#darksiders AU

[darkdemeter]

A little sketch I did and posted to the discord server!

CREDIT: This version of War belongs to @scarletknightreterns and her Sanctum AU!

This sketch was dedicated to a special someone~ (You know who you are). The full one is in the discord but I'll share this rough variant here cause I'm super proud with how it turned out given I'm still apprentice level.

[scarletknightreterns]

New baaaaaaatchhhhhhhh~

OCs, and a Sanctum War (au)

[deygodraws]

Watcher Twins, Kastor and Polluxes — the new beans for Against Creation :D

Poor lil bean Kastor witnessed The Horrors, and Polluxes is very “they asked for no pickles” about their twin

[vampothetically]

Not Yet Horsemen!AU Death

Had this Nephilim au backstory thing that @fxngelic and I used to explore, with less human, and more horse-like looks. In us revisiting this NYH AU, I have decidedly designed another unmasked concept for Death. I always had the notion that he’s more demon than angel, by Nephilim standard. Definitely more archaic in design. I think I’m going to be using this look for him when he’s not a horseman. I hc’d that he and the other horsemen had names once, before they were assigned their labels for apocalypse management. @fxngelic and I named all of them, and I named Death “Daghared” (pronounced Day-guard)

I have the other three sketched out, and @fxngelic has completed War's NYH concept! UvU That leaves the twins, Strife and Fury whom, I should have completed asap!

I apologize for the silence, I am recovering from a head cold =3=❤️‍🩹✨

[imagine-darksiders]

Strife's abyssal armor gives him such a knightly look, like a dragon knight. Would make a great knight/princess au with the human. He turns up making everyone think he's here to pick a fight but imstead pledges loyalty to the princess, who just in a state of shock the whole time.

I’m in love with this potential au.

Strife, a wandering knight with no fixed home and a moral compass that spins erratically and never points due north.

If rumour is to be believed, he’s a monstrous nightmare of a man, loud and brash and boisterous, well-hated amongst the outlaws of the land and feared by its citizens.

He's the very last person your mother, the Queen wants to hire to rescue you from the clutches of a vicious revolutionary who stole you away for leverage over the kingdom. But, every other knight she's sent to save you hasn't returned, feared dead.

Strife is called upon and offered a handsome reward for your safe return.

When he inevitably catches up to you and your captor, you're initially terrified of him, especially after he slaughters the revolutionary with brutal and unbridled fury. You've heard the legends of the armoured man with the soul of a monster, but this is the first time you've ever seen him in person.

You're reluctant to go with him, but despite his teasing tone and brusque nature - and his petrifying horse - he's surprisingly gentle when he lifts you up onto the saddle and settles behind you, caging you in with his bulky arms and sheltering you from the night's winds.

Arriving back at your home, you're bustled away into the arms of your mother, casting brief glances back at the giant hovering a respectable distance away.

Tersely, the Queen orders a hefty satchel of gold to be fetched for his efforts. But to your shock, and dismay, Strife interrupts her with a different request.

You're clearly in need of a bodyguard, and he needs a roof over his head and a stable for his horse. There, in front of the Queen and her court, he offers his services as your personal guard, and although you try to hiss that you don't want him babysitting you every hour god sends, your mother thinks its a better idea than allowing you to get kidnapped again. And Strife is the only knight who managed to rescue you from the hands of that outlaw.

Better get used to having a pair of eyes constantly watching your back, Princess. Strife is here to stay.

[alexatheris-44]

Death’s New Hound

(Darksiders, Against Creation AU)

—

CW: descriptions of gore and injuries

Summary: During an ancient age, when the Nephilim were no more than devastating pillagers and nomads, Death finds a remarkably unremarkable creature among many… and is pleasantly surprised

> Time for a little bit of an origin story >:3c. Also about time I wrote something about the Nephilim and their… less than stellar activities xd

vvvv Start reading below the GIF :D vvvv

The newest batch the Nephilim had taken captive -survivors of their pillage, the unlucky ones- were about as plain and unimaginative Death believed they could get; if these creatures were instead amorphous masses of sentient flesh that’d have been more interesting. Bipedal, only 2 arms unadorned of any claws or scales, skin tones all rather similar, no horns, tails or extra teeth... Other than the subtle differences in their terrored faces and general body shapes -such vague details he did not care to account- there might as well have been no distinction between them. Perfect blank canvases, he supposed, but doubtful any would be worth the time. The lesser humanoids all cried and bleated over each other in pleas and begs for mercy, that should they be the loudest or most pitiable perhaps their powerful and imposing captors would grant them freedom. Pathetic.

At least even the most lesser of demons would try to bite, and while Death’s brothers and sisters found it amusing, if he had to endure one more of these things throwing itself at his feet -mewling shrill and eyes brimmed with tears- he just knew he’d get a headache. Even their curses were dull, though at least the ones who threw them had the slightest spark of spirit. As they were all rounded and made to drag their own bare feet forward with either sharp shoves or sharper blades at their back, there was one that stood out in the smallest way possible. The Nephilim had spared one perhaps two dozen overall, yet despite the incessant chorus of amalgamate whining, this one had yet to add voice to the choir. Even the most skittish and doe-eyed among them occasionally whimpered; what caught Death’s eye the most -noticed only by him, as the others were far too busy laughing and goading the more reactionary pests- was how flatly this particular creature regarded them… Death might’ve missed it himself if he wasn’t so observant in his boredom.

It never glared or challenged as it was led, demeaned, or shoved— only seemed to hiss to itself if prolongedly touched. Death very well could have lost sight of it in the crowd if it at any point broke its act; there was truly something so unremarkable about these things. He’d completely tuned out as Absalom roared the usual spiel, informing their prisoners of their ill fate to serve as glorified slaves and servants until they either keeled over or failed to perform adequately. No change in the silent one, nothing else of note either. If he could find its eyes perhaps he’d have more to read into, but it had not once as much as looked up past the eyeline of its own species. The rising cheer of his brethren brought the Reaper back to the present, only needing to catch sight of four of his kin dragging forward a rattling crate to deduce what he’d missed.

“This is a waste of time,” his rasp grumbled aloud for only one pair of ears to hear over the roaring— and heard he was.

“Always the spoilsport, brother!” Absalom boomed beside him, a playful backhanded tap only slightly jostling Death’s bared shoulder despite the innate force the First put into all his gestures.

“It’s no harm to have a bit of fun once in a while!”

Death rolled his burning eyes, as always the only one unamused by these garish distractions. His kin were about done planting spears at the mouths exiting the chasm, the rest finding comfortable positions on higher levels in the stone walls encircling the captives and the mouth of the crate -loosely outlining their wide arena- when Absalom leaned in slightly, his usually boisterous baritone hushed as best he could or cared to.

“Besides, don’t deny you’re curious to know which ones have any merit.”

This was true, and the narrowest of smirks touched his hidden lips as Death crossed his arms over his chest. At least there was something to be gained from the bloodsport, and though he doubted it would happen he was ready to be pleasantly surprised. Chanting thundered, feet and polearms banging against the stone ground in a unified rhythm, and finally the beast was released from the crate. A Hellbeast tore forward on four reinforced wolf-like paws, mouth splitting wide open down the middle to reveal row after row of serrated teeth in a spine-chilling roar. Its three whipping tails lashed at the air like hungry tentacles, soon finding ankle, waist, and neck of three rather unfortunate captives the beast passed in its blood-starved charge. These three were in air before they had the chance to breathe— one died on impact of the lashing tail, snapping the bones in its neck from the momentum alone; the second -trapped at the waist- was flung up and forward to land impaled on the Nephilim’s blocking spear; and the third -whisked off its feet by the ankle and then slammed back into ground, winded and heel visibly twisted but otherwise unharmed- did not outlive its peers for long as its body was soon feed for those razor fangs. Things were not looking promising. The other survivors scrambled, completely disorganized, some making for the walls in effort to attempt the climb and others dashing madly forward and away from the beast, seeming to forget the spears. Rats scurrying in a cage. The beast targeted first the rats running for the entrance, fully swallowing one whole before its furred body skid against the dirt, kicking up so much dust as it slammed in the barrier of polearms. It scrambled back to its feet, clumsily regaining its footing among splinters of broken spearheads, scattering them wildly as it charged again. It had no interest in escaping, all it cared for was the hunt and then the feast. The Nephilim tasked at that end of the chasm planted new spears to replenish the barrier, visibly laughing at the smear of gore left behind by the beast’s weight pulverizing a most unfortunate rat in its impact with the ground. Their bodies were incredibly frail, flesh far too soft to not split from barely jagged stones underfoot. From the bellows his kin cheered at the carnage they might not even intervene until the beast had found its fill, and it would hardly be a waste.

Death’s attention was pulled from the hellborn mutt as he detected movement nearer the side with the impacted barrier; seems the little one that had earlier caught his eye yet lived. Even from the higher ground he spectated, the Reaper could count the scrapes marking its body and the snapped twigs caught in its stringy hair. Given how it slinked from behind the corpse of a dried-up and naked tree -still standing as if to spite the Universe- it was safe to assume it had climbed the moment the beast was unleashed. Smart, but why come down now? If it was planning to escape, even if it made it past the spears there were two of Death’s kin just behind that barrier that looked all too eager to get in on the action. Overzealous newbloods… But no, the unremarkable humanoid stopped its light-footed sprint about a foot from the polearms, rather its target was the nearest splintered spearhead that was still reasonably sharp.

Death found his curiosity piqued, now watching the violence with great interest.

“What’s that rat think it’s doing with my spear?”

“Finally got a fighter! Wanna bet it gets torn to shreds?”

“I’ll wager it’ll trip over its own trembling legs!”

If the brave fool could hear -or understand- what the Nephilim were getting rowdy about, it certainly didn’t show it in a way Death could discern. If anything it steeled its grip on the broken spear’s wooden shaft, though with the blade pointed back as if an assassin’s dagger. It waited until the beast tired of clawing at the rock walls -attempting to reach the rats that didn’t lose footing in their scurry to higher ground- and turn to notice there was still a snack at its level. As it lunged in a headlong sprint, much like an enraged bull to a crimson cape, the emboldened weakling shifted on its feet -seeming to psyche itself up for whatever it was about to do- and mirrored the charge.

Death lightly frowned; the lesser being had no strategy, no experience to its footwork, it wasn’t even holding the spear in a way that made any sense, unless—

It waited until it was so close the Hellbeast had prepared a pounce, giving just barely enough space between its open and bloodied jaws with head reeled back, for the smaller creature to suddenly drop both feet forward and slide right to the monster’s underbelly. The horde all lost sight of the rat as it disappeared under the beast, no sign of it emerging from the other side even as the hound continued its run forward for several paces. Likely for the better, as the hound’s tails were lashing more violently than before; if it slid all the way past the hind paws it very well would have been immediately rended into quarters. That it vanished without trace was perplexing, but then the hound began to howl. It roared and bellowed, wails of agony accompanied by violently throws of its own body against the rock wall. It reared onto its hind legs long enough for Death to catch sight of the smaller creature clinging to the hellbeast’s mane-like underfur, plunging the spear head over and over into the underbelly in a reckless flurry of stabbings. It was hard to catch over the dying monster’s cries if it’s killer had a war cry of its own, but when the beast finally succumbed on its back to massive blood loss across near a hundred injuries, Death saw how the survivor’s shoulders heaved for breath. There was an aura of wrath radiating from its tremors, backed by how it chose to start wildly stabbing again despite clearly having won. It continued much like a mad dog even as the others of its kind climbed down from their perches, one being so bold as to try approaching the massive carcass. Likely to try returning its peer to their senses, Death felt it safe to assume, though the effort was nearly met with a spear to the gut as the frenzied creature lashed out from being touched. It was awarded quite the wide berth from its kind from there, allowing it the room it sought to breathe.

“Looks like we found you a champion after all!” Absalom laughed almost in surprise, clearly this outcome was not one he expected.

“Too bad the beast was only a fledgling, but some promise is better than none!”

“Perhaps this wasn’t such a waste of time after all.” Death felt himself smile under his own war mask, indeed pleasantly surprised after all. When his brethren began jumping back into the chasm, weapons brandished to the one still wielding the broken spear, the creature had calmed enough to have returned to its earlier demeanour. It showed no fight or fear at all before their captors, embedding the blade deep in the beast’s chest before rising slowly to its feet with hands raised. Death joined the horde in the chasm with a massive bound from his vantage point, hardly at all shaken as his feet found the ground below in little time. Absalom was not far behind, and one by one their kin stepped to the side as both Eldests approached the star of the show.

“You’re rather brave for your kind, whatever you are.” There were chuckles in the group as the Reaper addressed the creature that barely reached his chest if it stood up straight. Whether in deference or defiance, it hardly mattered which, the creature refused to meet his eyes.

“What do they call you?”

The creature only shrugged. Shrugged!

“Speak, wretch!” A voice barked from the crowd. Death narrowed his eyes sharply, and it seemed to get the message from feeling his hot stare alone.

“…does it matter?” So it could speak. It’s voice croaked from its mouth as if forced, even if the words were barely audible in the first place.

“A cur should know when it is summoned,” Absalom spoke from over Death’s shoulder, waving a large hand for the other’s to be rounded up, that the horde may begin to move on from here. Another blasted shrug.

“Doesn’t matter.” It emphasized its words carefully, to not sound as if repeating itself.

“I’ll answer to anything you choose.”

“If Death asks for your name he’ll bloody well have it!” A more easily irritable individual chimed from the Nephilim’s ranks, but Death raised a hand in sign that it was not necessary.

“Until you think of a better answer, a dog is all you’ll be.” With Death’s final growl, Absalom ordered for everyone to get moving, having had enough of being still for so long. The Reaper made a shrill sepulchral whistle, as if calling a mutt to heel, and finally caught the creature’s eyes as it looked up in surprise; at last a change in expression. Nothing but an empty dull brown, as unremarkable as the rest of its appearance. But on its face was finally a feature that distinguished this one from the others— a fresh vertical gash starting at its jawline and ending shortly under its left eye, where the Hellbeast’s closing maw did manage to graze.

[deepfriedhopesanddreams]

Leave him alone!

The frames

And the sketch

I know I don't want to focus on my scrapped infection au, but I gotta feed curiosity, so here, the only art of that botbots infection au! It's still a scrapped au, so don't expect me to make more

[voidwritesstuff]

Gift for my bestie @alexatheris-44. Lyrics from Hunter by Paris Paloma. Im Very happy with how this looks <3333 >Dont repost my art, dont feed to a//i i do not consent. I own the copyright to all my art

[artsolarsash]

Sketch of Cassandra (Darksiders)

for new Darksiders AU: Time Travel

[darkdemeter]

So this was something I put up in the Darksiders discord and thought I'd share a bit of it with you guys here. I'm doing a bit of cooking here: I'm thinking of reworking this concept from another fandom I was doing it for and instead make it a Darksiders villainous au. Cause who doesn't want the four in their Nephilim/villain era? haha. I'm still tinkering with the story a bit but I'm kind of thinking it's a bit of a fantastical roman empire/Olympus aesthetic? But the story takes place that the Nephilim lost the war of Eden so the humans (which are more like gods and goddesses) and the four did not become the Horsemen.

In the temple guarded by her majesty’s moonlight, you slumber soundly. The woods creak and moan with the open breeze sweeping through the pine canopy, pillars of pearly stone shimmer and shine under the powerful, pale rays of night. 

Moon and Mother watch over you, her sleeping beauty of this world, a much beloved child she sees fit to only be graced with happiness and never be touched by pain or corruption.

In conjunction, there is darkness to match the light, at times to best it. A devouring and ravenous beast, its villain counterpart that takes the name of Wolf. A tarnished variant of a moniker now since taken. Stolen from him. 

____ had always envied the silver queen. Renowned as a stature of grace and love, adored by her worshippers. Where her temples were treasured and praised with gifted offerings left at the foot of her divine pedestal, his temples resided in caves marked in voided pockets of emptiness. Outcast priests vying for his audience perform rites of ancient black magics and light candles to illuminate the obsidian ruins of his long-desolated empire. 

There is only one thing he seeks to see the queen become unraveled, to see her poise stumble and watch the creed of her pious nation fall as his own did. 

To gain the upper hand in this battle where middleground shades fade in the blur between. And how would he achieve this? Why, by invoking you through your dreams like he always does, a sanctum that hides and resides a power he can do as he pleases with. How he can craft the most wicked of nightmares from the purest of dreams — and yours cause a delicious hunger to burn him from within, his cock strained in the confines of his loins as he devises and desires.

Now, he moves between the marble pillars as a swift shadow momentarily passing over you. He invades the sanctity of your bedchambers located in a tower cast high towards the heavens. Your body is the focal point of a picturesque landscape, the widely cushioned bed draped in a balanced hue of darkened silvers that glow and pulsate in the moonlight, the almost transparent adornment of your white dress serves as little protection for your modesty from his wandering eyes. He pulls you with masterful ease of a puppet on his strings through the fabrication of your dream, leisurely he stalks forward. He twists and turns your slumbering reality into his darkest vision. A fantasy all his own. One that you cannot deny. 

Released from your lungs is a sigh on your whispered breath and ____ feels himself stir, the bulge of his aroused cock making itself evident as his hands, clawed with adept knives of a hunter, move with a minstrel’s lead to a rhythm that strokes you with a phantom touch.

Your legs shift and rub together, your hips moving to rotate in a slow grind upon nothing, much to the disappointed whine you make in your sleep. Dreams of innocent tender are defiled by the honey of temptation. You whimper softly, growing restless as your body becomes infected with this need that pools a moistened glaze between your thighs, clenching them tightly together. 

His fingers flick with a snaking tsk of his tongue, summoning his power to ensnare you further and driving your legs to part under his will. Like an angelic cord plucked within your throat, you gasp and the pinkish bow of his lips pinch open, mouth dry in his desire for you. You beg for this impurity to stop, to release you. ____ does not let you go, he refutes your internal denial, lusting for what comes after: your inevitable acceptance. Your submittance to his divinity that shall wrack you most uncontrollably.

The high and revealing slits that part your dress open so intimately at the thighs move in thinned fannings across your skin with tantalising display, hiding you from him. In your dreams, you answer to a voice steeped in mystery that calls your name. In the labyrinth of the dark woods, you are lost and only he can serve as your guide. He has broken in your shyness, a coy game that earns your compliance. 

From the mists, he offers you an inviting grasp with claws that promise to harm your skin with the most sensual scars and callous palms that speak of undeniable pleasures to caress, hold and strangle you.

[scarletknightreterns]

Cinder as a Centaur for an AU I’m cooking up with my friend :3

She.... she is such a pure and innocent bean in this AU ;0; Not a scratch of trauma on her soul.

She lives in a realm where winter comes by only once every 100 years, and inhabits a forest and it’s ruins she’s always known, always lived in. She has never stepped out of that forest in all her existence because it’s a terrifying experience, and she doenst know what’s outside the relative safety she’s always had.

She eats fruits only, being very much against hurting animals or killing in any way. She simply cannot fathom hurting a single soul in all of Creation for self-gain. Also because of this, and her lack of knowledge to do so, she is always top bare with only her hair to cover her at best. The cloak she wears is for if she gets cold, and she found it in a chest in the ruins she lives in, but it was the only piece of cloth worthy enough to wear, anything else was pretty damaged and gross.

She fears fire and never has once used it as a light source. Instead, she will catch eternal fireflies in pretty little jars and hanging lanterns to light up the place and provide comfort, but not often because the forest at night lights up with swarms of twinkling fireflies and bioluminescent plants and mushrooms under the moon.

All she’s ever known is herself and she doesn’t even know what she is. Never has she seen another being. Because of this, she also doenst know how to speak or use her voice, simply has never tried. She will communicate through motions with her body and hands at first, but later on start to learn speech by the help of some other centaurs and colts.

[deygodraws]

One With Oblivion, Guarding Against A Fate Worse Than Death

I present the Guardian with SPACE MOTIF!!! I love drawing space u///w///u

[deygodraws]

I can’t really relay the context but this amused me too much not to doodle lmao

Couples shirt idea

[alexatheris-44]

Cruel Nature, Unholy Saviour

(Darksiders, Against Creation AU)

—

CW: period mention, slavery mention, attempted assault, descriptions of injury and gore, blood

Summary: His victory against a hellbeast may have won him favour and a name, but the Hound remains captive to the Nephilim horde. Under summons of his newly appointed “master” he comes face-to-face what fate may well await him in the Reaper’s care… though not without first having to survive another -much worse- monster.

> WOOOOOOOO this one took a bit to cook, but I’m so proud of how it came out ;;U;; Takes place right after Death’s New Hound

vvvv Start reading below the GIF :D vvvv

All things considered, the situation could probably be worse. He wasn’t sure how it could be worse, but at least he still breathed.

This fact the man recited over and over in his head as he hugged his knees close to his chest, trying to take up only half of the claustrophobic space he had to himself in the corner of the slave quarters. The others of his kind had stayed grouped together since they were taken, the smallest act of solitary in this nightmare. Not that it mattered, all rats -new and old, for the few that they were- had to share the same space. Despite only a few days having passed since the abduction, the man could strongly assert he already knew far too much about the different biological needs and habits of whatever else the horde kept captive in this space. Most kept to their own selves, and as long as it stayed that way there was an uneasy peace. But if one -be they Nephilim or other- smelled weakness, caught on to anything that could be exploited…

It could be worse — at least he still breathed.

His nerves jumped as one of his kind snored, returning to silence immediately thereafter as if specifically checking he was still alert. He couldn’t fathom being able to sleep soundly, not when the dirt they called their beds stank of their fear and… other things. Day by day they became a little more broken, and while many ceased caring about any form of hygiene rather early on, the man rose as slowly and quietly to his feet as he could and made for what little privacy their captors were oh so gracious to provide. Even saying the Nephilim provided them with latrines was a stretch; more that they permitted their captives to dig the shallow trenches. The issue then became that, while a cured-hide tent had been generously put up, it had a habit of trapping the smells. That the man still needed to perform this ritual meant at least what little he was given to drink was enough to not be completely absorbed, though that was a hard thing to be thankful for. No better place to be caught vulnerable…

A knot twisted itself into his gut as he caught the spotting of red on the inner seat of his tattered trousers. Luckily the dark leather would make it hard to seep through or leave any visible stains, and while his mind had been running ragged with worry of when the inevitable would come to plague him again, he didn’t expect it to be so soon.

“I can smell you hiding in there!” A sudden booming voice from just outside startled the man to nearly stumble out of his squat. Judging by shadow alone, whatever giant loomed was likely Nephilim, and did not sound to be of the slightly more patient variety.

He had nothing to catch the bleed, and there was no time to fashion anything from material on hand. Swallowing the dry lump in his throat –as if a mouthful of gauze caught on the way down— the man hiked up his pants and prayed for a light flow, that malnutrition and poor conditions would throw a wrench in the biological functions he’d been cursed with. It was a short prayer, for what gods were left to listen?

“Too damn early for one of you rats to be about!” The titan admonished the man as he emerged to fresh air, though did not receive his eyes. He kept his head lowered in deference, knowing himself small in more than just height before the otherworldly beasts that ran through his home— how their wake left only ruin and ash. He took a step to return to the others, though no sooner did a large axe raise to block his way.

“Are you the Hound?” That gruff voice asked only vaguely less annoyed, though didn’t wait for any answer before bringing the curl of the axe blade under the man’s chin, forcing him to tilt his face towards his addresser. He better bared his left cheek, showing the Nephilim the long gash trailing from the edge of his jawline to just under his left eye; in terms of a verbal answer, the man only huffed.

“...Your master calls.”

The axe was quickly moved from under his chin, flat side shoved against his body to push him in a direction opposite where he aimed to return. While the man was unfamiliar with having any “master,” he did have a very short list of suspects… foremost being the one who attributed him the name of “Hound.” Without a word, he proceeded down the path pointed to him, wary of how delayed behind him followed the heavy steps of his fetcher. It was hard to say where he was being led in the night’s penumbra, but dawn’s light slowly walked with them as they were a few paces shy of a completely closed-off tented setup.

“You’re one of Death’s now, so you only listen to him,” the Nephilim guide gnarred from his stop an odd amount of paces behind, as if repelled from approaching the tent any more than he had to.

“Now get in there and do whatever the Hell he tells you to. Got it?”

Death, huh?

The man certainly had questions —if only fleeting thoughts of instinctual curiosity— but turned and marched ahead without follow-up, doubtful he’d be graced with the answers anyway.

Head down, do as you’re told, survive.

The few sights he’d seen so far of the Universe outside his humble old village were enough to last a lifetime, but the assault of all his senses inside the tent nearly knocked the wind from his chest. Within there walked… monsters. Monsters that trudged back and forth on limbs so clearly not belonging to them, carrying parts that were equally no way their own. The sounds made as they shambled, he couldn’t be sure were even intentional. And the smells—...

Quickly the man bowed his head and stuck his eyes to the dirt, if not to keep himself from staring then at least to quell the sudden spin of vertigo. In the little he saw there was no sight of the masked and pallid giant to be his authority, though who could say he didn’t loom the shadows around a corner? If whoever dubbed him Hound was Death, he certainly looked ghastly enough to be a terror all his own; definitely the right kind of ghoulish to embody his namesake. But here… He’d be merely an omen among horrors. Pure, inconceivable, ungodly horrors.

The spike of fear stabbed in his chest made his heart drum fast, the rise of adrenaline not at all helped by the panic that these beasts might hear his fear as he crossed the ground. He did his utter best to remain calm; this should not be a surprise, he’d had enough of those in fewer days that nothing should really shock him anymore— he only needed to convince himself as much. It did help that nothing tried to talk to him, but they certainly knew he was there. He glanced up to try again at taking in the environs, only to find a dozen or so heads turned his way. There was a vacant hunger to all their eyes, how they looked upon him with a contemplation he could only describe as shredding.

Even as he found a way back outside he still felt haunted by their endless stares; drilling holes into his skin, that they might burrow and worm underneath to see him on the inside as much as they could the out.

He hoped he was as alien to them as they were to him, that they couldn’t inherently know—

He should have paid better attention to where he headed, before his body clipped the back of a rather bulky, many-limbed thing. His impulse to let free a hiss of breath at the contact came through, his arms crossing to guard his chest from view and from strike. His eyes locked with the infernal red of the beast’s as it fully turned, a snarl rattling its scaled throat in reply. At first it just seemed annoyed, then it sniffed the air and gained an odd new gleam to its expression. Like a vampire… that could smell—

“Blood.”

The voice— no, the sound that clawed out its mouth declared the word in husk, reminiscent of volcanic rock cracking apart.

“Heat.”

If it were not already looming over, the monster would’ve been upon him in less than an instant, and his worst fears began their enactment.

He heard enough unheeded screams in prior nights that he refused to join the choir; the beast would not gain that satisfaction, not from him. Clawless fingers swiped feverishly at the stubborn hide of the monster, its rough scales and short spikes scratching back at the soft skin of his palms. His flailing was swatted aside as if he were naught but a fussing fly nearby a horse’s tail, the monster’s stronger arms pinning his sides while two spindlier appendages moved to restrain his wrists. He thought himself about to be gored as gnarled claws slashed across his chest; when only his tunic tore from the strike, revealing the untouched flesh of his bosom, he’d never known a greater panic. Tears burned his eyes at being uncovered— he’d sooner rend his hands at the wrist if only it meant returning his skin to shelter. In an act of pure desperation he folded forward in as much of a lunge as was possible, finally finding purchase and puncture of the monster’s surface through use of his own scared teeth.

At last this gave way to his release, ripped from the monster’s shoulder and flung aside like a handful of wet garbage. He hacked and spit the copper taste from his tongue as if a vile poison, scrambling to his knees despite the pain in his sides with arms tightly crossed over his bared chest, holding himself in a vice that might never again let go. Wide eyes of horror read all it could of the monster; its appearance, how grave the inflicted wound, its next intentions. Instinct should’ve instead forced him to flee the moment he could, as the sight opened a sinking void in the pit of his stomach and froze him still. However much he’d actually torn from the monster’s neck was fastly mending, its dark-ink blood almost evaporating the moment it hit the air. Its grotesque body hungered for him, and a bloodlust to its eyes promised more than just carnal defilement.

He was a single thought away from trying to rise to his feet when his back hit something, and with oblong eyes wide in its own terror the monster stumbled… backward. He wasn't allowed the time to find what it was behind him that made the monstrosity pause; the blur of a blade spun forward and —in a clean cleave— through it’s knees, forcing beast to ground. A rush of wind blew in his face as the deadly steel cut the air on its tornado back from where it came, the quiet morning air now spiced with blood dully dripping just a little over his right shoulder.

Thinking perhaps it would be more wise to leave without knowing what came to his aid, the man began to scramble in direction of his left—

“Stay where you are or be cut down next.”

He froze once more in light of the sharp address, as if the words spoken were a slender arrow impaling him to the ground. Now he was turned sideways enough to see what he’d backed into; the outline of a large and well-travelled leather boot.

“Eyes up.” Slow to follow the familiar rasp’s command, the man felt his head lightly shake as he looked upward. He tried not to meet the Nephilim’s eyes but their piercing glow found his, trapping him in the infinite furnace of the titan’s scowl. Far above his curled frame towered a ghoulish man, pallid skin stretched taut over a structure of well-defined muscle and bone. The features of his carved face were angular and jagged, nearly more a macabre sculpture than a living being. The man below hugged himself tighter from such unbowing spotlight, though even so subtle a movement couldn’t escape the overseer’s dissection.

Intriguing…

“Rise,” Death growled to the one he recognized as the nameless Hound. He watched as the smaller being struggled awkwardly to his feet with as little assistance from his own arms as he could, fingers trying to grasp at frays of his tunic though the shreds were torn too short to be of any help. The Nephilim’s sharp eyes looked him over in a stretched silence, wading through the thick cloud of distress enshrouding his aura to find where might be hiding the wound giving off that faint hint of blood— Ah.

“Well aren’t you full of surprises,” he almost scoffed, reaching his free hand towards the Hound to confirm his suspicions. Still high in his fear and adrenaline, the Hound flinched away with teeth so clenched his breath hissed a sound like a wounded feral animal. He might have fled then and there had the creak of Death’s scythe handle not warned against any sudden moves, a flicker of skittish eyes towards the blade painting a mental tableau in the same dark crimson as the blood which still wetly dripped. Though his arms did not uncross or lessen the hugging of his ribs, the twist of his body revealed enough for Death to discern the Hound’s desperately kept secret. From the edge of his vision, Death caught movement coming from the crippled mass that was his most advanced project, how it was finally stirring to rise from the soiling dirt. He’d not seen the entirety of the pairs’ confrontation, but that this much smaller, much lesser being fought back with such unbridled ferocity even when captured, freeing himself from the grasp of a creature nearly twice his size… The Nephilim’s curiosity birthed an idea.

As nonchalantly as if he did not currently hold the man rooted under threat, Death planted his weapon upright in the soil and grabbed at the bruise-blue cloth draped over his hips. In a fluid pull that barely required any effort —though it would’ve been impossible to miss how his bicep rippled— the Nephilim ripped away a large strip of the fabric. The Hound, even in his still unbroken silence, seemed at an utter loss for words as the torn cloth was then offered his way.

Unsure of the Nephilim’s intentions but with no real other options, the smaller man barely held the oddly soft material in an unsteady hand when Death released it from his own, taking two steps in his longer stride past the Hound to where his monster lay. Without ceremony, Death kicked aside his creation’s dismembered legs -severing the weak threads of its blood trying to sew itself back together- and picked up the main body by the throat. Under the curl of his fingers, he felt the area where the Hound’s maul had broken the experiment’s scaled hide; while healed to no longer bleed, the tissue was still soft and tender— an exposed weak spot, the gooey marshmallow under a campfire-charred exterior. It tried, weakly, but before it could free its neck from his grasp, Death embedded the crescent blade deep into hard-packed soil and forced the experiment’s torso to skewer on the jutting blade of the handle’s other end. The Hound cringed at the gargled sound made as it was left impaled on an angled pike, released from Death’s grip to hang there like a wall-mounted trophy. Yet it did not die.

“Cover yourself and step forward,” he called to the Hound, beckoning him over. The Hound was fast to adorn his chest with the fabric —tightly wrapping it around his ribs as many times as it would go, creating a compression that flattened what hid beneath— but slow to approach. He found it hard to will himself forward when that direction held two large and deadly presences, though it wasn’t the Nephilim he feared the most. When the Hound was near enough to Death’s satisfaction -still a step shy of the monster’s reach in precaution- the Nephilim freed a boning knife from his belt, extending it handle first. The Hound eyed Death’s hand, puzzled.

“When fighting for your life, never leave your foe alive.”

Cautiously, the Hound accepted the bone-made blade and turned to the monster, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. An animal was one thing but a sapient being was another, even if both appeared born of the Hells.

Could he really? …Should he?

“Do it!” Death ordered, and startled into action, the Hound stabbed. His aim was completely unintentional, and so he hit nothing vital— nothing even close.

“Sloppy. Keep your eyes open and see where you strike. Try again.”

The Hound followed his instructions and stabbed again, his heartbeat made to hiccup under the monster’s pained gargle as the weapon pierced its clavicle.

“Better, but still off. Try again.”

He stabbed again; the monster wailed, warm blood spurt once from the new hole in its chest.

“This beast tries to take from you, and this is how you make it pay? Again.”

The Hound stabbed again. He felt something sting against his soul as he was brought to remember, a thin and corroded needle in the soft tissue of his brain.

“If it lives, it will target you again. You will never be safe so long as your enemy still breathes. Strike!”

He felt it as if the beginning of a blaze in his spirit; that rage, that anger stoked by all the trials and challenges of his life, that same burning ire that pushed him into killing the horde’s hellbeast. It began to blind him, savagery channeling through as if the very blood in his veins, and his tensing hands forced the knife to plunge again, and again.

“Show me your wrath! Let its last memory be of your pain! Strike again!”

His mind yearned to re-taste its tainted blood as it splattered across his face. Made deaf to its pleas of mercy, each ragged wheeze of agony further fed the Hound’s overpowering bloodlust.

“Again!”

Death marvelled as he saw it, not with his eyes but with his spirit; how his taunting made the Hound’s intrinsic potential manifest in near physical streams— how it channeled power through his thin and unassuming form, making each frenzied strike stronger. He vented so much history in each blow; ages of repressed pain, frustration, and rage… the Nephilim felt he had only just scratched the surface, such was its potency.

If Death could harness and hone it, if he could weave that potential into tangible form…

In all his focus, the now rabid Hound had forgotten Death was even there near him. He was barely even aware of how his own body quaked with each roar, hardly able to wait for each strike to fully embed before drawing back to plunge the knife again. Only when an aura of cold licked at the sweat of his back did he come back to his senses, all at once made suddenly aware of the Reaper standing directly behind him. The Hound froze with arms mid descent as their flesh made contact, large and calloused hands almost caressing over his slender wrists to trap him in place. A surprised and forceful gasp had the Hound sharply straighten his back, pressing his body against the Nephilim’s as what little separation they had left suddenly vanished. Death —whether it was his intention to or not— now made the Hound closely aware of his towering size, how even his forearms were nearly twice as thick and well over four times as strong. Despite his aversion to any form of touch, the Hound allowed the Reaper to guide his blood-sprayed fingers without any struggle, following silent directions to readjust his grip on the knife. As if leading him into a slow and intimate dance, Death brought the Hound to point the poised and crimsoned blade squarely to the monster’s heart. The Hound wasn't even aware his body had been shaking until he felt the Nephilim’s firm hold over his wrists calm their terrible trembling, cleanly bringing him to the final blow.

The monster held no will or strength to even scream as its life at last was severed— and so, the kill was swift and silent.

He knew in the deepest depths of his soul that the Reaper knew damn well the entire time exactly how to end this monster’s misery, and while the thought ran a subtle shiver down his spine, the Hound couldn’t lie to himself that it didn’t feel good. Death released his surviving charge’s hands and gently pulled himself away, leaving the Hound to soak in the feeling of his slaughter; a same swallowing warmth as the lifeless blood washing over the still embedded blade.

This kill belonged to the Hound, and if Death had his way, it would only be the first of a great many.

“You at least have aptitude, technique can be taught at a later time.” Death’s comment was made rather casually, the closest thing to a compliment he felt the ordeal deserved. A dry snap of his fingers demanded the Hound’s attention, an open palm requesting the return of his knife. Though feeling reluctant to comply, the Hound did finally pull free the boning knife and hand it back, eyes fixated on the blade as the Nephilim wiped it clean and returned it to sheath.

“Pity, it appears I am down a subject for today,” the Nephilim then said with nonchalance, catching the Hound’s widened eyes.

“Fortunately for me, I now have you to take this one’s place. Come.”

Death pulled free the limp husk from his weapon, retrieving it along with his blade and turning to leave.

“I… only answer to Death.”

The Reaper paused in his march to glance back at the Hound, surprised to hear him willfully talk back— and with that no less. Granted, this was likely the first time the lesser creature saw him without his grim war mask, but surely the face cover didn’t account for the whole of his lasting impression.

“Well? Heed me then.” It was with a cocked eyebrow added to his flat tone that Death confirmed his identity to the Hound. He then gestured for him to follow, in a manner that let it be known he would not ask nicely a third time.

“Don’t prove me wrong in thinking you weren't daft.”

The Reaper caught the flicker of a look that begged to ask something, though clearly the Hound now intended to hold his tongue.

“If you have questions, you should ask them. I won’t harm you for simply being curious.” His invitation seemed to relax a small amount of tension held in the Hound’s shoulders, as if it was only permission he required.

“…What will I be subject to?” The answer wasn't going to be anything good, in that there was no doubt. Still, that the Hound felt it prudent to ask as he stepped forward to follow, it brought a foreboding smirk to Death’s lips.

“You’ll see.”

The Nephilim directed his newest charge back within the workshop, pleasantly surprised to find the Hound oddly calm to the sights within. As for the Hound, after everything that went down just outside the tent, the second time inside was by far easier to swallow than the first. Especially since, in Death’s company, he found no eyes turned remotely their way. Death dropped the monster’s carcass on the wide operating table in the centre of the layout, a fresh splatter of deep crimson painting its stained surface.

“Carve out anything salvageable,” he instructed to the room at large, then turned specifically to the Hound. “You, keep with me.”

As monsters with bowed heads approached the table to heed their overseer’s order, Death resumed his march to a curtained-off section a little deeper within and off to the side, the Hound very close behind. Past the partition was a setup similar to the main area but much smaller, clearly not as often used but still often employed. This area felt very… private, as if the Hound just knew no one but Death was allowed in here unless explicitly invited. Right by the narrow operating table were two workbenches pushed in an L shape, adorned with several carefully laid-out and well organized tools. The Reaper said nothing as he poured over his deadly implements, seeming to search for one in particular. To the smaller man they all looked about the same, only slightly varying in size— all seemed surgical and impossibly sharp, as if each use was still somehow the very first.

To find himself surrounded by more dangerous instruments than he’d ever even seen, still feeling the linger of adrenaline twitching in his fingers, and the only living obstacle to his potential escape presently with his back turned…

The Hound thought himself silent in how he lunged for the nearest thing that looked like a knife, only taking his eyes off the jutting vertebrae of the Reaper’s spine for a moment so he wouldn’t fumble his only chance. In that one moment Death was somehow upon him, having moved as swift and stealthily as if one with his own shadow. He caught the Hound’s fist mid raise, completely dwarfing it in his grasp to the point it appeared as if only he held that knife aloft. In the other pallid palm, the Hound once more heard the menacing creak of his scythe.

“I’ll only warn you of this once,” Death’s gravelled voice spoke calmly, yet with a sharp edge. The inferno of his glare felt to singe the edges of the Hound’s very soul.

“I don’t need you alive to do my work.”

The silence felt to stretch an eternity between them, both beings locked in place by held hands and deadly stares. Whatever preview there could’ve been into their minds was kept from their respective eyes, leaving them mulling in thought completely in secret of the other. Death nearly began to wonder if he’d have to cleave two subjects in one day, but the Hound at last relented. With a sigh of surrender he released his clutch of the knife’s handle, sliding free from the Reaper’s palm as his grip loosened in kind.

“Bold move, wiser choice.” Death almost commended the Hound for his initiative despite his disapproval of wasted time, returning the knife to its rightful place. Now disarmed —even taking a step away from the tools to better temper the impulse of trying again— the Hound lowered his gaze and waited for his instructions. Believing it safe again to turn his back, Death tossed his order flatly over his shoulder, but not before a hook-curled finger nudged at a fray of the fabric in the way of where he aimed to cut.

“Uncover, and lay on your back.”

Of course —the Hound thought to himself as he felt his spirit plummet— everything at a cost…

His arm crossed over his chest, defensive but dejected, as he ran a string of curses through his mind; to himself, to his birth, but especially to his “saviour.”

“Haven’t I fought off enough humiliation for a day?” The man’s voice was bitter and cold, feeling the courage to bite at his captor— yet delivered in barely a pointed mutter as he remained wise from inviting outright confrontation. The suddenness with which Death’s attention returned to him almost pushed the man a full step back, that glare of fire as if lighting a torch directly in his face.

“As if I would be so vile,” Death’s repulsed rasp thickened the air, “You whittle at my patience with such accusations.”

Well that was rich, given the situation. Still… It was oddly of some comfort, as if the insinuation was as real an attempted attack as when the Hound picked up the knife. He wore such an unapologetic disgust in his expression it even dripped from his tone. Perhaps this one could be trusted at his word… despite his pessimism, the smaller man found himself hopeful for the first time in a long while.

“…Could it stay on, then?” His voice spoke before his mind could stop it, the unsteady croak betraying his tone to be a pleading one. He didn’t consciously mean to, but his fingers began rolling a loose corner of the bruise-blue fabric covering his chest between thumb and forefinger. The Nephilim gave him a look —a softening of his glare but without dimming the fire of his impatience— and waved a dismissing hand.

“If that renders you more compliant, and it keeps from my way, so be it.” Death watched his charge’s shoulders twitch as they were held steadfast from their drop, an obvious show of relief despite his battle to keep it from being known.

“And… the pants—?”

“Hound,” Death’s exasperated exhale laced into a growl, growing tired of this back and forth when he had work left to do.

“I only require access to your abdomen, what you do with any other flesh is the last of my concerns. On the table, now.”

To the Reaper’s surprise, the Hound now moved with an odd compliance; not an eagerness for what came next, but as if what was being ordered of him was no more a bother than asking about the weather. He was on the table with as much of his torso bared that kept him decent, even refolding the fabric over his chest in a tighter tuck so no stray frays draped over his ribs. It was… unusual for one of Death’s subjects to be so agreeable, especially this soon. While he did intend to eventually experiment with this one, this was fairly early in the Reaper’s usual schedule; the flesh certainly didn’t fight back as hard the more the mind became broken in. He had a moment of debate if the restraints were all that necessary, with how easily he clasped them around both ankles and one wrist without the slightest fuss. The man even offered out his remaining unbound wrist when the time came! A touch more hesitant, as he obviously didn't wish to let go of the fabric in case it became unravelled, but the gesture remained the same. The Nephilim turned to his tools, choosing to ignore the free limb entirely. Perhaps he felt an impulse to show grace in this smallest way, or he was just eager to get this over and done with.

The moment where blade met flesh tended to be the loudest in Death’s experience, though he found he had no bellow or cry to ignore as he worked his craft. The man tensed and hissed from the spill of his blood, yet nothing more. It was an unfamiliar enough thing to bring the Reaper to look up from his focus, catching the flicker away of the Hound’s gaze. While he wore an expression of stifled suffering, his eyes remained open and fixed on a far point— odd, given how most would simply hold them closed. The man was straining to observe from the corner of his eye; not wishing to see, but intrigued still to watch. Death wasted little more of his time despite the twinge of amusement this brought, continuing his splitting of unbroken skin to a further drawn hiss of the man’s breath. The Hound never could’ve fathomed himself in a position to spectate his own disembowelment, though to call it that would be only a slight exaggeration. His captor was not striking to remove any organs or aiming for evisceration, merely he peeled back the flesh to observe the layout inside; how each mass pulsed and writhed, protected by bone or packed so tightly as to trap themselves in place. The Hound, despite being struck so utterly in awe at the sight of himself made open, thought to worry about how much he was bleeding. It was not the gush of severed arteries, but should it be left to pool for long undoubtedly that would hold some consequence. Apparently Death had it already all figured out; the Hound actually craned his head to fully face his innards in a wide stare as the Reaper began a low chant. As this otherworldly being muttered indiscernible words in an unfamiliar tongue he began to bend the rules of feasibility before his charge’s own eyes, becoming a snake charmer to his subject’s trickling bleeds. The dark gift of pitch darker arcane, or perhaps the Hound only now had his eyes forcibly opened to all the magic and potential of Creation. He felt colder as his flow slowed, though nothing felt as cold as Death’s hands gracing his exposed form. And colder still ran the chill over his soul at the wicked smile thinning the Reaper’s lips.

“Time to make something of you...” Death ominously mused only to himself, even if his rumbling hum had been loud enough to demand the full attention of his charge.

“Shall we begin?”

-x-

[deepfriedhopesanddreams]

Burgertron and Burgertrons

[voidwritesstuff]

Pale Lady,Clad in Snow.

Cw: Religious themes.

Summary: Ataraxy the pale rider and her siblings spend some time together before their Next mission.

>For the "Against Creation AU" By my friend @alexatheris-44 . Hiraeth uses all pronouns but for simplicity sake I went with she/her + female terms.

She was there from the beginning

A power that exists at the end of all things

She Walked without gods,and shaped our deepest beliefs.

A merciful nun by the side of your bed,a gentle embrace for the grieving, a harbinger of tranquility before your soul leaves for the  beyond, The saint to deliver you upon the Gates of heaven.

Fields become burials grounds in her wake. Every great atrocity every feebles passing she stands witness, weeping holy tears from which mournful flowers Bloom among the dead.

In our strife, revolutions and in our wars. She has left her Mark. The Repose and the melancholy of change.

And in the end hers Will be the last face you'll see. Weeping for you,and waiting patiently to guide you to peace.

She has Many names- Kinslayer, Mother of Mercy,the Pale weeping Lady...Ataraxy.

But in the end,she only desired on title: Sister.

Strife:

It had to be the tenth time hes tried to fix his scarf. It kept sitting uncomfortably on his shoulders,getting in the way of his pistols.

Frustrated,he throws it on the ground and stomps on it. For a good while.

Until he hears the gentle giggling of a woman, the sound soft like bells and windchimes,like the rustling of leaves. Ever soft,ever welcoming.

--Whatever did that poor Scarf do to you?--Ataraxy,Hiraeth,Snickered. Her armor and pristine white robes sat comfortably ok their form. Her mask is off somewhere and her ears are tucked to the side of her face.

Her gentle grey eyes look at him confused and amused, her hands clasped together and resting against her gut.

--I just...cant get it to sit right...-- strife said with shame, his head hangs low and he can feel his face Burning.

His sister cooed and Walked to him,she picks up the scarf and dusts it off. She takes a few minutes to mend a few holes with her silk that glimmers moonlight. She Mends what she can,knowing that Strife liked the ripped up look.

--Thats not how we handle our frustrations,by the way-- She reprimanded gently,her voice as soft as the silk she uses.--Its okay to need an outlet but lets not go to violence.

--I knowww....-- The white rider whined.

Her hands weave the threads together,masterfully quick and precise-- There we are...--She meets her brothers Fire-y gaze, who remains meek and embarassed.-- Do you mind?

Strife nodds and bows down for her comfort. Ataraxy Gently fixes the scarf upon her sibling's neck and shoulders,making sure his neck is kept warm and hidden. She spends a solid minute fixing each little fold and crevice so she can make sure hes comfortable.

The gunslinger can only chuckle and the child-Like care hes being provided. He always found it very amusing and funny.

--How does that feel?

--Better,thanks.

--Of course-- She pressed a kiss to his forehead and patted his arm-- Go finish getting ready, ill round up the others.

With a cheek hurting grin,Strife nodds and allows his sister to leave. Her own cape drifting behind her with a gentle wind,almost Like the wings of an Angel.

War:

His arm hurted.

He had tried to ignore the pain as he always did,but today it wasnt working. He kept touching his bicep,which was the dead giveaway. Aside from his face that held a deeper scowl that usual.

When he hears those gentle steps he knows hes been made.

Ataraxy approached him Gently,stopping his hand to from messing with his arm further-- Is it the phantom pains?

The conqueror sighed-- No...

--You cant lie to me,Little comet-- The petname made him blush furiously-- Take off the gauntlet..

--But..

--War- -- her voice hardened Like steel,a cold,black ice that left no room for discussion and that made the red rider tense his muscles like he had been electrocuted-- take off the gauntlet.

--Yes- Yes sister-- He unhooks the gauntlet from its spot,his sister takes it and leaves it Gently by the floor. For as thin and frail as she looked,she was strong.

She lifts up the sleeve of the undershirt he wore. And Gently she traces shapes with her nails,murmuring some sort of incantation.

"Magic was for the weak" He usually said. But not with Ataraxy,never with her.

Her magic wasnt to compensate a lack of strength,no. Hers was to offer relief,to offer solace to the hurting and the grieving.

Soon he begins to feel this gentle cold,Like the first snowfall of the year. Silks of fine moonlight wrap around forming shapes, that scent of lillies and white roses fill his senses and it makes him forget of the discomfort.

The freezing chill offers relief from the Burning pain of his nerves,like he was being hugged by snow.

--Better?-- the pale Lady asked,pulling back with this worried look on her glossy eyes. Her expression is soft,theres no wrinkles in her face or around her Many eyes.

--Yes...--He answered,a little sheepish-- Thank you.

--Its nothing -- she smiled-- remember to tie your hair back,okay?.

Now his face burns embrassed-- I...lost the hairband you gave me.

--Its okay-- She cooed--Let me make one really quick-- as she did with Strife,she weaves another. Her silk was pretty strong so she didnt need to worry about breaking off mid battle--Here.

--Im afraid ill lose it again

--If you do,ill make you another.

--Why waste your gifts?

--Its not a waste if its you,little comet. You know that-- Hiraeth offered a sunshine filled smile. Calm as moonlight,soothing as the night-- Finish getting ready,okay? Ill go find Fury.

--Very well -- was that the tiniest of smiles on his lips?

--If your pain acts up before we leave for the missions...--She whistled,sounding Like rushing wind on a stormy night-- Let Repose know.

On cue,The white dove sits on the horseman's shoulder pauldron and nuzzles his face. He almost giggles at the feeling of the soft feathers against his rough skin. The gentle coos of the bird fill the brief silence.

--fret not,dear sister. I Will.

--Thats what I like to hear--Hiraeth offered a little smile, then she kissed gestured her brother to bow down.He does,and he gets a kiss for his troubles.

And so, she left carrying that scent of flowers in her wake and the faintest sound of ringing,joyous church bells.

Fury:

Fury never handled frustration well. She either lashed out or curled up and sulked in her own Despair.

Today,however,she decided to pout and sit on the ground.

Her hair wasnt cooperating,it was all over the place, a matted mess that looked like a bird's nest.

Shes sitting there,arms crossed and grumbling like a cat. She didnt understand why her hair just wasnt playing along,she cant go out looking like this but she tried so hard with everything she could and yet...

--Bad hair day?-- Hiraeth asked,kneeling to eye level.

--Yes...--Grumbled the she- horseman.

--May I help?

--You'll waste your time.

--So be it--The leader of the horseman stands up and in her hand a bell materalizes. She rings it out and soon glimmering mist begin to fill the room,ghostly shapes of kind, half blurred faces shape themselves out of the mist.

Fury sighs, its just going to be one of those days.

--Thank you for heeding my call--Hiraeth said to the spirits-- May you help me with my sister?--The ghost nodded.-- splendid! Thank you so much-- she puts her hands together against her chest with this warm grin.

Soon,the spirits begin to haul around all manner of potions and grounded up herbs that act as hair products.

Hiraeth combs out the mess that was her sister's locks. And as the soft bristeled blush dances around and undoes the knots, the pale rider sings some human nursery song.

--Twinkle Twinkle little star,how I wonder what you are.

Up above the world so high,Like a diamond in the Sky. --Her voice could put a choir of angels to shame. It reverberates along the chasm Like a siren's haunting song.

The black rider couldnt help but snicker,she smiles a little and says-- Im not a child anymore,Sister. --but she does feel like a kid,one thats being swaddled by her mother before a peaceful nights rest. The echo of the melody, a clean,rushing stream,washes away her bitterness.

--Im aware-- Hiraeth answered with a smirk-- but as much as you fight me on It, I know you like it.

It didnt take long for her hair to be back to its usual state. Flowing there like a beautiful,deadly jellyfish.

--Thank you,spirts--Ataraxy said,standing up-- you May return to rest.

All around,the spirits bow with reverence and blurry smiles. That glimmery mist that made them evaporates into glitter like steam.

Fury Is helped up by her sister and the black rider adds-- You need not use your powers like this.

--Let me,i want to-- the leader of the horseman insisted-- Ill clean up, Get ready.

--Nonsense. You need to Grab your mask and sword,Ill take care of this. This mess was because of me. Waste no more time.

--Are you sure?

--Yes. Dont make me repeat myself-- Theres no Real threat, only a front that her sister was used to seeing and dealing with.

--Okay,thank you-- Hiraeth gives her sibling a kiss on the forehead and leaves as fury whines about not being a "Household cat" to pamper like this.

But she was,as much as she denied it.

-♡-

Ataraxy stood by the portal,Waiting on her siblings to show. She whistled again,the sound of Howling, storm born air filling the room around her.

Her siblings approach on their steeds just in time to watch the show.

The air around them grows cold,even in the charred chamber of the council with its endless heat. The Orange glow of the lava mixes with this blue light,cold anf warmth,joy and sadness.

It smells no longer of humid head and coal,but Rather fresh flowers and wet dirt.

Above them a cloud of constellations is brought forth form some Unseen rift. The Sky is a deep,endless blue and the stars shine bright. They move like a galloping Mare, that slowly descends in a spiral.

Melancholy trots around her rider,pace animated and pushing Hiraeth around with her armored snout like a playful child. The pale rider laughs,and when her horse comes to a stop she hops on.

The steed of the pale rider looked as if it was made of clouds,with pastel pinks,purples and blues littered about. Sparkling with constallations,decorated with flowers and gold armor.

The horse's hair billowed Like Rolling clouds across the Sky,her furred hooves and tail just the same. Her locks glimmered with stars and she smelled of that fresh Flora and sweet,baked goods.

Its very hard for the other horsemen not to smile.

--Are we ready?--Hiraeth asked,unsheathing her rapier (Solace) from its sheath on her right hip.

--Yes,sister--War said with his firm tone of voice,tinged with some endeared warmth.

--Lets waste no more time--Fury said,ill-concieved content in her voice and in the sparkling of her eyes.

--Lets get these fuckers!--Strife grinned all proud,hands on Mercy and Redemption.

Hiraeth nodded,and Repose sat on her armored shoulder,her feathers also glimmering with thousands upon thousands of constellations.

The leader of the horseman raises her sword,steel and gold shinning like a guiding beacon.--Onwards!--She barked,and the portal behind her roars to a firey life.

Four horseman united, they charge past the arcane gate to fight for the balance.