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actuallysaiyan · 3 months

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Then You'll Make Him Happy(Scarred!Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader)

warnings: dark themes, yandere, breast play/nipple play, biting, marking, jealousy, paranoia, JJK spoilers, Yandere!Nanami, unprotected sex, creampie, rough oral sex(male!receiving), seriously dark content!!! word count: 2.2k pairings: Scarred!Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader summary: you arrive home late one night after Ijichi drives you home, and Kento has been spiralling. don't worry, he gives you the chance to prove to him how loyal and devoted you are! a/n: Scarred Nanami part 2! Sort of a sequel to this! Also a request for the wonderful scarred Nanami anon! art credits for the banner here

Dividers by @adornedwithlight

Taglist: @beneathstarryskies, @an-ever-angry-bi, @seireiteihellbutterfly @adharadotcom,

@heyitsd1yaa, @darkstarlight82, @melisuh123, @galactict3a,

@erebus-et-eigengrau, @aomi04, @isabelzoldyck, @cinnamon-girl-writes,

@felixmr, @typicalemo, @entirelysein-e,

@urfavmars24, @animediplomat, @menag-etroix,

@shycoconutt, @_thecoochirgirls,

@emmaiscool22, @ambiguouslady42, @mx-saph

After the Shibuya Incident, Kento wasn’t the same man. Through many sessions of physical and mental therapy, he became a bit more of the man you knew and loved over time. But there were still parts of him that would just never be the same.

The left side of his body didn’t function quite the same. His left eye didn’t have vision back, so it was a blur of shadows and lights and colors. His left leg would limp on particularly bad days, and most days he walked with a cane if he wasn’t completely bedridden. And the thing that affected him the most was the fact that he could finally be with you the way he wanted to.

Except you worried him. You always worried him. You had stayed to work at Jujutsu Tech to become a manager and a part time teacher. You often worked very late shifts. Kento disliked the fact that you thought you had to work this much.

Tonight was a night like the others. But for some reason, he had it in his mind that you weren’t coming back. He always seemed to spiral like this lately. He had been taking his medication, but the thoughts always came back.

The thought of you leaving him for someone younger…more capable…less disabled. It hurt him to think these thoughts, but he just can’t seem to dispel them tonight. Despite your pleas for him to stop drinking, he decides it’s a good night to have a glass of whiskey.

It burns in his throat as he tries his best to push away all those thoughts of you leaving him. Tears sting his eyes when he thinks about you out with some other man. Someone younger and more capable, someone who could dance with you and fuck you better. Someone in the peak of their life. Not someone broken and discarded like him.

As the car pulls up to your apartment building, you thank Ijichi a million times over. Despite his close call in Shibuya, it was thanks to your husband that he actually ended up making it out alive. So for Ijichi, driving you home on the nights that he wanted to allow Nanami to rest more, it was nothing. This was just another way for Ijichi to thank his friend who saved him.

The minute you get inside, Nanami stands up so fast from his seat, you swear you haven’t seen him this stable on his two feet since before the incident. You try to help him back to sit, but he’s quick to push you up against the wall. You smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Who is it this time, huh? I bet he’s pretty cute. Does he fuck you just as good as me?”

Tears sting your eyes and you shake your head. You try to caress Nanami’s face, but he’s so quick to push you against the wall even more. He’s not wearing his eyepatch, which makes him look even more menacing.

“Are you going to answer my question, darling?”

You moan, “N-no! It’s ridiculous! How can I show you my devotion?”

Nanami snarls and he pushes himself off of you. He wants to believe you. But he saw you coming out of a car with a man in the driver’s seat. In his fit of rage, he didn’t quite make out that it was his good friend Ijichi.

“Who drove you home? Are you fucking him?!” Nanami asks.

“It was Ijichi-san! He wanted you to rest. This is why he drove me home.”

Nanami looks at you, trying to decide if you’re telling him the truth or not. Then he comes over to you, his hands gripping your blouse.

“If you’re devoted to me, then you’ll have to show it. Prove it to me. Prove to me that you haven’t lost interest in me,” His words are so dark and powerful.

You squeal the minute he rips your blouse open. Your cheeks burn as you realize the underwear you’re wearing under it. It’s a lacy, silky little thing. With you working so much lately, you haven’t been able to get on top of the laundry. So you found yourself with the decision to either go commando at work or wear the cute lingerie set you bought to surprise Kento so many months ago.

“What the fuck is this?! Why are you fucking wearing this?!”

You whine, “I-I didn’t have anything else to wear! I haven’t been able to do the laundry.”

He pushes you up against the wall, his lips pressing down on yours hungrily and in a possessive way. Kento desperately wants to believe you because he doesn’t want to believe the opposite. The thought of you wearing this cute and sexy lingerie set for someone else makes his blood boil. When he pulls away, you’re almost out of breath.

“Get into the bedroom. Strip your clothes.”

You do as you’re told. You make a beeline for the bedroom, opening the door and removing your ruined blouse. Nanami follows you, limping slightly. He watches as you strip for him. You were going to prove just how devoted you are.

“On your fucking knees. Keep those stockings on.”

The command makes you shudder from head to toe. With your blouse off and skirt resting at your feet, you’re left in only your stockings and garter belt. Nanami begins to palm at his erection as you get on your knees. The way you look up at him like he hung the stars in the sky for you, it’s making him throb in his pants.

“Are you my good girl?” He asks, grabbing your hair.

“Yes. yes I am. I’m your good girl.”

He loves the way you’re reacting to this. It’s exactly how he wanted it to go. But damn, those thoughts had very clearly clouded his logic. With his free hand, he unzips his pants and releases his heavy cock from the confines of his pants. He pumps his cock a few times, making it dribble precum.

“Suck.”

Just one word and it has need pooling deep inside of you. You open your mouth; saliva is already drooling out. Nanami loves seeing you so needy for cock like this. He thrusts into your mouth, making you gasp. You nearly choke on his length. His hips begin pumping and he holds you by your hair.

“Be a good girl. Suck daddy’s cock.”

He looks down at you. His eyes are dark. Especially the injured one. It’s always dark, but this time it’s even darker. You try to keep eye contact with him. It’s just too tough to do so. You’re trying to breathe and trying not to choke. The way you tremble under his gaze makes Nanami throb in your mouth.

His hips begin to snap as he fucks himself down your throat. You sputter and cough as you do everything you can to adjust to this rough sex. Your eyes are almost pleading for him to slow down, but you know you want to make your husband feel so loved.

Finally he pulls out and he uses the tip to tap your lips. He smears saliva and precum all over your face. Kento smirks at the mess of your mouth and face. He then releases you.

“I can see you’re still devoted to me.”

He helps you onto the bed, spreading your legs. His hands linger on your thighs, feeling the soft nylon of your thigh-highs. He leans in to kiss you hungrily, reveling in the way you taste of his cock and his precum. It’s so intoxicating to taste himself on your lips. He’s the only man you’ll ever treasure forever.

“You can be a good girl, huh?”

You nod your head eagerly. “Y-yes daddy.”

He smirks when he hears that word coming from you now. Kento leans in to kiss you hungrily again. He shoves his tongue into your mouth, penetrating your lips. You two make out for a few minutes. He loves the way your hips buck up to meet his.

Then his lips trail down your chin, down your jaw and to your neck. You cry out when he nips at your neck. He sucks on the skin for a few seconds, leaving a dark red mark. He then licks the mark, making you shiver.

“You’re mine,” he says as he slams his lips against yours. “Mine.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair as he kisses a trail down from your neck to your breasts. He licks softly at one of your nipples. Then he kisses the other. You sigh happily as he’s becoming a bit more soft with you. Then he bites down on your breast, making you gasp and whine.

“K-Ken…”

He looks up at you with sheer possessiveness in his eyes. He bites down a little harder, almost drawing blood. Then he begins to lavish your breasts in kisses, praising you for being so good to him.

“My angel…oh my angel.”

Then he spreads your thighs. Kento gets on his stomach and begins to lap at you like you are the only thing he ever wants to taste for the rest of his life. The moans and whimpers that are ripped from your mouth as he suckles and licks your clit are downright pathetic. You’re shuddering and thighs are clenching as he works you fast to the most earth shattering orgasm.

“Cumming! Cumming!”

He doesn’t need to hear more. You could easily suffocate him between your thighs and he’d die a happy man. Kento loves being able to make you cum so hard you nearly pass out. He looks up at you, loving the way your eyes are so rolled back he can only see the whites of your eyes.

Your release is intense. You desperately try to breathe, but all the air feels like it’s being knocked out of your lungs. Kento’s name is on your lips as your thighs clench and your cunt pulses around nothing. Nanami plunges his tongue into your hole; he’s eager to taste your nectar.

With you trembling and whimpering, he knows you’re ready for the next part. He grasps his cock, slapping your clit with it.

“Tell me,” Kento’s voice is deep. “Tell me who you fucking belong to. Who does this pussy belong to?”

You whine as you feel the tip of his cock slapping against your swollen clit. “I belong to you!”

He grips both your breasts, making you whine as his fingers dig into the previous bite mark. He loves hearing you whine just for him. It’s one of the sexiest sounds he’s ever heard. Kento dips down to suckle on your nipples, going from one to the other.

“I think I need to fuck a baby into you. Then you’ll stay for sure.”

The words make your stomach do flips. You know he’s been talking about this a lot since the two of you have rekindled your intimacy since the incident. Kento growls as he continues to suck on your nipples.

“Imagine how full your tits will be. You’ll let daddy suck on them, yeah? Save a little milk just for me?”

You look down at him and you notice how his expression has changed. His eyes are softer as he suckles on your nipples. You caress his face, making him whimper softly.

“Wanna get you knocked up.”

This is when he changes his expression once more. It’s dark and needy once more. Demanding and possessive. He spreads your legs, spitting on your already soaked cunt and shoves his cock into you. You gasp and try to reach for him, but Kento decides to intertwine your fingers together as he snaps his hips.

“I love you,” he growls in your ear. “I’m gonna knock you up. Make you a mommy,”

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him even deeper. With every thrust, he’s pushed even closer to the edge. He has to rest himself on your chest to try and ground himself. The fluttering and pulsing of your walls is proving to be almost too overwhelming. Every breath is shaky as he tries to desperately stabilize himself.

“G-gonna fucking cum inside you. Let daddy cum inside you.”

Another moan is ripped from you as Kento releases your hands and he grabs onto your hips. He slams himself into you harder, deeper and faster. Sweat slicks your skin, leaving a sheen on his marblesque body. You’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as him, even with his scars.

“Cum inside me,”

Your words surprise him, but they please him. He brings one of his hands to your face, his thumb sliding into your mouth. You suck on it eagerly, making him throb and twitch inside you. Then he slides his hand back down to between your thighs, rubbing your clit.

“Cum with me. Please, cum with me!”

It takes so little effort for him to send you careening over the edge. A loud moan erupts from your lips, and the pulsing of your silky walls pushes Kento into his own release. He whines loudly with every sticky thrust that sends his cum even deeper inside of you.

And then everything comes down slowly. Kento slumps against you, and you’re quick to begin playing with his hair and gently rubbing his back. He sighs happily and then he looks up at you.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Shhh…don’t think about it just right now. We can deal with this together in the morning, okay?”

Kento smiles, “I’m going to make an appointment with my therapist tomorrow,”

You kiss his forehead, proud of him for overcoming something like that. Though you wonder…you really did enjoy him being possessive with you like that.

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anonimusunnoaniswriting · 4 months

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Kitty hybrid!Reader x owner!Nanami

Mdni 18+ blank and ageless blogs will be blocked

Nanami loves a cat. I'm sorry you guys are sleeping on this idea. This man is stoic, tired, has enough and more on his plate. He wants a low effort pet who is gonna be devoted to him like mad and quiet and soft and sweet.

CATS ARE THIS.

He saw you in the pet store and knew you'd be perfect. He buys you a pretty little collar in a dark black leather that looks absolutely regal around your throat. The collar comes equipped with a small ring in front where a bell hangs and makes a pretty tinkling sound when you run or play.

It also makes this sound when Nanami holds you down in a mating press and fucks into you after a hard day at work. His cock relentlessly bullying your tight pussy (pun intended?). He loves hearing your little mewls and cries mingled with his name that you use.

"Master Minmin! Don't stop please– please!"

"Please what kitty?"

"Mmmmmnnnnn!"

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" (Pun intended)

But you cannot speak. Eyes screwed shut mouth open and spilling sounds of your pleasure – music to your owner's ears.

By the time he's done with you, you're so tired and fucked out that he just lifts you and cleans you off and lets you curl up on his lap while watching TV. Or sleeps beside you.

Whatever you do though, Nanamin can't help but tickle behind your soft velvety ears. It's his favourite part of you. Silky fur that matches the colour of your hair covers them and he finds himself almost always wishing to take a little bite. Just a small nibble.

Nanami loves his little kitty.

This is for my beloved @erebus-et-eigengrau whom I don't want to make feel like she's cheating on our husband Minmin all the time. Hehe

#jjk #anonimuswritings #anonimusunnoan #nanami kento #kento nanami #fanfiction #jjk nanami #fanfic #nanami x reader #kitty hybrid! reader #kitty hybrid #kittenhybrid #hybrid #hybrid reader #nanami headcanons #nanmi kento #nanami smut #jujutsu nanami

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full-of-terrors · 4 months

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Letter from Dr. Stanley to Dr. Fergusson written on board HMS Erebus July 12, 1845- Awe of the Arctic Exhibit 2024 NYPL

Transcript: My Dear Fergusson, having a few moments to spare before the letter bag is finally closed, I hasten to drop you a line to say that, although within the Arctic Circle , I'm not yet frozen to death and therefore in the land of the living and very jolly. We had a fairish passage out here but had a mighty gale of Cape Farewell, which sent us flying with closed topsails and courses to Cape Desolation, where in spite of the dismal name we found comfort. There's smooth water and a moderate breeze. These islands, and in fact, the whole of this western coast of Greenland, is the most barren and uninviting I ever beheld.

Some of the land is very high and serrated and has the appearance of being volcanic. On the bare rocks, large quantities of tripe-de-roche may be gathered, but as we were not reduced like our excellent captain on a former occasion to such a means of subsistence, no one I could find tried its qualities as a nutrient. We are completely surrounded with icebergs, some of them upwards of 200 feet high. They are, however, from the extreme heat disappearing fast and by their constant disruption, almost frightening your very life out of you.

I and a boat crew had a very narrow escape the other day out shooting. I had just fired and killed an eider duck when I observed that we had drifted closer to an immense iceberg, which I had previously noticed a day or two before in a decayed condition. I said to an officer who was with me "What luck it should come down by the sun!" And then ordered the men to pull quickly from our dangerous neighbor when it fell with a crash. Most stunning and awful to witness. There never was so lucky an escape. The discharge of my two barrels had no doubt hastened its overthrow. And although we were at a distance upwards of 100 yards, quite near enough we were knocked and tossed about by its displacement in the sea in a most uncomfortable manner.

The island swarms with mosquitoes and they are now flying about the gun room in all directions. They are the largest I ever beheld but not the most stinging. We sailed tonight for Lancaster Sound and the transport to dear old England with a report of our proceedings up to this period. At this season of the year, in this latitude, as you are aware there is no darkness. The sun never dips below the horizon. The nights I have there for devoted to shooting and the day to skinning and preserving the specimens I have killed. Since our arrival I have not slept more than 2 or 3 hours in 24. Goodsir is working harder than medusas and desires kindly to be remembered to you.

We are all sanguine and getting through the barrier into Beechey straits this year. Every one of the native Eskimos say this is the most open season they ever remember. And on the strength of our prospects I and the other officers have ordered letters to be directed to us at Panama and Kotzebue. The latter place will, of course, be the first port we shall make when we get through.

I have not a single man on the list and I have not had for several days. Sir John Franklin is not like the same person. He is so much improved in appearance and energy. He is almost always the first on deck and the last to leave it in all weathers. I must conclude now, old fellow, with best wishes and kind regards to Mrs. F and the bairns.

And believe me, your very sincere friend, Stephen S. Stanley. I had intended to have written to Fortnum and Masons. Pray tell them like a good soul that we are delighted with everything they furnished us and the members of the mess unanimously declare them to be trumps and we should be sorry to return before we have consumed all their good things.

#awe of the arctic #stephen stanley #franklin expedition #this letter is so unintentionally ominous #big thanks to the exhibit for reading the letter out loud in the guided tour recording

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to-hypnos-we-dream · 3 months

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Basic Hypnos Devotee Starter Kit

So you're planning to get into the worship of Hypnos and don't know where to begin! No worries, this starter kit may be of some aid! This kit is best suited for those very new to Hellenism but will still be much help to those experienced with other deities! It also holds very basic info as a kickstart into worship. If you have any questions or anything you'd like to discuss/request, you may send an ask to us or dm!

Learn the mythology of Hypnos, knowing the history of the deity can greatly aid in knowing associations and impact your creative works.

2. Research on Hellenism but do be critical of what is read! There is much misinformation on Hellenism that may be toxic to beginners. Examples of this is the idea of certain gods not being beginner friendly. Hypnos loves you dearly, worship is not as strict as people want you to think it is. There is a barrier of respect, but worshipping Hypnos will become as easy as breathing. Hypnos loves you because you are love.

good advice post

prayer writing

3.Okay okay research research research, but how do you actually get into worshipping Hypnos?

Oh this my friend is the easiest part! Worshipping Hypnos can be anything you desire, it can be something as simple as just saying goodnight to Him before you sleep. You do not need some sort of initiation to worship Hypnos, you can do it right right now! Some forms of worshipping include but are not limited to:

devotional acts

creating art

creating poetry

praying to Him

thinking of Him

wearing clothes that reminds you of Him

It can be anything :) For any devotional acts ideas from us, you can check the links in our pinned!

4.Create/Find an Altar

Making a basic hellenic shrine <- this shrine can be adapted to Hypnos using these associations or these ones

You can also make a digital form of shrine using a tumblr blog, a pinterest board, or other forms of social media. Or you can also use a simple notes app or picture folder! All you need to do is reblog or put into these pictures or art that reminds you of them! You can return to these spots and pray to Hypnos!

We mentioned find because this temple may also be a place of refuge and worship to Hypnos! You are allowed to submit offerings, dream journal entries, art, and more! This temple is your altar!

Congrats! You have worshipped Hypnos just by reading this post! It is so easy, and Hypnos be along your side always!

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moodymisty · 9 days

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hey, original cato sicarius fleas anon here!! just dropping in to say at some point in the near future i Will get you guys to thirst for both leandros and erebus. you know me. you know my power. this is not a threat, it is a promise.

the former is an uptight, rule-following nerd who's probably so buried in his chaplain duties he's never even had time to entertain what the gentle touch of a woman could feel like. be a shame if someone got him to put down that damn codex and loosen up, he'd be a moaning wreck in no time, undone by sweet compliments and teasing touches. or maybe, being the devoted and caring chaplain he is, he might stoop to ensure a pretty serf girl of the ultramarines isn't showing signs of chaos corruption. by inspecting her, of course. thoroughly.

as for the latter, well... i'm honestly surprised no one's dared to venture into erebus territory. that man is so deliciously evil it's insane. he'd like nothing more than to get his hands on an innocent emperor-fearing lady and corrupt her to the ruinous powers, have her cry out her final pleas to her corpse god as he buries his head between her thighs, smirking as those pleas turn into profane praises to slaanesh for the pleasure only he can give her. imagine the heretical altar sex to piss off kor phaeron! after all, scheming and backstabbing is so much easier when he has a lovely soft thing on his lap kissing all his tattoos while he does it.

honestly i see the potential in both characters, but given they 'fuck over' two more popular characters, it's very easy for us for hate on them. I'd personally be more drawn to Erebus given the whole 'fucked up dubcon manipulation' type thing you do with it.

I mean I'm always down to being some fucked up murderer's babygirl, I love Konrad so can i really say I'm better? lol

#reply #misty's book club

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pescalozz · 1 month

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Aether

Aether (Αιθηρ) is was the primordial god (protogenos) of light and the bright, blue ether of the heavens.

He is the son of Nyx (Night) and Erebus (Darkness)

Offerings :

This God is an intricate one, since he's the personification of the sky, there's not much we can offer.

I would personally give feathers.

I would recommend sun water and/or rain water.

You can also burn any sort of incense.

For the candle white and light blue are surely the first option you could think off but it's up to you.

You can also gift painting/pictures of the sky

Devotional acts :

Once again, there's not much you can do except look at the sky from time to time.

━━━━━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━━━━

I'm sorry this one is shorter but remember, everyone experience worship differently and good luck 🤲🏼🏛️

#greek gods #hellenic gods #hellenism #hellenic polytheism #hellenic pagan #hellenic worship #hellenic deities #gods #greek mythology #greece #aether #religion #paganism #pagan

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the-fire-within0 · 3 months

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𖤓 Hi there, I'm Bean (just a nickname) or you can call me by preferred name, Joey. Welcome to my low-effort pagan blog. Decided to keep this separate from the one I put in tons of effort into :)

𖤓 I am 21-years-old and I am genderfluid, so I go by he/they/she pronouns. Other pronouns work too. I am bisexual and demi-sexual.

𖤓 I've been practicing paganism for at least 9 years. Although, there have been so many other things mixed in so, paganism wasn't the only thing I was interested in. A long and confusing journey!

𖤓 My astrological signs are: Scorpio 🔆, Taurus 🌙, Capricorn ⬆️, Libra Mercury, Scorpio Venus, Libra Mars

𖤓 Currently working with: Lord Lucifer, Erebus/Erebos, Dionysus, Anubis/Anpu, Father Chronos/Khronos, Hermes, Hades, Loki, Odin, Lady Nyx, Cassiel, Michael, Gabriel.

𖤓 Devoted to: Loki, Lucifer, Dionysus, Hermes, Hades.

𖤓 Will soon work with: Lady Aphrodite, Lady Persephone, Ares, Apollo, and Lilith.

𖤓 Currently I do a lot of astrology and tarot work but I do often enjoy writing whatever I hear or feel, suppose a form of channeling. I do sometimes do rune binding. I enjoy doing a lot of dream work as well.

𖤓 I am eventually wanting to learn osteomancy, augury, aeromancy, entomomancy and pyromancy.

𖤓 Outside of paganism and witchcraft, I enjoy writing, reading, gaming, singing, playing guitar, listening to music, and drawing.

Support my Ko-fi!

HARD DNI if you post terf, misogynistic/misandrist, racist, homophobic, anti-lgbtq+, transphobic, ableist, p*dophilic content. Honestly just don't interact if you're an asshole.

Credit to @messywitch for the user boxes

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speedgifposting · 4 months

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oh erebus. my one-eyed beauty. my fair lord of the dark. there's nothing and no one that could ever stop me from fawning over your unnerving elegance and horrific grace. how your brilliant blue quills shimmer a vibrant indigo in the right light, how lovely they are when paired with the pale gold of your jewelry. your petrifying gaze, which strikes fear in the hearts of all who gaze up at you, only serves to drive me further to you. hypnotic like a siren calling a sailor to the sea. you're every bit as deadly as you are alluring, but it could never keep me away from you. you have the mystery of the dark side of the moon, the power of a solar eclipse, all contained in a form that has the glory and awe of a star going supernova. your ferocity, oh, your brutality! how sorrowful it makes me feel that i cant have you without being burned by your cruel charm! you are a venus fly trap, and im but another damned fool who takes the bait, falls for the trap, and becomes another victim of your spell. how enchanting you are, my deadly nightshade, how gorgeous are your ways! yet how vicious and unrelenting you are to your adversaries! my dear, you are vile in the most endearing way possible. you are death itself in its most angelic form. oh primordial being of shadows and the endless night, birthed from the darkest depths of the cosmos, you drive me positively insane, and maybe, just maybe, that's what you want. and whatever it is you wish, i will hand it to you on a golden platter. i could give you blood, i could give you devotion, i could give you the souls of your enemies, if only you would let me, i could give you the world! i love you, erebus, i truly do. please accept my vow, or forever hold your peace.

#all art by powpow on twitter!#fnf #friday night funkin #sonic.exe #speed.gif #cyclops sonic #cyclops.iso #yeah i have no excuse for this #i spent way too long coming up with this entire thing

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rui-nova · 6 months

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Tragedy at an Impasse: The Terror, Hope, and Loss

Or a series of digressions about the story's themes of hope and some of its manifestations.

Once upon a time, a Greek chorus would sing upon a spectacle, and before then, and ever after, tragedy would fascinate us, because it would call to our familiars, because we, too, live with regrets, on a stage with little control over our fate, where we are nonetheless festering hope, a speck of something unattainable, a longing for what we may have once dreamt as familiar, as safe, as right.

There is no chorus in The Terror, its music is haunting, quiet, and acute. Like a good tragedy, its beginning already spells its doomed end, but its theme is silence. How then, should one replace the chorus, how can one call for fear and mercy, which muse should sing for them, rotten as they are, lonesome as some vowed to be? Its characters are left bare, but few of the self can be recognised through their exposed thinning flesh and frail whimpering. They are no geodes, expecting to be broken, to reveal a truth only their God would lay claim upon 一they’re Heraclitus’ paradigm of the shifting river, Theseus’ ship, and they are gone. Dead, and gone.

They are a graveyard of hope, with no bones to be buried. It begets grief and resistance, in their path laden with loss and futileness. The Terror is a tale of hubris and loss, of unfairness upon silence, of humanity bereft of it. Hope, too, is bereft of itself —but it does not die until they all do.

I. Devotion

On occasion, the characters pour hope into their devotion. After all, the men of Erebus and Terror cling mostly to the way of the lands they leave behind.

Far from the waylay ships and their forsaken fates, they hang on to the faith of their merciful God, whose scripture should stand above all laws of men. Here? There is no place for the divine. Not for them. The land, they soon see as godless, as it is put under prejudice, as they try to conquer that which is not theirs; soon it is godless, as human law and debauchery attack it, and thus God cannot love them. Their faith, and thus their hope, cannot reach him, if he is there.

Forsaken, what is God to them? He who loves them not, and in whose stead Fitzjames raises Sir John first, then Crozier?

Like Irving, the men who know the gospel in their hearts doubt and suffer, but they find contentment in that divine law, in its order. That God would not grant them ghosts. There is no more content soul than that of the most pious devout, and that of those who deny religion and gladly accept it in their heart. To Irving, faith was enough, as he upheld 'propriety' at the ships. It was enough, as he trudged atop the ice and the steppes. It bloomed, when hope was granted by chance, as a meeting with the Netsilik, as the goodwill of humanity was rekindled before his eyes. Freezing, devoted, doggish Saint Bernard that he was, it is still known: tragedy fancies not a mercy to devotion, to faith.

God-fearing Franklin and David Young cling to faith, when they feel their passing near. Perhaps, convinced by Goodsir, Young would fashion himself a more fortunate Icarus, even when his wings he did not will himself; why would he not wish to be anything other than a canary in a coal mine, after all? Perhaps, Sir John fashioned himself a Robinson Crusoe, that God would say to them that “As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Joshua 1:5). Perhaps, but God is not there for them.

Even then, when Goodsir claims it does not matter if God is with them, it matters to some, it matters to Hodgson, and Fitzjames, who gnaw onto its hope and meaning for salvation, for legitimation. Hodgson equates the Holy Communion to human consumption, he incarnates the horror that Dante appealed to with Count Ugolino and his purposely ambiguous verses, and he hopes, or rather wishes he hoped, that this faith will preserve his humanity, as the body of Christ preserves life, because he is hungry, and he wants to live. Fitzjames, in its stead, plays his subtle counterpart, he plays Ugolino’s sons, he pleads to give back to those who believed his performance more than he did, and he cries, to Crozier, who ‘loves the men more than God does’, “Father, much less pain ’twill give us / If thou do eat of us; thyself didst clothe us / With this poor flesh, and do thou strip it off. / Then hunger did what sorrow could not do” (Canto XXXIII, Inferno). Indeed, he is not Christ, but his body he will offer.

Hope, thus, is named faith, in the name of Christ, the son of the absent God, ripped apart like a Dionysos by men hungry for his love, when hunger did what sorrow could not.

II. Consumption

Could we say, then, that hope is consumption, in the human need of possession, the desire of life?

The crews find little wonder in this place. They wonder only of below, of forward, by Franklin's ghost. Life can bloom, one can find beauty in Nunavut, Goodsir learns, and Silna mourns, but the other sentenced men see only a barren land. The hollow land, for hollow men.

Hope turns some to forbidden consumption, to harvest corpses for the life that does not bloom in them, and it is both the epitome of Arendt’s banality of evil, that “wholly unexceptional complacency” (Eichmann in Jerusalem) that waltzes into horror, and an act of fear and unrequited understanding, unrequited love.

It is said that “incorporating what you love is a sure way of seeing that it never escapes from you” (Crain, 1994). It is no wonder that he who has nothing would want to consume everything.

Rat, vulture, prophet, devil, monster, chosen, no one, ‘Hickey’ 一neither of which he is. Few understand hope as Hickey does. Hope is whatever one makes of a bad situation. Hope is survival, and “survival is a nasty piece of business. But we do what we have to do.” There is no troubled complaisance, because this force of life, this meaning, is owed to the possession of something, anything; it is feeding from the possibility of having a place and a meaning in the great scheme of it all.

This curse may leave them loveless, may leave them unconsumed by the recognition of the other through their ever-decaying humanity, but Hickey opens the door to hope through consumption. No more would they be shown “fear in a handful of dust” (The Wasteland: The Burial of the Dead, TS Eliot), but rather, a new life from it: a utilitarian Noah's ark of mutineers. Or the attempt of it.

Because Hickey scraps from meat and its ornaments, he dresses in that which the world knows he is not, in the boots of a man who must stand to the view of all or believe himself no one at all, in the coat of a subservient man who forced him to expose himself for the 'godly' concern of ‘dirtiness’ —but Hickey is no Dr. Jekyll. He is both sinner and sufferer, but cannot conjure a Mr. Hyde. He cannot become someone else, someone born with different circumstances, someone beyond tragedy.

But hopeful, of his powerful change of fortune, he must have felt. Hopeful that the intimacy of anthropophagy and lust —and perhaps even love— would fill him as they should, that he would be seen and loved by a place through which he only works if it is to mingle with the dead… but this place, this barren, hollow, wasted land that they have made, cannot love them back. It cannot love Hickey back, no matter how much he hopes so.

III. Legitimacy

Hope is born out of recognition, a yearning that could not be wholly unreal, that there may be no certainty, but still a possibility of that desire, and a strength to see it through. As such, hope calls for an act of mercy, in repentance and debt, a hope for meaning and order; hope longs for foresight, as it guides the defeatist soothsayers to silent survival.

Mercy demands a hierarchy, a higher power and a higher moral, and what claim do these downtrodden souls have on such exercise? What right have they, to instil upon their lot the pretence of order they left back on their homes? What legitimacy have they to cry for Lazarus, his grave either sealed or in the making?

If hope is survival, if hope is in the rightness of humanity, and the purity of the flesh, it gives, that the physicians would dare all they did, a vow to knowledge, a vow to wellness ーthe burden of mercy. It is telling, then, that Stanley and Goodsir’s sentence is set from their very own sickened flesh, when their soul can no longer be contained, when it cannot bear to heal what is thought lost. Song is lost, through Morfin, and so is fellowship, through Collins, and truly, what remains of man by then?

Soon, they will be husks, there is no other end to life and their sentences. Three roads stand before them: they may seize all banal struggle, end it here before hope eats itself; they may push forward, wait for someone to take up the torch while they impossibly keep its fire alive; they may also cut expenses, maximise the chances of the fortunate few. Le Vesconte chooses the latter, to Little's dismay, but truly, nothing is fair where they are. The ill shall die alone, but they, too, already are "dead and gone", and damn it all ーthey still hope to live.

Theirs is an act of love, a hope that their mercy might make it right, but, ultimately, they are no God, and they cannot command the choice of their men. They cannot play Abraham nor the shepherds, because they are Cain, indeed, their brethren’s keepers, and the death they plan is also the death they hope to inflict upon the lead and the fear that is slowly sentencing them.

This is a truth that they know all too well, but few more than Silna and Crozier do, soothsayers, voice in the wilderness, shamans that they are. They have the certainty, and they suffer the curse of Tiresias and Cassandra, of an Orpheus who shall see his darlings leave when he remains, and whose cries shall be for naught but a sad song with no words.

And Crozier shall drown in the alcohol and the visions of a David who will be thrown to the lion's den and survive it, yet he will long for that spiteful hierarchy of patronising mercy, in the mistrust born from others’ devaluation of him —but Silna shall be a symbol of the suffering that colonial enterprises inflict upon the innocent. She shall bite that “We were never meant to survive” (A Litany for Survival, Audre Lorde), but why would they not leave, why would they not let her bury her father, force her to play Antigone? Why are they tying her down with them, making her Lady Silence? And, to Crozier, “Why do you want to die?” Why— why would he kill hope, why would they make her home a boneyard?

And, far removed from who they were, exiled from their homes, both shall inflict a silence upon their legacy, and enact the aftermath of that hope.

IV. Hope

What value does hope have, if this is an inked and parched tragedy? What goodness is it, when loss is assured, faith is unheard, consumption fills no well, and mercy is not merciful at all?

Most died, and there were innocents back in the graveyards they left behind, as there were innocents in Sodom and Gomorra. Faith and trust are gone, and so is warmth, while love is frail. Hope is at odds with itself, it is both a noble promise and a delusion, and it is the trembling gun that points not to the narrative’s back, but to its chest, cold, heavy, knowing, undoing. That particular gun should fire, it would be right, but a certain lieutenant wavers, does not pull the trigger, because he hoped— He hoped it did not have to be like this.

A question is thrown to the skies, from sore, tender hearts: “Why?”

The veterans remember well, ‘why’. Before their minds were touched by darkness, “it wasn't sickness or hunger that mattered most to our chances.” Instead, as Mr. Blanky relates, “what little love we had amongst us was the only thing keeping us civil”, and Blanky speaks not only of the story of Fury Beach, but also of their very fates.

If hope is to be the compulsion to bite the hand that feeds, to split its head open with a boat axe —if hope is to be a stronger faith in the others, or the self, than on living on, then so be it.

To hope against hope, in the face of silence, of loss, is worthwhile, and it is allowed, Blanky proves, as he discovers both the Passage and Tuunbaq by his own, lonely path. Then, hope needn’t be of survival, it needn’t be of a cleansed state of naïve, optimistic utopia. Ephemeral as life is granted to humanity, I’d dare say we are allowed this, to hope not only in spite —but because of death.

Because of death, the Netsilik family that feeds Irving matters —because of it, the efforts Lady Jane pursues back in England matter —because of it, Collins, Hartnell, and Tozer’s care for their fellows matters so, even as it leads them straight to their death.

Because hope is restless, and it cares little for tragedy when tragedy cares so much for it, it lives on, and it instils upon the bystander the chance of that bittersweet, wonderful catharsis.

Hope punishes Jopson, due to a frenzied servitude and loyalty that is paid in the botulism-induced disbelief of abandonment, but it pushes him forward, too, closer to the open than to the living dead the tents guard; hope chokes Little through angry chains and a last command, it reduces him to puppetry, but it pushes him to a subtle integrity few are allowed, and something must remain at the very end, to ask ‘Close?’, and thus hope for an answer, if it mattered, in the end; hope tells Bridgens love is what life is worth being alive for, and he’ll want for nothing else when Peglar’s gone, but he guards the pocket-book to his waist, he keeps his lover's words close, closer than his own, and he hopes not to die an empty book.

Crozier speaks without a waver, through words that haunt The Terror till its very end. That “‘close’ is nothing. It’s worse than nothing. It’s worse than anything in the world.” This is a tragedy, there is no happy ending. But ‘close’ does have a meaning. ‘Close’ means ‘hope’, and hope is the remnant in Pandora's jar, to which they were so close. Hope is what made them, once upon a time, alive, and hope is why it hurts.

If you reached the end, this is an invitation to talk about the hyperfixation together 🤝

#the terror #meta #long post #i really needed to write about hope and end it on a positive note. it mattered to me -perhaps it might matter to other terror fans (?)#inspired by conversation with @even-in-arcadia!

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mordremstaff · 26 days

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🧸💋🐾💢 for Miss Lusine, 🔪🍑⚙️💢 for Mister Atreus 🤲❤️

Lusine - my girl the light of my life my Mists Wars princess

🧸 - Childhood friends 💋 - First kiss 🐾 - Pets 💢 - Person they can't stand Atreus - he's a bit undercooked rn bc I'm saving him for whenever (if ever) anet does a charr expansion but here's some basic info for him

🔪 - Enemy/nemesis 🍑 - Notable flings ⚙️ - Coworkers/boss (krewe/other charr outside of warband) 💢 - Person they can't stand

Lusine - Basic character concept is that she's a Keep Lord who escaped the Mist Wars and she has no memory of her life before the Mist Wars. She remembers bits and pieces of the Mist Wars but it's all sort of a haze for her, given she's been killed and reincarnated so many times. She's technically a revenant and her magic invokes the Mist forces that mantained the borderlands she was stationed. Originally, I was calling this the Fogmother but now I'm debating renaming it to the Mists Tides/something adjacent to that given Anet used Mists Tides in the new map.

She doesn't remember her childhood/saplinghood but she does remember her bestest friend/lover Philomena. They were sylvari valiants who ventured into the Mist Wars together due to Philomena's wyld hunt. They were each other's darlings and confidants and lovers, and they both adored each other. Philomena was the much stronger and scarier of the two, better at fighting and entirely devoted to her Wyld Hunt. She led a handful of other valiants and squires who were also tangled up in the Mist Wars.

2. Heeheehoohoo her first kiss was with Philomena. She doesn't remember her first first kiss, but the first kiss she remembers is also the last kiss she had with Philomena. Philomena, Lusine, and their entire unit were stationed in the Mist Wars for too long and they were all forgetting themselves. Philomena was slowly turning into the keep lord. One day, Philomena was possessed by the urge to simply leave their encampment in the borderlands. Lusine tried to get her to stay and Philomena simply turned, kissed her, said goodbye, and left. Philomena never remembered her after that, and in time Lusine forgot about Philomena too beyond the concept that she knows Philomena existed and they were lovers. They became keep lords in separate keeps. An aside here is that Lusine and her story are themed after the Greek underworld so Lusine's and Philomena's original (pre-Mist Wars) names are all rivers in the Underworld and their keeps essentially guard the land of death. This is all just set dressing/for the vibes but I like the aesthetic.

3. She has a black mare kirin named Ekaterina, who she loves very much. Ekaterina is a clever but very well-mannered kirin who mostly likes to go for long runs through the woods and loves the beach. She plays in the ocean a lot and Lusine spends long hours on the coastline with her just running through the surf and watching seals together.

4. Lusine's generally polite and not bothered by people, but she's SOOOOO bothered by @grimriddles' Erebus. She thinks Erebus is rude, brutish, and only knows how to operate as the Legions would operate. She thinks he's terrible at leading, terrible at getting people to work with him, and overall doomed to die alone fighting against something he cannot win against. She still feels really bad for him though. Erebus has the beaten dog sort of energy that she pities a lot, and she knows he's been through hell and high water. At times, she desperately wants to help him but then they get into an argument and she's like FINE!! Just die!!!! See if I care!!! And she storms off and sulks for a few hours and then comes back like >:( Ok what do you need. She recognizes the fact Erebus is like many traumatized soldiers who never learned how to navigate social situations outside the military, and on top of that has been hurt so much he's never really developed the ability to communicate any of his pain or upset or anger in a way that doesn't lead to her frustration. She's still bothered by him though, as much as she pities him and cares in her own way.

Atreus - High ranking Blood Legion centurion who heads a unit of military police. Technically part of the Blood Legion spec ops and he's in charge of internal review/investigations. He's made to be a villain, and he was very loyal to Bangar before the civil war. He didn't flip sides to the Dominion though as he was afflicted with both 1) inertia and 2) adherence to a system that he knows and is frightened to move away from. That being said, he's no die-hard loyalist to Crecia and isn't entirely on board with changes in Blood Legion. Very "it worked the old way the new way is just for weaklings and people who couldn't succeed in the past." He's shady af as he's done a ton of cover ups for spec ops and Blood Legion in the past but he only does so within the military culture and system that's been built.

He doesn't have like a specific enemy/nemesis right now. I feel like maybe the one secretary in another unit that refuses to file his paperwork on time? The legal team that keeps spending forever on contracts and it takes 1083501830835085 rounds of letters for anything to move through? The one barista who REFUSES to give him enough ice in his iced coffee. One ice cube?? Just ONE?? Expect this answer to change in the future once I rp him more. He just doesn't have a reason to obsessively hate someone right now but I love an enemy/nemesis situation so it's gonna happen. Eventually.

2. He uh. Had a rly intense fling with a higher ranking officer when he was young and a huge bastard. The officer basically raised him to be as intense and deadly and frightening as he is right now, and really cultivated his extreme loyalty to Bangar. He was already really loyal because his parents were really high-ranking Blood Legion spec ops soldiers, so he was from the sort of pedigree that meant he was expected to serve just as well if not better than his parents did. The officer basically saw a bastard who had a lot of potential and a lot to prove and was like I could make this worse, which leads to how Atreus is today.

3. He's a centurion, so he's got a lot of coworkers and whatever higher ranking centurions, tribunes, and so on are above him. His warband is the Quill warband, given he's basically a desk jockey nowadays. Not a lot to say about his coworkers. They do their jobs and do as told. Behind his persona of a desk jockey, there lies a sinister and very politically savvy mind that likes to use paperwork and gaming the system to pull the strings he needs or wants.

4. I haven't rp'd him enough for him to develop a singular sort of hatred. In general though, he's got a hatred for gladia and anyone who wants to change the Blood Legion system. His mindset on it is basically the Blood Legion and all the legions are built off the backs of the soldiers underneath. If you don't have strong soldiers, you have a weak legion. So the gladia either learn to serve or they need to go, and any change to the system will introduce weakness that will make Blood Legion topple.

#atreus sharpquill #lusine my mist wars princess

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diana-thyme · 9 months

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Greek Gods 101: Erebus

Erebus is a god of darkness. Excluding the universal offerings, some common offerings include:

Depictions of Darkness

Depictions of the Night Sky

Black Fabrics (Especially Ones that Fall Well, Like Silk)

Depictions or Figures of Moths

Blindfolds, Sleeping Masks, Etc.

Scrying Mirrors (Even if They Aren’t Used for Scrying)

Sunglasses

Black Items

For devotional acts, some activities that can be done for him include:

Closing Your Eyes

Looking Into the Sky at Night

Stay up Late

Walking at Night (If Safe)

Stargazing

Drinking Sleep-Inducing Teas

Sleeping

Learn About The Night Sky

Use Puppets (Or Hands, Etc.) To Put On a Shadow Show

Listen to White Noise

He is not celebrated in any Athenian holidays.

#erebus #erebus god #erebus deity #deities #hellenism #helpol #hellenic #hellenic pagan #hellenic polytheism #hellenic polytheist #hellenic community #hellenic deities

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ask-the-crimson-king · 9 months

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The Erebus Short Story

And no, it's not Child of Chaos.

This is "Visage" by Rich McCormick, the advent short story that got released earlier this month.

Welcome to my lore post/review of it. Spoilers are under the Read More.

I will say I do think this is a worthwhile read. For the basic premise, it focuses on Erebus in the aftermath of his face being skinned off in Fear to Tread by Horus, a piece of lore I never thought would get any explanation other than "he's Erebus, how do you think he got his face back?". I won't give much detail other than that, so if you're interested in learning how it was done, give it a read.

I'm going to dig a bit deeper into the story itself, so as said before, spoilers under the cut. This post also became huge because of the quotes, so I apologize.

Hello and welcome everyone who has either read this or don't care to and would like to read my ramblings on the story.

This is not going to be super concise or may not even make a lot of sense; this is mainly going to be me going over the passages I found interesting and talking about them.

First off, this scene;

‘My… lord…’ the chirurgeon managed through a constricted windpipe. ‘I am pleased… to see you have stabilised.’ He squawked – an attempt at a breath – as his face reddened to the colour of the XVII Legion’s armour. ‘Please… rest… that we may begin the process of repairing your wounds.’

Erebus’ lipless mouth was locked in a rictus grin, as if he found the situation perversely amusing.

‘No time,’ the Dark Apostle said, tendons in his cheeks visible as they worked his mouth and tongue. ‘The athame leaves its mark on those it touches.’ He raised the dagger, still clutched in his left hand, its edge hissing gently even now with its master’s own blood. ‘It is simple, chirurgeon. I need a new face,’ Erebus said, as he pulled the man closer to the ruined mask of his own. The chirurgeon could smell the Dark Apostle’s breath, hot and rancid, even over the metallic stench of blood. ‘I will take yours,’ Erebus growled.

‘But, my lord,’ the chirurgeon stammered, falling backwards as Erebus loosened his grip on his neck. He rubbed at his throat, his voice still hoarse. ‘I fear such a procedure would kill me.’

‘Then you must give thanks to the gods directly,’ Erebus said conversationally to the cowering man as he sat up on the stone slab. ‘That your sacrifice may be in my name.’

This initially caught me a bit off guard. My gut reaction was "uh. Hey, Erebus? Don't you have sorcery or something to put your face back on? Also, this is just a human. Isn't this face, y'know, not going to fit your skull??"

And luckily for me, all of these questions get answered.

Erebus examined it. It lacked the full range of intricate tattoos that had decorated his own face, but he could address that later. He could feel the athame’s effects coursing through his body: a grave-cold touch flash-freezing nerve endings as it slowly severed his physical connection to reality.

The mutilation was symbolic, as well as agonising. Stripped of his face, he was stripped also of its web of warding tattoos. Between the athame’s wounds and the constant attention of the Neverborn that he attracted, Erebus knew enough of the diabolic to understand that waiting much longer without those wards would put his life in jeopardy.

This solution would not last – a mortal’s face was not only physically smaller than a Space Marine’s, but also lacked the dense web of blood vessels – but Erebus had ensured that his acolytes were all marked with the same basic warding tattoos as he had been. The face would buy him the time to craft a more fitting solution. Perhaps he could even coerce Fabius to help him, he thought; the Chief Apothecary of the III was a skilled fleshcrafter.

First off, warding tattoos. That's cool. Also gives a bit more purpose than "this is done when one is devoted to the gods/their faith", which I also enjoy, especially because it's just more practicality. I'll definitely be incorporating that into my own lore with my Word Bearers lads moving forward.

Also, what better wards than ones literally etched into your flesh? That's metal as fuck.

Second off, hey, even Erebus acknowledges the face is too small and probably incompatible! And also he thinks about approaching Fabius again which probably would never go well for him. I don't know if he still has the leverage he thought he had now that Horus openly disgraced him. If I remember correctly, the leverage he used against Fabius in Fear to Tread was basically "I'll tell the other Legions you've been experimenting with them, too" and genuinely I don't think Erebus will be listened to by anyone at this point. Lorgar was basically done with him from the first minute he shows up in Betrayer, Horus literally flayed his face off, I think he's fallen from grace here.

And also Fabius is Fabius. I don't think he'd put Erebus's face back on unless there was a really good deal for him or truly at all as a means of

But then we get this, which is both comedic and a bit ridiculous:

For a moment, as the last needle left his body, there was no pain. Erebus allowed his hand to move to his new face, and touched its skin. It was too tight, already splitting along lines of pressure, the capillaries and blood vessels strained to bursting. Erebus smiled, or tried to; his new lips could not move.

‘Behold,’ he said. ‘The new face of your–’

Erebus screamed as his face caught fire. Black flame sparked under the new skin, turning fat and flesh to ash in an instant, a total rejection of the unwilling donor’s gift. The Dark Apostle clawed at his skull, tearing stitches and skin alike as he fought to free himself from the torture.

‘Too late!’ Erebus howled, and he ran from the agony, springing from the stone slab and staggering out of the apothecarion, still scraping with wild fingers at his flaming skull.

It's just funny. The flayed face literally bursts into flames. I don't have much other commentary other than this is ridiculous and hilarious and feels completely on-brand for Erebus. I cannot explain why. This genuinely made me laugh out loud when I read it.

He cannot smile. He can barely speak. He tries to say "behold the new face of your master" or something along those lines and it immediately catches on fire. That's hilarious. Amazing.

Afterwards, he plunges his face into a vat of old and congealed blood from Legionnaires at Isstvan [because of course it's taken from Isstvan, everything will be taken from Isstvan because Isstvan is important. Remember that from now into infinity. Black Library certainly wants you to] and then we get the Blessings of the Gods Any% Speedrun WR attempt as set by Erebus.

Now, I will say before I start yoinking a few more passages, I do not know how to fully feel about this entire thing. On the one hand, I do very much enjoy some of the descriptions used, as I will highlight, but on the other...

The first portion with him dealing with the Lord of Change [assumedly] was something that I liked. Not just because I do very much enjoy Tzeentch, but mainly due to a few key descriptions:

‘Then lend me your eyes,’ Erebus asked.

No, a million voices said. They screamed it and shouted it, bellowed it and whispered it, laughed it and sneered it and spat it.

All except one. Small, quiet, almost imperceptible in the cacophony of its peers, it spoke a different word.

Yes, it said.

If he had a face, Erebus’ mouth would have slid into a predator’s smile.

‘See, daemon? There is always another path,’ he said.

[. . .]

A bird, flying impossibly through the void, so small, so fragile against the infinite black. It beat its wings to escape, but Erebus knew the realm of daemons better than any other alive, and he caught it easily. He cradled it in his tattooed hands. It was tiny in his grasp, like a child’s toy, and he could feel its heartbeat: an irregular rhythm that was never the same twice. The bird looked at him with eyes like gemstones, one the purest blue, the other topaz yellow.

A name.

‘Your kind cannot resist sharing your knowledge,’ Erebus said. ‘So you hide it, somewhere small, somewhere hard to find.’ He stroked the bird’s plumage with his thumb. ‘But I am very good at finding things that others cannot, and I am very patient. I also know the most important question to ask.’

He asked that question now, and held the bird to his ear, to hear its answer. It spoke a single word with a single voice, as quiet as a wish.

Erebus would have smiled, had he possessed lips. Instead, with a skull’s rictus grin, he snapped the bird’s neck with two fingers, and spoke the word it had told him.

I love this description. I love the frailty of the tiny bird, I love the instance of "quiet as a wish", I love how Erebus calls out the daemon for wanting to spread information, it's wonderful. I love all of the above.

What I don't really like is that the majority of this Tzeentchian venturing has been done before. Winged Astartes through a daemon realm? Mephiston did that on Sortiarius in City of Light. The many paths thing? I think there's been at least five or six different instances of that happening. And while I do like how Erebus is presented as being a bit more savvy than others would be -- actively saying "No, I'm not choosing a path cause that damns me" -- he then kinda goes back on this?

‘You seek to contain me in a trap of my own making. I know this trick, daemon. I have walked such paths many times before, with others of your kind,’ Erebus said.

No trick, the voices chorused in return. A path to what might be – a path to what has come. We can show you the possibilities, but you must make the choice. You are the instrument.

‘Entertain me, then. How will I play your game?’ Erebus asked.

This is just weird. Why include this if he's immediately going to just... go along with what the daemon wants anyway?? To show the reader "oh he's done this before"? Maybe I'm nit-picking here, but I do consider myself a Tzeentchian connoisseur when it comes to 40k lore, and I would've liked to see something a bit different to just "walk the paths of fate, ooOoOOo" yet again. It feels a bit one-trick and, ironically enough, pigeon-holed.

I think what I would've liked to see would maybe be Erebus thrown into a facsimile of a library on Colchis, probably one of Vharadesh's archives if we want to keep the whole "your first choices were here" thing going on. Have him peruse the volumes and dig for the answers he seeks that way. It's something more associated with the Thousand Sons, but I think it could work as a better motif than the exhaustively used "walk the paths of fate and see how you failed ooga booga".

Again, might be nit-pickish, but I like Tzeentch content. And I don't hate all of this section, I do enjoy the descriptions as mentioned before. I also think the library or archive would work better since Erebus is calling out the daemon for some part of itself always wanting to share that secretive knowledge.

SOMETHING. I like playing to the knowledge aspect of Tzeentch, and I'd like to see it used outside the Thousand Sons for once.

I've gone on long enough about this, so I'm going to move on.

From Tzeentch to Khorne as Erebus comes face-to-face with a massive Bloodthirster guarding countless skulls on Terra. I don't have a lot of notes on this other than the Bloodthirster reads a lot like one of my player's character from a Black Crusade game I ran and that felt funny to me.

Also, brief aside, from basically here-on Erebus is constantly referred to as "the instrument" and due to me being strange and having internet brainrot at times, I keep associating it with the TOOL from Petscop. If you know you know.

Another aside, Erebus is completely naked in the scene for reasons that I don't really get. Maybe to show he is vulnerable? Is this a subversion of the armored warrior thing? Is it to get Erebus to admit he is vulnerable in the face of this massive daemon? It's probably something along those lines. I found it an interesting enough detail to log in my mind as he talks with the beast and eventually gets its name. I don't have much else to really say, Khorne stuff isn't my forte.

Now, I will comment before continuing; on my first read through, I thought this was not only filling in the gap of "how did Erebus get his face back?", but also filling the gap of "who are the four princes/greater daemons he summons to use against Erda in Warhawk?". I'm still 30/70 on whether these daemons are the very same, but leaning more on the "probably not, it's just a coincidence" side.

Still an interesting thought.

Okay. To preface what is next, it's time for Slaanesh. From the heavy handed, "I know many secrets", it's probably a Keeper of Secrets in the form of a snake. Hurray for fellow snake enthusiasts everywhere.

I have a lot of thoughts over the following scene, which I will try to articulate as well as I can. Due to the length of it, I'm going to showcase it in screenshots instead, with appropriate image descriptions attached.

There's a lot to go through. First of all, Erebus is told all men desire and then gets shown Horus.

That is simply funny. Erebus does like the Warmaster. But I don't buy his "he's chosen by the Pantheon so I trust him as their champion" thing. I don't think that's the true reason why he doesn't strike here. For one, he knows this is an obvious test of wills and limits, and he knows that he can't fail it or else he's probably done for. For two, if we take all that he is into account, Erebus isn't really... super into power grabs for himself. He likes to play the role of manipulator, he likes to pluck off the limbs of scorpions until he gets stung. That's how I've been reading him, anyway. He still absolutely wants power, but he knows how to get it without necessarily centering everything on him, if that makes any sense.

He says it in "Child of Chaos", how everyone will eventually turn back to him again. He KNOWS people will still need him and his abilities and expertise and that they'll always come back eventually. He'll always have a seat of power that is greater and grander than many others, they just won't know it because he knows how to veil it in the glories of another.

No idea if that made any sense, but there's more to this scene I want to unpack.

I do like the detail of Erebus's new eyes also assisting him in clearing his head. The athame -- or really the daemon -- is trying to push him to get vengeance for all the humiliation Erebus has suffered, but the eyes he received from his time with the Tzeentchian daemon helps him to see things more clearly. I like that a lot. Using the gifts of the others to better survive the next trial ahead.

I also like how Horus just completely goes for the throat with Erebus. It speaks to all his assumed insecurities, that Horus never needed him, that he's so far beneath the true chosen of the Pantheon, etc. etc. I can't really tell if these are genuine insecurities for Erebus or whether this is just the daemon assuming they are, much like we the reader may. I think Erebus is a bit more assured than this, but we don't really get much of a peak behind the curtain to how he's really thinking or feeling. I do think this is a deliberate writing choice, however, so I won't knock on it too much. Would I have liked to see a bit more of what he was feeling in this moment? Sure, but Erebus as a character would never show that. Leaving one guessing is the best outcome for him.

Afterwards, Erebus shuns a gift of some weird... blood? in a cup, grabs the serpent, gets the name and obtains a tongue. We also are given this description:

‘I grant you my tongue, that you may savour this gift,’ the serpent whispered, euphoria in its voice. Erebus felt the organ flick against his ear, the softest touch of breath on skin.

And the mental image of a pink snake going blelele against Erebus's cheek is adorable. Also, "the organ". I don't know why but that made this all the more funny.

Moving past the snake, we come to the last of the Big Four, Nurgle. And this is the one place that surprisingly almost overwhelms the Hand of Destiny.

But how? You may be asking. Well, dear reader, it is through a most enticing luxury few others can afford:

‘Lost, are you?’ the helmswoman asked. ‘It’s easy to get lost out here, traveller. Come with me, I can give you a place to rest.’

Her voice was warm and comforting, at odds with her appearance, and he found himself drawn to it.

‘This place is my test,’ Erebus said.

‘Hush now, traveller. You must be tired. You have come such a long way.’

[. . .]

a cabin that rose from the swamp on teetering wooden stilts. Its interior was damp, and clumps of quivering moss could be found clinging to several surfaces, but Erebus found it strangely comfortable. He decided he would heed the woman, and rest a while before continuing his travels, and he took residence in a spare room with a cot that seemed uniquely designed for his proportions. He fell asleep quickly.

When he awoke, the woman was in his room. Her skin was pockmarked with sores that wept a thin yellow liquid.

‘Did you rest well?’ she asked in her warm voice.

‘I did,’ Erebus said, and he meant it. His sleep had been so deep, so pure, that it had cleansed his mind of his previous trials, wiping it clean of pain, of anger, of impetus. So deep that he found it difficult to recall how he had arrived in this place. ‘I came here for a purpose,’ he said slowly.

‘It cannot have been important, if you have forgotten it,’ the woman said, a wide smile spreading across her bleeding lips. ‘Come, drink,’ she said, and offered a wooden bowl of viscous liquid. Erebus accepted the bowl without question, and tipped its contents down his throat. The liquid was as warming as the woman’s voice, and he felt his concerns slide away as its effects reached his limbs.

It's the power of a very good nap and a homemade meal. And he stays here for a very long time. He just naps and rests and is given good hearty Nurgly stew.

I very much enjoy this depiction of Nurgle. This could've easily been a "walk through the Gardens, become wracked with pain that the Grandfather can alleviate" or something, but instead it takes the comforting aspect of the Grandfather's influence and really goes a very good job portraying it.

And yet Tzeentch got the cliche "walk through the paths of your failures past and future" no I am not going to be spiteful and petty I am NOT biased I promise [lies].

What eventually breaks him out of this state is his hunting trips -- he goes out to find food for him to eat, having forgotten what else he needed to do. He gets told to stop his hunting and to just let go, and after he awakens from sleep yet again, his companion is missing. So he decides to go through the kitchen, and eventually finds his face:

He was prepared to return to his cot, when he caught sight of a red mess of a shape in the reflective copper surface of a saucepan hung from a hook on the wall. As he moved, it moved, and he realised that it was his own face. His face, mauled and mutilated, maimed and disfigured.

He saw the Warmaster, his talons red with transhuman blood, and the contentment that filled his soul dissipated. It was replaced by a cold fury.

The woman returned a moment later, a crop of mushrooms clutched between her fingers. Erebus manoeuvred his bulk to bar her way.

‘You cannot hold me here, daemon,’ he thundered, staring into her milky eyes.

‘I do not hold you here,’ she said, her voice as clear as ever. ‘You may leave, if you have somewhere else to go.’

‘You think that I will forget my calling? I am Erebus – the Dark Apostle, the instrument of the gods.’

‘Names are meaningless,’ the woman said. ‘Death carries names beyond remembrance, and death conquers all.’

Erebus then makes an attempt to kill her, but this being the realm of Nurgle [and also the warp], such thing is meaningless. But he's gotten his clarity back. He's not a nameless traveller staying with a decaying granny in a swamp, he's Erebus again.

Mostly. He does offer to try and help her, if he is here for all eternity, and she tells him of a rare plant on the edge of the swamp. Of course, Erebus has trouble finding it without a nose, so he asks for one and is granted it.

Which then leads to a scene that I found funny for all the wrong reasons:

Under moss and dirt, beneath dead leaves and dying wood, Erebus uncovered a well.

It was built from bricks, their edges rounded with age, and he wasn’t sure if it was still functional, but as he slid the metal covering back, he saw the reflection of his mutilated face staring back at him in clear water. He reached in and cupped a hand of that water to his mouth. It was fresh, cold and sweet – a sliver of purity in a tainted land.

He filled a canteen with the water, and returned to the cabin. When the woman appeared with her own liquid, Erebus rejected it, drinking deep from the well water instead. The sight of it made the woman screech in fear.

‘What is it?’ she howled.

‘Water,’ Erebus said.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘It is poison!’

He turned the canteen over in his hands, watching as the woman recoiled in fear. He allowed a drop of the water to fall from the canteen’s cap, watching intently as it fizzed and popped against the slime-green floor. As the smoke cleared, Erebus saw a tiny circle of brown amongst the green: the rotten wood returned to health.

The woman cowered in the corner of her hovel, a shivering corpse of a creature made somehow more pitiful. Erebus laughed.

‘Now, daemon, it is your turn to drink.’

Water is poison. Clean water is poison. In a Warhammer short story.

This is just hilarious. Completely unintentionally so, probably, but it is very, very funny that water is being used as a way to defeat a daemon in Warhammer. Something something the rule for showering in Yu-Gi-Oh! tournaments.

I do like that the well even exists, and that it took getting the gift to use it against the very daemon who was trapping him there. After days of bathing her with well-water from the canteen, eventually he gets the name from her, and he's finally out and free.

And he's got a new face:

He brought his hand upwards, feeling at the meat of his face, and found a shifting, squirming mass of flesh. He rose, and called to his acolytes.

‘Mirror!’

A hooded figure returned with a jewel-embedded mirror, its silver handle carved with runes. Erebus looked into its depths, and saw the reward of his trials: not just the services of powerful allies, but the power of the Four, represented in the visage of one.

He had seen this before – as a child, in the deserts of Colchis. Now that prophecy had come true.

Eyes that could see futures yet to pass. Ears that rang with the beat of the Blood God’s war drums. A mouth that ached for the rarest tastes. A nose for death in all its forms. With his new face, Erebus smiled.

And that ends the short story. I like it, overall. I do have my gripes with it, but I think one of the things that really stands out for me is the use of description here. I really enjoyed the word choices used.

I think this story could have handled a couple of the god-things a bit better, but I'm also a bit nitpicky when it comes to Chaos aspects. I would like to see some more diversity in the representation of Chaos as a whole, because a LOT of it does feel a bit one-trick-y, and we saw a bit of that, which I will take.

I would have liked to see a bit more into Erebus's head. I know this is third limited, but even through that lens we can see a lot about someone. Here it felt a bit more like physical reactions than mental ones. It felt like we were barred off from seeing more, but I also think this is probably by design, as I mentioned before. Erebus, as a character, wouldn't want anyone seeing more than just surface level. We see what we want him to see. He doesn't want us to know how he really felt during his trials and tribulations, we have to make those assumptions ourselves and live with them. Same with all the decisions he makes through the story.

Overall, not bad. I liked it well enough, and I think this is some competent writing and a good enough answer to a question I think most people shrugged off.

I hope you enjoyed my various ramblings and nit-pickings, I'm terribly sorry this post got so long. There was a lot I wanted to talk about and I'm curious to see if others agree or disagree or what their thoughts were about it.

#word bearers #warhammer 40k #erebus warhammer #how do you tag specifically this erebus #warhammer 30k #horus heresy #this post took forever to make ive been sitting on it for a couple of weeks now #sorry its also so damn long

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