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raelhbishop · 6 months ago

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Cabaret of the Macabre

Filed under [M] for "macabre."

A collaboration between me and the magnificent @roadkill-frankenstein. The prose is mine, the art is theirs, the characters are ours. Consider it a "back-door pilot" for a setting of mine, of which he's a collaborator.

Capt. Grim Blackburn and Brennos Lobhadh belong to @roadkill-frankenstein.

Theoxenia Trismegistus and Mr. Manson belong to @raelhbishop.

Content warning: Depictions of PTSD and body dysmorphia; graphic depictions of death and stake-burning; body horror; mild emetophobia and hemophobia

❊

Two beaming yellow-on-red specks float about in the darkness. Aside from distant flickers of candles, they alone bring light to an all-encroaching darkness, like embers from a dying universe.

If one squints hard enough, one can see suggestions of a surroundings; the grain of stone, the glint of leather, the smudge of ashes, the subtle crevices of some much larger carving. In the dark, it's hard to tell truly where one thing ends and another begins.

An acrid, metallic smell singes the air.

The specks turn slightly, like two wispy marbles. A thin, bronzy outline of two circles and a line follow some inches ahead. Shuffling can be heard; glyphs, pages, come into view, given a subtle red tinge by the spheres.

Adjust the eye of your mind, and one can see something more to these specks…

❊

"Manson, are you positive this is your… friend's… address?"

"WE'RE NOT EVEN THERE YET, HOW CAN YOU ASSUME I'M WRONG?"

A sleek car moseys its way down increasingly decrepit roads. The tag on the back reads "D3MB0NZ”.

The streets reek of piss and, occasionally, some really poor quality ganja wafting from a balcony — a typical day in Miami. The hot sun glistens off the faces of our protagonists. Well, two of them.

Theo and Grim haven't been here for very long, only a few months at the most. In-between their work schedules, the two of them like to wander around Miami and make mental maps of what it holds. They've got it figured out: where all the vegetarian restaurants, liquor stores, and bars that host live music are.

These streets, however, seem foreign to them both. Mr. Manson has been driving for some time now, practically past the city's heart and into something overgrown.

Their ride comes to an end. He leaves the car confidently, leading the two past increasingly questionable buildings.

Grim adjusts his wide-brimmed straw hat. "…why are we going here again?"

"TO VISIT A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE." His voice is reminiscent of the roar of a car's engine.

"Brennos, right?"

Manson nods, audibly rustling. "YOU WILL LIKE HIM, TRUST ME. HE'S A PROPER GENTLEMAN. PLAYS A GOOD GAME OF POKER.”

The trio walk past a condemned building, boarded up, stucco walls crumbling. Mr. Manson stops at the next house, standing before a rotted door that looks minutes away from falling off its hinges entirely. He starts shuffling through his overly large ring of keys — the one thing, he laments, can't be upgraded.

Theo whispers to Grim. "I still don't know why he's our landlord."

"You know damn well why. He's the only one who would take us in."

"I dunno, dude. He still gives me the creeps."

"Come on, he's just undead, that's all. Like me."

"Well, yeah, but you've got flesh and bones and stuff. He's just… bones."

"AH, HERE IT IS."

Mr. Manson pulls out a literal skeleton key, the teeth resembling tiny ribs jutting out of an elongated phalange. At the key's base is a small crow-like skull.

He jabs it into the doorknob. Fighting a little, it eventually unlocks and glows the faintest bit. The eyes of the key light up a ruby red.

Adjusting his jacket and top hat, Manson opens the door and enters.

Theo grabs Grim's hand. They lock eyes, take a deep breath, and follow behind.

❊

A beam of light bursts through the darkness. Three figures emerge from it: the first, a top hat and Prussian blue coat clad figure, walking confident and cool. The second is straw-hatted, with hints of turquoise visible from underneath his yellow raincoat. He has only one arm. Close behind is a cowboy booted figure, sheepishly wearing a colorful hoodie with a smiling black cat on it.

As the door begins closing, the group find themselves in a corridor filled with other doors. They're all exquisitely carved — Mr. Manson notes they're made from solid ironwood — and are all identical except for a small symbol at the center of each. The door they just left bears a manatee engraved into it; a rose sits on the door to the left, and a fountain to the right.

Manson leads them to one end of the corridor, where a much larger door with a wolf-headed knocker greets them. He puts his skeletal finger to it; without even making contact, it knocks itself with a bark.

Startled, Theo leaps backwards, hitting a door with an eight-spoked wheel engraved into it. His hoodie gets knocked back, revealing two goat-like horns that curl behind and down below his equally hircine ears.

Grim sighs. He grabs Theo by the hand.

The door slowly opens, revealing more darkness inside. Manson continues, unperturbed. His shoes clack across the dark marble floor.

Following his lead, the two enter an even larger corridor. The simple wooden walls of the previous room have now been replaced with a dark stone. Pillars and alcoves have been periodically carved into them, covered in intricate detail that comes off as all-too sinister in the dim light.

The visitors peer into the alcoves as they walk past. Artefacts sit on pedestals in each one, lit by lanterns hoisted mere feet above. One holds a beige bejeweled cup, bearing the suture marks characteristic of a human skullcap. Another holds a preserved jar with a snake inside, a strange blend of the cobra and the moray eel. They pass by tusks from long-extinct wild cats, obsidian daggers, gold urns holding crystal spheres instead of ashes…

They walk by an intricate pocket watch with a mirror exposed; as the three walk past, only Theo's reflection appears.

Manson turns a corner. Theo bumps into a pedestal, showcasing a sizable ram's skull. He shudders.

They come to a still life; Theo and Grim stop to look.

"This painting gives me the creeps."

Grim nods. "It's very well done. I wonder if it has any deeper meaning."

Theo cocks his head. "Maybe you're right, dude… see the way the skull is in the forefront? Maybe it's supposed to represent how, like, death is everywhere. And all the stuff behind it is what you want to see." He points. "The books, the flute — a most excellent flute — the sword, the… weird little thingy you, like, put incense in or something…"

"What of the conch shell?"

Theo shrugs. "They're nice to look at? All the objects represent what we see in life, but the skull rules over them all."

They look at it quietly a little longer. An ever-so faint metallic smell begins to waft over.

"What do you think, dude?"

Grim shrugs. "Looks all the same to me… uh, Theo?"

He turns from the painting and is frozen in his tracks.

The two of them see the orbs in the distance. Floating. Ominously. The metallic odor grows stronger. They pinch each other to make sure this is all real, and slowly inch to the side.

Underneath the spheres, a line of frozen flames of red begin to emerge from the void. Both seem to be hovering in the distance. Eyeballing a nearby chandelier, Grim figures the orbs — the eyes, must be a good ten feet off the ground.

The eyes draw closer. The line becomes more defined, taller even, revealing the flames to be rows of sanguine teeth.

Grim feels for something on his left hip, but hears whimpers from his right. He grips Theo's arm to lessen his trembling.

"AH, BRENNOS! THERE YOU ARE!"

Manson walks past the duo, arms open.

A voice emerges from the lurking face. "Charles! Good to see you."

Stepping into the light, something emerges from the shadows.

A pink, slimy visage surrounds the eyes. It has the skull of a coyote, cleansed of all its flesh except for a thin film coating it. It sits atop a long, shaggy neck that freely hunches over. It’s composed of varying furs — suture marks can be seen patching them together.

The mysterious face seems to smile now, commanding a spindly and domineering body. Whatever other unspeakable things the body has inside it are concealed under rather refined clothes: a red dress shirt and pants, and a black collared vest with brass buttons down its left.

A book is clasped by the figure's massive wolf-like talons. They glisten wetly in the light.

Manson stands beside the ten-foot patchwork creature. The latter closes his book, bends his knees, and gives the skeleton a firm handshake.

"I'VE BROUGHT SOME CLIENTS ALONG WITH ME, I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND."

"Not at all."

"THAT ONE," he points to the figure in the straw hat, "IS ONE GRIM BLACKBURN, AND THE SHAKING SATYR HE'S CLUTCHING IS THEOXENIA TRISMEGISTUS."

"Ah, yes, you've told me about them. The ex-pirate and the aspiring musician." He approaches said musician. "I hear you prefer to go by 'Theo,' is that correct?"

Sputtering ensues.

"Ah, don't be so nervous, lad. Your horns don't bother me one bit."

Theo freezes.

"Would you all like a tour of my humble abode?"

"I THINK THAT WOULD BE IN ORDER."

Grim slowly nods his head.

"Splendiferous."

Brennos begins leading Mr. Manson down a left corridor, the others trailing behind. He begins a thorough discussion of the first item he sees — a shrunken head, hoisted to his right, said to hold the soul of the man it once belonged to.

Theo leans over towards Grim. "I think he's gonna kill me, dude."

"Not as long as I'm here."

He smiles at Grim, his lips quivering.

❊

Cacophony rebounds across the halls. Its source is a simple tea room, with Brennos and Manson chortling and patella-slapping. The two of them regale anecdotes of their "lives," happenings from centuries ago that lose some of their humor on the guests.

A fireplace roars in the background — the most light you'll find anywhere in the place. To the left lies a gallery, to the right a kitchen, and directly in front sits Brennos in his leathery armchair.

"You know, Charles, I could install one of these in your place."

Mr. Manson rattles.

"Really, it's no bother."

"THANKS, BUT NO. MY FLATSCREEN TV WORKS JUST FINE."

"Well, what about a cauldron?"

"SLOW COOKER."

"Magic orb?"

"DESKTOP COMPUTER."

"Oh, you make me feel like such a luddite sometimes!"

Grim fidgets with his coat. Theo stares into his empty teacup.

Brennos turns to the two. “So, tell me, how long have you two known each other?"

"About a year." Grim cautiously eyes his host.

"Good."

There's an awkward silence across the tea room. Brennos flashes a sanguine smile; Grim seems a little unnerved by it, so Brennos retracts. It's at this point Grim realizes Brennos hasn't moved his mouth at all — the words get beamed into his brain.

"Say, Charles, did you ever tell them about how we met?"

Before he can start, howling can be heard in the distance. Theo looks up from his teacup, eyes widened in concern.

"Ah, sounds like the tea's done." Brennos slowly rises to his full height. Theo starts bleating in panic — after trying to relax for the past ten minutes, he'd forgotten how tall his host was. Sitting to Theo's left, Grim taps him on the shoulder to get him to calm down. It doesn't work.

He moves his hand to his nape and quasi-massages his neck. The panicked bleating slows down; he breathes easier.

"YOU TWO HAVE AN INTERESTING RELATIONSHIP."

"Yes, but it's ours, and I'm glad to have it." Grim moves closer to Theo; the latter puts his head on the former's shoulder and bleats, this time happily.

Manson grins — not that he has much choice.

Brennos returns with the tea. He pours Theo and Grim cups. The former's hesitant at first, but messily takes a sip — less out of courtesy and more out of his love for herbal teas. It's quite a nice blend; the rest of the cup soon follows.

Grim notices the host pours himself a cup from a smaller kettle; he inquires.

"Oh, my friend, this is a drink for… very specific tastes. I'm certain if you tried it you'd regret it."

Grim highly doubts that — the man makes his cocktails with antifreeze, after all.

Manson and Brennos resume their recollections, some puns at the expense of a 'Governor Phips' here, wise-cracks about Puritan dogma there, and a passing mention about a Sikh vetala and a book club. Then Manson does an impression of some obscure minister that sends Brennos reeling.

As he laughs, a little spills from Brennos' cup. A crimson stain pools on the table.

Grim hovers over the spill.

Theo cocks his head. "…is that…?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry." Brennos pulls out a kerchief and wipes it up.

"Oh god." Theo puts a hand over his mouth.

"Down the hall, second door on your right."

He runs from the table.

Meanwhile, Grim hovers over Brennos' "tea"cup.

"I told you it was for specific tastes." He sips a little. "You look quite perturbed by it for a retired swashbuckler."

Grim stares at a painting opposite Brennos. "Have you ever seen the mountains outside Marrakesh?"

"In books, yes."

"You know how they transition from being a dried red on the bottom to pallid and snowcapped on the top?"

Brennos acknowledges.

"Every time I see… just any red, really… I'm reminded of those mountains.

"I'm reminded of seeing a pool of crimson, covering the hardened snow. Staining the jagged rocks. Draining the color from…” he winces “…skin. Taking with it, every last inch of warmth… flowing down to join the red rocks below.

"Even just seeing a crimson shirt hanging in a store makes me nauseous."

The void creature takes another sip. "Are you always so honest with gentlemen you've just met?"

"Not until lately." Grim sighs. "How do I put it…"

"YOUR BOY TOY HAS MADE YOU FEEL THINGS?"

Grim shoots Manson a glare that would make one's skin peel. It does what you would expect to someone with no skin.

"JUST A BIT OF HUMOR."

"You're not wrong, though." He resumes staring at the painting. He sighs. "I used to despise the undead, see them as affronts to the unyielding hand of God. And then, by a cruel twist of fate, I was forced to join them."

Putting his cup down, the sewn-together figure steeples his talons. "Do you know how Charles and I became what we are?"

"You just said it was some event in Massachusetts."

"Aye, but that's only part of the story. We used to be flesh and bone too. It was a rather… excuse me for a moment…"

Brennos turns to a cabinet behind him, rummaging through it. He pulls out a stone, clasps it in his hands, and concentrates. He seems to wince while doing so. When he opens his claw, the stone has been reduced to a glowing dust.

"An old trick from the Babylonians." He tosses the dust into the fire. "Observe."

Grim looks into the fireplace and watches its flames turn a vibrant green. It seems rather ordinary, all things considered… but he can't seem to look away from it-

In an instant, Grim sees a foreign vision in his head, a memory that is not his own, playing back as clear as crystal…

❊

Many people misconstrue what 'alchemy' is. It's not the search to turn lesser metals into gold; that's merely a side effect. The true goal of alchemy was mystical: to purify the self, to transmogrify oneself from an impure being of flesh and vice into a transcendent spirit.

To study the vibrations of the world, and pluck them with understanding, turning the universe into a perfect orchestra.

To alter one's own vibrations.

Witchcraft, traditionally, was seen as the innate ability to cause misfortune simply by willing it. Magic for malice, as it were.

But some, many who found themselves magically-inclined or curious — mystically inclined or curious — were targeted as "witches". The actions, the goals, the dreams — they didn't matter to the outsider; their strangeness was enough to warrant scapegoating.

The memory unfolds in a cramped house, wooden logs as its walls and a simple dirt floor. All manner of drawings and writings in scripts — Arabic, Latin shorthand, some bastard version of Greek — line the walls.

He sees a figure in the mirror — one covered with scars across its chest, scars it - he, knows to be from disgust, from a desire to become something different.

A body, a mind, a soul, torn from years of constant, minor degradation. Like a thousand arrows shot at the psyche. Insults from others; assaults from others; assaults from his own mind… and a growing desire to escape.

Today, there is no disgust. There's only excitement… a little fear, but eager anticipation overwhelms it.

A cloth covers a vaguely humanoid outline in another corner of the room.

The anticipation wells further. Various items line the desks here; crucibles and alembics, a bubbling cauldron, ashes, herbs familiar and exotic, not-so precious gems, animal skulls, talismans from within and without the New World…

He turns to see sigils inscribed into various loose-leaf pages and small discs. A wooden one sits forefront, destined to be an amulet.

Removing a rod from the fire of the cauldron, he burns a strange symbol into the disc, then submerges it in the cauldron.

He takes the amulet and… the memory gets blurry here, painful. When it returns, the amulet has been snapped in half; one half, he wears himself, the other, now placed onto the cloaked figure. Both seem to glow gently.

His excitement boils over — as does the cauldron. He takes a cupful from the cauldron, pipping hot, and drinks it, burning his throat in the process. He doesn't care. He takes another, and pours it into the cloaked figure.

Colors now seem more vibrant. He can feel his blood, his breath, his nerves — like winds, swirling about his body. He drinks more of the brew; the inner vision, the excitement grows stronger — blinding his awareness of what's unfolding outside.

The rituals that follow are a bit esoteric for most; still, the feeling of the winds becomes ever-present. They begin to coalesce in channels across the body.

It's exhilarating… it's chaotic… it's purifying…

He can feel a synergy, a connection, with a foreign channel mere feet away, as if a door is opening with a ruby red key.

Suddenly, his own door bursts down. A mob breaks in, armed with simple weapons, dressed in simpler clothes. The few that enter are baffled by the array of oddities. They utter prayers and complaints.

The strongest one of them grabs him by the shoulders, jostling his trance.

It's as if one's hand had been jarred in that very door. The connection splinters, shivers… the winds turn into typhoons around their channels… voices from before, from beyond, from within, are amplified a thousandfold. Dread rises from every pore.

He tries to fight back, thrashing his limbs, knocking his set to the floor. It's no use.

He gets dragged out by the mob. His vision is blurry, hazy, like a mirage. As he gets dragged further, he can see his house burning in the distance. He can make out a few faces in the crowd; most prominent, that of a buckle-hatted, mustached figure — a certain Charles Baldrick Manson III, Esquire, farmer and moral arbiter.

The connection still lingers. He tries desperately to re-enter the trance, to hold on to it for as long as possible. He feels sensations across his bodies ebb in-and-out. A soul cast between two homes, tethered to neither and longing for both…

Within moments, he now finds himself tied to a stake. A woman, a familiar voice, tries desperately to stop them, but it is of no use. She pleads before Manson; he is unperturbed.

He fades in-and-out of awareness, across bodies. He feels the other one grow warmer — a sign of progress?

He can barely hear the confident speech of the mob leaders as he tries to re-enter the trance. Suddenly, light begins to shine from below.

He thinks it's a good sign at first — the soul, finishing its migration!

He looks down — both bodies — to see that he's gravely wrong.

Flames pierce the skin like cuts from a red-hot sword. The smell of burning flesh is choked out only by the stench of the wood underneath.

Blood begins to boil underneath the skin. Joints bubble and explode. Bones can be heard crackling from the flames.

His body begins to feel numb all over, the pain unbearably dulling all his senses. He goes blind — either from the trauma, or from his eyes popping in their sockets.

The last thing he can see is the smiling face of Charles, taking a mirage-like transition into darkness. Swirling darkness, like the smoke of the flames.

There's a piercing ringing in the ears.

It slowly dampens as if it were going down a distant corridor, echoing as it departs.

The vision becomes filled with sparks.

The all-consuming pain slowly seeps, drains out. He can feel the winds withdraw from his body, heat coalescing, then dissolving from the heart…

Grim grips his chest, reflexively…

… pooling into something.

The vision gradually transforms, from the light of a moon-lit sky, to an ember-like reddish glow, to black voidness… finally, to a clear, blinding, calming light…

… it sits there for some time…

… he awakes to find himself in the ashes. Not on them, in them. He feels strangely free, fluid, like he could fly through mountains…

… and yet, he finds himself trapped in a black, bile-like form, pooled in and around what was once the stake.

It takes some time for his spirit to adapt to this liminal body — liminal being the loosest and yet closest fit term for what this is.

Two bead-like eyes form from the mental image of himself. The world no longer looks the same; ghosts and auras are now as clear as day, and the mundanities of life give way to the extraordinarities of the beyond.

Brennos' cool, cold, shadow-like body creeps its way out of the pile of smolders. It rolls itself into the direction of the town, to the direction of a certain manor, inhabited by a certain Mr. Manson…

❊

The memory ends. It felt like hours. It all flashes by in a minute's time.

"I had worked so long and hard to sculpt the perfect form, something I could feel confident in…" Brennos creaks, akin to a sigh. "I spent years learning to re-assemble myself, using what little magic I had left to survive."

Grim quietly, slowly nods.

"It took me some time to get to the form you see today. Most of the bodies and cadavers I tried to inhabit were failures from the start — too decayed, too weak, too small. I soon gave up on trying to become human again. Instead I built myself a body, the one you see before you now. One of flesh, fur, and bone. At first, I was disgusted by myself."

Grim says nothing.

He sips from his cup, teeth clacking ominously against it. "It took me some time to accept what I had become. And now, I've grown quite fond of this body of mine."

Grim still stares in the direction of the fireplace. Brennos creeps over; his cheeks seem wet with tears.

He extends a talon.

Grim turns.

"We all need help sometimes."

Grim grasps the claw. They do a quasi-handshake.

"Say, Charles and I have a little… coven, you might say, of undead friends that meet here. We're called the Cabaret. Would you like to join us?"

Grim looks down, thinking.

"There is no pressure to join, my good sir."

He thinks for a moment. "Well, only if I-" He turns in his chair. "Wait a second… my landlord is the man that killed you?"

"Indeed. I was quite miffed at the time. In a fit of rage, I went over to Manson while he slept, and put a hex on him. I spared his wife-"

"AND I MUST SAY, THANK YOU FOR SPARING HER."

"Why wouldn't I? She was the only one who stood up for me."

"VENGEANCE DOES STRANGE THINGS TO THE MIND."

"Very true. Regardless, that hex is what brought him to his current form as a walking skeleton."

Grim looks Brennos in the eyes. "The cycle of violence."

Brennos nods. "Ah, but how trivial it all looks in death." He points at Manson. "You accused me of witchcraft because I mentioned the possibility of rain, and it rained that day. You were correct, of course, but your reasons… quite absurd."

"TRUTH IS, I WAS JUST MAD BECAUSE I WAS PLANNING A PICNIC THAT DAY. OUR PASTRIES WERE RUINED."

"Ah, to put your fellow man to death over soggy pastries! How interesting those times were."

Manson hunches towards Brennos. "I'M AFRAID NOT MUCH HAS CHANGED IN THAT REGARD, TO THE MORTALS AT LEAST. QUITE SAD, REALLY."

"Yes, but at least the stake-burnings are metaphorical now instead of literal.”

"YOU SHOULD SEE WHAT THEY DO IN SUBSAHARAN AFRICA THESE DAYS. IT WOULD MAKE YOUR BILE-"

A metallic thud can be heard in the distance, followed by a yelp.

"Griiiim!"

Seconds later, Theo emerges from a corridor, a helmet from a Qing dynasty coat of armor rolling in behind him. He runs over to Grim, and buries his head into his shoulder. "I want to go home!"

He sobs profusely on the pirate's left side, tears trickling down his armless shoulder.

Grim looks over at his hosts. He turns back and puts a consolatory hand on Theo's shoulder.

The whimpers echo across the halls of the manor.

As the tears begin to lessen, Grim pats Theo on the shoulder, grabs him by the chin, and turns his head.

He sees Brennos there, taking on the posture of a plant that's begun wilting.

This ten-foot fleshwork creature, witch, daemon, whatever it is, seems… sad.

Theo gets the feeling that there's emotion there. Its mouth may be bony and menacing, and its eyes more like burnt embers than eyes, but it… he, seems just like him in a way.

He burrows his head back onto Grim to process.

Theo gets the sense that, somehow, Brennos is just as sad as him. He doesn't know it like Grim knows it, but he senses that somewhere, deep in those eyes, a mortal just like him once resided — still resides. A hopeful, excited — corrupted, mirror of himself.

"Alright, I understand. You two are free to leave." Brennos approaches a little. "But first — and, I must say, this is entirely your choice — I think I have something you might enjoy, Theo. Would you like to come see it?"

He sniffles. Picking his head off of Grim's shoulder, he grips his hand and looks him square in the eyes.

Grim nods slowly.

Theo turns and cautiously accepts, following behind Brennos and gripping Grim's hand.

They wind past corridors Brennos showed them prior — weapons, skulls, preserved viscera and the like — and enter one the group missed. It's filled with instruments; Theo is amazed by their diversity and age. He brightens up a little, pointing at the erhu and the mandolin and the qanun.

Brennos then pulls out a dust-covered box from beside a pipe organ. His claws wrap neatly around it, brushing the dust off in one stroke.

"I remember hearing you liked music. Is that so?"

"I live for music."

"Good, very good. I've always admired a musician's heart. It's similar to a witch's heart, in a way."

Brennos lowers himself to Theo's height. "Charles has been telling me of all the strange new ways everyone listens to music. When I was born, you could only hear music by playing it yourself or hearing someone else. Before the phonograph or the cassette-disc player or what-have-you, we had this."

He puts the box in Theo's hands. It's wooden, fairly dense, is about the size of a paperback novel, and has a painting of a forest scene on it.

"Go ahead, open it. It won't bite."

Theo cautiously lifts open the top. As he does, it begins playing a gentle tune. He can see the machinery inside — a spinning copper disc with holes punched into it, and a braided metal rod that sticks halfway across its length, dipping up-and-down with the grooves of the disc.

It's so old, so simple, and yet so intricate.

"That's… Clair de Lune.”

"Good ear."

Something about the music box's tune strikes a chord with Theo. The high-pitched, metallic strumming seems to take him back to a time before he was born; nostalgia for a faceless face, a placeless place. He sees the tree he was born under, his name not yet carved in its side.

He feels a pressure build from the side of his eyes, growing stronger with each high-note.

Tears once more stream down his face.

He lets it loop two or three times, before gently closing the box.

"It's yours if you want it, friend. A gift."

He sniffles. "Thank you." He puts the box beside him, wipes his eyes, and looks at Brennos down his comically small glasses.

Theo slowly smiles. He chuckles. "Sorry, dude. I think I forgot to introduce myself." He puts his left fingers on his chest and extends his right hand outwards. "Theo."

Brennos nods. "Brennos Lobhadh, at your service." He extends a hand, as if to shake.

Theo extends his hand upwards.

They stand silent for a few seconds, before Charles approaches Brennos and hushedly explains what a high-five is.

Brennos shrugs and complies, slapping his massive claws against Theo's frail hand. The satyr winces, grips his wrist and grits his teeth, trying to conceal the pain twelve pounds of talons hurdling at his palm conveyed.

Brennos looks concerned.

The satyr smiles back. He sticks his tongue out, playfully. "Don't worry, the last dude that did that became my boyfriend."

❊

The wolf-knockered door opens once more; this time, Theo and Grim walk mirthfully out of it, saying goodbye to their hosts.

Manson and Brennos stand in the doorway, waving back.

"Oh, Grim!"

Grim turns. Brennos gestures conversationally.

"My offer still stands. To join us, I mean. Here at the Cabaret. I think you would make a welcome addition. We share our collections"

"Only if he can come along." Grim nods toward the satyr beside him.

Brennos puts an inquisitive talon on his face. "Well, he's not quite undead… rather the opposite, really…"

"That's my offer. Take it or leave it."

Brennos shrugs. "I suppose a little life wouldn't hurt."

Theo opens the door with a rose carved into it. He waves as the couple say their final goodbyes.

"WAIT, HOLD O-"

The two of them exit the room, entering a shaded pathway nestled beside a dilapidated corridor. Grim holds in his hand double, Theo nothing.

"Remind me never to take you to Vegas."

Theo chuckles. "Remind me to never take you to Macau."

"Think I'd drain their casinos dry?"

"I don't want to have to break you out of a Chinese prison."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Grim ducks walking past a… gargoyle?

"You're a cheat."

"I don't cheat!"

They turn a corner, Theo's hands motioning past a poster written in some strange language. "Come on, dude, you even cheat in Monopoly."

"I do not!"

"I dunno, I don't think 'accepting aid from the East India Company' is in the game rules."

"They're called house rules!"

"��Grim?"

A giant statue of a woman on horseback, flanked by two paladins, stands before Theo, with "TRANDAFIR SI APOSTOLII EI" carved into the stone it sits on.

"I don't think we went through the right door…" ❊

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t1meslayer · 7 months ago

Text

Busy with important family events over the next couple of days, and so I thought it would be good to get a day-and-date release for this Debrief on the latest entry in my Sapphic Valley series, "How You Get The Girl." Be sure to read the story before jumping in!

Did you do it? Did you read the story?

Alright, I'm trusting you. Go ahead and hit that 'Keep Reading' button you scamp.

It only seems appropriate to start this Debrief off by addressing the elephant in the room. I haven't posted anything in over a month, and "By Moonlight" came about a month after its predecessor, the conclusion to "Stone-Cold Lovers."

Work, naturally, has been a major factor.

You can see me talk about that almost two weeks ago in this Tumblr post I made about writing in a coffee shop, which came weeks after I actually started writing during a trip to a friend's house.

===

Side note:

Just wanted to take a moment and acknowledge my beautiful Haley and Emily keychains. My friend who's responsible for the affairs of one ghostly farmer named Jizzabelle (Gisabelle to the laymen) got them for me! Only appropriate after I commissioned some art of her and Abigail.

Emily was my first Stardew wife, and Haley currently holds the biggest place in my heart. They make a lovely duo!

And I'll avoid any sister-wife jokes

===

While I've had some other projects like Zine writing to take care of, work and life can't explain the full absence.

The best way I can think to explain things is that:

I had the general writer's block, and

Despite the best intentions and advice of my irl friends and online pals like @alchemicallymoon and @duelbraids, I couldn't force myself to "break" that block by just... Writing something else.

This is entirely the result of my own psychosis. I have a tendency to carefully plot things out and impose a timetable that really doesn't need to exist. When I feel the cause is righteous enough, it's hard to get around that. In this case, I knew I needed to get my poll-winning idea out after dawdling for holidays like Valentine's Day, and then I knew I only wanted to post one more story before jumping on a very special event for my upcoming 30th AO3 post.

Thus, here we are: arbitrarily forcing myself into a spiral of writer's block misery because of a silly promise on Tumblr and my own sense of ordered chaos.

At the very least, this meant it's coming out not long after my AO3 pal InsertACatchyPennameHere also emerged from the woodwork to tell me they're working on something INSPIRED by my four-person friend group farm adaptations.

Much love to them, wherever they may be.

I'll probably start writing more eclectically now that my shoulders are unweighed, but don't expect my next publication to hit until I'm finished working on teasing the big event. All you Pokemon fans better get hype!

And oh how sweet this publication feels. Between my great set of recent ceramics, the figure drawing class I've been attending, and creative writing, I've felt more fulfilled than ever.

You're here to talk about Stardew, though. So let us talk.

This idea began less with any one event as it did a desire to advance the Alexis/Haley relationship, and Haley's characterization in particular. It was always going to end with watercolor painting reference, but 2 Willow Lane was what I really wanted to dig into.

As I see it, a lot of what keeps people invested in Stardew when its comfy vibes becoming routine is the air of mystery in Eric Barone's worldbuilding. Haley and Emily's parents being some world-traveling duo who left their home in the siblings' care for who knows how long (and who knows how many times over their lifetime) really piqued my interest. So much so that the new writing challenge I set for myself in "How You Get The Girl" was crafting a particularly long set of descriptions that emphasize how overwhelming the parents' influence feels — without creating an impenetrable wall of text.

Hopefully I succeeded in that. Let me know!

I tried to include some vaguely real world-adjacent references into that description of the house, as happens with the magical-realism world of Stardew Valley. For example:

The computer sitting next to their bonsai tree is an iMac G3, the kind of old 'futuristic' tech that my dad loves!

A Speedwell refrigerator is based on even more vintage tech, the Mayflower fridge, but named after a different ship ridden by Pilgrims coming to America.

That city that the family visited in an old photograph with a "monument of arching, interlocking steel" is, of course, Paris — with the statue bookends referencing any number of statues in the Louvre.

Haley's FAD magazine could be referencing any number of publications, but Vogue is probably the closest analogue to what I imagine her reading.

Furthermore, I took some notes on describing the home's layout off of my sister's apartment building, and I asked my bestie @trybard for input on what kind of hanging plant should be used in the transitional hallway. Hanging pothos, philodendron, and spider plants were the three options provided, and my response was appropriate:

They know so much about plants.

Go bug them about it.

I drew on other friends' knowledge to help decorate the house. Specifically, I asked one of my witchiest friends what kinds of protective wards someone like Emily would leave around doorways and windows. She had... A lot of reference material.

I picked Hazel given it purportedly "protects against evil; encourages abundance and inspiration." I also picked Amethyst as one of Emily's loved gifts, one that purportedly "absorbs negative energy, promotes harmony."

My witchy friend is the same one who provided the TikTok that I referenced in my advertisement post:

Perhaps the most important thing about 2 Willow Lane was the recurring motif of Barbie's Dream House.

As a surface-level reference, I think the groundwork is clear. Blondie's love of fashion and general queen bee demeanor fits comparisons to Barbie well, and she lives in a big ol' house full of stuff. We all saw Greta Gerwig's Barbie movie last year. It's still in the cultural zeitgeist.

I'm hip with the kids.

Yet, early on I also tried to make it clear that if this is a "dream" house, it's neither Haley's nor Emily's dream. Haley is a Barbie in that stereotypical sense, but also there's much to be mined from the analogy of a sort of powerless doll in an immutable house, constrained by social obligation to her family rather than literal plastic and stickers.

The cold open of Jodi and Sam was meant to stand alone, but in execution I also think drawing Kent's absence into the conversation makes for a more thematically rich comparison to these sisters who appear to have themselves more put together.

My beta reader said this wound up being one of my stronger stories because of how all of that intertwined, which I appreciated given how down on myself I was following the whole writer's block thing.

But also.

Also.

Alexis gets to be horny. She's hitting on lonely MILFs and watching girls shake their asses to the tune of bad reality TV.

We love a buff dommy mommy farm girl in this house.

Haley is probably horny too, she just doesn't realize it yet. For now I think it's fun enough to play into her being coy about building excuses for Alexis to come over, and then getting incensed when Emily barges in on their private time meant to learn more about this farm girl she just can't get out of her head.

===

Fun fact:

Every story in this series is named after a Taylor Swift song, but I know next-to nothing about her discography. All of them are suggestions by my friend whose house I was at when starting this story — the same one who controls Gardenia on the farm.

While I went with "How You Get The Girl," her alternative suggestion was "The Man."

===

All that w|w talk aside, I also want to give Sam the loveable idiot a shoutout. Had to do a fair bit of research into how skateboards are constructed for his failed ollie, and I slipped in a reference to shitty old technology that's exclusively for my beta reader to enjoy.

I also tried doing some agricultural research to figure out how the folks at Kevin Farm could have grown cucumbers so there'd be a jar of legitimate pickles... But that was getting too in the weeds.

Insert laugh track here

Decided to just go with pickled artichoke hearts to save everyone a lot of trouble.

And where does "Kevin Farm" come from, you may be asking yourself. Or the fabulous "Kevin's Special" with its definitely not innuendo tagline.

That story will have to wait for another day, my friends.

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roadkill-frankenstein · 10 months ago

Text

Candle in a Catacomb

A collaborative story with an art piece to match. The artwork was done by myself, and the writing was done by my good friend @raelhbishop. Featuring our D&D characters from my home-written campaign.

Grim Blackburn belongs to @vultureteeth-0.

Theoxenia Trismegistus belongs to @raelhbishop.

Content warnings: Talk of sex and sexuality, Violent implications and imagery, Character with PTSD

⎈

The heavens are a dark shade of indigo, not their usual dark blue or even void-like appearance.

Nights like these tend to harbor a mystical quality. Past, present, and future seem to happen all at once. Nights like these burn themselves into one's memories.

If one's lucky, they're shared with someone else.

The Scourge of the Serpent clips across a sea of black, the moon and stars acting as its only guide. The crew and adventurers onboard are either fast asleep or in a drunken stupor below deck.

Captain Grim Blackburn stands alone at the helm, steering the ship and checking its course. Previously engrossed in his work, the golden-armed pirate stops and pivots his head.

He doesn't hear the crashing waves of the ocean on his ship, for that's second nature to him. Nor does he notice the sound of breezes gliding around like ghosts, the crackle of lantern lights, or the ship's groaning and creaking.

No, his undead ears detect the tunes of a pan flute being blown.

It's that damn satyr from the group he picked up earlier. He seemed a chipper enough fellow when he met him in the bar - they even exchanged a salutary high-five.

Given his... phenotype, he thought the fellow would've been a bit more like him – lecherous, loud, libertine. Though perhaps for different reasons.

Instead, he's been... different...

Grim checks everything one final time, then descends from the helm and summons a dogsbody to take over. He takes a mug with him and heads to the bow.

⎈

A bird sits next to Theo. A nearby lantern gives a natural warmth to their appearance.

Theo whistles and blows a few notes on his pan flute, selectively. A response comes from the bird in similar tones. They've been back-and-forth chirping and fluting for a bit now, rather happily.

A slow series of creaks emerges from further inside the ship. Theo's goat-like ears perk up a little; he continues fluting.

The creaks grow closer and closer. Feeling unnerved, the bird flies away, despite Theo's calls to the contrary.

He turns. "Oh hey Grim! What's up?"

"Just coming over to see what all the raucous was about."

"Just chilling." He resumes blowing at the pan flute, this time in a more musical manner.

Grim sips from his mug and steps closer. "Were you... playing for that bird?"

"Oh, no. I was speaking with it."

"Speaking?"

"Yeah. My accent is, like, kind of thick, so the flute helps."

"The bird can understand you?"

"Yup. Little dude's been flying for a few days now. I gave them some hardtack to help them along. They've had a most strenuous adventure." He resumes fluting. Some crumbled hardtack still remains to Theo's right.

Grim sips from his mug and listens to his playing.

"...can I sit here?"

Theo nods.

He sits and continues listening, watching him play. Theo seems to be in his element here, playing an old folk song Grim can vaguely recognize.

Grim's not sure why he felt the need to sit and watch him. But something's drawn him in.

It's calming, in a way.

Theo switches to another folk song, one Grim better recognizes; something about a bloodied horse returning without its rider. It seems like he misses a few notes at first, but then turns it into another song entirely, improvising.

After a bit, Theo takes a rest. "You ever play music, Grim?"

"I haven't in a while."

"Do you like music?"

"I..." Grim hesitates. (He hears screams and shrieks from within, scenes flashing before his eyes.) "...it's kind of painful for me, tell you the truth."

"Oh." He puts his pan flute to his right. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"No, I didn't mind it. Actually. I liked hearing you play it."

Theo smiles. "Thank you. I really like music. It's the only thing I'm good at. Maybe we can try something less painful. Do you like stories?"

Grim shrugs. "Sure."

"Great! I love stories. Let's see... did you hear about the one with the sailor who found a lamp with jeans in it? No, wait, I don't think it was jeans in the lamp... was it sesame seeds? But, then, why would they, like, put sesame seeds in a lamp? No, hold on... I know this other one, where there's a king, who's a most righteous dude, and there's this monkey, and, like, the king is a god... no, wait, is the monkey a god? Well, there's this guy that steals the king's wife, and... I think there's a monk somewhere? Or is it a dragon?"

After stumbling on his words, Theo stops speaking. He sticks his tongue out sillily.

Grim chuckles a little. For once, it doesn't feel forced.

"Maybe I should just stick to singing... hey, do you know any stories?"

Grim thinks for a moment. "Did you ever wonder how this ship got its name?"

Theo nods. He gets the feeling this is gonna be a good one.

A story of how, one stormy day on the seas, the very ship they're on took its maiden voyage. A half-rate crew of misfits, concealed criminals, and a single swaddled infant took to the high seas, Grim being the most sea-fared. He recounts how they ventured further into the dark-on-dark seas as day turned into night, how lighting singed the wooded sides of the ship, how many below feared they wouldn't make it out alive.

As the story goes on, Grim seems more animated than before; he speaks with immense gusto, the events pouring freely from him like the grog sloshing from his glass as its tossed about with his motions. Theo's engrossed in the story, as if he's witnessing it firsthand; he even jumps a little at the sound of non-existent lightning.

He goes on to tell how the unnamed boat's hull was rammed by an unseen foe – a serpent, larger than the very ship itself, dare one say even larger than the port they left behind. It smashed through the sides of the ship with its infernal scales, ripped holes in the hull with its adamantine teeth, and curdled the blood of his crew with its growls.

Grim hatched a plan. He told all his crew to assemble below deck, stand-by for repairs, and keep the (he almost says 'his') child safe. With everyone gone, Grim, equipped with a glaive and a rope, leapt from the bowspirit, and hurdled towards the leviathan's-

"Did it take your arm?" Theo's on the edge of the ship's railing, filled with suspense; any more, and he might fall off the damn thing entirely.

"No, that was... something else entirely." Grim can hear a single shriek, feel a singe, feel the sensation of flesh decaying into nothingness.

Theo reads Grim's face. He figures he should change the subject.

⎈

"What's your earliest memory?"

Grim groans. "I... try not to look back that far."

"So, my earliest memory... I'm a little dude, a very little dude, like, not quite a baby but not like a big kid either...

"I'm just chilling in a field. There's grass and flowers all around me. I've always liked sitting in fields. I do it when I can. You ever sit in the grass and just relax?"

Grim shakes his head. "Can't say I have."

"You totally should some time, dude. It is most pacific. Anyways, so there I am, little dude baby thoughts going across my mind. Then someone comes over and puts this 'reed thing' in front of me.

"Now I'm looking at it all curious, and you know how little dudes do things, they put it in their mouth and all that. And then I start blowing air through it, but then I realized that, like, each tube of this thing makes a different sound.

"And that I can copy sounds with it. I listen to the birds in the trees and I start blowing on the different reeds and I try copying their songs. All of a sudden I am fully aware of all of the noises around me. It's no longer just noise, you know. It's like there's this whole band going on in nature.

"That pan flute was my very first instrument. It's still one of my favorites. And I still carry a little piece of that flute to this day."

He picks up his pan flute and shows a teeny piece of rotted wood tied to it.

⎈

It's well past midnight now. As Theo recounts what is (essentially) his entire childhood, Grim's mind vexes him. He enjoys the satyr's company and all that, but he can't understand why. His patience for people doesn't tend to last this long these days.

It could be he's attracted to him, physically. After all, it's not hard to be drawn to someone who's got a real tan and wears nothing but a grass skirt and some odd amulets and wraps here-and-there. Hell, the thought crossed his mind to have him be a one night stand.

Yet he didn't. Something stopped him.

Actually, something's been stopping him the whole week.

For once, Grim wasn't seeing him as a commodity, as a set of erogenous zones for sale like quarters of meat hanging in a butcher's shop.

He wasn't just seeing a bunch of parts.

He was looking gestalt – looking deeper.

It couldn't be mere eroticism drawing him in. That mechanical, fire-like feeling in his nether wasn't alone. Something oddly familiar, yet seemingly foreign, was setting in.

There was this tickly, bubbly feeling emerging from the pit of his stomach. A sort of featheriness to the back of his mouth, a sort of strange transmogrification of admiration into embarrassment.

Grim drops his beer stein.

Oh god.

"Dude, you okay?"

It hit him like a ton of bricks.

He was in love.

He hadn't been in love for so long, he'd forgotten what it was like.

Grim panics. He readies to get up and leave, but a hairy hand stops him in his tracks.

"Hey, is everything alri-"

"Do you love me, Theo?"

Oh god. He said it. He didn't even have time to think it. It just fell out. He would've gone pale if there was any blood in his cheeks to begin with. He's always been a wild card, a man who speaks his mind, but now for once he's mortified, filled with regret, filled with panic, with fear, filled with a need to flee-

"Of course." He blows absentmindedly at his flute.

"...you do?"

"Absolutely. You're my friend. Just like how I love the birds in the trees, or my pipes, or the sound of waves crashing on the-"

Theo's eyes drift to Grim's face. It doesn't seem to express anything at first glance.

He puts the flute down. "It's funny how we use the word 'love.' It covers so many different things."

"Love is love," Grim says tersley.

"Well, what do you mean by that?"

"Fiery passion. Seeing someone and feeling the need to go over to them and get physical."

"Huh?"

Grim looks at Theo quizzically. "You've never been aroused?"

"I've woken up before, I don't understand what that has to do with it."

Grim sighs. "No, haven't you ever... felt attracted to someone?"

Theo thinks for a moment. "I think I know what you're getting at."

"Do you, now?"

Theo nods. "That sort of, like, feeling, where you need to stop in your tracks and take a second look. When your eyes can't help but stare at someone else's body. They're searching up and down a dude's entire being. This strong, primal urge to go over and, like, get to know them, to hold them, to spend every moment with them, to never spend a minute apart from them, to spend every day adorning the temple of the dude's body."

Grim nods after each pause, more vigorously and excitedly with each nod.

"Never felt it."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I've never felt it."

"But don't you ever get the urge to... you know..."

A rogue wave splashes against the bow of the ship, spraying foam upward in a single jet.

Theo replies. "Well, yeah, but not often. It's just like eating or sleeping."

"You must've felt it somehow if you can describe it that well."

"Everyone blabbed on about it back home. The satyrs and nymphs. I've heard it all before. But I just never felt that way. When I see a dude, I don't see a bunch of body parts, or the stuff they carry. I see a dude. I see this... wonderful collection of... thoughts, and feelings, and memories, and songs and stories. Someone to discover, someone to have fun with, someone who is... unique. Sometimes they're happy dudes, sometimes they're sad dudes, and sometimes they're..."

Something clicks in Theo's head. He's been looking at Grim's eyes the whole time, unsure of his stony gaze.

It's a stoic gaze.

The mouth changed between a slight smile and a neutral frown as they talked, but the eyes remained the same.

They look tired. Anguished.

Come to think of it, they've looked this tired the whole time.

Even when he was boisterous in the bar, or cracking jokes with the crew, that same tired set of eyes was there.

Except once.

That afternoon, when Grim had Theo touch his chest to show its absence of a heart...

⎈

It's a week earlier. Theo's sitting by the helm, strumming a little song on his lyre (his other instrument of choice). It's an old song, about a man who searches for the secret to eternal life... whose ending gets cut short by Grim walking by.

Theo waves, his left hand still sprained from giving the pirate's golden arm a full-forced high five.

Grim waves back. He smiles at the satyr, unconsciously.

"Hey, Mr. Pirate dude-"

"You can call me Grim."

"Cool. Mr. Grim dude. How old is this ship?"

"Very old. Probably every piece in it has been replaced once or twice."

The satyr stops his strumming and thinks. "So, does that make it the same ship? Or is it a different ship with the same name?"

"It's got the same captain, that's all that matters."

"So... like... how old are you, Mr. Grim dude?"

He doesn't quite know.

"So, like, sixty? The oldest dude I knew was my tribal elder, he was sixty or seventy. But you don't look anything like him."

Grim looks off to the distance. "You've heard about the avatar crisis, yes?"

Theo nods.

"I was around during then..."

You can hear the cogs turn in Theo's head. "So... older than sixty?"

"Much older."

"...are you an elf?"

"No."

"A vampire?"

"Do I look like I'm burning in the sun to you?"

"No, but someone in the bar said you were 'on fire.' I don't see any flames though." Theo ponders for a minute.

Grim hears the internal screams. Screams of terror. Screams of agony. Blood-curdling shrieks from creatures not meant to be seen by mortal eyes...

He sighs. "Here, let me just..."

He reaches over and grabs ahold of the satyr's arm.

...Grim can feel the thrashing of his limbs against straps, the bloodied beating of his back and arm against a stone altar...

The hand draws closer and closer.

...the piercing of a bloodied dagger shoots across his mind, the sensation of his chest being ripped open as clear as day...

Fingertips hover over his chest.

...his body lies in old snow, cold snow, hard snow. Blood pours out, draining his will with it. An all-too imposing vacancy plagues his mind, his being, his soulless body. He cries to the gods for solace, but hears no response. He closes his eyes, hoping to feed the crows...

Theo's hand touches Grim's chest. It feels no beats.

It feels warm.

...warmth. He wakes in a room, feeling warmth. A grand fireplace burns several feet in front of him. He scans the room, lavishly covered in artwork. He feels the gash in his chest with his remaining arm; nothing but a black-ooze filled cavity remains...

...a woman approaches him, tending to his wounds, draining the heartless hollow. His eyes lock with hers. There's a certain... draconic quality to the woman's gaze...

...they both know what they are. But neither of them could've anticipated what they'd be together...

...what they'd enjoy...

...what they'd share...

...what they'd lose...

...what would fade away, when fate and the gods separated them...

⎈

...that afternoon.

Those eyes shifted. They opened a little.

There was even a little glint to them.

Even now, there's a little trace of that glint in them.

His emerald eyes were somehow less like jewels and more like a candle lighting a catacomb.

And he sees the glint slowly fading from the now-sulking captain.

...

Waves beat on the side of the boat.

He reaches over and grabs Grim by his good hand.

It takes Grim a second to register it. The candle flares up; the eyes widen; the glint returns.

"I think you need this."

Gently, he pulls Grim forward and wraps his arms around the tired husk.

Grim closes his eyes, reciprocating.

The sensation of a cold, metal hand touching Theo's bare back makes him jostle a little, and the resting of his metal claws scratches his flesh.

He doesn't mind, though. A little pain is worth making a friend happy.

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