#crimson resolve spoilers

[egophiliac]

well, I can't say I expected the new chapter to feature Idia (metaphorically) going to (metaphorical) hell, getting a pep talk from his (metaphorical) Phantom brother which helps him finally move on once and for all from his brother's death, and (metaphorically) overblotting again to fight his way back out of (metaphorical) hell, only to have his darkest fear (non-metaphorically) come true when his mom goes through his computer and finds all his secret files. but I am glad it did!

also this is all a flashback for the purpose of explaining to our group what the heck is going on (whether or not any of it is getting through is another matter)

[yanderenightmare]

Bakugou Katsuki

♡ TW: implied and/or present elements of dubcon/noncon, yandere, kidnapping, captive reader, quirkless reader, mentioned death of important character, discrimination, drawn comparisons between quirklessness and disabilities, implied bakudeku, drugging, needles, mentions of hypochondriasis, also angst

♡ manga spoilers in a way, but also not really. anyway, read at your own discretion.

♡ gn reader

Sharp crimson eyes assess the fresh scrapes and swelling ruining your soft skin. A deep scowl on his face.

“Tch—look at all this…” he grumbles disapprovingly to no one but himself—too upset with you to acknowledge you, yet treating you no different than if you were glass. “These are gonna last weeks.”

You’d tried running away again—tripped and slipped up all on your own, stumbling through hallways and tumbling down stairs in your panic, only to stop short at the locked door—bolted and padlocked beyond all sane reason.

He was disappointed with you, sure. But that’s not the reason for his current anger.

“Sit there while I get bandages,” he orders, getting up from his crouch, pointing a strict finger at you in threat. “Dare move, and it’ll be bed rest for a whole ‘nother week.”

Bakugou’s obsession with your quirkless nature started a couple of months ago…

It was okay at first—he was hardly the first person you’d met who addressed you with patronizing resolve—but he got weird about it quickly.

You worked at another hero agency he was going to be collaborating with for a big upcoming mission. You weren’t a sidekick or anything grand like that, but a simple pencil-pusher—because they need those too, you know? And you liked your job. You got to work along with some of the greatest heroes in the world, see them up close, and help them out with those things they didn’t have time for—paperwork like budget justifications and incidence reports. Yeah, you might have been somewhat of a pushover, but hey, the salary was good, the environment was lively, and even though you don’t have one yourself, you got to see some really amazing quirks in action. It was, out of what you could hope for, your dream job.

The place was in a real buzz when they heard the number one hero would be joining them for a couple of months. You were excited, too—it wasn’t often your smaller agency would undertake big missions—especially not ones that required such big hero names.

DynaMight wasn’t one to share much of anyone’s enthusiasm. He was strict and down to business and otherwise had a major pet peeve for unnecessary rabble loitering around. He’d stopped mid-meeting at the sight of you, seeing as you were obviously no fieldworker, and had gone as far as to demand you tell him your value as if your presence had been some big distracting nuisance.

Luckily, your Pro-Hero coworkers had stepped in on your behalf and told him you were a transcriber keeping track for later reference. It was probably only a slip-up that they’d added the fact that you were quirkless.

You don’t hold it against them, or well… you did a little, but you couldn’t really blame them either. Evoking the explosion hero’s rage must have made them flustered and desperate to play any sympathy card available to them in the spur of the moment.

Of course, it wasn’t their card to play, nor would you ever have played it yourself, but if the humility was worth anything, it successfully managed to calm the top hero down. Actually, he didn’t say anything for the rest of the meeting. And if you hadn’t been so busy taking notes, you would have noticed his lingering stare.

A couple more incidents had occurred in the office after that. Among others, he’d caught an incoming paper airplane your coworker had thrown your way—stepped right in out of nowhere and cremated it with a controlled explosion before it could hit you.

You’d been speechless for a moment—the entire desk area along with you—confused by his strangeness and, at least in your case, even somewhat appalled by his utter lack of consideration—in your office space, no less. Seriously, top hero or not, you can’t just barge in and incinerate stuff?

“That was an important document,” you'd informed—brow quirked—no regard to how offending him could probably make grounds to have you fired. You'd only slightly regretted it after having said it. But geez, you thought—shouldn’t the top hero have some semblance worth of self-control?

“You shouldn’t be playing around,” he'd stated—tone just as sour as the stink of burned paper tainting the air. “Someone might get hurt.”

You’d almost scoffed at him but had held your tongue until he walked away.

Back then, you’d thought it was an offhand insult directed at you and your respected coworker—that the explosion hero had just called you both unprofessional to your faces, like the biggest scumbag to ever walk in through your humble doors. But looking back at it now, you realize he probably might have meant it in its most sincere regard.

His over-protectiveness knows no limit, you’ve learned—calling it patronizing would be a joke in comparison. He treats you as if anything in proximity might make you shatter by association—like a bubble made from the most thinned-out solution of water and soap.

You’d woken up in your well-prepared pillow room shortly after your agency’s collaboration with DynaMight had ended. It didn’t take long for you to piece together his sickness after that.

At first, you’d thought it was a more severe case of benevolent discrimination. After all, most people treat you with some amount of pity after being privy to your being quirkless—treating it no less than a disability of sorts.

But Bakugou’s view of you was increasingly more unsettling than that—suffering from some type of delusion that has him fully convinced you’re utterly inept without him.

In some odd ways, it would have been better if he was just faking—if he was doing it all, treating you as an inferior for some sick sense of deriving his own sadistic pleasure. But no, you think he actually fully and whole-heartedly believes you’re a danger to yourself and that anything, if not monitored in the perfect conditions of the controlled environment he’s established for you, will result in your fatal illness or harm.

He’s a full-sworn hypochondriac concerning you—even as he himself dregs home some of the worst injuries you’ve ever seen as if it were nothing but a splinter in the rough of his worn soles. Meanwhile, he’s scared that if you leave the bed without socks on, it will give you pneumonia.

You were sure you had a couple of control freaks at the agency, but nothing measures up to Bakugou’s mania. How he dresses you is one thing—how he feeds you is another. An assortment of pills first, all vitamins and supplements, a spoon of cod liver oil, then a balanced meal reminding you of those tragic trays you’re served at the hospital—four times a day without fail—breakfast, lunch, dinner, then supper—he also keeps track of all the water he’s decided you need to drink—all things perfectly regulated according to your size and age.

Then there’s the sleep schedule with a set number of eight hours—no more and no less. Exercise is also necessary—workout plans designed and dictated by him. Nothing too severe, though—he’s afraid your quirkless constitution won’t be able to handle anything beyond thirty minutes max.

And then, of course, there’s hygiene.

You sobbed and fought hysterically the first time he’d washed you—in the tub with him after he’d stripped you naked. In fact, you’d made such a fuss he’d had to fetch a sedative.

Even in your drowsed state of complete numb delirium, you’d still heard how he’d fretted over it—the tiny needle hole he’d torn in your arm—as if that was the real violation, even as he’d thoroughly molested the entirety of your body with different cloths and sponges for no shorter than a full hour.

You’d been terrified, of course—horrified by his meticulous routines and odd nature. Yet strangely, despite his rigid rules, he won't ever get violent to enforce them.

You had expected it of him—being known for his brutality—the hero without mercy—the symbol of retribution. You know he's no stranger to leaving the battlefield bloody. But with you, he won't so much as harm a single strand of hair from your head.

He will instead bargain with you, sometimes for hours. Eat what he tells you, and you’ll watch a movie afterward. Go to sleep, and he'll escort you out to see the sun for a few hours in the morning. Let him ensure you wash correctly, and he’ll allow you to dry and dress yourself.  

And in those moments when you leave him no other option, he subdues you through the help of a needle again and never ever by manhandling you—it was as if that weren’t even a viable option. It was obvious he regarded the sedative as the uttermost last resort, always muttering on about chemicals and whatnot under his breath. It seemed he would rather avoid it at all costs—but also, that if it stood between allowing the disturbance of the schedule he felt was needed to keep you healthy and forcibly putting you to sleep, he knew without a doubt which option he considered the lesser evil.

He was certain of it all. And at some point or another… you had even begun sharing his fear of attracting some sort of illness yourself—even something so small as a common cold. But no, it wasn’t the same. Yours was not a fear of the actual disease itself but of what he might do if he caught you sneezing and coughing. You could only imagine the upgraded pill table he’d have in store for you then and what other measures he’d instill due to his excessive ideas of necessity.

And that’s why you’d tried running again even after what must have been a couple of months since the last time. The thought of his inane insanity having affected you so badly you’d started playing along was all too much a painful realization—you’d felt compelled to reject it—run away even when you knew you’d never be able to make the door open if you could even reach it.

You knew it would be in vain, and even though running headfirst into something you know isn’t going to work might be the first signs of madness—you’re still relieved to have found some remaining worth of fight still in you, even if it couldn’t amount to anything.

He comes back as quickly as he’d left, still muttering to himself, cross about the damage you’ve sustained—like you’re one of the collector’s items he keeps up on the mantle in his office—green costume and a big bright smile. You remember the exposés—they’d been rather gruesome, about the hero who’d died in battle not so long ago—a couple of years back now, give or take. He had the number-one spot before DynaMight.

The current top hero retakes his spot at your feet, sighing deeply once he starts dabbing your minor bruises with disinfectant, followed by unnecessary bandages. You’re silent as you watch him work—all so diligently as he does everything, cutting no corners and running zero lights.

His efforts, done with the very epitome of care, all disgust you.

Your lip curls. “I’m not what you think I am…”

His keen glare stops obsessing over your wounds to look up at your face—he’d already tended to the ones he could see, but he’s sure more would blossom and swell in a couple of hours. It’s beyond worrisome—but it’s his fault in any case. He should move you to a place without stairs—it’s way too dangerous for someone as accident-prone as you.

You make eye contact, and his anger fades at the sight of tears welling in your corners—softening as if he’s convinced even a harsh look will have you shatter in his hands.

“I’m quirkless. But ’m not weak.” You’re sure you preached much of the same back at the beginning of your stay, though then you’d hurdled it at him—screamed it from the top of your lungs until you’d lost your voice, unknowing that it’s a statement he’s heard a hundred times over spoken by different lips from yours.

It’s a funny thing almost… how your eyes remind him of his—so soft and yet brimming with determination—a determination that will only get you killed.

He’d put faith in those words before, believed them beyond himself, and it had cost him everything.

But even so, he can’t fault you for believing in them yourself… they’re what makes him love you, after all.

He smiles gently—a most gut-churning sight from the all-scowling man.

“I’m sure you think so.”

He doesn’t relay it with any type of harshness but pity—gross concern and better judgment—overwhelming oodles of it in his garnet eyes, weighing them down with something so awful as compassion and… you don’t exactly know… but it looks like grief.

♡ part two ♡ more thoughts on this ♡ BAKUGOU KATSUKI masterlist ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[muzansfangs]

Bloodstain.

Starring: Aizen Sosuke x f!reader; mention to past Shuhei Hisagi x f!reader; Rukia, Ichigo and Renji;

Format: multi-chapers story;

General warnings for the following chapters: nsfw, age gap between Sosuke and the reader (who is twenty-three years old), post TYBW events, solitude, touch-starved Aizen, possible spoilers, mention to hook-ups, vaginal sex, use of alcohol, drunk sex, unprotected sex, marking the partner, breeding kink, rough sex, dom!Aizen, sub!reader, accidental pregnancy, protective Aizen, struggling with emotions, mutual pining, self-doubting, domestic fluff, conflict with the Central 46, mention to violence and gore;

Warnings for this chapter: mention to war, casual hook-up between Shuhei and the reader, use of alcohol, self-deprecating behavior, fainting, mention to pregnancy;

Plot: With Yhwach’s defeat, you can finally go back to your ordinary life in the World of the livings, or so you thought. Staying in the Soul Society for another day to attend the celebration of the glorious victory over the Sternritters did not sound that bad, until you crossed paths with your recent fling. Drinking too much to forget about it, you end up falling at the feet of your greatest source of distress: Aizen Sosuke.

MASTERLIST | PROLOGUE | TO THE NEXT CHAPTER

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟’𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐧.

People chattering about unimportant matters, taking swigs of saké, finally enjoying the gentle breeze of a summer night without drawing their blades to defend their lives were delightfully comforting. The Seireitei was gradually going back to restore its former beauty. Some buildings were still undergoing renovations, the injured soldiers and Captains were still recovering from the fierce battles they had fought, but that night people were, at least, leaving their barracks and homes to enjoy the jollifications of Yhwach's downfall.

No more battlecries and bloodcurdling screams of agony echoed through the streets, replaced by the unmistakable glee of a crowd of people who had survived the brutality of a war no one was prepared for. There was hope twinkling in the eyes of the kids playing around the Soul Society, looking for the officers who had saved their lives to thank them and proudly announcing they were soon going to enroll at the Academy. Their parents, injured and tired, watched them from afar, not frightened anymore by the idea of a Sternritter slicing their heads off of their shoulders.

You faintly smiled, your eyes searching for your friends to join them. You were pretty sure you had caught a glimpse of Renji's crimson hair in your peripheral, but you had been dragged in the opposite direction by the human tide marching towards the drinking stalls.

Perhaps, you should have accepted Rukia's suggestion to spend the day at the Kuchiki Estate and attending the festival together. Yet, the idea of bumping into her stolid, grumpy brother, who tended to pop out of no where and make you regret stepping into his manor every single time you wandered through the intricate corridors of his mazy house, sounded unappealing back then.

Still, the perspective of being humiliated by Byakuya's paternalistic way of chiding you did not seem that awful now that you were literally adrift and in need of assistance to find your way out of the flood of drunk and dancing people surrounding you.

You were genuinely frustrated, head whipping around erratically, yearning to spot a familiar face. Apparently, you were destined to spend the night alone. Or so you thought.

Hands sliding down your hips and dragging you out of the crowd made you both let out a pathetic screech and almost draw your blade. The risk of accidentally slashing someone, though, worked as a deterrent to unsheathe your zanpakuto and therefore you resolved on the self-defence lessons you had received from Urahara. Swinging your right arm on your right, you tried to backhand your kidnapper across the jaw. Missing your target, you scoffed and, when your feet touched the ground again, you were determined to knock your aggressor down.

His hand promptly wrapping around your ankle the moment your foot tried to hit his side, prevented you two from spending a most likely awkward night in the Fourth Division's hospital wing. Now, face to face with the stranger, your jaw went slack and you were glad he decided to break the ice first. Out of everyone you could run into, of course you had to meet your most recent fling.

"We need to stop meeting like that" Shuhei jested, cocking his head to the side upon letting go of your ankle and granting you the chance to lower your leg.

Your parted lips closed, hands tugging the hem of your skirt down, whilst the angles of your lips lifted in a soft smile "Definitely" you agreed, nodding your head and raising your hands apologetically.

"I think you owe me a 'thank you, Lieutenant Hisagi'. Maybe also a kiss, or two to idolatrize me like I deserve, you know?" he bantered, folding his arms against his chest, his dark grey eyes vainly attempting to fathom the layers of your mind .

But you both knew there was only one person around who could do that and, surely, it was not Shuhei Hisagi.

You scrunched up your nose and waved your hand at him dismissively, mentally cursing yourself for not having cleared things out between you two before the commotion caused by the war. How could you, though? With you living in the World of the livings and being a university student with a part-time job at Urahara's shop, you did not have much time left to visit the Soul Society.

On the other hand, Shuhei was always swamped with work and dealing with his new Captain was decidedly a challenge. After that one-night stand you had a couple of months ago, when you offered him a place to stay to spend the night after a mission in Karakura, you had not talked about your relationship anymore. What were you two? Allies and friends aside, obviously.

"There's no need to gloat. I'm not a damsel in distress. I would have found my way out of there anyway. — you replied, a tinge of feigned annoyance in your voice as you shot an arrogant look at him — Sorry about it, but no kisses tonight" you added, right before you heard someone calling out your name at your back.

You glanced above your shoulder quickly, eyes landing on Rukia and your younger step-brother, Ichigo, waving at you enthusiastically. It was refreshing seeing them smile again after everything you all had been through. It still felt surreal.

Shuhei followed your gaze, quirking a dark eyebrow up resignedly. Another day wasted in trying to figure you out, another chance to confess his feelings evaporating before his eyes.

"Just tonight? What about tomorrow?" he asked you, a small grin crossing his lips as you felt cold sweat collect on the back of your neck. He was undoubtedly giving it his best shot.

"You are persistent. The war changed you, I see" you commented, avoiding his question as you always did.

"I know what I want now. Or better, who I want".

His words caused you to falter, lips parting as you let the implications of his assertion sink in. He wanted you, he had really just thrown his intentions at your face and left you with the burden of making such a decision over a night, letting it weigh on your shoulders at the worst moment possible. Maybe you deserved it: striving and ripping your heart out of your chest, while everyone else cheered and celebrated the incoming years of peace and stability, was nothing but the law of retaliation you had ended up subjecting yourself to with your evasive way of handling love-issues.

You swallowed forcefully, but before you could even pronounce his name again, Ichigo's voice pierced your ears again and you shrugged in defeat, taking some lumpish steps back to join your crew.

"I really should go. See you tomorrow, okay?" you stated way too quickly for your own likings, hoping he would drop the topic for the time being.

Shuhei nodded his head at you, hands raising to give you the thumbs-up "No problem" he reassured you, but you could tell he yearned to spend more time talking with you. His gaze was longing for more than a frivolous chit-chat, just like it did that infamous night spent in talking on the small balcony of your flat, among the bittersweet scent of peonies.

You two had an undeniable connection. But it was not enough for you. It would have never been enough, because you had, much to your dismay, molded your standards over the worst person ever. You refused to even say his name, to add another problem to deal with to your already plagued mind, even if you had to admit you had not been able to get him out of your head since you crossed paths again on the battlefield a few days ago.

That man, your nemesis, the achetype of everything you should have viscerally hated, was undeniably the only one who knew what secrets your eyes harboured. Your relationship with him was far from being healthy.

It was the antonym of healthy, actually.

A public enemy, an emotionally unavaiable man with a pretty evident god complex could never be able to show empathy to anyone, not even to himself. Surprisingly, though, your interactions had always been quite inspiring. Who was this man? A brilliant genius gone bad, alone, utterly alone. It was infuriating how he could read your mind the same way he read your body language during a fight. Drawn to him, you wondered why you had always had such a low sense of self-preservation and found yourself enticed by unreliable men with a debatable scheme of things.

"Gosh, what did Shuhei tell you? You look distraught" Rukia noted, furrowing her brows.

"Distraught? You've been way too kind. She looks more like a cantankerous granny who got rolled over by a car" Ichigo interjected, earning a kick in the shins by the short shinigami.

Or, as you loved to call her, his biggest 'what if'.

Fixing your attitude, you forcefully smiled, shrugging it off with a nod "Oh, it's nothing! I haven't slept well in that Inn. — you partially lied, albeit your back agreed with your complaint — It's more like I'm not used to sleep on the floor" you added, as the three of you took what you assumed was a short-cut to the village square.

"I will pretend to buy your words. Frankly, just because I heard there's a stall selling plushies of Chappy and I intend to purchase the limited edition one" Rukia saved you, tugging at the hem of Ichigo's sleeve to drag him along and leave you some space to clear out your mind.

You were glad Rukia had seen it in your eyes. You would have caught up with them later on. For the time being, all you needed was a distraction. A distraction in the form of saké and candy floss, to be precise. A weird mix, way too sugary and disgusting, but with your head in the clouds and your heart sinking into a sea of sorrow you did not feel like self-deprecating about your eating habits.

Distancing yourself from the jolly atmosphere around you sounded like a good idea and you therefore decided to venture towards the old barracks. You did not pay much attention to where you were going, your feet led you up through a wooden staircase, your hands occupied by your snacks, as you kept on brooding over your shortcomings. On top of that stood your inability of trying to be happy, for once.

"Fuck it all, fuck me and fuck him" you grumbled, gulping down the alcohol in search for a magical solution to your problem.

You were soon spent, the taste of the saké mixed with sugar left such a syrupy taste indulging on your tongue that you almost felt like puking. The Moon was no longer shining up above, ominous and dark clouds gathered on the horizon, ironically matching your mood. Not long after the first thunder rolled out in the distance, a droplet of water splashed onto the tip of your nose and you pouted. Rain. It was raining.

You could not make it back to your room at the Inn to find shelter and you were way too far from your friends's quarters to make it in time before it began to pour. Also, how would you have made it there in the first place, when you kept on stumbling on your feet and your vision was beginning to get blurry?

Cussing under your breath, you glanced at the doors at your right. No officers were there, or at least so you had been told. The idea of getting soaked not to barge in and wait for you to sober up out in the rain did not even crossed your mind for a second. Marching towards one of the doors, you sighed and raised your hand to slide it open. Your grip on the jug, thoug, loosened, your hands trembling all of a sudden making you frown, as the sound of pottery shattering into a million splinters made you flinch. How did it happen? Were you really that far gone?

What you did not expect, though, was for your knees to buckle as the wave of a familiar reiatsu hit you with such a force to make your rotula ungraciously hit the floor. You were drunk, there was no doubt about it, but you were not hallucinating. Your wary eyes flicked up, the sharp jawline of the man you had been cursing for years and longing for blessing your vision like a lucid dream. The eye-patch, the way his lips curled into a cocky grin upon watching you struggle onto the floor, even his posture gave away the fact that it was not a trick your mind was playing on you.

He was there, a palm away from you.

You gawked, the tall man in front of you peering down at you like someone who was inspecting a wounded animal at their doorway with unbridled curiosity. There you were, unable to move a muscle, out of your mind and puzzled by his presence. He was not supposed to be there.

"Fancy meeting you here" he chimed, hands behind his back, as he leaned forward just enough to make sure your eyes were staring deeply into his shimmering caramel one.

Your mouth had gone dry, it felt like chalk, a million of questions popping into your mind one after the other made your head spin. You were supposed to talk, to say something, to stand up and leave but all you did was whispering a name, his name.

"Sosuke" your vision darkening, as you eventually slumped down at his feet with a thud, unable to withstand the stress and his reiatsu in the poor state you were in.

How he had missed the way you, only you out of everyone, called him by his first name, even if he had almost killed your step-brother and your beloved father. There was no way he was going to leave you, the potential form of entertainment at hand, stay out there alone, unconscious, and miss his opportunity to get under your skin as he always had done.

“Pitiful” he uttered, rolling you over your back with his foot and bending down to hook his hands underneath your armpits to drag you inside the warm room.

You two could not know it back then, but this was the first link in a chain leading to a series of unfortunate events that were going to inevitably end in only one way. The day you were going to hold a pregnancy test in your hand, standing on the threshold of Kisuke’s shop, staring at him with a dumbfounded expression on your face, was not that far.

AUTHOR NOTE.

My dear readers, I am honored to finally introduce you to my Aizen Sosuke fan fiction. I had been thinking about this for months. I still have no idea of how many chapters long it will be. Stick around and find out yourselves. All I know is that the next chapter is going to be shameless filth. The same story will be uploaded on my Wattpad profile under the username of @/muzansfangs. As per usual, likes, comments and, mostly, re-posts are greatly appreciated.

Love, Luce ✨

TAGS: @pseudowho @stygianoir @onyxino @sashi-ya

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 18: Unleashed

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.7k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

CW: Chapter gets dark - please be cautious

A howling tempest is whistling in your ears, muffling your ability to think clearly. A biting frost permeates your body, seeping into your bones and desiccating and fragmenting them. Although it’s agony, there is a peculiar pleasure in the descent into exile. The wraith strums a ghostly lullaby, like harpies enthralment, that encourages you to close your eyes and float away in the cyclone. 

Your lashes flutter as you resist the temptation to let your dimming eyes shut. Icy vines braid and curl up your spine and caress your brainstem, coercing you to allow yourself to be devoured. 

It sounds so easy, so serene, like the bottom of that dark lake where everything was wondrously still, still, still. 

It starts slow, snowflakes fluttering through the irises of your dying eyes, each one descending to your soul. The first flakes melt and sizzle like drops of water touching a hot surface, but the barrage increases, and the fire within cannot sustain the onslaught. 

Your very spirit is being doused, and it throbs as your psyche is pelted with sharp hail, chilling you to your very core and numbing you of your will to fight. The melody of violent winds, ice, and snow is rapturous, a perverted sonata that you long to get on your knees and recite. 

You want it to sweep you away, sedate you, and submerge you gently into that final eternal night. It promises to remedy the heavy emptiness, and you pine for the feeling of not feeling at all. There is no drowning it out, no resolve to struggle, and the glacier you’re tripping on has cracks. There are tears creeping out of your eyes, turning to ice pellets as they hail down your cheeks.

Yes! Yes! The voice warbles as everything goes dark. Let go.  

The crevice between your feet collapses, and you’re plunged into the frigid abyss. You fall down, down, down, until you find yourself in a barren whitescape with nothing but snow in all directions. Jagged icebergs the size of mountains jut impossibly high into the grey-blue sky and drift erratically with surreal speed, making them look like teeth trying to saw through the horizon. 

The cold is lethal as it forms ice crystals in your lungs when you try to breathe, and even though your breath is as cold as death itself, it billows in misty clouds when you exhale. You try to suppress the urge to breathe so the biting cold can’t nip at your throat, lungs, and nostrils, but it’s hard when your jaw quakes and you’re nearly crippled by shivers. 

You wade through the waist-deep snow in this hellish, frostbitten land. It’s difficult to form coherent thoughts as you feel yourself freezing to death. Your ability to move is quickly being confiscated as your limbs stiffen. Your skin is wind-burnt and blistering, cracking like dry firewood. 

You will die here, or perhaps you’re already dead — you do not know. 

An enormous shadow passes over the landscape, blotting out the meager light the dark, cloudy sky provides, but your neck will not crane to look up. 

The terrain shudders under your feet as something immense lands just out of sight. Powdery snow is belched into the air like a puff of wafting smoke. When was the last time you were able to blink? Your eyes cannot focus quite right. The muscles in your face strain to war against the thin layer of ice accumulated on your skin.

A looming figure takes shape in the snow drifts, coming toward you, making the ground under your feet tremble with every step. It seems to shake an iota of sense back into your senseless body, and you find yourself taking steps toward the silhouette. 

A dragon emerges from the squall; five chromatic heads in all colours rear up on regally serpentine necks to evaluate you. Their nostrils flare, shooting vapour into the air with every breath. The scales reflect the low light and appear almost prismatic, with strips of bluish-green, purple, and grey, glassy-smooth, running down the massive body and merging into a bronze that covers a long tail, tipped with a stinger. 

Each head moves individually, sinuously slithering through the air until each one is poised close to your body. They are massive, each with maws twice the size of your body and flaming eyes of all different colours that examine you intently. 

Their jaws open, revealing long, tapered teeth and forked tongues, and their hot breath wreathes you, dispersing the ice in your veins and biting frost in your muscles. 

Although the figure does not seem to speak, you hear an alluring voice in your head. It is bewitching and gently ethereal. “Do you know me, child of night and dragons?” 

Why you recognize the voice and why it soothes you is unclear, but it awakens your soul, sparking the white-hot blaze of your being roaring back to life with a vigour you have not felt for what feels like centuries. 

“Tiamat.”

The dragon’s lips pull back, baring her teeth in a viscous smile. She opens her mouth and blows her scalding breath over you. “You do not belong in this realm, night stalker.” 

The ice accumulated on your hair melts away, leaving it limp, wet, and sticking to your cheeks. Drops of water rain from your scalp, down your face, dripping off your lashes. 

“I am lost. He is lost. We are lost.” 

“Lost, thou say?” Timat’s laughter sounds like a celestial chorus that the stars themselves dance to. “Thou hast just been found. Wake, bloodkin, return to your realm, and seek the Lord of Lies. He shall hark thy plea.” 

Tiamat rears her scarlet-scaled head, unhinging her jaw like a snake, with the ominous white glow of Hellfire scintillating in her throat. You reflexively take a step backward, putting your hands up to shield yourself as the white, molten flames burst. 

Nothing survives Hellfire. 

Her voice serenades. “Burn bright, child of night, blood of dragons. 

The flames swim through the air with a crackle, enveloping you in a tornado of light so bright that you wonder if your eyes will be reduced to ash. You’re thrust off your feet, plunging you back into the abyssal depths you fell into, and careening directionless at an unfathomable pace. 

You see yourself floating in a black, bottomless netherworld. The impression of movement halts you horizontally above your lifeless shape. Wake up; you want to scream, but you do not have a voice.  

You must claw your way out of this watery grave.

Reaching toward yourself, you find that the other version of you mirrors your movements. Your fingers touch, and her eyes — your eyes — snap open and glow white. The Hellfire swirls around you both and flares out like ghostly, liquid flames in the shape of wings that curl around and fuse into you. 

In a rush, you’re shot like a meteor, rocketing through planes of existence and bending time itself. 

Your eyes flick open to see Rhapsody poised above your chest, the polished silver blades glinting in the candlelight. With a hard, inhumane scowl on his face, Astarion's lifeless eyes are fixed on you, the light obliterated by insanity. Rhapsody whistles through the air, plunging straight for your static heart. 

Something beckons you to wield it — something new yet ancient, both familiar and unknown. When you reach out and grasp it, a blinding light is released from you in a destructive shockwave. Astarion cries out, staggers back, and rubs his eyes furiously. 

“You petulant little shit!” He barks, his voice oozing revulsion and vitriol. “You will not leash me — you cannot leash me! I created you, and I will destroy you!” 

Try as you might, you cannot get your feet to move as your mind fails to construct a viable strategy. You will not survive a battle with him, and you can’t imagine you will get too far even if you flee. Astarion shakes his head, blinking rapidly. His eyes coast around the room, unfocused, and his arms reach out, fingers grasping blindly. 

He cannot see.

It’s only a matter of time before he heals, but it does give you a chance. You must make a decision quickly. Astarion cocks his head, growling like a feral animal with his lips pulled back in a snarl, trying to listen for your position. As soon as you move, he will be able to pinpoint your location. 

You know what you must do, but you don’t want to do it. Furthermore, you don’t know if you have time to do it before he regains his sight. 

Casting Misty Step, you bolt into your room, rifling through your drawers until you come across the scroll you need and stash it. Astarion is in the hall, and you quickly cast Gust of Wind to push him off balance and snatch Rhapsody from his grip before he has time to right himself. 

“Fool,” he snarls, spittle flying from his lips as he lunges toward you. “I need no implements to end you. I will tear your limbs from your body as easily as wings are torn from a fly.” 

You cringe at his tone — so cold, so unfeeling, so full of loathing. You sprint to the door, throwing it open and hurtling down the streets. Glancing back, you make sure Astarion is following you. His eyes remain aimless and restless in their sockets, and he moves erratically and only when he hears you. 

“Astarion!” You call out, making sure you’re far enough away that you have time to make it to the next target in this death race. 

He barrels toward your voice, fingers clawing through the air as you reappear at the next point, calling out again and again and again, keeping yourself always just out of reach, until the Crimson Palace looms out of the darkness. 

You sprint for it, throwing yourself through a window. The glass lacerates your skin, and you know you’ve made a mistake. Astarion scents the air and races toward you. You tense your muscles like Astarion has taught you, roll back onto your feet, and dash through the halls toward your target. 

Astarion is quickly gaining on you, hunting you through the halls with the finessed movements of an apex predator. His movements become more fluid, and you know he’s starting to get his sight back. 

You are running out of time. 

Veering left and hurling yourself down the steep staircase, you narrowly avoid his clutch. 

“Oh, I have missed this, my little treat,” he taunts. “Chasing you around these halls, teaching you all sorts of delightful lessons. Do you remember my lessons, pet? Oh, how I loved the way you screamed.” 

Of course, you remember his lessons vividly. The tortures and torments he subjected you to in the name of taming his unruly spawn, making you a perfect, pretty arm piece to dazzle and delight his opponents while he carried out his twisted ambitions.

And oh, how you screamed and begged for death. 

And oh, how he laughed and laughed and laughed. 

The corridor is like running headfirst into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. The air is musty, and the only sounds are your battering footsteps and the drumming of Astarion’s rapid heartbeat. Your eyes skip over the wall, searching for the invisible wall, and whirl, running through the illusion and into the dank, stone-brick room. 

The kennels.

Your prison stands empty and desolate — the cage he had constructed just for you.

He had been so proud of himself when he commissioned this cell to be built with its chains, restraints, and locks too complex to use Knock on. You swallow thickly, forcing the memories down as Astarion enters. 

“Ah,” he smiles menacingly, strolling in casually. “It’s good to be home. Isn’t it? I must say, I’m surprised that you would lead me here of all places. Did you miss my expert administration? I shall remedy that.” He tsks, clicking his tongue as if chastising a child. “I can deny you nothing, after all.” 

Luring him into the cell was an easy enough feat, but you’ve run out of time. Astarion can see, but by the way his eyes are narrowed, you don’t think completely. 

“Astarion.” Tears slip out of your eyes as your fears well up. “Please come back. Don’t make me do this.” 

He sneers with a wide, eerie Cheshire grin. “I am Astarion no longer, but you know that, don’t you? He drowns.” Astarion points to his head. “In here. I am devouring him, making him rot from the inside out until the pest is conveniently lost. I will exhaust his light. He slips away from you, even now.” 

You lash out with the Weave, casting Hold, but he dodges your attack with a fleet movement to the side and slams into you before you have time to recover. You’re thrown to your stomach on the stone floor, his boot pressed into your back, leaning his weight on you. 

“Stay,” he commands, and you’re immobilized as the compulsion branches out in your mind and twists through your muscles. You cannot see the self-satisfied smile on Astarion’s face, but it’s evident in his voice as he purrs. “Good girl.” 

Astarion leans down, grabs Rhapsody from your hand, and chuckles. “We could have had it all, love. Power, wealth, pleasure — if only you would have just fallen in line, been obedient, but you were always an obstinate little cunt, weren’t you?” 

Astarion lowers himself, sitting on your legs and squeezing your arms to your sides with his knees settled on either side of you. You cannot speak, and the only sounds that make it out of your mouth are strangled whimpers. 

The pointed tip of Rhapsody presses into your back, not yet hard enough to break through skin, and you think you know what’s coming. He will plunge the dagger into your heart.  

There would have been a time when your imminent demise would have brought you a sense of peace and relief. You’d sought an end to this nightmare often enough in the past year. Now, it’s only fear and the overwhelming feeling of failure that nestle in your chest. 

You try to conjure up happy memories. Astarion’s face lighting up in camp when you walked toward him, the walks through the forest in the dappled moonlight, the way he would slip into your tent and cuddle you when he thought you were fast asleep. 

You try to remember his eyes when he proposed, so vividly crimson, wistful, and happy. In that moment, you could have been just another madly in love couple. It all seemed so ordinary, so beautifully human, that you didn’t think about all that opposed the bright future he was offering.

I forgive you, you think, though the connection between you is sealed. I forgive you.

Thoughts move sluggishly through your head, as if getting caught on the sticky threads of spider webs. The cold metal bites into your skin. Slow and steady, Astarion carves into the flesh of your back with precise movements. The shock hits you first, realizing that he’s mimicking Cazador’s torture, and the pain soon follows. It feels obscure for a moment; your brain not able to conceptualize what’s happening. 

The shock wanes, and the sensation strikes with an intensity that makes you almost lose consciousness. Your limbs itch to scramble as your brain wails at your body to thrash. When your muscles don’t comply, everything swims around you as your psyche dissolves. 

“Ah-ah,” he tuts flatly as he focuses on the canvas before him. You can hear the blade cutting through your clothing, tearing and rending skin and muscles alike. “Stay with me, darling, and no going into shock either. I want you to feel the art of it.” 

Astarion’s compulsion takes hold, and you’re alert, all your nerves aroused and buzzing back to life at his behest. It is a mind-obliterating kind of torture. If you were able to writhe, you’re not even sure your body would, as you lose sight of the ability to consider how to get it to stop. A bone-deep nausea overwhelms you, and your mind is seized by the white-hot agony mutilating your flesh. 

He mumbles as he whittles away at your back. “I may not be the same man, but I do have most of his memories. Do you want to know a secret he keeps from you? Do you remember the first time we had sex in that forest? He loathed every second of it. Every one of your pretty little moans made him want to retch. It disgusted him — you disgusted him. How easy you were.”

The pain frays the edges of your mind as your husband, your lover, sketches a tapestry of heartache into you with his words and dagger. Every drag of the blade is like an artist's brushstroke, and your blood is the watercolour of his unspeakable masterpiece. 

“Oh my,” he croons with feigned empathy. “Wherever are my manners? You may speak, my love.” 

As soon as your lips are no longer stitched shut by his compulsion, an insensate wail erupts from your throat. It rebounds off the walls and echos, cutting through the silence like ghosts lamenting the torture this room has been witness to over the centuries. 

Astarion still talks, but his words are just another hum flowing over your ears but never sinking in. 

You don’t know what prompts you to laugh, but you do so bitterly and madly. Your own laughter is so hollow that, at first, you’re not sure if it is you until words start to form between the hysterical mirth. “I am fucking coming for you. I will defy the Gods to save him, and I cannot wait to make you choke on my light.” 

The dagger punctures deeper, through muscle and into bone, you’re quite sure, and another hoarse, harrowing cry is loosed from your lips. 

 “Yes, sing.” 

For me.

He’s said this to you many times in this room, a haunting mirror of Cazador, and you wait for him to finish, but nothing comes. The knife carving your back stills, and Astarion’s heartbeat goes from being steady and rhythmic to clattering with such intensity that you cannot tell if it’s skipping beats or beating so rapidly that the sound just merges into one thundering call. 

“Illyria?” The blade buried deep in your muscles begins to tremble, no longer the steady-handed glide, and you wince as it vacillates your raw nerves. It clatters to the floor abruptly. “By the Gods. What have I done?” 

Astarion throws himself off you, his back thudding into the back wall of the hellish cell so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs in a wheeze. The compulsion pales, receding from your mind, and your body shakes uncontrollably as shock starts to set in.  

Your mind wants to slip away, your eyesight blurred by the tears welled in your eyes that you were unable to shed without permission, but you force yourself to focus. The muscles in your arms tremble violently as you aim to push yourself up to your feet, but you only make it to your knees before the pain makes your body wrack, dry heaving between fitful sobs. 

A noise between a croak and a gasp hiccups from Astarion. When you look up at him, his eyes are wide with horror. His hand covers his mouth, and his still-flickering eyes brim with tears. You stare at him, wanting to speak and tell him it’s okay, but instead you ravenously take in every feature of your Astarion to try to rid yourself of the cold countenance of the man who flayed your back. Your eyes focus on every soft feature, on the lustre of those wide, mortified eyes and the rampant fear in them. 

You have not yet decided if you want to run from him or crawl into his arms, kiss him, hold him, and tell him everything will be okay, but his eyes still rock between dimness and lucidity. 

“Stay with me, Astarion,” you choke out, begging him not to go, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“Oh Gods. Oh Gods.” His voice breaks, cracking and tight with emotion. 

Astarion looks around frantically, and you see the recognition of this room, but also the confusion with the concrete walls and barred door surrounding him. He may never have seen this cage, or if he did, you imagine he would not know what purpose it served. 

He’s unsteady on his feet as he reaches for the shackles hanging from the wall and snaps them around his wrist, clicking each padlock into place with a hiss as the silver manacles burn his skin. 

“You have to get away from me. I will kill you. The darkness, I cannot walk away. I am—“ 

You see the moment he loses himself again, the flickering light in his eyes dying out like a cooling ember. You grab the dagger, stumble out of the cage, and slam the door closed. You remove the scroll from your pocket and unravel the parchment with shaking fingers, leaving bloody prints all along the edges. 

The incantation flows quickly, but precisely, off your tongue as you recite it. The words glow golden, float into the air, and the scroll vanishes. The blue-white shimmer of Arcane Lock encompasses the cell door. 

Astarion hauls on the restraints, testing their strength with a calculating look at the locks. The shackles are made for you, thick chains braided together to make sure you could not escape, and locks too complex for any spell. The silver in the manacles is meant to weaken, but there’s no knowing if it will affect him in the same way it did you. He observes the incandescence pulsing around the door. 

His deathly, cold eyes peer at you through the darkness. “Clever, clever girl. What’s to stop me from just compelling you to dispel it?”

“You’re welcome to try, but it won’t work. Only a Wizard has the ability to suppress this spell.” Your silver tongue lies perfectly and effortlessly. 

A silence stretches out between you for what feels like an eternity before he sinks into the darkness of the cell. His voice is unnerving. “It’s only a matter of time before I get free. Enjoy what little time remains of your life.” 

You nod curtly and stride out of the room. Closing the door to the kennels, you bolt through the halls to Astarion’s old study and pull out all the drawers until you find the ring of keys that he kept well away from you. You descend the stairs back down into the hall, terrified that you will see Astarion standing in the dark, but it remains empty. You shove keys shakily into the lock until one finally spins with a satisfying click. 

It’s a pointless endeavour. If Astarion escapes, he can break the door down, but it gives you some small sense of comfort to know there’s another barrier between you and that monster wearing Astarion’s face.  

You’re not sure what you will do if he gets curious and compels you to let him go. There was no time to plan quite that far in advance, but for now, he seems to have accepted that you cannot dispel it. 

You can do nothing but pray that his ignorance of the arcane arts still holds true. 

The walls themselves seem to brood at your presence and press in on you. You drop to your knees on the floor, and the open wounds on your back flood you with fresh agony with every movement. You would whimper, perhaps scream, but the thought of giving Astarion the satisfaction makes you grind your teeth and dive deep into the solitude and silence. 

The silver shackles burn your wrists and ankles and drain your strength. The rough stone blocks grate at the skin on your back like sandpaper, but at this point, it’s almost a welcome sensation.  

How long have you been shackled now? Weeks? Months? You cannot seem to keep your grip on reality these days. Sometimes you think you hear voices outside of your cage in the darkness. Seven thousand souls tell you that you deserve this, that you brought this upon yourself, and that you should rot in here for eternity as they will rot in the Hells. All true, true, true, you think, and you let it hurt until that too stops.  

Hunger has become an all-consuming, mind-numbing pain. Bloodlust is such a complex patchwork of sensations. It is a pain of pressure, of maturing, of constantly growing larger, larger, larger until your limbs cramp and jerk. You want nothing more than to die before your body can twist itself into excruciating positions and lock up on you, and even then, the hunger grows.  

You cannot die from starvation any longer. This pain will only ever increase. Every second, the burbling acid in your stomach seems to burn hotter in the pit, an agony that often makes you whimper and weep.  

At least you are not entirely alone. You can hear the bugs, feel them clambering against your naked skin. Sometimes they are light; others are heavier, with chitinous shells and legs that prick. They chitter and clatter their pincers together. Sometimes they bite between your toes, climb over your face, and through your hair. You don’t have the energy to brush them away, and so you don’t.

You have not yet decided if you might try eating them.

You haven’t moved — not so much as a twitch of a finger — in what must be weeks. It goes on and on and on until you’re very sure that this is all you will ever know for the rest of your immortal life. 

Hunger, pain, loneliness, and bugs.

And then you hear the lock click, and you squint your eyes against the dim light of the candle that is set just out of your reach. You smell brandy and rosemary, and your lower lip quivers. You bite it to stop it from giving away your emotions.

“Don’t do that.” Astarion says, “Is that how you want me to see you for the first time in weeks, pet? Weak?”  

Weeks… Is that all it’s been? It felt like years. 

You hate that you are relieved to see him, happy to hear the devil's voice, and smell home, even if this home burns down around you even now.  

Astarion grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces you to look into his dead eyes. “I bet you’re starving. Hm?” He grins sadistically, turning it into a fake pout. “I do not like to see that look upon your face. Worry not. I’ve brought you dinner.”  

He twists and grabs a silver bucket, turning it over and letting a dead, decaying rat splat on the floor beside you. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of it. It’s been dead for some time, and you can see and hear the maggots writhing underneath its rotting pelt.  

But Gods, you are so hungry.  

When you don’t immediately go for the rat, Astarion grabs your restraints and tugs hard, making your raw, blistered wrist light ablaze, and you whimper. “What? Not good enough? You ungrateful bitch. I lived on this diet for two hundred years.”  

He kicks the rat forward. “Eat it. Now.”  

“Please,” you croak weakly. Your voice has not been used in a while, and it sounds odd in your ears. “Please, Astarion. Don’t do this. I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you want, but please.”  

“I said.” Astarion grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your face in the mushy corpse, rubbing your nose in it like a pup who has had an accident in the house. “Fucking eat it.”  

With its putrid guts already spread across your face, you sob as you bite down into it, your fangs sinking into fetid flesh and stinking muscles, and feed.  

It is worse than you thought it ever could be. Your mouth is filled with bits of congealed blood, but mostly puss and death and decay, and you swallow it down because you have no other choice.  

“Gods,” Astarion grunts with his lips curled in disgust. “Hush now. You are terribly ugly when you cry, darling.”  

You don’t dare trance and instead remain still and soundless, with only the pain igniting your being keeping you company. Fear keeps you rooted to the floor on your knees. Fear that if you leave, he will not be here when you return. Fear that if you dare move, he will strike from the shadows. Fear that you wasted too much time, and he is truly gone. 

Fear. Fear. Fear. 

Fear so sharp that you can feel it enclosing around you, squeezing the air from your lungs, making it feel incomprehensibly thin. Even though you do not need it, you try to gulp it down in shallow breaths, but there is no relief from the fear or the depravation that still strangles you.

You long to feel the connection with Astarion so you can stop feeling so boundlessly empty and alone. How easily you can get used to having another presence always at the back of your mind. It was comforting to know he was always there, nothing more than a thought or feeling away, but now that comfort too has been ripped away.  

Sometimes you think you feel him touching your mind, but the sensation is fickle, like the wings of an insect tickling with soft, fluttering whispers. 

There is no time to remain in this state of dejection, and yet you wallow in it. Perhaps you should not have told him, and this is your fault, but perhaps it was only a matter of time. 

Nothing good ever seems to last.

You need help, but anyone who aids you will be in grave peril. Getting to your feet is a monumental effort; the scabs of the raw mosaic on your back split and reopen anew. You wonder what he sculpted into your flesh. What scars will you carry for eternity? It’s not like you will ever be able to see them, but maybe that’s a blessing. 

You let yourself back into the kennels and force yourself to face him. There is a fleeting hope that when you light the candles, your husband's warm scarlet eyes will be what you see, but that, too, is another disappointment.  

Astarion’s eyes remain almost matte, like once-polished rubies forgotten and dulled by the patina of time. 

He sits on the floor, his arms resting on his bent knees, and watches you with a keenness that makes you shudder. You hold his stare. You will not be shy or meek. You cannot afford to show such weakness. 

“Why?” Your voice is hoarse, clipped, and unsteady. 

“Why what, pet?” 

You ask the question that’s been plaguing your mind since you walked out of this wretched place — since he allowed you to walk out of this place. “Why didn’t you kill me?” 

“Last night?” He snickers. “I wanted to hear your angelic cries once more before I—“ 

“No,” you bark, cutting him off. “Not last night. Why didn’t you kill me before? You had every opportunity. There was no one here to stop you.”

Astarion leans forward, making the chains rattle. There is a gleam in his eye, those perfect lips pulling back into a cruel smile. “Because I love you, of course.” 

You almost want to laugh, as if he’s just told you a hilarious joke, but there is a resoluteness in his voice, a matter-of-fact intonation, that tells you that this is a truth to some extent.  

Even this version of him, this soulless, fragmented rendition, loves you in his own twisted way. 

It also indicates what you fear most: that this monster before you is still Astarion, and the only thing that stands between your Astarion and this one is the tattered remains of whatever is left of his soul. 

If you fail in your quest and run out of time, this hateful, power-hungry savage will replace the man you knew. What would you do? Every atom of your being longs for him. If you cannot be his saviour, will you languish in the dark with him if only to keep him company? Would you be capable of hating him — killing him — if need be? 

You wish to believe yourself resilient enough to roll your betrayal, sadness, and anger into loathing to release you from this self-flagellating love, but you know you will never be able to. There is still a soft part of your heart harbouring hope that if you keep getting up every time he knocks you down, if you keep fighting, there might be a happy ending at the end of this cluster fuck. 

Or perhaps it is only your ending that awaits you at the finish line. 

“That was quite a fancy trick,” Astarion drones, tearing you away from your thoughts. “Blinding me.”

You don’t bother answering before leaving him alone, locking the door uselessly behind you once again, and making your way to the main floor of the palace. The dust has settled in a thick blanket on the furniture, with cobwebs stretching out in every corner and between the slender candles in their opulent candelabra. It makes the atmosphere of this palace of nightmares all the more foreboding. 

“Mizora!” You call out, knowing the cambion is ever watchful. 

The air heats, smelling of sulphur and brimstone, and the oily blot opens up on the floor. Mizora’s fluid form arises, wings unfurling with her usual flair. 

“That was quite the show last night.” She smirks with fangs peeking out of her lips. “Stupid, pet. Very stupid.” She sports a faux pout. “I thought you much wiser.” 

“I’m not interested in your chastisement.” You cross your arms and immediately regret the way your shoulder blades stretch your injured skin, bringing fresh tears to your eyes. “Tell Shadowheart to meet me here.” 

“What do I look like to you? A messenger pigeon?” Mizora tsks haughtily. 

“If you want me to kennel Mephistopheles, you’re going to do as requested.” 

Mizora huffs indignantly, stretching her wings out and jutting her chin up. You stare at her unyieldingly, not allowing your face to display your uncertainty, pain, or fear. 

“Fine. Fine.” She huffs, waggling her clawed fingers at you. “I will fetch your darling little Cleric.”

Once Mizora disperses, you head straight for the library. It’s one of the bigger rooms, lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases that are brimming with all kinds of tomes and books, ranging in age from new to ancient. Your fingers and eyes flit over the titles as quickly as you can, looking for anything even remotely related to infernal contracts, deals with devils, the nine Hells themselves, or arch devils. 

The knock on the palace door makes you jump, and you are cautious as you make your way through the latticework of halls and corridors, trying to light candles as you go so that the palace is less oppressive.

Unsurprisingly, it does little to help. 

When you finally tug the door open, you stay carefully behind it because you’re not sure if your sun protection has been rescinded, and you’re not interested in finding out. Shadowheart is waiting with her armour and weapons, arms crossed, and tapping her foot in the way she does when she’s either irritated or worried. 

“You sent Mizora to fetch me? What in the blazing Hells is going on?” She strides into the palace, dropping her pack at her feet and putting her hands on her hips. “Why are we here, and where’s Astarion?” 

Once the heavy door is shut and locked, you come out of the shadows where you’ve been hiding it. Even though you try to swallow them, tears weep from your eyes. “Astarion is downstairs. He’s locked up in the kennels.” 

“Locked in the kennels?”

Shadowheart finally turns to look at you, and her stern expression vanishes. Her brows round, her eyes widen, and she pulls you into a hug, unaware of the wounds on your back. You wince as her arm folds over the barely healed lacerations. Shadowheart tries to jump away when she feels the cool wetness of your blood against her hand, but you mutter pleas to stay. 

Eventually, when the bloodlust threatens to overwhelm, you let Shadowheart go. She stares at her blood-dappled hands and back at you. 

“Show me.” She instructs, but you hesitate. You don’t want to show her this. She might not be able to forgive Astarion, and if that’s the case, she might be more likely to try and kill him than help you save him. “Turn around, Illyria.” 

You do so slowly, with your head hung in defeat. Shadowheart’s heartbeat increases, and she gasps. 

“By the Gods! Did he do this to you!? Did that monster finally show his true colours?!” 

“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault. It’s not him.” 

“We have to get you cleaned up, and then I’m going to fucking kill him.” 

“No!” You yell, grasping her forearms and falling to your knees to beg. "Please, before you make any judgments on him, hear me out. Please, Shadowheart.”

“I... Ugh. Fine. Take off your shirt. We have to clean your wounds. Do you have any clothes here?” 

“Astarion might,” you mutter. “I can go look up in his room for something.” 

Shadowheart helps you carefully pull your shirt off, but it seems almost melded to your body, and it peels off some of the formed scabs as well. You can feel the blood dribble down your back. It scents the air with a coppery perfume, which makes your bloodlust surge. 

Shadowheart is quiet while she works on patting your wounds as gently as she can, trying to clean them, and using her healing magic again and again and again.  

You don’t have the heart to tell her which blade these were made with and why they will not heal. 

“These are not healing well.” She comments, almost perplexed. 

“They will heal in time.” 

Shadowheart accompanies you to Astarion’s old room, and you pull out drawers only to find most of them empty. The various wardrobes are the same, but you do manage to find one shirt that still resides here, apparently not good enough to be packed and taken with the others.

His old camp shirt. 

You slip it on; at least the fabric is soft and does not get caught on your wounds. It is, of course, much too large for you and likely looks beyond ridiculous, but it’s something at least. 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Shadowheart says softly, her usual prickly demeanour nowhere to be seen.

So you do. You explain it all from top to bottom and back again. You tell Shadowheart about the way his mind sounds if you use Detect Thoughts; tell her about the version of him that lurks within; and about Mizora and Mephistopheles. 

You conveniently leave out the marriage proposal.

“Hells!” Shadowheart rubs her face. “I knew there was something we didn’t know about that godsforsaken Rite. Fuck. We were such fools. So the man in the kennels, the man that did that to you, is not Astarion?” 

 She means that you were a fool, but it matters not.

“He is Astarion,” you answer. “But he’s a version of Astarion that’s been corrupted. He’s not the Astarion we know.” 

“I want to see him - this version of him.” 

“It’s not a good idea.” You shake your head. “I don’t actually know how long it will hold him.” 

“How are we going to get our Astarion back?” Shadowheart says. “What’s brought him back before?” 

“Me,” you say, sitting and combing your fingers through your hair. “It’s usually me, but this time seems different. He came back for a moment, but he was gone again quickly.” 

“We’ll get him back, Illyria.” Shadowheart says it with a smile, but it’s forced. She squeezes your shoulder. “We will find a way, or he will.” 

You nod, “Until then, we need to learn everything we can about infernal contracts and how to negotiate them.” You rise from the chair with renewed determination. “I pulled some books from the library already. We can start there unless you know where to acquire more specific books.”

“What do you mean negotiate them?” Shadowheart retorts with her brows pinched. “Don’t we want to destroy the contract? I very much doubt Mephistopheles will be willing to renegotiate if it means putting a muzzle on him.” 

“Who said anything about Mephistopheles?” You grin wolfishly. “I’m going to negotiate new terms with the Lord of Lies.” 

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. Your support gives me the motivation to keep this fic going.

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

It's been a while since we’ve seen this version of Astarion... We need our Astarion back!

Tiamat - Real or hallucination?

Lord of Lies - Bad idea? Most likely...

Posting a day early because it's my birthday tomorrow, and I'm not sure how drunk I'll be by the end of the day 🤣

[nectardaddy]

aftermath p.2 - higuruma hiromi

part one

cw: blood, death, homicide, manga spoilers (if you know who tf he is you're fine), language, talk of religious themes (being damned, righteousness, concept of hell)

notes: kinda hurt/comfort, established relationship, gender neutral, inspired by if I killed someone for you by alec benjamin

Crimson swirled down the drain and through the pipes just an hour ago - but you felt dirty all the same. Still felt unclean. Scrubbing at your palms and face until your skin felt scorched and dry, only stopping due to piercing eyes looking your way. Letting a small breath pass your lips, wet hands grabbed at the counter to hold yourself upright. Thinking that if you didn't, you would surely topple over. "I trust you," a determined tone leaving you that juxtaposed your position. "Just-" but your words fell short as you saw the man get up. Watching in the mirror in front of you as he rose from his seat to near you.

His dark hair was wet, small droplets of water still clinging onto loose ends as he had just recently showered. He looked eerily normal; like he always did when he spent the night. But his eyes were different, brown eyes tearing apart every thing he were to look at. He seemed, almost, frantic, pupils flicking to different spots in the room before returning to you. Like he was looking for something, or he had seen something he wanted to utterly ignore. You couldn't help but notice; however, the overwhelming emotion of desperation circling within them. He hid it well, holding himself so highly that, if you weren't close with him, you wouldn't be the wiser.

Your words abruptly stopped in your mouth and mind, hovering over 'just' before closing your mouth all together. He was slow to step over to you, methodically stepping as all he could do was meet your eyes in the mirror's reflection. The man you loved for ages, the lawyer, the murderer, the cold blooded killer - was it wrong to look at him differently now?

"Just?" He urged you to continue, shoving his hands into the pockets of the sweatpants he dawned. His suit long gone, disposing of it in a bag and into the dumpster as it was drenched in blood and other horrendous, gory, details. He waited until you were in the shower to dispose of his clothes, knowing that his image would haunt your brain

You couldn't bring yourself to face him fully, your resolve crumbling at your feet as you couldn't tear your eyes away from the mirror. "I don't know," you whispered uncertainly. Taking a sledgehammer to your mind and taking it down completely once he took another step towards you. "I don't know," you repeated, voice wavering as your vision blurred. Mourning the loss of your own love, even though he stood just behind you, a tear slipped down your cheek. One after another, until they spilled relentlessly; littering the sink counter with small droplets of hot tears. "I don't know what to do, Hiromi," you choked out. "You were my voice of reason."

You wanted nothing more than to yank yourself away as his arms wrapped around you, slinking them around your waist from behind. But you couldn't. You wouldn't. His hold was still warm, still inviting, still the same warmth he radiated before he had turned to wickedness. You hated yourself for leaning into it, loathed that your body reacted in such a way that you liked it. "I wouldn't think less of you if you called the police."

A simple statement, but one that left your mind reeling. A sentence leaving his lips so impactfully and low, it made you sick that you wanted to pity him. "I wanted to, at first," you mumbled between tears. Despite your morals bashing your brain, you continued to lean into his hold, fully engulfing yourself into him as you continued. "But you would leave."

"You want me to stay?" He posed, feeling his words by your ear as he rested his chin on your shoulder. How could a man who just committed such a treacherous crime be so nonchalant? Where was the man who only dreamed of justice and truth? Who would spend hours upon hours just to find something, anything, to strengthen a defense for whom he believed was innocent. Was this true justice to him: murder? He was willing to take not only one, but two lives all for the sake of his righteous believes. You were aware of his moxy and sheer hate towards the unjust system; but you never imagined he would become judge, jury, and executioner.

"I-" but your words fell short once more, biting back the phrases on the tip of your tongue you desperately wanted to utter. Tears slowed and you screwed your eyes shut, refusing to look at his reflection as you took a deep breath. "Would I be just as evil to let you stay?" You questioned through gritted teeth, eyes still closed as you rationed out your thoughts aloud. "Harboring a criminal-" you breathed, "you're supposed to uphold the law, not break it. Now you leave me with more questions than answers."

Swallowing hard, and pushing your fear to the back burner, you opened your eyes and stared at his reflection. Your brain seered the image of him covered in blood, in the moment you could only see him as such. "Did they deserve it, Higuruma?" The question leaving your lips easily as you questioned your very morals, was this all it took? If they truly deserved it, deserved to lose their very life at the hands of your lover, would that change anything? "You're damned now, so tell me, did they get what they deserved by killing them?"

Feeling your mind fray at the sight of him, you watched your morals slip from your fingers. Shifting and turning just as the gears in his mind did, pondering your question before letting out a breath. "They were crooked and selfish," he quipped. Lifting his head from your shoulder and straightening himself out, towering over you as if to make a proclamation. "When I see them in hell, I'll kill them again." It was as if a switch was flipped in your mind, taking your moral compass and turning it on its head as his statement hit you like a train.

You hadn't a rational thought in your brain anymore, offering your loyalty up to him so willingly it was almost frightening. Your body turned against him, not knowing what possessed you to finally face the monster head on. He let go easily, only to replace his hands once more when you finally met his eyes; pulling you towards him so you wouldn't disappear - it was far too late to change your tune. "Do you love me, still?" His question sounding more like a plea as his void features finally showed those of sorrow; although, it was more of a glimpse, tired eyes swimming as they bounced from feature to feature on you.

You couldn't help the feverish emotion that had an iron grip on you, swallowing you whole if you ever dared to fight it. The man, although a monster and mind completely snapped at the seams, was yours through and through. Was it wrong of you to still, after the life altering situation at hand, want to be by his side? Mind swimming with such silly thoughts, you asked yourself if you were starting to lose it to. "Until the end of my days," you replied. "I'll always love you."

[bardic-tales]

Title: Masamune

Pairing: Bianca Moore(f!OC) / Sephiroth

Other Characters: Cloud Strife, Barret Wallace, Tifa Lockhart, and Red XII

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 1420

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Setting: FF VII OG, North Crater

Warnings: Abandonment, blood, body horror, child death (illusion), combat, corruption, dark magic, death, delusions, despair, distorted reality, graphic violence, hallucinations, hypothermia, injury, intense pain, main character death, manipulation, mental torment, mutilation, power struggle, psychosis, psychological abuse, self-mutilation, supernatural horror, torture, trauma, violence, weaponry.

Summary: In the frigid North Crater, Bianca and Sephiroth face off against Cloud and his companions in a chaotic battle.

Squared Filled: Masamune

Created for: Sephiroth Week hosted by @week-of-silver-winds

Author's Note: As always, please read over my warnings, since I list the general themes, too, in case there is any content that may be uncomfortable to my reader. This one features a battle and I can get somewhat descriptive in battle scenes.

Also, please be aware that there is a spoiler in here. I typically write with the OG FF7 events, but this spoiler can spoil Rebirth, too. So, please keep that in mind if you haven't finished Rebirth.

EXCERPT:

As she descended, she hovered just above the ground beside him. Her dark wings fanned out. Indigo and black feathers blended with the surrounding shadows.

“Sephiroth!” Cloud growled, as he stepped forward with the Buster Sword drawn. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the hilt. “We’re taking you down!”

“Ah, Cloud. Such futile defiance.” Sephiroth sounded almost bored, while Bianca’s crimson-painted lips — the colors of Sephiroth’s favorite roses growing wildly outside of Kalm — curled upward into a sardonic smile. “You will only meet the same fate as others who dared to stand against us and Mother.”

The battle would be chaotic.

Below her, the icy winds of the North Crater howled around her, the harsh cold bit at exposed skin, reminding Bianca that they would have to finish this battle and finish it quickly, as her trade off for her ice powers was being more susceptible to hypothermia than an average human.

Snow whipped through the air, obscuring the jagged landscape, but she still saw Sephiroth remaining still and unperturbed. His argent hair flowed behind him like a river of moonlight, while his eyes glowed with a luminous intensity.

As she descended, she hovered just above the ground beside him. Her dark wings fanned out. Indigo and black feathers blended with the surrounding shadows.

Before them stood Cloud Strife and his companions: Barret, Tifa, and Red XII, their faces set in grim determination. Behind them lay the shattered remains of the path each had forged. Bianca could feel the desperation and grief wafting off of them like a delicious perfume. Aerith’s death still hung heavy in the air like a mournful wail, fueling the party’s resolve and Bianca’s strength.

“Sephiroth!” Cloud growled, as he stepped forward with the Buster Sword drawn. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the hilt. “We’re taking you down!”

“Ah, Cloud. Such futile defiance.” Sephiroth sounded almost bored, while Bianca’s crimson-painted lips — the colors of Sephiroth’s favorite roses growing wildly outside of Kalm — curled upward into a sardonic smile. “You will only meet the same fate as others who dared to stand against us and Mother.”

“Bastard!” Cloud lunged forward, leading the charge. The Buster Sword clashed with Masamune in a shower of sparks, the sheer force of the impact reverberating through the air.

Sephiroth met each strike with an effortless parry, almost as if he was dancing with Cloud’s attacks. Each moment was graceful yet brutal, as the moonlight shone down upon them, making Masamune’s blade gleam with ebony and silver.

As she saw Tifa darting in from the side with her fists glowing with the energy of one of her last attacks, Bianca’s wings flared. Bianca raised her hand to the sky, channeling her dark energies before a swirling vortex appeared from the darkened clouds before the tornado’s funnel touched the ground. The dark wind lashed out at Tifa, engulfing her in swirling snow and blackness before sending the woman sprawling across the icy ground.

“Stay out of this, girl!” Barret roared, raising his gun-arm and unleashed a hail of bullets at Bianca. She was already in the air and on the move and twisted to the side to evade the bullets as an eerie silence surrounded her. Her wings left a trail of darkness in her wake, feeding on the vitality of the frozen air and their enemies below. She landed with a silent thump behind Barret.

“You should have turned back when you had the chance,” Bianca whispered, so softly, but her voice carried her deadly promise. Tendrils erupted from her back, writhing in the air as they pierced they pierced the leader of AVALANCHE.

Barret screamed in horror as his vision blurred. The world distorted around him until it twisted into the nightmarish visage of Marlene, bleeding and broken. His baby girl lay on the snow before him. Her brown eyes stared up lifelessly at Barret while her hair dripped with gore. Her blood was a sharp contrast between the purity of the snow and the gruesome horror of a child laying dead.

“Marlene!” Barret sobbed as he fell to his knees before Marlene and held her to his chest. The fleshy tendrils attached to Bianca continued to pulsate and pump its visions into the rowdy man.

As Sephiroth withdrew Masamune. Cloud’s blood dripped off the point and onto the ground. “Let me remind you of that pain five years ago. Pain that you will never forget.”

Cloud gritted his teeth, staggering back, but Tifa sprang to his side, unleashing a powerful uppercut aiming at Sephiroth’s chin. The attack grazed him, but he stepped back just another to avoid the brunt of the blow. Sephiroth’s eyes narrowed.

As Tifa prepared for another strike, Bianca vanished in a blur, reappearing beside the other woman in an instant. Swiftly, she grasped Tifa’s wrist, wrenching it back with a satisfying snap. Using the momentum, Bianca twisted sharply, threw Tifa off-balanced, and sent her to the ground once more.

Without hesitation, Bianca wiggled her fingers, conjured a warding around herself and Sephiroth. The star-drenched barrier surged into existence, shimmering with the cosmos to endure any incoming attacks.

“Barriers won’t save you!” Cloud shouted, leaping back into the fray. He unleashed his power, his sword movements becoming a blur of strikes aimed at both Sephiroth and Bianca.

With a single look at Sephiroth, she released the barrier. He surged forth with a single fluid motion, blocking Cloud’s frenzied blows, as he deflected each strike with deadly accuracy. He countered with a sudden thrust of the Masamune, piercing through the blond man’s defenses. The blade carved a shallow cut along Cloud’s cheek before being drawn back. The long, slender length still dripped with blood.

“Still clinging to life?” Sephiroth mocked.

Bianca descended beside Sephiroth now. She closed her eyes, concentrated, and distorted the forms of Sephiroth and herself into multiple phantoms. Each copy mimicked their moves and powers. The illusions advanced on Cloud’s group. Their shimmering forms added confusion and dread.

However, Red XIII and his sense of smell caught her off guard. With a snarl, flames encircled his jaws as Nanaki barreled forward, aiming at Bianca. Her wings snapped outward in a powerful beat, sending a corrupting wind toward him, but he leapt through it.

As Nanaki’s fangs sank into Bianca’s leg, a sharp, burning pain shot up her limb. The sensation amplified by the heat of the flames licking at the beast’s jaws. The bite was quick but deep, tearing through muscle and grazing bone before Nanaki pulled back.

The wound bled immediately. Dark crimson rivulets poured from the jagged punctures, staining the icy ground beneath her. The blood glistened in the faint light of the crater. The pain radiated through her leg in waves. It twisted into something darker as the corruption in her veins — her father’s influence — stirred inside of her, feeding off the injury. She clenched her teeth. Her breath was ragged for a moment, as she struggled to keep her balance. Her wings beat furiously to steady herself before her regeneration created a small patch of flesh over the puncture marks.

The rage flared within, mingling with the agony as her skin patched itself. Her eyes glowed with intensity as she turned towards the creature. The edges of her vision blurred with darkness as she channeled the pain from her regeneration into Noctemaris, the demonic tachi. She would make Nanaki suffer for daring to wound her.

Sephiroth’s eyes flicked towards Bianca, a brief feeling of concern burnt deep within the bright gaze, but she ignored it. They both gave each other a subtle nod. Without hesitation, Bianca flew upright into the sky, twirling until she reached the correct height. Blood rained down upon them as the wound still continued to heal. She folded her wings against herself and dove towards the ground.

Striking the craggy floor with Noctemaris, cracks opened from the point where the sword penetrated the Earth. The Lifestream tried to surge to protect itself, but Noctemaris’ shadow-tinged arc sent out a shock wave that rippled outward from Bianca, forcing Cloud’s group to scatter.

As the dust and snow settled, Sephiroth stepped forward. His leather boots crunching on the ground and Masamune gleamed in his hand.

“You are nothing but insects struggling against the inevitable,” Sephiroth murmured to the group before him. Sephiroth murmured to the group before him, his voice filled with certainty. “And here, in this place, you shall finally understand despair.”

Her gaze lingered on Sephiroth and Masamune. The blade was awe-inspiring: beautiful, with the silver contrasting against the black metal.

“For you, Sephiroth, I’ll tear this world apart,” she whispered, her voice carrying with it the weight of her dark promise to the man she now viewed as a mate and a god. Her gaze lingered on the Masamune as if it were a sacred relic.

This battle is far from over, Bianca thought. But in North Crater’s frozen heart, the power of Sephiroth’s weapon and her loyalty were undeniable. The world would tremble before them, as they would make sure that the world — and the Omniverse — would experience its rebirth.

tagging some fellow mutuals: @themaradwrites @littleshopofchaos @serenofroses @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@nightingaleflow @seastarblue @prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen

@chickensarentcheap

[imarvelatstars]

Turbulence

No Romantic Pairings

featuring Enya Keen, Jecki Lon, & Yord Fandar

Content: platonic soulmates, reincarnation, canonical character deaths, jedi religion/beliefs, spoilers for cataclysm

[ao3 link]

382 BBY, Dalna.

Enya feels her heart pounding in her chest when she sees it. Her blaster aims at his chest. “That lightsaber doesn’t belong to you.”

The Path member bathed in a green kyber glow snarls at her, spittle on his chin and the faded blue paint of his sect dripping down his face. “Then come and get it, trash.”

She’s off balance, tired and afraid and longing for her saber, and it nearly gets her killed. But the Force comes to her when she asks for it. Even when she is beaten, when the Path member raises his fist and prepares to strike her down, she remembers to call upon the Force and breathe.

Quiet settles in her mind. Resolve. This will not be her end. The Force is with her, and she is stronger because of it. It is that strength that allows her to dodge his blows, to beat him into submission, and summon the stolen saber to her hand. In the moment between one attack and another, she feels a sense of recognition tingle in her palm. This saber isn’t hers, but the kyber is pleased to serve her in her time of need. She smiles. And she keeps fighting.

It is an infinitely impossible stretch of time later when something stings deep in Enya’s chest – horror, shock, grief, maybe even awe – when she holds Master Darhga’s saber in her hands, flicks her thumb over the blaster burn in the emitter. There should be a hole burning in her throat. The enforcer droid that had shot at her is long gone, too busy trying to bring down the departing shuttles, but its blaster shot had been meant for her. It glanced off the saber’s emitter guard instead, leaving the metal burnt and warped.

Orin Darhga had saved her life, albeit in a remarkably roundabout way.

With the hem of her tunic wrapped around the saber, still too hot to touch, Enya presses it to her chest as her eyes mist over. “Thank you,” she whispers. She chooses to believe that even in his union with the Force, Master Darhga can hear her. “I need your lightsaber to keep fighting,” she continues. “Until the end of this battle, come what may.”

But the victory on Dalna can hardly be called such. Too much was lost and at too high a cost. She’d lost her Master. She’d very nearly lost her own life. The lives of too many Jedi had been ended too soon, one of them being Master Darhga’s, yet still… She looks now at the empty hilt in her hands, its kyber removed and ready to be placed in the Arch.

The Force works in mysterious ways. Master Darhga’s loss would affect the Temple and the Order for many years to come, yet it still remained to be seen how much good his sacrifice would bring. It was because of him that she had survived the battle. Such a debt cannot be repaid, not in one lifetime, though Enya will certainly try. More than anything, she hopes that one day she will be reunited with him in the Force, and they will smile together as if they’ve always been friends, bathed in the light of a million, billion stars.

132 BBY, Khofar.

The creature that cut down her brothers and sisters in the Force was relentless, vicious and horrifically violent, and she’d hardly had the time to think, to ignite her saber and defend herself when he first descended upon her. And then he’d shorted it out moments later, left it sparking in her hands, descended upon her again with that eerie grin carved across his helm, and Jecki had reached for Kelnacca’s blade as if it were instinct. It was the pure, screaming desire to stay alive at all costs that kept her fighting against the fear.

She’s never seen a crimson blade before, she muses in the moments after he disappears, leaves her standing alone in the forest with the smoking remains of Master Kelnacca’s saber and the pounding beat of adrenaline in her ears. Even so, she knows what a saber like this stranger’s means. Master Sol has cautioned her against the Dark Side too many times to count, drilling it into her head just how slippery is the slope that leads from fear to selfishness to the abyss of a blackened heart. But knowledge doesn’t prevent fear.

Jecki draws upon her teachings, upon the wisdom of her Master and the familiar thrum of the Force as she runs. Each step takes her closer to the pulse of chaos and red, arrogant rage that is this creature, this Sith. Find the balance, she imagines Sol saying. Find your strength in the Force. Do not let your eyes deceive you, but let your heart guide you. Do not be afraid.

And when she bursts through the trees, she finds that she isn’t at all. It is the Code that propels her forward, the Force itself burning in her veins. People will die if she cannot stop him. The glittering little lights that illuminate the galaxy with goodness and life will be snuffed out like candles in a gale. It is her duty as a Padawan to stop him, her duty to fight alongside her Master like she was always born to do.

Green and blue brandish against red, burning her eyes until they water. Jecki waits for the right moment, as Sol has always taught her. She sees it when the Sith is flung over a short drop, and she catapults herself after it, her vision tunneling. This is it. She can taste the coppery flavor of finality in the air. The Sith takes too long to find his bearings and she strikes one, two, three times against his helmet until it breaks.

Time stretches so thin that each breath feels longer than a life age of the stars themselves. Unmasked, she can see him for who he really is and Jecki chokes on her fury because they all trusted him, and he led them as lambs to the slaughter. She surges forward in a flurry of anger only to find that it costs her everything.

She made a mistake. She hadn’t realized until it was too late.

Her gaze flickers up to meet Qimir’s. His eyes are dark and impenetrable, even illuminated by the glow of their sabers. They both made a choice this night. Now the only thing left to do is accept it. When Jecki drops, eyes wide and dead, she finds herself falling into the Force. She finds herself falling back home.

If Yord regrets anything in his final fleeting moments, it’s that he came too late to save his friends. He doesn’t have the time to regret anything else, though he is certain he could if he had the chance to ruminate on it. But in the milliseconds between one heartbeat and the next, as Qimir flings him forward and he stumbles to his knees, as Yord feels the darkness close around him, he knows there’s nothing left for him to do.

He catches a flash of white and sun-fire on the forest floor, the streak of a Padawan braid, the very moment Qimir snaps his neck.

I’m sorry. He’s dead before the thought can even find a foothold, but it burns itself into his retinas by the time his body falls. I wish I could have saved you. I wish I could have tried, says the shattered heart of a man too dead to do anything about it. Even in the afterlife, reunited with the beating heart of the galaxy, he finds himself wrestling with his guilt.

The Force replies with the breath of a thousand gods, a thousand lifetimes’ worth of promises made and kept, But you did. You already have and you already will.

All the spiritual beliefs of a billion untold cultures, societies living and dying and clawing for the truth, would still fall short of the reality of the Force and its place in the universe if ever they tried to explain it, though many have come close. If the Force were alive in the way of mortals, it might surmise that the Jedi and the Eirami have been among the closest.

Death is not the end. And there are more lives to be lived than just the one. Yord saved Jecki’s life centuries ago by giving up his own. They will meet again, just as they have countless times before. Orin will save Enya’s life once more, and Jecki will return the favor, and on they will go until the heavens themselves rain down upon the galaxy. Such is the way of limitless things like souls and atoms and star-born promises.

[optimisticgrey]

Okay, I did.

This is my first attempt to this point of view. i do not know if it works. I do not know if this makes sense, outside of my own head. I do not know if I can continue writing this. But I shall try. Let me know if this works, please.

Pairing: Unnamed Tav, Shadowheart, Astarion, Gale, Lae'Zel

WC: 929

Warnings: This contains spoilers. All of them.

Read on AO3

You open your eyes to an endless expanse of cloudless blue sky. For a fleeting moment, it feels like a peaceful morning, the kind you wake up to with nothing more pressing than the weight of the blanket draped over you. Then the stench hits you—burning flesh—and reality slams into your chest like a hammer.

The nausea comes first, then the awareness of your surroundings: sand beneath your fingers, a sluggish river nearby, and the broken, burning wreck of a nautiloid to your left. The memories flood back, sharp and relentless, your skull throbbing with the weight of them. The tadpole squirms, a vile presence writhing at the base of your brain. That fucking thing.

You sit up abruptly, heart pounding, and your eyes land on her: Jenevelle. No, not Jenevelle. Shadowheart. The woman you love like a sister. That’s who she is now—at this point in time. She’s lying unconscious on the sand, her hair black as pitch, her face serene in a way that feels utterly wrong.

You sigh heavily, running a hand over your sweat-dampened forehead as the sadness begins to settle in. It’s a weight you’ve carried before, but it doesn’t grow any lighter with repetition. The implications are clear, painfully so. If you’re here, if you’ve woken up with an untouched tadpole burrowing into your brain and Shadowheart lying motionless nearby, it can only mean one thing: you failed. Which means you have to start again. At the beginning.

Hot tears sting your eyes, and your chest tightens as though it’s caught in a vice. The ache isn’t from the failure itself—that you can stomach. You’ve made peace with the idea of your own death many times over. But theirs? Their deaths are a pain that burns deeper than anything you’ve ever known. The memory strikes you with brutal clarity, as though you’re reliving it all over again. Astarion, his expression frozen in shock, falling to his knees. The blade, slick with blood, protruding grotesquely from his chest. His lips moved, as if to speak, but no sound escaped before he collapsed.

Wyll crumpled beside you, his cry of surprise cutting through the. The sound was raw, unguarded—a note of disbelief and despair that echoed in your ears even now. He clutched at his side, blood seeping between his fingers as he sank to the ground.

Everything happened too fast. The cacophony of battle, the clash of steel and roar of spells, blurred into a background haze. All you could focus on was the devastation unfolding around you. You turned, desperate, only to find Jaheira kneeling in the dirt, her hands slick with blood as she tried to heal Jenevelle.

Her body lay limp beneath Jaheira’s trembling hands, and the druid’s face was a mask of determination and despair. Blood smeared her cheeks where she had swiped her hair back, leaving streaks of crimson against her weathered skin. Her words were a frantic chant, calling on Silvanus with every ounce of strength she had left.

But there was so much blood.

Too much blood.

You remember the moment when the horror fully took root, when you realized you were losing them. One by one, your companions, your friends, your family, were falling. You were powerless to stop it, the inevitability of their deaths crashing down on you with suffocating weight.

Forcing yourself to your feet, you shake off the haze of despair. You can’t give in to it. Not now. Not this time.

You stretch, testing your body for injuries and find, as expected, that you’re unscathed. Of course you are. The gods have a cruel sense of humor. You exhale deeply, your resolve settling in your chest. This time, you’ll get it right.

A dead body lies in the sand a few paces ahead, the smell of charred flesh clinging to the air. You approach it, rifling through the pockets almost on autopilot. Gold coins clink softly in your palm. “No sense in wasting it,” you mutter to yourself, trying to ignore the pang of guilt. Practicality wins.

You flex your mind tentatively, testing for any gaps or hazy recollections. No, you’re intact. Your life, your memories—they’re all there. Your parents. Your sister. The hamster you had as a child. Relief washes over you. No bloodlines to Bhaal this time. Small mercies.

Still, the weight of what lies ahead is suffocating. You knock the sand from your clothes, taking the first steps into a journey you already know too well. Your heart is heavy. It will be a long, grueling road before you find Karlach again, weeks before Gale starts to trust you, months before Astarion lowers his walls and you can have a meaningful conversation instead of shallow flirtations. You make a mental note to find the boar early—force him to admit what he is before the situation spirals. And Halsin... Years. It will be years before he calls you his confidant, before you can rest in his arms and let yourself break without fear of judgment. The thought alone makes your throat tighten.

But for now, he doesn’t exist. Not for you, not yet.

Another sigh escapes you as you crouch beside Shadowheart. You take a moment longer than you should, watching her face, mourning a friendship already lost. Her hair is still black. She doesn’t yet know the weight she will carry. For her, this is only the beginning. For you, it’s a cycle you can’t seem to escape.

“Shadowheart,” you say softly, forcing yourself to use her name while you reach for her shoulder.

And with that, the first step is taken, though the journey feels unbearably familiar.

[aeroblossom]

narcissus without water; sou hiyori

i wasn't gonna post this here because i really reaaally hate it but ehhh fuck it we ball. 3-1 unused intro spoilers. does that even count. kanna route implied.

In the aftermath is cold. Icy, chilling cold. The immense rush of the impact lasted but a moment. Time is a fleeting thing for all who live, whether the hearts beating in their chests are made of muscle, or of metal; whether the circuits powering them and every moment of madness, every second of passion, every victory and every mistake, are made of grey matter, or of a network of microscopic transistors.

The merciless weapon, which had moments ago pierced through his torso, now meets him eye to eye. As if a deeply loyal animal that was too loved to know when to retract its claws, destroying everything in its path to be close to the one it owes its devotion to. Through flickering sparks in one eye, and slowly blurring vision in the other, he stares. He smells blood. The sight of it would not bother him in the slightest had it been someone else it was coming out of. But when you've lived as he has, blood seeping from a wound feels unnatural. And he'd started to believe he was finally rid of the last vestiges of his humanity. Red drips down the side of his face, from the grey matter in his skull that still held proof of something human. The emotion centers of his brain were dysfunctional since he came into the world. So really, it matters little to him. He can barely even feel the pain.

The thing that upsets him more is the red on his chest. It doesn't trickle down from his crown, but spurts from the gaping wound in his center. Sparks fire in all directions, somewhere in his ears he hears a low ringing of both his organic bodily systems as well as mechanical ones. The gears cry emergency, the cells cry of death. A realization supplied by his mechanical logic center creeps slowly into the back of his head, surrounding him fully until he submerges in acceptance. He has little time left.

Eyes the color of sea glass stare at nothing in particular, yet keep darting about, aimless, anxious perhaps, but with unmistakable defeat in them. Little light penetrates the coffin, brought in only by the gaping hole created by the drill. It illuminates a straight stripe across his now ruined body, one bright seafoam gaze and tousled mess of green last in the light's path. Dust particles shimmer like gold specks, his contemplative eyes fixating on their fluttering dance.

He hears distant voices, he thinks, if his audio faculties are even functioning by now. Crying - pained voices, happy voices. Meister's scrawny tone, and determined words from the young girl with copper hair. They must be huddling together right now. Allies. Cooperates. A team spirit reignited.

Petty emotion lurches inside him, wanting to shatter that nonsensical resolve with his own hands. He knows how to. Even now, it would not take much -

No.

It's over.

Defeat weighs heavier than how it first felt to have your flesh replaced by porcelain. It's heavier than the volume of crimson flowing from the wound in his chest. Not that he has needed to breathe in a long time, but here, now, he suddenly feels breathless.

Silence is the mind's curtain call. Contemplation weaves its way through his thoughts, thoughts that will soon fade. Thoughts that are firing wildly due to the vast amount of information being processed in these final moments, alongside a slow system shutdown.

It's a bit like he's dreaming with his eyes open, if you think about it like that.

Ah. He's wasted so much energy in meaningless thoughts. Not that it truly mattered at this point. Right... where had he gone wrong?

Hiyori, Sou. Assumed age, twenty. An easily recognizable mop of green hair, tied down at the ends into a neat rattail that didn't match how the rest of his hair looked. The nickname they gave him was his namesake hair. Tall, fairly lithe. Eyes a deeper colour than the hair, like pure, vibrant jade. Plainly, more than half of him was doll, and the vestiges human. What were once the tender hands of a real human are now porcelain and alabaster. Gears tick inside the system, rhythmic, he was a mechanical harmony. Occasionally interrupted by remnant humanity.

Living, breathing red pumped from his heart, no matter how much he'd separated himself from flesh and blood. The proximity of that living heart to electrical equipment gave him a quicker heartbeat than most. The proof of this regnant humanness now bled and ripped itself apart. He thinks he feels a bit of pain. This is probably the only physical pain he's felt since the last time he had real hands.

But it's not what he'd thought it'd be like. It does hurt, it hurts so much. Yet something else hurts a little more, something that rises from a faulty limbic system and creeps down in physical form to become surging pain in his core.

He observes, silently, the ache surge in intensity as the voices continue to speak. Words, thoughts, emotion, memory rapid fires in his mind. He tries to recall the path he'd taken so far, wanting to make out what error he had made to make him up end like this. This would not do, after all.

But no matter how he tries to focus on this endeavor, a recurring feeling scratches inside him. A sharp pain, tearing him into two. He feels he recognizes it as something from impossibly long ago. Suddenly, he realizes, in that silent grave of his, that he was entirely alone in this death. His heartbeat begins to ring into his ears alongside the periodic beeping of his system going into overdrive.

System warnings, words ringing in his head, and the wildly pounding heart, all converge like oil and paint into a wretched musica humana.

It's really stupid. Hilarious, in fact.

He wasn't human. He hadn't been so for a considerably long time, as far as himself was concerned. Death... to him, wasn't it trivial? An infinite amount of copies of himself can be made. It's meaningless, however many times he dies.

...And yet, here he was.

Does Hiyori Sou feel? Does he regret? Does he hurt?

Does this largely doll, barely human, ever find himself lonely?

In the moments that follow, the emotion that grips him next is sheer horror. At not just these intrusive questions, but his body's physical reaction to it.

Something clouds his vision much more heavily than before. What little he could see before him twists into an oil painting, unrecognizable, an intense pain radiates inside his neck, like strangulation. And then he heaves a sigh as a singular, pearlescent tear streams down his face.

He can hear Meister's scratchy voice from a while ago, before any of this. Before all of this.

So you can cry too.

He had said, as Hiyori leaned against his screen and shed tears at the sight before him. Him, of all people, mourning - it was, of course, an unbelievable sight. At the time, he had found it jestly insulting that Meister would imply he couldn't cry or feel such emotion. So what makes this different? Why does it feel so different?

Ah, it really does feel like the entire world is making a mockery out of him. But perhaps this is a fitting end for himself. Villain he was born, villain he will die.

Death holds little meaning to someone like him.

It's almost time. His thoughts begin to slow down to a grinding halt.

He faintly registers some shifting sounds. The coffin he resided in is being laid flat on the ground. Will it be opened next? Will they see him like this?

A light slam signals to him that the coffin has been taken down. The drill carefully withdraws, now leaving only his mauled body behind. The sound of dust and rocks crumbling, and then light filters into the depths. Though it gets brighter and brighter, he finds his world only becoming darker.

Meister is the one lifting the lid. He has it propped up with one hand, the other on his knee as he knelt down, chewing on a cigarette, inspecting what he was seeing with a careful, suspicious, and yet rather surprised expression. Tia Safalin stands beside him, one hand on her chest and the other seemingly reaching out to touch him in the coffin. He knows hearing is beyond him when he sees the anxious woman mouth his name, when he watches them talk amongst themselves, and can't make out any of it. It's probably too late to worry about what it could be.

The crying doll leans down, placing one hand to his face. As if the plaster skin wasn't stiff enough, he finds himself turning into what may as well be stone. She inspects his head wound. He can't move his eyes anymore to follow her actions, but he can still vaguely feel them. The small hand moves down slowly, tracing a line across his face and down his chest, analytic. She shakes her head with a sigh upon the damage to his torso.

It's really over for him, isn't it?

Her finger ghosts its way back up, this time lingering on his face. He notices the slight dumbfoundedness in her expression, pressing slightly to make sure she was seeing right - the tear stains on his cheek. He wants to smile, all of a sudden, but he no longer can.

As she concludes her inspection and stands up, hiding her expression with that stupendous hat, he faintly wonders if she's crying too. Is she crying for him? No... that would be ridiculous. There wasn't anyone left who could cry for him. In death as he was in life, alone.

Mere moments remain for him, and he wonders, for the final time - should he have led a different life, would there be comrades by his side? Does there exist a world in which Hiyori Sou, too, has allies?

Vibrant seafoam eyes darken like a wilting flower, unable to make out anything clearly, shedding one final tear.

[trickstarbrave]

WIP Whenever

I GOT TAGGED BY @thescrolls-haveforetold !!

we've got a serious picture of my little idiot ahkrinaak <;3 im also working on secret santa stuff but NO ONE can see those. not yet.

also i have some moon and star spoilers im really happy with >:) cw for blood

ALSO TAGGING: @boethiahspillowbook @soundwavefucker69 @orfeoarte @caliblorn and @mulberrycafe (if you guys wanna)

--

He hissed as the blade hit skin, slowly peeling away layers of gold to reveal deep, crimson red. 

“Good boy,” Nerevar cooed to him softly, praising him for his resolve. “You’re doing so well for me.” The praise was enough to make his mind feel hazy, gasping and groaning. It hurt—that was obvious. It stung and burned, every little breeze on the injury like fire. The ache though was a reminder of his dedication: proof of his devotion and love. Voryn would only allow Nerevar to hurt him in this way, and would gladly take the pain from his beloved’s hands. Hands that were all at once so violent and gentle, so loving and destructive. 

Finally, it was finished, and Voryn breathed in a sigh, healing spell in hand. He made sure to heal it slowly, stitching the wound shut carefully. He needed it to scar properly after all, leaving Nerevar’s brand on him for all to see. Voryn smiled fondly however as he traced his hand over it; it wasn’t Nerevar’s full name, just the first letter. N—Neht. What Voryn called him so fondly, engraved on his skin in a large enough symbol that it was impossible to deny.

“I thought it would be better like this.” Nerevar explained with a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I’m not that good at it after all, and my name has too many damn letters.”

“I love it.” Voryn whispered back, reverence in his voice. It would be more legible like this with Nerevar’s clumsy technique. He was not trained in it, after all, and anything more complicated would take an artist’s hand.

Luckily for Voryn, he was in fact an artist.

“Lay down on your stomach.” Voryn mumbled after a few soft, messy kisses. “It’s your turn.”

Obediently—if not excitedly—Nerevar moved off him to lay on his belly, practically buzzing with anticipation. 

Voryn remembered, knife in hand as he crawled on top of Nerevar once more, old Velothi stories and ways their people used to tell fortunes. A mark on your back was often interpreted as from the future, for you couldn’t see the future coming. A mark on the front of one’s body was, by extension, from the past. He wondered if the Three knew that when they placed the moon and star on his chest, if that Ashlander woman was to be believed. 

An injury to the back was at once sacred and profane for the chimer. Hidden attacks and stabs in someone’s back were the ways of Mephala and to some extension Boethiah. To stab someone in the back was an attempt to destroy or change their future, and usually an attempt to cut their life short. But here he didn’t want to take Nerevar’s life, though he knew the other would let him in all of his tender vulnerability at this moment. 

If Nerevar thought it was his future--his destiny--that Voryn would leave him, Voryn would change that. With the knife in hand, Voryn would carve away all the parts of his future that would keep them apart, and make his mark on Nerevar’s very flesh so that it could never be denied. Let the Good Daedra smite him for his hubris if they must, but there must be a reason they marked his chest and left his back bare. 

Nerevar hissed softly at the sting of the blade, fingers clenching and unclenching as Voryn wrote his own name in daedric script across Nerevar’s left shoulder. It would leave his sword arm still free to move with ease while it healed if he needed to fight, and also Voryn found himself drawn to the left side of his body at the moment, pulled to leave his mark there. 

As he carved, slicing skin off in a way that would be sure to scar as cleanly as possible, it became rhythmic and almost trance-like. Red bloomed under the knife, moving down his trapezius to pool along his spine, or slid down the deltoid muscle to the blankets. In the dark, the blood looked more and more black than it did red, mesmerizing as Voryn continued his careful work. The lustful, burning need gave way to something even more primal; a compulsion, an instinct, a drive. He had for so long had the urge to carve his name into Nerevar’s body and repressed it, fearing what kind of a violent, selfish lover that would make him. Yet now, blade in hand and on bloodied sheets, he felt at peace, as though such an act was written in fate. 

Finally, Voryn finished the last letter of his name, the same as the one on his thigh: neht. It was oddly fitting, as though the two of them came full circle, a closed loop. He cast a healing spell on Nerevar’s shoulder, smiling fondly as he stitched the wounds shut carefully so that they would scar as well, before turning his attention to the blood that pooled along his lover’s spine.

“Voryn~” Nerevar moaned sweetly as Voryn lapped it up. It tasted particularly metallic right now; perhaps it was the alcohol in his system or the heavy feeling that clung in the air he had no name for, but he savored the taste all the same. 

“We’re connected.” Voryn whispered with bloodied lips against the pale gold of Nerevar’s skin. Voryn then was hit with deja vu as he remembered saying almost the same when they first made love. Perhaps they really had come full circle; the first time they knew each other’s bodies was just the start of them shedding off everything they used to conceal their love and desires. Now, they had finally completed the cycle, fully open with one another, and fully bound. “Neht…” Voryn whispered with reverence as he continued lapping up the blood from his spine, before trailing his lips up the vertebrae he could feel through his skin, coaxing shiver after shiver from his lover, and placed one last, almost devout kiss between his shoulder blades, before Nerevar rolled over and took Voryn by the waist with him. 

[rukimakino-heirofheart]

Wow I really did make a post like "wait, when getting people into Madoka, should I have been making people watch Rebellion first????" and then completely forgot about the actual highly-accessible entry point we've had for a few months now.

This is a fandub of one of MagiReco's "faction events," a set of four event stories mostly set between Arc 1 and 2* from the perspective of groups who were outsiders to the Arc 1 plot but become relevant in Arc 2. (Originally, the event was almost completely unvoiced, so having a fandub is a massive gain to accessibility.)

Green Jasper Diviners follows Chiharu Hiroe, a girl from the outside summoned to her family's ancestral home of Kirimine Village in order to become a magical girl, as she uncovers the secrets rippling beneath the surface. As of this writing, it is the single best place to start your experience of Madoka; it's a self-contained story that's written to make sense to complete newcomers and prime you on everything you'd need to know to experience any other Madoka story, and it ties directly into the widely acclaimed Arc 2 storyline. It's also really fucking good. Roughly four hours in total. Go check it out.

*Of the four, Green Jasper Diviners and Crimson Resolve were set and released between arcs. Dependence Blue takes place some time into the main story of Arc 2, and is also a direct sequel to another event story. Ashen Revolution was also set between arcs, but due to focusing on a faction that is intentionally left mysterious throughout much of Arc 2, it contains massive spoilers up to Arc 2 Chapter 8.

[darknesseddiem]

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: In the heart of the ancient woodland, a frantic escape unfolds as shadows whisper of ominous fates. Reality warps, concealing a lurking malevolence. Amidst chains of torment, an eternal curse is woven, binding a soul to endless longing. In the haunted depths, a mysterious tale unfolds, shrouded in darkness and secrets, known only to the silent forest.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Heavy content, dark themes, violence, blood, murded, witchcraft.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,3k

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: As I said, this series contains heavy themes and many triggers for some people, don't read if you are sensitive! Also, Thessalia it's NOT Reader, in the next chapter you will understand who she is. Spoiler: Something about reincarnation and past lives.

Thanks to @birdysaturne and @fan-girl-97 for beta read this for me, love u babes.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @ali-r3n @birdysaturne @maedesculpaeusoubi

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

In the somber depths of the ancient woodland, Thessalia's heart hammered against her ribcage like a frantic prisoner, each beat echoing the rhythm of her desperate flight. The towering sentinels of the forest loomed overhead, their gnarled branches entwined like skeletal fingers grasping for her fleeting presence.

Through the labyrinth of tangled roots and shadowed thickets, she raced, her senses heightened to a feverish pitch. The air was thick with the cloying scent of decay, and the chorus of nocturnal creatures fell silent in ominous anticipation of her pursuer.

Yet, amidst the oppressive darkness, Thessalia sensed a more insidious presence lurking—a malevolent force woven into the very fabric of the forest itself. It whispered to her in sibilant tones, promising horrors beyond imagining should she dare to falter in her flight.

With every stride, the forest seemed to shift and contort, its once familiar paths twisting into nightmarish mazes designed to ensnare the unwary. And as Thessalia's strength waned and her resolve threatened to fracture, she realized that her struggle was not merely against the physical bounds of the woodland, but against an ancient evil that hungered for her soul.

For in the heart of the forest, where light dared not penetrate and shadows danced in malevolent glee, Thessalia knew that her fate hung precariously in the balance—a fragile thread stretched taut between survival and eternal damnation.

As the echo of her footfalls reverberated through the gnarled roots and whispering leaves, a palpable sense of dread hung heavy in the air, suffusing the very essence of the forest with an aura of foreboding. Each passing moment seemed to stretch into eternity, the weight of impending doom pressing down upon Thessalia's trembling form like a suffocating shroud.

Then, with a sudden, bone-chilling certainty, the world around her twisted and contorted, reality itself warping under the weight of Calista's sinister power. Thessalia felt the ground beneath her feet vanish, her body lifted from the earth as if by unseen hands, and hurled unceremoniously against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak.

Pain blossomed like a crimson flower within her, every nerve ablaze with the searing agony of her impact. And there, amidst the dimly lit confines of the forest's embrace, Calista materialized—a specter of darkness and despair, her eyes ablaze with an insatiable hunger that pierced through the very fabric of Thessalia's being.

In that chilling moment, time seemed to stand still, the air heavy with the weight of impending doom. Thessalia felt as though her very essence lay bare before the vampire's piercing gaze, her soul laid bare to the whims of an ancient evil.

But within the depths of her terror, a flicker of defiance ignited—a primal spark of courage that dared to challenge the darkness. With a trembling voice, Thessalia spoke the words that echoed through the haunted groves, a whispered invocation of strength against the encroaching night.

For in that fleeting moment of defiance, amidst the shadows of the forest and the hungry gaze of the vampire, Thessalia realized that she was not alone in her struggle—that even in the darkest of nights, the light of hope still burned, a beacon against the encroaching tide of despair.

As Calista loomed over her, a predatory gleam dancing in her crimson eyes, Thessalia could not help but feel the icy tendrils of fear clutch at her heart. For in that gaze, she saw not merely her physical form laid bare, but the fragile threads of her soul stretched taut across the yawning chasm of eternity—vulnerable, exposed, and utterly at the mercy of Calista's dark power.

Amidst the somber shroud of night, the frigid voice of her sister resonated like a sinister echo in Thessalia's ears, piercing deep into her tormented soul. The weight of betrayal hung heavily over Thessalia as the broken promise reverberated in the void that stretched between them. Calista, cloaked in darkness like a nefarious shadow, loomed before her, a presence both terrifying and irresistible.

"Thess, you left me no choice." The frigid tone of her sister's voice pierced Thessalia's ears, resonating with a chilling finality. "I vowed to protect you, and yet you betrayed me. I placed my trust in you, Thessalia." Calista's words carried the weight of betrayal as she reached out, her hands gently cradling the young girl's face.

A heavy silence descended upon them, laden with the looming specter of a cruel fate. And then, the words spoken by the vampire echoed in the nocturnal ether, sealing Thessalia's fate with a somber and irrevocable sentence. Her lips curled into a merciless semblance as her cold hands touched the young girl's face, as if tracing the lines of her condemnation with the touch of an executioner.

In that moment, Thessalia knew that she stood on the precipice of oblivion, teetering between the light of salvation and the abyss of eternal darkness. And as Calista's grip tightened around her, sealing her fate with a whispered promise of torment, Thessalia's scream echoed through the haunted groves—a desperate plea for deliverance that vanished into the night, swallowed by the insatiable hunger of the shadows.

In this veil of darkness, Calista pronounced the decree that would resonate throughout eternity, casting Thessalia into an abyss of pain and despair. The curse she uttered reverberated with the weight of eternity, condemning her to bear the burden of her own transgressions, a burden that could never be alleviated. Her fate was sealed on that dark night, enveloped in the relentless chains of eternal suffering.

"În această noapte întunecată, condamn spiritul Thessalia Delnegro pentru trădare. Este destinul tău să trăiești cu o povară pe care nu o poți renunța niciodată, vei provoca durere celor pe care îi iubești și nu poți face nimic în privința asta." (In this darkened night, I condemn the spirit of Thessalia Delnegro for betrayal. It is your destiny to live with a burden from which you can never rid yourself, to inflict pain upon those you love, and there is nothing you can do about it.)"

The fiery eyes of hatred and the pitiless face of Calista were the last sight Thessalia beheld before life fled her body, leaving her to wander the shadows of eternity, imprisoned in an endless cycle of pain and remorse.

On the other side of the forest, within the final tower of the castle veiled by the looming trees, Eddie languished in chains, his heart torn asunder as he was forced to bear witness to Calista's merciless slaughter of his beloved.

His anguished cries reverberated throughout the castle, echoing off the cold stone walls, yet offering no solace to his tormented soul. The pain etched upon his face seemed to eternally etch deeper into the fabric of his being, an unrelenting agony that threatened to consume him whole.

But as the tendrils of despair coiled tighter around his shattered heart, a simmering rage ignited within Eddie's breast. With each passing moment, the sorrow that once weighed him down like an anchor metamorphosed into a seething hatred, fueled by the presence of his captor.

In the depths of his gaze burned a firestorm of loathing, a tempest of fury that threatened to consume all in its path. His muscles strained against the unyielding bonds that shackled him, the sinews of his arms threatening to snap under the tremendous force he exerted in his futile attempts to break free. Yet, alas, it was all in vain, for Calista had ensorcelled the chains with dark magic before binding him, rendering them impervious to his desperate struggles.

And so, within the confines of his prison, Eddie found himself ensnared not only by physical restraints but also by the relentless grip of his own hatred—a festering wound that gnawed at his soul, driving him ever closer to the brink of madness. Each passing moment brought him closer to the edge, teetering on the precipice of oblivion as he grappled with the agonizing realization that he was powerless to change his fate.

"Eddie... My dear Eddie," she intoned, her voice dripping with a sinister allure as she paced gracefully around the captive figure, a spectral waltz in the dimly lit chamber. "I bestowed upon you all, yet you chose her, a mere mortal, to hold your affections."

With an ancient tome clutched tightly in her grasp, the woman embarked upon a ritual steeped in arcane mysteries, her movements a macabre symphony that echoed through the chamber's oppressive silence.

Each incantation dripped from her lips like poison, weaving a tapestry of darkness that enveloped the room in a suffocating embrace. Shadows danced upon the walls, twisting and contorting in time with the rhythm of her words, as if driven by an unseen force.

And as the ritual reached its crescendo, the air crackled with palpable tension, a miasma of malevolence that hung heavy in the stillness. With a final flourish of her hand, the woman unleashed a surge of dark energy that coursed through the room, ensnaring Eddie in its sinister embrace.

In that moment, he felt the chains that bound him tighten with a vengeful fervor, their cold steel biting into his flesh with renewed cruelty. And as the shadows closed in around him, Eddie knew that he was truly alone—a prisoner of his own folly, condemned to languish in the depths of Calista's wrath for all eternity.

Calista's gaze fixated upon a tarnished cauldron, its metal surface reflecting the flickering flames with an otherworldly gleam. Into its depths, she cast esoteric objects, each imbued with a darkness that seemed to pulse with a life of its own, as if yearning to be unleashed upon the world.

"We could have ascended together, you and I, were it not for the meddling of that wretched mortal," she hissed, her words a venomous lamentation as she traced the edge of a gleaming dagger. "You are a disappointment, Munson." And with a deft flick of her wrist, she drew a crimson line across his cheek, the metallic tang of blood staining the air with a macabre sweetness.

In the suffocating embrace of the chamber's shadows, a malevolent energy coiled and writhed, its tendrils reaching out to ensnare the very essence of Eddie's being. As Calista's incantations reverberated through the air, the boundaries between worlds grew thin, a portal to darkness yawning wide with each syllable uttered.

And in that moment of profound dread, Eddie could feel the ancient powers stirring, their hunger for chaos and destruction palpable in the oppressive atmosphere. For as the ritual unfolded, it became increasingly clear that the forces they had sought to invoke were far more malevolent than either of them could have ever imagined, and the price of their folly would be paid in blood and despair.

With each sinister chant, the veil between realms wavered, threatening to tear asunder and unleash untold horrors upon the world. And as Eddie watched in terror, he realized that he was but a pawn in Calista's dark game—a sacrificial lamb offered up to satisfy her insatiable thirst for power and vengeance.

"Îl blestem pe tine, Eddie Munson, cu nemurire," she intoned, her voice carrying the weight of centuries-old malice. "Destinul tău va fi să rătăcești pentru totdeauna în căutarea singurei persoane pe care ai iubit-o vreodată, să rupi blestemul care te leagă. Totuși, ea nu te va recunoaște, nici nu va purta nicio afecțiune pentru existența ta. Te condamn, Eddie Munson, la o existență lipsită de iubire sau alinare."

("I curse thee, Eddie Munson, with immortality," she intoned, her voice carrying the weight of centuries-old malice. "Your fate shall be to wander for eternity in pursuit of the sole person you have ever loved, to break the curse that binds you. Yet she shall not recognize you, nor shall she harbor any affection for your existence. I condemn you, Eddie Munson, to an existence devoid of love or solace.")

The air grew heavy with the weight of her words, each syllable a damning verdict that echoed through the chamber like a tolling bell. As the incantation reached its crescendo, a palpable sense of dread descended upon the room, shrouding Eddie in a suffocating embrace of despair.

In that moment, the boundaries between the mortal realm and the realm of the arcane wavered, the veil between life and death growing thin. And as the curse took hold, Eddie could feel the tendrils of eternity coiling around his very essence, binding him to a fate from which there could be no escape.

For in the darkness of Calista's chamber, a sinister pact had been forged—one that would haunt Eddie for all eternity, condemning him to an existence fraught with longing and despair. And as the last echoes of the curse faded into the abyss, he knew that his journey had only just begun, a solitary quest through the shadows of time in search of a love that could never be reclaimed.

The mist draped over the Maleviski forest like a shroud, casting an eerie veil over its ancient depths. In the ethereal twilight, where shadows danced with whispered secrets, only a gathering of somber ravens bore witness to the events unfolding beneath the moon's watchful gaze, their solemn caws echoing through the stillness of the night.

Beneath the cloak of mist, two lovers found themselves ensnared in the cruel machinations of fate, their hearts torn asunder by forces beyond their control. Separated by the malevolent presence that lurked within the forest's depths, they yearned for a reunion that seemed forever out of reach.

As the night wore on, the forest stirred with an unsettling energy, the very air thrumming with the palpable tension of impending doom. And amidst the swirling mists and haunting cries of the ravens, the tragic tale of these star-crossed lovers unfolded, shrouded in darkness and secrecy, with only the enigmatic forest as witness to their sorrow.

[briarthorns]

Spitballing a Head Canon with no in-depth research after the recent events of Chapter 7 because AAAAA—

Spoilers for Chapter 7 (naturally) and unreleased events for the EN servers:

From a meta standpoint, we know that the Limited Events/Cards are ‘characters’ you can pull for Twisted Wonderland. They cast different spells/have different stats.

But I wonder if some (if not all) of these events within universe are things that would happen within a Sleeping World Malleus created due to his Unique Magic. A way to pass the time/distract the residents of the Dream. As noted, after Malleus finishes singing Once Upon a Dream (holy shit dude, why he gotta do this to me), we cut to the title card that is shown when the Game Boots up.

Repeating Birthdays/New Years/annual events are the biggest evidence of this. We started getting Birthday Events back in 2020, with each year adding a new “variation” on the theme (the white dress coat and sash, the varsity jacket, the Broom Bloom get up and probably a new one come August for Riddle). Most, if not all the main student cast should have graduated if we went by a time scale of “this world”.

Cutting back to meta, this is just us being fed pieces of lore to make us fall in love with the characters. But Riddle Rosehearts on his way to celebrate his 4th ‘birthday’ on the NRC campus? Plus, his personality isn’t like that of the Crimson Tyrant we say in Chapter 1. For that matter, none of the OB Gang are like this. They’re no where as severe as they were when their Chapters were rolling,

There is also the matter of ‘offsite’ events happening. Some are in line with the school curriculum (e.g. Beans Day, the Camping Event and debatably, the Masquerade Event), but others like the Arabian Sands event, Harveston and the Sunset Savana…that would eat away at school time. Crowley may be bird-brained, but Professor Trein takes no BS. Plus, we have to consider everything that is happening in the main game (the Sports Event, the VDC event, holidays, potentially even exams). It would be a lot that happens within the space of one year, and it just seems like too much to fit in.

Malleus is considered one of the most powerful mages in the world of Twisted Wonderland, so the idea of him creating a functioning dreamscape is possible. He did say that he would make them sleep for a millennia so there’s plenty of time to happen in a dreamworld (and dreamworld logic is known to be funky at the best of times).

As for NPCs we’ve only seen (e.g Rollo, Epel’s Grandma), it could be that Malleus’s spell allowed for students and staff to have.. ‘input’ so to say. The Dream is able to draw on previous memories/experiences, creating scenarios for NRC to experience. For example, a school exchange may have happened with Noble Bell College in a previous year, with Trein as chaperone and Rollo in attendance. This would mean that the Spell to create the NPCs we interact with. I

There has been an element of danger involved with the story events. But honestly, I think it could be that Malleus’s Overblot has an effect on the spell or could just be how the dream works. Everything got resolved in the end and no one died/got seriously hurt.

The Time Loop Theory could also be integrated into this, as the dream will repeat the one year that everyone is together. And when Lilian’s retirement rolls around, boom it’s Rewind Time. Thus, a Groundhog Day but the length of a school year. Sometimes certain events happen, some don’t. But there are key events no one can avoid. The events of the Main Story line.

Granted, this is mainly conjecture and my own observations of the game. I could be well off the mark but it would be interesting to confirm this to be the case; everything happened but didn’t actually happen. Saying that I had suspicions about the events in correlation to the actual story line after the fact may be a bit cowardly, but hey it is what it is

[dandelion-wings]

What's the context for those excerpts?

I mean, I did say presented without context :P but also I do enjoy a ramble, so. Ideally I would have written the sort-of-intro I have for the universe, but that's going to be longer than I would have the time for this week even if I wasn't trying to actually finish a WIP before the end of October, so, alas, maybe someday.

In the meantime! This started life as a Crimson Peak AU, because some cool friends watched it and so I read the book so I could share in their enthusiasm XD and my Genshin brainrot is such that I try to hash any and all media into Genshin AUs, so. But it has turned to a canon-divergence AU from the girls' childhood, and also a sibling-swap!

I am putting a cut because the next two paragraphs contain a few spoilers for the movie/book. Also, as with the bitlets, warnings for domestic violence/child abuse mentions.

There is a Jean/Diluc/Kaeya version out there (feat. a grief-maddened Crepus trying to kill one of the boys to bring back his beloved) that runs much closer to the actual movie plot, but while we worked out the tragic backstory parallels for Jean and Barbara, Jean does not work nearly as well as Diluc as a brooding romantic hero who seduces rich paramours to steal their fortunes and then allows their more ruthless sibling to kill them.

The tragic backstory works so well, though. All you need is an abusive parent and a sibling determined enough to protect the other to kill them, so running with 'grief-maddened' as parental motive again, we had Seamus die protecting Barbara when she was very young, before whatever led to their divorce had developed in the relationship, presumed that Fredrica had truly loved him enough to be grief-maddened, and let her blame Barbara for it (she was, for the record, six), and then went from there!

In the version that turned into this AU, Fredrica's blame becomes her driving tiny Barbara way, way too hard in training and punishing her extra viciously for failure, in ways that are actively endangering her health and well-being, and in some of the sparring sessions actually threatening her life. (Fredrica does get thoroughly villainized for this, but that's the nature of the original source material, rip.) Jean, unable to stop her or to get anyone to intervene, decides she's going to take care of Barbara whatever it takes, and I'm still working out the exact shape of the scene, but I know that Fredrica tries to make Barbara keep training with a life-threatening wound, and when begging doesn't make her stop, twelve-year-old Jean gathers all her resolve and stabs her in the kidneys. Which gets her an Electro Vision, incidentally, we worked out elements today.

And then she heals Barbara with her new Vision (it's a lucky break, she hadn't been sure what she was going to do about that), marches down to the Ordo, and turns herself in directly to Varka. Who knew Fredrica was unbalanced and feels so guilty he can't, like, take her to court, so he manages to evade that by being like 'her Vision appearing proves her action was necessary and it was pure defense of another, we don't need to drag the eight-year-old who has now seen both her parents die in front of her through a trial,' but there have to be Consequences. Jean is stripped of her inheritance as a Gunnhildr and placed in the Church's custody, ostensibly as an orphan but with very restrictive rules because they are Watching Her.

Barbara, meanwhile, is Crepus' goddaughter, because I'm running with my "Seamus and Crepus were friends" headcanon, and once she got her way with Jean, Fredrica gave Seamus that as a concession. Crepus really wants Diluc, who is desperately lonely, to have a companion of equal rank that he can actually play with, and he also genuinely cared for Seamus and is genuinely concerned for Barbara, so he pulls that string and gets two birds with one throw! Neither Diluc nor Barbara want to consider the other siblings per se, because Jean is a very present ghost in that relationship, but they resolve this by Diluc swearing himself to her, in a very knightly style, as her protector in lieu of Jean until they both reach majority and are permitted to see each other again. He is acting on behalf of her big sister and that works for them both.

When Kaeya shows up all of a month later, Crepus has already satisfied his desire of getting Diluc a companion, and also is dealing with Barbara's incredible, massive PTSD and doesn't have the capacity for another sure-looks-traumatized kid. So Kaeya gets shuffled to... the Church orphanage! Where none of the other kids want to socialize with a weird twitchy foreign kid, and he ends up plopping himself down beside the other kid no one wants to socialize with. Because she killed her own mother. I am applying another of my pet headcanons here, the "Kaeya's mother turned into a monster" one, and so they have a conversation that goes approximately:

Jean: You don't want to be my friend. I killed my own mother. Kaeya: So did I. Jean: What? Why? Kaeya: She was turning into a monster. Jean: ...So was mine.

Anyway! Friendship accomplished. With the worst possible person with regards to his purported mission here, but Kaeya is, honestly, desperate for anyone to be nice to him, and Jean may be mired in guilt here (redoubled by the fact that she still can't think of anything better she could have done), but she is not going to be mean to this scared flinchy foreign kid who looks scared in so many of the same ways Barbara did. And then, like three or four years later, Varka dumps Rosaria on the Church as well, and she naturally gravitates to the "killed our own parents and also none of the other kids like us" club. XD

Anyway, things proceed as canon re: Ursa, and that's where we are as of the bitlets! Jean and Barbara, if it wasn't clear, are forbidden to contact each other at all until Barbara has reached her majority, and both are abiding by it for a couple reasons, including fear the other one will report them if they violate the rule, because they're both deeply attached to the idea of their sister they haven't seen in five years, but are also unhappily aware that neither of them know anything of what that sister is like now. :( Both hoping the other wants them back, but terrified that they won't.... Better to follow the rules, and put off the harsh reality.

(Rosaria thinks this is stupid and Jean should just sneak across town and rip off the bandage. Rosaria thinks a lot of Jean's feelings and fears are stupid. Jean did one badass thing at twelve and then let this purported 'civilization' Rosaria has been forced to join make her feel bad about it. Rosaria would still do a murder for Jean, mind XD she just has Opinions. Kaeya also has Opinions but unlike Rosaria keeps them to himself, because he's gotten pretty good at being the kind of diplomatic required from a brother in the Church, and would rather hatch plans about it than argue.)

(Eula, when she shows up in the Ordo a year later and is greeted by a young knight from the Logistics Company who holds out her hand to her when no one else is speaking to her and smiles (because it's what Jean would have done, Barbara thinks, and besides, given what happened in her family, she can hardly judge the Lawrences any longer), decides that if Jean is cruel to Barbara when they do reunite, she will make her pay, because Barbara is one of the few bright spots in an Ordo rotted hollow at the center, and she deserves better.)

(Diluc is on his murderventure, but has significantly more faith in both sisters than they have in themselves, and is a much more active correspondent with Barbara than he is with Kaeya in canon. Because he made her oaths, and it would be a betrayal of both his childhood friend and the girl who's become almost his sister to fail them.)

[bradenthompson]

The Starfield Experience II: The Freestar Rangers

While it's still fresh on my mind, it's time for episode 2 of my Starfield maiden voyage. Last time, I joined with the Crimson Fleet and got my sneaky fingies on a cool 200,000 credits. On this excursion, however, me and my first crewmate Mathis were honest men with no bounty. And we were gonna perform our community service by way of frontier justice.

"But captain," you say, a puzzled look fixed tight on your brow, "I thought you were playing an evil character." Don't you worry. I'm every bit as unhinged as I was in my pirating days. Because dialogue always gives me some completely bloodthirsty options, which I promise to choose every time. Crooked cop time babyyyyyy

De-escalation Tactics

We arrived in the town of Akila City (game is very loose with the distinction between Cities and Towns) just in time for a classic scripted Bethesda moment. We all remember walking into Solitude for the first time and seeing that guy on the chopping block. We all tried to save him, and all our level seven characters were lacerated on the spot. A storytelling crutch? Probably, but there's no reason it can't be effective. Plenty immersive to walk into a new settlement and already see some shit going down.

Just that type of shit was going down in Akila, as soon as me and Mathis got boots on the ground. Local bandits were holding up the bank, had taken hostages, and the rangers were outside trying in vain to negotiate. A tense situation indeed. Maybe two ruthless pirates who had just shot down a civilian ship on the way here can help.

I'd been pumping some skill points in speech, by now. Failed persuasion checks were getting on my nerves, but successful checks were making me feel cool. That and, on my brief trip to Neon, I had picked up a very goofy looking future suit that gave a passive 10% persuasion success. This is all to say I talked the bank robbers out the building, not a hostage lost.

While I was in town (Akila has some great music) I tried repainting my ship, thinking the Crimson Fleet colors would cause Mathis and I some problems out in space. How stupid of me to think the game would account for that sort of thing. You can land on Planet Police State with a ship painted the way only pirate ships are painted and nobody cares. Clue #1 that I could get away with a lot, within this faction system.

And speaking of factions, my success with the GalBank situation got me on the path to getting deputized.

I See You, Space Cowboy

First I had to talk to ranger Emma Wilcox, in the very cool space saloon. She wanted me to complete just one job before they considered letting me join up. Overachiever that I decided to be, sporadically, I took all four jobs the ranger kiosk had at the time, thinking I'd really impress by clearing the board. Rescued a hostage, took out a gang of spacers--real basic rng quests. The one where I had to kill a Crimson Fleet captain was funny. Mathis didn't like me doing that very much, despite us both quitting at the end of that questline. But as long as he stayed on the ship while I went out and split some wigs, he didn't mind. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, I suppose, but this begs another question: why can't I take criminals alive? Spoiler alert, but the rangers are gonna urge me to resolve problems without violence later. This peaceful justice creed does not extend to the rng quests. Okay.

But after completing all four and hitting myself bc no shit that doesn't make a difference, Wilcox saw potential in me and took me up to the marshal. Or who I have to assume is the marshal. That's Daniel Blake, pictured above, who gave me a dorky vest and a very cool pistol.

In hindsight, there's very little warmup to the questline's main problem. I was immediately sent off with ranger Wilcox to a farm that would prove to be the first victim of the overarching villain. There's this gang out in the canyon trying to 'wrassle away their farmland, say no more, we march down and make confetti outta 'em. The ship they flew in on was recently stolen from a company called HopeTech, which became our next destination.

Look Guys, Bezos did make it to space

We land at Hopetown, which I wanna imagine has a larger quest associated with it, but then again maybe that's what I'm doing right now. Seems to be one of the more intensely designed settlements in the game. We're essentially in a company town. Everyone here works for Hopetech, lives on a planet where the only thing around is their job, and carries an eerie devotion to the company and its founder. This is Ron Hope. He talks like an Oblivion NPC, which is to say too slow, and I earmarked him for death real early.

So I tell him about one of his stolen ships, he already knows, he wants me to keep it on the DL since it'd tarnish his brand if people knew ships could be stolen off the assembly line, yada yada. The conversation I was having with him here and now wasn't super important. What was important was introducing Hope as a character so him maybe/maybe not being evil later doesn't feel like it's outta nowhere. Well fuck me for knowing how these stories work, but of course he did it. I don't even know what 'it' is, as of right now, but I know it was him. Why else would we be meeting him so early? The butler did it.

We're off to Neon next, where I understand most stolen ships wind up. A player may deduce this on their own through normal gameplay; if you're one to plunder ships and sell them off, Neon is one of the places to do this. Either that or critically thinking. Neon's the only city that abjectly sucks, according to context clues. In case I wouldn't know, I'm told explicitly to head to Neon.

I head to Neon. With quickness, because now I know how fast travel works (tip: you can select objective markers while you're out in space and, should it be a system you've already been to, you'll fast travel without opening the map). Meeting up with a fellow ranger whose name I forget but--spoiler alert--it doesn't matter, I'm led to mechanic Billy Clayton, whose name I remember for some reason. He wants to help us but is currently having a Bethesda Moment (we need to do something for him first). That thing we have to do is clear up an outstanding debt with a loan shark. Alone, I march to the warehouse said loan shark operates from, don't even open up a dialogue, immediately spray the office with bullets, and return to Billy. Good news, Billy! Debt problem's been fixed!

Thankful, he points us in the direction of a noted ship thief named Grace. She's a brick wall. Won't give up nothing bc she ain't scared of the fuzz. That is until I pass a persuasion check and she immediately buckles under the pressure. Persuasion skill continues to be totally absurd. But for our efforts, she hands us an encrypted slate that, should we be able to crack the encryption, will lead us to her contractors.

The* Plot* Thickens*

It's not that I didn't know what was going on. Rather, by this point, I was certain the game would never trust me to figure things out on my own. I double-checked: there's in-universe museums that spells out a lot of the lore. Some of which being pertinent to reveals later in this questline. Odds are slim most players would be brushing up on Starfield history of their own volition, and look, I get it. Really, I prefer getting this sort of shit through questlines. But by this point I was feeling a sort of... monotony? I'm gonna be told what to do and where to go regardless of whether or not I intuit these things myself. There's little incentive to do anything but precisely what the quest givers tell me. Speaking of...

That ranger on Neon whose name I forget tells me there's someone on Akila who may be able to crack the slate. His name is Alex Shadid and, dude, I liked him a lot. On sight. He's socially awkward, dreams of being the type of person who goes clubbing on Neon which is cute, and he's good with computers. Alex was my first and really my only pick for a second crewmate, when this questline finished up.

I pass the slate off to Alex and report back to Daniel Blake. Based on clues in my previous field work, Daniel is running with the theory that the crew responsible for this ship theft (stealing one ship and harassing one farmer is still the impetus of the entire story) is one called the First. A company of veterans from the Colony War now doing mercenary work out in the stars. Daniel used to serve with them, and knows of two supposed members: Maya Cruz and Marco. Maya's our first target, as someone matching her description just booked an emergency surgery and extended stay on a space station hospital called The Clinic. Off to the clinic, then!

Two quick things before I divulge this super exciting Maya Cruz quest:

>Whenever I speak to Daniel Blake, while there's no outwardly "evil" dialogue choices to make, there's good cop/bad cop options. Do you want clean justice or do you wanna repaint the walls of your ship in the blood of outlaws? I always picked the most violent things to say to Daniel. Always some version of "I'm going down there and making orphans of all their children!" and at no point does the Sheriff think I may be a problem. He, nor anyone in the rangers, ever thinks less of me for being completely unhinged and hostile.

>I've been dabbling in the ship builder and, hey, Todd: why can't my ship have wings? Been all over looking for wing parts and there's not a one. I consulted reddit, damn you. Don't try none of that "uh but but but atmosphere" bullshit. This is not a realistic space sim, we ain't Kerbals here (that game DID have wings!!!!). Before launch, I was dreaming of what my ship would look like, and it always had wings. Let me add wings. If you do DLC that adds more ship parts, deliver me my wings plz thx.

Oh, and the Maya Cruz quest is pretty boring. There's one interesting moment where you gain access to her private hospital room and find the surgeon dead on the ground, but after that it's flying off to a derelict planet and trouncing about in a cave up to a very lame encounter with Maya, who says something or other about whatever bullshit idk. I shot her.

Polo.

Thankfully, the hunt for Marco has some teeth. There's a ranger at a remote club called the Red Mile. It's a real rough place (everywhere in Starfield is a real rough place, Red Mile, can I get ya to try harder).

The ranger in question is Autumn Macmillan. She's a Starfield NPC, so she's immediately callous and rude. I'm mean right back, so ig it evens out. She doesn't know where Marco is, but suspects the club's owner, Mei Devine, does. To get to her, we have to provide the club with some entertainment. The titular Red Mile is a dangerous gauntlet that wasn't all that dangerous bc I'm doing this at an above average level. So I run the Red Mile no sweat, Mei is pleased, tells me where Marco's ship is currently parked.

Before I leave, Autumn runs up to be and actually apologizes for being an ass earlier. I was also an ass but don't have the option of apologizing. Game unconditionally sides with me. Okay, I'll take it. Me and Autumn are cool from then on out, and I zip off to meet up with Marco.

It's now, at the top of the questline's last third, that things get interesting. I was ready for a dogfight, hearing that Marco is hiding out on his spaceship, but no. He's parked on some obscure planet and willing to have a chat. Sounds like he wants me to know something important?

That important thing is rangers are dweebs and being a mercenary is awesome. He's even ready to give me the location of de capo di tutti i capi on the condition we let him go. Since I'm ready for the story to keep chugging along regardless of my actions, I massacre his entire ship and get the final location anyway. Hardly knew ye.

With the combined slates of Grace, Maya Cruz, and now Marco, Alex Shadid has the information necessary to triangulate the location of the First. Daniel Blake orders me to head down there and raise hell. Well, not in those exact words, but it's a Bethesda game. Of course it's gonna be a fight.

The Black Rifle Coffee Company

Well ain't my predictions all fucky.

Thought for sure, with all these ranger characters I was meeting and the precedent set by the Crimson Fleet story, that all the rangers were gonna back me up in this final raid. Nope! Going it alone. Not even a ranger. Still just a deputy. But whatever, I still got my main man Mathis.

We buy some more guns and touch down on Arcturus II. Mathis and I step out, enter the large doors of an abandoned mech factory, and are greeted by the intercom voice of First boss Paxton Hull. He lays out his motivation, and I'm curious whether this was intended as a serious morality check.

In essence, the First are, as stated earlier, veterans of the Colony War. Their main point of anger is an event in the final moments of the war they were about to secure total victory for the Freestar Collective before both sides declared a truce. They're still mad about this. I'm supposed to be sympathetic to their position (maybe) as forgotten "heroes" of the war, despite their primary motivation being "well one time we killed a thousand civilians but we wanted to kill a million."

I wasn't so hot on these guys. Even as an evil character. They reminded me too much of Operative Culture. Yk, those guys who did (or maybe pretend to have done) military service and, perhaps as a means of coping with a lot of abject atrocities the US army commits, circle the wagons and perceive all violence as justifiable. Y'know who I'm talking about. Their pro-gun beliefs are based in a nonsense John Wick fantasy, or adjacently related "wolves, sheep, and sheep dogs" bullshit. Am I wrong to project this on the First, here? I don't think so. They get no sympathy from me, the guy who shoots people if it progresses the quest slightly faster. Their grudge is based in not "winning" the war by their own fucked up definition.

My character sure is one to talk but, in fairness, Mathis and I were gonna light this place up regardless of any sympathy for the First. Which we did! It's quite the gunfight. Lotta NPCs. I haven't spent a credit on ammo since.

We shoot out way to Paxton who, in a funny bit of characterization, can't help but be impressed by our ability to mow down his whole organization. He knows he's toast but wants to die fighting. Before doing so, however, he passes off a slate. The contract for stealing the ship from HopeTech (yeah, one stolen ship is still the main thing here) was ordered by none other than--

Oh, no kidding

It was Ron Hope all along! I have Mathis kill Paxton (just want him to feel involved) before throwing the bitch (spaceship) in reverse back to Hopetown. Marching right inside, we catch Ron Hope in the middle of praising a low-level mechanic for something or other. Uh-uh-uh, not gonna work on me. I KNOW you did... hold on, lemme remember. You... oh yeah. You SWITCH THE SAMPLES orchestrated your own ship theft in order to...

I'll be honest, I kinda needed Hope to explain why he's the baddie. Yes the ship theft was an inside job, but to what end I wasn't sure. If I have it correct, Ron let the First steal the ship so he would also look like a victim, which would throw us off the scent of him, and please follow along, selling farmers bad fertilizer that would demolish their farmland but leave behind soil that had a lot of otherwise useful minerals. He would then chase these farmers off their land and develop it into HopeTech... something or other. I'm not saying it's badly written. I'm sure it lines up with the lore and everything. But man, I was waiting for that [attack] prompt to pop in somethin' brutal.

But I am given a choice: take twenty-thousand credits worth of hush money, arrest him without violence, or kill him on the spot. How the other two options shake out, I can't say, because obviously I chose killing his ass dead. And his security escort! That employee he was praising earlier had mixed feelings about this. Our ensuing conversation when something like this:

mechanic: Ron Hope is dead!

me: he sucks and deserved to die

mechanic: I guess?

me: yeah

mechanic: okay bye

Now to go explain this all to Daniel Blake. Hoping he takes the whole "I killed Rom Hope" thing well, since Hope was a sitting member of the Freestar Collective's top brass. A ranger killing him would be very, very bad.

It matters very little

Sure, Daniel was pretty annoyed that Hope is dead, but I did have the slate Hope made ordering the First to steal the ship, among other things, so I killed him without consequence. I'm even promoted.

Deputy in a stupid vest no more! I'm now a Freestar Ranger in full, ready and able to take exactly zero ranger missions from this point onward. I'm given a cool spacesuit, a rifle I'm not gonna use bc I don't have any skill points in rifles, and a badge I cannot equip. Only look at in my inventory. But I am a ranger! I am a ranger! I am a ranger!

I'm shocked to find Alex Shadid cannot join my crew. Not that he isn't allowed. He's just not available to be recruited. Excuse me, I thought his introduction of "hi my name is Alex Shadid and I've never been to space in my life but oh I would just love to see the stars" was setting me up the ball. But no. And no other rangers at Akila are recruitable either. But that doesn't mean no rangers are...

Turns out, back at the Red Mile, Autumn is more than happy to hop on my ship. Yup, my second crew member is a ranger who thinks I'm dirt. Except now all her canned dialogue is eerily polite. But I say fuck it. Hop on my ship, Autumn, and let's never go back to the Red Mile again. Everyone is very mean there.

It's now me, Mathis, and Autumn, on my--oh yeah, I nearly forgot. My other reward for becoming a ranger was a brand new, probably overpowered for this point in the game, spaceship. Capacity for five crewmates. Best of all?

ITS GOT WINGS.

In Conclusion

While I can't say I was ever grabbed by the narrative, the moment to moment gameplay of the Freestar Rangers questline proved very fun. Lots of dudes to shoot, if that's your thing. It's got some engaging setpieces, takes you to a satisfying number of locations in the name of feeling big, but that's not without plenty of disappointments. The "villain" of it all feels unsubstantial, and really the whole story feels disconnected from the larger world of the game. It's got plenty to do with the Lore and all that, but at no point did it ever feel bigger than running errands. Crimson Fleet managed a far better climax in comparison, awful space battle notwithstanding. But the idea of Autumn being on my crew is funny enough to consider this a satisfying use of my Starfield time.

Next up, corporate espionage or: my god the stealth in this game kinda sucks.

[flipperdipper10]

It all loops back to 3 houses baby

my wonderful brain gave me the thought process of "what if the factions in magia record arc 2 that poke doesn't shut up about were actually the houses in 3 houses" and now we're humoring that thought process one at a time

Also major 3H and Magia Record arc 2 spoilers

anyway

Starting with Tokime Clan cause they're the easiest. Blue Lions. Tokime's ideals with defending the land of the rising sun fits perfectly with the knightly ideals the Blue Lions represents. They're more traditional, a model standard of an older age, and both are deeply connected to a religious standard or figure (the Tokime Clan with their temples and connection to Bhuddism and Blue Lions with their connection to the Church of Serios.)

Helping their case is also their leader has A Moment where they lose their way and need their friends to bring them back and remind them of what they fought for. In 3H it was Dimitri getting consumed with his vengeance on Edelgard. In Magia Record it was Shizuka getting caught up in the natural goodness of people and needing to protect them by enforcing her morals upon them.

Eventually both routes culminate in attempting to make peace between both sides with the only difference being that in 3H that peace does not come to pass (Edelgard, while agreeing to meet with Dimitri, will not back down for the sake of her ideals) while in Record it does (between the factions, at least. We're ignoring Mikoto.)

Next is Promised Blood, who after a while I'm classifying them as Black Eagles. They're the revolutionaries, the ones who see the problem before them (the problem being the actions of the Wings of the Magius and how the consequences of their actions affected the other towns thus causing the Bloody Tragedy) and deciding "we're going to fix this, no matter what it takes." Not unlike Edelgard who saw the issues of the Crest System (the consequences that it caused as a result of someone's (the church's) actions) and deciding she was going to take the path to fix this, no matter what it took. Both routes are also identified with the color red, Promised Blood's special event being called Crimson Resolve to help with a visual comparison.

Much like the Tokime, there's some comparisons to be made between Yuna and Edelgard. Both experienced a large amount of death at a young age, Edelgard experiencing it at the hands of Those Who Slither In The Dark and their twisted experiments and Yuna experiencing it in the Bloody Tragedy and the war between the factions in Futatsugi City.

Much like in 3H, Promised Blood are the aggressors of the war, the ones who initiate it. They make the first moves and are incredibly difficult to talk down. Between the two, Promised Blood was only capable of being talked down through Iroha's pure heartedness. Fodlan doesn't have an Iroha.

That leaves Neo Magius as Golden Deer, which initially I had these pegged as Black Eagles I think Deer fits them WAYYY more. Neo Magius comes off, much like the Golden Deer, as a joke at first. The Deer have the most silly and rambunctious house out of the 3 pickable ones in 3H. Likewise, Neo Magius initially comes off as a pushover. The weakest faction with Shigure and Hagumu in charge. But let them settle for a while, let them build up their skills, and you have a dangerous faction if you leave them unattended. In 3H this is seen with Golden Deer being far more radical than the Black Eagles (in 3 Hopes Claude fully intends to kill Rhea. Edelgard just wanted to remove her from power, not intending to kill her unless it came to that.) and accomplishing more and growing as a military force as their drive is established.

They start with a messy Alliance and go on to defeat the Empire and conquer the church with Byleth taking charge. Meanwhile, Neo Magius fell into obscurity in the early chapters, but once Himena came to be in charge she led the Neo Magius to become incredibly fearsome, her first appearance she had Miyuri cut someone's hand off. They were the final faction to fall and were the closest to succeeding with their plan before Himena was ultimately talked down by the other Neo Magius members.

Claude and Himena are both jokesters on the surface, quick to make a quip and never revealing their full hand unless it's absolutely necessary. They both specialize in long range (Claude and his bow and Himena with her ribbons and aquatic attacks). They're both tacticians, preferring to think off the field but still being able to hold their own on it. Not only that, but both aren't afraid to play dirty, in fact that's their preferred method if it comes down to fighting. They both love a well placed scheme.

That being said the two would absolutely despise each other if they ever met in real life. Both would try and pick the other for answers they won't give, and Claude would hate the idea of any kind of supremacy.

Lastly that leaves us with Folklore of Zero as the Ashen Wolves. The elusive faction that nobody realizes is there until it's too late. Folklore has members in all factions, much like how the wolves have members from all over Fodlan, and were formerly members in each house (Balthus was a Deer, Yuri was a Lion, and while Constance never enrolled in the academy, due to her former status as an Empire noble, it's safe to assume she'd be an Eagle.). Each member also has one member who isn't apart of any previous faction, Rabi for Record and Hapi for Houses.

Both factions are watchers, preferring to not take a stand in the major combat that's occurring around them. It's simply not their problem, they have their own things to deal with (Wolves with the thieves in Abyss and Folklore with the persecution of Magical Girls in Yukuni city, along with the threat of Doomsday they're prophesizing about.) That isn't to say they won't step up, each of the spies in Record are more than capable of acting in accordance with the factions they're spying for, along with fighting in general if it comes down to it. In 3 Hopes (not Houses) we see each of the factions in that game recruiting various members of the Wolves and having them fight the players chosen faction. It's opposite recruitment to how Folklore did it, but the end result is the same.

That being said, I can't find many similarities between Rabi and Yuri. Rabi is quieter, more resigned to her fate of witchification while Yuri will actively take a stand against anything that gets in the way of his own justice. Rabi has a far more grand end goal than Yuri, with Rabi's clock ticking down until she erases Magical Girls meanwhile Yuri is perfectly content to work with his gang of thieves instead of some grand path and goal like the other house leaders in 3 Houses.

Sorry for the long post I don't normally do these but the idea was really interesting to me and I wanted to write it down somewhere so I'm throwing it on Tumblr. Play Fire Emblem 3 Houses. Watch a translation of Magia Record because the game got discontinued in EN. Please I need more people to scream about this with.