#city of saints and thieves

[itsbooktimepeople]

City of Saints and Thieves

★★★☆☆

City of Saints and Thieves is the story of sixteen-year-old Tina, a refugee from Congo who now is part of a gang in Kenya and is on a mission to destroy the man who killed her mother. What to expect from this book: heists, action, and themes surrounding real world issues like rape, war, and slavery.

I have read very few books that are set in Africa and none (until now) that took place in Kenya or Congo, so it was very interesting and impactful that the author used fiction to draw attention to the conflicts in the Democratic Republic of Congo, and to the issues many refugees face. (Side note: I appreciated the section in the back stating what aspects of the story were real and what was made up. It's obvious that a lot of research was put into this book.)

Political message aside, this was certainly an action-packed read full of twists, turns, double crossing, and violence. It was very fast paced and the plot rarely paused. The author also managed to use first person present tense without causing hatred for the narrator, which definitely impressed me, but the writing style wasn't anything amazing either.

All in all, City of Saints and Thieves earns 3.5/5 stars. The characters could have been a little more memorable and the mystery a bit more complicated (with less waiting around and more direct action), but I would absolutely recommend this book to anyone in search of a solid thriller.

[books-to-add-to-your-tbr]

Title: City of Saints & Thieves

Author: Natalie C. Anderson

Series or standalone: standalone

Publication year: 2017

Genres: fiction, mystery, contemporary, thriller, crime

Blurb: After fleeing the Congo as refugees, Tina and her mother arrived in Kenya looking for the chance to build a new life and home. Her mother quickly found work as a maid for a prominent family headed by Roland Greyhill, one of the city's most respected business leaders...but Tina soon learns that the Greyhill fortune was made from a life of corruption and crime, so when her mother is found shot to death in Mr. Greyhill's personal study, she knows exactly who's behind it. With revenge always on her mind, Tina spends the next four years surviving on the streets alone, working as a master thief for the Goondas, Sangui City's local gang. It's a job for the Goondas that finally brings Tina back to the Greyhill estate, giving her the chance for vengeance she's been waiting for...but as soon as she steps inside the lavish home, she's overtaken by the pain of old wounds and the pull of past friendships, setting into motion a dangerous cascade of events that could, at any moment, cost Tina her life.

[useless-catalanfacts]

A bit of trans and crossdressing history of Barcelona (Catalonia's capital city) in the 1920s-1930s

Did "the Carolines" hold the first documented queer march in 1933?

Contestants in the 1934 edition of "Miss Barri Xino" for crossdressers. Photo from the book La Criolla: la puerta dorada del Barrio Chino by Paco Villar.

The Barri Xino, nowadays more commonly known as Raval, is a working class neighbourhood of Barcelona, Catalonia's capital city. Being one of the poorest neighbourhoods in the city, it was the meeting place for people who were outside of the law or the morality of the time, including homosexuals and people who dressed in the way that is associated with the sex they were not assigned at birth (all called crossdressers at the time, this category would include a wide range of people including those we nowadays would call transgender, drag queens, homosexual men, sex workers, as well as thieves and other criminals who used women's clothes for their robberies on passerbies or for hiding). When referring to them, this post will use the term "crossdresser" in this broad meaning, as is used in the sources of the time and was used by the people we are talking about.

At the time, trans people and others who didn't want to follow the time's gender norms faced a lot of hardships. It was not uncommon for men to dress as women and viceversa during Carnival (annual holidays where people dress up, often with satirical purposes, considered a time of turning social convention upside-down) or for men to dress as women in theatre and concert halls. Even though these were situations where many found a place for self-expression and fun, the clothing transgression was limited to very specific ambits and often related to the arts or to things considered funny, but it wasn't normalized to freely exist on the streets outside of the Carnival period. In fact, traditions like Carnival (where the lower class rules and everyone makes fun of the Church and government, where the behaviours that aren't allowed the rest of the year or considered sinful are encouraged) or Saint Agatha's (where women get to form a government for 1 day a year) are found in many cultures around the world as an outlet in repressive societies, and are celebrated in a strongest and wildest way the more repressive their society is.

Carnival in Barcelona's Jardinets de Gràcia (richer area of the city), 1936. Photo from Arxiu Fotogràfic de Barcelona.

Photos of the parties that continued after King Carnestoltes's burial was over in Barcelona's Jardinets de Gràcia, 1935. Context: in Catalan culture, the Carnival holidays are personified in King Carnestoltes (King Carnival). On the last day of the Carnival period, the King is buried in a humourous event called "the burial of the sardine". For the burial, people of all genders dress as mournerers (the women who, often professionally getting paid for it, cry desperately at funerals) and the funeral procession parades on the streets exaggeratedly crying and wailing. Photos from Finestres de Memòria.

When talking about 1930s Catalonia, it's impossible not to mention anarchism, which was the mainstream political ideology of the Catalan working class. We must not assume that leftist movements gave support to queer liberation at the time, it clearly was not the case for most of the CNT and anarchism in general, who saw homosexuality and crossdressing as a bourgeois vice.

Outside of Carnival holidays, it wasn't normalized for people seen as men to walk on the streets wearing women's clothing. The most famous meeting place for those who wanted to wear them was the bar La Criolla, in the Barri Xino/Raval quarter. El Bataclan and El Sacristà were also frequented. Another common meeting place for some of them were the "vespasianes" (public urinals on the streets), where crossdresser AMAB people offered their services as sex workers or stole the wallet of the men who were distracted peeing. According to a witness, the people who crossdressed as women and attended the vespasianes and its surrounding areas were known as the carolines (les carolines). They are the protagonists of the 1933 march.

Sadly, we only have one source of information, so it's difficult to tell how accurate the explanation is. This source is the book Journal du Voleur ("Diary of a Thief") by Jean Genet, where he explains his experiences in Barcelona's crossdressing circles of the 1920s and 1930s when he was one of the crossdressers who stole from men peeing: a carolina. At the time, it was common for anarchists to bomb places frequented by the bourgeoisie, and sometimes other places, too. According to Genet, in 1933 one of these anarchist bombs ended up in one of these vespasianes urinals frequented by the carolines. This sparked one of the first documented queer marches, maybe encouraged by their bad relation with the anarchists.

Genet explains that the carolines were outraged at the destruction of the urinal, and that "[wearing] shawls, mantillas, silk dresses and fitted short jackets, they formed a solemn delegation to place a bouquet of red flowers tied with a gauze crape" on the destroyed urinal. They marched from Paral·lel avenue through Sant Pau street, down the Rambles until Colom statue shouting about what had happened.

Even though the Barcelona City Council talks about these events as true and Barcelona's LGBT associations call it "the first documented LGBT march in history", it's unknown how much of Genet's description is true. Genet was known for his proclivity to embellish and exaggerate real events and, after all, the only source of information is a literary work (memoir). There is no other recorded use of the word carolines to refer to these people, but precisely because of their marginalization it's not a demographic that was often talked about in newspapers or other historicals sources of the time.

Despite the lack of knowledge about the carolines's march specifically, the crossdressing meeting places are well-known, with many photos and witnesses of the time. We also know what happened next: in 1936, the fascists in the Spanish Army did a coup d'état which started the Spanish Civil War, ending with the fascist victory in 1939. About the bars where crossdressers and others used to meet, we know that La Criolla was destroyed by a fascist bomb in August 1938, during the war. Cal Sacristà (which had changed its name to Wu-Li-Chang in 1934) was also destroyed when the fascists were bombing the city. Bataclan was forced to change its name to Rataclán and ended up closing in 1942. The fascist dictatorship of Spain (1939-1978) imposed a strict Nationalcatholic morale and persecuted those who did not follow its strict gender roles (trans people, homosexuals, feminists), national minorities (like Catalans, Basques, Galicians), and political dissidents. The dictatorship even forbid Carnival for years, event though it's a holiday of the Catholic religion (Carnival is the excess before the fasting period of Lent). The only crossdressing that was legally allowed were transformist male artists who imitated famous female stars in theatres and concert halls, and even they had to be discreet. Their life on the streets was persecuted, but they never eliminated the presence of crossdressing in Raval. You can read more about homosexuality and crossdressing during the dictatorship in this previous post, about the Law of Social Danger in this one, about Catalonia's first Pride march (1977) in this one, and as always find out more about Catalan queer people and history in this blog's tag #uselesslgbtfacts.

Information sources: Transvestits en acció by Lluís Permanyer (in Catalan), La Revolta de les Carolines by Leopold Estapé (in Catalan), Vespasiana by Ailo Ribas (in English). A good explanation that helped me contextualize is found in this entry in La Barcelona Diversa (in Catalan).

[azu1as]

Hi, Tin! I love your writing and I have a prompt for you, if you are interested) what if Tang family is too afraid of Tang Bo leaving permanently and eloping with Cheong Myeong? So they initiate marriage negotiations with Mount Hua. It can be angst (CM is socially isolated and insecure about his position) or romantic comedy (awkward situations and protective Cheong Mun), up to you). Thank you in advance!

It was a well-established fact that the Dark Saint of the Tang Family was one of their generation's best.

So it came as no surprise when an influx of marriage proposals flooded their family's estate—because rumors started flying around that the Dark Saint was in search of a partner.

The Dark Saint held a reputation for being cold and ruthless. To cultivators and martial artists, he was someone they feared making into an enemy due to his sheer battle prowess and poisonous abilities. To normal civilians, he was a genius who wielded the Tang Family's techniques with cool precision and intent; to them, he was just another mysterious cultivator that they would only ever know of through gossip and stories.

However, in recent years, something shifted. His reputation among common folk was slowly altered. It started off with a supposed battle between him and the Plum Blossom Sword Saint which turned into a sudden and unexpected friendship.

Whereas in the past the Dark Saint would only go around Sichuan and closeby villages, he was now found going around different major cities and unknown ones.

He was often in the company of Mount Hua's Plum Blossom Sword Saint, who worked with him side-by-side to eradicate groups from the Demonic Cult and the occasional bandits and thieves.

For supposed Taoists, the two visited different establishments to drink alcohol and talk cheerily. It was during one of these moments that the first rumor began its spark.

"Ahhhh," The Plum Blossom Sword Saint groans in satisfaction. "That sure hits the spot!"

The Dark Saint chuckles as he tosses back his own drink. "If only I could enjoy everyday like this. Alcohol really is the best."

"What would your future wife think?" The Plum Blossom Sword Saint jokingly and dramatically shakes his head in disappointment. "To have a husband who loves alcohol more than his own wife...!"

The Dark Saint wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Trust me, I would make sure that my wife knows full-well just how much I love them."

The two of them share a silent, private conversation with just their eyes alone, that none of the other restaurant's customers could decipher, before they leave a generous tip and went on their way.

It snowballs from there.

All of a sudden gossip went around about the Dark Saint's interest in finding a wife. And so several people came to the same conclusion.

The reason why the Dark Saint is travelling around more than usual is because he's looking for a prospective wife.

Clearly, the Plum Blossom Sword Saint was there to provide moral support. How truly admirable and strong their brotherhood must be!

On the other hand, the head of the Tang Family was fully aware of their Dark Saint's single-minded interest in Mount Hua's Chung Myung.

Seeing all the stacks of letters that ranged from proposing strategic alliances and general marriage offers brought the current head of the Tang Family to a very different conclusion.

Tang Bo was trying to slowly draw himself away from their family by leaving their estate. He might be on the hunt, jumping from village to village, trying to create a dowry befitting for the hand of the Plum Blossom Sword Saint and scouting out all the best locations to settle down in.

It really wouldn't be too surprising of an idea if one day a letter turns up from the man with an intent of permanently moving to Mount Hua or some backwater village.

The Tang Family head shakes the thought of losing one of their best and genius members to one of the Ten Great Sects. If he wanted to maintain their family's reputation, he'll need to strike the first move.

And so he begins to pen a decisive letter to the Sect Leader of Mount Hua.

%%%

Chung Mun's hands tremble as reads the letter sent to him by the Tang Family.

'Who did they think they were?' He would have bit out if he had any less self-restraint. The paper crumples in his grip and he receives a questioning glance from Chung Myung who was sprawled eating mooncakes on the opposite side of his desk.

"What's got you so worked up?" The subject of the letter askswithout a care.

Chung Mun takes a deep breath. "The Tang Family wishes for you to transfer into their estate."

He refuses to say out loud the marriage proposal that came along with this request. His Chung Myung was too young! The man might be a sixty years old, but that round face, cheeks carelessly bulging with mooncakes with crumbs littered on his chin, screamed too young for marriage!

"Oh." Chung Myung nods in understanding.

Chung Mun is glad that Chung Myung agrees that this was nonsensical. To think, they thought that Chung Myung would even leave Mount Hua for—

"After the war is over, Tang Bo and I were planning to be roommates and travel the world a bit."

—?????

"Roommates?" Chung Mun's voices comes out slightly strangled.

"Yup. It's going to be great."

"No."

"'No'?"

Chung Mun tries to run through his previous conversations with Tang Bo. He knew that the man was capable of being underhanded, but he was also well-aware that Tang Bo respected him enough to not blind-side him with something like this. Especially since it concerned Chung Myung.

...

...Oh no.

"Fuck." Chung Mun says, full of feeling as he recalls Tang Bo off-handedly asking permission to live together with Chung Myung in the future.

"...Sect Leader?"

Chung Mun had thought that was a joke! He thought Tang Bo wasn't being serious! They were talking with alcohol in their systems!

The alarmed look that crosses Chung Myung's face informed Chung Mun that the way he felt his blood drain from his face was a visible, physical reaction.

"He asked for your hand in marriage." Chung Mun says faintly. "I said yes."

Chung Myung blinked at him. "Yeah? He told me?"

Okay. Tang Bo, to his credit, hasn't been leaving Chung Myung in the dark at least.

If Chung Myung knows and isn't reacting violently that means that he isn't completely against this. Even if Chung Mun was, he had to reorganize his priorties.

And his number one would be to make sure Chung Myung was happy.

((And to make sure that the Tang Family doesn't think they can step on Chung Mun and pull his little brother away.))

"I'll have to recheck the sect's budget and my own savings to make sure we have enough for the wedding preparations..." Chung Mun mutters as he begins drafting a response to the Tang Family with what he thought were better marriage agreement conditions.

But then, a flash of dread causes Chung Mun to pause writing and leave a dark ink blot on the paper. He suspected, but he really wishes that he was wrong—!

"Huh?" Chung Myung gives Chung Mun a confused look. "We already got married though?"

[silverskye13]

Angst prompt submitted by @theunderscorwolph

[Part 2 of 2]

[Part 1 Found Here]

[Trigger Warnings for this part: Swearing, blood and gore, religious self-harm, general angst, threats of dismemberment, torture. Read with caution, it gets dark.]

"He's been taken by the Thieves' Guild, for infringing on our turf," the thug had said. "He always hit the main square -- prime real estate -- and we thought we'd scared him off. But then he popped up last week spouting shit about a Gargoyle, and threw a bunch of our guild members off a roof. He needed to be taught a lesson. Figured we would pick up a friend of his for insurance, something to make the threat stick. Nothing personal against you -- honest! He's at the Guild Hall, just past the Watcher's Den."

Helsknight and Tango jogged down the hels streets, silent as grim death. Helsknight, for his part, was trying to keep his thoughts as still as possible. If he could just manage to keep from thinking about the events that had already passed today, maybe he could stop feeling so gods-awful about them. Control of that sort kept slipping through his fingers though, his thoughts like writhing, circling eels that kept breaking free to coil around the feeling of his sword, and the begging voice, and the wrist that looked for all the world far too breakable. Helsknight felt both exhausted and innervated, like at any moment, he might shudder apart. He also, predictably, really, really wanted to punch something. Flight had never really been an option for him. When he was scared, or stressed, or really just mildly out of his comfort zone, his one and only instinct was to fight.

[Good then, that where he was going, a fight was surely about to happen.]

Tango kept pace with him surprisingly well. Helsknight was starting to learn the Hermit was a bit more resourceful than he'd given him credit for. Pragmatic. He didn't know where he was going, but every few streets he would ask straightforward questions about what direction, and what they were looking for, and he noticed on his own that he could see Evil X’s tower from anywhere in the city. 

“Landmark build,” he’d called it, when they rounded into the Watcher’s Den, and it still loomed like a shadowy colossus in the distant haze. He paused long enough to shade his eyes and let out an impressed whistle. “BDubs would build something like that.” Then, when he realized Helsknight was waiting for him to follow. “So you and Evil X aren't on speaking terms, huh?”

“He's evil,” Helsknight said by way of explanation. “I'm not.”

“Yeah… right.” Tango looked him up and down, and Helsknight found himself stifling the urge to shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “You're really not evil, huh?”

Helsknight felt a hot flicker of tired indignation. Tango sounded so… surprised. Like he was realizing something for the first time. Helsknight thought for a moment about defending himself. Of course I'm not. But he was very aware all Tango knew of him was what Wels had probably told him, and he was very aware the things he and Wels did to each other when they crossed swords were unkind, and sometimes cruel, and not the sorts of things good people did.

“A matter of perspective,” Helsknight growled, and turned to continue through Watcher’s Den.

“I don’t think it’s just perspective,” Tango said reasonably, walking briskly to keep up with his long strides. “I mean! Most evil dudes don't have fits about torture, for one thing. Like, I know everyone draws lines somewhere, but that doesn’t feel like it’s just a noble choice, you know?”

Helsknight sighed and rolled his eyes up towards the sky, beseeching patience from whatever god or saint would deign to listen.

“And also, you gave me your cloak thing.” Tango continued, flourishing the fabric demonstratively.

“Don’t get attached,” Helsknight snorted. “I want that back.”

“Right right, whatever.” Tango waved a hand dismissively. “But you gave it to me because it would keep me safe. That’s also, objectively, not very evil.”

“How uncharacteristic of me.”

“And you clearly care about Tanguish,” Tango continued, ignoring Helsknight’s sarcasm. Helsknight raised an eyebrow at him, trying to figure out where all of this was going. “I mean, the minute I said he was gone, you wanted to look for him. And yeah, you were kinda mean about it, but you let me come along. And when those thugs attacked you, you didn’t yell at me to come help you -- which, I mean, obviously I was going to. But you didn’t expect me to put myself in danger. You went into that fight thinking you were going to be protecting me from something.”

“You give me too much credit.”

“I think it didn’t occur to you to make me take some of the heat.”

“A tactical error.”

“What changed?”

Helsknight sighed again.

“I mean, everyone’s heard you and Wels’s rap battle thing.” Tango said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It was a little dorky -- but that’s Hermitcraft. We don’t do real serious wars or anything. But. The threats sounded. Genuine? Destroying everything someone loves. Being someone’s inner darkness. That’s evil.” Tango looked up at him. “Right?”

“Tangotek.” 

“Knight of the Hels variety.”

“Don’t ask questions that have messy answers.” Helsknight rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I’m a redstoner.” Tango’s eyes rested briefly on his sword, before he seemed to decide Helsknight wasn’t threatening him with it, and he met Helsknight’s gaze instead. “Every question I ask has a messy answer.”

Helsknight almost ended the conversation there. He wanted to. He could not rightly describe why, but he didn't like that a Hermit might consider him a good person. It made him squeamish to be looked at and judged on the truths of himself, rather than the biases and fabrications of his other half. At least then, if he were found wanting, or lacking, or cruel, it was because of Wels. 

“Has it occurred to you yet,” Helsknight said, “that I can be every bit the villain Wels says I am, and still manage to care deeply for someone?”

“Well yeah, obviously.” Tango answered simply. His voice was so light and conversational, it was hard to tell he was being earnest. But he was. He looked Helsknight in the eye, and didn't flinch. “I just also think there's more to it than that.”

Helsknight sighed. He decided to cut off… whatever this bungled heart-to-heart was, now, before it could escalate into territory where Helsknight felt too raw and vulnerable. He told himself it was knightly: it did not do to arm your enemies against yourself.

“What you think doesn't matter to me,” Helsknight said decisively, glowering down at Tango. “What Wels thinks, or any of you Hermits think, doesn't matter to me. What matters to me is what I think about myself.” Helsknight sighed, and allowed himself a little more straight honesty. “And I care what Tanguish thinks of me as well.”

Tango took all this in, turning it over with ponderous weight, like he were considering a tricky line of redstone coding.

“And what do you think about everything you've done today to rescue Tanguish?”

“I think if I manage to rescue him, and he's in one piece, and I haven't come too late, then I will still be able to sleep tonight.” Helsknight grimaced. “Though I may go to confession when he's not looking.”

“You go to confession?”

“Knights and religion,” Helsknight shrugged.

Tango nodded, snapped his fingers like he'd come to a conclusion, and said smugly, “Antihero.”

“Pardon?”

“You should read comics, Killer,” Tango smiled. “They're up your alley. Might even give you some inspiration for your outfit.”

Helsknight glanced down at his armor, and when he realized Tango kept walking without him, felt foolish as he lengthened his stride to catch up. 

-------- -

The Thief Guild was a small basalt compound on the outskirts of Watcher’s Den, one reclaimed set of structures probably stolen from the Watcher itself -- fitting for a pack of thieves. It seemed less like a proper building, and more like a honeycomb burrow someone dug into a naturally formed basalt cathedral. Only the fact that it was surrounded by other dilapidated buildings gave any indication it wasn't a stolen part of the landscape. 

They didn't approach by the main road, opting instead to spider through the alleys surrounding the compound. Helsknight kept an eye on their surroundings, making sure they weren't spotted or followed, while Tango navigated them closer to their quarry. Once he knew where they were going, he had a pretty good head for directions -- Helsknight chalked it up to all the times the Hermit had explored new generation, or gotten lost in his own strip mines. Pathfinding was a skill honed just like any other.

At last their alley intersected with the entrance to the compound. Peeking around the corner, they got a glimpse of locked gates and a barren stone courtyard, leading to purple-grey stairs. There was a landing, flanked by a pair of guards, and a closed door. From this distance, Helsknight only knew they had bows because he caught the flicker of light off the tip of a flint arrowhead. 

“So, what's the plan?” Tango whispered, eyeing Helsknight as he drew his sword. “And if your answer is ‘storm the castle like an idiot', guess again.”

“I would have stopped at ‘storm the castle’.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm a knight.” Helsknight hissed, scowling. “I don't do sneak-thieving. Even if I wanted to try stealth, I think the clattering armor will give it away.”

“So you've decided your only other option is running death-or-glory for the front gate?” Tango asked, his voice threatening to tilt out of its already over-loud whisper. “They'll turn you into a pin cushion before you run five steps!”

“I have netherite gear,” Helsknight muttered testily.

“On your arms and legs, congratulations! I'm sure that's what they'll be aiming for, and not your big head.”

“You have any better ideas?!” 

Tango opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. He tapped a finger to his lips like he was shushing himself, maybe forcing himself to think before he spoke again. “Let me see what I've got.”

Tango rifled through his pockets, found what looked to be a small black die, and tossed it to the ground. The moment it landed, it hissed into the shape of an ender chest, and with a kick from his boot, it flipped open. Tango stood quietly like that for a few minutes, hands on his sides, muttering under his breath as he parsed through the indecipherable contents. Eventually he kicked it closed.

“I've got an idea,” Tango whispered. “I'm going to make a distraction.”

Helsknight raised an eyebrow at him. “How mysterious.”

“You'll know it when you see it,” Tango chuckled. “Cover your ears.”

He started off down the alley. Helsknight called after him in a loud whisper. 

“Don't kill anyone.”

Tango stopped and cast a skeptical look back at him. “Why not?”

“We don't know where their spawns are set,” Helsknight said, squashing down a feeling like guilt that was clambering to life in his stomach. “If I have to fight through an army today, I'd rather only do it once.”

Tango swallowed uncomfortably. His bow was still slung over his shoulder, and he reached up to it now, fingers plucking at the string. “Any uh… any tips?”

Helsknight searched through bitter memories of Colosseum fights for the things he knew he couldn't fight through. Those times when he, and the people he fought against, stopped seeing each other as people and instead as problems in need of solving.

“All the limbs and joints.” Helsknight gestured to his elbows and knees. “Stay away from the thighs, the neck, the body.” He hesitated, then grimaced, the ghost of a memory tangling in his guts. “If you're desperate, and someone won't stop coming at you, you can hit them here, but save that as a last resort.” Helsknight drew a circle low on his abdomen, where organs got twisted and complicated. “It hurts like all hels, and kills slowly.”

Tango grimaced and went a little pale, the flames in his hair and tail taking on a greenish cast. It seemed to be sinking in, belatedly, just how gruesome this whole business might end up being.

“You don't have to go in with me,” Helsknight offered, forcing some steel into his voice, self-assuredness he didn't really feel. “Make your distraction, come back here, and wait for me and Tanguish to come out again.”

Tango teetered on the edge of agreeing to that. Helsknight could see it in the way his body leaned, someone who wanted to run away, to make something not his problem. Helsknight couldn't blame him for that. He didn't want it to be his problem either. There was a world of difference between fighting in an arena, and making war on someone, no matter how justified that war was. But Tango, as Helsknight was repeatedly being reminded, had resolve that was hard as obsidian, and cut like diamond. The Hermit swallowed, took a bracing breath, and shook his head.

“I've come this far, right Killer?” He said, and darted away down the alley. 

Helsknight waited. He wondered, briefly, if it had been wise to let Tango go off on his own. He waited longer. He rubbed the side of his face tiredly, trying to stave off the fatigue that came from boredom and a trying day, and, when his mind threatened to wander, he found himself itching the cut on his wrist. It was hard to scratch with his gauntlets blunting his nails, which was probably for the best. 

Helsknight's gauntlets were made in pieces. It made them easier to clean, which, after many months of fighting in the Colosseum, was something he'd come to appreciate. The main part of it was a thick leather glove, with netherite plate buckled and riveted over top. There were versions of the gauntlets where the metal plates used fully encircled the wrist, and extended down each individual finger for maximum protection, but he found these also hindered his range of movement somewhat, and given how often he wore armor out and about in hels, his were a bit simpler. The metal plating stopped at his knuckles, and only covered the top of his hands and forearm, cinching underneath with tight buckles that he kept adjusting. It was easier to take on and off, easier to pull apart to clean -- and it meant his dagger had only had to shear through leather before finding the skin beneath.

Helsknight wondered idly as he slipped a finger beneath the cut leather, if he had armored himself better, if he would have been able to hurt himself in his panic. Would he, upon glancing his dagger off the hardened plate, simply dropped the knife and prayed? Or, he wondered with macabre humor, would he have found somewhere more inconvenient to stab? He wore a chain shirt, but it was a simple thing to lift that away and access his thighs, where large veins could bleed someone dry in the seconds it took for pain to travel. He didn't think he had it in himself to kill himself over guilt. He feared dying too much. The deep unknown of whether the universe would devour him in the moments before respawn was a lurking terror that still strangled him on dark nights, and during particularly bloody fights.

[Then again, Helsknight thought grimly, he hadn't thought he was capable of torture, and yet, desperation had driven his hand to that particular blade with startling speed, even if circumstance had spared him the swing.]

Tango’s ‘distraction’ sent him hurdling out of his poisonous thoughts like a man thrown from a second story window. There was a loud explosion, something near-deafening, that shook the air and the ground, and sent sheets of dust cascading around Helsknight. The ground beneath his feet cracked ominously, and the wall at his back groaned and resettled itself, bowing slightly in the middle as something integral in the ground destabilized. Two smaller explosions kicked the air overhead, billowing smoke and the high, tinny whine of spent fireworks. Helsknight's world narrowed to haze, and the pervasive smell of gunpowder. 

Tango, a flickering spark that seemed to leap at him from the gloom, materialized at his side. His hands were soot-stained, his grin wide and manic. He reeked of sulfer and salt peter, and the chemical high of ignition. 

“Consider them suitably distracted!” Tango keened, his words mangled by giggles. “Time to kick some butts!”

“Was that TNT?!” Helsknight coughed, trying to pull the collar of his tunic over his mouth and nose. The smoke stung his eyes and put a bitter taste in his mouth, and he kept blinking to clear away tears.

“No good redstoner ever leaves home without it!” Tango laughed, shrugging his bow off his shoulders. “After you Killer, before the smoke blows away.”

Helsknight nodded, gathering up his determination. He drew his sword and charged for the gate. The explosion had knocked askew one of the support pillars holding it up, and Helsknight found it relatively easy to kick it open. The lock held, but the cracked stone gave up the hinges on one side, and Helsknight vaulted over the twisting metal as it fell. Behind him, Tango cackled, impressed. The smoke billowing through the courtyard sheltered them, so that the remaining guard by the door only knew Helsknight was there when the knight was slamming the flat of his blade against the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground, and Helsknight shouldered his way through the front door which was, thankfully, unlocked.

Inside the compound, the corridors were dark and close, lit intermittently by shroomlights in the ceiling, casting everything in a dim orange glow. Helsknight paused, tilting his head to listen. Ahead of him, the building split into three hallways, one continuing into some kind of foyer, while the other two branched into long tunnels. There were shouts down one hall, mostly names and demands about what had happened and who was hurt. The other was relatively quiet, emptied perhaps, after the ruckus. The foyer started empty, but as Helsknight watched, a pair of thieves passed into it, looking shaken. 

“Get the one on the left,” Helsknight told Tango, and charged in while the Hermit sputtered, and drew an arrow to his bow. Helsknight was on the pair of thieves in a handful of long strides, his gauntleted fist connecting with one’s sternum with the full force of his run behind it. He felt the satisfying huff of air bucking out of their lungs as he winded them, and as they crumpled to floor wheezing, he turned to the second. He caught their drawn dagger on his gauntlet, but before he could raise his sword to them, Tango’s arrow took them in the leg, and they fell. 

Helsknight, running on adrenaline and the need for swift action, turned to slam his boot down on the arm of the one he'd winded. He wrinkled his nose at the sound and feel of bone breaking. He took a second to gulp down his revulsion, and then demanded, “Tanguish, the  Gargoyle thief. Where is he?”

They pointed him towards a nearby open door. Helsknight narrowed his eyes towards the corridor, not entirely sure if he should trust the direction given. He swallowed, and once again dredged up his dread persona from the Colosseum, the remorseless villain that didn't trust, and didn't relent. He ground the heel of his boot down, eliciting a long shriek of pain.

“Perhaps I should drag you with me,” Helsknight said in the cool, quiet voice he used for villain speeches and threatening monologues, “so, if I find out you've lied, I can break your other arm as well?”

“N-n-n-not lying!” They gasped, eyes wide and terrified. “That hall. Down the stairs. Past the big doors. Guild boss is down there with him.”

Their friend, who was now staring down the point of Tango’s next arrow, nodded fast agreement. “You can't miss it!”

Helsknight nodded. He was about to move, when a clattering sounded from the entrance to the foyer. He turned to watch three more thieves come into the room from where he and Tango had entered. One of them he recognized as a street thug who had ambushed him. That one took a frightened step back, while the other two drew swords and knives.

[Not good odds.]

Helsknight opened his mouth and said something. He wasn't really paying attention to words, only pulled a suitably terrifying line at random from a list of memorized Colosseum threats, and focused on the tone of his voice and the lines of his body. The thug he'd met before turned abruptly and ran. The other two took hesitant steps backwards, and lowered weapons. Beneath him, the thief with the broken arm whined. Tango gulped audibly, and cast him a wary glance. Reassured he wouldn't be followed, Helsknight turned and made for the hallway he'd been pointed down. Tango backed after him, keeping his bow trained on the thieves for a few seconds longer before coming to his side.

“Maybe… I take it back,” Tango laughed nervously. “There might be a little evil in there.”

Helsknight raised an eyebrow at him. “That bad?”

“I mean yeah that was kinda threatening!”

“Wasn't paying attention,” Helsknight grunted. “Glad it worked.”

Tango blinked at him, incredulous. “What do you mean you weren't paying attention?!”

“I kind of just… say things sometimes.” Helsknight admitted, shrugging. “Something that came from my relationship with Wels, I think. Sometimes I focus on what I want, and don't pay attention to the words really, and it'll stick. Comes in handy when I'm improvising villain lines in the Colosseum, though I've had some people ask me not to do it, since it gets a little personal. Red especially hates it.”

Tango opened and closed his mouth a few times in a good impersonation of a startled fish.

“What'd I say?”

“Oh, nothing interesting,” Tango gave a bark of baffled laughter. “Just, you know, something about taking the marrow from their bones before the mercy of respawn. Reasonable threat.”

“Oh. Gross.” Helsknight snorted and rolled his eyes, “Sounds too dramatic to work.”

“It helps that you're like, twice everyone’s size and obviously know your way around a sword.”

“That helps,” Helsknight grunted, refocusing on the hallway ahead as doors began opening up along its sides. 

Startled people, thugs and thieves and whoever else happened to have business in the Guild, were peering out to gauge the commotion. Some of them took one look at an armed and armored knight, flanked by an archer, and promptly scrambled to close and bolt their doors again. Several didn't. Helsknight charged to meet them, taking advantage of the closeness of the hallway, and the forced bottleneck it made. Three, four people at a time he would struggle to fight off, if he could fight them off at all. One or two, though, he thought he could manage, if he was quick enough.

Helsknight ducked a knife, parried a hand axe, and punched the nearest throat he could reach. His focus narrowed to his hands, his feet, and the flickering of metal in the dim light. Twice he felt a blade clatter off his armor, the thick grieves protecting his forearms. Once, someone managed a lucky stab at his ribs, and while his chainmail caught the blade, he felt something bruise, and lost half a breath. Someone -- the axe wielder -- slammed their blade hard into his sword and he dropped it. This was not ideal, but Helsknight was a man who preferred a sword in his hand. He was far from helpless without one. He drew his dagger, buried it in the axe-wielder's shoulder, then ripped their axe from their now limp hand and promptly chopped it into someone else’s knee. While he was ducked low, Tango’s arrow caught someone else in the shoulder, and then the forearm, and they fell howling.

By the time Helsknight had hacked and slashed his way down the hall, his arms were bloodied up to the elbow. His breath came in gasps that rattled in his sore ribs in growls. There was a fiery line of pain on one thigh that threatened to make him limp, and a bone-aching bruise on his left arm where someone smashed him with what he thought was a chair leg. Fatigue was starting to worm its way into his muscles, the repeated shocks to his joints made him grit his teeth through increasing aches. His stomach churned, adding to the chorus of discomforts. He was not used to so much blood, and the smell was cloying; so physical it had a taste. 

Blood was one of the many things respawn scrubbed away, the universe setting harms to rights. In leaving so many people alive in his wake, all that wounding had nowhere to go, so it clung to him like groping hands, and ran in rivulets down his armor. Helsknight felt mad, a rabid animal barely in control of his senses. His sword, returned to his hand as he'd cleared the hall, was both slick and sticky all at once. It all felt deeply, deeply wrong.

[Confession, as soon as the next one wa held. Or he might just preemptively bleed himself dry begging for forgiveness.]

Helsknight's Saint, it had to be said, was not a squeamish divinity. They were the Saint of Blood and Steel. Most of their prayers were made not with words, but with the opening of veins. But the Saint, for what Helsknight thought were very good, very obvious reasons, didn't condone wanton violence and cruelty. Helsknight’s tenets were so tied up in reasons why not to raise his blade, sometimes he wondered if he shouldn't keep it peace-knotted like the paladins did.

[The Saint, he thought, would not like what he was doing now. He thought he fought with good reason. He thought he wasn't being unnecessarily cruel. But he thought many people probably thought that way, when justifying atrocities to gods.]

[He wondered, distantly, as he reached the stairs down, if Tango thought he was a villain yet.]

Regardless of what Tango thought of him, if he thought anything at all, the Hermit was at his back. His nervous laughter had stopped about halfway down the hall, giving way to exhausted concentration. They were back to back, Tango keeping an arrow trained behind them in case someone tried ambushing them, and from their closeness Helsknight could feel him shaking. He didn't know if Tango shook from horror or fatigue, but he could hear the Hermit’s breath quick and harsh, and his fire had taken on a permanent greenish cast that greyed the red-orange hues emanated from the overhead shroomlights.

They descended the stairs together in breathy silence. Tango fired a warning shot behind them, and whispered something so soft and hoarse, Helsknight couldn't hear it over the sound of his own rough breathing. He deciphered the meaning well enough though, between the tone of voice and the arrow: People were coming behind them. 

Helsknight moved quicker, taking the stairs two at a time, until he emerged into anothers at foyer of some sort. There was a pair of double doors -- like the thief had described -- at the end of the room, and past that, another set of doors that he watched close and lock. Helsknight stormed through the abandoned room, past overturned chairs and other signs of haste. When they passed the open doors, Tango stopped.

“I'll make sure no one can follow us,” Tango said, closing them and running for some of the nearby furniture. “You think you can get those open, Killer?”

Helsknight put on a grim smile. “No force in hels can keep me out of that room.”

“Villain vibes!” Tango called to him, only halfway joking.

Helsknight strode up to the closed doors and, reasonably, he thought, tried the handle first. It was locked. Helsknight rolled his shoulders and sighed.

It took three kicks to break open the doors. The first broke the lock. The second bent the latch, and sent a wide crack spiraling up the wood. The third had them thrown open so hard, they banged off the walls and shuddered, and one tilted askew off a hinge. 

Helsknight’s eyes locked on someone who looked vaguely like a leader. At the very least, they wore clothing that looked more official, and better kept. Tanguish was at their feet, slumped over onto the ground. Helsknight spared Tanguish enough of a glance to see no mortal wounds, before striding across the room, sword held out wide, the bloody tip ringing as it grazed across the ground. He didn't know what he planned to do exactly. Beating the Guild Leader senseless was probably on the list somewhere, but for now he would settle on looking terrifying and unstoppable.

The Guild Leader lunged for Tanguish and yanked him to his feet, a dagger shoved up against his throat threateningly. Helsknight stopped dead in his tracks, sudden fear shooting frigid lines through his veins. 

“There we are,” the Guild Leader said, smiling tensely. “Let's be reasonable here.”

Tanguish was awake and alert in the Guild Leader’s grip. There was an ugly purple bruise beneath one of his eyes, and he breathed irregularly, like it was a labor. His eyes were wide and fearful, and brimmed with unshed tears, his expression a war of relief at seeing Helsknight, and terror of the circumstances.

“H-Helskn--”

“You stay quiet,” the Guild Leader hissed, pressing the dagger against Tanguish’s skin. They didn't draw blood, but the delicate skin dimpled warningly. Tanguish let out a soft, fearful noise, almost too pathetic to be a whine. Helsknight seethed. Anger and fear were snakes in his ribs, his adrenaline a lighting buzzing to life in his veins. He felt like he had when he’d pinned the thug to the wall, desperation on the verge of moving to wicked violence.

“Let him go,” Helsknight demanded, his voice cold and soft as a deadly promise.

“I would love to,” the Guild Leader said amiably. “But see, I'm not stupid. As soon as he’s away from my knife, that sword is coming for me, and I would rather not flirt with the universe today, if it's all the same to you.”

Helsknight heard a noise to his side, the slip of a boot. He glanced over and saw two thugs waiting near the wall on that side of the room. One had a sword, the other, a daunting looking spear. A quick check of his other side, and Helsknight saw a third person waiting, sword in hand. 

[Blundering right in here had perhaps been a tactical error.]

“Drop your weapon,” the Guild Master hummed, and this time when they pressed their dagger against Tanguish's throat, they didn't relent until a trickle of blood spilled free. Tanguish, very bravely, did not whine, but he screwed his eyes shut painfully. 

Helsknight tossed his sword to the ground, and watched Tanguish flinch every time it clattered. He tried to collect all his helpless anger into the center of his chest, where he could bury it. Anger wouldn't help him right now. He wasn't sure anything could help him, but anger certainly wouldn't. 

[Tango.]

Tango hadn't followed him into the room. He didn't dare look back to see if the Hermit had been caught. It would just draw attention to him if he wasn't. Helsknight couldn't hear anything besides the cautious approach of the henchmen he’d stumbled in on. Their footsteps were hesitant, skittish. He felt them more than he heard them, like spider legs on his skin.

“Check him for further weapons,” the Guild Leader said, and as their thugs moved in to do so: “Well, this wasn't how I anticipated getting you here, but you did get here. So, now my threats can have the weight I need them to have.”

Helsknight was still listening for Tango, trying to figure out what, if anything, the Hermit might plan to do. He decided the best way he could help was to be distracting. [It would give the Hermit time to escape, if nothing else. There was no point in everyone getting killed here today.] 

As well as he could, Helsknight shoved his emotions down in favor for his Colosseum theatricality, to make himself threatening and dangerous, even disarmed. One of the only perks to being drenched in blood, was ir proved not all of his pretense was an act.

“Watch yourself,” Helsknight murmured to the brave thug who reached him first. They watched him warily, freezing halfway to reaching for his belted dagger. “I bite.”

They took a rather large step back away from him, and he flashed his teeth in something that was more snarl than grin.

“Don't be ridiculous.” The Guild Leader snorted. “Put your hands over your head or something.”

“I would rather not.” Helsknight splayed his blood-spattered hands, a motion that startled one of the three thugs trying [and failing] to search him into jolting back a step. “For obvious reasons.”

“Not my fault you decided to cut your way through half the compound.”

“And I'll cut through the rest of it before I'm done,” Helsknight said levely.

“I don't think so.” The Guild Leader said, and nodded to one of the thugs.

A boot planted itself in Helsknight’s knees, and he dropped to the floor. He caught himself with his hands, but the flicker of metal at his eye level kept him from springing back up again. The swordsmen were flanking him, their blades crossed over the back of his neck, the tips intruding on his peripheral vision. He had to force himself to breathe slowly, to ignore his panic as it crawled to life in his chest and set his heartbeat racing.

With Helsknight secured, the Guild Leader finally released Tanguish, shoving him roughly to the ground. Helsknight had to bite his tongue to keep from calling out to him. He didn't like how weak Tanguish seemed to be, how easily these thugs yanked and tossed him around. But he worried showing his concern would make their situation worse, or at the very least, give their captors vindication. Instead he glowered, and searched Tanguish for anything that could be wounding.

Their eyes met, and Tanguish flashed him an agonized expression. His voice was small and broken as he whispered, “I'm sorry.”

Helsknight found his resolve breaking almost immediately. His gaze softened, and he whispered back as comfortingly as he could under the circumstances. “Don't be.”

The Guild Leader flourished their dagger, a motion that set the metal flashing in the dim light. Tanguish flinched at the motion. Helsknight only watched it warily, waiting for the blade to find a reason to bite.

“I do pity you swordsman. I didn't want to get you involved--”

“A wise decision,” Helsknight growled. One of the swordsmen hovering over him tapped the back of his neck warningly with their blade. 

“--but you see, we here at the Thief Guild, well, you've heard the saying thick as thieves I'm sure. We built this place to protect each other. Hels is a very large, very dangerous place.”

They flourished the dagger again, and this time, Helsknight caught a flicker of something in the reflection of the blade. He couldn't be sure, but for a brief second, he thought he saw what he thought was firelight ducking back behind the wall. 

[Tango.]

Why was the Hermit still here? Surely he should know to cut his losses and run. There was no saving them from this. No way Helsknight could see, anyway. Helsknight couldn't run, even if his tenets didn't keep him from it, he didn't think he could break away from so many blades. Not now while he was pinned. And even if he could somehow fight through these four thieves, with no constricting hallway or element of surprise to aid him, he couldn't go back out the way they'd come in. Tanguish still had no reflection to leap through, and Helsknight didn't think he could get him one in the time it would take his captors to remove his head from his shoulders.

Dread and helplessness were poisons in his stomach, weighing him down, draining him. Helsknight realized, now that his blood had a chance to cool, that he was exhausted. The cut on his leg still burned. His arms throbbed, both from bruises and from his rough use of them. His back, shoulder and neck hurt from swinging his sword, and the contact of bodies. A bone-deep weariness was settling across him, and he was pretty sure just getting here already had him borrowing strength from tomorrow. If he were the sort of person who gave up, he could very easily see himself laying down here on the cold ground and waiting for the inevitable. There was only so much fight a body could muster.

Helsknight pinned his gaze to the floor beneath his hands. His brow creased in a slight frown. Slowly, praying the movement didn't draw attention, Helsknight shifted his hand over to rub at the smear of blood on his gauntlet. Netherite was not nearly so reflective a surface as iron or gold, but it did have some luster. He could see his own eye reflected back at him, and the hazy shapes of the swordsmen overhead. 

The beginnings of a plan tumbled together in Helsknight’s head. He thought there was a large chance it wouldn't work. He thought a lot relied on Tango being clever, and good at timing, and pragmatic enough to not make stupid mistakes.

[He thought, if the Hermit had proved nothing else today, he had proved he was good at those three things.]

Helsknight let out a derisive noise in the back of his throat, cutting off the Guild Leader halfway through their threatening monologue. They had been pacing, and now they stopped, flourishing that dagger in their hand again. 

“Can we speed this up?” Helsknight asked, disdain thick in his voice. “I'm not sure if you idiots have looked in a mirror lately, but you're not exactly scary, and I'm getting tired of kneeling on your stupid floor.” He narrowed his eyes daringly at the Guild Leader and spat. “Whatever you're planning to do, get it over with. There are a thousand things worse than dying here. Listening to you blow hot air for the next hour just might be one of them.”

The Guild Leader blinked at him, caught somewhere between incredulous and irate. Helsknight actually watched their face redden with anger. They stalked over to him, kicking aside Tanguish as they went. Tanguish who, as soon as Helsknight stopped speaking, immediately started making excuses for him. 

“He didn't mean it! Please, leave him alone! He's got nothing to do with this--!”

Tanguish started to crawl to his feet, but the spearman was over him in an instant, harrying him back down.

Helsknight twisted his arm so that the reflection on his gauntlet faced Tanguish. He knew Tanguish needed the physical touch to leap through, but all he or Tango needed to make the jump from the other side was the ability to see their other half--

The Guild Leader grabbed a fistful of Helsknight's hair and yanked his head back, twisting him uncomfortably so his throat was bared. Fear, cold and relentless, washed through him like ice water, radiating from the point of the knife as the Guild Leader hooked it beneath his chin, and all thoughts he had fled him. 

“You know,” the Guild Leader hissed, “you're entirely too smug for a prisoner. I think you could use some humbling.”

Helsknight suppressed a shudder, if for no other reason than he feared the jerking movement would slice him open on the knifepoint.

“I was informed you threatened to take off one of my thief’s hands,” the Guild Leader said. “I don't know about you, but I don't think a swordsman is quite so effective without both of his either, wouldn't you say?”

Helsknight's mind went very still, and very cold, emptied of any ability to reason and plan. He felt as though he'd been very abruptly shoved underwater. Fear smothered him, made him senseless and slow. What was it Tango had called it? Shock?

He thought [N…]

He thought [No…]

Someone shoved him down roughly. A boot stepped down on his gauntlet, holding his arm still and outstretched. The joint at his elbow was exposed, that diminutive gap between armor and mail.

He thought [He didn’t want this to happen.]

Tanguish was shouting.

He thought [This can't be happening.]

The people holding him down were discussing the best way to go about their business. Helsknight tried to thrash, tried to break free, but his angle was awkward, and he was tired and sore. The second swordsman pressed a knee against his back, pinning him down. 

He thought [Is Tanguish worth this?]

One of the swordsmen passed their sword to their leader.

He thought [He has to be worth this. Because otherwise it was for nothing.]

The blade gleamed as it was drawn back. Low light flickering. Helsknight's heart beat so fast he thought it might give out and stop. His ears rang, his head full of empty fear and animal panic and void static. 

He thought [

He thought [

He thought [S

He thought [Stop]

He thought [Please]

He thought [Saint of Blood and Steel]

He thought [Any God. 

He thought [Any Saint.]

He thought [Anyone.]

He thought [Anyone!]

He thought [Please.]

[Don't let this happen.]

Tango sprang out of the sword’s reflection just as it began its arc downward. His bow was in his hand, the arrowhead a blazing smear of reflected light. His flame was the blinding white of fear, and the anger that chases fear, and the fear that chases anger, and the anger that chases fear. He was, for a moment, weightless, timeless, frozen. He was, for a moment, the will of gods, and divine intervention, and the fumbled attempts of someone who lacked all heroism trying his best to be help.

Tango’s arrow took the Guild Leader in the chest. The shot was terribly close. The full force of the bow and the air and everything that made arrows work couldn’t work at such a short distance. Shouldn't work. But it was a very powerful enchanted bow, and the Leader was unarmored, and Tango was desperate, and a Hermit, and whether he knew it or not, the universe loved him deeply. 

The shaft sank halfway to the fletching in the Guild Leader’s chest. 

The room exploded into motion and sound. Tango landed heavy on the floor, and was immediately ducking a swung sword. The spearman lunged for him as well, and the one unarmed thug was busied trying to keep their dying Guild Leader from collapsing. Helsknight, all panic and anger, and the need to fight anything if it would stave off future helplessness, came lunging off the ground. He barrelled into the spearman, his shoulder planting itself squarely against their chest and sending them off their feet. Helsknight's sword was in his hand -- he didn't know when he’d picked it up -- and he turned on the swordsman and crashed his blade into theirs before they could stab Tango. 

Their blades met once, twice. His arms hurt. His chest hurt. His leg hurt. The edges of his vision were blurs, and the only thing he wanted was to make these people gone, now, before they could kill anyone. 

The Guild Leader was dead. 

The second swordsman had picked up their dropped sword, and they came at Helsknight with grim ferocity. He slapped away their lunge with neither finesse nor calculation, only the knee-jerk and instinctual power of the frenzied. Helsknight backed up a step, and his boot kicked into Tanguish’s tail. Tango was trying to help him to his feet, but when Tanguish tried to stand, he whimpered in pain. Behind them, the spearman was retrieving their spear, a hand clutched to their winded chest. 

“Get him out of here!” Helsknight snarled at Tango. 

The Hermit looked at him, looked for a moment like he might argue, and then to Helsknight's infinite relief, he yanked an arrow from his quiver. The metal arrowhead glinted as he turned it in his fingers.

“No!” Tanguish argued, horrified. “Not without--!”

Tanguish reached for Helsknight a second after Tango reached for him. They vanished. 

Leaping towards Helsknight from where they had been, came the spearman. Helsknight twisted, hacked away the spearhead, and lost his breath when one of the swordsmen lunged and jabbed hard at his ribs. What once was bruised, broke. Helsknight’s breaths, when they finally came, lanced him with pain, and that pain focused him, grounding his wits momentarily. This time when a swordsman lunged, his blade snaked out to drive into their shoulder, and they fell back bleeding. The second swordsman and the spearman attacked him in tandem and he back-stepped hurriedly, focusing on parrying the spear. His shoulders touched the wall behind him. The swordsman leaped for him, victory spurring them into a headlong rush. Helsknight’s sword sheared through their throat, and as they fell, the spearman lanced forward.

The air was driven from Helsknight's lungs again as the spearhead plunged into his stomach, punching through a few weakened rings of his mail and burying deep. Helsknight’s entire world narrowed to white, hot, electric pain, and the intimate wrongness of intrusion where nothing was supposed to be able to reach. He doubled over, his hands groping for the spear shaft, his sword dropped and forgotten. Before he could grip it, the spear was ripped from him, and he would have screamed if he had the breath to. 

Helsknight crumpled to the floor and curled in on himself, fists bunched against the wound. He didn’t know if he was trying to stop the bleeding, or simply trying to shield himself from the awful sight of it. Touching it made his hands shake, lanced him with another wave of pain, and a feeling of wrongness so intense he nearly gagged. He had taken wounds like this in the Colosseum only once or twice before, and that experience didn't help him. It was every bit as breathtakingly painful as he remembered, and it seared his thoughts raw. 

Out of the corner of his eye, a hazy silhouette loomed. The spearman was watching him. 

A shattered thought, more instinct than coherency, made Helsknight search for his sword. It was within reach. 

He wanted to reach for it, but fear stayed his hand. His wound was terrible, but it was in the deep, complicated places of the body that didn’t kill with immediacy. Helsknight, above anything else in life, feared death. He thought he would rather suffer here on the floor for the next hours, hels, the next days, if there was a chance he would live. That someone might bring him mercy, and healing, before he had to face down the maw of the universe and respawn. But if he picked up his sword… if he made himself threatening…

There was no one left here for him to protect. No one to distract from any coming wrath, or vengeance from the thieves in the hall. It was just him. 

He was alone, and he was dying. 

Fear sank its withering roots deep into him, twined in his ribs, where his already haggard breathing grew tight and suffocated. It wrapped around his spine, commanding him to be still. It commanded he wait, and suffer, and hope and pray and be helpless, for the barest chance death might pass him over. 

The spearman moved slowly, stalking around so that Helsknight could see them better. They were not anyone Helsknight recognized, though there was a detached coldness in their gaze he didn’t think he’d ever forget. 

“You’re so quiet,” they informed him, as he lay on the ground and bled. “Even when you’re threatening people, or in pain. It’s uncanny.”

Helsknight took a breath, and tried to muster enough coherent thought to speak. 

They kicked him. 

They only did it once, but they kicked him where his fingers interlaced over the wound in his stomach. It was a cruelty driven by frigid curiosity, someone pulling the legs off a spider to see when the squirming would stop.

If they expected Helsknight to scream, he didn’t. He would have, if he could. Between his fear, and the broken rib, and the intrusion of his diaphragm on the wound in his stomach, breath was a thing Helsknight could only sip shortly and painfully, in hitches and gasps. There wasn’t enough of it in him to scream properly. But every muscle in his body contracted in agony, and a gag ripped its way up his throat, and when the little breath he had left him, it left him in a whimper that shook and strangled out when blood pulsed with his heartbeat onto his hands. Helsknight’s vision contracted, edged in black, spangled by multicolored stars.

The spearman seemed unimpressed. They took their spear in both hands and studied him, considering.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to be tough, or if you’re just pathetic.”

[Pathetic.]

[Pain made heroes of no one.]

The spearman moved, pointing their bloody spearhead down at him. For a moment, Helsknight feared they had decided to kill him and be done with it. They lowered the broad spearpoint down towards his hands, as though they expected to probe the wound again. Helsknight’s hand snapped out with a suddenness he didn’t even know he was capable of, driven by one last faltering, frigid spine of adrenaline. The dying ghost of self preservation. He gripped the weapon shakily, and hissed in fleeting gasps.

“Touch me again, and when I come back here for you, I will bring every knight and paladin in hels with me.”

Helsknight didn’t speak with sureness or authority. His voice was a weak and wincing thing that threatened to break at the end of every word. But he meant it. He meant it with every fiber of his being. A place like this, with people this cruel, could not be allowed to exist. Not if he was allowed the chance to leave. If no one else, he knew his Saint wouldn’t abide cruelty like this. 

Helsknight had never been a paladin. In truth, what the paladins went through in their blind service scared him almost as much as dying did, but he would unleash their fury on this place in a heartbeat. 

The spearman laughed at him and yanked their spearpoint out of his hand. It cut his palm, but it was such a small hurt compared to all the others, Helsknight barely felt it. 

“Really? And how are you going to do that, huh? Knights don’t listen to people like us.”

[People like us?]

“I’m a knight,” Helsknight gasped. 

They laughed again, “Really? And did you leave your cloak at the cleaners when you went on crusade?”

“It’s on loan, you asshole.” 

The spearman startled, turning on their heel towards the voice. Helsknight didn’t know when Tango had returned. Probably it had been just now. He didn’t have time to wonder how Tango had made it back to him again. Wels stood behind Tango, a look of horror and fury on his face. The resplendent silver and diamond of his immaculate plate didn’t gleam so brilliantly in the dim red of hels, but he was an imposing figure nonetheless. Wels’s own fist was balled sympathetically against his stomach, like he could feel the ghosts of Helsknight’s pain through whatever connection they had. His double’s empathetic rage washed over Helsknight like a wave, buried his own dread and fear beneath a wall of righteous fury. Breathtaking. 

Wels moved like a hawk swooping, quick and arrow-point keen. The spearman, caught off-guard, barely managed to lift their spear. 

Then Tango was kneeling beside Helsknight, cutting off his view. He swore bitterly when he saw the wound, and clasped his hand against Helsknight's, as if he thought the extra pressure would help. It didn't. Or if it did, it paled in comparison to the spike of pain it wracked through Helsknight. He must have made some pathetic noise, because Tango keened fearfully back at him, yanking his hand away. 

“I'm sorry! Just hang in there, Killer,” Tango said, rifling through his pockets for anything reflective. “I've got like-- like six health potions with your name on them brewing back at Hermitcraft. Just-- just-- you know. Keep it together.”

Helsknight didn't think the ‘keep it together’ was directed at him. He must have looked pathetic indeed, because Tango clasped his hand in Helsknight's in an attempt to be reassuring, and shouted for Wels to hurry up.

[Had the little fool really come running back here so fast, he forgot to bring a reflection to escape with?]

After what felt like a small eternity, where Tango mumbled awkward reassurances, and all Helsknight could do was breathe, and try very hard not to bleed to death, Wels rejoined them. His armor was pristine as always, though he had a new cut on his cheek, and a disgusted expression on his face. The emotions radiating from him were of the purest contempt, probably directed at the spearman he’d killed. They softened to pity and nervousness when he laid eyes on Helsknight again, like colors bleeding in water.

“It's a bad wound Tango,” Wels said hesitantly. “It might be kinder to help him respawn.”

Tango shook his head briskly, “I promised.”

“The trip through the void--”

“If you won't bring him back for me, move your metal butt closer and I'll bring him back myself,” Tango snapped. He grimaced and said a bit gentler, “They're scared of respawn here for some reason. I don't get it bu-- but-- just-- I'll owe you one. Okay?”

Wels sighed and looked down at Helsknight. It was not a hateful, cruel, or wary look. It was an expression like someone trying to make his way through hard choices.

“Wels--” Tango started again, but stopped when Wels knelt beside him.

“This will hurt,” Wels warned, and then pulled one of Helsknight's arms around his shoulders. Tango grabbed his other arm, and Helsknight's world was consumed by fire in his stomach, and a blurring of star-filled black and breathless pain. He must have cried out again, because Tango was babbling apologies beside him, and Wels radiated the kind of nauseating determination one acquired when about to embark on a holy war.

“Hold onto him tightly,” Wels instructed. “If we lose him between worlds, I doubt we'd find him again.”

They fell.

----- ----

The Universe was a living thing. 

It muttered, and felt, and spoke. 

It was not human. 

It understood, in broad strokes, human concepts like emotion and religion and thought and living and art. If it had a mind for metaphors and analogies, it might describe its understanding as the same understanding a human has for ant pheromones, or the way a sea slug hunts for certain chemicals in the water. A human hears the word pheromone and knows, to an ant, it is probably a sweet and enticing smell, like lavender or fresh bread, but a human will never smell an ant and smell something desirable. A human will hear the word chemical, and know whatever the slug is hunting probably has a taste, and to a slug, that taste is like honey, or sugar, or, again, freshly baked bread. But a human could never sift through the ocean floor and taste something enticing.

The Universe liked the idea of bread. 

The Universe thought, in the closest way the Universe could think about anything, in thrums and chords like discordant melody, in tapestry and weave and time, that the things it loved most in itself were like bread. They were molded and shaped, and through fire and heat, they rose. And they made something that smelled desirable, and tasted enticing, and the Universe, above all else, loved to devour. It devoured bits of itself every instant, and through that devouring, it remade itself again. 

And the Universe said: nothing is separate from any other thing. 

There were two bright stars falling through the Universe, and they smelled to it like baking bread. Between them, held in hands that clung for life and limb, was a dark spark of dying and nothing and never should have. It was a familiar never. It was a spark of flame made so one of its best loaves could rise. A bright star.

The Universe didn't want to devour that flame of never, and shouldn't have been. The Universe could not want, as all it needed, it was. 

The Universe liked to set itself to order. It liked the making of bread. It liked the things inside of it that set its world to order, and made with their hands, and rose. It liked things that were like itself.

And the universe said: you are a flame of what never should have been

And the universe said: I feel nothing for you, for you came from nothing

And the universe said: you are weak and small and failing

And the universe said: your heat may not be strong enough to form a rising

And the universe said: you are disorder, and chaos, and change for the sake of changing

The jaws of the universe neared, wide, and hungry. It liked to set things to order. It liked leavened bread. It liked two bright stars, very like itself. Between them was a dark and dying thing, that never should have been. It was a dark and dying thing that they should not hate, because nothing had no substance to despise. It was a dark and dying thing that they should not love, for nothing had no substance to enjoy. But it was a dark and dying thing that they clung to regardless.

The Universe clung to many things it should neither hate nor love. Things like stars, and orbits, and worlds. Things like code, and making, and living. 

And the universe said: you are creating change

And the universe said: you are creating chaos

And the universe said: someday you must be set to order

And the universe said: but the bread has not finished rising

The Universe let them pass. It did not decide to let them pass. If the Universe were able to speak in metaphor, or even in words that the pieces of itself could hear, it would say it could not decide to let them pass. Just as the lungs do not decide to breathe, and the heart does not decide to beat, and the spine does not decide to hold. As a heart that times itself to another, so that two bodies close together might feel comfort and belonging, the Universe timed itself to their movement, and they passed.

And the universe watched those bright stars and said: I love you

And the universe said: Even the absence of something has purpose

And the universe said: Rise

Helsknight must have passed out somewhere between hels and Hermitcraft, or if he didn't, he faded so close he had no memory of the crossing. 

He awoke on a bed that wasn't his own, hot and sweaty and uncomfortable. Everything ached. There was a persistent pinching and cramping in his stomach where healing hadn't quite finished its work. He was hungry -- or nauseous. He was thirsty. He was exhausted. He itched with dried blood, and itched again where links in his chainmail pressed uncomfortably against his body. Someone had done him the kindness of taking his gauntlets and boots off.

There was a cold hand clasped in his, a soothing reassurance against his own feverishness. That simple touch alone made him, inexplicably, want to cry. 

[It hadn't been for nothing.]

Helsknight opened his eyes and looked over to see Tanguish sitting in a chair beside him. The arm that wasn’t reaching to hold Helsknight’s hand was pillowed beneath his head. If he wasn’t asleep, he was well on his way. Worry, sluggish to wake through his tiredness, rose slowly in his chest. How long had he been out?

A flicker of light highlighted the doorway to the room he was in [one of the Hermit’s bases, probably] heralding Tango’s arrival. The Hermit was balancing three health potions in his arms, still warm enough from the brewer to be bubbling slightly. His eyes passed over Tanguish first, a look of weathered contentment on his face. He awkwardly shuffled the potions in his arms so he could run a hand through his hair, a small, worried motion that made him seem… very human. Helsknight didn’t idolize the Hermits -- if anything, he disdained them for what they were. But in that moment, he had never related to another person’s care and weariness so much in his life. 

“Oh,” Tango said quietly, eyebrows raising. “You’re awake.”

Tanguish’s eyes opened immediately. He sat up quickly, moving so he held Helsknight’s hand in both of his. “Praise every god and saint in hels.”

“Was I out long?” Helsknight asked, his voice a rough rasp in his dry throat. He started to sit up, and let out a painful breath as the twinge in his stomach shocked him still. It wasn’t nearly the unbearable stab from earlier, but it stiffened his spine and threatened to take his breath. Tanguish’s hand was on his chest pushing him gently back down.

“Easy does it, Killer,” Tango said, offering half of a laugh he clearly didn’t feel. He passed one of the potions to Tanguish, who got to work uncorking it. “That was intense.”

“I’ve had worse,” Helsknight said dismissively, not entirely sure if the statement was true. He may have had worse wounds before, but he didn’t think he’d ever had worse circumstances. He sipped on the potion and sighed with relief as the intensity of aches and pains across his body soothed. The lance in his stomach dulled to a bitter, persistent throb. He looked down in time to see what was left of the wound knitting itself back together, and then grimaced, when he realized the blankets he was on were spattered in blood. “Uhm… sorry for ruining whoever’s bed this is.”

“Blankets needed washed anyway,” Wels said from the doorway. Just about everyone in the room startled -- apparently Helsknight wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard him enter. He’d taken off his armor, and stood in only a blue tunic and breeches, his empty scabbard cinched around his waist. The cut on his cheek was still there, though the blood had been washed away.

[Enough time to get rid of his arms and armor, but not enough time to heal himself.]

[Intentionally defanged.]

Helsknight curled an arm around his stomach, shielding a hurt that was no longer there. Wary.

“What happened? I have Tango's side of the story but...” Wels asked quietly, soothingly. It was not the quiet of violence or anger. It was the quiet of someone trying very, very hard to be nonthreatening. He looked to Tango first, and when the Hermit looked away awkwardly, not sure how to answer, he looked to Helsknight. “Please.”

“I-it was my fault--” Tanguish started nervously.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Helsknight interrupted. “A group of thugs took Tanguish captive. When Tango and I realized what happened, we went to get him back.”

Helsknight briefly toyed with the idea of taking responsibility for what had happened. He found himself… somewhat protective of Tango. Something noticeable in how he saw the Hermit as a person had shifted. He didn’t have time yet to untangle just what or why, but he thought if Wels was going to get high-and-mighty about what had happened, he might try to spare Tango from the brunt of it. It wasn’t like Wels could hate Helsknight any more than he already did.

“A group of thugs?” Wels queried, his voice taking on a slightly more grim cast.

“I didn’t know they existed before today.” Helsknight answered honestly. “They will not exist for much longer.”

Tanguish looked at him, startled. “You… you can’t. Helsknight they almost--”

“I know people who can,” Helsknight said. He downed the rest of his potion, and this time when he sat up, he did it painlessly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grimacing at how gross he felt. He scowled disgustedly at himself, at his gore-splattered clothes. His arms were strangely bare now that the gauntlets were off, two swaths of unmarked skin surrounded by havoc.

“We should get you cleaned up,” Wels observed. 

“I will take care of myself at home.”

“Tango said your house was trashed.”

Helsknight shot the little Hermit a glare. 

Tango only held his hands up in surrender. “Didn’t think it was a secret, sorry.”

“Tango,” Wels said, his voice still that cool, soothing quiet, “I have some food cooking. Make sure Tanguish gets something warm.” He rested his gaze on Helsknight. “Come on. I’ve already gotten started on your armor.”

He disappeared into the hall. Helsknight, Tango and Tanguish all exchanged glances.

“If… if he tries to fight you,” Tanguish stammered, “come back here. I’ll get us home.”

Helsknight studied the empty place Wels had been standing.

“... I don’t think he wants a fight,” Helsknight said cautiously. He hesitated a moment longer, then stood and followed after Wels.

Helsknight’s other half had gone outside. He lived in a small castle away from the other Hermits, though he was within easy sight of one of his neighbors in the river. He had moved several tools outside: cauldron, grindstone, and a drying rack among them. Helsknight’s gore-streaked sword was propped up against the grindstone, his gauntlets and grieves in the grass beside it. The gauntlets had already been scoured once, though looking at them, Helsknight knew he’d probably be scrubbing them down with a toothbrush for the next few days before he got out every bit of blood. 

“No one’s on this side of the server besides xB, and he’s probably half a league underground right now, diamond hunting,” Wels said, grabbing up a rag and dunking it into the cauldron. “Get your chain and your shirt off. No one will care -- and if you care, no one will see.”

The bitter creature of animosity he always held for his hermit wanted to crawl to life and argue. You will see. But Helsknight was tired down to the bottom of his soul, and while Welst’s emotions seemed muffled and odd to him right now, none of them seemed to contain bad intentions. Helsknight did as he was told, peeling off first his tunic, then the chainmail and padding underneath.

“Leave your chainmail here,” Wels said, picking up one of his grieves and getting to work scrubbing. “Though I recommend taking your shirt to the water with you.”

“I know how to clean my gear,” Helsknight muttered.

Wels shrugged. “I didn’t say you didn’t.”

They side-eyed each other for a moment, gauging reactions. Helsknight sighed and waded into the water.

The river was cold. That was something Helsknight had to admit he wasn’t used to. Running water in this much quantity in hels was already a rare thing. This much cold water in hels was practically impossible. It sent goosebumps sprinting across his skin, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from squeaking ingloriously when it swirled up to his waist. Satisfied he was deep enough to suitably clean himself, Helsknight got to work scrubbing everything he could reach. 

He had hoped it would be soothing. At the very least, he hoped getting the blood off would ease the persistent nausea still squirming around in his stomach. Watching the water slowly redden around him, though, only made him feel sicker. What started as calm, scrubbing started to get rougher as a tremor worked its way into his hands. Every pass of his touch across his clothes, his skin, all earned him more blood. Helsknight found himself taking long, intentional breaths in an effort to keep himself calm. It was his hair that broke him. He carded his hands back through the messy locks, only for his fingers to snag on mats and tangles, and when he knelt down in the water to wet the ends and comb them out, a clot of brown-black ugliness came out onto his fingers.

Helsknight’s hands were shaking. What had started as low-level nausea suddenly twisted his guts in something much more intense and immediate. He stamped it down as best he could. He was the Champion of hels, for helssakes. He’d seen blood before. He’d seen more than blood before. He shouldn’t be acting like this, feeling like this. What was so different between what he’d just done, and fighting people he knew in the Colosseum?

[He’d never maimed people with the express intention of leaving them alive, in the Colosseum.]

[No one had ever kicked his wounds, purposefully, because it seemed like a fun thing to do in the Colosseum.]

[No one had ever held him down while he struggled and thrashed, and threatened to dismember him in the Colosseum.]

[And in the Colosseum, he’d never done that to anyone else.]

Helsknight didn’t know what repulsed him more: the den of snakes this whole fiasco had revealed, or himself. The thought of going back there, of leading knights and paladins to the place to clear it out, sent a pang of dread through him so fiercely, it squeezed his chest tighter, and made it hard to breathe. Helsknight shivered, and shivered again, and couldn’t stop shivering. 

[He needed to get the blood off.]

A sense of calm and serenity suddenly blanketed Helsknight, washed over him like the cold water of the river. It draped itself over his thoughts, slowed them to a halt. Tenseness in his shoulders and spine relaxed almost against his will. The shuddering in his hands stopped.

[Wels.]

Helsknight turned to look at his other half, who had doubled over the cauldron, a look of deep concentration on his face. He was breathing in long, slow, deliberate breaths, and when he exhaled his mouth moved as he counted. Wels, with determined intent, and no small amount of sympathy radiating from him like smears of sunset color, was anchoring Helsknight like a port in a storm. Forcefully, by controlling himself first. 

“You did what you had to do,” Wels said quietly, but honestly, and that honesty was golden light. On anyone else, it would have been a binding shackle, an imposition of will. On Helsknight, who was immune to that from Wels, it was a display of sincerity. “You are the perfect knight, Helsknight. You’ve said so yourself: Knighthood is ugly, and unkind.”

Slowly, like a storm cloud passing over, Wels’s blanket of assuredness rolled off of him, and when it did, Helsknight realized he was crying. They were small, contained tears, the kind of thing that came from fatigue more than anything. Shame and bitterness crawled to life in his chest, and he did his best to stamp them down. 

“Fuck I’m tired,” Helsknight said, the most self-aware thing the thought he was capable of at the moment. He should have seen this coming. The exhaustion after a long fight, the emotional fallout of finally coming down from fear and adrenaline. 

“I didn’t think it was wise to let you rest for too long,” Wels said somewhat cautiously. “I know us.”

“Needed to get cleaned up before everything rusted anyway,” Helsknight muttered, finally dragging himself from the river. His clothes would need another wash at some point. There were still stains that he hadn’t managed to scour away. But the blood was off his body at least. 

He looked with disgust at his sword, his stomach twisting again when he saw it. He forced himself to take it in hand and, when Wels offered him a rag, began wiping it down. Wels had moved on to his chainmail, running over it with a bristle brush to clean the links. Laid out beside him were pliers and a box full of rings -- apparently he intended on repairing it as well.

They worked in silence, broken only by the small, lethal noises of cleaning and polishing and scrubbing. Blood had gotten underneath the leather wrapping around Helsknight’s sword hilt, so he unwound it to re-oil the leather, and seal it with wax. Wels moved on from scrubbing the chain to repair, and the air filled with the soft clatter of the links moving, and Wels occasionally discarding links that didn’t fit back into the box again. Intermittently, when Helsknight’s mind had been still for too long, anxiety would make his hands shake, and the ghost of the boot against his stomach would twist like a knife in his guts, and his world narrowed to the quickness of his breathing and the determination not to vomit into the grass. Every time it happened, Wels stopped what he was doing and breathed, and counted, and, when the fit passed, repeated, “You did what you had to do.”

With a single-minded purpose they put Helsknight’s world back to order. It was as efficient as it could be. It was relentless, and determined, in the way two knights focused on one goal could only be. It was the slow, methodical purging of discomfort, seeking normalcy. Helsknight felt that Wels was trying to put him back in the box he was meant to live in -- force him back into being something he expected to see. Helsknight wondered, if their situations had been reversed, if he would react the same way. If he would piece his other half back together, purely because seeing him ripped apart was too uncomfortable.

[He thought he might.]

“What happened?” Wels asked quietly, as he bent another chain link in place with his pliers. He paused in his work, watching Helsknight with those frigid, sky-blue eyes. Helsknight thought they were carefully neutral, the wind holding its breath over a lake. “What happened to cause the panic, specifically.”

Helsknight looked down at his sword. He had polished it to a shine again, though he’d had to rinse the rag a few times to do it. The edge was marred with chips and dents. He would be sharpening it for ages. 

“Tango said you go to confession,” Wels said at length, when Helsknight said nothing. “I don’t know how yours works. Mine mostly involves two people sitting in a room, talking. Normally they can’t see each other. The anonymity is important. We could set our stools back to back.”

Helsknight shook his head. “You wouldn’t like how my Saint takes confession.”

A ripple of discomfort broke the intentional, smothering placidity clinging to Wels. “Tango, uhm, also said you cut yourself.”

“Prayer.”

“Ah.”

Wels snapped another link into place.

Helsknight picked up a whetstone Wels had laid out for him in the grass. He propped his sword against his knee. Before he ran the stone across it, something prodded him gently in the shoulder. Helsknight took the knife Wels offered him. It was a small blade, a tool, not a weapon, but the edge was sharp. Helsknight stared at it for a long time, while Wels patiently bent stubborn links into place. 

“I’ve never chosen this for myself,” Helsknight whispered. “The Saint is supposed to tell you your penance.”

“What did you do that was wrong?”

Helsknight took a long breath.

“... I was cruel.”

Wels snapped another link into place.

“... I was… cowardly.”

There was the rattle of metal as Wels searched for another link. 

“... I was wrathful.”

The pliers clicked as Wels pulled the ring apart, twisting it deftly, a practiced craft.

“... I served myself, and my aims, instead of my Saint’s.”

Helsknight turned the little knife in his hand. He let out a slow, steadying breath. He ran his thumb down his forearm, tracing the direction of the vein there. He stumbled through memories of going to confession, of what price the Saint had asked of him for similar sins. He decided on a cut to his sword wrist, something painful and inconvenient, that would take time to heal.

“Your Saint,” Wels said, and Helsknight paused before he could draw the blade across his skin. “Does he have more knights?”

“They have many, yes.”

Wels nodded. He pried another link in place and sat back, running the chainmail beneath his hands. He hadn’t completely patched the hole the spear had made, but he was getting close. A few more links until the gap closed. He ran it over his hand again, making sure all the links were laying in the right directions.

“I heard you speak a little… before we came through to hels.” Wels admitted. “Something about bringing every knight and paladin in hels down on the place. Does that include your Order?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell… your Saint… everything that happened today, when you ask them all to come?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure your Saint will lend you hi-- their knights?”

Helsknight let out a slow breath. “My Saint doesn’t suffer cruelty.”

“So then, your Saint would approve of what you did today.”

Helsknight shook his head almost immediately. “No. They can’t.”

“You… uhm… you just said…”

“That was cruel,” Helsknight said. “That was terrible. I was terrible.”

Helsknight felt that smothering blanket of calm start to drape over him again, and he tried to shake it off. 

“I threatened-- I almost-- I would have--”

“They took your friend hostage. They tried to take you hostage.”

“I cut through so many people. You saw me. I was-- I was a bloody mess. I was a terror. I was a ruin.”

“They held you down and tried to disfigure you.”

“I would have torn that place apart brick by brick. I was one man, and I would have razed that place to the ground. I was the wrath of gods, working under my own will.”

“They stabbed you in the gut and tortured you with it.”

“Stop-- stop--- stop acting like I was being reasonable.”

“Then stop acting like you deserve to suffer for it.”

Helsknight flinched at another touch to his shoulder. He glared at Wels, and then blinked in puzzlement. Wels held out a hand to him, palm up, waiting patiently. Helsknight really must have been tired, because it took him far too long to realize Wels was asking for the knife back. 

“They tortured you once already,” Wels said quietly, sternly. “Don’t retread the ground for them.”

Helsknight’s chest felt tight. Something like panic welled up inside him so fast it was nearly blinding. He was scared. He was terrified. Not just by what he’d done, but what he was capable of doing. No man, no matter how desperate, or for how good a cause, should be allowed to do what he had done today. Not on their own. Not without divine intervention, something holy telling them what they’d done was right. He could not be trusted with the responsibility of starting his own crusade. He had no right to be judge and executioner, but he’d done it nonetheless, and it terrified him. And it terrified to know that, after doing it once, he now knew he could do it again. That couldn’t be right. That wasn’t allowed to be right.

Helsknight and Wels both moved at the same time. Helsknight, on the sudden unstoppable impulse to punish himself for what he’d done. Wels, feeling his intentions the instant they focused themselves into something actionable. Wels lunged at him, one hand a vice on his wrist, the other catching the knife before he could use it. 

“Helsknight,” Wels commanded, his voice glory-gold and relentless, “your Saint doesn’t abide cruelty.”

Helsknight scowled. He wanted to say yes! Exactly! He wanted to say that’s the entire point, you idiot! He wanted, very badly, to feel the blade running across his skin. He wanted to do something quick, and painful, and immediate to alleviate his guilt. He wanted--

“Does that include being cruel to yourself?”

Helsknight managed to twist his hands free of Wels’s grasp.

“Answer me.”

Helsknight shook his head.

“Is that a no?”

“I don’t-- I’m not being--”

“You are.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“It does!” Wels snapped, his composure finally slipping. “A good knight abides by his tenets.”

Helsknight sprang to his feet suddenly, his panic exploding into something white hot and angry. “You don’t know my Saint! You don’t know my Saint’s will!”

Wels rose to his feet as well, and this, this was familiar. This was normalcy. This was the world set to order and correctness and--

“You’re right,” Wels said, stern and determined, but not angry. “I don’t know. But you do. So answer me. What does your Saint say about being cruel to yourself?”

Helsknight shoved him. Hard. Hard enough that Wels stumbled back over his seat and fell to the ground. Then he turned, angrier now that he’d acted, and kicked over the grindstone. Helsknight paced, full of angry, anxious energy. The rage and fury that chases fear. He wanted to run. He wanted to bite and kick and punch. He wanted to-- he wanted-- he wanted--

Wels, still laying in the grass, started counting again. Counting, and breathing. He was trying so, so hard not to spiral. To not give in to the way their emotions circled each other. Beneath the determination to try, to keep a grip on his sanity, was a depth of sympathy and compassion that was nauseating in its intensity. Someone who had witnessed atrocity, and for once, didn’t blame Helsknight for it. It hurt. It ached. It pushed its way into Helsknight’s chest, and begged him to relent, to be kinder. It was so different. It was so human. It wasn’t how the Hermits were supposed to be. He needed them not to be kind. He needed-- he wanted--

Helsknight realized he was crying again, only because he blinked and realized his world had blurred beyond recognition, turning to smears of blue and green. A sob hiccupped its way up his ribs, and he felt so stupid. There came another, thick and harsh and ugly, and then he couldn’t stop himself. He stood there in the grass like an idiot and he cried, loud uncontrollable sobs. It was the kind of cry he hadn’t had in years, maybe never. The kind that made him feel like a child, with emotions too big to keep in his body.

At some point, Wels crossed to him, and very gently, as though trying his best not to intrude, he took the knife from his hand. Then he righted the grindstone, and finished snapping the links into place on Helsknight’s armor. By the time he’d finished, Helsknight had managed to pull himself back together again, little by little. 

“U-uhm. We all, uh, we all alive out here?”

Helsknight swore colorfully. He passed his hand over his face, and demanded hoarsely, “How long have you been here, Tango?”

“Who, me?” Tango asked, a nervous laugh in his voice. Something behind Helsknight shuffled -- Tango grabbing up something to take back into the house with him, maybe. “Not long. Definitely. Probably. I wasn’t-- you know. Keeping tabs on you two in case you got a little too knightly or anything. I wouldn’t do that. I trust you. Implicitly.”

Helsknight snorted.

“It’s just, uh, you know. Food’s done.” Tango continued. “And uh. Also if anything else bad happened today, I think Tanguish would break in half.”

“We’re fine,” Wels said, calm, quiet. “We’ll be inside shortly.” He paused, and then added, “Uh, knight’s honor.”

“Right.”

Tango retreated, footsteps cushioned by the greenery. Helsknight was not used to the sound of grass. Stone, basalt, netherrack, hyphae. He had the sound of footsteps on those memorized. Grass was a rushing, soothing noise, almost like water in its consistency.

“I think your armor is as clean as it’s getting, without going over it with a fine brush,” Wels said. “I have more netherite plate. Spare stuff, in case I lose sets in the End.”

“Keep it.”

“It’s not charity. I owe you a set, from when we last fought, and you fell in the End.”

“It’s not… because of the charity.” Helsknight crossed his arms. “I haven’t worn plate for awhile.”

“Hm.”

“Why.”

Wels tilted his head to the side questioningly.

“The calm. The kindness. The…” Helsknight gestured broadly. “We hate each other.”

“We do.”

“So why.”

Wels looked away from him, quietly considering the ground. At length he said, “Apparently… your Saint isn’t the only person who can’t abide cruelty.” 

Wels reached a hand up to his chest and sighed. “When Tango came and got me… I didn’t want to come and help you. I could feel… something. Struggle. But you’re right. We hate each other.” 

He sighed again. “And then I stepped into hels.”

Wels chuckled bitterly. “Fear. And helplessness. And desperation. And Pain.”

He looked up at Helsknight. “I thought I was going to respawn on the spot. And I wasn’t you.”

“We hate each other,” Helsknight repeated. 

“We do,” Wels agreed. “But… I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

Welsknight offered Helsknight an ironic smile, “Not even you.”

The two knights watched each other. Nervous. Awkward. Worried. And underneath it all, an undercurrent of surreality and ridiculousness. Two enemies forced to admit some things could be worse than their rivalry.

“Anyway,” Welsknight said, “when you go back and storm the place, you have my sword, if you want it."

[lord-of-the-weird]

<3

St. Jimmy

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Setting sun and sin

Frollo x nun!reader

warning : obsession, manipulation, blood, murder (nothing graphical), Frollo being a creep, no use of Y/n

Summary : The evening is still young and pairs of eyes have each settled on different bodies. The punishment of heaven and hell falls on someone and the judge throws his claws at the innocent in person unaware that another judge has already condemned him.

info : The start of my little frollo series i hope you like it as much as i did. Every sunday a new chapter there will be five so it will take a while to finish but there will be smut that much i can say ;) Have fun reading and this time committing sin is allowed.

masterlist

Part.2 , Part.3, Part.4, Part.5

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What is sin if not love? What is love if not sin? Is it not the same as with each new rising that when the sun illuminates this earth created by God, its inhabitants, the people, are also drawn to another day full of sin and drawn to sin by the devil, a monster from the deepest darkness from hell.

But even when the sun lay over the earth and illuminated everything, it shone on the holy buildings, on the churches, monasteries and cathedrals, the cross high above blessed all and the stained glass windows drew lights of hope and figures of salvation.

It was such a place where only the saints and those praying for salvation met. The old archdeacon was a kind man with a pure heart, with compassion for his charges and a man who helped all people no matter where they came from or what they believed in.

But just as there was good in every city, there was always darkness, darkness that remained hidden, darkness in the alleys, in the streets full of filth and poverty. In the streets of thieves and robbers streets in which human abysses lurked.

But this darkness existed even in the highest instance of the city of Paris hidden in a man a man a judge the name everyone knew. But was this really the only thing lurking in the city of Paris that had a second face?

Could there really only be two monsters in Paris? Questions of faith of her own mind, however, she was not affected by his beautiful sun like an infinite light his life his desire to continue at all in this city.

A city full of sinners and hypocrites he was the only authority, even if this went round and round in his head like a mantra. So he couldn't get away from her since she came here from her former clsoter apart from Paris as far as he had access to the papers.

What beauty strayed into my realm that day and you will never leave again came to his mind as he looked at the Notre Dame Cathedral from the window of his abode.

The place where his pain of the past and his light resided, her brightness, her beautiful concealment under the nun's robe, who, to his sorrow, happily faced Quasimodo whenever she saw him.

A fact that pointed him to every sin he knew, every mortal sin he hated and hated she never had…but she was different she was sin itself. A beautiful creature in a city that contained nothing but scum.

But he had to sacrifice himself for all the poor souls, of course, but that was something he was willing to do, ,,How precious of me,” he murmured, turning away with one last look at the church, back to his desk, the dark wood on which were papers of the city's records, the candles flickering as his figure sat down on the upholstered chair and his ringed fingers reached for the quill.

A bright white soft quill dipped in the dark ink before he continued to write the signatures and orders. A task he had been doing for decades and could probably have done it in his sleep, but no. Of course, any other man would have taken a bribe at this point, given up his power and sat back.

But what a disgraceful act this would be, ,,Giving up power is something only the stupid ones do” he spoke his thoughts and didn't have to look at the rings worth a fortune just the tip of his wealth but he would never succumb to a sin of utter excess and immoderation to show off this splendor. Sins were for weak men, for monsters for creatures of their instincts not for him.

The way the ink on the paper had found its way and soaked into the rags like a dagger thrust, a dagger thrust of corruption, a portrait of weakness. No, no, nothing like that would happen to him, he knew that. While the pen continued to run over the paper for some time, his writing did not lose its flourish and he took sporadic sips from his goblet of dark wine.

Time passed and the city was filled with the noisy people trading and shopping at the market, a mass of people going about their day doing almost the same thing every day.

He prayed for salvation whenever the church called for a service and then celebrated when festivities were due.

A cykle he no longer needed, not as an inciting and dispelling force, not when the city guard was under his hand, not when he had power and not when he would see it.

Letting the pen glide over the paper one last time, he signed the last signature and folded the papers, giving a slight sigh of annoyance before releasing the chalice and opening the drawer of his writing desk. A small compartment for more ink or another silver tip for the quill but he reached for the familiar object.

The faint click of the pearls could be heard as they clinked together, the mother-of-pearl changing color from a creamy white to a turquoise and light violet.

Pearls that had been hand-sewn pearled like dark pearls harmonized with the three ruby pearls in between before the Christian counterpart ended with a golden cross.

White pearls like her innocence, the rubies like her untainted blood and the gold for the ring she will wear he thought with a wry smile before hiding the rose in his robe and walking out of his chambers to the stable attached to it. ,,My lord, good evening,” the stable boy greeted his master and looked from the black horse Snowball to the older one who gave him an annoyed look and pointed to the saddle with a wave of his hand.

,,I'll be back at night for a private meeting of the church. I want the food ready when I get back,” he said, ignoring the catty, submissive manner as he saw exactly how the smaller one was worrying in his head about what the best food was.

But so far he had always had something good made, maybe that was the reason why he hadn't ended up in the dungeon like his last one. But what did he care now, after a moment of wrestling and tightening the straps, he handed him the reins and Frollo swung himself onto his faithful companion.

He ignored the congratulations of his stable boy and moved to the reins before Snowball trotted off in the direction of the church. The clatter of horseshoes on the stone could be heard as the people who were out that early evening dodged him and bowed, but he paid them no heed.

His gaze was on the cathedral, seeing the cross illuminated by the setting sun, he knew she was here, knew she was always in the church at this time…he had watched her too many times for that. His horse rode through the streets and squares and it only took a few minutes before he brought Snowball to a halt with another tug on the reins.

Patting the animal lightly, he dismounted to make his way up the sacred stairs he had climbed all his life and yet ever since he had seen her, there was something truly divine about her. She was something divine. The slight squeak of the big old wooden doors let others know that another believer had entered.

His dark eyes immediately went to one of the statues, an altar to Mother Mary, where she always knelt and prayed for the poor, for the children, for the nuns and monks on their missionary journey. Moving quietly towards her, he waited at one of the pillars but his gaze did not even leave her form.

Despite her nonen habit she looked beautiful, on the contrary the fabric on her body the face which was framed by the white and black fabric the long skirt which nevertheless could not completely hide her pretty form. Her ankles not covered by stockings when she bent to pick something up he had seen her he had made an image of her.

Of a biblical beauty, of the soft, lovely eyes, the fine hands that must have been as soft as her whole body, the lips that curled into a smile whenever she played with the orphans and read stories.

Her voice was not too loud, not too soft, appropriate to her situation, yet knowing her place in society. A voice that drew him in so softly that sometimes he wanted to hear it break.

Her form under her clothes simply perfection like an angel an angel on earth and without wings it seemed as if Lucifer had already taken her wings and brought her here but he knew once she heard him she would bear his name and the gold on her finger would illuminate her in her holiness.

But he couldn't let his mind wander any further than that as she turned to him after she had finished her prayer and had an expression that was at first surprised and then neutral.

,,Good afternoon, Judge Frollo,“ she greeted him and made a slight curtsy which made him smile slightly and he made a bowing gesture, ,,Likewise to you I hope I have not disturbed your prayer?” he asked and looked briefly between himself and the saintly figure knowing that she could only pray partially knew that whenever her head looked down a little further she was lost in the prayers without the rosary. But why was she so nervous? She lacked the stability he could give her.

He saw exactly how she was overcome, her gaze fell for a moment on her hands, he saw that she had probably tried to use them to help her, but she didn't have fifty-nine beads and she just needed something to lead her back to God. ,,No-no you do not have that please don't be worried” she said and shook her head slightly the small wooden cross that lay on her chest moved slightly a cross she would take off when she had hers.

,,Is something bothering you my love?” he asked after her gaze avoided his again and she seemed to ask something, not quite trusting herself as if she didn't know if their “relationship” was ready. He came a step closer, suppressing his desire to lay a hand on her and reassure her that it was all right, but then his pretty holiness found her voice again.

,,My rosary it seems I have lost it…it helps me to pray better have you seen it?” she dared to ask and pointed lightly at her cross as if to confirm that she did not have it but he knew for a week that she did not have it not after he had it stolen. The wooden furs in his bedside cabinet were locked away just for himself.

He gave her a pitying look before raising his hand as if he had just thought of something, ,,Wait I have mine with me as a judge you always have to be prepared for anything” he said and smiled slightly because there was truth behind it you really had to be prepared for anything and always be one step ahead of a pretty naive little sheep as a wolf.

He pulled the rosary out of his robe and she heard surprised noises when she saw the more than normal rosary, such a thing was expensive and costly, something she could never afford.

She hastily stepped back a step and raised her hands slightly, ,,No, Judge Frollo, this is yours, I can't accept such a valuable thing, please, really,” she tried to convince him, but he had long since made up his mind.

This time he shook his head slightly, took her hand gently in his, felt that her skin was truly soft and placed the rosary in her hand, holding it for a moment before he closed his fingers around it.

,,I insist as judge and bearer that you can do the will of god properly“ he replied and saw her look at the rosary for a moment and then to him a look of infinite gratitude had settled on her eyes and a smile revealed itself to him ,,Have many thanks Frollo many thanks you are a truly holy savior” she said and he saw her wrap the pretty beads one by one around her hand as she held it.

He looked at her for a moment before heading back towards the main door and she followed him, knowing she had to go home.

Of course he knew. ,,How can I repay you?” she asked when they arrived at the door and his hands had opened it, the cool evening air coming slightly towards them and her skirt moving slightly, ,,A meal I would like to invite you for a meal to discuss the situation of the orphans”.

A sentence that made them even more confused but on the one hand happy that ma was taking care of the poor children and on the other hand almost intimidated by a meal. ,,Please, I insist,” he begged, this time placing a hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, feeling the warm body under the soft fabric.

A body that would belong to him. But she gave in, of course she did, she had too much respect for such a powerful man in her presence. The voice of her farewell, a soft sound wafting in the early evening, left him in her shadow.

He knew he could have accompanied her to her small apartment, knew he could have forced his way inside her walls, but why would the wolf strike so quickly when stalking and hunting was so much better?

His eyes didn't leave her form until she had passed into the streets, the sun seemed to have disappeared behind the cross, the gold in the air vanished and it would grow cold a chill that was in his heart except for her That fool better have prepared dinner he thought as he turned back to his horse and was about to mount Snowball when he snorted and jerked his head up. Fear. His animal was afraid, but of what?

Looking around not knowing if it was those tricky witches and wizards, those nefarious insects on the streets in their caravans. ,,Show yourselves in the name of the law of France!” he commanded, his voice echoing through the streets and it seemed as if the dark alleys were suddenly getting longer, darker and colder with every step he took away from his snowball back to the church.

His hand on the side of his robe feeling the dagger, knowing he was getting away with everything. ,,Show yourselves now!” he shouted it wasn't fear he felt it was uncertainty that someone didn't accept him. That his position was being questioned.

But then right there he saw a shadow from the dark not even a blink later he felt the hard stone of the stairs under his feet he stepped off or had he been pushed? Was it a shadow or had he seen those hideous hellish eyes, was it God's answer to his plan?

Or was it something else, what had that something been that had struck him with a dagger that almost broke his bones. His scream trying to escape his throat as he felt an unspeakable pain in his throat, a voice like a whisper entering his body, claws pinning him to the ground. He heard the neighing of Snowbald who did not know what was happening, who had the evil feeling.

But the judge of this something that could not be human finally let go of him in his state of seeing this creature. ,,The devil” his dry lips uttered as his hand pressed down on his neck to stop the bleeding after the underworld creature had bitten him, the words of the bible as close as he had ever gotten.

But those red eyes, the jet-black hair that blew in the non-existent wind, the white skin that kept heaving under the shadow that surrounded him, and those rice fangs sharp and deadly that were still bloody. ,,You will not get rid of them, my judge…such a monster within the church you are now…and your faith has called me Judge Claude Frollo” he heard the devil speak and as it stretched out a shadowy arm before the sound of beeping and fluttering could be heard.

Hundreds of bats swooped down on him and the swarm took his revenant master but the look of those red undead eyes he would not forget and with the bite…everyone knew the stories.

Not those of the devil but those of the revenant who rose from his graves to infest the living. His dark eyes with a slight sly daze searched the ground for the dagger and he lunged for it when he finally saw it.

His heart pounded like a drum as he pulled his collar down slightly and a sound of disbelief escaped him when he saw the bloody bite with the two dots.

But his lips did not curl into a grimace of fear, of fear that the devil had met him-no, not at all. The figure of the judge rose, staggering, the dagger firmly in his hand and a smile on his lips as he realized what God had rewarded him with, what the devil had blessed him with.

It was the judge's laughter that echoed through the dark alleys as he still laughed about it and couldn't contain himself as he realized what he was, as he realized that it would be so much easier now, that his stable boy was waiting for him and his heart made a sound that made Frollo grip the dagger tighter.

A melody that became a scream as the judge's own fangs dug into the younger man's body and he feasted on the new food…just as he would soon feast on her.

,,Thank God for casting me out and pray to the devil to lead you to me for your heart and his will be mine my love” he finished his last supper and threw the body into the haystack with a force he had not felt for many decades before the judge's laughter was reduced to a grin of madness and the door of the mighty man slid shut…but the night was far from over for Judge Claude Frollo and especially for his pretty nun, a world of darkness had only just begun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@magmabayvi , @missmannequin , @siwucha

@aliensthegreat , @oceansrose2002 , @fantadym

[dogloveri23]

Thieves and Saints

pairing: Cyno X gn! reader Warning: Angst and mentions of death A/n: So, I just want to mention again that these posts are to celebrate my blog's 4-year anniversary and the others will be linked in the anniversary post here!

Often times Cyno often layed in bed and questioned the decision he would make if his ideals and desires one day collided. He often weighed his decisions and came to the conclusion that he wouldn't let go of his ideals. He saw it as an interesting concept but never a reality at least not until today. His muscles tensed as he raced through Sumeru city to get to the Academia. His lungs burned and his sweat dripped profusely across his entire body.

"Theif, you shall not be spared by the Matra!", He heard someone yell. He hoped and prayed that his intel was wrong but it was rarely wrong. Yet he held faith in Hamanubis that this would be some cruel joke.

"If this was past Sumeru, you would be killed quietly in a corner", Another voice said.

The closer he got, he could see your familiar tuft of hair. Your head dropped as you hiccupped between cries. "I didn't do this, I know that's what the evidence is pointing to but I swear I know nothing about this!"

Your voice was shaking, you didn't sound the way you usually did and now you were covered in cuts and bruises that would get infected if no one helped you out.

"Step away from them," He spoke firmly. He could feel the rage bubbling within him as his eyes glanced at your restraints. You looked up at him and he could see a glimmer of hope in your eyes. But he couldn't relax not when he understood the gravity of the situation.

"General, this person is in charge of all previous cases of the stolen commodity. They and their people are in charge of crippling the economy and trade of all of Sumeru as we know it!"

It was a lie. Cyno knew it. He didn't have to see the evidence to know it. "What are the grounds and evidence of your claims?" He inquired, his eyes not leaving you and his mind not ceasing its prayers.

"The fingerprints analysis of her and those on the abandoned carriers in the desert line up as well as various photos of her with the fatui."

Both were suspicious but the odds of you working with the people who killed your parents are highly unlikely. If anything, you were probably seeking revenge. He would make sure to scold you when you got out of here. The fingerprint would be a tougher case to dispute.

"General Cyno, Carriers are not touched by mere passersby in Sumeru. As they do not work at Caravan Ribat to inspect goods, unless she was actively involved, it would make no sense for their fingerprint to be there!" A matra argued.

It was a solid line of reasoning. "Did you question the suspect?" He asked as sourness filled his mouth. It didn't feel right to call you a suspect but if he let a term of endearment slip, there would be no way for him to save you.

"Yes, but they insist they had no part in it and they just happened to be caught up in the middle. They mentioned helping a child going by the name of Zamba that they met in Sumeru City. No names were found in the archives"

"Then we shall take their word on it and search for Zamba. It would destroy the face of the Matra if we gave undeserving sentences".

"But if we let them go and they escape, they could likely cause more trouble. We shall detain them in prison for three days while we investigate."

"Very Well"

He grits his teeth. He couldn't stop you from going to prison as it was standard protocol. It was just three days, he needed you to hang on for three days while he got the evidence to set you free. He could save you and still stick to his ideals.

"Cyno! Cyno, please! The crimes I am being accused of are grave, the prisoners were starved because of it. If they get word that I may-"

"I'll look into it," He cut you off. But it was cold, too cold. He could see the last rays of hope completely fade from your eyes. It was like you knew something that he did not. Yet, if he spoke any longer, he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to keep his emotions at bay.

As soon as he was left to his own advances, he endlessly scoured the desert looking and searching for clues. His body begged for rest and yet he knew that if he closed his eyes, you would be behind bars.

As Hamanubis would have it, he found the real culprits and brought them to the Academia. He could feel his body crashing and yet he wouldn't give in, not until you were back home safe. Not until he could hold you to fall asleep. Not until he could kiss your worries away and have you back.

On his arrival at the academia, the other Matra gave each other solemn looks as they scratched the back of they're heads. "The person from earlier is innocent as per my report. I had expected to see you processing their release."

No response. Cyno cocked his head and looked at them once more. He couldn't understand why none of them refused to bring you out. Why were they choosing to keep his happiness away from him? Why were they choosing to deny him of his lover? He hadn't slept in days and yet they chose to withdraw his slumber further by keeping them away!

"General... They were killed. It slipped that they were a suspect and-"

"And you let the other prisoners mess with them?" He yelled. His calm exterior faltered in the blink of an eye.

"Sir-"

"You let them die!"

He felt himself fall to his knees as his palms dug into the ground. He could feel Hamanubis' power slipping out of him uncontrollably. He was too angry to stay calm. He was too upset to keep up a Facade. He wanted everyone and anyone to pay for the grave mistake.

***

Cyno coughed loudly as he broke into a cold sweat. His eyes dashed around to the familiar walls and bedding till they landed on you staring at him concerned. You looked sleepy and your general appearance was dishevelled. but you were unharmed and in one piece, just the way he liked you. It was all a terrible dream. He sighed in relief.

"Are you ok, Cyno. Do you need me to-" His arms engulfed you as his fingers traced patterns into your back.

"Just hug me. That's all I need my love."

"Alright, " You sigh. Your eyes are still heavy but you can tell he needs this from you."I love you."

"I love you too. And please run away from anyone named Zamba."

[topazadine]

🐎Story/WIP Tour Tag⛰️

Thank you @the-golden-comet for the tag! This one looks interesting and I am not sure I can do it justice, but I'll give it a shot. I absolutely loved Captain Hart taking us all around the world!

Our tour guide through Breme and Sina today will be Mordrek Willets, spy with the Sinan Intelligence Services. He doesn't appear until the fourth book in The Eirenic Verses, but you'll get a little sneak peak of him today.

Here, we're looking at his diary entries of the different places he has visted in Sina and Breme, which will be coded with the country color.

Kulniryi

Capital of Sina, home to the Royal Ocean Palace, Queen Alnan College, and of course, Thieves' Quarter, home to yours truly. Major international port, which would likely be the perfect place to launch an attack if the Fuarese Union gets sick of being Sina's vassal state. Kulniryi Harbor is one of the deepest and largest ports in the world - or so Queen Susuma says. Able to accommodate dozens of merchant ships at a time, it's no wonder that vessels from all across the globe come here. At least I can always be assured a beautiful woman to romance at one of the dozens of pubs. Loud, ugly, but perhaps the most beautiful city I've ever seen. So clean, and I must grudgingly admit that the black Royal Ocean Palace looks striking against the pale granite cliffs.

Santal

Suburb of Kulniryi. Most notable for Wet Cat Tavern, run by my good friend Ganbold. He's done me far too many favors over the years. Given that he was able to gracefully exit the Sinan Intelligence Services in a much more ... diplomatic way than me, it's always brimming with good intel. And Ganbold is more than happy to calmly and rationally persuade anyone who may not be behaving correctly to leave. Without any dangerous tactics, of course. Also home to the Haratshi family. I don't really want to talk much more about that.

Heretic's Way

This was the path that the heretical Princess Yiella took out of the future land of Sina with her lover, Seinn Luridalr Breme, who subsequently blocked their exit in quite a fantastical way. Anyway, Heretic's Way is perfect for those seeking a more discreet way to travel around Sina, given that everyone's terrified of the place. Not really sure why. Sinans aren't known for being particularly superstitious, but it seems the entire country has thrown away their brains when it comes to this one little path. Or maybe it's because they keep finding half-eaten bodies scattered willy-nilly about the premises. Briar bears, to be sure. I wouldn't know anything about that. Just secondhand information.

Eavelnen

Utter piece of shit town. Ugly, useless, and the one single pub is filthy. I was pretty sure I caught multiple diseases, but at least the alcohol's strong enough to burn away any parasites that might have got their hooks into me. Can't really say much more than that the air is perfumed with horse manure and body odor. You can smell the place from a mile away.

Traifalnar

What a strange little place - like one of those fairytales they read to children. It's built on a swamp, so there are dozens of little bridges that create a lacey network of streets. The buildings are sunk into the murky soil by heavy timber pylons that are probably rotted half to hell by now, so they're girded by strong wires that hold them all up, leaning against one another and distributing the weight. The townsfolk use these wires to send baskets or messages across the streets when they're too lazy to get out and walk. Its pub, Firefly's Rest, is pretty cute, I must admit. But god, the bugs. No wonder all the townsfolk wear citronella cloaks all year round.

Wieleiss

A forgettable town. It's one of the smaller military outposts but damn, do they take themselves far too seriously. The rolling foothills of the Rimuk Mountains - aftershocks of Breme's Saint Luridalr creating her fantastical barrier - start around here, so the town has a lovely view of the hills if you're staying at the Inn Wieleiss, the tallest building in town. I will admit that their inn is excellent: clean, with a well-stocked bar. The security leaves something to be desired, though. Probably because the soldiers themselves are not of the finest quality this far from Kulniryi. Of course they're taking bribes. The place has almost no industry. They're basically private security at this point.

Yunnoun

Spooky town. Butting right up against the Rimuk Mountains, it's the most fortified outpost in the entire country, always ready at a moment's notice to attack. Most of the populace is connected to the armed forces in some way, whether they're soldiers, military wives, or contractors. Their stables are enormous and maintained with almost neurotic precision. Of course, the Sinan army does not use horses in warfare - most of the soldiers have to go right up the Rimuk Pass to engage - but they are very useful for ferrying supplies, and most soldiers are accomplished in equestrianism anyway, as they may be asked to ferry messages to other outposts. Horseback riding is a good way to keep them from getting lazy, too. There are four entrances, each guarded by multiple soldiers who do not take kindly to those without proper identification. The military headquarters squats in the center of the town, with the barracks stretching out like spiders. Its training grounds is incredibly extensive and can accommodate hundreds of soldiers at a time.

Nyulinsk Defensive Tower

A tower hammered into the Rimuk Mountains, which has always been a sore spot for the Bremish. We stuck a military fortification on their most sacred mountain: Mt. Luridalr, so named after their beloved saint. Of course Queen Kulni did that just to piss them off, and it has worked marvelously for hundreds of years. More than a few soldiers have been picked off the top while trying to perform maintenance, so the poor tower is beat all to hell. There are singe marks from flaming arrows on the interior - it has always fascinated me how well the Bremish archers can get their arrows into those tiny slits. I imagine it has something to do with their precious High Poetry. I have not been inside so cannot speak much about the interior. Queen Susuma doesn't trust me enough, I suppose. As well she should not.

Rimuk Pass

This was supposedly where Saint Luridalr stood while bringing up the mountains: it's almost like an empty doorway in the middle of the enormous range that spans the length of the continent. Well, it used to be an open door. The Bremish have fortified it to hell and back with layers upon layers of brick; I imagine dozens of their soldiers have died attempting to protect their country by building a bigger wall. And, of course, during battles, which take place almost exclusively at the Pass. Our army has installed convenient footholds to climb up the side and drop down into enemy territory. Once they are beyond the Sinan border, most know that they are unlikely to return. Many have defected upon realizing how defenseless they will be on the other side - and how little Queen Susuma cares about getting them back unless they are somehow related to the royal family.

Dropbone Caverns

A strange, curving, and terrifying network of caverns buried under the Rimuk Mountains: impurities in the rock when it was wrenched from deep in the earth. There are at least two rivers that wind through it, having percolated from the very top of the mountains on their way into the groundwater. I can confirm that this long filtration process makes for very hard water. Delicious, though. The Bremish, being superstitious fools, refuse to use the Dropbone Caverns - or any caverns under the Rimuks - as points of attack. They believe that their dead reside in some mythical Cave of All Fallen, where Saint Luridalr waits with them for the end of the world. From there, they believe that their goddess Poesy will rewrite the world and they will reincarnate with their loved ones after a long "dream." Utterly ridiculous notion and very tactically unwise, but the taboo is so strong that the Bremish Army sporadically performs sweeps through a small section to ensure that none of their people have set up camp there. Being as they only check perhaps once or twice a year, and daren't traverse very far, most of the caverns remain unmapped. There are deep ravines that can easily become one's tomb if they aren't careful.

Vieleste

Beautiful Vieleste is a military outpost close to the Bremish entrance of the Dropbone Caverns. It is also home to the Vieleste Meronym, one of the High Poet Society's religious centers. An easy rule of thumb is that if there is a meronym, there is likely a military presence as well. The High Poets and the Bremish Army are closely entangled, given that the poets help enchant weapons for the military's use. I have never heard of anywhere in Breme where there is not at least the tiniest military outpost near an official meronym, though the High Poets have retreats throughout the country where their members can work in privacy. Anyway, Vieleste is a unique place in that some of the buildings have been erected atop the ruins of older homes that were crushed by boulders triggered by the Sinans. To think that they live atop the graves of their ancestors ... very disturbing, to be honest. I have been told this is because they believe though the boulders were sent from malice, they are hewed from the Rimuk Mountains, and thus they are sacred.

Gold Cascade

Oh, how can one even speak of the Gold Cascade without breaking down in tears at its beauty? It is born from a lake at the top of one of the Rimuk Mountains, which few have ever seen. The Bremish refuse to climb the mountains, and the Sinans rarely go for pleasure. I find myself deeply curious about what it may look like up there, at the top of the world .... This thunderous waterfall is so named because at sundrop, it is lit up in glorious golden hues, making it seem a stream of citrine pouring down the mountain. Some also believe that Saint Luridalr herself hid a treasure trove at its base, but I doubt it. She did not seem the avaricious type from what I have been told. At certain times, the Gold Cascade is wreathed in rainbows, while it steams during the summer. A unique ecosystem has grown up around it, including hardy fish and beautiful ferns. However, its strength has carved out underclings through the rock that surrounds it, creating vortices that could easily drown anyone who attempts to swim there. There are a number of superstitions about damned souls, and some believe that the Cave of All Fallen begins at its base.

Miskinint Lake

Technically a sinkhole, but I'm not about to argue with the Bremish about this. It is fed from the Gold Cascade further upstream, which then turns into the Great Gold River that nourishes most of the populace until it peters out into smaller rivers around the Windswept. I have been told this is a popular swimming hole and diving spot because of its steep cliffs and great width. There are specialized species that live here, including the Miskinint crayfish. Absolutely delicious with sheep's butter.

Caichaille

A very small, isolated town near the Rimuk Mountains, upways from Vieleste and its ilk. Perhaps 100 people live here, though it may be less. There is a cave entrance close by that has been firmly closed with a large iron door, and only the High Poets are allowed inside this cave to provide alms to the dead. The town itself is ringed with a defensive boulder wall, but there is a poet's retreats on its outskirts. A really ugly one, to be honest. It looks like someone just threw together a bunch of boulders and called it a day. I imagine it was probably a young High Poet forced to do this to prove her power.

Vercingetorix

Previously named Paulemaule, its current name is in honor of one of Breme's five saints, whose claim to fame was learning how to poison arrows and kill scores of Sinans through some incurable disease. Saint Vercingetorix was eventually caught and tortured by Sinan forces, and the secret to this poetry died with her. Some of her body parts were recovered by the Bremish and are kept as relics at the meronym. Given that she killed Sinans through an epidemic, Saint Vercingetorix is the patron saint of healing, and her meronym is renowned for its focus on the medical arts. Many desperately ill Bremish come here in hopes of finding a cure for their ailments. There is also a small military outpost, as expected, but I have seen that it is poorly maintained and ill-equipped to deal with an invasion.

Bewerian

The capital of Breme, it is the largest and most prosperous town. It is separated from its adjoining suburb, Goldnin, by Mermina's Bridge, which spans the Great Gold River. Mermina was one of Breme's five saints, who reversed a terrible drought of the Great Gold River through her poetry. Bewerian is home to the Bremish Council and the War Committee, which is their central place of governance. The War Committee is subordinate to the Bremish Council, and both are informally whipped by the High Poet Society, which works autonomously and could rescind its promise to help the military at any time. There is also a court here, where the most serious of crimes are prosecuted: sedition, treason, murder, child abuse, and assault. I have been told that the trials are mostly perfunctionary and that being convicted is a near-certainty. The punishments are brutal yet appropriate, such as castration for a serial sexual offender. Can't say I have many complaints about that.

Goldnin

The primary suburb of Bewerian, this is the home to Breme's principal marketplace and the Goldnin Meronym, where the most powerful High Poets train and perform their arts. I suspect that placing the meronym in the suburb was to demonstrate their independence from the government and military, forcing high-ranking officials from the Bremish Council to make the commute if they wish to consult with the poets. This is also the location of the War Academy, where soldiers train or wait for deployment. The training grounds are large and well-equipped, while there are numerous dormitories and barracks. One can see child soldiers here, as young as 11 years old, developing their bloodlust. There are also children they title "Future Boys," who can be thrown there by their parents when as young as 6 or 7. They are forced to perform manual labor until they reach the age of entrance into the Academy.

The Windswept

A vague and mysterious area of Breme set aside for the nomadic tribes: the original inhabitants of Breme, who were slowly pushed aside as more people turned to an agrarian lifestyle. While the nomads have representation on the Bremish Council and their own system of governance, they are often treated as second-class citizens by the settled peoples, who view them as backwards and archaic. In many ways, it feels like they are an enclave within the overall country, making their own rules and settling their own disputes through ancient processes. This area is less resource-rich than the settlements, yet carefully maintained by the tribes for maximum efficiency. Seasonal migrations help to cycle the soil and allow it to rest. There are large herds of feral horses, wolves, wild pigs, and even some strange, savage flightless birds that frequently cause problems. Large herbivorous creatures known as auraks live here and are hunted down using the fearless Bremish wolfhounds, domesticated from wolves and known for their indefatigability. Apparently the settled peoples think aurak meat is disgusting and prefer their livestock.

All these fascinating places will feature, at sometime or another, in the Eirenic Verses. If you'd like to get a good idea of what Goldnin and Bewerian are like, check out 9 Years Yearning, the first book in the series!

Tumblr tag list: @kuebiko-writing, @ryns-ramblings, @cain-e-brookman, @halfbit, @macabremoons,

@theverumproject, @aquadestinyswriting, @urlocalwitch555, @sarahswriting, @drchenquill,

@davycoquette, @mysticstarlightduck, @aalinaaaaaa, @gioiaalbanoart, @theaistired,

@somethingclevermahogony, @wyked-ao3, @avaseofpeonies,

[cowboyfromh3ll]

Ameliorate

(John Marston x Fem! Reader smut)

Warnings: none besides smut

I decided my first actual post would be John Marston related because I love him and he's my babygirl 🩷 (he is my favorite)

There was nothing pleasant about Saint Denis. At least not to John. As soon as he walked in, the city seemed to burst around him. It was the rousing hub of Lemoyne, teetering on the edge of pleasurable and wild. Stone paved streets, Victorian homes, large gated manors and estates occupied by industry magnates and crime lords putting on ornate facades. Flashy shops, extravagant theaters, lush parks, and bars in abundance. The crowds overwhelming, smells shocking; The miasma and smog of industrial factories, petrol, gas, horse dung, and somewhere in the mix was the smoky scent of restaurants.

It seemed as though Saint Denis was the only place where the wealthy and thieves alike could coincide. He could at least fit in somewhere in the equation. He would’ve never imagined himself ending up in a place like this. In fact, he preferred staying away from all this ‘civilization’, as Arthur once said. If it weren’t for the fact that the gang had been practically forced to move further east, he would’ve never come here to begin with. But alas, with more and more threats coming to the gang, John found himself here. He figured he might as well familiarize himself with the city, opting to go out on his own.

But one thing about Lemoyne, was that the heat and humidity was like being punched in the face by a sauna. John knew of the heat here, but the crowds and atmosphere only seemed to make it worse. He hadn’t even been out long and he was sweating his ass off.

John walked towards one of the many bars with the intention of cooling off, unfortunately finding himself surrounded by people of obvious higher social standing than him. He had never been one to put too much thought into his appearance, but the stark difference between his simple beige vest and dirt stained jeans to the three piece suits and sumptuous fabrics of silk lined dresses of the patrons was jarring. For a moment, he actually looked down at himself, making a subtle attempt at dusting himself off before walking further in.

He approached the expansive wooden bar and sat himself on a polished leather stool, clearing his throat awkwardly to get the bar tender’s attention. He had never felt more out of place in his life. But on the bright side, maybe he’d be able to get some sort of lead here, as risky as that was. He ordered himself a whisky, but he was surprised to discover this place also served as a restaurant.

John hadn’t even picked his whisky up, too preoccupied with the several dishes whose names he had never even heard of before on his menu; eventually deciding on lobster bisque, something he had never tried.

As he was about to hand the menu back, a sly little vixen slid onto the stool next to him.

“Make it another whisky, and a plate of beignets.”

John could barely register the add-ons to his order as he became aware of your presence next to where he sat. You had an endearing yet mischievous look in your eyes that’d made John second guess every interaction he’d have with you. You wore fashion typical of rich folk around here. Wide frilled skirt with a tightly fitted corset hugging and accentuating your figure. Your decorative accessories alone were probably worth more than anything he had in his satchel.

“Excuse me?” He finally said.

“You’re excused.” You chimed playfully, picking a beignet off the plate that was served before you. John could only wonder how entitled and stuck up this complete stranger must’ve been to order things for themselves under his tab.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who’s treating me!” You batted your lashes.

John swore to himself, attempting to restrain himself in fear of causing a scene. Especially when he was already calling so much attention to himself by simply existing there.

Normally, John wouldn’t have the patience to entertain someone so upfront and entitled in such a calm manner, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t attracted to you. Your features were downright angelic, your wealth obvious not only in how you dressed but how you took care of yourself. Your strongly scented shampoo and perfume wafting to him and intoxicating him like some sort of spell.

“So what’s an angel face like you doing chatting up a complete stranger like me?” He asked, sipping his whisky. You couldn’t help but giggle.

“‘Dunno, you looked interesting. Way different from all the guys ‘round here.” You responded. John wasn’t sure whether or not to take it in a good way considering the state of his appearance. But you found the roughness of his features so attractive. You couldn’t help but find yourself chatting him up. What you intended to do, he wasn’t sure, but he wanted to see where this could go.

“Shouldn’t you be talking up some rich boy?” He asked through a mouthful of lobster. You shook your head.

“They’re so boring. I’m looking for someone more… fun.” You punctuated your sentence by rubbing your leg next to his. John swore he heard himself gulp as he watched you bite into another beignet, the powdered sugar cascading down your plump lips and onto your shirt. He didn’t falter for a moment though, wanting to return the same energy. He would do anything to not let this moment slip from his fingers; it was like whistling on a hunt for a rabbit that would run away if one didn’t go in for the kill.

“Well I don’t know what you initially saw in me but I could give you something worth your while.” He smirked. He dipped his thumb in the powdered sugar, moving to cup your cheek with the same hand. He smoothed over your cheek, feeling the supple and soft skin. As he expected, you turned your head in his hand, taking the sugar coated thumb into your mouth and sucking ever so slightly. The inside of your mouth was as soft as satin and as warm as a freshly fried beignet. John could hardly breathe as he watched you lap at the thumb lasciviously, far longer than necessary. He finally retracted his hand, watching the way you momentarily chased the touch before settling back into your seat. He felt the blood drain out of his brain and into his dick as his mind blanked on what to do.

You noticed the effect you had on him, flashing a toothy smile. He became encapsulated by your plump lips, eyes lingering on them for too long. He jerked suddenly when he felt your hand slide up his thigh, just shy of a few inches from his cock.

John could hardly remember how he got into a room upstairs with you, his mind veiled with a fog of lust so thick, it was comparable to the fog of the bayous. The two of you were all over each other the instant you made it into the room. His hand found its way to the back of your neck, yanking your forward so your lips could meet. Your lips molded together like clay as you both parted your mouths almost in unison, a beautiful display of like-minded desperation. Teeth clashed and tongues slid up against each other, and you made sure to suck on his tongue as he moved back slightly.

You both tasted the whiskey on each other’s tongues, and you made a note of the taste of cigarette smoke on his. He moved back to look at you, cupping your face again like he did before, instead this time he moved to slide two fingers past your lips. You accepted them ceremoniously, wrapping your lips around them and looking at him through your eye lashes. His dick twitched against his jeans as he watched your head bob down slightly on his fingers, the digits disappearing into your velvety mouth. He gasped softly, almost moaning, and he willed himself to slide his fingers in as far as he could into your mouth. John nearly jumped for joy when he realized you didn’t gag, no matter how far down he pushed.

He began thrusting his fingers In and out of your mouth, enjoying the slick sound coming from your throat. John swore he could get off on that alone. But how could he pass up the opportunity to take up a treat such as yourself who was practically presenting themselves on a golden platter to him.

John pulled his fingers out slowly to observe the strand of saliva that connected him to your sweet pink gullet. John’s cock was so hard he thought it might burst, and in another moment of animalistic desire, he pushed you onto the bed, crawling on top. You giggled at his assertiveness, and you thought to yourself how you found exactly what you were looking for.

The two of you sat up, clumsily undoing his belt together. Once you heard the satisfying click of his belt coming undone, your lithe hands worked his zipper open and pulled down his pants. You hooked your fingers on his drawers and pulled, the underwear hitching on his erection before slipping completely over it. You buried your face next to his cock, and at once you were enveloped in the scent of sweat, unruly black curls brushing against your cheek and nose, and the soft skin of his throbbing cock against your face. You looked up at him as you grasped his cock with one hand, slapping it against your cheek playfully before opening your mouth and repeating the same ministration on your tongue. John let out a guttural moan, intertwining his fingers through your hair.

His eyes nearly popped out of his skull as he watched you envelope his cock whole in one go. The sounds he let out were downright embarrassing. The feeling of wet muscles sliding over his cock was almost too much to bear, and you felt his fingers tighten in your hair.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart…” He gasped, a pathetic attempt at composing himself.

You pulled your head back up, slowly, making sure to see the way his face contorted as you hollowed your cheeks. After watching you repeat this same ministration a few more times, the fondness of orgasm began to lurk up behind John. His body trembled almost uncontrollably, and he found himself pushing your head down, holding you there. The tip of his cock slid deeper into your throat, which seems to contract and close around him. There was a sick enjoyment he got out of watching your nose buried in his curls as you sputtered for breath. He pulled you off before it became too much for you, allowing you a moment to breathe. Several strings of saliva connected you to him, some breaking and drooling down your chin. He pushed his cock up against your lips, using his free hand to slap you on the cheek a little.

“I never got your name sweetheart.” He said.

You had to move your face slightly to the side to answer.

“(name).” You responded.

“Well I’m John sweetheart, now let’s get you out of those clothes.”

[hastalavistabyebye]

Username song game

Rules: pick a song for each letter of your URL and tag that many people.

Oh I'm so late for this @cocotter I'm so sorry !!!

But here you go with my too-long-for-those-games username xD

H- Hight horse by Kasey Musgraves

A- Ain't no love in the heart of the city by Bobby "Blue" Bland

S- Sunflower by Post Malone

T- Teardrop by Massive Attack

A- Amsterdam by Nothing but Thieves

L- L' aventurier de Indochine

A- A good song never dies by Saint Motel

V- Valerie by Amy Winehouse

I- I did and I don't and I do by Cosmo Sheldrake

S- Sun by Sleeping at last

T- The Chain by Fleetwood Mac

A- Au pays des merveilles de Juliet de Yves Simon

B- Big bird in a small cage by Patrick Watson

Y- Yellow by Coldplay

E- Everybody needs somebody to love by The Blues Brothers

B- Blinding Lights by the Weeknd

Y- Your song by Elton John

E- Easy lover by Philip Bailey and Phil Collins

This feels so random xD well it is, but still. So very eclectic.

NPT : @mamuzzy @ithillia @stardustloki @feral-enfield-named-rowan @icnamiro @the-troll-of-the-bridge @whiskygoldwings @cookiemonsterv3 if you want ! And anybody who feels like it of course :)

[puff-world]

MY GAMES OF THE YEARS FOR THE PAST FEW YEARS (updated)

2023: ARMORED CORE 6

2022: CULT OF THE LAMB

2021: PSYCHONAUTS 2

2020: OMORI AND DOOM ETERNAL

2019: RESIDENT EVIL 2

2018: RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2

2017: CUPHEAD

2016: MAFIA 3

2015: UNDERTALE

2014: FIVE NIGHTS AT FREDDY'S

2013: LEGO MARVEL SUPERHEROES

2012: MASS EFFECT 3

2011: BATMAN ARKHAM CITY

2010: FALLOUT NEW VEGAS

2009: CALL OF DUTY MODERN WARFARE 2

2008: SAINTS ROW 2

2007: TEAM FORTRESS 2

2006: SAINTS ROW

2005: LEGO STAR WARS

2004: SLY 2 BAND OF THIEVES

2003: THUG 2

2002: SLY COOPER

2001: SUPER SMASH BROS MELEE

2000: SPYRO YEAR OF THE DRAGON

My opinions are the best ones

[anastpaul]

Saint of the Day – 25 July – St Cugat del Valles (Died c304) Lay Martyr, Preacher, Evangeliser, Miracle-worker. Born in North Africa and died by beheading in 304 near Barcelona, Spain. Pstronages – of hunchbacks, petty thieves, of the City of St Cugat del Valles in Spain. Also known as – Cobad, Cocoba, Cocobas, Cophan, Cougat, Covade, Cucao, Cucufa, Cucufas, Cucufat, Cucufate, Cucuphas, Cucuphat, Culgat, Guinefort, Gulnefort, Qaqophas, Qoqofas, Quiquefat, Quiquenfat. At Barcelona he is called Saint Cugat, at Ruel, near Paris, Saint Quiquenfat, in some other parts of France, Saint Guinefort. Additional Memorials – 27 July – in Barcelona to avoid a clash with today’s Feast of St James, 16 February (translation of relics to Léberan), 25 August (translation of relics to Saint-Denis). The Roman Martyrology reads: “At Barcelona in Spain, during the persecution of Diocletian and under the Governor Darian, the birthday of the holy Martyr Cucuphas. After overcoming many torments, he was struck with the sword and thus went triumphantly to Heaven.”

(via Saint of the Day – 25 July – St Cugat del Valles (Died c304) Lay Martyr – AnaStpaul)

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Fast Food- Travels

Designed to be read on its own, but you can find part 1 here and part 2 here.

Those were the days! No stress, no struggle, no weight of an inexorable prophecy hanging over my head. Just me, eating and sleeping as I pleased.

My first stop had been Saints-burrow, the town closest to my home. The humans there had hair like flax and skin like the earth, their skirts thick with spun valli-wool. They tended the fields with cheer, and welcomed me with open arms. 

Kindness was as rampant as tallgrass there, an endless flow of generosity the likes of which I'd never encountered. There was no need to steal, thieve or burgle, for they were all too willing to give it to me for free. 

I spent two years in the local inn, spinning tales to the tavern's regulars in exchange for a steady supply of ale and bread (though I suspect they would've given it to me for free), before I felt the itch to travel. 

Somedays I sit and wonder what happened to those people, to their children's grandchildren. I wonder if they would have wept to see what became of their kindness. I wonder if they would blame me and curse themselves for being so generous toward me.

My wandering feet, or wings, as the case came to be, took me down to Nyctomachia, the land of a thousand gods.

My first night there had been thoroughly godless, however. It had been a gloomy night, like many others to come, full of rain and mist. Amidst the dampness, I stumbled across the corpse of a man, dressed in the rich purple fabrics of high nobility. His chest leaked blood like a fireflower blooming out of his heart, and his pockets held nothing but death. There was still one thing to take, however, and I, ever the pragmatist, took it with both hands.

That night, I slept under the plush covers of a dead man's bed, wearing his face, donning his silk nightgown. Oh, and screwing his lovely, obliging spouse. I do suspect they knew all along that I was an imposter, and I do suspect they didn't care.

I came to discover that Nyctomachia held an array of wonders for me. There were the night markets, where people were crushed together and trinkets hung off the walls, ripe for the taking. There were the galleries, where an established gentleman such as my current identity could waltz in, and, in the form of a rather grotesque street rat, flee with stolen goods. Best of all, there was the Undercity.

It was a hidden network of tunnels, spreading across the entire city, home to every inhuman thinkable. All manners for creatures lived there, from ghouls, goblins and vampires, to harpies, dryads and even a few centaurs. I, to my shock, fit right in. 

I spent my days mimicking Sir Armuin Kinaei the twelfth, lounging about looking pretty while my spouse managed the estates. I spent my nights gambling away my stolen goods and getting drunk on spirit-mead, gossiping in bad pidgin the whole time. I spent fourty years like that, twenty carefree years that ended with my spouse dying on me.

It wasn't a sudden thing. Everyone had seen it coming a long way. Humans only lived for so long after all, and Akati was not young when I met them. It still hurt. It still hurt a lot.

It hurt enough that I disappeared into the night and never returned, leaving my possessions to the living who I held dear. I suppose it was just too much for my heart to bear, to watch any more of my friends die.

Little did I know my heart was fated to experience far worse hurts.

Taglist:

@coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch @ramwritblr, @urnumber1star, @fortunatetragedy, @bigwipscholar, @ratedn

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west

@finicky-felix, @evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou (Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[uncleticklefingers]

More dogman ocs oh yeah (some are old and redesigned ye)

Callum and Theo are in the present while the other ocs are in the past.

Info for each oc:

Callum: Callum is a con artist plus a lady's man in the city. He runs many scandals around and is very hard to catch from the police since he is good at escaping. Except for Thèo! Callum runs into him multiple times and is in love when he meets him for the first time. He is a cat.

Thèo: Thèo is a detective and is best friends with Dogman. He helps Dogman search for clues quickly whenever Dogman has a hard time. Thèo runs into Callum and tries to catch him but fails due to Callum’s quick skills. He isn’t love at first sight guy till later on when he starts developing feelings. He is a dog and his breed is a Samoy.

Gadget: Gadget and the gang, she was in, were the notorious thieves and were wanted in France. She and the gang escape after the police find out where their hideout is and go to the U.S. Gadget then meets Ophelia while robbing her place. Ophelia gives her stuff that she doesn’t want and they become friends. They slowly fall in love and secretly have dates. Gadget’s gang catches onto this and argues which leads to Gadget leaving. One day, Gadget breaks up with Ophelia and tries to convince her to break off the arranged marriage. Fails but still respects it. She then moves on to a different life. She is a raccoon. She is deceased in the present.

Ophelia: Ophelia is a wealthy dog and is known as the prettiest dog in her neighborhood. She meets Gadget one night and decides to give her some stuff that she and her family don’t even use or need. They become friends and slowly lovers. One day, her parents give her an arranged partner, a farmer dog running a successful business. She is forced to go on dates with him and slowly drifts away from Gadget. Ophelia sadly breaks up with Gadget after telling her arranged marriage. She still misses her and regrets not breaking the marriage off. She is a dog and her breed is a Saluki. She is deceased in the present.

Corbin (old oc): Corbin is a hardworking farmer and has a successful business which catches the attention of Ophelia’s parents. Corbin meets with Ophelia and instantly falls in love with her. He is a caring husband and a father with a strict belief that a dog cannot be paired with any animals except for dogs and reminds them. His bond with his daughter, Lottie, deteriorates a bit when he finds out she’s in love with a cat, Sinjin, and forbids her from seeing him. After the incident, he quickly finds another farmer to marry her, a Saint Bernard. His bond deteriorates even more after Lottie breaks it off on the day of the wedding and runs away with Sinjin. He’s convinced that Ophelia made her believe that a dog can love any animal and his relationship with Ophelia deteriorates. He blames it on her every day. Sadly, he keeps the marriage and does not want to get divorced to show how much he still cares for her. He is a dog and his breed is also a Saluki. He is deceased in the present.

Victoria (old oc): Victoria is a wealthy cat and her parents arranged a marriage for her. They do fall in love though. She takes her job and her family seriously and as her priority. She is a very loving wife and mother. The majority of the time, she is a very serious cat but is sometimes silly. She sets up on Sinjin with tons of arranged dates which are unsuccessful. Her belief is similar to Corbin’s but instead, it’s cats. Her bond does kind of deteriorate when she finds out that Sinjin is in love with a dog, Lottie, and also forbids him from seeing her. Her belief though changes when she hears Lottie talk at the wedding. Her bonds grows back with Sinjin and apologizes to him for being harsh on him. She lets Lottie stay with them after finding out her dad kicked her out. She is a cat and her breed is a calico. She is alive in the present.

Archibald (old oc): Archibald is also a wealthy cat growing up and the same goes for his parents arranging for him and both of them falling in love. He is a loving and caring husband and dad and is also serious the majority of the time but he is sometimes silly too. Same belief with Victoria. He reminds Sinjin about him wanting grandkids, only pure cats not mixed. His bond also deteriorates a little finding about the secret relationship. His belief also changes after hearing Lottie’s talk at the wedding. He also apologizes to Sinjin and is very welcoming to Lottie when she moves in with them. He is a cat and his breed is a Snowshoe.

Fun facts ig???:

- Callum and Thèo’s relationship dynamic is inspired by Sly Cooper and Carmelita Fox

- Grace’s bandana is Gadget’s since it was a gift for her grandma but was later given to Lottie and is now given to her

- Grace gets her breed genes from Victoria, her grandma

- Gadget’s existence is inspired by the song “Good luck, Babe!” By Chappell Roan

- Ophelia secretly sends a goodbye and apology letter to Lottie, this is how Lottie finds out about her mom’s secret relationship with Gadget

- Victoria takes care of Lottie’s business, which was later given to Petey as a gift

- In Gadget’s new life, she adopts an orphan. This orphan is Thèo’s grandpa WOAHHHH :0

- Victoria never got her justice when she finds about Grampa, Petey’s dad, murdering Lottie and Sinjin :(

- Archibald and Victoria relationship was kinda like Beatrice and Butterscotch but I changed it

- Ophelia and Corbin’s relationship is inspired by the song “Me and my Husband” by Mitski

- Victoria and Archibald are the first parents in the city to support mixed species

- Callum is adopted and is raised by rats

- Callum gives Thèo gifts 24/7 and leaves it on his workspace

- Thèo is the only one in the family to become a detective since the rest of his family were robbers

- Thèo finds out about Gadget’s old life through her diary

That’s it YEAH 👍

[handeaux]

Your Grandparents Canoodled In Passionate Petting Parties Along Cincinnati’s Country Lanes

Around one hundred years ago, a new theme was introduced to the long-established images decorating paper Valentines. While hearts and flowers, little birds and rosy-cheeked children still predominated, the Valentines of 1924 often featured something new – the motor car.

While innocent enough when surrounded by lace and flowers, the motor car had already begun to arouse the suspicions of Cincinnati parents. The old fogies suspected that automobiles represented much more than transportation to the kids. Those jalopies might be nefarious vehicles of illicit lust!

Well, the old folks were correct. Young people throughout Cincinnati were tootling out to the nearest country byway and canoodling in extended make-out sessions known as “petting parties.” The Cincinnati Business Women’s Club got together to grumble about “rolled stockings, petting parties and abbreviated bathing suits as they affect the adolescent girl.” The Cincinnati Post [4 April 1924] quoted Alma Hillhouse, educational director of Cincinnati’s Social Hygiene Society:

“The child gets its instinct for petting from the mother. When a babe she is held on the mother’s knee and fondled. When she grows up she seeks satisfaction in petting parties. It is the standards in the home that count. The daughter of the wise mother will come through petting parties unscathed; the uncontrolled girl comes to grief.”

You will notice that neither Dad nor any adolescent males are assigned any sort of accountability in this matter. Some things never change.

While the Business Women’s Club debated, the Indian Hill Rangers, organized, according to the Enquirer [3 June 1924], to “trail horse thieves, cattle rustlers and pillagers of hen roosts,” were confronted with a new threat to village security.

“Indian Hill Rangers are after motorists who have been using the shady lanes and sylvan retreats of that pretty hilltop east of the city and the adjoining countryside for ‘petting’ and gin parties.”

One evening, the Rangers encountered a limousine parked on Drake Road, its windows curtained with newspapers. While not disturbing the occupants, the Rangers copied the license number and mailed a letter to the owner, a woman living in Avondale. They never saw that particular vehicle again.

While Indian Hill was dealing with limousines, the real action was out in the Western Hills among the still-rural expanses of Delhi and Green townships. According to the Enquirer [14 October 1924]:

“For months residents have complained that autoists have forsaken the dim-lighted parlor and its sofa for the moonlit roadside and the cushioned seats of the automobile. Even private driveways and lawns have been converted into trysting bowers by these seekers for seclusion, who have openly defied property owners to the extent of drawing weapons on them, it has been stated.”

Alfred Bennett of Green Township blamed the recent crackdown on Cincinnati’s “red light” district in the West End for the flight of depraved and lustful characters into the hinterlands. He told the Enquirer [25 October 1924} that illicit smooching was just the beginning:

“‘Much of the objectionable practices in country districts is not entirely “petting parties,”’ Mr. Bennett stated, ‘but gross immoralities that shock the residents.’”

So gross were these alleged immoralities that they inspired a flurry of ecumenism between the Catholic and Protestant congregations of Bridgetown, with the Rev. Paul Schmidt of the Evangelical Protestant Church standing shoulder to shoulder with Father William Spickerman of Saint Aloysius Catholic Church in demanding more patrols by the county sheriff. The clergymen offered to recruit volunteer deputies from among their flocks. In neighboring Delhi Township, Justice of the Peace M.J. Roebling lumped petting party participants among nuisances such as “bootleggers, bandits and hold-up men.”

The Delhi magistrate wasn’t that far off, it seems. Widespread outrage about romantic parkers, combined with very public statements by the county sheriff that he did not have the budget nor the manpower to patrol the county’s lovers’ lanes, suggested a business opportunity for the local footpads. The Enquirer [28 July 1924] reported that outlaws impersonating county deputies were robbing couples caught on deserted roads:

“Two more hold-ups were committed late last night by a gang of five bandits who are blamed for a total of 17 known hold-ups and who, it is said, have collected hundreds of dollars by swooping down on ‘petting parties’ on county highways and extorting money under the guise of deputy officers.”

Many of the township roads favored by passionate petters led to roadhouses established outside city limits to avoid enforcement of Prohibition laws. Cincinnati’s Juvenile Protective Association claimed that the immoral environment promoted by these roadhouses spilled over into steamy backseats. And, of course, the media were blamed as well. A new film, “Daughters of Today,” written by a one-time Cincinnati newspaper reporter named Lucien Hubbard and starring Zazu Pitts, opened that year. According to the Enquirer [29 September 1924]:

“It is an ultra jazz production, with petting parties, cocktail shakers and syncopation distributed throughout the length of its half dozen or more reels.”

By October 1924, the scandal had reached such an extremity that the Cincinnati Automobile Club passed a strongly worded resolution condemning “petting parties” as a safety hazard and demanding more patrols by the sheriff. So vehement was the public condemnation of “petting parties” that the Enquirer actually editorialized in favor of passionate parking because a total crackdown would force hormonal youngsters into petting while driving and thereby endanger pedestrians!

Although it is unlikely the Automobile Club’s wrath had any effect, by the next year the Cincinnati Post [20 July 1925] reported that petting parties, the bane of 1924, seemed to be passé in 1925. Two deputy sheriffs spent a long and fruitless summer evening looking for lovers along the East Miami River in Anderson Township:

“In two hours, we found only one spooner. That was on Broadwell-rd, where a boy and his sweetie were spooning in the moonlight to the strains of a victrola on the back seat of their machine.”