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smhalltheurlsaretaken · 1 year ago

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~all creatures great and small~ (amazing illustration by the awesome @david-talks-sw)

“And just what exactly is it that you’ve been doing?”

Obi-Wan had to stop himself from giving his fellow Councillor—and friend—a rather pronounced eyeroll.

“You tell me,” he said without taking his eyes off his clamoring little herd, feeling rather proud of himself. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Mace came up to his side and crossed his arms, looking decidedly unimpressed. He looked at Obi-Wan, then at his rambunctious little friends and their merrymaking, then back at Obi-Wan again.

“It looks like you have been avoiding meetings all morning.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at his mouth. He carefully put his hands in his large sleeves.

“Have I?” He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if he saw Mace’s no doubt exasperated face, so he kept carefully looking onward. “You should have called me.”

“You know I did,” Mace griped, valiantly ignoring the racket and still boring holes in the side of Obi-Wan’s face.

If it came to a contest of wills, Obi-Wan knew he’d be hard pressed to match Mace’s stubbornness. He turned to face him, and inevitably let out a huffed chuckle. Mace looked annoyed alright, but he could do nothing about the twinkle in his deep eyes.

“You,” Mace insisted, no doubt trying to maintain what he probably hoped to be a convincingly stern demeanor, “have spent all day corrupting our next generation instead of going over mission reports.”

“Really, Mace—”

A yellow blur careening between the two of them nearly knocked them off their feet. A beige, more bipedal one rushed right after it, bumping into them both with equal speed if not equal force.

“Sorry Masters!” the youngling yelled over her shoulder without stopping.

Obi-Wan had to cough into his fist to keep from cackling.

“Obi-Wan.” Mace said.

“She apologized,” Obi-Wan pointed out with a brilliant smile.

“You still haven’t.”

“What for?”

Mace’s control finally cracked, and he thrust an accusing finger at Obi-Wan’s innocent face, ready to give into a rare display of unrestrained aggravation. Obi-Wan quickly batted it away and beat him to the punch.

“It’s a perfectly good way of teaching the younglings patience and control!”

Mace blinked at him, his mouth left hanging open, his finger still up and now pointing somewhere over to the right. He turned slowly, and surveyed the bustling courtyard in bemusement. The half-dozen or so pufferpigs that Obi-Wan had let loose there were being corralled by three times as many eager younglings, clone cadets and Padawans, and the animals all felt entitled to express the full range of their feelings on the matter in a loud and enthusiastic fashion. Little Mari Amithest was still running after the particularly rowdy creature that had mistaken Obi-Wan and Mace for Rodian bowling pins.

Mace’s eyebrows climbed to previously undiscovered heights.

“What part of this,” he gestured incredulously, “is controlled?”

“None of the pigs have puffed yet,” Obi-Wan explained seriously.

Mace’s eyebrows were now on their way into orbit. A moment passed. Then, his expression of astonishment seamlessly melted into curiosity.

“They haven’t?” he asked, considering the whole bunch with renewed interest.

“I told you, it’s a proven method,” Obi-Wan insisted, vindicated. He pointed to the far corner of the courtyard, where Katooni was showing some of the younger children how to feed a happy looking unpuffed puffer. “My Padawan has taught that one to do tricks.”

The squealing puffer was hopping from one foot to the other before avidly sweeping treats from the children’s outstretched hands.

Mace was now looking suitably impressed. More careful study of Mari’s chase was making it apparent that the animal she was after was not distressed in any way, but was—rather mischievously—trying to run off with her sash clutched in its stout trunk.

“You shouldn’t let emotions cloud your perception,” Obi-Wan reminded him in a serious voice.

“Hm,” Mace conceded magnanimously, impervious to the teasing.

The twinkle of carefully contained amusement that had been present in his eyes from the start had won over all other sentiments. A wet snort had the two Masters look down at the adventurous pufferpig that had made its way over to them. The amicable beast was fixing them with soulful blue eyes, candidly inoffensive. Its stubby tail was wagging quite politely. Mace distractedly bent down to pet the expectant critter on its broad, squishy face.

“It wants to smell your lightsaber,” Obi-Wan warned. “They like crystals.”

Mace straightened and put a hand on his hilt.

“The Mining Guild didn’t pick them up yesterday?” he inquired. “That was on the agenda.”

Obi-Wan shrugged.

“They tried, but for some reason all the identity chips turned out to be unreadable. There’s no way to prove who these fellows belong to.”

Mace gave him a flat look.

“Hondo stole them from a Republic transport.”

“There’s all sorts of things on Republic transports,” Obi-Wan reasonably pointed out.

“The transport was chartered by the Mining Guild.”

“Hondo wiped the manifest during his hijacking. There’s just no way to know.”

“Your Padawan was there to escort the Mining Guild representatives.”

“Some mysteries can never hope to be solved.”

The pufferpig had taken to bonking its head against their legs affectionately. Mace, bowing to the undeniable strength of Obi-Wan’s ironclad argumentation, very seriously gave the tenacious quadruped another pat.

“They’re not staying,” he reminded Obi-Wan firmly.

“Obviously not,” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “The Temple would be a terrible environment for them.”

His friend narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“And you’re not making me spend my time finding them a place.”

“Honestly, Mace.” Obi-Wan gave the affable puffer a gentle shove, and it obediently trotted away to a nearby group of younglings and clone cadets who were already entertaining one of its siblings. Obi-Wan wiped his hands on his pants. “Naboo has very responsible educational farms.”

“Does it,” Mace said mildly.

“Including a recently opened one in the Lake District.”

Unashamedly petty enjoyment rang in the Force.

“Don’t come to me when Skywalker tries to send them back.”

“Who says I’ll pick up when he does?”

Obi-Wan loved Anakin, dearly. Still, he hadn’t yet quite forgiven his old Padawan for retiring—running away—before they could make him shoulder his share of the sacred responsibility of wrangling the Temple’s significantly increased youngling population. It was Luke and Leia’s birthday soon anyway.

“You’re stooping to deviousness,” Mace said, carefully neutral.

Obi-Wan gave him a wry look.

“Never. Revenge is not the Jedi way,” he said just as calmly.

“It’s them you’re supposed to be teaching,” Mace said with a short nod towards the unruly bunch. “He’s had his turn.”

Speaking of teaching…

“Oh my,” Obi-Wan said smugly, pointing to a boy who had taken to carefully levitating a surprisingly compliant—if a little alarmed—pufferpig, “that wouldn’t happen to be Caleb, would it?”

His fellow Council member was now pinching the bridge of his nose, his other hand planted on his hip.

“I must say, that young man is certainly very skilled at forming connections with animals. Depa must be very proud.”

“Just don’t,” Mace groaned. He whipped out his communicator. “He’s supposed to be meditating with Yoda right now.”

“That explains it,” Obi-Wan said.

Master Yoda was slowly ambling into the courtyard, looking quite pleased with what he was seeing. He poked misbehaving younglings with his cane as he walked, chuckling to himself when they yelped and hastily reached with the Force to make sure the pufferpigs stayed relaxed. The pufferpigs themselves were only curious, and in a sufficiently playful mood that the younglings’ offended squeaking was not enough to agitate them. Caleb had set down his floating puffer with all possible speed—and great care—at the sight of the venerable elder, and made ample and readily accepted apologies to the perplexed animal in the form of scritches.

Mace slowly put away his communicator. He pursed his lips.

“Obi-Wan,” he said slowly, “next time, just have them practice making friends with the stray tookas.”

That’s how his master had done it, and Mace had never had any problems with connecting with animals, large and small.

“Pufferpigs are much more even-tempered.”

It was all Mace could do not to facepalm. Giving up, he shot Obi-Wan one last dry look.

“Just do your damn paperwork.”

Obi-Wan watched him stride away, dignified and imposing. Of course, since he wasn’t exactly paying attention to his surroundings, with how focused he was on pretending he was above this whole situation, he didn’t notice Mari’s wayward puffer on a direct collision course with his legs. The poor creature, who hadn’t noticed Mace either, let out a terrified screech and promptly puffed.

The entire courtyard froze, watching with fascination as the inflated pufferpig bounced twice and slowly rolled to a halt. It made a sorry little squeak.

Resignedly, Mace closed his eyes and set to work on gently calming down the pufferpig with the Force.

The children loudly cheered.

#ficlet #mace windu #obi-wan kenobi #star wars #no order 66 #jedi order #jedi temple #my writing #yoda #caleb dume #katooni #loose sequel to my fic “villains and knaves”#Hondo stole the pufferpigs to sell them obi-wan confiscated them and now he’s not giving them back to the mining guild meanies

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justafewberries · 3 months ago

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Something i didnt quite understand in the book is why in the arena they had to kill the game makers is theres any bigger piece to it or is it just pure brutality?

Thanks for your ask!

The answer comes from a few different places, but it ultimately leads back to David Hume’s essay Of the First Principles of Government. (It's a short read, and I highly recommend it!)

In Of the First Principles of Government, Hume discusses implicit submission. He maintains governing bodies derive their power from public opinion, and it is exactly why all of the characters acted the way they did in that scene. I will break it down by character, but first I want to examine some context in SOTR.

In the text, the training scene right before Plutarch begins to question Haymitch foreshadows the later scene:

“There’s this moment, just as I get to my feet, where I look around, and I’m armed, and they’re armed. A half dozen of us hold sleek, deadly knives. And I see that there aren’t many Peacekeepers here today. Not really. We outnumber them four to one. And if we moved quickly, we could probably free up some of those tridents and spears and swords at the other stations and have ourselves a real nice arsenal. I meet Ringina’s eyes, and I’d swear she’s thinking the same thing.” [...] “The more I think it over, the more my dismay grows. Every year we let them herd us into their killing machine. Every year they pay no price for the slaughter. They just throw a big party and box up our bodies like presents for our families to open back home.”

When you read this as context to the scene in the arena, it is the same idea. The armed tributes outnumber the Gamemakers, and in the arena, everyone is on equal footing. The tributes have the numbers and the momentum of days in the arena behind them.

There are two lines that are thematically significant in this section. The first line is from a Gamemaker:

The Gamemaker with the drill raises her mask and straightens up to a full height. "That’s right. And all four of you are in absolute violation of the rules. You must immediately withdraw or there will be repercussions." "That’d be a lot more impressive if you weren’t shaking like a leaf," observes Maysilee, fingering her blowgun.

The only defense the Capitol worker has is that of governing status. She attempts to assert the rules of governance on her side by claiming that they are all in violation of the rules, and therefore they must submit to the Capitol by leaving them alone. Even she knows, as her shaking voice exposes, there is no true way to enforce this rule. This is where David Hume’s essay comes in:

"When we enquire by what means this wonder is effected, we shall find, that, as Force is always on the side of the governed, the governors have nothing to support them but opinion."

The force is always on the side of the governed. The governed, in this case, are the tributes of the arena. Yet, in the arena, where the purpose, according to Dr. Gaul, is to strip man down to his base instincts, a governing body cannot exist. The government exists to make sure man doesn’t regress to said instincts. Therefore, the government cannot exist in the arena in the same way it does in the rest of Panem. Ergo, the public opinion needed to enforce the rules is obsolete, to the point where both parties are on equal grounds. There is no illusion of power.

The second line is:

Silka seems stunned into inertia as well. “What’d you do? Did you kill Gamemmakers? They’ll never let us win now!”

Silka still believes there are winners in the games. In fact, she goes so far as to say “let us win”, thus she recognizes that the Capitol has true control over who wins, and prior to this, she expected to be able to win. Now, she believes winning is a right that the Capitol can revoke, which lends itself to the idea of Hume’s secondary principles of government:

"There are indeed other principles, which add force to these, and determine, limit, or alter their operation; such as self-interest, fear, and affection: But still we may assert, that these other principles can have no influence alone, but suppose the antecedent influence of those opinions above-mentioned."

Because Silka expects to be able to win, she is stunned into submission under her expectation of particular rewards:

"For, first, as to self-interest, by which I mean the expectation of particular rewards, distinct from the general protection which we receive from government, it is evident that the magistrate's authority must be antecedently established, at least be hoped for, in order to produce this expectation."

On the other side, fear stuns Haymitch. Hume details how fear is a form of submission:

"No man would have any reason to fear the fury of a tyrant, if he had no authority over any but from fear; since, as a single man, his bodily force can reach but a small way, and all the farther power he possesses must be founded either on our own opinion, or on the presumed opinion of others."

Haymitch recognizes how futile it would be to take down a few Gamemakers. It is the same reason he deduces when he reflects on his time in the training center. They may outnumber the peacekeepers in the training center, but what would happen? It would be a fruitless rebellion, and public opinion would squash anything that could potentially develop from it. Hume’s discussion of fear is not exactly fear of the tyrant himself, rather, fear of the power he possesses over others. Snow had public opinion on his side outside of the arena. Killing a few Gamemakers here would just bring upon the tyrant’s arsenal.

Maysilee and Maritte, however, both recognize that the perception of power via public opinion doesn’t exist in the arena. Both realize they cannot be punished more than they already are. I don’t usually quote the movies, but I think Reaper’s taunting of the Capitol when he rips the flag down in the 10th Games suits this philosophy extremely well:

“Are you gonna punish me now? Are you going to punish me now?”

Both girls act because they are disillusioned with the power of the Capitol. They refuse to submit. They are free from the secondary aspects of self-interest, fear, and affection. Maysilee alludes to the idea that winning was never going to happen in the first place:

Maysilee’s voice drips honey. “Still chasing that sad little dream, Silka?”

While one can interpret this by assuming Maysilee means she was going to kill Silka, it can also be taken to counter Silka’s belief of a fair win, calling it a dream. Maysilee likely recognizes the Capitol can always give advantages to people they want to win, or send mutts on whoever they don’t like. We see this with Titus in his games. She doesn’t submit.

I would like to cross reference this with the 10th Games in Ballad, where Coriolanus and Sejanus entered the arena. Dr. Gaul used Coryo’s experience in the arena about a lesson on human nature:

“Without the threat of death, it wouldn’t have been much of a lesson,” said Dr. Gaul. “What happened in the arena? That’s humanity undressed. The tributes. And you, too. How quickly civilization disappears. All your fine manners, education, family background, everything you pride yourself on, stripped away in the blink of an eye, revealing everything you actually are. A boy with a club who beats another boy to death. That’s mankind in its natural state.”

Later in the scene, she talks about how the death of Coryo and Sejanus would not have brought anyone closer to winning. This is the same idea, just from the perspective of what would have been the Gamemakers, had they survived:

“What did you think of them, now that their chains have been removed? Now that they’ve tried to kill you? Because it was of no benefit to them, your death. You’re not the competition.” It was true. They’d been close enough to recognize him. But they’d hunted down him and Sejanus — Sejanus, who’d treated the tributes so well, fed them, defended them, given them last rites! — even though they could have used that opportunity to kill one another. “I think I underestimated how much they hate us,” said Coriolanus. “And when you realized that, what was your response?” she asked. He thought back to Bobbin, to the escape, to the tributes’ bloodlust even after he’d cleared the bars. “I wanted them dead. I wanted every one of them dead.”

Interestingly, he makes a point about human nature that calls back to what Hume is saying:

“I think I wouldn’t have beaten anyone to death if you hadn’t stuck me in that arena!” he retorted. “You can blame it on the circumstances, the environment, but you made the choices you made, no one else. It’s a lot to take in all at once, but it’s essential that you make an effort to answer that question. Who are human beings? Because who we are determines the type of governing we need. Later on, I hope you can reflect and be honest with yourself about what you learned tonight.” Dr. Gaul began to wrap his wound in gauze.

While initially it seems to validate Dr. Gaul’s argument that humans, by nature, are violent creatures, his refutation actually provides the basis for the very reason Maysilee and Maritte killed the Gamemakers. “[They] wouldn’t have beaten anyone to death if [the Capitol] hadn’t stuck [them] in that arena”.

The arena does not strip people of their nature. It forces them to submit for the very secondary aspects Hume provides. The governing body forces them to kill, and by stepping into the arena, where the Capitol has stripped itself and all beings of their own power to display what it believes to be human nature in its primitive form, it has erased the protection of public opinion.

The Capitol holds no real power in the arena itself. Sure, they bomb it afterwards to clear out the four tributes. Sure, they sic the mutts on Maysilee and Maritte, but they do not govern in the way they do over Panem.

Inasmuch, the Gamemakers died because the arena disillusioned Maysilee and Maritte to their implicit submission. The moment the Gamemakers entered the arena, they were powerless as of their own creation.

I hope this makes sense. Thanks for the ask!

#sotr #thg #the hunger games #sunrise on the reaping #maysilee donner #coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #volumnia gaul #dr gaul #silka sharp #haymitch abernathy #sotr spoilers #implicit submission #thg meta #thg analysis #thg philosophical essays

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elminster-big-naturals · 10 months ago

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(david attenbourgh crouching beside the worst bg3 take you have ever seen in your life) with enough time, media illiteracy, and over-exposure to the most inane parts of the fandom, the schism between canon text and fanon becomes so large that gamers start to fall in, and so the inevitable "actually this thing i love is irredeemable trash and evil and they're doing it ON PURPOSE to spite ME specifically!" doom spiral begins. it's a well documented phenomenon, known among seasoned rpg players as the 'dragon age effect'. sadly there is yet to be a cure for this affliction, and the rest of the fan ecosystem can only live in hope that the affected move on to their next source of ire before the entire herd suffers for it...

#baldur's gate 3 #some of you post like you spend too much time having mental arguments in the shower #You can see this timeline trajectory in almost popular game release not targeted at straight white male gamers. Fascinating really.#the 'semi-reasonable criticism' to 'extensively making shit up to be mad at' pipeline is real

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sheawritesstuff · 1 year ago

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Sam / Darlin Headcanons

[In no particular order]

✩ Sam has stretch marks on his hips and across his back from growing so fast after leaving Mont Blanc

✩ Darlin has a high pain tolerance so they literally don’t realize when they’re seriously injured sometimes

✩ Sam has a lot of faded scars on his hands

✩ Sam is the oldest brother, Darlin is a middle child - they both had to leave their younger siblings behind and still feel bad about it

✩ The younger pack members think Sam is the absolute coolest even though they don’t get to see him very often

✩ Sam still has David’s name saved as Mr. Shaw in his phone

✩ Since Sam convinced Darlin to start eating actual food they are BUILT - their muscles aren’t super lean and defined anymore, but they’re noticeably stronger

✩ Occasionally when they’re stressed Darlin will shift and lay directly on top of Sam like a wolf-shaped weighted blanket

✩ Sam hates the question “are you a tea or coffee person?” because people rarely accept his answer of “both”

✩ Darlin was very uneasy about any kind of physical touch after Quinn, especially skin-to-skin, so they almost exclusively wore clothes that covered their entire body for about a year - they feel safe enough to wear tank tops and shorts now

✩ Darlin likes holding both sides of Sam’s face when they kiss

✩ Sam pretends to be more oblivious to modern media than he really is

✩ Before turning, Sam needed glasses - for a while afterwards he would still wear them out of habit

✩When shifted, Darlin is one of the biggest wolves in the pack

✩ When he was younger, Sam used to fight in shady arenas for some quick cash

✩ Darlin knows how to play bass

✩ Sam shaved his head after leaving Mont Blanc and after turning as his way of “starting his new life” - he keeps it fairly long now but makes an effort to keep it trimmed and maintained

✩ Darlin has convinced Sam to paint his nails with them at least once

✩ Sam looks like his dad but he has his mom’s eyes and her smile

✩ Sam dances like a tipsy suburban dad at a backyard barbecue

✩ Darlin has a habit of glaring like they’re about to murder the next person who enters their line of sight when they’re actually just thinking about what they want for dinner

✩ Sam was raised on a ranch so he knows how to ride horses, herd cattle, etc.

#I have so many angsty thoughts about them #but I tried keeping it mostly balanced #because my beloved cowboy deserves the best #I love him <3 #redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted sam #redacted audio sam #redacted asmr sam #redacted darlin #redacted tank #redacted asmr darlin #redacted audio darlin #redacted asmr tank #redacted audio tank #redacted headcanons #shea writes

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thedarkestrivernymph · 4 months ago

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Cry. Call. Curse.

Yandere! Vampire x f! Reader

warnings: gore, blood (lots of it..), dead animals, death, vomiting, infantilization, weird relationship dynamics, pseudo-incest, loss of teeth, forced capture, nonconsensual acts, dead dove: do not eat

word count: 3.6k

“Tear me apart. Piece by piece. Rip me open and bare my naked insides to the world. I wish to let the shadows feast on the blood I spill, to let them dig their greedy little fangs into my liver and womb, to taint what hasn't been tainted before. To let them touch what hasn't been touched. So, Sire, tell me, should you grapple with your own creation?”

The Cry

It was cold. The night was merciless and the forest even more so. It lashed at you, screamed in your face for daring to set foot outside at such late of an hour.

She wanted her spotlight, the moon, and you were robbing her of it with your quick-pace. Making this about you, when she was truly the brightest star under the Sun's watchful gaze, yet, insufferable, little you just had to run for your life at night! How rude.

Truly how careless of you to sever the trees loving embrace of another, cursing as you felt yet another twig catch onto one of your many skirts, hissing at the sizzling pain that came with each whip. And truly just how utterly ignorant of you to be frantic enough to be carelessly loud, snapping twigs in half, fighting back the thicket, crunching leaves all while your footsteps and ragged breathing fell into a messy symphony, disturbing the night’s peace.

How mean you were to take away attention from her beauty as you fled—not just from the past that haunted you like a mellowed ghost, but also from the very real mob chasing after you.

Torches lit up and went down, cries declaring your nearing end sounded and faded, while they trampled all over everything on these sacred grounds — as father David liked to call the crust of the earth — like a herd of wild boars.

“Catch the witch!” he had commanded so fiercely and unleashed demons that resided in them; normal people to annihilate you.

Yet the game of cat and mouse only went to the borders of the forest, where it met the forbidden woods. You knew how easy people believed and how blindly—so you collapsed next to a tree soaked completely in darkness, leaving behind the only sources of light in the other holy parts of nature to curse and sardonically laugh at you.

“You dumb wench!” the mob cleared, dissipated until the last crazed person left, leaving you there, sat under the proud mahogany tree. All while you triumphed that you managed to survive another day unharmed. Danced another dangerous round of tango with the devil.

You had done your usual routine: trespass into a town to sell readings, prophecy of a made-up future, claim to be god’s third eye only to quickly be uncovered as a cheap charlatan with even cheaper tricks. You sighed. Dipped your fingers into your pocket to fish out your little treasures; your cards.

Your gaze flitted over the illustrations; your ‘pa had paid good money for them back in his day. Sort of family heirloom at this point. Funny.

You traced over the engravings on the back of the deck, letting your thoughts drift.

Life was tough and this made easy money. Fast money. Money you needed. Yet would it really be of use if you were killed because of it? You scoffed. “’Pa would scold me.” you couldn't help but blurt, while chuckling dryly, lungs still burning with the fear of capture.

Clouds were crowding the darkened skies. Their faint grays overlapping into a blur, clothing the moon in metal silk that hung off her rounded form loosely; some might say tempting. Yet she wasn't satisfied with it, how could she ever be? When something so disruptive stayed planted to the soil she laid claim on. So—some may say it is fate and others luck, but few would point their fingers at the real culprit; the moon.

Her light was your downfall.

You were cloaked in black under that wistfully swaying branch, yet the moment you rose—decided to search for a better place to spend the night at was when you had just unknowningly lost the chase.

Because, let's be truthful here, the game of cat and mouse hadn't even started. The mob not the real evil in your miserable story. You were glowing so beautifully tempting after all; like you were a piece of her after all and perhaps that's why she had decided to dress you in silver from head to toe and present you to him.

You hummed while you walked; a nervous habit of sorts. Sure it was dangerous, but you liked—no breathed danger! That's just what you always had known.

“I wonder if those green mushrooms grow here too.” you mumbled, chewing on the inside of your cheek, while rolling a flower bud you had plucked from the ground between your thumb and index finger. A sort of game you had developed and carried on from childhood.

Yeah, that was what it was.

A game.

For him at least.

“Mushrooms! Thank god—” relief was close to soothe you, to let you gnaw at the glowing bunch of mushroom heads you gathered greedily in your outermost skirt, so close to satiating the deep hunger clawing at your guts, when someone else beat you to it.

There was pain before you could even blink; raw, throbbing, angry pain. The kind that grabbed you by the scruff and turned you limp like a kitten. That kind.

“It will be over soon.” there was a murmur, something ominous and eerie. It was difficult to understand just who—or what spoke, when your entire neck was set ablaze; vicious red spraying all over you. It was blood, you realized far too late. And it was yours.

“Stop! Help!” the realisation came all too late and crushing, too slow. You were being drained, robbed of your very essence. You trashed and turned, kicked and fought, cried out, yet clawed hands only tightened around your shoulders pushing you into place as if you were dough this creature could mold to its liking.

“No! No, let go of me! Not like this—not this.” you protested, rather promised yourself, fighting against a face you didn't know and a strength that was everything but human. And perhaps in that very moment the moon took pity on you and that's why her shine dimmed and you ripped your throat free and with it your life.

“Humans.” the creature clicked his tongue, glaring down at your limp corpse oozing the delicious liquid in an admittedly very tantalising way; yet something about you was calling out to it. The curl between your brows, the restlessness still there on your frozen features—and your insistence on not dying at the hands of a monster, so much that you killed yourself. You were a special one.

He could feel it.

So lapping up at your neck, he thanked the moon for her graciousness and kissed your brow like a father would to say goodnight, only for him, this wasn't a goodbye.

The Call

Your skull throbbed. The tendrils of something painful curled around you, dirt laid heavy on your tongue and before you knew it you were frantically clawing your way out of a casket. Which deranged villager possibly would bury you alive—why would anyone bury anyone alive?

Vines clutched you, kept you in place; tendrils of death. You were chained by an indescribable force and forbidden to breathe free of dirt—it stung your lungs and scratched the back of your throat. God, you were drowning. Drowning in a pile of fucking dirt.

You howled; frantic, loud, desperate.

No one heard.

You tried louder; nothing.

You were swallowed up. You were dying. Your skull throbbed.

“Won't you raise, my love?”

You gasped for air, trashing and turning only to rip your eyes open to a foreign scenery. Dirt was replaced with pale silk and the casket with the largest bed you had ever had the luxury to lay upon. You glanced down at your hands, felt up your throat—nothing. There were no vines snaked around you like shackles.

You were alive, alive and well and—

“Little one.” you flinched. Dread coiled in the bottom of your stomach. You knew that voice.

“You—it’s you.” terror danced in your blurry vision as the monster from that night took shape in front of you. It was a man. A tall one with broad shoulders and slender wrists. And hair as silver as the moon that dressed him in her shimmer and skin as white as snow. Yet with two glowing balls of red for eyes.

Red. Like the blood he had made you shed.

“Little one, you’ve awoken.” he stated, almost relieved. He took a step closer, as if familiar, as if this was somehow excusable.

“Stay back!” you screeched. You had to flee, to call out for help, to do anything. This was a monster and who knew what he would do—

His shoulders dropped.

“Little one,” he sighed, “Is that any way to talk to your Sire?”

As if on cue, pure agony pumped through your veins straight to your stomach, as a hunger spread inside of you like a disease; something insatiable and maddening. Something you had never felt before. You yelped, eyes squeezing shut as you gripped the foreign piece of fabric that covered you in such fevor that you nearly tore it apart.

“Oh, dear. It seems to be happening already. What a fast fledging you are.” hadn't been standing at the foot of your bed? Why was he suddenly looking over you; watching you cry bitterly in confusion. You had been a normal human, free of the sins the villagers had accused you of—but now, you felt it deep inside of you, that what was happening to you would not let you remain untouched from evil.

“Don't worry, your Sire’s with you.” his words were little comfort when you felt one of your teeth loosen, cooper on your tongue, and then another one, until you spat out a half dozen of them into your open palms.

You were sobbing at this point, throat tight and gaze blurry with the fear of what you were becoming. God you hoped this was just another nightmare. That you were just too creative for your own good. Please.

“That's just part of the process, my love.” he muttered as if that would reassure you, as if anything could when you were in a monster’s bed with his arms around you. And the worst thing? You knew no one would be out there looking for you, because you were all on your own, shunned by your own kin.

“Shh, shh. It's okay, little one. I’ll give you a gold coin for each tooth you gain. Your kind likes shiny things, right? Now, don't be upset. C’mon sleep some more. The shock will fade soon.” he cradled you against him; neither cold nor warm, just uncomfortable and strange. Strange in the sense that he had nearly finished you and had dragged you here, yet now held you amidst the ache in your gums, as if you were the most fragile thing to have ever graced the earth.

Red tainted your hands. Angry and bold. A red that was out of reach from the moon’s grasp, hidden in your palms. The same colour that had sprung free from your neck that fateful night—were you dying? Was this death’s call? You couldn't tell.

“Hush, little one.” he rubbed your back as you wailed like you only ever had before in childhood. And finally you let yourself melt into the monster with claws for nails and eyes that of a predator and let yourself be lulled back into a dreamless slumber.

The Curse

You had lost all your teeth. In a matter of three bedridden days.

It was as if you were regressing back into a time you couldn't recall anymore, where your Ma’ still had been alive and when your only worry had been suckling on her breast.

Only as an infant you had been crazed for milk; something natural and god-given, but now you were screaming for something else entirely — out of a sort of thirst you had never experienced before, one that could only be satiated through the death of innocents —

blood.

Angry red that would curl around the corpses of wild boars and deers in swirles as he plopped them down in the middle of the room you were residing in, moreover kept captive in—but you didn't have the ability to protest, quite literally.

He would sit you at the edge of your bed, that grew colder everyday, then take a dagger with engravings on its hilt to slit the animal’s throat. Every time without a fail, he would then take the same goblet decorated with green jewels—little stones that he claimed represented you well.

“Come, little one, feed.” he called you today, like all the other ones, watching you like a hawk as you padded your way through the trails of crimson on weak knees—probably assessing your state; if you were recovering.

His lips curved upwards seeing how much more agile you were today. You didn't slump into yourself even once! “Good. You're improving.” he held the goblet to your lips, not trusting you enough yet to hold it up yourself. Putting a hand on the back of your head he guided you to drink—like one would lead a horse to water; like a mother squeezing her tit.

“Don’t worry, dear, your teeth will grow back in no time. You will have fangs such as mine.” he flashed you his own horror-inducing pearly-whites. So that was how you were going to look? Like a monster. Like your Sire? The creature that called himself your father.

Tears spilled over your lash line, sick to the stomach again; but even as you attempted to escape the wrongfully deliciousness that cooled the insatiable hunger inside of you—he didn't let you. He was unmoving, much like a statue.

“Shh, little one, don't cry. I know you must be upset. To not be able to express your gratitude to such a kind and refined gentleman such as I am for saving you from your old miserable existence. But don't worry, father will take care of you now.” he promised with those two rubies for eyes and streaks of whites that draped over his shoulders.

He looked young, as young as you. Still the creature claimed himself to be your guardian, acted dotting when he had cursed you with something you never asked for—and expected acceptance, gratitude even for it.

Your teeth grew back over the course of one week. Of one agonizing torturous week where you teethed on everything you could get your hands on like a little baby, whining and crying into the chest of your capturer, while suckling on whatever type of relief he provided, may it be blood to fill your stomach or meat to chew on or his own slit wrist; for his own sick and perverse enjoyment.

It wasn't until you regained all your teeth and with them your strength that things shifted, that he no longer regarded you a fledgling. Because you no longer were—with your proud canines and glowing gaze. You were a monster now, of his kin.

And his kind was oh-so rare, oh-so scarce, like grains of rice plucked from fields and he was oh, so, very lonely.

Which is why he just had to do what he did.

“If you had just listened,” he cooed.

Heavy gaze bearing down on you. Disappointment. Resignation. Contempt.

He looked at you as if truly you had been at fault for trying to escape, for the splitter of hope that had possessed you the moment you had fully grown into your new state, accepted that you no longer were woman or human, but monster instead.

“Stop! Please!” you could do nothing but cry as he continued to feed you what once had delighted you, made your mouth water at thought of the savoury taste; human food—the kind that made a grown Vampire hunch over to puke onto whatever he could find.

“Open wide, little one.” his voice was so sweet in tone, so innocent, concealing the torture he inflicted on you as you sat between his thighs, quivering as another glop of mashed up potatoes was dropped onto your tongue and pushed down your throat with his claws.

You gagged again. Like with ever other bite, stomach churning in protest, growing shades paler than you already had become. His hold on your soul was the only thing that kept you still and frozen there, even as bile rose up your throat, inch by painful inch—while he watched, unashamed gleefully.

Vomit sputtered from your lips, gagging and gurgling on it, nearly choking from how stiffly frozen you were. Only you knew you could not choke because you did not breathe. Not anymore at least. Not after he had robbed you of breath and now of decision, commanding your body to loosen only when his amusement turned to sympathy at the way you had swallowed nearly half of the yellow goo, only for your stomach to puke it all out again.

“Oh poor you.” he cooed, hand on your crown, brushing away strays, before he lifted you up as your stomach emptied for the last time onto your silken dress—it had to be something expensive. And he just let you ruin it.

“Little one,” the castle moaned again as it did so often, with the tiles creaking, “We’ll get you cleaned up.” The moon your only steady companion, graced your features once again, but this time in a gentle caress—for she once had held spiteful vengeance against you, envied you for your quick feet that carried you over earth’s surface; an annoyingly carefree little thing, but now she pitied you, for she could see your future was all but dim.

He carried you outside. As if to shame you publicly. No fear of you attempting to escape behind his back—for he knew that he could simply command you back. But just the thought that you had dared to, enraged yet hurt his brittle heart.

Setting you down at the pond’s edge like you weighted less than a feather, he made quick work of unfastening your bodice; some dress of a noble woman now long rotting under soil.

“Oh little one.” he purred, something odd in his tone today—something terrifyingly depraved that would send a shudder down your spine if you weren't sick, vomit drying on the corner of your mouth, shame once more finding you even after you had tried to cast her away. Like the moon that shone so brightly and could only watch your plight. Because unlike the times he had forcefully bathed you and ripped raw terrors from your chest—this time he striped himself too.

“What are you—” you shut. Eyes enlarging at the sight—too deceiving was his physique; that of a young man when his soul was nothing but that of a beast that took and only took in every shape or form.

“I will bathe with you this time. Why the grim face?” he spoke so casually you wanted to flee or attack—a true vampire you had become at heart.

“It’s only my duty to take care of you, little one. Look at all your teeth, aren't you proud? They all grew so well because of my blood.” he captured you in the water, caged you in between two pale and slender arms, ones that looked unassuming but could suffocate in the blink of an eye.

“Little one,” he whispered with red rubies for eyes and you felt something terrible poke at your thigh. “Little one—won’t you thank me for taking such good care of you?” curling his claws under you, he shifted your core towards his so dangerously close to a place you had once innocently believed he would never make you touch. Thinking that the words he muttered and the tender gaze of his only belied an obsession to have a child—but he didn't want that, now did he? He wanted a woman, he wanted you.

But in secret he craved both wife and child. Yet none were ever granted to him, even when he had forcefully took and pillaged, until you.

Oh you were perfect—and he was so depraved of love, that the lines blurred and somehow he wasn't sure what was decent and what not. He was your Sire, but still, you had been an adult, with a figure of that of an woman but a hunger that of a little darling—the lines blurred. And who could blame him for it, when he had spent centuries wallowing away alone? Alone until he had met and captured you.

So even as he made you a woman again, he could do nothing but cry in bliss, both a guardian and a lover, fervent as he tore at your scar; the evidence of your death, sinking his fangs into it as he moaned, while letting the entire forest and the moon witness the depravity he put on show.

“My love—” he rasped, groaning like an animal, panting like a beast “you will never escape your Sire.” he sunk himself deeper into you.

It was another biting cold night, another one filled with the howling of the wind and the swaying of trees. And with the moon, who watched again.

Yet this time she shed tears for you.

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