒱. Though your eyes were blank, lifeless, defunct. This couldn't be right, he left for his nightly parole, thinking you would be safe, that you would be well taken care of within that time; oh, how he was wrong. The sight before him would be engraved into his memory for the end of his days, at best. The love of his life, his muse, his only reason to keep going, fell from him at that very moment.

꒰☁️꒱. How could he cope with this one? First were his parents, then his only brother, and now his beloved (name). Was life supposed to be this cruel to him? He meant well, he had a passion to protect others, he fought for what was right and that all was because of you. You inspired him to be who he is today, and if he doesn't have that special person once more, he might as well give up on living. What's the point of it anymore, he can't have you. He can't ever see your loving smile again, the one Tokito cherished so much.

꒰☁️꒱. Disbelief was like an overwhelming force, consuming him at every second it could, toying with his mind as if it were its own pawn, specifically made for enjoyment. Salty, little tears welled up in his now dull eyes, they were almost as empty as yours. He inched closer to your figure, stepping slowly into the pool of blood that encaved around what was left of your mutilated carcass.

꒰☁️꒱. Your beloved felt his stomach churning as he held what was left of your remains in his arms, your blood beginning to stain his clothing. His tears were filled with hurt but a vengeance boiled within his very being. He held your hand gently, the cold touch sending shivers up his skin; his tears began to stain your corpse, but he didn't care. He had to be with you as long as he could, even until you began to rot.

꒰☁️꒱. it wasn't your time to leave just yet. He won't accept it. But yet he had to. You were left in his warm embrace for hours on end - into the late hours of the evening. It was only then his crow notified the other members of the corps. Even they too, were surprised by your death. Tokito was desperately clinging onto your body like his life depended on it, your wounds were full of maggots and your body was starting to deteriorate. Eventually, Tengen along with Kyojuro would have to pry him off of your corpse despite his refusal.

꒰☁️꒱. Muichiro could never accept this defeat. He will never move on, he still believes you two are still together in some shape or form. He tends to visit your grave each day which offers him an opportunity to do so. Delivering a fresh flower of your favourite kind and colour each time, always replacing the wilted one. Only the freshest and best for you. A part of me 100% believes that he would talk to your grave as if it were a person.

꒰☁️꒱. The mist hashira only has one purpose to live at this point, to slay every demon he comes in contact with, in hopes that's the one that stole his happiness away. Fighting with brutality and skill. He dreams of the day that he could join you once more; he desperately hopes you're waiting for him wherever you are. For if he could sell his soul to hear your angelic voice one last time, he would be done for.

❝ My dear, we shall meet again. Death will never do us part. ❞

𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀

꒰🌪꒱. From his backstory, we can gather that Sanemi cannot comprehend loss and tragedy; it's more or less the reason he became so cold as of his present age, having witnessed as well as being involved in such a traumatic event during his childhood, he tends to block off others. Losing the ones he cared about most, all that he ever loved. Even losing Kanae left a mark on him until he met you.

꒰🌪꒱. It was only up until he met you that his luck changed drastically. You made him feel complete, wanted and loved more than ever. Shinazugawa loved you, he truly did, with all that he ever had in him; you were his light in his darkness, the person he knew he could rely on whenever tragedy struck his heart. He cared for you, loved you with everything he ever had; he wanted to be yours, forever.

꒰🌪꒱. Sanemi was never reliant on others besides himself, therefore, he never sought the need for others to give their aid even when he did in fact need it more than ever. Yet, you changed that, the one person he loved more than anything, the one person he cherished with every fibre of his being.

꒰🌪꒱. So one could only imagine the sheer terror that painted his face that day. It was as if his heart shattered beyond repair into minuscule fragments of love he had for you; his eyes were almost hollow, dead in fact. There wasn't even a source of any emotion, not even anger, no fear, no hatred.

꒰🌪꒱. The only good thing that came into his life slipped away from his grasp at that moment, again. That was just his luck. I mean, it had to happen at some point but he never expected for you to be torn to pieces by a dreaded demon. Your screams of terror could only fill his ears then, as he failed to do the one thing he swore to always do. Protect others.

꒰🌪꒱. Emptiness turns into guilt and guilt turns into blame. The wind hashira was dumbfounded as his gaze was steadily fixtures onto your mutilated corpse. Crimson streaks slowly make a border around your body, he could only watch on as your haunting screams ring in his ears, your last breath was used to scream for your life. For help. Yet he did not save you in time. What kind of hashira was he supposed to be if he couldn't protect the one person that meant the world to him?

꒰🌪꒱. At this point, I see Shinazugawa not even putting up a fight with the demon that brutally took your life from his hands. Though he craves the enticing thought of revenge, he needs to see you before he decides to take his own life. He'd rather die out of shame on the battlefield rather than the fact he is willing to ever commit it.

꒰🌪꒱. But isn't there a light at the end of the tunnel? Surely, shame is brought upon his name, one of the strongest hashira's last dying breath being taken away by a lonesome, pathetic demon; but it was in his best interests, how could he go with the guilt of your death weighing him down every breath he took? It would be too much for him to handle.

꒰🌪꒱. But at last, his dying moments were peaceful, as all the cheerful memories of you filled his mind, the good ones were the best for there rarely were any horrid ones to begin with. He's thankful that you came into his life, he cherished every second of the time he spent with you. You gave him purpose, the only choice was to die if he didn't have a true purpose. Sanemi's final moments were enjoyed, a smile plastering his face as he crossed into the afterlife, in hopes to be met by your angelic beauty one last time.

❝ I hope you're waiting for me, angel. ❞

© angelic-dew 2023,, please don't translate or plagiarize my work. Although support and reblogs help a lot! <3

[dailyanarchistposts]

Caste is, as Ambedkar said, “not just a division of labour but, a division of labourers.” Wherever this institution went, it tried to freeze the society into a fossilized rulership and a fossilized disposable and disciplined labouring class. And just as division of labour alienates the workers from her work, product of her labour and life itself; the division of labourers alienated the whole of society and deeply fractured the spirit of human morality and solidarity. The caste structure gave birth to the caste society which has outlived the mode of domination it was invented to serve.

The straitjacket of caste did not emerge in isolation. It is one part of the centuries old project of societal control – Brahmanism. This entry is an attempt to find an anarchist orientation towards Bhrahmanism and its annihilation by looking at some episodes in its history and mutations.

Brahmanism, primarily, is and always has been a socio-political ideology and not a religious movement. The ideology consists in the believe that Brahmans have established links with the higher realms, they are the natural advisors to the rulers on social and political matters and, that they hold the highest place in the social hierarchy. The hierarchy consists in a four tier system of Varna and those who are out of this hierarchy forming the Avarna strata, based on Brahmans principles of standardized purity. Within this image of the Brahmanical society the caste becomes the essential of realizing the dominance of Brahmans as the priestly caste. To insure the success and reproduction of this institution every aspect of human life from the cradle to the grave are governed by strict laws codified in various books and laws of local kingdoms.

This vision of society was largely realized in significant parts of the sub-continent with varying degrees of success, modifications and compromises with other power system. This was not an easy task and beginning with the invasion of Alexander of Macedon, the Brahmans were prosecuted in the north-western region of what is now called India, the only region where they had influence. This continued with Ashoka’s and later his son, Kunala’s murdering of the “treacherous” Brahmans who were fueling anti-Maurya sentiments in local courts. The situation was so bad for the priestly caste that they were sure that the end of the world has finally arrived – the end of Kali Yuga. But Brahmanism not only survived but thrived and the impacts of its unfortunate success to this day are leaving bloody marks on human body and spirit.

Brahmanism conquered not by the blade of the sword but with the succor of the myth. Brahmans spread stories of their demigod like powers, the benefits of befriending and dangers of crossing them. Most importantly they provided to the rulers a divine lineage and right to rule till the end of time and the practical knowledge of statecraft. The Brahmans without ever becoming a threat to political power gave rulers a lineage they can link back to the Puranas and the Vedic era. They were not only able but necessary for the prosperity of the land, making the ruler the permanent and necessary fixture in the mind of the masses.

The benefits flow both ways. Kshatriya and the other ruling castes were essential for realizing the Brahmanical society. It was the duty of the warrior class to institute Danda for its maintenance. In essence, Brahmanism is statism. The kingly class is so essential to the ideology that the end of Yugas are marked by the Kshatriyas becoming incompetent in maintaining the Varna vyavastha and that the evidence that the end of time had not yet arrived was the fact that most king’s lineage maintained their thrones.

This perfect union of the priestly caste and the ruling class is no accident. Humans, when incapable of making sense of the untimely flood, failed crops or plague conjure up unseen forces that help us make sense of the unpredictability and meaninglessness around. Through the combined effect of general ignorance and the need for self-preservation the first seed of authority and power is sown in the heart. God becomes the Supreme Ruler. Once formalized enough, we try to tame the forces through rituals and sacrifices. In initial stages this practice is individualistic. The relation of these forces or gods is direct and intimate, but soon these practices become socialized and a specialized class of sacrifice experts emerges. The link of individual to the god is broken and a flesh and blood human becomes a new center of social power. The same phenomenon repeats itself in sphere of social organization and to tame the social forces in our favor we learn to surrender to the Ruler, sent on earth by the Supreme Ruler. To the extent we submit to a power for self preservation, from corporate bureaucracies to nation states and families, all forms of rulershipare religion.

It was during this period of renewal of Brahmanism, returning from the brink of extinction that the pantheon that is now recognized as Hindu deities was gradually created. First by casting the individualistic, semi-socialized religious cults of Krishna, Shiva etc into the mold of Brahmanism and later by making the newer gods the incarnation of the former. In this process of absorptionreplicating the hierarchy of the Brahmanical society into the realm of gods. Through economic and political coercion the religious power now served the interest of the Brahmans and states.

I skip the changes this Brahmanical temporal authority ordained by the divine authority underwent over the next few centuries and under the Mughal rule and turn to its first interaction with capitalism, the Company Raj, colonization and modern nation states that shook the roots of the old project. In the preceding decades the merchant caste, with its control over rural finance and land displaced the Brahmans from the top of social hierarchy. In Bengal province by the end of the nawab rule fifteen families controlled 60% of the land and in Punjab the British administration had to introduce a law to regulate the acquisition of land by the money lenders on failure of payment of debts. And with the changing nature of sovereignty from the village level to the new national imagination Brahmanism had to mutate once more to survive.

The core of this mutation was the deep-seated hatred of the individual – her free development and initiative. Faced with European capitalism, in its vulgarized disguise of individual freedom the reformers, who had taken up the task of reviving the Indian culture by going back to the Vedic sources, were united in there contempt for the individual. They found in the Varna system the solution to the modern problems of nations. Caste does not necessarily have to be based on heredity but the proper division of labour and social activity based on natural hierarchies which was necessitated by the needs of social organization. Caste with natural leadership of Brahmans, was no longer justified by the metaphysics of religion became the outcome of the theology of social sciences, its theory of race, competition, gender superiority and survival of the fittest. Its aim was to serve the New God of “national interest”.

In search of this nation Brahmanism morphed into Hindutva. This new outward expression of the lust for power also explicitly presented itself as a political project and not a religious movement. Within the Hindi, Hindu, Hindustan that is to bring glory to the nation state, the Hindu is a casteist structure. This was novel. The Hindu identity for a political project was necessitated by two factors. First, the apparent feebleness of the social unity – togetherness and second, the essential principle of nationhood – unity through separation.

Savarkar understood this principle well – “nothing can weld peoples into a nation and nations into a state as the pressure of a common foe. Hatred separates as well as unites.” A nation is that artificial and arbitrary unit of territory and subjects that a political power has acquired for controlling and fleecing. It destroys the natural love and association with the place of birth and our immediate communities through its industrialization and directs that human feeling towards the worship of this abstraction, its symbols and submission to its policies. This form of rulership finds its fullest expression in Totalitarianism of Nazism, Bolshevism or Brahmanism.

The national identity of Hindu provided the aspect of togetherness through idea of blood, culture and language, modification of Shudhi, etc. and its separation through the idea of the Muslim. Whether the state takes refuge in the ideology and shape of Hindutva or secular nationalism – two face of the same coin, its true nature remains the same, that of attuning all human expressions to the beat of this soulless political machine in the name of “national interest”. This technical term does not include the interests of the population – free and quality education and health care, well paid jobs or free or cheap housing for all, it means the interest of the market, the interest of the war machine that is the life blood of the state – its defense from other competing states, its source of expansion outside and control within.

After the transfer of power in 1947, India has remained a fractured community with its apartheid of caste and material conditions furnished by generations of deprivation and violence. In the rural regions it maintain the old structure of control and coercion while in urban setting it modified mildly and justified the stratification by logic of hygiene and merit – that is justifying privilege with privilege itself. The new Indian state did not start a project of actively constructing a casteist state but through its passivity towards caste issues it perpetuated the caste society within the shell of a capitalist state system, each feeding off the other. The maintenance of hierarchical corporate structure that is the Hindu family and segregation through the institution of marriage. The upper castes continued their take over of bureaucracy and managerial positions in state and cultural institution, practically, without any reservation mechanism and that continue to define the Indian society till date.

If we anarchists say that sanctity of the temple of the parliament and its new priesthood just like the temple of the old gods and the Brahmans is a lie and deception then, what do we have to say about reservation and other methods of achieving equality within the current state of things? To this we say that even the ritual of horse sacrifice must have yielded results for the masses, not from the blood drawn but from their organizing for themselves, taking things into their own hand and shaking things up. This assertive self-organization of the masses in each epoch of history has realized to the extent possible the moral and social progress. And within the modern nation states this progress, which is the collective wealth of our humanity has received a degree of formalization.

The erosion of this progress and regression will always be a possibility as long as there is a power whose control it weakens. And when this social progress is at its highest the instruments of domination have also become sharper, deadly and now threaten us with the possibility of ending the only known experiment of life in the universe. Anarchist believe that through continuing this assertive self-organizing for securing more and more moral progress we not only improve our immediate condition but also prepare ourself for the final destruction of social, political and economic rulership. A liberal welfare state can be an holding ground that reduces the impact of the blows from the state and the caste society and gives us opportunity for further progress. But the ultimate safeguard from Brahmanism or any other form of absolute domination over human body and spirit is Anarchism.

In an hierarchical society, certain individuals at particular historical junctures can play a catalytic role in either accelerating the progress or dragging it back for decades. If the former, then too, it is the social organization of individuals based on values of equality, mutual aid and decentralization of power that maintain it. There is further limit of the strategy of “having the right faces in the high places”. Once in position of power, the prerogative of the institutions dictate their actions. Having women, dalit-bahujan or queer people In position of power, like other holding strategies can make some limited gains but in the end the only interests these individuals represent are their own. No person can “represent” another person, a whole community lesser still. It maintains the relations of dependence and submission and further dulls the instincts for self-initiative and fosters moral passivity – a perfect condition for Brahmanism or any form of authority to exploit.

Even if the major decision of life and society are now made by the captains of industry and states-persons, and even if these decisions are not primarily driven by Brahmanical interests (and how different are these differences after all?) Caste is still alive. Some aspects of caste have been weakened and at the same time others strengthened. The general economic inequality, access to housing, well paid jobs – which means class – is graded on caste lines. As one historian noted, “it is striking how many of the country’s billionaires today are, though not direct descendants of eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century magnates, certainly originate from the same communities which began to accumulate wealth and influence at the end of the Mughal period and during the rise of the English East India Company.” The social stigma, practices of untouchablity and the Brahmanical institution of marriage flourish. Two great forces are gravitating towards forging a new Brahmanical-Hindutva order and a hazy road for taking in the opposite direction also gradually becoming visible. Both possibilities, like always depend on one thing – Organizing.

The force of social reaction to the neo-liberal bloodbath which turned a preventable health crisis into an global pandemic and in India made 12 crore people unemployed in a single month is the decisive factor in the fate of Brahmanism. 10 crore young Indians have given up all hope of finding a job and had stopped searching for work long before the current economic breakdown. Half of the youth of this country are unemployed. And those who have work are working 12 hours shifts to survive hand to mouth. In this constantly changing external world the individual loses her equilibrium. These uprooted millions turn into a mob seeking a source of stability and finding themselves incapable of self emancipation look for external power that would uplift them and give life a new meaning. Along with religiosity, in some cases the caste relations are strengthened as they are seen as a source of nourishment.

This combined with RSS’s mobilization and organization is the path towards strengthening Leader worship and Hindutva. The breaking up of the process of class reproduction and the erosion of the middle class, and with it the hopes and aspirations of millions in front of their eyes is accelerating. By some estimate at least half of the children born in middle class do not remain in it when they reach adulthood. The concentrating boss class is eager to exploit the people on caste lines. This is where one possibility of going in the other direction lies – poor peoples’ revolutionary unionism. The traditional unions that replicate the caste structure due to its hierarchical nature will only represent the interests of the minority leader class and not the workers themselves.

Its only through Anarcho-Syndicalism that we can achieve the threefold task of achieving progress in living and work standards, wages, expansion of reservation to compensate for the generational subjugation of dalit-bahujans in private and public sector, expanding the public sector that enables creation of new and greener jobs, progressive taxation and day-to-day struggles at workplaces; confronting the caste issue face to face as members of working class as well as part of oppressed communities through minority committees, along with local union branches to address caste at workplace and within the unions and; shedding away the elaborate etiquette of submission of this casteist society through rediscovering our instincts for self-initiative and direct action rather being dependent on this or that leader, the despot of tomorrow. This rediscovery and the development of this instinct and culture in the organized form within these alternative institutions form the essential ingredient of the society that shall replace the current disorder.

John R. McLane noted that, “since an individual’s obligations and privileges were specific to his or her family, jati, and age, universal standards of political-moral behavior rarely galvanized people into cooperative political effort.” Any intellectual current or form of practice that exclusively promote inward inquiry at cost of building broad solidarity of all oppressed while understanding the various inner relations in practice, unintentionally replicates the essential of the nation and Brahmanical order and play into hand of our enemies like in 2019 general election where Jadav-Yadav dynamic was a major determining factor in BJP’s victory. We do not wish to repeat these past mistakes, neither of the Marxist left that minimizes the importance of non-economic cultural and social factors at work and in society and address them within their organization and programs nor, of the narrow identity politics that in the long-run poses no threat to the status quo that it apparently wishes to destroy and has no space for broad solidarity based on shared needs and values in genuinely democratic and workers controlled organizations.

Revolutionary unionism is only one part of the struggle. Anarchists and other individuals must engage in cultural struggles towards elimination of the caste society. I cannot pretend to have a solution to this problem, I can only note that we know that the forces of alienation aggravates it and that we have a legacy of experiments by the people from dalit-bahujan castes to build upon and with anarchist emphasis on the abolition of marriage, dismantling the corporation of family and building a society based on free love and societal responsibility of child rearing, we have the impetus to motivate action in direction of liberation.

Caste being a particular configuration of hierarchy and the method of its reproduction, it finds affinity with all forms of dominations and latch on to the one it finds. While through the autonomous and varied cultural struggles and fighting back the class war as working class dealing with caste antagonism we make conditions better for both our class and dalit-bahujans, Anarchism is Brahmanisms only permanent solution. As long as there is a state or a economy based on private property, RSS has the possibility of achieving its desired position of the Raj Guru to the State. Following in the footsteps of the Saudra-attishudra Dakaits and their direct actions against capital and domination we organize not to end any particular form of authority but Rulership itself.

For a Casteless Society! – For Annihilation of Brahmanism! – For a Free Humanity!

For Anarchy!

[bells-of-black-sunday]

Allow me to be unhinged on main and finally write the post where I break down Tar's lore and how I interpret it. It's most certainly not cannon, but it's how I view and write my Tarhos until we actually get things that talk about him as a person. Something something there's a joke here about me not having reading comprehension and it's okay to disagree.

Part one: His Store Page Lore

I’m going to start with the lore on his profile. It’s quite a long read as he’s from the era where they started transitioning to longer and longer backgrounds for both survivors and killers, but inside of it there’s not actually much of substance. I mean… what does it actually tell us about Tarhos as a person? Let’s dive into it.

�� Tarhos K.ovács didn’t remember much about his childhood, but what he did remember he would chase his entire life. He remembered the cries and screams in the village. He remembered his mother forcing him to swallow a thick, black fluid like medicine. He remembered collapsing to the hard floor only to awaken in a mass grave, buried under a crush of bodies, with the sound of the village burning in his ears. He remembered pushing, pulling, and climbing to the top of the bloody mass only to be seized by the death, destruction, and silence—the indifferent and impenetrable silence. A high-pitched whine suddenly sounded in his ears and his skin began to prickle as he realised he was in the presence of something he couldn’t possibly understand. And though he couldn’t articulate what he was experiencing, he knew it wasn’t pain, grief, or fear. It was something else. Something closer to— Awe. “

Putting the entire paragraph here since it’s the opening, but Tarhos is already a deeply traumatized man. He was thrown into a pile of bodies that he had to physically claw himself out of as a child, it’s natural for anyone to freeze in that kind of circumstance. There’s also the first hints that he may have already been touched by the entity in there with the line: “ A high-pitched whine suddenly sounded in his ears and his skin began to prickle as he realized he was in the presence of something he couldn’t possibly understand. “ While I don’t necessarily think he was, I think this is just his mind reframing what he saw and experienced as a literal child to cope with what happened to him. Reframing something he never could even begin to understand at that age as him being in awe of what he’s witnessing especially when we get into his later philosophy in life that he talks about in his tome where he thinks life is about violence from your birth til you die.

There’s also the mention of his mother, which put a pin in her; we'll get to that later with his tome. His mother unsuccessfully tried to poison him to save him from the life he would later have which is tragic in itself, but he woke up. He was probably still feeling numb from the effects of whatever she had him drink when he did wake up in that pile which can dull the senses which also can lead to this “awe” like numb feeling that’s described. I don’t think he’s nearly as violent and heartless as keeps getting hammered in over and over again in the text, because it just doesn’t support it at least in his pre-entity life. In fact… we know next to nothing about it. Not even from add ons and in the cosmetics that do talk about it, they say quite the opposite. Most notably his moth cosmetic where he lets a moth go instead of killing it despite looking at it like it’s weak and helpless in his palm. 

We know he has restraint. I do also want to call attention to some quotes that still talk about when he’s being shipped off to Italy.

“ He didn’t even react when they carried him off to a horse-drawn buggy and locked him up in a small, wooden cage with other slaves. ”

“ And even as they rode away telling him he was headed for Italy, Tarhos stared through the wooden cracks with eyes wide open and a heart wanting to understand what could not be understood. “

Again. This lack of reaction from a child who is coming back from a near death experience, this to me reads less as him being mesmerized by the situation around him and more like the second quote. He’s trying to understand. That’s the last we get of his childhood even in his tome it just expands a tiny bit on what we already know. There’s no sympathy for him. There’s no mention of anyone pitying him and trying to comfort him. He is just another piece of cargo to be traded and sold. He isn’t human. That feeling can also lead to that sort of dissociation where you’re just a passenger in your own body, not reacting to anything and certainly not being able to even understand what’s going on. I know I keep harping on it, but it’s important. He’s not an evil mastermind who was born that way, he’s a child. 

Moving onto the midpoint in his lore where it again doesn’t talk about him as a person, but instead talks about other things. How he belonged to the Guardia Campagnia where he trained under “Kadir Hakam” whose role is literally not stated, but judging how privileged Tarhos is as a slave (he gets granted a literal title of nobility that is “Knight”) I’m going to assume he’s either close to the captain or the captain himself. And I do write him like he is, because as stated Tarhos gets this title that I’ve literally never read about being given to foot soldier slaves, not that it never happened I might not be looking in the right places, but it certainly wasn’t the norm and to grant that title you have to be a member of nobility yourself. 

That and it’s unusual to name drop a person and never bring them up again. Usually if someone is named dropped they hold some sort of importance. Regardless, in the same paragraph it mentions Tarhos learned how to fight, forge weapons, repeat a code of chivalry and obey whoever employed him obediently. This is probably where his hatred for authority comes from. In his tome he talks about how he hates people that are cowards. People who lie to themselves about what they’re doing to justify it, he says that he’s been raised around knights and lords his entire life and they’re all that way. He despises them, but we’ll get to that in a bit. This is backed up by his normal lore where in his own eyes he sees other mercenaries, probably free men, as hostile and competitive only finding a small friend group in the faithful three who see him as their ticket to freedom. These are the only people Tarhos seemingly trusts and some of the only people he later comes back for.

“ Years passed. Blood flowed. And yet, all that killing still didn’t bring Tarhos closer to what he had experienced in his village. Nevertheless, for his bravery in battle, Tarhos was granted knighthood and freedom. The Hungarian slave was now liberated, his brutality rewarded, though his heart still longed for something else — something he could not name or describe. “

I do want to point out how he was granted knighthood for his bravery in battle immediately followed up with it being a reward for his brutality. Not that they’re opposites, no, it’s just odd when we’ve never been told anything about him being brutal in his campaigns or mercenary work before. Just again with the faithful three, him being courageous and efficient in battle. You’d think for someone whose so evil and brutal and obsessed with death what he’s done a majority of his life would be talked about more, no? Why would it only be brought up now when he’s free? Bhvr writing aside, Tarhos takes no pleasure in what he does. His heart still longs for the silence and awe that he experienced in his childhood, he’s never gotten that from what he’s done despite being in probably countless similar situations. 

This is when Tarhos takes up his long contract with Vittorio that’s just escorting him on his hunt for relics so he can get the money to buy his friend’s contracts out. While we don’t know anything really that happened on that expedition we do know it wasn’t something short. This is the medieval period. They’re traveling by horseback, foot, and boat that often requires you to follow waterways just to keep your horses hydrated, especially with Vittorio being nobility he’d want to keep them well conditioned as they’d be high quality. This made them travel no matter what even if he met him in Vittorio’s town from Italy to France, crossing mountains into Spain, and into Portugal. That is not a short trip. It is utterly insane to have no info on this massive part of both their meetings, but with how long they were together and the artifacts Vittorio was searching for being relics to summon the Entity.

This brings us to the very important question that I honestly cannot answer. That is, how much is it him utterly despising Vittorio for something that happened on that trip and how much of it is Entity influence that we see with all the killers? The truth is probably somewhere in the middle, but we do know from his tome that Tarhos does hate him. Again we don’t know for what exactly. If it’s just him being a coward in his eyes, him being nobility or something that happened, there is no info on it, not even an add-on talks about it. Which I will constantly complain about until we get even a cosmetic that talks about it, because it's such a massive piece of his lore that not even his tome touches on. Back to what we do know, we do know being told to “find another way” sets him off to kill the native people guarding the catacombs and grab the Lapis Paradisus. After he gets the entity, summoning stone is the only point in his lore and tomb that we ever read about him being unnecessarily cruel and brutal.

This is where we get him imprisoning Vittorio in his own dungeon, torturing his townsfolk which strengthens the Entity connection to the land, him riding on the Guardia Compagnia and killing everyone except for the faithful three, and then coming back and torturing Vittorio psychologically to try and figure out what’s so important about the stone. Then the Entity scoops him up after lords raid the town calling Tarhos “the embodiment of evil”. This is what I talk about when it comes to his written lore where it’s very “I want to have my cake and eat it too”. He is this violent and brutal man who's done so much, trust me guys, but the only times it’s ever written about him being unnecessarily cruel and evil it’s when the Entity is already in his head and I think his tome only further exacerbates it. I also find it really funny that his store lore brings this great importance that Tarhos is torturing Vittorio, because he won’t tell him what the artifacts are for, but that gets completely lost in his tome. Speaking of which—

Part 2: His Tome

So I’m going to say the most obvious thing people have pointed out about it: it is literally his store page lore. I’m not going to go over the narrative beats of it like I did in part one, I’m just going to talk about what I find extraordinarily interesting about it, because unlike his store page lore, we actually get insights into Tarhos as a person and what his ideals are. Memory 151 is all about the first part of his lore except it puts greater emphasis on how much he respects and cares for his mother and puts even greater context as to why he is so calm waking up in a body pile:

“ His father fighting outside. His mother preparing something on the small wooden table. The screams rise to a crescendo. He stares at his mother. No concern. No panic. No fear. Her face is hard and determined as she prepares a thick black elixir that she says will help them sleep through the madness. She is their strength. She is his strength. He has never seen her in this way and he feels safe despite the chaos and carnage outside their small, thatched home. “

“ She turns to Tarhos with a reassuring nod. She helps him drink his share and tells him everything will be as it is supposed to be. Bitter and thick, the elixir oozes down his throat as the cries and screams and clangs rise and fall outside. Then he feels it. The numbness spreads from his lips to his feet. Faces blur. Sounds fade. And an inky blackness spreads over his eyes as he falls asleep in his mother’s warm embrace. Then there is silence. “

Tarhos’s most fond and only memories of his childhood are of his mother and this poison that she fed him. This does come up again, but it’s important to say that she made him feel safe. His father is only a footnote, he never gets brought up again, but his mother does. Safe to say how she made him feel before he passed out is why he woke up so calm and collected despite waking up in a body pile and staring at his uncle's dead face. This is further supported by:

“ Tarhos knows he should be scared. He knows he should feel sad, but he doesn’t. And he knows he should feel guilty for not feeling sad, but he doesn’t. What he feels he doesn’t understand or cannot put to words. He just stares at the horror before him without flinching. “

He knows what he should be feeling, but he’s just numb. He’s calm and numb just staring out in wonder over what happened to the village he grew up in. Now we don’t know how old Tarhos was when he was taken, but the typical squire at the time tended to start their apprenticeship at age 12 and going by how he grew up into having the skills for knighthood, he probably was around that age to be able to learn those skills if not maybe a year or two younger. He wouldn’t be able to process something like that happening to him, especially not with poison in his system numbing everything. And again you have to remember this is a memory re-contextualized by how he feels about life now. He is constantly searching for that numb feeling, the quiet with the ringing in his ears where he can just bask in wonder. He never got that working for the Guardia Compagnia. It states it pretty clearly in his storage page lore. 

Memory 152 is him traveling through the mountains of Portugal, so this is literally just the final few paragraphs of his lore. Nothing about him when he first got the contract. Nothing about when he started, nothing about the faithful three or his time as a slave. No mentions of how brutal and “evil” he was, truth be told I don’t think Vittorio would’ve hired him given his own ideals if Tarhos was really as evil as they try to hammer it in that he was. I don’t get why if they keep harping on him being this insane and brutal man who was cruel to be cruel why don't they show it? Don’t tell me he is. Show me he is otherwise those words mean literally nothing and are just how others perceive him while also contradicting others calling him brave and courageous which are both very positive traits.

It's also kind of really funny that his tome contradicts his lore again in that Tarhos knows what the relics are for, but I’m going to combine that quote in a block with the ones about his own personal philosophy, because I want to talk about them both together:

“ Lord Toscano claims he isn’t after riches, but hope. Hope that this stone can lead him to another world that holds knowledge that can save this one. He prays that this lost knowledge of the ancient guardians might bring peace, harmony, and order to a world plagued by cruelty, violence and imbalance. Tarhos scoffs at the idea of a world without violence. Life is violence, from birth to death, and everything in between is a futile attempt by cowards to hide from the horror that is living. The only plague in this world are the lies, the unnatural codes and laws created by nobles and lords for their mutual benefit. Unnatural laws and codes and books that deny the truth of the world by trying to make it something it's not. “

“ Tarhos believes something else. It's all good, or none of it is. It’s all evil, or none of it is. It’s all part of the same cosmic mud—the mystery that transcends the world and all its dualities. A mystery he never pretended to understand but affirmed all his life with his sword and his disdain of those who used their laws to make their slaughter pious. Hypocrites, all of them. Not him. There’s no guilt, no shame, and no need to hide from life. ”

Why would Tarhos hate the laws and codes that enable the violence that he allowed to commit and uphold his life philosophy if he is this violent and cruel to be cruel man? Time and time again where he is supposed to be this “embodiment of evil” is contradicted not only by his own words, but also by what’s written about him. He hates the church, he hates chivalry, he hates everything that is used to justify violence and human suffering, because they’re all trying to shelter themselves from what their lives are. Tarhos has experienced “nothing but darkness” his entire life. The earliest memories he has are of his mother trying to poison him to keep him out of that life and watching his childhood village being burned to the ground. His entire life he’s been treated as nothing, but another animal.

He is a slave. He isn’t a person with bodily autonomy, he had to learn to be obedient to the nobility he hates and swallow the codes that justify their human atrocity. He thinks Vittorio is an idiot. Another naive man who wants to change how the world works. 

Memory 153 is where we really see Tarhos “snap”, but it makes sense for someone in his position and again, we literally have no idea if this is a build up of things happening over and over or if it’s just random. Just going by how he already seems to hate Vittorio more than other nobles he’s been around, I’m going to assume it was a buildup of things. Probably him talking about his pacifist world view and his goals of “hope” and “good for humanity” that Tarhos genuinely doesn;t see value in. He hates it:

“ Find another way! Disgust strikes him like a sword. He feels the blade pierce his chest, smacking the breath from his lungs. He has no words for this order. All he can do is stare defiantly. Find another way? Why? So Toscano can sleep at night? So he can waste more of his time with his foolish notions of right and wrong, of good and evil, of noble and barbaric. Toscano’s entire fortune was secured with violence and slaughter justified by highly imaginative codes and laws. His fortune was secured with nothing but darkness. Tarhos grinds his teeth as disgust darkens toward hate.

And he feels something else. “

“ He’ll take his stone and his relics and his town, and he’ll show this bloody coward the truth of the world—the truth that has always lived in his heart. And no one will stop him. Not the guards in the village, and certainly not the three knights Toscano left behind. Without hesitation, Tarhos dismounts his horse and unsheathes his sword with a terrible ring. “

Tarhos is a free man who is just trying to earn money to buy out his only real friends he has contracts with. He has been riding through all of Europe for months. The last thing they need, the entire point of him going on this trip is right there and now Vittorio wants to “find another way”? I’d be mad too. It’s understandable for Tarhos to be upset given his own world view and how long he’s been traveling. I know bhvr is allergic to even trying to put it into perspective for how long he would’ve been traveling but it probably would’ve been 6+ months depending on where they started in Italy and how they traveled to France, into the mountains to Spain and then across Spain into Portugal. That is a lot of traveling and depending on when they left it could be in less than ideal conditions especially once you get into mountains. 

And this is something Tarhos doesn’t even care about. It’s just another job to him just to get money for something else. He does not care about Vittorio’s goals. He thinks they’re stupid and who knows what else Vittorio has been saying on their trip that drives him up a wall when he hates nobility to begin with. But I also want to highlight the important note that can easily be brushed over. “He feels something else.” To me this is when the Entity really gets her claws in him, we know she does this with most killers to influence them. We know that’s why Rin’s dad randomly snapped and killed her family as stated by the devs he was originally the target of the Entity before it took her instead. Tarhos I don’t think is like a Trickster or a Ghostface.

He doesn’t actively enjoy the violence he commits like they do, it’s just a part of life to him. Violence is part of living and he has to make money to live and to make money he has to kill for other nobility who hide behind laws and codes to justify the atrocities they have others commit in their name. Also after this point is the only time we ever get actually shown him being cruel and unusual. This is when he starts torturing people and mutilating innocent people’s bodies in accordance with the book Vittorio had. The beginning statement isn’t cruel and unusual, it is him being upset at everything he has hated before, it only became cruel and unusual after he “felt something else”.

Memory 154 - 156 is just him killing the people guarding the catacombs, not all that important, but he’s not being extremely cruel there either. He’s just efficient. What we’ve already been told in his normal lore, so I won’t talk about it took much. Memory 157 is a bit more interesting, but not much to talk about besides it being more clear evidence that the Entity has some sort of effect on his life at this point. It allows him to evade death blows and kill the knights that he really shouldn’t be able to. Vittorio steps in and hands himself over to Tarhos to stop any more violence that kind of thing. 157 is just more of him killing people for the most part, they dedicated way too much to it, but you know. Memory 158 is him psychologically torturing Vittorio, nothing too interesting other than him wanting to open the passage to the “perfect world” Vittorio kept speaking about, but only, because he thinks it's just a world free from the lies and pretenses of civilization. Interesting to note that unlike his store page lore, he knows what Vittorio’s relics do, he’s just torturing him to find out where he hid the rest.

But memories 159 and 160 are extremely interesting. It’s where we get Tarhos monologuing and lamenting to Vittorio about his life and what he does. Lots of quotes coming up, because these two memories are why I love his tome:

159:

“ The nobles are preparing to attack me. And why? Because I am doing what they do, only without the lies. They say… they say I am mad.

Tarhos scoffs.

Do I seem mad to you? Life is madness, and I accept it for what it is, and so perhaps in that way I am mad.

Tarhos opens the door, enters slowly, and crushes several maggots as he paces around the small dungeon.

I remember a village we destroyed because a man had stolen food from a noble. The entire village in ruins and everyone hacked to pieces because of a few stolen apples. So much suffering and death because of one man’s hunger and another man’s ego. That's the history of the world right there.

Tarhos fixes his gaze on Toscano who says nothing.

I didn't mind the killing. But I did mind the praise and honours we were given for our just and pious deeds. That kind of talk is true madness. “

160:

“Paradise will come when you make peace with life as it is and not the way you imagine it should be. When you embrace the horror instead of running from it. Only when you can do this will you see the madness of your ways. Your futile search for knowledge. Your foolish refusal to take a life — even the life of a grovelling maggot.”

“There was a village quite far from here. A small army advanced on this village on a mission, I suppose, to butcher the barbarians… to make this world a better place. Rather than be killed by a stranger or be taken as a slave these villagers had chosen to die by their own accord.

 Tarhos scoops a few more maggots and tosses them into the mouth.

I remember one mother had poisoned her family without hesitation or remorse. The love and strength of will it must have taken to do that is something I’ve yet to see in all my experiences on the battlefield and off. I have been around nobles and knights my whole life and all I’ve seen is cowardice steeped in the rotten stew of lies and hypocrisy.

Tarhos tosses one last maggot into the festering mouth, stands upright, walks through a thick cloud of flies, and pauses in the torch-lit doorway.

I have yet to meet her equal.”

There’s a lot to unpack in these two memories. Tarhos doesn’t mind what he does, because he has to. It’s the way life works to him after his entire life being steeped in blood, because he just so happened to be born in the wrong place at the wrong time. You have to become jaded to it or your brain will kill itself with the guilt, but most importantly and in stark contrast to how Bhvr describes him: He doesn’t take pleasure in it. He hates being praised for it. Life to him has been nothing, but violence committed against him and by him, he’s seen the more horrific acts imaginable made pious. He hates it. He hates that he’s being called crazy for doing what other lords and nobles do every week over something as stupid as food being stolen. He also talks about his trauma as if it’s happened to someone else that much is obvious.

He’s clearly talking about what his mother did for him and sort of implying that his mother was brave for trying to save him from the life he has now. It’s clear that those memories are the only comfort he really has and that’s why he had to reframe his own trauma to make his existence bearable. No one can blame him for that, but I also don’t think he’s this overly cruel monster Bhvr and others try painting him as. We just don’t see anything aside from when the Entity is already in his head that was overly cruel or inhumane on his part. He is from the early 1400s. Life back then was incredibly violent and death permeated everything. Infant and child mortality were so high it knocked the life expectancy statistics down to you’d die at 35. Lords and nobles were constantly squabbling with each other on who owed who what. Blinding was a common form of punishment for prisoners of war to the point where people were bartering with it. 

You cannot say anything that we’ve been shown currently is any bit more violent and cruel than what was normal for the time until we get to when the Entity starts influencing him. 

So how does this impact how I write my Tarhos? Well- I take his lore as him being a deeply traumatized man who normalized everything that he's done and has happened to him as a coping mechanism to just be able to have a semblance of happiness. Violence is a coping mechanism for him, he is constantly chasing that feeling of being half dead and numb to the world, but he can’t ever achieve it. The battlefield was the only place he ever got close to feeling it, it was the only place where he was let off his leash and allowed to do what he wanted. It was kill or be killed, so why feel guilty about what needs to be done? He’s very apathetic to human suffering. He’s not going to stand defiant against a lord or noble who wants him to cut off a child thief's hand and he’s definitely not going to bat an eye watching it when he’s not on duty. It’s the way life works. Life is violence. You can never be free of it and trying to justify it and treat human atrocity like it can be morally pure is utterly stupid to him. 

I think especially in his childhood he was still half-dead from the poison he was made to drink and disassociating partly because of what he was witnessing and partly because of it as well. He was a child who couldn’t understand what was happening and since then he has reframed it in his mind as him being happy and in awe of everything. In his adult life he’s very jaded, he’s used to being called a rabid dog, because he’s had to fight to get contracts all his life and thus will take anything. He’d rather be called a rabid dog than have to sit through the praises he’s gotten from others over the atrocities he commits. He’s not a good person. He is well aware of that and there’s no real changing that about him. He is fine with killing, maiming and torturing, because that’s how his life works. He will never meet someone he holds in as high regard as his mother, because she will always be the bravest person he knew for trying to save him from the life he has now. Tarhos has little faith in humanity, but he especially hates nobility and the church. He despises how they’re all built on the blood of innocent people and then they try to justify it with laws and passages to make it righteous. He especially hates Vittorio for being a pacifist. He thinks it’s extremely hypocritical for a man who probably owns serfs and slaves to be a pacifist when he is actively the reason so many people’s lives are awful. His entire fortune was built on the blood of others and now he’s going to choose to be a pacifist and act like he’s better than everyone for it? 

He absolutely would horrifically maim and torture Vittorio endlessly even if he doesn’t really remember the exact reasons anymore. Tarhos is a man shaped by his environment and then exploited by the Entity until he starts acting out after realizing the fog isn’t paradise, it's the exact same as everything else outside of it. A bunch of made up codes and laws that justify the suffering happening and the cowards that revel in it.

[tarnishedinquirer]

Case: Exile Massacre

Didn't expect to stumble upon an actual case within this castle, but here we are.

After taking care of that duo, I pushed forward into an area of the castle that seemed disused. There were exile soldiers here, but there were more piles of rubble, more stray bricks, and the grass was growing up through the tiles more severely than in other parts of the castle. Found a cookbook on a corpse that would let me make arrows from the pinions of a stormhawk, but I don't really use arrows that much.

I crossed a small rope bridge, and suddenly found myself at the scene of a massacre. An entire courtyard covered in the bodies of Exiled Soldiers, with a lone Banished Knight staring at them. Now he was staring at me, and we found ourselves in a bit of a standoff.

I started casting and took him down before he could get to me, but I forgot to check my blind spot.

Another knight was hiding behind a short wall, ready to strike. This one was a bit different than all the other knights in this castle. This one wore the red shawl and cast dragon communion incantations, like the ones in the Fringefolk Hero's Grave.

I took care of him, but I couldn't just leave this be. It was too out of place. A piled of dead soldiers wasn't that unusual here, but only in places I've been already. Why is this guy the only Dragon Knight in the castle? Why was this particular Banished Knight cooperating with him? Actually, was he cooperating, or did I just come in at the wrong time and they decided I was the bigger problem?

One possible clue was the Festering Bloody Finger I found nearby. Now, I don't exactly know how summoning and invading works. It seems we've got a bunch of nearly worlds slightly out of sync with each other, and items like this let you go from one to the other. I've met allies in the flesh who then used summoning signs to aid me later, so it can also happen within the same world. Maybe it works a bit different if you have the guidance of grace. That makes sense. If you have the Guidance, you can go to other worlds. If you don't, you stick to the one you're in. Even problems of magic and metaphysics can be solved with simple observational logic.

So then the dragon knight could've used a bloody finger to invade Stormveil, and pick a fight with the Exiles. Probably doesn't have too much control over where exactly he lands, so in these cases, it's more useful for a raid than an all-out attack. If he landed here, killed the soldiers, and then the other Banished Knight came upon him, there might be some lingering camaraderie between them that made the situation more awkward than immediately violent.

In that case, what could he have been after? Well... I've tasted dragon communion. I know what a rush it can be. If these guys practice it, then he was probably after a dragon. That could mean there's a dragon corpse somewhere here in this castle.

The story makes sense, but there's too many hypotheticals to really call it a conclusion.

Hypothesis: The dragon knight used a bloody finger to teleport into this castle, looking for the corpse of a dragon. He dropped into a mass of Exiles, and had to defend himself. He sat down to take a rest, then another knight came upon him. The two types of knight are mostly amicable despite whatever schism they have, so the two had a standoff until I became a fifth wheel.

Is there a dragon corpse in this castle?

How does summoning/invading work for those without the Guidance of Grace?

What's the schism between the two types of Banished Knight?

Where do the banished dragon knights make their base?

If my hypothesis is wrong, then who killed the Exiles, and why was the Knight here?

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 15

isengrim/iorveth

In the wake of the chaotic Battle of Brenna, Isengrim flees with an injured Iorveth.

I haven't reread lady of the lake recently so ignore any silly errors it's fine

The overburdened horse stumbled at crest of the hill, blown breaths snorting from its quivering nostrils, and at last, the elf who had urged it away from the battlefield drew the reins short and slipped from the saddle. The other elf, limp weight no longer supported, swayed dangerously in the saddle but did not fall.

The shock of boots on the ground rang up through aching joints, having not dismounted since morning. Dark settled in now with the usual hum of summer insects and trilling frogs. Far enough from the dwindling battle to hear only a distant echo of sound, the night was almost peaceful. 

Some measure of peace would be struck here, Isengrim knew. 

He was no scholar of human politics or warfare and knew those who claimed to have greater wisdom than he would soon sit detached in their glistening castles to debate the truth of this battle’s outcome and what was to be done.

But Isengrim had seen the clear tide of defeat. Black standards fallen in the dust and trampled. 

With an acrid feeling that settled in his gut, he knew not to expect the coming peace to favor his people.

“Iorveth,” he hissed and shook the thigh of the elf slumped above him in the saddle.

For a lonely moment, Isengrim feared that he stood beside a corpse.

Unlike the regimented human cavalry, the Vriheed had not kept strict formation in the battle, losing sight of one another in the smoke and chaos on the field as their orders drove them straight into the center of the clash.

Such a strategy had served them well in their guerilla offensives in the mountains and in the invasion north, but in the confusion of the mixed armies and fallen standards, it became harder to tell friend from foe or to know what remained of the brigade. 

Long before a Nilfgaardian horn trumpeted retreat, Isengrim had clutched his own ornate horn to his lips and not known who would ride to him. 

Some may not have heard or been cut off from retreat, having ridden deep into fray to divide the armies.

Some may lie among the trampled banners where no mass grave would likeky be dug for them.

Isengrim had not seen Iorveth’s mount go down and atop him in a flail of limbs, had only heard Ciaran’s recount of it as they struggled to exchange the dead weight of the commander's unconscious body without dismounting. Ciaran’s grey stallion had been dead lame and unable to bear their joint weight to flee with any speed, bloodied saliva frothing from its gaping mouth.

He did not know Iorveth's second well, but they leaned in their saddles to clutch at one another and press their sweat-slick foreheads together, murmuring small prayers of good fortune in the breath before they parted.

He doubted he would see Ciaran again.

There had been little time to assess his wounded passenger's condition as Isengrim urged his mount to a controlled gallop. The fighting was scattered in all directions, impossible to make any sense of, no clear command to report to. Deciding to leave regrouping for the morning, he had left the open fields behind to follow a subtle deer trail through the forest. 

Viewed from the dark of the hill where Isengrim dismounted, the battlefield lost its shape. Sparse fires glowed and the flicker of torchlight moved here and there. 

“Iorveth,” Isengeim said again and thought to grip the elf's wrist for a pulse, feeling it stutter against the pads of his fingers. The moonlight was bright enough even on the forested hill to see the mask of blood darkening his face.

Iorveth groaned and made groggy sound of incomprehension, and with the fading adrenaline blurring his vision, Isengrim recalled a young she-elf in his commando who had never regained her faculties after a fall on patrol. If Iorveth had survived so long only to be struck dumb and addled by a foe as simple as gravity...

Exhausted, Isengrim lay his temple against Iorveth's slack knee and whispered a plea to whatever god had yet to abandon them. 

This morning, Isengrim had nearly scalped the other commander when he crept without warning into his tent before dawn. As the knife fell forgotten, they had grappled together on his dusty bedroll, hushing each other with the press of their mouths.

For a moment, they had been valiant freedom fighters once more, bolstered by the coming liberation they knew in their hearts would be a hard slog but wholly inevitable. Their forces were small and poorly-supplied, but the non-humans in the settlements would rally behind them and the cities would be theirs again. The humans would be marched to the sea or forced to the slums. Victory would come.

Battered and grimey and worn-thin from the long campaign, marching under the black emblem of a human empire, they had taken solace in the heat of each other's bodies with less grand hopes gripping them. 

Stay alive another day. One more battle and maybe another. Don't let all of them be snuffed from the earth. May their songs be hummed by some soul, even if the words are forgotten. May the marble statues left in vacant forests serve as fitting monuments.

And him especially. Don't let him be struck down. May he ride free unscathed. May he live beyond this war, though the fight will not end. If any of them live, let it be him. Let it be them together.

Isengrim trembled with his face against the sharp buckles of Iorveth's boots. 

A hand touched his hair.

“You crying, Faoiltiarna?” asked Iorveth, groggy and weak, and Isengrim fumbled to help him down from the saddle, shoulder slung under his arm.

“I could have left you for the ghouls,” said Isengrim, unable to fully hide his relief. “Worse, the North.”

“We win?” Iorveth asked foolishly as Isengrim tended to the poor horse and made some semblance of camp, blinking dazedly up at the moon rising over the trees. 

“Not us,” said Isengrim. “Even if Nilfgaard by some miracle won that battle, not us.”

He blew the first curls of smoke from a sheltered fire and watched Iorveth roll his shoulders against the rough bark of a tree.

Alive. Both of them alive.

“If Nilfgaard concedes, I'd bet a limb they hang us,” said Iorveth with a bitter smile, his green eyes glittering in the light of the fire. 

Years on, Isengrim would recall those words and almost laugh. No limb lost but less than a year after the Peace of Cintra deemed the officers of the Vriheed Brigade to be war criminals doomed to be put to death, Iorveth would take the Temerian mace to the head that would disfigure him as completely as his fellow commander.

Until the rumors of the disfigured Scoia'tael brigand reached Isengrim's exile, he could not be certain that Iorveth had survived his execution as well.

Isengrim wouldn't see the ugly sight until it was well-healed. Returned from the wilds beyond Zerrikania and standing before Iorveth again, his first thought was of their intimate huddle around the low-banked fire looking out over the moonlit battlefield. 

That night, their coupling had bore little resemblance to their desperate fumble at dawn. It was slow and quiet, mindful of their bruised limbs and aching muscles. Trembling with the weight of shared loss and relief and fear for what was to come.

Alive. Together.

That had to be victory enough.

[dogydayz]

so I came up with ANOTHER fucked up AU thingy where Eggman has to take care of one of his nephews for a bit and not even a day into the guy staying there he's already creating a fucked up clone of Shadow using modern tech to "improve" upon the old formula (turns out the guy basically worships Gerald like a fucking idol not even knowing who Gerald had been BEFORE he lost his marbles) and DID make this clone to be a weapon, for Eggman. Because he wants to impress Eggman.

So he lets this fucked up Shadow lookin fucker with alien DNA go in an attempt to get him to kill Sonic (oh by the way he also has wings and a big-ass tail, and no Chaos Energy control yet), but that fails and Sonic and Shadow are just.... baffled by him????

And later on Shadow fucking kills him, decapitates him, and buries him because he knows the guy will just regen and the alien shit will make his head reattach, so it just serves to stall for time to figure shit out.

More shit happens, he gets upgrades that allow for Chaos Control, and then the guy sees how Sonic and Shadow interact in battle and even just when talking (he was made to assume the two hated one another, even thinking he was doing Shadow a "favor" by trying to kill Sonic), and then becomes obsessed with the idea of "care" and "affection" and demands that the nephew, his creator, gives him the ability to feel those things (which he can actually ALREADY feel, he just is being gaslit by Eggman and the nephew into thinking he can't).

The nephew basically tells him "go kill Shadow and I'll do it", and he fucking DOES. he literally goes and fights him, then slices him and uses his Chaos Spear to jab and tear Shadow's head off the same way Shadow had done to him before. So he takes the head, feeling absolutely disgusted and awful with himself, teleports back to the place, and drops it for the nephew to see. Only, he's told by the guy that the whole "giving him emotions" thing cant actually happen, because the nephew doesnt know HOW to do that. So? The guy fucking kills him too out of pure rage and grief, because he never WANTED to kill Shadow, he was just so fucking desperate to have what "he had".

Meanwhile, Sonic ends up discovering the leftover headless corpse of Shadow and has a fucking breakdown and is absolutely traumatized by the sight, which is very much understandable. He runs back home to the others and cant even speak because he's so choked up, and it takes Rouge outright going out on a limb and asking "where the hell is Shadow?" for them to get a response outta him (the response being him only starting to cry harder). Rouge goes to try to find whatever Sonic saw, and Tails follows despite being told not to after alerting Knuckles and asking him for help. The two end up ALSO seeing the body, before heading back to the house where Rouge then proceeded to ALSO break down because. Yknow. Her best friend is fucking dead.

HOWEVER.

A few hours pass, things are still grim and... oddly quiet... Until they hear and frightened scream followed by frantic door knocks. Amy would end up letting Sticks in (yes Sticks exists here i love her too much) who starts rambling about some "horror creature from the forest here to take them to the grave" and that makes Knuckles, Tails, and Rouge curious enough to hurry out and follow her. Amy would also follow after making sure Sonic would be okay, however he would end up actually following solemnly purely due to his curiosity, and not wanting to be alone.

Well, what they find is a figure slowly limping and hobbling, holding onto it's horribly mangled, grotesque, and unrecognizable bloodied head, which throbbed and pulsated, strange spikes sticking out of it from different angles, and one singular red eye on the front.

So everyone is fucking mortified, but... Rouge and Tails immediately realize, holy fucking shit, is that SHADOW??? Because the "corpse" part, the body, was still bloodied like before, with the same tears on the neck, just... with a pulsating mass now growing from it.

Rouge decided to risk it and went to the... thing.... and wrapped her arms around it, and when he slowly returned the gesture, she realized.... oh god, what the fuck. it IS him.

And Sonic, who had finally made his way to the area they were in, peaked through the bushes and nearly fucking tackled the poor bastard in a hug while starting to sob once again.

But Shadow was weak as hell at this point, and... unable to speak, he had to desperately try to draw images of the Emeralds in the dirt to get them to know what he needed.

The Emeralds would, if he had access to all of them, be able to heal his head completely. So, he had to trust that they'd find the damn things.

They brought him back to the house and Knuckles and Rouge left to find the Emeralds.

Amy ended up seeing on a news station that SOMETHING was attacking Station Square, however, quite a far ways away, and of course being the idiot he is, now with a bit more pep to him, Sonic left to handle that (and also, he was both absolutely enraged over what the fucker had done, yet also... oddly curious about who the hell he truly was, despite that.)

He gets to the city and finds the Weapon tearing fissures through the earth with his energy before they get locked into combat, and the Weapon is shrieking and crying all the while as he yells his believed "purpose" at Sonic, that Eggman has promised him freedom if he were to put an end to the blue hedgehog, that he would get what he needed to live a proper life, that he'd never wanted to kill, that he killed his creator because he'd lied, that he just wanted to feel the things that everyone else could.

And they'd be interrupted in the middle of the fight by.... A slightly less mangled Shadow, who'd been given 3 Emeralds thus far and had enough ability to open a strange sort of maw and speak in broken, rough words.

He told the Weapon it was useless. The Weapon screamed that he should be dead.

"Just. Like. You... Ali...en....."

The Weapon told him he just wanted to live, just wanted to exist as something more.

"Been. There... Done..... That."

The Weapon barked back desperate words, pleads, while Shadow, to Sonic's bewilderment, was entirely calm.... Perhaps even.... Caring? Understanding?

Shadow pointed out the Weapon's tears, his voice... He told the other that he could already feel, that the Doctor was using him. He was lying to him. He told him that he didn't have to follow this path.

And after silence, the Weapon simply Chaos Controlled away.

Sonic and Shadow would return home, and Knuckles and Rouge would finally return with the last Emeralds needed for Shadow's head to properly be reformed.... Though how it had looked prior would remain in the back of everyone's minds. It was... Kinda horrifying lol.

And the Weapon? He'd be taken back and locked up by Eggman, who would end up repeating his Grandfather's steps and fuck up his memories before deciding to give him some mechanical "upgrades".

He would then simply name him "Razor," as a code name.

Alien DNA and blood still ran through his veins, and as such, he still held connection to Shadow, even with mechanical replacement limbs and weaponry at his disposal.

As such, with enough focus... Shadow came to the realization that... He might be able to....

"You are... Like me. I know your mind, I know what he did. He's a fool, repeating a process done so long ago, one so easily broken and reversed. I know what you're feeling... You're scared.

You're just as I had been... Yet... In a way, you're exactly what I'd feared I truly was. Yet I wasn't, and you are. A weapon, designed to hurt, yet you crave the bonds others share with one another, you plead for someone to help you, to give you the care and love you truly deserve, as another person living amongst them. Amongst us. You are me, and I am you, and yet, we are truly only ourselves.

What is.... Your name?"

And the Weapon didn't reply.

Razor. Razor. Razor.

The name echoed in his mind, and Shadow could hear it loud and clear... Yet...

He still awaited the name the Weapon would give. The name the Weapon would choose.

For himself.

[clownhoodieguy]

Ok, time to deliver that dark fantasy vore story I promised I was gonna write ages ago!

Tw: vore, blood, injury

[Part 1]

What a gloomy day it was, dark clouds blanket over the sky and block out the sun, and the stench of smoldering ash hangs in the air. A swords man, who is neither knight nor nobility, trudges through the filthy, muddy battle field.

Despite the bloodied arm and bruised body, that come from a different battle, the field he was making his way through and empty and derelict of human life; the battle was won just days ago.

He thinks back to the day he started this little adventure, how he'd thought that it would be great to venture out of the city and see all the world's splendors for himself, and how wrong he was. His father was a farmer, and his uncle is a blacksmith, the family worked in conjunction to keep each other afloat along the outskirts of the main city, working the fields and mending farm equipment for fellow families.

Depressing as the current day, where he stands in this mass grave, was the day of his father's passing. This was a time before the Elven medicine, a time in history where you'd step into the wrong puddle with one foot, and then into a shallow grave with the other. It was a blood infection that killed his father, a deep gash was slit along the man's leg by a muddy plough, a moment of carelessness from a new farmhand. It only took a month for the once strong, healthy man to become bedridden, and then a week to pass away.

"Son, so long as you live, promise me that you will never sip from the evil edge of a tankard", he'd seen what binge drinking did to his grandfather, but with the invention of the distillery, hard liquors were so much more appealing than the dirty ales they sold from tavern. All his inherited, spend on bottles of booze to fill his sorrowful heart.

The day his grandfather passed away was one to be celebrated... by him. More money for booze, another house he could trash and then sell, and even the old man's old weapons and armour from his rebel days. Now with a leaking pocket full of change, a belly full of tavern food and fiery gin, he stumbles back home to play with grandad's old toys. Lifting and drawing the old bow, it creaks softly, he takes aim at a scarecrow and releases the string.

Fyewww- Thump!

The arrow flies straight and true, an exciting surprise for the giddy drunkard. Next, he yanks a short sword free from a rotting bench he had stabbed minutes ago, dawning one of the old rebellion's face masks. The drunken man stumbles forwards as the expectedly heavy face plate weighs down on his head. Crashing through his late grandfather's front door, he'd land into the arms of his neighbor, who sets him up straight and begins yelling at him.

"Oh thank God you're home! Y-you're still a mercenary, right Brut?", Brut? That was his Grandfather's name... he nods and decides to hear what the desperate man has to say, "Please, you have to help me, it's my husband! He travelled deep into the local forest to collect mushrooms, and he hasn't returned since sundown!"

He scoffs, this old lady's pathetic pleading meant nothing to him, he goes to turn his back to the woman- when she suddenly grabs his wrist.

"Please, Brut, we've always been there for each other. If it's money you seek, you can have it all, please... I don't want to die alone." Tears well up in the young drunk's eyes, had his grandfather really been so caring? Had he only seen the man at his worst? No matter in pondering now, this lady is desperate, and now there's money on the table. Daring not to match his grandfather's gravelly croak, he silently nods.

Now look where that had gotten him, the old, rusty plant armour barely clings to his wrecked frame, beast blood dries on the hilt of his blade and the edge of his mask. By this point, he'd talked to many of the travelers and locals around the area, it was most likely fairies, so there was little hope that the sweet, old woman would see her husband again.

The reason the false mercenary hard stumbled endlessly through a field of fire and death was to reach an arch mage's tower, against the warning of many-a town folk. The ancient, crooked structure leers over our protagonist, and for the first time since his last monster encounter, he feels dread. Considering his options of entry, he decided to take the most civil approach first, knocking on the door. He reaches forwards to rattle his knuckles against the mossy wooden door, but would never get a chance to, as it swings opens suddenly! Peering into the darkness, he steps a foot through the door frame, and then falls backwards as it is grabbed by an invisible force and pulled upwards, yanking his whole body up the length of the tower's spiraling staircase.

Screaming and flailing about, it takes forever to reach the top floor, but once he does, he's greeted with warm lantern light, and the smell of exotic spices. Illuminated by the lantern light, he could now see the force that pulled him to the summit of the tower, a pair of large, wispy, misty hand slither under a door leading to the very top of the building, the mage's lair. Maybe this magician was a little too powerful for what he needed, but he'd already come this far.

The door was slightly ajar, using his boot, he slowly inches the door open to peak inside. He stifles a gasp, it's a lamina, half snake half person, but this one was certainly more snake. Coils upon coils circle and hang about the pristine room that this mage resides in, the mage has their back to the mercenary. With one step into the room, the lamina would suddenly halt, and menacingly turn their head to the side.

"Come in, I was expecting a guest today."

And come in his did, he kicks down the rickety old door separating this half-man thing from him, pulling the string to his bow back and...

Gkhk!

He grimaces and lets the arrow fly before he can take aim, that beast's claws ran deeper into his flesh than he remembers. The mage scoffs watching as the arrow stabs itself into the stone behind him, "my turn!~". Three spells are cast onto the merc, one mutes him, another stuns his, and then the final one shatters all of his armor... almost all of it...

"Oh-hohohoho~ Did you truly believe you could threaten me into your bidding in your condition? You haven't a single enchanted item- except for... that mask, old rebellion? Who's corpse did you loot that off?", he goes to answer, but can't seem to get the words out, the lamina shrugs and begins to approach, "no matter, I shall retrieve it from my stomach once I am finished digesting you, and place it on my mantle to...", your thoughts drown out their words as you enter a daydream, conversing with your very conscience.

If their spell couldn't break my face plate, and they're weak to enchantments, then...

His self reflection was rudely interrupted by the hot, thick breath of an unhinged lamina's mouth. Just as they're about to snap their jaws closed around his head, a scorching rage would form in his heart, the kind that drops an ember onto your pride and burns a hole through you. Grabbing the silk bound shoulders of the mage, he leans his head back and slams it into the cranium of the snake person, his ears ring like church bells, and the world begins to spin beneath his very feet. The mercenary tumbles to the floor, along side their slithery assailant, and then blacks out...

===============================

Ok, thats all I have the energy for right now! I'll do a part 2 when I'm feeling it again!

[nicklloydnow]

“The mountain had been laid bare and transformed into a gigantic stage for a camp mystery play.

A grave, a mass prisoner grave, a stone pit stuffed full with undecaying corpses of 1938 was sliding down the side of the hill, revealing the secret of Kolyma.

In Kolyma, bodies are not given over to earth, but to stone. Stone keeps secrets and reveals them. The permafrost keeps and reveals secrets. All of our loved ones who died in Kolyma, all those who were shot, beaten to death, sucked dry by starvation, can still be recognized even after tens of years. There were no gas furnaces in Kolyma. The corpses wait in stone, in the permafrost.

In 1938 entire work gangs dug such graves, constantly drilling, exploding, deepening the enormous gray, hard, cold stone pits. Digging graves in 1938 was easy work; there was no "assignment," no "norm" calculated to kill a man with a fourteen-hour working day. It was easier to dig graves than to stand in rubber galoshes over bare feet in the icy waters where they mined gold - the "basic unit of production," the "first of all metals."

These graves, enormous stone pits, were filled to the brim with corpses. The bodies had not decayed; they were just bare skeletons over which stretched dirty, scratched skin bitten all over by lice.

The north resisted with all its strength this work of man, not accepting the corpses into its bowels. Defeated, humbled, retreating, stone promised to forget nothing, to wait and preserve its secret. The severe winters, the hot summers, the winds, the six years of rain had not wrenched the dead men from the stone. The earth opened, baring its subterranean storerooms, for they contained not only gold and lead, tungsten and uranium, but also undecaying human bodies.

These human bodies slid down the slope, perhaps attempting to arise. From a distance, from the other side of the creek, I had previously seen these moving objects that caught up against branches and stones; I had seen them through the few trees still left standing and I thought that they were logs that had not yet been hauled away.

Now the mountain was laid bare, and its secret was revealed. The grave "opened," and the dead men slid down the stony slope. Near the tractor road an enormous new common grave was dug. Who had dug it? No one was taken from the barracks for this work. It was enormous, and I and my companions knew that if we were to freeze and die, place would be found for us in this new grave, this housewarming for dead men.

The bulldozer scraped up the frozen bodies, thousands of bodies of thousands of skeleton-like corpses. Nothing had decayed: the twisted fingers, the pus-filled toes which were reduced to mere stumps after frostbite, the dry skin scratched bloody and eyes burning with a hungry gleam.

With my exhausted, tormented mind I tried to understand: How did there come to be such an enormous grave in this area? I am an old resident of Kolyma, and there hadn't been any gold mine here as far as I knew. But then I realized that I knew only a fragment of that world surrounded by a barbed-wire zone and guard towers that reminded one of the pages of tent-like Moscow architecture. Moscow's taller buildings are guard towers keeping watch over the city's prisoners. That's what those buildings look like. And what served as models for Moscow architecture - the watchful towers of the Moscow Kremlin or the guard towers of the camps? The guard towers of the camp "zone" represent the main concept advanced by their time and brilliantly expressed in the symbolism of architecture.

I realized that I knew only a small bit of that world, a pitifully small part, that twenty kilometers away there might be a shack for geological explorers looking for uranium or a gold mine with thirty thousand prisoners. Much can be hidden in the folds of the mountain.

And then I remembered the greedy blaze of the fireweed, the furious blossoming of the taiga in summer when it tried to hide in the grass and foliage any deed of man - good or bad. And if I forget, the grass will forget. But the permafrost and stone will not forget.” (p. 178 - 180)

[thesaddhatter]

I had a Nightmare, (part one)

I dreamt of a cave, one with a small curved hole in the top that had light coming out of it, illuminating the room, the cave walls were smooth, like it was excavated perfectly.

then out of the small hole fell the bloody remains of what might have been a doctor, then a corpse dressed in ancient military garb of some sort fell, as more dead people and even dead animals fell out of that hole, the corpses that fell at the beginning began to deteriorate, slowly, then faster and faster,

as more bodies fell, more blood congealed, more flesh rotted, more bone revealed, more bones turned to paste, more paste dried into rock.

as more of the bone got crushed under the weight of the dead above and mixed with the seeping blood, a new cadaver would be added to the pile. a few with only deadly injuries, some were more injured, others had their organs already oozing out of them as they fell.

the walls once pristine and a dull grey had become caked in every kind of blood, dried, fresh, effervescent, bioluminescent, if shown to a person without context they might think it was an abstract painting of the night sky.

the smell was equally as atrocious as it was oppressive, not only the rotting flesh, but also that the corpses were typically so fresh they hadn't even had a chance to even void their bowels before getting thrown down here.

as the flesh sloughed off and splattered into the gaps between those below, the bone would be shown, sometime pristine, sometimes already rotten and deteriorating, the tools, if they fell with any, would rust, any clothes would deteriorate into a further mess,

as the dead gathered higher and higher those lower would be crushed by the weight, bones breaking, blood finding new spots to rest, as corpses turned to skeletons, and those skeletons shattered under the weight of those above, that blood would mix with the remains of those bones, creating a near-black kind of paste the mixture of various bloods completely overshadowing the ivory of the bone.

as this paste slowly dried, the viscosity of the blood and the slight structure of the bone-meal brought a surprisingly solid kind of ebony pseudo rock. as more of this rock like waste was made the floor was artificially raised,

though this was a raising scene of death, there was still life in this cesspit of terror, a kind of strange fly-wasp hybrid had make this place their feeding ground, though a collection of strange winged rodents had attempted to skitter into the corpse-bowl to make it their home, they were all killed by the Waies. (wasp flies)

as the body of a rather pale young man with matted dark brown hair and a bloody hole in the center of his chest fell into that mass grave, the time that had quickened had reverted back to a stable and slow pace. in the chest of that young man, clothed in scraps and bloody, glowed a spark of life, and as he fell upon the other carcasses his eyes slowly opened.

[Aspirant... welcome to the first Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your first trial.]

(1 / ?)

[moorheadthanyoucanhandle]

WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR?

Opening this week, hopefully only in the movies...

Civil War--Such a conflict has broken out in the contemporary United States. Fighting seems largely confined, so far, to the northeast, between the government and the "Western Forces," a confederation between Texas and California (!), though there also seem to be guerilla fighters around, and I couldn't always tell which side, if either, they were supposed to support.

We're told that in places like Missouri and Colorado people are still "pretending this isn't happening." But the country between New York and D.C. is lawless and shattered and bloody, with refugee camps and burning buildings and mass graves and bodies hanging in car washes or from overpasses. Canadian cash is needed if you want to buy gas.

The focus of writer-director Alex Garland's gruesome road movie is on four Reuters journalists (Kirsten Dunst, Cailee Spaeny, Wagner Moura and Stephen McKinley Henderson) trying to make their way south down back roads, in a van marked "PRESS," from New York to D.C. They're hoping to interview the three-term President (Nick Offerman) before the capitol falls to the Western Forces.

If some of these alliances sound improbable or confusing to you in the context of our current real-life partisan divide, all I can say is that they did to me, too. Garland seems to quite deliberately make the ideologies behind his clashing forces vague, and both sides are shown to be equally ruthless; no quarter is granted in this combat, no prisoners taken.

The movie grips, evoking a potent sense of a nightmare that many of us fear. But it's also unsatisfying, even maddening. In the movie's best, most terrifyingly believable scene, for instance, our heroes are at the non-mercy of a murderous soldier (Jesse Plemons) who articulates an overtly racist, nationalist vision of America. But again, we aren't sure which side this guy is on, or even if he's officially on either side.

What I hope is that Garland's insistent, evasive non-partisanship isn't the result of commercial timidity; of a wish for the movie to play equally well in Red and Blue markets alike. Even more so, I hope that it isn't a result of sincere ideological false equivalence. Rising above partisanship is a laudable goal, certainly, and few reasonable observers would suggest that decent people on both sides don't have legitimate grievances, even if they're often directed at the wrong targets. But the idea that both sides are somehow morally equal is indefensible.

In the absence of conviction about what's at stake in the outcome of this conflict, Civil War takes shape as an earnest journalism drama. Dunst is effectively haunted as the disillusioned photographer; Spaeny, who looks like she should be home studying for a 9th-grade algebra test, is the newbie who Dunst doesn't think belongs on this treacherous trip. Moura is the febrile, adrenalin-stoked reporter and Henderson is the wise old veteran correspondent. About all we're left to invest in is that old-school newshound standard--will they get the big story?

Unless, of course, another investment is possible. It's hard to shake the question of to what degree this movie may be aimed at that part of the audience that thinks this sort of anarchy would be cool. One sometimes has this sense with the zombie movies--a feeling that part of the appeal is that of shooting people in the head with impunity--and the Mad Max style postapocalyptic actioners.

Intentionally or not, Civil War carries a queasy whiff of this same twisted wishful thinking. But in this case, the fantasy is sickeningly attainable.

[dxrknessembr8ced]

7:49 A.M.

I been following the trail she left behind she wasn't easy to track yet left dead bodies and that grisly trail to metro city. Makes my job easier, but as I pressed forward I am met with these things. These creatures that have resembled angels, them folk call them the watchers and I concluded that they're all connected with that jiangshi. When I have approach they just stare at me with their big wide smile on their gapping mouths they're not even hostile either all they do is stare and smile. It made me uncomfortable and felt nothing but existential thread they all just smile at me as if they know who I am.

Why I didn't kill them is because, to tell you the truth I have no idea I guess they all can smell my fear. Then I encountered flesh, bio mass growling from the soils covered in eyes and teeth. They were the worse part they scream. They scream in constant pain in Hsien-Ko's voice. As their eyes stare all while screaming with those watchers just smiling I feel a large piece within me die I would have killed her for the money, but this horror show feels different of course me and the girl have a bloody rivalry but even when she's my great enemy I never wish her a fate worse than death. This nightmare she have made, why? What the hell is happening? So many questions, buried deep into my head yet so little answers.

I kept going I kept moving yet I can hear the voices, their screamings, turned to whispers then into laughter. My mind felt so dizzy and my body for the first time in years started to shake, my heart sank to the very core when I turn towards them again, through the eyes I see their tears she's crying. The laughter and the screaming became more intense with now the crying of new born infants crying. I don't know how much I can take it but I can't turn down this bounty. Not until Hsien-Ko's suffering ends. This isn't no longer about the money anymore, fuck the cash I'm doing it even if fucking kills me with smiles all over me beyond the grave.

[hounds-and-stars]

I have, at last, decided to write more.

The Hospitaller Order of Lady Provença, or the Lazarenes for short, are an Order Minoris native to the Moebian Domain in Segmentum Solar, dedicated to the health and ministry of the Imperium's masses. While most Orders merely pay lip service to the idea of charity, for the Lazarenes, faith and magnanimity are one in the same. On Atoma Prime and across the Fringe Worlds, the Order has made itself a vital part of the effort against the Darktide, tending to the countless wounded and galvanizing the common folk to take up arms for the Imperium.

Their peacetime motto is: "Though my body may bend and break, my faith endures evermore."

Their warcry is: "As He died to keep Man free, let us die to make Men holy!"

Below the cutaway is a lot of lore but I think you'll enjoy it. I included some pictures to keep it visually interesting.

The Lazarenes, or more properly the Most Noble and Charitable Hospitaller-Sisters of Lady Provença, trace their roots to the eponymous Lady Provença, a preacher from the minor Hiveworld of Komaris.

Like most such planets, the Hives of Komaris were a festering den of pollution, squalor, and mutants, and Lady Provença began life as but one malformed child among many. Born with skin like thick, rough leather and large, faintly glowing eyes, she spent much of her life in the crime-ridden Underhives, where gangers ruled as warlords and diseases of all kinds were rife. In such an environment, it was not uncommon to see workers deformed by chemical exposure or beggars with extra limbs, eyes, and other, less identifiable extremities. Most were lucky enough to die young, struck down by one sickness or another before their bodies were broken beyond repair.

Provença despaired at the state of her fellow Underhivers and did what she could to keep the healthy that way, but more often than not, she had no choice but to give her patients the Emperor's Mercy. No one recorded how many people spent their last moments holding her hand and listening to her voice, but by the time she was 45, the would-be saint was practically revered by Komaris's poorest citizens.

In the year 982.M40, Komaris was invaded by a nomadic Xenos species known only as the Minos. Though the Minos were largely mere raiders, a significant contingent of their armies were aligned with the forces of Nurgle, and as their comrades pillaged the upper spires and gorged themselves on plunder, these Nurglites would wreak havoc on the Underhives. According to Lazarene records, billions died due to painful, bone-twisting mutations or a severe bloody flux, with the bodies soon growing so numerous that miles of space were condemned as mass graves.

Lady Provença was at the heart of the epidemic and briefly became infected, which left her (already misshapen) face utterly deformed. Most would've had their hearts turned to stone by such destruction, but Provença became utterly convinced that her survival was not random chance, but divine intervention; when she rose from her plague-bed, she was sure that the Emperor Himself had saved her life. "Why?" was an easy question for the saint to answer.

Given a holy new purpose, Provença took to wandering the Underhives, going into the overflowing hospitals and refugee camps with naught for protection save a tattered green robe. The Lady strode into the depths of a plague-ridden Hell and not only emerged unscathed, but with a growing army of followers. She could not make their bodies whole again with a touch, nor could she cure their minds of the madness that consumed so many, but she alone brought them back from the brink and showed them what even the lowest, sickest, most broken wretches could achieve through faith alone.

Out of those sweltering, fetid prison-pens came an army of mutants, cripples, rejects, and broken souls, united in purpose by the Lady Provença. This army- an army even the Penal Legions would've sneered at -drove out the Minos, forcing the accursed aliens to flee with their tails between their legs when the Imperial Guard had utterly failed. When the Segmentum Command heard of this, they thought it a lie, a scheme concocted by the Minos, but they nonetheless sent a regiment to inspect Komaris to learn the truth.

Saint Provença greeted the Guardsmen wearing a mask of scavenged metal, made for her by some of the labourers she had led against the Xenos. By this point, the Lady's face was so brutally disfigured that anyone who had not lived through the horrors of the invasion would've turned away at a glance, so she had to conceal her visage for this meeting. When she explained this to her people and the soldiers, many began to imitate her, wearing masquerades in solidarity with Komaris's saviour.

In the years following the War of Komaris, as the planet began to rebuild itself, several Inquisitors wished to see the mutant population done away with, but even those few who remained healthy had their views changed by the events Lady Provença had brought about. "If the Emperor truly wanted to purge the mutant," they asked, "why would He send us a Living Saint who is so deformed? How could a mutant lead us to victory in His name if their souls are supposedly impure?"

According to Provença and her supporters, the answer was clear: so long as the mutant kept the faith, they were as pure in spirit as anyone else. Faced with the opposition of an entire world and (if the Lazarenes are to be believed) a Living Saint, the Inquisition backed down and allowed the mutants of Komaris to persist.

Ultimately, when Lady Provença was nearing the age of 70, she would found a convent with the assistance of her most loyal followers. This temple would be her tomb, and so many pilgrims flocked to her grave that barracks and hospitals had to be set up to accommodate them all, and guardians selected to keep the peace.

Thus, as the Saint's soul left this world to sit beside the Golden Throne, her followers organized themselves into the Order that now bears her name: the Hospitaller Order of Our Lady Provença.

(I am not an artist and I can't commission art of the Lazarenes on short notice, but here's an image I threw together in Pixlr. The SoB in the background was drawn by Yangzheyy)

Generally, the Adepta Sororitas wear their devotion on their sleeve and demonstrate it with their armour, which is often ornately designed and gilded so that they, the Emperor's Daughters, stand out as shining examples of humanity's faith.

The Lazarenes view this as a form of hubris and, in some cases, idolatry. The Order's common Battle-Sisters wear plain gunmetal gray power armour underneath a gray, green, or white tabard, which may be decorated with a cross, skull, or the Lazarenes' emblem. As a Sister rises through the ranks, they often abandon their tabards and embrace more ornamental armour, as they have now "earned" the right to wear such finery; some, though, continue to wear the tabard in addition to their refined wargear.

Day-to-day, if a Sister is outside of her convent or current residence, she is expected to wear a mask; though not necessarily required, it is exceedingly rare for a Sister to go about without covering her face. This is in imitation of Lady Provença, who wore such a mask when meeting with outsiders after the War of Komaris. They range widely in style, with some being little more than a flat piece of metal with holes punched for the mouth and eyes, to more complex designs such as the one pictured below.

In battle, the Sisters are supported by the so-called Penitentes, a broad category of units that range from mutant brawlers to former Guardsmen.

The Penitentes are formed of laymen, camp followers, servants, and former patients of the Lazarenes who, for one reason or another, took up arms for the Order. Unsurprisingly, their ranks teem with mutants from across the Moebian Domain who have received kindness from the Sisters and heard the story of Lady Provença. Just as the mutants of Komaris fought with tooth and nail to defend their world, so too do the modern Penitentes, who sell their souls dearly to be redeemed in the eyes of the Emperor and to prove their faith in the fires of battle. Besides this, many Guardsmen who were injured or crippled in combat had their wounds treated by the Lazarenes, even when others wrote them off for dead; these soldiers believe they owe the Green Sisters a life debt, and will gladly fight and die again for their saviours.

(Art by TazMar.)

The rest of the Imperium views the Lazarenes with immense suspicion. Their willingness to embrace the mutant, to walk among the sick and festering, and their general unorthodox outlook has made them pariahs to certain Imperial organizations- especially the larger Sororitas Orders, who view them as misguided at best and nigh-heretical at worst. Nowhere has this been seen more prominently than on Atoma Prime, where the betrayal of the once-beloved Moebian 6th (whom some Lazarenes served with) has cast doubt upon all forces in the Domain. Many believe that Nurgle's rot has infiltrated the Order, just as it had quietly corrupted the 6th, and there has been a resulting spree of friendly-fire incidents between the Lazarenes and paranoid Guardsmen, Inquisitorial rejects, and Imperial-aligned gangers.

This is, sadly, not without reason, for though the Order has endured remarkably, they are only human. Few, if any, have actually turned from the Emperor's light, but the rot cannot be staved off by prayer forever. The more cruel and cunning among the heretics have even turned the Sisters' benevolence against them by sending seemingly normal patients into their hospitals, only for the infected to suddenly break out with a much more virulent, damaging disease.

Sororitas Order idea: a militarized Hospitalier order who wear green/white tabards over their armour and King Baldwin masks. They make use of augmented veterans and pious mutants as light infantry to assist the Sisters on the battlefield. Lots references to Knights of Saint Lazarus and lepers in general, and also themes of protecting the Imperium's loyal but downtrodden masses, which makes other Imperial institutions distrust them.

Might write more about this later