#cw themes of death

[kthecritter]

hii! its the alien again. alien is unsure if you do songkin requests but alien is hoping you do! alien is wondering if you can do a songkin moodboard of will wood's song called: laplace's angel (hurt people? hurt people!)

here you go, I hope you enjoy! as long as the artist isn’t controversial or problematic, I’m fine with songkins!

[bamsara]

Clearing out all the concept scene doodles I've made the last couple months, here's this possible scene(s) for Trod au later

This is during the pre-Shamura / sleeping in the same room part of the timeline so far. My Lamb doesn't like having their neck touched (save for someone) and Narinder knows that.

They are best friends again here but also they are incredibly stupid

[willowser]

once you and katsuki discover you're expecting, you agree to keep it to yourselves for a little while.

you can't hide forever, but you want the chance to bask in the excitement of what's to come, together, away from outside eyes prying in. and you do: there's an immediate difference in the way you touch each other, how often, with katsuki even shifting coverage for patrol just so he can cling to your side for an extra day or two. it's like a honeymoon, almost, and you take the time to enjoy it like one.

but of course he wants to tell his parents as soon as he can, though he doesn't outright admit it; as soon as you start pushing the boundary of your waistband, he finds time in his schedule to see his dad—and then mitsuki makes time for him to see her.

katsuki tells toshinori next, who becomes quite emotional at the sight of your ultrasound, which in turn makes katsuki surprisingly emotional, too. there's much that they say and even more that they don't, but it's all communicated, regardless.

and lastly—he has to tell his nerd-ass friends.

it happens on one of their bi-monthly outings—that katsuki has consecutively been skipping for a little while, for obvious reasons. and it's like the minute he sits down in his seat and orders his food and one beer, everything he'd planned to say dissolves in his head.

despite wanting to keep quiet, he's been trying to plot out his announcement to these exact shit heads since the moment you found out. it's just so personal, and even after everything, katsuki's still discovering how to share those parts of his life with others, still coming to terms with the fact that he wants to.

he'd considered doing it slowly, rather than all at once in front of all of them, but he very quickly realized how terrible of a plan that was; deku would not physically be able to contain such knowledge in his body for any period of time, kirishima is a notorious fucking gossip, and if shouto had given him some kind of shit ass, wrinkled-nose look, he would have had to howitzer him through a building.

so he just says it, because he's never really been one for subtlety.

right after everyone's received their food and started to take their first bites, denki makes a point to ask,

"how's things with your honeybun, kacchan?"

and normally he'd have a fit at the nickname, but instead he hears bun and feels his stomach flip like it does when he remembers, when silly little things remind him of what the two of you have made together, and into his food, he simply says,

"we're havin' a baby."

the expected silence falls over all of them, save for the scaping of utensils against katsuki's bowl. he's damn good at feigning nonchalance, but food is getting stuck in his throat and his heart is beating so hard that he can hear it deep in his eardrums. of course he knows, but it dawns on him again, how overrun he is with excitement.

across the table, denki takes his turn to speak again. "you're...what?"

and then the whole room is erupting into a mass of chaos, moving in pieces like a riot of unrefined children, and even though he's being hounded with a million questions and being shaken around by his shoulders and some of these assholes are crying—katsuki graces them all with a big, fat grin.

[ominouspuff]

Gift-piece for @ghosts-of-rishi for some ideas we were playing around with. Fives discovering Echo is alive but possibly even more cursed than they already were.

They say there’s no good that can come from making deals with the Piper, but what Jango’s after is hardly what most people’d call ‘good’.

(Featuring Cursed!Jango, who went looking for a son in the wrong places, made a deal with a sea-god, double-crossed said sea-god, and now has three million cursed children.)

“Flesh and blood, you said,” the sea-witch taunted, gloated, condemned. And they are, they are — Jango’s split up, every bit of him, flesh and blood he never even had, divided between every blessed child — but no amount of clever carving of meat can account for a soul, and that’s the real curse. It is not Jango, not Jango alone, who is caged within the unnatural ribs and skull and pounding veins. “Watch them grow, fool; nurture them.” The sea-witch sentenced, and Jango does, he does; silently screaming, unable to separate himself from a single one, unable to sleep even when they sleep, too split up in too many inhuman ways to speak or think beyond wishing it was over… but they know he’s there, and speak to him sometimes. He can hear them cursing, over three million souls better left dead at the bottom of the seas, plucked and borrowed and wiped clean with new flesh sewn together. Why didn’t you leave us be? One is sobbing because he knows he should be dead and they say that’s as good as being at peace, and he is neither of those things.

His children are his spitting image, but they have old, old eyes and no memories of how they came to be that way, and there are three million of them — and not a soul that ever knew Jango Fett before — before — before — can explain it. He watches them all try through six million eyes.

[jesncin]

Reunion and Loss. A continuation of Twin in the Mirror and Chimera Twin Constantine, a remix of the Golden Boy arc from Hellblazer.

A story of Two Constantine brothers and the different ways they handled grief after losing each other at birth.

[fkapommel]

First flower of my House, wilted

Harrow the Ninth, Muir/ Bradamante at Merlin’s Tomb (detail), Alexandre-Evariste Fragonard/ The Great Flood (detail), Joseph-Désiré Court/ Metamorphoses, Ovid/ Cemetery Statue in Green Mount Cemetery, Maryland/ Our Lady of Tears, Unfound/ Photography, Unfound/ Harrow the Ninth, Muir

[dcartcorner]

amen

[loudclan-clangen]

Alright, now I'm curious, what are the rules of StarClan's Oneway Dunktank? Are there cats who can't touch it (mediators for sure but anyone else?) Do healers meet there every half moon? They can sacrifice a life to speak directly to StarClan but what about other times?

(Also you're not gonna believe this, I looked up effects of crude oil exposure and studies indicate it may cause Anemia and low white blood cell count, so maybe she got a bleeding disorder because she can't stay out of the Forbidden Jacuzzi).

VERY LONG, LOTS OF TEXT, SORRY I GOT EXCITED TO LORE DUMP

The rules/powers of the Black Water Pool and Starclan are intentionally very nebulous. 1. Because I think starclan is more effective as a mysterious force than a clearly designated entity, and 2. Because I would like to have some flexibility going forward in the comic regarding the powers/rules of starclan. Here's what's clearly defined:

Any cat can touch the oil, like physically speaking. They will not just drop dead unless something else is going on that is worsened by the experience. But something may be worsened by the oil, especially if they are deeply exposed to it, like swimming in it or ingesting it the way one might if they weren't specifically trained in how to interact with it safely (like a healer or a leader). This leads to rumors of cats being cursed with terrible visions (hallucinations), disease (coughs caused by respitory damage), or wounds (chemical burns from prolonged exposure) because they touch the Black Water without permission. These could be actual curses from starclan, or they could be biological reactions to the oil, but that doesn't really matter because the cats believe that they are curses. (If that makes sense). For this combination of reasons, (religious belief and biological evidence), cats with open wounds, bad coughs, or who are actively pregnant are absolutely not allowed to touch the oil and are encouraged not to be near it. (Excluding dried oil worn by healers, we've covered in an earlier post that that is a stable form that isn't going to pollute others). This is justified by the healers as being times when one does not want to tempt death, and that being near the pool brings one's spirit closer to the dead, which is good for communing with them or asking them for favors, but bad when you are fighting for/actively creating life.

All of the leaders and their leadership teams have meetings staggered throughout the moon. Leaders and deputies meet on a full-moon, healers meet on a half-moon, and mediators meet on a new moon. (Gatherings also happen on full moons, just later in the day/night. The clans meet the leaders at the gathering place.) Healers might meet at the Black Water Pool but they do not always. Specifically, the Freezingclan healers refuse to meet at the Black Water, so if they want all of the clans' healers to meet they have to pick another place, usually the gathering place for simplicity. Since the healers can only commune with Starclan by sacrificing a life, they don't do it on a monthly basis and not meeting at the Black Water isn't inconvenient for them.

The healers (and leaders) can only speak directly to Starclan by sacrificing a life period. One of my biggest issues with the actual books is that speaking to Starclan is so casual that they constantly have to justify the cats not being able to in order to maintain any form of mystery or miscommunication, or risk making beloved characters look like jerks for not telling the living cats something important/make the entirety of Starclan look less powerful by claiming that they just "didn't know". My very simple solution to this is to put a layer of separation between them. In order to talk to the dead you have to die. This means that characters will only do so if they feel it is VERY important and they are certain that Starclan will give them a helpful answer, which they will not always do. (Why doesn't Wildfirecry ask Starclan how to cure Rosehippaw? Because he knows that there is a very high likely hood that the answer is "you can't" and then he'll lose both his daughter and a life that he could have used to help his clan in a more effective way).

Circling back to how normal cats are meant to contact starclan if they aren't allowed to touch the Black Water Pool by themselves, we finally get to talk about Loudclan burials! (This idea has been rattling around in my brain since the bonus art for Moon 18!) Okay, so: When a cat dies, the ground on the mountain is too hard and shallow for them to really be effectively buried. Due to this, the body is placed into a shallow dip dug into the ground and then covered by a pile of heavy stones in a make-shift cairn. The cairn discourages larger scavengers, like foxes or ravens, who might carry pieces of the deceased away, but allows smaller scavengers like mice and insects to eat away the fleshy bits. After a few moons, (during which family and friends are encouraged to keep their distance and learn to live without the deceased) when the scavengers are finished and all that is left are clean bones, the body is exhumed and repositioned so that the skull is left exposed outside of the cairn that covers the rest of the body. This is meant to allow cats to speak directly to the spirit of specific dead clan mates, though there is, of course, no expectation that the spirit speak back. (This is what we see Fiercestripe do in the Moon 18 Bonus Art). All burials happen in a field of forget-me-nots (small, blue. five petal flowers) as they cover the scent of decay, and therefore the cairns/graves are often decorated with them, along with other flowers or plants that may have been special to the deceased. Less commonly, a family member may ask to take a piece of the deceased from the cairn, such as a small tail bone or claw that they will wear to "carry the deceased with them". This is only allowed if the cats are known to have a close relationship, and is very frowned upon if the requestor is not a close family member or lifelong mate.

The major exception to all of this "Starclan is nebulous and distant" stuff is when I draw ghosts (like Bluepaw talking to Owlstar, which, admittedly, I drew before I had a good grasp of what I wanted to do with spirits and starclan). I know that it sort of negates that distance but... I just think it's fun. I think it's more fun to see what the spirits have to say (on occassion) than strictly sticking to never seeing Starclan outside of the Black Water Pool. So for those instances just remember that you, as the audience are getting sort of a third person omniscient view. You can see the ghosts but the characters in the story cannot (unless it is stated that they can due to like ghost sight or something).

Of course, as I said at the beginning, I'm trying to remain flexible, and I'm sure I'm going to break all of these rules at some point, but if I do my job correctly, then moments when these rules break should be important, and not just because I'm disregarding or forgetting them.

On a completely different note: You're not gonna believe this but I actually did know that! I did a decent amount of research into the effects of oil exposure when i was thinking up the Black Water Pool and yeah! It absolutely has played a part in Eklutna's condition. She's had hemophilia since birth, (which very simply means that her blood doesn't clot very well (for all of you biology nerds out there yes i know that it is rare for a cis female to have full hemophilia but it is possible if both of her parents had it)), but that has 100% been worsened by her love of swimming in "the forbidden jacuzzi". As long as we are sharing fun facts: exposure to crude oil while pregnant, while not always, can occasionally cause birth defects like weak lungs!

[meeinthesea]

fragmented harmony— sunday

outline— sunday has always hated you. your existence was an eyesore for him — a constant reminder of everything that he believed was different —wrong. yet he can't shake you from his mind. it was only a matter of fact before you would hit the same fate as the charmony dove that once landed in his garden ages ago. so he does what he has to.

contains— yandere (?) sunday x reader, kinda ooc sunday, childhood friends, sunday is going through a lot, somewhat follows canon. heavy themes, mentions of blood and death.

wc— 2.1k

a/n— this prompt was suggested by my friend, and i had so much fun jotting down ideas for this! i hope y'all like it too, as much as i loved writing it. banner made by me, yay! i like this so so much he's so divine, oof..... so pretty. i'd worship him if i could.

it's been hours since sunday came back from the confession booth. usually, this part of his day is nothing of importance to him, the sinful confessions mixing and twisting in his mind before disappearing altogether.

this is normal to him. so he doesn't know why he feels so much on edge.

why does that particular question stick with him?

“how do i cherish what i love without losing myself?”

maybe it was because he was too stunned to say anything that the person on the other side of the booth had to be escorted back without any answer. but how could he give guidance on something he didn't have the answer to?

he blinks rapidly as the familiar walls of his room become clearer. he walks to the mirror and stands idly. naked without a layer to hide anything. his amber eyes trace each and every feature reflected on the polished surface.

sunday shakes his head, arms clenching on the sides of the frame. he won't allow himself to stray any further from the destiny — his truth. not when he is this close to achieving the paradise he's always dreamed of.

he is still here. all in one piece.

it's still him, right?

he hasn't lost himself, right?

the longer he stares into the mirror, the faster his mind spirals as it makes way for something he has never anticipated. the image transforms into something — someone that makes his heart clench.

you stand there, eyes twinkling with mirth, arms crossed behind your back as you whisper what he thinks is his name. so softly that he barely hears it.

but it vanishes all too soon.

the happy image is replaced by something so grotesque that he feels bile climbing up his throat. all he can see is pure — bright red as blood trickles down the sides of the mirror, and your once unscathed body now lies in a pile of your own blood. your eyes are pale, devoid of anything as they stare back at him. lifeless — soulless.

and then his eyes snap open.

the haunting imagery from before is gone.

all that remains is his sweaty, heaving body and bloodshot eyes staring back at him.

he staggers towards the window, a much-needed break for his palpitating heart. his weary eyes take in the tranquil scenery of the sleeping city.

maybe he's already lost himself.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

the next time sunday sees you waltzing towards him, he feels the familiar annoyance bubbling up in his chest. you look so free, happily chirping as you come closer to him, the ever carefree air drifts from you.

“what is it now?” he huffs and closes his arms around his chest. turning away from you.

“aww c'mon i haven't even said anything,” you twirl around him, your hair hitting his eyes before you come face to face with him, “how have you been?”

for a moment, all he does is stare at your blissful expression, and for a moment, he feels himself slipping back into the past — something warm and airy, bright spots dancing in his mind. it's vague, the lines are incomplete, and it is impossible to interpret anything.

something that he abandoned a long time ago.

“fine…” he grunts a reply and pays no attention to how unusually warm his cheeks are beginning to feel.

“just fine?” he hears you hum and brush past him — the brief contact has his mind reeling for a split-second — to analyze the soda bottles stacked on a glass rack, “and here i thought you would be excited about the charmony festival.”

“i do not have time for your musings,” he declares, and prepares to leave.

he hears you yelling at him but continues walking before a hand grips onto his gloved one, and he is pulled towards you. back to you.

“would you come with me to watch robin practice?”

every cell in his brain is screaming at him to decline your offer. he has no time for whatever shenanigans you were inviting him in.

though, how can he?

not when your eyes look so sincere, when your hand feels so light against him. a sweet taste pools in his mouth, and he has no choice but to sigh as he watches you jump up and down, laughing in delight.

he joins in with small chuckles, hidden behind his palm.

in his eyes, you were the very embodiment of the harmony that even the xipe falls short in front of you.

and that's why your ultimate fate lies in his hands.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

red. red. red.

it's all he sees as he staggers through the hallway. it's eerily silent in the dewlight pavilion, save for his heavy pants.

the meeting from before replays like a broken record in his mind.

robin.

robin is all sunday can think of.

no matter the number of investigations he has going on, he just can't get to the truth of it. how can she just vanish into thin air?

he remembers visiting the reverie hotel. comatose is how she was. he feels himself gag, as the picture of her pale body floating in the dream pool appears once again.

a spiritual death.

that's what sunday has concluded.

there's no traces left of her soul in the dreamscape.

it was as if she just vanished from the face of penacony, leaving behind a hollow shell of a body.

how could he ever let that happen to her?

it's a mess. the hallways, the statues, everything seem to blend in with one another, the faintest of red bleeding in through the corners. however, uplifting the bright colours may be, they do nothing to soothe the banging ache in his chest.

she's gone. robin's gone.

and soon you will be too.

sunday falls to the ground, rough carpet grazing against his skin. he holds his face in his hands.

he feels the need to shout, scream, anything, yet no sound comes out of him.

what was he supposed to do now?

through the mirage of madness, a solace whispers to him. the bells ring of his arrival. a striking white dove fly in front of him. silk brushes against his face as sunday looks towards the sound.

with each pounding of his heart, purple seeps into its white feathers. it was his master.

“my child,” the crow advances towards him, and sunday can make out the tremor behind gopher's voice, “the time has come.”

its presence is a warning about what is coming, a reminder that he’s running out of time.

he clenches his hands, lips trembling. he has no choice but to nod his head.

the crow is gone. robin is gone.

the sweet dream is falling apart. right before his very eyes.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

sunday dashes through the halls of the dewlight pavilion. the bright lights overhead are like thousands of needles piercing through his already pounding head. the shadows seem to chase him with every step he took.

“where is—” he coughs a little, all shaken up.

his head hits the front desk, wood splintering with the force. the organized items fall due to shock, cluttering around his feet.

“sire,” one of the assistants rushes towards him, “are you okay?” he holds onto him, pulling him towards a chair.

the receptionist looks at him confused, “who is where, sir?”

he takes a few heavy breaths before muttering your name. the assistant immediately focuses on the device and, without any questions, tells him your location.

everyone in the vicinity stares at his departing figure, curious as to what has caused such a sudden change on the oak's family head.

the trip to the winery is a short one. sunday is pleased to find the most of it empty at this time, since it will be easier for him.

the sweet and tangy smell lingers in the air, almost palatable. several clusters of gold dances around him as he makes his way deeper into the winery.

he follows the stony path and immediately spots your silhouette sitting on one of the silver railings. you look awfully calm, despite your best friend being missing and possibly considered dead.

he knows you've already sensed him as you jump a little but continue to look at the purple tinted sky.

“it was you, wasn't it?” sunday starts, but he doesn't know what else he can say to intimidate you.

“wha—” your voice is timid as you jump from the railing and stand directly in front of him, “where is this coming from?” you cross your arms around you, sinking into your coat.

“how much longer are you willing to go?” his own comes out rather sternly than he wanted, but he’s not complaining when he sees a sudden shift in your demeanour.

“what are you talking about?” you are trembling now, eyes getting all watery.

“enough!” you gulp, and he sees your hands shaking uncontrollably.

“sunday what are you—”

before you can say anything, sunday puts up his hand, and his eyes narrow down onto your face.

you feel yourself frozen in place — time as if someone has put a spell on you, thrones encasing you, trapping you forever.

slowly and surely, you feel the presence of what you assume is the harmony or rather the order — the absolute. it's all rainbows and the flashing lights in the beginning.

but the vivid imagery loses all colour. lines, and shapes form in your vision, a distinct eye stares back at you, “i had no choice. you left me with no choice.”

even before you can open your mouth, a ringing noise pierces your ear, and you black out, losing awareness of everyone and everything.

your body falls to the ground with a loud thump. unmovable — unresponsive. just like the world. there's nothing around the two of you. the fireflies have departed, and the pleasant aroma has become astringent.

and with that he’s breached the harmony.

he couldn’t bear killing you? how can he?

this was the only choice.

sunday kneels beside you and takes your limp body in his hold. “i did this for us.”

through the harmony, he will obtain the order.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

what follows after is a blur to sunday.

but he’s certain of one thing, and that the dream will soon take shape into reality.

sunday has no problem accessing your hotel room. all he needed was to flash a charming smile at the receptionist. the request doesn't take long, and soon, he is thanking the person with a key card dangling in his hand.

your door is locked, just like he expected. but it's not a concern to him. he presses the key card against the sensor, and immediately, the door beeps on cue. as soon as he slides in, he's greeted with your comatose body floating in the dream pool.

he locks the door behind him and takes out a pocket knife, striding towards the pool.

“you don’t need to be afraid,”

he cradles your face in his hand and traces the blade against your jaw, “i'll make this quick, okay, darling?”

the blade presses into your cheeks, drawing a blob of blood. pure red catches his eyes. it's familiar. he observes how the drop trails down your face and catches it, wet tongue sweeping over your skin.

“you are weak, always have been.”

sunday can't contain himself as the metallic and pungent taste coats his tongue.

“but you shall be free now.”

one slice is all he needs.

blood starts sputtering from your chest, turning the once clear teal water into a mess of red and brown. he jumps out of the pool, leaving your body to collapse once again. he wipes the blade with his handkerchief while watching your form disappear under the bloody water.

through harmony, order is obtained.

sunday nonchalantly walks out of your room and trudges down the staircase, back to the receptionist. he calmly reports your death, or rather your murder.

no one suspects a thing.

no one has the right to do so anyway.

no one looks for you.

no one questions for you.

you had no family — anyone besides the two siblings.

and in sunday's favour, the news of your death is quickly buried as a chess piece of the “death” game that has caused chaos upon penacony.

but you don’t have to worry.

“relax it’s me,” you can hear his voice — a familiar softness, just like how it was in days gone by — but he’s nowhere to be seen.

someone caresses your cheek, and you open your eyes, but it's all black.

where are you?

“i am right here, my love.” you feel a soft kiss against your mouth.

it feels so good. this feeling, everything is at present. there is no past, no future.

no hatred, no regret.

only love exists. compassion flows in every nook and canny.

the gentle waves lull you towards him.

he's all you can feel, hear.

“you are safe here,” his breath is faint, a soft murmur, “rest now.”

[itsguysnightitsironic]

Half empty, half full.

My cup runneth over but I'll have another please I'll only take a lover if she walks all over me There's seven deadly sins but somehow all I got was greed Yes, I see the warnings But I shall never heed Cup Runneth Over by Kiki Rockwell

Losing my mind, I'll grow roots I swear, FUCKING TREES MAN.

[luna-is-lost]

It's you?

[poguelandia]

EVERY EPISODE OF BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ↳ 1.12, Prophecy Girl

I would say the end is pretty seriously nigh.

[bamsara]

suggestive narilamb doodles, mainly memes/shitposts. some of this is not trod au canon and/or out-of-context on the timeline. Part 1/?

[derww]

DAY 28: POSESSION

CW: Death, violence, religious themes

He wakes up and feels a knife by his throat.

Firstly he panics, but then sees the person holding it and it's Mapicc – in Spoke's body, but it's still Mapicc. After that, he calms down instantly.

– Pina colada, - he says and the weight on his neck disappears. Mapicc nods and pulls a knife away.

– Welcome back, Zam.

It cannot be said that everything is fine with Mapicc himself too: he has never been able to get used to the inability to see clearly beyond his nose, the desire of this pathetic body to complete deformation and the continuing flow of the inaccessible but too great power of God in the blood. His center of gravity had been knocked down, and Spoke's twin blades, instead of the falcata destroyed in the explosion, were too light for the comfort and lingering blows. Zam gives him his saber, taken from the corpse, but even it lies wrong in insufficiently material fingers.

It's a coinflip every time – who will wake up, who is responsible. Zam was stronger, more tenacious, but Spep was also breaking through from time to time. They were afraid that one day it would be Minute who would wake up. It never happened but they couldn't afford to let their attention wane. Their worst enemy in the middle of their base is a death sentence.

Sleepwalking, Zam was unstable in his activity and could pass out half a step away. But he refused to give up – he wrestled control for himself, adapted to the sword from Minute's corpse, and moved step by step.

Jumper was standing against them. And two immortal gods with their wings torn off. Void and chunkban were the only ways to solve the problem, and they burned too many Ashes bookbans to deal with them themselves. At least while they have another option.

Mapicc had to learn to identify each of them by vague figures, Zam had to study how to faint safely, and Ro had to withstand the loads and fight over and over and over again. Only Clown looks as always, but even his hands are gradually starting to tremble.

Jumper is chosen by the gods, and they feed her with divine apples and crown her with a laurel wreath, and black and purple and red ribbons are woven into her cropped hair. She has no shortage of armor, she always has the exp bottles and golden apples, she almost creates potions out of thin air and never removes bright pink elytras. But she is still mortal. Unlike Ash and Squiddo, Jumper is still mortal.

Zam refuses to sleep. As long as the body belongs to him, he uses it, no matter how exhausted it is. Spep's body is not his own, it is weaker and more vulnerable, it is not hardened in endless battles and days of grinding, and one day Zam exhausts it so much that Spep who wakes up in his own body next cannot even move a limb.

They manage to push Squiddo into the void, but before that, she point-by-point blows up Mapicc on the spot. This time it's Zam who has to grieve for his dead partner, but he just doesn't have time for it. He and Ro have to climb out of another chunkban, and he is knocked out almost immediately after. The next time he wakes up, it's Clown who's holding him and asking for the password. Zam thinks wearily that he would like to cry.

Instead of two gods, there is only one now – and Jumper, she is still here, angel wings and one more ribbon in her hair – and Ash is noticeably gloomy, carrying a bible of saving the world under his arm. In such a man, with pointed facial features and dark eyes, black lightning burns from the Bhaal sunk deep into the skin are especially noticeable.

This time, Ash throws an inventory ban at Clown, and Clown doesn't even have time to say anything. While Ro cuts Jumper off, Zam writes a first book for the bookban with unnaturally icy fingers and then breaks the shulker on the build limit right above Ash. When he finally gets down and reunites with Ro, he can barely stand on his feet, and Ro, taking on some of the weight, brings him back to their base. Home. Zam's pupils roll up halfway through, but he finally falls asleep only inside the base. Ro leaves him on the bed, making sure he doesn't break his neck or swallow his own tongue, and only then allows himself to take a break.

This is... Exhausting. It wasn't the first time Ro had been involved in a war, but never before had it demanded to give it his all. This war had been going on for a month, and every new day was full of deadly dangers and demanded to give everything for the sake of a ghostly chance to achieve something.

But they almost did it. Jumper was left completely alone. Neither Squiddo nor Ash will be able to help her, and the world border is so small that they can always find her. And Branzy still hasn't revealed himself as their ally...

Just a little more, and he can finally get it over with. Kill Jumper. Destroy the world. Retire. See Mapicc again. He nods to himself. Take a rest, and then end the world, reminds Ro to himself, and then passes out.

Zam wakes up before Ro does. He moves with both mechanical and slightly awkward movements. For some reason, there is no pupil in his whitened iris.

[liauditore]

smooshing together my interests like making two plushies kiss. some random nonsense under the cut (horror themes).

<RETRIEVED FILE. CODE: HCS7DO.>

DECKED OUT 1.0: The newest and only one of her kind! We have no idea how Tango managed it, but, and I don't say this lightly, she's the best we have. Equipped with the latest redstone technology and standing at a whopping 70 metres tall (Tango was always known for not being particularly subtle...), it's no wonder Tango and her are inseparable.

TANGO TEK: One of the greatest engineers I know. There's.. really no reason for him to be out in the caverns, but his heart seems to belong to piloting. There's no talking that guy down, if anything he seems to take any sign of doubt or worry as a challenge. I hope he knows guys around our age usually grew out of that sort of bravado half a decade ago, but who am I to stop him?

<END LOG>

<RETRIEVED AUDIO. CODE: HCS8DO.>

[shrill, sharp inhales are heard, piercing through the microphone.]

[???]: H-Hey! This is [INTELLIGIBLE]. Do you copy?! Do you copy?! We. We're in a situation o'er here! T-Tango, he--!

[An inhuman screech echoes from afar.]

[Heavy footsteps are heard, getting louder and louder]

[???]: [INTELLIGIBLE]

[???]: We need [INTELLIGIBLE] rescue, stat! Send everyone you can! We're deep down, at the-- [INTELLIGIBLE]! Please, it was the mech, it--!

[The audio abruptly cuts off]

~

Impulse finishes off the day the same way everyday. Review the paperwork, make sure all the mechs are fully powered off, lock up the compound, make tea, go to bed.

He's had the kettle for months now, yet it still feels brand new somehow. It lets out this high-pitched noise he can't stand and it takes so damn long. But he has no other option around these days.

He watches it boil, sitting on a dusty desk strewn with papers. Mostly business documents, most of those covered in scribbled drawings of future projects, a couple of handwritten recipes, an old sticky note from Bdubs that just read "HERE'S YOUR (crossed out) REDSTONE" that he found amusing and stuck to his desk, a birthday card with a cheesy message written inside signed off by "Your Rancher C:".

Impulse missed Tango.

He'd been missing for far too long.

[chimerahyperfix]

The spot of endless night-time in the sky mocks you. It chases it's way to the House through the sky like a snake approaching its prey. Because that's what the King is; a predator coming to feast on the weak. It's the sign of the end. The end you can't seem to stop. A big old "crab you" for even thinking of trying.

You try anyway. Try to climb the mountain with your bare hands. Push the boulder up the hill. You tackle the situation from all angles, but nothing works. You've worn yourself thin throwing yourself at the equation, and it's killing you. Literally.

It's stopped being as painful, which sends alarms ringing through your brain. Your nerves are frying. Dying. Being frozen in time has thawed to the sensation of pins and needles instead of being bone-chilling. Caustic liquids don't hurt to chug down as much. You can phase out of thinking when the King attacks you. You can simply turn your thoughts off and move through the day like a phantom. It concerns you and you just don't care at the same time.

Your blood sings and your voice rots and you go and go and go, pushing yourself thin until you are a walking corpse.

It's just you, though. One for many. You have you have you have you have to remember that. Remember that. Just you just one, saving everyone else. Just you. No one else will remember this.

No one else will remember this.

You sit in the big room with the big window and all the dot charts. You don't remember what it's called-- did you ever know? Who cares? It's not important right now. Sit on the floor and look out the window like a child looking over the ocean.

The King, you can see him now. His tall, dark shadow appearing over the horizon, lit by the moon. His armor shimmers like the stars he seems to love so much. [Because that's what they are, right? Is that the correct term? Stars? You're not sure. There's a torn page in your mind where it should be.]

Just seeing him drives you up a wall. Echoes of pain from how he's killed you run through your body, even though you know its imagined. Mashed to gore painted on the walls screaming howling make it stop make it stop. You don't care anymore. He can come, and he'll kill you. Or you'll kill him! Eventually! It has to happen!

Maybe he can feel your stare. It looks, to you, like he looks up just a little bit, to look in your direction. You, alone, sitting behind a giant window under a shaded masterpiece, clashing sky of sun and moon and all his stupid stars. [Stars feels like the right term, it feels nice in your mouth, but you're not sure. You don't know, if it's right or wrong or if you've just crabbing made something up to describe simple spots in the sky.]

You want to kill him. You want to make sure no one ever has to hear his stupid wails again, or fight his monsters, or be frozen in time or look at his stupid crabbing sky ever again. Make that armor of his a cradle, a grave, a casket or a cage, it doesn't matter, you're going to bury him in it. Trap him six feet under like time has trapped you, a squirming angry animal of a thing behind bars of a birdcage.

No one will find you here. That's fine. The other housemaidens have started to avoid you, because you've become an angry little thing overnight. You don’t bother Mirabelle and some loops you flat out avoid Euphrasie, because they shouldn't have to see you like this, clinging to what was you from over a hundred today's ago. You don't want to worry the two of them, overstep a boundary you can't remember or something, because you've done this all for them and the consequences of your capital-C Change can come later when the King is gone and you don't have to do today over.

For now, you will wait. This loop probably won't be the one because, realistically, when will it be? When will you win? Are you going to be trapped here forever, doomed to repeat the same day over and over in a cage made of craft and wishes and pure spite?

You just wanted to help. Look where that got you. Over and over, forever.